God of Mischief I worship

"Our host," he said, surveying the assembled and somewhat bleary company—those who were upright, anyway, Bombur having achieved a seated position that implied neither sleep nor full wakefulness, Kíli leaning against Fíli with his eyes mostly open—"Is in the yard presently."

"Is he big?" said Kíli.

"He is large," Gandalf said. "Very large."

"How large is very large?" said Kíli.

"Large enough that I would ask you not to stare," Gandalf said, with the pointed emphasis of someone who had already decided that asking Kíli not to stare was probably optimistic. "You will have noted the scale of this house, and the—proportions of the furniture."

The company had noted in the wordless collective way of a group that had shared an experience and assigned it to the same internal category without discussing it.

"He is not," Gandalf continued, "fond of dwarves."

A silence.

"How not fond?" Dwalin said.

"Significantly," Gandalf said. "Which is why we will approach him carefully. We will—introduce the company gradually. A few at a time." He glanced around the group. "Only come out in pairs. And only when I give the signal." He looked at the company. Then at Bilbo. Then at you. "Bilbo. And—you dear lady. You'll both come with me."

Bilbo straightened with the expression of a hobbit who had been told he'd been voluntold for something and was going to be mature about it.

"Why us?" Bilbo asked.

"Because," Gandalf said, "he is not overly fond of dwarves. He has no particular position on hobbits or—" He picked up his staff from where it had been leaning against the wall with a vauge gesture to you. "Our young lady here—are less likely to produce the immediate negative response that thirteen dwarves arriving collectively would produce."

"That's—that is—practical" you blinked.

The yard outside was wide and open, the morning light falling across it in clear sheets, the grass still holding the silver of dew, the animals moving through it with the same domestic composure they'd shown the night before. The bees were already busy. Two enormous Ponies stood at the fence and watched your approach with the patient, knowing attention of animals that had been here longer than most things.

Beorn was chopping wood.

You processed this piece of information in the same way you'd processed the Wargs and the trolls and the Great Goblin—in stages, beginning with the size. The axe he was using was not an axe you could have lifted with both hands. The wood he was splitting was not wood you would have had any idea how to approach. The man himself—

The man. You kept the word man in play because it was the available word, the word that corresponded to the general shape of things, even though the application of it required some adjustments. He was taller than Gandalf. You registered this because Gandalf was the tallest person in your immediate experience of this world, outside of elves, they both served as a baseline against which everything above-average-height was measured and Beorn exceeded it considerably. His arms, swinging the axe with the loose, rhythmic ease of someone for whom this effort was roughly equivalent to stirring a cup of tea, were the kind of arms that made you quietly reconsider what the word arm could mean.

You and Bilbo had fallen half a step behind Gandalf. You were not proud of this. You were also not in the mood to attempt changing it.

"Good morning!" Gandalf called, from what you would later call a strategic distance.

Beorn stopped. The axe came to rest. He straightened to his full, considerable height and turned, and the face that turned toward you had spent a great deal of time outdoors over a very long period of time, deeply lined, dark-eyed, with a beard and hair that had organised themselves without much outside intervention.

He looked at Gandalf. Then at Bilbo. Then at you.

You smiled and waved faintly. The smile of a person covering their instincts with social convention, the wave of someone unsure if there name was the one called, stuttered and awkward.

"I'm Gandalf," Gandalf said.

"I know who you are." Beorn's voice was deep in the way of things that generated their sound from somewhere considerably below the chest, and the words had a quality of weight to them that was not quite an accent and not quite a pace but was both of those things together. He set the axe down against the block and turned, he looked at Bilbo. "Who is this little fellow?"

"This would be Mr. Baggins," Gandalf said. "He is a hobbit."

Beorn looked at Bilbo with the interested, direct attention of someone examining something they hadn't encountered before. "A halfling." He bent, slightly, which was still considerable. Bilbo held his ground with the particular dignity of a hobbit who had survived enough by this point to have developed a very good poker face.

"And what is she?" You became aware that this question was directed at you.

"She is our companion," Gandalf said.

"I asked what she is," Beorn said, still looking at you. His gaze had the quality of something assessing rather than threatening, the specific focus of a creature who was used to reading the nature of things and found you a less-than-straightforward example.

"I'm—" you started. "I'm just—a person—a human. From very far away." You paused. "Very, very far away."

Beorn looked at you for another moment. Then at Gandalf. "Hmm," he said, which seemed to function as an adequate response, and stood back.

It was at this precise moment that Dwalin and Balin appeared in the doorway.

Gandalf's expression did not dramatically change, but something in the quality of his composure shifted in the particular way of a man who was not surprised by something and wished he were.

"Ah," he said. "And these are two of our companions. Dwalin. And Balin." He gestured, with the resigned elegance of a man making the best of the hand he'd been dealt. "At your service."

Beorn looked at the two dwarves. Then at Gandalf. "You said you were three."

"I did," Gandalf agreed. "Three."

"You brought two dwarves," Beorn said, with the flat, specific tone of a man checking arithmetic.

"I—" Gandalf glanced at Dwalin and Balin with the expression of a man recalibrating in real time. "Well. I may have—slightly understated the situation."

"Do you call three," Beorn said, indicating the dwarves, "a group?"

"Well. When you put it that way—"

Another pair appeared in the doorway. Fíli and Kíli, arriving in the specific, immediate, energetic way of Fíli and Kíli appearing anywhere, and the fact that they'd clearly been told to wait for a signal and had apparently received an extremely different interpretation of what that signal was was visible in the slight sheepish quality of the pause at the threshold.

Beorn looked at them. Looked at Gandalf. Looked at the original number—three—that was now, very clearly, not three.

"And who are these?" he said.

"These are—yes," Gandalf said. "They are Fíli and Kíli. Also our companions. I should perhaps have mentioned—the group is somewhat larger than I initially—"

More dwarves in the doorway. Dori and Ori, then Nori, appearing with the same universal quality of people who had been told to wait for a signal and had decided, independently or collectively, that something they'd seen from inside the house probably qualified as one.

"Dori and Ori," Gandalf said, pushing through the rising tide of his own miscalculation with the magnificent composure of a wizard who had been in worse situations and intended to keep that framing at the forefront of his mind.

"And Nori. Yes." He smiled at Beorn. "You see there were—several. More than—the fact is—"

"How many?" Beorn said. He had crossed his arms. This produced an effect.

"Thirteen," Gandalf said. He had the particular tone of a man saying a number that has more digits than he'd prefer it to have. "In total. Including myself and Mr. Baggins, fifteen. And—" he glanced at you, "—sixteen."

The silence that followed was the silence of a very large man looking at a growing line of dwarves filing out of his house with the expression of someone reassessing a series of decisions that had culminated in this.

"Stupid thing to do," he said, which was directed at Gandalf but encompassed the entire enterprise, "coming to my house with a company of thirteen dwarves and not saying so."

"You are absolutely right," Gandalf said, with the serene, unruffled acknowledgement of a man who had no intention of apologising but was prepared to agree that one might. "It was perhaps—poorly introduced."

Beorn's gaze moved across the assembled company, which had now achieved its full complement on the grass outside, all of them doing their level best to look unalarming, with varying degrees of success. Bombur had ended up at the front of the group and was possibly not helping the cause of presenting the company as a lean, unimposing travelling party.

His gaze arrived at Thorin and Beorn looked at him for a long moment. Then looked away, back toward the house, and the matter of the company's size appeared to settle into the category of things that had already happened and could not be changed.

"Come inside," he said. "Then."

You caught Bilbo's eye. He caught yours. Neither of you said anything, and both of you thought a great deal.

Breakfast, at Beorn's table, was an occasion of scale. The bread came in loaves you could have used as structural elements. The honey arrived in pots of a size that Bombur regarded with the almost worshipful reverence of a dwarf who had just confirmed his belief that some places were fundamentally better than others. The cream was cold and deep in its bowl and had the quality of something that had been produced by animals who had never known anxiety, which, looking around the yard, seemed entirely plausible.

The company ate. This was not a surprise. What was a surprise—or perhaps not, given recent evidence— was how quickly the scale of the breakfast achieved something like comfortable normalcy, the dwarves redistributing themselves around the enormous table with the adaptive ease of people who had slept in goblin tunnels and emerged from mountain passes and for whom sitting at an overlarge table was honestly quite manageable by comparison.

Beorn ate too, at the head of the table, with the unhurried economy of someone for whom food was provision rather than occasion. He talked as he ate, in a direct, unadorned manner you'd noted from outside—no social scaffolding, no rhetorical setup, just the words themselves.

"These lands are crawling with orcs," he said, and the table went quiet with the specific attention that had become the company's default response to threat-relevant information. "Their numbers are growing." He looked at the company, at Thorin. "And you are on foot. You will never reach the forest alive. Not through open country." He paused. "I chased you through the night. And I am one thing not many."

"We are aware of that, yes," Gandalf said.

"You run fast for a company this size," Beorn said, with what you thought might be the closest he came to a compliment, which landed with a weight that suggested it was the closest he came to a compliment.

A mouse came from somewhere—a gap in the wall, the edge of the table, somewhere along the route of a mouse who lived in this house and had made its peace with the various enormous things that also lived in it. It appeared on Bofur's arm, which was resting on the table edge, and Bofur, deep in conversation with Óin on his other side, didn't notice it immediately and without interrupting the conversation made the automatic, slightly distracted motion of a person removing something from their arm that hadn't been invited there.

The mouse went sideways. Off the arm, toward the edge of the table.

You caught it.

It was reflex, completely—your hand moving before your brain had done anything, cupped to intercept the small, startled creature before it completed its trajectory toward the floor. You sat there with a mouse in your palms, and looked at it, and it looked at you with the wide, clear-eyed alarm of something that had been having quite a morning already.

"Hello there," you said.

It didn't immediately flee, which you chose to interpret as a good sign. You opened your hands slightly, giving it room without releasing it, and ran one finger very lightly along its back, the way you'd done with Sebastian, and something in the set of its small shoulders shifted from alarm toward a more provisional arrangement.

"Bofur,"

"Mm?" He turned.

"That was rude," you told him.

"I barely—"

"It was rude," you said, with the gentle, certainty of a person who had strong opinions about this and was not going to be talked out of them. You looked at the mouse. "You frightened them."

"I—" He looked around at the table, at several of the company who had tuned in to this exchange. "That's—the mouse appeared on my arm."

"And you startled them," you said. "You have to be— they're small, Bofur, they startle easily—"

"I barely touched it—"

"You flicked it—"

"I moved it aside, there's a difference—"

You looked at the mouse in your palms, who was now sitting with the composed, bright-eyed attention of a creature that had made an assessment and decided the current arrangement was acceptable. "You're alright, little guy" you told them, which was directed at the mouse and not at Bofur, which Bofur noticed.

"Am I being asked to apologise to a mouse?," Bofur said, with the affectionate, slightly aggrieved tone of a dwarf.

"They live here," you said. "You're a guest."

Across the table, Beorn had been watching this. His expression had the quality of someone reassessing something.

He reached over—a long reach, scaled to the reach of someone built to these proportions and held out one enormous hand, flat, palm up, near yours. An offer.

You looked at the hand. At the mouse. Transferred the small creature, carefully, into the cup of his enormous palm, where it sat and looked around with the same composure it had shown in yours, and Beorn looked at it with an expression that was the quietest, most private version of expression you'd been watching on Balin for months.

He carried the mouse to a small shelf near the wall, set it down, and came back to the table.

"I don't like dwarves," he said, without particular hostility—more as a stated position, a documented preference. "They're greedy and blind. Blind to the lives of those they deem lesser than their own." He paused, and the pause had the quality of a man considering the actions present in his home. "But orcs I hate more." He looked at Thorin. "What do you need?"

Thorin, who had received the assessment of his people with the contained stillness of a man who was not going to argue with a being this size on philosophical grounds replied. "Ponies. To reach the forest."

"Ponies," Beorn said. "You'll have ponies. Good ones." He stood from the table with the movement of something that had decided the matter was closed. "You leave at first light."

And that, in the way of most things Beorn said, was the end of it.

The afternoon had settled into the comfortable looseness of a day that had been accounted for— everyone knowing they were leaving at first light, nobody needing to do anything particular in the hours between, the company distributing itself through the cottage and yard with the happy, scattered freedom of people who'd been given unscheduled time and had all made different decisions about what to do with it.

You found Beorn at the far edge of the yard.

He was doing something to the fence—a repair, or an adjustment, the kind of task that looked small from a distance and resolved into considerable complexity up close. You came to stand nearby, which he acknowledged without looking up, the awareness of another presence registered and filed without requiring comment.

"May I ask—what is it like?" you said, after a while.

He looked at you.

"Being a skin-changer," you said. "Being—both man and bear both of those things at once. Or—not at once, but—you know what I mean."

He was quiet for a moment, the length of a man deciding whether this was a question he was going to answer. "You ask strange questions," he said.

"I've been told that," you agreed, rocking back on your heels. "Quite a bit actually."

He returned to the fence. "It is not both things at once. It is one thing and then another. The shape changes. The—what is inside does not." He set down whatever tool he was using and considered the fence. "The bear knows what the man knows. The man knows what the bear has seen." He paused. "It is not comfortable, always. But it is what I am."

"Does it get easier?" you said. "Being—being the thing you don't always choose to be?"

He looked at you again, and the look this time had a different quality—the assessment of a creature that was used to reading things that didn't say what they meant directly.

"You learn to live inside with what you have," he said, eventually. "Not because the other is gone. But because the one you are in is the one that is real, right now." He picked up his tool. "That is the only answer there is, for most things."

You looked at the fence, at the enormous, capable hands working on it, at the yard behind you where the company was variously occupying itself, and thought that this was probably the most useful piece of advice you'd received in some time.

Thorin was standing against the doorway with his arms crossed and his expression doing something he hadn't assigned a category to yet, his eyes on you and Beorn with a quality that was not the flat, kingly attention he brought to most things but something slightly different—tighter, more contained, the specific quality of someone performing neutrality rather than actually feeling it.

