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Chapter Text

The wind whipped loose snow crystals across the ground and into Fíli’s face as he watched his brother go on alone across the white hillside.  The icy powder nearly topped his boots, and the low grey skies promised more.  Fíli drew his fur-lined hood closer about his face and shifted impatiently from foot to foot.  This was no weather to be outside in—it was bitterly cold, with a blizzard coming on—but that fact had only made Kíli more determined to come.   

Kíli had been seeing the exiled wood elf every sennight for the last month; nobody else seemed to have noticed that he slipped away for an afternoon now and then.  Fíli had been ready to cover for him, and had even accompanied him once, ostensibly scouting the mountainside.  He hadn’t liked the idea of Kíli going out today, with the storm looming, and so he’d insisted on coming.  Though, really, what was he going to do if the snows broke over them but keep his brother company while they both froze in a snowbank?  And what about Tauriel: where was she going to go when the storm hit?  Fíli had half an idea, but he didn’t want to pursue it to the end.

Kíli squinted up at her through the blinding wind.  She seemed taller than he remembered.  Glancing down to her feet, he saw that she stood above the snow, not sunken down in it as he did.  

“You came,” he said.  “I wasn’t sure you would, what with this storm.  But I had to try...”

“I knew you’d worry if I didn’t.  Besides,” Tauriel glanced up towards the head of the valley.  “I thought I might shelter in the old tower on Ravenhill.  No-one would notice me there in this storm.”

“About that...”  Kíli began slowly.  “You shouldn’t be out here in this weather.  It’s bad; I haven’t seen a snow like this for years, not since the Fell Winter when I was a lad.  And we were safely indoors for that one.”  

Tauriel smiled, gently amused.  “You forget I have seen far more snows than you, young Kíli.”

He shrugged, embarrassed but not apologetic.  “Yes, well, that doesn’t mean I can’t tell this one is especially dangerous.”  He tugged off a glove and reached for her hand.

“Your hands are cold,” Kíli said as his fingers found hers within the long knitted cuffs that she wore.  He regarded her with brows drawn.

She shook her head slightly.  “I assure you, I am not troubled.  We elves are less concerned by the needs of the body than are mortals.”

Kíli did not believe her; he might be no elf, but his kind were hardy in their own way, and his toes were already beginning to ache in this cold.  He was sure it could be no different for her.  

“Maybe,” he said gently, and then flashed her a grin.  “But that doesn’t mean you can hibernate like a bear.  Indeed, I think all the bears have already found far cozier places to sleep by now than you’re going to get.  Besides, Ravenhill is so...ominous.”  He still didn’t like going up there; the place reminded him of how close he’d come to losing the people he cared about most: his uncle, his brother, his cousin Dwalin, and Tauriel, whatever she was to him.  He’d not had time to think of their danger till the battle was ended, and then he’d been almost sick for several long moments when he realized how he’d nearly lost them all at one sweep.  They’d been vastly outnumbered, and it was really only good luck, or fate, that they’d prevailed until the eagles had come.

“Come with me into Erebor.  We have more than enough room for you,” he insisted.

“Kíli, you are very kind,” she said, stooping so that her face was even with his.  “But I cannot cause you trouble.”

So that’s what held her back.  He was both delighted at her concern and impatient to overcome it.  

“You won’t.”  He smiled, acknowledging his own wild optimism.  “Well, maybe you’re right.  But that doesn’t matter to me!”  He pressed her hand briefly.  “Besides,” he added almost argumentatively,  “We owe it to you.  I’m still the king’s nephew, you know, and while being third in line doesn’t make me the most impressive figure, you saved my life!  At the very least, that merits a show of hospitality.”

Tauriel’s expression softened somewhat, and Kíli thought he could see hints of both weariness and relief in the fine lines about her eyes.  

“You’ll get a lot better to eat with us,” he said, sensing his victory.  “I could smell the wassail when I passed by the kitchens on my way out.  And I think there is a roast boar for tonight.”

Her lips curved up in a smile.  “You are most persuasive, my dear dwarf.  I will come.”

“Good.”  He shoved his glove back on, and then wrapped her hand in his and led her back up the hill towards his brother.

Fíli had been afraid this would happen.  He didn’t disapprove of bringing Tauriel back, really: he wouldn’t have wished any friend of his out in that storm that was now tearing itself against the mountain peaks above them.  But he hadn’t been eager to see what his uncle would say about Kíli’s inviting an elf, one of Thranduil’s folk, into the mountain.  Fíli liked her, and even more, he cared that his brother liked her.  But this didn’t seem like the best way to announce that fact to Thorin.  

“You welcomed an elf into Erebor,” Thorin was saying.  

“You remember Tauriel.  She fought with us on Ravenhill.”

“I remember.”  Thorin’s tone was curt and perhaps barely amused.  How much did he guess, Fíli wondered?  

“I also remember that her people declared war on us,” Thorin went on, impassive again.

“She wasn’t part of that,” Kíli countered.  “She was exiled for following us against the command of her King.”

“I’m hardly responsible for the results of her own insubordination,” Thorin noted.

“No.  But she’s a good woman and my friend.”  

Thorin regarded him inquisitively.  

“You do remember she saved my life in Laketown,” Kíli said pointedly.

“I was not aware your friendship went beyond that,” Thorin claimed, as if asking to be told differently.  

“Does it need to?  I would not cheapen her deeds by claiming to pay her for them, and yet...  I want to return her kindness, now that I can.”

Thorin sighed and looked away.  Fíli was sure his brother had their uncle now: Thorin had regretted his harsh return for the help of Bard and the people of Laketown, and Fíli did not believe Thorin would force the same response on his young nephew, distasteful as it was to admit an elf to their halls.  There had been a nominal peace made with Thranduil after the battle, but past grievances were not easily forgotten.  While Thorin had relinquished the white elvish gems, he had done so more out of repentance from his own madness than from any friendly sentiment towards the Elvenking.

“You are right,” Thorin said at last.  “We cannot forget our friends.  Tauriel may stay until the snow clears.”  He looked up and met his younger nephew’s gaze.  “Surely then she will want to seek her own people.  This is hardly her place.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”  Kíli bowed and went out.

Thorin glanced over at Fíli, as if remembering again that his elder nephew was present.  Fíli wondered if he was supposed to say something, either in his brother’s defense or in explanation.  But if Thorin had doubts or questions, he kept them to himself.  

“Thank you, Kíli,” Tauriel told him when he had shown her to her room that night.  “I would rather be here than up on Ravenhill.”  She could see her words made him happy.

“Can I get you anything else tonight?” he asked.

Tauriel glanced into the room.  A fire was already lit, the bed was made up, and a pitcher of water stood on the wash stand.  “I appear to have been well-provided for.”

Kíli nodded.  “You know, this will be the most time we’ve ever had together.”

“Yes.”  She touched his hand briefly, wondering if he saw the color she felt burning over her cheeks.  It was hard to know what to say to him.  Tauriel was not accustomed to speaking her feelings, and here, standing in his ancestral halls among dwarves who mistrusted her, she felt how out of place their affection was.

She added after a moment, “I will see you tomorrow.”

“Good night,” he said.

“Mae losto.”

Kíli smiled as he turned away and went down the hall towards his own rooms.

Tauriel sat on the edge of the bed and let the heat from the fire sink into her bones.  

It felt wonderful to have a place that was warm and welcome, prepared just for her.  Exile had been like the creeping numbness of cold limbs, slowly but steadily spreading its ache through her.  

A home, somewhere to belong: that was what these dwarves had fought to reclaim.  But where was she to find those things again?  It was not Thranduil’s sentence alone that had changed her; when she had chosen to care about the fate of thirteen dwarves from Erebor, she had stepped into a larger world than she had ever known before.  Her place in it would have been unclear, even had she been welcome back to the Greenwood.  She could not turn her back on the world and on these people she had known, though briefly.  She could not turn her back on Kíli.

Just what was Kíli to her?

What you feel for him is not love.  

Thranduil’s words had angered her at first.  Who was he to know?  He had forgotten what it was to put someone else’s good above his own.  But even more, his claim had frightened her.  What did she know of love?  She had never loved anyone, not in that singular way one cherished a lover or a spouse.  Was this tenderness, this bold and inexplicable desire, truly love?  Or was it simply frustration with what she knew and curiosity for what she did not?  Was there something she needed to prove by believing she loved Kíli?

Would you die for him?  

She had more than half expected to meet death at Kíli’s side when she had defied her king and charged up the cliffs of Ravenhill.  

Dying for someone was easy, she had realized later.  You made your choice and that was the end.  The consequences were for others, not for you.

But living for someone—that was more difficult. You had to go on choosing to give yourself for him, even when it was painful or you wanted something different.  You had to live with the consequences.

You make me feel alive, Kíli had said.

Alive, you could still be hurt.  And yet you could also give.  You could love.

Tauriel believed Kíli was worth loving.  

She undressed and put on the loose robe that had been left for her.  It was a bit short, but served well enough for a nightshirt.  By lying slantwise across the bed, she was just able to fit without her feet dangling off the end.  She didn’t care; it was the first proper bed she’d slept in for weeks.

As Tauriel tugged the heavy blankets up over her shoulder, her eyes fell on Kíli’s runestone, which she had taken from her pocket and laid on the bedside table.  She caught it up and held it clasped in her hand as she fell asleep.

“Thorin’s not a fool,” his brother said when Kíli returned to their rooms.  “And you’re not exactly subtle.  He’s going to figure it out.”  

Kíli flopped down into a chair beside the fire.  “Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll banish me, too.”

“Kí,” Fíli admonished, though he was smiling.  He took the second seat by the hearth.

“Na, I don’t want that,” Kíli agreed.  After a moment, he added, “Do you think he’ll forbid me from seeing her?”

“Do you think he’ll sanction it?”  Fíli countered.

Kíli shook his head.  “I wish there wasn’t this grudge between Erebor and Mirkwood. We’re all supposed to hate the elves.  And now she can’t go back home, either.”  He tugged his hair loose and dragged his fingers through it.  “This whole situation is a mess.”  He looked up at Fíli through disarranged bangs.  “I thought getting our home back was supposed to fix all our problems, not create more.”

“You might have one fewer problem if you weren’t fond of an elf,” Fíli noted kindly.

Kíli groaned and fixed his brother with an accusatory look.

“Sorry.  I know what you mean.  It all sounded a lot simpler back ho—err, back in our old halls: journey halfway across the world, kill a dragon, retake a mountain.”  He snorted.  “As if even that was going to be easy.”

“Did you see Daín’s face when we came into the dining hall?” Kíli muttered, slouching down in the chair and glowering into the fire.  “I didn’t think he was going to stand for having an elf at the same table.”

“Be patient, brother!  I’ll be at your back when the time comes, but till then just... try not to deliberately step on anyone’s toes.”

“Thanks.”  Kíli glanced up at Fíli, a half-smile on his face.

After a few minutes of silence, Fíli said, “You know, she’s only here because of you.  I mean, she wouldn’t want to be here, snowstorm or no, if she didn’t care more about you than about a whole mountain full of unfriendly dwarves.”

“Do you think so?”

Fíli shrugged.  “All I’m saying is you couldn’t pay me to be the Elvenking’s guest.”

“I guess not.”  Kíli smirked in spite of his frustration.

Fíli pushed up from his chair.  “Well, I’m off to bed.  Don’t brood too long or you’ll break your face.”

“It can’t end up any worse than yours!” Kíli called after him.  He thought he heard Fíli  make a noise of mock derision before the door closed.

Kíli settled down into the chair cushions once more and gazed into the flames, which burned low and red, like the color of her hair.  No, things weren’t sorted, by any means.  But they had all lived through the battle; Tauriel was here; and somehow—if she loved him, if she wanted it to work—they might be together.  If there was anything he’d learned from this whole terrible, wonderful adventure, it was that things had a way of coming out good, even if you didn’t understand at first.

Chapter Text

Kíli was fond of the elf: that much was clear to Thorin.  His nephew’s eyes were always on her, and Kíli smiled when she spoke to him, an earnest, unconscious, telling smile.  

Thorin wasn’t surprised; he had guessed at some connection between them after the battle on Ravenhill.  Though he had had plenty of his own concerns then, he’d not missed the fact that something had passed between Kíli and Tauriel, without words, as they’d faced one another over the silent field.  He’d forgotten about them, in all the bustle and clamor that had followed.  Providing for the wounded and the slain, making peace with their neighbors, resettling Erebor, he’d not thought to worry that his younger nephew should have developed feelings for an elf.  

Surely those feelings were one-sided.  Thorin did not believe he saw any special affection on Tauriel’s part; she was kind to Kíli, yes, but then it was natural she should feel an interest in the young man whose life she had saved.  

Kíli’s affection, too, could clearly be traced to the same source: she had saved him from death when he had been beyond any other help.  Her goodness joined to her beauty —yes, she was beautiful—had made her a figure Kíli could not help but adore.  

But Kíli’s foolish, impossible hope must not continue.  It would only bring him trouble later; best to end it now.

“You’re imagining something that can never be between yourself and the elf,” Thorin told his nephew one evening when he had found Kíli alone, a rare occurrence now that Kíli spend what free time he had with Tauriel.

“Surely in the wake of this war, we should do all we can to encourage friendship between our peoples,” the young dwarf returned reasonably.  

“Kíli, any fool with two eyes in his head can see you admire her.”

Kíli opened his mouth but said nothing.

“I think I understand why you are drawn to her,” Thorin admitted.  “And I—  I don’t blame you for it.”  Indeed, Thorin felt guilty for pushing his injured nephew so hard and then leaving Kíli to rely on an elf.  As king, Thorin had had no choice; too much had been given for their quest already to risk its failure because of one man.  And as an uncle, he’d known he could not lead Kíli, slow and sick as he was, into dangers that would surely mean his death.  Thorin could not have justified that choice to himself, nor to his sister, the lad’s mother.

His nephew looked momentarily hopeful, so Thorin went on, “But you must see the truth now.  You’ve nothing in common, and what you feel for her cannot last.”

“Thorin, I’m not fickle,” Kíli protested.

Thorin smiled fondly. “I didn’t mean to say you were.”  He knew the depth of Kíli’s loyalty; he owed their victory on Ravenhill to it.  “Let her go, lad.  Her kind don’t give their love to mortals.”

“And if she would?”

“Kíli, she wouldn’t.”  The words sounded more harsh than Thorin had intended.  “I don’t deny she has been kind to you, but can you believe she would ever see you as her equal?  She would be too proud, even like her king.”

“She isn’t—” Kíli bit back the rest of his reply.  A few moments later, he added more calmly, “She wasn’t too proud to die with us.”  

Yes, her actions in the battle had been selfless, surprising.  But hadn’t they all been desperate that day, desperate enough to die so that their own kingdoms would be safe?

“I believe she is your friend, but she will never be anything more.  Everything forbids it.  Look to your future, to your present!  You are a prince of Erebor now, and your affections belong with your own people.”

Kíli nodded and looked away, his expression hidden by dark lashes.

“You’re right,” he said at last, looking up to meet Thorin’s gaze.  “I must act on the truth.”

“I have always trusted you to do so.” The lad’s enthusiasm and inexperience might stand in for his better judgement sometimes, but Thorin knew Kíli had both a noble spirit and the courage to follow it.  He laid a hand on his nephew’s shoulder.  “I could wish for no one better to count among my kin,” he said and was relieved to see a smile replace Kíli’s disappointed look at last.

When Fíli arrived, the common room was empty, save for the elf.  She sat beside the fire, as silent and still as she did even when others were in the room.  Among so many strangers, and dwarves at that, she must be uncomfortable, and Fíli admired her for facing them all, night after night.  It would have been easier, he supposed, simply to hide in her room.  But then, Kíli did show her enough attention to make up for the coolness of the others.

 Where his brother was tonight, Fíli didn’t know, but he was grateful to have a moment to speak to Tauriel alone.  

She looked up as he approached, her eyes shifting from distant thoughts to focus on his face.  “Good evening, Master Fíli,” she addressed him.

He smiled briefly at her formality.  If she were making up for her part in imprisoning him, the gesture was well-chosen.  As much as it embarrassed him to admit it, his pride was still somewhat bruised by the condescendingly efficient handling he had received from the wood elves.   Though he no longer resented Tauriel personally, he still could not forget she was one of them.

“Miss Tauriel, may I join you?”  Fíli indicated the empty space on the bench next to her.  

She nodded, and he sat.  

Fíli had never had much chance to study her before; there had always been too many other people near, too much going on, to really look at her.  Green eyes and hair like burnished copper—that had been his brother’s first description of her.    Her eyes, he saw, were tilted up slightly at the outer corners; their shape was exotic and lovely and very elven.  The firelight gave an attractive warmth to her pale skin, and it made her hair glow, proving Kíli’s words true.  Whatever else his brother was, he was not blind: Tauriel was lovely.

After a few moments, Fíli began, “I never got to thank you properly for everything you did for us in Laketown.  Thank you for defending us and saving my brother’s life.”

“You are most welcome,” she said softly.

“Perhaps you saved my life, as well.  If Kíli hadn’t been behind me on Ravenhill—”

He’d have been taken and slain; and then how could Thorin, standing alone, have defeated Azog?  Surely not without losing his own life.

“At any rate,” Fíli added, chasing dark thoughts away with a quick grin, “Mum surely would have murdered me if anything had happened to Kíli while I was supposed to be looking out for him.”

“She could hardly fault your love,” Tauriel assured him.

“It wasn’t Mum’s choice that we came on this quest.  I think it was right that we did, but...  Our dad is dead, you know,” he finished, by way of explanation.

Tauriel nodded.  “I guessed that.” After a moment, she added, “I hardly deserve the honor, but I’m glad I could spare you another loss.”

“Why did you save him?”

Even in the firelight, Fíli could see her face go red.

 “How could I have done less?”  That wasn’t the full answer, the true answer that Fíli had asked for, and she seemed to know it.  Taking a breath, she went on, “Kíli gave me something I had not known for a long time.  His hope and wonder are untainted by the world’s darkness, and I was drawn to that in him.”

“But do you love him?”  Fíli felt uncomfortable asking her so directly, but he remained intent.  

“What I feel for Kíli, I have not felt for anyone before.  I am almost afraid to name it...  But I assure you, I find my desires answer his own.  And I care far too much to trifle with him.”

“I believe you.  And, err...”  He knew he had pressed her over a very personal matter.  “Thank you for telling me.  Nobody else is going to support you when they find out.  So I just had to be sure.”

She laid her hand over his.  “Thank you, Fíli, for trusting me, both back then and now.”

He nodded.  “I do like you,” he said, and they regarded each other somewhat awkwardly for a few more moments before Fíli rose, bowed over her hand, and wished her good night.

 When she first met him, Tauriel hadn’t known Kíli was a prince.  He’d simply been the cheeky young dwarf who had made her smile in the Elvenking’s dungeons.  She hadn’t learned he was Thorin’s nephew till that morning on the lake.  

Tauriel had been surprised, at first.  Royalty, in her experience, announced their superiority in the way they carried themselves.  Thranduil’s high bearing could sometimes border on haughty disdain, and even Legolas always had that air of easy self-assurance that came from his rank.  As for Thorin—  Well, none of the elven guards had been spared his stubborn and resentful glare of injured dignity.

By contrast, Kíli—once he had warmed to her—had been open and friendly and not at all condescending.  Indeed, the fact that he had spoken to her at all seemed proof he was anything but royal; a prince would have known his duty far too well ever to have given his attention so readily to an elf.  And later in Laketown, he’d hardly presented a regal figure, dressed in ill-fitting borrowed clothes and nearly dead of fever.

Kíli had first seemed a prince on Ravenhill, when he’d leaped to Thorin’s side at Azog’s approach.  Then, his eyes had flashed with something like the pride and defiance she had come to associate with kings.  And yet it was devotion, most of all, that she saw in him so clearly: Kíli moved with no hesitation, as if his body were nothing more than a shield, ready to be broken to save its master.   She could only thank the Valar that so much had not been required of him.

Thorin knew what he had in his nephew.  Indeed, he seemed to have gained such love from many of his followers, both kindred and friends alike.  Even the strange and unlikely halfling had held him in great affection.  Tauriel thought that, with time, she could come to like and respect the dwarf king for his own sake as well as for Kíli’s. 

Yes—she quickly realized—she did very much want Thorin to accept her feelings for Kíli.  Of course he would hardly approve at first; she could see that none of the dwarves—with the exception of the few who knew what she had done in Laketown—were comfortable with her presence.  But she knew that if she and Kíli were to have any hope of showing their affection openly, they would need to gain the approval of the dwarf king.

It was all Tauriel could do sometimes not to smile back at Kíli when caught her eye over the table at the evening meal.  But she would not betray herself before the eyes of his uncle.  Thorin would learn to see her for herself before he judged her for her attachment to Kíli.  She was almost certain Thorin knew what Kíli’s feelings were; Kíli gave her his attention freely in the evenings after the day’s work was done.  She did not discourage him; she wished for his company as much as he did hers, and if Thorin saw that Kíli chose to pursue her, the king might be more willing to accept her than if he thought she encouraged Kíli.  

And indeed, Thorin did seem unaware of her true affection for now.  One night, he had even apologized to her after Kíli addressed her with a rather familiar jest over ale after dinner.

When Kíli had passed out of hearing to another table, Thorin had added, “You need not ignore his presumption; tell him that he exceeds himself.”  

He was commanding her, if politely, to refuse Kíli.  She wanted to laugh: was it somehow in her fate to be told, time and again, that she was unworthy of a prince, not a dwarf, not even one of her own people?

“I assure you, if your nephew behaves unworthily of himself or me, I shall tell him,” she said.

Thorin nodded, as if he had expected no less from her. Tauriel tried to remind herself that he had counted on her to answer from her own pride and indifference.  But would he have spoken any differently if he knew the truth? How did kings think they had any command over one’s love?  She knew Thorin valued the love of his nephews, of his people, because it was freely given.  Could he truly imagine her feelings for Kíli ought to be any less free?

Thorin must have seen a flash of emotion in her eyes, because he added, “Forgive me.  Kíli is young, and his heart outruns him.  I meant nothing against your honor.”

“It is nothing, Your Majesty,” Tauriel told him, grateful he had misattributed the cause of her offense.

Thorin nodded and watched her for several uncomfortable moments, and then he had excused himself from the table.  Tauriel watched him go, frustration temporarily threatening to overcome her hope.

 “How does it feel to have your home back?” Tauriel had asked Kíli one evening during the second week of her stay.  

The two of them sat on the sheer edge of a walk overlooking one of the great central caverns that was crisscrossed with more stairs and walkways connecting the various sprawling halls of Erebor.  Kíli had thought Tauriel was uncomfortable at first to sit with her feet hanging over a chasm with no floor in sight, but she seemed to have relaxed now.  She climbed trees, didn’t she?  Kíli thought trees would be less secure a perch than this slab of solid, living stone.

“It’s, well—”  Kíli paused, thinking.  “It’s not exactly what I expected.  Fí and I were born in exile, so it doesn’t feel like coming back.  But Erebor is the place we always knew we were meant for.  And so, it’s good.  This is the place we can finally love.”

“But—” Tauriel prompted, hearing the hesitation in his tone.  

Kíli gave her a confessional smile.  “But retaking Erebor hasn’t made everything easy, has it?  I suppose I was foolish to expect coming here would be like the end of a story, when everything would come right and there would be nothing left to say or do except ‘live happily for ever after.’”  He laughed at himself, slightly embarrassed, though Tauriel’s expression was still serious as she watched him.  “My whole life, that’s all this has ever been to me: a story.  It still is, I guess, but stories feel a lot different when you’re in them, you know?”

She nodded, smiling at last.  “No-one can assure you what will happen next.”

“What will you do?” Kíli asked softly, finishing the thought that she had begun.

Tauriel sighed and kicked her feet over the empty chasm, as if asserting her freedom.  Then she said, “If I had nothing to hold me here in Rhovanion, I might go to Imladris.  Legolas asked me to join him there.”  She snorted at the sight of Kíli’s disappointed face and added, “It is not like that, Kíli.  Legolas is my friend, nothing more.”

“I didn’t—” Kíli protested, before admitting, “Well, he did follow you to Laketown and then Ravenhill, so I thought maybe...”

“He followed me because he knew it was right.”  She gazed down at her feet.  “Yes, he did believe he loved me.  But I think he wanted something from me that I could not give him:  approval, perhaps?  Or acceptance?”  She looked back up to Kíli’s face.  “His father has always held him distant.”

“I think I understand,” he said.  

“But I don’t want to leave,” Tauriel continued in answer to his earlier question.  “Rhovanion is my home, even if I cannot return to the Greenwood.  I can still serve my people indirectly by aiding our neighbors.  All of our fates are joined—this recent war has proven that beyond any doubt.”

She reached for his hand and linked her fingers slowly and deliberately in his.  “I want what you promised me that morning on the lake,” she said.  “I want to follow both love and duty, without being afraid.”

“I really don’t know how we will do both yet,” Kíli admitted, “but you give me hope that we can.”  He closed his other hand over hers.  Her fingers looked so delicate within his, but he’d seen how strong they’d been on a bow, on a blade.

He had known she understood him that morning after dragon’s fire; the only question had been what she would offer him in return.  Her coming to him on Ravenhill had been the answer.  In the moment when he had heard her call his name over the mountainside, everything had become wonderfully simple: he was almost certainly going to die, but he was happy knowing he served Thorin and was loved by Tauriel.  

But he had not died, and life, as it had a way of doing, had gone on and become complex once more.  Well, complex in all things but one: he knew he wanted to be with her.

Tauriel went on, “At first, I thought that what we wanted would be against our duties, against all hope.  And yet, what good are duties performed without love?”  She added softly, “I was exiled for saying just that to my king.”

 Kíli glanced up and saw hurt in her eyes.  

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I—  It’s my fault.”

Tauriel shook her head fiercely.  “I made my own choice, Kíli.  You helped me see it, but I could no longer hold back and wait for others to act when I knew what was right.”

“I know.”  Kíli chuckled.  “That’s the kind of thinking that tends to end with me singlehandedly facing three stone trolls.”

“You what?” Tauriel demanded, amused and horrified at once.  

“Well, they were going to eat our burglar.  And our ponies.”

“Kíli, you are strong, but still hardly a match for three trolls.”

“I did all right until Fíli brought backup.”

Tauriel smirked.  “Your mother is right about you.”

“Maybe.  Just know that I won’t leave you to face hungry trolls alone.  Nor an angry king, for that matter.”  That king, he knew, was as likely to be his own uncle as it was her sylvan lord.  

“Thank you,” she said and lifted his hand to her lips.  

If they hadn’t been sitting on the edge of an endless drop, Kíli would have tried to kiss her.  He thought maybe she knew that, for she gave him a sweet, teasing smile.  

When he rose and and drew her back up to her feet, Kíli kept hold of her hand, only releasing it once they had returned to busier halls.

Chapter Text

“Can you smell the earth warming?” Tauriel asked.

Kíli inhaled deeply.  Yes, the air was definitely beginning to smell green.  Winter was more of a blue smell.

He and Tauriel stood on one of the lower mountain ridges, looking out at the valley entrance to the mountain.  A few last patches of white clung to the highest vales, but for the most part both valley and plain were dark from melted snow.  

“Mum always told us Mahal was stoking his furnaces,” he said, remembering late winter mornings when she had shooed him and his brother outdoors to blow the stink off, as she said.  

As Tauriel smiled, he went on, “Mum will be joining us as soon as the weather holds for traveling.”

“Then she knows you’re all well.”

Kíli nodded.  “We sent word by raven.  Our royal line still remember how to speak to the birds of the mountain.”

“What is that one saying?”  She pointed to a raven that had been watching them from atop a stone a short distance away.  It croaked, as if in response to her request.

Kíli watched the bird thoughtfully for a moment, his head tipped slightly to one side.

“He says the world is likely ending, since an elf and a dwarf have become friends.”  He gave her a teasing look.  “Sometimes they do just say nonsense.”

Tauriel’s eyes narrowed.  “Kíli, did he really say that?”

He grinned.  “No.  I think it was something about a dead rabbit...  Really, it is nonsense most of the time.”  He shrugged.  “Raven has about twelve different words for ‘carrion,’ and I’ve never bothered to learn them all.”

She laughed.

“What?” Kíli asked.

“You dwarves are surprising,” Tauriel explained.  “I never expected you to speak to birds.”

“Do you mean we’re not as strange as you thought?”  He liked being able to surprise her.  There must be so much she had already discovered in the world, but he could give her something she had not yet found.

She flushed.  “I confess, I do still find you strange.  But not in a bad way.  You have your own beauty.”

He looked up at her happily.  Not long ago, he had wondered if she, this lovely creature from a world so far from his own, could see anything to admire in him, in mind or body.  Now, he even dared believe she felt drawn to him as much as he was to her.

Tauriel reached out and caught his hand, her expression both eager and shy at once.  Kíli thought she often seemed overwhelmed even by that simple touch, though he wasn’t sure if it was because of who he was, or because what she felt for him was new to her.  Surely, with as long as she had lived, she had been in love before?  He had not, not truly.  Oh, he had chased a few girls back in Ered Luin, lasses who’d been perfectly willing to kiss him because he was persuasive (and a prince), but luckily they had never taken him any more seriously than he had wished.  Yet Tauriel—  Well, he now understood why so many dwarves never moved past a first love, even if they had been refused.  It was in his people’s nature to love unwaveringly, when they did spare their attention from the forge long enough to care for something other than their own work.  

The two of them continued to walk along the ridge.   Some brown, scrubby grass was all that showed of last year’s vegetation.  Kíli hoped that soon he would see the mountain slopes as his mother and uncle had always described them, covered in pines that roared in the wind.  That new growth might begin soon indeed, with the dragon’s influence gone.  The earth felt softer under his boots than it had all winter.  Yes, spring had nearly come.

And that meant she would leave.  

Kíli had been reminding himself of that fact for the last week.  He understood that she could not stay.  As much as he hoped she might one day belong wherever he did, he knew he could not yet convince his uncle, much less Daín’s folk from the Iron Hills, to accept her.  And he suspected Tauriel still felt displaced after losing her own home.  He would wait, if he had to, till they both found where they fit into their new lives.

“Where will you go, after this?” he asked.  

“Dale, and thence perhaps to Esgaroth,” Tauriel told him.  “The elves will be driving the evil things from the forest, and the creatures may flee here.  The lakemen will need to protect themselves, and I can help with that.  If they’ll have me.”

“I don’t know if it will help, but you can tell them the Prince of Erebor vouches for you.”

She laughed.  “Let us hope they believe you unbiased.”

“Why didn’t you go to Dale before?” Kíli asked presently.  He had often wondered over that question this winter.  Surely Bard’s people would not have refused her, after the aid her king had given them.

Tauriel shook her head, as if she did not know how to explain herself.  “Penance?  Or perhaps stubbornness.  I brought this exile upon myself, and I needed to understand what I had done.”

“Then why did you come with me?”  He believed he knew the answer, but he needed to hear it from her.

“Because...”  Tauriel drew him to a stop and looked down at him, her lips parted to speak, though she found no words for several long moments.  “You asked me once to follow you, but I could not.  This time, I had no duty to oppose my desire.”

Kíli remembered the way she had looked at him on the lake shore: her eyes had been troubled, as if opposing emotions struggled within her.  Then, he hadn’t been sure if she had wanted to give him a different answer, or if she had merely been sorry to disappoint him.  

There was no reluctance in her answer today.  Her eyes met his, steady and warm and free.  

“Kíli, I intend to go after a day or two more.  I will not overstay my welcome.  But I promise I do not leave you.”

“I know,” Kíli told her, and they began the walk back to the mountain halls.  

 After everyone had retired for the night, Tauriel joined Kíli in one of the small, side rooms at the far end of the common halls.  They had tried to be more discreet in their meetings lately, knowing they already drew enough attention by their public interactions.  Kíli, Tauriel thought, had also seemed anxious to avoid Thorin lately, though she had not asked his reasons.

The fire had burned rather low, and Kíli had only relit one of the lamps in the room, so they sat close in the ring of firelight.  

Kíli was describing the renovation project he had been given to oversee with his brother, but Tauriel realized, with only a mild flush of guilt, that she was but half listening to him.  

In the dim light, his coloring showed especially dark, though every now and then the fire would flare in his eyes and in his hair.  His hair wasn’t truly black, she had discovered, but a rich brown with hints of auburn that showed in the sun.  When she had first met him, she had shocked herself by thinking that if he hadn’t had his hair full of spiderwebs, he might almost be handsome.  She did not doubt that he was now, though whether she saw him with the eyes of an elf, a dwarf, or simply a lover, she was not sure.  He somehow undid her with his smile, with his presence, in a way that delighted as much as it surprised her.

She noticed Kíli had stopped speaking and seemed to be waiting for a response.  After a moment, he pronounced, “Tauriel, you weren’t listening.”  His tone was amused.

“No; I’m sorry,” she confessed.  

Because he watched her but said nothing, she reached out and drew her fingertips over his cheek.  His beard was rough, a little prickly, but she did not mind.  She had been half afraid she would, and how would he have felt then, knowing she found him unpleasant?

“Am I very strange?” he asked softly, as if guessing her thought.

In answer, she leaned close and pressed her lips to his cheek.  She breathed a single, soft laugh—yes, he was definitely prickly—and then she kissed him again at the edge of his mouth, and again, full on the lips.

Kíli leaned closer to her and caught her gently by the neck; and for a moment they paused, her brow pressed to his.  Tauriel closed her eyes, suddenly deeply self-conscious: she had never kissed anyone before.  Yet before she had time to feel truly embarrassed, Kíli met her lips again and continued where she had left off.  

Repairs would go more quickly once the remaining dwarves from Ered Luin arrived, but Thorin was happy with the progress that had been made in these last short months.  He had felt a fresh pain at seeing the ruin of his childhood home, but his own resentment and anger seemed to heal as the dwarves repaired shattered metal and stone.  For the first time since he had been driven from these halls, he felt content, settled.

Today had been another full one of work and planning, and Thorin was looking forward to bed, but he wanted to have one more glance at the outline he and Gloín had drawn up for repairs to one of the larger galleries.  He thought he might make a few minor alterations before the stonecutters went to work tomorrow.  The plans were not in his room, however; he must have left them in the quiet study where he and Gloín had met earlier tonight.  It was a bit of a walk back to retrieve them, but Thorin would rather do it now than tomorrow on his way to the work site.

The halls were quiet and only partially lit at this time of night, and Thorin met no one as he walked.  He did not expect the room itself to be occupied, and so it was not until after he had entered that he noticed he was not alone.  On the bench beside the fire sat the red-haired elf, and with her could only be Kíli—Kíli, whose hands were full of her hair and who returned her willing kiss.  

Thorin’s first instinctive feeling was simply embarrassment for having intruded on such a private moment.  Then frustration at his nephew, who had promised to forget his feelings for the elf, flared through him.  Thorin could not remain watching them, nor could he pretend he had not seen.  

He took another step, deliberately scraping his boots across the stone floor, and Tauriel, at least, heard him then: he could see her back stiffen.  A moment later, Kíli finally caught sight of his uncle over her shoulder.  

At any other time, Thorin would have felt sympathy at the look of horror on his nephew’s face.  But Kíli had made this disaster for himself and could hardly expect to escape it.

“I came for this,” Thorin said brusquely, taking up the plans from the table with a crack of shaken paper.  

“Of course,” Kíli answered easily, if a little unsteadily.  Tauriel had turned her face aside.  

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Thorin turned and stalked out.  He was hardly going to berate Kíli in front of an elf, even if she was the cause, and he had no words at the moment, anyway.  

“What happened?” Fíli asked as his brother came into their shared rooms.  Kíli looked very much like he wanted to slam the door, but he closed it softly and deliberately.  He hadn’t slammed doors since his twenties.  

Kíli said, “Thorin came in on Tauriel and me while we were in the far study; you know the little private one with all the tapestries?”

“Oh?” Fili prompted.  That fact alone did not seem cause enough for the raised voices he had heard from Thorin’s rooms.  

“I— Um.  I was kissing her.”

“Oh,” Fíli said again.  Just what had his little brother been thinking? “Well, that explains why her face was as red as her hair and she didn’t say anything to me when I passed her in the hall just now.”

“You know that end of the halls is always empty this time of night!” Kíli said with sudden vehemence.  “How was I to know Thorin had forgotten the construction outlines in there?”  

Fíli nodded placatingly; his brother’s reasoning was sound enough, as far as it went.  It really wasn’t safe kissing an elf anywhere in this mountain, unless maybe you found a forgotten mine shaft somewhere.  Not that Fíli would exactly have recommended doing that, either.  

“Was it worth it?”

“What?” Kíli asked, slightly exasperated.

“Kissing her, of course.”

“Err, yes...”  Kíli’s expression lightened somewhat.  “I’ll probably never be able to face Thorin again in my life, but at least Tauriel wants me,” he said self-deprecatingly.

“What did you say to him?” Fíli asked cautiously after a moment.

“More like what did I yell at him...” Kíli corrected miserably.  “I told him he isn’t my father.  And that if being a Durin had to mean more than the people I loved, I didn’t want my heritage any more.”  Kíli slid down the closed door and propped his head up on his hands.  “Also I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Kíli, you don’t have to—”  

“I know.  But I don’t think I can ever look him in the face again.  Not after everything I said.  What he said...”

Fíli waited.

“He said I’m a fool,” Kíli went on.  “Which is true.  But I’m not—  Not faithless.  I—  I told him, before, that I would act by the truth with Tauriel.  He thought that meant I’d let her go.  I let him think that.  But it was the only thing I could say!  I’d do anything for him, Fíli!  I was ready to die for him on Ravenhill.  But I can’t deny the truth.  I can’t undo my love for her out of love for him.”  He gave Fíli a pained look.

Fíli took a seat against the door at his brother’s shoulder.  He sympathized with Kíli’s frustration; he himself had been torn between faith and honor when Thorin had held them all inside the walls while their friends and allies fought and died.  He had wanted to offer his kinsman and king unswerving obedience, and yet felt it was impossible.  

“Would you give that all away for her?  For an elf?” Fíli asked.

“Is that all she is to you? An elf?”

“No.  You know she’s not,” Fíli corrected.  “Just...  Give it time.  I said I’d back you up, and I will.  Just let Thorin get used to the idea.  Show him you’re sure about her, that it’s not just a whim.”  Kíli had always been one to consult universal principles before considering the particular circumstances.  His principles were good ones—he was brave and loyal—but that didn’t mean they couldn’t get him into trouble.  

Fíli nudged his brother’s boot with his own, and went on, “Kíli, you’re my brother.  I don’t want you to leave.  We need you here.  Thorin does; and Mum will, too.”

“I know,” Kíli said softly.  “That’s why I can’t lie to you all.”

“No-one’s asking you to.”  

“Thorin is.”  Kíli’s tone revealed how much the idea hurt him.

“Thorin doesn’t understand yet.  Give him time,” Fíli reasoned.

“I can’t.  I’ve ruined everything now.”

“Kíli—”

“Don’t,” Kíli interrupted. Then, less harshly, he added, “You don’t understand.  You’ve done everything right; you always have.  You don’t know what it’s like to need to do something nobody else wants.”

“Kíli, I—”  Fíli sighed.  “I’m sorry.  Just don’t do anything you’ll regret.”  There was more he wanted to say, but he knew his brother wouldn’t hear any of it right now.  When it came to what he believed, Kíli could be as stubborn as Uncle.  Or Mum.  

“It’s probably too late for that,” Kíli admitted with a weak laugh.

Fíli sat with his brother in silence for a few more minutes.  Then Kíli pushed to his feet with a resigned sigh and made for his bedroom.  

“Good night, Fí,” he said and turned back to regard his brother for a moment before he closed his door.

“It’ll look better in the morning,” Fíli returned.  He hoped it was true.

Chapter Text

Fíli yawned and swept sleep-tangled hair out of his face as he went from his chamber into the common rooms.  Kíli’s bedroom door was open, the room beyond empty.  Had Kíli really done it, then?  Had he left?

When he entered his brother’s room, Fíli found the bed neatly made, but his brother had always been good about doing that; Kíli insisted blankets weren’t as comfortable if they had been left in a heap all day.  The empty dressing table offered no clues, either.  Kíli didn’t have many personal things yet in Erebor and those he had—a pipe, flint and steel, a knife—he usually carried with him.  Yet the wardrobe door was open, and glancing inside, Fíli got the answer he sought: Kíli’s heavy cloak was gone, as was his knapsack.  

Fíli stood staring into the empty wardrobe.  What did his brother think he was doing?  Kíli was running away from the home he had fought and nearly died (on more than one occasion) to reclaim.  And for a woman who, though she was not truly an enemy, was not yet counted an ally by their people.  

He felt a flare of resentment at Tauriel for drawing Kíli away from his place.  How was it that she had a greater claim on Kíli than did his own family?  She was just an outsider.  She hadn’t earned that kind of devotion from him yet.

Fíli was disgusted with himself as soon as he had thought that.  He knew Tauriel had a kind heart and that her affection for Kíli was true.  And when he wasn’t peeved about what Kíli’s feelings for her led him to do, Fíli did think she was a good match for his brother, with her thoughtful manner balanced by her sudden lively wit.  But that was just it—everything would have been so much easier if he could simply have hated and dismissed her.  Instead, he recognized that Tauriel offered Kíli something good, and that Kíli had chosen it above his birthright, leaving that burden to his brother alone.

That last fact was what truly stung him, Fíli realized.  

Kíli had never felt the pressure of expectation that his elder brother had.  Fíli would be king, and had known nearly all his life that he must learn to act like one, to prepare himself for the responsibility that would one day be his.  And so Fíli was always left to do the right thing, while Kíli did, well, whatever he wanted.  Not that Kíli had ever wanted anything that was terribly at odds with his identity as a prince; he always had had a deep sense of the nobility required of a son of Durin.  But for Kíli, choices had always been uncomplicated, guided only by what fit with his rather universal definitions of what that nobility entailed, without being clouded by the considerations of a king for the particular and therefore often conflicting needs of others.  

Certainly it was right that Kíli refuse to compromise his love and loyalty to someone who deserved both.  Fíli just wished his brother could see that matters were rarely so well-defined that you could simply choose one thing over another.  Sometimes, you could refuse neither option, and then you had to try, somehow, to find a third way.  

Maybe, Fíli thought, he was just jealous that his little brother had never had to see things that way.

Maker save the stupid idiot from himself.  Fíli closed the wardrobe door and turned back to his own bedroom to finish dressing.  On the way, he paused for a moment in the common room, which was dark and still without the fire lit yet.  Damnation.  Was this whole blasted suite of rooms going to belong solely to him now?  Things would be so quiet.  Kíli had always been there, a companion and an accomplice, someone who’d ensured Fíli had never had to do anything alone.  

There had been one choice for Fíli that truly had been simple: his brother’s welfare meant far more than a moment of glory reclaiming a mountain.  He could not have left Kíli to face fear and death alone in Laketown.

Fíli had never before doubted that he could count on the same support in return.  

 “Yes, I knew, though I never said anything,” Fíli volunteered to his uncle as the two of them faced each other over the breakfast table.  “I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

Thorin eyed his nephew.  The two brothers had always been inseparable, so of course Fíli had known.  

“You always were loyal to your brother,” Thorin observed.  The words sounded critical now, as if recalling all the times his nephews had upheld each other in past mischief and trouble.  Yet the statement was neutral enough: Thorin knew the boys had relied on one another for victory, for their very lives, in the recent battle.  He hardly meant to deprecate that true bond, and so he restrained himself from chastising Fíli for his loyalty now, much as he was tempted to.

“So is he leaving?” Thorin continued after a moment.

“He was packed and gone when I woke,” Fíli answered dully.  He sipped at his tea and then added, “You won’t stop him?”

Thorin snorted.  “If Kíli goes, it’s his own choice.  I won’t lock up my own kin.”  The memory of the threats he had made to the ever-faithful Dwalin still burned him.  He had acted ignobly to constrain his own flesh and blood, and he would not do it again, no matter how Kíli’s actions might have justified it.  Besides, the loyalty he expected from his nephew must be given willingly.

“Is he serious about her?” he asked his nephew.  Kíli’s actions certainly proved the intensity of his feelings, but Fíli would know how much his brother had committed his will.

“I believe so,” Fíli answered tonelessly but readily.

“Maker’s beard.  I thought your brother had more sense,” Thorin exclaimed, pounding the tabletop so that the dishes clattered.  Over their quest, Thorin had seen Kíli grow from a reckless—though not truly irresponsible—young man to the noble thane Thorin had always known he could become.  The change had not made Thorin love the boy any more than he already did, but he had been proud of who his young kinsman had shown himself to be.  And now Kíli had gone and thrown all that merit away.  

“If he chooses her, he cuts himself off from the line of inheritance,” Thorin growled.  It wasn’t what he wanted, but if Kíli joined himself to an elf, he left Thorin no choice.  Grafting elvish blood to the eldest royal dwarven line was unthinkable.

Fíli grunted.  “I don’t want to be king without him beside me.”

“Then I suggest you convince him to give her up.”  At Fíli’s injured expression, Thorin softened his tone.  “Perhaps he will listen to you, if not to me.”  Kíli might be able to suppose that Thorin, surrounded by his warriors and counselors, did not need his young nephew’s support, but Kíli could hardly deny his own brother’s need.  

Had the boy truly learned nothing?  Surely Kíli should know that his courage and faithfulness were his greatest heritage, even if he never would be a king?  To renounce all kinship, loyalty, and love was by far a greater betrayal than choosing an elf.

Thorin stood; the day’s work did not wait on their convenience or inclination.  

As Fíli downed the last of his tea, Thorin demanded in an afterthought, “Can you manage the construction in the south halls by yourself?”  Kíli had been overseeing the project with his brother.

“I have to,” Fíli returned, a note of resentment in his tone, and Thorin realized, for the first time, that Fíli must feel even more deeply betrayed than he.

Kíli met Tauriel at the postern gate at dawn, as he had promised. Even in the dim torchlight, his face looked haggard, as if he had not slept much, and she felt a fresh stab of guilt at the trouble she had placed him in.

Before she could greet him, he said simply, “I can’t stand before Thorin as subject or kin now.”  She saw the pack on his shoulder then and knew, with a shock of unhappiness, that he was not here to bid her farewell.  He was leaving with her.

“Kíli, I—” she began, but there were no words for the tangle of sympathy and regret in her chest.

“Don’t worry,” he said with an attempt at an unconcerned shrug, but Tauriel saw the wistful glance he cast back over the carven halls before he stepped after her into the pale dawn.

A thick white mist filled the valley, blanking out everything but half a hundred yards of barren road before them.  The emptiness felt oppressive to Tauriel, mirroring as it did the bleakness of her own thoughts.  

She shortened her stride so that Kíli might keep pace beside her, yet she felt too guilty to look at him, and so they hardly spoke as they hiked towards Dale.  Kíli did not say exactly what had passed between himself and his uncle last night, but Tauriel gathered, from his few terse remarks, that he felt he had damaged his connection to Thorin beyond repair.  And truly, she did not have the heart to press him for more details.

It was her fault.  She knew they risked disapproval and denial, having incurred it already from her own king.  She should have been more careful, should not have let Kíli favor her so openly.  She had thought Thorin might come to accept her for Kíli’s sake, and yet now she had come between Kíli and his uncle and destroyed all chance for the dwarf king to see her as anyone other than the elf who had stolen his nephew.

Still, she admitted with a double flash of guilt, she could not regret her actions for themselves.  She certainly did not regret having kissed Kíli.  With that kiss, she had revealed that he drew her, body as well as soul.  That was the question he had been asking her since he had first met her: could she be happy with him just as he was, though he was so different from her in every way?  She was still half afraid to put her desire for him into words, but she had wanted to answer him.  

And yet in doing so, she had undone his life, just as she had already undone her own.    

She should not have placed their own happiness before his duty.  She should have waited till they could love more openly, or at least more safely.  She should have known better.  The thought made her sick at heart, and she could not bear to meet Kíli’s face, even when he finally did turn to her and catch her hand.  

“Tauriel, are you angry with me?” he asked, tugging her to a halt beside him.  

“Kíli!  How could I be?” she asked, surprised.  Looking down to him at last, she saw the anxious tension in his brow.  “No,” she continued softly.  “I am angry at myself.”

He pressed her hand.  “You’re not responsible for Thorin!”

“No, but I do feel responsible for you.”

Kíli sighed.  “I know.”  He glanced down at their linked hands, and after a moment, looked back up to her face, his eyes still troubled.  “I can’t come with you.”

Tauriel felt the tightness in her chest unexpectedly ease.  Kíli seemed to notice the change in her as well, for his expression shifted to become somewhat quizzical.  

“I am relieved to hear it,” she explained.  “We cannot both be exiles.”

He gave a weak half-smile.  “I just—  I can’t do this because I’m angry.”  After a few slow breaths he went on.  “I could leave because I chose you.  I could leave because Thorin is wrong and because my birthright doesn’t matter more than the people I love.  Those things are all true.  But...  Right now, more than anything, I’m just—”  He shrugged, and Tauriel thought he almost seemed ashamed.  “Mad.”  

Tauriel knelt and put her arms round his shoulders.

“I was afraid you would lose everything for me,” she whispered.  “How would I forgive myself if you had?”

Kíli settled his arms around her waist and leaned gently against her.  

“Tauriel, I want to deserve you,” he said.  “But I feel that I’ve done everything wrong.”

She released him.  “You have not,” she said, brushing his hair back from his eyes.  “Go home.  Mend things with your uncle.  Welcome your mother.  We will find our time.”

He nodded.  “Thank you,” he breathed.

Tauriel kissed him.

“I shall miss you,” she said.  

“As I will you.”  Kíli looped his fingers in a strand of her hair so that she could not move away.  “Don’t go yet.”  He kissed her once more, lightly, not as he had done last night.  Then slowly, reluctantly, he loosened his hold on her hair.

“Wait!” she protested, and he obeyed, meeting her glance with curious eyes.

Tauriel drew the short knife she kept in her boot and, placing her fingers over his, cut the lock of hair free.  Kíli smiled as he looked down at the coppery strands in his hand.  Then he folded them safely into his handkerchief, which he tucked back into his pocket.

“I don’t know when I will be able to meet you again, but I promise to come as soon as I can,” Kíli said.

Tauriel nodded.  “I will wait for you.”

He put his hands on her waist and lifted her to her feet once more.  “Look, we’re almost there,” he said, nodding towards the buildings of Dale, finally visible now that the mist had lifted.  “I had better see you into the city before the watch wonders why an elf and a dwarf tarry so long outside the walls.”

She gave him a rueful smile before following.  “I suppose we have already caused enough scandal for one day.”

This was the worst scrape he’d ever gotten himself into, Kíli thought miserably, prodding a brown tuft of grass with his boot as he sat looking down over the dusky mountainside.  With the sun down, it had become chilly, but he was in no great hurry to return to the mountain and face the curious glances and whispers that were sure to greet him.  Everyone must know by now that the younger prince had run away with the elf.  

Yes, this was worse than finding himself about to be eaten by trolls or mangled by goblins or hewn down by the Defiler.  Those times, he’d only been facing bodily harm, a prospect he certainly had not relished, but which called for a relatively straightforward response: you showed no fear—no matter what you felt—and you tried to take as many of them with you as you could.  But now, he felt the threat went deeper than flesh and bone; he was being torn apart from within, and there was no easy way out.

His course had seemed simple enough last night: if Thorin insisted Kíli betray the things he believed and the people he loved, he could not stay.

“Remember where your faith lies,” Thorin had demanded.  

“Faith?  You would have me disregard it.”  Kíli had made a promise to Tauriel in good faith.

“If you think so, you prove you have none.”

Kíli knew that wasn’t true.  He would hardly feel so wretched now if he did not hate the thought of doing ignobly by either Tauriel or his family.  His love for her didn’t have to conflict with his loyalty to his kin; it only did now because Thorin insisted that it did.  Tauriel was good; she was honorable; and loving her could only make Kíli better.  

That was why he had to go back.  He would never prove his love was worthwhile if it lead him to abandon the people who needed him.  

It was no insignificant choice to walk away from family, home, and heritage.  He would do it, if staying meant becoming someone who was not worthy of himself, of his kindred, of her.  But leaving simply because he was angry: that was not worthy, either.  

He had felt the shame of his ignoble choice gnawing at him as he had turned his back on the mountain and walked away that morning.  Tauriel deserved to be chosen for herself, not in retaliation for his uncle’s blindness and intolerance.  And Fíli and Mum—and yes, even Thorin—deserved more from him than to be forsaken without any better reason than a childish fit of pique.

And so, he would swallow his pride and the words he had hurled at Thorin, and return home.  He wanted Erebor to remain his home.

Kíli pushed himself up from the stone where he had been sitting as the shadows had lengthened and the world had turned to grey.  The river below mirrored the sunset’s ruddy glow, becoming once more the stream of gold out of the old songs.  Kíli looked back over his shoulder, following the water’s course as it curved past Dale.  

Bard had accepted Tauriel readily; it seemed her defense of his children in Laketown was all the proof of her worth he had required.  Though visibly surprised to learn she was not returning to the Greenwood, Bard had sympathized with her explanation that she could not follow a king who required her to ignore the needs of her friends.  Dale could use more huntsmen, guards, and scouts, the lake-man had said, and Tauriel was welcome among his people, if she did not mind their ways.

Tauriel would not be so far, Kíli told himself.  The waters that flowed from the mouth of Erebor crossed the distance between them in mere minutes.  And yet, when would he be able to see her again?  Thorin would forbid it, and while Kíli had no intention of obeying that order indefinitely, he knew he ought not test his uncle’s limits again so soon.  The happiness he had felt with her over these last weeks would have to be enough for him, for now.

Indeed, that moment last night, while it lasted, had been perfect.  Kíli smiled, remembering the feel of her: her skin, her lips had been so soft.  He never wanted to kiss a woman with a beard on her face again, he thought and then wondered, briefly, if there was something wrong with him if he was no longer attracted to his own kind.  But no, the truth was far simpler than that.  He never wanted to kiss any other woman again, be she elf or dwarf.

And as for what Tauriel felt for him, well, he no longer worried that she might never find him fully desirable.  Yes, she had been hesitant, even a little shy, but there had been no reluctance in the way she had kissed him.  Would she have told him, if they’d been left alone, that she loved him?  

Kíli had not made any promises to her beyond the one on the lake shore; he had not even told her since then—in words, at any rate—that he loved her.  That one promise had been enough; his intent had not changed.  He knew Tauriel knew, and that she remembered; and he would wait for her to declare herself in her own time.  It it must be an elvish thing: if you lived forever, he supposed, falling in love must be something you did slowly, lingering over each moment, each new recognition and discovery.  He didn’t think he would mind lingering.

Maybe it was a fine line between lingering and waiting, he reminded himself as he turned away from Dale at last.  But Tauriel deserved his patience, and so he would wait.  

He set his face towards the mountain once more and began the walk home.

Chapter Text

Kíli was relieved when the gate wardens admitted him to the mountain with nothing more than the usual greeting.  It meant that Thorin had not yet formally disinherited him before all of Erebor.  His own words last night, Kíli knew well, would have fully justified such an action.

“If being your heir—if being a Durin—has to mean more than the people I love, I renounce my claim!  I don’t want to be a prince!”

He wasn’t entirely sure if, when he had said those words, he had meant them as a true renouncement of his birthright, or merely as the proof of what he was willing to lose if he must.  Yet having said them, he knew he no longer had the right to expect he could walk through the gates as if, well, he might someday own the place.

The main hallways were all empty.  Everyone would be at supper in the dining hall, and Kíli went there, as well. He needed to present himself to Thorin immediately, and as awkward as it would be to do so in front of everyone, it would also be better that way.  Though his trespass had been private, Kíli knew that a public acknowledgment and apology would make the gesture a renewal of fealty, as well.  

He paused for a moment outside the dining hall.  The usual hubbub of conversation and clattered dishes did not feel welcoming tonight.  Kíli could only imagine all the eyes that would soon be on him, questioning him, judging him.  

Maker give me courage, he breathed, and he went in.

No-one noticed him at first, and he hoped for one desperate moment that maybe, just maybe, he would make it to the high table unremarked.  Then one conversation stilled, and then another, as diners nudged their companions and nodded to him.  Kíli didn’t allow himself to look aside, but kept striding down the room.

People were whispering.  “Not so much a fool as I thought,” and “brazen nerve,” though none of it irritated him half so much as hearing someone say, in a voice that was hardly a whisper, “Pray he’s broken free of her spell at last.”  Such a remark might well have cost its speaker a bloody nose, had Kíli not been painfully conscious at that moment that he was must act both fully grown and a prince.

As he neared the high table, Kíli watched to see what his uncle’s and brother’s reactions would be.  Thorin’s face was unreadable, though Fíli was clearly surprised.  Daín, at his uncle’s left, seemed somehow disapproving and reassured at once, if such a thing were possible.  Kíli saw that his own seat, two places down from Thorin’s right, next to Fíli, was still empty.

Thorin was watching him steadily as he halted below the table.  

Kíli knelt.

“Your Majesty.  Uncle,” he began softly, his eyes on Thorin’s.    He forced his voice louder so that the rest of the room might hear.  “Forgive me for what I said last night.  I spoke out of anger, and I am sorry.”  Thorin’s expression did not change.  “I promise I shall endeavor, as I have always done, to behave worthily of you.”  Kíli bowed his head.

Those next moments of waiting were the hardest of all.  He had submitted himself and there was nowhere to run.

“Rise, Kíli, my sister-son, and resume your place,” came his uncle’s voice at last.

Kíli waited another moment out of humility, and then stood.  As he made his way round the table to his seat, he glanced up at Fíli once more.  His brother’s face was blank, and Kíli felt suddenly hurt.  He wasn’t sure exactly what he had expected: encouragement, sympathy, relief, perhaps?  No, he was a fool to expect Fíli wasn’t injured by what he’d done.  Yet as Kíli slid into his seat, Fíli shoved his own full tankard towards his brother, and Kíli accepted it with a grateful nod.      

The dwarves at the tables below them reluctantly turned their attention back to their neighbors, and conversations slowly resumed.  

Fíli knew he should be proud of his brother for having done the hard thing—the right thing—and he was.  But part of him still held on to his resentment.  He just wished that, once in a while, there was some kind of consequence for the bold, irresponsible things Kíli did.  Fíli knew he was being unreasonable to wish it—he certainly did not want his brother exiled or disinherited, and he knew that tonight was hardly the end of the matter between Kíli and Thorin.  But still, it felt like letting Kíli off to forget that he’d done something so nearly catastrophic and just monumentally stupid.  

And so, despite feeling wildly relieved to have his brother back, Fíli had remained cool throughout dinner, and when the two of them had retired, he shut himself into his bedroom instead of lounging in the common room.  He wasn’t really ready to go to sleep yet, and so he sat on the edge of his bed, tossing one of his knives as he often did when he was thinking, or in this case, trying not to.

After a while, a knock sounded on the door.  “Fí?  May I come in?”

Fíli tossed the knife and caught it again before answering.  “Yes.”

The door opened slowly before Kíli, whose eyes flicked from his brother’s face to the knife in his hand as if half expecting Fíli to throw it at him.  

Fíli looked down to the knife as well and then threw it towards the far end of the room, away from Kíli.  He dimly registered the hollow thunk it made as the blade lodged in the wooden shield hung on the wall.  

Kíli did not seem encouraged.  “Fíli, I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

I know, Fíli wanted to say, but didn’t.

Kíli moved towards him again.  “I should have listened to you last night.  You were right.”  He stopped in front of Fíli.  “You know I— I came back for you.”

Fíli looked up at him and nodded.  His brother’s brow was drawn—Kíli didn’t cry, not when he was upset, but he had that troubled, brokenhearted look that was almost worse.  Fíli had sometimes wondered if that look was something special little brothers were given on their way into the world.  It would explain how they got away with all the things they did.  Kíli had certainly exploited its power before, and Fíli himself had even banked on his brother’s ability to elicit sympathy to get them both out of trouble when they were kids.  But now, he knew the look was no ploy: Kíli was simply deeply and genuinely upset.  

“Fí, I’m sor—” Kíli began again, but Fíli rose and caught him in a hug before he could finish.  

“I forgive you,” Fíli said, deliberately letting his resentment go.  Holding grudges was something he had never been able to do; it made him feel so very petty.

“I’ve been a terrible brother and a terrible son,” Kíli mumbled from Fíli’s shoulder.  “And to Tauriel, I would’ve been—”  He sighed, then finished unhappily, “Basically, I’ve been a terrible everything.”

“Nah, you’ve almost been a terrible everything,” Fíli corrected gently.  “But you came back.  That’s what matters.”

“Thanks.”  Kíli clasped his arms around his brother’s shoulders.

Maker be thanked, you’re not the idiot I say you are sometimes, Fíli thought, but all he said was, “Thanks for coming back.”

“What am I going to do with the lad?” Thorin asked of Balin a few days later after they had gone over inventories and restored housing arrangements together.  “Kíli’s not going to forget her.  He never promised that before, and he certainly hasn’t done so now.”

“And have you told him to?” the elder dwarf asked.

“Yes.”  Thorin sighed heavily and pressed a hand to his brow.  “When we argued and he nearly left with her.”

“And if he did court an elf, would that be so bad?”  Balin’s tone was neutral.

“I won’t have my nephew connected to one of them,” Thorin protested vehemently.  “To a woman he met in the Elvenking’s dungeons!  Would you have Thranduil scorn us twice over as unfit to be kings?”

“From what I understand, the young woman has little of her own king’s favor.  If you are so set on snubbing him, accepting Tauriel might very well accomplish that even better.”  Thorin thought he detected a note of dry humor in his cousin’s voice.

“I have no wish to snub him,” Thorin said pointedly.  “I would prefer to avoid his interest altogether.”

Balin smiled softly.  “I might suggest that forming an alliance would be more prudent.  Our enemies are hardly gone forever.”

Thorin snorted.  “If Thranduil wishes an alliance, he shall have to make the first gesture.  I’ve had enough of his pride to last a lifetime, should I prove as deathless as he.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t,” Thorin corrected, a smile starting across his face.  “You only call me that when you disagree with me.”

“Do I?” Balin asked, as if he had not noticed.  When Thorin remained silent, Balin continued.  “I merely suggest that young Kíli’s interests may be less at odds with yours than you suppose.”

Thorin sighed.  “How can you suggest I honor his attachment?  No dwarf has ever wed outside his kind, and for an elf?  Kíli’s station prevents it, if nothing else does.”

“If he truly loves her, do you think he’ll chose anyone else?”

Thorin could see where this was going.  “Better our line end than go to an elf.”

“You have two nephews,” Balin said reasonably.

Yes, and Fíli, at least, was responsible enough to marry and have heirs in the proper way.  But that didn’t change the fact that what Kíli wanted was utterly unreasonable.  Besides, dwarvish bloodlines ran slowly; even if Fíli had a son, the throne might revert to his brother’s line in the future.  

“So if one of them chooses an elf, I can disinherit him,” Thorin concluded gruffly, and Balin knew better than to challenge him on it.  

“By the way,” Balin remarked as he gathered papers, pens, and ink.  “We had a raven from your sister this morning.  Our people have set out from Ered Luin.”

Fíli felt like he was caught in the middle of a siege, the hapless envoy between two hostile forces that would not attack and would not back down.  He thought of Mr. Baggins, who had somehow found the courage and good sense to treat between Thorin and Bard and the Elvenking, when patience ran short and tempers high.  Of course, it was foolish to compare this family quarrel with the real siege that had nearly ended in war with their neighbors, but still, he appreciated Bilbo’s position a little better now.  Only this time, there was no Arkenstone to produce, no token with which to to bargain for peace between his uncle and his brother.  

 The problem wasn’t exactly that Kíli and Thorin didn’t speak with one another.  

“Pass the ale,” and “I’ve sent you an extra half dozen stone-cutters today,” and “We need another winch in the south halls,” they said.  But that was all.  They didn’t talk about the things they each wanted, or about what had happened that day when they had argued, and they certainly never mentioned her.  

Fíli thought it was partly because neither of them wanted to renew that fight or to have to admit that there was a problem that hadn’t gone away.  But avoiding it wasn’t going to solve anything, Fíli knew, and he thought both of them did, too.  What they were waiting for, he could not guess.

But if they weren’t talking, everyone else in Erebor was.  Fíli was tired of hearing conversations die when he walked into a room, tired of having to pretend he hadn’t heard things that, if he had, he could not have let go unchallenged.  Once he very nearly had hit someone for suggesting the argument had begun because the elf had been found in Kíli’s bed.  But the speaker had been only an Iron Hills man repeating rumors, and Fíli knew he would only make things worse by starting a fight.  As crown prince, he could hardly go around decking people even if they did say Kíli was a disgrace, or unnatural, or dishonorable.  “Don’t you know that’s my little brother you’re talking about?” he wanted to say to people.  Of course they did, and it didn’t stop them.

At least their companions from the quest stayed out of the talk and criticism—at any rate, they did when Fíli was near.  Indeed, most of them had been encouraging, in their way.  He had caught Balin eyeing him sympathetically over dinner more than once; quiet Ori had bestowed some very hard stares which had shut up even the more enthusiastic gossipers; and Dwalin had once even asked if Fíli wanted him to knock a few heads together.  Fíli had been fairly sure the burly dwarf had meant the offer literally, and he had thanked him, but declined.  

Fíli was just grateful to think that the gossip—if not the disagreement itself—would have time to die down before his mother arrived in the summer.  He was not sure what she would have said about all this, but he didn’t exactly care to imagine.

It felt good to be doing something for others, Tauriel thought as she adjusted the string of hares over her shoulder.  The most painful part of those early days of exile had been the feeling of being cut off, that her actions had no relevance for anyone other than herself.  Spending the winter in Erebor had done her more good than she had first realized, for her time there had taught her to be sure that her wellbeing—indeed, the simple fact of her existence—mattered to someone, to Kíli.  And now, as a huntress for Dale, she once more had someone to serve with her actions.  The wound of her banishment was slowly beginning to heal.

She continued to pick her way through the scrub at the base of the hills, half her attention on avoiding the muddy patches and little rivulets that still trickled down from the heights.  The rest of her gaze was for the wide sky above her, which had turned the soft colors of mother-of-pearl in the late afternoon light.  Before this winter, she had never seen so much sky, and though she had felt rather exposed under it at first, she was coming to love the unbroken expanses of clouds and stars.  

A few moments later, she paused again, this time listening to the faint yet growing sound of hoofbeats.   The rider was coming from Dale, and his path would intercept hers, though how soon she was not sure.  Out here, without the omnipresent susurrus of wind through leaves and branches, sounds seemed sharper, nearer than they truly were, and she still had not fully learned to gage distances by ear, as she could have done in her forest.  She ducked down behind a tumble of stones and waited for the rider to come into sight around the shoulder of hill across from her.

When he finally cleared the hillside, Tauriel very nearly gasped.  Even from this distance, she had no doubt he was an elf, one of her own Silvans.  He rode at a leisurely trot and scanned the foothills.  Was he looking for her?  

Tauriel waited till he was opposite her before stepping into view.  The rider reigned in almost immediately, and as she made her way towards him, he dismounted and stood waiting for her.  

As she drew nearer, she recognized Thalion, one of the scouts who had once served under her.  What was he doing here?  Had he been sent with some message to Dale and stayed to greet her?  If so, the gesture was a kind one; she had seen none of her own folk since their army had marched away from Erebor nearly three months ago.

“Greetings, Tauriel,” he hailed her when she was near enough that he need not raise his voice.

“Thalion,” she returned, “I am most well met.”

She saw his eyes flick over her, taking in her lakeman’s garb.  Her own clothes had been in need of mending, and she had traded them for these practical, if slightly mismatched, garments.  

“You have made new friends, I see.  And hear,” he added with something of a chuckle.  

Tauriel might have been annoyed that he could speak so lightly of her situation, but she was—if not entirely happy—content today, and so she let his remark pass.

“Indeed,” Thalion continued, “I would have come for you sooner, but some of your friends are not yet ours.”  He smiled then, a response to the incredulous expression Tauriel knew must be on her face.  “You can’t suppose I was going to knock on the doors of Erebor.  Surely there was no harm in waiting, since you enjoyed the hospitality of the King Under the Mountain.”

The prince, she corrected him mentally.  

“I see I am not making myself as clear as I should,” Thalion noted, his smile apologetic now.  “Perhaps this shall do better.”

He handed her a folded letter.  Her name was inscribed on one side in graceful, if somewhat archaic, lettering.  The other side was fastened with green wax that bore the imprint of Thranduil’s seal.

“From the king?” Tauriel gasped.

“Indeed.”

Tauriel found her hands were shaking.  She slide one finger carefully under the sealed flap and broke the wax.  Her heart pounding, she unfolded the paper, knowing that whatever she read there would fix her destiny for good.

Let it be known:
In view of Tauriel’s selfless and courageous actions on the field of battle, her disobedience is pardoned and banishment revoked.  She is requested to return to the Greenwood at her earliest convenience.
His Royal Highness
Thranduil
King of the Woodland Realm

She read the words a second time, and then a third, not realizing she wept until the ink on the page smeared and bled where her tears had fallen.

Chapter Text

Tauriel had been summoned by her king so soon after her return to the Greenwood that she had barely had time to change her clothes before she'd been shown to the royal apartments. Catching up the first dress that came to hand, she had realized only once it was on that it had no pockets, and thus she had settled for tucking Kíli's runestone in her bodice.

She could feel it now, pressed against her heart with each nervous breath as she perched awkwardly on the edge of a sofa and watched Thranduil bending over the samovar on the table. This was not one of the formal receiving rooms, she noted, nor was her king dressed in his robes of state. They were in one of his private chambers and so she must relax, yet the realization made it almost impossible to do so.

Thranduil turned to her and handed her a cup of something warm—spiced mead, she soon discovered, by the smell.

"Thank you," she breathed, taking it from him.

The elvenking took his own cup and sat in the chair opposite her.

"I am relieved to see you well," he said. His voice and face were calm, but Tauriel thought there was an faint hesitancy to his movements that she had never noticed in him before.

"Yes, thank you, I am," she said haltingly. What was she supposed to say? She sipped at the mead just to fill the empty space, and her cup clattered as she set it back in the saucer.

Her king gave her a wistful smile. "The observation shames me," he said. "I have no right to ask after your wellbeing when you had to look to our erstwhile enemies for the kindness you should have received from your own people."

He was apologizing to her, and she had no idea how to respond, so she merely stared at him. Yet he did not seem to expect an answer and soon went on, "When you said there was no love in me—"

"My lord, forgive me!" Tauriel cried inadvertently. "That was hastily spoken!"

Thranduil shook his head lightly. "It was true. I had shut away love so that it might not weaken me, as I thought. And yet I lost my son and forced you to choose between your loyalty and your heart."

He fell silent, his eyes on something Tauriel could not see. A shadow had fallen over his face, the memory of old wounds unhealed that marred his perfect, distant beauty. Yet Tauriel did not find him repulsive; she knew he allowed her closer than he ever had before, and her heart moved for him in a sudden swell of loyal desire. Had he ever let his son see him like this?

"My lord, you must nonetheless let me apologize," she said slowly, "for I was wrong about you." She had been hating him all this time for what he had said when he denied her feelings for Kíli.

His eyes came back to her, and he nodded. "You might have spent the winter here, but that the snows reached you before my messenger could. The distress I felt imagining you exposed to the snowstorm was no more than I deserved, but thankfully, Thalion returned from Dale with the news you had been welcomed to Erebor by the king himself."

Tauriel blushed. Everyone seemed to think she was in better grace with the mountain king than she truly was.

"It was Kíli's doing," she admitted.

"You've readily won the prince's approval," he observed.

"He has a noble spirit and a generous heart." The words sounded too dispassionate to her ears, but what was she to say? He was flirting with me in your dungeons, sir. Hardly.

"You cured him of a poisoned wound, did you not?" Thranduil asked, suddenly intent.

Tauriel had to force herself to hold the king's gaze; she would have felt much safer staring at the carpet, which could not have read the guilt in her eyes. "I did," she said steadily. "He would have died, if I had not... His companions did not have the skill to heal him!" Despite her newfound favor, she was still afraid to admit before her king that she had abandoned her post after a young dwarf—her prisoner—had smiled at her.

Thranduil seemed to recognize her embarrassment, for his expression softened. "I did not call you back to fault your compassion," he said kindly. "Your saving him was well done, and may yet bring good."

She peered at him, trying to guess what he meant by his last comment.

"I would offer your old position back if I thought you would take it," he said, ignoring her confusion.

"I—" Tauriel began before realizing he had anticipated her answer. She flushed again. "You are right; I cannot pretend nothing has changed. And I promised someone I would stay near." Of course, Thranduil knew who she meant, but she still felt too self-conscious to be more explicit about her attachment; she had hardly named her feelings to Kíli himself.

Thranduil nodded. "Tauriel, I have lost many good lieutenants in this recent battle." She knew he included his son in that assessment. "I would not see you gone, too. I think I might find a place for you that would suit your desires as well as mine."

"Oh?" A moment later, afraid to sound entirely rude, she hastily added, "Your majesty."

Thranduil appeared faintly amused. "We need Erebor our ally, not our enemy. The Necromancer is displaced, but not defeated, and I will no longer pretend we can face the world's evils alone. And so, though you and I might outlive this feud, I think it better we try to heal it, and now, if we can. It began in the dwarf king's lifetime; let it end then, too. Though we are not limited by a mortal span, the dwarves' memory of us is surely shaped by the measure of their lives. Better they recall that our quarrel began and ended in one generation."

Tauriel nodded, once more sharply aware that her own interests depended on a resolution that was swift, by her people's count of time. How old was Kíli? she suddenly wondered. She had no idea how long dwarves lived, but she wanted to share as much of that time with him as she could.

Thranduil clearly waited for her to say something, so she finally returned, "I agree. An alliance would be to their advantage, as well." She raised her cup to her lips once more, hoping to hide the discomfort she felt.

The king's face relaxed into a satisfied expression. "With your connection to the prince, you seem in the ideal place to work towards an alliance."

Tauriel nearly choked on her mead. As she spluttered, Thranduil regarded her with one brow barely raised.

"I am not sure I will be welcome in Erebor at present," she confessed when she could breathe again.

Thranduil remained silent, but the alarmed look he gave her said clearly enough, Valar, what have you done now?

Tauriel felt her face burning. "I...may have been somewhat too forward in expressing my affection for the prince," she managed. "The king does not approve of our... Um."

A hint of a smile flickered over Thranduil's features. "Tauriel, you have been a perfectly capable officer till now. If you are so readily flustered, I can only attribute it to your having discovered an area of inexperience."

He was making a jest; her king was making a jest about how she was in love and completely confused by it. She swallowed the last of her mead, which by now was making her glow as much as her embarrassment was.

"My lord, I will do my best to win Thorin's friendship," she answered carefully, setting her empty cup aside.

"I do not doubt it." He rose, and she did the same. "We can talk more of this later. You must wish to rest," he said, his tone kind.

"Thank you," Tauriel returned. She gave him a shallow curtsey and somehow resisted the urge to look over her shoulder and stare at him one last time as she left the room.

Kíli unfolded her note and read it again.

My dear Kíli,
I have received my king's pardon and must return shortly to the Greenwood. My desires remain unchanged, and I carry your promise with me. I will find a way to remain within your reach.
Your Tauriel

He had truly memorized its few lines by now, but he liked seeing the words My dear Kíli and Your Tauriel written out in her unadorned but graceful hand.

The note had come several weeks ago through Fíli, who had gotten it from Bard. Kíli was still somewhat surprised Tauriel had been willing to entrust her secret to the lakeman, since she seemed so shy and secretive about her feelings. But he warmed to know that she had taken the risk to ensure Kíli knew why she had disappeared. And he was truly glad to know she had a home to return to once more.

