#dwelf-'verse

The brown-haired elleth fell to the ground and Legolas looked up at the sound of her half-choked whimper. Her brown eyes searched out his hiding spot, and she tried to smile at him, blood running down her face where Thonnon’s ring had cut into her cheek.

“Know your place, Silvan!” Thonnon hissed, the same tone of voice he used when Legolas was in bad trouble. He crouched, pushing the elleth’s hair out of her face; she tried to move away from him. “You may have ensnared my brother, somehow, but you do not get to speak to me as an equal. I will care for him as I see fit, and if I ever hear you say otherwise, you will regret it.”

The elleth’s brown eyes widened in fear as another came to take her away. Legolas stayed behind the vase, making himself as small and unnoticeable as possible. That expression on Thonnon’s face never meant anything good would happen to him…

 Legolas shook off the memory of the lady’s tears and looked at the still figure on the bed, confused as usual why Lord Thonnon brought him here; the elf had always been asleep, and even Thonnon’s loudest shouts would not wake him. He was dressed in a fine robe, his long pale hair arranged neatly around his face and flowing down his shoulders, a blanket pulled up to his chest, and wore no jewellery except a small golden ring. The elf breathed slowly, his eyes closed as they had been every time Legolas had been brought to see him.

The attendant had retreated to a corner, mouth drawn in hard lines and her eyes narrowed in a scowl that made Legolas want to cringe away, even though she wasn’t scowling at him. No, her eyes were fixed on Lord Thonnon, who was sneering down at the elf on the bed. He did not speak, and Legolas knew better than to question him; Thandir – when he visited, which was rare – would sometimes answer questions, but Lord Thonnon preferred Legolas to be silent in his Lord’s presence.

Shying away from the attendant’s dark expression would have meant hiding behind Thonnon and he would push Legolas away and call him a snivelling brat, maybe take away his evening meal as punishment if he was very angry. In his head, Legolas always referred to himself as Legolas. Lord Thonnon did not call him Legolas, mostly referring to him as ‘you’, or ‘elfling’, or ‘brat’, and it was the only way he would remember his true name. Legolas knew there was no one to comfort him and no one who dared shield him from his lords’ wrath. He knew that Lord Thonnon disliked him because he told him so, even if it had not already been obvious every time he looked at Legolas. He also knew why; Legolas was born cursed, and his touch had made the Queen fall victim to a witch’s spell that made her crazy. Thonnon had explained to him once, that the sleeping elf had sent the Queen west. Since then, he had lost control of his soul, which was why Lord Thonnon had been saddled with the burden of Legolas. Legolas did not understand how that worked, but Thonnon said so, so it must be true. He didn’t dare touch other people – what if the same thing happened to them? – and spent most of his time in his own company.

 Later that day, after Legolas had been handed his bowl of gruel for dinner and been sent to bed – if a small pallet on the floor could be considered a bed – one of the Silvans entered the room he slept in. Legolas was confused. He was quite sure that it was not morning, and no one was supposed to be in here with him. Thonnon said it was weak to be scared of the dark, and Legolas should learn to comfort himself. He did not want to be bothered by the silly fears of an elfling and Legolas had learned to stay silent.

“Good evening, Leafling,” she whispered. Legolas was confused, but he realised she must mean him. The elleth had tears in her large green eyes and Legolas wanted to reach out and pat her arm, like Thandir once did to the brown-haired elleth who called him Legolas – it had made her smile. He didn’t move, remembering Thonnon’s edict clearly: he shouldn’t touch people; he might infect them with the same ailment that had struck the Queen. “Do you want to go see your Ada with me?” she asked, tilting her head to look at him.

“Ada?” Legolas did not know who she meant. What was an Ada? Maybe it was food, he was a little hungry. He nodded.

“Yes. I think we should go see your Ada,” she said, holding out her hand. Legolas cringed away, but the elleth kept reaching towards him. Her eyes were so sad. Maybe if he held her hand she would feel better? But what if he hurt her? Legolas teetered indecisively, almost reaching for her but drawing his small hand back just before he touched hers. “Will you take my hand, Leafling?” she asked, holding out her own once more. He dared to take it. Nothing seemed to happen, and he breathed out a sigh of relief. Maybe the magic only worked on Queens? “Can I carry you there? It will be faster. We have to be quiet so no one sees us.” Her smile was tremulous, but fierce and it made something in Legolas’ belly feel warm, far warmer than his food had ever managed.

“Secret?” he mumbled. He knew what secrets were, often left forgotten in a corner while adults discussed things others weren’t meant to hear. The elleth nodded, smiling at him.

“Yes, it’s a secret.”

 Ada was the elf, Legolas realised, when she pushed open to door to the room with the large bed; the attendant who was always there when Thonnon brought him, however, was gone, and the room was silent, light shadows of moonlight falling across the face on the pillow.

After that night, sometimes one of the elves would come and pick him up and take him to the room with the sleeping elf. They all called him Leafling, and the sleeping elf his Ada. He didn’t quite believe them when they said so, of course; there was no way the sleeping elf was his father, after all, but sometimes – just sometimes – he liked to pretend they were right. Sometimes, he’d dream that the sleeping elf would hold him when he slept, and give him happy dreams; those were the best kind of dreams.

They did not care if he touched the elf’s clothes and sometimes one of them would sing him to sleep when they brought him back to his tiny room. It was never the same elf, and Legolas did not know their names.

He kept the secret.

Rivendell had a curious beauty, to Bifur, even if it was comprised of very few straight angles - a mark against any piece of construction to a dwarven mind. Thorin was even more ornery than usual, though that might be due to the Elves themselves, rather than their architecture. Bifur's knife removed another sliver of wood, smoothing the kitten's paw. He did not have any files along, of course, and Mahal wept if he'd begin rooting around this place when he was more than capable of removing any rough edges with his knife alone. One ear folded down, the other raised to a point, and the kitten was coming to life between his scarred hands.

Bifur knew the moment he was no longer unobserved, but he made no motion to alert his little watcher - perched in the three a few yards to the left of him - to his knowledge.

The elfling - ears as pointy as any of the adults Bifur had seen - took a while to gather enough courage to approach, but she did approach him, looking raptly at the small animal in his hands. Bifur hummed, keeping his voice gentle, as he showed her the unfinished toy. The elfling's eyes, almost too large for her face, widened impossibly as she watched. It did not matter that he didn't understand a word of her song-like tongue, lilting like the babbling of a brook. It did not matter that she had no way of knowing what he was saying back, all that mattered was the quiet snick as the knife cut off ever tinier slivers, Bifur's thumb feeling for any leftover roughness before making another move with the blade. The girl, who reminded him almost painfully of a young Blidarún, kept up a constant stream of words, requiring little from Bifur but a hum here and there, agreeing with whatever she said.

He also knew the moment someone else arrived among the trees, but the unknown observer did not reveal themselves. Bifur kept shaping the wood he held.

When the kitten was finished, he held it out for the little girl to take, soaking up the brightness of the smile she gave him. He was surprised when she hugged him, clambering onto the bench to reach his shoulders, but he patted her small back fondly. Sitting beside him, the small girl proceeded to tell him a story starring her new toy, and Bifur felt a pang of bittersweet longing for his nieces and nephews. The scene was familiar, even if the story told was not one he could understand the words for, and Bifur simply enjoyed the cloud of happiness that seemed to surround his little friend. Whoever was watching from the trees remained silent.

At the sound of the dinner gong, Bifur's companion vanished amid a torrent of incomprehensible words, waving at Bifur with a happy smile as she darted off. Her disappearance was followed swiftly by the appearance of an adult elf, whose face expressed such heartache that Bifur's own heart gave a lurch in his chest.

"Thank you," the elf gasped, falling to his knees a few yards away from Bifur's bench. Tears were running down his cheeks but his smile was so radiant Bifur had to return it. "She has spoken to no one since her mother...passed," the elf continued, choked with emotion. Bifur nodded. He hummed a few notes, but the elf seemed to have realised that he was unable to answer with understandable words. Rising to his feet, he bowed deeply to Bifur before disappearing among the greenery once more.

