God of Mischief I worship

Fíli was ahead of you on the path, close enough that his pack was within arm's reach when the path narrowed and you needed something to orient by. Balin was behind you, his breathing steady and deliberate, a presence you'd learned to calibrate your pace by in the dark. Between the two of them you'd made it this far without stepping sideways off the edge of the path, which felt like the relevant metric tonight.

"Nearly at the next bend," Fíli said, over his shoulder, not loud—sound behaved strangely on the cliff face, carrying sideways in ways that had surprised you early on, and they'd all learned to keep their voices down on the path.

"How long has this pass been here?" you said, to Balin, because talking helped with the cold.

"Longer than anyone remembers," Balin said, behind you. "These passes are old. Older than the mountains feel, and the mountains feel very old."

"That's not—actually that's a completely reasonable answer," you said, because you'd stopped expecting things in this world to have the kind of origin stories you were accustomed to, and it had made various conversations considerably easier.

Lightning split the sky ahead—a full, brilliant crack of it, not the kind you'd seen from windows at home but the kind that occupied the whole visible sky, illuminating the cliff face and the drop below and the extraordinary, terrifying expanse of the mountain range in one white frame of visibility. The thunder followed, and it was—it was not ordinary thunder.

You'd heard thunder before. Everyone had heard thunder. Thunder was a sound, atmospheric, background, the sort of thing you listened to from under a duvet with a cup of tea and found atmospheric.

This was a sound that came up through the rock beneath your feet before it arrived through the air, a sound with physical weight, and the cliff face moved under it, a shudder you felt through your boots and up your legs and into the base of your spine, and Balin's hand was at your arm before you'd quite processed what you were reacting to.

"Hold on," he said. "Hold to the rock. Do not look down." You pressed your back against the cliff face and most definitely—did not—look down.

Another lightning crack, closer, and in the second of white light it gave you, you saw something you didn't understand immediately—two cliff faces across the gorge, impossibly large, moving. Not sliding, not falling—moving. Deliberately. With the gathered, colossal intention of something that had been standing still for a very long time and had decided to stop.

One of them lifted an arm.

You stared.

"What are they?" Bilbo's voice came from further back, high and tight with controlled alarm.

"Giants," Dwalin said, from somewhere behind Balin. "Stone giants," his voice had a quality you hadn't heard from Dwalin before—not fear, exactly, something more like the specific alertness of a warrior encountering something that could not be fought in any way he knew how and was recalculating accordingly.

The cliff face shuddered again as the nearest one swung something—its arm, the arm of a stone giant, thousands of feet of moving rock—through the air. The crack of impact on the far cliff carried sound that took your teeth with it. Rain and loose stone cascaded down the path in rivulets that splashed across your boots, and the company pressed itself against the rock face with the collective instinct of people who understood, very clearly, the physical mathematics of the situation.

"We need to move!" Thorin's voice, from the front of the line, cutting through the wind. "Keep to the rock face—do not stop—"

The ground lurched.

Not the path. Not the rock behind you — the section of cliff immediately beneath your feet shifted, tilted, and in the lightning flash that followed you understood, with a cold clarity that was worse than the rain, that you were not standing on the path anymore. You were standing on a knee. The stone under you was not cliff face but the outstretched leg of one of the giants, and it was moving, slowly, with the grinding indifference of something that did not know you existed and would not have cared if it did.

"Move!" Thorin again—louder now, the command stripped to its essentials.

You moved with Fíli ahead and Balin at your back and the wind screaming sideways and the giant's leg tilting beneath you and the path—the actual path, carved stone, real and fixed and not moving—was three feet to your left and then you were on it, and Fíli's hand was on your arm, and Balin was right behind you, and the section of stone you'd been standing on ground away into the dark below as the giant completed its step.

You stood on the path, breathed and looked at the space where you'd just been standing.

"Everyone forward!" Thorin's voice. "There—there, a cave! Get inside!"

The cave was small, cut back into the cliff face, barely large enough for fifteen people to be inside and call it inside rather than simply not quite outside. The ceiling was low—you stood with your head tilted forward slightly—the floor was uneven, and it smelled of old rock and something underneath old rock that was indefinable but not unpleasant, like the smell of rain but from below rather than above.

Everyone was soaked. Everyone was cold. Everyone was doing the particular immediate accounting that followed close calls—checking themselves, checking the person next to them, the wordless inventory of limbs and status that the company was extremely efficient at.

Thorin stood at the cave mouth and looked out at the giants for a moment—they were moving away now, trading blows with the careless force of something that didn't have a small range—and then turned and looked across the company.

"We rest here," he said. "First light, we move on." He looked at the cave—the low ceiling, the limited floor space, the fifteen people crammed into it with their wet packs and their weapons and their general accumulated dampness. "Sleep if you can."

"What about Gandalf?" you said, from where you'd pressed yourself against the far wall, "we're supposed to be meeting Gandalf. You said—you said before we left Rivendell that he'd meet us in the mountains."

Thorin looked at you. The look had the quality of a man who had the same thought several hours ago and had been keeping it managed. "Plans change," he said.

"Plans change?" you said. "Right. That's—okay. He's fine though? Presumably?"

"He's Gandalf," Balin said, settling himself beside you against the wall with the resignation of a dwarf who had been wet and cold in worse circumstances and was going to be a practical about this one. "If anything were capable of making an end of him, I think it would have done so by now."

"That's not particularly comforting."

"No but it is accurate," Balin said, which was his version of the same thing.

You leaned back against the cave wall and looked at the ceiling and listened to the company arrange itself in the small space with the practiced efficiency of people who had been sleeping on the ground for ages and had made their peace with it. The thunder battle outside continued, muffled by the rock, distant now, the sound of it rolling through the mountain like something being settled rather than something beginning.

Bifur was sitting across from you, back against the wall, with a small object in his hands.

You'd been watching him with it without meaning to—he turned it between his thick fingers with a delicacy that was inconsistent with his general impression, which was of a person built primarily for durability. The object was small and wooden, about the size of his fist, and as he turned it you began to make out the shape—a bird, carved with a precision that suggested serious skill, its wings folded, its head tilted at an angle that was somehow entirely convincing.

He caught you looking.

You looked away. He made a short sound—not annoyed, something more like permission—and held the bird out to you.

You took it carefully. The carving was extraordinary —not just the overall shape, but the small details, the individual suggestion of feathers along the wing, the particular curvature of the beak, the way the feet were positioned, gripping an invisible branch. There was a small wheel at the base of the body, set into the wood, and when you turned it with your thumb the wings opened and closed in a slow, smooth arc, the mechanism hidden inside the body driving them through a motion that was—it was flight, that's what it was, the particular slow opening of a bird preparing to leave the ground.

You looked up at Bifur, who was watching you with the careful attention of someone who has shown someone something they made and is waiting to see if they understand it.

You didn't have the Khuzdul for anything adequate. What you had was a handful of words and the expression on your face, the expression on your face apparently communicated the relevant thing, because Bifur's own expression shifted into something warmer.

"Atrâbul," you tried—beautiful, one of the words Ori had written in your small running list—Bifur's eyebrows went up in the faint surprise of someone who hadn't expected the compliment, and then he laughed, quietly, a real laugh, and took the bird back from you.

"Bifur was aToymaker," Balin murmured, from your other side, very low. "Before Erebor. One of the finest."

You looked at Bifur turning the bird in his hands, making the wings open and close in the dim light of the cave. At the small, careful mechanism inside the body that no one had asked him to make and that served no purpose here, on a mountain pass in the rain, other than the fact that he had made it because he was someone who made things and always had been, and losing a mountain didn't change talent.

You looked at the axe embedded in his temple—the axe that had lodged there in some battle, that no healer had been able to remove, it had cost him his knowledge of English, or Common speech as they called it here, as well as a quantity of other things and had not, evidently, cost him this—then looked away, because he hadn't offered you that information and you had nothing adequate to do with it anyway.

The thunder outside shifted to something quieter. The rain continued. Somewhere in the company, Bombur was already asleep, the sound of it regular and architectural.

You closed your eyes.

Thorin sat by the cave entrance, watch required someone awake and positioned at the opening, which was wide enough to observe the path while still having the rock at your back, Thorin had claimed the first watch without discussion and hadn't been replaced, which was not unusual. He slept less than the rest of the company on difficult nights, and was rarely pressed on it.

He was not looking at the path, it had happened gradually—the way attention drifts gradually, the way eyes find something and stay with it without announcing a decision. He'd been watching the entrance, watching the storm's retreat, watching the gradual change in the darkness outside from the deep black of active storm to the quieter dark of late night, and then at some point he had turned his head and his eyes had found you against the far wall and had stayed.

You were asleep in the particular way you slept when the day had taken a lot—entirely, without the restless edge that showed up on easier nights, your head tipped back slightly against the stone, one hand loose in your lap with a blanket half-fallen from your shoulder. Your hair had dried in the way wet hair dried without attention, which was to say every direction simultaneously, and you'd tried to contain some of it behind one ear at some point and it had declined to stay.

Thorin watched you sleep with the completely unguarded expression of someone who believed himself unobserved. He was thinking—which was not unusual. He was nearly always thinking. But the quality of the thinking was unusual, the specific direction of it, the particular territory it kept finding itself in when his attention was this unmanaged and this focussed in one direction.

He was thinking about the great hall in Erebor. About the light that came through the upper arches in the morning and fell in long diagonals across the floor, and how a person standing in that light looked different from a person standing anywhere else, and how it would—how it might fall on—

He was thinking about the market level, about the jewellers' quarter, where he'd spent considerable time in his youth for reasons his grandfather had attributed to interest in craft and which had had rather more to do with the particular pleasure of watching stone become something else—a raw gem lifted from the ground, rough, unapologetic, and worked by careful hands into something that could be set, could be worn, could be given.

He was thinking, specifically, about the setters' craft, the discipline of it, the business of finding a stone and knowing what form it wanted and having the skill to give it that form. He was thinking about what he would—what someone might—what you might.

He caught himself.

The thought had gone somewhere very specific and he'd followed it several steps before he'd noticed where he was with a quality he was unprepared for—not shame, exactly, not discomfort, but the particular startled awareness of someone who has looked up from where they are and found the landscape entirely unfamiliar, which meant they'd been walking without paying attention, which meant they'd gotten somewhere they hadn't decided to go.

"You're going to bore a hole in her if you stare any harder."

Balin's voice, from somewhere at his right shoulder, quiet and entirely unsurprised, the tone of a man who had been watching someone stare for long enough to have an opinion about it.

Thorin turned his head. Balin was sitting up from where he'd been lying, rolled blanket across his lap, looking at Thorin with the expression that Balin reserved for situations he found both amusing and tactically important.

"I'm keeping watch," Thorin said, making considerable effort to clear his throat.

"Aye," Balin said. "You're keeping very thorough watch alright."

"The path is quiet,"

"It is," Balin agreed. He looked at you for a moment, then back at Thorin, with the considering attention of a dwarf who had spent many decades watching people and had developed opinions.

"You know," he said, conversationally, at a volume that was very carefully calibrated to carry to Thorin and no further, "When a dwarf lord finds himself staring at a lass with that expression for that length of time, there are certain—implications."

Thorin said nothing, but fixed him with a look that could melt stone faster then any forge.

"Braids, for instance," Balin said.

"Balin," Thorin said.

"I'm simply observing that if you were to stare at her any harder, someone in this company might conclude you were considering—"

"Balin."

"Thorin" Balin said, with the serene, untouchable composure of a dwarf who had known Thorin Oakenshield for the entirety of his life and understood precisely the limits of his ability to be intimidated by him, "You might want to manage your watch rotations more carefully."

Thorin turned back to the cave entrance. His jaw set in the particular way it set when he had decided a conversation was over and was implementing that decision unilaterally. "Go back to sleep," he said.

Balin settled himself back down with the unhurried ease of a man who had said everything he'd intended to say and was perfectly comfortable with how it had landed and closed his eyes.

Thorin stared at the cave entrance for the remainder of the watch with the focused, deliberate attention of a man who had made an absolute decision about where his eyes were going to be and was maintaining it through the specific effort of will that only becomes necessary when something is pulling your attention in another direction.

He did not look back at your sleeping form.

More than twice.

You came out of sleep with the same force of someone tipped and plunged into ice, instantly but with none of the alert of usual waking.

"Up."

Thorin's voice, close, urgent, with none of its usual management.

You opened your eyes. The cave was dark, the same dark it had been, no first light visible. Thorin was standing in the centre of the space, and the expression on his face was one you had not seen before—completely, instantly alert, stripped of everything except attention.

"Everyone up. Now. Move—"

The floor gave way.

Not collapsing. That was the wrong word—collapse implied falling apart, randomness, the ordinary failure of material under pressure. This was something else. This was mechanical. The floor of the cave swung open in one clean, hinged motion, like a trapdoor on a scale that should not have been possible, and the darkness below it was total and absolute and moving at speed toward you.

You grabbed for the wall. Your palms hit stone and found nothing—the stone was smooth, decades of contact having worn it polished, and your fingers dragged across it without purchase and left nothing, and the drop took you.