He refolded the paper and placed it back in the wardrobe drawer next to the little silver snuffbox that held the lock of her hair. Her gift deserved to be set in a proper keepsake, but he hadn't been able to decide on the perfect design yet. A locket, or perhaps a brooch? And in gold or silver? Tomorrow evening he would go down to one of the workshops and see what came to him then.

It was probably best that Tauriel was gone back to the Greenwood for now. She had removed the temptation for him to try to find some excuse to go see her, something that was unlikely to meet with Thorin's approval. Just how he was going to get his uncle to approve of her, though, Kíli had no idea.

He had hoped that it would be enough to show himself loyal to kingdom and family, to work for the restoration of Erebor and fulfill all that was required of him. Surely if he could love Tauriel and still do those things, it would vindicate his attachment to her. But Kíli could see now that it would take more than a show of reliability to prove that he was not wrong to want an elf. He was fairly certain Thorin did think her a good person, but even that did not seem to prove Kíli would not bring centuries of honor and tradition—and Erebor itself—crashing down around her pointed ears if he chose her.

He wanted to prove he was mature, reliable, not someone who simply avoided a problem—that sort of behavior looked uncomfortably like sulking. And yet he truly was at a loss for how to proceed. If the truth were not enough to speak for itself, what could he say to confirm his devotion, both to his family and to Tauriel?

And when his mother arrived, what would she say? Kíli hadn't worried about her response much before now; he had had enough to think of with Thorin, and, well, everyone else. Probably she would be shocked. Of all the things that she had been right to worry about regarding the quest, surely she never guessed her son would fall for an elf, their enemy. And yet, he hoped she remembered what it was to be in love with someone and would, if not approve, at least understand what he needed to do.

Thorin breathed deep as the mild, early-summer breeze washed over him. For the first time in decades, the world's warmth and life reflected his own feelings—no longer did he seem trapped in his own never-ending winter, knowing he could never truly flourish till his home was reclaimed and old wrongs set right.

From where he stood on the broken battlements of Ravenhill, he could see the buildings of Dale slowing coming whole again. The valley below, too, had lost its look of ruin: there were no trees as yet, but everything was verdant with grass and heather. Even this rocky mountain shoulder seemed more alive, as the breeze rippled over the water of the high tarn upon whose frozen surface they had battled Azog.

"The surviving stonework is still uncompromised," he heard Gloín's voice behind him. "We can simply build over the old foundations."

Thorin turned and nodded to Gloín, who was returned from his survey of the lower levels of the tower. "Good. I'll send my work crew here once they finish on the upper halls."

Now that the central areas of Erebor were habitable again, it was time to consider their security. Rebuilding the old watchtower on Ravenhill would serve them, as well as their friends in Dale. Thorin had no wish to leave the mountain open to another assault like that of this winter.

Wings clattered behind him, and Thorin turned back to the battlement edge and the raven now perched there. The bird eyed him keenly for a moment before hopping forward. Thorin extended an arm and the raven swept to his wrist.

After a brief preamble wishing Thorin and his flock prosperous hunting, the bird proceeded with the message from Lady Dís. She had come down from the passes of the Misty Mountains at the last new moon, and expected to arrive before the next moon was up. Please give the boys her love.

Thorin said his thanks and wished the raven a scavenger's luck, and the bird winged off again.

Good. Their people had made swift time. Thorin was eager to welcome them home, so that Erebor might become a place of energy, industry, and life once more. And he longed to see his sister again. Dís had been troubled to send her brother and two sons—her only remaining family—on a quest that was, in her opinion, under-prepared and over-desired. She could have been happy to have them all, safe and sound, in Ered Luin, and let the dragon keep his gold. And still she had known Erebor was their heritage, and she would not deny it to them. Thorin would be glad to welcome her back, to watch her worry melt away, and see her learn to be happy again in the home she had believed lost forever.

And maybe, just maybe, she could talk some sense into that younger son of hers, who persisted in believing he could only be happy with an elf.

"Shift your end to the right," Fíli directed his brother, glancing along the cupboard they had been moving. "No, I mean your right. There—perfect."

Kíli stepped back and nodded. "She'll like it better this way." They had been rearranging their mother's room in preparation for her arrival next week. With the cupboard opposite the fire, the light would reflect from her pottery and bring out the delicate variations in the glazes for which her work was rightly renowned. The change also gave the room a nice symmetry now that they could hang the two tapestries on the walls at either side of the great carven fireplace.

Fíli took a swallow of water from the jug on the table and surveyed the room approvingly. It would look cozier once it was filled with their mother's things, but it was welcoming enough.

"I'm glad she'll be here soon; I've missed her," he said.

"Are you sure she's not the only one you've missed?" Kíli prodded.

"What?" Fíli had no idea who his brother meant. "Is there someone you're trying to match me up with, so Thorin will be happy and forget about Tauriel?" he asked somewhat sharply.

"Nothing; of course not." Kíli's voice had gone blank, and Fíli regretted snapping at him. He knew Kíli hadn't meant that.

"Just, don't you remember, Sif cried the last time you saw her?" Kíli explained, the lightness returning to his tone.

"Right." Fíli smiled; he had forgotten. He'd never interacted much with Sif; she was pretty but very shy, always watching him from the back of the room, but seldom speaking. Yet the last time he'd gone with Thorin to visit her father, Lord Ironsides, she had come right up to him, wished him well on the quest, and then burst into tears and run away before Fíli could even answer her. It had distressed him at the time, though the final preparations for their adventure had soon driven it from his mind.

"Is it really terrible that I forgot?" Fíli asked, somewhat embarrassed.

Kíli shook his head. "You never even knew she liked you before."

Fíli supposed his brother was right. Of course, there were other girls who liked him that he had known about, though he had not especially thought of himself as waiting for anyone. It wasn't even that he disliked any of them, but it had really been too soon to think about choosing someone, at his age and with no kingdom to inherit. Maybe he was supposed to think about that now.

"And what about you?" Fíli caught up the spirit of his brother's original jest. "What are you going to say to Frig, who kissed you goodbye behind the armory when you left?"

"Blast, do you think she'll remember?" Kíli looked stricken. "It was just a goodbye kiss; it didn't mean anything."

"'Kíli, don't get yourself killed; you're far too nice to die unkissed,'" Fíli said in imitation of her.

"Something like that," Kíli conceded, embarrassed now.

"Well," Fíli teased, his tone matter of fact, "I'm sure she'll get over you when she finds out you've been kissing elves."

"Yes, and what more I'm supposed to have done, besides," Kíli admitted with a sarcastic laugh. "Thank Mahal they've mostly shut up about that. I didn't care so much what they said about me, but when they maligned Tauriel..."

Fíli nodded; he was glad they could almost find it amusing now.

"Kí, when are you going to talk to Thorin about her?" Fíli asked, suddenly serious.

"What is there to say?" His brother sounded truly discouraged.

"Maybe that you love her?" Fíli suggested, impatient.

"Doesn't he know? And yet, it's not enough," Kíli returned, clearly frustrated as well.

"You can't pretend this will sort itself out on its own." Why couldn't Kíli see that?

"I know. But I won't beg, and I won't argue. I don't know what to say to him."

"Kíli, I don't want you disinherited, and I don't want you to lose her. But I can't say anything to Thorin if you won't talk to him first." Fíli sighed. He didn't want to argue with Kíli over this again, but if he stayed, he would. "I'm going to take a bath," Fíli finished abruptly, and catching up his water jug, strode from the room.

Chapter Text

Dís arrived with the company from Ered Luin on an afternoon in early June.

Thorin stood back and let his nephews give her the first welcome. Indeed, the two lads sprinted ahead of the rest of the welcoming party, meeting their mother where she rode at the head of the company. Kíli held her pony's bridle, while Fíli swept her down from the saddle, and then the two of them smothered her in their combined embrace. But when he finally saw her emerge from the tangle of arms, Thorin noted that her face wore a contented smile he had not seen for a long time.

He approached her then, and Dís slipped one arm free from Kíli to draw her brother close.

"You did it," she breathed and kissed his forehead.

"I promised I would," he reminded her fondly.

"And what I would have done if you hadn't kept your word—" She tugged gently on the braid at his ear, just as she often had done as a girl when trying to convince him to let her have her way in something.

Thorin smiled readily at the memory. "Welcome home."

A few nights later, after everyone had been settled into their new accommodations, Dís had joined her brother and sons in Thorin's rooms and had the full account of their journey. She had let them do most of the talking, interjecting only now and then with questions. Though they downplayed the more dangerous parts of the tale, Thorin was sure she guessed the truth of the perils they had all faced well enough. But she did not press them for more details; it seemed enough for her that, in the end, they had made it safely through all. Dwelling on what was done would make no difference now.

Dís remained behind after her boys had kissed her and gone to bed. She and Thorin had talked lightly for a few minutes over the small news of Ered Luin and Erebor before lapsing into a comfortable, familiar silence. Thorin realized he had missed her a great deal; it was good simply having someone to share the stillness of the room. He wondered briefly how she had stood the lonely quiet of her home, without Fíli and Kíli there to make things merry or, at least, noisy.

"Tell me, brother," Dís began at last, her gaze very intent on him now. "I've noticed that something stands between my sons, and between them and you. What is it?"

"Has Kíli not told you?"

"Not told me what?" He heard the light note of challenge in her voice; she expected him to answer her.

"He's attached himself to an elf." Best not dance around the fact; she would find out soon enough, from others if not from him or Kíli.

"The woman who saved his life," she reasoned. She was taking the news remarkably well.

Thorin nodded.

"Is there any chance she returns his affection?" she asked. The direction of her question surprised Thorin. But of course, she was a mother.

"I'm fairly certain she does," Thorin told her.

Dís raised a brow.

"Well, she'd hardly have been kissing him if she didn't, would she?" he grumbled after a moment, flustered.

Dís, to his astonishment, did not bat an eye. "And so you told him," she guessed, "that he must not love her."

"What else was there to say?" His reasoning sounded suddenly inadequate before her.

"Thorin..." Dís sighed, as if there was too much she could say.

"He can't place an elf before his duty and kin," Thorin clarified.

"Did he?" She sounded almost as if she were daring him to affirm it.

"Dís, Kíli nearly renounced us all for her."

"What?" For the first time, her face did go blank.

"I asked him to remember his loyalty to his kin, and he said he would rather lose his heritage than give her up," he continued reluctantly.

"My son risked his life and body for you, and yet you doubt his loyalty?" she demanded, all her outrage focused on Thorin now.

"I know what he has given and I value him all the more for it!" He took a slow breath, and when he went on, his voice was calmer. "But don't you see? He cannot choose an elf. It doesn't matter if he loves her..."

"It doesn't matter?" Dís's eyes flashed. "Don't you dare say love doesn't matter. You've never had anyone like that, so how would you know?"

She rose from her seat and stared down at him.

"Thorin, do you understand why my two boys are worth far more to me than any treasure that hands have made or swords have won?" Her voice shook slightly. "They were my gift for loving someone."

Dís gave her brother one last withering glare and then swept out of the room.

Tauriel was beyond beautiful, Kíli thought. He had somehow never properly appreciated how very green her eyes were, like emeralds, or leaves with the sun behind them. As she gazed at him now, her eyes seemed to hold a thousand unspoken words; words that were, at last, about to spill out over her rose-colored lips and reveal, without a doubt, everything that she felt for him. She leaned over him, and her hair fell down, enveloping them both in a curtain of flame.

She said nothing, but she caressed her fingers over his cheek and brushed them through his hair.

"Tauriel," he said and reached out to her. He could find a way to unseal those lips...

The light shifted, and he saw that the ruddy glow around him was the light of his own fire, and that standing over him, where he had dozed in his chair, was his mother.

"Tauriel?" she questioned gently, sweeping his hair back from his face once more. "That's no name for a dwarf."

Kíli drew himself back up in the chair. There was not point in lying to her; she would know the truth soon enough, and better it came from him.

"She's an elf," he said slowly, half from reluctance and half because he was not yet fully awake.

"My dear boy, what am I to do with you?" Dís caught him in her arms, and then, to his surprise, she began to cry. Kíli closed his arms round her, suddenly feeling embarrassed and a little guilty. She hadn't cried when she'd arrived and found them all well. Was this news so much worse than hearing of the death they had all so recently faced? He would almost have preferred if she'd been angry with him. He hated knowing he'd made her cry.

"Mum..." he began, not really sure how to explain himself to her. All of the reasons he had rehearsed suddenly did not sound right. "She's not— We— Um."

"My dear heart, I nearly lost you." She said nothing else for a long while, but simply held him, her hands making soothing motions over his back, as if he were the one in need of comforting, not she.

At last she let go of him and sat back at his feet, her hands resting at his knees. Kíli brushed at her wet cheeks with his cuffs, though the gesture seemed helpless and awkward. But Dís smiled up at him.

"Innikh dê," she said.

"I did."

"You did," Dís affirmed.

Kíli knew he should return his token, the runestone she had given him to mark his promise. For the first time, he wondered if what he'd done would seem a betrayal.

"Mum, I gave my promise away." He hoped she would not cry again.

"To Tauriel?"

He nodded. "Forgive me. I should've—something else—but I had nothing—"

She stopped him with a gentle shake of her head.

"Kíli, it didn't matter who you came back for. I just needed you to remember that someone would always need you."

"Oh."

"Does she?"

Did elves, who would live forever, who could have everything, need people like him, who had maybe two hundred years to give? But Tauriel didn't have everything. He had known that when she had listened to him eagerly through prison bars, as if his stories of trade caravans and backwoods wonders could mean as much as anything she had known in her long life.

"She does," Kíli answered.

Dís nodded.

"Oh, Kíli, I am sorry," she said tenderly, laying her hand against his cheek. "I am sorry you should want something so impossible."

"Does it have to be?"

His mother shook her head, but Kíli couldn't guess if she were answering him or asking him to forget such pointless questions.

Kíli stood when she did, and she pulled him into one last hug.

"I love you," she told him.

"I love you, too, Mum," Kíli said and he kissed her cheek, all the while wondering how it was possible that loves could keep people apart as much as hate did.

Tauriel held her breath as her last arrow flew to join the others clustered at the center of the target.

"Does it perform to your liking?"

She turned and smiled at Feron, who stood watching her.
"Yes, thank you," she said, running her hands over the polished wood of the new bow. "Being without mine was like missing a limb."

Feron chuckled. "I shall add that to my list of accomplishments: fashioner of limbs for fair ladies. With you as my model, I should be up to my ears in commissions in no time."

Tauriel laughed. "Given your flattery, it's a wonder no lady has silenced you for good."

Feron gave her a familiar smile. "Perhaps, but I fear nothing from you, so long as you go on destroying my bows."

Tauriel grinned; as a young girl, she had broken several of Feron's bows before he had impressed upon her the need to care for her equipment as if it were an extension of herself. In return for her promise of caution, he had helped her improve her bowmanship, and she still saw him as a respected mentor, as well as a friend.

"I understand you are returning to Dale soon," Feron commented as she retrieved the arrows from the target. "I do not speak only for myself when I say you have been—and will be—missed."

"Thank you, Feron." His words warmed her. She had felt somewhat out of place this last month; no one seemed to know what to make of her, a friend of dwarf kings who chose to leave her forest. Certainly Thranduil's pardon helped exonerate her deeds, but she knew that most people still considered her peculiar. "The King has given me authority to represent the Greenwood to Dale and Erebor. Bard, the leader of the men from the lake, has already accepted my offer of service; they have no ranged patrol and I can help them establish one."

"Dear Tauriel, ever dutiful and practical," Feron observed drily. "I heard there was a personal reason, as well."

Tauriel colored. She had had plenty of time in the last month to catch up on the forest gossip regarding her flight, banishment, and then the winter spent with her former prisoners. If it weren't for the King's favor, there were those who would even have suspected her of colluding with the prisoners and aiding their escape.

"Surely you know better than to think I would believe the idle things said about you," Feron protested gently. "But I thought there was some truth to the tale you care for someone at the mountain."

She nodded.

Feron regarded her fondly. "I know you too well to think that even your private desires could lead you to do anything dishonorable."

Tauriel felt tears prick her eyes; it had been hard not to care what people said about her.

"My little huntress," he told her, reverting to his old nickname for her, "You will do very well in Dale; I am sure of it." He took the practice arrows from her and pressed her hand for a moment.

"Thank you," Tauriel returned somewhat unsteadily. "Perhaps I shall have some more work for you soon," she added, her smile returning. "He is an archer."

Fíli unwrapped the last pottery bowl from the crate and placed it on the table with the rest: dishes, vases, goblets, and mugs. Dís came up behind him as he refolded the cloths that had been used as packing, but instead of taking another dish to arrange on the cabinet, she clasped her arms around him.

"My darling, I'm so proud of you. And so grateful," she said behind his shoulder.

Fíli put down the folded cloths and caught her hands from his waist. As a little boy, he had watched the clay spring into shape at her touch, and he had been sure there was some magic in those strong, graceful fingers which could call anything she wished into being. He knew now, of course, that such power did not extend beyond the circle of her potter's wheel. She had not been able to bring her husband back from that fateful trading expedition, nor could she ensure that her sons survive their quest for reclamation and revenge.

"I'm glad you're here, Mum," he said.

"So am I." She held him tight for a moment and released him.

He took a pitcher from the table and set it in a place of prominence on the top shelf of the cupboard. He had always liked the way the light brought out a bronzy glint on the glaze of that particular piece.

When he turned round, his mother was watching him thoughtfully.

"You look more like your father every day," she said in answer to his curious glance.

Fíli smiled. The knowledge made him feel closer to the man who'd died while Fíli was still in his teens.

"You know," his mother continued, her tone introspective. "The hardest thing I've ever done was watch you two boys march down that road. But I'm glad I didn't stop you." She shook her head. "I know your uncle could not have accomplished this alone."

Fíli shrugged, not quite dismissive. "I'm not sure what I did. I couldn't bring him out of the dragon fever. And Kíli was the one who confronted him to go into battle." Sometimes his brother's impetuosity was good for something. Indeed, Fíli was still somewhat disappointed in himself for not having spoken up as well, either there on the battlement or earlier.

"Nonsense," she scolded him gently. "Your steadiness has always been your strength. Do you think your uncle could have come all this way if he did not know he had good men to follow him? Besides, you gave him someone to reclaim this home for."

Fíli nodded, grateful and humbled at once.

"I'm proud of you for staying with your brother in Laketown," Dís went on.

"There wasn't anything else I could have done." It hadn't really felt like a choice at the time. It was just the one thing to do.

"No? I think everyone, even Kíli, would have understood if you'd gone with Thorin."

"Didn't matter." Fíli shook his head. "Just thank Mahal she was there, or I'd be telling you Kí's last words right now." His tone was light, but he was deeply grateful he'd been spared that painful duty.

"Yes..." Dís mused, thoughtful again.

After a few moments, Fíli ventured, "Tauriel really is perfect for him. I mean," he laughed at himself, "maybe she's a bit tall, but... Kíli slows down around her, and well, she kind of opens up, too. She's not just some snooty elf."

His mother laughed. "I did not think she could be," she said.

"I just wish—" Fíli sighed, his exasperation coming to the fore. "I wish he'd talk to Thorin. The two of them haven't mentioned her since their argument, and that was weeks ago!"

Dís smiled at him gently. "I know, love. But this is your brother's challenge, and he must find the way through himself. If he can't, there's truly no chance for them."

Fíli eyed her curiously. He'd been sure she would take someone's side, and vehemently.

Her smile deepened, showing that same lively spark that Kíli's had from her. "Oh, I've told your uncle what I think, right enough. But perhaps it's best if the rest of us stay out of this now." She said it easily enough, but Fíli could tell from something swift and impatient in her glance that doing so would not be without effort.

"I suppose you're right," he agreed finally, and moved on to unpack the next crate of his mother's things.

Tauriel stood with the mug of tea clasped in her hands, its floral fragrance drifting up around her, and she surveyed the main platform of her treetop home. She would be leaving it tomorrow, for only the second time in her life. She hadn't known, the first time she'd left, that it was even a farewell. She had simply not come back.

And now, well, it didn't feel so much like a goodbye since the place was no longer where she belonged. She had lived in this particular maple for the last hundred years, and she knew every knot, branch, and leaf. Sometimes, it had seemed not so much a home as a friend. She still loved it, but she didn't need to remain here to do so.

She glanced over her cushioned sofa, the hanging lanterns, the shelves holding a decanter set and the book of lays she had borrowed from Legolas and never had a chance to return. They would all be here for her to return to, if she needed them. She wasn't sure if she would need them. The open sky, a borrowed bed, shared firelight and the laughter of new friends—these things were enough for her.

Tauriel turned away and went up the short stairway to the upper platform, her bedchamber. Her things were all packed into her traveling chest, though she'd left her nightgown on top. A nightgown, she had discovered, was a small but important luxury that made the difference between feeling lost and unprepared or being welcome and provided for. She laughed as she undressed, remembering the short dwarven robe she had been loaned in Erebor. Someone had known the importance of the gesture, and she had been grateful for the kind thought. Still, she was glad to be back in a garment that reached past her knees.

She finished her tea in bed, sitting against the headboard with her legs drawn up. The warm drink was not as calming as she had hoped it would be. She was, she finally admitted, excited to be returning to the world tomorrow. Giddy, even. Certainly that was from the opportunity ahead of her: she had never been given so much authority as she had now in representing the Greenwood's interests to everyone at the Lonely Mountain, both on and under it. But even more, it was from the certainty of seeing him again.

Setting aside the empty mug, she stretched out under the light coverlet.

How was Kíli? Had he made peace with his uncle yet? She prayed he had, for his own sake ahead of hers. And his mother—she was there now, or would be soon. Tauriel smiled to herself, imagining the happiness Kíli's mother surely felt, finding both of her sons safe and well. She wished she could be there to see the reunion; she barely remembered what it was to have mother or father of her own.

Kíli, she knew, had lost his father at an age little younger than she had been when she had lost both parents. Yet grief had certainly not dampened his spirits, nor, indeed, made him seem wary in any other way. It had not made him cautious, either with his life or his heart. She was fascinated by how truly unafraid he was. He had declared himself in love with her, when he had known that any elf surely would have refused such an offer from a dwarf. He had not been afraid to believe she was more than any elf.

Tauriel had believed for a long time that she was fortunate not to have fallen in love. She needn't worry about the risk of loss and heartbreak that came when you cared for someone. But now she wondered, as she lay listening to the whispering of the leaves around her, if she had somehow unknowingly denied herself the possibility of falling in love. She had never been drawn to any man who noticed her, and thought it was because none of them had ever been what she truly wanted. But maybe she had never given any of them a chance to be, since it was safer not to let someone matter to you. It made you vulnerable, and Tauriel had always known she had to be strong so that she—and her people—would remain safe.

Of course, she had never supposed she could want a dwarf. And so Kíli had slipped in under her guard and settled himself in her heart before she could fight him.

And now, she knew she was glad he had. It was ironic, certainly, that she had protected herself just to love someone whose one certainty was death. No. That was not true. She was equally certain he offered her an experience of life beyond any she had known: he loved her and—Valar help her—she loved him.

I love him.

The words, at last, felt right. She had known she was working towards this admission for a long time, perhaps since the moment she had fought not to cry as he had pressed the runestone into her hand and pushed off across the lake. Tauriel wasn't sure if it had taken her so long to understand the truth because love, like any living thing, was at first so fragile and small. Or had she needed to overcome some unknown barrier within herself before she could know?

It didn't matter. She had found him, or he had found her, and if a dragon and an entire orc army hadn't been able to separate them, then what did even the dwarf king think he could do? she asked herself with drowsy satisfaction.

Awareness ebbed away from her like a gentle tide, and Tauriel found sleep at last.

Chapter Text

Kíli had never liked the word compromise. He'd always thought it meant you had to give in, a little or a lot, on what you believed was right, and doing that had never felt good to him. Besides, when you chose some neutral middle ground, neither party concerned really got what he wanted, and that didn't seem to make sense, either. Compromise was the kind of thing he knew Thorin expected Fíli to understand, and that was one of the reasons Kíli was glad he'd never be king himself.

And yet maybe compromise didn't have to mean all that. Maybe it simply meant letting other people be part of your choices. Kíli had hoped at first that he wouldn't need to defend the fact that his love for Tauriel was a good that wouldn't undermine his duty to family and kingdom. Wasn't the truth enough to speak for itself? And yet he had been forced to admit that he couldn't go on waiting in silence for the truth to overcome Thorin's objections while Kíli's unspoken hopes tore a rift between him and his family.

Perhaps compromise wasn't in what he did, but how he did it. He wouldn't falsify his love for Tauriel; that was impossible. But if there was a way to submit his actions to his family, to show them that their wellbeing and their approval was part of his decision, he could do that; indeed, he had to. Really, it had been damned stubbornness on his part to suppose he wouldn't have to take others' opinions into account.

This wasn't really about defending a truth that could stand on its own or about earning permission to do something that he knew was honorable. It was about showing his family, showing Thorin, that his love for Tauriel had a place amidst his other loves and duties. If loving her was good and right—and Kíli firmly believed it was—then he could not lose her by relying on the truth. If Kili thought of this as telling Thorin what he needed to hear—that Kili cared about his family and did not mean to forsake them—it was a lot easier to do what he had come to see he must.

"You've done well," Thorin told his nephews as he gazed along the restored vault of the south halls. "You've made elegant use of what was left here."

The dragon had torn out most of the old columns; and while the destruction had rendered it impossible to restore the stonework in the old, heavier architectural style of Erebor's early days, Fíli and Kíli had improvised with somewhat lighter, airier columns and buttresses. As a result, the ancient and well-trafficked thoroughfare was structurally sound once more, with an aesthetic that looked hopefully to the future rather than vainly trying to recapture a lost past.

"The buttresses were Kíli's suggestion," Fíli offered.

Kíli admitted, "I was thinking of the ones in the guest hall back home."

Thorin smiled. He knew that his nephews, born in exile, still felt a nostalgic tie to the halls where they grew up; it was important they could connect this, their true home, to the only other place they'd ever lived.

"You know I designed that room," Thorin noted, amused. "It's a shame we never used it more than we did."

"Well, this one'll see plenty of use." Fíli's satisfaction was evident in his tone.

"Indeed; and all the better it no longer looks a dragon's den," Thorin confirmed. He turned to face his young kinsmen. "Now that you're done here, you ought to take thought to what new responsibilities you wish to take on. I have a few suggestions, but I'm open to your own requests."

Fíli nodded. "Dwalin asked me to help with armory inventory this sennight, but I'll meet with you about my plans after that."

"Fine," Thorin affirmed.

"Actually, Uncle, if I could speak with you now," Kíli broke in.

"Aye, I've time," Thorin answered.

Fíli's eyes flicked to his brother in surprise and recognition. He excused himself with a slight bow and left.

"Actually, it's about Tauriel," Kíli went on when they were alone.

"I expected it might be."

"I suppose you know: I have no wish to forget her." Kíli's words held no challenge this time; they were simply a statement of fact.

"No, I thought not." If the topic hadn't been such a strained one, Thorin would have been almost amused by the lad's direct approach to the problem.

"Forgive me; I've never meant any insolence. But I love her."

"Kíli." Thorin sighed. "I've said before: this truly isn't about my will or yours. I don't doubt that you care for her, but you're the son of kings. Kings do what we must, not always what we want."

"We do what is right, don't we?" Kíli prompted.

"Yes..." Thorin conceded. He could see where Kíli was taking this.

"I'm asking you to give me a chance to prove that caring for her doesn't require me to betray my family, my honor, or my king." Kíli met his uncle's eyes steadily as he spoke.

"What do you suggest?"

"Allow me to court her. And if doing so impairs my duty here, I will submit to your judgment. I will do what is right."

Thorin regarded Kíli intently. "You're telling me that if I say she does you no good, you'll walk away from her, just like that?" He had not expected his determined nephew to capitulate so easily.

"I am relying on you to judge us fairly," Kíli said earnestly.

"You believe you'll prove yourself," Thorin said, adding what Kíli had so clearly implied.

Kíli nodded.

"Is there any agreement between the two of you?" Thorin knew Kíli took his word seriously; he could trust the lad if he promised this, but what else had he sworn? Kíli wore her token, a strand of her braided copper hair set into a silver cuff on his left wrist.

"No... and yes," Kíli corrected himself honestly. "I've promised her my love. Only that."

"Have you thought of where this will end?" Thorin asked, not so much because he supposed Kíli hadn't, but because he had to know Kíli accepted the only possible conclusion.

"If she agrees to you, if you should marry her... No elf could be allowed to stand in line to the throne. You know I'll have to disinherit you." Thorin spoke reluctantly; it was the last thing he wanted for the boy who had always been a dear kinsman.

"Or I could formally renounce my claim," Kíli suggested. It would be less shameful that way, surely.

Thorin took a breath to speak, but stopped himself before he remarked that Kíli had nearly done so already. Kíli looked grateful, as if he guessed what Thorin would have said.

"Aye, you could," Thorin finally said after a long moment. "But how does that leave your family?"

Something bold, almost defiant, flickered in Kíli's eyes. "Thorin, you and Fíli will always have my service, in any way you will ever need it." He paused, the boldness swiftly giving way to vulnerability. "Will you not let me find if my life has a place for all the people I love?"

As Kíli watched his uncle, his face full of hopeful desire, Thorin was struck by how much the boy resembled his mother at his age.  Dís had found unexpected happiness after those early hard years of exile, a happiness owed almost entirely to the quiet blond, Víli, who had given her hope for new life after so much hardship and loss.  Thorin would never have told that joyful young woman that love did not matter.

Thorin felt his expression soften at the memory. "No, I cannot deny you that," he admitted at last.

"Uncle—" Kíli's eyes were suddenly bright. "Thank you."

Thorin was warmed by Kíli's happiness: wasn't retaking Erebor meant to restore happiness and hope for all of them? If only his nephew had been asking for a dwarven maid, Thorin's pleasure would have been complete.

"Kíli," he said. "I insist you keep your intentions discreet. It would hardly be honorable for the prince of Erebor to seem to offer false attention to any woman."

Kíli nodded. "I understand."

"And I expect you to consult me before offering her your troth."

"Yes." Kíli caught his uncle's hand and bowed over it. "I wish only to prove myself honorable, both to you and to Tauriel."

At Thorin's nod, a sincere smile—the same that had surely won the elf maid's heart—broke over Kíli's face. If only the lad hadn't been gifted with such fine looks, Thorin thought ironically.

"And for Mahal's sake, if you're going to kiss her, don't do it where someone will walk in on you," Thorin finished sternly, though the words were partly meant as a jest.

"Oh, never," Kíli returned, deadly serious.

Thorin only permitted himself to smile once Kíli had turned and gone.

"Here's to the end of the south halls!" Kíli declared, knocking his beer mug against Fíli's. The two of them had claimed a table in the cosy taproom off the main dining hall.

Fíli smirked. "You make it sound like you expect them to fall in again."

Kíli raised his brows as if to say, Don't you? as he took a first draught.

"But, more importantly: you're courting Tauriel," Fíli added knowingly.

"How did you guess?" Kíli returned with a self-conscious smile.

"Well, you talked to Uncle, and it could have been about only one thing. And I assume if it had ended badly, you'd be here getting quietly drunk by yourself instead of inviting me along to celebrate." Fíli's tone was matter-of-fact.

Kíli nodded; it was all very logical.

"Also, you played your fiddle today, which you haven't done since Mum brought it. Planning to woo her with a jig?"

"I expect her to ask to marry me before I get through the second chorus."

"You should have tried that with the harpist lass in Rivendell. Maybe then she'd have spared you a glance." Fíli chuckled, remembering how hard his brother had tried, in vain, to elicit the slightest smile from her.

Kíli gripped Fíli's arm, nearly spilling his beer. "Don't tell Tauriel about that," he insisted, apparently half jesting and half serious.

"What, and let her think she gave in to you far too easily?" He shook off Kíli's hand and took a sip of beer. "What was your winning line? 'I could have anything down my—'" Fíli couldn't finish, but broke out in laughter that continued until he collapsed against the tabletop.

Kíli smiled slightly. "I know, it was awful. I was looking up at her, and, Mahal, she was gorgeous, and I thought, 'You have to say something; make her laugh,' and that was the best I could do on the spot.'"

"Well, at least you ensured she didn't forget you," Fíli said, pushing himself upright at last and wiping tears from his face. "You've got to be the first person in the history of Arda to suppose an innuendo about your cock is the right way to flirt with an elf."

"Well, when you put it that way, I'm positively ashamed of myself," Kíli said, though he sounded more self-satisfied than anything. He took a pull at his mug, and then, his face more serious, added, "Fí, I made a deal with Thorin. Well, that sounds wrong, but... What I mean is: I asked Uncle to let me court Tauriel and let us prove ourselves to him. But if we do..." He set down the mug and put a hand on Fíli's arm. "I agreed to renounce my place in the line of succession."

Fíli nodded; he hadn't really expected there to be any other solution if Kíli seriously pursued her. And he knew his brother was serious.

"I decided on that so I could stay. I can't run away, not unless, well..." Kíli shook his head. "But I want to be here with you, when you're king. I hope you understand."

"I understand, Kíli." Fíli laid a hand over his brother's. "No matter what the royal scribes will say, you'll still be my brother."

"Thanks. I—" Kíli sighed, and when he went on, his voice was rough. "I don't want you to think this is about choosing her over you. It's not. I just— I want you all in my life, and this seems the only way."

"I know. And if Thorin doesn't approve of you both—?"

"Then, well, pray he sees the truth, and that I see it, too."

Fíli leaned over and caught his brother about the shoulders. "Don't forget, you've me and Mum to keep him honest," he said.

"Thanks."

They sat back, each sipping at their mugs to hide the momentary embarrassment of having played out such a private scene in the middle of the taproom.

"And Kí," Fíli said after a moment, his tone deliberately waggish. "You know, if it would be easier, Frig has been asking after you."

"What? No! You're lying!" Kíli reasoned, his look of horror fading somewhat.

"She says to tell you she remembers that kiss."

"I don't believe you," Kíli returned and drained his mug.

"And she says she doesn't care about the elves; she knows it was a very trying adventure for you," Fíli continued, his grin widening.

Kíli dropped his face against the tabletop. "Fine," he said, clapping down his empty mug in front of his brother. "If you insist on tormenting me, at least get me another beer."

It took more courage than Tauriel had expected to walk back into Erebor, knowing the mess she'd left between Kíli and Thorin. Indeed, she would not have chosen to come here alone, on her own behalf: she was accompanying Bard as his ally and captain of Dale's new ranged patrol. Hopefully, her position would soften Thorin's reception of her. Kíli, she trusted, would have done what he could to resolve the conflict, but she knew too much of the stubbornness and pride of kings to expect Thorin would rejoice at the sight of her. She could only hope that, given time, Thorin would recognize that she thought of Kíli's honor as well as her own feelings.

If she had been an object of curiosity during her stay in Erebor, she was even more so now. Everyone they passed on the way to the meeting room was staring at her, she thought. Ought she to have told Bard what had happened when she left?

She recognized some of the faces, but many where new. Tauriel tried to tell herself the attention was merely due to the presence of an elf in the mountain, but just as she passed through the cluster of dwarves outside the meeting room, she heard someone's hissed remark about "the young prince's lover." Her face burned; did they truly think she had so little respect for Kíli that she would go to his bed without observing any formalities?

And then she was through the door, and Kíli himself met her eyes. Her stomach gave a small lurch, as if she had never truly seen him before this moment when she looked and knew she loved him. It was as if all he meant to her had suddenly thrilled through her heart, like the keen point of an arrow.

Kíli's face lit instantly with a smile which he struggled to hide after a few moments, and Tauriel looked away, afraid they must surely betray themselves to all present.

Thorin was welcoming Bard and his small entourage. As he spoke, the dwarf king glanced over at her; his expression was stern, but not—she thought—disgusted or angry, and Tauriel felt the beginning of hope take root.

"Your Majesty," Tauriel said, and bowed as politely and formally as if this were truly the first time she had been introduced to the king.

"Mistress Tauriel has charge of Dale's scouts," Bard said at her shoulder. "I invited her to speak to you about the ranged patrol she has organized."

Thorin nodded. "Very good."

Once the king was seated, the rest of them found places at the broad stone council table. As Bard and his men opened discussion regarding the reconstruction of Dale, Tauriel studied their hosts. Kíli and his brother sat at Thorin's right, as they usually did: Kíli, then, had not lost his uncle's favor because of her. The recognition came as a great relief. She did not want to be the cause of Kíli's disgrace, public or private.

Tauriel did not think she saw any particular coolness between the two brothers, though it was hard to guess their feelings in such a formal setting as this. Once, during a friendly digression in the discussion, Tauriel had caught Fíli watching her. She was not sure what to make of his thoughtful expression—she still did not know him well enough for that—though she supposed she would have known if he resented her: he had been too kind and honest to play games in his behavior towards her.

Kíli, she would have said, was ignoring her, except for the fact that his studied attention to everyone but her was itself a kind of attention. She knew that his acute consciousness of her presence was the very reason he did not seek her eye, and she was half afraid that if he did finally address her, she would crumble under such direct notice.

More of Thorin's kinsmen were seated around him. Daín, she thought, was once again keeping her at the edge of his vision, as if she might suddenly stand and threaten them all without any warning. He had done so for the first half of her winter stay; apparently she had earned his vigilance once more. Yet she could not remain annoyed with Thorin's irascible cousin after she caught Balin offering her a kindly smile when no one else was looking. The elderly dwarf's brother, Dwalin, was present, too, though his gaze had merely flicked over her once, as if confirming that she still met the measure he had already taken of her.

When arrangements for dwarvish aid in the rebuilding of Dale's stonework had been concluded to everyone's satisfaction, talk had turned to the subject of defense. Dale had its walls and Erebor its rampart and the watchtower on Ravenhill. Yet would it not be wise to keep watch further afield, so that no enemy might surprise them again, as had happened in the recent war?

Bard had directed the counsel's attention to Tauriel.

"Sire," she began, summoning her years of experience to hide her nervousness. Surely Thorin, like herself, was remembering their last awkward encounter. "I am experienced in watching the borders of a wide realm. I wish to run an organized patrol from the mountain's northern slopes to the lake's southern shores so that we may know who crosses these lands. As this range encompasses your kingdom, I ask your permission to patrol." Her confidence grew as she spoke; she was comfortable talking about her guardsman's duties. "I also offer you the right to appoint your own captain to the organization. He would, of course, be equal in rank to myself," she finished, successfully anticipating the objection she had seen on Daín's face.

"And whose interests do you represent here?" Thorin asked when she had finished.

His question did not surprise her. Tauriel answered readily, "This arrangement will protect all those in this part of Rhovanion: dwarves, men, and elves. But as patrol captain, I submit to the authority of Dale's council and to you. While Thranduil has entrusted me to represent the Greenwood among you, I do not answer to him in this matter. He benefits only so much as we all do who dwell near the mountain."

The king paused, considering. "The precaution is a good one," he said at last. "Even in my grandfather's day we never kept watch that far. Would that we had..."

Daín shifted in his seat. "You'd trust an elf with the keeping of your lands?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Tauriel saw Kíli stiffen, but it was Dwalin who unexpectedly took her part.

"I've seen Miss Tauriel in the field," he grumbled. "There's little that escapes her attention, 'n' we've that t' thank for our own lives."

Tauriel shot him a surprised glance, which he returned with a look of steady approval. Was he referring to her actions on Ravenhill, or had he also known she covered Kíli when he opened the river gate and allowed them to escape downstream?

"Tauriel has been most selfless in her service of Dale, and she cannot fail to serve all her allies as well," Bard noted gently.

Thorin acknowledged the lakeman's words with a slight nod. "She has certainly proved her worth in battle." He looked back to her. "We've begun restoration of the guard-tower atop Ravenhill. That should prove a strategic outpost. My nephew has already accepted authority there; I would name him as my choice of captain, though he may, of course, chose to appoint someone else."

Tauriel glanced at Fíli, expecting some sign of agreement in his face. Instead, she found him watching his brother.

"Aye, Your Majesty, I shall take it under advisement," Kíli answered Thorin. He looked to Tauriel, and she found herself unable to answer for the feeling that her heart had just leapt into her mouth.

Perhaps Kíli sensed her momentary inability to speak; at any rate, he added, "I'm going up tomorrow. Stop there on your way to Dale, and we can discuss how to utilize the fort within the patrol routes."

"Very well, Your Highness," Tauriel returned, finding her voice at last. "I look forward to hearing your suggestions."

After a brief pause during which Tauriel was sure everyone must be weighing her last shared glance with Kíli, Thorin said, "Well, unless there are any final suggestions, I would invite you all to dine; the meal must be ready now."

Glancing down over the table, Tauriel saw that Daín seemed to be boiling with some barely-contained objection. Yet apparently he was not going to protest making Kíli co-captain with his rumored elven lover in front of a council of outsiders, and so after a few moments' silence, Thorin rose, and everyone followed him.

Chapter Text

Kíli had been dying to touch her all morning. Somehow, he had managed the respectful distance and disinterest appropriate to their interaction as patrol captains as he had shown Tauriel over the old Ravenhill watchtower, which was now fully under construction. They had surveyed the surrounding land and proposed how to use the tower's position to the best advantage within the patrol routes, and yet through all the planning and discussion, part of him had seen only how the sunlight brought out the deep red gleam in her hair. It had been something of a struggle to keep from distracting himself by imagining how those bright strands would feel slipping through his fingers.

They had climbed to the top level of the ruined tower and were alone now, though still in sight of the dwarves working on the fort's lower levels. Kíli finally allowed himself to take Tauriel's hand, and as his fingers caught in hers, she trembled.

"It's good to see you," he said. The words were so ordinary, the sentiment so obvious and, indeed, almost belated, considering he'd been near her since yesterday. But they were the first words he'd been able to speak to her in private, and so they'd seemed the right place to start.

"Yes, Kíli," she said, brushing her thumb across the back of his hand. She seemed, he thought, full of some new revelation.

He went on, "I was very glad to hear you have your king's pardon."

"I could not believe it at first. Kíli, I said very bold things to him, when he would not aid you on Ravenhill." She shook her head, as if dismissing her earlier judgment. "And yet, perhaps he understands more than I gave him credit for. He wishes friendship between our kingdoms once again."

"Now I can hardly believe you!"

"And you, Kíli, have made peace with your uncle?" she asked, ready hope in her look.

He nodded. "I didn't know how, at first. We Durins can be a little stubborn sometimes," he admitted.

Her half-contained smile was amused.

"And," Kili went on, satisfied now, "Thorin consents to our courtship."

"Kíli, that's—" she gasped. She collected herself, then went on softly, "That's more than I dared hope so soon."

"There's just one thing," Kíli said. "I'm afraid... you might not like what I've offered."

"I trust you," Tauriel assured him, clasping his hand a little tighter in her own.

Kíli looked up into her face, more anxious than he had ever been before her: more than when he'd tried to win a smile by a saucy jest, more than when he'd declared his heart and asked her to follow him.

"I asked Thorin to judge if we are worthy. And I said I would abide by him if he finds we are not," he told her.

Tauriel went very still, the faint smile fading from her lips. What had he done?

"Kíli, I..." she began softly. "I don't think there was anything else you could have done."

"Then you're not disappointed?"

"No. I wish— I wish your uncle did not seem so stern of heart, but his answers yesterday give me hope." She moved once more, shifting subtly in response to his own stance in a way that made him aware of her nearness, despite the polite distance they both still maintained.

"I suppose he's testing us," Kíli admitted. "Giving us our chance."

"I see. We will succeed: you have taught me to hope in that," she said, her mouth curving up in a smile at last.

"Tauriel, there's one more thing. I've sworn, when I marry you, that I renounce all claim to the throne of Erebor. My sons will never be kings." He could tell, from the soft deepening of color on her cheeks, that his "when" was not lost on her.

She shook her head, gently dismissive. "Kíli, I never dreamed mine would be. And yet, I am so sorry you must give that up."

Kíli shrugged lightly. "I never wanted to be a king; I just want to serve my uncle and then my brother, some day. That's why I had to find a way to stay."

"I understand. I would never ask you to forget them."

"Thank you." He felt his own happiness break out over his face. "Now, by custom I ought to ask your father's consent. Or in your case, your guardian's, if you have one? Though you hardly seem to need one," he corrected himself. She must be beyond the age for that, and anyway, her actions had proved her truly independent.

"My guardian," she said, an amused smile playing over her lips, "would surely be Thranduil himself."

Kíli stared at her in alarm.

Tauriel laughed. "When my parents died, he arranged for my care by a couple at court, whose own daughter had recently wed and left their household. Though they reared me, I owe my protection and favor to the king."

Kíli swallowed. "I will ask him, if you think I should." He had thus far only thought of the Elvenking as the hard and unfeeling ruler who had exiled Tauriel, and the prospect of asking him to approve of their love was somewhat terrifying.

"I think for now, you may consider you have his consent. Indeed, he seemed to be counting on my favor with you when he asked me to pursue peace with your uncle."

"Tauriel, I think that raven was right, about the world ending and all," Kíli said weakly.

"Nonsense. We faced the world's end here together, not so long ago. And look!" She gestured to the mountainside below them. "The ice has melted, and the towers are rising again. Let us be part of the things rebuilt."

Kíli did not look away from her; he knew perfectly well what views the tower afforded and she was far more worth looking at. She was so ridiculously tall, he found himself thinking once again; he'd almost forgotten. He had been remembering her when she had last held him, and then she'd knelt to his level.

"It is beautiful up here," she observed, looking to him again. "I may have to visit often." There was a teasing edge to her smile.

Tauriel drew him after her to the edge of the tower, where the broken wall formed a ledge broad enough for them both to sit. As Kíli alternated the hand which held hers so that they might be more comfortably situated, Tauriel caught at his wrist.

"I see you've made something of my gift," she said, drawing her fingers along the silver cuff bracelet.

Kíli turned his arm so that she could remove the cuff.

"You crafted this," she said appreciatively, inspecting the intricate knot-work carved into the metal along either side of her braided hair.

"My contribution is surely of less value than yours," he said, flattered nonetheless by her admiration of the piece.

"I cannot imagine any elf would complain to find her favor honored thus," she said, and slid the cuff back on his arm. The metal had cooled as she held it, though her fingers were very warm as they brushed his skin.

"I'm glad you approve," Kíli told her.

"I approve very much," she said, looking up into his face, and he knew that she was not simply talking about his craftsmanship.

All Kíli wanted was to catch her about the neck and draw her in till her lips found his, but he was fairly certain that would have exceeded all the bounds of propriety for this truly public scene.

Instead, he said, "Your face was deep red when you entered the council yesterday. I hope it wasn't the prospect of seeing Thorin again?"

"Kíli." She lowered her lashes, apparently embarrassed at the memory. "I should not have been surprised to hear what they said of me. I heard enough whispers in the Greenwood."

He waited for her to go on.

"I expect you know we're said to be lovers."

Kíli felt a flash of annoyance at the rumors he had mostly forgotten by now. "I'm sorry about that! I never meant to compromise your honor."

"My honor!" She looked at him with eyes wide. "It's yours I think of! It is a great reproach to your people if I should take you for my husband without observing any of your own laws or customs."

"Husband?!" He nearly tugged his hand out of hers in an unconscious effort to steady himself against the broken stone of the wall.

Kíli supposed that Tauriel's answering expression of shock must match the one on his own face.

"Of course, Kíli!" she said earnestly. "No elf maid would go to a man's bed if she were not sworn his bride. And the couple would be considered rude indeed to wed without the blessing of friends and kin!"

"I see."

"Is it not the same for you?"

"Well, it would be a true offense to bed a maid without marrying her," Kíli explained.

"Then that happens?" She looked truly incredulous.

"Sometimes. Almost always they're wed in the end. It's the only honorable thing, but just as important... Well, a dwarf only gives himself once. Who else would he choose, after that?"

Tauriel nodded, apparently processing this information. "In that way, at least, we are the same," she said.

"And so you've never been in love, all your hundreds of years," Kíli mused. "I mean, I knew that, but still, I can't quite imagine..."

She flushed. "Was that kiss so very bad?"

"What?" He hadn't expected that response. "Oh. No; you were perfect." He felt his face coloring a little, too. He had known, then, that he was the one leading her—it certainly hadn't been his first kiss—but she had caught on fast enough. He thought her initial clumsiness had been sweet. He'd never expected her to be embarrassed about it.

"Kíli, I've lived many times your few years, and I've never felt this before," Tauriel said softly. She seemed to imply that he had known some of it, not the deep and abiding connection of true love, perhaps, but at least the warm rush of physical attraction.

"Neither have I," Kíli told her honestly. "Not this sureness that I want to be with you—only with you—for the rest of my days."

Tauriel was crying. Maker, she was crying the most beautiful tears, rarer than any gems of the earth.

"Kíli, I love you," she said.

He brushed her cheek, skimming her tears with his fingertips. "Amrâlimê," he whispered.

"I understand."

Looking into her eyes, Kíli knew she was so much lovelier than in all his dreams. And he had dreamed of this moment, of hearing her say those words he had longed for more than all else since he had first met her. Hearing them now was more astonishingly wonderful than he had imagined.

The only disappointment was simply that he could not answer with a single one of the caresses or endearments which the moment deserved. Here he was, atop a tower in the midst of nearly two score dwarves who all looked to him for an authority which he could hardly afford to undermine at this point by opening making love to another officer while he was supposed to be on duty. They already thought Tauriel was an ally simply because he favored her, and they would never come to respect her if Kili seemed to prove them right.

"Tauriel," he said at last, "I think we'd better come down now, or I'll kiss you again in sight of the whole mountain and our chance will be lost before we've begun."

"Thorin, I've tried to stay out of your family squabbles, but how can you make Kíli co-captain with Tauriel? Do you want to lose him to her?" Daín had demanded once the envoy from Dale had left in the morning.

"That remains to be seen," his cousin returned tersely.

"You would take that chance?" Daín's disbelieving tone clearly indicated he could not see the sense of such an action.

"Daín, I'm giving it to him."

"You don't mean you approve of her?" Daín sounded, if possible, even more shocked.

"As a match? Hardly." Thorin didn't need Daín to point out all the reasons it would be better for his nephew to choose one of their own people. "But how can I deny the boy, when he risked his life for my claim?" The words were a mild reproach to Daín, who had initially refused to take part in the quest, claiming it was Thorin's task alone.

From Daín's piqued expression, Thorin knew his meaning had not been missed. "Yes," Daín admitted, not exactly sullen. "You gave so much to be here, and you'd let him trade it away—your throne, your line—for a fancy?"

"No sons of hers will ever sit on this throne, if that's what concerns you. Kíli has offered me that much himself." He supposed that Daín, as next in succession after Thorin's nephews, had reason to care what became of the throne of Erebor.

"And when the council of the Seven Kingdoms meets here next year, you would have them see you with an elf at your table and an heir disowned?" Daín insisted. "That's hardly an inspiring claim for your fitness to rule."

"I have the Arkenstone, don't I?" Thorin snapped. "Last I recall, that was all they required as proof of my claim." Thorin would have marched the armies of the Seven Kingdoms to Erebor decades ago, had they recognized his authority to command them. But the dwarf kings had stood by the oath they had sworn long ago, to obey the one who held that sacred jewel, and would unite for nothing less, never mind that the stone was Thorin's by right.

"Prove them wrong, then, to have overlooked you," Daín said steadily.

"I intend to—without overlooking the claims of those who upheld mine." Thorin's patience was wearing thin. He knew Daín's arguments weren't without merit; if his cousin made such objections, others would, too, and Thorin would do well to consider. Daín was not merely saying this now to pick a fight. But it grated on Thorin that Daín could so readily dismiss the recognition owed to loyal friends and kin.

Daín sighed, composing himself before taking a different approach. "If Kíli wants a lass that much, find him a bride at the council. He's a likely young man, and many's the lass would be happy to have him."

"Your point is well taken," Thorin said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "But I will not force Kíli into an alliance against his will."

Daín nodded, clearly equally frustrated. "Thorin, I have been a ruler, and I know what it means to choose what I must," he said pointedly.

"Do not pretend you know what that is in my case," Thorin answered darkly and stalked from the room before things could become truly ugly.

Fíli paused, watching, in the entry to Dís's room, the filled tea kettle in one hand. His mother and brother sat on the comfortable old sofa, embroiled in a lively, good-natured argument about who was truly responsible for Thorin's concession regarding Tauriel.

"He never would have agreed to it if I hadn't made a reasoned and elegant case," Kíli was insisting. "You're not trying to say your brother would grant his approval to just any half-baked, barmy scheme of mine, are you?"

"I should certainly not like to say that," Dís returned emphatically, "any more than I should like to accuse the brightest of my younger sons of having such a deplorable memory that he would forget it was his uncle who once agreed to let him go fishing with a fowling net and a basket of wizard's candles."

Fíli grinned. He remembered that: with those fireworks, they had made a glorious mess of mist and flame, blown half the stream bed away, and not caught a single fish.

Kíli shrugged, undeterred. "Yes, well, every genius has to have a few false starts."

"Indeed," Dís chimed in eagerly, "And you'll have to admit that, while you're struggling to coax that genius into flame, it doesn't hurt to have someone else supply a little heat?"

"You admit I have genius!" Kíli crowed triumphantly.

"Only to flatter myself you inherited something from me besides your good looks."

"Mother! You're forgetting my unerring ability to pick the most ludicrous side of an argument."

"It's true," she said and caught him about the waist with one arm while tickling his stomach with the other. "You can't help but laugh at yourself, poor silly boy," she added as Kíli's inarticulate protest degenerated into muffled laughter.

"Help!" Kíli gasped breathlessly as Fíli passed him to set the kettle on the fire.

"Don't worry: I've got your back, brother!" Fíli declared, taking advantage of Kíli's doubled over position to attack his unprotected ribs. Kíli's attempts to complain were cut short by another helpless fit of laughter, though Fíli thought he caught the word "betrayed" as Kíli slid to the floor at Dís's feet.

Fíli and Dís let him be then, and after a few moments' gasping, Kíli struggled to sit up.

"That's not what I meant," he told Fíli deliberately, tugging his shirt back into place.

Fíli gave him an unrepentant grin. "Maybe you should be more specific next time."

Dís was chuckling softly to herself now. "I love having you both home," she said, and Fíli heard the deep fondness in her voice and was glad. He tucked his arm around her waist as she smoothed Kíli's hair back and resettled its dislodged clasp.

Even though they were reunited here in Erebor, it was an unusual occurrence to be together, all three of them, now that Kíli oversaw the construction on Ravenhill. The old fort was far enough away that he stayed there most nights with the rest of the crew. Kíli was home tonight only to gather fresh clothing and supplies in preparation for an extended scouting expedition with Tauriel the next morning. If he was to captain the patrols, he would need to be personally familiar with the land they covered.

"You boys are something of legends in your own time," Dís remarked, sounding both proud and amused. "Even those who gainsaid your uncle's quest consider you all heroes now. Is it strange?"

Fíli nodded against her shoulder. "Everybody treats me like I'm a different person now."

"You are," Dís said gently.

"I know. I feel it and I—" He shrugged. "I don't. I know I can't go back, but sometimes I want to. This is all so much bigger than I imagined it would be: Erebor, being Thorin's heir..."

"My first, darling boy," Dís said tenderly, nudging her head against his. "You have done, and you will do, well."

The kettle began to hiss, and Fíli stood to fetch it and pour the boiling water into the teapot Dís had already prepared. When the tea was done, Kíli rose, too, to get a cup for himself and one for their mother.

As they all were sipping spiced peppermint, Kíli remarked significantly to his brother, "Well, the good news is that you're not become such a grand figure yet that you completely overawe the girls. You'll never guess who I found with him in the very crowded taproom tonight, Mum," he added, evidently pleased with his news.

"I suppose it was Sif," Dís returned readily.

Kíli's smug expression gave way to one of surprise. "What? How did you—"

When Dís answered, she spoke to Fíli. "While you were gone, Sif called a few times hoping for news of you. Oh, she didn't ask outright, of course, but I knew what she wanted."

Fíli sipped tea so he wouldn't have to respond. He felt oddly grateful to know he'd been remembered, even worried over a little. As the younger of them, Kíli had always been the one who seemed to get the first "Be careful!" and "Are you all right?" from people. Fíli knew his mother and uncle cared as much for his own safety as for Kíli's, but he had had to learn they expressed their concern differently for each of them.

"And when do I meet your Tauriel?" Dís asked, turning her attention back to her younger son, rather to Fíli's relief. He didn't want to talk about whether it meant anything that he had somehow melted Sif's shyness and reserve. He wasn't sure what he thought, himself.

"Soon," Kíli answered, wearing that musing smile which was reserved for the mention of Tauriel's name. "I want to ask her to celebrate the new year with us this autumn."

"That will be but a year from when you met her, will it not?" their mother remarked, thoughtful.

Kíli nodded. "She saved my life on Durin's Day."

"Did she." Fíli saw her expression go still, as if her face had closed on some private, deep emotion. He didn't have to ask where her prayers had been that night when the flames of Durin's forge were renewed, as they were on the eve of every year. Her gaze shifted back to her youngest before her. "If Mahal sent her then, she will always be welcome to my hearth," she said.

Kíli smiled his thanks, then asked, hopeful, "Would you host her when she comes? I want it to be a family visit, not an official one."

"I will." From her slow, thoughtful smile, Fíli guessed she was imagining the addition of an elf and a stranger to an intimate family scene such as this one. It was a peculiar prospect, certainly, but not one he found unwelcome. Fíli wanted to see more of that warm, unguarded side of Tauriel, the self that she had readily given to his brother, and which he had still only just glimpsed.

Kíli set aside his empty cup and stood. "I should go to bed," he said, apologetic. "I'm leaving early to meet Tauriel in Dale."

"Good night, my darling," Dís said, beckoning him to her for a last hug. "Behave yourself," she added as he kissed her.

"They're taking a chaperone, so he'll have to," Fíli said smugly, pleased to have repaid Kíli's earlier mention of Sif.

"Hey! Of course I will!" Kíli protested. "I wouldn't bring Darion with us if I didn't mean to!"

Dís smiled. "I know. Now go to bed."

"Yes, Mother," Kíli returned meekly. He left, giving a practiced yank to one of Fíli's braids as he passed behind his brother on the way out.

"I'm afraid I don't recognize any of this," Kíli said at Tauriel's elbow as they stood at the river's edge, surveying the water that had carried him and his companions from the Elvenking's dungeons to Laketown, not six months before. "All I remember of our escape is a lot of cold water sloshing into my barrel and a beastly pain in my leg."

"Barrel, sir?" Darion repeated from behind them.

Kíli explained, "The last time I saw these banks, I was careening along the stream inside a barrel, while the Elvenking's folk were fighting a pack of orcs for the privilege of killing us before we drowned. Or were you meaning to rescue us?" he added with a sharp grin at Tauriel. "I got a bit muddled, what with all the spinning. And the orc poison from the arrow in my leg."

Darion nodded, clearly still somewhat bemused. "I'm afraid I still don't understand the barrel."

Tauriel smiled gently. Their companion from Dale had been indulgent over this past week whenever the two of them had inadvertently left him out of some shared moment. "Their halfling burglar smuggled them out of our dungeons in a consignment of empty barrels," she added. "A clever plan, though I hardly imagine it was comfortable."

Darion's expression shifted to amusement. "And then Bard smuggled you into town, barrels and all."

A breeze swept down the valley then, and Tauriel sighed happily as it lifted her damp hair off her neck. However unpleasant the icy river had been last autumn, on this sultry afternoon in late July, the clear water looked truly inviting.

"I think we may permit ourselves an afternoon's rest," she said. "The ford is not far downstream, and we have more than enough daylight."

Darion nodded agreeably. "I can still watch the valley from up there." He gestured up the wooded slope behind them.

As Darion turned away, Tauriel seated herself on a smooth boulder at the water's edge and bent to undo the laces on her boots.

After watching her in silence for a few moments, Kíli remarked, "You told me once that elves don't feel the cold and the heat."

Tauriel laughed. "I never said we don't feel it," she corrected him, not really upset, since she certainly had meant him to understand something like that at the time. "Just that we aren't crippled by it, as mortals are. That does not mean I am going to pass by a refreshing stream on a hot summer day."

"Mm-hm," Kíli affirmed knowingly, and Tauriel realized she never had convinced him that she would have been comfortable in the ruined Ravenhill tower in the midst of a blizzard. She glanced up at him, feeling suddenly laid bare in her need for this bold young man who seemed to see through all of her defenses.

Kíli sat on a stone opposite her, apparently fascinated by the process by which her boot unfastened. She held his gaze for a moment, acknowledging his admiration of her, before tugging the boot off her foot and beginning on the laces of the other. From behind them, she hear a light rill of notes as Darion began to play on his wooden flute.

When she looked up again, Kíli was no longer watching, but had shed his own boots and was stacking his quiver and bow alongside them.

The water ran slow and shallow along the stone bank, leaving a sandy ledge just below the shore. Tauriel shivered as she stepped in: the water was cool, just on the pleasant side of cold. She flexed her feet, enjoying the scrunch of the sand between her toes.

"That's not bad at all," Kíli said, wading out beside her. "Last time, it was cold enough to freeze the stones off a troll."

Tauriel laughed, so hard that she had to catch Kíli's shoulder to steady herself.

"What?" he asked, a smile both amused and self-conscious starting over his face. "Was that indecent?"

She merely shook her head wordlessly, still trembling with mirth.

"What am I supposed to say? 'It was very cold, Tauriel.' That doesn't come anywhere near the sheer gut-piercing truth of it," he reasoned.

"Mm, well, I hope you're made of sterner stuff than trolls are," she said, and then lost control of herself once again so that Kíli had to walk her back to the shore and seat her on a rock.

"I recovered," he said, clearly delighted by her look of guilty amusement as she grinned up at him. "Maker's anvil, Tauriel, you're as bad as any twelve-year-old dwarfling."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

While she regained her composure, Kíli continued wading upstream, towards a fallen tree than extended out over the river.

"When Fí and I were lads, we used to swim in a pool of the stream beyond our halls. One year there was a tree down over it, like this, and we spent all summer climbing on it, trying to see who could knock the other in first." He had reached the fallen tree now and swung himself up onto it.

"Well, who was the champion?" Tauriel asked. She moved out into the water once more till it was up to her knees.

"Fíli, mostly," he admitted, striding out along the trunk, his toes gripping the bark. "He convinced me that if I put mud on my feet, it would help them stick. It doesn't. Rather the opposite."

Tauriel chuckled.

"How about you: is there anywhere to swim in Mirkwood that won't put you to sleep instantly or swallow you up?" he asked, pausing to catch his balance in the center of the tree.

"There are pools beneath the king's palace," Tauriel told him. "I sometimes swim there. The water is very clear and very cold."

Kíli turned towards her again, and began making his way back along the tree.

"And once, many years ago when I was very young and foolish" she went on, smiling as she remembered, "Morwen and I leaped into one of the big ornamental pools inside the palace. It was Midsummer Eve, and we had been drinking the king's wine." They had been removed from the pool by the royal guard at the command of the prince, who had been sore pressed to keep a straight face.

"Interesting," Kíli observed, glancing up from his feet to regard her with a mischievous grin. "You know, we have a saying that you can't truly know a dwarf till you've seen him both sober and drunk." He was tipping off to one side of the tree, but a quick sweep of his arms redirected his balance. "I suppose that must also apply to el—" he managed before he overbalanced in the opposite direction and fell off into the water.

Tauriel was afraid to embarrass him by laughing, but when he surfaced, she found he was already doing so himself.

"It's nice in here," he called out.

"I'm sure."

"You should join me."

"Oh, I'm all right here."

Kíli flicked wet hair out of his eyes and began stroking to shore.

"Are you sure?" he insisted. "It's easiest if you get in all at once." He was near enough to stand now, and he strode purposefully towards her.

"I see that, but I assure you I don't need your help!" She ended with a small squeak as she ducked back out of his reach and ran up onto the bank.

Kíli sent a splash after her that sprinkled her skirt, though she was far enough ashore that she missed most of it. She stayed where she was, watching him with a wary smile.

After a few moments' consideration, he followed her out and stood, dripping profusely, on the limestone bank.

"I'm very wet," he observed, and Tauriel laughed at him from behind her hand. He squeezed a few handfuls of water from the hem of his shirt before abandoning the futile endeavor in favor of tugging the whole sodden garment over his head. As he wrung the water from it, Tauriel was dimly aware that she stared.

Most of the elves under Tauriel's command had been men, and she had seen them changing in the guardroom or having wounds dressed often enough to know how they compared to her. Making allowances for that basic difference of sex, in proportion their bodies where much like her own: lean, smooth muscles that were strong without bulk. There was no great physical disproportion between the men and women of her race: women who had not chosen the roles of wives and mothers might be just as powerful warriors as the men.

But Kíli was nothing like any of the elven men she had ever seen. He was all hard lines and angles, wearing his strength unmistakably in the sturdy outline of his shoulders and back. His race was surely a people born from stone and endued with all its unsubtle power. Seeing him now, Tauriel felt intensely aware of how very much he was her opposite in all ways, though she found his differences compelling rather than repellent.

When he had spread his shirt to dry in the sun, he turned and caught her curious gaze full in the face. "You've really never seen a man before?" he asked, seemingly both incredulous and amused.

"Not one made like you," she confessed.

"You mean, not as hairy," he quipped, unabashed. It was true: he had more hair on arms and chest than she had supposed possible.

"Oh, we do get the occasional bear in the Greenwood," she said coolly as she turned away, though she was blushing. Behind her, Kíli laughed heartily.

She sat on the warm ferns of the hillside, her skirts tucked up around her knees, and Kíli stretched out beside her in the sun. Above them, Darion still played his flute, the notes making a counterpoint to the lightly rustling leaves.

They had been relaxing in silence for a time when Tauriel felt Kíli's fingers brush her ankle. She resisted the impulse to catch his hand, curious to see where this was going. Somewhat to her relief, he merely traced the outline of her foot, from her heel to her toes, which he touched one by one as if counting them.

"You have a scar behind your knee," he commented. "I didn't think elves got scars."

"I was bitten by a spider once," she told him.

"Mine didn't scar like that."

"They didn't bite to kill you."

"Oh." He let go of her foot with a light caress. "That wasn't when your parents..."

She shook her head, then realized he couldn't see her face from where he lay. "No. They died in an orc raid," she told him softly.

"Tauriel, I'm sorry." He sounded troubled to think he had upset her.

"I don't mind if you ask." She sighed and reached for his hand. "I was not yet twenty when orcs came down from the mountains and crossed the borders of the woods in the night. My parents sent me away, along with a neighbor who was with child herself. Thanks to their sacrifice, we made it far enough away that the king's guard found us before the orcs did."

Kíli was silent as she traced and retraced the lines of his palm with her finger, as if the action were a charm against sorrow.

"I do not love orcs," she said at last. "When I became a guardswoman, I knew it was my duty not to leave others to their mercy. They have none."

"I know I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you," Kíli said.

Darion's flute still sang over the hillside, and Tauriel felt it was safe to drop Kíli's hand and lean down over him, her arms propped on either side of his shoulders. "Truly, I don't know what I would do without you," she whispered, brushing his lips with hers as she spoke, but not quite kissing him yet. Kíli put his hands to her waist, holding her so that she might more easily lean into him. She did, sinking down into a kiss that carried all the accumulated meaning she had discovered since their parting in the spring.

Tauriel was not sure how much time had passed before she became aware that she no longer heard Darion's flute. She sat up hurriedly, alarmed and frustrated with herself for having lost track of that single sound: she had never before had any trouble focusing her senses, regardless of distractions.

"What?" Kíli asked sharply.

"Darion—" she began, then went silent again, hearing the Dale man's voice in conversation above them. She stood, shaking the ferns out from her skirt. Thankfully, Darion was not in sight and thus had not seen them. Hand lightly on the knife at her belt, she made her way up the wooded slope towards his voice.

She found him speaking to one of her fellow Silvan elves, Conor, who sketched a bow when he saw her.

"Conor has come with a message for Prince Kíli," Darion told her.

"He will join us in a moment," Tauriel explained, hoping her surprise and embarrassment did not show on her face. She was sure they should not have been indulging themselves just now and felt mildly guilty for having momentarily forgotten herself. If they did so again, such distraction might have consequences, to others as well as themselves.

"I'm here," Kíli said behind her. She looked back to see him fully dressed in a shirt that was dry, if somewhat wrinkled, and carrying his quiver over one shoulder.

"Your Highness," Conor addressed him, offering a full bow this time. "I hope I find you well."

"Very well, thank you," Kíli returned with a bright glance at Tauriel. "And may I find you the same."

Conor nodded courteously. "I bring an invitation from King Thranduil to yourself. He bids you to pass by his halls on the final stretch of your patrol, hoping you will accept his hospitality as an overture of friendship."

Kíli looked to Tauriel again, his expression questioning this time.

She said, "It will add two days to our circuit."

"I won't be expected back before then," Kíli noted.

"Our patrol schedule allows for unexpected delays," Tauriel agreed. "If you accept, Darion and I will accompany you."

Kíli paused, his expression thoughtful, and Tauriel supposed he was weighing the advantages of accepting a diplomatic overture from the neighboring king. "Aye," he said at last, "You may tell His Majesty that we gratefully accept his invitation."

"He will be most pleased," Conor returned. "He expects you tomorrow evening, and I shall accompany you."

Chapter Text

Kíli had never spent much effort on diplomacy before. Surely it was Fíli's responsibility as heir to know how to handle sensitive or potentially awkward political situations, but Kíli had always supposed that it would fall to him merely to follow the examples others had set. In the last few months, he'd been learning, of course, to navigate the social complexities created by his own decision to woo an elf, but even that had seemed a sort of exception due to personal circumstances. But Kíli was quickly coming to see that even being the younger prince held far more authority and responsibility than he had ever envisioned before.

Standing now in the Elvenking's chambers as Thranduil himself welcomed him and Tauriel, Kíli felt very distinctly out of his depth. A friendly meeting with their neighbors was far beyond anything Thorin, his uncle and king, had achieved since their return. With no precedent to follow, what was Kíli supposed to say and do?

The best place to begin, he supposed, was to remember his manners.

"Please accept my thanks and my service," Kíli said, sweeping the practiced bow that, thankfully, his mother had drilled into him till it was effortless. What was it that Tauriel had said was a proper elvish greeting? "Mae govannen," he added as he straightened, hoping he had remembered right.

Thranduil's look of approval—it was not quite a smile—seemed to indicate that he had.

"I see you are not entirely untutored in our ways," the Elvenking remarked with a quick glance at Tauriel that Kíli could not read. Was he pleased or amused?

"I am more ignorant than I should like," Kíli admitted, supposing honest humility was to his advantage here. "But I hope to mend that defect with Tauriel's help." He glanced at her and saw she was blushing.

"I trust you shall," Thranduil agreed, and Kíli was sure, just for a moment, that the elf king truly was amused. Then Thranduil's expression became serious once more. "I suppose you find my invitation unexpected," he said. "I know my relations with your kindred have not always been cordial."

"Tauriel tells me you wish for friendship with my kingdom," Kíli returned. He was glad that Thranduil did not expect him to pretend that their prior meetings had been anything other than strained.

"I confess that I think of my own interests, but then, is not an alliance to your advantage as well? None of us would stand here today were it not for those who fought beside us."

Kíli had a sudden vivid memory of the fight on Ravenhill and of Tauriel backstabbing an orc that had nearly kept him from his brother. Thanks to her, he had been able to turn to Fíli's aid, and even, perhaps, saved his life.

"Our people have not always been at enmity," Thranduil went on. "Surely you know of the great concord between your ancestors of Khazad-dûm and the elves of Eregion? There was even trade between Erebor and the Greenwood in your great-grandfather's day."

Kíli remembered the history lessons of his youth, though he had certainly not imagined then that elf-dwarf relations would ever have any particular relevance to him. And yet it had become clear that, if Tauriel was ever to be accepted by his own people, he would need to win friendship between her kingdom and his. As much as he felt that all that should matter was the courage and honor of Tauriel herself, he could see that their success as a pair depended on the fate of their respective kingdoms. The realization was truly daunting.

Kíli answered, "I would gladly see that friendship restored. Though it may be some time before Erebor is able to fulfill that hope. We have matters of our own to set in order." He supposed this was what diplomacy meant: telling things not quite as they were, but as they needed to be seen. The real reason for patience was the newness, not of Thorin's rule, but of any hope of reconciliation.

"I understand. And yet I believe that you have a personal interest in realizing a connection between our people," the king said.

"I do," Kíli acknowledged simply, at a loss for how to answer such a pointed remark. Of course Thranduil would know of his former captain's affection for the dwarf prince, and yet Kíli nonetheless felt somewhat uncomfortable to hear him speak of their affection so readily. Kíli knew, more or less, what else the Elvenking had once said about Tauriel's love.

Kíli glanced at her again: she seemed even more embarrassed than before, though he did not think she was actually worried. He supposed a retraction of Thranduil's previous judgment was perhaps the nearest to an apology they could expect from the proud and impassive elf king. He would try not to take offense.

Thranduil must have sensed Kíli's discomfort, for he went on almost warmly, "I would be pleased to acknowledge an alliance between the Prince of Erebor and one of my own people."

"Thank you," Kíli stammered, both surprised and relieved that the king had voluntarily offered his approval of their courtship. Despite his assurance to Tauriel, he was not sure he could have brought himself to ask for it. He still felt conflicted about this man who had managed, at some point, to injure all those Kíli cared for: his family, his comrades, even his beloved Tauriel.

Remembering himself somewhat, Kíli added, "I dearly hope to be granted such an honor." So long as nothing had been fully settled yet between him and Tauriel, Kíli could offer no stronger assurance, regardless of his own optimism.

"Your Majesty," Tauriel cut in then, sounding nearly as flustered as Kíli felt. "We have had a long day's journey. Perhaps I might show the Prince to his rooms so that he can refresh himself before dinner?"

Thranduil's mouth crooked up slightly. "Of course. Forgive me; you must wish to rest."

Tauriel bowed, and then, taking Kíli's arm, towed him from the room.

Tauriel did not get a chance to speak with Kíli alone until she came to collect him for dinner. It would not have been proper for her to enter his rooms, and so she had found a retired balcony along their route where they might pause with relative privacy, though still in sight of those who passed. If they were to win respect, among her people as well as his, they must offer no place for criticism in their behavior to one another.

"I am sorry for interrupting earlier," she began. "I was only thinking how very much this must all be for you." Indeed, it was still rather too much for her to take in, though she had guessed her king's intentions months ago. She had only just acknowledged the devotion that she felt for this dwarf, and to have her king now openly promoting her marriage to Kíli was more than she knew how to manage.

"I'm glad you did," Kíli assured her. "I was beginning to panic a bit, myself. I've never been an envoy before."

"You did very well. My king can be... overwhelming."

"I felt that he wanted something from me," Kíli admitted.

Tauriel nodded. "He does; he wants you to argue his good intent to your uncle. But I do not think he means his assurances to you any less for all that."

"You're not afraid he's just using us?"

"I asked myself that, at first. But I believe he knows we truly love. I doubt he fully understands, but he has given me hope he knows the value of what we share, you and I." She wondered if Kíli had seen the way Thranduil had watched them earlier, as if they were the greatest enigma he had ever encountered in all his years.

"You're sure?" Kíli asked. Tauriel could see he was still somewhat troubled.

"I suspect this may be the only way he can find of helping us pursue something no-one has ever dared to want before. He cannot see why I would love a dwarf. But if my love for you can begin to bridge this gulf between our peoples, that is something, at least, that he can understand."