  Putting the injured elleth down on a cot, Magoldir stepped back, watching as Nestor swiftly cut off her tunic, revealing the bloody tear in her flesh. He winced.

“It’s not too deep,” Nestor murmured, shaking back his green sleeves as he examined the wound, tracing the jagged edges with a finger. “You’ll need to limit use of the arm until it heals, however.” Washing it out with a herbal solution made Rhonith wince, but she did not cry out. Singing a slow tune, Nestor halted the bleeding, gathering up a wad of bandage material and a roll of linen, securing it tightly around Rhonith’s upper arm. “I’ve never seen such a cut before,” he mused, “what made it?”

“A spider, she said,” Magoldir replied, “but sure that was the blood loss talking?”

“No, Lieutenant,” Rhonith replied dreamily, “I said a spider… about as tall as your waist. Quick, too.” The guardsman gasped. With a swift bow, he left the Healing Halls, seeking out the Captain of the Guard to report.

“A spider?” Nestor asked, tying off the bandage. He frowned. Rhonith just nodded, yawning. Removing her undershirt carefully, she frowned at the bloodied state of her breast-band.

Her consideration – Nestor had politely turned away, though it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen her in varying states of undress before – was interrupted when the corridor outside the Healing Halls suddenly resounded with loud wailing.

“Healer!” A frantic patrol-guard cried out, bursting through the door holding what Rhonith slowly recognised as a small… dwarfling? Trying to make sense of what her eyes were telling her, she missed most of the elleth’s explanation. “… we don’t know what to do, the babe won’t take milk; we even tried bringing her to Seregiel for nursing!” The name distantly rung a bell, but it took Rhonith several minutes to remember the name of Dúmon’s wife.

“It’s a dwarfling,” Nestor replied wonderingly, but the wailing only increased when he reached out to touch a cheek.

“Give her to me,” Rhonith murmured, having to repeat herself when the two elves simply stared at her.

“Hiril vuin[1]?” the elleth asked, looking between Rhonith’s half-naked and bandaged form and the stern visage of Nestor.

“My Lady, you need rest,” Nestor objected, but Rhonith just scowled, reaching for the small dwarf with her good arm.

“Give her to me, Alacthel,” Rhonith repeated.

“My Lady, you are injured. We don’t know what the spider’s bite may have done,” Nestor cautioned, but Rhonith waved away his concerns.

“It’s a dwarfling; can you think of anyone more knowledgeable in that area in these Halls?” she asked, reaching for the small pebble. Nestor bowed slightly, accepting the argument, but he still looked wary when Alacthel handed the little girl over, happily fleeing. “Shosh, kafnith, astû nusus[2],” she crooned, bringing the small body close to her chest and holding her securely. Fingering one of her longer braids, she flipped it over her shoulder until it brushed against the dwarfling’s hand. The small hand instantly wrapped tightly around the braid as the pebble turned her face against Rhonith’s chest, mouthing at the bindings covering her breasts. The wail that had lessened with the soft khuzdul words began once more. “Nestor, remove my bindings, please.” Rhonith’s voice brooked no argument.

 A breathless runner from the Front Gate had interrupted Legolas’ meeting with Captain Bronwe, and the Prince had quickly made his way towards the Healing Halls, speeding his steps at the sound of wailing. Entering the Halls of Healing, he came to an abrupt stop, staring at the display that met his eyes. Rhonith’s breasts were bared, a small golden head nosing against her, still issuing loud cries. He gasped. “Shosh, abadith[3],” she murmured, stroking the pebble’s hair. “Aslâtul[4]?” The tiny dwarfling unerringly sought her nipple, one hand still wrapped firmly around the braid of hair, the other kneading Rhonith’s breast wilfully. Behind her, Nestor was stacking pillows, until Rhonith could lean back in a half-sitting position. The child continued crying when her efforts did not yield milk. “Ai, Legolas.” Rhonith looked up with a smile, when she noticed the intruder. “Go fetch a small pail of goat’s milk and a spoon, please,” Rhonith said. Her attention was focused on the small dwarfling in her arms; otherwise she might have paid more attention to Legolas’ dumbfounded expression.

  “What did you want this for?” the prince asked, when he walked back through the door, looking at the things he’d been sent to fetch. When he lifted his head, he was struck once more by the sight of her completely uncovered breasts; too late did he remember to avert his eyes, knowing it was a sight that would haunt his dreams for years to come. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out. He wondered if he had entered a realm of fantasies brought to life; would her next command be ‘touch me’? A fierce blush stained his ears cherry red and made his cheeks glow at the idea. Part of him felt ashamed for his lustful thoughts, but another – much larger – part felt nearly crippling jealousy staring at the small golden head of the Dwarf-child.

“You’ll have to help me feed her, I’m not...well,” Rhonith admitted, her eyes half closed, and suddenly Legolas remembered that he’d come running because he had been told she was wounded. “Get one of Nestor’s linen squares and put it on my shoulder,” she yawned, “a corner should reach her mouth and my nipple. Then dribble the milk down the cloth slowly so she can suckle.” Rhonith finally lifted her head from her wailing bundle, only to see the princeling standing in the middle of the room looking lost. “Sit behind me,” she barked. With a slight jolt, Legolas did as he was told, taking position with his back against the mound of pillows and pulling her into his arms, praying she wouldn’t notice his physical reaction to her closeness. With a small sigh, Rhonith settled between his legs and leaned back against his chest.

Lifting the spoon, Legolas felt entirely uncomfortable with his new task, but began steadily dribbling milk onto her chest. When the first drops reached the hungry child, she began suckling happily, snuffling slightly until her tears abated. Rhonith’s left hand was busy holding the corner of the milk-sodden cloth to her nipple and cradling the dwarfling with her right. She closed her eyes, her head falling back to rest on Legolas’ shoulder. Murmured Khuzdul kept falling from her lips, and though Legolas didn’t understand a word he thought it might be a lullaby. Rhonith’s breasts lay uncovered, a sight he had fantasised often, yet reality was far superior to his paltry imaginations. Spread out in front of his eyes was delectable pale flesh, soft rounded breasts with small pink nipples.  The sheen covering one from the dwarfling’s mouth and a few stray drops of milk made him convinced he was dreaming. How else would he explain that he had been granted – if not permission for, then at least implicit consent to – this mesmerizing view? Legolas swallowed hard, focusing his shaky hands on their task, not on how much he wanted to touch her bared flesh. The elleth resting against his chest – and this was the part that made him accept that this was reality – did not notice. Nor did she notice his rather obvious interest pressing against her. Legolas tried to block the images stumbling through his head but it was an exercise in futility, he had to admit. As time passed, she relaxed more and more against his chest, her words slurring with fatigue, but Legolas hardly noticed, lost in a daydream of recurring fantasies; Rhonith spread across his bed, hair in disarray and breasts caressed by his own lips, flushed in pleasure; sitting just like he was, but the child being a small elfling with his hair and Rhonith’s eyes. The last image stole his breath in a sharp exhalation of surprise, but Rhonith ignored it in favour of continuing to croon Khuzdul phrases at the dwarfling.

  When Thranduil entered the Halls of Healing, it was to the sight of his son sleepily cradling a dozing Rhonith, whose arms were carefully holding a small child to her breast.

“Legolas… what are you doing?” Thranduil’s bemused voice cut through Legolas’ fantasy like a knife through butter. The younger elf winced, automatically tightening his arms around Rhonith, moving a hand up to shield her bare breast. The possessive gesture was almost mindless in its swiftness, as though the sight of her naked was his alone already. Legolas blushed. Thranduil’s smirk widened.

“Saving… pebble…” Rhonith said, sleepily, nuzzling against Legolas’ neck with a sigh. “Pebble was hungry.” With that, she went limp and boneless in Legolas’ embrace. Nestor cursed, bending swiftly to take her pulse. The two royals stiffened in worry, though Legolas kept careful hold of both elleth and Dwarf child – apparently they were called pebbles?