Dwalin materialised at Thorin's shoulder with the directness that was Dwalin's primary social mode. He looked at Thorin. Then at you. Then back at Thorin, with the expression of a man who had served his king for a very long time and had developed a very accurate internal read of him.

"You're looking at him," Dwalin said, "like you intend to kill him."

"I'm watching the perimeter," Thorin said, flatly.

"You're watching the lass," Dwalin said, with the blunt, affectionate lack of ceremony that only Dwalin could direct at Thorin and survive.

"I said I'm watching the perimeter."

Dwalin looked at the perimeter. Then at you, Beorn. Then back at Thorin. "Mmm," he said, which somehow managed to contain the equivalent of a very detailed paragraph. Thorin didn't say anything, but turned his head very slowly to perice Dwalin with a gaze he was not often the receiver of.

"Right," Dwalin said. He uncrossed his arms and recrossed them. "Only asking."

"You weren't asking," Thorin said.

"No," Dwalin agreed. He looked one more time in your direction, at the easy conversation by the fence, at the fact that Beorn had said more words to you in the last ten minutes than he'd voluntarily said to any dwarf in the entirety of their acquaintance. "No, I wasn't."

He walked away with the satisfied economy of a man who had said everything he'd come to say.

That evening the company organised itself for sleep in the main hall with the familiar efficiency of people who had done this enough times to have developed strong opinions about bedroll placement.

You made your way through the arranged shapes of sleeping dwarves—some already asleep, some still talking, Ori with his book, Bofur with his flute but playing nothing, just holding it and caught Thorin's eye as you passed the space where he'd settled himself with his pipe, the bowl of it glowing faintly orange in the dimness.

You smiled at him. Small, honest, the smile of someone who saw the person behind the thing they were managing and wasn't going to make a production of it.

He looked at you for a moment, and something in his face loosened, fractionally, and he nodded once—the nod that was more than a nod, the version of it that he used when the thing he was acknowledging was something he couldn't otherwise acknowledge in company.

You found your place beside Balin, who had the ledger open but had stopped writing and was watching the fire with the contemplative air of a dwarf at the end of a long day that had contained more Beorn than anticipated. You settled beside him, helped him close the ledger, and didn't say anything, and he didn't say anything, and the fire did the rest.

The hall was deep in sleep when you woke, with no particular reason—nothing alarming, no sound from outside, just the inexplicable middle-of-the-night consciousness that arrived sometimes for no reason and with no intention of leaving quickly. You lay still for a moment, looking at the ceiling, listening to Dwalin's snoring and the steady breath of fifteen other people and the fire, which had burned down to a deep, quiet red.

You lay on your back and looked at the rafters of Beorn's cottage and did the thing you'd been doing since the goblin caves, which was going back through the sequence of events with the specific, involuntary thoroughness of a brain that had not finished processing and had decided the middle of the night was the right time to work through the backlog. The tunnels. The sound of things in the dark. The weight of the company running around you. The feeling of coming out into sunlight and finding your hand bleeding and not knowing when it had started.

You rolled onto your side. Pulled the blanket up. Looked at the dim shape of the interior in the dark, the single candle burning in a holder on a rough shelf across the way, the shapes of sleeping dwarves in various attitudes of unconsciousness.

Thorin was sitting against the far wall, in that pool of candlelight, with his back straight and his legs crossed and something in his hands. You lay and watched him for a moment before your eyes adjusted enough to make out what he was doing.

One of the braids near his face—the thin ones that hung loose on either side, the ones you'd noticed from the beginning without ever thinking much about them—was unravelled, the dark hair loose and slightly crimped where the plait had been, and he was working at it with the focused, practiced care of someone doing something that required attention.

His fingers moved through the strands with a methodical patience, separating, smoothing, working out something near the end of the length, and the silver bead that usually sat at the bottom of that braid was resting on the straw beside him, catching the candlelight in small, warm glints.

You watched him for a minute without moving or speaking, which you'd have felt stranger about if he hadn't looked so entirely unselfconscious about it—not performing solitude, not projecting do not approach, just doing a thing that needed doing with the quiet focus of someone who did this when they needed to and wasn't concerned about an audience.

You sat up. He didn't look over, but the quality of his stillness changed slightly, which meant he'd heard you.

You moved across the barn toward him, stepping around Bofur's outstretched legs, avoiding the end of Nori's blanket, arriving at the edge of the candlelight and sitting down in it with your legs crossed, mirroring his position without planning to.

In the warmer light, you could see what was near him. Both beads—there were two of them, you realised now, one for each braid, and in the candlelight the markings on them were visible, small and precise, a pattern worked into the metal that had a deliberateness about it that spoke of meaning rather than decoration.

You picked one up.

He watched you do it from the side of his eyes and didn't object.

The bead was heavier than it looked—solid silver, real silver, not plated, with the particular weight of quality. The markings ran around it in a band a pattern of lines and shapes that had structure, a grammar you couldn't read but could recognise as having one.

"What do they mean?" you asked, keeping your voice low enough not to carry.

Thorin looked at the bead in your fingers for a moment. "The bottom line is the line of Durin," he said, and his voice was at the same register as yours —not a whisper exactly, but calibrated for the space between two people rather than a room. "The pattern is a record. Lineage, on this face." His finger, without quite touching the bead, indicated the section. "And here—the founding of Erebor. The symbols of Durin's craft."

You turned the bead carefully, looking at the different sections he indicated, and thought about how much had been compressed into something small enough to sit at the end of a braid. History made portable. Memory you could carry in your hair.

"They're beautiful," you said.

"They're old," he said. "My grandfather's, long before they became mine."

You set the bead down gently on the straw between you, with the care you gave things that were old and had carried several lives before arriving at this one, and looked at the loose hair in his hands. He'd gotten most of it undone—the length of it, separated from the braid, was longer than you'd thought and he was working at a small tangle near the end with the methodical patience of someone who had done this many times and knew that patience was the only approach.

"Braids mean things," you said. Not a question, working it out as you said it. "Not just yours. But all of them generally speaking. Don't they?"

He looked at you. Something in the look registered that you'd been paying attention, which was the kind of thing Thorin noticed and rarely commented on directly. "Yes," he said. "Achievement, among our people, is worn. A battle survived, a craft mastered, a rank held—there are braids for all of it. And beads that mark the lineage of the one wearing them." He paused. "Our beards as well, though that is more complex."

"And the specific ones—these ones," you said, gesturing at the braids beside his face. "Are those different from the others?"

He was quiet for a moment. His fingers worked at the tangle, gently, unhurried. "Some braids are given," he said, carefully, "rather than earned. By specific people, in specific contexts." He didn't elaborate further, and the careful quality of the not-elaborating suggested there was more there that he wasn't going to say tonight, and you filed it away with the other things you were used to filing now.

He reached the second braid—the matching one on the other side, which he'd been leaving for last and began the process of unwinding it, approximately halfway through the unwinding he ran into a tangle that was considerably more stubborn than the first one, and made a small sound that was specifically not a curse but was adjacent to one, and you looked at his expression and laughed.

A quiet laugh, muffled in deference to the sleeping company, but genuine—the laugh of someone caught off guard by something endearing in a context where endearing was not the expected register.

He looked at you with the expression he used when he was pretending something wasn't funny, which you'd learned to distinguish from the expression he used when something actually wasn't funny, mainly because one of them involved a slight tension at the corner of his mouth that the other didn't.

"Do you want me to—"

"No," he said.

"It's just that you've been at that particular section for a while."

"I'm aware," he said.

"Its just, I can see from here that the—"

"Fine, if you would like to be useful," Thorin said, with the precise dignity of a man conceding a point without calling it a concession, "you may."

•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•

You moved closer—shifting on the straw until the distance between you was working distance, the kind of distance at which hands could reach without stretching. The candlelight from the shelf above put you both in the same warm circle of light, and you reached across Thorin tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement, and your fingers found the tangle in his unbound hair.

It was—softer than you'd expected, though you hadn't thought about Thorin's hair enough to have an expectation for it. Clean, still, despite the goblin tunnels and the running and everything that had come before—he'd clearly bathed and the dark strands ran through your fingers with a smoothness that made the tangle more obvious by contrast, a small, tight knot near the end where the braid had been fixed and the binding had worked itself into the hair.

You worked at it the way you worked at things that required patience—carefully, without pulling, finding the individual threads of the knot and encouraging them apart rather than forcing them.

He went still, in the way he went still when he was paying attention to something. Not tense—just present. His hands had lowered to his knees, the work of smoothing the first section already done, and he sat with the candlelight on his face and talked, keeping his voice low.

"When I was young," he said, "my mother braided my hair herself. Every morning. She was particular about it." A pause in which you felt, rather than saw, a small and private quality of memory. "She said that a dwarf's braid told his story before he opened his mouth, and that a poorly kept braid told it badly, and that she would not have her son tell his story badly."

"Sounds like she was formidable," you said, gently separating another thread from the knot.

"She was," he said. "In every way."

You worked in quiet for a moment. The tangle was loosening—gradually, one layer at a time.

"My mother couldn't braid," you said, because the silence had the quality of something that could hold exchange as well as simply rest. "She tried, when I was small. It always came out—sort of sideways. There's a photograph somewhere—"

You stopped, because photograph was the wrong word and you were about to trip over the explanation, and instead said "A picture. Of me at about six years old with the most chaotic plait you have ever seen. She was so pleased with herself."

The thread you were following—came loose after a moment. "She sounds kind," he said.

•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•

"She was," you said. "She is." You pressed your lips together briefly, looking at the work in your hands. "She is," you said again, the present tense landing deliberately.

The tangle came free. You felt it give, the hair running smooth again under your fingers, and you separated the section carefully and looked at the length of it—unbraided, loose, falling over your hand in the candlelight.

"Right," you said. "So now you can just—"

"Three sections," he said, and his voice was close, because he had turned his head slightly to speak to you and the turning had reduced the distance between you, and the candlelight did things to the planes of his face from this angle that you noticed and then looked back at the hair in your hands. "Over, under, over. Keep the tension even."

You divided the section into three with careful fingers. Started the plait. It went wrong almost immediately—one strand crossing in the wrong direction, the whole thing losing its coherence after five moves, the tension uneven in exactly the way he'd said not to let it be.

"Are you sure you want me to—"

"A Lady who finds herself in the company of dwarves, may find herself with reasons to braid." Thorin stated, almost softly, with an expression you could not read by the warmth of candlelight.

"Over, under," he said again, patient, watching you attentively.

"I am going over, under—"

"Your left hand isn't holding tension. You're letting the outside strand go slack every second move."

"I am not—" you started, and looked at your hands, and were going slack every second move, and pressed your lips together. "Fine," you said. "Fine, yes, okay." Adjusted. Tried again.

It went better. Not perfectly, but better—the plait forming with a coherence that was at least recognisable as intentional, the three strands staying in their relationship with each other instead of migrating.

You reached the end and stopped, because the end was where the bead went, and the bead was on the straw, and threading the fine end of a plait through a small silver bead in candlelight was a different order of task from the plaiting itself.

You picked up the bead. Held it between your fingers. Looked at the small opening of it, and at the end of the plait, and at the gap between the two. Tried once—the end of the braid fraying slightly, then completely while refusing to cooperate.

"You're trying to push it," Thorin said.

"I'm aware of that, yes."

"Hold the braid tight and bring the bead onto it rather than pushing through. The hair stays, the bead moves, not the other way."

You tried. The bead slid a little and caught.

Tried again. "It's—I can't get the angle—"

His hands came up beside yours, and two fingers took the bead from you with the particular assurance of someone who had done this specific thing many, many times, and in three moves that you watched with a focus that made you feel slightly as if you were studying for an exam, the bead was threaded, and sitting at the end of the braid, and the plait was done.

"Oh," you said.

He lowered his hands. Looked at the finished braid, checking it with the brief critical attention of someone who had standards ingrained.

"The tension's a little uneven in the middle section," he said.

"You're welcome," you said.

The corner of his mouth tweaked upward in a quick pull, before he schooled it. "Yes," he said. "I—Thank you."

He straightened, settling back against the wall, the braid finished, the bead in place, and picked up the second bead from the straw—turned it in his fingers, and looked at it, and then looked at you.

"Would you like one?" he said.

The question arrived without quite announcing itself, and you blinked—the specific blink of someone who heard something and needed a moment to confirm what they'd heard.

"I—" You looked at the bead in his hand. At him. "I haven't done anything to earn one," you said. "That's—you said they're earned, or given for specific things, and I haven't—done anything specifically."

Thorin looked at you, steady and direct, the candlelight warm on his face, and the expression in it was—the quality of something kept carefully below the surface and held there with considerable effort. His fingers turned the bead once more, and then stilled.

"You may yet," he said.

Three words. Quiet, in the low register he used when he meant things without wanting to account for them, and he held your gaze for one more moment—one moment in which you were aware of exactly how close you were, of the candlelight, of the sleeping company around you, of the silver bead in his hand catching the light in small, warm points— and then looked away, his eyes going to the rafters above, and the moment settled into the straw between you and neither of you named it.

"You should sleep," he said. Still quiet.

"So should you," you said.

The screen flickered with one of those shows she watched. People acting out things that weren't real, to tell stories.

Humans were strange.

In the box, a couple sat across from each other at a small table, candles and glasses between them. The woman laughed at something the man said. He poured her wine. Flowers sat crammed into a glass jar at the center of the table, already dying but arranged to hide it.

Bucky frowned.

"Why are they there?" he asked, chin tipped toward the screen.

He watched the way the man's hand moved, deliberate, not reaching but inviting. The woman's smile shifted, softer. It wasn't the same as what he and she did. When they sat together, it was without ritual. Without this careful performance of interest.

She glanced up, following his gaze. "The dinner? It's a date."

The word meant nothing on its own, but the picture did. Two people, seated face to face, offering each other food and wine, suggestive words and intent body language. He knew of that, in another shape…

"Why?" he pressed.

"Why, what?"

"The purpose." His voice came out more demanding than he meant. "Of sitting like that. The food, the flowers. What are they after? Are they friends or is it a couple’s thing?" he still struggled to understand where the line was drawn between friendship and claim. It irritated him, the way they blurred what his kind made clear.