"Somehow, this has become so much bigger than us," Kíli said. "I wish it could just be you and I and nothing more." He glanced aside, tacitly acknowledging the palace and the elves passing on the walkways around them, even the unseen Elvenking himself.

She smiled, sympathetic. "Kíli, we will never escape our duties. But would we truly want to? And now we hope to be rewarded by a place to love."

He sighed. "You're right; of course you are. Just..." His expression became roguish. "When this is over, and we've proven ourselves, I intend to run away with you. Only for a perfectly responsible amount of time, of course."

Tauriel laughed gently, knowing she longed for and yet willingly awaited a time when she might truly be alone with him. Being near him this summer, she had felt more than perplexed to find how much she could want him. He merely touched her hand, and something unknotted itself inside her in a way that both thrilled and terrified her. Before she acted on any of these mad desires, she wished to understand what she felt or she knew she would be undone by him entirely.

"In the mean time," he went on, "I have something for you." He produced a small bundle from a pocket and placed it in her hands.

Tauriel unfolded a scrap of velvet to reveal a comb of fine silver. A delicate flowering vine had been carved along the back, and as she turned it in her hands, the light sparked on tiny blue stones.

She murmured appreciatively.

"We're officially courting, now." Kíli said.

Tauriel looked to his face, curious.

"I've your guardian's approval, and I've given you a gift."

Her gaze sharpened. "Your runestone..." Had it meant more than she had known even then?

Kíli chuckled. "That wasn't a proper courtship gift; it has to be something made by my own hands."

Tauriel turned the comb in her fingers, admiring the flawlessly set gems and the clean, delicate line-work of the carving. "You are very skilled," she declared. "How long have you practiced your craft?" She did not know what else he could make, or whether he considered such dwarvish skills one or many arts.

"I don't remember the first time I was in a forge; like any dwarf, I more or less grew up there. But I started learning metalwork when I was still in my teens," he told her.

"Kíli, how old are you?"

"Seventy-something." He squinted, mentally calculating. "Seventy-seven, now."

"I could not guess. I know so little about your people!" And yet she had known she loved him, no matter how few or how many years he had to give her.

"Well," he smiled. "What do you want to know? We're babes when we're born, and considered grown at fifty. People will be slightly shocked if I marry you before I'm ninety, which I fully intend to do. We generally live two and a half centuries, sometimes more. So you can look forward to at least a hundred-seventy odd more years of my trouble."

He spoke lightly, though he watched carefully for her response.

"That will be enough for me," Tauriel said, answering his unspoken question. Indeed, she had been ready to be content with less. Humans, she knew, lived less than a century, and, knowing little of dwarves, she had not allowed herself to hope very far beyond that.

"And you are entirely too much for me," Kíli told her. Her answer, it was clear, had overwhelmed him.

"Hush. You are far more wonderful than you imagine," she said.

He paused, apparently considering this. "Tell me," he said at last, "How do I say I love you in your own tongue?"

"Le: that is 'you.' Melon: 'I love.'"

"Le melon," Kíli said softly, experimentally. "Le melon, Tauriel."

She beamed, unexpectedly touched to hear those words none had spoken to her and meant as he had. From his look of answering delight, she knew he understood what he had given her.

He went on, "It doesn't matter what everyone wants from us. I'm very happy."

"As am I."

She looked down at him for another long moment, drinking in the sweetness of his gaze.

Kíli spoke first. "We shouldn't keep your king waiting," he said, tucking her arm in his.

Tauriel nodded her agreement, and let him guide her back onto the main hallway they had been following.

"Now, you have to point out to me which pool you and your friend went swimming in," he instructed her as they made their way back through the palace.

"You visited Thranduil?" Thorin demanded, realizing too late that the anger in his voice would seem to be directed at his nephew. Was the Elvenking truly trying to suborn Kíli through his feelings for Tauriel?

"I thought it prudent to accept his gesture of friendship," Kíli answered, his tone barely defensive.

Thorin sighed. "Yes, you did well," he said, doing his best to swallow his annoyance.

Kíli nodded, visibly relaxing.

"What did the Elvenking want?" Thorin asked, evenly this time.

"To prove he regrets the grudge between us and that he wishes to be an ally once more."

Thorin snorted. "And why does he think I should care?"

"I think," Kíli said carefully, "he knows that we need one another."

Thorin nearly protested then, but Kíli cut in quickly, saying, "He knows he did not come when we needed him, and that we are rightfully angry. But—" He stopped short, clearly afraid of saying too much.

"Go on," Thorin said after a moment.

"We should not let past mistakes breed new ones."

"No. And so perhaps we shall not make the mistake of relying on him again."

Kíli very obviously bit back a protest.

Thorin waited. The lad was a full lieutenant now, and as such it was his duty to speak his opinion.

At last Kíli said steadily, "Surely you acknowledge that we could not have defeated Azog's armies without all of our allies. Daín's men would not have been enough."

It was true, and something Thorin found deeply troubling. Evil grew, and their own strength as the Khazad dwindled in the face of it.

"I know," was all he said.

"Distasteful as it is, shouldn't we consider his offer?" Kíli asked after a few moments.

Was there a choice? Short of regaining Thrain's ring, Erebor's best defense, besides the mountain walls themselves, would be allies. And yet Thorin still could not quite stomach trusting in the king who had abandoned him and his family in their devastation.

"What did you tell him?" Thorin asked.

Kíli seemed to know that his answer was important. "I told him that I, too, hoped for friendship between our peoples, but that I did not know when it might come to pass."

"A fair answer," Thorin acknowledged. For all his youth and impetuosity, Kíli began to prove already that he could grow into a thoughtful envoy. So long as his feelings for an elf did not cloud his reasoning... Yet Thorin respected Kíli for not bringing her into this now.

"I shall bring the matter to my counselors," Thorin admitted finally. He knew what Balin, at least, would say to it. But they ought to consider how an alliance would appear to the envoys of the Seven Kingdoms next year. The decision would certainly rely on more than Thorin's personal feelings.

"Thank you, Kíli. You are dismissed."

The truth was, Fíli was jealous. Not in that mean, begrudging way that would have traded his brother's happiness for his own. But still, Kíli had something Fíli had always hoped he would find, and now supposed he might well have to give up.

It had always been understood that at least one of them was to marry and continue the royal line. While as the eldest, Fíli felt such responsibilities more strongly than his younger brother, he had always expected that in this instance, Kíli would come through. Kíli always seemed to be flirting with some girl or other; he would choose one some day, and then Fíli would be free to settle his own choice when he wished.

It wasn't that he disliked the prospect of marrying. His own parents, though he had known them together only briefly, had proven how happy a union could be. But that was just it: Fíli had always looked to them, and hoped that he might find something just as meaningful someday. But theirs had been a match made in exile, with no concessions to politics. As the king's heir and with his brother pursuing an elf, Fíli knew he had to think of doing as he was expected.

And so, as he drafted invitations to next summer's council of the Seven Kingdoms, he tried not to be annoyed at having to imply, politely, that the Crown Prince would be happy to make the acquaintance of any unmarried maidens of the noble families. It had been Thorin's suggestion, and Fíli had been reasonable enough to acknowledge that the advice had been kindly meant: his uncle was offering him a chance to find someone whom he truly cared for. And yet Fíli still felt they all were somewhat constrained by Kíli's unconventional choice, and that no-one would be so hurried to see the eldest prince wed if there was not the alarming possibility of half-elven sons looming on the horizon. It didn't matter if Kíli gave up his right to the throne; everyone, Fíli suspected, would feel relieved if more than one unmarried prince stood in the way of the bloodline.

Fíli was sorting out the multiple official seals for diplomatic letters when Kíli himself burst into the room.

"Hallo, brother," he said, striding energetically up to Fíli's writing desk. "Looks like your work has been harder than mine."

"I'm almost done. Here; hold this." Fíli thrust a small crucible of golden wax into his brother's hand. "...don't know how you're s'posed to do this with only two hands."

As Kíli melted the wax over the lamp at the table, Fíli readjusted the ornamental ribbon holding the letter closed. "Ready," he said, holding everything in place as Kíli dripped wax over paper and ribbon. "Make sure that's the right seal!" he blurted, as Kíli grabbed for one of the three on the desk.

"Relax; I did pay attention when Balin taught us all this." Kíli slapped a seal down over the cooling wax, and Fíli saw with relief that it was the right one.

"Really? Because I remember you drawing dragons in your notes. Wait—" Fíli caught his brother's arm as Kíli drew it back. He recognized that studded vambrace. "Where'd you get that?" Fíli demanded, his voice eager.

"Tauriel."

Of course. When they made their hasty escape from the Elvenking's dungeons, they had abandoned what gear hadn't already been confiscated.

"She sends a gift to you, as well," Kíli continued, whipping something from his belt: Fíli saw it was his own matched knives. They settled comfortably into his hands as he took the offered handles. After giving them a few easy twirls, Fíli inspected them, running his fingers lovingly along blade and hilt. The steel was as bright, the polished wood as smooth as when he'd last had them. Whatever else he might have said about his erstwhile captors, they respected a fine weapon.

"Should I give you three some time alone?" Kíli teased.

"Shut it; you know you'd be as happy to see your old bow again."

Kíli nodded, not disputing that. "She's sending the rest of our things by the river route to Dale."

"So how was your visit to the Elvenking? Did you get to sleep in your old cell?"

Kíli snorted. "They gave me a guest room so big I nearly got lost trying to find the necessary."

"And what did Thranduil say? He's glad you're taking his troublesome captain off his hands?"

"I suppose!" Kíli laughed, still incredulous. "He's the last one I ever expected to encourage us. Remember how our cousin Onar used to try to convince us that if we did what he wanted, we'd get something out of it, too? That's what it felt like. But Tauriel believes him, and I believe her."

"I'm impressed with you, playing the diplomat."

"So am I! But I told myself I'd never be any good to you or Uncle or Tauriel if I couldn't do it."

Fíli nodded, sympathetic; he knew all too well the feeling of acting, not out of confidence, but from necessity. And yet the confidence usually came in time.

"Did you give Tauriel your gift?"

"Yes. We're official now," Kíli announced proudly.

His brother laughed. "You've been very unofficial for some time."

"I know." Kíli shrugged. "But I knew she was the one I wanted. I couldn't just let her get away."

"No," Fíli agreed, thoughtful. He doubted that Kíli's sureness was simply an effect of his general impetuosity; if it was, Kíli would likely have settled with one of the handful of girls he'd noticed before now. What must it be like to feel so sure of someone? In spite of Fíli's own hopes, he could not fault his brother for pursuing Tauriel so earnestly.

"Well, I'm glad for you, Kí," he added. "Now, if you'll help me seal the rest of these letters, we can catch a drink or two before dinner."

Chapter Text

Thorin was grateful the council meeting was nearly over; it had been a long day of overseeing preparations for the New Year's festival for the day after next, and more than anything, what he wanted now was something to eat and a tall mug of ale.

Across the great stone table, Balin was saying, "His Majesty has already heard my thoughts on an alliance, but for the benefit of the council, I will repeat them: we cannot stand against our enemies alone. Whatever support Thranduil will offer—in men, trade, intelligence—is to our advantage. And I think, as this council has discussed before, if the Elvenking is willing to treat with us now, we should pursue this chance." Here he turned his attention fully to Thorin. "If you have an alliance with Thranduil when the Seven Kingdoms meet, you prove yourself a circumspect and ready king. You show that connections with Erebor are a good investment, as it were, and for that, alliances with the Seven will come easier."

This statement was answered by approving nods from many around the table. Daín, too, made a gesture of concession, as he noted, "I can't say I relish the idea of a connection with the folk who readily attacked my men, but I concede the tactical and political value of such a move." There was a pregnant pause as everyone seemed to await his true objection, which was sure to follow. Right enough, Daín went on, "Yet I maintain that a political alliance with Mirkwood is all the more reason to object to an elven marriage within your royal house."

"Tauriel doesn't have anything to do with this," Kíli returned swiftly. His tone was controlled, but Thorin caught the edge of tension in his voice.

Daín stared at Kíli, undeterred. "Don't you see: with an elf at your side, Thranduil would think he gains a say in the management of Erebor?" he said, as if the plain facts of the matter were more than enough to overcome Kíli's protest.

"As my wife, her first loyalty would be to me and the king I serve," Kíli argued, sounding equally certain that he voiced the truth. "If anything, she will ensure that Erebor is used fairly by her people."

Daín nodded, as if Kíli had merely proved the point for him. "Aye, they're her people, and she will return to them once her brief time here is over. Do you really think she can forget their needs for a few hundred years?"

Kíli took several slow breaths, but said nothing, and Thorin was impressed by his self-control.

"I should say their needs are much the same as ours," Balin interjected calmly.

Daín flashed the elder dwarf a glance, but did not challenge him.

Thorin broke in then. "Thank you, Lord Daín. Your objection has been noted." He glanced round at the other noblemen seated at the table; from their faces, most seemed reluctant to enter the discussion of such a sensitive topic. Although, from the matching scowls on Fíli and Dwalin's faces, he supposed each of them, at least, was ready to defend his brother's position. Best to end the meeting now before this really did devolve into a family squabble.

"We can return to this issue at our next meeting," Thorin declared. "I suspect we could all benefit from the chance to rest and make merry before then."

As they left the council chamber, Thorin caught Kíli's shoulder, and the young dwarf glanced back at him, his brows drawn as if he expected a reprimand for something.

"You said she arrives tomorrow?" Thorin asked.

"Yes," Kíli answered, still somewhat apprehensive. "Tauriel will arrive late morning, and then I'm presenting her to Mother."

"Good," Thorin said, with as much warmth as he could manage. He was hungry, frustrated, and not exactly in the mood to discuss Tauriel's impending visit, but he did not mean for Kíli to interpret any of this as personal disapproval. "It's been a busy sennight and I don't remember exactly what we discussed."

"Aye." Kíli's expression lightened then. "I wanted to talk to you about where she will sit for the feast—later, of course," he finished, with a glance at those dwarves passing down the halls beside them.

"Of course," Thorin agreed. "Now let's get some supper; perhaps if we're lucky, we'll find they've cooked my ill-tempered cousin's boar." He wasn't sure where that jest had come from, but from Kíli's sharp and swiftly stifled laughter, he knew his nephew fully sympathized with the sentiment behind it.

Following Kíli down the richly carved and gilded passages of Erebor's royal chambers, Tauriel found she could not remember the last time she had felt this nervous. It was not a feeling she was accustomed to, but then, since meeting Kíli, she had discovered a great many emotions she had not known before.

Kíli pulled her to a halt in the arched opening of a side hall.

"Tauriel, you'll be wonderful," he assured her. "I'm not worried."

"Kíli, she's your mother," Tauriel objected softly. Almost the first thing she had learned about Kíli was how much he meant to Dís, and she felt it mattered a great deal what the dwarf woman thought of her, perhaps more even than what Thorin did.

Kíli caressed her hand in his. "She believes you were sent by Mahal to save my life," he said. "I don't think you need to be afraid."

Tauriel nodded. She believed him, and yet that tight feeling in her stomach would not ease.

"By the way," Kíli added almost apologetically, "You do know that our women have beards as well as the men, right? I don't want you to be surprised." Dís would be the first woman Tauriel had met in Erebor.

"I have heard all dwarves were bearded," Tauriel returned, somewhat embarrassed, "But meeting you, I realized I could not believe all that is said of your folk."

He laughed. "What, because I don't wear a beard down to my belt?"

"No." She smiled in spite of her nervousness. "Because you found beauty in a fire moon and you listened to me speak of stars."

Kíli smiled contentedly at her words.

"But, now you mention it..." Tauriel began thoughtfully. "Why do you keep your beard so short?"

"Because," he said, matter of fact, "I've far more interesting things to do than spend an hour braiding it every morning."

Tauriel giggled. "I'm trying to imagine that."

"If I grew my beard, it would be magnificent," he declared, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Far more so than Fí's silly mustache."

She snorted.

"There; you laughed. Feel better?"

"Mmm." Tauriel nodded. "A little."

"I love you. And Mum will, too." He took her face in his hands and drew her down to kiss him once.

Dís met them at the entrance to her suite of rooms, and for the first few moments, Tauriel was afraid the dwarf princess was not going to let her enter: Dís held Tauriel with such a keenly evaluative gaze that Tauriel felt sure that she was taking a measure of all the ways this elf did not suit her son. The dwarf woman's sharp features and bold gaze reminded Tauriel very much of Thorin, and she was suddenly very afraid that Dís would match her brother in temperament as well as looks.

Then Kíli held Tauriel forward, saying, "Tauriel, this is my mother, the Princess Dís."

"Your highness," Tauriel murmured, and swept her most graceful curtsey, praying—as much for Kíli's sake as for her own—that his mother would find her acceptable.

Yet when she rose, Tauriel was astonished to find Dís had bowed before her. She glanced swiftly to Kíli, but he seemed as surprised as she.

"Miss Tauriel, you have my honor and deepest thanks," the dwarf woman said softly, and when she rose, Tauriel found her gaze was still intent but no longer disconcerting. "In saving my son, you have restored his life not only to him, but to his mother."

"Your highness..." Tauriel stammered again. Of all the receptions she had imagined, she had hardly expected this.

Dís shook her head kindly. "You need not call me that. Lady Dís is sufficient." She reached for Tauriel's hand hesitantly, as if afraid to offend her. "Please, come in. You are most welcome." She smiled, and then Tauriel saw more of Kíli than Thorin in her face.

Dís ushered the two of them in, through a richly decorated receiving room and into a less formal, but rather more invitingly comfortable private room beyond. Tauriel gratefully allowed Kíli to maneuver her into sitting beside him on the sofa.

"I'm glad you can celebrate the New Year with us," Dís said to Tauriel once they were all seated. "I believe this is the first time one of your people has shared in our festivities."

"So Kíli has told me. I am very honored."

"I understand it was around Durin's Day that you met, last year."

"Yes." Surely his mother knew what had happened. "Has Kíli not told you the story?"

Dís shook her head slightly. "Only that he first saw you in the Greenwood."

Tauriel felt her face go warm. "Then he didn't tell you that I..."

Dís merely waited politely for one of them to speak.

Kíli admitted almost guiltily, "She, ah, dragged me from the jaws of a spider. I had lost my weapon, and the spider caught me unaware..."

Tauriel could see from Dís's expression of alarm that these were details he had not previously shared.

To forestall Kíli from saying anything more to distress his mother, Tauriel hastily put in, "I was the one who threw him in a dungeon cell and slammed the door in his face."

Dís's own face went blank for a moment, and then she laughed softly. "No, he did not tell me that," she said.

"I did not know who he was, then. If I had known he was a prince, well," Tauriel ducked her head confessionally, "I am afraid I would still have done the same."

"You've done him no harm," Dís said kindly.

Tauriel felt suddenly aware of the runestone pressed against her breast. Did his mother know she still carried it? Dís did not seem to view Tauriel as though she had stolen Kíli, or his promise. And yet, Tauriel knew that, in one sense, she certainly had done so, and she wished she could be sure Dís did not privately resent her for it.

The outer door to Dís's suite thumped open then, and shortly after, Thorin entered the room. For a moment, he simply stared at Tauriel, as if justifying her presence to himself, and for the first time since she had entered these rooms, Tauriel felt very keenly that she did not belong here. Then Thorin dismissed her at last and turned his gaze to his nephew.

"Kíli, you wanted to speak to me regarding the feast?" he asked.

Kíli nodded somewhat awkwardly. "I'll be just a moment," he excused himself, and went back to the front rooms with his uncle.

With him gone, Tauriel felt out of place as Dís watched her questioningly, but without speaking.

"I'm sorry," Tauriel said, breaking the awkward silence at last. "I know I must be nothing like what you wish for your son, but I assure you, he is—" She broke off, seeing Dís shake her head vehemently.

"No, Tauriel," she said haltingly, as if embarrassed herself. "What no mother wishes is for her son to leave her, to go off into the world and be lost—" She choked and looked aside.

Tauriel felt tears prick her own eyes and was grateful for the momentary reprieve from Dís's attention. The two said nothing else till Kíli returned, though their silence took on an almost companionable air. While she could not fully relate to this woman yet, Tauriel felt that the space between them was capable of being crossed.

When Kíli returned, he seemed momentarily too caught up in his own thoughts to notice their stillness. As he resumed his place at Tauriel's side, his mother remarked, "I don't suppose you've thought about what you'll wear tomorrow, but I redid the collar on your dress coat so the embroidery won't scratch you."

Kíli smiled easily then. "Thanks, Mum. I don't imagine Tauriel wants to see me strangled."

"I'm prepared to rescue you from your wardrobe, if need be," Tauriel returned, able to jest now that her self-conscious fears had begun to ease at last.

The fuel was ready, and the kindling set. In half an hour's time, flames would glow in the heart of the great forge, and Erebor's true heart would be kindled, too.

This ceremony that commemorated the beginning of the new year would also symbolize the rebirth of home and kingdom, and Thorin was glad. Their arrival to the mountain last fall had been hurried and unceremonious, marked more by ruin and greed and blood shed than by hope or joy.

Today's festival, a year later, would repair that. Today, with Mahal's blessing, would be a second beginning for his people, his kingdom, for himself. His mistakes—the madness, greed, and betrayals which he hated to remember but still forced himself to name—would become last year's ashes, replaced by the flames of life and hope renewed.

At the sound of footsteps in the vast hall, Thorin turned from the dark, empty furnace to find that the dwarves who were to witness the ceremony had begun to arrive. Here came Balin, and Lord Ironsides from Ered Luin, as well as Daín and another man from the Iron Hills.

"Are you ready?" Balin asked with a kind and knowing smile.

"More than you know," Thorin returned, smiling now, as well.

"I understand Tauriel will be accompanying Kíli tonight," Balin went on, presumably for the others' benefit. Neither Thorin nor his nephew had advertised the fact that she would be there, but it would not do for the others to be shocked when she arrived on Kíli's arm soon enough.

"Your nephew is bringing the elf here?" Lord Ironsides demanded reflexively. Behind him, Daín seemed neither pleased nor surprised, though he held his tongue for once.

"I gave him permission to do so," Thorin said evenly. Why did everyone seem to think he was unaware of just how outrageous his concessions were regarding Kíli's elf-maid? Of course he knew how truly unprecedented this was.

"No outsider has ever witnessed our ceremonies," Ironsides protested, clearly astonished.

"Tauriel is no outsider; she is my sister's guest. If you have an objection to that, I suggest you take it up with Princess Dís herself." For once, Thorin was glad to lay the responsibility elsewhere. No-one, he suspected, would be eager to take up the issue with his sister: she could be formidable when challenged regarding family and household. He knew this better than anyone.

"Understood, You Highness. I beg your pardon."

Thorin nodded, though he caught Daín eyeing him as if to say I warned you this would happen. Thorin glanced away; he did not want to be goaded into that old argument today, of all days. If he could have had his wish, he would not have complicated this celebration with the presence of an elf. Yet he had felt he could not refuse this to Kíli, who had clearly wanted it so much. And seeing how Tauriel could behave among their people was as much a part of his first offer to Kíli as anything else was. Besides, if he did approve of their union—and he was honorable enough to concede he could not refuse them yet—she would become part of their community soon enough. Delaying the test would accomplish nothing.

In a few more minutes, the hall began filling with the dwarves of Erebor, Thorin's subjects. It was sobering to think of them that way. Their wellbeing depended on him, and he knew he must always strive to deserve their trust. He had already failed them once for dragon's gold and the Arkenstone, and yet they had trusted him with a second chance. He would not let himself betray them again.

His family arrived soon enough, though of course Tauriel was the first that he saw, standing head and shoulders above her companions with her bright auburn hair. No-one would miss her with his sister and nephews, and after today, Kíli's formal courtship would be common knowledge. That was just as well, of course; Kíli's continued interest in her was well-known enough. At least now worse rumors would be forestalled.

Despite how odd it was to see Tauriel with them, Thorin felt deeply happy to see his family gathered before him today. Even through the hardest times of their exile, his sister and her sons had seemed to find some happiness to share amongst themselves, but today, theirs was a free and open pleasure he had not seen since before he had begun planning the quest, and that was many years since. Dís wore an expression of quiet but genuine happiness as Fíli, looking very much the crown prince in his velvet and gold, led her attentively by the arm, and Kíli— Well, the lad couldn't have looked more pleased with himself if he had been escorting the queen of all Elvendom herself. Tauriel seemed, perhaps, a little nervous, if Thorin could suppose he were reading her carefully controlled features aright. Though when she turned to attend to something Kíli said, her expression relaxed and it was clear that she returned his happiness. Thorin felt unexpectedly guilty for having been wishing (not for the first time) that she could have been any one of the dwarf lasses Kíli had known in Ered Luin. No, she was not what he wanted for his nephew, but perhaps it was not fair to judge her unworthy solely for that fact. And yet, shouldn't she know enough to let Kíli go if she could not give him what he needed?

Thorin put aside such questions; now was not the time to answer them. The hall was nearly full, and soon enough the ceremony would deserve his full attention.

The lights in the great work hall dimmed and went out, and Kíli took the opportunity to slip his arm around Tauriel's waist. He had been waiting all afternoon to try how her slim, corseted figure would fit into the crook of his arm. The answer, of course, was perfectly.

In the dark, he felt her relax and lean her hip slightly into him. Her hand moved lightly over his back, and then paused, as her attention—along with that of everyone present—was caught by Thorin's voice, low but clear, intoning in Khuzdul, the ancient and secret language of the dwarves.

After a few moments, Kíli nudged Tauriel's shoulder with his head, and when he was sure she had inclined her own, he whispered, "It's the story of how Durin and the patriarchs were created by Mahal, of how they founded the first seven kingdoms." He had heard this story repeated at every New Year's that he could remember since he was a boy, but he never tired of it. There was something mysterious and powerful in hearing how the great Durin, his own ancient forefather, had been formed at the hands of Mahal, and granted life by the Allfather, and then set to sleep for ages within the stone, awaiting his time to waken and begin the works of founding a people and building a kingdom.

This was his favorite part, now: when Durin framed his forge and kindled it's first fire. Even as Thorin told the tale, he struck flint and steel, the sparks flying like lightning in the dark cavern. Then they blossomed softly amongst the tinder, illuminating Thorin's features in a dance of stark shadow and light.

Thorin held the flame aloft, and his tone became more sure and yet more reverent.

Kíli murmured, "It's a prayer, now, that Mahal bless our works as he blessed Durin's."

He felt her nod, and looking up, he found her watching his uncle with a wondering gaze. Was she merely curious, or did she hope, as he did, for their love to share in his benediction?

When Thorin finished, he turned, and strode towards the forge beyond. Then, kneeling, he placed the sacred flame among the prepared kindling. For a moment, the light seemed to wink out, and then with a rush like wind or a divine breath, the whole furnace was ablaze, filling the hall with sudden light that left Kíli blinking. Beside him, Tauriel let out a soft gasp of awe.

Kíli remembered his companions telling of how they had lit these same furnaces when they had driven Smaug from his lair, and he was glad to think they now relit the fires, not for vengeance, but for themselves and for hope.

The clan leaders, who had been standing on either side of Thorin throughout the ceremony now stepped forward: Balin, and Daín, and others Kíli knew from Thorin's council. In turn, they lit brands from the flames and then made their way from the hall, the watching dwarves parting to let them through.

"What are they doing now?" Tauriel asked softly, as more dwarves from the crowd stepped forward to light torches of their own.

"Everyone takes the sacred fire to light his own forge for the year," Kíli told her, as his brother stepped up to join the dwarves lining up before the furnace.

"You aren't going to join them?"

Kíli shrugged comfortably against her. "I will, once I've a forge and household of my own."

Thorin had returned from the forge and joined his nephew and sister. He settled an arm about Dís's shoulders, and she murmured something to Thorin that Kíli could not catch, but Thorin smiled.

Tauriel had gone a little tense—well, not so much tense as less relaxed—at Thorin's arrival, and Kíli removed his arm from her waist and caught her hand instead. He wasn't sure the true reason she was uncomfortable around his uncle, but he respected that she felt the need to be more formal before him.

When Fíli returned with a kindled torch, the rest of them fell into step behind him, as he made his way down the workmen's halls to their own smaller, private forge. And Kíli, who had never before particularly envied Fíli's role as the representative of their house, found himself unexpectedly impatient to have the same responsibility for himself.

Fíli remember a lot of New Year's celebrations. Many in those early days of the settlement in Ered Luin had been nowhere near as elaborate as this, though a few of the more recent ones had been richer still. Yet none of them had felt as important as today.

This time, it really seemed to mark the beginning of something: not only a new year, but a new place, new responsibilities, a new life. Maybe now Erebor could begin feeling like the home he had left behind and—he admitted to himself—still missed. He would never have said so to his uncle, or mother, or even his brother, but it was true. He'd always unconsciously expected that arriving at the mountain, when they got here, would feel like coming home. But he'd come to realize that home was the place you knew because it had shaped you: even when it wasn't entirely lovable, you were still fond of it because it was yours, and maybe you were its.

Erebor didn't feel like his, yet. And still he'd been thinking, all night since he'd watched Thorin renewing the forges, that Erebor would be his one day. He would be the one with the sacred flame held high, offering a prayer for his people. And the thought was, well, still somewhat frightening.

Fíli had been fifteen when he had found out what it meant to be Thorin's heir, and he'd been so proud. His uncle, after his father, was the man he most admired and wanted to follow. Being heir was an honor, and Fíli had always known he wanted to give everything to fulfill that trust.

Of course he hadn't understood the immensity of that responsibility at first, but as he had grown older, he had come to understand how a king had to give himself to and for his kingdom, and how his actions had meaning for others beyond simply himself. For a prince, such duties were perhaps less pressing, yet Fíli had known, without being told, that he must learn to bear them now if he was to become the king his family needed him to be. And he'd thought, when they left Ered Luin on the quest, that he truly had accepted the fullness of his role.

But since he had felt the shadow of these ancient halls for the first time, he had discovered he really had little idea of what it meant to lead their company of fourteen, never mind a whole kingdom. In the moment he had seen his uncle and known Thorin was lost to the dragon sickness, he had understood that the rule would fall to him, and he had felt, amidst his pain and pity, how very unprepared he was to accept such a charge.

Now, thank Mahal, Fíli had regained the time to learn his duty, to grow into it as he had always done, but the duty itself had proved greater than he had ever imagined. There were still halls to be rebuilt, treaties to be reforged, and allies to be pleased. Most recently, Fíli had realized the these last few tasks fell as much to him as they did to his uncle: those who made connections to Erebor would expect to be dealing with him as king one day. And while he was proud to be given such consideration even now, it was yet another weight to carry, nearly as tangible as the heavy gold he wore today in his hair. And so Fíli sat drinking alone at the high table and feeling oddly subdued amidst this merry feast that was the year's greatest celebration.

Across the hall from him, Kíli sat among a few other musicians, demonstrating the workings of his fiddle to a fascinated Tauriel. Fíli wished he could discover Kíli's secret of happy oblivion to the pressures and expectations of others. Kíli certainly didn't seem to care that he and Tauriel had been the object of curious (and even disapproving) stares all night.

No matter what the others thought of Tauriel, surely they must recognize how courageous she was to endure such attention. Earlier, Fíli had noticed a cluster of girls giving her a very harsh, if silent, appraisal. He didn't think their censure had been anything personal—he didn't remember his brother having shown any of them particular attention back in Ered Luin. Surely it was general disdain for an outsider who had taken a place she had less right to than they. Tauriel had maintained her composure under their scrutiny, though Fíli had noticed with amusement the deliberate carelessness with which she had removed a strand of her hair from where it had caught on Kíli's shoulder, thereby reinforcing her connection to him even as she dismissed it.

Seeing Tauriel beside their own women had been rather fascinating, really. Among dwarves, the female form tended toward full curves and compact, though shapely, proportions. In contrast, Tauriel was all slender waist and long limbs—in a word, willowy. Fíli had not been sure, at first, what his brother saw there to prefer. But he understood now that her unadorned loveliness offered something no dwarf maid could. Tauriel wore no gems or metal, beyond the light pendant at her breast and a few stones on her ears, and she seemed rather to ornament her simple, elegant gown than it her. The girls who had eyed her earlier might well have thought her underdressed, but the rich jewels and costly embroidery that adorned their own beauty would only have hidden hers.

The band was finished warming up now and had launched into a lively reel. True to Kíli's teasing prediction, Tauriel did seem taken by his fiddling. Then again, Fíli thought, she would probably have watched him with that same look of soft adoration had he been doing sums for mining accounts, reading a book, or even brushing his hair. The two of them really were hopeless, but at least they were happy.

Before he could ponder too deeply into whether the same assessment applied to him, he looked up from his mug to find Tauriel smiling down on him.

"Your brother says you are a fine dancer," she said almost coquettishly.

"Aye, but probably not good enough to win you from him. Though perhaps I will try!" He downed the last of his ale and then led her back to where a few other couples had already formed a set.

Though her height made matching him a little awkward at first, Tauriel picked up the steps quickly enough, executing them with an elegance Fíli supposed had probably never yet graced this exuberant, rustic dance. Watching her, Fíli thought he saw the unstudied joy that drew his brother to her so much, and he found his own mood lightening to match hers.

They danced a second set, and then Kíli pushed in between them. "I wanted you to dance with her, not steal her," he joked, thrusting fiddle and bow into Fíli's hands.

"I'm sure you can find someone else far more worth your efforts," Tauriel called over her shoulder as Kíli whisked her away.

Fíli stepped back, clear of the dancers, and in doing so, bumped into someone.

"Beg your pardon," he said, and turned to find a young lady in a gown the color of the smoky quartz at her throat and with her white-gold hair pinned up in elaborate braids.

"Your highness," she murmured, coloring and dropping a light curtsey. "It was my fault."

Fíli was sure it wasn't, but he was too unwilling to stifle Sif's blossoming self-assurance to argue with her. Instead, he asked, "Are you enjoying the feast?"

"I am," she said, smiling at him then. "It's so much happier than last year's. It was rather gloomy with all of you gone." Sif looked at him with a mildly conflicted expression, as if there were more she wished to say. Finally she managed, "I'm very glad to be here; aren't you?"

Fíli hesitated for a moment before returning, "I am." He wasn't quite comfortable yet with everything that had changed in his life, but if Sif could be glad tonight, he would be, too.

"Do you dance?" he asked, nodding towards the couples on the floor. It was, perhaps, a foolish way to ask if she would join him, but he truly had never seen her dance before at any of their festivals in Ered Luin.

"Not usually," she said, as if understanding his thought. "Of course, I know how—" She was blushing deeply now, apparently afraid she might seem to refuse him. "I mean, yes, I would like to, if you want." Despite her obvious embarrassment, she kept her eyes on his.

Fíli nodded, then looked down at Kíli's fiddle and bow, which were still in his hands. "Let me just put this somewhere."

Kíli was still not exactly sure how Tauriel had become engaged in a drinking contest against Freyr Ironsides, but there was no doubt that she was winning.

The combatants were on their fifth pour of whiskey. While Freyr was showing distinct signs of unsteadiness, Tauriel remained as poised and controlled as ever as she drained her glass and set it down on the table with a sharp, deliberate tap.

"Do you concede defeat yet, master dwarf?" she asked.

Freyr returned with a mild oath in Khuzdul, which Tauriel seemed to understand well enough as an answer in the negative. "Bofur?" She offered her empty glass for him to refill; as the least interested party, he had been selected to referee.

"Where does she put it all?" someone muttered at Kíli's elbow. "She's no bigger around than my arm!"

Kíli wanted to know the answer, himself. He had had the misfortune of accepting a challenge from Freyr once before. He had lost, and nonetheless been awarded a marvelous hangover. Yet Tauriel hardly seemed to notice the whiskey, though she had certainly been matching Kíli in ale before the game had started. The elves of Mirkwood, it seemed, were no strangers to drink, he noted with a mixture of pride and respect.

Across the table, Freyr's sister, Sif, had lost the look of embarrassment that she had worn at the first stages of the proceeding and now she seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the prospect of her brother's impending defeat.

"Ready?" Bofur called. "And drink!"

Tauriel drained her glass in one steady draught, but Freyr paused midway through, lowering his glass towards the table.

"Set it down, and you're done!" Fíli shouted .

Freyr lifted the glass somewhat half-heartedly, and then slowly slumped down over the table.

Amidst expectant silence, Tauriel set down her empty glass softly. Then their table—and the two adjoining ones, much to Kíli's surprise—erupted in raucous cheering.

It was some minutes before Kíli could wrest Tauriel away from an admiring crowd. When she could finally speak to him, she whispered, "I could use some fresh air," and with an understanding nod, he towed her away from the noisy feast hall, and down a few passages to one of the wide galleries where the air was cool and drafts flowed from the distant parts of the mountain.

"In fact, I'm truly drunk," she told him once they came to a halt in the vast columned hall.

He nodded, wondering if her reaction were representative of all elves, or if she were unique in this respect. She was not clumsy or slowed; if anything, Kíli thought she moved with a lithe and effortless ease beyond her usual grace. He would not, under any circumstances, have wanted to face her in combat in such a state: her attack would have been swift and precise and instantly fatal.

Her hands went to the collar of his surcoat, playing with the little jeweled clasps which he had left undone and finally coming to rest on his shoulders.

"Kíli, I am far too tall," she said, pronouncing the fact with as much feeling as if it were the world's one great sorrow. Indeed, she gazed down at him as if faced by a most perplexing—even frustrating—conundrum.

Kíli struggled to hide his grin. "Don't be troubled, my lady; I have an idea."

He took one of her hands from his shoulder and drew her a little further down the walkway to a short plinth that had, at one time, held a brazier or a statue or something of that sort. Standing on it, he found to his delight, gave him a few inches on even Tauriel's height.

Tauriel sighed happily and tucked her head under his chin.

"That's better," she murmured, and then she was still for a very long time, her arms linked about his shoulders as she leaned against him. Kíli took the opportunity to inspect the tiny green gem nestled in the peak of one of her ears; it had intrigued him all evening. Yet she did not move even when he lightly touched her ear. He had begun to wonder if she had somehow fallen asleep on her feet when she shifted and raised her head to nuzzle her cheek against his own.

"I like your face," she said at last, looking up to regard him seriously. "It's so scratchy." She drew her fingertips up his throat and under his chin, and Kíli shivered as her nails caught in his beard.

"I think," she mused, resting a finger at his lips, "from now on, I shall only kiss dwarves." Then she drew back her hand and pulled away, and Kíli knew she was teasing him deliberately.

He moved to draw her back for her promised kiss, and she slipped out of his arms, leaving him stranded on the plinth. He skipped down after her, and Tauriel made him chase her all the way back to the feast hall.

Chapter Text

Kíli unfastened his mail shirt and shrugged it off his shoulders. It was always a pleasure to shed it at the end of a guard shift. Though its weight lay perfectly balanced over waist and shoulders so that his movements felt easy and free enough, once it was off, he felt so much lighter that it seemed he might actually bound through the ceiling of his room if he were not careful.

He arranged the mail carefully on its rack, and then refastened his belt and tugged on his long leather coat, its fur lining especially welcome on early winter nights like this.  He took up a small bundle from his wardrobe and tucked in in a pocket, then went out the door.

In Ravenhill tower's central guard room, several dwarves sat together at beer and cards. Two or three of them looked up as he entered, and recognizing him, stood to salute.

"No need for that," Kíli protested with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'm off-duty, too."

One of them smiled at the special emphasis Kíli had put on the words. "In that case, you'd really best not keep her waiting," he said meaningfully.

Kíli nodded, grateful that, despite the teasing, no-one seemed to hold him irresponsible if he spent his few nights off in the exclusive company of an elf. It was hardly unreasonable that he did. She was, after all, the object of his suit, and she deserved his time.

Tauriel was waiting for him along the battlements, her figure cut dramatically against the last embers of the sunset sky. She wore a long coat of green wool with the hood thrown back so that her bright hair pooled in it before tumbling down her back.

She turned at the sound of his boots on the stone and as her eager eyes met his, he felt his heart try to leap from his chest, as it always did. "Good evening, hadhod nín," she said.

"Oh, it's very good, now," he agreed, tucking her arm in his and walking with her down from the rampart and out along the shore of the tarn below the tower.

"Thorin's council has agreed to make me spokesman of an alliance with your king," Kíli told her as they walked.

"Oh," she murmured. "That was a swift decision."

"They want it finalized before the big meeting of my people this summer. We look better if we have already made peaceful connections with another kingdom. Particularly one we have been at odds with in the past."

"I see." She sounded amused. "Politics truly do rule our lives, though perhaps not always for the worst."

Kíli gave a frustrated laugh. "Everyone wants the alliance, but some say it makes my connection to you a danger. They think Thranduil will try to control Erebor through me. It's ridiculous, but some people believe it," he finished, annoyed.

Tauriel sighed. "I'm sure my people would say the same, were our positions reversed. Dwarves, elves—we're both very stubborn, are we not?"

Kíli laughed in true amusement then. "I'll mention that at the next council meeting as proof that you and I are perfectly suited to one another."

They paused as Tauriel silently directed Kíli's attention to the stars that were clearly mirrored in the lake's surface. There was no wind tonight, yet the air was still cold for all that.

"Some day," Kíli said after they had gazed for some time, "I would like to look on Kheled-zâram, the Mirrormere, that lies outside the eastern gates of Khazad-dûm. It's said you can still see Durin's crown reflected there, even during the day."

"Indeed?" Tauriel returned, fascinated. "I have heard of the place, though of course I have never been there myself. We name it Nen Cenedril, 'lake looking-glass,' in my tongue, though I had never heard the reason why before. I assumed it was merely because any lake may reflect the sky, even as this one does."

"Oh yes, Durin looked in and saw the crown above his head and knew this would be the seat of his kingdom," Kíli said, swelling with the chance to tell her something she did not know. "You'll come with me when I go there, and we can see it together."

"Yes, we will," she said warmly. After a few moments, she went on, "Kíli, the great Durin, your patriarch... As his direct descendent, you must be one of the most important dwarves alive." She sounded awed.

"Oh, goodness, I suppose," Kíli mused. "I mean, our whole Longbeard clan traces back to him, some way or another. But you're right that I am, after Thorin and Fíli, the most direct in descent." It was an honor, surely, but one he had grown up with and gotten used to. But Tauriel's reverence made him reconsider the significance of that fact.

"Kíli, you realize that I am not at all worthy of a prince of your station," she told him with ironic amusement in her voice. "A Silvan, such as I, is considered lowly indeed, hardly worthy of my own Prince Legolas, and he can claim no such high lineage as you."

"Pfff," Kíli dismissed her with a laugh. "The All-father crafted your kind with his own hands. Next to that, I'm just a journeyman's work. And you think you're beneath me! Why you even dared to look at me, I'll never know."

"Hush!" Tauriel placed a hand gently over his mouth. "Since you think so highly of me, you cannot suppose I would love you if you were unworthy."

Kíli smiled against her fingers. "I'm lucky I am a prince, then, or I'd never have been good enough for you," he mumbled as best he could.

"I'm not removing my hand till you promise to stop uttering nonsense," Tauriel noted with mock sternness. Kíli nodded solemnly.

After a few more moments of his silence, she took away her hand.

"This doesn't count as nonsense, I hope," Kíli said then, and grasping either side of her coat collar, he pulled her down to meet his mouth with her own.

"Oh, it's the very worst kind," she whispered, nipping his lip gently, and he laughed. Her kisses were no longer shy or unsure, though they still carried the freshness of her lips unused to the task.

As Kíli let her go, he said "I was going to remark on the cold night, but I hardly notice it now. Still, I have something for you, for tomorrow, when you are on patrol and I'm not there to warm you."

He reached in a pocket of his coat and produced a pewter flask, curved to fit in a boot or a bodice. Kíli took a swallow from it and then handed it to her. It held whiskey, finer than what she had been drinking when she had bested Freyr.

She drank as well, smiling at the indirect kiss he had offered her. After she had replaced the cap, she turned the flask to let the pale starlight pick out the design embossed on its surface: two blossoming trees, their limbs and roots intertwined.

"You can't quite see it in this light," Kíli noted, "but I did the one on the right in gold. They're your two elvish trees, Laurelin and Tel—"

"Telperion," she finished for him. "Kíli, it's wonderful. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I love you, you know."

"Yes, I know," Tauriel said. She tucked his gift into her coat, and took his hand once more.

Sif reminded Fíli of home, something that was perhaps a little odd, as they had had little to do with one another back in Ered Luin. Since she was the daughter of one of the higher ranking noblemen in their exiled community, Fíli had known who she was, but that had been the extent of things. He had always thought her very pretty, but far too shy and afraid of life to be someone he would consider pursuing.

And yet, as she ran on ahead of him down the echoing gallery, she did not seem afraid at all. She paused beneath the dome at the midpoint of the vaulted hall and stood staring up at the concave ceiling. Then she took a few more steps, deliberately clapping her boots against the polished floor, before standing still again.

Fíli knew what she was listening for; the dome was built so that it magnified every sound as you passed beneath and reflected it back with an unnatural clearness.

"Fíli, listen!" Sif called as he joined her, and he seemed to hear her voice twice: once from her lips and again from all the stone surrounding them. She flushed, perhaps embarrassed at the sound of herself being so bold with his name.

"It's wonderful, isn't it?" he answered her softly, knowing she would hear him well enough.

"Oh, yes," she breathed.

"You can shout if you want," Fíli told her.

Sif met his eye, as if to ascertain that he was truly serious. Then she threw back her head and cried, "Hello! Erebor! You can't be lonely any more! We're here now! It's me, Sif! And— And Fíli! " Then she laughed at her own nonsense, in sweet, unrestrained peals.

Fíli watched her, delighted in her delight. For her, there was just the wonder of this place, without all the weight of expectations and responsibilities of tradition.

"I tried to imagine what it would be like here," she said, her voice soft once more. "But this is so much more marvelous than I could guess."

Fíli nodded. "I grew up on stories of this place, and I thought that meant I would know it when I arrived. But the stories are nothing to all this." He gestured broadly, taking in the whole mountain with his hand. "Sometimes I still wake up and walk out into the Great Hall and wonder what I'm doing here."

She laughed, and then stopped herself.

"What?"

"Um..." Her mouth crooked up in a self-conscious smile. "I just never thought—" Sif turned away from him swiftly, pale braids swirling, and kept walking down the hallway in the direction they had been going earlier.

"You can't just say that and not tell me," Fíli urged gently as he followed her. He very much wanted to know what she had been about to say, but he was afraid to push her too hard.

"Well..." she said cautiously after a few moments. "You mustn't think me a very great fool."

"Of course I don't."

"You're the prince. You always seemed to know exactly what to do for everything."

Fíli laughed, light and quick.

"See? You do think I'm silly!" she cried.

"I was laughing at myself!" Fíli assured her.

"Oh..." Sif still seemed uncertain.

"I'm not saying you were wrong," Fíli went on. "When we left on the quest, I did think I was ready for anything we might find."

"Weren't you?" she asked, sounding almost afraid to hear the answer.

Fíli groaned. "Oh, Sif, I nearly got my brother and Mr. Baggins eaten by trolls after we'd barely even left civilization!"

Sif stopped walking and turned to stare at him, her eyes wide and her expression empty. To his surprise, Fíli felt hurt at the thought that he had somehow unknowingly disappointed her.

Then her expression relaxed, and she turned away from him as before, but not fast enough to keep Fíli from seeing how red her face had gone. "Here I am, being stupid again," she admitted softly.

"I never said—"

"I really don't know you at all!" she exclaimed.

And yet, Fíli readily understood, she had thought of him enough to imagine she did know him. He smiled, somewhat embarrassed now himself.

"Come on," Fíli said, catching up to her with a few quick strides. "Those fountains we're looking for are off one of these side passages just ahead." He took her hand, and though Sif started slightly at his touch, she closed her fingers over his as she followed him.

"Do you remember these halls decked for the bicentennial year of Thror's reign?" Thorin asked his sister as they strolled together through the mountain's vast entrance hall. She had been young indeed when they had fled the mountain.

"I do," Dís answered. "I think they are more beautiful to me now." On that festal day years ago, the hall had been hung with garlands woven from silver and gold, jeweled lanterns, and tapestries of rich and regal hue. Today, only a few banners with Thorin's royal insignia remained from the New Year's celebration several months ago, yet the hall did not look austere, with floor and columns still splashed with the gold that once had been meant for a statue in honor of their grandsire. Thorin had not ordered the gold cleared away; let it remain a reminder of the vanity of gold and greed. Wealth should not be hoarded to swell the honor of its possessor, but rather offered as a boon and a welcome to friends. In a way, the gold-paved hall had become an image of this fact.

Dís broke in on Thorin's reverie, saying, "It's true; I gave up hope of returning here long ago."

Thorin glanced back to her, sorry even now for everything that his young sister had sacrificed all those years ago. Taking back this place had been as much about making that up to her as it had been about honor or revenge.

"Thorin, it is not so sad as you think," she told him warmly. "I had to give up this home if I was to make a new one for Víli, for our sons."

"You made a good home," he agreed. "The lads still miss it, I know. I tried to give them a love for this place, back then..."

"You did." They walked some way further before she said, "Do you ever regret releasing Branca from your troth?"

"No," Thorin said, the answer as easy now as the choice had been back then. "We had agreed to one another, but there was little more between us. How could I drag her into exile with me? She agreed to marry a prince, not a vagabond. And if I'd had sons, they would never have been as happy as yours." Miles away from her kin and clan in the East, following a husband's misfortunes more from duty than from love would surely have embittered Branca and left her little joy to share.

"You have honored my sons as well as any of your own," Dís remarked with a smile.

How could I have done less? he thought, drawing her to him briefly.

"But," she added after he had let her go, "You're thinking that my youngest is more trouble than he is worth."

"I was not."

"Don't you see: Tauriel and all she offers him are Kíli's reasons to find a new home here. He will come to love Erebor or hate it, by how this ends with her," Dís told him earnestly and Thorin stopped walking to face her. She had said little in Kíli's case since Tauriel's visit, her restraint itself speaking to how much this subject mattered to her.

"If this were merely about making Kíli happy, I would grant it to him today; you know I would," he said, tipping her chin up slightly with a finger so that their eyes met evenly. The gesture was one he retained from when Dís had been a small girl, and Thorin still repeated it in moments of tenderness. "But what if she compromises his duty? He wants to stand at his brother's side when Fíli is king. I cannot favor him over Fíli, who already bears the heavier weight as my heir."

Dís made a gently dismissive noise. "The kingdom is not so precarious as that. If Kíli marries an elf, people will talk, and then they will forget. This is hardly the worst that could happen in your reign."

And yet, had he not already done badly enough by staining their return with unnecessary bloodshed and strife, by sending a dragon's wrath down on allies and then refusing recompense deserved twice over by victims as well as friends ? Thorin not wish to give his subjects or his peers on the Council further call to question his (or his heir's) fitness to rule, but he would not say so to Dís.

His sister seemed to follow his thoughts well enough anyway, for she said, "Thorin, you have done very well, and I could not be more proud of you. But remember, you won this place not just for yourself, or for me. It is for our children, and for theirs. They must make it their home, now. You cannot return Erebor to how it was; let it change and grow."

"Thank you," Thorin said. Yes, he knew. And it was for them, above all, that he must restore and preserve this place.

It felt strange, being back in the Greenwood and yet not knowing, instinctively, the state of every grove and hollow, every tree and branch and leaf. When Tauriel had been captain, the whole woodland realm might have been part of her, for all that she was readily aware of the passage of native beasts, the deer and squirrels and spiders, or invaders—wolves, orcs, and once, dwarves. Returning this spring after a second winter away was like greeting an old friend, still fond but made unfamiliar by time and distance. Odd that so little of both could make her feel that way.

And so, after the alliance talks had been concluded between Thranduil and Kíli, she had found her way down to the dining hall, where she had so often relaxed after a day's patrol, to find other old friends who might tell her the news of the wood.

"And so, with our efforts and this past winter's snows, the spiders' numbers have finally been dwindling," Feron said, concluding the account told over wine and cold game pie.

"Thank the Valar. I hated them," added Morwen beside him with a shake of her raven head. "I could never face them as you do." A steward in Thranduil's palace, Morwen's own talents were far more domestic than martial.

Tauriel smiled softly. "I could say the same of an inventory of the king's linens and larder."

Morwen smiled then, too. While she had never shared Tauriel's fierce need to protect with body and blade, the two women had remained friends since they had found one another half a dozen centuries ago when they had been two of the few youths in Thranduil's house.

"And how are the patrols round Erebor? Not as lonely as the name would suggest, I understand," Morwen asked in turn.

"They go well. We've seen a few wolves, and once even a warg, but I think any remaining forces from Gundabad are as loathe to see us as we are them," Tauriel answered, ignoring Morwen's last teasing statement. For all that Morwen was, in many ways, her closest friend, she had not understood why Tauriel would leave everything behind for an outsider and a mortal. Since her initial return to the Greenwood, Tauriel had felt her choice as a light barrier between herself and Morwen. It was not a hostile one, perhaps, but a barrier nonetheless, and because of it, Tauriel felt uncomfortable talking about her connection to Kíli. Acknowledging all he meant to herself had been difficult enough; telling another, who could not understand her attraction, was exposing an intimate, unguarded part of her heart, and Tauriel instinctively shied from doing so.

"I trust the new master of Dale knows how lucky they all are to have you," Feron noted fondly. "They are used to having a lake be their guard and watch, and could ask no-one better to teach them to protect a realm."

Tauriel smiled at his praise. "They know they are lucky indeed, and for far more than just my help. I was there, when fire rained down out of the night; no-one who remembers that can believe himself anything but blessed to find a chance for new life and hope."

Morwen clearly perked at another opening for her hinted topic, a reaction that Feron seemed to have noticed as well, for he rose from the table. "I hope to see you again before your visit ends.  You said he might need a bow," he said, pressing her shoulder in a paternal farewell.

Once they were alone, Morwen went on, "I saw the prince with the dwarven envoy when you arrived. He has a comely bearing: self-possessed but not proud."

Tauriel nodded. Morwen had not been among the welcoming party, but then Tauriel's attention had been too taken with introductions for Kíli and his companions, a second ambassador and a scribe, to search all the faces of those watching from a distance.

"Truly, he is the handsomest of his kin," Morwen added. This was not the same as calling him handsome for himself, but Tauriel sensed Morwen was offering the best praise she could.

Tauriel willed herself to overcome her reticence to say, "Kíli is courting me according to the customs of his people."

"So swiftly! But I suppose you cannot wait—" Morwen's face went still as she realized her insensitivity. After a moment, she said tentatively, "I'm sure his customs must be so different from ours."

"They are," Tauriel agreed, hoping Morwen would see she had not taken offense. She could not speak, even to her friend, of the bittersweet intensity that Kíli's mortality lent to her love for him. "Oh, Morwen, he has lavished me with gifts befitting a queen. And yet he tells me it is custom for even the lowest dwarf to do so."

Morwen giggled. "Tauriel, he is a prince with a mountain full of gold." Her wondering smile clearly indicated that Kíli still seemed a figure from a fantastic tale to her.

"And yet sometimes I wish he had neither mountain nor gold," Tauriel confessed, finding it easy to be forthright on this, at least. "His rank, I think, is all that could truly prevent his choosing me. Oh, he does not care that I am an outsider and an elf. But if he were not a prince, no one else would care, either."

"Do many oppose you?"

"His family would accept us, I believe, so long as the match does not hinder the respect of his people. And that we are still proving."

"Oh, Tauriel." Morwen took her hand, and Tauriel knew then that she had her friend's truest sympathy and understanding on this point. "If you are meant to be with him, I don't suppose they can stop you."

Tauriel pressed her friend's hand in return. "Thank you," she whispered.

Chapter Text

Fíli hummed happily as he polished the newly sharpened blade. It had turned out as well as he had hoped, this little knife with a polished handle fitted seamlessly into a matching sheath. Small enough to wear hidden in clothing or a boot, it was, perhaps, a rather intimate gift, since she might carry it closer than she could him, for now. Even so, he would have to wait patiently to give it to her.

There was no doubt in Fíli's mind that he wished to court Sif. She had a warm, sweet temperament, with a hidden boldness that could surprise one—indeed, had surprised him. Her old shyness was not fully gone—she would always be reserved in some ways—but that little spark of conviction that had once prompted her to wish him well on the quest had flourished under his attention and become a still sureness that he admired and cherished.

But he could not declare himself yet, not with six envoys arriving within the week for the Council of Seven Kingdoms. The envoys honored Fíli's own request to make the acquaintance of worthy noblewomen of their clans, and so to have committed his attentions elsewhere before their arrival would be terribly rude. It would hardly do to offend those whom his uncle expected to engage in treaties and alliances.

Nor could he make a promise to Sif in secret. It seemed hardly fair to offer her an assurance that he could not yet honor in his public actions. To ask her to hope in a private, unwitnessed promise while he paid open attention to other women seemed cruel and dishonorable treatment of a young lady who deserved much better from him. And so in these past few weeks, he had tried to restrain himself from expressing all that he felt for her, lest she expect more than he could yet offer.

Sometimes it had been very hard indeed not to reveal himself with a careless endearment or a gesture, particularly when she caught him with some unexpected, unintentional charm. Indeed, Fíli was coming close to dreading time spent with her because of how careful he found he had to be not to betray his own deep affection. Nevertheless, he could not make himself go out of his way to avoid her in moments like this as, leaving his workshop, he found her splashing her face in one of the fountains built for that purpose in the midst of the hallway.

It was hardly a surprise to see her here. The Ironsides' family forge was in the same work hall as Fíli's own. Sif, he had been surprised to learn, followed her father and brother in the working of iron and steel. Before he had known her, he would have guessed her craft to be weaving or painting, something sedate instead of the raw, physical work of hammer and anvil. And yet he now felt her craft was suited well to the sharpness and strength he had glimpsed in her often enough.

As he reached her, she looked up from drying her face and then smiled as she recognized him. One damp curl clung to her cheek, still flushed from her work, and her lashes and beard were wet. Though she was dressed simply in leather apron and a plain work shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Fíli found her more arrestingly lovely than any lady arrayed in silks and jewels.

"Fíli!" she cried happily, and he was pleased to note that she now considered him close enough to require no greeting beyond that. She had dropped "your highness" long ago, yet he had still been some time trying to convince her she could dispense with empty pleasantries and simply address him directly.

"What have you been working on today?" he asked her.

"Oh, finishing up a few models of Freyr's new axe blade designs; he wants to sign a trade deal at the council." She sighed. "I'm glad he's the one drafting contracts, not me!"

Fíli smiled. If she could overcome her aversion to crowded meetings—which he began to suspect stemmed from impatience as much as any real shyness—he supposed she could be as good at driving a bargain as her father or brother. She was remarkably shrewd.

"And what of you?" she asked. "Whatever you've done, you're pleased with it." As she spoke, she tugged the pin from her upswept hair so that it fell down in a tumble of braids and loose strands, and Fíli was momentarily distracted from her question. As she swept the hair back and reknotted it on her head, she kept her blue eyes expectantly on his and after a few seconds he remembered to answer her.

"I had something to finish before the council, and I did," he told her carefully. "Once everyone arrives, I don't suppose I'll have time to come down here and work."

Sif laughed sympathetically. "I envy you less than my brother. Though perhaps I shall rethink my claim soon enough. I'm sure he'll get to see you more often than I." A little color touched her cheeks at this last direct admission of how much she would miss him while he was busy with his diplomatic responsibilities.

Fíli nodded, hoping her brother was the only one she thought to be jealous of. "Just imagine me sitting at the council talks, gradually sinking into a drooling stupor, and you won't miss anything," he teased.

"I can't—" Sif laughed. "You wouldn't! Not with so many important people to impress."

"What? You don't think a few snores would inspire complete confidence in me as a future king of Erebor?" Fíli protested in mock surprise.

Grinning at him, she shook her head.

"Perhaps you're right," he agreed, barely stopping himself before he reached out to brush the stray curl from her cheek. He did, however, shoulder her satchel, which she had set down beside the fountain; any well-bred young man would have done so, and he would have felt wrong not to.

"You must be nervous," Sif remarked as they walked back towards the residential areas.

"Maker's forge, yes," he admitted, telling her readily what he had not been able to say to Thorin or even Kíli. "Sif, they're going to be evaluating me as much as they will Uncle. I've met the envoys from the Firebeards and Broadbeams before, back in Ered Luin, but the rest of them? This is the first time they'll ever have seen me."

"You're a prince and a hero; how can they fail to be impressed?" Sif told him gently.

Fíli smiled at the warm assurance in her tone. "I think that's why I'm worried; what if I'm not what they're looking for?"

"Fíli," she said deliberately, stepping in front of him so that he had to stop. "Do you think you have proved nothing yet? You really are those things. And—" She smiled. "You look them, too. You are very— That is—" Her face had gone crimson. "I mean, no one could doubt you are Durin's rightful heir, any more than Thorin is."

Fíli could not stop his smile. "Thank you," he told her earnestly. "I will remember that."

"Good," Sif said, spinning on her heel and walking ahead. "Because if you do not, I shall have to do something very foolish indeed to remind you."

Fíli laughed as he followed her, wondering how this once-quiet young woman had learned flirt in a way that put his own little brother to shame.

Standing in the crowded reception hall among dwarves from some range of mountains in the distant East, Kíli almost wished he were back at Ravenhill tower. It wasn't that he truly minded being here, welcoming this first diplomatic party to Erebor for the Seven's Council. If he was to support his uncle and brother, his place was in welcome hall and council chamber, as much as it was on a guard tower. But at Ravenhill, there was always the chance that Tauriel might make a visit, unexpected and yet never unwelcome. She would not come here, not with the mountain beginning to fill with dwarves from the far-flung kingdoms of the seven clans. Kíli could not wait until she was truly free to come and go as she wished from Erebor itself; yet that might not be until he was finally permitted to marry her...

Now was no time for reverie, he reminded himself; there were guests who required his attention. The various members of the envoy were engaged with Kíli's uncle and others of Erebor's court, but there, at the far side of the room, was someone who had been left alone: Audha, daughter of the Blacklocks' ambassador. Kíli had seen his brother with her earlier, though Fíli had now been caught up in conversation with some other guests.

She was a striking young woman, her waves of coal-black hair and her olive complexion setting her apart from the fairer girls of Kíli's own clan. Though she wore a simply styled gown, the rare gems scattered over it and through her hair made an unmistakable statement of her wealth. Together, her rich attire and her carefully upright posture lent her a very formal, proper air that Kíli might once have accepted as a challenge to be overcome with no small amount of wit and charm. But he had serious duties as a prince today, and besides, he had no interest in flirting with her; he would not play games, but be the attentive host.

"Miss Audha," Kíli greeted her as he approached.

"Your highness." She returned his bow with a curtsey of her own. "Your hospitality has been most gracious."

"You are the first guests we have welcomed since the restoration," Kíli explained. "We're glad to have you."

She laughed. "I suppose this will sound silly, but I've heard stories of this place all my life. My father and my aunt had the most extraordinary tales about King Thrór's bicentennial celebration."

Kíli smiled; he had heard those same stories from his uncle.

"Do you know, if things had been different, my aunt might have been queen here?" She stated this fact without presumption, though her voice was tinged with awe and something like regret.

"I know," Kíli said. The ambassador's sister, Branca, had once been betrothed to Thorin, though he had released her when he had lost home and kingdom. "If Smaug had never come, you would be a princess, and I wouldn't be here at all."

Audha regarded him with curious grey eyes.

"My mother married a dwarf from Ered Luin; she'd never have met him if not for her exile," he explained.

"It is a rare loss indeed that does not bring some good with it," she said, and Kíli saw her glance stray momentarily to his brother. Had she already set her eye on him?

"Was exile very hard?" she asked, looking once more to Kíli.

He shrugged. "I wouldn't say we had it bad, not Fíli and I, at least. We grew up settled, and Thorin's halls prospered in our time. The others—Mother, my uncles, and cousins—had it far worse in those early days. Regular vagabonds they were, for a while. So no, it was not hard. Though it's odd, growing up in a home that everyone tells you isn't yours."

"I cannot imagine," Audha murmured, sympathetic. "And so you must be glad to have returned."

Kíli laughed. "It's not so much a return for me, but yes, I'm glad. This is where I belong."

She was silent for a few moments, clearly studying him.

Kíli wondered if she were summing up all he had told her and reading his appearance with it as a key: a young prince, used to finery and yet careless of it as something unrelated to his rank, who did not bother with all the buttons on his surcoat and who wore his hair and beard without ornament. He wanted to tell her that none of the young men of his clan wore the elaborate beards he saw among all the Blacklocks. He wasn't unusual in that respect, at least.

Her next remark surprised him, nevertheless.

"I see you've already chosen someone. She must be a beauty, with hair like that," she said, her tone curious and sympathetic, and Kíli found she was gazing at his silver bracelet set with Tauriel's hair.

He nodded.

"You must introduce us," Audha went on eagerly.

"I'm afraid she is not here tonight."

"Then she arrives with one of the later envoys," she reasoned.

"No. She is a captain of our border patrol, and tonight, she is surely keeping watch on the mountain from afar." Kíli knew, even as he spoke, that this reply was sure to prompt more questions rather than quell them. Among their people, women were to be protected, not protectors.

Audha's face reflected her surprise. "How unusual. Yet she is of noble birth?"

"I have met no folk nobler than hers." He knew Tauriel thought of herself as lowborn; but that, of course, was ridiculous, and he was not repeating her opinion to Audha.

"You must tell me: who is she?" she insisted, her eyes flashing with impatient curiosity, curiosity which Kíli immediately regretted having unintentionally piqued. Her eagerness would make the truth seem all the more shocking.

"Her name is Tauriel, of the Silvan clan."

"Silvan? You mean an elf?" She seemed to think she had misunderstood him.

"Yes," he said, as if there were nothing unusual in this fact.

"Oh." After a moment, her confused expression relaxed, as if she had finally understood what he was not telling her. "Then it is a political match, to seal your recent alliance with the elves. I am sorry; it must be—"

"Don't." He laughed lightly, amused by her obvious sympathy for him. "I chose her for herself."

Audha truly had no answer to this, but only stared at him.

Kíli let her remain speechless for a while before saying somewhat coolly, "You must concede it is preferable to chose for affection than for politics, when one can." Only as he spoke did he realize he pressed her for Fíli's sake, as well: he suspected she was ambitious.

"When one can," she agreed finally. "And yet we may not always have what we want." There was a little sharpness to her tone, and Kíli felt sure that she really did think him a careless second heir who did not know his own worth or duty.

"Forgive me, I meant no insult," Kíli told her, more from a sense of propriety than any real repentance.

"Nor I," she breathed, with a respectful dip of her head.

Kíli was spared any further awkwardness by his brother, who returned to escort Audha to the hall where all would be dining tonight. She turned her eager smile to Fíli, and Kíli was left to follow behind them alone, feeling unaccountably annoyed, though with Audha or himself he could not say. He knew he could not expect people to accept his choice of Tauriel without comment, and yet he had almost forgotten just how maddening it was to be considered deviant, or worse, undutiful. He was going to have to remember to bite his tongue, or he might offend someone who was not likely to let the matter drop at a smile from Fíli.

Watching Audha now on Fíli's arm, Kíli wondered if what she had told him applied even to his brother. Would Fíli have to make the political match, rather than the one he wanted? Kíli was not entirely sure how things stood between his brother and Sif—Kíli did not spend enough time inside the mountain these days to see them together often—but he was fairly sure Fíli had grown very fond of her. Sif was a nobleman's daughter, and therefore a perfectly worthy match, even for a prince. Kíli had never supposed there was any reason his brother might not choose her.

Yet meeting Audha, the niece of the woman once promised to Thorin for a strictly political union, Kíli had been reminded that a marriage might be the essential element that cemented an alliance with another kingdom or assured the favor of an ally. But Kíli had made his own choice according to the bold impulse of his heart and once again left this duty to his brother. His eyes wandered back to Tauriel's copper hair encircling his wrist and he hoped, for the first time, that his choice had not cost his brother more than he had imagined.

"I really should go now." From atop Ravenhill's rampart, Tauriel could see that the party of dwarves marching from Erebor had nearly reached the tower. When she had come to share her patrol report this morning, Dwalin had told her Kíli was giving some of the Council guests a tour of the fortifications. She did not plan to be here when they arrived.

She turned and gave Dwalin a smile. "Thank you for the breakfast and the company."

"Ye should stay," he told her, for the second time this morning. "They'll all have heard of ye before the month is up, anyway. Remind them there's a face t'go with yer name."

Tauriel shook her head gently; she did not need these strangers talking about her without cause.

"Don't let them see that yer afraid of them," he finished.

"I'm not—" No, it was foolish of her to think that the seasoned Dwalin, who had fought in more battles than even she, could not see her fear. She worried these foreigners would misjudge her; for even if their opinions did not immediately affect her, they would Kíli. But Dwalin was right: they would hear of her one way or another. At least if she met them, they might have some truth upon which to base their wildest conjectures.

Tauriel took a slow breath. "I will stay."

"There's a good lass," Dwalin pronounced with a grin, and Tauriel wondered how often he had awarded that smile to a young Kíli or Fíli. It was, she felt, a look worth earning.

She followed Dwalin down from the rampart and onto the courtyard above the tarn. She had hardly guessed, when she had first stood here and fought for her life against Azog's elite, that she might be called to face a very different foe in this same place. And yet the stakes were, in one way, the same: a false step might lose her the one she came to care for so much.

Tauriel shook her head as if she could dislodge the gloomy thought as easily as the stray hair that had drifted into her face. What was she so afraid of, all of a sudden? Kíli was a prince of Durin, as he ever had been, and that knowledge had not stopped her from falling in love with him under his disapproving uncle's nose last winter. Thorin at least countenanced them now; what did it matter what the others thought?

She could hear Kíli's voice outside the wall, describing the newly rebuilt fortress. And then he came into view within the gate, the dozen or so other dwarves close behind him. Tauriel thought he looked especially formal somehow. His clothing was certainly more ornamented than usual, and he seemed to have taken more care with it than he often did. Kíli was not slovenly—far from it—but his appearance generally had a relaxed air: the last buckle on a surcoat undone or a shirt collar left loose. Today he looked buttoned up indeed, and Tauriel wondered if he were uncomfortable.

Kíli looked momentarily alarmed when he saw her, and Tauriel wondered if she had been wrong to stay. Yet he gave her half a smile before addressing his guests.

"You have all met Master Dwalin, and this is Captain Tauriel, our ally and mistress of Dale's border patrol," he said.

Tauriel swept a curt, professional bow. "Good morning, Your Highness, my lords."

"Are you the elf said to have slain Azog's captain?" asked a young man at Kíli's elbow. So they were already talking about her.

"I should think that distinction belongs to Prince Kíli," she said. "I claim only the honor of having fought at his side."

Dwalin gave a rough chuckle. "Don't let her modesty deceive you; I saw that fight, and she played her part as well as he."

"And what do you say?" the original questioner asked of Kíli.

He laughed dismissively. "I have nothing to add. No matter what I say, I prove she bests me either in arms or in modesty."

The young man smiled, amused. "A prudent answer," he said, sweeping an appraising glance over Tauriel, and she wondered what he had concluded.

Tauriel and Dwalin accompanied Kíli for the remainder of the tour. The visiting dwarves listened with respect when Tauriel spoke briefly of the role the ranged patrol played in the security of the mountain, yet they still stared when they thought she would not notice. Was it because they knew her connection to Kíli? Or had they never seen an elf before, and a woman at that?

Now that her initial concern at meeting strangers was past, she felt her accustomed boldness returning, and she was tempted to catch them watching her. But she could not let her behavior be counted as rudeness when such would reflect on Kíli as well, and so she pretended not to notice, though once she had to bite her cheek and try not to laugh when someone whispered rather audibly, "Do y'spose she can twitch those ears like a cat's?"

In the end, nothing proved so annoying as having to bid Kíli farewell with only a cool, "Good day, Your Highness" and without exchanging a single touch. Even on duty, they were usually relaxed enough to permit a cordial parting—Kíli's men at the tower accepted and trusted them both well enough now that they could do so without incurring censure. But under the eyes of strangers, she and Kíli had become instinctively guarded once more.

Watching Kíli go, Tauriel felt an almost physical ache in her chest. What was wrong with her? She had not even meant to see him today, and so this dispassionate farewell had robbed her of nothing she had expected from him. Had her love for him weakened her so that she could not be near him without feeling her need? For she did need Kíli, in some way that touched both body and spirit.

She had thought that it would have been cruel to lose him on Ravenhill, before they'd had a chance to find out if they could truly love. And yet, knowing she loved him felt almost a greater cruelty now: if parting for so brief a time as a few days could hurt like this, to truly lose him would be a pain unimaginable. She had not known loving Kíli would make her depend on him so fully, or she would surely have faced the blizzard that winter day rather than follow him into Erebor. Thank the Valar, then, that she had not known.

Thorin waited until all six envoys were arrived to reveal the Arkenstone. This would be the first he had displayed it since receiving it back after the battle. Thorin himself had hardly looked at it for many of those early months. He hated to remember that he had once valued it over the lives of friends, kindred, and neighbors. Though madness had driven him then, he could not deny that he had been that man.

In the end, Thorin had decided to place the stone where it might be his people's treasure, no longer a gem to be claimed by a single king for his own. He had commission a statue, in Erebor's native green marble, of Durin I and set it in the entrance hall, where once the golden image of Thrór had been meant to stand. The Arkenstone would be set upon the statue's brow, the foremost of seven gems in a golden crown. Every dwarf in Erebor had the right to claim Durin as forefather, for he was the patriarch of the Longbeard clan, and so the Arkenstone belonged to them all as his sons.

The statue was unveiled amidst much ceremony, and Thorin was pleased to note that the gesture seemed to make the statement he had hoped. Yet the much harder statement had been reserved for Thorin himself the next day, when the council began in earnest, and he and his advisors recounted the story of their reclamation of the mountain. Many had heard the tale in pieces, but all were eager to have it from beginning to end. And though Thorin did not dwell on his descent into unreason, he could not skip over the decisions he had made while under the gold's curse.

The envoys had listened patiently while Thorin, Balin, and Daín had told their parts in the quest and the concluding battle, and then, into the silence that had followed, someone spoke the inevitable question.

"And so you succumbed to the same madness that took your grandfather, Thrór?" the envoy of the Stiffbeards, Jari, said distinctly.

"It is true," Thorin answered. "And I overcame it with the aid of my kinsmen and friends. The same who now sit on my council and advise me in my rule."

"I do not question you on that point. I merely wished to be clear on your motives then."

"I assure you, I would not repeat my actions, were I given the chance to live them again," Thorin said evenly. He knew that, as the representatives of fellow kings and potential allies, these envoys had every reason to question his actions. And yet he still felt rather piqued that, after all had refused to aid in the quest two years ago, they felt so much right to criticize him in doing the only things he had been able at the time. If they had truly wanted to see things handled differently, they should have been at his side when he reclaimed Erebor.

Clearly, he was not the only one following this train of thought, as the leader of the Stonefoots put in, "Considering he had nought but a handful of men at his command, some of them as yet unproven, I think the king deserves more credit from us than condemnation. Does not his success argue for him?"

"It does," Jari conceded. "Durin's line has not failed us yet."

So that was the thought behind the protest: that Thrór's line was cursed, tainted, weak—whatever one wished to call it. Thorin had heard those whispers before, during homeless years of wandering: that the ruin and loss suffered by Thrór's family was a sure sign that the line was ending, and that the throne would soon revert to the younger branch of descent, of which Thorin's cousin Daín was now the next in line.