The drop was long. Long enough to understand that it was long, long enough to hear the company around you—voices, sounds of impact against stone, the scraping of hands and boots against the shaft walls, someone's pack hitting the curve of the passage and bouncing—and you tried to find the walls with your feet, tried to slow yourself, and the stone scraped your palms and there was nothing to hold and the dark rushed past and the air rushed up, and then—

The landing was not clean, you came down in a pile that was partly other people and partly a structure that had been designed, you understood dimly, to receive bodies—a crude cage of metal bars, rusted and bent but intact, the shape of it like a giant hand half-closed, the bars curved upward at irregular intervals with gaps wide enough to see through and not wide enough to do anything useful with. You were on your back on top of someone, there were hands helping you upright before you'd finished processing the impact, and above the open top of the cage the shaft you'd fallen through disappeared into dark, and below—

Below was light. Yellow, sourceless, everywhere, coming from the walls and the ceiling and the spilling, chaotic architecture of a city built in the deep places of the mountain, a city that was not built so much as accumulated—bridges and walkways and platforms and structures of lashed wood and twisted metal, layer upon layer disappearing down into more dark, the whole thing vast and impossible and swarming.

The sound was what reached you first—an uneven, surging sound, not music and not voices and not any single thing, but the combined noise of something enormous being alive in a space underground. It rose and fell like breath. It had a quality of anticipation.

They came from every surface simultaneously—dropping from above, swarming up from below, pouring along the walkways from both directions—the horror of them hit you before the specific details did, the general impression arriving as a single, complete, animal wrongness before your eyes had organised it into parts.

Pale. That was the first part, a sickly pale the way things that lived without light were pale—not white, not the clean pale of snow or paper, but the pale of something from which the colour had been drained by absence, by centuries of underground dark, by generations of it. The sores were second—clusters of them, raw against the pale skin, some old and crusted, some new. The eyes were third—wide, mobile, accustomed to this darkness in a way that said very clearly that this was their place and you were at the mercy of it.

They clawed at the bars of the cage. They pried it open with the practiced ease of something done many times before. They poured through the gaps like water finding its level, and the company came together by instinct—weapons going for weapons, backs going to backs—then more of them came, more and more, the numbers were simply not a number you could do anything with and they had you.

They drove you along the walkways. Not slowly—at a pace that required moving at their speed or going down, and the walkways were narrow and the drops on either side were real, the company moved, because the only other option was to stop, and the diseased fingers curled into your hair next to your scalp told you unquestionably that stopping was not available.

You where close to Balin. He didn't look at you—he was looking ahead, and his expression was the particular focused calm of a person marshalling their resources—but his arm found yours as you moved, the solid, reliable contact of it, and it was enough.

More noise, more bodies, more of the layered, accumulated structure of a civilisation built entirely without sunlight or any aesthetic consideration that wasn't primarily functional. The throne itself was vast and crude and occupied by something that made the rest of the goblins look, by comparison, small and almost orderly.

The Great Goblin was large in the way a thing that has never been told to stop growing is large—not the size of a troll, not the size of a stone giant, but large for the space he occupied and large for the body underneath the body, all of it draped in the remnants of something that might once have been garments and had since become part of the architecture of him, the Great Goblin was everything the rest of Goblin Town was, but more.

The wattle beneath his chin swung as he turned his head, surveying the company being driven into the cavernous opening before his throne with the entitled interest of something accustomed to receiving tribute and pleased with the quality of this delivery.

"Who would be so bold," the Great Goblin said, and his voice was—wrong in the way all of it was wrong, the pitch of it too high for the body it came out of, carrying across the noise of the crowd with the particular projection of a performer who had made a lifetime's study of a captive audience "as to come armed into my kingdom?"

He leaned forward on his throne and looked at the company with small, sharp eyes. "Spies? Thieves?" He let each word land. "Assassins?"

"Dwarves, Your Malevolence," said the smaller goblin at his side—a narrow, unctuous thing with eyes that moved faster than any other part of it. "We found them on the Front Porch."

The Great Goblin rocked back. "Well, don't just stand there—search them! Every crack, every crevice!"

You stood very still while the goblins worked through the company, because moving seemed like the kind of thing that would make them more interested in you, and being more interesting to them was genuinely the last thing you wanted.

They took the weapons first efficiently, with the practiced brutality of people who knew exactly where a dwarf kept a blade and had no patience for the finding of it—Thorin's sword pulled from the scabbard and thrown aside, Dwalin's axes stripped from his back, Kíli's bow taken with the string still strung, and they worked through the company methodically.

Your fingers moved to the hilt of your dagger for half a heartbeat—you felt the dagger pulled from your hip before you'd finished reaching for it, then pain exploded across the back of your hand as yellowed teeth sank in. You yelped despite yourself, the goblin snarling around a mouthful of your blood like it had won some great prize. It scuttled back a pace, dagger in its grip, and hissed at you with wet, triumphant malice.

Balin was to your left and slightly forward, and Dwalin had positioned himself to your right, and neither of them had done anything so obvious as to stand in front of you, but both of them were standing in a way that made a shape you fit inside and you were grateful for it and did not mention it.

The goblin searching through Óin's pack held up the dwarven ear trumpet with an expression of profound suspicion.

"It is my belief, Your Great Protuberance," the narrow goblin said, examining something he'd pulled from the discarded pile of belongings, "that they are in league with Elves."

The Great Goblin's face shifted through several registers of distaste. He picked up a small object from the pile—turned it over, read the inscription. "'Made in Rivendell.'" He dropped it with the contempt of a man who had never agreed to be impressed by anything from Rivendell and saw no reason to change that agreement. "Bah. Second Age. Couldn't give it away."

He rose slightly from his throne, the wattle swinging. "I want the truth, why are you here ? Tell me, warts and all."

Óin, who had been watching the proceedings with the expression of a man whose patience was being tested, attempted to step forward. "You're going to have to speak up," he said, at a volume calibrated for the hard of hearing, which in this context meant for everyone. "Your boys have flattened my trumpet."

The Great Goblin fixed him with a look. "I'll flatten more than your trumpet."

Bofur, never a man to miss a role that needed filling, stepped forward with the bright expression of someone who had assessed the situation and determined that talking was significantly better than the available alternatives.

"If it's more information you want, I'm the one you should speak to!" he said, with an enthusiasm that was either genuine or a work of tremendous art. "We were on the road. Well—it's not so much of a road as a path. Actually, it's not even that come to think of it, it's more like a track. Honestly, if you want to call it anything—"

The Great Goblin's gaze had moved.

It moved the way the gaze of something large moves when it has found a new point of interest—slowly, with the gathered intention of a thing accustomed to having its attention mean something. It had moved off Bofur. It had moved past the rest of the company. It had found you, at the back of the group, and stopped.

"Well," said the Great Goblin, and something in his voice shifted into a register that was worse than the interrogation register, something with a performance quality to it, playing to the audience of the crowd around him. His chin wattle moved as he leaned forward to address the company, but his eyes didn't leave you. "Who have we here?"

You said nothing, you where focused, you were looking at a point slightly below his throne and trying to make yourself the least interesting thing in the room.

"Is this one yours?" He addressed Thorin with the pointed mockery of something that knew exactly who it was speaking to. "Traveling in style, Thorin Oakenshield—King Under the Mountain." The title landed with the weight of a weapon deliberately chosen for where it would hit.

King ?—that's—that can't be right—one of them would have told me

Your eyes went to the back of Thorin's head—to the set of his shoulders, to the line of his neck—the word reorganised something that had been sitting slightly out of place since the beginning, a piece of the picture that you'd had without understanding its position, and it landed now with the particular weight of things that should have been obvious and weren't until they were.

King under the Mountain.

Not just a leader.

Not just a dwarf with authority, experience someone the company deferred to because they'd known him longest or trusted him most. A king. The rightful kind, by blood and by the accounting of his people, and the mountain was—shit—Erebor was his ? he was standing in a goblin court with his hands stripped of weapons and his head up and not one line of him offering the Great Goblin an inch of the deference the Great Goblin was clearly accustomed to receiving.

He didn't see you look. He was facing forward as the great goblin sneered with delight. "Did the great king bring a lady to the deep places?"

The words where still landing on you like stones hitting water. King. Thorin. Thorin was a—you filed this with tremendous force into the back of your mind and kept your face entirely still.

"She is none of your concern—" Thorin's voice, controlled and very dangerous, from somewhere to your left.

You stood still. Dwalin's elbow was against your arm. Kíli, ahead and to your right, glanced back at you once—brief, quick, his expression stripped of its usual brightness to something that was purely checking that you were still upright.

Glóin said something to you, very low, that was half Common and half Khuzdul. Balin, close on your left, said nothing. Did not turn. Just existed there, solid and certain, and it was enough.

The Great Goblin had resettled on his throne with the expression of a man arriving at the climax of a performance he'd been planning. He spread his hands wide, addressing the whole hall.

"If they will not talk," he announced, with the satisfied relish of someone quoting from a personal motto, "we'll make them squawk !"

The crowd loved it.

"Bring out the Mangler!"

Something moved at the back of the hall.

"Bring out the Bone Breaker!"

More movement—goblins, many goblins, assembled around something large that was being hauled up from a lower level by chains, the sound of it grinding up through the platform, the shape of it not yet visible but the sound of it alone producing a very cold, specific quality of fear.

"Start with—" The Great Goblin's gaze swept the company. Lingered. The wattle moved. "—the female."

Your heart became a very loud thing, the company shifted. Not dramatically—not in a way the goblins could have identified as a response—but something moved through all of them, a collective tightening, not unexpected and the positions adjusted by fractional degrees that added up, in sum, to a ring around you that was as close as they could make it without the goblins having a reason to pull them away.

Dwalin's elbow pressed harder against your arm.

"It'll be alright, lass," Balin said, very quietly. The calmness in his voice was not the easy kind. "You'll be alright."

"They won't get near you," Kíli said, not looking at you, his voice low and certain with the conviction of someone making a promise they intend to keep regardless of the logistics.

"Look at me," said another voice—Bofur, on your other side now, having moved without you noticing, his hand a brief, firm pressure on your own before it dropped away. His face was the face he wore when he was serious, the one without any of the usual warmth replaced by something quieter and more durable than warmth.

"Look at me. None of them are gonna touch you, alright?" You gave him the smallest nod. He turned back forward.

The devices were coming up the stairs on the backs of many, many goblins.

Thorin, Balin, and Bofur moved at the same moment—a fast, coordinated rush toward the throne—the goblins were faster, a surge of filthy bodies and clawing hands they fell on the three of them, hauling them down with sheer weight of numbers dragging them backward onto the platform, as the Great Goblin rose from his throne with the satisfaction of something that had expected this and was pleased to have it confirmed.

You watched in horror at sight of it—of strong dwarves being yanked down like sacks of meat, claws tearing at beards and clothes—sent a wave of cold dread through you.

"Oh, feisty! I like it!" He spread his arms. He had begun to sing—some verse of his own composition, judging by his expression—the words rattling through the hall.

"Bones will be shattered, necks will be wrung!"

A goblins fingers snaked into your hair again claws finding purchase with a unforgiving scrape across your scalp.

"You'll be beaten and battered, from racks you'll be hung!"

The mounting fear for them, and for yourself, rose like bile in your throat.

"You will die down here and never be found—"

The crackling breath of a goblin wheezed past your ear as it's fingers yanked you towards the edge of the platform.

"Down in the deep of Goblin Town!"

The company erupted. The hall shook with it.

The devices were on the platform now, being unchained and positioned with a horrible, practiced precision—you didn't look directly at them, couldn't, your eyes sliding away from the shapes of them with the particular reflexive self-protection of someone whose brain had identified that looking wasn't going to help anything.

The goblins were clearing a space around you, specifically, marching you forward with the efficient choreography of people who had done this before, and the company was being held back, and you could feel—could actually physically feel—the particular, terrible quality of the next ten seconds, before—

The light was blinding. Not the dim yellow-orange of the goblin fires, not the filtered dark of the cave—blinding, white and absolute, filling the hall from everywhere at once, and the sound that came with it was a crack that cut through the noise of the crowd like a blade through water, and in the moment of stunned silence that followed, in the space between one breath and the next—

"Take up your arms."

Standing on the platform, his staff blazing, his grey robes throwing a shadow that went in seventeen wrong directions simultaneously, Gandalf's voice. From everywhere and nowhere and his voice carrying with the quality it had sometimes, the quality that made you understand he was not a wizard who happened to have a staff but was something else wearing the shape of a wizard for convenience.

"Fight."

And the company did, the goblins' screaming took on an entirely different quality, their fingers unweaving themselves from your hair with an abhorrent series of tugs, claws from hands and feet alike pressing you down in the wake of the goblins departure.

It was not a fight in the sense of something with a shape. It was a scramble, a continuous urgent forward motion through opposition, and the opposition was everywhere and largely between you and wherever was not here.