She laughed, not unkindly, more at the way he'd said it, like he was cross-examining a suspect.

"There's no big purpose, Bucky. It's just... getting to know each other. Spending time together. Showing the other person you care, that you put effort into the moment." She shrugged. "Sometimes it's at the start, when you first begin seeing someone. Sometimes couples keep doing it years later. So they don't lose that."

So they don't lose that.

Lose what? he wanted to ask. But his tongue felt heavy, suddenly too clumsy for the question forming in his mind.

He went quiet, eyes still fixed on the screen, where the fictional man tucked a strand of hair behind the woman's ear and produced a small box with some earrings.

The woman gasped, hands flying to her mouth. Bucky's fingers tightened on her thigh, irritated by the sound -too sharp, too rehearsed- but something else moved beneath his skin, older than annoyance.

Something felt wrong.

They'd shared breakfasts at the kitchen table, dinners, spent entire afternoons pressed together beneath blankets, talking, watching television until she fell asleep against him, but that wasn't the same thing.

Humans seemed to assign meaning to the circumstances rather than the act itself.

His own sought someone apt out once a year, met what the body demanded, and each returned to their own dark after, alone, needing nothing from the other until the next season.

What he felt about her, and her for him, had no name in his tongue. No protocol. No elder to ask how it was done right, how you kept a human who needed things he could not feel the need for.

He thought, suddenly, of the Valentine’s Day situation. The pink foil chocolate. The presents in the market. His own frustration afterward, lying alone beneath cold water while trying to understand gifts, offerings, and fish that carried stones to impress a mate.

He had not given her anything that day.

I could have, he thought bitterly. I could have found something, but I chose not to.

His jaw clenched.

The couple on the screen kissed. The camera pulled back, showing other couples at other tables, a room full of humans performing the same ritual with slight variations.

"We've never had one," he murmured.

She blinked. The hand that had been tracing lazy patterns on his chest stilled. "Never had... what?"

"A date." The word felt foreign, too small for the weight he was giving it. "What they are doing. The ritual. We've never..."

He didn't finish. Couldn't find the words for what they had done instead, afternoons on the beach, in the nest, the occasions when he held her through asthma attacks, and she held him through haunting memories. None of it had been framed. None of it had been for something.

She was quiet for a moment. Then: "Hmm that’s true. We never had one."

It wasn’t a reproach. Just acknowledgment. But he heard reproach anyway, or maybe he heard his own voice saying it for her.

He shifted, uncomfortable, his hand retreating from her thigh to grip the edge of the cushion beneath them. "Would you like to?" The question came out forced, scraped from somewhere low in his throat. "Having… this date thing."

She smiled. That smile that always seemed to know something he didn't. "Bucky, that’s not necessary right now. We are together-"

"But would you like to?" He interrupted her. Hated doing it, but the words not necessary had stuck him like a barb. As if what they had was sufficient, as if she was tolerating his lack of courtship abilities. "Not 'need to.' Like to."

She looked at him. And he saw something shift in her expression, the amusement becoming something more careful, more serious.

“That we go out in a more… human way?" she said, slower.

He nodded once. Rigidly.

She hesitated. Not long -a breath, maybe two- but he noticed it.

"Yes," she said. "I would like to."

He should have felt relief. He felt terror instead.

She must have felt something shift in him -the way his body went still, the way his hand had stopped its lazy path over her leg. She looked up at him, her head tilting slightly.

"Bucky?"

He forced his jaw to unclench. "Yes."

She studied him for a moment, then reached up and touched his cheek, her palm warm against the tension in his jaw.

"We don't have to do anything elaborate," she said softly. "I just... I'd like to do something with you. That's all."

He nodded. Didn't trust his voice.

----

She fell asleep against him eventually, the way she always did, her breathing slowing into the rhythm he knew better than his own heartbeat. He didn't sleep after turning the television off, just stayed awake, staring at nothing, his mind churning.

More human.

The phrase turned like a current, pulling him toward depths he didn't know how to navigate.

What could he offer that wasn't already given? his body, his time, his fierce and unwavering attention?

Money? He had none. Food? He could hunt, but most of the things he could bring her would probably be unfit. Besides, they had eaten together hundreds of times. Was a date simply "eating but with candles"? Was the candle what made the difference?

A restaurant. He'd seen a couple in town when he tagged along with her while shopping for groceries. Lights, tables, people sitting while others served them. The concept had seemed absurd then. It still did. But she had smiled at the screen when the couple entered.

His hand closed into a fist on the cushion.

Objectively -he forced himself to think it, because his kind was nothing if not objective about status- he was a worthy male. The mating mark on his arm proved it, the ink extending past what most achieved. He had survived capture, magic, the war they forced him to wage. He had dealt with those who attacked him while looking for Steve, alone, unarmed, with nothing but what nature had given him.

For his species, that was enough. More than enough, actually. It was superiority.

But she was not his species.

And when she spoke of "effort," of "showing you care," of "putting time into the moment", none of those things required physical traits or abilities. They required something he couldn't name.

Where did he fit in human standards?

He listened for hours while she spoke of things he barely understood: her customers, knitting patterns, shipping policies of some digital platform. He had learned to make toast, to tolerate shoes, to sit in a car that vibrated wrong against his nerves.

The sex was good, that was unquestionable. But she had said once, casually, that for humans sex wasn't enough.

He felt cold suddenly.

Because what else did he do, really? He couldn't buy her things. Couldn't take her to places. Couldn't give her the kind of life that humans built with houses and plans and futures that stretched beyond the next tide. What he could give didn't translate into human currency.

And he had seen what happened to males who couldn't provide in the ways their mates needed in other species. They were left behind.

She stirred against him, murmuring something unintelligible. His hand moved automatically to her hair, caressing it, soothing her back to stillness. The gesture was unconscious now.

That, he thought. That is effort. Learning her. Adapting to her.

But would she see it that way? Would any human?

He looked at the darkened television, then down at his mate sleeping against his chest, completely trusting, her body relaxed in a way no one ever had been with him.

She had chosen him. Was choosing him still, every day she came back to the shore, every night she let him into her house, her nest, her warmth.

I have never shown her that I keep choosing with a gesture. I have simply... stayed.

The thought sat heavy as stone in his chest.

He didn't know if that was enough.

But he knew he couldn't keep asking her to settle for what he didn't understand.

He would learn. He would watch. He would find out what humans needed from each other when they sat across a table with candles and flowers and offered each other their time.

Even if it felt like performing. Even if it made him feel like a creature wearing a skin that didn't fit.

Because she had said yes. And that meant he had to try.

----

A couple of days passed after that.

Not that she noticed anything unusual… not at first. Bucky still came to the cottage, still took up his space on the couch, helped with some things. But his mind was elsewhere, turning like an undertow, circling the same problem from every angle.

She had to sleep, eventually. He didn't always. And those dead hours, when her breathing slowed, and her body went slack against his in the bed, became his window.

The movies.

Not the ones she picked for them to watch together; those had complicated plots and dialogue he couldn't quite track. No. Bucky waited until she was asleep, then took the remote and searched for the ones that seemed to show what people did to impress each other.

The first two nights were frustrating. The movies showed men bringing flowers -he didn't know where to get flowers, or what kind- or reserving tables in places with dim lights – also he had no coin-, or saying things that sounded rehearsed and false.

Is that what she expects? That I pretend to be someone I'm not?

But on the third night, he found a different movie.

A woman walked along a beach at night. Moonlight silvered the water, and then the sea began to glow. Blue. A blue that moved with the waves, that lit up where her feet touched the shore.

Bucky sat up slowly on the couch.

That, he thought. I can do that.

There wasn’t a male there accompanying her, but the woman on screen laughed, spread her arms, spun in the darkness while the water around her flickered like the sea was alive.

He knew where to find that blue. He'd seen it before, floating on the surface like scattered stars.

He would need something to carry it back.

He could already imagine her face. The way her eyes would widen. The sound she'd make, that soft breath she let out when something surprised her in a good way.

He would make her make that sound.

----

The dairy aisle was cold enough to raise goosebumps on her arms, but she lingered there anyway, hand hovering over the butter display.

She grabbed one pack, then paused. Her fingers twitched. She reached for a second pack, then a third, then caught herself and laughed under her breath.

He's going to eat all of this in three days.

She tossed the extra packs into the cart anyway; the butter budget was just part of her life now. She pushed the cart forward, past the yogurts and the cheeses, but her mind had already drifted.

Four days now. She'd noticed a change in him, subtle but unmistakable. He was still there, still present, but something was different.

His silences felt heavier. His eyes would drift to the window when he thought she wasn't looking, and there was a tension in his jaw that hadn't been there before. His hand, which used to find hers instinctively, now rested still on his own thigh. Like he was waiting for something. Or preparing for something.

Four nights, she thought again, he hasn't reached for me first. And coming from him, that was practically a scream.

She'd asked him about it, of course. Twice.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure? You seem-"

"I'm fine."

The second time, he'd said it with enough finality that she'd let it drop. But she hadn't stopped noticing.

She turned down the next aisle, grabbing a box of tea, -a new strawberry blend- and put it into the cart.

Maybe she was overthinking it. He wasn't exactly a talker. He showed things through actions, through presence, and sometimes, words didn't come easily to him. They never had.

But this felt different.

It wasn't the closed-off silence of someone hiding pain, or the distant quiet of someone lost in old thoughts. It was more like... he was somewhere else.

She paused at the end of the aisle, leaning on the cart for a moment, staring at a display of crackers without really seeing them.

Maybe it's the sea.

The thought surfaced before she could stop it, and once it was there, it wouldn't leave. She knew -had always known- that the ocean was part of him in ways she couldn't fully understand.

Not just his home, but his blood. His nature.

What if the restlessness she'd been sensing was something biological pulling at him from the deep?

What if he was trying to figure out how to tell her he needed to leave?

To swim far and deep, to follow whatever instinct was whispering to him?

She remembered what he'd told her, months ago, before they'd become anything. My kind doesn't attach; everything has a purpose. And though he'd changed, though he'd chosen to stay, what part of that nature still pulsed beneath his skin?

Her stomach churned.

Stop it, she told herself firmly. You're spiraling. He said he was fine.

She grabbed a box of crackers at random, threw it in the cart, and forced herself to keep moving. The checkout line was short. She paid, bagged her groceries, and walked out into the cold afternoon air.

The ride back to the cottage was quiet. The sky was overcast, the sea a dull grey, and the wind carried the smell of salt and wet stone. She let herself drift, still thinking about him, still turning over the same questions.

She'd asked him, once, if he ever missed the deeps. The places where the sun didn't reach, where the pressure was so great it would crush a human body. He'd said yes, but he'd said it like it didn't matter. Like she was more important than the ocean.

She'd believed him. She still believed him.

But that didn't mean the sea had stopped calling him.

She reached the cottage door and fumbled with her keys, nudging it open with her hip. The house was empty when she stepped inside.

No Bucky sprawled on the couch, no heavy presence in the kitchen eating toast. He'd said something about the sea yesterday. Feeling the pull. Needing to swim.

She'd nodded, not questioning it. She understood that part of him better than he probably realized. The sea was his home. His body needed it the way hers needed air.

But now, standing in the quiet kitchen, she felt the absence more sharply than she expected.

She unpacked the groceries slowly, putting the butter in the fridge, stacking the tea next to the kettle, folding the reusable bags and tucking them under the sink. Her movements were automatic, her mind elsewhere.

What if he's really trying to figure out how to leave?

The thought hit her like cold water, and she had to stop, her hands braced on the counter, breathing through it.

No. That's not who he is. That's not what we are.

But she'd seen the way he looked at the sea sometimes. The longing in his eyes, even when he was holding her. He'd spent decades alone, wandering, surviving. What if that part of him was too deep to change?

She wrapped her hands around the warm mug a few minutes later, staring out the window at the grey sea, and tried to convince herself she was being ridiculous.

He wasn't going anywhere.

He'd told her, in his own way, that she was his home now.

She had to trust that.

----

The dock was quiet the night of the recollection.

He'd swum the distance, moving through the dark water with the efficiency that only came from being in his element, silent and fluid as a shadow.

The swim had been easy. Almost relaxing, compared to what he was about to do.

He surfaced near the pilings, his head breaking the water in a slow, cautious rise. His eyes swept the dock, the fishing boats, the shore beyond. Empty. Good.

The transformation came quickly, quicker every time he did it, a familiar twist of bone and muscle, his limbs retracting and reshaping, his skin pulling tight over a form he'd never quite learned to love.

He bit back the sounds that wanted to escape his lips, the low grunts and hisses that always accompanied the shift.

It hurt.

It always hurt. But he was used to pain, and he didn't have time to dwell on it.

When it was done, he was human again. Naked and cold. The night air bit at his bare skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. Disgraceful.

He'd considered bringing clothes. Briefly. But the swim had been long, and he had quite the feat to perform after leaving the docks.

Besides, he'd assumed the place would be empty.

He pulled himself up onto the wooden planks, his bare feet silent against the damp surface. The wood was rough and splintered beneath his soles, and he moved carefully, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.

A few fishing boats bobbed at their moorings, dark and empty. The air smelled of fuel and salt and the faint, rotting sweetness of bait left too long in the sun.

His naked body moved carefully, scanning the ground, then froze.

A sharp sting shot up from his foot. He looked down. A piece of broken glass, glinting in the dim light, buried in the pad of his heel.

He hissed through his teeth, pulling his foot up to inspect the damage. Blood welled dark against his skin.

"Fuck," he muttered, the word still foreign on his tongue but satisfying somehow. That was a human word he'd learned well.

He pulled the glass free -a small piece, nothing too deep- and pressed his thumb against the wound until the bleeding slowed. It would heal quickly. It always did.

But the irritation lingered.

This wouldn't have happened in the sea.

He limped forward a few steps, testing the weight on his foot, then dismissed it. He'd had worse. Much worse. A piece of glass was nothing.