Thorin did not believe such gloomy prophecies even now, after he had faced the terrifying truth of the sickness inherited from his grandfather. He had proven himself stronger, and what was more, his nephews—who would carry the line after him—had never showed signs of the family weakness. Perhaps it was a result of having been raised in a place where gold and station meant less than it would have here in Erebor, beneath the weight of heritage and glory which these old halls carried. And now that Mahal had blessed them with a return, Thorin did not doubt that Durin's lineage would thrive through his heirs, or at any rate, through Fíli. Tauriel surely represented a dead end of Kili's branch on the royal family tree, but Thorin was beyond fighting the boy's choice merely as a matter of continuing the line—even if denied Tauriel, Kíli would surely have no-one else.

To Thorin's relief, no more was said of a lurking weakness in the king's line, and conversations moved towards the preliminaries of council business. Yet from the restive glances between Jari and several other council members, Thorin felt an uneasy sureness that the matter had not been permanently laid to rest.

Chapter Text

"Kíli!"

He looked up at the sound of his name called by a young female voice and then choked on his beer.

"Kíli," Sif said again. After watching uncertainly for a few moments as Kíli stared at her and coughed, she gave him several sturdy thumps to the back.

"Thanks. Hullo," he croaked at last.

"I was going to say I was surprised to see you here, but I suppose I'm not the only one." This tavern was in the mining district, and nobles of her own or Kíli's station would have been far more likely to visit one of the taprooms near the royal quarters. Kíli himself was here to escape the council guests, of whom he had already seen enough for one day.

"Sorry, no, I thought you were someone else," Kíli explained.

"Ah!" Sif's expression was relieved. "May I join you?"

He nodded, and she slid onto the bench beside him. "I came down here to order materials for the shop," she explained. After taking a slow draught of her dark beer, she asked, "How is the council going?"

"Oh, fairly well, I suppose." Kíli shrugged, and then continued, his tone somewhat wondering, "I never knew how much talking goes into these political agreements. Do you know, this morning I think the ambassador from the Broadbeams talked for a solid hour about the long and storied history of relations between our clans? I was waiting for his jaw to fall off. Even Thorin seemed to be losing interest."

Sif smiled. "I don't envy you! It sounds very tiring."

"I can't say I wouldn't rather be on guard duty, but it's interesting, I suppose. I never really paid attention to what Thorin did as a ruler, down in Ered Luin, and it's good to learn about the relations between our clans."

"I suppose Fíli must have a lot to attend to, as well" she said. Kíli had been wondering when she would mention his brother.

"He's as important to these discussions as Thorin is," Kíli agreed. "Maybe he doesn't have to decide things, but he has to know how each issue stands if he's to rule someday." He took another swallow of beer. "I'm just glad it's not me," he confessed. "I know how to follow and defend, but leading? That's Fíli's place."

During the ensuing pause, Kíli wondered if Sif had been indirectly trying to ask where Fíli was tonight. As the answer was that his brother was being formally presented with yet another prospective bride, Kíli preferred not to say. Instead, he asked, "Have you met any of the visitors yet?" Even quiet Sif must be curious about strangers from such distant kingdoms.

She nodded. "Mother wouldn't listen to my excuses but dragged me along to meet some of the women last night." She pulled a self-mocking frown, and Kíli knew she had not enjoyed herself. "I mean, they were nice enough, I suppose," she corrected. "But... They're here to meet your brother, aren't they?"

"Yes." So he would not be able to avoid this topic, after all. In part, Kíli was glad: he had wanted to know how things stood between Sif and his brother. It was already clear how much her thoughts were on Fíli. But had Fíli offered her any assurance of his faith? Kíli guessed not, if Sif had had to work out for herself why these women were here.

Sif was not forthcoming with any further insight, so Kíli went on, "I think it's just been formalities so far. Introductions and that sort of thing. They've come all this way, and so at the very least, Fíli has to meet them." Kíli did not know how seriously his brother considered any of the proposed matches, but it was true enough that Fíli owed them a polite reception: women wouldn't normally travel for a meeting like this, so the fact that these had come to meet him in person was a sign of great honor.

Sif took another drink, her expression inscrutable.

"Did you meet Tófa, from clan Ironfist?" Kíli asked.

She squinted at him thoughtfully. "Golden hair and blue gems in her beard...? I think so. Why?" Her tone was disinterested, but Kíli was not convinced.

"That's who I thought you were earlier." It was true: he'd hardly been able to get away from Tófa after dinner a few nights ago. That was another reason he was drinking down here among the miners.

Sif regarded him thoughtfully for a moment and then her mouth lifted slightly in a smile. "You mean she fancies you."

"Sif, I didn't do anything!" Kíli protested earnestly. "I welcomed her when everyone arrived, and I've maybe talked with her a few times since. But I've shown her no particular attention beyond that."

"I'm sure you didn't," she returned, serious.

"And she must know about Tauriel," Kíli went on. "Our suit has been no great secret since one of the Stonefoots asked why his niece hadn't been presented to me."

"She did ask if I'd ever seen your elf," Sif confessed.

"See? I know Tauriel and I are not betrothed yet, but our courtship is well-established. Tófa can't expect I'd break it off now."

"Perhaps," Sif offered cautiously, "she cannot believe you could truly want an elf. Or else she's just very smitten." She shrugged.

"She can't be," Kíli muttered into the bottom of his mug. "I didn't even flirt with her."

Sif gave him an odd, knowing smile. "Sometimes it happens like that," she said, and then hid her face in her own mug.

She was talking about herself, Kíli realized. How long had she been in love with his brother, before Fíli had even left on the quest? And what had it been like, knowing he'd gone and she might never see Fíli again? Kíli remembered the very real pain he had felt leaving Tauriel on the lake shore; he didn't know if she could want him, but at least he had told her what he felt. How much worse must it have been to feel you had lost even that chance to speak?

Kíli very much wished he could tell Sif that Fíli was too honorable to hurt her now, when he surely knew what she felt for him. Of course Fíli knew, if even Kíli could see it. But Kíli could also see that honor could become a complicated thing, when divided between family, duty, kingdom. He knew his brother would do the honorable thing; Fíli always had done so, but what that would be this time, Kíli couldn't answer any more.

And so he had said only, "Here's to a swift end of the council and a happy resolution for all," and knocked his beer mug against hers.

Fíli would be glad when the introductions to noblewomen were finished. All of them so far had been nice enough girls, but that was just it: he wasn't truly meeting girls. He was being offered military alliances, trade routes, ambassadorial connections. In a way, these introductions felt like a continuation of the day's council discussions, though with the added strange condition that approving a connection also decided a queen and the mother of his heirs.

It was almost funny: in Ered Luin, girls had found his royal station attractive mainly for the novelty of the thing. Without throne or kingdom, the title of prince leant him a kind of tragic distinction, but was nothing to be grasped. But now, of course, his rank actually meant something, and during these interviews Fíli often felt as if he were merely a title and a crown which these noblewomen—or their fathers—would be happy to gain. He almost missed those lost days when the most any girl had wanted from him was a smile and perhaps a kiss, provided no-one was looking.

Thus far, Thorin had not advised Fíli for or against any of these young women, and Fíli believed his uncle meant to respect his opinion. The thought gave him confidence to defer his choice till after the council when, of course, he would declare his suit to Sif.

But in the meantime, he was politely going through the formalities of yet another presentation.

He had met Audha before, of course, on the day of the Blacklocks' arrival. Since then, he had spoken with her once or twice in the banquet hall or during music after the evening meal. But today, her father, Andvari, was formally presenting her to him as a prospective match.

Andvari spoke of their family's high position among the eastern tribes, of the ready respect and allegiance that Fíli might command through her, and of the wealth that, joined to Erebor's, might extend their influence far. Even Thorin had thought it a prudent connection, for he had meant to marry Audha's aunt, before Erebor had been lost. Andvari hopped that Fíli might seal this long-desired connection between their houses at last.

These were many of the same things Fíli had heard in favor of the other matches, and yet today, he somehow found the reasoning especially tiring. As Andvari enumerated the advantages of the marriage, Fíli considered how it would have troubled him to hear Lord Ironsides speak of his own daughter that way, as if Sif's dowry or the number of trade deals held by her brother mattered more than her gentleness and her steadfast heart.

Yet at last, Audha's father had done, and he left the two young dwarves alone, save for her chaperone, who sat at the far end of the chamber doing beadwork at a small loom.

Fíli was able to relax then, and Audha, too, shifted towards him in her chair as if she had been waiting to be able to speak.

"I'm sorry to talk of you like that," Fíli began, speaking his mind. "You should be treated like a treasure, not a business contract."

Audha regarded him openly. "I am Father's treasure," she corrected. "Just one with a very salable value." She did not speak as if she resented this fact.

"Fíli, this is a contract. Let us not pretend otherwise." Her expression softened then, warming and becoming almost self-conscious. "But that does not make it bad. I would like you to choose me."

He had not expected such directness, but he respected her for it.

"I've heard why your father says I should," Fíli told her. "Why do you say so?"

"I could be happy with you," Audha said, surprising him again. "My house is the younger royal line, and so my duty is to marry and strengthen our kingdom. I've never expected to marry someone I would have chosen for myself. But I would choose you. Fíli, you are handsome and kind and noble. And I believe you would love me."

Fíli did not know what to say: none of the other women had told him anything like this.

"I'm not sentimental," Audha protested gently. "I don't need you to be in love with me. But I see that you would treat your bride as more than a mere political accessory."

Of course he would. Poor Audha; had she expected otherwise from him?

Fíli asked, "Tell me, if you had the choice between duty and affection, which would you choose?"

Her expression was momentarily confused. "Your brother's devotion is commendable," she said carefully. "But I do not think he is wise. I could not respect him as I do you."

She had not understood the question as Fíli had intended, but he had his answer, true enough: she would choose duty. What would she think if she knew he meant to chose for love?

Audha continued, "I would consider it an honor to serve you, not only as wife but as queen. I am familiar with the politics of a court, and I could aid you in managing your own."

"I'm sure you are accomplished," Fíli concurred, offering her a smile that expressed real respect. "Tell me, what is it you want most?"

Fíli thought she had been raised on duty, the same as he, and yet she seemed to understand it somewhat differently. For him, duty had been something he had striven to live up to, a promise of worth he might attain. But her duty seemed to be something she could not escape, and must therefore make into something she could live with.

"What do I want?" Audha echoed him, sounding gently surprised. "I suppose... I should like to be given something noble to follow. Or," she touched his hand lightly, "someone."

"Audha," Fíli began, and his fingers caught on her rings as he clasped her hand. Sif never wore rings—the thought flashed through his mind—they interfered with her grip on a hammer. He forced his attention back to the dark-haired young woman before him. "You would be a great gift and honor to any man. But I am not yet ready to chose." It was true, it a way.

She nodded, untroubled. "Promise you will think of me," she said

"I will." And this was true, as well. He would certainly remember what Audha had said, for she had given as convincing an argument as any he had heard yet. If he had not already settled his heart on Sif, he would probably have listened to her. Indeed, there was some part of him that wondered if choosing someone like Audha, with political connections and experience to offer, might not be the more prudent choice than a woman who brought nothing new to his kingdom. Yet while Fíli might have gained politically by a match with Audha, it was still true that he lost nothing by marrying a worthy woman of his own clan. And so he could not consider his choice wrong.

"Good night, Your Highness," Audha told him, her eyes holding his for one brief yet intimate moment before she dropped her lashes and looked away, demure once more.

"Good night, my lady."

Tauriel closed her eyes and let the heat of the sun sink into her as she leaned back against the ivy-covered wall of the small, private courtyard in Dale. This secluded space was not the garden it had once been: the fruit trees and roses had long since been destroyed by dragon's fire, but the wildflowers and beech saplings Tauriel had found to replace them were already flourishing. Perhaps next year she could add some more exotic offerings, but already the place served well as her personal retreat.

She held the runestone in her palms, and the sunlight warmed it so that she could almost imagine Kíli had just handed it to her and the warmth was from his touch. Yet she would have preferred to hold his own hand. She had not seen him since he had given the visiting dwarves a tour of Ravenhill, and the truth was that she missed him more than she had known to expect.

Footsteps sounded on the flagstones of the court: quick and light, the stride of someone small and young. Tauriel opened her eyes to look up at Tilda, Bard's younger daughter.

"Here you are! Darion said you were still in the city," Tilda said brightly, and then she faltered, seeming to realize she might be trespassing on Tauriel's rest. "Do you mind if I join you?" she added, cautious.

"Not at all; please do," Tauriel assured her. She felt a special affection for Bard's two daughters and was pleased by the chance to see them regularly now that she lived in Dale. Tilda especially seemed drawn to her.

The young girl stood looking down at Tauriel for a moment, her expression thoughtful. "You look so beautiful when you dress up," Tilda said at last.

"Oh... Thank you," Tauriel murmured, touched by the girl's sincerity. She would not have considered her simple dress very fine, especially compared to the elaborate gowns the women of Thranduil's court often wore, yet perhaps it seemed so to someone unaccustomed to anything elvish. Once again, she was reminded that Tilda, like Kíli and indeed most mortals, saw her as someone exotic and almost other-worldly. She had never thought of herself that way, and Tilda's reverence humbled her even as it gave her a new sense of worthiness.

"You're not going to Ravenhill today?" Tilda asked, settling onto the grass beside Tauriel. "I thought you always did on your days off." The girl, like most of Dale, knew of Tauriel's connection to Kíli.

Tauriel smiled, both touched and abashed by Tilda's bold interest. "Kíli is not there today. There is a great meeting of the dwarven clans this month, and he is busy with that."

"What do dwarves talk about, I wonder? Growing their beards and counting gold?"

"Or perhaps how to tell the inside of one mountain from another in the dark!" Tauriel teased, then went on more seriously, "I'm sure there are many alliances to reestablish, now that Erebor is a kingdom again."

Tilda's eyes went to the runestone in Tauriel's hands.

"What is that?"

"It is something Kíli gave me." She held it out to the girl, for once not reluctant to share something so personal. Tilda had always seemed to accept her attraction to Kíli without question; indeed, as far as Tauriel could tell, Tilda thought it was only logical that Kíli and his elven savior should belong together.

Tilda took the stone with reverent hands. "Did he ask you to marry him?"

"No!" Tauriel returned, equal parts surprised and amused. Was that what her young friend thought the gift meant? "He gave it to me so we won't lose each other."

Tilda turned the stone in her fingers, watching the light glint off the hidden colors in its depths.

"Is it magic?" she wondered.

"Perhaps." Tauriel had never been sure, herself. Was there some kind of blessing attached to the stone that made it more than simply a memento?

"It's very pretty," Tilda said appreciatively and handed it back. "Will you be a princess if Kíli marries you?"

"I don't know. I suppose perhaps." Tauriel knew she would never be counted part of the royal line, though whether that meant she would be excluded from a title as well, she had never asked. She did not particularly care, so long as she had Kíli.

"I hope so; then you'll be like Sigrid and me." Tilda shook her head with mirth, and a few loose curls waved about her face. "It's still so funny to think I'm going to be 'Princess Tilda.' It sounds like someone out of a story!"

"Maybe you are," Tauriel suggested.

"Maybe! It really has been strange enough! Da coming home one day to let a bunch of grumpy, wet dwarves in right up through the privy and then—"

"What?" Tauriel interrupted at this piece of the story she had never heard before.

"Well, it was the only secret way into the house!" Tilda grinned as if she had just let Tauriel in on some great conspiracy. "Don't say I told you, though! The bald dwarf with all the tattoos said he'd pull our arms off if Bain or I ever said anything about it."

Tauriel could imagine Dwalin, who in that moment had surely been compromised in dignity more than in anything else, uttering such a threat. Yet surely he would never have made it good against someone as sweet as Tilda.

"I don't think he would," Tauriel confessed. "Dwalin is not as terrible as he seems. But I won't tell. Though perhaps I may tease Kíli about it?"

Tilda considered for a moment and then nodded. "You have to tell me what he says."

"I will."

They sat in friendly silence for a while, and then Tilda asked again, "Tauriel, please, would you—" She stopped, momentarily bashful.

"Yes?" Tauriel prompted kindly.

"Well, I was wondering if you would teach me how to do a real elvish braid? Sigrid says she doesn't know how to do one like yours."

"Of course!" Tauriel felt her heart warm at Tilda's grateful smile. "Did you want me to now?"

The young girl nodded. "Oh yes, if you would!"

"With pleasure." Tauriel slipped the runestone back into the pouch at her belt, trading it for her comb. As she pulled apart Tilda's neat, if plain, braid, Tilda caught the silver comb from Tauriel's lap and admired it.

"I know who gave you this," she remarked, and Tauriel could only laugh softly in reply.

Once she had combed Tilda's hair smooth, Tauriel positioned the girl's fingers, guiding them through the motions of the braid as her own mother had done for her many years ago. Although Tauriel had never before tried to imagine having a daughter of her own, she could not help but do so now as she leaned down over this young human girl, offering instruction and encouragement. She had always supposed she would not want a child, simply because she had always been content alone. But she was not alone now; there was Kíli, and because of him, perhaps one day even—

No, she must not hope too far. What if they could not? She did not think him inferior to her, in either body or spirit, but it was still true: dwarves were Ilúvatar's children by adoption only, having been created by a different hand. What if an elf and a dwarf were simply not made for each other, never mind what the two of them had shown by their love? Of course Thorin and his council must make provisions for the case of half-elven children, but that concern was hardly a guarantee of such an event. She and Kíli would only know the truth by proving it themselves. And until then, Tauriel would not wish for something she could not be sure of. For now, she had Kíli, and even Tilda, and they would be enough, she told herself as she pressed a kiss to the top of Tilda's head before helping to bind off the finished braid.

Council discussion had been under way for the last sennight, and Thorin was pleased with how things had gone thus far. Not all of the talks had been primarily to do with Erebor; the Council of Seven Kingdoms was an opportunity for all the clans to do business with one another. But Thorin had already sealed trade connections with the Firebeards and Broadbeams in the west and with the Blacklocks in the east. Erebor, he could confidently hope, would soon be prosperous once more.

During the last few general meetings of the clans, talk had turned to more military subjects: each kingdom's defensive needs, the size of their respective armies, and who could be counted on to aid whom. By right of the oath sworn by other six kingdoms upon the Arkenstone to his grandfather Thrór, Thorin properly had the right to command them in matters of war, as well as peace. Yet he knew this authority hardly amounted to the prerogative to arrange alliances solely according to his own whim. Not only would such an imperious attitude sow hard feelings among the clans, but Thorin knew he hardly had the knowledge to decide everything on his own. And so for the most part, he meant to engage in the building of treaties by the same process of slow negotiation as the other clans did amongst themselves.

Today's talks had finally edged past the preliminary account of the current status and holdings of the various kingdoms, and Thorin felt they were nearly ready to begin on the details of individual treaties at last. Indeed, he was nearly ready to propose they do so when Jari of the Stiffbeards took advantage of a lull in the discussion to address Thorin himself.

Jari cleared his throat somewhat apologetically and then said, "Before we proceed with negotiations, I should like to establish who is to be your successor to the throne of Erebor."

"My nephew Fíli is my heir, as he has always been." Thorin did not understand the question; Fíli's claim was legitimate, as all present knew.

"I understand," Jari conceded, his tone respectful but firm. "But some of us have been considering: would it not be best to revert to the ancient law of succession, in light of the decline of your line?"

"The decline—?" Thorin repeated, momentarily astonished. But of course, he'd felt before that he had not heard the last of this topic. Still, he was not able to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he said, "If you refer to the gold sickness, neither of my heirs have shown any inclination to that malady. Indeed, they were among those who opposed me in my madness."

"Yes, we grant that. But does not one of your heirs wish to marry an elf? Tell me that is not equally mad."

Thorin could see Kíli's face without turning his head; his young nephew's jaw was tight and his brows drawn. The dwarven king looked back to Jari.

"If you are afraid to see an elf on the throne, that will not happen," Thorin said steadily. "Kíli renounces all claim."

"Then even you yourself acknowledge him unfit," Jari replied.

Just as readily, Thorin shot back, "I acknowledge that the son of an elf has no right to be king."

This time, Frár of the Ironfists spoke. "And what right does a son of Durin have to join himself to an elf? If the house of Thrór is to become a tribe of madmen and half-breeds, perhaps it is best that you are the last of his line to rule."

This statement elicited a rumble of astonishment from the table, but before anyone else could contribute, Thorin pressed on.

"Thrór's is still the elder claim. Or does blood mean nothing now?" he demanded. "Are we to elect our kings, as if we were some village merchants' guild, and Durin's royal line were spent?" The idea was frankly ridiculous, unworthy as it was of a clan which could claim such a high lineage.

"No one is talking of an election," Nidhi, the Broadbeam ambassador put in now, his tone conciliatory. "Only of restoring the throne to the legitimate line of descent. You are right; Durin's blood is hardly spent."

Thorin glanced to Daín, whose claim was the next, after Thrór's descendants. Yet his cousin appeared just as flabbergasted by this turn of the discussion as Thorin was himself.

Nidhi continued, "You must not take this as a personal insult. It concerns us all. When Durin is reborn once more, it will be into the royal bloodline, and so we must see the worthiest heir on the throne. Given the strain of madness that runs in your blood, Fíli may no longer be a suitable heir. If he or his sons should bear the same taint, Durin may refuse to be reborn, or worse yet, inherit the same malady."

Thorin was as well aware of the prophecy of Durin's return as anyone here. While there had never been a specific sign that foretold the rebirth of their patriarch, Durin had always returned within the direct royal line. Some, Thorin understood, might see that fact as reason to guard the purity of the bloodline. Yet he had never expected anyone to challenge a legitimate claim to the throne on such grounds.

Balin was apparently thinking along the same lines, for the old dwarf said in a quiet yet pointed manner, "Our law has long established that the throne belongs to the eldest male of direct descent, regardless of the parent through which he makes the claim. As Dís's son, Fíli is Thorin's legitimate heir. To rule otherwise, you'd be talking about changing the law."

Jari nodded. "Aye, and with all seven kingdoms represented, we could do just that."

This time, the room truly erupted in a commotion of surprise and protest.

"That law has stood for generations! Why dispute it now?"

"It isn't just the throne of Erebor we're talking about! This matter concerns the good of all the Khazad. If we are to see Durin return, we must uphold the proper bloodline!"

"And that's why we have the current law! To keep the throne in the nearest line of descent!"

Here Daín cut in with scoffing laughter. "Do y' really think Mahal can't judge the right time and place to send back our blessed ancestor? If it weren't so bloody stupid an idea, I'd call it blasphemy."

"The old law was established by the great Durin himself; it's no impiety to reestablish it. Quite the contrary, I should think."

"Times have changed. In his days, there were more births. Our numbers have declined since then, and it is only right that inheritance laws reflect this fact."

"Enough!" Thorin shouted. Then, after a few breaths, he said somewhat more calmly, "I acknowledge that the law might rightly be changed. But what are your claims that it should be? I would know plainly what your charges are against me and my house."

Jari acknowledged Thorin with a nod, and then stood to address him. "Your Majesty, I mean no personal disrespect." Here he bowed. "In retaking Erebor, you have accomplished what no-one else had dared, and in so doing, earned an honor for yourself and your kin that shall last until these mountains are dust. Let your name be your legacy; not your blood. A madness runs in your family: your grandfather succumbed. So did you. And we have no reason to believe the weakness has run its course. Your nephew Kíli transgresses all bounds of nature, sense, and duty to desire an elf. You already lose half your legacy through him, and thus it would seem your line has been ordained to end. We merely wish to set things right, to return the throne to the stronger line so that our people may flourish once more. Under the previous law established by our patriarch, the rule would have passed to your cousin Daín, and perhaps in this instance, that is what Durin himself would want again."

"I see." The matter was entirely as Thorin had guessed, but it was best to have it stated plainly for all to hear. "And how many do you speak for when you say this?"

Jari did not answer, but several others— Frár, and Nidhi, and another of Jari's Stiffbeard men—indicated their support by nods.

One of the Firebeards cut in. "My allegiance is to Durin's heir, and that, as yet, is you, Thorin."

"Aye," came Lord Andvari of the Blacklocks.

Thorin regarded them all for a long moment while no-one spoke. At last he sighed, and said "Clearly we must settle this before the Council proceeds. Balin, please see that arrangements are made to discuss this further. For today, you are all dismissed."

He sat back and watched the rest of council disperse, feeling that the anger he had fought to resist had finally unleashed itself in a deadly, if self-contained, smolder. This was the last problem he had expected to encounter during the Council. Even knowing that his lapse into dragon sickness would rightfully be a point of concern, he had never thought it would throw into question the entire right of succession. And while a dispute would not affect his own rule, it would decide the future of his nephews.

Thorin glanced at his two young kinsmen, who still retained their seats near him. Fíli stared back at him, face devoid of any distinct emotion. And Kíli— If Thorin had felt any desire to be irritated with with his younger heir's contribution to this mess, all frustration vanished at the sight of the lad's pale, sick face.

Chapter Text

Tauriel had been eagerly awaiting tonight's meeting with Kíli since the slightly disgruntled raven had delivered the scrap of parchment with his message two mornings ago. Nearly three full sennights had passed since she had last met privately with him, during which time Tauriel had discovered how truly she could hunger for the sight and sound and feel of him. Indeed, she had needed to exercise a never-before-required discipline to keep her mind focused on the patrol reports today, as the sound of Kíli's voice or the shape of his smile had threatened to be more present to her mind than the words and features of the scouts standing right before her. Surely, she promised herself, he would no longer haunt her once she had seen him again.

When her duties had mercifully ended, she had bathed and then chosen a favorite gown, one softer and more feminine than the captain's uniform she usually wore. After some thought, she had left the braids out of her hair. Kíli, she knew, admired those copper waves which shone as bright as the precious metals his people loved. Tauriel had felt a little self-conscious at first, knowing she dressed for him. She had never before given so much thought to how someone else would view her. But why should she not care now? She loved Kíli, and would readily give far more than a loosened braid or a pretty dress to see him happy.

She had reached Ravenhill before him, and so she waited on an empty rampart, watching fireflies winking in the darkening mountain vale below. There seemed more of the bright little insects this summer than the last, a sure sign that Erebor and the surrounding lands were steadily coming back to life after the dragon's baleful influence had been lifted. The thought made her glad and gave her hope for the renewed life of the people of the mountain, as well: the men of Dale, the dwarves of Erebor, and still discovering her role among them both, herself.

While her place was not yet certain, Tauriel thought she must surely be closer to winning the dwarf king's approval, as well. Kíli had been courting her for a year now, and in that time, she had shown herself a trustworthy ally who upheld Kíli's own responsibilities as a guardian of Erebor. So long as none of the visiting council members pressed for a political marriage for the younger prince, Tauriel did not see what objection Thorin could make to their match now. And yet— She would feel more at ease once this whole council was concluded, for the longer they stayed, the more keenly she felt how little control she truly had over that part of Kíli's life to which she was not yet privy.

At the sound of footsteps on the stone behind her, she turned to find the dwarf prince arrived at last.

Kíli's expression was tight and weary, and though his gaze brightened somewhat as she met his eye, she felt her familiar thrill of pleasure falter at the lack of answering joy in his own face.

"Kíli?"

He crossed the space between them and put his arms around her waist. "It's all gone wrong. And it's my fault." Kíli pulled her against him, leaning into her as if his trouble might be resolved if he could simply melt into her somehow.

"Kíli," Tauriel murmured again, instinctively closing her arms about him. He was afraid; she could sense that much. And as she held him, she, too, felt a sudden, inexplicable premonition: I am losing him.

Kíli said nothing for a long while, but simply clung to her, and Tauriel tucked her face against the top of his head. He smelled of cool stone and pipe smoke, both comforting and out of place amongst the green, herbal fragrance of the warm evening air.

At last, he shifted in her arms. "I love you," he said somewhat desperately, looking up at her without lifting his head from her breast.

"And I love you, hadhod nín," Tauriel told him. "But what—?" She stopped herself from saying What have you done? She did not believe it could be his fault, despite what he seemed to think.

Kíli stood back from her then, though he kept his arms linked about her hips.

"Tauriel, they want to take the throne from my brother."

"What?!" She had anticipated trouble for Kíli and herself. What had Fíli to do with anything?

"They say—" Kíli breathed deeply and tried again. "They say there's a madness in our blood. Thorin, like my grandfather, Thrór, fell to dragon sickness. And they believe Fíli and I will show the same taint some day, that I already have because—" He clenched his jaw and said no more, but Tauriel could readily guess the rest.

"Because you have chosen me." Anger flared in her breast like a sudden flame. How dared they suggest that Kíli's love was madness? To think that they defamed the most pure and noble heart with such a claim— "If they can say that, then they are truly..." In the absence of any words in Common to express her disgust, she spat out the only Sindarin that came to mind: "Ionnath yrchuithyr!"

"What—" Surprise momentarily replaced the frustration on Kíli's face. "Your elvish tongue is beautiful, but I daresay the meaning of that was anything but."

"Forgive me," Tauriel blurted, embarrassed. "That was a most foul imprecation."

Kíli shook his head. "I'm sure they deserve it."

"Oh, Kíli," she breathed, all her anger burning away as quickly as it had come, leaving only a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Kíli, I am so very sorry I have brought you this."

"It's not your fault!" Kíli shook his head fiercely. "I should have known. I should have waited to court you till the kingdom was sure. I—"

"Hush!" Tauriel caught his face in her hands. "You couldn't know this would happen."

Kíli gazed at her, his expression miserable.

"Tauriel, why? Why does everyone say I'm wrong to want you? You're so... good."

She did not know what to say, torn as she was between feeling hurt, more for Kíli's sake than for her own, and yet honored by his sureness of her value. At last, because she could not fill the silence, she kissed his brow and drew him back against her breast.

Once his restless breathing had stilled and the tension in his body eased somewhat, she said, "Tell me: how can the council refuse Fíli's claim? Is that not treason?"

He lifted his head to look up at her once more. "No. They're not disputing my uncle's right," he said. "They won't—and can't—take rule away from Thorin. And they really wouldn't be able to deny Fíli's claim, either, if it were not for a previous inheritance law under which Fíli would no longer be Thorin's heir."

"I don't understand." The idea of succession was still a strange one to Tauriel. She had lived all her life under one king, whose rule had seemed as sure and perennial as the seasons which persisted year after year.

Kíli shook his head, almost amused. "No, I suppose this isn't something you elves have to worry about very often." He sighed. "I'll explain, but... Could we sit down? I'm bone tired."

There were no benches here on the rampart, but Kíli led Tauriel over to the smooth tower wall at the inner edge of the battlement and drew her down to sit back against him as he leaned on the stone. He still did not let go of her.

"So," Kíli began, once she was settled between his updrawn knees, "long, long ago, Durin's own law established that kingship passed from father to the eldest living son. If there was no son, the crown would pass to the father's brother and his sons. Sister-sons, like Fíli and I, would never have inherited."

Tauriel wove her fingers through his own where his hands lay clasped about her waist and waited for him to go on.

"But when our numbers began to decline, eventually the law was changed." Kíli paused as she turned her head back to gaze curiously at him.

"My people are waning, just as much as yours are," he explained. "Oh, we'll be here for many centuries to come, I wager—we're not dying out so fast as that—but we'll never regain our former numbers, from back at the dawn of the world. There are fewer of us born, these days, and fewer daughters, though our men have always outnumbered the women."

"Ah," Tauriel murmured. She had wondered at the relative scarcity of dwarf women; among her people, numbers were more or less evenly distributed between the two sexes.

Kíli went on, "So anyway, early in what you elves count the Third Age, the succession law was changed to allow the throne to pass down a female line. Otherwise, you see, the rule might revert to a younger branch of the family every few generations when there was no direct son of an elder son. Everyone deemed it better to keep the kingship within the eldest line of Durin's house than to uphold the strict patriarchal law of our ancestors. No woman can become a ruler, of course. If Fíli and Uncle and I had fallen in the battle—"

"Thank the Valar you did not," Tauriel interrupted, pressing a kiss to the rough edge of his jaw.

He smiled briefly for the first time tonight. "Indeed. But if we had, my mother would not have taken the throne, princess though she is. My cousin Daín Ironfoot would have become king, as he is the nearest male relative in our line.

"As far as I know, there has never been any dispute over this later law. It's been upheld for generations, and Fíli's claim has always been unquestionably legitimate. The only reason anyone even mentions the issue now is that they claim my family is unworthy. Tainted." His distaste was evident as he spoke these last two words.

"Surely that is not a strong enough claim to deny Fíli his right: that one day he might be mad," Tauriel reasoned. Indeed, in her mind such a "might" was tenuous indeed. How anyone who had met the elder dwarf prince could imagine that Fíli's steady and level-headed temperament harbored some incipient madness was a mystery to her.

"No," Kíli agreed. "But this is about more than just a throne. It concerns the rebirth of Durin and the fate of all the Khazad."

"Oh?" What she did not know about Kíli's people, Tauriel realized, was still far more than what she did.

"I suppose I've never told you, have I?" Kíli mused against her ear. "Durin, our blessed forefather, was foretold to live seven lifetimes. He has been reborn five times within his own royal line, each time returning just as he was before, in mind and body. And while he ruled as high king, all of our people—not just the Longbeard clan—have flourished.

"The last of Durin's name was slain in Khazad-dûm over a thousand years ago, and our people, too, have dwindled since then. And so we look ahead to Durin's sixth and final return to us as our most sacred hope. We know our time in Middle-earth is drawing to an end, and so we cannot afford to lose this prophecy, a last promise of glory and prosperity for our people."

"And a weak king would ruin your hopes?" Tauriel prompted, trying to guess how this came back to Fíli and Thorin.

Kíli nodded, and his whiskers scratched her cheek. "Some on the council believe that Durin will refuse to return if his descendants have become unworthy. And they look at all the disaster and death that has followed my family since the dragon came and claim it's proof Thrór's line is meant to end, that Mahal has ordained that we should no longer hold the throne. Thorin has no sons, they say, and that, according to Durin's own law, marks the end of his line."

"Ah," Tauriel sighed, the pieces falling together in her mind at last. "So they think that by putting Fíli on the throne, you risk the chance that Durin will forsake your line and not return at all?"

"Yes, or that Durin will be reborn in my cousin Daín's line even if Fíli still holds the throne. Either way, the best solution is to give Daín and his sons the throne after Thorin."

"Does the whole council agree on this?"

"They're divided. Some of them seem to think the old law really is more legitimate, while others favor Fili's claim and would only be swayed against him if they supposed my family truly is mad. The council will vote soon, on whether to reinstate the old law of succession and make Daín heir after Thorin. As the matter stands, the vote will be very close." Kíli sighed, and Tauriel felt his ribs lift against her back. "Tauriel, I can't bear the thought that I have cost my brother his birthright. Fíli is Durin's rightful heir; I believe it. He fought to reclaim our home, and he will be a good king. Taking the throne from him would be a mistake, and I don't just say that because he is my brother."

Kíli held her tightly against him, and Tauriel understood that he was no longer thinking about losing his brother's crown: he was thinking of losing her. From what Kíli had told her tonight, she understood that Thorin would hardly offer them his consent now, when their marriage would cost Thorin his heir. Yet she could not blame such a decision from the dwarven king.

"Kíli," she sighed, reaching back to catch him about the neck with the arm that was not pinned to her side by his embrace. "I never meant my love to cost you and your family and your kingdom so much. And I surely do not ask you to deny them now." It was not hard to say these words, even now; Tauriel had never wanted Kíli to have to choose her over his duty. No, the true pain came in realizing that they had relied too much on the hope that he would not be forced to choose at all.

"I know," he whispered against her neck, and then the words became a lingering kiss and another. Tauriel twisted in his arms to face him, her skirts tangling in his legs, and he clasped his knees about her waist as she met his lips with her own.

Kissing him, she let herself forget everything but the sharpness of his beard on her lips and tongue, the tug of his fingers in her hair, the soft gasp of his breath at her ear. There would be time enough tomorrow to understand what they must do. For tonight, Kíli was still hers, as the stars belonged to the sky or the stone to the earth.

Kíli, too, seemed unwilling to look beyond this moment, because he said nothing more, even after Tauriel had settled her head against his chest once again. His fingers still played through her hair, their steady movement the counterpoint against which she measured the gradual slowing of his heartbeat. His body was solid and warm, his every breath against her a comforting reminder that he simply was, and Tauriel was shocked by the sudden realization that she would gladly die here like this, since then she would never have to face losing him.

He dozed for a few minutes at last, his hands slipping down her back, and Tauriel felt both sorry for how weary he must be and grateful that, for a while at least, he was content. Yet he woke soon enough with a little groan of discomfort, and she pushed herself off him at last.

"I'm sorry," she breathed as he rubbed at his spine, where he had been pressed against the stonework of the tower.

Kíli gave her a peculiar look, a mixture of something like amusement and regret. But all he said was, "You forget I'm born of stone, myself."

They stood up together, each rather awkwardly trying to help the other as they both tripped over Tauriel's skirts. Once they were free, Kíli caught her face in his hands. "Stay nearby. I'll meet you again soon," he said.

"Yes," she promised. She knew they had not yet discussed what they must: their own future. It had been too hard, too sudden, to do so tonight. "I love you, Kíli."

"Le melon, amrâlimê," he returned, drawing her down for one last gentle kiss. "Good night."

Tauriel watched him turn and go, her heart in more turmoil than it had been since she had accepted his first promise and watched him row away over the lake.

"That Jari truly had the brass to suggest that the dragon was our family's fault?" Dís set down the empty serving dish she had been clearing away and rounded on her brother. The private family dinner in her rooms was over now, and her sons had already departed, Kíli to Ravenhill and Fíli to mind some business of his own.

The color had risen to Dis's cheeks, and she went on, her voice mounting. "He thinks Mahal meant to grind us out? Are you sure he's not the one whose wits we should be looking for? That idle-brained, bald-faced—" She caught herself, clearly on the brink of some obscenity.

Thorin said nothing, half startled by her vehemence—he had not seen her this angry since he had first seriously proposed the Quest nearly five years ago—and half gratified to hear her make the complaints he could not voice before the council, at least not in such frank terms.

"He doesn't know what we suffered," Dís said, her tone softer, yet no less intense. "A lesser house would have crumbled and broken. I should think we've proven that Durin's blood runs true. We survived. We won back what is ours." She crashed a ladle against a silver tureen. "And spilled plenty of our own blood to do so!"

Out of old habit, Thorin stood and began helping her clear the table. She had servants now for such tasks, but she had dismissed them tonight, in no mood to afford an audience to this family crisis.

"I made much the same case to the council today," he told her. He might not have been brandishing dinnerware at his listeners, but he had presented his point no less fiercely.

Dís shook her head, tossing dark braids. "For generations upon generations, being of Durin's descent alone has been enough right for a king!" she scoffed. "If I'd been born a man, they would not dare question this now, never mind what they might say about our family."

Thorin smiled slightly, despite the strained subject. "You would have been the most fearsome of Thráin's sons," he observed.

"I've half a mind to stand before the council and prove to the seven kingdoms just how fearsome his daughter can be."

She was silent as she carefully and deliberately stacked the delicate porcelain dishes and placed them on the trolly at the sideboard. Thorin followed them with the empty goblets, and then the task was done.

Dís stared at him thoughtfully as she wiped her hands on a serving towel. "Why don't you take a bride now, sire your own heir," she said, and to Thorin's surprise, she seemed to mean this suggestion in all seriousness. "Let them try to argue against the legitimacy of our family's claim then."

Thorin sighed, both touched and impressed by her disregard of what such a choice would mean to her own little family. "Dís, you know I've long since decided that your sons are the only heirs I ask for. I won't replace them now, and I won't see Fíli lose his right."

"Won't you?" Her voice had lost all its belligerence and become very tired and vulnerable. "Thorin, I don't care if my sons are kings. I just can't bear to see them scorned as the worthless, witless remnants of a ruined house, to be purged from Durin's line like so much dross from gold." She held her chin high, never breaking her eyes from his, even as tears fell down her cheeks. Thorin placed his hands at her shoulders, feeling uncomfortably helpless to protect his sister from this new distress.

"My dearest," he began, but did not know what to say from there.

"I would rather not have been a daughter of kings. The kingship has destroyed us all, grandfather, and Adad, and— And Frerin—" Her voice broke then, and she paused, fighting to catch her breath before she could go on. "What if I'd lost you and my boys, when you regained this place? What would have been left me then? And I nearly did lose you, you to the gold and Kíli to a poisoned arrow." She put a hand over Thorin's arm and held him, hard. "And even now, this controversy! I can see what it's going to cost my sons in happiness. You're not a mother, so you can't understand. But I'd give both my arms not to see my children's hearts broken. The happiest I've ever been was as a common man's bride, with half the world lying between me and any crown or kingdom. Would that I were there still. Oh, my dear Víli..." She collapsed against Thorin's shoulder and began to sob.

He closed his arms around her, remembering another night, nearly seventy years gone, when she had clung to him and called her husband's name. Then, Thorin had been truly incapable of saving her from a harm already past repair; he could not give life back to the young dwarf who lay, cold and still, on the makeshift bier in their entrance hall. But he had sworn, then, that he would ensure she and her two infant sons would never be without a protector. She might be a widow, and they fatherless, but he would fill as much of that loss as he could.

"Dís, be still," Thorin said softly. "Nothing is lost yet." But he knew he could not promise her everything she asked. He could not both preserve Fíli's crown and defend Kíli's bride.

After a short while, Dís quieted and raised her head from his shoulder.

"I know you have always done your utmost for us," she assured him. "Perhaps we only want too much."

Thorin nodded, unable to answer her directly. "I've a meeting to attend," he said. "I'm sorry."

She nodded. "Go on," she told him, meaning she would be all right without him.

Thorin clasped her once more about the shoulders, and then left for his own private council rooms.

"As things stand now, we've the Firebeards and Blacklocks for us in the vote," Balin was saying. "The Stiffbeards, Broadbeams, and Ironfists are still firmly opposed, though I suspect the Stonefoot envoy might be persuaded to uphold Fíli's claim if we could give him some confidence in the family's stability. He recognizes your birthright, but is concerned for the future of the throne."

Fíli nodded, reaching past an inkwell and reams of notes for some forgotten treaty until he found the teapot. The last of the tea did not quite fill his mug, so he followed it with whiskey from the half-empty bottle at Thorin's elbow. Honestly, Fíli was not sure which drink he needed more right now: the hour was very late, and after two tense days of discussion and diplomacy, he was both very tired and on edge.

After a sip of bitter tea and alcohol that burned his throat, Fíli offered his own progress for the day. "I met with Andvari of the Blacklocks. As you said, he's ready to grant me his vote. But he expects me to marry his daughter." It was, he supposed, not an unreasonable condition, so far as politics went. And yet Fíli was coming to hate politics intensely.

Thorin grunted. "I'm not surprised. His family has wanted an alliance with the house of Durin since my grandfather's time. But the dragon cheated everyone's hopes. I suppose Andvari believes we still owe him this in honor of the match I once promised his sister."

"That was my understanding," Fíli agreed. Andvari had not been forceful about the matter, but the Blacklock ambassador had nonetheless made it clear what political advantages were to be gained on both sides by such an arrangement.

"The Blacklocks would make a beneficial ally, even disregarding the current situation," Balin observed. "I would consider it an advisable match."

Yes, it was.

After a pause during which the only sound was the hissing of the lamp above the table, Thorin said, "I wish you were not pushed into this, all the same. I had hoped your own preference might have some bearing on your choice of a wife."

"Audha is an honorable young woman," Fíli said.

"Then you have no objection to the match?" his uncle asked, sounding relieved.

"No," Fíli answered. Only that I'm very much in love with someone else. He took another swallow of strong tea, and it required all his effort not to slam the mug down against the tabletop.

"If we can be assured of the Blacklocks' vote, our only concern is to win the Stonefoots' support," Balin continued. "Added to our own clan vote and those of our supporters, their vote would secure the majority in favor of leaving the law unchanged."

"What do you suggest?" Fíli asked, grateful that his voice, at least, remained calm.

"As I understand, the Stonefoot envoy's main concern is the introduction of Elvish blood to Durin's line. He would not see the high kingship revert to an, ahem, mixed-blood heir. Apparently Kíli's renunciation isn't enough to set his fears to rest that a half-elven prince would not make a bid for the throne, should Fíli's line fail."

"So if Kíli were to renounce her..." Thorin supplied.

Balin nodded. "Should Kíli choose a dwarf maid, I imagine he would settle all of envoy Búri's misgivings, though a marriage may not be necessary. I expect Búri would still vote in favor of the current law, so long as there is no imminent danger of an elf claiming the succession. He seems reluctant to overthrow a tradition that has stood for generations now. Besides, his own son-in-law stands to inherit the Stonefoot kingdom from an uncle, whose only child was a daughter."

"Indeed." Thorin momentarily wore a thoughtful half smile at this last piece of information.

"Has Kíli talked to you about any of this?" Fíli put in then. The past few days had been a rush of hurried conferences, and Fíli himself had had neither time nor patience to take his brother aside and ask what Kíli intended to do in the face of this disaster that was, in some part, his own doing. And Kíli had certainly not volunteered his intentions during any of the recent meetings of Thorin's personal council.

Thorin sighed heavily and passed a hand over his face. "I've given him this much time to settle what he must with Tauriel. But now that he's met with her tonight, I will speak to him."

"I'm truly sorry for the lad," Balin said, sympathetic. "But there's precious little to be done about it now. I'm sure he must see it, too."

Yes, of course Kíli would see it, Fíli thought. Kíli was hopeful and impulsive, but not blind; he always saw sense eventually, even if it was too late to do anybody any good.

"Well then," Thorin concluded wearily. "If there's nothing else useful to be said tonight, I suggest we all get some sleep."

Back in his rooms, Fíli simply stood for a long while in the midst of the common room, too frustrated to go to bed and yet too tired to find something else to occupy him.

He had known the council would be the first test of his abilities as a future ruler. And yet he had never expected to encounter any challenge as trying as this current controversy.

The knowledge that he might very easily lose the succession threatened to overturn his understanding of his own identity. He had always been going to be a king; if not a king, what could he be, then? A warrior, a smith, a councilor? He had never had the luxury to consider those other possibilities, and now they seemed choices both frighteningly foreign and temptingly full of promise. If he were no king, he might, for once, know what it was to make choices simply for himself, without considering how they affected a kingdom. He could marry whom he wanted, for instance. After these past two strained days, the idea that he might become simply some minor prince, with no heavy responsibilities to the crown, was certainly appealing. He would still have Sif and his family, and together, weren't those things enough to make him happy?

But as Durin's heir, didn't Fíli have a responsibility to lead his people, both his clan and all the Khazad as a whole? Surely that duty included doing what he could to keep the throne that was his by right. This wasn't a matter of pride, but of obligation. He was a prince, a son of kings, and if he simply let his responsibility pass to another because he was too weak or too selfish to lead, didn't that mean he had failed them: his forefathers, his family, the company of fourteen who had risked their very lives to regain a kingdom for him?

Yet what if Daín truly did deserve the crown after Thorin? Certainly then it was no shame to defer to his cousin's right. But how could Fíli be sure he did not tell himself so only to serve his own wishes? Was he merely justifying forsaking his kingdom to save himself—and Sif!—a broken heart?

The door opened behind him, and Kíli came in, Kíli who surely returned from breaking a different heart. Fíli knew he should be sorry that his brother was losing the very thing he valued himself. And Fíli was sorry—of course he was—but right now he also felt entirely and irrationally upset to think that Kíli, by pursuing something perhaps not truly insane, but at least wildly impractical, had managed to destroy the chance of happiness for them both.

Fíli did not turn as his brother shuffled up behind and then past him to take a seat at one of the chairs beside the empty fireplace. After sitting for a few moments with his face in his hands, Kíli asked miserably, "What's the news? Is there any hope of gaining the vote?"

Fíli stared at the top of his brother's head, fighting the urge to snap, What have you done to expect we have? At last he said stiffly, "Yes, if I marry Audha."

"But you— Sif." Kíli looked up, eyes wide.

"Do you really think it's that simple?" Fíli demanded, half aware that he was angry precisely because he desperately wished things were the way Kíli always seemed to see them, clear-cut and uncomplicated.

"I'm sorry, Fíli," Kíli said, sounding, if it were possible, more wretched than before.

Fíli knew he should be touched by his brother's empathy, but right now, what good did it do? "Don't you see?" he demanded, voice sharp. "You've always done exactly as you wished. And now because of that, neither of us will get what we want."

"I never meant—"

"No, you didn't!" Fíli cut his brother off. "You never stop to think of what anything means for anyone but yourself!"

"I—" Kíli stammered.

"Don't talk to me," Fíli growled, and then turned his back, retreated to his bedroom, and slammed the door.

Listening to the fading echoes of his own angry screams, Kíli was glad he was far enough down an ancient, abandoned mining tunnel that no-one on the council could hear. Twisted and warped by the irregular walls of stone, his voice truly did sound like the bellowing of a madman. His throat now raw, but his fury hardly spent, he caught up a pickaxe that lay at the side of the tunnel, forgotten here years ago by some long-dead miner.

He slammed the axe against a rough outcropping of stone until the rusted head snapped and a piece flew back and struck his cheek. With a curse, Kíli threw the splintered haft away, wishing he hurled it into Jari's vile face, and then stood still, panting for breath.

Bloody fucking hell. How had things turned out like this? How had he gone and lost the most precious thing he'd ever found, and in the process destroyed his brother's hopes for happiness and nearly lost the kingdom, as well? What had he done wrong?

Was it wrong to love Tauriel? Was it wrong to pursue her openly and honorably? Should he have hidden their love, as if he had been ashamed, or even pretended that he didn't care for her? They said he was mad, and yet what was mad about loving someone who so clearly deserved all the good he could offer her?

No, they were wrong to see no further than what Tauriel was not, wrong to think that because she had pointed ears and a smooth face that she was unfit to love him or marry him or bear his children. They were wrong, not he, and yet he must pay the price, he and Tauriel, and now Fíli and Sif.

It wasn't fair.

If he were the only one to suffer from this, he wouldn't care if they called him crazy or unnatural or whatever worse they could think of. He would bear it all to be with her. But if persisting in his choice would hurt his family— They were the only ones he could not ask to pay the price. And the worst of it was, he couldn't even spare them by running away with Tauriel. If he left with her now, people would say that his forsaking everything for her only proved his madness. He would leave Fíli no hope to salvage his claim.

It wasn't fair.

His cheek stung, and he brushed at it, only to come away with a handful of blood. He didn't care. What was a bit of scratched skin when his whole heart had been torn to pieces?

Kíli wiped his bloody palm on his trousers and then rummaged in a pocket for pipe and tobacco. He didn't really want a smoke, but he had to do something, and it was either that or batter his head against the stone wall.

Once he had filled and lit the pipe from his miner's lantern, he sank down against the wall, not noticing until he was sitting that he had landed himself in a puddle. He cursed again and shifted slightly to drier ground.

Maybe it was better this way, he told himself. Hadn't he been incredibly selfish to ask Tauriel to love him, when she was the one who truly had to pay the cost by losing him one day? He hadn't truly realized how much he was asking her, back before he had known for himself what it would mean to lose her, the one love of his life. Maybe this was a fitting punishment, that he should suffer now what he had been willing that she should in the future.

And yet again, it wasn't fair, because she was suffering, too; he was sure. Tauriel did not wear her emotions as openly as most mortals did, but Kíli knew his news tonight had grieved her. There had been a greater stillness to her bearing, and she had been far more free in her caresses than usual, as if she had known she would soon no longer be able give them. Yes, she had been as afraid and aware of an impending parting as he. But eventually—in a few decades or centuries or even millennia—couldn't she recover? She, at least, had an endless lifetime to replace him in her heart. He would not fare so well. Not two hundred more years, should he be lucky to live so long, would be enough to drive her from his mind, his heart, his soul. So maybe he would be the one to pay more dearly after all, doomed to a lifetime without the one happiness he craved. But with all of eternity before her, surely Tauriel would find another someone to love her as she deserved.

And so, shouldn't he be glad he could give her the opportunity to find something better? Shouldn't he rejoice that he could set her free, before he had irrevocably bound her to him and with him, grief unavoidable?

Yet—damn him!—Kíli still believed that she wanted what he could offer in his one mortal span more than she wanted anything she might—or might not—find with another of her own people. And so, had circumstances allowed, he would still have accepted her love, her sacrifice, even her eventual sorrow, without protest. For this reason the Valar, in their infinite wisdom and mercy, were now saving her from him.

There it was: he had failed her. Tauriel had saved him so many times, from spiders, orcs, poisoned blades. But he'd never been able to do the same for her. Even last winter, when he'd brought her in from the snow, he hadn't been rescuing her. Oh no, she'd have been far better off shivering in deserted Ravenhill tower rather than invited into Erebor by a dwarf who meant to steal her heart and her happiness without a second thought.

So now why did it still hurt so much to do the one and only right thing he ever should have done for her?

Could he really refuse to do what was right—for Tauriel, for Fíli—just because it was painful?

He knocked the ashes from his pipe, long since gone cold. Then he drew himself stiffly up and brushed the dirt from his still-damp backside.

It must be almost morning by now, and he hadn't slept at all tonight, barring those few lovely moments with Tauriel nestled in his arms. He yawned, and the cut on his face pulled painfully. There would be no time to catch up on sleep now, if he wanted to find his uncle before Thorin met with the rest of his private council. And what Kíli had to say would be easiest without an audience.

He picked up the lantern and began the long hike back up to the royal quarters from the far reaches of the mines.

Chapter Text

The stars were no comfort tonight.

After parting from Kíli, Tauriel had descended from Ravenhill to the lower slopes of Erebor, where she now lay stretched on the soft grass watching the heavens, an activity which had rarely failed to bring her solace in the past. Yet even with so much open sky above her, she felt a great heaviness at her chest as if the whole mountain weighed upon her heart. And all the stars above— Well, they did not shine for her.

I always thought it is a cold light, remote and far away.

How could she have guessed, when Kíli had said those words, that the two of them could ever be anything but distant themselves? They had been strangers, and there could not have been more space between them, a captain and a prisoner, an elf and a dwarf.

And now, they had come near to being joined by the closest of bonds.

That hope was ended now; she knew that, even if neither she nor Kíli had said so tonight. She could not remain at his side if she would hurt him by hurting those nearest to him, his family.

It was right that she let him go, right that she allow him to act the honorable prince and nephew, son and brother that he ought to be, and indeed, truly was already.

Yet she had so very much wanted—

Tauriel clenched her hands in her skirts, as if she could catch at what had already slipped beyond her grasp.

She had always known she would not be able to hold Kíli forever. Indeed, she had been fully aware of this fact from the first moment she had entertained any thought that she might find him worth loving. Kíli had been on the brink of death when he had wished plainly, boldly, for her love.

Yet to lose him like this hurt in a way Tauriel had not expected. His hope that they would share the rest of his lifetime had been so sure and compelling, and thus she too had counted on seventeen odd decades to fill with their love. In that case, what would there be to regret so long as they used every moment they had been given? But to have him taken away now, when all their own hopes and promises lay before them, unfulfilled, and to know that he lived still while every day in which they might have made a life together was wasted—such were the regrets that might grow to be a great burden for an elf, until perhaps she could bear them no longer.

Had Tauriel truly doomed herself to despair, then, when she had let herself love a mortal? Perhaps it would not have mattered when she lost him: in two years, or two hundred, or two thousand. She would have known this same feeling of something ending too soon, and wished herself ending with it.

But—

She pushed herself up, suddenly restless, her breath coming in gasps.

True goodness could not be measured by its duration. A flower might last but a day, yet such brevity did not make the blossom any less beautiful than the everlasting stars. Kíli was fully worth loving; his mortality could not change this truth.

Certainly, the more ephemeral a thing was, the more courage was required to love it. But hadn't she already tried loving only what was safe? Her king had held his people close within their little realm, but even Thranduil, wise as he was, could not truly make even their little corner of the world eternal and unchanging. Tauriel had been shielded, sheltered, stifled—but not safe. Did she even want to be safe any more?

She wanted to know the world, even if it was rushing past her too fast to reach out and catch anything for more than a moment. She wanted to know Kíli, in heart and mind, body and soul, before he was lost to her till the end of Arda.

No, she did not want to be safe. She wanted to live.

You make me feel alive.

Her tears broke at last, and she drew up her knees and cried into her skirts.

Thorin was finishing a second cup of tea and pulling on his boots when the knock sounded at his door, and he knew it must be Kíli. No-one else would have had reason speak privately to him at this hour, right as he was leaving to join his personal council.

"Enter," he had called as he fastened a last buckle, and when he looked up, his younger nephew stood before him.

Kíli still wore yesterday's clothes, which were now streaked by dust and mud. His face was grubby, too, and not just with dirt; he had a gash along his right cheek, and it had bled.

"Before you ask, no, I haven't been in a fight," Kíli volunteered wearily, having apparently read Thorin's concerned expression. "I had a little trouble in the northeast mines."

"What—" Thorin didn't finish the question. So long as the lad wasn't brawling with visiting councilmen, his purposes were his own. Kíli would surely have enough else to explain as it was.

Kíli went on, "I just came to tell you: I know what I have to do." His eyes held a look of defeat and resignation that Thorin had only seen there once before, when he had refused to allow Kíli to follow the company from Laketown. Then, Thorin had known that Kíli's best interest outweighed his disappointment. But now there was no similar comfort to be found: even without his sister's insight, Thorin knew that letting go of Tauriel would be a great blow to Kíli.

"I'm going to—" Kíli's voice faltered, and he swallowed before beginning again. "I'm going to end my courtship of Tauriel."

"Kíli, I am sorry."

His nephew only stared back, his tight jaw and wet eyes betraying the emotion that he fought to hold in check.

"You've made the right choice," Thorin continued, knowing the words were cold comfort. "A marriage to her would cost us the last vote that we need."

Kíli nodded, and disheveled hair fell into his face, hiding his eyes.

"Fíli tells me he must buy a vote by marrying the Blacklock envoy's daughter," he said somewhat unsteadily.

"Aye, that is Lord Andvari's condition for his support."

"Understood." Kíli paused, clearly working towards some other statement, and Thorin waited.

His nephew said at last, "The Council of Seven convenes again tomorrow; is that right?"

"Aye, after midday."

"I'll declare my choice then. If I'm to prove I've any sense left, I must show the decision is my own."

"I agree." Thorin was moved by the young man's resolution to declare a heartbreakingly personal matter in such a public way; the action would require no small degree of courage.

Kíli lifted his chin, meeting Thorin's gaze once more from beneath the fall of his dark bangs. His eyes were again dry. "May I beg one last favor?" he asked softly. "May I be excused again tonight to bid her goodbye?"

"You may." There was little else that required Kili's immediate attention, so long as he was decided on this one course of action.

"Thank you." Kíli bowed. After he had straightened, he brushed awkwardly at the dirt on his shirt and trousers. "I'll, uh, go change before I join the council," he added self-consciously.

"Clean yourself up and eat some breakfast," Thorin ordered, feeling for a moment as if he were once more back in Ered Luin overseeing the education of a young, unruly dwarfling. Then, the worst either he or his nephews ever faced was a scolding from Dís if manners weren't minded or lessons done. "The meeting can get along without you for a bit."

"Right," Kíli returned with a grateful nod.

No, Thorin reflected once Kíli was gone, of course Kíli truly was no longer the young lad who had needed to be reminded of his tasks. This dwarf who had willingly offered his own happiness for his duty to kin and kingdom was fully grown in both responsibility and years. Though he had questioned Kíli's loyalty little over a year ago when Kíli had threatened to deny his own heritage and run away with Tauriel, Thorin saw now that he would be wrong to entertain any more doubts regarding Kíli's devotion to Erebor and his family.

Then, Kíli had been all anger and offended honor, impatient to dismiss any responsibility that was not convenient to him. Indeed, he truly had abandoned his home to follow Tauriel for the better part of a day before recognizing that such a desertion was unworthy of him. But now Kíli proved he understood that some duties could not be dismissed and that some obligations must be chosen over others, painful as that choice might be. Letting go of Tauriel was surely the most difficult sacrifice Kíli had ever been asked to make, yet he did not rage or complain as he once had when Thorin had once commanded Kíli to give her up. Thorin was proud of how thoughtful and mature his young nephew had become. He only regretted that the proof of Kíli's growth had to come at such a cost.

Fíli left his rooms some time after midnight. Kíli would surely be returning soon, brokenhearted and dispirited from his farewell of Tauriel, and Fíli could not bear to be there when he did.

He wasn't exactly angry at Kíli as he had been the previous night, but still he could not stay, either to watch his little brother's grief or to share in it. He understood why a life with Tauriel had mattered so much to Kíli, and even now he could admit that he did not blame Kíli for wanting to be with her. Yet Fíli still could not forgive his brother for destroying any chance Fíli might have had to find the same thing for himself without forsaking his kingdom first.

Of course Kíli hadn't meant to ruin everything. Kíli never meant for half of the things that seemed to result from his impulsive actions. That was the problem: Kíli always did exactly what seemed the right idea at the time, and everyone else got to pay for it with him. But this time, the cost wasn't simply working late to finished forgotten chores or listening to a lecture on the duties that a prince, even in exile, had to his people. This time, Fíli would have to give up the one thing that had come to matter to him as much as the quest for the mountain once had. Indeed, Fíli realized, Sif had come to represent the new life that he could build here. She was the person he loved and wanted to make a new home for and with; without her, his duty to Erebor seemed an empty and impersonal one performed out of obligation and not from love.

It was wrong, Fíli supposed, to let Sif mean all of that for him. Didn't he care about serving all the dwarves whom he had known since Ered Luin, the ones who had watched him grow from a boy and who had honored and looked after him, their young prince? Didn't he care about all the comrades who had toiled and fought and suffered alongside him to come back to the mountain that he'd never even seen before? He did; oh, he did, and so he knew it was terribly unfair to place one young woman ahead of all those faithful subjects and kin.

This was the other reason Fíli could not stand to face his brother tonight: Kíli was a reminder of how following a personal desire could result in so much trouble for others. And Fíli did not like to think that if he chose to let the kingdom go so that he might marry Sif, he would be doing the same thing that so frustrated him in Kili.

But one way or another—for love or duty, for himself or his kingdom—he had to make up his mind tonight. The Council of Seven was to resume tomorrow afternoon, and if Fíli wished to secure the necessary Blacklock vote, he would need to present himself to Audha and her father in the morning. The vote would surely take place no later than the following day.

Fíli wished the controversy were over and settled. That he didn't have to decide. That this once, what he wanted and what was right could be the same thing. He had been trying to tell himself they were, and yet it still felt a lie. How could he trust any line of reasoning that served something he wanted so badly?

So Fíli roamed the deserted halls of the mountain, hiding from his own doubts as well as avoiding his brother. He had no particular goal or route, and indeed did not pay attention to where he was, much of the time. An echoing gallery or a trickling fountain, a soaring vault or plunging stairwell would occasionally intrude on his awareness, though he could not have told how he had found them.

Somehow in the end, he wound up in the vast work halls, near his own workshop. At such a late hour, all should have been still and dark. And yet—

Ahead, he saw light spilling into the hallway from a workroom off to the side. He paused, listening to the whoosh and roar of a bellows and forge being worked, and then the ring of hammer on anvil.

The lighted workshop, he realized, was that of the Ironsides family.

He continued down the hallway, keeping his steps quiet, until he could see through the open door.

Working at the forge, as he had both hoped and feared, was Sif.

She was intent on her task, her brow furrowed with concentration as she shaped a length of metal—a sword, it appeared—and so she did not see Fíli even though he stood in the door watching her for some time. He had seen her at work before, and had always been captured by the sure and easy confidence with which Sif placed each hammer stroke. Whatever shyness and hesitation she might sometimes show elsewhere were gone in the forge. But tonight, her every movement, as she adjusted the raw steel or swung her hammer, seemed almost forced and impatient.

It was only after Fili had watched her for several minutes that he understood the reason for this change: she was angry. And angry at him, he supposed. Likely he deserved it. Mahal knew, he had only been trying to protect her by not telling her his feelings before now. But how had he thought she really would place no meaning on all the kindness and interest he had shown her? She couldn't be ignorant that he cared for her, and what was more, had surely let her own hopes flourish in response to his attention.

Of course, things had changed now, since the time he had promised himself he would choose her. Perhaps it was better, after all, that he had said nothing. But he knew that he surely owed her some explanation now. If nothing else, he owed her an apology for the reassurance he could no longer give her.

Fíli entered the workshop, and still Sif did not notice him.  Nearer now, he could see she worked the steel far too hot, a mistake she surely would not usually make.  She looked up briefly when his shadow fell over her work and then gave a few more pounds to the sword, the heavy, erratic strokes completely ruining her work.

"What's wrong?" Fíli began, though he was sure he already knew.

Sif threw aside the misshapen metal and it landed in the far end of the shop with a clang and a shower of sparks.

She fixed him with a keen, bold look. "I love you, Fíli. And I was foolish enough to think you wouldn't have to make a political match." She stared at him a few moments more and then placed her face in her hands and began to cry.

Fíli watched her, feeling helpless. He wanted to go to her, to touch her and comfort her. But he was afraid to be cruel by offering her something she could not keep.

After several miserable moments, he said, "Oh, Sif, I meant to court you openly, when this council was over. But now I can't keep my throne without a marriage treaty."

"I've heard," Sif answered shakily from behind her fingers. Then she looked up again and with obvious effort composed her expression. Her face was now streaked with soot and tears. "I think you should do what— What you mus—" She wiped at her cheeks, clearly unwilling to finish the thought.

"Will you forgive me? I never meant to give you hope that I couldn't fulfill."

"Fíli, I never blamed you. If you didn't choose me, I knew it was because you couldn't," she protested, clearly surprised he felt he must apologize. "Not because you didn't want—"

"I wish things were different," he told her. "I'd give—" Would he give his throne? He still did not trust himself to answer.

"You've already given me more than I could have hoped, and it's enough." She shook her head, acknowledging her own lie. "No. It's not. But if it has to be..."

Fíli could no longer watch her standing alone and trembling in her distress, and so, praying this was not a great mistake, he stepped closer and drew her to him. Sif buried her face against his chest, and after a few moments, she wound her arms beneath his and linked them behind his back. Soft and warm against him, she became, more than ever before, someone he wanted to protect, to cherish. Letting her go now would be a betrayal—and yet they both knew it would not be his choice if he did.

Sif lifted her head and said, "Kiss me, once?"

He did, dipping his head down to meet her lips.

It was an odd first kiss, skipping almost entirely over shyness or hesitation to some deeper need.  This was no time to go slowly: all they wished to show must fit into one moment.  Fíli had never kissed like this before, and surely neither had Sif.  The pressure of her mouth was full, insistent as she tasted his lips, his tongue, though her manner had a tenderness and reverence that elevated the kiss from being merely an amorous tease.  She asked and gave a farewell gift, one memory to keep of what they should have been to each other, and he answered her with matching readiness.  

When they broke off, Fíli found she was crying again.

"Sif," he began, but she cut him short with a shake of her head.

"You don't have to say anything," she murmured. "Let's just remember."

He nodded, feeling caught between impossibilities, the only sure thing the knowledge that he must not hurt this young woman who needed him so. And yet what was he to do? He could not make her a promise he might have to break.

He had only one truth to offer, and so he gave it, comfortless as it was.

"I love you," he said, and Sif closed her eyes, pressing out tears that ran down over her cheeks.

"Good night," she returned.

With one last caress, he let go of her and stepped back. Then he turned and fled from the work hall, knowing, with a miserable dread, that tonight had surely sealed him for one betrayal or another.

Tauriel was waiting for him again when Kíli arrived at Ravenhill. She was dressed, as she had been last night, in one of her light elvish gowns that skimmed over breast and hips and fell in a profusion of flowing skirts. Her hair, too, tumbled freely down. Kíli had never seen her so beautiful, but perhaps she seemed especially lovely because he had come to her for the last time.

Once she had greeted him, she asked, clearly alarmed, "What happened to your face?" Thanks to his mirror, Kíli knew how bad he looked: in addition to the cut running along his cheekbone, his face had bruised.

"Ah, I broke a pickaxe and a piece flew off," he admitted. It sounded so childish now.

Tauriel sighed in sympathy and gently touched his cheek. Her fingertips were cool against his lightly inflamed skin.

"Take care it doesn't go infected, meleth."

He nodded, and then she took his arm, and they wandered together down to the shore of the tarn, as they had during many happy evenings of courting. The sky shone gold with the late sunlight of summer, and the water sent the light back at them from a thousand rippled mirrors. How was it, Kíli wondered, that the world could still be so beautiful when everything good was ending? A storm, with rain or hail or snow, would have been far more appropriate to this scene.

They stopped at the far end of the lake, as they always did, and Kíli knew that the moment he had been dreading all day had finally come. He gathered Tauriel's hands in his and looked up at her. The expression in her green eyes was very sweet and very sad.

"Tauriel, I don't know how to say this," he began, and the words seemed to stumble awkwardly from his tongue.

"Kíli," she said softly, brushing her thumbs across his fingers.

"I—" She knew what was coming. Of course she knew. But to speak it aloud was hard, so very, very hard. Kíli gathered the breath that had deserted him and opened his lips again, but Tauriel stopped him with a gentle shake of her head.

"This is farewell. I understand," she said. He could tell she was fighting to keep her face controlled, but still two tears escaped her eyes.

Kíli pulled his hands from hers and laid them on her cheeks, stopping each droplet in its course with a thumb, but at his touch more tears soon followed.

"Tauriel, I'm sorry. I'm sorry! I never meant to hurt you." And yet he had, all the same.

"I do not blame you, dear one," she said. "What we want has proved impossible, but I am glad we tried."

"I wish I were not a prince, Tauriel," he declared, still holding her face gently in his hands as her tears fell over his fingers. "I would gladly give up my royal birthright for you. I don't need to be counted a king or a son of kings. But if I do not accept my role as prince, then my brother will lose his own right. And it is not my right to take that from him." His voice nearly broke on these last words.

"I know," Tauriel whispered, and then laughed briefly, the sound almost a sob. "You are a prince in more than name: your character is most noble. And I love you the more for that."

"Ah, amrâlimê," he sighed, pressing close to her.

Tauriel sank down to her knees, and Kíli drew her against him. With her head cradled on his shoulder as he stood taller than her now, he could almost imagine he was sure enough and strong enough to protect her. Almost. Hadn't he stopped lying to himself now? The only way to protect her was to let her go.

He stroked her hair while her rough breathing gradually eased.

"Tauriel, I need to tell you something," he said then, hating himself for having to cause her fresh pain. If only this one moment could draw out forever as she took comfort in his arms.

"Yes?" she mumbled into his shirt.

"Could you... Could you please look at me?"

After a moment more, she let go of him and sat back on her heels to gaze expectantly up at him. Her eyelashes were still wet with her tears, an effect Kíli might have found charming had it not been a mark of her sorrow.

"I wanted you to know: If I let you go... I'll—" The words nearly refused him, but this time she could not help him by supplying her own. "I'll have to choose a wife."

Tauriel's face went blank. "Is it not enough for you to sacrifice your own choice?" she gasped.

"Simply giving you up might not be enough to prove I've come to my senses," Kíli explained reluctantly. "Besides, they may think I intend to come running back to you once this is over. If I have to lose you, Tauriel... It must do some good for my brother. Otherwise, we make this sacrifice for nothing."

Tauriel's brow slowly contracted in anguish as he spoke, and when he had finished, she burst out, her voice soft but intense, "Kíli, how can you, after all we've meant to each other? How can you bear to be matched against your wish? How can you give yourself to someone you do not love? Is there nothing you can keep for your own, not even—" She reached for him, then stopped herself and sat rigid, her arms clasped about her sides.

"Not even my bed," Kíli supplied for her.

She simply stared at him, miserable.

"Believe me, I hate the idea as much as you do," he insisted. And yet, people managed. His wouldn't be the first arranged marriage, nor would it be the last.

"Intimacy without love," she stammered then. "It is unthinkable to me. No elf could endure it. Kíli..."

Fresh tears wet Tauriel's face, and he wondered if they were from sympathy for him or from sorrow that he would give to another what he should have owed only to her. Likely it was something of both.

Kíli reached out to brush her tears, and her eyes fluttered shut as he drew his fingertips over her cheeks.

He could offer to make love to her, right here and now. Indeed, he wanted to offer. He wanted to give Tauriel this most precious gift before he was forced to owe it to some other woman. And if Tauriel were his first one, she could still have what no other woman would after: his undivided and unmatched love. And later, when he went to a dwarven wife's bed, he would be spared the regret that he offered her something he had never given to Tauriel, his one beloved.

"Tauriel, I—" He traced his fingers down the line of her neck and across her collarbone to the soft swell of her breast. She was so beautiful and it hurt to think that he might never be able to know all of her: her creamy, flawless skin and lithe, strong limbs; the curves of her breasts and the funny little hollows behind her knees; the long lines of her back and thighs. Surely she deserved at least once to be cherished in body as she was already in soul. Wouldn't she want to share such a thing with him, as he did with her?

Oh yes, he wanted her very much. But he hadn't come here tonight to get what he wanted. He had come to give what was best for Tauriel, for his family, for his kingdom. And so he could not link Tauriel more closely to him if he wished her to be free. He could not compromise both her honor and his, risking a scandal that would surely injure all those near them. And he could not doom some poor dwarf maid to a match made faithless before it was begun.

Kíli removed his hand from the edge of her neckline and, sweeping her hair back from her neck, clasped her gently about the shoulders.

"I'll go to my grave loving you," he said softly and then pressed his lips to her forehead.

Tauriel rose up on her knees and kissed him, long and soft and gentle. Elvish lovers, he supposed, kissed like this: as if there were no limit nor urgency to their desire, and whole days might be spent on a first simple kiss.

Kíli could not help but smile when she let him go. "You've learned to kiss very well," he said, recalling her shyness when she had once supposed he thought her inept. "I'll never be so good at it."

Tauriel shook her head lightly, her own lips sketching the suggestion of a smile. "I learned from you," she said. By all the Valar, she was blushing. Kíli was grateful for the chance to see that flush of color spread over her cheeks just once more.

"I suppose there's no way to end our courtship that won't be talked of," he went on, forcing himself to attend to the purpose of tonight's meeting. "But I've thought of the best way I can to save your honor, and mine: you have the right to refuse my suit at any time. Among us, women are so precious and so few that their choice is always respected. Oh, some may marry against inclination, but they are never forced against their will.

"It is no shame for a woman to accept a man's attention for a time, and then decide against him. Indeed, it does happen often enough. Our courtships are long to allow both parties to be sure of their intentions: we dwarves can be slow to make up our minds, though we hold firm once our hearts are set."

"So if I refuse you," Tauriel concluded, "None will say you deceived me. I shall not be pitied and you shall not be blamed."

"No."

She shook her head once, sharply. "It is fate that refuses us both. But you may say I have turned you away." From the troubled set of her eyes, Kíli could see that it hurt her to allow others to believe she did not want him.

"I'm sorry," Kíli pleaded. "But I would rather it be believed you've thought better of me than that I trifled with you."

"I understand," she said softly. "Thank you, Kíli."

He reached in his pocket and produced a somewhat misshapen silver spoon.

"So, the protocol is that you must return one of my gifts. I didn't want you to have to give up any of the good ones, so here." He held the spoon out to her. "Take this and then give it back to me."

Tauriel held up the lopsided utensil and studied it curiously for a moment.

"It's one of the first things I made when I was a lad," he explained in response to her obvious curiosity.

"Ah," she sighed, and then handed it back.

"I suppose..." Tonight was filled with things he could hardly bring himself to say. "I should return this to you." He slipped from his wrist the cuff bracelet set with her hair and offered it to her. "It wouldn't be right to keep it, once I've a wife."

"Oh, Kíli—" she gasped, but she took it, tucking it carefully into the tooled leather pouch at her belt.

"I— Er—" he stuttered. All his composure was gone now, and he wept. He had said all that had been needed. Now all that was left them was the last inevitable farewell.

"My dear dwarf," Tauriel said, "You will always be my love."