Weapons came back into hands from somewhere—the goblins having dropped or lost the advantage in the chaos of the light and the general stampede. You saw Thorin's sword find his hand and immediately understood, from the way it moved, that the two of them had been apart long enough that reuniting them had its own quality.

Your hand moved instinctively to your pocket, fingers searching for the shape of the vial of oil. It was gone. You patted uselessly in the pocket again, dread pooling cold and heavy in your stomach, when you glanced down, your dagger was nowhere in sight either—lost somewhere in the chaos of grasping claws and scrambling bodies, or perhaps taken by the same greedy hands that had stripped the company of everything useful.

You had nothing.

In the middle of the fighting, amid the roar of dwarves and the shrieking of goblins, Thorin’s broad frame cut through the press of creatures like a breaking wave.

A goblin lunged at you from the side, but Thorin’s arm swept it away with brutal efficiency, his other hand closing briefly on your arm to steady you.

“Follow Kíli!” he ordered, voice every piece the sharp commanding presence you'd come to know, even over the din, leaving no room for argument or hesitation. “Now—go!”

You nodded numbly at Thorin and followed Kíli.

Dwalin cleared a section of walkway to the left, both axes and an efficiency of movement that left no aftermath. You went where the section was clear.

Kíli fired from a crouching position, two arrows in fast succession, both landing, and moved with the full fluid speed of someone who thought in terms of the next position rather than the current one.

The walkways were the problem. They were suspended—rope and plank over the central drop— and every impact, every body going down, every goblin pile drove vibration through the structure and the structure wasn't designed for the kind of use it was currently getting. Sections swayed. Sections tilted. You moved across them with your arms slighty out for balance, which your raw palms objected to, and you told your palms to be quiet.

The second section of fighting was deeper in—a chokepoint where the walkway narrowed between two rock faces and the goblins had reinforced it, many of them, the kind of numbers that meant the company had to come through sideways and sequentially rather than together. Thorin first, because that was simply what happened—Thorin Oakenshield went first through anything that required going through— the goblins in the chokepoint encountered whatever it was that Thorin was when he stopped managing it and let it work, the results were comprehensive enough that the company made it through with less difficulty than the numbers had suggested.

You came through last, Balin's hand at the back of your arm, on the other side the walkway opened onto a larger platform and you could see, ahead and below, actual light—not dim damp firelight but a quality of light you recognised from outside, the particular cool and lateral quality of daylight finding its way in through rock, and the sight of it produced a surge of something through your chest that was not quite physical.

"There!" Gandalf's voice, ahead, indicating the direction with his staff—not pointing but commanding, the gesture of someone who has orchestrated exits before and has opinions about the pace of them.

•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•

The walkway ahead was long and dropped in stages, and the Great Goblin was coming up through them. He came through the lower section of walkway like something that had decided the walkway was an obstacle rather than a surface, and the planks parted for him in the way things parted for something that massive moving that fast, he arrived on the platform above you with the full, terrible dignity of someone who had decided the theatrical portion of the evening was over.

He had been substantial from you particular view duringn the interrogation, he was substantially more enormous at this proximity, and the proximity was not optional.

Gandalf met him, with two strikes, both of them precise, both of them with staff and sword moving in the same figure with no wasted motion between them, and the Great Goblin, who was a very large creature with a very large opinion of his own indestructibility, sat down with the surprised expression of something that has not been made to sit down before.

The walkway beneath him registered this development. The structural opinion of the walkway on the matter of having a creature the size of the Great Goblin deposited onto it suddenly and with force was delivered immediately and comprehensively—the planking gave, the whole section went, and the section adjacent to it went because it was attached, and the one adjacent to that went because physics required it, the company was suddenly on a section of walkway that was moving in the particular way of things that have become disconnected from their purpose and are now in the process of becoming gravity's problem instead.

The section tilted, the far end going down, and the angle went past manageable and into the territory where your feet were no longer in agreement with the surface they were supposed to be on, and you went forward loosing your footing— toward the lower edge, toward the open drop beneath where there was nothing but the pin prick of outside—your hands went out, finding nothing but air as you pitched forward from the platform.

Thorin, from behind, solid, immediate and completely without hesitation, threw his arm around your middle, he was shorter than you, which meant the angle of it was different than you expected, his forearm across your stomach rather than high on your ribs, and the contact was—substantial, the hold of someone who had no intention of letting go, and you grabbed the nearest thing available which was Balin's shoulder with both hands and zero apology, Balin had gone down to one knee on the tilting surface and was very close to the edge himself, and you held onto Balin's shoulder and Thorin held onto you as the section of walkway continued its long, angled, scraping descent into the dark below at a speed that suggested it was in a hurry to arrive wherever it was going.

The descent took long enough to be something. Long enough that the company had sorted themselves out on the tilting surface into whatever equilibrium was available, and the dark rushed past on all sides, and the distant light at the end of the shaft grew gradually, agonisingly larger.

Behind you, you couldn't see Thorin's face, only feel the arm around you and the quality of the hold, which did not loosen.

Balin was looking up at you, your hands on his shoulder, his expression did something—a brief, specific something—then his eyes went past you, to Thorin, and whatever he saw there completed the something into something else, a thought arriving in full, Balin's expression closed back into its usual composure so seamlessly that you'd have missed it entirely if you hadn't been looking directly at his face.

There was no fighting it – not completely. Neither of you had the willpower to stay underwater when the air you needed to breathe was at your fingertips, your scent all over your house enticing him, his seeping into it in perfect harmony, like puzzle pieces falling into place.

Before you knew it you were standing inches apart, his nose trailing along your wrist with a groan, your mind hazy, body vibrating in anticipation, voice breathless even as you breathed quick and shallow in order to remain composed and at least a tad rational. Exchanging names was the least you could do and the most you managed before you could not hold back any longer.

You knew who he was; he knew you knew. You knew his situation, or enough of it, the star he had been carrying on his chest faded and torn away, his golden boy persona and looks long gone.

It didn’t make a goddamn difference.

If anything, the ragged bearded man who stood but two inches from you was the embodiment of an alpha and everything about him had your inmost carnal instincts and soul-deep longing scream mine.

My Steve. My alpha.

The kiss he pressed to your wrist was tender, the chirp escaping you nearing a whimper, knees wobbling under the overwhelming sensation rushing through your body. He caught you with arm firmly wrapped around you and a kiss that was all teeth and desperate need and laying a claim and you reciprocated with fervour, inhaling his intoxicating scent and the rest were days to remember spent in a haze and pleasure you had never known to exist before.

And pain. Sharp and dull at once, its echo resonating in your ribcage even now as you shed the gardening gloves and went to wash your hands, starting the kettle and laying out ingredients for a warm homecooked meal Steve – former Captain America turned fugitive from the law of several countries – deserved and got to eat scarcely.

Sometimes, you didn’t make it past a hello, his hands on you wishing to recreate the imprints they had left weeks if not months ago, exploring you anew, nose against your neck, teeth scraping over the most sensitive part of your throat to induce pleasure so intense you forgot how to make a sound or think.

Other times, you held each other first and inhaled softly, allowing yourselves to reacquaint with someone who was fated to belong with you, who was yours with every fibre of their being, the cracks in your ribcages mended at last, body, soul and home rebuilt.

Today, it seemed, was the case of the former.

You were ruminating through the cabinets, trying to figure out what to cook, when Steve’s arms circled you from behind and pulled you to his front, nose instantly at your collar, breathing in deeply with a satisfied rumble in his chest that had your omega shivering with delight. Heat rushed all over your skin as you inhaled deeply, hands covering his, body melting in his hold already as you felt familiar burn at the apex of your thighs respond to his presence like clockwork.

“Alpha…” you whispered, shuddering when he hummed behind you, arms squeezing tighter, mouth pressing to the side of your neck, lingering, a quick lap of tongue over your skin making him groan; and you clutch at his forearms, legs turning weaker as your blood rushed elsewhere.

It was torture; torture of the bittersweetest kind, a tease of a promise never delivered on and never as much as made. It twisted your stomach in knots, the ache of his absence, the agonizing absence of a bonding mark already flaring through you and chasing tears into your eyes, deep-bone agony you knew would come again, because you had been here before. Every single time.

-.-💕-.-

“It’s all they want.” She chuckles. “Think you’ve found gold.”

“Eh,” the door swings open behind her. Arthur Shelby skids to a stop and smirks at Ruth. “Oi, lass, anymore of ‘em rolls?”

“In the oven, Art,” she playful swings a hand towel at him. “Don’t be gettin’ in the way.”

“And who says you’re the boss.” He retorts.

“Out!” Ruth barks.

You glance over at them. Arthur catches your eyes. “Not meanin’ to be in the way,” he shows his palm and backs out of the door. “Don’t tell Tommy, eh.”

Ruth follows him out. You go back to your pastry. You didn’t prep enough. Diedre comes in with empty trays, Benjamin lets her dump the dishes in the deep sink, and sprays them with the hose. His sleeves are rolled up as he scours away the grease and crumbs.

You switch between the rolls and the pan of eggs. You scoop out the poached whites delicately clouded around yolk onto the toasted biscuits and ring the bell. Deirdre and Ruth come to load up their trays and go out.

You lose yourself in the hectic flurry of orders, tearing up tickets as you make your way through them. You turn and elbow a wall you don’t expect. It isn’t a spontaneously appearing bit of plaster but rather Mr. Shelby.

“What can I help with, love?” He asks.

“Mr. Shelby? Oh, I think I’ve got it in hand.” You assure him as you turn put more biscuits in to toast. He takes the rack from you.

“Tell me. I have two hands.” He insists.

“Mr. Shelby, this is my job–”

“It seems it might be more than I pay you for.” He nods to the oven. “Think I’ll need to invest in more help.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby.” You open the left stove and let him slide in the rack of biscuits.

“I’ve heard lovely things about the sausage roll,” he backs up and takes off his jacket. He folds it over the stool at the end of the counter and places his cap on top.

“Still baking,” you say as you grab some brown eggs and crack them into the boiling water.

You double-check the ticket. Porridge. Right, you’ve got a pot warmed and ready to go.

You scoop up oats into the bowl and add cinnamon and milk. Two bowls up. Ruth sweeps them away.

As Mr. Shelby approaches, he rolls up his sleeve.

“Boss lady, tell me what to do.”

You scoff. “Sir.”

“Eh, you almost smiled,” he says.

“You can help with the rolls. Seems everyone wants one.”

You beckon him along the counter. “I’ve rolled out the pastry. It’ll need to be cut up.” You take a knife. “As such.” You point to the dish of sausage. “Then line it as thus.” You use a spoon to scoop onto the pastry. “Roll. Baste with egg.” You work as you explain. “Then a few slices in the top.”

“Ah, Stuart is a lucky man,” Shelby japes. You flinch and look at him. His brows draw together. “Apologies, ma’am, I only–”

“Nothing?” You ask. He shakes his head. You nod and set the roll onto the waiting pan. “No, I never had the fixings at home for this. Mincemeat, stew, beans. That’s most of it.”

“And even that must’ve been delicious.”

“Mm,” you hum dully. 

“I didn’t mean–”

“No, no, it’s… I’m only… two weeks.” You sigh and take out the biscuits.

“I’ve got all my people watchin’ for him,” Shelby assures.

“I know. You’ve done more than you should.” You scoop the eggs out of the water.

He’s silent, you are too. He watches you then turns away. “I’ll wash up first and get started on this.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby…” you murmur. “For everything.”

🖤

You untie your apron and fold it up over your arm. You wipe your forehead with your sleeve. You need to stop at the bank and be sure to deposit your cheque.

“On your way out?” Mr. Shelby surprises you as he enters from the back door. He picks up his cap and jacket. You can smell the tobacco wafting in with him.

“I think I’ve everything cleaned up. I set aside some leftovers for Charlie.” You bend to take your handbag from under the counter. Mr. Shelby nears as you head for the door. You stop as you meet him there. “Unless… I’m forgetting something.”

“No, I’ve a question.” He pulls on his jacket. “More a favour to ask. Though you will be compensated.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve some guests coming over. Very important ones. I thought you might be able to offer your skills this evening. For supper.” He says.

You’re taken aback by the suggestion. It’s not as though you have anyone waiting for you. Or any sort of responsibility outside of this.

“I suppose I could.” You say.

“Very well. I would need a list, you see. Ingredients, to be sure you’re equipped.”

“Right, er…”

“If you don’t mind. I’ll fetch you a pen and paper before you’re off.” He says.

“Certainly. I can do that.” You say. It’ll be a good distraction. You notice Stuart’s absence most at night.

He nods and sets off. You linger in the kitchen. You put your bag on the counter and slide out the cookbook you bought with your first pay. Shelby returns and hands you a ledger and pen.

You flutter through the pages. “Was there a set number of courses? It must be a fancy dinner?” 

He taps his fingers as he stands close. His gaze weighs on you.

“What’s this, then?” He taps the corner of the page.

“Study.” You say. “Recipe book. I’m afraid I’ve only experience cooking for one man.”

“Ah, clever woman.” He praises.