“She came in because a spider bit her…” he gestured to the bandage, “perhaps it carries a sleeping toxin? She claimed it was far larger than a spider should be able to grow.”

“A spider?” Thranduil asked with a frown. “I did not think a spider could take my daughter by surprise, Nestor.”

“This one was apparently the size of a large wolf, Aran-nîn,” Nestor demurred. Both sets of royal eyes widened, staring at the sleeping elleth. The pebble smacked her lips, her small pink tongue making an appearance as she yawned, burrowing against Rhonith’s chest and falling asleep easily, one hand still tightly clenched around a mithril braid. “Magoldir went to report to Captain Bronwe.”

“And the dwarfling?” Thranduil asked. “This does not explain why there is a tiny dwarf in my Realm, Nestor. Where are the parents?” the King barked. Nestor could only shrug. The answer came swiftly, however:

“Thranduil Aran, I have received a raven from Erebor.” Thranduil’s Seneschal Galion interrupted, coming through the door. “The king asks that we keep an eye out for a small child, lost from a Dwarven caravan due to an ambush by what the Naugrim claim were giant spiders.” He frowned at that, seemingly in disbelief, but Thranduil just nodded. Galion continued, “King Thrór asks only that we keep an eye out, and if any small bones are found, to send them to the mountain for proper burial.”

“Well, then,” Thranduil replied, staring at his son. “That explains how…”

“Send a messenger to Erebor at once.” Legolas interrupted, one hand unconsciously supporting the small sleeping pebble. “Tell King Thrór that we have found the child and that we will care for her until her parents can fetch her,” he demanded. His arms remained firmly around their precious burdens. Galion nodded, throwing a glance at his King, though Legolas did not raise his head to see it. Thranduil simply smiled, saying nothing. “When Rhonith is better, I’m sure she will want to meet the parents of Lothig[5].”

“Lothig, ionneg?” Thranduil asked mildly, making Legolas look up sharply. At the questioning looks from his Ada, he blushed deeply.

“Well, we can’t just call her ‘the dwarfling’, can we?” Legolas replied mulishly. “Lothig is a fine name for a small girl.”

Galion frowned, “You’re sure it’s a girl? I can’t tell.” The Prince ground his teeth, but Thranduil interrupted before he could vent his sudden anger.

“You can hardly tell the difference between the genders of elflings, Galion,” the Elvenking mused, mirth glittering in his aged eyes, “if Legolas says the babe is a girl, the babe is a girl.” He stepped forwards, running his finger across the sleeping dwarfling’s ear. “Welcome to Greenwood, Lothig.” Legolas nodded, throwing a glare in Galion’s direction for good measure. The Elvenking turned to the Master Healer, who was only a few millennia younger than him and had been one of Nínimeth’s students so long ago. “Nestor, do make sure my daughter recovers quickly,” he smiled, “the pebble seems quite attached to her temporary ‘parents’.” Thranduil made to leave the Healing Halls, but turned back once to look at his son, “I expect you to take responsibility for Lothig’s welfare, Legolas,” he said, and though his voice was mild it was a clear order. The King did not laugh at the look on his son’s face, but only because long years of experience had taught him better self-control. Legolas had the same panicked look on his face he had seen on many of his subjects when told they were to be a father. Oh, ionneg, this will be good for you… and most amusing for me, he thought, chuckling under his breath.

  “If it makes you uncomfortable, I can probably find someone else to help feed her,” Rhonith said, when Legolas once more took up position behind her, certain that his ears were giving away every lustful and embarrassing moment of pining he suffered during the course of feeding the pebble, “but it is the only way to feed a pebble this young.” Leaning back against his chest when he didn’t reply, Rhonith spoke softly, her eyes focussed on the tiny red mouth seeking sustenance her body could not provide but latch on nonetheless. “Dwarflings are very attuned to sound and feel, as their eyes are very poor until they reach about three years of age. They orient mostly by hearing, and the sound of a heart beating is very soothing. I’ve never known a dwarfling who would feed in a different manner than what we are doing if separated from their mother, and I can only try to provide her with the comfort she seeks.” Rhonith continued crooning soft Khuzdul words he didn’t understand, but she made the gravelly syllables sound like the softest lullaby. Legolas smiled, stopping himself just before he pressed a kiss against the tip of her ear and ruthlessly returning his focus to his task, providing a steady stream of milk for the pebble to suckle.

“I don’t mind helping with Lothig,” he blurted, delighted by Rhonith’s happy smile and soft laughter.

“Lothig?” she smiled, turning to look at him as his hand crept close enough to caress the tiny ears of the dwarfling. She was much smaller than the elflings he had seen, but her gently waving limbs were perfectly proportional. He had already fallen just a little bit in love with her.

“She needed a name. And her mouth looks like a tiny red flower,” he explained, blushing slightly. Rhonith’s soft smile eased his fears and he returned to rubbing Lothig’s back carefully. “Ada said she was my responsibility until her parents arrive.” Legolas didn’t think it was a hardship – beyond the constant haze of lust he found himself in whenever he thought about Rhonith – but he was determined not to let her see how much she affected him. “I am supposed to keep her safe, and look after you while you heal from the spider’s poison,” he murmured, shuddering at the thought of the massive beast that had attacked her. Magoldir’s patrol-group had gone out to find the carcass, and though it had been mostly scavenged by the time they found it, there had been some very large pieces of exoskeleton left that had convinced the inhabitants of Thranduil’s Halls that they had been invaded by descendants of Ungolianth of legend.

“Thank you, mellon,” Rhonith murmured; she felt weak, still, though Nestor had promised that it would pass within a week or so.

 Ten days later, Legolas was still trying to convince himself that his extended exposure to Rhonith’s gently sloping bosom rendered him immune from obsessing over the allure of the pale skin. It was a lie, but he tried to convince himself otherwise. The first day had been the most awkward, until Rhonith had taken pity on him and told him not to feel embarrassed for having been caught looking. Legolas had simply nodded and praised any Valar he could think of that his deeper desires, spurred on by such lovely visions as had been plaguing his dreams, had gone unnoticed by the oblivious object of his affections. It was better that way, he knew, reminding himself of the vow he had made several centuries earlier regarding the elleth who held his heart in her flighty hands.

  Currently, they were in his chambers, resting on a reclining divan as Lothig suckled down another meal. Legolas had been astounded to realise how much and how often Lothig would need feeding, but considering the countless benefits, he didn’t really mind; among these he did not count his almost perpetual erection that resurged every time he thought of or glanced at Rhonith’s naked bosom, though he did count the way he was allowed to hold her against his chest. Breathing softly, he inhaled the sweet, flowery scent of Rhonith’s hair, absentmindedly trailing his fingers across her side as she dozed off. Lothig had finished her suckling for now and was resting peacefully in the arms of her surrogate mother. Legolas dared not think of himself in the role of surrogate father except in his most private thoughts and dreams, but the images of his Rhonith, rounded with his child, nourishing his elfling… those images were hard to keep at bay.

 When the door burst open, interrupting his pleasant daydreaming, pure instinct had him instantly up off the divan, crouched in front of Rhonith and Lothig, and armed with his two short swords, hissing menacingly at the intruders. The Dwarf who had thrown the door open gasped, an axe springing to his own hands until he caught sight of the half unclothed elleth behind the angry elf. With a curse, he turned his back to them, holstering his weapon with a fluid motion.

“My apologies, fair maiden, for seeing what is not for mine eyes,” he rumbled. Rhonith rose, making her way to Legolas’ side and placing her hand on his arm in a calming gesture.

“No dishonour intended, Master Dwarf, and none done me or mine,” she replied. She had wrapped a small blanket loosely around her chest, but kept Lothig cradled in one arm. Lothig cried softly, the sound Legolas had realised meant she needed reassurance. He sheathed his swords, taking the dwarfling from Rhonith and letting her resettle her impromptu covering. Another dwarf peered anxiously around the doorway, giving a small happy cry when she caught sight of the child.

“Frís! My pebble!” the anxious dwarf cried, reaching for the small dwarfling, whose cries suddenly increased in volume, unsettled by the commotion. Legolas hummed softly.