She rose to her feet and held him against her once more, his head pressed to her heart. Kíli clasped her tightly about the waist, her skirts grasped in his fists as if he could keep her with him by strength alone. It would be so much easier if his test were holding her; he could find all the strength he needed to do so. But by some cruel irony, he had to be strong enough to let her go.

He released her first, knowing that he had to make the initial move if he was ever to accept this choice as his own. He could not bring himself to say farewell, and so he only murmured again, "I love you."

Tauriel bent her head to kiss him one last time. When her lips had left his, Kíli took a final look at her lovely green eyes, and then turned away from her towards Ravenhill tower.

He had taken several slow, heavy steps when she called out.

"Kíli, wait!"

He turned to see her reaching inside her pouch again. Was she going to return his bracelet? He half hoped she was; he had been very sorry to lose that last piece of her.

"Here." She stepped towards him and held out a small wooden jar. "Put this salve on your cut twice a day. It will prevent infection and lessen the chance of scarring."

Kíli took it, and their fingers brushed, just as when she had once restored his runestone in a prison, long ago.

"Thank you," he said, meaning the words for far more than just this last kindness.

Then he turned away again, and this time, Tauriel did not stop him.

Chapter Text

Fíli's first thought upon waking was simply to wonder how he had ever managed to fall asleep at all. Some hours earlier, he had lain down on his bed from habit rather than any expectation of being able to sleep with both his mind and heart in such distress.

He had been thinking of Sif and how hard it was to say that one person's good weighed less than even a whole kingdom's. He knew her, knew how much her dear heart was breaking now. How did he have a right to say her happiness didn't matter? Yet if he could not put his kingdom's good ahead of his own or even Sif's, he readily proved himself unworthy to rule. And what kind of person would he be if he knowingly chose what was unworthy?

Pushing himself awkwardly up from the mattress, Fíli found he was still dressed, even down to his boots. But sleeping in his clothes was not so unusual when traveling, and he had done a great deal of traveling even before the recent quest, so it was not till he was nearly out the door of his and Kíli's shared rooms that he realized that he could hardly present himself to Audha unwashed and in day-old clothing. And so he turned back to his own chamber to wash and dress properly.

As he passed it, he noticed his brother's door was still closed. Kíli was usually an early riser, but this morning he was apparently too depressed in spirits to follow his old habit. The thought was intensely annoying to Fíli. How did Kíli think he had the right to hide from the world when everyone else had to get up and face it, no matter how unpleasant a prospect awaited?

After he had shaved and put on fresh clothes, Fíli once more prepared to leave. But before he went out of the suite, he paused to gaze up at the carving over the lintel, of Durin's anvil surmounted by seven stars.

Mahal, he silently prayed, Grant that I may be a king worthy of my ancestor. And please, be to Sif the husband and protector that I cannot.

Then he put his hand to the door.

"Your highness!" Audha looked up from her book as Kíli was ushered into her receiving room. "This is a surprise."

She had surely been expecting his brother, but if she was disappointed, her face did not show it.

Kíli approached her and bowed. "Good morning, my lady." He glanced aside at the lady's maid seated beside her and offered a polite nod of acknowledgement. Damn. Of course she would have a chaperone, but Kíli had not considered how awkward this conversation would be with an audience.

"Prince Kíli," Audha returned, inclining her head respectfully. "To what do I owe this honor?"

"Miss Audha, I have spoken to your father, but this matter"— he had almost said business —"cannot be concluded until I have your approval, as well."

"Ah," she said, laying aside her book then. "Will you not take a seat?"

"I— I would prefer to stand." Kili felt as if he still had some control of his fate if he met it on his own two feet. Seated, he would have felt more like a sentenced prisoner. "Would you join me?"

Audha took his offered hand and they strolled together till they reached the far end of the room, where they paused beneath a rich jeweled tapestry bearing the crest of the Blacklock clan in gold and green threads.

Looking up at him with her steady, serious gaze, Audha hardly seemed Kíli's inferior in size, though in truth she stood nearly a head shorter than him. If her will matched the boldness of her glance, she would be strong, in her own way, just as Tauriel was. And yet Kíli could not find her earnest stillness nearly as appealing as Tauriel's own elven poise, which had always seemed to hide a quick current of energy beneath the surface.

"Audha," Kíli said, trying to banish the thought of Tauriel's face, "I have asked to marry you."

Her glance darted to his left wrist, which still felt bare without the silver bracelet. At their very first meeting, Audha had noticed Kíli wore Tauriel's token.

"You are free to choose me," she observed.

"I am."

"And your brother," she went on, "He concedes his interest? I was presented to him first."

Kíli knew she had favored his brother from the beginning. Fíli, he supposed, must have seemed to her far more sensible and mature than his younger brother, who had disregarded tradition and expectation to marry an outsider for nothing more than love. What would she think knowing Fíli, too, would choose for love if he could?

He said, "The truth is my brother has loved a girl from our own clan for some months now." Audha's eyes did widen slightly in surprise at this, and Kíli went on quickly, "Oh, there has never been any formal agreement between them. But still, it would be very hard on them to be kept apart."

"I see," she said.

"You once told me that we cannot always have what we want. I tried to dismiss what you said then, but, well..." He shook his head, partly to acknowledge his earlier error and partly to deny the tears that nearly threatened to betray him. "You were right. But I can help Fíli gain what he wants. He deserves that much, Audha."

She stared at him for a few moments, but Kíli could not guess what she was thinking.

"You love your brother," she said at last.

"I promise: as your husband, I would offer you the same loyalty." Kíli could not say "love;" not yet. Perhaps in time he could come to offer Audha the affection a wife surely deserved—indeed, he did hope so, for her sake—but even so, he was not sure he could ever call the feeling love. There was only one woman whom he would ever truly love.

To his surprise, Audha responded by asking thoughtfully, "Kíli, how did you cut your face?"

She reached up to touch his cheek, and Kíli flinched back from her fingers.

"Forgive me; it must hurt," she apologized, a sympathetic frown finally disrupting her impassive features and turning them softer, more gentle than Kíli had yet seen them. "I should have thought first."

" 'S all right," Kíli stammered. He had only thought of the last hand to offer that same touch. In this moment of weakness, he felt suddenly more vulnerable than if he had stood before Audha naked. He wanted desperately to take refuge in a jest, rather than admit to her that he had cut himself being rash and stupid, just as she surely already guessed.

"I should've known better than to use a rusty pickaxe. It broke," he admitted with some effort, somehow knowing it mattered that he tell her the truth.

She did not ask what a prince was doing with ruined tools or tell him he looked no better than a brat who'd been in a street fight. Audha only sighed and said, "I am very glad it missed your eye."

"Um, thanks."

Audha nodded, seeming as embarrassed as he was now. She looked down to his hand still clasped in hers and laid her other hand over it.

"Kíli, I will have you," she said softly.

Mahal and Blessed Durin, what was he supposed to say? Kíli could think of nothing, and yet surely she deserved some acknowledgement of the fact that she had just agreed to marry him.

After a few desperate moments, he raised her hand and kissed it. And then, grateful for a diversion, he remembered that he had brought her a gift.

"Would you honor me by accepting this," he said, offering her a light silver pen. He hoped she would not look too closely at the little leaves etched into the shaft. But he had had no time to craft her something new; this gift once meant for Tauriel would have to do for a first courtship offering. He and Audha would still observe the traditional courtship period despite Kíli's agreement with Lord Andvari.

"Thank you," she said, and took the pen from him with a gentle hand.

Kíli followed her back to the chair where she had been seated earlier and watched her tuck the pen carefully away into a small purse.

"I'm sorry, but I must beg you to excuse me," he said then. "I should prepare for the general council meeting later."

"I won't keep you," she returned, and Kíli wondered if she, too, wanted to be alone now. Yet to her credit, her expression remained calm and polite, whatever she felt.

"Good morning," he said, and bowed once more before he went out.

Fíli had scarcely touched the door to go out when it sprang open towards him, and he jumped back with a curse.

Outside, Kíli stared at him, equally startled.

"I thought you were in bed," Fíli managed once he had recovered his wits.

"I had a meeting with Lord Andvari," Kíli said, stepping past his brother to enter.

"Lord—?" What could Kíli possibly have to say to the Blacklock envoy? Oh, Maker's hammer, he hadn't been trying to convince Andvari to relax the conditions of his support and no longer ask for a marriage to his daughter? Surely that approach would do more harm than good. Didn't Kíli know that?

"He approved my request to marry his daughter," Kíli continued.

"Your... You mean—" Had Andvari really settled for a connection to a younger heir when he might have matched his daughter to a king?

"He's still ready to support you. He saw it was better to have a marriage to a prince than none at all."

"What did you tell him?" Fíli demanded, worried that his brother had nearly soured relations with a powerful potential ally.

"Nothing," Kíli said somewhat defensively. "He assumed that because I had come, you were not interested, and this was the only offer he was going to be made. I merely counted on his ambition."

His brother's approach had been well calculated, and Fíli felt immediately guilty for having assumed the worst.

"You're marrying Audha," Fíli repeated slowly. It had never occurred to him that Kíli might, even less that he would.

"Yes, I'm marrying her," Kíli said, his unhappiness finally betraying itself in the slight unsteadiness of his voice.

Kíli—his dear, reckless, loyal brother—was doing this for him, Fíli saw. Kíli was marrying a woman who did not seem to like him, who had even said once she could not respect him. Had her opinion of Kíli changed, or would she be unhappy with him, and he with her? And yet, could Kíli truly be happy with anyone but Tauriel?

"Kí, I'm sorry."

"What? But this is my f—"

"No, I'm sorry. I've been..." Hating you. Needing to prove I'm nothing like you. Fíli could admit those things now. "Wrong about you. You're not selfish, Kíli. I know you've done all of this—stayed in Erebor, chosen Audha—for us. For me. Forgive me for what I said; I've been an ass."

Kíli shrugged awkwardly and then caught his brother about the shoulders.

"This is awful, all of it," Kíli acknowledged. "There was no chance for me and Tauriel. But that's no reason—" His voice went thick and he didn't finish.

"Thanks, Kíli," Fíli managed eventually. His own throat had gone very tight. "I wish there was some way I could make things right for you. I never wanted to buy my happiness at the expense of yours."

"There really wasn't anything else I could do," Kíli protested gently.

"You didn't have to choose a wife."

Kíli said nothing, either because there was nothing else to say or because the subject still hurt too much to discuss.

Fíli went on, "I won't forget what you've done for me and Sif. Mahal could not have given me a better brother."

Kíli acknowledged this remark by offering Fíli a thump between the shoulder blades.

"Er," Kíli added when they stood apart again. "You really should talk to Sif. She was asking about you a few days ago. I think she's jealous."

The reconvened Council had an air of tension to it which had not been present during the first sennight's meetings. The succession controversy had been a subject for intense debate, not only between the clans, but within each of the ambassadorial parties themselves. The general Council had been in recess for the past three days to allow the envoys to decide their individual votes, but Thorin knew that even with the time to discuss the matter amongst themselves, one or two of the kingdoms had only barely agreed on a decision.

Glancing across the crowded council chamber now, Thorin considered his chief opponent, Jari of the Stiffbeards. Although Jari was the most outspoken proponent of reverting to the former law, Thorin had overheard rumors just this morning that one or two of the other Stiffbeard lords had objected to their envoy's implicit disrespect (and near treason) to the high king of Erebor, behavior they considered ill-founded on insufficient claims of an heir's mental instability. They might, it had been suggested, have raised a more strenuous objection to their clan's vote, had there not been the risk of placing an elf on the throne. To avoid such a disaster, even treason might be justified.

Jari's own solemn, settled expression truly did not suggest any division among the Stiffbeard ranks, but Thorin had no reason to doubt this morning's news. Indeed, he was fairly certain he had been meant to hear. Likely the dissenting party had found it easier to resort to underground means of voicing their position, rather than openly opposing their own stubborn and opinionated leader. Jari would hardly listen to them when they did not yet have enough proof that an elven marriage was no longer a danger to be feared as much as any alleged madness.

Thorin could not help but take a grim satisfaction in the thought that Jari's sure victory might be suddenly upset by Kíli's announcement that he had chosen a dwarven bride. Yet there would be no true pleasure in watching Jari's defeat; Thorin hated the idea of using his own nephew as if he were nothing more than a chess piece, the king's tool, maneuvered into position to deliver the winning move. He knew how much Kíli sacrificed today, and if there had been any other option, Thorin would have taken it. But as things were, Thorin and both his heirs understood that there was no other way to end this debate favorably but by Kíli's renunciation of the controversial match. Thorin's only comfort (and it hardly was one) was the knowledge that Kíli had chosen this course of his own will.

Indeed, his young nephew's face was as calm and untroubled as even Jari's own, and only by an uncle's practiced eye could Thorin read Kíli's true unease in a hand clenched at his belt, a foot already poised to stand or escape. But for all the lad's anxious energy, he waited quietly till the opening formalities of the meeting were concluded before shifting forward in his seat and catching the eye of Balin, who, as Thorin's senior councilman, presided over this meeting.

At the elder dwarf's nod, Kíli rose from his seat.

"I wish to address the Council on a private matter that nonetheless concerns all who owe allegiance to my uncle, the high king," he began. His voice was as steady and assured as if he were merely presenting a routine security report, not announcing a decision that so profoundly ended his hopes.

The chamber went quickly silent, even the few whispered consultations ending as everyone turned full attention to the king's younger heir.

"I know the Council worries that by choosing an outsider, I do not make a suitable match," Kíli went on, his voice now the only sound in the council room. "I confess you are right: in pursuing Tauriel, I have been foolish and impulsive, but I have never intended to betray my king or my people. I had only hoped to mend the rift between our two kingdoms, Erebor and the Greenwood."

Kíli paused deliberately then to sweep his gaze over the watching Council, giving them time to consider his claim, that even a marriage to an elf had been conceived with his kingdom's good in mind.

After meeting the eyes of the last councilman, Kíli continued. "I see now that even with the recent alliance to Thranduil, there is too great a difference between our peoples to permit a marriage between an elf and a dwarf. Tauriel, too, agrees, for she has refused me."

From his position beside Kíli, Thorin could see the brief clench of a fist as his young kinsman said these last words, the only full untruth in all his speech.

"I wish to assure you all that I understand my duty as a prince of Durin's house is to choose a bride who will strengthen my kingdom and my line. A match among our own people is the only way to accomplish this end, as I see clearly now. I have made my decision, and Lord Andvari can confirm that I have pledged to marry his daughter."

Kíli paused for a few moments more, still in command of the silent room. Then he bowed smoothly and resumed his seat.

After a few long moments, Thorin was gratified to hear the buzz of hushed conversations resume with fresh vigor. Along with a marriage treaty to the Blacklocks, Kíli's renunciation of Tauriel had been the key element needed to carry the vote and secure the succession. This sudden flurry of consultation among the gathered envoys was proof already that Kíli's display of duty and good sense surely carried weight enough to sway at least one remaining vote, and one was all that was needed.

A number of councilmen were trying to address the room at the same time, and across from Thorin, Jari held a hushed but intent argument with another Stiffbeard lord, but for now, Thorin's attention was still held by his nephew.

All the poise and control had gone out of Kíli at last and he slumped back in his chair looking very weary. Against the livid bruise (which still showed plainly on his cheek, despite his best efforts to hide it behind loose bangs) his skin had gone pale.

When Fíli put a hand to his brother's shoulder, Kíli seized it with the grateful desperation of one drowning.

She was not running away, Tauriel told herself once again as she went through her room, tossing what items she wished to bring with her onto the bed. This choice was not weakness.

She had been afraid, at first, that this impulse to get as far from Erebor, as far from Kíli, as she could was merely petulance. Was she no better than a young elfling, running off to sulk because she was unwilling to face what she had chosen when she gave her love to a mortal? Perhaps Tauriel had deceived herself most pitiably when she had believed she was strong enough to bear an eventual parting.

No. Of course she knew better than to think that she was merely avoiding the consequences of her own choices now. She would still willingly accept this pain as the proof of having known and loved Kíli. She was not afraid of hurting.

But what would be accomplished by staying? She would have to watch Kíli spend his life without her. He would marry and have children; all his loyalty would be owed to them. If she and he ever met, it must be as cool, indifferent strangers. And even then, surely it would be wrong to remind him, every time he saw her, of what he could not have. She did not want him to come to despise the woman he had accepted as a wife. As for herself, Tauriel would rather be able to remember him as he was when he belonged only to her.

Better to go so that she and Kíli might each begin to make something of the choices that had been forced upon them. Kíli had a kingdom and a family to serve. And she— Well, she had all the world to discover. But first, she wanted to return, briefly, to the Greenwood, the only other home she had known. She needed welcome, comfort, something that she could no longer find here at the mountain.

Tauriel glanced over the items collected on her bed: a light cloak, a water-skin, a spare tunic, and a pair of socks. She was only taking what essentials she would need for traveling, those and each of Kíli's gifts. She had never been terribly sentimental about things before, and yet since these items of worked metal and stone were all she had left of him, Tauriel could not bring herself to leave any of them behind. Some were tools that she could carry and use, like the comb or a knife; others were mere baubles—the tiny golden spider with jeweled eyes or a tree made from copper wire and with emerald leaves—useless, perhaps, yet still precious because they were from him.

Skimming her fingers over these things Kíli had once held in his own hands, Tauriel paused over a pewter flask, remembering the night he had given it to her. He had promised, then, to take her to look for Durin's crown in the Mirror-mere beneath the gates of Khazad-dûm. Now she would have to visit that sacred place of his people alone, if she ever went.

Her vision blurred, and she swallowed hard, fighting to stop her tears.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" came a voice from behind her.

Her face composed once more, Tauriel turned to see Tilda standing in her doorway. The young girl's expression was solemn.

"Yes," Tauriel answered. This morning she had spoken to Bard about offering her captainship to Darion. The soon-to-be-king had been sorry to lose her support, but had seemed to understand why she must go. He too, Bard had said, knew what it was to lose someone precious.

"I don't want you to leave," Tilda said unhappily.

"Neither do I."

"Then why?"

Tauriel sighed, hoping the young girl could understand. "Kíli must marry someone else."

"But he loves you!"

"I am an outsider, and our match is not permitted."

"That isn't right," Tilda returned readily.

"No, I don't think so, either."

Tilda remained in the door, watching the elf, and Tauriel wondered what she could say to comfort her friend. She did not know how to part from mortals, for whom such a farewell might truly be a last.

"Mum died but I thought maybe you would always be here," Tilda said at last, and then threw herself across the room and caught Tauriel in a hug.

"Tilda, I am so sorry," Tauriel breathed, feeling a sudden pang of true sympathy for the girl who had also lost a mother. Once or twice before, the elf had wondered fleetingly if Tilda might look to Tauriel to fill her mother's place; knowing now that Tilda did, Tauriel felt a sudden deep pleasure, followed by a guilt nearly as strong at the thought that she must abandon this child who relied on her. And not only this child—she must abandon, too, any hope that she might one day have a child of her own. At this thought, it was all she could do to fight back a sob.

As Tauriel stroked Tilda's hair, she noticed that the girl wore the braids Tauriel had taught her. The plaits were still a touch uneven, but with practice, soon enough they would be as neat as Tauriel's own.

"Here, my dear, I have something for you," Tauriel said when she could trust her voice again. Going to her bedside table, she gathered the silver elvish hair clasps that she usually wore; she had not replaced them since last night, when she had left her hair loose to meet Kíli.

Tauriel pressed the clasps into Tilda's hand. "These are nearly fitting for a princess."

Tilda gazed down on the gift wonderingly. "Thank you very much," she murmured. "I won't forget you."

"Nor I you." Then because she knew that she wanted to give Tilda this further comfort, Tauriel added, "I will come visit again, when your father is king." For the sake of a friend, she would dare to return once more. Surely she could avoid contact with Kíli for a brief visit.

"Good," Tilda affirmed, her wet eyes revealing how much the promise meant to her.

"You're not keeping that?" the girl added suddenly, pointing behind Tauriel to the runestone, which lay on the washstand, apart from the objects gathered on the bed.

"I am." The stone sat apart now only because Tauriel had been about to transfer it from last night's gown to the pocket of her traveling clothes when she changed.

"You said it would keep you from losing each other," Tilda remembered.

Tauriel did not know what to say. How could she tell Tilda that the stone was nothing more than a memento now that Kíli's promise was ended?

Yet Tilda seemed to understand well enough even without words. "You can't stop believing it now," she pleaded, clearly troubled.

"Oh Tilda, I don't know how things can change for us," Tauriel confessed miserably. She knew Kíli was too honorable to go back on his word, once given. If he pledged to marry among his own people for his brother's sake, he would do so.

"If he promised you, he will come back. I'm sure of it," Tilda insisted.

Tauriel's tears fell at last at Tilda's unknowing echo of Kíli's words on the lake.

"My dear little friend," she said softly. "You must go on believing for us both. I do not know how."

Tilda clasped Tauriel again, her head pressed to the place where Kíli's own had often rested.

"Oh Tauriel, I will," Tilda returned, and then she, too, wept.

Chapter Text

When the voting took place later that day, the proponents of the current order of succession had prevailed five to two.

Daín himself had cast the Longbeards' vote in Fili's favor, thereby demonstrating his clan's unified support of their prince's claim. The Firebeards' and the Blacklocks' votes, too, had already been assured. But Kíli's recent gesture of duty and good sense in choosing a dwarven bride had tipped not only the Stonefoots' decision. Jari's own Stiffbeard party had pressured him to vote, against his personal inclination, to keep Thrór's line on the throne.

"You would have me put the future of our entire people at risk just to avoid discomfiting a king?" he had demanded of the dissenting Stiffbeard lords. But Jari had conceded once it had become clear that the law would stand, with or without his clan's vote.

Despite a slight residual air of disappointment and frustration (mainly on envoy Jari's part), when the Council broke for the night, the prevailing feeling was one of relief. The controversy surely had been a distasteful way to mark the beginning of Thorin's rule and the reclamation of the last true Longbeard realm. With the matter settled, the Council could once more focus on strengthening ties among the kingdoms and uniting them behind the high king, rather than tearing them apart. And the matter truly was settled: laws were seldom changed, and it would be entirely outrageous and unprecedented to bring the same law up for review twice in one dwarf's lifetime. Whether one approved of the outcome or not, Fíli's inheritance was fully confirmed now.

As councilmen had trailed out of the great meeting chamber after the decision was passed, Thorin drew Fíli aside for a moment. Placing his hands on Fíli's shoulders, he gazed intently at his kinsman.

"I have always wanted to give the kingdom to you," Thorin said. "This honor is truly yours, by birth and by desert."

"And I have always tried to be worthy," returned the young dwarf in a manner that suggested he was considering his shortcomings.

"You are worthy," Thorin assured him. "I am sorry my own weakness nearly cost you your right."

"Uncle—" Fíli paused, clearly on the verge of some thought he could not quite put into words. "I do not respect you any less for stumbling."

Thorin nodded, and then looked beyond Fíli to his second nephew, who was hovering at his brother's shoulder like an indecisive shadow.

"Kíli, I regret that I cannot also offer you what you deserve. I know you loved her."

Kíli clenched his jaw, too overcome by emotion to respond, but he returned Thorin's direct gaze, thereby giving proof enough that he understood his uncle's meaning.

Watching his nephews go, Thorin reflected that they were blessed to share the bond they did. Their loyalty and trust had carried them through the recent quest, and Thorin saw they would need to rely on each other no less now that the kingdom was won.

Thorin, too, had once had such a brother. How would things have turned out differently, he wondered suddenly, had Frerin lived to see the return to Erebor? Surely Frerin would have helped his elder brother shoulder the responsibilities of rule, and the weight would not have fallen so hard on the young sons of their sister, Dís. Fíli and Kíli would then have been free to follow happiness no less than duty.

But it was no use dreaming of what might have been. Thorin had learned all too well by now: one was never allowed to choose his fate. All he could do was meet the challenge he had been set as best he could.

It was some hours after dinner before Fíli was able to get away from congratulatory councilmen and friends and make his way to the Ironsides' dwelling. Indeed, it was late enough now that, had he been coming on any less urgent matter, he would have put it off till the next day. But he could not make Sif wait that long.

Yet despite the hour, Lord Ironsides was still out when Fili arrived, and so it was Freyr, Sif's brother, who welcomed him. Freyr did not seem at all surprised by Fíli's request to speak to his sister, though he cautioned, "She may not be able to see you."

"Please," Fíli urged, "Tell her I bring good news."

Freyr nodded, and then stared at Fíli, no doubt wondering whether to protect his sister now against the one who had already hurt her. Soon, however, Freyr's eyes softened, and after gesturing for Fíli to wait in a room off the entrance hall, he left to find Sif.

Fíli stood stiffly in the parlor, not really seeing any of the rich furnishings—the ornate braziers, gilded lamps, a jeweled tapestry depicting the history of the Ironsides house. His mind's eye held only Sif, her face tear-stained and soot-smudged, and he very nearly hated himself for being the cause of her unhappiness. How had he thought he was going to live with himself after disappointing her so cruelly?

As the minutes passed, Fíli became more and more impatient. He did not wish to draw out Sif's sorrow and uncertainty one moment longer; why did she not come? Was she finally angry with him in earnest? Couldn't she trust him now? Or, worst of all, was she simply too miserable to permit seeing him on any account?

Fíli was weighing how rude it would be for him, a guest, to go and seek out his host again when Freyr came back through the parlor's inner door. A few moments later, Sif followed him with reluctant steps. Her face was clean and dry, but her eyes were still swollen from recent tears.

"Fíli?" she asked cautiously. She held her skirts clenched in her hands, as if readying herself to flee.

"I had to come tell you: I'm free to court you now," Fíli told her simply.

Her face lightened, though her expression was still disbelieving.

"But the Blacklocks..." Sif protested softly. "Didn't you have to agree—"

"Kíli settled that for me."

Sif continued to stare at him, so Fíli went on, "Sif, there's nothing to prevent us now. I mean to declare my suit."

She did lift her skirts and run to him then, and Fíli caught her.

"Oh Fíli, I thought surely I'd lost you this time," she whispered, pressing her head to his shoulder.

"I thought I'd lost you." Fíli glanced once at Freyr, seeking permission to go on holding Sif, but Freyr no longer seemed defensive of his sister.

"Sif, forgive me for causing you pain," Fíli said, stroking her hair lightly.

"It's all right." She held him tight against her. "Fíli, it's all right now."

Sif let go and looked up at him. She was smiling, the ready, joyful smile she had often given him before.

"I'll talk to your father tomorrow," Fíli said. "It's probably a little late tonight."

"A little late to talk to me about what?"

Fíli turned to see Lord Ironsides himself standing in the doorway which opened on the entrance hall. His keen, assessing gaze was fixed on the young prince.

"I want to court your daughter," Fíli said as Sif stepped back from him to a more respectful distance, though she kept one hand tightly clasped in his.

"I believe Sif has been in some very real distress lately on your account," Lord Ironsides returned. While Fíli supposed this fact might be a point in his favor, right now it surely seemed to count against him.

"Adad," Sif protested, but Fíli knew he must respond to her father's charge.

"It's true, much to my regret," he confessed.

Lord Ironsides clearly waited for an explanation, so Fíli went on.

"I tried to protect her. I knew I couldn't formalize my suit before the envoys arrived with their daughters to introduce, and I thought it would be wrong to give Sif a promise I could not honor openly. But I still disappointed her, and for that I am very sorry. I never meant to hurt Sif."

"I see."

"I've now paid every attention to our guests that duty requires, and I'm no longer expected to buy a vote with a marriage. I am free at last to openly declare my intent before Sif, and you, and all of Erebor." Whatever Sif's father had first thought of Fili's conduct, Fíli hoped it was clear now that he had always meant to honor her.

Lord Ironsides' expression eased then. "I've known you from a boy, and you always were a good lad," he said. "Yes, you may court my daughter."

"Thank you, your lordship," Fíli returned, and bowed.

Lord Ironsides regarded his daughter and the prince a while longer, his expression almost fond. Then he left, and Freyr followed.

"Fíli..." Sif looked up at him, her smile shy now. Fíli wondered if she were embarrassed, as he was, remembering the previous night's kiss. He knew he surely would never have kissed her so boldly had he thought he would get more than that one chance.

Taking her face gently in his hands, Fíli pressed his lips once to her cheek. "Let's go a little more slowly this time," he said.

Sif merely beamed at him in reply.

"I've a gift for you—I made it nearly a month ago!—but I didn't think to bring it tonight," Fíli told her. "I suppose I'll have to return again tomorrow."

"Please do."

Then Sif caught him about the waist again and stood leaning against him in silence. As Fíli tucked his face down against her hair, he noticed she still smelled lightly of forge fires, as well as of some warm, resinous perfume.

"Fíli," she said eventually. "You said your brother settled things with the Blacklocks. Do you mean..."

"Kíli is making the marriage treaty they asked for," Fíli explained.

"Oh." She looked up, her expression troubled again. "Poor Kíli! I am very sorry he and Tauriel could not..."

"So am I."

"He did it for us, right? The political marriage?"

"Yes."

"Then I will be sure to thank him," Sif resolved, brushing at damp eyes.

"Don't cry," Fíli instructed. "You seem to have done enough of that already."

"I know," she said with an ironic little laugh. "I promise, I do have enough to make me very happy now."

"Good." Fíli kissed her brow and let her go. "I'll come see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Fíli."

"Goodnight, my dear Sif."

For several hours now, Kíli had been commemorating his victory—or perhaps it was a defeat—in the miners' taproom below the royal quarters. He was now far from sober, a fact that he was not entirely proud of, but tonight had been his only chance for self-indulgence. Tomorrow, he would have to put aside his personal disappointment, and once more act the dutiful prince, brother, and suitor. And so Kíli thought he deserved at least a few moments to acknowledge his grief, and yes, perhaps wallow in it a little, before having to leave it behind. It would have been very hard not to allow himself even one night in which to appreciate how very miserable he was.

Kíli had not been very surprised to find that drinking had not made him any less aware of his pain. He was now simply miserable and drunk. But drinking was something people did when they lost someone, and so it had been some small comfort to take the only action he could, pointless as it was. Maybe he was being irresponsible again. Yet he was so very tired of being responsible.

Finishing a deep pull at a fresh tankard of ale, Kíli looked up to find he was no longer alone at his corner table.

He recognized his companion's expressive hat even before he could bring its wearer's face into focus; Bofur, despite the fine if unassuming wardrobe he could now afford thanks to a share of the regained treasure, still favored his old shearling cap.

"Looks like you've had lonely work tonight," Bofur observed sympathetically, taking a swig from his own mug.

"I want to be alone," Kíli explained. The words sounded much more sullen than he had meant, and he felt immediately sorry, but his friend did not seem to take offense.

"What you did today—" Bofur gestured vaguely upwards, in the direction of the council chambers. "Well, don't think yer brother's the only one who knows what it cost you."

Kíli nodded, unable to offer any reply.

"Tauriel was truly the treasure of a lifetime, an' I'm sorry you had to lose her."

Bofur, as one of the few witnesses to what had passed between Kíli and the elf in Laketown, had always seemed to understand how much Tauriel meant to him. Kíli was grateful for his friend's words now, though he did not know how to show it.

After another long draught, Kíli finally said, "She never really was mine, Bof. How did I even think...? She didn't belong in my world. She was like one o' those little blue flowers that use'to grow in the mountains back home, or like... Like the moon." His gaze went distant as he remembered Tauriel, who had once appeared to him as radiant as that heavenly orb itself. "S'beautiful an' it shines on you an' you think it's yours 'ntil it fades away to a sliver an' it's gone. An' then you know you were stupid ta think somethin' so pure'n far away could ever have been meant for you." Kíli looked back at Bofur then, his glance suddenly very keen and steady. "Tauriel was always too good for me."

"I think she'd be sorry to hear you say that," Bofur said gently, but Kíli was hardly attending now, too intent on communicating the depths of his own tragic folly.

"Oh, I knew," Kíli insisted. "I knew from the moment I laid eyes on her that she wasn't for me. But you know what's wrong with me?" He gestured vehemently, nearly sloshing his half-finished beer. "I never lis'n ta myself. I go head an' get myself'n everyone else right into it."

"Listen, lad, I'm tellin' you; you did good today," Bofur said as Kíli downed the last of his drink. "There wasn't nothin' more you could've done, and talkin' like this won't do any good."

Kíli peered distastefully into his empty tankard and then shoved it away over the table.

"M'done. I'm going home."

He pushed up from his seat, and the world reeled dangerously around him. For one hopeful moment, Kíli thought the mountain truly was going to fall in and bring an end to his suffering.

"Lad, you're in no state to go home," Bofur observed kindly.

"Know," Kíli admitted.

"Our place is close enough. Bifur and I'll look after you and get you home early in the mornin'." Bofur finished his own beer, and then moved to Kíli's side.

Kíli gratefully draped an arm around Bofur's shoulders and let the older (and far steadier) dwarf lead him from the taproom, momentarily distracted from his broken heart by worrying over Bofur's last words. His friend had better not think of returning him too early in the morning, for Kíli was sure to feel rather worse than better by then.

The Greenwood, Tauriel found to no surprise, was not nearly far enough from Kíli to keep him from her thoughts. The place was, after all, only two days' ride from Erebor. And not only had she met Kíli here, but he had been the one to give her the first courage and conviction to leave her lifelong home. Walking under the familiar trees again, she still felt the draw of the outside world, a yearning that she supposed would always be associated in her heart with one young and exuberant dwarf.

No, she would not be able to remain here long. She must take leave of her king and her dearest friends, and then be off again for...somewhere. Tauriel was not yet sure. Hollin across the mountains? Down the Great River and then to Rohan? Or perhaps she would like to travel even further south to look upon the sea.

Once inside the entrance hall of Thranduil's palace, Tauriel was resolutely making her way to the king's chambers when she became aware that a familiar voice was calling her name.

"Tauriel! Meldis!"

She turned then to see her own prince breaking away from the guards with whom he had been chatting a moment before—she had seen them, but had been too deep in her own reflections even to notice her old friend's distinctive bright hair. It was rather upsetting to realize she had been so distracted just now, but she had been trying not to think of how the last time she walked these halls she had escorted Kíli.

"Legolas!" Tauriel gasped. "I did not think to meet you here."

"I've come home for the season," her friend explained. "It is the eight hundredth year of my mother's death, and I could not leave my father to remember her alone."

Tauriel nodded, hardly less surprised. She knew the late queen was a strained subject between Legolas and his father, and she was impressed that Legolas had returned so soon from his self-imposed exile, especially in response to the very matter that had helped create the rift between him and his father. Yet perhaps it was not so odd that the woman they both loved should begin, at last, to reconcile her son and husband.

"And what brings you from Erebor?" Legolas continued, his manner turning a trifle closed and self-conscious, though no less interested. "I hear you have become something of an emissary between the forest and the mountain."

"I am leaving for good," Tauriel said, surprising herself somewhat by how readily she could tell him. "It is no longer my place."

"What?" The elven prince's features contracted in astonishment. "But they told me you and the dwarf king's nephew—"

"It is over."

Legolas's gaze hardened. "Did he mislead—"

"No," Tauriel cut him off. "This was not Kíli's doing. It simply became impossible for us to have a future together. Politics can be most unkind."

"Ah." Legolas watched her carefully, his suspicion eased somewhat, but by no means gone. Yet his voice was sympathetic when he said, "I am sorry." After another moment he added, "Forgive me."

"Yes," Tauriel returned softly. She knew Legolas had disapproved of her interest in Kíli from the first, but she could not bear to lose anyone else over this matter, not the least an old and dear friend.

She was, she felt, on the verge of tears again. This new tendency to lose control of her emotions distressed her a great deal; would she ever regain her accustomed self control, or had her time loving a mortal forever weakened her in this way?

"I'm very glad to see you," Legolas said then, his tone once more the warm and familiar one she remembered. And then, astonishing her again, he pulled her against him in a hug.

Tauriel easily and instinctively closed her arms around his shoulders. She had needed this gesture of comfort and reconciliation from him far more than she had known.

"Legolas, I am very grateful to see you, as well," she murmured, and two tears fell at last, melting into his shirt.

Tauriel only let go of him once she had schooled her face back into composure, and if he had noticed her lapse, he gave no sign.

"I suppose you must be hungry from your journey," Legolas said. "I had planned to entertain some of our friends from the guard for dinner. Perhaps you would like to join us?"

"With pleasure." Seeing old comrades would take her mind off her sorrow. It would be good to return to a part of her life when her happiness had not been connected to Kíli.

Legolas smiled. "Come," he said, and moved on into the palace.

And as she had so often done when following one of her prince's orders, Tauriel squared her shoulders and fell into step at Legolas's heel.

Chapter Text

"You're not like any of the other elves I've seen."

Tauriel had been gazing at the misty horizon, just beyond the edge of which lay her forbidden Greenwood, but at the sound of Kíli's voice, she returned her attention to him where he sat on a boulder across from her. Bundled against the midwinter cold in a coat edged with thick dark fur, he looked rather like a very small, stocky bear.

"You're so quick and— And bright," he said in response to her curious look. "And I don't just mean when you're doing whatever it was when you healed me."

"Oh?" What had he seen then? she wondered, not for the first time.

"It's just something in the way you move. Like a candle flame dancing." He colored slightly, though he did not drop his eyes from hers, and Tauriel found herself fascinated once more by how he could manage to be bold and shy at once.

Still, despite all she had done for him in the fortnight since they had first met, this was really only the second time they had been able to talk alone. It was no wonder he felt shy; she still felt very much so herself. But even more, she was glad; he had found her just as he had assured her he would on that emptied battlefield of Ravenhill before the noise and rush of life had surrounded them and swept them apart more surely than the chaos of battle had. She wanted more of him than she had yet been allowed, and she was both thrilled and terrified to be granted her wish.

"How many other elves have you known?" she asked. Tauriel supposed it was few, if she seemed so unique to him.

Kíli shrugged. "Well, not many. Before we went to Rivendell, only one or two, really."

"You've been to Imladris?" Tauriel demanded excitedly. She knew he had traveled from the west, but he certainly had said nothing of visiting that legendary house when she had spoken to him in her king's dungeon. Though of course, she realized, he had known better than to tell her everything then; she had still been his captor, no matter how friendly she might seem.

"Um..." Kíli was clearly perplexed by her question.

"That is Rivendell, in your speech," she corrected.

He smiled as he understood. "Of course! We came through there on our way from the Shire. Not that we really planned it that way; my uncle never has trusted elves much, I'm afraid." He said this last phrase apologetically.

"What was it like?" Tauriel asked, her tone somewhat dreamy.

"There are hundreds of waterfalls. And the house is built right on top of them as they cascade down the sides of the dale. In the morning, the valley fills with mist, and when the sun peeps over the Misty Mountains, the whole world turns to gold."

"Oh Kíli, I would very much like to see that some day," Tauriel breathed, her eyes still on his face, though she saw only the image he had described to her.

"You'll like it."

After a friendly pause Tauriel said, "I confess, though I have seen your people come to the Greenwood to trade on occasion, you were the first dwarf I ever spoke to."

Kíli grinned at her. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Well, I suppose I can't take much personal credit for being fascinating, then," he said in a humorously self-deprecating tone.

"Must I answer that?" she teased, not because she meant to disappoint him, but because she knew the truth to be revealing.

"Please don't; spare my pride," he returned in kind, once more flashing that unconscious, brilliant smile that had so captivated her from the first.

Tauriel flushed a little then, too. "You may take some credit," she said, realizing as she spoke that she did want him to know she was drawn to him, though she was still too self-conscious to tell him outright. "I don't think I would have stayed to speak with your comrade Dwalin, no matter how curious I had been."

Kíli sniggered. "What about my brother? All the girls say he's handsome."

"Perhaps I would have, if he had not been giving me such foul looks from the far side of his cell," she returned archly.

"Was he?" Kíli sounded amused. "Fí is usually far too polite, but when he does give you the glare, you wonder why he even bothers carrying all those knives."

"In this case, I believe he was glaring because we had taken his knives away. Conor removed quite a few blades from his person before locking him up."

"And yet you didn't think I was worth searching," Kíli observed without any trace of humor.

"You would not have been desperate for a weapon against the spiders if you'd had anything concealed on you," Tauriel pointed out, equally matter-of-fact.

Kíli cracked a slight smile then.

Tauriel was not sure what to say next, but thankfully she was spared as Kíli rummaged in his knapsack and produced a few parcels of what proved to be food.

"Here." He offered her a choice of some dry, lumpy biscuits. "I'm afraid it's nothing too appetizing. We're down to our travelers' fare until more of Daín's men arrive with provisions next sennight. Still, cram's not so bad with a little honey." He handed her a small earthen jar. "The last of Bombur's secret stash. I'm not sure where he got it. I traded my last tobacco for it."

"Cram?" Tauriel questioned, nibbling at the side of her biscuit. It proved to be tough and mostly tasteless.

"S'what Bofur started callin' it," Kíli said around his mouthful.

Tauriel had to wait a long time for him to chew and swallow before he could continue. "No matter how small of a bite you take, it's still a job to cram it down your throat. We figure it's mostly good as a chewing exercise."

As Kíli took a swallow from his waterskin, he caught sight of her amused face, and he laughed, spilling water down his chin. He drew his sleeve across his mouth, and then gave her an embarrassed smile, the tip of his tongue showing briefly between his lips. And for one astonishing instant, Tauriel found herself wondering what it would be like to kiss that merry mouth.

But of course she knew, and with the realization came another memory, of a summer day and a stolen moment on border patrol...

Leaning down over Kili, she could smell the grass crushed beneath him and the river water that still wet his hair. "Truly, I don't know what I would do without you," she whispered, her lips barely against his, and she felt him smile. She pressed nearer, deepening the contact into a true kiss, and he grasped her firmly by the waist, lifting her so that she need not lean into him, half naked as he was after his tumble into the river.

Kíli's mouth was warm and sweet, and his tongue surely tickled as it brushed her lips. Tauriel had only kissed him so fully once before, that night beside the fire, and then she had been equal parts curious and embarrassed. Today, she knew only that she loved him and that words alone were not enough to tell him so. She shifted as he held her, pressing a hand to his shaggy chest, above his heart, and after the space measured by a few of its beats he lowered her against him and raised his hands to her face, combed his fingers through her hair.

Below the bank where they lay, the river murmured softly and above them Darion's flute trilled on, but she barely heard now...

Tauriel shook herself gently and sat up in the chair in her own treetop rooms. She had not been sleeping—indeed, she had hardly slept since that parting a handful of days previous—and yet she had been dreaming, surely enough. It was the special gift of her people to be able to inhabit a memory as fully as one might a dream, but she had seldom practiced the skill. Tauriel had always privately criticized the more ancient of her folk who had, to her mind, spent more time looking backwards than to the present or the future. What was past was lost, and there was no worth in mourning the irretrievable; better to look for the good to be had in this moment.

She could understand, now, why one might choose to look back, to hold onto a past good which was too precious to lose. There was a faint comfort in recalling Kili's voice, his gestures, his smile, and she could almost be happy living with him in the only place she could, memory.

And still—

She could not allow herself to become like those elves who troubled her, tied as they were to the past and becoming less and less part of the world as more time separated them from their memories. She could not betray herself by choosing the life of detached reflection she had once, in some small way, despised. Nor could she betray Kíli, who would surely want her to remain the quick, bright young elf maid he loved, not become a shadow, dreaming of the past. She must prove that she was strong enough to make what Kíli had given her—his enthusiasm and joy—a part of her life. She could not honor and treasure him by letting his gifts dwindle into nothing more than a memory. If she could not find a way to carry him with her as she went on living, she truly was to be pitied for having settled her heart on a mortal.

Pushing up from the chair with an effort that nonetheless briefly pained her, she climbed to her bedchamber and took up the silver comb from her dressing table. Kíli was still with her now, she reminded herself as she smoothed the tangles from her hair with his first gift. She could do what she must because of him, starting with the very practical matter of dressing to resume her active post as a guardian and protectress of her home, wherever that might eventually turn out to be.

"How long have you known Fíli cared for Lord Ironsides' daughter?"

Dís looked up at her brother from the clay she was drawing through her fingers on her potter's wheel; her expression was faintly amused. "I was sure of his affection this spring, though I've known she admired him since you all left Ered Luin," she said.

Thorin waited for further explanation while Dís gently pulled the clay up into a simple cylinder, the first stages of a mug or a vase. Around them, the shelves of her workshop were already filled with many finished pieces which might soon grace a marketplace in Dale or somewhere more distant yet.

"It was easy enough to see she waited for news of him," Dís said eventually. "She called as many times in one month as I'd seen her all the rest of the year together."

"She was always such a quiet lass," Thorin agreed. "How did Fíli notice her, I wonder?" Of course, she was a lovely young woman, with her pale golden hair and those bright blue eyes over full, high cheeks. But even such charms did not seem to explain how Fíli should have settled his interest on the shy creature hiding at the back of the room, especially when there were other equally pretty girls willing to offer him their attention. Thorin was hardly ignorant of the fact that his nephews had always had their admirers.

Dís chuckled. "Oh, I'm sure she noticed him first. Yet I suspect she may not be so quiet when she knows what she wants."

"I hope so, if he marries her and she's to be queen."

"You don't approve the match?" Dís asked without condemnation.

"I've no objection. I simply didn't realize he'd already decided. When he agreed to marry Andvari's daughter, I had no idea there was someone else he would have chosen if he could."

"He was careful not to let his interest be known," Dís explained. "You must remember I am his mother; I know the things he does not tell me."

Thorin nodded; even if he had been his heirs' father, there must be things only a mother would notice. He said, "I always did hope inclination could inform Fíli's choice, and so I never meant to pressure him. He's always been a dutiful lad, and I never worried he would weaken the kingdom by his choice."

"As you think Kíli did?" Dís let her wheel spin to a halt as she watched for her brother's response.

"The controversy wasn't his fault. If I had not succumbed to the dragon sickness, even Kíli's preference for an elf could hardly have caused such a disaster." Surely there would have been objections, but nothing of such a scale to throw Fíli's right into doubt. "No, I am sure now that Kíli never meant to put Tauriel above his duty," he finished.

"You weren't sure once," Dís inferred.

"What was I to think, Dís? He nearly ran away with her."

"I know." She stared down at the waiting clay, but did not restart her wheel. Suddenly glancing back to Thorin, she said, "Tell me: if things were different, would you give Kíli your consent to marry Tauriel?"

Thorin sighed. "You are asking many things to change that cannot. But yes, I suppose I would."

Dís nodded, and Thorin could see she had needed to hear this answer, as much for herself as for her son. He still remembered distinctly how hurt she had been when he had claimed that love made no difference in a case such as Kíli's. Dís had taken his words as a dismissal of all that her own undistinguished, yet loving marriage had meant to her.

"Do you think Kíli will be very unhappy with this forced match?" Thorin asked cautiously.

"I'm not sure." Her eyes were very bright. "I would have said yes, but... The fact that he chose it, and for Fíli's sake, gives me hope that he will look for the good to be made of it." She sighed long and sad. "But I know one thing: he will never forget Tauriel. Mahal formed our hearts, as he did the rest of us, from stone, upon which the impression of those we love is forever engraved."

"Aye, so I thought," Thorin concurred. He had learned as much from watching his sister, who had steadfastly refused a second marriage, despite several offers from worthy (and high-ranking) suitors back in Ered Luin.

"I only hope young Audha will not resent him for it," Dís added after a brief pause, and then set her wheel spinning once more.

Several days after the vote, Sif found Kíli in the grand reception hall, where many of the Council guests gathered before dinner. Kíli was finishing a conversation with a young Firebeard warrior when he saw her waiting for a chance to speak with him.

He had last met her in the miners' taproom over a sennight ago. She was dressed more formally today, in a frock rather than work shirt and trousers, but he recognized the same anxious set to her eyes that she had worn that day when she had asked obliquely about Fíli.

When Kíli was free, Sif approached and stood awkwardly for a moment, clearly wondering if she ought to bow. Kíli was relieved when she did not.

"Good evening, Sif," he said, hoping to head off any formal greetings. He knew what she was going to say, and he did not want her to begin by flourishing his title at him. Surely now they were linked too closely for such ceremony.

She seemed to feel so, too, for she said without preamble, "Kíli, thank you for giving me and Fíli our chance."

Though he had expected her words, Kíli was still not entirely sure how to respond. He knew Sif and he both felt far more than could be expressed by the conventional terms of gratitude. But finally he said, "You're welcome."

Sif looked up at him, a furrow between her pale brows. "You mustn't think I don't feel how very wonderful this is. The truth is—" Two tears swelled and fell from her eyes. "I don't know how to be happy when the only reason I can be is that you may not."

"Sif..." He put his hands gingerly on her shoulders. After spending so much time with Tauriel, it was still somewhat strange to remember that most women in his life were shorter than he. Yet with Sif, the contrast did not pain him, as it might have with Audha. "It's not your fault. I had to marry, no matter what else happened."

She regarded him steadily from blue eyes a shade darker that Fíli's own.

"You've given very much for Fíli," Sif said. "I cannot ever repay you."

"Just... Be happy," Kíli urged her, feeling once more at a loss for how to acknowledge all that connected them. He pressed her shoulders lightly and let go of her.

"I will try," she told him, and Kíli thought she looked somewhat relieved to know that she had his permission to be so. "I wish— I wish there was a way you could still be with her."

"Thank you."

Impulsively, Sif clasped his hand and kissed it. Then with a furtive glance beyond Kíli's shoulder, she turned and hurried off.

Glancing in the same direction she had, Kíli saw that Audha had approached. Had Sif been uncomfortable because they had spoken of Tauriel or because of how near Fíli had come to marrying the Blacklock noble lady?

"She's the lady your brother chose?" Audha asked once she stood at Kíli's side.

"Yes. Sif Ironsides."

"I am sorry I missed her, but surely we will meet soon enough." After a few moments, she added thoughtfully, "I don't suppose she is fond of me, since Fíli was expected to choose me. I do not blame her." Kíli imagined Audha might have very similar reasons for disliking Sif, but if she did, she did not show it.

"She is very shy," Kíli said in Sif's defense. "She never even spoke to Fíli until the day he left. I don't think she believed she would ever see him again; she cried, and Fíli was very embarrassed and upset. And then he forgot, until she arrived here. But I'm sure she never forgot him."

Kíli wasn't sure why he was telling Audha all this. He supposed he needed her to understand how important it was that his brother got to be with the one who loved him.

Audha seemed to comprehend, at least in part, for she returned, "I saw the way she addressed you. She must have a very kind heart."

In the silenced that followed, Kíli took the opportunity to reflect how different this raven beauty was from either of the women she might have replaced, golden Sif or fiery Tauriel. There was nothing in the sweep of her coal-black brows or the dusky shadows of her skin to remind Kíli of Tauriel's translucent, starlit loveliness, but Kíli could not say if this strong dissimilarity made matters better or worse. Perhaps he would always look at Audha and see only that she was nothing like his first and only love. Would it have been easier if Tauriel and Audha could have shared something, the shade of their hair or the shape of their eyes?

Audha spoke at last, interrupting Kíli's thoughts.

"I believe I offended you the first time we met, and I am sorry," she said. "I should have known better than to judge you when I did not know you. I thought you championed love because you did not understand duty, but I see I was wrong." Her expression softened to one of tentative eagerness. "I still hardly know you, but I should like to."

"What do you want to know?" Kíli returned. She was the woman he had agreed to spend his life with, and yet he had no idea where to begin. He had never had this problem speaking to Tauriel.

Audha considered. "You were the youngest to go on the quest, were you not?"

"Only by some six months; Ori was born the same year as I." He had once been somewhat defensive of his position as the youngest of the party, but that time seemed so long ago now.

"And I suppose you'd trained your whole life for this," she mused, clearly fascinated by the life he must have had as one chosen for such a destiny.

"Yes. Though Mum still didn't want Fíli and me to go, in the end. But I think she'd have said no even if we'd both been a hundred," he said, doing his best to warm to the topic. Again, it had been so much easier to tell Tauriel that his mother loved him and that she worried and had made him promise to return.

"I heard the Company wouldn't have escaped from Mirkwood without you," Audha said, her voice revealing a hint of pride in his achievement. "Is that true?"

"Oh. Well, we were all in our barrels when we piled up against a gate in the river—the elves had a fort there, you see. The elves were too busy fighting off Azog's men to deal with us yet, but trapped there with no weapons, we were all sitting ducks, or you might say, dwarves in a barrel." This elicited the hoped for laugh. "My barrel had run up right against the rampart, and I could see the lever that operated the gate. I climbed up and opened it so we could escape.

"The truth is, I nearly got myself killed," he added. "I took an arrow to the leg, which wouldn't have been so bad on its own, but the point was poisoned. We didn't know, at first; it didn't make sense that the wound kept getting worse. I almost died of a fever, and I missed being there when Thorin first entered the mountain. Fíli stayed with me in Laketown till I recovered."

"So that was when Tauriel healed you and saved your life?"

Kíli nodded. That's not why I love her, he wanted to say. But of course that would have been the wrong thing, and after all, maybe it was best Audha did suppose his love for an elf was merely misplaced gratitude.

"Oh. I heard the story, but I thought you were wounded in the Battle of Five Armies."

"Er, no. Not seriously."

"But the elven army didn't arrive at the mountain till after the dragon was slain. What was she..." Audha stopped, apparently aware that she seemed to be prying.

But Kíli supposed Audha would hear the full story eventually, and surely it would be better for her to hear Tauriel's part in it from him.

"Tauriel followed us alone after a captured orc had gloated about poisoning me."

"You mean she followed just for your sake?" She regarded Kíli with new attention.

"I still can't believe I deserved it," Kíli affirmed.

"She thought very highly of you," Audha observed softly.

Kíli did not know how to respond to her, but Audha did not seem to require an answer.

After a bit, she said slowly, "Kíli, I don't expect you to be in love with me. And I could admire you even so."

Kíli stared at her, curious and dumbfounded. Admire him? He had first thought she hardly respected him. Of course, he hoped she would not have accepted him if she still felt that way, but he had not expected to hear so much from her so soon. She had only said could, he reminded himself. He did not want her to despise him, but he was not sure he could bear her admiration, either. Was he afraid of what he would owe her in return, afraid she would take away from the devotion that he felt he would always owe to Tauriel?

"I'm sorry; I've upset you again," Audha said unhappily.

"No, you've done nothing wrong," he assured her with some effort.

"Kíli, I—" She reached out a hand as if to lay it on his arm, but stopped herself and offered him a curtsey instead, her eyes lowered. Then she moved away again, and Kíli stared after her, feeling unexpectedly disappointed with himself, though he was not sure why.

Fíli was stumbling back to bed from the necessary when he noticed a light under his brother's door. Kíli was an early riser, but it was still several hours till dawn in the outside world; surely he was not up so soon. Was he— No, of course Fíli knew better than to think Kíli meant to run away. If Kíli hadn't left before, he surely wouldn't now, when so much more depended on his loyalty.

Yet it was no stretch to guess that something was still amiss. Kíli had been understandably out of sorts and depressed in the sennight following the vote. Fíli turned back from his own door and rapped lightly on Kíli's.

"Hullo?" Kíli's sleep-muddled voice returned shortly.

"Kí? May I come in?"

"Yes."

Fíli opened the door to find his brother sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. The untrimmed lamp flickered fitfully on the bedside table.

"You all right?" Fíli inquired, realizing as he spoke what a stupid question it was. Of course Kíli was far from all right.

Kíli didn't move. "Will I dream of her every night for the rest of my life?" he returned. "It's killing me, but I think it would be even worse to stop." He looked up then to fix his brother with a beseeching look. The cut along his cheek, closed but not yet fully healed, lent him a particularly pathetic aspect in the uncertain light.

Fili sat next to him, and Kíli looked back down at his empty hands. They were trembling.

Kíli said, "In my dreams, I tell her I love her. And I wake feeling that I've betrayed her. Have I?"

"No. Nothing between you and Audha will ever change what you gave to Tauriel."

"Yes, gave," Kili said, emphasizing the past tense. "I've nothing more to give her, Fí. I had to let her go, because if I gave her any more of myself, I'd break her immortal heart. But I'm not ready... Not ready to let go of the memory of her. I don't think I can. She's graven on my soul. I can't lose her without effacing my very self."

"I think that's how we were made to love, Kíli." Fíli supposed he would have felt much the same way about Sif. It was merely a harsh twist of fate that had left this doom to his brother instead.

"Is it wrong to marry Audha if I can't forget Tauriel?" Kíli asked after a while.

"I don't know," Fíli admitted honestly. "But I was prepared to do the same thing."

Kíli sighed and drew a hand through his loose hair.

"Fí, was Audha in love with you?" he asked again, regarding Fíli earnestly.

"I don't think so," Fíli returned, glad he could give this answer truthfully. "I mean, she asked me to choose her but I think that was only because I offered her the things she wanted. It was still a contract to her, in the end."

Kíli's anxious expression eased somewhat in relief.

"Audha wanted someone who was honorable and gentle," Fíli went on. "Once she knows you, she can hardly be disappointed."

"I hope not."

They sat a while longer in silence before Fíli rose to go back to his own room.

"Just one thing, Fí," Kíli called as his brother was nearly out the door.

"Yes?"

"Do you think I should grow out my beard?"

"Hmm?" Fíli couldn't see what this question had to do with anything.

"Well, you've seen all the fancy beads and braids the Blacklocks wear. Maybe Audha'd like me better if I dressed that way." Kíli sighed. "It's the only thing I can think of to give her; I can change my looks, if I can't change my heart."

"Kíli, you're already good enough for her. But I suppose it is a thoughtful gesture." And a truly personal one, too: Kíli had stubbornly preferred the convenience of a trimmed beard for most of his life, despite the ribbing his choice had sometimes earned him (mainly from older dwarves of their uncle and mother's generation).

"Right," Kíli returned, looking resigned. "It's true I am a Longbeard, after all."

Back in his bed, Fíli lay awake for a long time. Of course this situation was not his own fault, and yet Fíli could not help feeling guilty that he got to keep Sif, while his brother would only see his beloved Tauriel again in dreams. And he knew that Sif, for all her assurances that she was happy, was troubled by the same fact; thanking Kíli had only slightly eased her heart.

Would he and Sif ever be free from this great debt, free enough to know the full joy that could be theirs? Fíli knew that he had been blessed to emerge from this recent controversy without losing his beloved or his birthright, but even so his life was altered. Yet he would not dare complain when he thought of what Kíli had lost.

Certainly there had been times in the past when Fíli had felt it was unfair that Kíli got to enjoy freedoms and privileges that his elder brother, as crown prince, could not. But even when Fíli had wished his brother would bear some of the weight of an heir's responsibility, he would never have wanted to see Kíli forced to give up so much. His loyal, loving little brother deserved better than this, and Fíli only wished Mahal, or Mandos, or the All-father had seen fit to give it to him.

Chapter Text

The stands surrounding the open floor of the training hall were full by the time Thorin arrived. With the Council nearly concluded, many of the younger dwarves had arranged to celebrate with an athletic competition among the clans. The morning had opened with a wrestling match, though the events had moved on to a hammer throw at present. Archery would be next, and Thorin had promised his younger nephew he would be present to watch.

Crowded as the stands were, it was not hard for Thorin to find a place at the rail; the dwarves of his own and the visiting clans alike readily made way for the high king and his guard, which today consisted only of Dwalin and another Longbeard veteran of Azanulbizar.

In the finely graveled arena below, the contest had come to a tie-breaking throw between one of the Stonefoots and one of the Blacklocks. Indeed, the Blacklock contingent was gathered near in the stands, as Thorin discovered from the earsplitting cheer when their man's throw passed the Stonefoot's own by several spans. As their champion bowed to his appreciative audience and then accepted his prize, Thorin noted that among the Blacklock spectators stood Audha, Kíli's intended.

In the brief lull while the field was prepared for the archery contest, Thorin made his way towards her, and seeing him, she curtseyed low.

"Your Majesty," she greeted him.

"My lady," he returned with a slight bow. "I suppose you know Kíli is to compete next in the archery match."

"He is?" Interest flickered in her grey eyes. "He said he would compete in the armed events, but I did not get to ask which weapon he would choose. I had thought perhaps the sword; I know how well he fought on Ravenhill." Since the marriage arrangement, Audha had given full attention to Kíli's accomplishments.

"He is skilled with a sword, I'm gratified to say, as I myself had a hand in his training," Thorin concurred with a slight smile. "But he's always had a particularly keen eye with a bow."

Behind them, Dwalin chuckled. "He could outshoot me when 'e was fifteen," he remarked. "Though mebee that's not sayin' much."

Glancing back, Thorin caught Dwalin's knowing grin. His cousin, Thorin knew from long experience, preferred to settle fights from a closer range.

"Your nephews were trained so young?" Audha gasped, and turning back to her, Thorin met her wide eyes.

"You may imagine their mother objected," he told her. "My only thought was to make them ready for the day we would return."

"And they were," Dwalin pronounced.

"Aye, thank Mahal."

With the target set out, the archers themselves began to file into the arena, and Audha turned back to the rail to study them. There were perhaps a score of contestants from the different clans, and Kíli looked the youngest of them, though with his short beard, he sometimes did appear younger than his age. (Was that why the lad had recently decided to let his beard grow?)

Kíli was intent on conversation with a grey-bearded dwarf beside him; and though their words were impossible to catch here amongst the buzz of the crowd, it was evident from look and gesture that they discussed Kíli's bow. With its unconventional size and clean lines, the weapon was clearly of elven make. Tauriel had given it to him last Yuletide, and he had been practicing under her guidance ever since.

The elder dwarf was shaking his head now, as if kindly dismissing a youngster's folly. From the mischievous flash in Kíli's eye and the upward quirk of his mouth as he responded, Thorin needed no help to know the lad had just promised his opponent would feel differently about the outlandish weapon when he was beaten by it. Glad as Thorin was to see his nephew restored to his customary light spirits, the sight nonetheless pained him: Kíli had been unnaturally subdued since the controversy, and this glimpse served as a fresh reminder of just how much he was altered.

The tournament was arranged such that each contestant shot six times, advancing nearer to the target for each pair of arrows. A judge then tallied the points earned according to which area of the target had been hit. The match proceeded slowly as the contestants took their turns one by one. Well-trained and experienced archers, most scored at least one bull's-eye, and by the time Kíli's turn came, several dwarves were tied with a leading high score.

Taking his place at the furthest mark, Kíli selected an arrow and nocked it to the bow. Then, in one smooth, uninterrupted motion, he drew, sighted, and loosed.

The arrow landed in the ring just outside the target center.

Without pausing for more than a few breaths, Kíli repeated the action, this time placing the arrow within the bull's eye. The crowd applauded.

As Kíli moved up to the midway mark and shot again, there was no mistaking that his technique was as noteworthy as his exotic bow. Where the other contestants took time (occasionally an exaggerated amount) to breathe and sight carefully between shots, Kíli readily and easily loosed his arrows, as if sure of where they would land even before he had drawn the bow.

Indeed, his shots were clustered uniformly about the center of the target, whereas many of the other archers still made the occasional stray shot.

When he had loosed his last arrow, Kíli strode to the target and waited while the referee recorded his score and placed him in the lead. Then he tugged his arrows free and turned back to his original place, a broad, triumphant grin on his face. A round of cheers went up from the watching dwarves, and even the grey-bearded skeptic of earlier clapped his young opponent on the back with an appreciative word.

"I never doubted Kíli's ability, given his part in your victorious quest," Audha remarked then. "Yet I did not expect to see such great skill in a warrior still so young." After a moment's further thought, she added, "But of course, he must be the only archer here ever to have trained with an elf." So she had noticed the distinctive craftsmanship of his bow, as well.

"This may be the best I have ever seen him shoot," Thorin said, implicitly affirming Audha's observation that Kíli had benefitted from his connection to Tauriel.

Dwalin snorted. "On a range, perhaps. 'Tis a vastly different thing when yer facin' down a raging troll, not some wee, unthreatnin' target. What matters then ain't so much a fair style as keepin' yer head clear an' yer hand steady. The lad did no worse then, if not so prettily."

Audha glanced back at the gruff warrior, a light flush coloring her cheeks.

"He's a right hero, lass, as much as any dwarf twice his age," Dwalin affirmed.

She nodded and turned back to watch the rest of the tournament, though Thorin noticed her attention was as much on Kíli as it was on the remaining contestants.

In the end, Kíli won handily by the point value of two shots. As he went forward to receive the prize, a fine hunting knife, his pleasure was unmistakable in his easy smile and bright eyes.

Thorin supposed this victory was, in a way, the last remaining honor Kíli could pay to Tauriel. With a sudden, shocking clarity of insight, Thorin wondered now if Tauriel had once been the inspiration for Kíli's growth in more areas than merely his warrior's skill. Had it not also been for her sake that he wished to prove himself fully honorable? And what future achievements might the young man lose, now that he no longer measured his merit in her eyes? For all that Kíli clearly strove to honor Audha, Thorin was readily aware that his nephew would never hold her in the esteem that he had the red-haired elf maiden.

"Kíli is no less handsome than his brother when he finally smiles," Audha remarked, drawing Thorin's attention again. Seeing his glance, she went on, "They seemed so unlike to me at first, the one dark and the other fair. I suppose Fíli must take his looks from their father?"

"Aye, Fíli is a near image of his sire, both in face and coloring." He chuckled. "My sister always said that Mahal gave Víli his own crown of gold, and that such favor was worth more than any diadem or noble name."

"Their father was not of noble blood?" Audha asked, curious.

"Víli was a merchant's son, well-to-do, but not high-born." Thorin could see that Audha was astonished by the idea that such a high princess as Dís would marry below her station. "Those first decades of exile were hard for us all. Our father wanted to see her happy again," he explained.

"Please, I meant no disrespect!" Audha insisted. "Your nephews are both most honorable. I think it very ungracious that some on the Council have doubted them."

Moved by her declaration, Thorin did not first know how to respond. He was grateful for Kíli's sake that Audha did not seem to think her future husband to be compromised in his wits despite having pursued an elf. There was hope yet that the young couple might reach some sort of understanding, though it would not be the love that Kíli's own parents had once shared.

"So you are to be my niece after all," Thorin remarked kindly. If he had married Branca, as he had long-ago promised, Audha would have been the daughter of his wife's brother.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Audha said, her tone warm. "I am very honored to realize this connection between our houses at last."

"Your aunt Branca, I hope, has never regretted that I released her?" Thorin knew she had been relieved at the time, but many years had passed since then, and his situation had once more changed.

Audha gazed at him curiously, evidently wondering if he regretted the choice. "She always speaks highly of you," Audha said. "But not in regret." She momentarily wore an odd expression, and Thorin wondered what she was not telling him.

"I'm glad to hear it," he said, offering Audha the explanation she clearly wanted from him. "I confess I made my choice because I had little interest in marriage then; revenge was foremost in my mind. But I also knew that she must surely be miserable if I dragged her after me into poverty and exile."

Audha smiled slightly. "So she said when my grandfather reminded her she might now be a queen and her sons princes."

Thorin nodded. So that was it: Branca's family had argued over her choice. Yet for all that Audha's betrothal to Kíli might now serve their ambitions, he thought she seemed forthright and honorable, someone he did not object to making part of his house and his line.

"I welcome you now, for her sake, and hope you shall be happy here," Thorin said, knowing the unintentional irony of his words even as he spoke. It would truly be a challenge for Audha to be happy, when Kíli so clearly was not.

But she seemed to take his words as he meant them, for she smiled as he clasped her hand, and then she curtseyed once more.

It really was a wonder, Fíli mused, to think that he had lived all those years in Ered Luin nearly oblivious to the lovely young woman who now stood beside him, leaning half on his arm and half on the balcony rail. As Sif watched the busy square below, he watched her, taking in the curve of her cheek, the full sweep of her tawny lashes, a careless curl of white-gold hair against her temple. How had she not stood out to him before as the most beautiful woman in Ered Luin? Yet perhaps he could only say so now that he knew the strong, caring spirit behind her quiet exterior.

"You know when I first noticed you, of course, but you've never told me: when did you first fall in love with me?" Fíli asked, and Sif turned to look at him.

"Oh, well..." She smiled at him, implying the answer should be obvious. "Like most of the girls in our dûm, I suppose I've admired you since you first grew into a beard." Then she shook her head dismissively. "But when did I really fall for you..." She grinned, shyly this time. "It's a little bit embarrassing, actually."

"You don't want to tell me?"

"I'll tell you," she insisted readily, though she paused for some seconds before going on. "You know the time Freyr beat Kíli at a drinking contest?"

"I remember. I had to take Kíli out back to be sick." It had not been his fondest fraternal moment.

"I know you did," she affirmed. "And I felt sort of responsible since my brother had put Kíli up to it. Anyway, you came back inside, and Kíli looked terrible. I brought him some water, and you had to hold him up to drink it." She paused, momentarily self conscious, but Fíli knew to wait. "You had one arm around Kíli, and your other shoulder was against mine. We finally got Kíli to drink the water, and then you looked right in my face and thanked me. Oh Fíli, you'd never even noticed me before, but there you were, so close, and smiling as if you really knew me."

Fíli felt a smile spreading across his face once more. "Now that you say it, I remember. I was worrying what Mum would say if I brought Kíli home too drunk to stand up, and there you were apologizing as if it was your fault. And I thought you were very kind to care, since I certainly wouldn't have if your brother had lost the challenge."

"And I was thinking you were far more sensible than either of our brothers and very wonderful for looking after Kíli anyway," Sif confessed.

Fíli felt both warmed and humbled that she had thought so highly of him. "That was almost two years before the quest," he noted.

"I know; far too long for me to have said and done nothing." Sif sounded faintly annoyed, though Fíli knew it was not with him.

"Mum said you came to ask after me while we were gone."

Sif tossed her head fiercely. "Oh, I hated myself for never having the courage to go after you till it was too late. I kept thinking, what if you never came back? I truly didn't expect there was anything you would see in me, but I thought at least if I'd spoken, I would have had an answer, instead of wondering, for the rest of my life, what you might have said."

"Sif! Did you think I was too blind to see who you were if you gave me the chance?" He took her face in his hands.

"Well, the other girls were livelier and prettier and..." She trailed off in response to Fíli's astonished expression.

"Louder, maybe," he corrected her. "You are lively. And as for pretty— I begin to suspect that your father, for all his wealth, has not a single mirror in his house." He brushed his thumbs over her cheeks, then let go of her.

"Oh." Her smile, as she comprehended his evaluation of her, was slow and without conceit.

"I recall you once told me that if I didn't think better of myself, you would have to remind me to," Fíli said.

"Ha!" She stared at him, astonished in her turn. "I'm surprised you remember. I didn't think you understood me then."

"I'd a fair idea what you meant."

"Oh?" She met his eye teasingly, chin raised in challenge.

"Yes, it was—" He reached for her as he spoke, but she spun beyond his reach and skipped back from the balcony and away from him.

"What was it, Fíli?" she called back over her shoulder.

He trotted after her, down to the end of one corridor and round a corner into the next.

"How can I tell you if you won't—" He collided with her as she stopped suddenly and then whirled to face him.

Laughing breathlessly up at him and with her cheeks lightly flushed, she was irresistible. He scooped her against him and kissed her, on her lips, her cheek, the downy edge of her beard below her ear.

"All right, so you did understand," she gasped, catching the lapels of his coat to keep her balance.

"And do you believe me now? Very lively and pretty," Fíli said, punctuating each of these pronouncements with another kiss.

"Yes, I— Oh." Sif stiffened slightly, and after a moment's confusion, Fíli glanced over his shoulder to see his brother standing with Audha on his arm. Both were staring at him and Sif with varying degrees of awkward embarrassment on their faces. Kíli's expression quickly blanked, as if he were shutting out some unwelcome memory, though Audha's look remained open, almost curious.

As he turned to face them, Fíli could feel Sif standing close against his side, almost—though not quite—hiding behind him. After what felt like a very long time, Fíli said, "Forgive me; I owe an introduction." He moved Sif forward somewhat, though without detaching her from the protection of his side. "Lady Audha, may I present the Lady Sif."

Audha responded with a full curtsey, which Sif returned nervously after a moment.

"I am pleased to meet you at last," Audha said. "Kíli has spoken well of you."

"Ah— Yes. He is very kind," Sif stammered.

Kíli himself had gone somewhat pale, and he shifted his weight slightly, giving Fíli the distinct impression that he wanted to flee.

Sif, too, must have noticed his discomfort, for she said, her voice much steadier this time, "Audha, I understand you will be remaining here after the rest of the Council leave next sennight. I hope we may become friends then."

"Thank you." Audha's expression softened into a smile. "I still know very few people here in Erebor."

"We can make sure that isn't true for long," Fíli put in then.

Kíli spoke at last. "I've been giving Audha a tour of the Royal Road." This central thoroughfare of the mountain, stretching from the king's quarters through the great market to the main work halls, was so-called because in Thrór's day, it had been hung with banners of gold bearing the king's sigil. "But she says she's seen halls and vaults enough, and asked to see the silver fountains, from the old song. They're in the lower court from here, right?"

Of course Kíli knew where they were; he and Tauriel had often visited them together. His brother was, Fíli realized, tacitly asking that they accompany him. Surely the place held too many memories for Kíli to bear alone on this first return without his elf.

"Yes, the lower court, down the east stairwell from here," Fíli returned. "I can show you, if you don't mind the company?"

Kíli looked hopefully to Audha, who nodded readily. She, too, seemed almost relieved by the proposal. Was Kíli truly such poor company? There had once been no girl Kíli could not please, if he wished.

"It's this way," Fíli said, and catching Sif's hand, he continued back in the direction from which he and she had first come. Once they were a little ahead of Kíli and Audha, he looked down at Sif, but before he could murmur an apology for spoiling their own stroll, Sif shook her head.

"It's all right," she whispered. "We should help Kíli; we owe him that."

"You're right."

"I'm just so sorry..." Sif said, and Fíli saw a tear hovering in her eye.

"You mustn't feel responsible," he said, drawing her close enough to kiss the top of her head.

Fíli glanced instinctively back for a moment, wondering if Audha and his brother guessed they were talked of.

The two still walked arm in arm. Kíli's gaze was fixed far ahead, but Audha's own eyes met Fíli's for a moment. Her look was neither suspicious nor resentful, merely thoughtful, if a little serious. As there was no point in pretending they had not noticed one another, Fíli held her eyes for another moment before looking back to the way before him.

Behind, he heard Audha say to Kíli at last, "And so this is your first visit to the fountains, too?"

There was a pause, and then Kíli said haltingly, "No, I've been before, but it was very long ago."

Kíli woke to a soft, intermittent sound. He could not identify it at first, till he rolled over and saw his wife sitting up on the far edge of the bed. Her shoulders trembled slightly, and then he knew: she was crying.

"Audha?" he mumbled, pushing himself up. "Are you unwell?" It was a foolish question, of course. Kíli was already sure her distress had nothing to do with her health. But he was not sure it was in his power to help alleviate any other sort of pain.

"I am well," she affirmed softly.

Kíli stood and padded around to her side of the bed. Audha looked up at him, the tears on her cheeks glimmering faintly in the dim light of the room's night lamp. Placing his hands on her shoulders he asked, "What can I do?" His voice came out faint and hoarse with his own submerged grief.

"Kíli, I—" Audha looked up searchingly into his face, and a fresh wave of tears fell. She drew a breath, gathering her courage. "I know I am not her, not your Tauriel. But please, won't you let me love you? Kíli, I do love you."

Her words struck him, sharp as a dagger's point through his heart. Kíli had tried—Mahal knew!—he had tried so very hard to offer Audha all she deserved as his wife. He had given her honor, respect, freedom—all the things she could benefit from in her standing before others. But even so, he felt a deep and ready guilt knowing what else he had not given, the private, personal things: a word of endearment, a caress, even the casual touch of one used to another's proximity. Oh, he had lain with her as was expected: he would not shame her with a incomplete marriage or deny her the right to bear royal heirs. But even fulfilling that intimate duty had not brought him any closer to affection. Seeing Audha, touching her, still felt like an act of betrayal, and he could not make himself comfortable with her.