He found what he came for near the end of the dock, a stack of discarded plastic barrels, the kind used for storing fish bait or industrial fluids. They were empty, smelled clean enough, with sealed lids that would keep all inside during the journey.

He tested one. It was large. Heavy, even empty. Carrying two would be a challenge.

He dragged them to the water's edge, then paused, looking out at the dark expanse of the sea.

He slipped into the water silently and shifted again, his limbs spreading wide, tasting the currents, orienting himself.

The barrels floated beside him. He wrapped two tentacles around each, securing them against his body, and began to swim.

The current was against him tonight, but he was stronger. The town faded behind him, then the coast, then the shallows, until he was alone in open water, the stars above and the darkness below.

He swam for hours. Past the fishing grounds, past the drop-off where the seabed fell away into nothing. The water grew colder. The current shifted, then stilled.

And then he saw it.

A faint glow on the horizon, spreading across the surface like a slow dawn. Blue. Electric. Alive.

He slowed, letting himself drift, watching it approach. The light was thick here, so dense it seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Thousands upon thousands of tiny organisms, each one a point of light, gathering in the warm currents to perform their silent, ancient dance.

He floated among them for a moment, surrounded by blue, and felt something in his chest loosen. This was his world. This was what he could offer.

Carefully, he uncapped one of the barrels and dipped it beneath the surface. The algae flowed in, glowing faintly, swirling like liquid starlight. He waited until the barrel was full, sealed it, and repeated the process with the second.

The weight was immense. Each barrel was heavy with water, and the distance back was just as far. But he'd carried heavier things. Two barrels of glowing water were nothing.

He turned and began the long swim back, the blue light trailing behind him like a phosphorescent wake. For a while, he let himself feel the satisfaction of making an effort.

By the time he reached the cave, his muscles were burning and the sky was beginning to lighten. He dragged the barrels onto the rock, his muscles burning with exhaustion, and looked at the pools where he'd planned to pour the glowing water.

The tide would reach them in a few hours. If he poured the algae now, it would be washed away before nightfall. All that effort, wasted.

He cursed under his breath, a low, frustrated sound.

He thought about the alcove they used in mating season, and with a final surge of effort, he hauled the barrels there.

His arms trembled with the strain, and his limbs ached from swimming for hours and carrying impossible weights.

He was done.

He let himself slide down into the deepest pool, the cool water enveloping his tired body, and he didn't even have the energy to find a comfortable position. His limbs went slack, his eyes closed, and he let the darkness take him.

----

He woke to the sound of water dripping and the soft gray light filtering through the cave's chimney.

His body was stiff, and his muscles protested as he stretched, uncoiling his limbs one by one. The exhaustion from the night before had settled into a dull ache, manageable but persistent.

The light told him it was late afternoon. Almost evening.

He cursed and dragged himself to grab the containers. Then, he uncapped them and began to work.

Once the last remaining of glowing water was poured, he stopped, breathing hard, and let himself look.

It was… beautiful. He'd known it would be.

The pools glowed softly, even with sunrays still entering from the mouth and the vents. The light reflected off the wet stone and danced across the ceiling. The cave was transformed. It wasn't the kind of beauty his kind usually made: functional, purposeful, built for survival. This was something else. Something that existed just to be seen.

He hoped she'd see it the way he did.

He then moved through the cave, gathering what he needed.

From the alcove he pulled the blankets. The ones she'd brought from the cottage, stored in plastic bags. The ones that still smelled like them, and from time to time, they still used.

He carried them to a flat section of rock near the glowing pools, where the surface was smooth enough to be comfortable, and spread them out with clumsy hands.

It wasn't a bed. Not really. But it was soft, and it was theirs.

Also, some things from the cottage that he took before departing for the lights.

The tupperware with the strawberries that he'd seen her pack the other day, rinsing them carefully, patting them dry with paper towels before putting them on the fridge.

He had doubted. They were hers, and he was taking things from her only to give them back as a gesture. It felt... wrong. Like stealing. Like he was pretending to offer something he hadn't earned.

Then he remembered what she'd said, weeks ago, when he'd hesitated to take food from her pantry.

"Bucky, you live here now. Half the time, anyway. You don't have to ask. It's our food."

Ours.

So he took the strawberries. And the wine, too, a bottle of white she'd bought for a dinner she never ended up making, forgotten in the back of the fridge. He didn't know if it was the right kind. He didn't know much about human wine at all.

But he'd seen it in the movies; it seemed important, and he wanted to get this right, so he had snatched a cooler, ice, and the bottle and gone out before she came back from wherever she was.

----

He stepped back and looked at the glowing pools, the blankets, the food.

It looked like something from one of those movies. Something magical. Something that said I thought about you. I planned this. You matter to me.

He felt a flicker of pride. Small, fragile, unfamiliar in this context.

Then he thought about the logistics.

He shouldn’t be just there, waiting for her to appear through the mouth of the cave by inspiration.

He'd have to go get her. Bring her here. And hope that when she saw what he'd done, she'd understand what he was trying to say.

He slid to one of the pools, looking at his work, and waited for the right time.

----

He waited until the sun was low, just before it slipped beneath the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that made the sea look as if it were burning.

He climbed the path to the cottage with his heart beating harder than it should have been. Ridiculous. He'd faced a lot of things trying to kill him. Walking up a hill to knock on a door shouldn't make him feel like this.

Once at the door, he took a deep breath and let himself in.

She was wearing something he'd never seen before. A dress -not the comfortable things she wore around the house, not the practical clothes she wore to town. Something softer. Her hair was different, too, in a way that made her look almost like a different person.

He just… stared.

Humans, he thought, do this on purpose. They change their appearance to signal something.

She smiled when she saw him. That was good. Her eyes looked brighter than they had earlier, when he'd left. He'd been gone for almost two days, and she'd clearly been busy preparing for something.

Maybe she expected me to come back.

He hadn't told her he would. He never did. Some days he just... left and came back when the sea had released him. She never complained. Never asked where he'd been. She'd just open the door and let him in, like it was natural. Like she knew he would always come back.

He'd never told her he would.

She has no reason to expect me tonight, he realized. 

But she was dressed like she might meet someone.

"Hey," she said, closing the distance. "You're back."

"I said I would be."

He hadn't. But it felt true anyway.

She chuckled. A small, amused sound. "You didn't, actually. Still, I'm glad you're here." She glanced over her shoulder, into the house, and something in her expression flickered. "But… actually, I was just about to head out."

Something cold went down his spine.

"Head out?"

"Ian, Arthur's friend, the one from the town? He and his girlfriend invited me for drinks at the new pub. They've been trying to get me to go for some weeks now, knowing I don’t go out a lot." She shrugged, a little apologetically. "I figured I'd finally take them up on it. Since I didn't know when you'd be back."

Since I didn't know when you'd be back.

It was fair. Completely fair. He never told her. He never could tell her, because he didn't know himself. She understood that. She'd always understood that.

But right now, the understanding didn't help.

Because he knew that name. He remembered the half-eaten chocolate on her coffee table, the way his chest had twisted when he'd realized another male had given her an offering. On Valentine's Day. On a day meant for courtship.

He'd said nothing then. Had no right to say anything. They weren't anything. He'd told himself that over and over, had let himself drown in that denial for months.

But he remembered.

The one who gave her chocolate. The one who had a girlfriend, supposedly, but still gave offerings to another female. The one who, even now, was taking her out at night.

His jaw clenched.

"You're going out with him," he said. Flat. Controlled. The kind of control he'd learned to use when he was trying not to do something he'd regret.

Her brow furrowed. "With him and his girlfriend, Bucky. Both of them.

"You arranged to go out with him."

"I didn't arrange it. They invited me." She paused, and something in her expression shifted, a hint of wariness. "And I told you, his girlfriend is coming too. It's not-" She stopped, exhaled. "It's not what you think."

What I think.

He didn't know what he thought. Only that the name Ian had lodged itself somewhere in his stomach and was burning.

"The chocolate," he said. "On the human holiday. He gave you chocolate."

She stared at him. For a long moment, she didn't speak.

Then, slowly: "That was months ago, Bucky."

"I remember."

"That was different," she said quietly. "We weren't even-” she sighed. “Ian has a long-term partner," she repeated, firmer this time. "And I'm going out with both of them. Not just him. Both."

The emphasis was deliberate. He heard it.

But his blood didn't care. His blood was already moving, already readying itself for a fight that wasn't there.

He looked at her dress again. The soft fabric. The careful way she'd fixed her hair.

She dressed up for him. The thought came sharp and cruel. She dressed up to go out with the male who gave her an offering. Not for me.

And then, quieter: But I never gave her anything. Not on that day. Not when it mattered.

"You didn't tell me," he mumbled, "That you were going out with him."

"Because I didn't know when you'd be back. You don't have a phone, Bucky. You don't tell me when you're leaving or when you're coming back. I can't just sit here waiting; I have a life."

Again, it was reasonable. He knew it was.

But reason had nothing to do with the way he felt.

He'd been trying so hard to do the human thing. The date thing. The effort thing. He'd spent a day swimming and dragging heavy barrels through the sea, all so he could show her something beautiful, something that proved he'd thought about her, that she mattered.

And she was walking out the door.

The words left his mouth before he could stop them:

"I was going to give you a date," he said. The words came out rough, scraped. "Tonight. In the cave."

She went still.

"A date?"

"Yes." He forced himself to meet her eyes. "The human thing. The one we talked about. I was going to show you. But you are going out with him."

He couldn't say the name.

She stared at him. Her lips parted slightly, and something in her expression shifted. Surprise, then confusion, then something softer.

"You were planning a date for tonight?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Bucky." Her voice came out soft, almost careful. "You didn't have to-"

"Don't." He cut her off, rougher than he meant. "Don't say 'not necessary.' I know it's not necessary. I did it anyway."

----

She blinked.

The words hung in the air between them. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed somewhere past her shoulder, and she watched the muscle in his temple twitch.

He's nervous, she realized.

Bucky. Nervous.

The man who'd faced down his own kind, who'd swum through dark water with nothing but claws and teeth, who'd looked at her like she was the most fragile thing he'd ever held, was nervous.

Because he planned a date.

She'd spent the last few days watching him drift in and out of the cottage, his silences heavier than usual, his eyes distant. She'd told herself it was the sea calling him. That maybe he was figuring out how to tell her he needed space.

And all along, he was planning a date.

She almost laughed.

Almost.

But the look on his face -the way he was bracing himself, like he expected her to tell him it was stupid, unnecessary, too much- stopped her.

"Bucky," she said with a soft voice. "You planned a date for us in the cave?"

His throat worked. "I- yes."

"And you've been working on this for days."

He didn't answer. But the way his eyes flicked away told her everything.

She stepped closer. "I've been thinking you were pulling away."

His head snapped back to her. "What?"

"The silences. The lost gazes. I thought-" She stopped, shook her head. "I thought maybe the sea was calling you. That you were trying to figure out how to tell me you needed… to go."

Something broke in his expression. His hand came up, not quite touching her, hovering near her elbow like he was afraid to make contact.

"No," he said, and the word came out hoarse. "No. I was-" He stopped, jaw working. "I was trying to give you something. The thing we talked about… when we watched that movie." He gestured vaguely, frustration bleeding into the motion. "I thought you deserved that. With effort. With-" He stopped, swallowed.

His eyes met hers, and for a moment, he looked almost lost.

She didn't think. She just moved.

Her arms came around him, pressing her body against his, and she felt the way he went rigid beneath her touch. Every muscle locked, his breath caught somewhere in his chest, held captive by whatever was still coiled tight inside him.

For a heartbeat, he didn't move at all. Just stood there, frozen, like he'd forgotten how to accept comfort.

Then, slowly, something in him gave way.

His arms came up, and she felt it, the faint shake of his fingers against her back. Then his arms closed around her, tighter than she expected, pulling her into his chest like she was the only solid thing in a world that had been shifting beneath him for days.

She felt the breath leave his lungs in a long, shaky exhale, felt the tension in his shoulders begin to loosen, increment by increment, like a rope slowly being untied.

"Okay," she murmured against his chest.

He didn't answer. Just pressed his face into her hair and breathed.

She stayed there, letting him hold her, letting him collect himself. Her hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading through the strands at his nape, and she felt him shiver. Not from cold.

"Okay," she said again, softer this time. "Let's go then. Show me what you prepared."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his brow furrowing. "But you were going out-"

She almost smiled at the way he said it, all clipped and reluctant, like the words tasted bad.

"I was," she said. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. "And now I'm not."

He blinked, confused, as she unlocked the screen and opened the messaging app. She tapped the voice note icon and held the phone up to her lips, watching his face as she spoke.

"Hey Ian, I’m sorry, but something came up, and I won't be able to make it tonight. Nothing bad, so don’t worry. I’m so sorry for the late notice. Tell Hannah I said hi, and enjoy your drinks!"

She pressed send and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

"There. Done. It’s not like they need me as a third wheel."

"Third wheel?" he asked slowly, brows furrowed in confusion. "What would you do with a wheel in a pub?"

She laughed.

"That means you're the extra person when a couple goes out," she explained, caressing his back. "You're the third one. The one who's not part of the couple. It's a little awkward sometimes, because they're focused on each other and you're just... there."

His frown deepened. "Why a wheel? I don't see why it would be a third thing."

"It's just an expression." She smiled, stepping back just enough to take his hand. "I'll explain more on the way."

He didn't move at first, but then he gave a small nod, barely perceptible.

"Okay," he said.

She grabbed his hand and tugged him gently toward the door. "Lead the way. I want to see this date you planned."

As she followed him out into the cool evening air, she felt his fingers tighten around hers. She noticed, too, as they walked, that the tension in his shoulders had eased. His steps were steadier. His jaw, still set, had lost that sharp edge of worry.

There you are, she thought. There's my Bucky.

----

The path to the cave was familiar by now. She'd walked it enough times, in the golden glow of late afternoon and the gray hush of overcast skies. But tonight, something was different.

A faint glow spilled from the mouth of the cave, soft and blue, pulsing like a slow heartbeat against the darkening sky. She slowed, her hand tightening around his. The light wasn't harsh or artificial; it was gentle.