“You are Lothig’s naneth[6]?” he asked, holding the small dwarfling towards the crying dwarf, who pulled her close to her – his? – chest. Legolas personally could not see the difference between Dwarven sexes, but he had been told, by a patient but bemused Rhonith, that Dwarrow tended to play up the similarities around strangers and outsiders for their own protection.

“Her Amad,” Rhonith explained kindly, when the dwarf looked puzzled. She smiled, “And you must be the worried Adad.” She directed her words toward the tense dwarf whose back was still turned. Legolas moved behind her, retying the laces of her gown which had been undone while they had been feeding Lothig. “You may turn around, Master Dwarf.” The ghost of a laugh played across her face. “I am decently attired once more.”

“I offer my apologies, my Lady…” he trailed off, though he didn’t cower under Legolas’ strong glare.

“I am Rhonith, daughter of Narví, at your service,” Rhonith bowed, one hand fisted over her heart – the gesture must mean something different among Dwarrow, Legolas realised – and placed her soft fingers on his forearm again. “This is Prince Legolas – the son of King Thranduil – who has been helping me care for Lothig,” she introduced.

“Again, my sincerest apologies, Lady Rhonith, Prince Legolas. We were told only that our pebble was in this room,” he ran his hand through his dark blond hair sheepishly, while his wife – Legolas recognised the look on her face as that of exasperated wives everywhere – glared at him. “I am afraid I was a little… eager… in my haste to see my child safe.”

Legolas bristled, his eyes glaring daggers at the rude Dwarf, “I assure you, Master Dwarf, no elf would mistreat a child!” Rhonith’s hand on his arm once more stilled his simmering temper and he limited himself to a slight snarl at the Dwarf.

“Hanar!” the wife hissed. “Apologies, my Lord Prince. We have been out of our minds with grief until your messenger arrived and with worry ever since then. Your messenger did not mention that our daughter was being cared for by someone who knew dwarrow… we feared her half-starved.” She swallowed back tears, clutching Lothig a little tighter. Legolas winced, reaching out to pat her shoulder compassionately. The Dwarf called Hanar tensed slightly, but seemed to realise that the motion was not a threat. The wife smiled slightly, “I am Vrís, daughter of Rekkr, and this is my husband, Hanar, son of Hadar, Master Blacksmith of Erebor.” Hanar bowed, earning him a smile from Vrís, who continued, “This is our daughter, Frís.”

“Frís…” Rhonith murmured. Legolas silently preferred Lothig. “Legolas took to calling her Lothig,” she chuckled, breaking the tension in the room.

“I’m sure Ada would like to meet Lothig’s parents,” he found himself saying, remembering his manners. “Why don’t you join us for the evening meal? I will take you to our guest chambers where you may refresh yourselves and we will see you later.” Legolas offered. Hanar nodded, while Vrís – was it common to give pebbles names that rhymed with their parent’s? – smiled. “I insist you stay for a few days, to recover fully from your ordeal and what I’m sure was a hasty journey here.” Legolas said, well aware that he was offering mostly because he didn’t want to leave the small bubble fantasy he had constructed for himself while Lothig was theirs. “I sent Horthonion to speak to your King when we received his raven, and he is aptly named.” Rhonith kept her hand lightly resting on his arm as the way out of his rooms and down the corridors towards the Guest Wing. Galion would have readied rooms for them even if Legolas had not asked him; the Seneschal was never caught off guard, which was a good quality in a Steward, Legolas admitted, even if Galion lacked imagination.

“Horthonion means son of speed,” she explained, when the two dwarrow looked confused. “He is the fastest messenger in King Thranduil’s Halls, but he is not known for compassion with travelling companions who cannot keep up.”

“Truthfully, Lady Rhonith,” Hanar replied, “once we knew our pebble had not been eaten by those horrible spiders,” both dwarrow shuddered at the thought, and Legolas could sympathise with their revulsion. He had had several nightmares about Rhonith facing one of them alone, and he had only seen pieces of a corpse, not the actual creature, “we were ready to leave within five minutes. Your messenger did not push us harder than we pushed ourselves.”

“If I may, my Lady, how did you know how to care for Frís? I did not think the Eldar much experienced with children of other races,” Vrís asked, lifting her head from the once-more sleeping face of her daughter with marked reluctance. Legolas thought it would be a long time before she relinquished the pebble from her arms, feeling oddly bereft at the thought; he had grown used to holding her small warm body while Rhonith dozed, humming gentle lullabies into her tiny ears.

“Amadê Khazdûna[7],” Rhonith said, turning back to her guests with a smile. A fingernail pinged softly at the bead woven into her hair. Hanar gasped.

“M’imnu Durin![8]” he exclaimed. Vrís smacked his arm, while Hanar turned dark red with embarrassment. Rhonith’s clear silver laugh filled the small corridor. Legolas chuckled.

“E nâthu Narví kafanâlu ‘abban, Zarakâl Niddînabanu Khazad-dûmu. E iraknâtha Durin.[9]” Rhonith’s expression gentled at the almost reverent look on their faces. She switched back to Westron, “My father was an elf, Celebrimbor, Smith-Lord of Eregion, but I spent a lot of my formative years in the great Dwarrowdelf, and I was taught how to care for pebbles… same as any other Dwarf.”

“We thank you, Lady Durin.” Hanar’s voice was hoarse, and beside him, Vrís nodded heartily. Legolas felt slightly amused by their awed expressions, but he knew better than to mention it. He had never truly considered Rhonith’s status among her Dwarven kin, but the mere mention of the Durin name – he remembered her speaking of the name as that of the last of the Kings in what was now called Moria – had made them almost reverent. Opening the door in front of him, he waved the two Dwarrow through.

“Your guest rooms, for as long as you stay here,” Legolas smiled gently. “You will remain undisturbed here and I will send someone to fetch you for dinner.”

“Lothig should not be hungry again for a few hours at least,” Rhonith added with a calm smile. Hanar bowed politely, gratitude still shining brightly in his deep hazelnut eyes.

“If you need anything, speak to one of the elves in the corridors,” Legolas added. “If they do not speak Westron, they will know to find someone who does. Welcome to the Woodland Realm.” With a bow, he closed the door, turning to Rhonith, to offer her a small smile. “How do you wish to pass the time until dinner?” he asked, not quite ready to give up the monopoly on her attention he had enjoyed during this visit. Rhonith opened her mouth to answer, but instead she collapsed against the wall, shaking with laughter she tried to contain by biting her fist. Legolas cocked his head, realising suddenly that their new guests were oblivious to the keen hearing of Elven ears. Behind the door, Hanar and Vrís were whispering furiously.

“How did Narví’s daughter end up in Mirkwood?” Hanar began, “I did not think their King was overly fond of our folk-”

“Oh, simple,” Vrís chuckled, interrupting him breezily. “You saw them together, it was obvious how much love they have for each other,” she laughed. “You fool of a Longbeard.”

Outside the door, Legolas could feel his ears burning. Rhonith was still leaning against the wall, laughing softly. He revelled in the sound. In the back of his mind, however, he wondered how, if a Dwarf, who had known both of them for less than an hour, could see how he felt about her, he had managed to hide his heart from her. Another thought followed swiftly on the heels of that one, however: perhaps Rhonith did know… and she had chosen to ignore his love for her? Suddenly, her laughter stabbed at him, like shards of ice in his heart. He spun swiftly, walking off with a half-hearted goodbye curtly tossed over his shoulder, needing to think, needing to carefully rebuild the shields around his heart he had let slip over the past two lefneir. He might be aware that his love would never be returned; she was too free a spirit to chain her to him, to keep her beside him always, he knew, the words hollow comfort after so long, but no less firm in resolve.

He did not see the way she winced as she watched him leave before she, too, whirled, hurrying back to her own rooms with a soft Khuzdul curse.