And still, looking on her tears, he hated what he had done to her.

"Audha, forgive me," he gasped and drew her against him because he knew he must; she was breaking right before him. He did not want to see her destroyed, though he was not sure he could save her, either.

Audha clung to him, her head pressed against his chest. After a few moments, Kíli thought to draw his fingers through her hair; he had once done so with Tauriel.

"Would it be easier if I did not love you?" Audha murmured, her voice muffled by his shirt.

I don't know, Kíli thought, but he did not say it. The words would be no help.

He brushed the hair back from her brow and kissed her there, and then, because he did not know what to do, he pressed his mouth to hers.

She responded desperately, hungrily, as if he were something long withheld and longer desired, not the spouse who, if he belonged to anyone, surely had to her, all this past year since they'd wed. Indeed, he could not remember her ever having held him like this, seemingly unable to be near enough to him.

It was not so difficult to kiss her back as he had expected, once they had started. For his part, there was still no desire in it, but he could sense plainly that she needed something from him, and a proper kiss, at any rate, was something he knew how to give.

When they broke off, Kíli lay against her as they caught their breath. He should, he told himself, give himself permission to love her. His reluctance gained Tauriel nothing, and cost Audha so much. And yet offering himself to his own wife felt like bending a band of metal in a direction it was not meant to go: soon it would break.

"Kíli," Audha said, and the pained edge in her voice told him she knew he was still not wholly hers. Yet her hands moved over him tenderly nevertheless. He supposed she was grateful even for the fiction he offered her. "I feel truly guilty," she said, and she was crying again.

He pushed up from her breast to look down at her face. "What—?" The guilt was all his own for betraying Tauriel and for denying Audha.

"I know you cannot want me to have this," she continued, tears slipping from the edges of her eyes. "This gift should be for her, and I feel I am wrong to be so happy to receive it instead."

"Audha?"

"Tell me I may be happy," she pleaded gently. She brushed her fingertips over his face, and there was more desperate need in that touch than when she had kissed him.

"I don't understand..." he said again. Of course he wanted her happiness; he was miserable now because he knew she was, too.

"Kíli," Audha breathed, "I am with child."

Kíli gave a low moan and sank down against her...

...and woke clutching a fold of the woolen blanket over the bed in his Ravenhill captain's quarters; he had come here for a few days to catch up on the duties which he had deputized during the Council. Kíli stared into the dark for a few moments, taking in the dim outlines of his armor stand and weapons rack, the objects offering proof that he was in the outpost fortress and not some royal bedchamber under Erebor.

He was, he realized, drenched with sweat. Sitting up, he threw off the blanket and swung his feet to the floor. His breath came hard, as if he had been running.

It was hard to say what had upset him most about the dream, the thought that he might truly make Audha feel so miserable and rejected some day, or the sudden, painful reminder that he did not want his future children to belong to anyone but Tauriel. The loss of Tauriel and all the life they might have had together was his own, private grief, and he would continue to face it as best he could. But Kíli was terrified at the thought that his inescapable devotion to his first love would poison Audha's own happiness.

He had not worried so much when he had thought she viewed the match as no more than a political contract; in such a case, neither of them might expect much in the way of personal affection from one another. But he had been haunted by her recent admission that she could learn to admire him. What if she even came to love him? How would she then bear the knowledge that his heart was forever settled elsewhere? For there was no hope that Kíli could ever return her love.

But what was he supposed to do? He could no more forget Tauriel than he could his own name, and yet he felt how cruel it must be to hold her between himself and the woman he had pledged to marry.

Kíli pushed to his feet, and drawing a coat over his nightshirt, shouldered out the door, making for the open battlements.

The fresh night air calmed him somewhat, and he stood for several long minutes drawing slow, deep breaths, his gaze fixed on one bright star that hung in the west, over Mirkwood.

Eventually he heard steps approach, but he dismissed them as a sentry's till he was addressed by a familiar gruff voice.

"Are ye well, laddie?"

"No, I'm not," he answered his cousin Dwalin without turning.

"I didna' expect ye were." He stood at Kíli's shoulder for a while before continuing, "It's a hard thing, ta give what you must. Ye've made the warrior's sacrifice of going into battle, willing to give up life an' home for the sake of others. An' I'll tell ye what I would any young dwarf before his first battle: the fact that it hurts an' yer afraid doesn't make ye any less strong."

Kíli did not say anything because he didn't trust his voice, but he nodded. Eventually, he said, "I'm not afraid for myself. I don't want to make poor Audha suffer."

"I believe she's willin' to like you," Dwalin offered.

"That's what frightens me the most! I'll never be able to give her what she wants. I can't love her."

The older warrior laid a hand on Kíli's shoulder. "Lad, ye'll treat her the best ye may. An' remember, she knew what she was gettin' in for, an' she accepted ye all the same. So don't carry on blamin' yerself for what ye can't change. This situation isn't all of yer makin'."

"Thanks."

"Now, unless ye've a particular affection for this bit o' wall, why don't ye take a stroll with me afore yer feet grow rooted to the spot. I could do with the company."

"Right," Kíli said, and turned to fall into step beside the comfortingly sturdy outline of his kinsman.

Bidding her friends farewell was, in some ways, easier than Tauriel had expected. She did not feel the harsh finality of the goodbye, as she had with Kíli or her friends in Dale. Almost surely she could hope to meet her elven friends again, though when, she could not yet predict.

However, in another way, farewells had proved harder, for she discovered that her friends did not so easily share her assurance that they would see her again. They seemed to think she sought some reckless means of throwing away her life or that, barring such a convenient escape, she would wander until grief overtook her and she wasted from despair.

Tauriel found herself assuring others, time and again, that her departure was not an act of desperation, that it was life she wanted, not death. Legolas, out of everyone, seemed to understand her almost immediately, but she had to spend a good deal of time convincing others that they need not fear for her. In the end, the process of parting had become as much one of reassurance as it was of goodbye.

Today, drinking tea with Morwen in the corner of a pantry off the main palace kitchens, Tauriel again rehearsed the reasons she had given so many times before. Once, it would have been hard to speak of all that Kíli had meant to her, but now, when faced with the task of justifying what others saw as a foolish, ill-fated love, it was easy to speak the truth.

"And so you are determined to go," Morwen concluded, her manner somewhat resigned.

Tauriel set down her teacup and gave her full attention to her friend.

"Oh Morwen, I must," she said. "It is the only way to keep what Kíli has given me." Despite Morwen's intent expression, it was clear to Tauriel that the other young woman did not understand.

Tauriel went on, "He made me sure that my own part in this world was not confined within the forest borders, and he gave me the courage to leave the Greenwood." She smiled, wistful and sad. "We spoke of journeying together someday; I wanted to see the wonderful sights he described from his own travels. I will not abandon that desire, even if Kíli can no longer accompany me.

"Don't you see: if I stay here, my life goes on as it did before I met him, unchanged. I want to carry him with me, and so I must live as he made me want to live."

Morwen's expression softened then. "I think I begin to understand," she said. "And perhaps this way... No, forgive me." She shook her head, dismissing what she would have said.

"You were going to say, 'Perhaps it is better that I will not have to watch him die,'" Tauriel supplied. "That is what you all would tell me; I have felt it." It took some effort to hold the accusation from her voice, but Tauriel knew that Morwen, at least, truly did mean such a thought kindly.

"I know there is prudence in such advice, yet I cannot help but feel it is very childish, too." Tauriel fixed her friend with a direct look. "If I love Kíli, how do I dare ask only for what is easy and comfortable from him, and then abandon him to protect myself? That cannot be what love does. And it is not what I want."

"Forgive me, Tauriel. I never meant to doubt your devotion to him," Morwen protested gently.

"I know," Tauriel returned. Morwen might not entirely understand, but her sympathy and affection were sincere. "I wanted to know all of him: through good and bad, life and death. There is so much life in him! You've never been so close to a mortal; you cannot know. And perhaps it is not every mortal; perhaps it is something of Kíli's very own, but..."

Tauriel paused, absently tracing her fingers over the raised floral design on the porcelain teacup. She still did not know how to put into words how Kíli's fire for life had called up an answering flame inside herself.

"I am very glad I have known him, even for so brief a time as we had. He taught me such joy. And I cannot even wish my grief away, for it, too, is part of loving him."

Morwen poured more tea and shuffled the berry tarts on the plate before them, clearly frustrated by her inability to find words for the comfort she wanted to offer.

Tauriel lifted her cup to her lips, but did not drink.

"I wish," Morwen ventured at last, "that you did not have to suffer this. I wish you did not have to lose him!" Her dark brows were drawn together.

"It is not living without him that I fear," Tauriel assured her. "But sometimes I wonder if I shall ever recover from losing this chance to live with him." Sudden tears brimmed, then fell down her cheeks.

She set down her untasted tea with a short, sharp movement, and the cup shattered; hot, dark liquid flowed over the table, soaking a loaf of seed bread and melting a mound of butter. Yet neither elf paid any attention to the mess.

"Kíli told me he will take a wife," Tauriel said, anguish in her voice at last. "I understand why he must, and yet I hate it! She—some woman he does not love!—will be the one who wakes beside him, who bears his children, who lays his body in the stone when he is gone. Such thoughts are poison to me! How am I to endure the knowledge that I walked away and left him to another? I've betrayed him, Morwen."

The dark-haired elf swiftly rose and came round the table to throw her arms about her distressed friend.

"I'm sure you have not, meldis!" she cried, drawing Tauriel's head against her shoulder. "Kíli knows you would have stayed, had it not been impossible."

Tauriel leaned against her friend for a long while, knowing that Morwen took as much comfort from the contact as she did herself. At last, she composed herself and sat up.

"Please, will you not stay a little while longer, Tauriel?" Morwen asked, her hands still on Tauriel's shoulders. "I do not think you should be alone now, with your grief so fresh. Stay the winter, at least. Let your friends help you! I hate the thought of you running to face the world when you hurt so much!"

"I cannot stay. I cannot linger so near him! It has already been long enough."

"At least do not travel alone!" Morwen urged, her expression troubled again.

"Alone?" Tauriel smiled gently at last. "If this is all that worries you, I do not think I shall have to go alone."

Chapter Text

Tauriel pushed open the door to the royal library and stepped through. She had always liked this room, with the sunlight slanting down through high windows upon the dark walnut shelves and the plush, mossy green velvet chairs. As a child, she had always felt it a treat to come hide in here and read for the odd afternoon.

Midway across the room, she realized she was not alone. In an alcove to her left someone stood reading, his face hidden as he leaned down over a book. The flaxen hair falling over his shoulders, however, was unmistakable. Tauriel froze, wondering briefly if she might yet retreat without being seen. The last time she had faced her king, he had looked at her with such sorrow and pity in his face that she had wanted to run from him. Then in the next moment, the figure turned, and she saw it was not the king but his son.

"Tauriel!" Legolas regarded her with surprise that swiftly became pleasure.

"I came to return a book I borrowed of you some years back," she said as soon as her breath returned. "I found it on my shelf last night and supposed it was high time I read or returned it. I did stay up half the night with it."

She held up the book as she neared him, and the light glinted off gold letters on blue leather binding: The Lay of Leithian, the tale of an elven princess and her mortal lover.

"Did you enjoy it?" Legolas asked.

"Yes, although I think perhaps the poet did not understand all that Tinúviel gained in the end." In truth, Tauriel had wanted to shake that ancient writer by the shoulders and tell him he was a fool if he did not understand why a woman might readily trade an eternity in a walled wood for one mortal lifetime to know the world beyond, at the side of the man she loved.

"Maybe he wrote as he did because he was losing her, too," Legolas said with a knowing smile.

Was he talking about her now? Whatever he had felt for her, surely it must have seemed he was losing her when she abandoned her place in the guard to follow after Kíli. Yet she thought Legolas knew, now, that the love he had wanted then had not truly been hers, but his father's. Not knowing what to say, she turned aside to place the book on a shelf.

"I promised to bring Lord Elrond a few histories from our archives," Legolas said behind her. "He wishes to compare them with his own records."

Turning round again, she said, "Legolas, after the battle, you asked me to come with you to Imladris. Does your invitation still stand?"

"Of course, Tauriel! You are one of my dearest and most trusted companions. Why should it not? "

She disregarded his question, not wanting to say, Because I chose him.

Instead, she went on, "I very much want to see the lands to the west of our forest, the Misty Mountains rising in their splendor, the sun shining down into Imladris' mist-filled vale and turning the air to gold." Kíli had described that last scene once to her, and she had longed for the place ever since. "And I would rather make the journey with a friend than alone." Alone, it would be impossible to forget who was not with her.

Legolas stepped forward and placed his hands on her upper arms. "I promise, you need not fear to find yourself alone," he said warmly.

Tauriel closed her eyes momentarily and sighed. "Thank you for not thinking I am looking for a way to die. I'm seeking a way to live."

His look was sympathetic, but not pitying. "I know how it is to be unable to stay in the places you once knew. Or among the people..." He regarded her for a few more moments, then added. "But know I am very glad to have you join me now." He let go of her then.

"I very much need a friend, Legolas," she said.

His manner changed from solemn to fondly encouraging as he said, "Eriador is very wild, fully a match for the young captain who was never content to leave dangers unchallenged. I know Father never let you act to your full potential. I assure you such will not be the case among the Dúnedain."

"Dúnedain?"

"The remnants of the kingdom of Arnor in the north. Elrond's sons ride with them, patrolling the borderlands beyond the dwellings of men and other free folk."

Tauriel nodded, feeling the excitement of the adventure call to her already. "I see you will have much to tell me on our journey! And when do you leave?"

"I plan to go in a fortnight, by the time this moon has faded to the new," he said.

The last new moon of Autumn. The signal of Durin's Day, and the dwarves' new year. The time she had met Kíli and first left her forest, two years past, and now, a time so fitting to leave and begin a new journey.

"I will be ready."

Until he watched Audha bidding farewell to her father and the rest of the Blacklock ambassadorial party, Kíli had not realized there was a small, hidden part of him that was still hoping for some way to escape this marriage. Now that the Council was ended and the last of the visiting clans was leaving, there was no denying the reality of what he had chosen: Audha was now part of his life in Erebor. He would court her for perhaps a year, and then another year after that, marry her. No one would step in and save him, and he surely could not run away to save himself without betraying his uncle, his brother, and yes, even Audha herself. A sickening dread settled in his stomach as the great gate to Erebor closed behind the departing Blacklocks, and it was only by good fortune that he managed to make it back to his own rooms before he truly was sick.

Over the next month, he saw little of Audha, an outcome that took almost no contrivance on his part. He was often at Ravenhill, and once Dale. When he did return under the mountain, he sequestered himself in the family workshop, trying to craft the courtship gifts he was required to offer Audha.

Yet on this night in late September, he found no more inspiration than he had all the past month. Neither metal nor stone spoke to him to suggest new and clever forms to challenge his skill. And he surely had not the heart to take up any of the designs he had once imagined for Tauriel, and which now lay as a pile of papers, like so many dead leaves in winter, at the side of his drawing desk.

Kíli sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, and then picked up the charcoal pencil and began sketching the outlines of a jewelry casket. He'd never planned such a thing for Tauriel, who wore little jewelry of any sort. Of course, a wealthy dwarven lady like Audha had many personal ornaments, and the casket would be a very practical gift.

Yes, practical, he thought sourly some minutes later as he stared at the shape on the paper before him. Practical, and conventional, and utterly boring. It was not something he had any interest in crafting, nor would a girl be very impressed to receive it. He tossed the pencil down with a soft curse, and then froze as he looked up from his desk to see Audha herself standing under the lamp at the entrance to the workshop.

"Forgive me; I didn't mean to sneak up on you," she said quickly.

Kíli shook his head, trying to change his irritated expression for a warmer one. "I'm having trouble with the design, that's all," he said.

"I was looking for you," she confessed. "Fíli said you might be down here."

Kíli felt a stab of guilt, knowing that, busy as he was, he should have made time to visit his own intended. Sif and Fíli had taken care that Audha felt welcome to Erebor, and he was deeply grateful for their kindness. He, too, wanted Audha to feel comfortable here in her new home, but between his despair at his unavoidable fate and his fear of encouraging her love, it had been easy to let his own work claim all his attention.

"I'm sorry; I should have come to see you," Kíli said. "Please, come in."

He rose and offered her the stool upon which he had been seated.

She did not sit, but strolled over to the work tables at the far side of the room.

"So you are a smith of gold and silver," Audha said, eyeing the tools neatly organized on the wall. On the tables below lay a number of projects in various stages of completion: a pair of scissors shaped like one of the long-billed birds of the lake, a small crystal vial embellished with golden tracery, a gold lamp set with panes of russet glass shaped like leaves, a finely chased silver canister for storing tobacco or perhaps tea. Nearly all had been begun for Tauriel.

Audha picked up a silver circlet, turning it to admire the interlaced diamond motif carved along the band. "This is very beautiful." She looked back at Kíli. "Your work is every bit as fine as that produced by the craftsmen of my father's famed work halls."

"Thank you," Kíli said. "I was apprenticed under Rúni, who, while he lived, was the best jeweler in Ered Luin. Uncle paid him very well to stay at our halls; Durin's heir must be a master of his craft."

"You must have worked long and often," Audha remarked, finally coming to take the offered seat.

"I spent mornings on the training ground and evenings in the shop," Kíli affirmed.

Audha regarded him, clearly impressed by the rigor of such a routine. Many dwarves would have found either occupation—the craftsman or the warrior—a fully consuming pursuit.

"The jeweler's intricate work, well, it was a way to relax for me," Kíli admitted. And yet, it hadn't been so lately, a fact Audha had surely noticed upon her arrival.

"What are you making now?" she asked.

"Err, nothing." He shrugged. "Not yet. I—" He paused as she studied the sketched jewelry casket on the table.

"I don't think it's so bad," she ventured.

"Maybe not for a foreign market. But I wouldn't give it to you."

"Oh." She glanced over to the stack of designs at the end of the desk. "May I?" she asked, reaching towards them.

The designs were all relics of his courtship of Tauriel, and Kíli did not want her to see them, yet he still said lightly, "Yes." He felt he owed Audha this kindness, and much more besides, after how little he had done for her in the past weeks.

Audha drew the stack towards herself and slowly leafed through the pages. Some of the sketches were pieces he had already made—a pewter flask, a jeweled spider, a knife—and others were fancies he'd been saving and never would execute now.

"These are wonderful," Audha breathed. "If you weren't a prince, you could make a name by your work alone."

She turned another page, lingered over the next series of sketches. Looking over her shoulder, Kíli saw the design she had found and his heart faltered: it was a ring, with a vining filigree band and set with a single faceted stone. He'd meant to craft it of mithril and diamond, and offer it to Tauriel when he asked her to be his wife. A betrothal gift had to be one the recipient could wear.

"Have you made any of these? You should," Audha urged kindly, raising the stack of designs, with the betrothal ring still at the top.

Kíli knew she meant to be encouraging and that she could not know the significance of the plans. And yet he could not bear to see her admire this work that should have delighted Tauriel first; he could not hear her speak of it as simply a task to prove his skills or save him from boredom.

"No," he snapped, so sharply that he surprised even himself. "I'm never going to make those, now. Leave them be!" He was nearly shouting.

Audha glanced up at him, her face blank and eyes wide, so clearly surprised and hurt by his outburst.

Just as suddenly as his anger had flared, it faded, replaced by a deep and painful guilt. Here he was, already ignoring and rejecting his future bride, just as he had feared he would. He was pushing her to become the affection-starved, miserable woman he had glimpsed once in a dream, and he hated himself intensely for it.

Tears glimmering in her eyes, Audha carefully set the sheaf of paper down on the desk.

Kíli caught her arm. "Audha, forgive me!" he sobbed. "I didn't mean— I'm sorry!"

Audha gazed at him, astonished anew.

He drew her hand awkwardly against his chest. "Audha, I want to care for you as you deserve. And you do deserve far better than what I've given. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to feel that I don't want you!" Kíli felt tears fall down over his face.

"Kíli," Audha gasped, shifting her arm in his grasp so that she might press her hand against him, a gesture that was somehow both comforting and desperate.

"And yet, the truth is," Kíli went on shakily, "I can't want anyone but her. I'm trying, oh, Maker, I'm trying to give myself to you. But I can't! I don't know how! Audha—"

"I know that you love her," Audha said softly. Her tears fell now, too. "You don't have to pretend otherwise. It will be easier for us both if you don't pretend."

"Easier?" Kíli demanded miserably. "Easier to ignore you, to injure you? Easier to hold another woman forever between us?"

Audha stared at him, unable to answer.

"I'm going to be your husband, Audha. You'll bear my children." Kíli let go of her arm and took her face gently between his hands. "If we are to be together, I wish I could make it better than this. I wish—" He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to look directly into her own. "I wish I didn't love Tauriel." It hurt to say it, and yet everything would hurt so much less if he could disregard the feelings he couldn't change.

Audha looked back at him for several long moments, her expression clearing as if he suddenly meant something new to her.

"No; you mustn't say that," she said, her voice soft but firm.

"What?" Kíli asked, wretched. What was wrong with her that she wanted him to marry her while admitting to loving another?

"Kíli," Audha said, drawing his hands down from her face. "Your love for Tauriel is a precious thing. You must not wish it away."

"But it will only hurt us both," he protested weakly.

"Hush," she said, clasping his hands. "It cannot. Listen: I have seen how devoted you are to her. If I were loved as she is by you, I would want to know. I would want the chance to live with such love." Audha sighed, seemingly in relief. "Kíli, I release you."

Kíli thought his heart would stop from shock.

"What—" he stammered again.

Audha smiled slightly. "Yes, Kíli. Go marry her." Because he continued to stare, speechless, she added, "You don't believe I would care about love? It's true, I did once think love was at best, a luxury, and at worst, a foolish fancy, opposed to all honor and duty. But you and your family have taught me to think better."

"But your clan, the treaty—" Kíli protested out of a last sense of duty.

"I will tell my father I found we would make each other unhappy," she said reasonably. "Ambitious as he is, he is too good to force me against my wishes."

Kíli breathed deeply. Was this the end? Was he truly spared from the fate he had dreaded, the loveless marriage that would have forced him simultaneously to betray Tauriel and Audha both? He was free, suddenly and astonishingly free. The realization made him feel light, as if the weight of the mountain had been lifted from his chest. He could return to Tauriel, beyond all hope...

"Thank you, Audha," he said.

She smiled a little wistfully. "You know, if you'd ever truly been mine, I might be sorry to let you go."

"Um..." Kíli murmured. Should he apologize?

"It's just a compliment," Audha said warmly, as if guessing his confusion. Then she stood up on her toes and kissed his cheek above the edge of his beard, which had grown full and dark in the past few weeks. For once, he did not feel the urge to flinch away.

"May Mahal find you someone who deserves you far better than I," Kíli told her.

She flushed and looked aside. "Now, if you'll come back to my rooms, I'll return your first gift."

Kíli took her arm and moved with her to the door.

"Oh, and perhaps you should call one of your trusted friends. I've my Kára to witness, but you should bring someone, too."

"I will," he said, and then they went out from the workshop together.

Thorin was not surprised when, after the evening meal, Kíli asked to speak with him privately. Earlier in the day, Dwalin had off-handedly asked if Thorin had spoken to his nephew, though regarding what, the stern warrior had not specified. Thorin might not have thought any more of the matter, had he not noticed over dinner that Kíli seemed especially restless.

Now, in an empty parlor in the royal suite, Kíli was unguarded enough that Thorin could easily tell his nephew had not been this unsettled since that first sacrifice of Tauriel nearly two months earlier. He knew Kíli had been suffering Tauriel's loss since then, but it seemed something new distressed him now.

"Thorin, I don't know what to do," Kíli said as soon as the door had shut behind them. His furrowed brow clearly reflected his indecision.

"How so?" Thorin prompted. Not knowing what to do was seldom Kíli's problem; the impetuous young man usually seemed sure of what he wanted, whether or not his desire was one that could (or should) be followed. Thorin wondered if the truth were no different in this case.

"Audha refused me," Kíli said, watching his uncle keenly.

"Did she, now." The news was unexpected, but not, in fact, disastrous.

"I didn't ask her to do this," Kíli protested desperately.

"I know you did not," Thorin assured him. Kíli's dilemma was perfectly clear now: he wanted to return to his first love, yet felt that doing so would betray his word.

"Did Audha give a reason?" Thorin asked.

"She says I ought to be with Tauriel," Kíli admitted, sounding almost guilty.

"That, at least, does not surprise me."

"What?" Kíli's raised brows indicated that it surely had surprised him.

Thorin almost smiled at the knowledge that he had noticed what his nephew had not. "Oh, I did not foresee that she would turn you down, but... She seemed taken with the idea that your mother married for love and got two honorable sons out of the match."

"What should I do? Our marriage was the condition for securing her father's vote."

"I don't suppose there is much you can do if she won't have you," Thorin said thoughtfully. "The vote cannot be changed, and you've held true to your side of the agreement. I should think the far greater scandal would be for her father to defy the Khazad's eldest laws and traditions and force her to have you against her will."

Kíli swallowed, his face impassive as if he did not yet dare to hope. "You don't think..." he began. "I swore before the Council to take a dwarven bride, but I can't bear the thought. Would it be permissible for me to remain unwed?"

Thorin studied his nephew, impressed and not a little surprised that Kíli did not yet ask to be allowed to return to Tauriel, when it was certain he wanted nothing else. Was Kíli still afraid of endangering his brother's position by pursuing her?

"I don't mean to ask you to marry. You've already made your point to the Council," Thorin said.

Kíli nodded, the tension relaxing perceptibly from the set of his shoulders. "Thank you." His expression was still subdued, but for the first time in months, the desperation was gone from his eyes.

You've said nothing of Tauriel, Thorin was about to say, and then stopped himself. If he had been the only one who would have to defend Kíli's marriage to an elf, he would offer Kíli his sanction here and now. He had been sure for some time that Kíli deserved her and that losing her had broken his heart. Let the other clans complain and be damned; Thorin was ready to argue that he saw the good of his kin and kingdom more clearly than they.

But Kíli was not only Thorin's heir; he would be Fíli's heir, as well, not only until such time as Fíli had sons of his own, but afterwards, should Fíli's line falter. Thus it would not be fair to leave Fíli the difficulty of defending his brother's unconventional marriage without Fíli's own knowledge and consent. Almost certainly Fíli would support his brother in this, as he did in nearly every other case; yet Thorin knew it was right that he speak to Fíli first.

"We can announce Audha's refusal at the next meeting of my council," was all Thorin said. "The news will travel fast enough from there."

Kíli said, "Dwalin witnessed her return of my betrothal gift."

So that was how their cousin had known of this development. "I'll make sure he is present," Thorin affirmed.

"Thank you, Uncle," Kíli said again, and then after a few moments' silence, moved for the door.

Thorin caught Kíli's shoulder as he passed. "You needn't thank me, lad," he said. "I know I've done many things wrong, but I have always wanted good for you."

"I know," Kíli answered and returned his uncle's embrace.

"She refused him?" Fíli started up from his chair and stared at his uncle, incredulity and relief surging within him. He had hardly expected such news when he'd been called to Thorin's rooms tonight.

"I understand she took pity on his broken heart," Thorin said, a smile quirking the edge of his mouth as he stood facing his nephew.

Fíli laughed for sudden joy. "Kí always did have that look to melt your heart," he said. "And he can't hide his feelings. Audha would have needed a heart of adamant to resist him."

Thorin chuckled. "I imagine so. I know my own is not so hard."

Fíli's own laugh died in his throat then. "You mean you—" He paced towards Thorin, then stopped, afraid to hope too far. It was enough that Kíli was saved from an unhappy match.

Thorin said drily, "It's clear to me that your brother will never be fully himself without Tauriel."

"No," Fíli agreed, feeling more astonished by the moment. He knew Thorin felt sympathy for Kíli, but he had not expected to hear such sudden support for a match with Tauriel when it had recently been the cause of so much contention.

"Fíli, do you think I can't see how much he loves her?" Thorin returned, a hint of amusement coloring his tone now. "I'm not going to deny Kíli this new chance to have her. I love him too well to wish him such a disappointment now."

Fíli said, "I never thought you wanted this for him. But I'm still surprised—"

"That I take his side now? Don't be. I've seen clearly in the past month that I'm losing a nephew. And if your brother remains this downcast, then the kingdom will soon lose its prince, as well. Kíli's strength is serving those he loves. Force him against his loyalties, and he'll do no good for anyone."

"No," Fíli said again, relieved that Thorin, too, saw how much Kíli's sacrifice was hurting him.

"Before I give Kíli my sanction, I had to be sure you approved. I'm not the only king who will have to explain why he allowed his heir to marry an elf," Thorin said.

Fíli grasped Thorin's arm. "Of course I do! You know I don't want to see Kíli like this for the rest of his life," he protested with a wry smile. "The person he's been since all of this started— That's only half of my brother." The honorable, strong, persevering half, but not the lighthearted, eager—yes, sometimes reckless—half. That part of Kíli had disappeared along with the bright young woman who had called to it. "And so you'll just disregard the Council's concerns and tell him to marry her?"

Thorin caught his nephew's smile. "The dragon is dead, and I am King Under the Mountain. I know the good of my own people better than some lords from the Orocarni Mountains, and I may countenance what I choose in Erebor."

Fíli laughed and released Thorin's sleeve. This was the uncle he had followed and would readily have given his life for, if it had been asked: a man assured of his authority and undaunted when it came to acting on what was right. In this last respect, Thorin was very much like Kíli.

"You don't think we'll lose the Blacklock's friendship over this?" Fíli added after a moment. Lord Andvari's displeasure was the only real obstacle he could see.

"I'll honor our agreements no less than before," Thorin returned. "If Andvari is upset, it must be with his daughter, not with us. Yet I've a sense she's strong enough to hold her own against him."

"Audha is confident when she knows what she wants," Fíli said. First with himself and then with his brother, Audha had fully proven mistress of herself.

"Fíli." Thorin's expression grew mildly troubled. "When I asked you to marry Audha, I didn't know about Sif."

"I didn't mean for you to."

"I've always wanted to give you and your brother what you deserve: a kingdom, a home. For you, a crown. You were born to be a king." Thorin's face softened in a wistful smile. "I told your mother so the first time I saw you with your little golden head against her breast."

Fíli flushed. He knew what they'd sometimes said about him, back in Ered Luin: that the color of his hair foretold a crown. The thought seemed so fantastical back then, a distant, romantic hope, not a reality.

Thorin said, "I've been chasing this kingdom all my life, fighting to regain what my father and grandfather lost. I didn't have the heart for a wife or a family, not of my own. And so while I knew you must choose them one day, your mother was right: I did not understand how much they could matter."

Fíli nodded, momentarily unable to answer. He'd known his uncle did not mean to disregard his nephew's own hopes, but it was good to hear Thorin's words now.

Thorin added, "I'm well aware that if I had kept my pledge to Branca, you would not have been in the position you were, nearly forced to give up the girl you love. Forgive me."

"I do," Fíli managed.

"And thank Mahal he shapes our lives better than we do ourselves."

"Indeed." Fíli had been thinking much the same thing. His life and Sif's had been unexpectedly redeemed from disappointment and loss once already, and now with Audha's choice, Kíli, too, was freed. It was almost too much to take in.

"You know I couldn't care more for you if you'd been my own son," Thorin said.

"I know." Fíli bowed his head, and Thorin touched his brow to his nephew's.

Then Thorin smiled slightly, the beginning of the mischievous smirk that mirrored Dís and Kíli's own.

"Now for Durin's sake, send your brother to see me."

Chapter Text

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments.  Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
Oh no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
    If this be error and upon me prov’d,
    I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d. 

--Sonnet 116, Wm. Shakespeare

"You're not going after her?" Thorin repeated uncomprehendingly after Kíli. He had expected his nephew to respond far differently to the news that a marriage to Tauriel was sanctioned at last.

Kíli stared silently back at his uncle, chin raised and eyes determined, as if willing himself to hold to his purpose.

Thorin continued, "Kíli, you have your brother's and my full support in this. Fíli's succession is already secure." If Kíli was afraid of causing political trouble, he need not be.

"It's not that, Uncle," Kíli said tightly.

Thorin sighed, feeling momentarily at a loss that his young kinsman seemed so stubbornly opposed to his own good. "You're clearly miserable without her," he said.

Indeed, Kíli's misery showed even in his appearance. Despite his heavier beard, his face looked leaner, and from the easy fit of Kili's clothes, Thorin suspected the lad had lost weight, a nearly unheard of ailment for a dwarf. If he had not thought the remedy was now in his power, Thorin would have been more than a little concerned for Kíli's wellbeing.

As if following his uncle's thoughts, Kíli took a weary breath and explained, "This isn't about what's good for me; it's what's good for Tauriel. I can't ask her to marry me. I might as well ask her to let me break her heart." He spoke as if he could imagine no greater woe.

Of course. Faithful Kíli would once more willingly deny his own desires if he believed the good of one he loved was at stake. And yet this time, Thorin suspected Kíli to be overscrupulous.

"Have you considered that her heart is already broken?" Thorin prompted.

Kíli's expression settled into one of deep distress. "I know I've hurt her. That's why I can't do it again. I can't ask her to watch me die. Don't you see?" He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself, as well as his uncle. "There's still a chance for her to heal from this. She can find a life with someone else. But once I marry her, she's bound to me forever. I might even be the death of her. They say the elves can die of grief."

Thorin smiled faintly, moved by this display of Kíli's true and earnest love. "I honor your selflessness," he said. "But Tauriel has already made her choice by loving you." From what he had seen of the bold-hearted elf woman, he thought she was as little likely to forget her beloved as Kíli was.

"Thorin, please!" Kíli protested. "I have made my decision." Then seeming to remember himself, his look of faint frustration softened. "I am deeply grateful to know you would have accepted her. I will not forget that you have offered me this."

Kíli bowed. Then as soon as he had risen, he made for the door, as if unwilling to let his uncle say anything else to dissuade him.

Thorin let him go. He knew from long experience that arguing with Kíli when the lad's mind was freshly made up was pointless. Far better to let the matter settle in Kíli's thoughts before confronting him again. Besides, Thorin felt instinctively that Dís might gain the attention of her son far more easily than Thorin, or anyone else, could right now.

However, he remembered, Dís knew nothing of this situation yet. And so, after trading his regal garments for more understated and comfortable attire, Thorin left his rooms to find her.

When Kíli returned to their suite, Fíli glanced up, eager to find the brightness returned to his brother's face. Yet Kíli's expression was, if anything, more dour than ever.

"Before you ask, no, I'm not going after her," Kíli said in response to Fíli's look.

Momentarily speechless, Fíli watched his brother hurry past. Kíli should have been fully restored by Thorin's news. Yet while all external obstacles to Kíli's hopes had been removed, it seemed he still waged some last struggle within himself.

"Kí, wait!"

Kíli drew up at his own door and turned miserable eyes back on his brother, clearly pleading not to be reasoned with.

"You know Tauriel is waiting for you," Fíli said as gently as he could, suppressing the urge to run up and grasp his brother hard by the shoulders.

"I've told you, I won't hurt her any more," Kíli said, his voice desperate. "Please don't ask me to."

"I'm asking you to remember what she needs."

"Don't."

"Kíli—" Fíli stopped at the pained look on his brother's face. He supposed Kíli needed to overcome this final obstacle for himself.

"I'm going to bed, Fí." Kíli opened his door and stepped through.

Fíli sighed, momentarily exasperated with his brother's short-sighted, though well-intentioned, determination. Didn't Kíli see that his refusal was unfair to Tauriel's own implicit choice? She had already given him her love knowing all that it would cost. Was Kíli simply afraid that, because he wanted to return to Tauriel now, he would only be acting for himself? Struggling with the sheer, desperate force of his desire for her, Kíli probably did feel that he was in danger of regarding his own needs above hers.

And yet, Fíli realized, the intensity of Kíli's longing for her would ultimately serve the right end. Kíli always did see things clearly eventually, and he could not long refuse to do what was right when it was the course of action he already wanted to take.

So as Kíli closed the door between them, Fíli merely called out, "Find me in the morning; I'll help you pack up to go."

Kíli wished he did not have the day off from his captain's duties. He would have preferred to be working—overseeing training, receiving patrol reports, even drafting shift schedules, anything to keep his mind off what he wanted most. Anything to keep him from making straight for Mirkwood and for Tauriel.

But with nothing to occupy him, Kíli had wound up here, in the hall of silver fountains, the one place he could not be without thinking of Tauriel, for she and he had come here often. He was, it seemed, intent on tormenting himself.

He sat on the rim of the central pool, one knee drawn up under his chin, watching the water drip from the intricately wrought metal that supported a series of raised basins from which more water ran. He imagined the droplets as so many tears, the ones he felt welling up inside himself but refused to let fall because they would be a sign of his weakness, his selfishness at not being able to let Tauriel go.

Yesterday, after his first wild joy and relief at Audha's release had subsided, Kíli had known what he must do: he must allow Tauriel to be free. If he truly believed that she would be better off without him and all the heartbreak he would one day bring her, he could not change his mind now merely because he was allowed to have her once more. Doing that would be thinking only of himself. And no matter how lonely he was, Kíli could not justify sacrificing Tauriel's ultimate happiness for his own.

Still, his chest hurt, as if someone had truly run him through with a blade. Maybe, he thought darkly, it would have been better if he'd died up there on top of frozen Ravenhill nearly two years ago. He could have been happy trading his life for hers, and then he'd never have known this far worse pain. Dying, he thought, could hardly hurt like this: the pain of knowing that he willingly let her slip away when his whole being, body and soul, seemed to scream for him to go after her.

Tauriel, I need you!

For a moment, all his desire found expression in that one urgent thought: the words filled him, as if he truly were shouting them. And yet he dared not even breathe them aloud, as if doing so, even in her absence, would burden her with his selfishness. He did not want to burden her, even when it was true that he could not do without her.

He dipped his hand in the water, wondering if any of the drops running down his fingers had been touched by her hand when she was last here, for she had always liked trailing her fingers in the pool. For a wild moment, he imagined what it would be like to drown here in these waters, receiving, by means of them, her final caress.

"What's wrong, love?"

Kíli started, then looked up to see his mother standing before him. With the sound of the water and the turmoil of his own thoughts, he had not heard her approach.

"I miss her," he confessed as Dís sat at his side.

"Then go to her."

"Mum. It's not that simple. You know why I can't."

"Do I?" Her manner was kind, urging him to explain. She laid her hand on his back, her fingers tracing a light pattern between his shoulder blades.

"Isn't it better that she let go of me now, rather than later when it will hurt her so much more?" Kíli asked, repeating for seemingly the thousandth time the reasoning he had been trying to make himself follow. Then, his voice harsh with anger at himself, he added, "How did I ever think I could ask her to love me when she'll have to lose me?"

"Kíli, there are worse things than losing one you love," Dís returned, her hand never faltering in its steady movement over his back.

He turned to look at her, not convinced.

She met his gaze with a wistful smile. "It would be worse not to have loved at all," Dís explained. "I would never trade away the time I had with your father, not even to save myself from the pain of losing him. Those were good years, and much good came of them. Including you and your brother." As he looked back into the fountain, Dís leaned in and kissed him. "It will be the same for you. You and Tauriel will share enough happiness to outweigh your sorrows."

"They say elves can die of a broken heart. I can't do that to her!"

Dís shook her head gently. "I think there may be worse things than dying, too. You and I will die some day, and that does not seem the greatest hardship we face."

"Yes, but we're mortal," Kíli protested. "That's what we do. She's supposed to live forever."

"Many elves don't," Dís observed.

"That doesn't mean she should die! Not because of me!"

"It's not certain she will. Your Tauriel is strong enough to set her mind on living, I think." She combed her fingers through her son's hair, drawing it back from his eyes and tucking it behind his ear. "Yet whatever her fate and yours, you cannot know it beforehand. Elf or dwarf, it makes no difference. I did not imagine Víli's fate when I married him, but I would not change my choice."

She paused in her caress to unpin one of her own braids, then used the clasp to fasten Kíli's hair back from his face; he had been too preoccupied to fix it himself this morning. As Dís centered the clasp in his hair, she went on, "You cannot base your choice on what you do not know. Only on what you do. You know you love one another."

"And that's why I can't do this to her," Kíli said, his tone long-suffering. Why did Thorin and Fíli and now his mother feel that they had to convince him to change his mind? He would not think about how much he would have liked them to succeed.

"Kíli, my love." Dís caught him by the chin and turned his head so he had to look at her again. "Don't take this decision away from her. I say this for your own sake, as well as Tauriel's. I think someday you will regret it if you do not go after her now."

Kíli felt his own resolve waver for a moment. He gasped, "Oh Mother, I do want to. More than anything, I want to find her. And I feel how selfish I am!"

Dís looked at him, brows gently raised.

"Because you want to go after her? Kíli, a deed is not selfish simply because you want it. It is selfish when it disregards the will and needs of others. If Tauriel wants you—and I've no reason to think otherwise—then you would indeed be selfish to hide from her."

"Mum, I'm not hiding. She's the one going away from me." Kíli knew from Darion, Tauriel's replacement as captain of Dale's patrol, that she planned to leave Rhovanion. All he had to do was let her go. "Maybe she's even left Mirkwood already."

"And you suppose she won't hear of this eventually, whether in your lifetime or after? And what will she think, knowing you could have come for her and didn't?" For all her tenderness, Dís was deadly intent as she waited for Kíli's answer.

What would Tauriel think? Focused on what he felt he must give for her, Kíli had not even asked himself that question. He had, he realized, somehow imagined that he stood between her and a doom she could not see, and that he could remain equally unseen as he saved her from it. But his mother was right: of course Tauriel would find out that he had never married, whether she heard in a hundred years or a thousand.

And what would she think then?

She would not know why Kíli had not come, that he had meant to save her from sorrow and that he had acted because he loved her as much as he always had. She would only know that he had broken the only promise he had ever made her: to return to her wherever she was, be it a battlefield or a king's council or half of Middle-earth that lay between them.

And what would she feel? Of that Kíli was certain: she would feel betrayed. He knew because he was sure that was how he must feel, were their situations reversed. If she had simply let him walk away and denied him the chance that she knew he wanted, he would have been far more heartbroken than at any enforced parting. And Kíli did know that a life with him was what she wanted.

You will always be my love, she had told him on the night they'd parted, and he had believed her then, as he still did now. Her love was no different from his, ever-fixed and unfading. She would yearn for him no less as the years went by, even if the ache of her loss dulled into something bearable because it was familiar. And so he could not impose upon her this new burden of sorrow and regret which he could hardly bear himself. How terrible would it be for her to learn, years too late, that she might have rejoined him? If she wanted him come whatever may, she would have him. He would not take the choice of her own fate from her.

"Yes, Mother," Kíli earnestly said at last. "I'll go."

When he stood up, Dís's hands fell from him, and with them, the sense of doom sure as death and heavy as the lid of a tomb.

"I'm going," he said again, his voice lighter now. He bent to kiss her and saw that tears wet her face. "It's all right," Kíli said softly.

"I know." Her voice wavered, and Kíli guessed that she had been afraid for him and the terrible choice he might have made for both Tauriel and himself.

He smiled at her, provoking a fresh wave of tears, and Kíli wondered how long it must have been since his mother, or indeed anyone, had seen that expression on his face. Certainly the smile felt odd on his lips.

Dís smiled in return and then waved him away. "Go! I know you're already late to pack your things."

Kíli nodded, grateful for her understanding. Then he turned and ran from the hall.

Sif was still finishing breakfast when Fíli visited her the morning following his interview with Thorin. After claiming a mug of tea from the sideboard, he slipped into the seat recently vacated by her brother, Freyr.

"I've some news you'll be very interested to hear," Fíli said as he stirred milk into his tea.

"Oh?" Sif regarded him, curious.

Fíli sipped his tea experimentally, and then, satisfied, set it down again. "Would you like to guess?" He could feel a grin already threatening to break over his face, though he held it in check for the moment.

Sif thought over another bite of cold roast. "Does it have to do with with the renovations you proposed? Were they approved?"

"It's something much better than that," Fíli said, allowing himself a full smile then. "Something that bears a great deal on our own happiness, yours and mine."

"Ah." She began to smile in answer to his own look. "In that case... Is it something about your brother and..." Fíli could see the certainty in her eyes now and knew that she read the answer in his own face. "Yes, has Audha released Kíli?"

"She has."

Sif laughed, bright and clear. "I knew it! I mean, not that I expected her to end the alliance, but I knew she knew what she couldn't have. Not with him. Didn't you ever notice the way she would watch us together, like she was trying to understand how we were so happy?"

"I saw," he agreed.

"Well," Sif sighed contentedly over the rim of her tea mug. "Now I shan't have to feel sorry for her, too. She has the chance to find someone who can make her happy now. Oh!" She set her mug down. "You must mean, of course, that Kíli is also permitted to return to Tauriel! You wouldn't be so pleased about your news, otherwise."

"Yes, he's allowed, and I'm sure he will soon make up his mind to go after her," Fíli began.

"What? You mean he's saying he won't?" Sif's eyes widened.

"That's what he told me last night."

"Poor Kíli! Does he really think she won't still want him?"

"He thinks she'll be happier without him, because she's immortal and he is not."

"But surely it's not true!" Sif looked deeply upset. "I know Tauriel must still love him and want to be with him."

"You know?" he prompted, guessing she drew a parallel between Tauriel's current situation and her own recent trials of love.

"Well, I wouldn't change my mind, even if I'd lost him once," Sif returned passionately, confirming Fíli's thought. Her face was flushed. "And if Kíli doesn't know enough to believe the same, I'll tell him—"

She stopped as the sound of impatient knocking echoed down the entrance hall beyond the dining room where they sat. The knocking continued, uninterrupted, until someone finally opened the door. Fíli caught the clipped tones of a hurried conversation, and then footsteps clattered towards their own door.

"You may get your chance now," Fíli observed, smiling, "Though I suspect—"

Kíli burst into the room.

"Fíli! I've been looking for you! Oh, morning, Sif," he said, with a quick nod to her, before rushing over to his brother.

Finding he had nothing to say, save Didn't I tell you?, Fíli contented himself with smiling broadly up at Kíli, who continued, breathless, "Fí, I need you in the shop. I've got to finish Tauriel's betrothal gift today, and I've never worked in mithril before. If you could give me a hand—"

"Oh, Kíli!" Sif cried, leaping up and going to him. "I'm so glad for you!" She put her hands on his shoulders and stretched up to kiss his cheek.

Kíli grinned and stooped to kiss her back, catching her half on the mouth in his enthusiasm. Sif's face went red, but still she smiled at him.

"I'm coming," Fíli said, pushing out of his chair. "But where did you get mithril?" The precious metal had not been mined since Khazad-dûm had fallen, almost a thousand years before he and his brother had been born.

"There was a pair of mithril earrings among the things Grandfather left as my inheritance, remember? Tauriel would never have worn them, and they were hideous, anyway, so I melted them down," Kíli explained.

Fíli snorted. As a craftsman, his brother had very decided opinions about what ornaments would suit his elf, it seemed.

"I'll come by again later," Fíli said to Sif. He kissed her, then swiped a roll from the table before loping after his brother, who was already halfway down the hall.

"What changed your mind?" he asked as he caught up with Kíli at the main door to the Ironsides' dwelling. Freyr let them out, a somewhat bemused expression on his face.

"It was Mum, of course," Kíli said, giving his brother a knowing look. "She helped me see something I'd missed."

"I'm glad. But I knew you'd come around eventually."

"Oh?" Kíli turned mid-stride to stare curiously at his brother.

"You always do the right thing in the end, Kí. I know that."

Kíli grinned, touched. "Yes, well, I still need your help sometimes."

"Of course, little brother," Fíli said, patting Kíli atop the head once. The gesture was mildly ridiculous now that Kíli stood taller than him, but it was the way Fíli had often expressed affection for his younger brother when they'd both been small dwarflings.

"Now tell me, what are you making for Tauriel, exactly?"

Following Legolas out the palace gates and over the western bridge, Tauriel knew she was happier than she had been all these last few months. Last night, too giddy with nervous excitement to sleep, she had lain with Kíli's runestone held between her heart and her hand, and imagined feeling that first breath of free air brush her face when she stepped past the Greenwood's western borders. The closed air of the wood had been stifling to her since she had returned, and she had felt herself a prisoner, not only of the guarded realm, but of her own grief. Returning to the unchanged rhythm of her previous life had kept Kíli's loss so near, for old routines brought back the old discontents from which only he had finally drawn her.

Beginning this morning, she would discover a new life, a new way of carrying her love for Kíli so that he might remain alive in her, rather than call only to her out of the past.

Yet the past, it seemed, had a stronger grip on her than she had wanted to acknowledge, for as she stepped off the last stone of the bridge and onto the mossy forest floor, she froze, transfixed as if by an arrow through her heart.

Kíli needs me, the thought flew through her mind, unbidden, Kíli needs me, and I am leaving.

She turned, without conscious volition, and stared back in the direction of the Lonely Mountain, though she knew it would not be visible beyond the forest and the rocky rise of her own king's fortress.

For several moments, Tauriel felt distinctly and clearly that Kíli, her beloved, was in very real distress, torn by some crisis. How she knew this, she could not explain, though she was sure it was true. And then the feeling was gone.

The breath she had unconsciously been holding came back in a gasp, and she found she was trembling.

"Kíli!" she called softly. She knew he was hurting; he'd surely known the same pain as she since their parting. And if he was required to take a dwarven bride, surely his unhappiness would be doubled. Yet this last cause of grief was the very reason Tauriel could no longer help him. The truth was cruel and unfair, but it was still the truth.

Despite his stature, Tauriel had never thought of Kíli as small, for surely he was strong in both body and spirit. But imagining him now, facing his troubles alone, she was struck by just how small he was against all the vast concerns of a wide world. Who, of all the powers, would consider Kíli and offer him the support that Tauriel had once given? Surely there was someone who loved this one dwarf as much as she and who saw him even now...

Tauriel dropped to her knee, hoping that Óli—Kíli's Maker—would hear the prayer of an obscure wood elf. "Blessed Mahal," she whispered. Had any elf ever addressed Óli by his dwarven name? She had certainly never prayed to him before, by any title. "My Kíli is in need. Surely you must know this. I would go to him, if I could. I love him. But I cannot help him any more. He is your son; please, you must send him what he needs."

She bowed her head and two tears fell, striking the stones of the bridge with soft, distinct taps like knocking on a door.

"Tauriel?"

She felt Legolas's hands on her shoulders.

Tauriel tipped her head to the side, pressing her cheek to his hand. She felt her tears wet his fingers.

"Tauriel," he gasped. "You're weeping."

"I know," she said, rising. She turned and put her arms around his neck.

Legolas said nothing but placed a hand to the back of her head and held her against him.

After a bit, she said shakily, "I feel as though I must not leave him. But surely, I am just wishing for what we lost. I cannot return to him now. He is promised to someone else."

"I'm sorry, my dear friend. Surely, if fate gave only according to our desert, you would be with your dwarf now."

Tauriel noted that Legolas now said hadhod, rather than the far less respectful naug, which he had once used to speak of Kíli. How much of her prayer had he overheard?

"Thank you." She raised her head from him at last. "I am very sorry you have to bear with me like this," she added as she dabbed at her eyes with the tail of her skirt. "I had hoped to make a much more cheerful companion."

"Nonsense." Legolas offered her a kind smile. "I should be a faithless friend indeed if I did not see you through this trouble now."

Tauriel smiled then too, though the expression felt crooked on her lips. "The Valar aren't entirely blind to my desert, then. Come!" She linked her arm in his. "I shall feel better when my feet are moving."

"As you wish," Legolas returned lightly. He settled his arm a little more comfortably in hers, out of way of the heavy dwarven cuff bracelet Tauriel wore high on her arm above her leather vambrace, and he let her draw him down the road that led beyond the Greenwood.

Chapter Text

Tauriel was three days gone, Kíli learned when he arrived at the fortress of Mirkwood. She had set out for Rivendell with the Elvenking's son.

Kíli was both relieved and troubled by this news. He knew it was more than luck that he had not missed her by weeks. Yet, if she traveled with the elvish prince—

He did not doubt that Tauriel still loved him and always would. And if Legolas had made her happy, when she had had no-one else to care for her as she deserved, she ought to have followed him. Kíli would never fault her for doing so. Still, none of his reasoning could quell the jealousy that flared in his breast, burning with a flame hot as dragon's fire. The thought that some other man—whatever Tauriel felt for Legolas—now received her smile, her laugh, her touch, made Kíli wildly unhappy. If Legolas thought he could step in and take that which he had no right to claim, Kíli would show the pretty elvish princeling just how wrong he was. Tauriel had another who still loved and wanted her, and Kíli would not rest till he had proved this truth.

This, Kíli suddenly knew, was the fierce need he had seen in his uncle's eyes when Thorin had demanded that they find the Arkenstone. And just as swiftly, Kíli found himself afraid that he truly did bear a strain of the family madness, called forth not by gold or gems or things made by hands, but by a living, breathing treasure.

What if he tried to possess Tauriel as a dragon did its gold? He might come to the point of demanding she belonged to him. And he would never forgive himself if he treated her that way.

His fear had rooted Kíli in place, unseeing and unhearing, on the stone of the Elvenking's entrance hall, and it was only when Dwalin shook him that he realized the guards who had admitted them were waiting for some kind of answer.

"D'ye mean to remain here for the night or to make after her while the daylight holds?" repeated his companion, the one bodyguard Thorin had insisted he take.

"I—" Kíli stared at Dwalin, his eyes round. "I don't know if I dare."

The older warrior's gaze softened. "What troubles ye, lad? Yer hardly talkin' sense."

"Dwalin, you were close to my Uncle when he... You saw how his greed consumed him, how he could not bear the thought that anyone else held what he desired. I feel that same fever rage in my blood..."

"Kíli." Dwalin's concerned expression gave way to one of understanding. "If ye've the sense to draw back, then I think ye needn't worry. Yer jealous, right enough; ye wouldn't love her if ye weren't. Perhaps it's a wonder ye've never felt this before, but I suppose she's the first treasure ye've ever loved. I will na' let ye treat her less than she deserves, if that's what yer afraid of, though I hardly think ye need me t'ensure it."

"Promise you'll kill me before you let me force her to come with me," Kíli said, fixing Dwalin with a stern gaze.

Dwalin regarded Kíli for a moment, as if making up his mind whether to take Kíli's wild demand seriously. "I give my word."

Relieved, Kíli turned back to the elven guards, who had watched this exchange without comment.

"I'll continue after her today," he said with a quick bow.

Traveling had lightened Tauriel's spirits, as she had predicted it would. In the course of the journey through the Greenwood, she had felt an inexplicable ease of heart, as if she knew, somehow, that her journey would bring her to happier days again. Even her fears for Kíli gripped her less strongly, as she reminded herself that she had released him into hands more sure than her own.

Legolas cheered her greatly by his presence, whether he shadowed her silently or chatted and sometimes joked as he had done before a dwarvish quest and a war had drawn them apart. He had once, she gathered from unconscious hints in his speech and actions, felt himself in love with her, and perhaps was half drawn to her still. Yet she was equally sure that he recognized her love for Kíli as real and true. For all his warmth, Legolas never asked more from her than friendship, and she felt encouraged in her belief that any residual attraction he felt for her would eventually soften back into the close and confident friendship they had long shared. Fond as she was of him, she had long ago realized they would make far better friends than lovers, and she knew Legolas was clear-headed enough to recognize this fact in the end.

They had been traveling for a little over a sennight when both elves became aware that someone travelled the forest road behind them. All morning, the birds and squirrels and other forest creatures had been shifting and alert, as if in response to others in the forest besides these two stealthy elves, who moved through their native wood as easily as any of its other denizens.

"Surely your father has sent no one after us?" Tauriel mused, meeting Legolas's eye. "Though I think these are none of our folk. They disturb the wood too much." The last outsiders she had tracked in the wood came unbidden to her mind: a company of dwarves, among them one who had become unexpectedly dear.

"Such was my thought," Legolas concurred. "Could they be emissaries from Dale, bound for the settlements west of the River?" He nodded towards the branches arching over the path, seconding Tauriel's own unspoken plan. "Shall we see?"

In answer, she merely swung herself up among the sheltering leaves. Legolas soon found a perch beside her, and the two assumed relaxed yet ready stances as they waited for the unknown travelers to pass below.

Nearly three quarters of an hour passed before Tauriel's ears finally caught the tromp of footsteps—two sets of them, it seemed—on the forest path. Their cadence was heavy and quick, suggesting a sturdy figure and a short stride. It was not, she was almost sure, the step of a man, whether from Dale or elsewhere. Dwarves from Erebor, then? Against all sense, her heart momentarily leapt with a sudden, unfounded hope of hearing news from Kíli. But of course, she reminded herself, surely these dwarves traveled on business among the clans now that Erebor had reestablished its eminence among the dwarven kingdoms.

She was still wrestling her elation back into calm when the figures came into view through a gap among the oak branches. Tauriel started so that she nearly lost her footing on her own perch. Her longing had truly colored her mind, for she could have sworn the lead dwarf had been her Kíli.

Her heart throbbing loud against her ribs, she crouched low over her branch, eagerly straining for the next sight of the travelers. Of course, it could not be him—he was miles away, serving his duty as a prince—and Tauriel would feel relief once she could confirm this fact for herself.

The lead dwarf stopped, irritatingly out of sight behind a particularly verdant limb, and the second dwarf, whom Tauriel had not yet glimpsed in her excitement, drew up with him.

"I swore we'd have met with them before now," one of them said. "You don't think they've left the path after all?"

That is Kíli's voice, she thought. And then, Surely I have lost all control of my senses to think I hear him now. She clutched the branch below her, fingers gripping the ridges of the bark as her breath came fast and uneven and the world seemed to reel slightly. Oh Valar, what is wrong with me?

She heard a swish and a light thump as Legolas slipped down to the path below and then a short burst of cursing in a deep dwarven voice which she could hardly now deny was Kíli's, thanks to his particular choice of obscenity.

Tauriel forced herself to draw in a long breath, though her thoughts raced wildly. If Kíli was here, had he come for her? Or perhaps he'd been sent, as a prince, on some mission to a neighboring kingdom? But if he were an emissary, why would he travel nearly alone? Did not his small party betoken his haste, as if he came with urgent news? And yet, it might well be other tidings than those she longed for most. She must, she thought, wait till she knew his purpose here before revealing herself, or she might do much harm to them both.

"Hail, travelers," Legolas called once he had drawn himself up a few yards down the path from Kíli. His tone, though friendly, still held a challenge, and Kíli wondered if his own inadvertent outburst had offended the elf. Or did Legolas resent that Kíli had returned as a rival for Tauriel's affection?

"Greetings," Kíli said stiffly. He did not feel friendly enough to offer the courtesy of a mae govannen to this smug prince. And yet surely Tauriel was near; he must remember his manners for her sake, and so he bowed. Behind him, he heard Dwalin move, and he took some satisfaction from knowing his kinsman had surely just loosened a weapon or two in their holsters.

"What urgent business brings you through the Greenwood?" Legolas asked, and there was a pointedness beneath his polite tone that put Kíli on edge. His bodyguard, too, responded once more with a subtle shift of weight.

Kíli had to struggle hard to keep his own voice courteous as he responded, "My business is with Tauriel alone. I understand she travels with you?"

Instantly, Legolas's face hardened. "What do you wish with her?" he asked curtly.

"I have news that concerns her," Kíli said, growing more annoyed by the moment at the elvish prince's presumption in Tauriel's affairs. "But I'll tell it to her alone."

"Is it for her good?" Legolas demanded, little friendliness in his face now.

At the same moment, Tauriel herself dropped to the path a few steps behind Legolas, and the sharp reply already halfway to Kíli's lips turned only to her name.

"Tauriel!"

"Yes, Kíli?" Her tone was soft, almost cautious. What was she afraid of? Why did she not run to him? He would have run to her, had he not suddenly doubted what she wanted as she stood at the blond elf's shoulder as if seeking his protection.

"Tauriel, I came to tell you..." For all his fierce desire to claim Tauriel decisively before this rival prince, he knew she was the one who must be allowed the choice to claim him. Or not, if she desired otherwise.

Kíli cleared his throat. "I'm free. I'm not required to marry a dwarven lady, and Thorin consents to my choosing you."

The cool mask of reserve seemed to melt from Tauriel's face; Kíli could see now how truly agitated she was. If his news had not made her happy...

"Tauriel, if you want to go with him, then that is what I want for you," Kíli said. Painful as the words were, under her gaze he had no trouble speaking them truthfully.

"Kíli!"

She moved so swiftly that he barely had time to collect himself before she flung herself to her knees before him and tugged him against her so violently that the two of them nearly toppled over. As Kíli clutched her and tried to stay upright, Tauriel pressed her face into the curve of his neck.

"Oh, Kíli, I want only you," she breathed.

He tucked his face down against her hair and held her tightly, too overcome to speak.

Against her, his body warmed as if she were a flame that restored heat and light to coals long fallen cold and choked by ash, and the ache which had been as much a physical pain as a spiritual one gradually eased from his heart. He had, he supposed, been far more fractured in body and soul than he had ever guessed before this moment when she held and healed him.

"Tauriel," he managed at last, and again, "Tauriel, Tauriel..." He repeated the words like a prayer, made not to her, but to whoever had seen fit to send her back to him.

"Yes, Kíli." She lifted her head to look at him through eyes shining with tears. "I'm here. Never will I leave you again."

Kíli brushed away the few strands of his own dark hair that had caught on her damp cheeks. "Amrâlimê," he whispered, and then he kissed her.

He did not know how much time passed before he remembered, dimly, that they were not alone. Tauriel, too, had either forgotten or did not care, for she made a soft noise of protest as he drew his lips from hers.

Much to his surprise, Kíli found he was almost sorry to look at Legolas now, for he was sure the elf's ageless face would show the hurt and disappointment that had so recently stung Kíli himself. Yet to his utter astonishment, Legolas regarded them with a look that was, if a little bittersweet, still decidedly pleased.

Kíli tried not to gape. Legolas had been so clearly defensive earlier, and Kíli had been sure the elven prince had not wanted to let his rival near Tauriel. Unless Legolas had been afraid, not that Kíli would claim her, but that he would hurt her...

"You never answered my question, hîr hadhod, but I see the truth readily enough," Legolas explained in response to Kíli's stare. Then, as if for Kíli's personal benefit, he added, "She never wavered from you."

Kíli felt his face burn red, ashamed as he was of how poorly he had thought of this elf who had been a comfort and defense to his Tauriel when she had been alone. "Thank you for looking after her when I could not," he said. "I am forever at your service."

Tauriel rose to her feet and turned to face Legolas, as well.

"Meldir, I am sorry to abandon you," she said.

The elf prince shrugged, the movement mildly awkward even as it was graceful. "I can hardly take you from where you truly belong. And perhaps the two of you will come to Imladris some day and visit me?" He shot Kíli a glance. "She does dearly want to see the place," he said, as if imparting some secret word of advice.

"Ah, Legolas!" Tauriel ran forward and embraced him, and then kissed him once. "You have been more good to me than I can say, and I wish you every blessing of the Valar. May the stars shine on you till we meet again."

"And may you and your Kíli be every bit as happy as you deserve," he said, gently pushing her back in the direction of the dwarf he named.

Kíli was not sure what to make of the expression on the blond elf's face; he thought perhaps it held relief mingled with regret. Then Tauriel turned her beaming face back to him, and Kíli had eyes for nothing else.

She came to him and took his hand. "Shall we go home, my love?"

He merely nodded. As they turned back east, towards the Mountain, Kíli noticed that a few early snowflakes had filtered through the trees to fall around them.

Tauriel insisted that they make camp several hours before nightfall, for Kíli and his companion had spent the last few days rising before the sun and pushing on past sunset to catch her.

"Dwarves are hardy enough to toil much and rest little, when need be," Kíli had assured her, but still she could see he was weary.

They built a fire, both for warmth and for cheer, and then combined their travelers' fare to make a small feast. Tauriel had produced her flask, filled now with an herbal elvish liquor, and they all toasted one another. Then Dwalin stood, insisting that he needed some quiet and a smoke, and left Tauriel and Kíli to themselves while he took the first watch.

Kíli then moved nearer to Tauriel, and she lifted her cloak so he could settle against her side as she sat with her back against the great arching roots of a tree. Once they were comfortable, they sat still for a time, watching the flames of the campfire leap beyond their feet.

"New Year's day was last sennight, but I forgot it entirely," Kíli said eventually.

"I remembered," Tauriel told him. "It was your New Year when I found you in Laketown, and you invited me to a new life with you. And so I thought it was fitting that I should leave on this next journey at the same time."

"But you didn't leave on New Year's. That was the day I arrived at your king's fortress."

"You're right; I left two days before the new moon." That celestial sign, she knew, marked the date of the dwarvish celebration.

Kíli found one of her hands and drew it between his own. "Isn't it strange; you left on the day I knew I could come after you."

"Yes. Kíli..." Tauriel paused, speechless as much for wonder as at the pleasure of feeling his strong hands over hers once more. "Kíli, when I was leaving—right as I stepped off the bridge from the fortress—I knew, somehow, that you needed me. As surely as if you'd spoken to me, I felt that you were suffering. I'd have come to you, save that I believed my place had been filled by another. I imagined you'd been betrothed, that a match was the cause of your new hurt."

"Tauriel, I was promised the day after I lost you."

She gasped. "My dearest! You'd no time to grieve!" And though the hurt was past and mended now, she drew his hand to her lips. "I am truly sorry."

"It was that or make Fíli lose what you and I already had," Kíli explained gently. "One of the clans insisted on a marriage treaty in exchange for their vote, but Fíli already had a lass he loved."

"You are the truest of brothers," Tauriel observed. She knew her Kíli was selfless and honorable; his release of her for his family's sake had already proved so. Yet his continued devotion to Fíli increased her admiration; she had never had a sibling to care for her in such a way, and Kíli's example made her wish she could have known such fraternal love.

He said, "The morning you left, I was fighting against myself. I had Thorin's permission to have you, and I wanted to go after you but was sure I should not."

"Kíli!" Tauriel turned on her hip so she could stare at him. She did not know what to say. How could he have thought he should not seek her out?

Kíli looked at her, an embarrassed smile tugging at his lips. He reached up and tucked a lock of hair back from her face before responding. "When I first lost you, I thought maybe it was better that way. I thought maybe it would be easier for you to heal from losing me if I'd never made you my wife. I told myself the Valar were saving you from the heartbreak I'd have willingly brought on you."

Tauriel drew her fingers over his cheek, but didn't interrupt.

He closed his eyes, remembering. "Yet I couldn't stop myself from wanting you. It felt like..." His lashes flicked up, and he met her gaze. "Like everything in me was calling out for you and I was going to break from staying silent."

"But I heard you," she assured him tenderly, still wishing she could soothe that past hurt. "I knew I could do nothing for you, but I believed your Mahal could. I asked him to send you what you needed."

"...and my mother came, Tauriel." Kili's hazel eyes widened slightly. "I was sitting at the fountains, as we used to, and wishing I could drown myself in one when she found me." Tauriel clutched at his collar, and he quickly added, "I wouldn't have, Tauriel; it was only a thought. I was so very low."

"My poor, beloved Kíli!" Her hands lifted from his collar to his face, and she kissed him.

Kíli regarded her for a moment with a crooked half smile, then reached up to touch her tears with his fingertips. His own eyes glistened in the firelight, and Tauriel knew he was moved by her retrospective sympathy for his pain.

"Mum sat with me and reminded me I could not choose for you." He reached for her hands again and pressed them firmly. "Forgive me, Tauriel. I was nearly so very selfish, even though I only wanted your good."

She shook her head gently, her eyes never leaving his. "I see nothing to forgive. You love me and you came."

"Yes, I do love you."

He leaned forward and kissed her once. Then he moved to his knees and closed the space between them, drawing her against him. He began again, his lips moving slowly from her brow to cheek to nose, and Tauriel did not rush him. Kíli lingered over her mouth, as if relearning the taste of her, then continued down over her throat and breast, as far as her conservative winter neckline would allow.

She laughed then.

"I'm sorry, my love," Kíli murmured. "Do I make too free with you?"

"No," Tauriel returned, still giggling. "Being kissed by you is an altogether different experience when you've so much more beard."

"Oh, that," he said through a smile. "I meant to trim it, but I was in a great hurry to be gone. I don't suppose anyone in Mirkwood will have a razor I could borrow?"

"I'll loan you one of my daggers. They're very sharp."

"You want it gone that badly?" he asked seriously.

"Well, I— I could grow accustomed—"

He smirked. "Nah, I hate it, too. I grew the beard to make someone else happy, but now the only one I have to please is you. And you, I think, like seeing my face."

"So I do," she confessed.

"I swear, I shall trim it the first chance I get. But in the meanwhile, you should try to appreciate my whiskery kisses, since you won't get any more after this." And he dipped his head to kiss her again, this time making a great point of scraping his overgrown beard across her cheek.

"Kíli!"

"It could be worse. Imagine if I wore a braided mustache like my brother."

Tauriel snorted.

He kissed her once more, tenderly, and then settled back against the tree, his shoulder to hers.

In the silence, Tauriel once more found his hand; she took so much comfort and relief and gladness from this simple yet intimate touch.

"Kíli," she mused, "Do you not think your Mahal heard me, even before I prayed to him? I never would have addressed him had I not known your need."

"I suppose he did." He paused, caressing her hand. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, thoughtful. "When we retook the mountain, I knew we'd had more than luck with us. But after the powers had seen Thorin to his destiny, it seemed perhaps they would forget one elf and one dwarf."

"I do not think they have."

Still clasping his hand in one of hers, with her other, she removed his big cuff bracelet from her arm.

"Here, Kíli. This is yours." She slid it back on his wrist.

"Your token is nothing next to you yourself. Still, I am very glad to have it back." He nuzzled her shoulder affectionately. Then he yawned.

"Go to sleep, mell," Tauriel urged gently. "I will take the next watch when Dwalin returns."

He settled his head against her shoulder, and Tauriel sensed he was reluctant to leave her side. She did not blame him; she, too, wanted to keep him near enough to touch.

Still, she protested, "You cannot sleep like that. Lay your head in my lap."

"But what of you? You must need your rest, if you're to watch," he said, not yet moving to accept her offer.

"I can rest just as easily sitting up," she assured him. "And I am not so weary as you."

Kíli shifted then, stretching out his legs and arranging coat and cloak so he could lie comfortably. "I'd argue with you if I had the strength for it," he teased. "But you must let me take watch tomorrow."

"Hush, my darling," she said, pressing her fingers to his lips as he laid his head down on her. He obeyed, his expression peaceful as he gazed up at her face.

"Good night, amrâlimê."

"Good night, hadhod nín. Mae losto."

Tauriel swept untidy bangs back from his forehead, and he closed his eyes. Still drawing her fingers through his hair, she began to sing, her voice low and gentle. The song was an elvish lullaby, one she remembered her mother singing to her. She could still hear the words in her mother's voice, though now was the first time she had ever formed them with her own lips.

Under her hands and voice, Kíli readily relaxed, and soon Tauriel knew he was asleep.

Her fingers lingered over him, drawing the line of his brows, his nose, his lips.  An elf’s memory was perfect, and there was no need to reacquaint herself with the shape of him.  Still, there was a pleasure in finding him just as he should be.  

And yet Kili was altered subtly since she had last seen him.  Beneath his thick beard, the angles of his face were more defined, and earlier when she had held him, he had felt leaner and somehow more rough, like an unfinished or inexpertly sculpted figure.  It was as if the softer parts of him had worn away, leaving only the stone behind.  Was this what happened to dwarves who found no more happiness in life: they returned to their native element, slowly going hard and lifeless and cold, until at last they were beyond all joy or pain?  Would Kíli have eventually turned fully to stone, had she not come back to him?  Tauriel still did not know enough of dwarves to say whether such a complete transformation were truly possible, but she could see clearly enough that being parted from her would have cost Kíli all the vibrancy and joy she had always loved in him.  She felt deeply grateful that she could save him from such a fate.

Tauriel slipped into her own dreams, utilizing her people's gift for resting mind and body even while her senses remained alert and eyes open. Such was a skill that she had practiced often as a warrior, who was called to take rest in times and places when surrendering one's senses to sleep was unsafe and impractical. Yet she had perhaps never been as grateful for the gift as she was now, when it allowed her to keep her gaze on her beloved's face, drinking him in like the refreshing, free breeze that restored her after days pent in an enclosed place.

Midway through the night, her keen ears caught Dwalin's returning footsteps. She heard him pause just beyond the small space of their camp, and when she looked up a few moments later, she caught him brushing something from his eye.

"I canna' help feelin' a softness for him," Dwalin admitted, his voice rough. "I helped raise him when his adad died." The dwarven warrior stepped closer to the fire and sat on a smooth boulder. "It fair broke him to take that other maid in place of you. All the fire was dyin' out of him. And the lad was always so bright. But you've brought 'im back. Thank ye, lass." His voice wavered slightly, and in the dim light of the coals, his eyes glimmered.

"You are welcome," Tauriel returned. She lifted Kíli's head gently, replacing the pillow of her lap with a folded portion of her cloak, which she left wrapped around him.

She stood and crossed the camp to Dwalin. "And thank you for looking after Kíli." Bowing, she kissed Dwalin's tattooed brow, and he received the gesture with an embarrassed grunt.

Then she slipped away into the darkness to take her turn at watch.

Chapter Text

Tauriel and Kíli had been invited to dine with the Elvenking upon their arrival at the woodland fortress. Honored as she was, Tauriel found she did not relish the prospect of spending an evening as the sole object of Thranduil's interest and curiosity. She knew he did favor her connection to Kíli, even if he still did not fully understand it, but she did not feel ready to put her own feelings on display just yet; her relief and joy still felt too fresh and intimate to be shared with anyone but her beloved himself.

But when she was ushered into the private dining chamber within the palace, she saw that the table was set only for two. With what was surely a faint smile, her attendant explained that the king offered his apologies but was detained by a private matter of no small importance and that she and the dwarf prince must enjoy the dinner without him.

When she was alone, Tauriel allowed herself her own smile of amusement. Surely the king had meant the evening as a gift to her and Kíli from the first; the misdirection of the invitation was either a private bit of humor on Thranduil's part, or more likely, was meant to add to the surprise.

This chamber, in the royal wing of the fortress, was one she had never visited before. The great stone pillars, carved in the form of tree trunks, gradually gave way at the far end of the room to living trees, their branches still decked with red and gold. Beyond the leaves Tauriel glimpsed the eastern sky, stars already pricked out against the first deep blue that followed sunset.

All was lit by the warm glow of dozens of beeswax candles, some set on small tables about the room, others upon the columns themselves, more hanging suspended from the trees. The candles' sweet honeyed scent filled the air, mingling with the musty smell of dry leaves that flowed in on the sharp, evening breeze.

At the near end of the room was the table, small enough to be intimate, yet not so as to be cramped. No food had yet been served, though there was a samovar which Tauriel discovered to be filled with mulled cider spiked with brandy.

She had taken her glass to the far end of the room and was gazing out at the distant shadow of Erebor when Kíli was shown in. Tauriel turned to find him gazing at her, a look of gentle wonder on his face.

"Meleth nín," she called him, holding out her hands.

He came and took her hands in his own.

"My lady, you are most beautiful," he said.

Tauriel blushed; no-one save Kíli ever called her "lady."

"Has our host not yet arrived?" Kíli asked.

"Our host has given the night to us."