"What is that?" she whispered.

He didn't answer. Just watched her, waiting.

She stepped forward, drawn by the glow, and when she reached the entrance, she stopped.

The cave was transformed.

The pools that usually sat dark and still were now filled with liquid light. Blue and silver and white, shifting and swirling like captured stars, drifting in slow, hypnotic circles across the water's surface.

The light reflected off the wet stone walls, dancing across the ceiling in rippling patterns that made the rock itself seem alive. It was like standing inside a living constellation, like the night sky had decided to come down and make its home in the dark.

She couldn't speak. Couldn't find the words. Her breath caught somewhere in her chest, and she just stood there, drinking it in, letting the wonder settle into her bones.

Then she started moving, her feet carrying her deeper into the cave without conscious thought. The glow grew brighter as she walked, the light intensifying as she passed each pool.

Some were shallow, barely more than puddles of liquid starlight. Others were deeper, the blue so rich it seemed to have weight, like she could reach in and scoop it up in her hands.

And then she saw them, on a flat section of rock that overlooked the largest pool: a nest of blankets had been spread out. And on top of them, arranged with careful precision: a green Tupperware container, and beside it, a bottle of white wine.

She turned slowly, her heart too full for her chest to hold.

He was watching her. Standing just a few feet away, hands at his sides, his face unreadable but his body tight with tension, like he was bracing himself. Like he was waiting for her to tell him it wasn't enough. That he'd gotten it wrong. That she'd expected something different.

"Bucky," she breathed.

He didn't speak. His throat worked, a swallow he couldn't quite hide.

"It's-" She stopped, shook her head, tried again. "It's beautiful. It's so beautiful."

Something in his expression eased, a crack in the armor he'd been wearing for days. "I thought… you would like it," he said, and his voice was a little unsteady.

She crossed the space between them in three quick steps and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest. "I love it. I love it."

His arms came around her, and she felt it, the release of tension, the way his whole body seemed to exhale. The grip of his arms was careful, still testing, but the rigid wall he'd built around himself was finally coming down.

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, a smile spreading across her face. "You're the best mate ever."

He went still.

The words hung in the air between them, and she caught the way his jaw tightened slightly, the way his breath caught for just a fraction of a second. His pupils dilated, just a little, and she saw the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed.

"You're the best mate ever," she repeated, softer this time, and she watched him process the word. Mate. His word. His language.

His hand found hers, his fingers closing around her smaller ones, and she felt the slight tremor in them, barely there, but unmistakable. He squeezed gently, and pulled softly at her hand.

"Come," he managed. "Sit with me."

She hesitated a moment.

"Bucky," she said slowly, "don't you want to shift first?"

He stopped, and she saw the brief flicker of uncertainty cross his face. His mouth opened, then closed. When he spoke, his voice was careful, measured.

"I thought... the idea was a date, as a human thing. I assumed you would prefer-"

She reached up, brushing her fingers along his jaw. "I prefer you. Whatever way you want to be tonight. The date isn't just for me, Bucky. It's supposed to be for us. Both of us. I want you to enjoy it too."

He stared at her, processing, and she watched the conflict play out across his features. Then, slowly, a spark of his usual confidence flickered back to life.

"In that case..."

His hands moved to the waistband of his jeans, his fingers finding the buckle with deliberate ease. His eyes never left hers, and there was something in his gaze now, a hint of the old Bucky, the one who knew exactly what he was worth.

She stepped forward, her own hands reaching for his. "Let me help."

His breath caught, just slightly, when her fingers brushed against his, taking over the task of undoing his belt. Then she worked the button free, tugged the zipper down, and let the denim fall. He stepped out of them, and she pushed the fabric aside with her foot.

"You're not just saying that to see me undress?" he murmured, and his voice was low, amused, a hint of the teasing she'd missed.

She laughed softly, her hands sliding up his chest as she pushed his t-shirt up. "One thing is not mutually exclusive from the other."

He hissed as the fabric cleared his shoulders, and she took the opportunity to press her mouth to the curve of his neck, just below his jaw. He tilted his head back, a low sound rumbling in his chest, and her fingers splayed across the warm skin of his torso, feeling the way his muscles tightened beneath her touch.

Then his hands were in her hair, tilting her face up to meet his, and when his mouth found hers, there was nothing careful about it.

This kiss was hungry, deep, the kind that stole breath and made her forget where she ended and he began. His tongue swept against her lower lip, and she opened for him without hesitation, pulling him closer, her fingers digging into the firm muscles of his back. He tasted like salt and something darker, something that was entirely him, and she let herself drown in it.

His hands slid down her sides, gripping her buttocks, pulling her flush against him, and she felt the heat of his body pressed against her through the thin fabric of her dress.

She whimpered against his mouth, and he answered with a low groan, his teeth grazing her lower lip before he soothed it with his tongue.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathless, his forehead rested against hers, his eyes still dark and heavy-lidded.

"Turn around," he said, his voice rougher now, quieter. "I don't want you to see."

She nodded, but before letting go, her hands slid down to the waistband of his boxers, her fingers hooking into the fabric. "These too," she murmured, “you aren’t a cartoon, and they are not cheap.”

He let out a low sound, almost a growl of surprise, as she slid them down his hips, working the fabric past his thighs until he stepped out of them. Her eyes dropped for just a moment -she couldn't help it- before he gently turned her, guiding her to face the wall. Then he pressed against her from behind.

His body was warm and solid against her back, one hand bracing against the stone beside her head, the other splayed across her hip. His mouth found her ear, breath hot against her skin.

"Now," he said, low and rough. "Stay like that."

She felt the word vibrate through her, felt the heat of his naked chest pressed against her, and for a moment, her body screamed at her to turn around, forget about the date entirely and just climb him like a tree. The thought made her fingers curl against the stone.

She took a breath, steadying herself.

Focus.

But his hand was still on her hip; he was still warm against her back, and the ghost of his breath still lingered at her ear.

It took everything she had to push those thoughts away, to remember that this moment -the cave, the lights, the blankets- was about more than just her wanting him.

She pressed her palms flat against the cool rock and waited.

Behind her, she heard him take a slow, steadying breath, and then he walked away.

Then the sounds began briefly after that. A sickening crack. Bone shifting, rearranging, finding a shape that wasn't meant to be seen. She flinched at the sound, her fingers pressing harder against the stone, and she heard him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.

He was trying to be quiet. She could tell. He was holding back the sounds he didn't want her to hear.

Another crack, wetter this time, followed by a low, gritted grunt that he couldn't quite swallow. Her eyes squeezed shut. She focused on the texture of the rock beneath her palms, on the rhythm of her own breathing, on anything but the sounds of his body pulling itself apart and putting itself back together.

Then came the soft, wet splash of his limbs meeting the stone floor. One, then another, and another after that, uncoiling into the water, the sound of suction cups releasing and reattaching as he adjusted to his true form.

"Okay," he said, and his voice was lower now, richer.

She turned slowly.

He was half in the water, his torso rising from the dark surface, and his limbs -black and blue and gleaming- curling around him in familiar, graceful arcs. The bioluminescence cast his features in soft blue light, shadows flickering across the angles of his face.

His chest was still heaving slightly, and she could see the fine sheen of sweat on his skin, the evidence of what the shift had cost him.

But he was looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and that look made everything else fall away.

She crossed the space between them, her hand reaching for his. He took it, and she let him guide her to the blankets, settling onto the soft fabric with him beside her.

The moment they were seated, his limbs moved with a quiet, possessive certainty. One curled around her waist, another wrapped loosely around her calf, and a third settled across her thighs, heavy and slightly moving. He pulled her closer without a word, and she felt herself relax into his hold, the tension of the past days finally beginning to ease.

Then his nose brushed against her throat. A slow, deliberate inhale. She felt the subtle graze of his lips against her skin, and a shiver traced down her spine.

Her hands found the Tupperware container, and she opened it, the scent of strawberries rising up between them. She pulled one out, holding it up to his mouth.

"Strawberries," she said softly. "You're so damn thoughtful," she added, and she watched a faint flush creep across his cheeks.

It wasn't obvious. Not like a human blush. But she'd learned to read him, to see the subtle shift in his skin, the way his gaze dropped for just a second. It made her heart squeeze.

He reached for the wine next, his fingers closing around the bottle. He examined it, turning it over once, his claws finding the cork. He pulled, once, and it slipped. A low grunt of frustration. He tried again, angling his claw differently, and this time it came free with a soft, satisfying pop.

He looked at the bottle, then at her, then at the cave around them.

"Didn't think of cups," he admitted, and there was something almost sheepish in his voice. Like he'd studied so hard and still forgotten something essential.

She smiled and pressed a kiss to his jaw. "It doesn't matter. I don't need cups. This-" she gestured at the cave, at the glowing water, at the blankets and the fruit and him, "this is more than I could have asked for. It's perfect."

His eyes searched hers, like he was trying to see if she meant it.

"Seriously," she added, and she let her gaze travel across the cave, watching the way the bioluminescence danced across the wet stone walls. The blue light rippled and shifted, casting moving shadows that made the cave feel alive. "It's beautiful. How did you do this?"

His chest rose and fell with a breath. "I found something I could give you," he said. "Something only I could do."

That was all he offered. No details.

She wanted to ask. She could see it in the slight tension in his limbs, the evidence of what the task had cost him. But if he didn't want to talk about it, she wouldn't push.

Because she knew him. Knew that if he wasn't bragging about the effort, it was because it had been more than he wanted to admit.

So she let it go.

----

He watched her take another strawberry from the box, observed the way her fingers closed around the soft red flesh, and he felt proud. His mate liked it. What he'd made. What he'd done. She'd called it beautiful, called it perfect, said she couldn't have asked for more.

She held the strawberry out to him, and he leaned forward, taking it from her fingers with his mouth. Her skin brushed his lips briefly, accidentally and electric. She smiled at him, with a knowing smile, and he felt the satisfaction washing away the exhaustion.

In his world, you didn't press food into someone's mouth and watch them taste it, didn't wait for their expression to shift with pleasure. Didn’t indulge. It was not necessary. It was, plainly worthless.

She took a sip from the wine bottle, her lips wrapping around the glass rim, and handed it to him. He lifted it to his own mouth, tasting the warmth, the faint sweetness that lingered where her mouth had been.

They talked. Nothing important. She asked about the human form again, about the things he'd learned to tolerate. He told her about shoes -how he still hated them, how they felt like cages for his feet- and she murmured soothingly at him, a sound that made his limbs curl tighter around her.

And beneath all the merriness, he could smell it.

Her arousal.

It was subtle, buried under the sweetness of the wine and the salt of the sea air. But it had been there since they kissed, building as the night wore on, a slow, steady heat that made his skin prickle and his thoughts scatter.

He tried to focus on her words. He really did. But his limbs, traitors that they were, had begun to move on their own. One slid higher up her thigh, the suction cups grazing her skin. Another curled around her waist, pulling her closer. He felt the heat of her body through the thin cloth, felt the way she yielded against him, and his jaw clenched.

This isn't how it goes.

He'd watched the movies. The humans in the restaurants, the candles and the wine and the careful rituals, or the walks in the park, or the theatre.

They didn't do what he wanted to do.

They sat across from each other, kept their hands visible, their bodies apart. They talked. They laughed. And when the male escorted the female to the door, maybe they kissed, and maybe they didn't.

But they didn't -he was fairly certain- get distracted by the taste of their mate's arousal while they were still eating.

He could feel his control slipping. His concentration, sharp and focused moments ago, was fracturing. He tried to pull his limbs back, to give her space, to remember the ritual she deserved.

But she shifted against him, and one of his suction cups brushed her inner thigh, and he couldn't. He couldn't.

His mind was spinning, caught between the Thal'kyr part of him that wanted nothing more than to pin her down and fuck her, and the part that wanted to prove he could do this right.

He opened his mouth, tried to form words, tried to remember what she'd been asking him-

"-ucky. Hey."

Her voice cut through the haze, and he blinked, focusing on her face. She was looking at him, her head tilted slightly, a small crease between her brows.

"Are you okay?" she asked, and the question was gentle, but there was something in her voice... concern?

His jaw worked.

"I..." he started, and stopped.

She shifted again, adjusting her position on the blankets, and the movement pressed her thigh more firmly against the limb that had been creeping upward. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her throat -barely a breath- but he heard it.

Felt it.

The last thread of restraint snapped.

"I want to have sex," he blurted. His eyes met hers, almost obligingly. "But that doesn't… happen on dates." He scowled, frustrated. "In the movies, they don't-"

She started laughing.

It wasn't cruel or mocking, and she pressed her hand to her mouth like she was trying to stop it. "Bucky," she said, and her voice was warm, amused, "maybe you watched a very vanilla catalogue of films. It depends on the movie."

He frowned at her, knitting his brow in confusion. "What do you mean, depends-”

She waved a hand, still smiling. "Let's just say-" She leaned closer, her hand finding his, her fingers curling around his, and she looked at him with a gaze that was anything but innocent. "Not all dates end with sex. But plenty do."

He stared at her. She was looking at him with those eyes, her scent curling around him, her hand warm in his, and he felt the last shred of his careful composure crumble.

"Plenty," he repeated, and the word came out rough, hungry.

"Plenty," she confirmed.

She lifted her free hand, counting on her fingers as she spoke. "You brought me to a beautiful place you prepared with care. We sat down. We ate. We drank. We talked."

Her free hand traced a slow, deliberate path across his chest, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

"I think the date already hit most of the steps." Her fingers splayed flat against his skin, warm and certain. "Which means we could easily move on to the part you're so interested in."

She leaned closer, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.

"With the added bonus that you don't have to walk me home."

He didn't speak.

Couldn't.

Because she was looking at him like that, her scent thick and sweet in his nostrils, her hand warm on his skin, and every thought he'd been trying to hold onto scattered like fish fleeing a net.

He'd done well. He'd provided. He'd created something beautiful, something she'd loved, and now she was offering herself to him in return.

And he was going to take what she offered.

His instincts took control.

His limbs moved before he could think.