  When his adopted daughter and his son joined the Elvenking for dinner, Thranduil sighed, tempted to pinch his brow in exasperation with the stubbornness of them both. He had hoped, based on the sight he had walked in on and how protective his son had acted towards both Rhonith and the dwarfling, that either one of them would have found the courage to speak of their obvious love for each other. Instead, he was greeted by his son, looking as close to sulking as he would permit himself in public, and his daughter, looking as though she had raided her wardrobe and jewellery boxes for the most Dwarven outfit she could find, glaring challengingly at Legolas when he happened to look her way and sending him sad, almost hurt glances when he didn’t.

Once again Thranduil cursed the decision he had long ago made not to push either of them, feeling tempted to do something drastic to break the tense atmosphere. It was obvious that Legolas had done something to upset Rhonith, though he couldn’t work out what it might have been. The King’s musings were interrupted by Galion showing in the three dwarrow, little Lothig still held tightly in her mother’s arms. Thranduil knew that she would not soon let go, recognizing in her face the lingering fear of a parent’s worst nightmare, remembering the times he had felt the same when one of his sons were hurt or lost – he still shuddered when he thought of the time Legolas had run off into the Forest alone and lost his way as a small elfling. Thranduil had briefly seen the two Dwarrow running through the corridors, but he had not had the heart to stop them, and he’d warned the guards on duty to tell them where to find their daughter as soon as Horthonion returned with them.

“Thranduil Aran,” Galion began, solemn as always. Thranduil had to hide a smile. Even after nearly three millennia in his post, Galion still felt he needed to be seen as worthy of it, coming off haughty and arrogant to most people who didn’t know him. “These are the parents of Lothig, Hanar, son of Hadar, the Master of the Blacksmith’s Guild of Erebor, and Lady Vrís, daughter of Rekkr.” The steward bowed, leaving the room silently.

“Welcome to the Woodland Realm of Greenwood, Master Hanar, Lady Vrís.” Thranduil nodded at the two dwarrow, gesturing grandly to the empty seats around the table. As they sat, the servants began carrying in steaming platters of food. Roast venison joined golden dishes of baked tubers covered in cheese and the fluffy rolls that had long-ago earned Maeassel the spot as his head cook. “Of course, you have already met my son, Prince Legolas, and my ward, Lady Rhonith, who have been caring for Lothig during her stay here,” Thranduil said, gesturing to the two younger elves on either side of him. “It gladdens my heart to see you reunited once more.” His words were a little stilted, but Thranduil meant every one. As he finished, the one who had been called Vrís seemed to want to say something, but then think better of it. Instead his greeting was answered by Master Hanar.

“Thank you my Lord Thranduil,” he said, standing once more to bow towards Thranduil, who returned the respectful gesture with a polite nod. “How can we ever repay you for the service you have done to my family?” the dwarf continued. At first, Thranduil waved off the words as simply an expression of gratitude, not missing the flash of hurt in the Dwarf’s eyes, but misunderstanding the meaning. Rhonith’s sharp elbow in his ribs made him turn to face her.

“You have to name a service, Atheg. Otherwise, you are saying that the life of his child has no value, a grave insult, and worse for her being a girl,” she hissed in soft Sindarin. “As patriarch of the clan who took in the child, you have to claim something of Hanar, something you hold in equal value to the life of his child.” Thranduil could only boggle at her, but her insistent expression convinced him that she was quite serious about this. No matter how many years he had had interactions with Dwarrow, he thought, he would still never understand their ways completely.

“My apologies Master Hanar, I did not mean to offer you insult,” Thranduil said softly, catching the dwarf’s brown eyes. Beside him, Rhonith relaxed slightly. “Dwarven culture is unlike ours, and at times concepts will be misunderstood. Believe me when I say that we consider your daughter a precious joy to be treasured by all who meet her,” Thranduil bowed his head to the flustered dwarf, who seemed a little lost for words.

“Even so, King Thranduil, you must allow us to repay your generosity,” Vrís spoke softly, but authoritatively. Beside her, Hanar nodded. “My husband is a Master of his craft; perhaps we could make something for your house.”

A flash of an idea popped into Thranduil’s head, and he nodded solemnly. “Indeed, my Lady, I shall think on that. Perhaps you might – during your stay in my Realm – see if you have ideas? I am afraid I have never much cared to learn the ways of smith-craft, and I doubt I would be able to assess Master Hanar’s work adequately. My daughter is a jewel-smith herself, she would know better than I what your kin can do.” He paused, pleased that the Dwarf had not taken his words as an insult to his race. “If you truly wish to repay my family for your daughter’s care, I will ask one thing of you, however, Master Dwarf.” Hanar perked up, swallowing his bite of succulent venison quickly.

“What is it you require, King Thranduil?” he asked, doing his best not to seem wary. Thranduil had lived for many centuries, however, and though Dwarven faces were harder to read than those of Men, they were still not so stoic as Elves. He smiled gently, trying to set the dwarf at ease.

“Elves have a saying, Master Dwarf,” he explained – feeling no need to tell him that it was a Noldorin custom, and not one of his own people’s. Rhonith was part Noldo anyway, he reasoned, it was only fitting. “When an elf saves a child from death, he is bound as its family evermore. I wish for you to follow our custom as you wish me to follow yours, and let the Lady Rhonith be welcome in your home as a sister to your daughter.” Thranduil paused, studying the dwarf opposite him keenly. Master Hanar seemed lost for words, but Lady Vrís smiled gently.

“I accept your demand, King Thranduil,” she said, solemn as a vow. “Lady Rhonith will be welcomed as our honoured sister in Erebor whenever she wishes.” Thranduil bowed, while beside him Rhonith beamed happily.

“I accept your pledge, Lady Vrís, Master Hanar.”

With that, business seemed to be concluded to the satisfaction of all parties and Thranduil breathed a silent sigh of relief, raising his goblet of Dorwinion in Hanar’s direction; a silent toast. He knew that the Master of any Guild would be a considerable power in Erebor; it wouldn’t do to snub the dwarrow too badly and harm the trade his people enjoyed.

“What of your son, King Thranduil? You tell me your family shared responsibility for my daughter; what boon would Prince Legolas ask of me for his kindness?” Hanar asked. Thranduil groaned internally. He had celebrated the end of this awkward business of rewards for kindnesses he felt should be expected of any decent being in Middle-Earth too soon, it seemed. They weren’t Orcs, for Eru’s sake!

“You claim to be a Master smith, Master Hanar,” Legolas said, and Thranduil breathed a slight sigh of relief that Legolas seemed to have an idea; he was coming up blank. “Do you craft weapons? I would feel better not using the blades I almost attacked Lady Rhonith’s new kinsmen with. It seems fitting to me that you replace the blades with which I would have defended your child.” A glance to his side made Thranduil feel exasperated with the two younger elves all over again. Legolas’ eyes were firmly on Master Hanar, but Rhonith and Vrís both looked at his son with expressions he could only call soppy. Sometimes, he wondered how he had raised such a wilfully blind ellon. He hadn’t been nearly as incompetent at winning his own Lady, and he had been burned by a dragon and half-dead at the time! Legolas had no such excuse! Nor, for that matter, was Rhonith blameless, but he at least understood her reasons for keeping silent on the topic even if they had never discussed it openly.

“A fitting tribute, Prince Legolas. Consider it done.” Hanar said, smiling, “I shall make you the finest blades Erebor has ever seen.” Vrís had now turned her soppy look on her husband, who seemed to be blushing slightly under his thick blonde beard. Thranduil drained his goblet, while Rhonith seemed to remember that she was mad at Legolas and changed her soft expression to an angry scowl. Thranduil felt a distinct need for more wine.

  A year later, Rhonith returned from a visit to Erebor in the company of Master Hanar, who presented the two short swords he had crafted to Legolas with a solemn face. The grin he hid in his beard at the expression on the Prince’s face went unnoticed by all but Rhonith, who chuckled, admiring the exquisite details of the two swords. Thranduil had to admit that he had rarely seen finer blades wrought by elves, and he was quite pleased with Hanar’s gift for his son. He was even more pleased when the dwarf managed to lay out pipes of plumbing throughout the caves, letting the heated water from their underground pools run freely into several bathing chambers on the upper levels, a remarkable feat of engineering. Most of the Woodland Elves still used the pools, but the Royal Quarters now sported a bathing pool of Thranduil’s very own, which he enjoyed immensely.