You shrug. “I always wanted a proper one. I’d cut the ones out of the paper and keep them in the drawer. Never had all I needed to try them.”

You pause and read the dish description. “A salad to start, I think?”

“Mm. I leave it within your judgement.” He drags his hand away from the book. “I’ll send a car.”

“Oh, no, I could take the tram.”

“I live quite a ways off the route.” He sniffs. “And I’ll not have you wanderin’ in the dark. Benny will pick you up.”

You don’t argue. You take the pen and jot in the ledger. His eyes follow your hand.

“Anything you don’t prefer, sir?” You ask.

You don’t get an answer. You peek up and find him staring. Your brow lowers and you touch your chin then cheek. “I’ve got some flour on me?”

He blinks and clears his throat. “No, no.” He lifts his chin and looks away. “No, I was only thinking.” He leans on the counter. “I’m easy to please. I’ll eat it all just the same.” He looks at the ledger. “You know, you have one taste of field rations and even rancid rat meat’ll have you slavering.”

You don’t say anything to that. Most men these days are veterans. Stuart was called up but never went beyond the channel. He was kept at home in a mine.

“Dessert… chocolate? Citrus? Preferences?” You prompt.

“Chocolate. Ah, that was a wonder over in France.” He purrs. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll get that, just put it on the bar.” He backs up. “I’ll have Benny wait out front for you.”

“Sir–”

“No arguments.” He turns and points over his shoulder. “You worked a hard day. You earned it.”

🖤

Benjamin gets you to Mr. Shelby’s around four. You thank him and step out, hiding your awe at the immense mansion before you. Of course, you assumed it would be a nice home, but you could not have imagined anything so ornate and daunting.

It’s clearer to you now how out of your element you truly are. Something else tugs in your mind. There’s more to Mr. Shelby than you’ve seen. Not just money, something more. It’s not a secret who he is; he has men at his disposal in their notable caps, he was concerned with back alley gambling, he never truly asks but tells. Details are better left unsaid.

You go to the front door and lift the heavy brass knocker, a falcon’s head above it. It thunders through the dark oak. You wait but not long. A maid in black and white answers. Of course he has ‘help’. Well, isn’t that what you are?

Her name is Margeret. She leads you inside. Mr. Shelby told her you were coming instead of someone called Louise. She takes you to a large kitchen and tells you to ring a bell in case you need anything.

You walk around the large kitchen. The counters are dark wood, the furnishings in a coppery brass, and the stove and fridge look right out of the shop. You stop as you see the folded note with your name on it.

‘All is in order. If you need anything, ring the bell and ask for me. Thomas.’

It’s kind. You think you might figure it out. Margaret reappears.

“These are Ellie and Mildred. They’ll be helping you.” She explains. The girls are young and skinny; one has string black hair trailing out in a braid from under her cap, the other shows straw-coloured roots but much of it is tucked under the white linen.

“Ellie, Mildred, I’m…” you introduce yourself. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too, ma’am.” They say in unison.

“I think it’ll be rather easy. Shall we start?”

They nod. “What do we do?” Ellie, the black-haired girl asks.

You hesitate then reach into your bag. You take out the notes you made at home from the cook book. You go to the girls and show them.

“Alright, we’ll start with the main. It’ll take the longest to cook and the salad will be simple enough.” You explain. “If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to help. If I’m honest, I’m still learning myself, yeah?”

The girls look at each other and back to you. “Yes, ma’am,” they say in unison.

“And you promise, if I need help, you’ll do the same?”

The tension drains from their posture. They nod again, less stiffly. “Good, good. I think we’ll make a rather good team, ladies.”

Once you start, the task isn’t so intimidating. You work between Ellie and Mildred, then set them to chop potatoes together. You go down your list and organise everything so you can move from step to step. 

You stand at the stove, melting the dark chocolate for the cake. The girls titter as they peel and pare. Then all at once, they’re silent.

“Mr. Shelby,” Mildred utters.

You glance over. Your employer barely looks at the girls before he nears you. You stir the chocolate away from the sides to keep it from burning.

“Evenin’, ma’am.” He greets. He’s wearing a nicer suit; with a bow tie and silk vest. “Things are well?”

“Yes, sir. I think we’ve figured it all out.” You say. “The ladies are a great help.”

“Mm. Anything you need?” He asks.

“No, sir. You?”

His brow arches. “Mm, no. Margaret is putting Charlie down. Guests will be here shortly.”

“Ah, well then, don’t let us keep you.”

He stares for a moment. “Rather, don’t let me keep you.”

He turns halfway, raises his finger as his lip twitches, then thinks better of it. He leaves you as the girls sigh in unison. You take the chocolate off the burner and look at them.

“You girls need a break?”

“No, ma’am.” Ellie says. “Potatoes are almost done.”

The night goes by with the mixing of batter, the boil of pots, and the dusting of seasoning over poultry, fish, and beef. Ellie and Mildred are diligent and polite. They leave you now and again to help clear away the previous course.

You send out dessert and tell Ellie and Mildred you’ll clean up. They argue but you convince them to call it a night. They’ve worked hard.

As you move a stack of plates to the sink, you hear a footstep behind you. “I told you, you’re done for the night.”

Your name comes in a higher pitch than you expect. You look over at Charlie as he stares at you bright-eyed, a stuffed rabbit in his hands as he wears a pair of linen pajamas. You pull your hands from the sink and dry them on your apron.

“Charles,” you say. “What on earth? Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”

“I can’t.” He pouts. “I told papa I wanted to come down but he said no. He won’t even let me help you!”

“You should be getting your sleep,” you chide.

“But I don’t wanna.” He whines.

You harrumph and grip your hips. “Alright, Charles, you want to help?”

“Yes, ma’am!” He says.

You hush him. “Not so loud. You’ll bother the guests.”

He sticks out his tongue. You laugh at him. You wave him over and lift him up onto the counter. You pull a bowl over and scoop in some flour and put a cup of water next to it. You hate to waste it but it’ll keep him busy.

“Take this.” You gently move his stuffed rabbit against the wall then hand him the cup. “Only add a little at a time, alright?” You show him a whisk. “Stir with this.” You motion over the flour. “Remember, little bit at a time.” You put your hand around his and show him how to pour. “Stir.” You stir in the moisture. “More.”

You let go and he pours. You hand him the whisk and he puts the cup down. He uses both hands to stir.

You wash the dishes as he goes about his task. As you dry off a saucer, he says your name. “Is that good?”

You look in the bowl. “No, no, you want it smooth.” You gird.

“Oh…” he frowns and adds more water.

“Good job, Charles.” You praise.

“Yes, Charles,” a deeper voice gives you a start. “Good job.”

“Papa,” Charles drops the whisk and claps.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Shelby asks.

“He’s only helping,” you defend the boy.

“Helping?”

“Certainly. Keeping me company.”

“The maids are supposed to help.” He insists.

“I let them off. I can do it.” You assure.

“I didn’t pay you to clean.”

“Mr. Shelby, I messed the plates, I’ll tidy them,” you counter calmly. “Charles, more water.”

Charlie bounces and picks up the cup. He pours water in then stirs. Shelby approaches and watches him then peers over at you. You put another saucer in the cupboard.

“You know, I can never make him sit still.” He drawls.

“Children, so full of energy.” You say.

He leans a hand on the counter. “You never had any?”

“No. It… never happened.” You answer. “Sometimes, it doesn’t.”

He’s quiet. “Ah, I suppose it’s up to chance.”

“I’ve never had much good fortune,” you say. “But I do what I can with what I’ve got.”

“You do much and more than many. Hard work’s far more valuable than fortune.” He girds.

“Suppose.” You agree. 

Unfortunately, Stuart never had either. Perhaps that’s what got him into trouble. When he comes back, you’re going to tell him to get a real job. Back to the mines or factory. No more of those back streets and shady men.

With the female holding his attention, you didn’t expect Steve to suddenly snap into a pissy mood himself. Yet something clearly provoked him. He wasn’t even patient enough to continue in your pace, but picked you up and carried you home in long strides the last few meters. Inside the house, he put you down on your feet and glared at you. 

“I’m your mate,” he growled.

“I know, Steve.” Enough time passed for you to accept that fate and experience a certain, warm security that accompanied it. 

“Then why didn’t you stake a claim on me?” His blue eyes glinted with anger. A dangerous flicker moments before beastly ruin awaited you. 

You might be still lost in the lands your werewolf lived and brought you to, but your mind wasn’t broken or unable to put together the pieces. It started at the fruit stand, so it had to be connected to it. Apparently, while you fumed that he was flirting with the werewolf female, Steve was angry with you not displaying jealousy. 

“I’m human,” you gulped nervously. “She’s a werewolf. She could hurt me if I lashed out at her.”

“Nobody would ever hurt you, bunny.” Steve huffed, tracing your cheek with a sharp claw. “You’re mine. I’d rip out their throat for attempting to touch you.”

“Besides-” he stepped closer. Steve’s hand trailed lower, fingers brushing down the column of your throat. 

“I meant: claim me, not fight over me.” His lips curved in a sharp, hungry grin.

You blinked up at him, processing his words. Which was proving harder to do as Steve pressed even closer to you. Heat of his body radiated in waves that your body was already too familiar with, conditioned to react with readiness. 

“How?” Your voice wavered softly as scorching embarrassment spread inside your chest, rushing to the top of your head. 

With how many times Steve growled possessive words when he fucked you into a broken mess, you knew the word claim in the werewolves’ understanding was always connected with physicality. And you knew he didn’t mean to simply hold his hand as a sign of said right.

“How do you think I would claim you, if anyone looked at you with interest?” Steve’s fingers curled around the front of your neck. His other hand tugged loose the ribbons tying your dress in place. 

He asked about looking at you, because if anyone tried to touch you, he’d slaughter them. 

“I’d kiss that sweet mouth of yours-” Steve pushed your dress off your body- “or grab that lovely ass-” he trailed his fingers down your spine and under the curve of your bare butt- “or drive my fingers beneath your dress-” 

“I- I could kiss you,” your voice turned breathless as Steve’s touch drew wetness between your thighs. 

Steve tutted, nuzzling his nose under your earlobe. He gripped one of your legs and lifted it slightly, opening you up so your clit grazed directly against his jeans. 

“Now that I think of it, kissing is too tame.” He declared; you could feel his wolfish grin against your cheek. 

“But you’re not ready for more, huh, bunny? Not ready to rub yourself against your mate’s cock in public and have me leak in my pants? My shy little bunny isn’t ready yet to grab a fistful of my hair and demand I fuck you full in public, so hungry werewolf bitches see that I already have a tight pussy to breed?” 

A whimper. That was the only sound you were able to make as dirty words spilled out of Steve’s mouth and his pelvis kept grinding against your bare pussy. 

“Until then, I’ll have to fuck you like my bitch before every outing, so that you smell of me and I smell of you, and there is no doubt whose pussy came all over me.” 

In a sudden move, Steve kicked your legs from beneath you. Instead of dropping you onto the floor and pinning you to it, he pulled you with him as he went down. You landed on top of him, straddling his hips. 

“Claim me now, bunny,” he growled, taking off his own sweater and tossing it aside. 

His big hands landed on your hips. He purposely didn’t retract his claws, digging sharp tips into your skin. Sharply, he bucked up into you and a lewd moan spilled out of your mouth. 

“Come on,” he urged you, using one of his hands to force your smaller hands to work his pants open. 

His cock was already hard, slapping against your thigh as you released it. Thick and hot, and every bit as scary as the first time you saw it. 

“It’ll be too big this way,” you bit your bottom lip, palming him with one hand. 

When Steve had you on your hands and knees, it felt too big, but physically possible to take him. When he spread you on your back and tilted your ass up, it was somehow doable too. Or when he pinned you down and plowed you in prone bone, the stretch of him in your tightness brought you to near unconsciousness, but still proved you could take it.

With you on top, however, it seemed impossible to impale yourself on that cock. 

“Your pussy is going to take it all anyway.” Steve’s tone was unyielding. 

With a pouty sniffle, you lifted your hips up to line his dick with your entrance. The head barely pushed in and a shudder rocked your body. It opened you so much right on the first inches! 

Steve squeezed your hips. You lowered another inch. 

“All of it, bunny,” he growled, impatient. 

Bracing your hands on Steve’s hairy chest, you rolled your hips, swallowing more of his fat cock. The stretch was reminiscent of the first time he split you on his dick. 

A broken gasp puffed on your lips. Your eyes misted with tears - not from pain exactly, but the overwhelming intensity of it all. You caught Steve’s gaze; his blue eyes shining with predatory glee that heralded ruin. 

He didn’t give you a chance to plead for mercy as he gripped your hips tighter and slammed you down, at the same time driving up into you. 

“Ahhh!” You screamed, head thrown back, fingernails needling Steve’s chest. 

Your pussy spasmed. A heartbeat later a gush of wetness welcomed brutal intrusion. 

“Either ride me, like you own me, bunny.” Steve growled.