They wrapped around her, lifting her body, arranging her. One curled around her waist, another supported her back, and a third slid beneath her thighs, spreading them apart as he settled her onto his lap. She gasped, and then she was straddling him, her hands finding his shoulders for balance, her eyes dark and wanting.

He didn't need to lie her down. His limbs could hold her exactly where he wanted her, could maneuver her however he pleased, could keep her suspended and open and completely at his mercy.

And he wanted her exactly like this.

"Bucky-" she breathed, and he could feel the way her thighs tightened around him, the way her fingers curled into his shoulders.

He smiled. Slowly.

"I like you here," he murmured, his hands finding her hips, guiding her closer. "Right where I want you."

His limbs shifted beneath her, adjusting her position, spreading her wider. He could feel the heat permeating through the thin fabric of her underwear, and the knowledge that she was already so ready for him made him groan.

But before he could do anything else, her hands slid from his shoulders down his chest, her fingers trailing over his skin slowly. She leaned forward, her mouth finding the curve of his neck, and then she bit down, just enough to make him hiss.

His grip on her hips tightened.

"All night," he said, his voice low and rough, "I've been wanting to touch you like this."

Her teeth grazed his skin again, and she ground down against him, shameless and wanting. "Then stop talking about it."

He gently fisted her hair, throwing back her head.

"Patience, mate."

His mouth found her throat, and he breathed her in, slow and deliberate, letting her scent flood his senses.

"Bucky…" she breathed, and her hands came up to frame his face.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, and the expression on his face was pure, unapologetic satisfaction.

"You smell so good," he said, his lips brushing her jaw. "You've been like this all night. I could smell you while we were eating." A low sound rumbled in his chest. "You wanted me the whole time."

She opened her mouth to respond, but he didn't let her.

His mouth covered hers, deep and possessive, and her hands tangled in his hair, tugging; her hips never stopping the grinding against him. His limbs moved with purpose now, one sliding the hem of her dress higher, another finding the edge of her underwear.

He didn't rush. He savored. Every inch of skin he uncovered, he tasted. Every sound she made, he cataloged.

When his mouth finally left hers, trailing down her throat, she gasped his name.

"Tell me," he murmured as his lips grazed her cleavage. "Tell me what you want."

"You know what I want," she breathed, almost whining. "I want you."

His teeth grazed her skin, just enough to make her gasp. "Good."

One of his limbs found its way under her panties, the suction cups grazing the sensitive skin, and she arched against him with a soft cry. He watched her face, watched the way her eyes fluttered, the way her lips parted as he teased her wet, little pearl. He was in control now. He had her exactly where he wanted her.

His mouth found her ear, his voice low and rough.

"Does this happen on dates?" he asked, and there was amusement in his tone now, a hint of the teasing that had always been there beneath the surface. "Does the male do this-" his limb pressed down in a soft, deliberate stroke against her entrance, and she gasped, "-and the woman still eats?"

He pulled back to look at her face, heated and wanting, and he felt pure, unapologetic, masculine smugness.

"Because I don't remember seeing that," he continued, his teeth grazing her lower lip, "in any of the ones you showed me."

She chuckled, breathless, her hands tugging his hair hard enough to make him groan. "Told you, it depends on the movie."

His limb pressed higher, more insistent now, and she moaned against his mouth, her hips rolling desperately against him. Her hands slid down his chest, across his stomach, and he felt her fingers brush against the slit where his cock was still concealed. He grabbed her wrist and removed her wandering hand, with a hiss.

Not yet

"Then I think," he murmured against her lips, "you're going to have to show me that movie later."

His mouth found hers again, hungrier this time, and the rest of his limbs moved with purpose. One slid her dress higher, bunching the fabric around her hips. Another found the edge of her underwear, and started to tug it down with unhurried precision.

His free hand found the strap of her dress, dragging it down her shoulder with more patience than the rest of him seemed to possess. When her breast came free, he didn't reach for it right away, just looked at it, the way she'd looked at the glowing pools. Then his palm covered it, squeezing as a separate limb, uninvited, curled up along her sides to join it, sliding down the fabric covering her other breast, the ring of suction cups closing gently around her nipple.

She gasped at the double sensation -warm palm, cool pull-  and he made a low sound, pleased with himself.

She was so wet. Of course she was. He'd been smelling it all night, had been tasting it in the air between them. But feeling it -feeling the slick heat of her against his suction cups- made something feral rise up in his chest.

"All night," he murmured against her skin, his lips trailing down her throat again, "you were like this. While you ate. While you talked to me." His teeth grazed her collarbone.

She opened her mouth, but whatever she'd been about to say dissolved into a moan as a suction cup of the limb between her thighs closed over her sensitive pearl and pulled.

"So desperate," he said, and his voice was low, rough. "Even when you were eating strawberries and pretending you weren't thinking about this."

She tried to shake her head, but he wasn't having it.

"Don't lie to me, mate," he murmured. "I can always smell it on you. When you want me to take you. When you want my limbs tasting your body. When you want my heavy seed dripping down your delectable thighs."

His limb teased her, sucking and pushing inside, and he reveled in the way her body arched into his touch, the way her hands found his shoulders, the way she moaned his name.

And then, when she was trembling, when her breath was coming in short, little gasps, almost there-

He stopped.

She made a sound of protest, her eyes flying open, and he smiled at her, knowingly.

"Bucky-"

"I want to feel you come around my cock." he said, and his voice was gentle but firm.

He hadn’t let his shaft free on purpose, forcing himself to wait, so as not to end things too fast even if he craved it. Now it was time, so he finally let his concealing slit relax, and his poor, aching shaft pulsed free against her skin.  

He knew she felt it, heavy and throbbing against her belly, and shamelessly rubbed it up and down, wetting her sensitive skin, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You want it?" he asked, as he lifted her with his limbs, grabbing his cock and teasing her folds.

She just nodded. Couldn't speak.

He pressed his tongue against a fang and pushed into her, slowly as always, and observed her face as she took him. The way her lips parted, the way her eyes widened, the way her body yielded to him inch by inch. When he was fully seated inside her, he paused, letting her adjust.

"Fuck," she breathed.

He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath warm against her skin. "You feel so good."

He pulled back slowly, then pushed in again, and the sound she made -low, desperate- made his jaw clench.

"So perfect," he said, and his voice was rougher now. "My mate. My perfect mate."

She ground her hips against him, trying to take him deeper, to get friction, and he nipped her below her jaw.

"You like it?" he asked, finding a slow, deep rhythm. "You like me inside you?"

She nodded, breathless, and he smiled.

"I would usually ask you for words, mate. But since this is a special occasion, I’m not pushing you tonight," he murmured against her skin.

He started to move faster, harder, his limbs wrapped around her, holding her in place as he thrust up into her, teasing her little bundle of nerves with his limbs.

She was gasping, trembling, her fingers digging into his shoulders, and then he felt her starting to clench around him.

"Bucky-" she gasped.

"I know," he said. "I can feel you. I can feel you getting close."

He shifted the angle, pushing deeper still, and she cried out.

"I've got you, mate. I want to feel it. I want to feel what I do to you." He declared, the tip of a limb rubbing mercilessly against her clit as he fucked her.

She shattered around him with a cry, her body clenching, and he followed her over the edge, thrusting once, twice, before stilling and coming with a low, guttural groan.

For a long moment, he stayed there, buried inside her, his limbs wrapped around her, his face against her throat. His breathing was ragged, and he could feel her heart racing beneath his palm.

"Ok, that was-" she started, but she couldn't finish.

He smiled, satisfied.

"I know," he said.

He pulled out slowly, and she made a soft sound of protest. He felt a surge of warmth at the sound, at the way she still wanted him even now.

He settled behind her, his limbs curling around her, pulling her close. He pressed a kiss to her temple, and she sighed, pressing her back into his chest.

"That was a good date," he said after a moment, and she laughed, soft and tired.

"The best date ever." She conceded.

He felt his chest expand with something he couldn't quite name at the praise. Something deep and old.

"So I did good?" he heard himself ask anyway, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable.

She turned a little in his grasp to face him, her body still pressed against his, her limbs tangled with his. Her hands lifted, finding the line of his jaw, tracing along its edge before sliding down to his throat, that sensitive spot where she knew he loved to be touched.

He shivered, his eyes fluttering half-closed at the sensation.

"What do you think?" she murmured, her thumbs stroking slow circles along the column of his neck.

Her touch was deliberate, knowing, and he felt himself relax into it despite the question still hanging between them.

"I think," she continued, her voice soft, "you brought me to a place you made beautiful. You bring strawberries, the first food we shared. You gave me wine. You talked to me." Her thumb brushed over his pulse point. "You made me feel like I mattered."

He opened his mouth, but one of her hands reached his semi-hard shaft, giving it a playful squeeze, and he groaned, his hips jerking involuntarily into her grip.

"And then," she said, a small smile curving her mouth, "you proceeded to remind me exactly why you're the only one I want."

He felt the damn heat in his cheeks and knew he had blushed like an inexperienced pup. He found himself leaning into her touch like a creature starved for it, his eyes half-lidded, his breath coming in slow, uneven pulls.

"So yes," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You did good. You did so good."

He didn't answer. Couldn't. Instead, his hands and limbs started to wander along her body, fingers tracing the curve of her hip, suction cups grazing the soft skin of her lower back, other limbs curled around her thighs. He pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in, and let himself feel the weight of her words in a language that didn't require saying things aloud.

Your silence says more than any response could. The driver chuckles and opens the door. He pulls down the stool even as you protest it isn’t needed. He helps you inside by your elbow and you thank him.

“Be calm, lady, and I will have us to Mr. Clement’s by midday.” He avows.

“As you will have us. Take the road safety, is all I would bid, sir.” You settle into the bench and stack your hands in your lap.

The Lady Duchess, Diana Sombrette, would speak to Giles in a bolder tone, with impatience in her teeth. As she does all who do her bidding and even those who do not. She has little patience or pity for those who cannot meet her measure.

You cannot resent your place very much. It keeps you a palette to sleep and food in your belly. As meagre as both may be, they are preferable to none. You also cannot gripe for a task outside the castle walls, as oppressive as they are.

Giles takes his seat at the front of the carriage and puts the horses to trot. You rock with the motion of the axle. Mister Clement is not much more amiable than the Duchess. You do not relish even a brief rapport with the tailor.

The driver whistles and the willowy tune puts you at ease. You lean over to see past the curtains to the rows of trees and a cluster of brush beyond. The shadows of creatures unknown pass between the trunks and crack twigs and fallen branches beneath their paws.

The forests are a mysterious place. Treacherous. The noble claim right to them as their hunting and game grounds, while other less regarded figures trespass, hidden in caves and ravines as they plot against the proclaimed keepers. You shiver and try not to think of those tales, instead catching the white tail of a hare as it retreats from the clatter of the carriage.

You laze in the soft canter of the horses, barely noticing as they slow. It’s only as the uneven melody of the driver’s lips quiets that you break from your trance. You sit up as the rustle of branches and leaves fills the silence Giles grunts.

“What is the meaning of–”

Thunk! Something hits the side of the carriage and you wince as you notice the piercing point lodged through the upper corner. The arrow head stares you down as you clutch your hands over your heart. It cannot be!

“We have no conflict with you, sir,” a voice proclaims. “But with the lady within.”

“The lady… no, no, yer mistaken,” Giles insists.

“Are we? Is that not the duchess’ sigil upon those wheels? Hm? Painted by those hands she enslaves for her selfish needs.” The voice accuses again.

“They are, but the lady is back at the castle.” Giles insists.

“So you steer an empty carriage? How ridiculous.”

“I am on the duchess’ mission. I needn’t explain to you lot of scoundrels–”

Another startling thump lurches the carriage. The blade of a knife pokes through the other side of the wall. You gulp.

“We don’t wan’ harm you, fellow. You are only as we are. Crushed beneath the greed of that vile duchess.” The man continues. “We only ask that you step down and surrender your cargo.”

“I cannot do that–”

“We would not like to hurt you, but will if needed.” The voice sinks in warning. “We permit you one last chance.”

“I am done with you vermin!” Giles sneers and the reins snap. The horses jolt forward and the carriage bounces. The wheels turn one spin before they catch and something cracks. You fly from the bench and hit the parallel one before heaping onto the floor.

Giles cries out as you hear his body hit the dirt. You heave out a tight breath and gasp. Your body is paralysed as you struggle to breathe through the pain in your ribs.

“It didn’t have to be this way,” a grittier voice cuts through the chaos without and you hear a terrible slice and groan.

Footsteps clamour around the carriage as you rock and fight to sit up. When you find the strength to, the door opens from the other side. You cry out and kick your heels down, pushing yourself back. The door behind you swings out and you’re seized, hauled out into the open air.

“We’ve got her!” The men proclaim.

There’s a cheer from the dozen other bodies closing in on you. Your eyes flit back and forth as panic swirls in your vision. Your gaze clings to the body on the ground. Poor Giles is face down, a puddle of blood spreading through the dirt. Your stomach drops and your legs buckle.

 Several of the men part to let through a man in a wool cap and tattered grey clothing. He holds an axe as he walks with unbreakable pride in his shoulders. Your tremble as the edge of the tool glistens scarlet.

He stares you down as you wilt and wriggle against the two men clinging to your arms. He sighs and blinks slowly. He keeps his eyes closed.

“It is not her.” He hisses.

“It has to be! She was within. There is no other–”

“The driver was honest.” The man opens his eyes, irises icy blue. “I know the duchess. And she would never wear an apron of the sort.” He grips his hips. “She must suspect our plot.”

The men exchange looks and grumble.

“What do we do?” Another asks; the one who spoke to Giles earlier. “Let her go?”

“No. We cannot. It would only give the duchess more suspicion.” The man in the grey wool, the one you assume to be their leader, grits. “We keep her. Use her. She will know the duchess and her life. Perhaps she will afford us our next chance.”

“Hm, suppose that makes sense.” The other man responds thoughtfully.

“No one…” the leader raises his finger and comes forward. “Is to touch her.” He growls as he approaches you and waves off the men beside you. “I will get the information we need.”