"I see. I suppose I shall have to take back a great many things I have said about him in private."

She smiled. "Indeed." She laid a hand on Kíli's newly trimmed cheek. "You look all the more handsome now that I may see your face once again," she said and kissed him.

"You taste of spiced apples."

"From the cider!" She laughed. "You must have some; it is a traditional drink for this time of year. T'would not be autumn without it."

"Then I very much want to try it, though I suspect I will prefer it from your lips."

They were both just finishing their drinks when, as if on cue, a pair of attendants arrived with the food.

The meal was hearty and warming, as befitted the harvest season: roast venison; a savory tart filled with spiced squash; lake trout with rosemary; toasted nuts; and rich, sweet root vegetables. They were served two kinds of wine. For desert, there were baked apples drizzled with cream.

When the last of the plates had been cleared, Tauriel and Kíli once more found a place at the balcony where they might stand surrounded by the flickering globes and pillars of beeswax. Tauriel still sipped a glass of deep red wine, and Kíli had a glass of brandy, though he soon set it down and completely forgot it in the pleasure of watching Tauriel.

"I like your hair this way, falling loose about your face," he said eventually. He reached up for a lock at her temple and combed his fingers slowly down to the tips of the copper strands. "While you were gone, you haunted me every night in my dreams. Sometimes all I remembered of them was just, well... that I had wanted to touch your hair." He colored, as if even that innocent wish had been a liberty. Then, still blushing madly, he put his arms around her waist and gathered the fall of her hair in both hands.

Tauriel laughed softly, fully aware of the intimacy of the gesture and equally glad to grant it to him. She set down her empty glass and then swept the stray hair back from Kíli's face. In the candle glow, she could easily see the fine, clear line of a scar that ran along his right cheekbone from beneath his eye to a few fingers' breadth from his hairline.

"So you carry it still," she said softly, tracing the mark with a fingertip. "I remember seeing the cut on your face the night we parted, but somehow, in my mind it has seemed as much a reflection of your wounded heart as it was any injury of your flesh."

"Are you sorry to see it now?" Kíli asked, serious. He readjusted his arms to rest loosely around her hips.

Tauriel smiled gently. "I do not think your looks marred, if that is what you mean. And if your heart is mended, I do not mind what I see on your face."

"I am mended."

"Good." She drew her fingers down his cheek. "I admit," she mused, "when you complained of the beard, I wondered if you meant to shave it off cleanly. I mean, just to be rid of it. Not for always."

He laughed, the sound rich and full. "Tauriel, that would be ridiculous! I'd look like a bairn. Even I have some inkling of my dignity as a Longbeard."

"You said you grew the beard for her. Did she not find you... what she wanted?" The thought that Kíli's former betrothed had not recognized his worth troubled her.

"Audha was better to me than I suppose I deserved." He sighed. "Oh, Tauriel, I could hardly bring myself to be interested in her! I'm ashamed of how unpleasant I must have been. I tried to be kind, for her sake, and yet it was no use." Kíli watched Tauriel carefully, waiting to see what she would make of this confession.

Tauriel smiled, feeling guilty herself. "Perhaps I should not be glad to hear you were so cool to her, and yet the truth is, I am glad. I was miserable imagining you with another. Knowing that she would have all of you, when I was the one who loved you, was truly the worst of all my sorrows. I suppose"—she laughed, recognizing the truth at last—"I was very jealous."

"As was I, seeing you with your elvish prince."

"You didn't seriously think—?" She stared at him, truly surprised.

"Well, no and yes. I knew you'd never forget me. But if you could find someone else to make you happy, I wanted that for you, too." His gaze was very earnest, and Tauriel believed him.

"Kíli, you know my kind is like yours in that we love only once," she corrected him tenderly.

"I know. Truly, I do." Kíli took her hand and clasped it tightly. "I suppose I hoped that there was some chance that I hadn't already broken your heart for good. I couldn't bear the thought that I had."

"I will carry the happiness I have known with you in my memory as a precious gem, a treasure," Tauriel assured him. "Even if we had never met again, you gave me enough to make rich the rest of my life, however long. You must not imagine I could ever regret having given my heart to you." And to suit her words, she pressed his hand to her breast.

"I believe you." After a moment, Kíli removed his hand and laid his head against her heart in its place. Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her tightly against him.

Tauriel rested her head upon his, and they stood thus for some time.

"Kíli," she said, when his hold loosened somewhat. "I know this is an astonishing thing to say, but... I am grateful we were parted for this time." She smoothed a hand over his back, hoping to soften the affect of her strange declaration. Kíli tipped his head up to look at her, his expression untroubled.

Tauriel continued, "I was afraid, when I first knew I was losing you, that I would lose myself, too; that I'd waste of the despair that my kind are prone to. But I'm not afraid now. I found I can live—not without you, for I shall never be without you. Not truly. You have given me a way of living that makes me glad and whole, even if you cannot be at my side."

Tears fell shining over Kíli's cheeks. "And here, fool that I am, I imagined I gained far more than you," he whispered, his voice rough. "I was afraid of being selfish by wanting you in my life."

"Oh, my sweet fool, you must not believe that any more!"

"I won't; I promise!"

Tauriel smiled warmly. "You kept your promise. You came back to me."

"I had to. A dwarf doesn't give his word lightly." He reached for her hand. "I've another promise to make, if you'll let me."

"Yes, you may," she told him, knowing there was only one further commitment that he could wish to offer her. "You fulfilled your first one very much to my satisfaction."

Kíli met her eyes, and Tauriel felt heart and soul warm under the sweetness of his gaze.

"I promise I shall marry you." His fingers moved gently over hers, and then she felt the ring he had slid into place on her hand. "As soon as I possibly can get things ready. Would summer be soon enough for you? I feel you ought to be married in summer, beneath a great oak tree."

"I confess I very much fancied the idea of being the first elf to have a dwarven wedding beneath a mountain," Tauriel returned, a smile blooming slowly upon her face.

"Ah! Well in that case," Kíli drew her hand up to his lips. "I shall marry you under the mountain, but the first time I lie with you must be under the sky."

"I think that a fine compromise," she agreed.

She looked down at the ring, which he had placed on the fourth finger of her left hand. The graceful loops and curls of its broad filigree band held a single brilliant white stone that sparkled like a star, and the metal of the band shone brighter than any silver Tauriel had ever seen.

"It is... most incredible," Tauriel said, still breathless for joy.

"It had to be worthy of you," Kíli returned softly. He sounded very pleased, both with his gift and even more so, with her.

"This is the first of your gifts I can wear," she noted, still studying the way the candlelight gleamed from metal and stone as she turned her hand.

"To wear a dwarf's work is to declare yourself for him," Kíli explained. "It says you are his, and he, yours."

Tauriel looked back from the ring to its maker's face. "I shall wear your gift most proudly. There is no-one in all the world I would rather have than you."

And sinking to her knees at last, she drew Kíli into a long kiss.

Passing through Dale on their way back to Erebor, they had stopped at the garrison to tell Tauriel's friends among the guard that their former captain was returned to the mountain, though she would not be resuming her old post. Her duty, she explained, had been claimed by the Prince of Erebor, under whose command she would now serve. The news was received with pleasure, since—once the strangeness of being commanded by a woman and an elf had worn off —she had been generally liked and well-respected.

Afterwards, Tauriel had insisted that they make one other visit to the house of Bard, the soon to be king of Dale.

His elder daughter, Sigrid, had greeted them at the entrance of the grand house. Her manner was warm and friendly, as it always was, and yet Kíli could tell from her stare that she was truly astonished to see Tauriel and him standing side by side on the flagstones of her courtyard.

Then before her guests could explain themselves, she said breathlessly, "I must call Tilda," and ran back into the house, leaving the two dwarves and the elf standing on her doorstep.

Not half a minute later, the sound of light, running footsteps echoed from the hall, and then Tilda herself appeared.

"Tauriel!"

The young girl leaped at the elf, who caught her up from the ground in an enthusiastic embrace. Kíli felt a wide grin break over his face; truly his Tauriel was beloved by others beyond himself.

"Oh Tauriel, you came back!" Tilda cried. Tauriel set the girl down, and Kíli noticed that both had tears on their cheeks.

"I said I would," Tauriel reminded her.

"I know, but I was afraid it might be years and years!" Tilda appeared to notice her friend's companions for the first time. "And you're with Kíli! I mean, Your Highness!" She made an awkward curtsey to him, her face growing red.

"Nah, you don't have to call me that," Kíli returned, laughing. "I'll make an exception, since you're a princess, too." He winked.

Beaming again, Tilda looked back to Tauriel. "I told you he would come back. I told you!" she said.

"And you were right," Tauriel agreed.

Tilda glanced back to Kíli. "She was afraid you wouldn't," the girl explained. "But I said I would believe for her."

"Thank you," Kíli said, touched.

"And look." Tauriel offered her hand, which sparkled with Kíli's betrothal ring. "You asked once before about the meaning of a gift from Kíli. This time, you may guess right."

Tilda squeaked with pleasure. "You are marrying him."

"Yes! And you shall come to the wedding."

"Oh Tauriel, I'm so— so— happy!" Tilda caught the elf around the waist again, and Tauriel passed a hand over the girl's hair. Kíli noted that Tilda wore the same braids Tauriel often did, bound with the little silver ornaments that had once been Tauriel's own. The clasps had been a parting gift, he supposed.

Releasing Tauriel, Tilda turned to Kíli and caught him in a hug, as well. She had grown to be taller than he since he had first met her in Laketown, and as he thumped her gently on the back, Kíli found himself wondering for a moment just how tall his own children with Tauriel might one day be.

Tilda next looked to Dwalin, her expression somewhat embarrassed and uncertain as she clearly wondered whether or not to include him in the round of congratulations.

"Aye, lass, I'm glad, too," the gruff warrior said and extended a big hand for her to clasp, which Tilda took as an invitation for an embrace. Tauriel and Kíli both had to fight not to laugh at the look of long-suffering embarrassment on Dwalin's face as he gingerly patted Tilda's shoulder.

"Won't you stay for supper?" Sigrid then said from the doorway behind them. "I know Da would be happy to see you all."

"Thank you," Kíli returned. "We'd be most honored to, but I've already sent word and my uncle expects us home tonight. But if you would like to plan on seeing us a sennight hence, we would be happy to accept then."

"Yes, of course!" Sigrid smiled warmly. "And thank you for your visit. It means a great deal to us, especially to my sister." She glanced to Tilda, who stood with her arm tucked in Tauriel's, and Kíli wondered if Sigrid had struggled to console her sister for the loss of this friend.

Tauriel bowed. "My joy is doubled by sharing it with you."

Kíli took Tilda's other arm in his own. "Come walk with us down to the city gate," he said, and with a laugh, she agreed.

Even a year ago, Thorin would not have believed that he could ever be happy to welcome an elf to Erebor. And yet here he stood at the head of the entrance hall to the mountain, with nephew and sister,—and amidst no small onlooking crowd—glad to await Kíli's return with his elven betrothed.

Thorin could not help but remember how the last time he had greeted an elf on the doorstep to the mountain, it had been to threaten war if a treasure was not returned to him. Tauriel came today returning an altogether different sort of treasure, one that Thorin himself could not hope to keep if he did not relinquish it to her. Yet surprisingly, Thorin found he was not sorry to let Tauriel have his nephew. Kíli's absence this past month had proved hardly distinguishable from his subdued and unhappy presence of the two months before that. This further proof that they had been losing Kíli only reconfirmed Thorin's belief that he had been right to consent to the match. While Kíli's dauntless enthusiasm and cheer had surely led him into his share of mischief as a boy, Thorin appreciated that Kíli's bright nature had been a gift to their family household—and indeed, to the mountain itself. Both had seemed more gloomy of late.

The wicket-door within the great gate opened now, and the figures of a dwarf and an elf were momentarily silhouetted within it. Then Kíli and Tauriel were inside and fully visible in the reflected sunlight of the gilded entrance hall. One of the gate wardens addressed Kíli, apologetically gesturing to Tauriel's weapons; since the battle, no elf had been permitted before the king so armed with knife and bow. Yet taking Tauriel's hand, which flashed for an instant like a star, Kíli offered some dismissal and the guard bowed respectfully and retreated.

Kíli looked to his family now, and beaming as if he were returning with the burgled Arkenstone itself, came towards them.

Thorin and the family welcoming party started towards Kíli and his elf, but it was Fíli who met them first, running ahead down the gold-paved hall.

"You found her!" he cried, clasping Kíli about the shoulders. Then looking up to Tauriel, he added, "I thought you were going to lead him on a chase halfway across Middle-earth."

"I'm glad I did not," Tauriel said, and Thorin thought she seemed almost apologetic.

"He'd have done it for you, and more besides." Fíli clapped his hand to hers and she returned his firm grasp. "No, I was more concerned that if he did have to follow you all the way to the West, he wouldn't have waited to bring you back, but would have found someone to marry you on the way. I figure the idea would have occurred to him by about the time you reached Rivendell. And then I'd be cheated out of my brotherly duty at his wedding. Although technically, you know, he's supposed to wait for me to marry first, as I'm the elder brother."

"What?" Kíli protested. "Surely you know me better than that! I could hardly celebrate my wedding without a proper dwarven ale for the marriage feast, so I would not have married her in Rivendell. Surely we'd have to choose the Shire, instead. You remember that beautiful nut brown ale they served at the Green Dragon?"

Fíli grinned. "I do recall you bid it a most tearful farewell before we all mounted up to leave Hobbiton."

Tauriel was smiling now, too. "How did you know I meant to go west to Rivendell?"

"It was just a guess. Kíli was always talking about our travels, and I knew you wanted to see those places, too."

"So I do," she confessed, sharing a knowing look with Kíli. "We hope to journey there soon, if you can spare us." In one easy, graceful movement, she leaned a hip against Kíli and laid her arm over his shoulders. The gesture and her look of adoration were a far stronger display of her affection for him than Thorin had ever seen her show openly.

"I keep telling her I've been very useless lately and you won't miss me," Kíli said, unconsciously tucking an arm about her waist. He looked much improved in body, as well as spirits, Thorin noted. Though Kíli was perhaps still somewhat lean, he no longer had that spare, wasted look that had worried his uncle before.

"Your Majesty!" Tauriel gasped then as Thorin stopped before her. Dipping into a bow, she pulled Kíli slightly off balance and he stumbled into her. He gave his uncle an cheeky grin while Tauriel blushed.

"Mistress Tauriel," Thorin said, inclining his head. "I take great pleasure in welcoming you as my nephew's betrothed."

"Thank you."

"If it had been only a matter of pleasing Kíli, I would have done so some time ago. I am finally in a position to give you both what you deserve."

"I assure you, I hold nothing against you, Your Majesty," Tauriel returned, and Thorin knew she meant it.

He allowed himself a smile at last. "I don't believe Kíli ever calls me that among family; neither must you."

"Yes, my Lord Thorin." Tauriel looked distinctly uncomfortable, but Kíli was gazing up at her proudly, and she soon took reassurance from him.

Then Dís pushed past Thorin towards her son and his betrothed.

"Welcome back, my dear," she said, gathering Tauriel's hands into her own.

To Thorin's surprise, Tauriel dropped to her knees before the dwarf woman and pressed her forehead to the princess's hands.

"You have already blessed me more than I can say," Tauriel said softly, raising her head. The two women gazed at one another, sharing some private thought.

Then Dís lifted Tauriel's hand to inspect the gem sparkling on her finger. "So this is his gift. Kíli wouldn't show it to me before he left; he said I would see it on your hand or not at all."

"I've never seen finer work," Tauriel said, looking to Kíli as she praised him. In turn, Kíli glowed, like a coal under the breath of a bellows. Thorin knew that look, having often received it himself from a young Kíli proud to have gained his uncle's approval.

"He has a very good eye," Dís agreed. "It complements you perfectly."

Tauriel blushed as she stood and let Kíli's mother lead her down the hall into the heart of the mountain.

Thorin followed them, falling into step beside his young nephew. "I see your new beard didn't suit her," he said with a smile.

"It didn't suit me," Kíli returned in mock defense. "And it was beginning to interfere with my archery."

Thorin snorted. "Archery."

"Yes, my archery." Kíli grinned, roguish and unrepentant. "It's difficult to kiss the arrow with that much hair on my face."

Thorin chuckled, then clapped Kíli on the shoulder. "It's good to have you back."

"Sif, you're nervous," Fíli noted with some surprise as they neared the guest quarters. Her hand felt cool and damp within his own.

He drew her to a halt in the midst of the empty hallway. "I remember how bravely you faced Audha for Kíli's sake. You mustn't worry about Tauriel now."

"But Fíli, don't you see?" Sif protested. "You know Kili agreed to Audha because he was protecting us. What if Tauriel blames me for the fact that he nearly married another woman?"

"Sif." Fíli pressed her hand. "In that case, she would have equal reason to be unhappy with me. But she has been as friendly to me as before. More so, even. Besides,"—he touched Sif's cheek, finally eliciting the hoped-for smile—"I suppose she could be afraid you'll mislike her for much the same reasons. If it weren't for Kíli's courtship of her, I would not have been forced into a political marriage."

"But you're Kíli's brother— I'm the stranger; it's different—" Her pretty brows were drawn.

"Nonsense." He kissed her cheek, and she laughed as the braids in his mustache brushed her face. "It's all in the past and things have turned out right, thank Mahal. I think Tauriel is just as grateful as we are."

"All right," Sif returned softly, though it was she who tugged Fíli after her to continue down the hall.

As they turned the corner into the parlor outside Tauriel's quarters, Sif checked her step, and in a moment, as he drew up beside her, Fíli saw why.

His brother and the elf were the only occupants of the room. Tauriel sat on one of the dwarven chairs, which put her somewhat below Kíli's own height as he stood beside her, holding her face tipped up to kiss him.

After a moment, Fíli cleared his throat and said rather loudly, "Good morning."

"Ah, hello." Kíli turned and grinned at them. "You know, the two of you are far too quiet."

"Psh!" Fíli laughed. "You wouldn't have heard me if I'd been blasting bedrock out here. Though maybe she would have. Surely those elvish ears must be keener than yours."

Tauriel colored, though she smiled, too.

"Good morning, Sif," Kíli said and offered her a casual, though still very polite, bow. "Allow me to present you to my betrothed, my lady Tauriel."

Tauriel dipped her head in a graceful gesture that somehow gave the effect of a bow, though she remained seated.

"At your s-service," Sif returned and curtseyed.

"I remember seeing you at New Years'; you danced very prettily with Fíli after I abandoned him," Tauriel said.

"Yes, I remember."

Fíli saw she twisted her hands behind her back; he took one in his own hand and drew her gently towards Kíli and Tauriel.

"Kíli has told me how kind you were to him," Tauriel went on.

"Oh, it was nothing! I mean, it wasn't nothing. I—" Sif paused for several long moments and Fíli wondered if he should say something. Then she finished, "I was so sorry about everything! It wasn't fair."

"Thank you," Tauriel said. "And I apologize for what pain I have cost you." Fíli thought her lovely elven face looked almost anxious now, too.

"Oh, no!" Sif cried. "How could I possibly blame you?"

"You're very generous."

The two women regarded one another with mutual relieved embarrassment.

"Welcome home to Erebor," Sif said, her tone warmer and more relaxed now. "I'm glad you're here, truly."

"Ah, thank you," Tauriel repeated, smiling readily now.

Kíli looked between the young dwarf woman and the elf, pleased. "You are the two loveliest women in Erebor, and I'm blessed to know both of you," he pronounced. "Now, I'm very sorry but you'll have to excuse me. The fortnightly guards' meeting has already started without me." He kissed Tauriel, pressed Sif's hand, and with a last apology, left them.

"And so I must thank you for saving my brother again," Fíli said once he and Sif were seated across from Tauriel. "Without you, he was lost. But you've worked your elvish magic on him once more and brought him back."

Tauriel glanced to Sif, clearly wondering how she would interpret Fíli's claim that this elf had worked sorcery on his brother. Since the young dwarf woman looked more amused than alarmed, Tauriel merely said, "You are welcome."

"May I see the ring Kíli made you?" Sif asked after a moment. "I've been curious ever since Kíli dragged his brother away from breakfast with me to help him finish it in time."

Tauriel offered her hand.

"Ah! It's lovely." Sif inspected the ring closely, then glanced teasingly at Fíli. "I expect you to do at least as well."

The elf smiled, clearly following Sif's jesting challenge.

Fíli laughed at them both. "You remember it's my brother who's the jeweler, not I," he returned. "I could make you a very beautiful sword, though, and then beat it into a necklace. Or perhaps a crown."

Sif said nothing, but her blue eyes sparked with amusement.

"I understand that when a dwarf asks for a lady's hand, he gives her a jewel which she may wear to show her acceptance," Tauriel said. "But does the lady ever give him some token in return? Among my people, a betrothed couple exchange silver rings as a symbol of their promise. I would like to offer Kíli something, but I don't suppose a simple silver band would seem a fitting exchange for what he has made me."

"Well, the lady isn't generally required to give anything. She is, after all, the treasure herself," Fíli mused. "But I suppose you could make him a token..."

Sif grinned at him, triumphant. "Silly. Aren't you forgetting something?"

Fíli looked at her, not yet following.

Sif went on, "It's a little old fashioned, perhaps, but still very traditional."

"Aha! Of course!" Fíli understood at last.

"Yes?" Tauriel prompted eagerly.

"You may explain," Fíli said to Sif. Still smiling proudly, she did.

Since they had returned to the mountain, the weather had truly changed to winter. The nights were frosty, and in mid-November, they had gotten the first proper snow, perfect crystalline flakes that fell soft and steady for hours.

That night, Kíli took Tauriel up to one of the high galleries that opened on a balcony over the mountainside, and they stood together under the shower of snow that glittered in the rays from their lantern. Beyond its sphere of golden light, only the barest suggestions of mountain slopes were visible under the starless, cloud-dimmed sky. In a world gone muted and indistinct, they two might have been the only living creatures.

Tauriel threw back the hood of her coat, and then after a moment, Kíli followed her example, though he was not sure what he was supposed to discover by doing so.

"Listen," Tauriel said in response to his inquisitive look.

At first, all seemed to be silent. But then presently, Kíli heard it: the faint, musical tinkle of the snow as it fell. He had never noticed the sound before, though he'd known many snowfalls growing up in Ered Luin. What else had he, a dull dwarf, missed about the world? Oh, how eager he was for Tauriel to show him!

Tauriel looked to him and caught his smile.

"What are you thinking, meleth nín?"

"That you truly are a sorceress; you make the snow sing. I'm sure it's never done that before."

She smiled and kissed him. Her lips felt very warm in contrast to the chill air.

"I shall always be glad of snow," he went on. "It was a day full of snow when you finally chose to follow me."

"Yes. And I will follow you always, Kíli; I promise."

She slid her fingers through the hair at his temple, and then gently tugged a lock free from its clasp. Kíli was about to ask her what she was doing when, from the corner of his eye, he caught the rhythmic movement of her fingers, and then felt the light, steady tug upon his scalp. She was making a braid.

He smiled. Betrothal braids were a tradition that hadn't been commonly practiced since his grandfather's day, yet their meaning would be recognized instantly nonetheless.

"Who told you about the braids?" he asked after several very happy moments.

"Sif did."

"I shall have to thank her."

"At an elvish betrothal, the couple exchange gifts. I wanted to give you something, but I knew I could not craft you anything from silver or gold. I haven't the skill. But I am very good with hair. I was delighted to learn that a braid is considered as much of a proper dwarven gift as any jeweled token."

As she worked, Kíli watched the snow crystals catch and then melt to dew in her lowered lashes. The image of Tauriel, her eyes wet with tears, surfaced in his mind as if from some old, sad dream. On the night of their farewell, Kíli had noted how pretty she looked even amidst her sorrow. And here she was again, with her eyelashes wet and thick, but there were no tears, was no grief. Only the snow, cool and white and pure.

As if feeling his gaze, Tauriel glanced up at him. "Meleth?" she questioned.

"You're very beautiful with your eyes full of snowflakes."

She laughed. "You're covered in them, too." Leaning near, she breathed upon his eyebrow, and then he felt a drop of water run down past the outer corner of his eye.

"Don't cry, my love," she teased.

"Oh no, I'm far too happy." He stood on his toes and kissed her, so that she almost lost hold of the braid.

Once she had finished and bound it off, Kíli inspected the plaited hair. "I've never seen this pattern before. It must be an elvish one."

"It is."

"Does it mean something?"

"The pattern can mean a number of things. Maids sometimes wear it to signify that their heart is taken. A subtle form of flirtation—or deterrent, as the case may be! If I give it to you, then surely it means that I'm the one to hold your heart."

Kíli fingered the bead at the plait's end. It was one of Tauriel's elvish hair beads, with a knotted motif.

Tauriel said, "That is an infinity knot. It symbolizes eternity, for it is woven of a single strand that never ends."

"Ah," he breathed.

"Here, turn your head so that I may braid the second one."

When Tauriel had done, Kíli took her hands in his and found they were cold, just as they had been on that snowy day two winters since. Yet Kíli had noticed that even the chill had not made her fingers any less nimble over his hair.

"Mmm, your hands feel wonderful," she sighed happily. "How do they stay so warm? You haven't any gloves on."

Kíli chuckled. "Have you ever taken a stone from the fire? It holds the heat for a long time." He tucked her hands into the breast of his coat. "Shall we go inside and find something warm to drink?"

"In a moment." She leaned down against him. "I love you, Kíli."

"I love you, Tauri—" he managed, before she cut him off by pressing her mouth to his.

Her lips, like her fingers, were now cool, though this fact seemed in no way to impair her. How Tauriel could both feel the cold and yet not be affected by it was still a mystery to Kíli. As a dwarf, he was fairly resistant to cold—he could go longer before he felt it and then he could endure the discomfort more easily than a human—yet its effect on him was the same as upon any other mortal. Chilled lips would have made speaking—never mind kissing—somewhat complicated. Yet Tauriel clearly had no trouble—

"Maker's hammer!" Kíli gasped as Tauriel's frosty hand found the open collar of his shirt. "Valar, love, your hands are like—" He would have said "ice," but he could already feel her skin warming against his. So it seemed she recovered more quickly from a chill than any dwarf would have, as well.

"I'm sorry!" she said, and then she laughed against him.

"What?"

"Now I remember why it is you dwarves stay so warm." She stroked a finger down the thick hair over his breastbone. "You wear your own fur coats."

Kíli snorted. "Of course."

Tauriel removed her now-warm hand from his collar and then kissed him once more with lips as heated as his own.

"All right, my love," she said. "Now that I'm warmed, shall we get that drink you proposed?"

Chapter Text

"Once Yule is past, I'm going to speak to Thorin about formalizing my renunciation," Kíli remarked to Tauriel one evening as they stood before one of the great fires in the royal dining hall. The meal was long since over, but he and Tauriel often lingered here, she finishing her wine and he smoking. "Once that's done, I'll only have to think about building our home and planning our wedding." He felt eager to have nothing stand between him and the performance of his latest promise to her.

"Kíli, wait. You may not have to renounce."

He looked up from refilling his pipe and stared at her.

"I thought it did not matter to you if I remained in the succession," he said.

"It doesn't; not for my sake." Tauriel shrugged lightly, her copper hair rippling like the flames of the fire as she moved. "But I see now, after the Council of Seven, how much Durin's bloodline means to all of your people. I do not wish to strip you of honor here at home and before the other clans. So I have thought on what I might do to spare you from losing your station."

"I'm not being stripped of anything," Kíli corrected. "I'll still be a prince. I'm voluntarily ceding my claim on the throne. There is no dishonor in making a free choice." He took hold of her arm. "There is certainly no dishonor in choosing you."

"But when your brother is king, will it not be better that you remain equally Thorin's heir alongside Fíli? What if others doubt your support? I know Fíli will not, but some—especially from distant kingdoms—may see your renunciation as a break from the crown." Her tone was reasoned and serious.

"Tauriel, none of this bothered you—or me—before." Kíli did not see why she should suddenly be troubled. He thought she had accepted his choice in the matter.

"I know," she admitted, her smile self-conscious. "And if there were no alternative, it would not bother me now. But I tell you, I think you need not renounce."

"Ah? So tell me your scheme." He quirked a brow at her, then stooped to light his pipe from the coals with one of the dried rushes kept by the fire for that purpose.

When he stood to face her again, she said, "It is no scheme. I have spoken to Balin, and he confirms that if we marry by the elvish rite alone, our children will not be eligible for the throne under dwarven laws."

Kíli gaped at her, horrified.

"Tauriel, I will certainly not do that!" he said fiercely.

She blinked, clearly startled by his vehemence. "Would an elvish wedding not be good enough for you?" she ventured, seeming, to Kíli's great surprise, almost hurt.

Kíli shook his head, eager to disabuse her of that false notion. "Of course it would be! And so long as we signed the proper dwarven contract, the match would still be perfectly valid under my laws, as well as your elvish ones. But don't you see?" he went on, still ardent. "Without a contract, our children would be practically illegitimate! They could not inherit the throne, but neither could they legally inherit my property. And you would be little better than my mistress. No, I won't think of it!"

"Kíli, I do not need a piece of writing to bind myself to you," she said, and Kíli could sense a note of disdain in her voice for the idea that her love for him should need to be insured as if it were some mere trade agreement. "Your vow, sealed by our bodies' union, is all that I need to consider myself wholly yours. I won't be troubled if we never sign a bit of paper together."

"That bit of paper doesn't make our bond. It is my way of declaring, in the eyes of the law, who you are to me. Would you have me announce to all the Khazad that you are not truly my wife?"

Tauriel's expression no longer appeared injured, yet she still regarded him disbelievingly. "But Kíli, the laws of elves or dwarves do not make a marriage," she reasoned calmly. "The law of the Allfather does. I find it no shame to be married by one rite rather than another. I would have been happy to take your dwarvish rite, if it would have served the occasion. I do not care what a mere earthly law says of us. We shall still be one in body and spirit: our lives will be proof enough of that truth."

Kíli smiled slightly. He could admire her indifference; indeed, on any matter but this, he would likely have shared it. "Maybe you do not care, but I care," he explained, his tone finally changed from urgent to gentle. "I won't dishonor you before the kingdom. You may be right that the law cannot change the truth of our match. But I must honor that truth with my deeds, Tauriel." He tucked an arm about her waist and caressed her. "I must honor you, love. I hope you will not force me to defend my need to do that."

"No, of course not," she assured him tenderly.

"Then you must speak no more of forgoing a legal marriage," he instructed. "I'm very happy to renounce my claim in exchange for you and all that we may have together."

"Yes, Kíli."

"You're not upset?" He sensed she still held some small reservation.

"I do not fully comprehend you dwarves' devotion to mere laws, but I find no fault with you."

"Tauriel..." If she did not understand his reasoning, Kíli did not know how to make her see why this decision was so important.

Tauriel shook her head, apparently sensing his unease. "No, I see I must listen to you. I trust you, meleth nín." The confidence in her voice warmed him completely.

"Good," he murmured.

She pressed a kiss to his forehead, and then looping her arms around him, simply held him against her. Kíli felt her hands move over him, tracing out the contours of his back.

"You are much more comfortable again," Tauriel said as she finally let him go.

"Comfortable?" Kíli took a draw at his pipe, which was in danger of going out from neglect.

"Yes." Her eyes held that glint of fascination which Kíli loved so well; he liked knowing he could surprise her, this immortal many times his own age. She said, "Last month, when I first held you again, you felt different. Your body was changed. You felt... rougher. More stony, as if you were returning to your native element."

"Ah." He knew what she meant now. He had lost weight over the months since she'd gone, though he hadn't realized until he'd already begun his recovery. Before he had got Tauriel back, he had not had the spirit to notice or care that he wore his belt tighter or that his shirts hung somewhat too loose, and once she was returned, then his attention had been taken by much more important things. In the end, he had only noticed the change in himself when he had wondered, after easily demolishing several very elaborate meals in Mirkwood, why he suddenly had the appetite of a growing twenty-something dwarfling. But of course Tauriel had known he was different from the first.

"Yes," he admitted. "I imagine I was less than the dwarf I had been by at least a stone's weight." The fact sounded rather alarming, now that he spoke it aloud: sturdy as they were, dwarves rarely lost so much flesh, and then only as a result of prolonged physical hardship.

Tauriel's auburn brows narrowed slightly in concern. "Then you truly were fading away. Would you have turned back to stone at the last?" she asked softly.

Kíli chuckled, delighted that she thought him capable of such a magical transformation, unpleasant as the prospect of that change might be. "No. We dwarves cannot truly turn back to stone." Yet he supposed she had still been right, in a sense; part of himself had begun to go cold and unfeeling in response to his deep loss.

"Well, you feel much better in my arms now," she continued. "Less like a weather-beaten old rock and more like..." She giggled and would not say.

"Like what?"

Her cheeks turned pink. "Like my little bear."

Kíli almost choked on the fumes from his pipe as he laughed. He remembered she'd likened him to a bear the one time she'd seen him half naked, but then her words had been in response to his quip that he was surely the hairiest male she had ever seen.

"Well, you are far more muscular than any elf," Tauriel explained as Kíli went on laughing.

"Is that so?" he managed.

"Kíli, I've never held anyone as strong as you. You look as if you could be shaped from stone"—here she flushed red and Kíli knew she was remembering that naked glimpse of him on the river shore—"but you don't feel it. You're soft and warm. I think holding you is what it must be like to cuddle a bear; a small one, that is. Somehow you're both powerful and cozy, and I suppose—"

Kíli did not wait to find out what she supposed. Laying his pipe safely on the stone of the hearth, he gave a very convincing growl and seized Tauriel about the waist. She stumbled backwards and drew him down with her as she fell into a seat in the heavy stone settle beside the fire. On an inspiration, Kíli grabbed the fur blanket draped over the back of the settle and threw it over his own shoulders.

"You wanted to know what it was like to cuddle a bear," he teased, pressing close against her and nuzzling his face into her throat.

"So I did." Tauriel closed her arms about his furred shoulders.

"I warn you; I think bears bite."

"Then I am lucky you truly are no bear," Tauriel laughed.

"Oh, very lucky indeed," he returned before pressing his lips fully and gently against her own.

"I haven't seen you this happy since Kíli was still a babe," Thorin commented to his sister over breakfast the morning after the last day of Yule feasting. Back then, before the loss of her husband, her family had been the source of untarnished joy.

Dís smiled as she poured Thorin's tea. "You and both my sons are now happy," she said. "And so the mountain finally feels like home again."

"Hearing you say so repays all the doubts and pains I've taken for this place," he told her.

"I trust those doubts no longer extend to Mistress Tauriel," Dís said as she calmly buttered a scone, and Thorin heard a hint of teasing satisfaction in her voice.

He laughed. "Of course not. I'm convinced I can no more separate her and Kíli than I could remove the vein of gold from a gem without destroying the stone. Did you not see them lingering in the great hall last night after everyone else had turned in? I went back, hoping to speak to them both, but found I had not the heart to interrupt them as they sat before the embers, conspiring in each other's happiness."

"This is a change, brother. I understand you once felt no compunction at breaking in on their lovers' conference." She was definitely jesting with him now.

Thorin snorted. Someone—Fíli, most likely, as Kíli seemed hardly the one to mention it—had told Dís of how Thorin had once surprised his nephew and the elf mid-kiss.

"I don't know how I ever thought you would take anyone but Kíli's side in this matter," he admitted, teasing her in return. "As a late Yule gift, let me tell you that I have very recently decided—"

He did not get to finish, for his sister's younger son—as if summoned by their discussion of him—swept into the room.

"Good morning, Mum, Thorin," Kili said brightly. So long as he had reason to be happy, the lad always seemed to have boundless energy, regardless of how much he had drunk or how little he had slept the night before. Indeed, Thorin wondered if anyone but Kíli could be so enthusiastic on this first early morning of work following much Yuletide merrymaking.

"Morning, love. Have you eaten?"

"Yes, Mum. I came to speak to Uncle."

"Sit down, Kíli. I haven't even tasted my tea," Thorin ordered good-naturedly.

"Sorry!" Kíli offered a self-deprecating grin before slipping into a seat. "Go on, I'll wait for you to finish."

Thorin nodded appreciatively and took a slow sip of tea before turning his attention to the cold chicken on his plate.

Across from him, Kíli occupied himself by very carefully and slowly slicing a scone down the exact center. He then proceeded, with painstaking precision, to apply a uniform layer of butter to each half, taking care to spread it smoothly right to the very edges of the scone. But when Kili reached for the jelly spoon and began laboring to evenly distribute gooseberry seeds atop the scones without disturbing the surface of the butter, Thorin could bear watching him no longer.

"For Durin's sake, lad," Thorin said, his mouth still full of roast potato. "Stop tormenting that scone and tell me what you want."

"Err, yes, sorry!" Kíli dropped the spoon on his plate with a clatter, and a drop of jelly landed on the table. With a further apologetic smile, Kíli swiped up the jelly with a finger, licked it, and then began. "I came to discuss finalizing my renunciation of my claim. I want it settled so I can focus on my wedding."

Thorin smiled, unsurprised. "Yes, you had better begin on the preparations if you wish to be married in such a hurry," he replied once he had finished his bite. "When did you say you mean to hold the wedding?"

"June," Kíli said firmly. "Or maybe May, if I can get the work done on our home."

"Then there's no time to waste, especially not in drawing up tedious and unprecedented legal documents."

"I know; that's why I want to sort this as soon as I can."

"Kíli." Thorin put down his fork. "I'm not going to make you renounce."

"What?" Kíli's face went entirely blank with surprise. "But that was the condition I offered back when..."

"I know. And I do not require it of you. Through the Quest and now the Council, you've been a more than faithful kinsman. I won't reward you in half measures."

"But Thorin, I don't mind. I understand why the rest of our people won't have an elf connected to the throne. I'm willing to give up my right so that I may have what I value more than a crown."

Thorin shook his head lightly. "I will not cut you off from me, from our family, as if I were ashamed of you. I am not; nor am I ashamed of Tauriel. She has loved you selflessly and honorably, and I could ask no more of her than that."

"And Durin's bloodline?" Kíli asked softly, as if not yet believing his uncle's words.

Thorin smiled. "Mahal only knows why Durin's line needs elvish blood, but I can see that Tauriel has done good in your life. That knowledge is enough for me. After all the trouble surrounding this summer's Council, I would rather trust the Maker's judgment than that of the squabbling lords of the seven kingdoms when it comes to knowing who is fit to follow me as king. If your son ever comes to the throne, surely Mahal has a reason."

Kíli laughed. "I'll be sure to tell Fíli his first duty to the crown is to produce about seven heirs." He paused then. "Wait— Does Fíli—"

"Your brother agrees with my decision," Thorin acknowledged his nephew's unfinished question.

Kíli smiled broadly. "Thank you, Uncle," he said, and Thorin remembered the face of a much younger dwarfling, delighted by a gift. That bright smile, priceless in itself, would have outweighed the cost of any present.

Kíli continued, "Your concession means very much to me, especially for what it will mean to Tauriel. She was worried I would incur dishonor by breaking from the throne, and she offered— Well, hoping to spare me, she offered me far more than I could accept."

"I heard."

"What?" Kíli looked startled.

"Oh, not from her; Balin told me she asked whether children from an elvish marriage could inherit under dwarvish law."

Dís gasped softly.

"I would never have agreed to an unlawful marriage," Kíli declared, glancing to his mother.

"Nor would I have permitted it," Thorin agreed.

"And I'm glad to hear it, both of you," Dís returned. "But poor Tauriel! How could she think she ought to offer such a thing?"

"Mum, I don't think she understood what her concession meant. The elves don't have as many laws as we do; in her eyes, the marriage would have been just as complete."

"I see," she said, and Thorin thought his sister sounded relieved to know that her future daughter had not meant to trade away her honor, even for Kíli's sake. "She must find our ways as confusing as we do her own. You will be sure to ask her if there are any elvish customs she wishes to observe for your wedding?"

"I will." Kíli rose. "I should be off to the barracks. But Uncle—" He looked at Thorin for a moment, clearly seeking for words that he could not find. Finally, he finished by once more saying simply, "Well, thank you."

"You are most welcome, Kíli."

After the lad had gone, Thorin looked to his sister. Her eyes were damp.

"Well, now you know what I was about to tell you before."

"Thorin, I'm very glad."

He nodded, then reached for half of Kíli's perfectly buttered scone and went on with his breakfast.

Dís had brought Thorin's harp from Ered Luin, and on this first quiet evening since the Yule celebrations, he had removed the velvet covering and played it once more. The golden instrument had sat idle for far longer still than even the year since its arrival here. In his last memories of playing it, his nephews had still been boys, and they'd been fully grown now for almost this half century.

And yet to Thorin's pleasure—as well as his relief and surprise—the strings felt the same under his hands, and the old songs drew his fingers along almost without thought. Strange, how one's muscles held the memory even better than the mind did.

It was as if his hands were still those of the young dwarf prince who had first learned the tune, hands that had not yet wielded blade against foe or labored for wages as if they'd belonged to any common workman. Of course, too much had changed, too many had been lost, for Thorin truly to return to that younger self. Yet playing the harp songs helped, perhaps, to bring that young dwarf, with his eagerness and hope and courage, into this moment now, into the new Erebor where he belonged.

Thorin was so immersed in the song that he did not register the knock at his chamber door until it was repeated.

"Enter," he called without pausing the plucked notes. Whoever it was obeyed; Thorin saw the light from the hall creep over the floor and then recede as the door was opened and shut. He did not look up for several more measures, and when he did, he saw that his visitor was none of his family: it was the elf, Tauriel.

Thorin would have stopped, but she shook her head, indicating for him to finish the song. He did, while she stood listening intently, as if each bell-toned note held some newly-revealed secret. Perhaps they did; she had surely never seen the dwarf king in such an unguarded moment as this.

When he finished, Thorin remained gazing down at the harp's carven soundbox. He was sure he knew why Tauriel was here, yet he still found it somewhat strange to meet her alone in such a private setting.

"I see now where Kíli gets his musical skill," she said finally, saving him from finding a way to begin conversation.

Thorin looked up to her then. She was smiling gently.

He returned her smile. "I didn't teach him. He learned to play from miners at the pub," he clarified with a chuckle. "The fiddle is not a king's instrument."

"No. But you both have the same feeling for the spirit of a song. And that sense, I think, cannot be taught."

"Perhaps not." Thorin shifted the harp from between his knees and set it to the side. "Do you play music?"

"A little." For an instant, Thorin was sure her expression was embarrassed. "When I was young, I was instructed in the lute. I was but a poor student, though I do very much enjoy music. Sometimes I sing."

Were elves, Thorin wondered, expected to be musical? And was she considered unusual because she was not?

"I don't suppose you came just to hear me," Thorin prompted.

"Ah, no, Thorin," she said, and for once, she did not hesitate over his name. "I came to thank you for all that you have done for Kíli. And for me." She sank to her knee before him.

"You are truly welcome," he returned.

"I love your nephew dearly and..." Her eyes brimmed with glistening tears. "You have given us more than I ever hoped."

A weeping elf—and one who was to become his own kinswoman, no less—was not a problem Thorin had ever faced, even in his wildest imaginings, and for a few instants, he did not know how to respond. But he laid his hands on her slim shoulders.

Tauriel smiled broadly, and her tears fell. Then, to Thorin's utter astonishment, she put her arms around him and her head upon his shoulder in a filial embrace.

After that, it was purely by instinct that Thorin closed his own arms about her in the hearty, warm gesture he would have used with one of his own folk. Tauriel made a soft squeak as the breath was knocked from her, but it was altogether a happy sound, and strangely enough, Thorin found that he, too, was glad.

Chapter Text

"Is it like you imagined?"

Tauriel surveyed the stone fireplace behind Kíli. To either side of it, Erebor's green marble had been intricately carved into the forms of two trees; their trunks framed the sides of the fireplace, and their branches wove together above it.

"It's even better," Tauriel pronounced. "The one in Thranduil's palace is carved in much shallower relief."

Kíli smiled, proud. "Well, I wanted it to cast proper shadows when the fire is lit. It will look best in the firelight; then you'll hardly be able to tell where the stonemason's work ends and mine begins."

Tauriel studied the leftmost tree, following Kíli's gesture. "I cannot see even now."

"Come now; you can tell me. I shan't be embarrassed. I know I'm not a sculptor."

"It's true, Kíli; I cannot see any difference. The carving all looks beautiful to me."

Kíli laughed. "I think the difference must still be obvious to any dwarf who walks into the room, but if you are happy, that is approval enough for me."

"I will agree with you in one respect," Tauriel returned. "I shall find the room all the more beautiful with a fire upon the hearth and a husband beside me."

"Ah! That reminds me; you can finally come see the bedroom." Kíli took her hand and eagerly drew her after him through an antechamber and towards a great double door that she knew led to what would become the bedroom. She had not been permitted to enter it these past few months as Kíli worked, since some very important but clandestine project had long been in progress.

Kíli stopped before the doors, which were made of more solid marble, intricately carved with intertwining knotwork of both elvish and dwarven design. "Here, open them," he said, laying her hand upon the latch.

Tauriel was not sure she would be able to move these massive stone slabs, but she obeyed Kíli's instruction and gave a push. To her surprise, the heavy door moved easily and silently on its hinge. She opened the second door, and then gazed through.

The room beyond was of typical size and shape for a bedchamber, and so Tauriel did not notice what was unique about this one until she glanced up towards the ceiling. Rather than the angular vault common for most of the royal wing's architectural style, this room had a high domed ceiling.

Tauriel stepped inside, peering upwards. The room was currently but half lit, and in the shadows, the dome appeared as vast and deep as the night sky. And indeed, it almost seemed to twinkle in the light of the work torches.

She laughed, delighted. "I shall never fear to wake here and think myself buried alive."

"You haven't seen all of it yet," Kíli said, and taking one of the torches from its holder, began climbing the scaffolding that was still set up at the far side of the room. As he drew higher, the lights glinting and flashing from the ceiling grew even brighter. By the time Kíli reached the top of the scaffold, the dome positively sparkled, and when he held the torch aloft, Tauriel saw why.

The inside of the dome was set with gems and glass and tiny shards of mirror to mimic the star-filled sky. As she looked, she even recognized the shapes of several constellations, picked out in especially bright gems.

"Oh, Kíli, it's wonderful," she breathed.

"I still need to make the lamps which will reflect the light up here, but you can get the general effect already," Kíli explained. He sounded very pleased.

"I confess I was wondering what you were up to in here."

"I had to completely redo the original ceiling, and then setting all the stars took some time."

Tauriel laughed. "That's why you asked me for a star chart." Kíli had pestered her until she had sent for one from the Elvenking's library.

"Yes," he admitted. "I confess it had nothing to do with choosing a wedding date."

"Thank you, meleth; you are the most clever and thoughtful of dwarves," Tauriel said after she had gazed some minutes longer.

"I wanted you to feel comfortable living at the bottom of a mountain," Kíli said, gazing down at her fondly. "I know you elves are most happy under an open sky, so I tried to bring some of the heavens here to you."

"No elf before me can claim a star made for her alone, but you have given me a whole sky full," she noted. "And you are the brightest star in it."

In answer, he smiled, his look of complete adoration setting her own heart aglow. Kíli did truly fill her with light and life, as once only the stars had done. She did not think it would be a burden to live beneath the stone for a time, so long as she was with him.

As he climbed back down to her, she noted, "It might surprise you that my people have favored underground halls for many ages. You have heard of the ancient elven fastnesses of Menegroth and Nargothrond? They were built in great caves; indeed, they say that your own people had a part in shaping those halls."

"Yes, I do remember now," Kíli said, pausing on the lower rungs of the ladder. When Tauriel stepped closer, he caught her about the waist and drew her in to kiss him. He stood some inches taller than she, and Tauriel had to tip her head back to meet his lips, an inversion which he clearly enjoyed as much as she, for he drew his fingers up the long line of her throat and held her chin lifted with a firm but gentle hand.

This time, they both heard the approaching footsteps and broke off their embrace before Fíli and Sif found them.

"Is the room finished? May we come see it?" Fíli said from the door.

"Aye, come in," Kíli called back.

Tauriel knew that Fíli had surely seen the room while it was in progress—he had been helping his brother with the renovations to this royal suite since Kíli had begun in early January—but like Tauriel, Sif had not been allowed into this particular room before today.

"Does she approve?" Fíli asked his brother as he entered.

"Oh, very much," Tauriel answered for Kíli.

"Ah! How ingenious! It's the sky!" Sif wheeled in the center of the room, her head thrown back. "No wonder they were so long working at it."

"You should see it properly lit up," Tauriel remarked, and then Kíli had to climb up the scaffold with the torch again, a deed he performed willingly.

After Sif and Tauriel had exclaimed once more over the beauty of the finished ceiling, Kíli had towed his brother off for a consultation over some other secret project in the bathing room beyond.

"I'm impressed," Sif said after the men had gone. "Kíli has completed so much in barely three months. Many dwarves spend at least a year furnishing a place before bringing home a wife."

Tauriel laughed. "Kíli tells me he focusses only on the essentials for now since it is but three more months till our wedding, yet even so, I find this all so extravagant! No one has ever done so much for me. I never expected such lavish treatment from a husband; an elf would have had a long-established home, and I simply would have joined him there."

Sif smiled, clearly enjoying Tauriel's own wondering pleasure. "But you are marrying a dwarf, Tauriel, and so you are his treasure. How could he not make you a new home? A precious stone must have a worthy setting, after all."

"Yes," Tauriel returned. She was still overcome when she considered how fully Kíli was devoted to her. After losing her parents when she had been so young, she had held no-one as close as she did Kíli now. Such deep affection was, in many ways, a continuing discovery for her.

"Dís tells me you were measured for your wedding gown," Sif went on.

'Oh, yes. I confess I was astonished by how many layers and jewels I was expected to have. I had quite a task to persuade the tailor down to two overskirts, and when she asked me to send round the jewels I would wear so that she could match my gown to them, she truly did not believe me when I said I meant to wear none!" Tauriel sighed in amused resignation. "I am certain the good woman wanted to tell me I might as well attend my wedding naked!"

Sif giggled. "But you must be dressed fit for a prince. Do you want all Erebor to think you a pauper?"

"No! And yet I wish to feel it is I, not some dressmaker's confection, who am marrying Kíli." She laughed as well, knowing that her discomfort at being overdressed must be foreign to this dwarven maid who, even when she was less formally attired, wore gems and gold in her hair and at her ears.

Tauriel continued, "When I told him, Kíli promised he could design me a jeweled necklace rich enough to satisfy any dwarf at the wedding, but light enough to please me."

"I'm sure he can. Oh, Tauriel, you must wear the jewels; every bride does. Don't you want to wear them for him?"

Tauriel smiled, thinking that Kíli did not need her to wear jewels to be beautiful. Yet Sif was still right: surely Kíli would be delighted to see her properly dressed as his bride.

"Truly, I am proud to wear any jewels crafted by his hands," she said.

Besides, Kíli would also be decked in gems and precious metals; he had shown her the silver circlet with blue stones that he would wear for the occasion. Yet while the thought of herself, a lowborn Silvan elf, wearing such rich ornaments was still slightly preposterous, the adornments seemed fitting for Kíli, the second prince of the highest dwarven house. Indeed, she imagined he would look very handsome with his hair in formal dwarven braids and jewels upon his brow.

"Sif," Tauriel said, "There is something I have wondered for some time, and you are the first person whom I feel I can ask."

"Oh?" The dwarf maid seemed both intrigued and apprehensive.

"Is Kíli considered handsome for a dwarf? I confess I find him so, but mine is the judgment of an elf."

Sif gave a full-throated laugh. "You are not the only woman to think so! Yes; he is very handsome."

Fíli came back into the room then. "Who's very handsome? Were you talking about me?" he asked.

"Yes, Fíli," Sif told him teasingly.

"You're talking about my brother, aren't you?" Fíli guessed. "It's a shame he shaved off his beard, don't you think? He was much handsomer with it." The blond prince gave Tauriel a good-natured smirk.

Sif kept silent, but watched Tauriel curiously to find out what this elf thought on the subject of a dwarf's most defining feature.

"I think that a full beard is a very foolish ornament for an archer, which is why, as you can tell, I keep mine cleanly shaved," Tauriel said, matter-of-fact.

"So you see, we suit each other," Kíli said, coming in behind his brother.

"Yes." Fíli glanced between Kíli and the elf, a smile of deep pleasure upon his face. "I see that you do."

"So when are you going to ask her?"

Fíli looked up from the golden pendant he was polishing to see his brother smiling eagerly at him from the other end of the work table.

"In another sennight or two. I've one more project to finish first."

"Oh?" Kíli had been privy to the progress of his brother's betrothal gift; he had assisted in crafting it, as Fíli's true expertise was in steel, not gold or silver. Yet this second gift would be news to him.

"It's a secret."

Fíli worked for a while longer in silence, buffing away the file marks from the cast metal.

"Have you noticed," he went on presently, "I think Audha has stopped avoiding you."

"Err, maybe?"

"Well, she was avoiding you; you knew that much, right?" Fíli looked up at his brother.

"Um..." Kíli returned Fíli's glance, before shrugging and going back to the jeweled necklace he was making. "It's not like I went out of my way to see her, before or after she released me," he admitted with an awkward laugh. "And of course, after I would have felt like I was reminding her of what she gave up."

"You were probably right. Sif tells me she thinks Audha was jealous of you and Tauriel at first. Not personally so, perhaps, but still it was hard for her to see you together."

"I still feel bad about things between me and Audha," Kíli said. "But you say she's better now?" He peered at his brother, brows knit.

Fíli laughed. "You really have been oblivious."

"I've been busy! I'm getting married next month."

"Well, it seems that Freyr Ironsides noticed the pretty Blacklock maid as soon as his sister befriended her last summer. I'm sure he's happy you're out of the way."

Kíli laughed from pure astonishment. "What, Sif's brother?" He stared, clearly considering the fact that his one-time betrothed might yet become connected to his family. "And what does Audha think of him?"

"Sif refuses to say. But as I said, Audha doesn't seem to be troubled by the sight of you any more."

"I hope she finds someone to make her happy," Kíli said. "She deserves much better than to be made miserable by me, for one reason or another." And chuckling softly to himself, he returned to his work.

Some while later, Fíli threw aside the final polishing cloth and held up the pendant to inspect it. The surface of the cast golden knotwork gleamed smooth and flawless, as did the three tawny topaz stones set within the angular loops of the knot. The whole pendant was shaped in a shallow V meant to rest just below the wearer's collarbones.

"Finished?" Kíli asked.

"All but adding the chain."

Kíli rummaged on a shelf at the back of the shop while Fíli completed this easy task of connecting the chain to either end of the pendant. When he set down the finished piece, Kíli thrust a mug into his hand. Fíli smelled whiskey.

"To your betrothal!" Kíli pronounced, knocking his own mug against his brother's.

"And to your wedding," Fíli returned before drinking.

As Kíli poured them each a second draught, he said, "I have Thorin's permission to travel after the wedding. I think we'll leave immediately; I'll have things ready, and we'll be off the next morning. I mean to visit Kheled-zâram, and Rivendell, and maybe even the Shire."

"And so you won't even get a chance to use your new home. Not even for your wedding night," Fíli teased. He knew his brother had promised Tauriel a dwarvish wedding in exchange for a marriage bed under the stars. This last was a peculiar arrangement—no other dwarf would ever have agreed to, never mind asked for, such a thing!—but Fíli supposed that elves, at least, must be used to such rustic practices.

"I'm coming back!" Kíli protested.

"You'd better! I'm not marrying Sif without you beside me." Fíli grinned, not truly doubting, then tossed back the second pour of whiskey.

"I know; I'll be here."

"I finished your wedding present."

Tauriel looked up from the wildflowers she held in her lap, her smile all the answer Kíli wished. The warm, early summer breeze lifted her hair about her shoulders and tossed the meadow grasses that grew thick and lush on these lower slopes of the mountain.

"Would you like to see it?" he went on.

"Should it not wait until the day of the wedding?"

"Nah." Kíli shook his head. "You'll want to wear it for your final gown fitting, and I want to be the first to see you in it."

She laughed softly. "I can hardly deny such a request."

"I thought not." He reached into the satchel that contained their lunch and drew out a bundle carefully wrapped in suede, then moved closer to where she sat on the grass.

Tauriel took the package from him and slowly unwrapped it, her fingers lingering over the string binding and the folds of suede. He knew she still found these material manifestations of his devotion a great deal to take in; he might have worried that he burdened her, had he not been sure that she was equally delighted and fascinated by the fact that his dwarven sensibilities demanded his love to be expressed in this tangible way.

The last fold of suede fell away to reveal a shimmering pile of silver. Tauriel gave a soft gasp as she lifted it and the jumbled silver strands resolved into an airy web of slender chains studded with hundreds of tiny white gems, frosty moonstones and clear diamonds. The necklace formed a broad collar meant to cover breast and shoulders, yet true to Kíli's word, it was very light.

"Oh, Kíli! This is— I have never—" She looked from the gems to his face, her own face gone crimson. "I am sure not even the late queen of the Greenwood ever wore something this rich. Maybe the Lady of Lorien, though—"

"Nonsense. It is just right for my thatrûna, my lady of stars." He reached for the necklace. "May I?"

At her nod, he draped the jewels about her neck. She shivered as the cool metal touched her skin and then leaned into him as his fingers skimmed her neck, beneath her hair.

"Amrâlimê," she whispered and kissed him once, soft and lingering.

As she sat back so that he might admire her, he smiled, equally pleased by her adoption of his dwarven endearment and by her beauty. The necklace fit just as he had intended it to, a smooth cascade of silver and gems flowing down from her throat to the edge of the scooped neckline of her elvish gown.

"I may never make jewels again for anyone but you," Kíli said. "I'm sure no one else could wear them as you do."

Tauriel laughed. "Thank you, my love. And here; I've something for you, as well," she finished without any trace of a jest. She caught up the flowers in her lap, which she had woven into a crown, and placed them on Kíli's head.

"Now I am as richly attired as you," Kíli said, pleased.

Tauriel said nothing, but Kíli knew from her look that his satisfaction was not lost on her. Sighing happily, she lay back on the grass, her hands tucked behind her head. As she breathed, the gems on her breast sparkled in the sunlight.

"When I made your necklace, I had in mind the Khagsmesmel, the most famous work of my ancestors from Ered Luin," Kíli said. "It was a necklace made for an elvish king, with elvish jewels out of the Farthest West. It is said to have contained gems uncounted, and yet to lie as light as a strand of flax about the wearer's neck."

Tauriel nodded, sending sparks flashing and scattering from her throat. "Yes, I've heard of it; it comes into the story of the Silmarils. My people call it the Nauglamir, 'the necklace of the dwarves.'"

Kíli laughed. "Khagsmesmel means something like 'necklace above all necklaces.'" He nudged a few gems into place along Tauriel's collarbone. "I don't claim my work can rival it, but I refuse to believe that even the elven princess looked more beautiful wearing it than you do in my own humble work."

"Kíli," Tauriel protested, amused. "Tinùviel was the most beautiful woman ever born among my people. No other elf has ever matched her."

"Maybe not according to your elvish poets. But poets don't know everything."

"Don't they?"

"No."

Kíli leaned down and kissed her, and it seemed to him that he kissed a star, all shining and aflame. Yet she smelled of sweet green herbs.

"Tauriel, I'm ready to marry you," he said when he had finished.

"Yes," she breathed, drawing one of his betrothal braids through her fingers as he leant over her.

"A fortnight," Kíli said, reminding himself as much as he did her. "One fortnight more, and you'll be mine. I can barely believe it. And still, I can hardly wait," he admitted, drawing back from her and sitting up once again.

Recently, he had found it maddening to be so near her, knowing how very close he was to the privilege of having all of her. Probably, it was just as well that he had been too busy in Erebor this past month with the final preparations for the wedding to see much of Tauriel, who had been serving as his deputy at Ravenhill. Seeing her often would have made him doubly impatient.

He turned aside to dig their lunch out of his satchel, and Tauriel sat up, too.

As he handed her a slice of bread with cheese and meat, she remarked, "This is a sumptuous feast compared to our first shared meal of traveler's bread on a barren mountainside. Do you remember?"

Kíli nodded; how could he forget that day shortly after the battle when he had left Erebor to meet with her for the first time? He had felt giddy with hope when he had found her, waiting as she had promised. And now, that hope was coming to fullest flower.

"And still," she went on with a conspiratorial smile, "tasteless as the fare was then, I shall always consider it one of the best meals I have ever spent."

Kíli smirked back at her. "I can ask Bombur to reprise the cram for our wedding feast."

"Ah, no! I was thinking of the company, not the food."

"Well, in that case, I'm sure I can arrange for some cheeky, reckless, smitten young dwarf to remain at your side throughout the feast."

"Don't forget he must be handsome, too."

"Hmm... That makes things a bit more difficult, but I shall see what I can do."

She laughed, bright and full. "I shall hold you to your word."

Fíli looked down at the blade in his hands. The warped planes were straightened and the brittle, overworked steel mended. Yes, it was perfect now. Surely she would think so, too.

He laid it back on the forge worktable, covered it with a cloth, then drew a sleeve across his damp brow. He surely would need to change into the spare shirt he'd brought before Sif met him here. Catching the garment up, along with a towel from the rack near the door to the forge, he made for the wash fountain in the central hall that ran between private workshops.

The cold water was a delight after the warmth of the forge, and Fíli splashed it freely over face, shoulders, and torso. When he was done, he flicked the last water from his eyes and reached for the towel where he had placed it at the edge of the fountain, only for his fingers to meet empty stone.

Confused, he wheeled to find Sif herself standing beside him with the towel in her arms.

"Hello," he said.

She returned his greeting with a bright smile. "Sorry; here," she added after a few moments, offering the towel to him as if she had forgotten she held it.

He dried himself and then put out his hand for his clean shirt.

"You may have it," Sif told him, her eyes flashing coquettishly as she deliberately tucked the shirt behind her back.

"I see."

As he reached around her to take it, she stepped forward into his arms and, pressing a hand to his chest, stretched up on her toes to kiss him. Fíli laughed and clasped her closer, and she relaxed against him as what had begun as a teasing peck drew into a long, languid kiss.

As her mouth moved against his, Fíli remembered that first kiss from nearly a year ago. This was both like and unlike it. There was the same fullness of contact, the lack of reservation, but none of the haste and desperation born from the knowledge that this first was also a last. In contrast, the present joyful moment was suspended between memories and hopes just as happy, one link in a golden chain, and all that was required was to enjoy it.

Fíli released her at last, and Sif relinquished the contested garment with a half-guilty smile.

"Got more than you bargained for?" Fíli teased as he tugged the shirt over his head.

"Oh, not at all. Wait—" she protested as he was about to pull down his hair, which he had tied back as he worked. "It looks good that way."

He left it. "My darling, it's good to see you," he told her as she did up the little gold clasps along his collar for him.

Sif smiled. "Tell Kíli I am jealous of him for getting all of your time lately."

"But you'll see; I have spent some of my time on you."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I'll show you. But first, I need your opinion on a sword I've finished."

He caught her hand and led her back into his workshop.

"Wait here," he said once they were inside; then he went for the blade on the worktable. Returning, he knelt before her and offered her the sword, still draped in the cloth, on outstretched hands.

Sif gazed down at him, her eyes wide with curiosity and surprise. Slowly, she drew the cloth aside.

"Oh, Fíli, it's—" Tears swelled and then fell from her eyes. "It was ruined! I threw it away for scrap! I couldn't face it again."

"I know; I pulled it from the rubbish heap." After that one wild day in which Fíli had both lost and regained her, he had gone to find the sword Sif had marred in her grief on that night of their farewell.

Sif stroked a finger along the gleaming blade. "You've finished it even better than I ever planned."

"Have I?"

"Yes, I—" She gasped softly, then bent closer towards the sword. At the base of the blade, where she would have eventually engraved the mark of her family smithy, was a different design, worked in gold: the Ironsides' sigil combined with the crown of Fíli's own royal forge.

"Fíli!" She grasped the haft of the sword and held it aside so that she might embrace him. Her other arm clasped hard about his neck, she fell to her knees, tucked her face against him, and wept.

Fíli held her till she was done.

At last she turned a tear-streaked face back up to him, yet unlike those tears from a year ago, these seemed to magnify the brightness of her face. "Oh, Fíli, I never wanted to see that sword again. It was the sign of how I'd done everything wrong. But you've mended it, and it's beautiful. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Fíli wiped the tears from her cheek with his thumb. "Sif, my love, will you marry me?

Her face lit in an incandescent smile.

"Oh, Maker! Yes, Fíli, yes!"

Chapter Text

Ten days before the wedding, Tauriel came into the barracks office where Kíli was making the final arrangements of the guard, prior to their upcoming departure from Erebor. At the sound of her light elven step, Kíli set down his pen and looked up to find one of those odd, unreadable expressions on Tauriel's face.

"Yes, my love?" He pushed his chair back from the desk and stood.

As he came round to her, Tauriel held forth a folded letter, its green wax seal broken. Kíli glanced over the direction on the other side, though he did not need to see Tauriel's name written in sweeping elvish letters that glimmered faintly silver to know that the message was from the Elvenking himself.

"Kíli, Thranduil is coming to the wedding," Tauriel explained.

"Ah. That's good." He said it somewhat questioningly; his bride-to-be had sounded perplexed at this news.

She laughed at him then. "Yes, it's good. But still, Kíli— I never expected to have a king at my wedding! It is really too much!" Her expression eased into one he could read well, now: she wasn't exactly blushing, but her freckles seemed to deepen, giving her face the effect of having been dusted with stars. She was self-conscious.

"Tauriel, there will be two kings at our wedding," he said, amused. He handed the letter back to her, letting his fingers linger against hers.

"Yes, but Thorin is your uncle."

"I thought Thranduil was your guardian. Shouldn't he be here, too?"

"Oh Kíli!" Her voice was half wail, half laugh. "Thorin and Thranduil haven't faced each other since the battle! What if they make a scene at our wedding?"

"Nonsense!" Kíli said, hoping he was right. "They're allies now, remember? Besides"—he chuckled—"if they do start a quarrel, it will be all the better excuse for us to leave the feast early." He flashed her a roguish smile.

"Careful, love, or I shall suspect you intend to incite disagreement," she teased, drawing her hand from his and forcing Kíli to stop himself before he reached for her again. She noticed and her eyes sparkled with mischief.

"I don't even suspect you of intentionally tormenting me," he said cheerfully. "I know you do."

She laughed, and then added, more serious, "Kíli, Thranduil's arrival does not change our plans for the ceremony, does it? If he comes, it will mean the presence of even more outsiders."

"Nothing will change. I've already caused a scandal by being the first in all the history of the world to invite non-Khazad to a dwarvish wedding, so I suppose a handful more elves can't make a difference now."

"Are you sure?" Tauriel asked, her brows narrowed.

"Yes, I'm sure. There's just one thing: You must promise your elven king won't steal my true name and use it to cast a spell on me," he said, his tone deadly serious. "He might make my beard fall out or turn me into a squirrel."

She laughed softly for a moment. Then, her expression very serious and intent, she asked, "Your true name?"

"Yes, haven't I told you?" He shook his head in astonishment at himself. "No, of course not; there've been a thousand things to think of, and I've forgotten! Anyway, you do know we dwarves all have our secret names which are never used among outsiders?"

"I'd heard that. But I thought perhaps it was merely a tale; you've never told me you had any other name." Kíli thought she sounded almost disappointed.

"Tauriel." He chuckled, pleased to know she rightly considered herself close enough to merit his confidence in this. "You mustn't be offended. I never meant to keep it from you; I honestly didn't think of it as something you'd want to know. These days, a dwarf's true name is little more than a ceremonial formality for weddings, funerals, coronations, that sort of thing. Not even my family uses mine."

"Oh?" Tauriel said, clearly fascinated. "And what is yours?"

He grinned, pleased to discover that this detail, which had always been rather unimportant to him, should mean so much to her. "It's Lakhad," he said. "It means 'bright.' I've always thought it a funny choice, since I'm so much darker than my brother."

Tauriel smiled warmly. "Oh, it suits you very well. Your brightness captivated me from the first."

He laughed softly, unexpectedly delighted by her answer.

"Well, Lakhad," she continued. Her voice had dropped to a low, husky register that was foreign to him, and her eyes seemed suddenly very dark and deep and strange. He shivered involuntarily. "You need not fear my king, for you have now made me the first possessor of your true name. With it, I shall weave so many sorceries and enchantments that none shall ever set you free from me."

She traced a deliberate fingertip down the side of his face, and her skin felt unnaturally cool against his. Kíli closed his eyes, half playing along and half caught under some very real spell cast by her voice, her touch. Yet whatever power was hers, Kíli was suddenly very sure it was one no other elf could ever wield over him.

"Kíli..." Tauriel said almost shakily, as if she had startled herself. Her voice had returned to its usual tone.

His eyes flicked open and he saw her own green irises were wide, troubled.

"Yes, love?" He caught one of the locks of hair that fell past her face and gave an affectionate tug.

"I thought perhaps I'd done something to you," she breathed, closing her hand over his. Her fingers were once more very warm.

Kíli chuckled. "You've just now figured that out? I've been under your spell since the first time you looked at me."

"No. And yes," she returned with a twisted smile. She kissed his brow and then straightened.

"Now, speaking of names, that brings me to a question for you," Kíli said, settling on the edge of his desk and gazing up at Tauriel. "True names are used as part of the wedding pledges. Do you have an elvish name that would serve?"

Tauriel shook her head. "Some elves have second names, used only by those most close to them, but I do not."

"Well, in that case, I thought you could choose a Khuzdul name. Would you mind if I made my vows to you as Thatrûna?"

"You've called me that before," Tauriel noted, interested.

"It means 'star-lady.'"

The lovely dusting of freckles over her nose and cheeks deepened once more.

"But that's not any different than saying you are an elf," he went on. "I mean, I thought eldar means the 'star-people,' doesn't it?"

"It does," she agreed, and Kíli knew she was pleased now. "Yes, you may call me that."

"Wonderful." Kíli took her hand again and brushed his thumb over her knuckles. "Have you thought of anything you wish to add to our wedding?" He had explained the ceremony to her—minus the use of names, which he had unintentionally overlooked—some weeks ago, so that she might consider whether there was anything from the elvish rite she wanted to incorporate.

"It would be permissible for my friend Morwen to be my witness, would it not?" she asked. "In an elvish wedding, the bride's mother, not her father, offers her away. And Morwen is the closest I have to a female relative."

"Of course!" Then he smirked and gave a light shake of his head. "I certainly cannot imagine Thranduil asking to witness my pledge to you. You did first love me in spite of him."

She snorted. "Oh Kíli, having him in the wedding would be most dreadful!"

"Ha!" He kissed her hand, just above the diamond and mithril ring on her finger. "Is there anything else you want?"

"No. I'm happy with your dwarvish rite. It is very beautiful."

For a moment, Kíli could say nothing, overwhelmed as he was by Tauriel's own beauty and her favor towards him. He very clearly remembered the impression he had once had, that she was impossibly beyond him. And now here she was, no less lovely and pure, but close enough to become fully, wonderfully, tangibly his own.

"You've found all you need for the night of the wedding?" Kíli asked. He had given over the arrangements for their starlit marriage bed to her, as the expert on open skies and sleeping outdoors.

"I have," she returned with a teasing smile, "And that is all I intend to tell you, for now."

Kíli laughed. "Exactly as I want it." He reached up through the silken fall of her hair to catch the back of her neck, then drew her down for a single slow, full kiss.

"Now, if you go talk to my mother, she'll help find a place for your Elvenking and his party to stay. I've a few last arrangements to make for the guard, and then I shall belong to no-one but my elvish sorceress for the rest of the year."

Her lips quirked in that subtle almost-smile that indicated she was truly, if privately, amused. "I shall not forget it, hadhod nín," she said, a hint of that smokey tone returning to her voice. Then she swept her eyelids closed—the closest she ever came to winking at him—and, her bearing very queenly and magical, departed.

Seated beside his brother at one of the tables in the central taproom, Fíli remembered another celebratory drink shared here two years previously, when Kíli had received Thorin's grudging permission to court Tauriel. Back then, neither he nor Kíli could possibly have guessed the conflicts those next years would bring, but Fíli could now say that the joys had outweighed the pains.

"So, you're marrying an elf tomorrow," Fíli said, setting down his mug and wiping the froth from his mustache with his sleeve, a gesture their mother would not have approved of and therefore one that seemed particularly apt for this occasion of strictly fraternal celebration. "Tell me: did you really believe you ever would, back when you were mooning over Tauriel behind Uncle's back?"

"Of course I did!" Kíli gave his brother a look of exaggerated disappointment. "There'd have been no point in trying, otherwise. And also, no!" He laughed. "It was like coming here, to the Mountain. You know as lads we always hoped we would, but when it actually happened, well, it hardly seemed real, did it?"

Fíli nodded, understanding completely.

"Did you see her tonight at dinner?" Kíli went on. "I think she actually might have been glowing, just a little." He sighed. "I'm sure I must be the luckiest dwarf ever born, to have her choose me."

Fíli shoved him teasingly. "Second luckiest."

"That's right," someone said behind them, and Fíli turned to see Sif's brother, Freyr, standing behind them with three brimming mugs of ale. "Here, shove over." And he took a seat on the bench beside his own future brother-in-law. "Congratulations to the second luckiest dwarf in Erebor," he said to Kíli.

Kíli grinned and downed the last of his ale before accepting the fresh mug from Freyr. "Are you sure I still don't have to challenge you for that distinction? I understand you've reason to consider yourself fortunate, too, today of all days."

"You mean, because you could be marrying someone else? I suppose so," he admitted with a smile. "What manner of contest do you propose to settle the question?"

"Anything but drink! I am not spending my wedding day with a hangover."

"No?" Freyr laughed, tossing the braids in his short, red-gold hair. "Your lady avenged you fully this previous New Year's."

"And I'm willing to let her remain my champion in that arena," Kíli returned. "However, if it's a contest of marksmanship—"

"Oh, no. I'm not letting you win that easily."

"Armed combat, then? Swords."

"Only if I'm allowed an axe."

"Oh, come on! You make swords; don't you know how to use one?"

"I have it," Fíli cut in. "Wrestling, like they do up in the East."

"But—" Kíli protested.

"Yes, in bear grease," Freyr added enthusiastically.

"But I'm not a wrestler!"

"Doesn't matter," Fíli returned with a grin. "Use enough grease, and if you're lucky, he won't be able to hang on to you, anyway."

"I s'pose." Kíli appeared only mildly reassured.

"Oy, Bofur," Freyr was calling across the taproom. "Any chance of getting us some bacon grease from tonight's boar?"

"I'm not drunk enough yet for this," Kíli moaned, though as he buried his face in his mug, Fíli thought he caught the hint of a smile on his brother's face.

"Drunk enough fer what?" Dwalin asked, lowering himself into a seat across the table.

"Kíli's wrestling Freyr," Fíli said cheerfully.

"You're my second," Kíli insisted, his tone mildly desperate. "I'll need someone to avenge me after Freyr's torn me limb from limb."

"Now, brother, I won't let that happen. We'll be sure there's something left of you for Tauriel tomorrow."

Kíli flushed, but before he could say anything, Dwalin spoke.

"I reckon ye'll need a second, then, too," the big warrior said to Freyr. "It's hardly sportin' if ye have to fight both o' these lads."

Freyr grinned. "Are you offering?"

"Aye."

Fíli felt his own pleased grin falter for a moment—Dwalin has half again his size— but Kíli's face broke into an expression of gleeful mischief.

"Yes, Fí, I do think it's only fair, seeing as you got me into this," Kíli said earnestly.

Fíli laughed then. "All right! But I insist on my opponent being no more sober than I."

"Fair enough, cousin," Dwalin agreed, and tipped back his mug.