“Or I’ll fuck you like my little bitch. A cocksleeve for a werewolf’s fat cock and knot, and a cumdump to spill into.” 

A quiver rippled through your body, both in response to his filthy words and to the feeling of unbearable stretch. You had difficulty lolling your head back forward, your gaze glassy. 

Your thighs were burning. If you even found it in yourself to start moving and ride him the way he wanted, you wouldn’t hold the position for long. And the longer his cock was lodged deep inside you, the less you could think of anything - any comeback, any protest, any plead. 

“What’s it gonna be?” He asked, bouncing you on him in a rough move.

You fell forward, dropping your weight onto Steve and burying your face in the crook of his neck.

“Your little bitch,” you whispered, ashamed of yourself for wanting it that way.

“Yes, you are.” Steve laughed cruelly. “My little bitch that takes it in all her holes and cums from it so sweetly."

Raymond’s office was also dark, but less glamorous and more old fashioned with the oak wood, deep green suede of the armchairs, and rusty gold ornaments.

He didn’t expect Simon to change anything while he was gone, but it surprised him how not a single note of his trusted stand-in and friend’s persona could be felt in the office. 

Simon was sitting behind the desk when Raymond entered. As usual, in all black: black t-shirt with sleeves stretched around his bulging biceps (which gave many submissives wet dreams), black cargo pants, heavy boots. And the skull-printed balaclava mask.

Simon might have been officially out of the military, but Raymond knew his team worked black ops still. It gave him much needed secrecy, while also adding to his brutal aura in the club. 

“The place wasn’t blown up and Dicky Ricky’s body isn’t crucified at the gates,” Raymond gave a short round of slow claps. “Seems you weren’t as bad at minding the club as you threatened when I asked you to do it.”

“It was no fun. Everyone was scared and behaved themselves.” Simon shrugged, standing up.

Though Raymond didn’t ask him to, he moved out of the boss’ chair and took a seat in one of the armchairs on the opposite side of the desk. 

“Which is also ridiculous-” he stretched his legs out, hooking one ankle over the other- “You’re more dangerous than I am.”

“Our appearances serve the both of us, just in different capacities.” Raymond said, taking his place. It felt almost as good as sinking into his favorite wing chair at home.

Spending the last four months abroad, dealing with sensitive business and securing particular alliances, wasn’t all that bad. Food in some places was divine; Americans really knew how to properly make a steak. The thrill of balancing threats and diplomacy rejuvenated his bones. And some conversations were truly pleasant to have.

Like meeting with an old friend and former co-owner of the Black Diamond, Ari Levinson.

“Not that you ever needed additional oil to your fuckin’ Greek god glow, but what creamy subby sucked you this mornin’ that you’re relaxed like a trooper post a first fuck after years in the trenches?” Raymond snorted, glancing at Ari over the rim of his glass. 

Ari laughed, that easy, booming laughter of his that dropped panties and somehow made other men feel like grinning for no damn reason. 

“My sub.” He replied with a cheeky smirk, very pleased with himself for that revelation.

Raymond paused before taking another sip of whiskey. He studied Levinson for a second then shook his head. 

“Levinson settled down with some good girl, huh?” Raymond smiled knowingly.

Ari wasn’t against relationships. He was far from a cynic who didn’t believe in love. But his charming, playful demeanor veiled a deep intensity of a merciless Dominant. Not many submissives could handle that beyond two consecutive scenes. 

“Who said she’s a good girl?” Ari grinned, his eyes twinkling with delight.

Raymond burst out laughing at that.

“You got yourself a brat!” 

“The brattiest of them all,” Ari’s smile didn’t cease, instead turning into unveiled smugness. 

Figures that the submissive, who not only could survive Ari’s type of fun and punishments, but also provoked him to go hard on her, would be the one to catch his interest permanently. 

Raymond himself didn’t allow bratting in scenes with him. He dealt with brats in the club, if it was needed, catering to their need of being tamed. However, he himself held harsh discipline. Without violence, too. There were elegant methods to teach a submissive to follow rules and scrape their throat from begging for mercy.

“Any issues?” Raymond’s gaze slid from Simon’s covered face to the single file on the desk, then back to the man again. 

“No issues. No problems. A riddle.” Simon put his hands behind his head and lounged.

“A riddle?” Raymond arched a single brow, not impressed by his friend’s apparently happy mood now that he could push whatever dire situation on him. 

Simon recited a name. Your name. 

“A newbie submissive. You approved of her membership right before leaving.” He explained. “A good girl. Quite shy and not much confident at first, but bravely participated in anything I directed her to do. It’s clear she approaches every game at the club with fear, but she doesn’t back out. She’s determined.”

“What’s the riddle then?” Raymond opened the file and flipped through the first few pages with basic data and contracts you signed. 

“Lack of response from the Doms.”

At Simon’s words, Raymond’s gaze flew up in surprise. 

Usually, anyone fresh caused ripples through the club. Like a new, shiny toy the others could play with. Of course, it all depended on the person and their energy. Not every dominant had to be interested in a new submissive. Just like a submissive wouldn’t be interested in all the Doms. 

“She doesn’t draw interest. When she approaches a Dom herself, which we’ve been practicing a few times, she gets politely declined. Or, on occasions, politely welcomed, but the scene lacks what she needs.”

“And she’s fucking smart.” Simon continued, his tone sharpening with offence on your behalf.” Smart enough to know that when I order her into a scene with someone, it’s because I organized it, not because someone asked for her. Her pride hurts, but she agrees anyway.”

“She’s not a brat.” Raymond tapped a page with the list of your kinks. “Why don’t they want her?”

Simon sighed and changed his position. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and leveling Raymond with a look.

“One, I think quite a few of our Doms need to be put in BDSM summer school to be reminded that a scene works for both parties, not just to get their own kicks. Two, she’s physically responsive, but her emotional walls need scaling. None of the fuckers put any effort in that. Not even to break her shell with a proper spanking, so she could get some emotional release.” 

“So she’s a little icy and instead of melting her, they crush her to refill their own glass.” Raymond’s jaw tightened, the blue of his eyes turning colder. 

His gaze scanned your lists - kinks, soft limits, hard limits. Without taking his eyes off the files, he grunted at Simon:

“Be a good lad and share with the class what’s been bouncing in that skull of yours when it comes to solving this riddle.”

“Well-” Simon’s face was mostly covered, but even without seeing it, Raymond knew the fucker was smirking.

You'd found all three and were now on the lowest terrace sitting on a carved stone bench with your hands in your lap and the sound of the falls somewhere below and the general ambient beauty of Rivendell doing its composed, unhurried best to be good for you.

You didn't hear Lord Elrond approach. You heard him arrive—the sound of his step on the stone stair behind you, deliberate enough to announce itself without being loud, the particular consideration of someone who understood that appearing silently behind a person who could be startled easily would be unkind.

You looked up. He inclined his head, a greeting rather than a question you'd gathered, and gestured at the bench beside you—the same composed, unhurried courtesy he'd brought to everything since your arrival, not asking but not assuming.

"O-oh—sure" you said, and moved slightly to one side, which was less necessary than instinct.

He sat, and the proportional difference between you resolved itself into the particular familiar geometry—his shoulder several inches above yours, the reach of his legs considerably beyond yours on the stone—you looked very attentively at the flowering plants on the terrace below while you waited for something to happen with your heart rate.

He didn't say anything immediately. He sat with the garden the way you'd been sitting with it—looking at it, present with it, not filling the silence with anything, and after a moment you realised that the silence wasn't awkward, or wasn't only awkward, that there was something else in it too—the quality of someone who had decided to give you time and was genuinely doing it rather than waiting for you to notice they were waiting.

"The elanor," he said eventually, and indicated the low golden flowers on the terrace below. "They grow here because of the particular quality of the light in the valley. The same flower in open country above would bloom for three weeks. Here—" A brief, quiet pause. "—they have flowered in this terrace without interruption for longer than I know how to explain to someone whose measure of time is, perhaps different from mine."

You looked at the flowers. Small, star-shaped, a warm gold that caught the morning sun and held it. "That's—" you started, and then found the end of the sentence difficult, because every ending you reached for sounded either too much or too little. "Amazing" you settled on.

The faintest movement at the corner of his eyes. "It is," he agreed, without any irony in it.

He rose then, and walked to the next stone step, pausing there with a gesture that asked if you'd like to continue, and you got up and fell into step beside him, and you walked through the garden in this way — him a little ahead where the path was single-width, then beside you where it opened, pointing out things with the contained, considered enthusiasm of a man who had looked at this garden every day for several thousand years and still had specific things he wanted to show someone new.

A tree whose bark was white and smooth and warm to the touch—he stopped and let you press your hand flat against it without explaining why, and the warmth of it was faintly unbelievable, coming up through the bark like something living underneath the living wood. A fountain so small it occupied the hollow of a carved stone no larger than a cooking pot, the water cycling through it continuously from some source you couldn't see. A section of wall where something had grown directly through the stone—not breaking it, not forcing it apart, but incorporated so completely that the stone and the root had become one continuous material, the boundary between them impossible to find.

"This was a wall," he said, looking at the root-stone, "before the tree was planted. The tree was planted at the base of it to provide shade for the walkway above." He looked at it with the unhurried attention of someone doing the maths. "It took eleven hundred years for the root to reach the wall. It has been growing through it since."

You looked at the root-stone. At the place where two separate things had become one thing over eleven hundred years. "Did you plant it?" you asked.

"I did," he said. "I planted it for someone who has since gone from this world, and I have not had the heart to remove it."

You looked at the root-stone for another moment, and didn't say anything else about it, because there wasn't anything adequate, and he walked on and you walked with him.

"Mithrandir tells me he showed you something useful last evening."

You glanced at him. His expression carried its usual composed quality, but there was a very slight weight of something underneath it—not concern, something more like intent. "With the oil?" you asked.

"The oil," he confirmed. He looked at the path ahead. "It is old craft. Useful, in its context. He explained its application as a deterrent?"

"Yes," you said, and the word came out slightly careful, because the conversation had the quality of one leading somewhere, and you weren't entirely sure where.

"There is one further application he may not have mentioned," Elrond said. He stopped walking. Turned to face you, which at his height meant you were looking up at him at a angle, and the full, composed attention of his face was—considerable. Not intimidating, exactly. It was the opposite of threatening. But it was weighty, in the way that very old, very considered things were weighty, and you felt it in the same way you felt the falls—as something larger than the space it occupied.

"If the oil is present on your fingers rather than your palm," he said, "and the flame is produced with a flick directed outward—the angle of release carries it forward." He demonstrated the motion, slowly, without oil or fire, the flick of the wrist precise and short. "A small arc. Two to three feet, under most conditions. Sufficient, at close quarters, to interrupt an approach." He met your eyes. "You understand what I am describing."

"I—" You did understand. Very clearly. "Yes,"

"I offer it as information," he said. "Not as instruction. Not as an expectation." He held your gaze with that composed, ancient directness. "Do with it what you choose, as with all things. But you are travelling with this company into difficult country, and it seems better that you know rather than not know."

"I'm really," you said, and your voice came out slightly more strained than you'd intended, "really not looking to get involved in—in anymore fights. That's not—" You paused. "I'm not a fighter. I barely know which end of a dagger does what."

"The pointed end," Elrond said, with the particular quality of an extremely dry statement made with an entirely straight face.

You looked at him. He looked at you. Something crinkled, very slightly, at the outer corner of his eyes.

"Right," you said. "Yes. Obviously. I know that much."

"Then you know considerably more than nothing," he said, and resumed walking with the unhurried ease of a man who had made his point and saw no reason to labour it.

You followed, slightly wrong-footed, and was about to say something else—you weren't sure what—when the path curved around the end of the silver-tree stand and the terrace opened onto a broader level below, and the sight that greeted you stopped the sentence entirely.

The fountain was the largest feature of the garden — a broad, deep pool fed by a carved central structure of three rising tiers, a depiction of a ethereal elf woman pouring from a large bowl, was the upmost teir and each tier sending a sheet of water over its edge to the one below. It was clearly decorative. It was clearly meant to be looked at rather than used for anything.

However the company was using it for something else entirely, you took in the scene in the order that the brain absorbs information when it is genuinely not wanting to process what it is receiving, water first, because there was a great deal of it in motion. Then sound—splashing, shouting, laughter of the specific uninhibited volume that happens when people have forgotten they are guests somewhere. Then the detail.

Dori and Óin were in the pool itself, up to their considerable beards, arguing about something with the focused energy of a debate that had clearly been running since before they got in. Bombur occupied a significant portion of the pool's surface with the tranquil, philosophical composure of a dwarf who had found somewhere comfortable and was going to stay there. Nori was on the second tier, which he'd achieved by climbing the carved stone in a way that the carved stone had clearly not been intended to facilitate, and was in the process of pulling Bofur up after him by the arm.

Fíli and Kíli were on the top tier.

You took this in with the particular slow comprehension of someone whose eyes are receiving information they had not prepared for. They were on the top tier, and the top tier curved, and the water flowing over its edge made the curved stone slick, and they were—they were using that.