🪓

The man walks you between the trees on a short length of rope. One end is wound around your wrists, the other in his grip as he tugs you along. The other men walk in pairs, whispering, watching the trees as they make cautious progress.

You keep your head down and stare at your thumbs. Your skirt catches on thorns and brambles and your soft-soled shoes slip on roots and moss. Several times the man yanks you as you slow to avoid falling.

He leads you down a steep ridged decline and at the bottom, you find a sight that strikes you. Tents set up on the flat of the ravine, a few women peeking out from the flaps with feral eyes. One emerges and sheaths a long dagger at her waist.

“Edgar,” she greets the man who did most of the talking back at the carriage. She rushes toward him then slows as she sees you next to the other man. She frowns. “What’s happened?”

“It wasn’t the duchess.” He says grimly as he squeezes the woman’s arm.

“Then…?” The woman prompts.

“We’ll figure it out,” the man at the other end of the rope snips and pulls you forward.

He drags you past the other women as they emerge; a few with children on their hips or behind their skirts. The man tugs you forward and grabs the back of your neck. He forces your head under the tent flap of the structure at the very rear of the settlement.

He points to the ground. “Sit.”

You obey. He gets down on his knees and winds the loose end of the robe around your ankles. You watch him without a word.

“You are the duchess’ sheep.” He accuses as he stands.

You lower your head. His soles scuff the ground. He grabs the waterskin slung around his torso and loosens the top. He drinks and hums. He tightens the tie on it and paces around.

“Maid.” He states.

“Yes.” You murmur.

“Close to her then.” He mulls as he brings his hand up to his chin. You peek up at the movement and find his cold eyes on you. You quickly drop your head again. “She’s lost a driver. Won’t want to lose you too.”

You chew your cheek. You’re not certain for that. The duchess dismissed Talula for bringing the wrong wine and the stable boy for kicking up dirt as she passed.

He walks a small circle, stops, then squats down in front of you. He rests his forearms on his knees.

“Look at me.” He snarls.

You look up as you shiver. “Sir.”

“Tell me everything.”

You scrunch up your nose in confusion.

“Tell me about what the duchess does in a day. Tell me when she pisses, when she eats, when she sleeps. Tell me everything you know.” He reaches to his belt and frees the axe, pointing it at your nose. “Believe me when I tell you, I can smell a lie before it’s told.”

You gulp. “I understand,” you wisp out. “I… I will be honest.”

He turns the axe and presses it to your chest. “Good woman.”

🪓

You sleep on the ground, as you have for nights past. You don’t count them. Knowing won’t help you. You shiver in the corner, wrists and ankles bound so you can only lay in a ball.

You groan as you shift. There is no comfort to be had; not waking, not sleeping. Two times a day, the bonds are loosed so you may go into the trees to relieve yourself. A woman called Ursula watches you with her blade out. Then you are led back. You are fed a handful of nuts and sometimes burnt barley.

There is no use in complaint. You are afraid but there is nothing this man could do or say to assuage that. You told him all you could but he did not seem happy for it; if that is an emotion he would know. Since, he has said little. You haven’t either.

“Curtis,” a whisper comes from without.

That’s his name. You’ve heard a few say it. He sniffs and rolls over on his bedroom. He sits up, axe already in hand. You watch his shadow.

“Ed,” he greets the man through the flap. The soft dwindling dusk pores through the small gap.

“Today. The horsemen ready.”

Curtis grunts.

“There is a feast. The duchess will go. Along with the rest of those heathens.” Edgar explains in a coarse hush.

Curtis nods. “Six men.”

“Six?” Edgar sounds surprised.

“More than enough,” Curtis assures and drops the flap back.

He turns and goes back to his bedroom. He doesn’t lay down. He lights a stub of tallow with the scratch of flint. He pulls out a whetstone and works on the edge of his axe, the shink of his sharpening making you twitch.

“You’ll come too.” He says bluntly. “I’m certain your mistress misses her sheep.”

🪓

A different man holds the rope. You perch at the foot of the trees as you watch the line of men snake through the brush and hide in the ditch at the edge of the beaten road. You’re exhausted, so much so that even your adrenaline can’t keep your head from nodding. The endless coursing of fear has drained you of all strength and hope.

Your eyes droop and your head wobbles until you hear it. A noise so distant it could have been as simple as a bird flapping through the leaves. But then it keeps going. The steady grind of wheels grows closer and closer, pebbles pouncing beneath the wooden frames, dirt mulching louder than it should.

The man next to you tenses. You look down at the ditch. You cannot see the men as they hide beneath a criss cross of overgrown weeds and vines. They are clever. It must be how they surprised Giles before. 

And left him dead.

The horses’ hooves thunder nearer and the call of a bird goes up. All at once, you realise the squawk came from the throat of a man. Guards appear first. The duchess must have heeded the previous carriage’s fate. The bandits are methodic in their attack. Their arrows aimed in the gap above halberd or exposed beneath the under arm.

The soldiers wail and fall from their saddles, their horses stampeding forward. That is until they notice the large rocks across the road, arranged there by the attackers. They rear and kick up, neighing in fear.

The bandits hurl up ropes tipped with iron hooks as the carriage comes into sight. Two stand and shoot their arrows that embed in the wood.

The driver panics and rolls off the bench. You know him; his name is Rhys. He stumbles over the side of the carriage as the horses keep running. The bandits tie the ropes to trees and the carriage lurches to a halt entirely. The roof splits from the tension of its bounds. You clutch your damp skirts and stare foggily as the scene plays out.

“Come, your time is now.” The man wrenches you up as the bandits hurry onto the road, checking the men writhing on the ground. If they are not dead, the bandits make sure of it.

There’s a shriek from within the carriage. 

“Around, around!” Edgar hollers.

Two of the men hurry around as the door on the opposite side opens, swaying the vehicle. There is another fearful shout. You’ve never heard the duchess so terrified.

The man jerks you down the incline and through the ditch. Diana continues her struggle as she is restrained by Edgar. Curtis stands before her calmly as you’re dragged up onto the road.

“You!” She snarls as her green eyes flash. “I should’ve known it was you, you vile rat.”

“Shhhh,” Curtis hushes her as he raises his axe to his lips and walks forward.

The duchess retracts against Edgar and whines. “Who are you, scoundrel?”

He hushes her again and pushes the blunt top of the axe to her mouth. “I’ve come to make a barter. A generous one as what you’ve taken cannot be repaid.”

“What do you–”

“If I must quiet you again, I will have your tongue in my purse.” He warns. The duchess’ scoffs as her face contorts in fear. “Now, my terms are not imbalance. You will have your maid returned to you. You may even keep your horses and your carriage. But that will be all.” He turns the blade slowly in front of her face. “And you will ride and ride and ride until you cannot any further. But you will not come back here.”

Her nostrils flare and her lip curls.

“And you will not return. Ever. If I see your face again, I will do worse than what your men did to my people.” He sneers. “I will burn you alive but you will not die of it. You will live with it. For days, weeks, possibly months… and your flesh will rot away and you still will not know of the pain you’ve caused me and mine.” He declares, his hand shaking on his axe. “And we will claim what we need. The castle, the kitchens, the barrels you hoard, the rooms kept empty for your pride.” He pushes the axe against her chest. “Am I understood?”

The duchess rolls her eyes. “Kill the maid, see if I care.”

Curtis’ eyes narrow. His lashes dip down and he bows his head. He backs up and signals.

“Grab the pitch.” He commands.

“Pitch?” Diana squeals. “You cannot– you must unhand me– the King will have your heads.”

“Not if I have his first.” Curtis retorts. “But I’ll settle for yours.”

He spins and approaches another man with a pail in hand. He trades his axe for it and looks into it. He carries it to the duchess. It’s steaming.

“You have your men go out and fight your battles so you would not know what pitch smells like. You would not know how it covers the flesh of a man and slowly suffocates him. How he can remain alive for such a time and suffer and suffer.” He tilts his head. “But you will learn. Slowly.”

He raises the bucket as Edgar forces the Duchess to her knees. She cries out and claws at his hands. Curtis holds the pail over her.

“You will not want it to get in your eyes. For what is worse than burning from the outside in, being blind as you do.” He slowly tips the bucket and you close your eyes. The duchess screeches as you hear a sizzle so sickly you fall to your knees. You cover your face with your bound hands and shudder. In her fate, you only see your own.

🪓

The pressure drains from your hands. You open your eyes as the burning smell stains your tongue and soul. You shake as you blink away the shock and stare at your loose wrists. A hand with black trimmed nails winds up the rope.

You look at Curtis as the men move behind him, inspecting the carriage, reining in the horses.

“Is it my turn?” You ask.

His brows tweak and his lashes flutter. “Your…” he begins.

You look at the axe on his belt. He hooks the rope beside it. “What good is your death?” He growls. “Cruel enough she would throw you to us wolves.”

He stands and claps his hands on his jacket.

“What… what do I do?” You ask as you look around.

“Did I say you were free?” He challenges. You stay on your knees. “You know our faces, our names, where we eat and sleep. You cannot go but you don’t have to die.”

He spins away and calls to Edgar. The other men continue to strip down the carriage and search the purses of the soldiers in the dirt. You look over it all. You don’t want to die but you don’t know if you want to live either.

🪓

You walk with the bandits back to camp. Ahead of you, Curtis leads the way, at the rear, Edgar keeps the line moving. As you get to the decline, you lower yourself to make your way down. Your foot slips and you slide over the jutting rocks and roots that make the footholds.

You’re caught by your sleeve. You plant your foot and look up as Curtis clings to you. He steadies you then lets go. You continue down as he trails you.

Ursula greets her husband, Neil, and Edgar finds his wife, Joan, and their daughter, Gwen. The other men disperse to return to their tents. There are two missing. The ones who were bid to take the duchess back to her castle. You can still hear her senseless whimpers.

You peer around. You don’t know what to do. You don’t belong here. You go to the smoking pit and sit in the dirt. You stare at the embers.

You stay like that for a while. Ursula appears with her mussed and pot in hand. You quickly look away.

“My husband says you will stay with us.” She hangs the pot over the pit and stokes it.

“I guess.” You agree weakly.

She nods and hums. “There are some women, you might have seen them. The sisters Martin. They were nuns but… we were all once someone else. They might have space in their tent.”

“I thank you.” You say.

“Hm. If you give me your name, you can share the soup.” She offers.

You look at her. You recite the name that doesn’t feel like yours.

She feeds you as you stay where you are. Others come to warm their food and fill their bellies. You are a ghost among them. Children chase each other between that fire and the next.

Dusk sets in and you shiver. You should get up and find those nuns. You can’t.

The moon shimmers down as the fire dwindles. You lower your head and bend over your knees.

“You cannot sleep here. There are real wolves.” Curtis startles you as his shadow blocks out the moonlight. You look up at him. “My tent remains… open to you.”

“That is kind.” You say.

You rub your hands together and blow into them. You hug your bent knees, tucking your fingers under them. He sighs and circles the pit.

“I’m not asking.” He says.

You swallow. You take a deep breath. You can’t move, not right away. He waits. You shift onto your knees and press your hands to the dirt. You stand stiffly.

He approaches and you shy away. He catches your wrist. You quiver but do not draw away. He walks you away from the fire and between the tents.

Your eyes wander and as you pass Ursula’s tent, you spy her by a torch propped out of the dirt. She watches you and lifts her chin in acknowledgement. Curtis drags you to his tent and pushes you under the flap.

It’s different. There are blankets piled over soft mounds. You have seen that embroidery before. These come from the Duchess’ inventory.

“You need purpose. I took that from you.” He says as he slides his axe free from his belt. He places it on a pillow. He stands straight and undoes his belt completely. He locks it inside the hide chest next to the heap of bedding. “So, I have thought on it. You will have new purpose.”

He stands again and undoes the wooden buttons on his jacket. You stand and rock near the tent flap. He peels off the jacket and folds it over the chest. He tugs the back of his tunic and strips it off too, revealing the dark hair that trims his torso.

When he straightens again, he pauses to look at you. He crosses the small space and grabs the braided end of your belt. He unknots it as he stares at you. You watch the apple of his throat.

“It is cold in the night.” He tosses the belt away and pinches the slack fabric of your dress. “But you are warm and I’ve not been in some years.” His hands stretch around your waist. “Do you see your purpose now?”

Your lip trembles and you squirm.

Gandalf, for his part, had been looking at the treeline to the east with the focused, private expression he wore when he was doing calculations he wasn't going to share the working of.

"I know of a place. Not far. It will serve as shelter." He paused, with the quality of a man who is considering whether to include the next piece of information and deciding, pragmatically, that he has to. "Our host may not welcome visitors, but I know his ways. Follow me, and stay close."

"Our host?" Dwalin said, with the flat, pointed delivery of a dwarf identifying something that required unpacking.

"Yes," Gandalf said, and walked east, and the company followed, because with Gandalf there was always the choice between following and finding out the hard way why you should have followed, the company had been acquainted with the wizard long enough to have a strong collective preference.

You fell into step between Bofur and Bilbo. "What kind of host is a host who might not welcome visitors?" you said, keeping your voice low.

"Someone who lives alone for good reasons," Bofur said, with the calm of a man making peace with a situation in real time.

"That's not—" you started.

"No," Bofur agreed. "It isn't, no."

You looked at the treeline Gandalf was moving toward. At the east, where whatever Bilbo had seen was, presumably, still being large and moving. At Gandalf's back, the hurried pace of him that somehow always stayed ahead of the people moving at full speed behind him.

You moved faster. Kept up. Didn't say the things you were thinking, because the things you were thinking weren't useful and the running was about to start and you needed your breath for the running.

It had a different quality from the goblin tunnels—less enclosed, less dark, more open terror, the kind that comes with having a clear line of sight to the thing behind you and being able to make an accurate assessment of how fast it was moving and how fast you were moving and what the differential between these two facts was. The shape that came through the trees behind you was—large, in the way Bilbo had meant, in the way that the word large stopped being adequate description and started being simple understatement, and it moved with a speed and a purpose that made the base of your spine go very cold.