Contrary to Kíli's own prediction, he only conceded the match—and the right to be the second luckiest dwarf in Erebor—after an intense and protracted battle with Freyr. Yet any wound to Kíli's competitive pride was readily made up for by the satisfaction of watching his brother's slow but inevitable defeat at Dwalin's capable hands. The wrestling match had been Fíli's idea, so it was only fair that he face his own challenge.

After their burly kinsman had strode, victorious, from the field, Kíli entered the ring and offered a hand to Fíli, who still lay sprawled in the sand where he'd been pinned.

"Damn," Fíli muttered as he pulled himself upright, and then he gave his brother a genuine, if exhausted, smile. "I knew I was done as soon as he had the first grip on me. I still don't know how I lasted as long as I did."

"I dunno; I think you could've had him if you'd kept free of his legs."

Fíli snorted, amused. "What did you think I was trying to do?"

Someone handed them each a jug of cool water, which they took eagerly.

As he drank, Kíli wondered what Tauriel would have thought, could she have seen him now, half naked and streaked in boar's grease and sand from the training ground floor, his hair pulled up in a messy knot. Probably she'd have said he needed a bath. At any rate, he'd have been more than glad to let her give him one. Indeed—he mused happily—in less than a day, there would be nothing at all improper about such a scenario. He envisioned her leaning over him, all pale bare limbs, a steaming pitcher of water in her hands. He could almost feel the caress of her long, pretty fingers slipping over his grimy skin...

Kíli was jolted out of this pleasant reverie by a shower of cold water over his head and shoulders. He wheeled, more annoyed at the loss of his pleasant vision than at any real discomfort.

Freyr dodged out of the way of Kíli's swiped fist, laughing. "You smell of bacon grease and beer," he said. "I'm only trying to help."

Kíli laughed, then. Even his imaginary Tauriel would have likely wanted nothing to do with him in such a state. "Right." He glanced about them at the crowd of friends and former Company members who had assembled to cheer on the recent contest. "Now, shouldn't we return to the pub? I believe it's traditional for the winner to buy the next round."

As the groom-to-be, Kíli had insisted on buying several more rounds after that, and it was late when he and his brother returned together to the suite that had been theirs since the retaking of the mountain.

They stood for a while in silence in the common room, both sleepy and neither entirely sober, but not yet ready to end this moment, which was a last of its kind.

"Thanks, Fí," Kíli said finally and squeezed his brother's shoulder. "I know there were lots of reasons you didn't have to like her. 'M very glad you still do."

Fíli nodded. "Of course. The best thing about her is she likes you, y'know." He leaned his head against Kíli's. "Now, Kíli, promise me something." His tone was serious.

"Yeah, Fí."

"It's very important."

"Uh huh."

"Do you promise?"

"Promise."

Fíli was silent for some time, and Kíli wondered what it was that he was trying to find the words to say. Finally, Fíli said, "Kíli?"

"Yes?"

"For Durin's sake, take a bath before you marry her."

Then knocking his head affectionately against his brother's, Fíli turned and went off to bed.

On the day of the wedding, Tauriel woke at dawn, and with the help of Morwen and Sif, prepared the outdoor bed that Kíli had requested. Walking back down the mountain after they had finished, they passed by a wide pool in the stream that fed the tarn on Ravenhill. The first rays of sun slanting past Erebor's high shoulders caught on the rippled surface, filling the basin with dancing blue and gold light.

"Ah!" Sif gasped behind her. "It's wonderful! If only we didn't have to hurry back for you to bathe and dress, we could stop here for a bit."

Tauriel turned back to the dwarf maid with a smile. "We could bathe here."

"I suppose!" She sounded uncertain. "Won't it be cold?"

"Yes, very!" Tauriel laughed, and then bent to tug off her loose boots. That done, she shed her gown and stepped down onto the smooth rocks within the pool's margin. The cool water lapping her ankles sent goosebumps up her body, and she shivered.

"How is it?" Morwen called, from where she sat undoing boot laces.

"Lovely. And not half so cold as the forest river." She strode further into the pool, where the water rose to her waist. The surface, disrupted by her movements, sent gleams of light flashing over her skin, and she suddenly felt she was the starry creature Kíli always saw. She laughed and dipped her head beneath the surface.

When she came up, Morwen stood beside her, shoulders hunched slightly. "Valar, Tauriel! This is what you call 'lovely'?"

Tauriel splashed her friend, who returned by ducking her. Still underwater, Tauriel hooked a leg behind Morwen's ankles and tugged the dark-haired elf's feet out from under her. Morwen fell with a shriek, surfaced, and lunged at Tauriel, who managed to slither away to the far end of the pool.

Half laughing, half gasping for breath, she drew back a curtain of wet copper hair to see Sif at the edge of the water, skirts drawn up around her knees, staring at her in astonishment. Then the corners of the dwarf maid's blue eyes crinkled, and she began to laugh.

"I've never seen elves act like that," Sif admitted eventually. "Though I suppose I haven't met many elves."

Morwen laughed heartily now, too. "If you come in, I promise we won't attack you."

"Oh, I don't know..." Sif glanced cautiously about the dell around them.

"We're hidden here," Tauriel assured her. "I know the mountainside well, and no-one can see us."

"It's not that. It's just, well... I've never had my clothes off outdoors," she whispered.

"Ah." Tauriel supposed that for most dwarves, who spent nearly all their lives beneath the stone, to stand naked under the sky must be to feel doubly vulnerable. "I see. You needn't join us unless you wish."

"Well," Sif murmured, shuffling her feet against the river stones. "It does look fun." She watched the elves, her brow furrowed studiously. "All right. I'll get in." She turned away and very deliberately undressed.

Tauriel looked aside so as not to make Sif any more self-conscious. The sun was fully up now, and the day promised to be warm, clear, and bright. While the weather, of course, would make little difference for the wedding beneath the mountain, Tauriel was relieved to know that tonight, too, would be fine. There would be few clouds, and a waxing quarter moon.

"I've done it," Sif said momentarily, and Tauriel turned back to see the dwarf girl red-cheeked but grinning as she stood up to her shoulders in the pool. "Hammer and tongs! I've never had a bath this cold." She giggled. "I know you'll think I'm very silly, but this is the closest to having an adventure I've ever come."

"Oh, surely this does count as one," Tauriel said warmly.

"Especially if—" Sif didn't finish, but directed a wall of water at the redheaded elf.

Tauriel squeaked, surprised. "Oh, you're in trouble now," she returned merrily, and swept another wave back at Sif, who easily cast herself out of the way.

The three young women chased one another about the pool for some more minutes before, out of breath and skin tingling, they had climbed out to rest on the grassy banks of the dell.

Tauriel lay back, eyes closed, as the sun dried her. She wondered what Kíli was doing at that moment, if he were bathing, dressing, eating breakfast. Then she forgot to wonder and simply thought of him—sweet hazel eyes and warm mouth, a warm smile on lips that were warm against hers—and how it would be to kiss him and never care if she stopped. She could do that tonight, she thought dreamily: twist her fingers through his hair and fill her mouth with the taste of him till they were both utterly breathless. And then she would begin again, winding her limbs in his as she sought places yet untouched by her lips. She wanted him to hold her near enough to know his every breath, every heartbeat. She wondered how his skin would feel against her, and how his hands would move on her skin—

"Tauriel."

She opened her eyes to find Morwen leaning over her. Her friend was again dressed and held Tauriel's own gown out to her.

"Meldis," Morwen repeated, a smile at the edge of her lips. "We had best get back if we're to have breakfast before you dress for the wedding."

"Ah. Of course." Tauriel sat up and took her clothes from Morwen. As she pulled the dress over her head, she caught Sif trying not to laugh at her.

Finally in response to Tauriel's quizzical look, the dwarf maid explained, "Oh, Tauriel, when you opened your eyes, you looked like a cat who's just had a bucket of water poured on her head!"

Chapter Text

Thorin had first been surprised, and then ironically amused, when he had learned that Tauriel was, albeit somewhat unofficially, the Elvenking's ward. Kíli had somehow neglected to mention this detail about his bride until recently, when the arrangements had been made for Tauriel's friends and kindred to attend the wedding. But of course—Thorin had reflected with fond forbearance—if his bold younger nephew was, against all sense, to fall for his jailor in an enemy dungeon, it was only fitting that said jailor should turn out to be connected to their captor king himself.

Yet as awkward as Thorin felt admitting this one-time enemy to his own heir's wedding, he had resolved to treat the Elvenking with as much grace and respect as he could manage. Not only were their kingdoms now allied, but Thorin wished to please his soon-to-be niece. Tauriel was a lovely young woman who held Kíli in love and honor, and she deserved all that Thorin could do to make today happy for her.

And so he had disregarded his first impression of annoyance at seeing Thranduil and his few guards here in the grand ceremonial hall of Erebor for this most sacred occasion, and had gone, followed by Balin and Dwalin, to welcome the regal elf.

At the dwarf king's greeting, Thranduil inclined his head respectfully.

"I am most honored to be here. I know the Eldar have never been permitted to witness such a ceremony of the Hadhodrim before. Though I suppose one of my kind has never had any cause for interest in the matter till now, either."

For a moment, Thorin wondered if the ancient king were mocking him, but Thranduil's look remained courteous behind his faint elven half-smile.

"Unprecedented as the match is, your ward and my nephew suit each other well," Thorin returned with only a mild effort. "I'm pleased to see them wed."

"I am thankful at least one good seems to have grown from your time spent as my guest." The elf hesitated just slightly over that last word, and Thorin wondered if it was humor or diplomacy that prompted the choice. But before he could become truly frustrated with elven inscrutability, Thranduil's expression softened, and he added, "Tauriel has long deserved wider room than I could offer her. And I suspect no-one in the Greenwood could have made her happy as Kíli does."

Thorin had to suppress a smile then; he had heard, through Dís, that Thranduil had been less than pleased to think Tauriel had once captured the affections of his son, Legolas. He was tempted to remark on this fact, yet he knew he himself had hardly been eager to accept her. And besides, he would not quarrel and disappoint two young people whom he cared for.

Thankfully, Balin, apparently sensing his king was at a momentary loss for an appropriate reply, put in, "She's a special lass, to draw him as she does. They share the same rare spark, and you can't see them together but be charmed." He smiled. "And she's a beauty, no mistake. I doubt there has ever been a prettier bride under the Mountain."

At that moment, a murmur ran over the assembled guests and, as if conjured by the old dwarf's words, Tauriel herself appeared at the head of the hall, escorted by the dark-haired elf, Morwen. Balin was right; Kíli's bride was astonishingly beautiful.

Tauriel wore a gown of such rich blue that it might have been cut from the midnight sky, and when she moved, it seemed stars glimmered there, though no gems were visible on skirt or bodice. A broad necklace of sparkling white stones clasped her throat and flowed down over her shoulders and breast like liquid light. Her hair was braided back from her face and gathered high at the back of her head, whence it fell in a single smooth tail, like that of a comet.

Thorin smiled. He knew the Khuzdul name Kíli had given her for the ceremony, and there was no doubt it suited her. She truly was a vision of starlight come to life.

He glanced back at Thranduil to find the elven monarch watching his former captain of the guard as if he had never truly seen her before. Then the Elvenking smiled almost wistfully.

"The stones she wears are every bit as fair as those you returned to me," he said, but Thorin did not think the elf was commenting on the jeweler's craft. Thranduil looked to Thorin. "I would not be here if I thought your nephew did not fully appreciate what he gains today."

At any other time, Thorin would have believed Thranduil implied Kíli was not worthy to marry an elf, but now— He had the odd feeling that the Elvenking spoke from the knowledge of something he had lost himself.

"Yes, I'm sure he knows what he gains," Thorin repeated thoughtfully. "Now please excuse me. The ceremony is about to begin." He bowed lightly, and made his way back to where his sister stood near the head of the hall.

As he reached her, Dís tucked her arm in his. "Thorin, she's lovely," she whispered, nodding to Tauriel.

"I remember another bride just as beautiful," he told her. "And, I think, just as happy."

Dís momentarily touched a hand to her eye. "I'm very happy now," she said.

As Thorin turned to kiss her, the hall hushed, and then footsteps shuffled as people moved aside. Straightening, he looked to see that Kíli now stood at the back of the hall, beside his brother.

Thorin had not been there when Tauriel had saved Kíli's life, but he had heard what she had done from those who had seen it. He thought now of something Bofur had said, that Kíli, as he had lain dying, had suddenly looked to Tauriel as if she were the one light in his world. Surely Kíli gazed at her that way now.

Fíli glanced to his brother and grinned, said something. Kíli nodded. Then Fíli began down the hall towards Tauriel, and Kíli followed.

The form of the dwarvish wedding ceremony reflected the oldest sacred myths of the Khazad's awakening within Arda. If Kíli had been from any of the other six clans, he would have entered the hall beside Tauriel, to signify the way that Mahal had woken the progenitors of each clan beside their mates. Yet for a Longbeard, the wedding had one slight variation. The great Durin, alone of the seven patriarchs, had been given no bride at the beginning; he had wed later, introduced by a brother patriarch to a woman from one of the younger clans. And so Kíli, like his ancestor, entered the hall late and led by his brother, who would also act as Kíli's primary witness to the marriage pledge.

Though the Longbeard tradition kept him from Tauriel's side a few minutes longer, Kíli decided he was glad of it, for it gave him ample time to admire her all the while he made his way down the hall.

She was always beautiful, and yet today, oh, she was beautiful. The dwarven seamstress had certainly risen to the challenge of Tauriel's elvish figure: rather than following the full-skirted dwarvish pattern, her gown was much more like the elvish dresses Tauriel often wore, hugging her slender waist and hips to tumble in loose, flowing skirts about her long legs. The bodice was laced to add somewhat to the natural swell of her breasts, while its wide V neckline perfectly framed the necklace Kíli had made for her so that the combined effect was entirely modest. The design had even taken into account Tauriel's distaste for showy ornament; as Kíli drew near, he could see that while the base layer of the dress was covered with gems—no prince could permit his bride to appear unadorned—several sheer top layers softened the effect of the stones so that Tauriel merely glowed softly, like moonlit clouds. The whole dress was in deepest midnight (a color which brought out the flame of her hair so well), but just as Kíli stopped before her, he caught a glimpse of silvery underdress within the lacing of her bodice and beneath the gathers of her full, gauzy sleeves.

"When Mahal created the first Khazad," Fíli said now, "he made them in wedded pairs, so they would not wake to the world alone. Tauriel, my brother is still alone. Will you have him as your mate and companion?"

She looked to Kíli and smiled. "I will."

Fíli placed Kíli's hand in hers.

"Just like Durin, I had to search long and journey far to find my match," Kíli told her. The words were not part of the ceremony, but it felt right to remember this further similarity to his forefather.

"I'm very glad you did," Tauriel whispered, the words for him alone.

He nodded happily, and then watched for her intake of breath that would indicate she was ready to speak the next words of the ceremony in time with him.

"We offer thanks to Mahal, without whose hand the stone should have no shape. And again, we offer thanks to the All-father, without whose breath the stone should have no life," Tauriel said, her voice joined to Kíli's.

The utterance was a truly dwarvish one—the elves held their bodies had been formed of the substance of the soil, from which all things grew, by the hand of the All-father himself—yet Tauriel found the thought beautiful, nonetheless. Regardless of the craftsman at whose hands a dwarf or an elf had first taken bodily shape, the fae was still the All-father's gift. She was not troubled to invoke the dwarves' account of their origins; indeed, she found it fitting to open this marriage ceremony by remembering that she had been given the body and soul she was about to pledge to Kíli.

He was smiling at her now, and Tauriel found it difficult to say whether she had ever seen him more happy. She had surely never seen him more regal; indeed, in another world, she could readily have envisioned him a king. He wore a circlet of silver and sapphire, and more silver-bound braids than even his brother usually wore. The two plaits framing his face were those she had given him herself. His clothing was of velvet and rich tooled leather of dark wine red against his family's royal blue. Tauriel had to suppress a laugh as she noted that, even on his wedding day, he had neglected the last clasps at the collar of his outer coat, and then she did outright chuckle when she recalled having once promised to save him from his formal wardrobe.

Kíli heard her and raised an amused, inquisitive brow, so that she had to press her lips firmly together to avoid a further breach of decorum. But any more attempts at wordless communication between them were forestalled by Morwen, who said with only the slightest quaver of humor in her voice, "Lakhad son of Khajmel, I will witness your pledge to my sister."

Tauriel saw one last gleam of laughter in Kíli's dark eyes before his expression grew more serious.

"Thatrûna," he said, and his thumb moved over her fingers, then caught on the ring she already wore from him. "I take you for the treasure of my hands and the jewel of my heart. The star of my sky." This last line, she knew, was Kíli's own addition to the vow. "I will cherish you beyond all other wealth."

"And how do you seal your oath?" Morwen returned.

Fíli passed something to his brother, and then Kíli held forth a golden ring, unadorned, though Tauriel thought she glimpsed runes engraved upon the inner surface.

Clasping Tauriel's right hand now, Kíli continued, "With this gold from within the stone, I pledge to you my body: the work of my hands, the strength of my arm, the children of my seed."

He placed the ring on her second finger.

"And with this breath from my lungs," he said, "I pledge to you my spirit: the desire and love of my heart, the honor of my soul." She leaned toward him, and he caught her neck gently and drew her lips to his.

Though Kíli had kissed her much more passionately on other occasions, Tauriel felt intensely aware of that light touch, as if it were the spark that would ignite a blaze she had hitherto held in check. Perhaps Kíli felt the same, for Tauriel noticed his cheeks darken.

Fíli spoke then. "And Thatrûna, daughter of Gaerîn, I will witness your pledge to my brother." He smiled at her, and Tauriel felt a swell of affection for the welcome she had always received from him.

She looked back to Kíli. "Lakhad, I take you for the treasure of my hands and the jewel of my heart, my moon among stars. I will cherish you beyond all else bright and beautiful." In order to reflect the treasures that an elf valued, she had modified her pledge slightly from the one Kíli had spoken, a change that he had assured her would not affect the significance of her vow.

"And how do you seal your oath?" Fíli said again.

She now received a ring from Morwen. Kíli had already seen it, of course, having made it to her instructions with a simple, elegant starburst design carved onto one side of the band.

Her eyes on Kíli's, she said, "With this gold from within the stone, I pledge to you my body: the work of my hands, the strength of my arm, the children of my womb."

As she settled the ring on his finger, she remembered the first time she had taken his hand and tentatively twined her fingers in his own. They had learned so much of each other since then, and yet she still felt the same wild flutter behind her stomach, the same realization that this moment changed everything. "And with this breath from my lungs, I pledge to you my spirit: the desire and love of my heart, the honor of my soul."

Tauriel lingered over the kiss slightly longer than Kíli had done, and she could tell from the barest hesitation in his manner that he had very nearly kissed her much more fully this time. She straightened and he sighed, and then Fíli caught their joined hands and raised them aloft.

"I am witness to this union of Lakhad and Thatrûna," he declared.

"As am I," Morwen echoed.

"As are we all," came the chorus of all the other guests assembled, and Tauriel recognized the voices of many friends, including Kíli's uncle and mother, among them.

Kíli grinned at her, and Tauriel thought he looked as pleased as someone who had stolen the very moon from the sky. Linking his arm in hers, he led her back down the hall to the table where he and Tauriel, with Fíli and Morwen, signed (in three colors of ink) the extensive and elaborately illuminated marriage contract. Then the new husband and wife led a procession of merry guests to the feast hall.

"Congratulations, sister," Fíli said with a merry grin and set the wide crystal chalice, brimming with several pints of ale, on the table in front of Tauriel.

"Thank you, Fíli," she returned warmly. She glanced back down at the chalice and Fíli was sure he detected only the slightest widening of her green eyes to indicate she was astonished by his offering. Her enthusiasm and sheer unflappability in the face of what must surely be very strange customs was one of the things Fíli liked most about her.

"It's the marriage cup," he explained as she put a hand out to the unwieldy drinking vessel. The proprietary, fraternal affection he already felt for her would not allow him to carry this slight jest into true confusion for her. "You're not supposed to drink it all yourself. Kíli will help."

"I see! We elves do something like this, too."

"Here, love." Beside her, Kíli took the chalice carefully in both hands and raised it to her lips so that she might drink. She did, her eyes on him the whole while, barely contained laughter clearly tugging at her lips so that Fíli was impressed that she finished the draught as elegantly as she did.

"It's a traditional blessing, the marriage cup," Fíli went on. "This is just the first part, actually. You and Kíli empty the cup together to symbolize the life and happiness you will share."

"That's why it's so big," Kíli put in with a meaningful lift of his brows. "To ensure there's plenty of both."

"Of course." Tauriel smiled and repeated Kíli's gesture by offering him a drink. When she had set the cup back on the table, she said, "So, there is another part to the custom."

"Yes; just wait," Kíli assured her. "We have to empty it first. I'll explain when we get there."

Fíli chuckled. "You may be a while. I'll be back!" He turned away to the nearby table where Sif was seated with her parents. Fíli slid onto the bench beside her and looped his arm through hers.

"Darling," he said, and she smiled up at him.

"They look so pretty together, don't you think?" Sif asked. "Tauriel looks like someone out of a fairy tale, and your brother is very handsome." She giggled. "And today, all the girls from Ered Luin secretly mourn."

"All of them?"

"All but one," Sif corrected herself.

"Where's your brother?"

"Oh, he's with her." She indicated a table at the other side of the hall, where Freyr sat across from Audha, who laughed at something he had just said.

"Maybe he's telling her about last night," Fíli guessed.

Sif laughed then, too. "Did Freyr really beat Kíli in the wrestling match?"

"Yes, though this time I'm sure Kíli hardly minded." He paused, thoughtful. "I'm very glad your brother and mine can still be friends."

"You mean because of Audha?"

"Yes."

"You know that before Kíli was ever a rival, he saved me from the disappointment of losing you. Freyr won't forget that."

Fíli pressed her arm to his side. "Your brother loves you dearly." He remembered how Freyr had nearly denied him seeing Sif when she had been heartbroken.

"And," Sif went on, "Freyr would never even have met Audha if she hadn't stayed here for Kíli. I don't see how he can resent your brother for giving him the chance he otherwise could not have had. So in the end, things turned out better than anyone could have hoped."

"You're right." Fíli turned his head and pressed a kiss to her brow. "And it seems Mahal must have a sense of humor. Audha may still be a sister to me!"

"Indeed!"

When Kíli and Tauriel had drained the last from the crystal cup, Fíli leaped up and went once more to them.

"So here's the next bit of the marriage cup," he told Tauriel. "All of your friends fill it with gifts to ensure your life will also be filled with wealth and blessings. Here is your first." He produced a small golden brooch and dropped it in the empty chalice. "Brother, Tauriel, may you never be less happy than you are today."

"Thank—" Tauriel began, but she was cut short when Kíli turned her face towards him and gave her a very enthusiastic kiss.

"Kíli!" she gasped when he was done.

"It's tradition! We must kiss for every gift."

Tauriel looked at Fíli, obviously seeking confirmation of this claim.

"It's true," he told her with a smile.

Dís had followed her eldest in congratulating the pair.

"Mahal bless you, my loves," she said, taking the hand of each in her own.

"Thanks, Mum, for giving us your blessing from the first," Kíli told her.

"Yes, thank you, Amad," Tauriel added.

"Oh, children." Joyful tears wet the dwarf woman's eyes. "You make me happier than all the rest of this together." She lifted her chin, indicating the Mountain and the wealth that surrounded them. "I could ask for no better from you." And she joined their hands and threw her offering into the cup.

Over the course of the afternoon, the chalice filled with gems and coins and jewelry from the guests, and often the couple's kisses had been met by a cheer. Young Tilda had insisted on kissing Kíli and Tauriel each herself, and Thorin had drily remarked to Kíli that he knew for a certainty the young groom could do better than the single peck he had offered a blushing Tauriel, who clearly remembered precisely what other kiss the king had once witnessed. Audha had come on Freyr's arm and wished them both joy with a smile that indicated their happiness took nothing from her own. The couple were congratulated by Tauriel's former guardsmen from Mirkwood and from Dale, and by dwarves who served in the guard at Ravenhill tower. King Bard of Dale had teasingly reminded them that they'd fallen love in his kitchen. Even Thranduil had offered a gift and an elvish wedding blessing, at which Tauriel had been very moved.

Watching all these expressions of kindness, Fíli himself was touched to think of all the people to whom his brother and Tauriel had come to matter. But then Kíli had always been someone who drew others to him by a cheerful and generous spirit. And Tauriel's kindness, Fíli was coming to see, had much the same effect on people.

"Now," Kíli said once the final jewel had been placed in the chalice. "Here is the very last and yet most important part of the marriage cup." And from his pocket, he took a handful of smooth river stones, each about the size of a chestnut, and put them into Tauriel's hands.

She looked at them curiously. "Are these for all the times I shall have to knock my head against your stony dwarvish skull in quarrel?" she teased.

"Oh, no!" He laughed. "You'll see. First, you have to step back here." And he drew her about five yards from the table. "Now, you must throw them, one at a time, into the cup."

"And don't break it!" Fíli called helpfully.

"All right."

Tauriel weighed the first stone in her hand, then threw.

It landed with a soft chink in the dead center of the chalice, amidst the treasure.

A cheer of encouragement went up from the eagerly watching dwarves, mainly Company members and other close friends who had assembled to witness this last stage of merriment.

Tauriel threw another, and its easy arc followed the first. The third stone landed atop these with a clack, as did a fourth, fifth, and sixth. And with each throw, the excitement and suspense of the spectators had increased.

"You should've picked bigger stones, 'nless you were plannin' to outdo my brother Bombur here!" Bofur called then.

Tauriel gave her husband a questioning look.

"Oh, go on," Kíli said, grinning.

She placed four more stones, and by then the chalice was filled to the rim.

"Lad, ye should be careful," old Oin counseled seriously. "It's said elves have more volition over these sorts o' things than mortals. She might feel bound to fulfill today's prognostication."

Kíli flushed red then. Tauriel gave him a pointed smirk—though Fíli doubted she had yet gathered the significance of this game—and landed the eleventh stone cleanly on the top of the rest.

There was a brief round of raucous cheers, and then the crowd fell silent as Tauriel prepared her next throw.

The twelfth stone flew just as true as the rest—clearly Tauriel's keen marksmanship extended beyond archery—yet by now, the stones were piled so high within the cup that this last one had no place to settle. Glancing off the previous stones, it struck the side of the chalice.

There was a sharp, clear tone like the ringing of a silver bell, and then the chalice shattered, and gems and precious trinkets fell in a musical shower over the table.

Once more, everyone cheered, and blessings were shouted on Kíli and Tauriel both.

Dwalin came and thumped Kíli on the back hard enough that he stumbled against Tauriel. "Well, lad, I reckon ye'd best leave the feast early. If it's ta be twelve, ye'd best get ta work now."

Kíli grinned, though his ears were still red. "The way I see it, it's Fíli's problem, if he's to pass on the crown." He looped an arm about Tauriel's waist, and gave his brother a mischievous look.

Fíli snorted. "By far the very worst scrape you've ever landed me in, little brother," he said with mock solemnity.

"Kíli," Tauriel interrupted then. "What exactly have we omened for ourselves?" She sounded amused and half embarrassed at once.

"Twelve children," he said proudly.

"Ah!" Her own cheeks went rosy now. "Was I meant to break the cup sooner?"

"No!" He laughed. "The more blessings that spill out, the better. And we can always stop at eleven, if you wish." He caught her face and kissed her once. "Now, as much as I take this all very seriously, I think there's to be some dancing soon, and we can hardly leave before that." And linking his arm in hers, Kíli led her across the hall to where the band had begun warming up.

Fíli turned back to Sif, who was giggling helplessly against a suspiciously composed Morwen.

"Poor Tauriel; I should have told her! But it was too funny," the fair-haired dwarf maid admitted, wiping a few tears on her sleeve.

"I'm sure she's fine." Fíli smiled and offered Sif his hand. "Now, I'm told you do know how to dance."

"I do." She put her hand in his and looked sweetly at him and Fíli knew she, too, remembered that first dance they had shared at a New Year's celebration.

"Morwen," he said after a moment, looking up at the dark elf over Sif's shoulder. "Find one of those tall elven men, and we'll teach you some dwarvish dances." Then he drew Sif after him towards the rising music.

Chapter Text

The sky had turned the deep blue of Tauriel's wedding dress by the time Kíli followed her over the moonlit mountainside. They had barely spoken since leaving the mountain halls, but her hand was warm and its pressure firm as she drew him with her, and Kíli needed no words to understand that she was as eager—and yes, nervous—as he. Her skin almost hummed, not with any true vibration, but with a sort of inner brilliance that he could feel, just as he could sense the change in a piece of silver or steel heated by the furnace. He wondered if he felt any different to her, as well.

Tauriel slowed as they reached a soft crest of ground. Beyond was a shallow hollow, its broad floor twinkling with lights, as if several dozen stars had fallen from the sky to rest here. And in the midst of these candles or lanterns—Kíli supposed that was what they must be—a bed was laid out on the ground, pale sheets stuffed with something soft and pinned down carefully about the edges.

"It's perfect," Kíli said, looking to Tauriel. She smiled softly. "Far better than any other bed I've had outdoors. You wouldn't believe some of the places we slept on the quest."

"I take it Bard's tabletop was not the worst?"

"When I had you shining down on me? Hardly."

He drew her the rest of the way down into the hollow, picking his way carefully between the little lamps upon the grass. At the bottom, he halted, feeling something softer than grass beneath his feet. Looking down, he saw the ground was carpeted in white petals, their soft rose scent rising as he crushed them.

"I feel I shouldn't walk on these; not with—" And he tugged off his boots, first one and then the other. Against his bare toes, the petals were soft and pleasantly cool.

"Here; let me," he said to Tauriel, who stooped over her own boots. He directed her to a low stone, where she sat and he knelt before her.

Kíli had to push aside her skirts to reach her ankles, and then she helped, drawing back layers of jeweled silk and airy gauze so that her boots were visible to their tops. He found the bootlace at her calf and carefully unthreaded it from all the little silver loops, going slowly lest he fumble: his hands were nearly shaking. When all was loose, he lifted her foot free, and Tauriel gave a little sigh as he clasped her calf.

He glanced up and gave her what he was sure was a very foolish grin before proceeding to her other boot. When that, too, was off, he left his hands closed about her ankle and drew them slowly upwards; they were steady now that he was touching her. He brushed her skirts back off her knees—Did her shiver as his fingers grazed her mean that she was ticklish?—and pressed one hand along the outer line of her thigh until his thumb met her hip.

"Kíli," she whispered and leaned close to kiss him.

He freed himself from her skirts and stood between her knees and kissed her in return. Tauriel drew her fingers over his face and through his hair, and he heard the soft clink as his circlet was knocked loose and struck one of the lamps on the ground beside them. He drew a caress from her hips up to her ribs and breasts, and she murmured something indistinct and happy, a response he took as encouragement to find the lacing of her bodice and work it free. It took him some time to make any progress—there were far too many layers to this gown—but finally he was rewarded by the touch of warm skin in place of cool silks.

Yet as his fingers skimmed her breast, she gasped and then caught his wrist, her grip so hard that he suddenly feared he had somehow wronged her. Had he been too eager? He knew Tauriel had always been thoughtful, even reserved, in acting on her desire for him, but tonight he had been sure she was as ready as he. Perhaps he still should have waited for her permission to undress her, he realized, both inexplicably hurt and angry with himself.

When he saw her face, Tauriel also seemed momentarily distressed. "You've done nothing wrong, Kíli," she said gently, her grasp relaxing then. "Do not think me reluctant. But first... May we have the elvish marriage rite?"

Kíli tried to cast his mind back over what she had told him about the marriage customs of her people: oaths and invocations, witnesses, gifts, another feast... It was surely too late for any of those things, too late to arrange them and too late to stop this moment. He wanted her with every part of his being, body and soul. And yet he could not take her if she was unwilling.

She laughed softly, apparently reading his consternation in his face. "It will only take a few moments. All a true elvish marriage requires, beyond the joining of bodies, is the naming of the One in witness."

"Oh." Kíli's sharp disappointment and frustration were already melting away under her warm gaze. Despite the impatience in his blood, he knew in that moment that he would give her anything and everything she required to be happy, even if it meant taking her back to Mirkwood and pledging himself to her among all her kin before he laid another finger on her.

"Forgive me, my love." She brushed her thumb over the inside of his wrist. "There was nothing lacking from our dwarvish ceremony. I suddenly realized that I wanted this, too, and I knew I must stop you now or never."

She stood and, taking his hand tenderly now, drew him further into the center of the lamp-lit hollow, nearer to the bed.

"You need only speak after me," Tauriel said. She rearranged her hand in his, fitting palms and fingers together with a gentle deliberateness, as if this were the first time they had touched and she were discovering how odd and wonderful they were together. Then she spoke, her tone so soft and intimate that the words might have been for Kíli alone: "I, Tauriel, call Eru to witness that I hereby bind myself wholly to Kíli." She leaned forward to rest her forehead against his, and he felt her breath upon his face.

Kíli reached up and held her lightly, his finger tucked behind her ear. "And I, Kíli, name Eru as my witness that I am bound to Tauriel," he returned, and then he kissed her once, softly.

She looked down on him with an expression he had never seen before on her face. Kíli was not sure what all it meant: was she embarrassed, expectant, relieved?

As he stood staring at her, wondering what to do, she looked down, and with what was clearly an embarrassed smile now, began picking loose the laces on her yet half-fastened bodice.

He put his hands over hers and she let him finish the task while she wound her arms about his neck and kissed him. As he tugged the final laces free, something small and hard fell from her dress and thumped over his feet.

"So that's where you've carried my runestone all this time," Kíli noted, amused.

"Only when I didn't have pockets," she told him, already working at the clasps on his shirt with deft fingers.

"Wait—" he said, kissing her again before stooping to collect the stone from where it lay on the ground. Despite his unabated eagerness to know the softness of her skin beneath his hands, it seemed wrong to leave discarded the promise that she had worn so long against her heart.

When he stood, he saw Tauriel had shrugged out of her gown entirely and stood slim and straight before him, her skin gleaming like pale marble in the moonlight and starry gems sparkling over her breast and shoulders.

"You, um..." He swallowed. There weren't really any words for this, for her. She was beyond anything he had known to expect, and her beauty seemed to pass through his limbs like fire.

Kíli stepped towards her and, somewhat dazedly, let her finish with the clasps on his shirt and tug it over his shoulders. Then she moved near enough that her skin met his and she kissed the top of his head. The runestone slipped from his fingers, and he gently held her waist, his boldness momentarily conquered by awe that she was his. Slowly, he reached one hand up to where her hair was gathered high upon her head.

"Does this come loose?" he said, searching for a pin or clasp.

"I think so," she said, leaning nearer so that he might more easily reach.

"Valar, Tauriel," he laughed, momentarily unable to concentrate on anything but the feel of her against him. "Ah. I've got it."

He pulled loose several pins, and her shining hair fell loose on her back.

"One last thing," Kíli said and opened the catch on her necklace so that it slid free of her shoulders. He dropped the jewels safely atop his crumpled shirt and then scooped Tauriel into his arms and carried her the additional few steps to the bed. As he deposited her there, she laughed at him.

"Kíli, do you mean to make love to me still wearing your trews?"

"Blast! Of course not." He sprang up and discarded this final article.

Moving back onto the bed—which proved to be filled with soft, fragrant grass of some sort—he felt a moment's awkwardness as he wondered just how to proceed from here. Yet Tauriel quickly removed this uncertainty by lying back and drawing him with her.

He eased himself carefully over her, afraid to crush her—he felt so rough and heavy compared to Tauriel's lithe, slender form. She placed her hands against his abdomen, slid her fingers up over his chest and shoulders and into his hair, and he sank against her at last, pressing his lips to the outer curve of her neck. He could smell the bright scent of her skin, mingled with the fragrance of lavender from the herb-filled bed beneath them.

"I love you," he breathed against her, and then kissed her: her neck and behind her jaw. He followed the long sweep of her ear with his lips and then half kissed, half nipped its tip.

Tauriel squeaked gently, and she tugged at his hair.

"I'm sorry; I've always wanted to do that," he said.

"Mmm... You may do it again," she sighed, so he did, this time involving his tongue.

"Kíli, you fool."

"Do elvish lovers never—?"

"Oh, I imagine they do."

Tauriel drew her hands down over his neck and to his shoulders, her grip hard. Humming with pleasure, Kíli nuzzled into her own shoulder, finding a place for more kisses in the soft hollow above her breast.

After a time, "Kíli," she pleaded softly, pulling at his hair once more until he brought his head up to meet her own lips. Tauriel wrapped her arms around him and kissed him with a bold, open sweetness that was new. There was far more happening with this kiss, too, than Kíli knew how to take in: her tongue's caress against his, her nails tracing over his back, the soft press of her breasts against his skin as she arched into him, her knees clasped about his waist.

"Tauriel..." he managed shakily as her mouth left his.

"Yes?"

He had no answer but her own name again, breathed against the fluttering pulse at her throat.

She laughed softly, her tone as giddy as he felt.

"I feel I've waited a thousand years for this," she said, and Kíli wasn't sure if she meant all her life or since she'd met him or just today. Her green eyes caught the light for an instant, and Kíli felt pierced through the heart by the keenness of her longing.

"Really?"

"Longer. You were going to give this away to someone else, and waiting for the impossible takes such a long— Oh!" She broke off as his mouth found her breast, and then she lay still, content to receive his caresses.

She was perfect, every swelling curve and sleek line of her, and her skin was softer than cream, though just as flawless and pale. It truly was a wonder that she let him lay his own shaggy hide against her: he felt as if he had pressed a rough stone to a flower's tender petal. Kíli had never thought to be embarrassed about this part of his looks before—no dwarf would have found body hair at all surprising or off-putting—but lying here with her, it was entirely impossible to ignore how different he was from Tauriel in this respect. For the most part, her body was covered in only the barest invisible down.

When, seemingly in answer to his thought, she began to draw her fingers through the hair over his chest, he said apologetically, "I'm afraid I'm not—"

"Hush!" Tauriel brushed her fingertips over him, from collarbone to navel, and Kíli felt every hair on his body prickle to attention. "Yes, you are," she told him. She seemed to have noticed the effect she'd gained, for she smiled at him playfully and repeated the motion, much more slowly this time.

"Tauriel," he protested—her teasing suddenly become more than he could bear—and she paused, eyeing him questioningly. "Don't stop," he panted.

She nodded and pressed her hands down over his waist and hips, settling him against her.

Kíli hesitated then, despite his readiness. He knew what must come next, but the flutter of eagerness in his stomach had suddenly turned to panic. What if he got something wrong? He did not want to disappoint, or worse, hurt her somehow.

"Kíli," Tauriel said softly then, and the tenderness and love in her voice melted him as much as her touch already had. "Kíli, I trust you."

"Yes, love."

And, feeling equally confident as clumsy now, he gave himself to her.

Tauriel slowed as they crested the little ridge and their marriage bower, as she thought of it, came into view. With the lamps lit—Morwen's doing—the grassy hollow looked as magical as she had hoped it would. She knew Kíli had looked to this night, this place, as something magical, and she wanted to give him all that he had dreamed.

"It's perfect," Kíli said, and he looked up at her with that sweet, artless expression on his face that had always captured her. She smiled, gratified and relieved.

"Far better than any other bed I've had outdoors," he went on. "You wouldn't believe some of the places we slept on the quest."

"I take it Bard's tabletop was not the worst?" she teased. Tauriel remembered him falling into an exhausted slumber there, amidst all the odds and ends of the kitchen. She had rather pitied him his hard, uncomfortable bed, but had been reluctant to move him since he rested peacefully at last.

"When I had you shining down on me? Hardly."

As Kíli led her down into the hollow, Tauriel felt her stomach give a terrifying, wonderful leap. There had been nothing in all her eight centuries to prepare her for this moment, and anticipation blended with uncertainty to make her feel unlike herself. But of course, this was all entirely new to Kíli, as well; she could tell simply from his touch that his usual bold self-assurance was somewhat muted.

As they reached the floor of the hollow with its carpet of roses, Kíli stopped.

"I feel I shouldn't walk on these; not with—" he began and then let go of her hand to pull off his boots.

Tauriel smiled as she bent to her own feet; anyone who said dwarves were senseless of the beauty in Ivann's works had not known enough dwarves.

"Here; let me," Kíli told her as she worked at her own bootlaces, and taking her hand again, he directed her to sit on a nearby stone.

He knelt, and she watched him struggle with the layers of her skirt for a moment before she thought to help him by drawing her dress up. Yet, suddenly shy, she did not lift it past the tops of her boots.

Kíli worked at the laces slowly, and Tauriel saw his hands were trembling. Her own heart was pounding so hard that she wondered if he could hear it to know she was fully as nervous as he. When he finally touched her, slipping a palm behind her calf to remove her boot, Tauriel released the breath she had been holding, and he gave her a helpless, ridiculous smile.

The second boot came off more quickly, and then he traced warm, strong hands over her skin. When her skirts came in his way, he flicked them back, tickling her knee in the process so that she trembled. As Kíli drew the caress further, even to the top of her leg, Tauriel felt a momentary, foolish impulse to stop him, for oh, no-one had ever taken such liberties with her. And yet she would not have stopped him for the world.

So she merely sighed his name and leaned forward to meet his lips with hers.

He stood to go on kissing her, and she skimmed her fingers over his rough cheeks and through the soft waves of his hair, dislodging his jeweled circlet. His hands moved over her, claiming more liberties that were surely no liberties now, when she was his and wanted him so.

"Ah, mell—" Tauriel murmured, the last of the word lost against his mouth. She was not entirely sure, herself, what she had meant to say: if she had meant to call him beloved or say that she loved him, or any number of sentiments that might have begun with that sweet syllable.

His lips slowed against hers, and she could tell that half his concentration was now spared for the fastenings of her bodice. As he worked out that puzzle, she let her kisses wander along the side of his nose, over the light flick of his eyelashes, to the feathered edge of his brow...

Valar, what was taking him so long? Then she remembered all the layers and layers of her jeweled gown and wondered if she ought not cease distracting him for a moment so that Kíli might more easily sort out silks and stays. But then he seemed to have found it, for she felt laces give way, and after another few breaths, felt his fingertips warm against her skin as he tenderly traced them along the swell of her breast.

She thrilled at his touch, for it said, with more immediacy than any words could have, how she was both treasured and desired by him. She was sure there were no words to contain the fullness and simplicity of the love that drew them together thus, no words—

And then in an instant of sudden clarity and astonishment, the words did come to her: words without which no elvish marriage would be complete, and she knew she wanted to hear him speak them, wanted to speak them to him herself, before she and he sealed their union. She had thought the dwarvish vows, which expressed the same intent, would be enough for her, yet she found that the vows of her people mattered as much as those she had offered earlier that day. And, oh, heavens, if she did not ask him now—

Not knowing how else to stop him, she grasped Kíli's wrist and he froze instantly. Tauriel loosed a breath, momentarily unsure of what to say or do next, now that she had attained her immediate goal of pausing this moment while she still could.

Then she saw Kíli's face.

The slight lift of his brows and the tension about his eyes proclaimed him both confused and hurt. Tauriel felt a pang at this most unintended, indeed unforeseen, result. Her sweet, beloved Kíli! He must think she was displeased.

"You've done nothing wrong, Kíli," she said as tenderly as she could. She realized she was gripping his wrist far more tightly than she had intended and relaxed her grasp. "Do not think me reluctant. But first... May we have the elvish marriage rite?"

If anything, the confusion on his face deepened. Kíli took a slow breath and pressed his eyes closed for a moment, clearly willing himself to sort out the meaning of her words.

Tauriel laughed, guessing what was wrong: he must think she introduced some great delay to their union. And yet delay was something she wished no more than he.

"It will only take a few moments," she explained. "All a true elvish marriage requires, beyond the joining of bodies, is the naming of the One in witness."

"Oh," Kíli said, and she felt the tension in his body ease. His expression warmed, shifting from disappointment to pleasure.

"Forgive me, my love," she said. "There was nothing lacking from our dwarvish ceremony. I suddenly realized that I wanted this, too, and I knew I must stop you now or never."

Tauriel rose, and slipping her hold from his wrist down to his hand, drew him in the direction of the bed, her gesture a reassurance that she was as ready as he.

"You need only speak after me," she said as she faced him.

She turned their hands until they were palm to palm, and then linked their fingers together, feeling a rush of wonder at this proof that, different as they were, they fit each other perfectly in body and soul.

Leaning near enough that her breath stirred the loose hair upon his cheek, she whispered, "I, Tauriel, call Eru to witness that I hereby bind myself wholly to Kíli." To invoke the name of the One was to make a most sacred, eternal oath: words could frame no greater declaration of her love and desire for the man she took as her husband.

As she rested her brow against his, Kíli looped a finger behind her ear, holding her securely but gently to him.

"And I, Kíli, name Eru as my witness that I am bound to Tauriel," he said and kissed her lightly. He did not exactly smile, but some subtle radiance that was not light, but something like it in his face, proclaimed him happy with these words and happy with her.

Tauriel felt a heady rush of embarrassment for how troubled she had made him moments before. How unfair and inexplicable a response had she offered for his loving eagerness! She regretted that he had thought, if only for an instant, that she did not want his caresses, and now was not at all sure how to ask him to resume.

Giving him a foolish smile, she turned her attention to the laces of her dress and began drawing them free. Kíli took the hint readily, and catching her hands, took over the task.

Tauriel folded her arms about him, and tucked her face against his hair, which felt soft and clean against her cheek, while Kíli's fingers brushed her breastbone, her ribs, her belly as he worked. As he tugged the last ties loose at her hips, Tauriel felt the runestone—which had thus long lain pressed against her heart—slide free and thump into the grass at his feet.

"So that's where you've carried my runestone all this time," Kíli observed.

"Only when I didn't have pockets."

She slid her hands down from his neck to his collar, swiftly and easily undoing the first of the little silver clasps.

"Wait—" Kíli said, kissed her lips once, and bent down after the stone.

While he was turned away, Tauriel drew a deep breath—odd that it took as much courage to reveal herself to the man she loved as it did to go into battle!—then slipped her arms from her dress and pressed it down off her hips to crumple at her feet.

Kíli had most certainly not been prepared for this action on her part, for when he stood and saw her, his eyes went wide.

"You, um..." She recognized that look of wonder on his face: it was the same he had worn when he told of a fire moon that had once graced him with its light.

Tauriel had always known Kíli adored her as a creature of elevated beauty, yet she had not, perhaps, fully believed him until now when she offered him nothing but herself, and still he found the gift so great. With no pride, but rather a deep sense of awe that she could captivate him so, she knew she was more beautiful than she had ever guessed.

After several long moments, Kíli took a step towards her, still too helpless to do much but gaze at her. Tauriel unfastened the last of the clasps at his collar, and next, catching the hem of his shirt, dragged it up and over his head. Then with a step, she closed the space between them.

His skin was very warm against hers, and the hair on his upper body lightly tickled her. Kíli remained still for the space of three breaths—she counted them as his ribs lifted against hers—and then he laid his hands upon her hips. Two more breaths and he reached up, past her ear, and Tauriel felt the tug of his fingers in her hair, where it was tied up into a high tail atop her head.

"Does this come loose?" he asked.

She smiled, not at all surprised to find he wished to spend tonight drowned in her hair.

"I think so," she told him, not remembering how it had been done, now. She leaned closer to ease his reach, and the movement unexpectedly pressed her bosom to his cheek.

"Valar, Tauriel," Kíli breathed, and she felt his hands falter in her hair. He fumbled a bit more at her braids and then said, "Ah. I've got it."

There was the pinch of several hairpins pulling free, and then her hair fell down about her shoulders.

"One last thing," he added, his fingers brushing the back of her neck. He opened the clasp on her necklace, and the jewels slipped from her throat, soft as silk. Kíli dropped them, then scooped one arm behind Tauriel's knees so that she tumbled softly into his arms. Despite her greater height, he carried her the last steps to their bed effortlessly.

Kíli laid her down among the soft grass of the mattress and was folding a leg astride her when Tauriel noted that he was still half dressed.

"Kíli," she said, laughing at his sweet, unpracticed enthusiasm, "do you mean to make love to me still wearing your trews?"

"Blast! Of course not," he cried, and scrambled up again to finish undressing.

Tauriel pushed herself up to watch him. She had seen him naked to the waist before, but she had not yet had the chance to admire him further than that. She stared freely as he stripped off trousers and small clothes: he had full, muscular thighs and buttocks, sturdy calves; yet his solid build still had its own grace. She certainly found no reason to wish him any different than he was.

When Kíli returned to her, Tauriel caught him behind the neck and lay back beneath him. She could tell that as he settled himself over her, he was very cautious not to lean too fully against her. Did she seem so fragile to him now? She must show him she was not...

Tauriel laid her hands against his belly and pushed them up and over him until she had buried them in the hair at the base of his neck. As she had hoped, Kíli responded by relaxing against her. He was heavy, to be sure, but Tauriel found it pleasant to be pressed so close against him that his every breath drove her own from her lungs.

"I love you," he whispered, his lips against her. She stroked her fingers over his nape as his lips moved up the side of her neck and over her ear. His whiskered face pricked her there, and she nearly cried out at the very oddness of the sensation before she felt his teeth close, light but deliberate, over her ear's delicate peak. She made a sound then, and pulled Kíli's hair, not for any real pain but simply for surprise.

"I'm sorry; I've always wanted to do that," Kíli confessed.

Tauriel sighed, thoroughly pleased by the way his voice had rumbled in her chest when he spoke. "You may do it again."

This time she felt the warm, wet tickle of his tongue.

"Kíli, you fool."

"Do elvish lovers never—?"

"Oh, I imagine they do." The idea had certainly never occurred to her before, but now that Kíli had demonstrated it, she could certainly acknowledge the interest of the thing. And which, exactly, had been the first moment Kíli had dreamed of nipping her ears?

She slipped her hands down from his neck and gripped his shoulders, slowly drawing out the contours of the muscles there. She had learned the shape of him imperfectly from all the times he had held her before now; tonight, she could happily begin learning him in full.

Kíli seemed to enjoy the hard pressure of her hands against him, for he gave a rich hum as he set his mouth to the hollow of her shoulder, above her heart. "Kíli," she urged, and tugged at his hair again till he understood she would rather have his lips against hers.

Now, this was an entirely new sort of kiss, the sort she had dreamed of while lying in the sun early that morning: his skin caught against hers and nothing to stop where this led them. Tauriel curled against him, and oh, he was warm enough now that she thought he might set fire to her. She wrapped arms and legs around him and opened her mouth to him, so that his brightness and warmth might kindle her completely.

"Tauriel..." Kíli managed unsteadily when she had finished kissing him.

"Yes?"

"Tauriel."

She laughed, both self-conscious and delighted to have once more rendered him wordless. The candles about them cast golden light on his face and gleamed in his eyes behind the dark tumble of his hair, and, oh, how truly beautiful he was.

"I feel I've waited a thousand years for this," she told him. She felt she had lived a thousand years since she had met and loved and lost him once, for in that time she had faced a lifetime in which she could not have him.

"Really?" He sounded both delighted and humbled.

"Longer. You were going to give this away to someone else, and waiting for the impossible takes such a long— Oh!" He closed his mouth against the tip of her breast, and she lost her thought completely.

His hands and lips were gentle as he acquainted himself with every soft contour of her; and Tauriel remembered his dwarvish vow to take her for the treasure of his hands. Surely there was more reverence in Kíli's touch than any dwarf had ever afforded to gems or gold.

He leaned back from her for a moment, and Tauriel took the opportunity to stroke her fingers over the hair that shaded his chest. Would he enjoy that? She had certainly found the brush of that hair against her own skin pleasing.

"I'm afraid I'm not—" Kíli protested, drawing back ever so slightly under her touch.

"Hush!" She drew her fingertips over him, following the dark line that ran down his chest.

Kíli shivered, and she saw, even in the flickering candlelight, that she had raised goosebumps to his skin.

"Yes, you are," Tauriel assured him. She looked in his eyes and smiled, knowing full well that she disarmed him, and then once again trailed her fingers, very lightly and slowly, down his body.

"Tauriel!" he gasped sharply, and she drew her hand back from his stomach. Perhaps he did not like to be touched there, if he was very sensitive. Was he terribly ticklish?

Kíli added, breathless, "Don't stop."

Tauriel grasped his hips and shifted him more into the position she supposed was right. She was sure they were both ready.

He moved slightly against her and then froze. Glancing to his eyes, Tauriel saw how utterly nervous he was.

She could not deny that she still was, too, and yet despite her consciousness that she knew almost nothing of what they were about, she did know this: no matter what blunders they might yet make, none of it could change that she loved him.

"Kíli," she breathed. "Kíli, I trust you."

"Yes, love."

His expression eased into something foolish and sweet and eager; and then he leaned into her.

"Tauriel," Kíli said at last, when it was finally possible to speak coherently again. "You are..." His hands moved reverently over her as she lay atop him, the gesture taking the place of the words he could not find.

"As are you, hadhodeg," Tauriel murmured into the hollow of his shoulder.

"Am I no longer 'your dwarf'?" Kíli mused, more curious than concerned by this new variation on what had long been her special name for him.

Tauriel lifted her head so she could meet his eyes. "More than ever," she said. "Hadhod nín is the dwarf who belongs to me. Hadhodeg is..." She paused, searching for her own words. "The dwarf who is especially dear, the one I am most fond of, the one I dote upon." She swept his hair back from his face with lingering fingers. "The Common tongue has no equivalent form, but I think I could express the same thought by saying 'my sweet little dwarf.'"

"I see," he answered, deeply pleased. "We have a form like that in Khuzdul. You would say khuzdazud."

"Khuzdazud," Tauriel repeated. "I'm not sure I can get my tongue around that." And then she kissed him, as if to demonstrate what came much more easily.

"Kíli," she said, pressing her brow against his. He could feel her heart trembling against him. "I had so little idea what to expect. Elves rarely speak of this, what passes between a husband and wife. Even our poetry is very veiled. The union of love is a sacred thing to us. I didn't expect it to be so... strong. I nearly lost myself."

"Is that bad?" Kíli asked, wondering again if perhaps he had still made some mistake. Should he not have let himself be swept away by what he felt for her and with her? Everything tonight had been so new, and he had not known how to match his own experience to hers.

"Oh no, not bad," she said, smiling as if at a secret shared just with him. "Just... Strange. And beautiful, too. I didn't know what it would be; that's all."

Kíli smiled, relieved. "Good. I was afraid I might have upset you somehow."

"Upset me?" Tauriel seemed truly puzzled that he thought such a thing possible.

"Well, you did say a lot of things in Elvish, and I could only guess what you wanted—"

She giggled, and he could tell that she flushed, even in the starlight. "To be honest, I am not quite sure what I said, myself. I shall try to address you in Common next time."

"I'd like that."

Kíli put his hands about her face, smoothing them back over her ears and hair. "I suppose I knew as little about what to expect as you did. Dwarves don't talk about this because, well, not all of us experience it. It's treated as sort of a mystery, best left alone till you must discover it for yourself." He laughed, embarrassed. "As you can imagine, everyone found it very helpful last night to remind me I'd have absolutely no idea what to do with you."

She smiled crookedly but said nothing.

"Tauriel," Kíli went on, slipping his hands down to her waist. He still marveled at how slender she seemed laid against him. "I can still hardly believe I get to be like this with you. What elf would ever share herself so completely with a dwarf? You grace me far beyond my deserving."

For once, she did not protest such praise.

"I know; you would chide me for undervaluing myself. But I don't think I do. Stones and stars, Tauriel, both have their worth. And yet their places are so very distant. The stars and stones never meet. Not till now." He kissed her, straining up for an instant to reach her before she leaned down into him, and then he was lost again in creamy skin and silken hair.

She responded without reservation, mouth and hands moving over him eagerly. And then, without warning, she suddenly slipped free of his arms to lie back at his shoulder, her quickened breath coming in gasps.

"Tauriel?" It could not be anything he had done, surely. There had been absolutely no hesitation in her manner moments before.

"The stars— I want to remember what the stars look like at the hour of our union." She caught his hand and squeezed it.

"Ah." Kíli lay still beside her, feeling equal parts impatience and delight. Her delays were intensely provoking and yet they made her all the more wonderful to him.

He had wanted tonight to be mystical, elevated, pure—everything that he thought of as elvish—and so he had requested the outdoor marriage bed. He could not imagine passing such a momentous night buried in the earth. Tauriel was radiant, celestial, and he wished to celebrate his union to her in a fit setting, strange though it was to make love beneath an open sky. And so Kíli was far from disappointed to find that Tauriel's response to their coupling was itself as strange as any other part of this night.

Kíli pushed himself up on his elbow so that he might watch Tauriel as she gazed heavenwards. His breath caught against his ribs at how truly beautiful she was. With the moon fallen beneath the horizon now, the brightness of her skin was muted, yet even so her pale body seemed to gleam faintly under the starlight. Her hair was no longer spun copper, but dark red wine, pooling about her shoulders and running down over her breast. Yet her eyes were still bright and full of light.

"I shall forever consider these the kindliest stars," Tauriel said, still drinking them in, and Kíli felt his heart thrill at the thought that when she said "forever," she truly meant it.

She went on, "Whenever I look on them again, I shall see you just as you are in this moment." She glanced back to him and grinned, mischievous. "With your hair all a-tangle and the sweetest look of frustration I have ever seen on your face."

Kíli laughed. "Am I that obvious?"

"Very."

"I can wait," he said, and was immediately embarrassed by the traitorous hitch in his voice.

"Come here." Tauriel caught him about the neck and drew him down atop her. "Will you not help me lose myself in you?"

Tauriel woke when Kíli pulled on her hair.

He hadn't done it on purpose, she found as she propped herself up to look at him. He still slept, a few strands of copper twisted in his fingers and more of it draped over him. Tauriel nearly reached out to sweep her hair away, then at the last moment left all alone, pleased by the image of Kíli still entwined in this part of her.

She slid back down on her pillow, studying his profile against the bright, egg-shell blue of the dawn sky. She had never fully appreciated the clean, straight line of his nose before, or the turn of his ruddy lip, or how his lashes fanned so black over his cheek. It was not that she had never noticed these things in him, nor noticed the distinctive ripple of the trimmed hair at his temple or how the faint lines beside his mouth hinted at the shape of his smile. But he had not been hers, not like this, when she had looked at him before, and that fact had made a very great difference.

When she could resist no longer, Tauriel put a hand to his cheek and brushed her thumb across his lips.

Kíli stirred then with a drowsy murmur.

"Hadhodeg," she whispered.

He smiled against her thumb, and she knew he was awake.

"Good morning, melleth." She kissed his shoulder.

Kíli opened his eyes then.

"I married you yesterday," he said after a moment.

"Yes, I remember."

"And I made love to you last night."

"I remember that, too."

He sighed happily. "Good. I just wanted to make sure you knew." He took her hand down from his face and held it against his chest. "I love you."

"And I love you."

They lay still, and Tauriel was content to mark the time by the flick of Kíli's eyelashes and the rise of fall of his chest beneath her hand. After a while, Kíli tipped on his side, caught Tauriel about the waist, and lay back again with her gathered above him.

"Tauriel, I have a question," he said. "Please tell me the truth."

She nodded.

"Last night—" He paused, tongue between his lips, as if not sure how to phrase this.

Tauriel smiled shyly. "I assure you; you pleased me very much."

"Ah—" Understanding lit in his eyes, and then he smiled. "I am exceedingly glad that is so, amrâlimê. What I was going to ask is— Well. Do I smell of boar's grease?"

Laughter burst from her lungs and she ducked her head helplessly against his chest for a moment. When she was able to look up again, she saw he still waited intently for her answer.

"No."

"You promised the truth."

Tauriel pressed her face into his neck, against his hair. "You smell of warm dwarf and mountain air and... maybe just a little of cedar. Why?"

"The night before the wedding, we were wrestling, and the boar grease makes it harder to catch hold of your opponent."

She giggled, imagining Kíli gleaming with kitchen drippings and caught in the untender embrace of a dwarvish wrestling opponent. "Is that a traditional wedding send-off to make the bride's caresses more sweet by comparison? Are dwarvish ladies so fierce that they require such a preparation?"

Kíli snorted with mirth. "No! It was just a challenge between friends. Fíli was the one who insisted on wrestling. I was for swords."

"And did you win?"

"No." He gave her a mischievous smirk. "I was saving my strength for you." And in a single swift movement, he rolled and pinned her beneath him. She pressed up into him for a kiss, which culminated in a breathless coupling before they tumbled free of one another again.

"Shall we wake this way every morning?" Tauriel asked, stretching her arm across the rough mattress to stroke Kíli's shoulder.

"Yes, let's," he managed, still panting softly.

When her heart had slowed to a more reasonable pace, Tauriel curled next to Kíli and drew his head against her. His braids from yesterday were frayed, and she began, one by one, to tease them loose while Kíli hummed softly under her touch.

"You know," she mused, "There are no elvish verses on what we discovered last night, but that is not to say we have no poems that treat of desire. Your hair puts me in mind of one of them."

"Does it?" He sounded amused. "My hair."

"You have very beautiful hair. Has no lass ever told you that?"

"No."

"Oh." She slipped a bead loose from a braid, added it to the small pile she was building on the sheets. "Is a maid simply not supposed to tell a man when she admires him? I had supposed it must happen often, since a dwarf woman may have her choice of suitors."

"Oh, believe me; I've been told."

She laughed softly, unable to be jealous when she lay here with him like this. "And which of your features would a dwarf maid praise?"

Kíli drew in a full breath and loosed it slowly as Tauriel worked out another braid. "They would tell me I'm tall." He chuckled. "You know, I am, for a dwarf."

"I noticed."

"Or that I'm strong. Or handsome." He shrugged against her. "I dunno. The usual things, I suppose."

"And yet nothing of your rich dark hair." She combed her fingers contemplatively through the waves left by a last braid. "I am astonished. When I first saw you, I thought you very striking, with your dark hair and black brows."

Kíli laughed. "Oh, I'm sure I looked striking. I spent the first half of the night in prison picking cobwebs out of my hair, before you returned. It would have taken me twice as long, except I remembered I had my comb. You really should have searched me, you know."

Tauriel trailed her fingers along his neck, sweeping a stray lock back from his skin. "Yes, I'm beginning to see that, now."

"So, what is the poem you were thinking of?" Kíli asked after a few more moments.

"Ah, yes." Tauriel caught a handful of dark hair and sifted it through her fingers. "Gwath i gelair, milui athan alanwa dû."

"And that means?"

"Shining shadow, more kind than the false night." As Tauriel slid her fingers through his hair, Kíli's eyes drifted closed and she knew he enjoyed her attentions very much.

"I am a poor translator. The poem begins with a paradox: the lady loves the night, for with it comes her lover, but he is the sun of her life, and with him, even night seems bright. She complains to the night, calling it faithless for failing to shelter their love. Yet in the end they are spared when the beloved's long dark hair makes a second, truer night for them. In the final lines, the lady confesses that perhaps she ought to have complained to him for causing this impossible situation. But a lover, she says, would fault the moon and stars themselves before the beloved; and her song has merely proved that he, not they, are the law she lives by."

She tucked a curl of hair behind Kíli's ear, letting her finger trail on down his jawline. "Truly it is a passionate work, for all that the poet speaks only of the deep luster of her lover's night-black tresses."

"Is all elvish poetry so clever? I mean the thing about night and day."

"Much of it is." Tauriel singled out a strand of Kíli's hair and divided it for a braid, placed a preliminary silver bead. "My very favorite love poem is one in which the lover takes her golden hair and braids it to the beloved's black, so that the whole of their love and union is figured in that single plait. I have always thought the image a very beautiful one."

She twisted strands together now, weaving the braid of captured hearts that she had given him for their betrothal.

He said, "You'll have to read those to me, when we're somewhere with a library."

"I will."

Tauriel tied off the braid with another bead, and then reaching over the edge of the mattress, produced one of her daggers that had lain hidden there.

Kíli started slightly. "Maker's hammer! I hope you weren't planning on needing that for anything."

"No! I know I am safe here with you, on the Mountain, but I confess I have never slept without a blade within reach. And now I do find a purpose for it after all."

She cut loose the braid she had just finished and laid the hair in his hand.

Kíli held it up, admiring the way her copper and his deep brown strands were intertwined into one braid, just as in her poem. The mingling of their two colors, light and dark, showed the woven pattern much more distinctly than when he had worn it in his hair alone.

"Wonderful," he pronounced, and then nestled to her, his back to her chest. She slid her arms around him and drew him full against her body, and they lay still again for perhaps a quarter of an hour, each content in the simple nearness of the other.

Then Kíli moved, taking Tauriel's hand in both of his, and began kneading his thumbs over her palm and knuckles.

"Mmm." She sighed into his hair. "I've always liked your hands. From the first time you touched me..."

He kissed her fingers. "Have you looked at the inside of your ring yet?"

"No."

Kíli eased it off her finger, then placed it in her hand, and Tauriel held it up before her eyes. The outer surface of the simple, squared off band was unadorned, as she already knew, but on the inside, she could see Cirth runes, deeply carved to spell the word amrâlimê.

"Thank you, Kíli," she said, and the ring slipped from her fingers in her eagerness to clasp him against her.

"Of course, my love."

He fitted the ring to her finger again.

Tauriel arched back in a stretch and a yawn, and then curled next to Kíli again, tucking a knee over his hips. "When are we to meet your brother?" she asked.

"I told him noon."

"Perfect," she purred. "Then we needn't rush. Ah!" She flinched against him as Kíli's fingers skimmed over her knee. At some point last night, he had discovered that this tickled her, knowledge which he had exploited shamelessly since then.

"No," he agreed, and shifting within her embrace so that he might face her, went on to show her what else he had learned.

Chapter Text

Standing with the noonday sun pouring down on his shoulders, Fíli found himself wishing he'd chosen a lighter shirt before he'd come outside the mountain to bring mounts for Kíli and Tauriel. Today was warmer than Fíli had guessed, dressing in the cool dark of his rooms.

Kíli's restless pony nudged Fíli in the back with its nose, and the young prince chuckled, remembering his own impatient—and far colder—wait for this same pair on a snow covered mountainside. He had been uncertain then, not so much of Tauriel or of Kíli's feelings for her, but simply of what his brother would surely set in motion if he invited her into the mountain. It had been all too easy to guess how Thorin would react to the discovery that his nephew was smitten with an elf, and Kíli had never been the sort to tread delicately when his own passionate feelings were engaged.

Yet here they all were, three summers later, and no-one disinherited, exiled, or estranged. Erebor had celebrated its first royal wedding since the reclamation, and Fíli could proudly call an elf his sister.

Before he could reflect much further on this astonishing fact, the elf in question came in sight round a fold of the foothills, Kíli behind her. Tauriel turned back, laughing, at something Kíli said, and then easily dodged his reach and ran so that he chased her the last few dozen yards to where Fíli stood.

"Good morning, brother," Kíli panted as he caught Tauriel about the waist to stop himself before he plowed into his brother and the two steeds.

"I'm sorry if we kept you waiting," Tauriel added, likewise breathless. "Kíli would not let me put my boots on." She shot her husband a playfully accusatory look, and Fíli wondered if her cheeks were red from running or from embarrassment.

He grinned. "It's all right. I wasn't expecting you to be early."

"Probably wise of you," Kíli concurred with an answering smile. "Did the party go on long after we left?"

"Oh, it was after midnight before Nori and Bombur and Bofur paid their last respects to your wedding ale. But don't worry; there are still a few casks left to lay by for your anniversary."

"Good! I suppose it can wait till our second. For our first, I intend to have that lovely nut brown ale from the Green Dragon."

Tauriel laughed. "I begin to suspect we travel to the Shire not so much to visit your friend Bilbo as to find this celebrated ale."

"Well, it was a very fine beer," Kíli told her solemnly.

"Truly, it was," Fíli added. "You'll have to have a pint for me."

"I will." The tall redhead regarded him fondly. "Thank you, Fíli, for all you've done for us." She put her hands to his shoulders and kissed his cheek.

"You're welcome, sister."

After checking packs and readjusting saddle girths, Kíli and Tauriel mounted, he on his sturdy dwarvish pony and she on her dappled mare.

"Farewell, Fí." Kíli had to reign his pony back for these last words, for it seemed as eager as he to be off. "We'll miss you."

A laugh burst from Fíli's chest. "You won't. And I don't blame you. Miss me in a year, and then come back for my wedding."

"We will!"

Fíli slapped the pony's flank, and it bounded off. Tauriel's grey swiftly followed, and she and Kíli raced each other halfway across the plain before slowing to a more sensible pace.

A full smile on his face, Fíli watched them go. He knew his brother had been dying to run away with Tauriel from the start. It had not been only wounded honor and indignation that had prompted Kíli to flee with her after that first argument with Thorin, though surely it had been those things. Kíli found in Tauriel new worlds, even as she longed for them herself, and Fíli was glad his brother now had this chance for an adventure with her. He was not sorry to let his impetuous little brother have something before him this time, even if it did mean delaying Fíli's own wedding somewhat till their return. After all their patience and sorrow and uncertainty, Kíli and his bride deserved their time together now. And anyhow, a crown prince could surely find enough to keep himself occupied for the next year or so.

The soft rush of water had been present throughout all of Kíli's dreams, and when he woke, it was several long moments before he realized he was not dreaming still. Tauriel lay beside him, warm and soft. Her feet were tangled in his, and her arm was draped over him, and they were both awash in the copper waves of her hair. This was all undisputedly the substance of the loveliest dream.

But it was the sound of water that proved where he was: awake and in Rivendell, above the hundred falls of the Bruinen. He and Tauriel had arrived here the previous evening and had been given this room overlooking the vale after Tauriel had declared her ardent wish to see the sun rising over the mist. The time was just before dawn now, as Kíli could see by the pearl and gold clouds beyond their balcony window.

He got out of bed carefully so as not to disturb Tauriel and moved to the balcony, just remembering to catch up his shirt from the floor and put it on before he stepped out into the open air. Their Company had, he reflected with a light chuckle, shown all of Rivendell quite enough naked dwarf during their last visit.

Below him, the valley was cloaked in silvery mist, ghostly shapes here and there resolving into the gables and spires of Elrond's house. The spray from the falls added a delightful chill to the late summer air, and Kíli shivered once.

Looking out over this view three years ago, he had felt he truly had left behind the world he knew and that their adventure was finally crossing over into that fantastic land of story in which Erebor had always existed for him. He had found since then, of course, that the reality of their quest was much more dangerous and grim than any tale had prepared him for, and yet the wonders, too, had been far greater than those of his uncle's stories. Not the least of those wonders was the discovery of a treasure in the very last place he could have expected to find it. And now, to stand here again, with that treasure slumbering, content, in his bed behind him... Well, Kíli supposed his life had become a very strange and delightful tale, indeed.

He turned back for Tauriel; the sun would be up soon, and he did not want her to miss a moment.

"Amrâlimê."

Tauriel felt Kíli's rough face against her shoulder. She murmured and shifted languidly as he kissed her again.

"It's nearly sunrise. Would you like to come and see?"

"Mmm. Yes."

She rose and drew on the robe that Kíli offered. As she belted it loosely about her, Kíli moved close and pressed his lips to the still-bare skin between her breasts.

"Have I mentioned that you are the perfect height?" he asked, tipping his chin up to offer her a roguish grin.

"Once or twice." Tauriel kissed his upturned face and followed him out to the balcony.

Kíli was right; dawn was just breaking. Below, the valley with its smoking cataracts was dim, but the sky beyond the lofty peaks of the Misty Mountains glowed. And then as they watched, the sun's burning disc cleared the peaks, and brightness like liquid gold flowed down into the valley. The flat grey mist turned to a sea of light, rich and thick, and every rooftop and stone outcropping in the vale was limned with white.

"Oh, Kíli," Tauriel breathed. "It's just as you described."

"I'm glad."

She looked to him and the happiness in his face warmed her more than the sunlight had.

"Melleth nín, you know that this—" she gestured towards the shining view "—is more beautiful because I stand here with you."

"I know." He took her hand and caressed it. "I love you, Taur."

She answered his words with a smile, and then, clasping his hand to her, leaned against the balcony rail to survey the morning that had opened golden before them both.

Chapter Text

"You know, I should have insisted you marry at the same time as your brother," Thorin observed to his nephew and heir one September night as they both relaxed in the dwarf king's rooms. "Then perhaps I'd have some peace and quiet of an evening." This was the second time this sennight that Fíli had visited his uncle at the end of the day. The young dwarf still lived in the suite he had once shared with his brother; those quarters must be quiet and lonely without Kíli's friendly chatter.

Fíli grinned, not at all deceived by Thorin's complaint, and handed his uncle a glass of whiskey.

"Just wait, Uncle," Fíli said as he sank back into his own chair. "You'll be the one calling on me next year because you've no-one to smoke with after dinner."

Thorin grunted, amused. "I know better than to show up where I'm not wanted. Or needed."

Fíli colored slightly, but did not argue with this remark. Of course he looked forward to marrying soon so that he could enjoy some uninterrupted privacy with his bride in their new home.

After a slow sip of whiskey, Thorin went on, "I don't expect I'll see much of your brother, either, even when he and Tauriel do return. A babe will take all of their time."

"Oh, surely they won't have one of those for a while yet," Fíli objected. "Tauriel would hardly agree to it so soon! I mean, by her elvish reckoning, they've only been married the equivalent of what, a day or two?" He shook his head, smiling. "They say elves can control that kind of thing, I mean, bearing children. She'll make him wait a few years more, I'm sure."

Thorin chuckled. "Have you ever known your brother not to get what he wants? You told me he does want a family."

Fíli smiled, likely remembering many times his little brother's eager insistence for something had prevailed. "I'm sure he wants some time with Tauriel to himself before they've a babe to look after." The certainty in the young prince's tone suggested he would not wish his own first child to arrive too speedily after the wedding.

"I will be greatly surprised if Tauriel is not with child when she returns with Kíli," Thorin said.

"You can't really think she will be!" Fíli stared at his uncle with lifted brows.

"Fíli," Thorin said, barely keeping the laughter from his voice, "Your brother has nothing to do for the next year but pay attention to his pretty wife. You can't imagine he'll neglect her."

Fíli sighed and looked mildly embarrassed. "No. But I just don't think Tauriel— Well, you know elves are so deliberate and thoughtful about everything they do. She'll at least wait till they're settled at home to, well." He shrugged, apparently not eager to discuss the precise details of Kíli's private life.

"You may be right about elves in general, but Tauriel is certainly not like most elves. She did marry your brother, after all." Thorin suspected Tauriel already was more quick and eager than most of her kind, and her nearness to Kíli seemed to intensify these traits in her. If Kíli wanted a child, he supposed Tauriel could not long resist him. "She will be carrying his babe."

Fíli shook his head. "And I say she won't." He swirled the whiskey in his glass, drank, set the glass down on the side table with a sharp tap. "What do you say to a wager?"

"On Kíli's first babe?" Thorin laughed. "You'll lose, Fíli."

The younger dwarf's eyes glinted merrily. "I won't."

"What stakes do you propose?"

"Mmm..." Fíli rubbed his chin, thinking. "Well, they still need some furniture. I imagine Tauriel would appreciate a sofa and some chairs, perhaps to match that elegant dining set Thranduil gave them. I'll commission something from the elven artisans in Mirkwood. Loser foots the bill. "

Thorin nodded; yes, these were high enough stakes to make the question interesting. Furthermore, Kíli and his bride could hardly be offended to find themselves the subject of such a wager when they benefited either way.

"I accept," he told Fíli. "You place the order. It's best you know what you'll be paying for."

Fíli met his uncle's gaze, a complacent smile on his face. "We'll see about that."