Taking a run-up and then launching themselves over the lip of the tier, down the curved stone face, and into the level below with the specific, gleeful, entirely committed energy of two dwarves who had independently arrived at the same conclusion about what this fountain was for and were absolutely correct that it was the most fun thing they'd done in weeks.

And to your horror all of them were completely, unabashedly naked.

Your turn was immediate and total, spine presenting itself to the fountain with the speed of someone executing a decision before the thinking part of the brain has finished formulating it, and you were staring at the silver-barked trees with your hands over your eyes and a very hot face.

"I am so sorry," you said, to Lord Elrond, who was standing beside you and whose expression you had not seen but could feel the quality of from approximately three feet away. "I am so genuinely sorry, this is—I had absolutely no idea they were—"

"So it would seem"

His voice was extremely flat, with a quality underneath the flatness that was doing the work of a very long and very comprehensive sentence that he had decided, with considerable self-restraint, not to say aloud. You could feel him looking at the fountain. You kept your eyes on the trees.

Behind you, Kíli crested the lip of the top tier and launched himself down with a sound of pure, uncomplicated delight.

"Nearly done!" called Balin's voice, from somewhere in the fountain, and you identified from the direction of it that Balin was not, in fact, standing outside the fountain supervising.

Balin was also in the fountain, up to his neck, looking extremely dignified regardless, which was possibly the most Balin thing he had ever done. "Give us ten minutes Lassie, You can have the next bath!"

You closed your eyes.

"I'm going to go—" you said, to Lord Elrond, to the silver-barked trees, to the general ambient beauty of Rivendell and its extremely thorough violation of it by thirteen dwarves. "I'm going to just—I'm going to excuse myself."

"I think that would be best," said Lord Elrond.

"I'm sorry," you said again, already moving, already taking the path back up toward the upper terrace at a speed that was not running but contained the aspiration of running. "I'm so very, very sorry."

Elrond said nothing further. You did not look back.

From the fountain, Fíli and Kíli completed another run in tandem, judging from the twin splashes, and someone—Nori, probably—made a sound of enthusiastic competitive assessment.

You made it to the garden and sat down on the first available bench, to the symphony of a loud crack and a yelp from a dwarf who had been slapped by a towel, or whatever passed for a towel in this world, you pressed both hands over your face and stayed there for some time.

In the private study that looked out over the courtyard above the garden, Lord Elrond set his hands behind his back and looked at Gandalf, who was engaged in the business of his pipe with the composed ease of a man who had recently removed himself from the scene below with considerable foresight.

"The dwarves," Elrond said.

"Yes," Gandalf replied without looking up from his pipe.

"In the fountain."

"Indeed."

A silence of considerable duration.

"The carved figure on it represents the lady of first age," Elrond said. "They were placed there by Celebrimbor."

"She appears to be unharmed," Gandalf offered.

Elrond looked at him with the patient weariness of a host long accustomed to the wizards ways, and had made his peace with it thousands of years ago. He let the fountain matter settle where it had settled and turned, with the deliberate shift of someone moving from one subject to something that had been waiting, to the point he'd actually come to discuss.

"The young woman," he said.

Gandalf's expression did not change visibly. "What of her."

"I have been in her presence twice now," Elrond said, and his voice had changed—the dry quality gone, replaced with something more careful. "At dinner yesterday. In the garden this morning." He paused, and the pause had the shape of a man selecting words with precision. "Mithrandir. She has no Fëa."

The study was quiet. Outside, distantly, the sound of the falls.

"Or none that can be distinguished," Elrond amended "Which is strange enough in itself. Every child of Ilúvatar bears that within them, however faint. The beasts, the trees of the wood, even the stones of the earth hold something of their being. But she—" He stopped. "There is a presence, a shape where her fëa should be. Yet the fëa itself—" He met Gandalf’s eyes directly. "In all my years I have not encountered its like.

Gandalf was silent for a time, turning the bowl of his pipe slowly in his hands. "I know," he said at last.

"You knew?"

"I know," Gandalf repeated, and the distinction was not lost on Elrond, who waited.

"She is no threat," Gandalf continued before Elrond could press further. "Of that I am certain. Had I any doubt, I would not have suffered her to walk free among us, nor taught her to wield fire, which might i add you completed this morning."

Elrond’s gaze sharpened. "You speak with great confidence Mithrandir."

"And you speak as one who has forgotten that the Ilúvatar is wiser and stranger than even the Ainur first understood," Gandalf returned, though there was no heat in his voice—only the steady weight of long thought.

"She is not of the Children as we know them. That much is clear. Yet I have watched her. She carries no shadow of our enemy. If anything, there is in her a quality that we have long lacked, a perspective unburdened by the long grief of the ages. She may yet prove a good influence, Elrond. Perhaps even a necessary one."

Elrond regarded him for a long moment, the ancient weight of his counsel turning behind his eyes he exhaled, a sound almost like surrender, though not quite.

Elrond studied him for a long moment. "She is no threat," he said again. It was not a question.

"None," Gandalf answered. "Of that I assure you."

Elrond said nothing further. Outside, Balin's voice rose in a firm, affectionate directive toward Kíli, and the splashing finally stopped.

That night, the company arranged itself for sleep in the alcove with all its usual comfortable chaos—bedrolls in every direction, boots removed and placed with varying degrees of care, the particular symphony of wind-down that thirteen dwarves a hobbit and one human produced when they were tired and fed and relatively warm, which was a symphony with several sub-movements including argument about optimal sleeping arrangements and Dwalin's preliminary snoring, which began before he was technically asleep.

Ori was crouched near the centre of the alcove, attempting to start a fire.

You noticed, in passing, that the materials he was attempting to start it with appeared to include a section of what had, until recently, been a spindle-backed chair.

You did not comment on this. You had learned when to comment on things.

You crouched beside Ori, who looked at you with the slightly embarrassed expression of someone who has been struggling with a task for longer than he'd like to admit in front of an audience. He'd managed kindling—the chair contributed generously in this department—but the catch wasn't happening, the small pile of shredded wood not finding the spark it needed.

"Can I try?" you said.

Ori sat back. Looked at you with the open, uncomplicated attention he brought to most things. "Can you—?"

You reached into the pocket at the side seam of your dress and produced the vial of oil. Uncorked it. Tilted it carefully over the tips of your right hand's fingers, a small quantity, enough to coat the pads without excess. Corked it. Set it back in your pocket.

You positioned your hand above the kindling, fingers pointed downward toward the driest part of the pile, and thought about what Elrond had told you that morning—the angle of the wrist, the direction of the motion rather than the snap, the release rather than the ignition.

You flicked.

The flame came off your fingertips in a small, bright arc—barely a foot, a generous flicker rather than a serious throw, but it landed exactly where it needed to land, in the dry heart of the kindling, and the catch was immediate, the fire finding its hold and beginning its careful, certain climb through the pile with the satisfaction of something that had been waiting for exactly the right conditions.

The sound that came from the company was—a lot.

Cheering was perhaps too organised a word for what occurred, but it was in the same territory—a burst of noise, spontaneous and genuine, the specific blend of startled and delighted that you'd learned was one of the few responses that could produce genuine unanimity in a company of thirteen dwarves with strong individual opinions about most things.

Bofur said something enthusiastic in Khuzdul that you didn't catch, Glóin thumped the floor once with an open hand.

Kíli made a sound that was most accurately described as a whoop.

Even Dwalin, who was already three-quarters of the way to sleep, opened one eye and looked at the fire with an expression that on anyone else's face would have been simple approval but on Dwalin's face required significantly more interpretive work.

The fire popped and caught on a larger piece of the former chair, and the alcove filled with warm light.

Ori was looking at you with wide eyes and the expression of someone recalibrating several things simultaneously. "Where did you—how did you—"

"Radagast," you said, which seemed to answer most questions from the company, and settled yourself on your bedroll while the fire established itself and the company's collective excitement wound back down into its comfortable, sleepy baseline.

The last thing you saw, before you closed your eyes, was Balin across the hall watching you with the specific, private expression of a very proud dwarf.

Sleep didn't find you, It came near—the familiar teasing proximity of it, close enough to feel the weight of it—and then your chest would shift with some unnamed thing, and you'd be staring at the ceiling again, and the ceiling offered nothing useful.

After the third attempt you gave up, wrapped your blanket around your shoulders, and picked your way with careful feet over Ori's legs and around the considerable territory of Dwalin's bedroll, and out into the cooler air of Rivendell's open corridors.

You walked without direction. The corridors breathed with the particular night time quality of the valley—cool, and faintly luminescent, the pale stone holding the day's light in a soft ambient glow that was just enough to walk by. The falls were louder in the dark, or seemed to be, the way all water sounds larger when the visual world has contracted.

You took a passage you hadn't taken before, curiosity rather than intent, and it deposited you into a small garden—a different one from the morning's terraces, more enclosed, three walls of carved stone and one open side facing the valley, a scattering of the low golden flowers and a pair of stone benches set at an angle to each other near the open side.

Thorin was on one of them, He was not looking at the valley, He was looking at his hands, forearms on his thighs, and the quality of it was the particular private look of a person who has come outside to think and has not yet finished thinking, and would probably have preferred not to be found.

He heard you—you'd never once managed to approach Thorin without him knowing you were coming before you arrived. His head turned slightly, not fully, orienting.

You hesitated at the garden entrance.

"Sorry," you said. "I didn't know anyone was here. I'll go."

"Sit down," he said, not warmly, but not unwelcoming. The flat, direct shorthand of a man who'd decided and saw no reason to elaborate.

You came into the garden and sat on the other bench, angling yourself so you were facing him across the narrow space between them rather than beside him, your blanket pulled around your shoulders. The valley opened behind him, the falls audible and the pale stone luminescent in the dark.

He looked at you. You looked at him.

"You can't sleep ?" You asked

"No," he cast his eyes around the valley. "Not in this place of—Elves."

"I couldnt either," you said. "Mostly due to Dwalin's one man orchestra."

Thorin huffed what was the beingings of a laugh, in the tone he used for statements that were doing double duty as acknowledgements.

You fell into a silence, one that was comfortable in the way that silences between people who had accumulated enough shared space became comfortable—not requiring filling, not requiring explanation.

"Could I ask something?"

"You can ask." He murmured without lifting his eyes.

You looked at the golden flowers catching the ambient glow from the stone. Your hands tightened slightly around the blanket.

"What was it like? The mountain." You kept your voice careful and quiet.

He was still for a moment. Then he turned his head and looked at you, and the expression on his face was something you'd seen in fragments but not assembled—a quality that wasn't quite guarded and wasn't quite open, sitting in the space between.

"Erebor," he said. Not a correction, exactly. The way you'd say a name to someone who'd been using a nickname—gently, establishing the right thing. "The Lonely Mountain. It has a name."

"Erebor," you said, and tried to say it the way he had—the weight of it in the first syllable, the slight roll on the r.

Something in his face shifted at hearing it said. Not dramatically. A small thing, privately noted. "Your getting better," he said, in the tone he used for lessons.

"Could you tell me about Erebor, please." you said again.

He was still for a moment in the way that meant he was going somewhere in his memory. In the pale glow of the stone he looked like something from an old painting—all strong line and stillness, and something underneath the stillness that moved.

"Erebor," he said, and the word landed with all its weight. He looked at the valley for a long moment. "It felt like—" He stopped. Considered.

"You cannot understand the scale of it until you have stood inside it. The great hall alone—the pillars are two hundred feet. Perhaps more."

You looked at the carved arch at the garden entrance, the tallest thing visible from where you sat. "Higher than that?"

Thorin looked at the arch. Something moved briefly at the corner of his mouth—not with humour, but somewhere close. "That," he said, "is decorative stonework— it's competent."

"The pillars of Erebor are load-bearing. Each one the width of six dwarves standing shoulder to shoulder, carved from the living rock of the mountain itself, not placed—revealed. The stone is always there. The craft is in finding what was already inside it." He paused.

"There is no comparison."

"I didn't mean to—"

"You did not offend me," he said, and the directness of it was its own kind of reassurance. "You have not seen it. There is no frame for it in what you have seen." He looked at his hands again, briefly. "I am trying to give you one."

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself "What did it feel like? Being inside something that big?"

He didn't answer immediately, and you'd learned that Thorin's silences had their own grammar—some of them were refusals and some of them were consideration and some of them were the particular quiet of someone going somewhere in their memory that they didn't visit casually.

This one was the last kind.

"Warm," he said, finally. "The deep halls, the ones cut furthest in—there is a quality of stone that has never seen daylight. It holds differently. A particular temperature. A particular quiet." His voice had shifted, very subtly, from the measured register he kept for most things to something with less distance in it, the careful control of it loosened by a fraction by the dark and the late hour and the valley below.

"My grandfather would take me—into the deep halls when I was still young enough to be carried. He said you could hear the mountain breathing."

"Can you?" you said.

"I don't know if it was the mountain or the forges below," Thorin said. "There were always forges lit, in the deep levels. The vibration came up through the stone. When you lay your hand flat against the floor—" He stopped. "You could feel it."