Over the formative years of Frís’ life, she would spend time in Thranduil’s Court or Rhonith would stop by Erebor on her travels, building the kinship between the two. Thranduil often praised her for increasing the frequency of Rhonith’s visits, which had tapered off during the last few centuries as Legolas continued to deny his own heart – and hers. He even managed to build a fond friendship with Hanar, whose brand of quirky and inventive craziness continued to surprise the Elf – something rarely found after such a long life. Not all his ideas were equally practical, of course, but even the ones that proved intrinsically flawed were amusing to the Elvenking, who continued to allow the Blacksmith entry into his Realm even after relations with Thrór were strained beyond repair.

 Before she married Thraín, Frís could often be found assisting in the meetings of trade delegations between the neighbouring peoples, becoming a valued member of the court, and after she wed the Crown Prince, Princess Frís still maintained the most cordial relations with the Elven delegations and emissaries. Thrór’s advancing goldsickness hampered her efforts at cordial and peaceful relations between the two people, but Frís did the best she could to keep feuds and grudges to a minimum.

 When the Dragon came, Frís – as well as the genuine friendship he had built with her father over the years – was the true reason Thranduil went along with Rhonith’s hare-brained scheme to help the Dwarrow behind Thrór’s back. His mischievous side revelled in spiting the Dwarf-King’s edicts; despite his anger at Thrór’s carelessness and calumny, he had no wish to see his neighbours starving and homeless.

After the war, their small mining settlement swelled with the refugees of Erebor; where before, the settlement had only been the home of the miners who worked in the coal and copper mines that still yielded ore, it now grew to ten times the size, as more and more displaced Longbeards, Firebeards and Broadbeams trickled in. Life under the King was very different to life under the old Lord Overseer, though that was mostly because of the sudden influx of people. The mines yielded as little as usual, and many Dwarrow found themselves needing new – basic – crafts; goldsmiths became blacksmiths, wire weavers produced cloth instead of finely woven mesh, and potters no longer made china so thin it was almost transparent, painted with delicate motives, instead turning their hands to the shaping of everyday cups and plates.

 Six years later, Amad died. When he grew up, Bifur would realise that the loss of her One had caused his Amad to die of a broken heart, even more than the pneumonia that eventually claimed her life, but at the age of 25, all he knew was that he was suddenly an orphan.

 Living with Aunt Moda and Uncle Bjartur wasn’t too bad, in Bifur’s opinion; they were always a close family, and treated him well. He liked playing with his little cousins – Bombur was only two years younger than him, and they usually felt more like brothers than cousins – and even though Bjartur’s battle scars were not limited to the leg that the Orcs had hacked off, life in the Ur-household was usually peaceful. Bifur did not blame Bjartur for the nights when his Uncle woke screaming, or the days when he saw Orcs lurking around every corner. When he joined training for a position in the Guards, Bjartur had cried like a proud Adad, and Moda had brought him a treat every week like clockwork while he lived in the barracks, just like any of the others’ Amads.

 In Guard-training, Bifur had made new friends; while he wasn’t the most popular recruit around, he was generally well-liked. He was especially fond of Dwalin – an Azanulbizar veteran and a cousin to the new King! – who had recommended him as a caravan guard when he finished his training. Eager to see some of the world, Bifur had accepted, a few years later even finding work for his younger cousin Bombur as a cook for one of Master Gróin’s trading caravans. He did not get to travel with Dwalin on every job, but often enough to keep their friendship solid; deep enough for Bifur to be the one Dwalin unloaded his worries unto when his unsettled relationship with Thorin grew too thorny in his head. Slowly, Bifur built himself a reputation as a reliable and brave guard, trustworthy and capable of ensuring the safe arrival of any type of cargo. As they travelled, Bifur would often find himself whittling to pass the night, he preferred listening to the songs and stories told around the campfire rather than participating, but his companions usually left him be when he stared pensively into the fire; between his hands, fantastic animals took shape, eagles, rabbits, horses or whatever else took his fancy. Selling the small toys in the towns they passed brought Bifur a nice little bonus, as well as the joy of putting a smile on the faces of the children who often did not have many toys to play with. Bifur had often wondered if he would ever find someone with whom to have children, but he had never felt even a hint of the Longing, so he counted himself among those who did not have a One waiting somewhere in the world. He watched his cousin fall in love with the beautiful smith/bard, counselled the cook when his shyness got in the way of his honest heart, and he felt a small twinge of jealousy, but it was only a sense of wistful longing. Bifur had – though he had tumbled with his fair share of lads and lasses over the years – never felt in love with anyone.

 The morning of what would later be considered the last day of his life before, Bifur woke like usual, ate his breakfast like usual, saw Bofur off to the mines like usual, and went to work his shift on the guard-rota – also as usual. When he was not out with the caravans, he worked for the City Guard, which did not pay as much, but was generally less risky than protecting shipments of silver while travelling across Arda. In truth, most of the day went as it usually did, patrolling Shale Street and Granite Row, going up through Carnelian Street and back down Quartz Corner back towards Shale Street. As he walked the beat, he greeted those who greeted him, enjoying the peace of winter-time in Thorinuldûm.

The first sign that this day would change his life was a shout.

“Thief!” someone cried up ahead, “Stop him!”

Bofur set off running along with Boril, his patrol-partner for the day, and joined by a couple of the newer recruits who had been patrolling nearby streets. The thieves – no one Bifur recognised, blonde braids flashing around a corner and a black-haired Dwarf behind the blonde – were slowly losing their advantage; swiftly pursued by the axe-wielding spice merchant they had robbed. Later, he’d realise how inexperienced they were, and curse his luck, but in the middle of the hot pursuit he did not care that they were so easily cornered. The merchant got there first, but it would have been a straightforward arrest if the temperamental Blacklock had not decided to exact his vengeance rather than let the guard mete out justice.

“Please, Master merchant, your goods’ll be returned to you and the thieves will face the King’s justice,” Bifur said, trying to calm down the irate merchant, who was attempting to get past him with the axe that he wanted to use to cut the raids off the two youths who were cowering in the corner of the alley, already expertly tied up by Boril and under the watchful eyes of the two recruits.

“What’d you steal,” Boril asked.

Eyeing the merchant warily, the blonde thief – obviously fairly young, the dark-haired being the older of the pair – said, “Cardamom and cinnamon, milord,” Bifur sighed. Spices were expensive of course, he had been a part of more than one caravan bringing them up from the south, Gondor and even Harad, but the theft was hardly worth the merchant’s unbridled fury.

“I will have to ask you to calm down, merchant…” Bifur trailed off, realising that he did not have a name for the Blacklock Dwarf. Turning his head to look at the two hapless thieves, Bifur kept his arms stretched out to stop the enraged merchant passing him. The sight of the young recruit beside the blonde thief who was gaping incredulously was the last sight he saw before everything went black.

  When Boril had subdued the Blacklock merchant, he sent one of the recruits as a runner to fetch a healer for Bifur, before turning to the two young would-be thieves.

“If you help me get him,” he gestured to the bound and gagged merchant, “back to the guardhouse immediately, I think the Shumrozbid could be convinced to let you off with a warning for the stealing. Deal?” the dark-haired one nodded, elbowing his blonde compatriot, who had taken one look at Bifur’s gory wound and was then violently ill in the corner. Boril nodded. With quick moves, he untied the two thieves, letting them take position at either side of the murderous merchant while the last recruit – who gave his name as Bragni – took the rear guard, his short sword aimed at the merchant’s kidneys in case the Dwarf got any ideas about running. Boril himself picked up Bifur, getting the shock of his life. “He’s still alive!” he gasped, before taking up running down the short street towards the intersection with Shale Street where a Healer had his residence. “Tell Dwalin I’ve gone to Healer Dufa!” was the last words he tossed over his shoulder before he disappeared around a corner. Grim-faced, recruit Bragni and his temporary deputies began the task of herding the arrested merchant back to the guardhouse on Granite Way.