The cottage appeared from nowhere—from behind a screen of tall trees that the path broke through so suddenly that the transition from forest to open ground and then the sight of the building happened almost simultaneously. It was enormous. Not Rivendell-enormous, not the architectural grandeur of stone towers and carved arches—enormous in the way of something built for a person who might possibly be a different size, the doorframe taller than any door you'd seen in this world, the proportions of everything slightly too large, the effect slightly vertiginous. A working farm-house, built heavy and solid and real, with animals visible even from the outside—the shape of horses in a paddock, the sound of something large moving in a barn.

Gandalf was already at the door. The company pressed through it in rapid succession, and you went with them, and the door swung shut behind the last of you—Nori, who had the wild-eyed look of a man who had been running directly away from something and was now very focused on the door remaining closed.

The sound outside grew.

Then passed, diminished.

The company breathed.

"Well," Gandalf said, with the equanimity of a man who had not been as worried as everyone else, or had been worried in a different way and was not going to discuss either option. "Here we are."

"Here we are," Dwalin repeated, with a quality of feeling that the words did not technically contain. He looked around the interior of the enormous house—the high rafters, the long tables built to a scale that made the dwarves look like they were sitting in a child's play-house, even more so then the realms of men, the central hearth with its fire, the general sense of a home that was lived in by someone considerably larger than anyone present. "Who lives here?"

"He is called Beorn," Gandalf said. "He is something not unlike a man , he is a skin-changer—he takes the form of a great bear at will, or the bear takes his form. I am not entirely clear on which way round it goes." A pause in which Gandalf received the full collective expression of fourteen people who felt this clarification had opened more questions than it had closed.

"He is—complicated," Gandalf added. "but he will not harm you here, under his own roof, if you behave with reasonable courtesy."

"Was that him," you said. "Outside ?"

"Almost certainly," Gandalf said.

You stood with this information for a moment. Looked at the door. At the fire. At the high, solid rafters. "Right," you said.

"You're taking that very calmly," Bilbo observed, from beside you.

"I'm really, really not," you said, your voice climbing in bith pitch and panic. "I've just got a limited amount of panic available and I'm trying to be strategic about it rather then just handing it out willy-nilly."

Bilbo looked at you with the specific expression of a hobbit who found this approach both understandable and slightly alarming, and handed you something from his pocket, which turned out to be a piece of dried fruit, and you ate it, and felt marginally better.

The company looked at the walls of the house, at the enormous dimensions of everything—the table that ran along the far wall, the chairs around it, the ceiling crossbeams and did the arithmetic of what that implied about the size of the person who lived here, and nobody said anything, which was its own form of response.

You were not, in all honesty, listening particularly closely to the second half of Gandalf's speech.

You were watching the door to the left of the main entrance, where a large brown dog had appeared from somewhere and was sitting on the threshold looking at the company with the patient, evaluating attention of an animal deciding whether the new arrivals warranted concern or interest, and your entire nervous system had reached a conclusion without consulting your brain.

The dog looked at you. Its tail moved.

"Hey buddy," you said, quietly.

Its tail moved more.

You had always liked animals. This was not news to the company, who had watched you with Sebastian, with Mindy, with Radagast's rabbits, and who had catalogued this quality of yours with the particular fond attention of people who found it telling. But this house offered the specific, overwhelming delight of someone who had been given a very large present and was having trouble deciding where to begin with it.

The dog—who was enormous and warm and apparently decided within thirty seconds that you were acceptable—was followed, once the company had moved to the table and the process of eating had begun, by a cat that appeared from behind a storage chest and sat near your feet with the composed attention of a cat that had made a unilateral decision about you. Then a goat who had wandered from somewhere and who you fed a handful of dried hay from near the wall, an offering which was accepted with the casual entitlement of an animal accustomed to being catered to.

The food was—a lot. Beorn's table was set with the quantities appropriate for a man who either had very large portions himself or cooked by the rule that more was better than less. Bread of a weight and density that could have served a practical structural purpose. Cheese in quantities that Bombur looked at with the eyes of a dwarf who was genuinely overwhelmed by the abundance available.

Honey in enormous clay pots, with a quality and depth to it that suggested the bees in the rafters were not merely decorative. Cream, butter, various things pickled and preserved.

The company ate. This was not a surprise—the company ate at every available opportunity, with the thoroughness of people who had learned not to take provision for granted. You ate less than your share because you were occupied.

The dog had been joined by a second dog. The second dog had been joined by the cat, who had changed its position to the bench beside you and was now sitting with its front feet folded under it in the loaf position, purring with a consistency that suggested this was its natural mode of existence. The goat had found someone else to interest it and been replaced by a small brown chicken who appeared from nowhere with the decisive confidence of a chicken who lived here and considered the table area it's personal territory.

"You have not touched your food Lass" Balin said, from across the table.

"I'm getting to it," you said, breaking off a piece of bread and offering it to the larger of the two dogs, who took it with enormous, gentle delicacy.

"Getting to it and feeding it to the animals are not the same activity," Balin said.

"I'm doing both," you said. "Multitasking."

"The dogs are," Balin said, with the deliberate patience of a dwarf selecting his words, "extremely large and perfectly capable of feeding themselves."

"They're very sweet," you said.

The cat beside you shifted and pressed its head against your arm.

"That's a cat," Balin said, "not a dog."

"I know it's a cat, Balin, I can tell the difference—"

"And it has cream on the table right in front of it which it has been ignoring entirely in favour of sitting next to you."

"It's friendly," you said.

Balin made the sound he made when he had more to say and was exercising considerable restraint about not saying it, and returned to his food.

You attempted genuine effort. You ate the bread—the whole piece, without sharing it—a portion of the cheese and some of the preserves, and you were making progress on a second piece of bread when the larger dog put his enormous head in your lap and looked up at you with the expression dogs produced when they wanted something and had correctly identified the most effective angle of approach.

You looked at the bread. At the dog. At Balin, who was watching you and knew exactly what was about to happen and had already decided how he felt about it.

"Don't" Balin said.

You gave the dog the bread.

Balin stood up from his chair, came around the table with the deliberateness of someone who had a plan and was executing it, and took gentle but entirely firm hold of your arm. "Up," he said.

"I'm eating—"

"You have been feeding the livestock for the last twenty minutes while your bowl goes cold." He guided you, with the patient, inexorable authority of a dwarf who was not going to be argued with, away from the table and from the very large dog and toward the end of the bench nearest the fire, where a smaller bowl had been set and which was notably located in an area with fewer animals. "Sit. Eat. Properly."

"They were hungry," you said.

"They live here," Balin said. "They are fed daily. Quite generously, from the looks of them." He sat down beside you with the settled authority of a person positioning himself to ensure compliance. "Kiyanê, would you please eat." Balin said, with the specific, slightly exasperated affection of someone who had said the word before they'd decided to say it.

"What does that mean?" you said.

He was quiet for a moment. "Eat your food," he said, and applied himself to his own bowl with focused attention.

You looked at him sideways for a moment, at the pink that had appeared, very faintly, above his white beard. "Balin."

"It's Khuzdul," he said, to his food. "A term of—it is— it's considered a form of address." He cleared his throat. "Finish the bread."

You finished the bread. And the rest of the bowl. And a portion of the cheese that Kíli was attempting to claim from the far end of the table until you transferred a significant share of your excess across to him and Fíli, who both received this redistribution with the cheerful efficiency of dwarves who were never going to refuse additional food regardless of how it arrived.

Across the table, one of the dogs had found its way back to the bench you'd vacated and was looking at your old seat with the resigned acceptance of an animal who had missed their moment.

You looked at it.

Balin put his hand over yours in the firm, preemptive way of someone blocking a move before it was made.

"Try it," he said. "And I'll bind your hands and feed you myself."

The evening settled over the house—gradually, softly, each wave of activity quieting into the next, the company winding down from the day's accumulated adrenaline toward the exhaustion that followed fear and its accompanying spirit across the countryside.

Dwaves went down along the wall of the main hall where the floor was cleanest and the fire was warmest. The animals distributed themselves through the space with the casual territorial competence of creatures who knew where they liked to sleep and weren't particularly concerned about the temporary guests.

The large dog had claimed a spot near the fire with the immovable confidence of an animal who had done this every night for years and saw no reason to change now. The cat had returned to the bench and showed no sign of relocating.

You'd settled near Balin, the arrangement having become almost default without either of you having to decide it was. He had the small leather-bound ledger out, the one he carried in the inner pocket of his coat, and the candle between you threw a warm, intimate circle of light across the open page.

"From the supply account," Balin said. "Date, contents, usage. I'll dictate."

You produced the stub of charcoal you'd been using for writing since early in the journey—you'd progressed through several of them, and Ori had begun handing them over without being asked, which was one of the small, specific kindnesses you'd accumulated and didn't know how to account for—you held it ready over the page.

"Provisions at entry," Balin said, and you wrote it. "Bread, preserved meat, cheese, honey, cream. Status at exit—" He paused, checking his internal accounting. "Significantly replenished."

You wrote it into the neat columns on the page.

"Injuries minor. Óin has confirmed nothing requiring extended treatment. The—" He paused again. "List your bite."

"I'd rather not,"

"It should be in the record," Balin said.

"It's almost entirely healed," you said.

"Nevertheless write it down."

You wrote it. Balin watched your handwriting with the expression he'd developed for it—initially skeptical of the modern letterforms, then resigned to them, then, over the course of several weeks, developing what you suspected was a private appreciation for the speed and consistency of them even if he'd never say so.

"Equipment losses," he continued. "Eleven packs, left in the tunnels. Replace at next opportunity." He paused. "Your pack."

"And Bilbo's"

"And Master Baggins'," he agreed. "Though he carries rather less than the rest, so the urgency is—"

"Still urgent," you said. "He needs a pack."

"Noted," Balin said, with the mild, patient tone of a man noting something he admired in your tone and the growing firmness in it. "And yours."

"And mine," you agreed. "Though I don't have much to carry."

"You have your oily stuff from that brown wizard"

"His name is Radagast and its in my pocket." You said with mild reproach.

"And approximately everything else you own is—gone," Balin said, and the matter-of-factness of it had a quality underneath it, a small, specific weight, that he immediately managed back into his professional register. "We'll see what can be done at the next stop."

You wrote the last entry and set the charcoal down and looked at the page, at the neat column of dates and events and items, the ongoing record of a journey in Balin's careful dictation and your modern hand.

You looked at your hand. At the page. Then, without particularly deciding to, you turned your hand sideways, made a fist, and held it out toward Balin.

He looked at it, at you, back to the fist.

"What are you doing ?" he said.

"It's a—here." You took his hand, folded it into a fist, and brought it to meet yours in the middle, knuckle to knuckle. The small, hollow knock of it.

"Fist bump"

Balin looked at the point of contact. Then at you. Then back at the point of contact, with the expression of a dwarf conducting an investigation into an unfamiliar cultural artefact and reserving final judgment. "Why ?" he said.

"It's—it's like a handshake, but—"

"Then why not a just have a handshake?"

"It's more—it's casual. Friendly. You do it when something good has happened or when you want to acknowledge someone without making a big deal of it."

Balin continued looking at the knuckle-to-knuckle point of contact with the slow, thorough attention of a dwarf reading a document in a second language. He pulled his hand back. Looked at his own fist. Then at yours.

He brought his fist back, with the careful, deliberate movement of someone doing something new and intending to do it correctly, and knocked it gently against yours.

You grinned.

"I don't know," Balin said equal parts dignified and long-suffering of a dwarf who was not going to admit that he'd found something charming, "why you didn't simply shake my hand."

"Because it's a fist bump, it's different—"

"It appears to serve the same social function as a handshake."

"It doesn't, it's—the energy is different."

"The energy," Balin repeated, with the exasperation of this explanation being completely unsatisfying and insufficient.

"The energy," you confirmed. "The vibe. The—"

"I don't know what a vibe is."

"I know you don't, that's part of the problem."

Balin looked at you shaking his head, he knew he was going to go to his rest with questions unanswered and had made his peace with this. He retrieved the ledger and made one final notation with the precision of someone closing out an account.

"It's late"

You nodded, and didn't move, except to settle yourself on your bedroll.

He didn't move either. He closed the ledger, set it aside, and reached into the inside pocket of his coat and produced something—small, small enough that you hadn't noticed it in his hands before now, a piece of pale wood no larger than your thumb, half-shaped by a small knife that he produced from the same pocket.

You watched him begin to work.

He carved with the focused, unhurried attention he brought to the ledger, the same precision, the small knife moving in short, controlled strokes that took off thin curls of wood in a steady sequence. The shape emerging was still too early to read—more the absence of what it wasn't than the presence of what it would be, the corners gone, the first suggestions of form finding themselves in the pale wood.

"What are you making?" you asked.

"Nothing yet," he said, which was technically accurate and also clearly not the whole answer.

"What's it going to be?"

He made a small sound that was not quite deflection and not quite answer, the sound of a person deciding how much of something to share and settling on some but not all. His knife made three small strokes, unhurried, following a line only he could see.

"Something for later," he said. "When we arrive."

"At Erebor?"

"Mm," he said, which you had learned was Balin's most committal non-answer, the one that meant yes but I'm not going to say yes.

You sat with this, and watched the knife move, and the fire behind you threw your shadows long and warm across the stone floor of Beorn's cottage, the animals breathed and shifted in their sleep, and the large dog near the fire twitched its paws in whatever dogs dreamed about in a cottage like this.

"You don't have to tell me," you said, after a while.

"No," Balin agreed, peacefully.

"But I'm curious."

"I know you are," he said, with the same peace.

The knife moved again. A long, careful stroke that followed the grain of the wood, the sound of it soft and continuous, and the shape it left behind was beginning to be something—still too early to say what, but something, a specificity emerging from the general mass of the piece, the first few words of a sentence that was going to take a while to finish.

You watched him carve, and didn't ask again, and the fire burned lower, and outside Beorn's cottage the night was very large and very dark and full of things you didn't know the names of yet, and inside it was warm, and the cat on the bench nearby was asleep, and Balin's knife made its careful, unhurried progress through the pale wood, and eventually—without deciding to.