You looked at him in the dark, at the profile of him against the pale luminescence of the valley—the line of his jaw, the particular set of his shoulders when he was not being held in the tension of responsibility, which was different from his ordinary posture and rarely visible.

"The foundries were the heart of it," he said, and the word heart sat differently in his voice than any of the others, heavier, with a directness that the rest of the description had been building toward without you realising. "The craft that came out of them—armour, weapons, jewellery, mechanisms—things that the world had not seen before and has not seen since. Not because the skill is gone." He looked at the valley.

"The skill is in this company. In Fíli and Kíli who will surpass even what we can do, given time. In Dwalin, in Bifur, in all of them." A pause. "The craft is not gone. What is gone is the mountain to practise it in. The space of it. The stone beneath your feet that is your own."

He stopped talking. The falls went on below, indifferent and continuous.

You moved, without deciding to, settling yourself sideways on the bench so you could sit on it properly, your knees came up naturally, and you rested your chin on them, your arms wrapped around your shins, and looked at Thorin from this new angle.

He glanced at you. At the way you'd arranged yourself. Something moved at the corner of his mouth that wasn't quite anything.

"Go on," you said.

He looked at you for a moment. The particular expression he had—the one he'd been restricting since the beginning, that wasn't warm exactly but had something underneath the not-warmth that was warmer than anything he'd have named—and then looked back at the valley, and went on.

He told you about the market that ran through the eastern passage, the one where merchants came from three directions and the noise of it was audible two levels above. He told you about the library his grandfather had maintained in the upper halls, maps and records going back to the founding, about his grandfather's handwriting and his great-grandfather's before that. He told you about the gardens of carved crystal in the deep levels, where the light of the foundries below caught in the crystal faces and threw colours across the stone walls that had no equivalent aboveground—colours, he said, that had no names in any surface language, that existed only in that specific quality of reflected light in that specific place.

His voice, as he talked, went through a change that was slow and specific—not toward something soft, exactly, but toward something less contained. The careful guard that he maintained over most of what he said, the deliberate management of what reached the surface, relaxed by degrees, the way a fist can relax one finger at a time, until what was left was something that had the quality of the thing underneath rather than the thing he used to manage it.

He was telling you about the mountain, and what he was also telling you was what it had cost him to leave it and how much of himself was still there, waiting, and he wasn't saying any of that, and you still heard all of it.

Then the details, arriving in pieces as you walked. The archways running column to column like a sentence repeated in stone. The way trees grew into and through sections of the architecture rather than being arranged around it—roots following wall lines, branches threading past open windows, everything growing together over centuries into something that was entirely, specifically itself. The sound of voices from somewhere above, carrying in that language you couldn't follow, liquid and careful, each word placed with the deliberate precision of someone who had never been in a hurry and saw no reason to start.

You walked through all of it with your right hand curled inward, fingers toward your palm. The black blood had dried. Balin had done what he could before you'd come down into the valley—his broad thumb working in circles across your knuckles with the brisk, matter-of-fact care he brought to most things—but it had found the places under your nails and between your fingers where dried blood settles in and stays, and what remained was a dark stain along the edges of your hand that had resisted the cloth and was simply going to have to wait for something more thorough.

You walked with your right hand curled, and tried to look at Rivendell, and almost mostly managed it.

Lindir led the company through the open corridors at a pace measured precisely to be neither hurrying nor dawdling, his hands folded before him, his expression the composed, gracious neutrality of someone who was very good at being a host and considered it a matter of personal pride to remain so regardless of circumstance. The corridors opened on one side to the valley below—a drop of open air and the falls—and the rooms beyond the doors you passed were light and high-ceilinged and smelled of flora and old, clean stone.

He stopped before a set of open doorways and turned to the company with a small, measured gesture inward with his hand. "These rooms have been prepared. I hope they will be to your comfort."

There was a pause, Thorin walked past the door without looking at it.

You looked at the rooms. Looked at the beds—which were, to be fair, extremely good looking beds the kind of bed that announced its own quality through sheer visible softness. Looked at Lindir. Then gave your best attempt at what you hoped was a apologetic smile.

Dwalin looked at the rooms. Made a sound that was not a word.

Lindir's hand, still extended toward the open doorway, remained exactly where it was for a moment. His face remained exactly where it was as well—composed, attentive, showing nothing—while every other muscle involved in the gesture of welcome underwent a very small and very controlled adjustment.

"These rooms?" he tried a little louder.

"We will take the alcove," Thorin said, already moving further up the passage.

"The—" Lindir looked at the alcove. At the open stone floor. At the beds visible through the separate doorways. Lindir's extended hand, moved very slightly—a brief, fractional adjustment of the fingers that he stilled immediately. "I—I beg your pardon?"

"The alcove," Thorin said. "The company sleeps together. We will take the alcove."

"Yes. Of course." Lindir replied after a brief pause in which something worked very quietly behind his eyes. "Shall I have—"

"We have our bedrolls Lad" Dwalin said, passing him.

"Naturally," Lindir said.

He turned and walked back along the corridor with the same measured pace he'd arrived with, and the only indication that the last thirty seconds had affected him in any way was the precise, slightly-too-deliberate quality of the fold of his hands.

You were standing in the middle of the company with Balin at your side, Lindir had glanced toward you as the company began moving—a look that carried the specific polite inquiry of a host wondering whether every member of the group had the same preferences—when Balin's hand appeared at your elbow — not grabbing, not insistent, just present, redirecting you gently sideways with the quiet authority of someone who had already made a decision about where you were going.

"This way, Kiyanê" he said, steering you around Lindir in a half-circle that was deliberate yet so smooth and unhurried it barely registered as a steering at all.

"I was just going to—wait, I dont know that word ?"

"Aye," Balin said clearing his throat, and kept walking "Just an old word. Slipped out.”

“What does it mean?”

“Means you ought to watch your step, Lass” Balin said with a pleasant redirecting you imagined he'd employed before to much younger people, ushering you forward faster, as if speed alone was enough to erase your question.

You looked back at Lindir, who was still watching the last of the dwarves file past him into the alcove with an expression that was doing significant structural work, and then to where Fíli and Kíli had already begun the optimistic business of identifying the best spots on the stone floor.

The dinner invitation arrived through Lindir, who delivered it at the alcoves archway with the composed dignity of a elf who had already had an instructive afternoon and was approaching the remainder of the evening with managed expectations.

"Lord Elrond extends invitation to the company," he said, to the alcove in general, "to dine with him this evening on the open terrace. It would be—" A brief pause. "He would be honoured by your company."

Silence from the alcove. Several dwarves exchanged glances.

"There'll be food?" Bombur asked.

"Quite a great deal of it," Lindir said.

"We accept,"

Gandalf closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and looked at Lindir with the expression of a man offering a wordless apology on behalf of a situation he had created and was responsible for. Lindir received it with a fractional tilt of the head and withdrew.

The terrace opened onto the valley—the falls audible below, the amber light of early evening falling across long tables set with a grace that the company regarded with varying degrees of suspicion and appetite. Elvish lanterns burned at intervals, throwing warm light across the excellent arrangements of food that Bombur had zeroed in on immediately upon arrival and was now orbiting with professional focus.

Elrond was already present, standing at the head table with the ease of someone entirely at home in their own hall, and as the company arranged itself he gestured to the chairs at his table with a warmth that was neither theatrical nor forced.

"Please," he said. "Welcome."

Thorin moved toward the round head table. Glanced back at you, once, as he moved through the crowd of settling dwarves, and then he stepped slightly backwards—and turned—extended his hand toward you, not asking, not uncertain, simply the presentation of a possibility, his eyes on yours.

You looked at his hand.

You looked at your own, the dark stain still there along the crease lines, and something in your chest did a small, horrible flip of recognition before you curled your hand back—not sharply, just a quiet withdrawal, your fingers folding further inward, your eyes going sideways.

"I-I should sit with Balin," you said, very quietly.

A beat. Brief. Thorin lowered his hand without comment, turned, and took his seat with the same composure he brought to everything, and said nothing further about it.

You went to where Balin and Dwalin had already established their position at one of the side tables, which were lower than the head table and built, you understood immediately for dwarvish proportions. You stood beside your stool for a moment doing the arithmetic, then sat down on it.

Your knee was approximately at the table's edge, you looked at Balin, who looked at the table, who looked at you, who looked back at the table. "Ah," he said.

"Yes,"

You picked up your stool, moved it entirely beneath the table, and sat cross-legged on the floor of the terrace instead, which put you at something approaching functional table height, if a little lower then everyone else and required no further discussion. Dwalin, next to you, looked down at this arrangement. Then forward at the table. Then back down at you.

"Comfortable?" He asked with a smirk.

"It's adaptable," you chuckled nudging him with your shoulder "I've been learning from the best"

"Aye," he said, and served himself.

Balin, to your right, passed you the bread.

"What is this," said Glóin, looking at the dish in front of him with the expression of a man confronting something he suspected of being nutritionally inadequate.

"It's a salad, I think," Bilbo said, from the next seat.

"It's leaves," Glóin said.

"Well, yes, partly, but there are also—"

"I'm not eating leaves, where's the meat ?" Glóin said, with finality, and looked around for something else.

"It's very good," said Bilbo, who was already on his second helping and had positioned himself at a dwarvish table with the resigned expertise of a hobbit who had learned, over the journey, that proximity to dwarves at mealtimes was either an advantage or a disaster, and had decided to take his chances.

"It's leaves dressed with oil," Dori said, from further down, lifting a small piece of something with his fork and examining it. "Which is an improvement, but—"

"There are mushrooms," Ori offered, helpfully. "In the thing at the end."

"Mushrooms in what?"

"The—the grainy thing. With the green bits."

"What grain?"

"Glóin," said Balin, mildly.

"I'm just asking what grain."

"It's very good grain," said Bilbo.

"You've said that about everything."

"Because everything is very good, if you'd only—"

Bombur, who had been silent through all of this, had eaten approximately twice what anyone else had managed and was now applying himself to a third serving of the herb grain with the focused, reverent concentration of a dwarf having a genuine culinary experience and declining to be interrupted by conversation.

You ate your own portion in the smaller, more measured way that hadn't left you, taking actual bites rather than the dwarvish approach of making meaningful progress, and felt Bofur glance at you from down the table and then look deliberately away with the expression of a man who had made a decision not to comment on it this time.

"You eat like you're being watched," Dwalin said, beside you.

"I eat like someone raised me to have table manners," you said.

"Raised well," Balin said, with the particular approval of a dwarf who had, himself, very good table manners, and considered this worth noting.

"Raised to use a fork," you agreed, "which feels suddenly very relevant."

Kíli had been quiet for most of the first course, which was unusual enough that Fíli had noticed it and was now watching his brother with the patient, expectant attention of someone who knew something was coming.

Kíli's eyes had been moving at intervals to a point somewhere past Fíli's shoulder. Fíli did not look. He served himself more of the grain with the focused calm of a man waiting for an inevitable thing to arrive in its own time.

The Elf playing harp at the edge of the terrace had long, dark hair, arranged simply, and played with the specific unhurried quality of someone for whom music was as natural as breathing.

Kíli's posture shifted. A small, deliberate adjustment toward the harp player. And then, with the particular calibrated casualness of a dwarf who thought he was being sauve, he winked.

The harp player did not look up. The music continued without interruption.

Kíli maintained his expression for approximately three more seconds before becoming aware, with the particular awareness that arrives when something large and solid is suddenly nearby, of Dwalin.

Dwalin was looking at him with the flat, utterly unimpressed regard of a man who had seen everything and was not surprised by this specifically.

Kíli straightened. Cleared his throat. "I can't say I fancy Elf-maids myself," he said, with the conversational ease of a person introducing a topic that had definitely not just been prompted by anything.

Fíli, beside him, looked at his plate.

"No?" said Dwalin.

"Too thin," Kíli said. "They're all high cheekbones—and creamy skin"He picked up his fork and applied it to his plate with decisive energy. "Not enough facial hair for me they're all—it's all very— no."

"Although," Kíli jerked his chin in the direction of a ethereal musicain who had just entered the terrace "that one there—she's not bad."

"Mm," said Dwalin a twitch forming on the edges of his mouth.

"I'm just saying."

"Kíli," Dwalin said with a smirk that had reached maturity "That is not a Elf maid."

Kíli cleared his throat and ate a large portion of something with the expression of a man who hoped the ground would claim him.

You pressed the back of your hand to your mouth and said nothing.

"Something funny?" Kíli said, looking at you.

"Oh—absolutely not," you said.

"Good," he said.

"Im sure he's lovely," you offered.

Kíli pointed his fork at you. "Do not start"

Bofur hadn't eaten very well, which meant Bofur wasn't excatly happy, which meant Bofur decided to remedy the evening.

"Alright, lad's there's only one thing for it!" He exclaimed as he climbed a side table.

It did not start quietly—and by the second verse it had acquired significant volume. By the third, Bifur had found a cup to bang on the table in time, which was all the percussion required to bring in Bombur on the downbeat, and from there the song had its own momentum.