  Dwalin, upon hearing the breathless report from the first recruit, whose name he didn’t catch, wasted no time in getting to his feet and running towards the practise of his cousin, Óin. As he moved swiftly through the streets, he sent off a small dwarfling to fetch Bofur from the mines, with the message that his cousin was dying.

  Bofur was at work, when the Foreman – his Grandfather’s brother – came running. He’d been teamed up with Víli, who was a good friend of his, even if he’d gone and become a nob by marrying the Princess, and they both dropped their tools at once.

  Dufa considered herself a decent healer, familiar with all the various crush injuries related to the dangerous work of mining for coal and copper in unstable mountains. When she opened the door to the frantic knocking of the Guardsdwarf, however, she saw something she would never have believed possible if the proof wasn’t breathing in front of her. The Guardsdwarf’s friend had an axe lodged in his head… but he was still alive!

  Bursting into Óin’s surgery without so much as a knock, Dwalin simply grabbed his cousin – who had been examining a swollen ankle, it seemed and was hardly busy – and ran back out the door.

  “He’s as good as dead. There’s nothing I can do.” Dufa did not want to extinguish the hope in the eyes of the two grimy miners who had joined the Guardsdwarf while she examined the injury carefully, but she did not want to offer them false hope. “I can’t remove the axe without killing him, and, if I’m honest, I don’t understand how it didn’t kill him already.”

 After his examination, Óin said pretty much the same. “However,” he said, when his cousin opened his mouth to protest, and not wanting to be the reason for Dwalin losing his closest friend. “We can remove parts of the axe… make it lighter. As long as Bifur keeps holding on to life, there is hope. I agree with Healer Dufa that we cannot pull it out, it is lodged too deeply. We would do more damage pulling it out than it has already done.” Pulling out his toolkit, which Dwalin had apparently managed to grab in his mad dash through the surgery, Óin carefully began removing all visible splinters of bone from the wound.

  “King’s Court in emergency session on this day, the 15th of ‘Afdush, in the year 286 of the Third Age of the Sun is now called to order.” Thorin bellowed, his voice carrying loudly over the heads of the enraged Dwarrow milling about the King’s Hall. “Voice for the Accusation, step forwards and present yourself.”

“My King, I, Dwalin Fundinul, Shumrozbid-ugjaj[1] of Thorinuldûm, do speak for the Accusation.”

“The Crown recognises Dwalin Fundinul as the Voice of Accusation.” Thorin waved to the Dwarf on the other side of the room, while Balin made note of the Acceptance at his scrivener’s post. “Voice of the Accused, step forwards and present yourself.”

“My King, I, Varna, daughter of Yngva, was assigned to be the Voice of the Accused, but he refused my services,” an elderly dwarrowdam said, bowing once in Thorin’s direction before returning to her seat.

“Who, then, will speak for the Accused?” Thorin asked.

“I will speak for myself, King Thorin,” the Dwarf in chains sneered. “I am Harval, son of Humli, of the line of Hrodulf Snake-eye, nephew and Heir to Lord Roaldi of the Blacklocks of Orocarni.” Sharing a look with Balin, Thorin managed to contain his sigh; this case had just gotten complicated. He did not let the possible ramifications stop him from going forwards with the trial.

“Voice of the Accusation, you may approach and state your case.” He said, knowing that his obvious refusal to act like Harval had probably expected and throw the whole trial away, would be considered a slight. He’d have to send a raven to Lord Roaldi later. Dwalin easily commanded the floor.

“The Accused is facing trial on the charges of attempted vigilante justice, interfering with the Guard in pursuit of their duties, brawling in the streets, as well as the attempted murder of Guardsman Bifur, son of Bilbur, while Guardsman Bifur was in pursuit of his duty, viz a viz recovering Master Harval’s stolen property.” The loud uproar in the room as the final charge was stated almost deafened Thorin.

“How do you plead to the charge of attempted vigilante justice?” Thorin asked, looking straight at the arrogant Blacklock, who seemed to think his name alone should guarantee his release.

“Not guilty. It’s not a crime to hack off a few braids. That thief should be glad I didn’t get to take his hand!” Harval shouted.

“How do you plead to the charge of interfering with the Guard in pursuit of their duties?” Thorin asked calmly. He was not surprised by another answer of ‘Not guilty’. “How do you plead to the charge of brawling in the street?”

“Guilty, I did fight, but only because your Guards were doing such a pitiful job!” Thorin wanted to pinch his nose, beyond certain that Harval would – at the very least – give him a massive headache by the end of this trial, not to mention the diplomatic mess his actions had caused.

“How do you plead to the charge of attempted murder of Guardsman Bifur, son of Bilbur?”

“Not guilty. If I’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead!” Harval sneered. Thorin blanched. How could any Dwarf sound happy about having nearly killed another Dwarf – only by the grace of Mahal and Yavannah did Bifur still draw breath, and none of the Healers who had examined the Dwarf with Master Harval’s axe embedded in his skull could say if he’d ever wake up. The uproar this time was even louder.

“Dûm takt!” Thorin shouted, and eventually the crowd fell silent again.

“Voice of the Accusation, present your witnesses.”

The trial continued.

  Elsewhere, Bifur was existing in the darkness. He did not know how he knew he was awake, considering that no part of his body seemed to respond to his commands. He did not know why the lack of movement did not frighten him, but he felt overall quite calm. Somehow, the darkness was amused.

“Anyone here?” he tried to ask, though no sound passed his lips.

I am here, Child, a Voice answered.

“Am I…dead?” Bifur did not quite know whether he wanted to hear the answer to the question, but it made him no less confused to hear it.

Not yet… not quite dead, but not quite living. Bifur would have sworn the Voice was laughing. That choice is yet before you, Child Beloved by Stone.

“Choice?” Bifur had never heard that the dead could choose whether they died or not, and for a brief moment, he felt a stab of pure rage against his Amad for choosing to leave him so many years ago.

For you, there is a Choice, Child Beloved by the Mother. The Voice remained on the cusp of laughter, but Bifur could hear His absolute solemnity in every syllable.

“Why?” Bifur wondered if asking the question was a mistake when the Voice did not reply. Just as he began cursing himself for a fool, loud laughter sounded in the darkness.

I can see why She liked you, Child.

“Who is this ‘She?’” the Voice had not punished him for his earlier question, so Bifur dared ask his Maker another. He was absolutely certain he was in face speaking to the Father of all Dwarrow, the Voice of Mahal echoing in his bones.

The Mother of Stone. Her warmth shelters my Children when they are cold, Her beauty brings my Children joy when they are sad, and Her Voice soothes my Children when they are afraid.

“But why does that mean I am not quite dead nor alive?”

I love all my Children, Ugrurûbdag, but some of them are special to the Stone, and some your adopted Mother takes to Her heart so strongly that She cannot bear to see them wilt before their time. And some… some are blessed with the love of both their Mothers, and they are the most loved of all my Children.

“Yavannah loves me?” Bifur felt confused. Even with all the sagas and legends he had heard about the Wife of Mahal, the Queen of the Earth, the Bringer of Life, he had never heard that she held any particular fondness for her husband’s Children.

I do, a different Voice said, sweeter and gentler than the Maker’s, with a certain musicality to it. You are one I have touched as you lay in my husband’s forge. Bifur felt inexplicably warmed by the strength of Her smile as he could almost see Her beautiful face before his eyes. My gift is the Choice.

It was not your time to join my Guard, Bifur, son of Bilbur, but the Choice is yours. Remember, Child, that every Choice carries a consequence.

 The last thing he heard, before he woke to a world of white-hot agony, was a gentle Voice, different from the others, and much fainter, saying, wake up, my Child, listen to my Voice, and wake up.

 That Voice, he would slowly come to realise, was the Voice of the Stone Mother, who sang in his dreams.