"There's an inn, there's an inn, there's a merry old inn," Bofur sang, with the committed delivery of a man who knew every word and intended to use them, "beneath an old grey hill—"

"And there they brew a beer so brown," Óin joined in, apparently knowing this song in the way dwarves apparently knew all songs, completely and immediately, "the Man in the Moon himself came down one night to drink his fill—"

"Does this seem like an appropriate—" Lindir said, appearing at the edge of the terrace with the expression of someone who had been given limited preparation time and was doing his best with it.

"The ostler has a tipsy cat," Bofur continued, undeterred, "that plays a five-stringed fiddle—"

"It's a very old song," Gandalf told Lindir, in the tone of a man offering context rather than an apology.

"I'm—yes, I recognise that," Lindir said, with a quality in his voice that suggested this recognition was not entirely comfortable. "It's just—"

"And up and up she swep' the room," sang the better part of the company, now, "and chased the dog to bed—"

At the head table, Elrond was watching the proceedings with the particular quality of attention that was also, you thought, something very close to concern masked as entertainment, though he'd clearly had centuries of practice at keeping the two things separated in his expression.

You were attempting to maintain a neutral face, which was undermined entirely when Ori—sweet, careful, sketchbook-Ori—joined in the chorus with the specific loud enthusiasm of a dwarf who had drunk something from a very tall Elvish cup and had not accounted for the potency of Elvish alcohol.

"He's doing very well," Bilbo said, beside you, watching Ori with the fond exasperation of a hobbit who had also encountered unexpectedly strong Elvish drink.

"He's—trying," you agreed.

The bread started somewhere around the fifth verse, and you were not entirely sure who threw first, though the trajectory of the first piece suggested Nori, and the velocity of the return suggested Dori had been waiting for an excuse, and from there the logic was as inevitable as it always was.

You ducked. The piece that had been heading toward you sailed past and caught Dwalin squarely in the side of the face.

Dwalin turned his head very slowly and looked at the direction it had come from.

The responsible dwarf was looking elsewhere with total conviction.

You pressed both hands over your face, and the sound that came out from behind them was not something you were going to describe as a laugh in any official capacity.

"You're smiling." Balin said, beside you with a grin of his own.

"I can't help smiling—"

"You could help it," Balin said "You choose not to."

This was accurate enough that you couldn't argue with it, and so you pressed your hands harder over your face and made a sound that Balin very charitably declined to categorise, while above the head table Lindir stood with the expression of a man doing something very difficult with his face and succeeding at it and Gandalf looked at the sky with the expression of a man who had set all of this in motion several months ago by knocking on a door in the Shire and had no one to blame for the consequences but himself, and found he didn't actually mind.

Later, when the company had returned to the alcove and the organised chaos of thirteen dwarves and a hobbit settling for the night had completed itself save for the grumbling, shuffling and the onset of Dwalin's snoring—which proved to be fully audible through Rivendell's open architecture, the falls providing no competition whatsoever—you slipped out to the carved overlook above the falls and sat alone with your legs dangling over the edge.

Below you, the water fell white and continuous from its shelf of rock, and the sound of it filled everything, which was what you'd wanted. Not silence. Silence left too much room.

Your right hand lay palm up in your lap.

The stain had faded with soap—you'd scrubbed it twice, efficiently, before dinner not that it had helped much—what remained was faint, a slight darkening in the crease lines of your fingers. You could still see it in the angle of the lantern light from the passage behind you, and you kept looking at it the way you couldn't stop pressing a bruise.

The rider had been wearing armour. You'd seen that much in the fraction of the moment before the momentum had carried everything forward. Armour meant a person who made choices. A person who had chosen to ride toward a company of travellers and had died when that company had fought back, which rather meant you, which meant your hand, which meant that rider had consequently died on the blade of someone who hadn't meant to do it and couldn't take it back.

The specific sound of blade sliding into flesh would be living in your chest at this particular depth for a while, and the question you kept arriving at, from every direction you approached it, was whether any accounting of the rider's death produced a result you could live with.

You weren't sure yet.

"You're not sleeping?" said Gandalf, from directly behind you.

You turned. He was there—materialised in the way Gandalf materialised, from the passage behind you, as though he'd been just out of sight and was now simply no longer bothering to be. You'd been listening, in a vague way, to the company, and so you hadn't jumped, which felt like progress.

"I don't think I can" you said.

"Mm." He settled himself beside you on the overlook with the care of someone whose knees had technically been the same age for several centuries and had still experienced a great deal of speed without the difficulty those centuries should provide. His staff leaned against a nearby stool and he looked down at the falls with the contemplative ease of someone who had looked at waterfalls for a very long time and continued to find them worthwhile.

"Bombur made something with the leftover bread," Gandalf offered.

"I'm not hungry," you said.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't be" Gandalf agreed. He looked at your hand, briefly, and then at the falls, and said nothing, and let the sound of the water fill the space between you.

"I keep thinking about the rider," you said.

He didn't try to redirect you. "I know."

"Is that—does it stop? That thing in your chest when you think about what you did?"

"It becomes managed," he said. "It takes its proper proportion, over time. It does not disappear." A pause. "The fact that it doesn't disappear is not a weakness."

"It doesn't feel like a strength," you scoffed.

"No," he agreed. "It rarely does, from inside it."

"I didn't even decide to do it the blade was there and it—" You made a gesture, causing your stomach to catch in that specific way that meant dinner might vist the conversation and stopped.

"Yes," Gandalf said. "Yet here you sit."

Gandalf reached into his robes and produced his pipe, and began packing in his usual unhurried ritual you'd watched him perform a dozen times, and the smell of it came over you warm and familiar, old and sweet, and you let the silence run for a while.

"The fact that you are here, and that you are thinking about it, which is what people of conscience do after difficult things. The thinking means the outcome preserved the right being."

You looked at the falls. At your hand. The crease lines.

"Radagast gave you something," he said, when the pipe was almost finished, in the specific tone of a person raising a topic they've been waiting to raise.

"Oil," You found it in the pocket at your side seam—a detail of the dress you'd discovered with genuine delight, a small sewn pocket that you'd been using as a makeshift bag ever since—and held it up. Small, dark glass, stopped with a cork, the liquid inside clear and slightly viscous. "He didn't quite finish saying what it is. Radagast is kind of—well—you know."

"Mmm," Gandalf said, with the warmth of someone noting a well-loved characteristic. Gandalf looked at it in your hand with an expression that managed to be both entirely unsurprised and privately delighted at the same time, the expression of someone who has arranged for a thing to be somewhere and is watching it arrive in exactly the right place.

"If I may?" he said, and you handed it to him.

He turned it in his fingers. Uncorked it carefully and tilted it over his own palm, letting a thin stream of oil cross the skin from below his index finger to just below his thumb, a specific, deliberate line, then across the centre of his palm in a slow arc. He recorked the vial and handed it back.

He held his palm up and looked at the oil glistening across it in the lantern light. Then, with the unhurried deliberateness of a man who has decided to show you something and is going to show it properly, he positioned his thumb to his finger and snapped.

The flame was immediate. Not tentative—a full, confident bloom of fire that caught along the line of oil and settled into the centre of his palm with the composed familiarity of something that knew exactly where it was. Bright, warm, orange-white at the core and paler at the edges, throwing moving light up across Gandalf's face.

You made a sound.

"Yes," Gandalf said, looking at the flame in his palm with the mild satisfaction of a man who has achieved the expected result through reliable means.

Then he rolled his wrist, and the flame followed the line of oil, sliding along his palm in a slow arc, steady and self-contained, and held there. He looked at you over the top of it with a very mischevious expression.

"Gandalf?"

"Mm."

"Are you—" You watched the flame move again, following another deliberate tilt of his hand. "Are you doing tricks?"

"I'm demonstrating," he said, with perfect composure, tilting his hand again so the flame tracked back the other way along his palm. It followed the oil exactly, burning cleanly, maintaining its height through the movement with the kind of obedient consistency that suggested the relationship between this fire and the hand it was sitting in was one of long familiarity.

He caught your expression, and something in his own shifted—the corner of his mouth, very slightly, the particular micro-expression of Gandalf being amused at something and declining to confirm it.

He brought his other hand up alongside the first, held his palms together for a moment, and then separated them slowly, and the flame divided between them with a smoothness that had no business being that neat, sitting in both palms now, smaller and lower but burning steadily in each hand, and he held both out toward you and raised his eyebrows at you over the top of them like a question.

"Okay," you said, watching the two small flames, "that is—your showing off."

"A very old trick," Gandalf said, closing both hands together and separating them again, and the flame reunited as though it had never been divided, sitting in his right palm exactly as it had started, complete and steady. "Radagast's recipe is particular. Brief contact produces no lasting harm to the wielder." He looked at you. "Would you like to try?"

You looked at his palm. At the flame. At the vial in your hand. "On my actual hand."

"On your actual hand."

You uncorked the vial and tilted it over your own palm, watching the oil settle in a line across the centre of it — less certain with the angle than Gandalf had been, more of it landing slightly off-centre, but enough, the viscous clear liquid sitting in the whorls of your fingerprints and catching the lantern light the same way.

You recorked the vial. Held your palm up. Positioned your thumb and finger.

"Confidence matters more than force."

You snapped.

Nothing. A faint warmth where your fingers had contacted each other, a ghost of friction, no flame.

"Perhaps a little quicker," Gandalf said.

You tried again. A flicker—there for a half-second, a pale catch of something that extinguished before it fully arrived.

"You're anticipating the flame" Gandalf said. "There is no need to pull back."

You set your jaw. Positioned again. Snapped with the sharp, total, committed completion of someone who had decided they were going to do the thing.

The flame caught.

Small—considerably smaller than Gandalf's, lower to the surface of your palm, with the tentative quality of something that wasn't entirely sure of its welcome—but there. A real flame, actual fire, burning in the centre of your hand with a warmth that was not pain, the heat of a candle held close, and the light of it threw moving shadows up across your wrist and the underside of your arm and you looked at it and felt something very strange happen in your chest that was almost entirely the opposite of what the last several hours had felt like.

•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•

"There," Gandalf said, quietly.

You watched the flame. It moved slightly with your breathing, bending toward you on the inhale and away on the exhale, and you took a careful, wondering breath and watched it bend, and took another, and it bent again.

"In the context of a fight," Gandalf said, after a moment, returning to something practical, "a sudden flame at close quarters produces a moment. A distraction. A moment of surprise in the dark, especially, is often sufficient for distance."

"Or for calling for help," you said, still watching the flame.

"Or for that," he agreed. "The light carries."

You turned your hand very slightly, the way you'd watched him do, and the flame followed the oil, sliding a small distance across your palm and holding there, and you made an involuntary sound of surprise and delight that you would have been embarrassed about if there'd been anyone else around.

"Blow it out," Gandalf said, "before it burns down to bare skin."

You blew it out, gently, and the surface darkened and went still, and a thin thread of smoke rose from your palm in the lantern light, and the warmth remained for a moment after, and you sat with your hand open and looked at where the flame had been.

"Why does my life deserve to be 'preserved'," you said quietly.

Your fingers made small quotation marks in the air. Gandalf watched this with the mild interest of someone who had simply accepted that as a feature of conversation with you.

"More than anyone else's," you said. "The rider—" You stopped. "Why should I be here when he is not."

Gandalf looked at you. Not at the falls, not at the overlook, directly at you, with the full undivided weight of that very old attention.

"The fact that you are asking the question," he said, "is answer enough."

"That's—" You stopped. "That's not actually—"

"It isn't a deflection," he said, before you could get there. He held your gaze steadily. "Someone who does not value life does not ask that question. They conduct a different accounting entirely. They do not sit on an overlook in the dark and ask whether they deserved the result of a altercation they had no hand in starting." A pause, the falls going on below you both. "The fact that the question costs you something—that is not a burden. It is the thing that means you are the kind of person worth the difficulty of keeping."

You were quiet for a long moment.

The sound of the falls filled the silence, layered and continuous. The lantern light moved slightly in the air, and the pale stone of Rivendell caught it and gave it back, and the valley sat in its amber, unhurried dusk the way it had apparently been sitting for a very long time and intended to go on sitting for considerably longer.

"That's either very wise or completely circular," you said.

"I find, it is frequently both."

You huffed a breath that was definitely a laugh and were not going to confirm this, and the cold thing in your chest, which had been sitting there since the Warg and the rider and the black blood, shifted — not gone, not fixed, but shifted, the way a weight shifts when someone adjusts how it's sitting rather than taking it away, which is sometimes the most that's available, and is enough.

You looked at the vial in your hand. At your palm.

"Can I light it again?" you asked.

"As many times as you like," Gandalf said, reaching his pipe back up to his lips. "There's a reasonable quantity in the vial. Radagast was generous."

You tilted the oil onto your palm again. Positioned your fingers. Thought about completion.

The flame came faster this time, more certain of itself, with none of the preliminary hesitation—it caught and held and sat in your palm like something that had always been there and was simply waiting to be called.