   When the pain of the axe was simply a memory, and Bifur felt truly awake for the first time in a very long time, he found that his tongue would no longer shape the once-familiar syllables of Khuzdul. Instead, his mouth would only speak in words that his family did not understand. In a final act of desperation, Bofur brought his gibberish-speaking cousin to the Singers of the Way, wanting them to try to commune with Mahal to find the answer to Bifur’s problem. Instead, Bifur finally found people who could speak to him – there were only Master Singer Melka and her apprentice Oluva – and discovered the full consequences of his Choice.

 All Gifts have a Price, Child, sang the Voice of the Mountain, you will never speak the words of the Children of Mahal again, but you will Sing.

  The first Cantor Ered Luin had heard since the Breaking was born.

When he looked for those he had called friends and companions during his long, long life, he also felt quite alone. Thorin was gone, and Balin, Óin, Ori, and Kíli, had been gone longer than he could bear to think about, lost in the darkness of Khazad-dûm. Dori had died before they’d learned that, of course, and left Nori a pale shadow of himself for years afterwards, bearing the grief for both his brothers. Bofur had returned to Ered Luin, and Dwalin didn’t actually remember the last time he had laid eyes on one of the ridiculous hats he always wore. Dís was gone, but that was an old wound, long since scabbed over, cauterized by the fires of vengeance. Glóin had retired to Aglarond, playing with his numerous grandchildren, and Dwalin had considered visiting, but been unable to make himself leave Erebor. His limp would have made the long journey arduous, and Dwalin was old enough to know when he needed to listen to his body – as opposed to when he merely should, as stated by one healer or another.

Walking into the house that had belonged first to Fundin, then Balin, and which was now his, since he had moved out of their rooms in the Royal Palace, unable to stand seeing Thorin’s ghost everywhere he looked, Dwalin scowled.

“Bad day?” the dwarf who was insouciantly lounging in Dwalin’s armchair asked. He received a wordless grumble in reply, which made him give Dwalin an unrepentant grin.

“I’m sure you’re here to annoy me into it becoming a better one?” Dwalin asked, pretending that he wasn’t pleased that Nori was home. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up living with Nori, whenever the sneaky dwarf was home – more often than not, these days – but he blamed Fíli. At least, it was Fíli’s idea. Maybe. Nori was good company, at least; kept the place from being all loneliness and silence. He also always had gossip, which Dwalin had to admit he had started to appreciate with his advancing years.

“You know, I just might. I do live to serve, you know, such a compassionate dwarf I am, and all,” Nori replied, long practice letting him keep a straight face as Dwalin shook his head good-naturedly.

“Aye, and what story will you be servin me tonight then?” he grinned.

“Ah, only the finest gossip for you, my friend, direct from the Iron Hills. Your cousin’s had another son, and they’ve gone and named him Skalle.” Nori let that hang in the air, as Dwalin stared at him, trying to determine whether the ‘retired’ Black Owl was fibbing. He broke out laughing.

“Mahal wept, I hope that’s a bleedin lie.” Pouring himself a mug of ale from the flask Nori had brought, Dwalin sank into the other armchair, glad that his companion had started the fire in the hearth.

“Yes… so did I when I overheard it,” Nori admitted, “but no, straight from the mouth of Stonehelm himself,” neither of them ever called the Lord of the Iron Hills Thorin… there was only one Thorin. “The pebble is named Skalle.” Dwalin guffawed.

“Well, you did manage to cheer me up, Nori,” he said, when his laughter had subsided into chuckles. “Got to report to Fíli or will you be staying home for dinner?”

“Neither, O growly one,” Nori replied, getting to his feet with a grace that belied his age and the injuries he had sustained over the years. “You are I are going to take a walk through the Market, because wee Bomba has invited us for dinner.” Dwalin groaned. Bomba’s tendency to invite them to dinner a few times a month was both heart-warming and seriously vexing. She had inherited her Adad’s talent for cooking, but Mahal, the noise. Having eight children should be a crime, Dwalin thought, every time he and Nori walked home from one of her dinners. At least, it made him appreciate the silence his own home offered the possibility of enjoying – when his place wasn’t being invaded by King Fíli’s offspring and their demands for stories.

“Must we?” Dwalin asked, a feeble protest they both knew he didn’t mean, playing out the same way every time Nori told him they’d be going to Bomba’s for supper. The Thief simply grinned, emptying his mug in a large swallow. Dwalin groaned again and slowly got to his feet.

   Waking in Itdendûm was far more crowded than Thorin had expected. Seeing his adad, not as worn as he remembered, and looking more like the absentminded but fond Dwarf he remembered from his earliest memories was rather shocking. Thraín, too, did not seem to know what to say, but then Frís was hugging him and the scent of her hair made Thorin want to weep.

“Amad,” he croaked, a greeting or a prayer, he did not know, and wrapped his arms around her like he might float away if he let go.

“Hush, Kundanudê,” she murmured, “give it time.” He just nodded into her shoulder.

“The Prince of Mirkwood taught us to brew tea the right way,” he mumbled, which was the first random thought that popped into his head.

“I am glad you made friends with Legolas, Thorin. I am very proud of you,” Frís replied, and Thorin could hear the smile in her voice. He felt no need to raise his head from her copious hair, a few shades darker than Fíli’s, and so familiar.

“You’re hogging my brother, amad,” someone said, and Thorin was quite sure he forgot how to breathe. Thinking about breathing made him wonder why he really needed to, considering he’d left his mortal body behind, but he decided not to question such a long-held habit in favour of lifting his face to meet the gentle smile of his golden-haired brother. The resemblance to Fíli was still uncanny, but he suddenly realised that he’d seen more of Frerin in the lad over the years than might really be there, with an odd pang of not-quite-pain. Frerin waved, his chuckle loud in the stone room.

Thorin’s fist in his face was equally loud.

“You moron!” Thorin screamed, punching him again for good measure, before hauling his younger brother into a bone-crushing hug. “Frerin,” he moaned. “Why did you- how could- YOU MORON!” he babbled, amid a sea of tears as he clutched Frerin to his wide chest.

“Well, I win that bet,” Thorin vaguely heard Dís say, as Víli chuckled and Frerin patted his back weakly, his nose bleeding onto Thorin shoulder, which was another odd thing to care about.

“Ahh, nadad,” Frerin said, quiet enough that only Thorin heard him, “how could I not?” Thorin squeezed, making Frerin utter a breathless chuckle. “Besides, can you imagine what Dwalin would have had to say to me if I’d let you get your fool head chopped off?” Laughter laced his words, but Thorin knew that Frerin was simply releasing the tension.

He kept hold of Frerin’s hand through greeting Dís, hugging her and whispering pleas of forgiveness into her hair. It wasn’t until she released him with a cuff to the back of his head that he realised that he had two arms once again; the discovery made him feel almost faint. Seeing Kíli and Ori, their smiles wider than their faces made him want to weep. They had known, when word stopped coming from Khazad-dûm, he, Dwalin, and Fíli, but seeing his nephew waiting for him was harder than Thorin had expected. Balin’s smile was small and oddly shy, his hand firmly wrapped around Skaro’s, dark and pale skin adorned with matching rings.

“We never blamed you,” he whispered into his old friend’s ear, and felt Balin shudder once before he wrapped his free arm around Thorin.

“I have missed you, my friend, though I had hoped your arrival would take longer,” Balin said, in that same half-fond, half-annoyed tone Thorin had heard so often. When he was a dwarfling, it had made him angry, but now it made him laugh.

“Aye, well, it was time, I guess.” Thorin replied, resolutely not thinking about the Battle for Erebor.

“Thorin.” Thraín said, and Thorin turned at last to face the dwarf whose approval he had always sought but never felt he received. He stood there, unsure what to expect after 180 years apart. The next thing he knew, Thraín’s arms were wrapped tightly around his shoulders. “Oh, my wee lad,” Thraín mumbled, his tone exactly the same as he’d used when Thorin tried to sneak away from bath time as a dwarfling. “You did so well, my son, my Thorin, so well. I am so proud of you.”

“Adad…” Thorin croaked, finally returning the hug. Neither dwarf realised that the small stone room was being efficiently emptied by Frís, silently forcing their kinsmen out.