#hobbit x reader

You sat up, blinking, half-expecting the illusion to shatter like a dream. But it stayed: sunshine filtered through sheer curtains, delicate and golden. The travel-worn pack you’d carried since Bree was nowhere in sight—someone must have taken it to be cleaned. Your clothes—the ones that had stubbornly collected dust and grime no matter how often you brushed them out—were also gone.

You slipped out of bed, feeling strangely small among the elven-made furniture, and opened the door. An elf waited—graceful, serene, impossibly composed. They smiled softly, as if they'd been expecting you.

“Come,” they said. “The baths are ready. Lord Elrond thought you might enjoy a moment of peace.”

Peace. The word alone nearly brought tears to your eyes.

---

Steam curled through the bathing chamber like mist over a lake. Warm water lapped at your skin, washing away days of exhaustion. You sank deeper, eyes closing, and for once, there was no need to keep tension in your shoulders, no need to stay ready to run or fight or catch up.

Just… breathe.

It felt selfish, almost, to let yourself enjoy it when the journey ahead remained dangerous. But you’d never been pampered before—never had the luxury of gentleness. You tried not to imagine what the dwarves would say if they saw this. Well… some of them. You could already hear Bofur laughing kindly, and Dwalin grumbling that it made you soft.

But Fíli… You didn’t know. He was always difficult to predict.

He’d been kind to you. Respectful. Protective in his own way, though he never said so outright. He treated your height as a logistical consideration rather than a joke—walking beside you on steep paths, offering a steadying hand without comment. He never laughed when you lagged; he slowed his pace.

Still, you doubted he—or any of them—had ever pictured you looking like anything other than the road-worn stray who had stumbled into their quest. You weren’t sure you pictured yourself as anything else.

When you stepped from the bath, the elves had prepared clothing. Not extravagant—just… beautiful. Soft fabric in colors that reminded you of twilight, fitted to your shape with the kind of care that said 'you deserve this' . They braided your hair with gentle fingers, twisting it in patterns that mirrored the starlit motifs in Rivendell’s carvings.

You caught sight of yourself in a polished mirror.

Clean. Presentable. Almost elegant.

You barely recognized yourself.

“You look lovely,” an elf murmured.

“…Do I?” Your voice sounded small.

“There is more strength in beauty than most believe. Wear it proudly.”

---

Back in the halls, you found the dwarves gathered—voices loud enough to echo off the delicate arches. They looked comically out of place in this refined sanctuary, like a troupe of boisterous thunderclouds in a landscape of moonlight.

Bofur saw you first. His eyebrows shot up.

“Well now! Don’t you scrub up nice!”

Several heads turned. But one reaction mattered more.

Fíli stood near the balustrade, hair shining in the morning light, blades strapped to his back even here among the peace. He laughed at something Kíli said, but the sound faded as his gaze drifted across the room—landed on you—and stopped.

His smile stilled. His breath hitched. For a heartbeat, he just stared.

Not in shock.

In awe.

You froze, unsure what to do with his attention. His eyes traveled over the new braidwork in your hair, the fabric that fit just so, the shift in how you carried yourself now that you didn’t feel like a burden or an afterthought. Something softened in his face, melting all the lines that battle had carved there.

Kíli elbowed him lightly. “Brother? You look like a trout that’s forgotten how to swim.”

Fíli blinked, swatted him away, and stepped toward you. Slowly. Carefully. As though approaching a wild creature he didn’t want to scare off.

“You…” His voice failed for a moment. He cleared his throat. “You look—different.”

You curled your hands together, suddenly shy. “Is… that bad?”

“No!” His answer was immediate, too quick, like he couldn’t allow the possibility to exist. He tried again, gentler. “No. It’s… good. It suits you.”

You ducked your head, heart tripping. “The elves insisted.”

“Well.” His lips quirked, warmth returning to his voice. “I might have to thank them.”

Before you could think of a reply, Thorin barked orders from across the space, calling everyone to prepare for counsel. The others shuffled off, but Fíli stayed a moment longer—as though unwilling to break the moment.

He hesitated, then offered his arm. Not because he thought you needed help. But because he wanted you to know you deserved to walk beside him.

“May I?” he asked.

You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow, surprised at how natural it felt.

“Yes,” you breathed. “You may.”

As you walked with him, you caught him glancing at you from the corner of his eye. Like he was memorizing this version of you—clean, confident, comfortable—and trying to reconcile it with the person he’d known on the road.

Not replacing one with the other.

Just… adjusting the picture in his head. Adding to it.

The council chamber of Rivendell felt like a place carved out of a dream—open air, carved stone, sunlight filtering through the leaves. The sound of conversation echoed like distant music, elves and dwarves and humans speaking in cautious diplomacy.

You stood with the company, hands clasped in front of you, trying not to fidget. You weren’t technically a member of the council. You weren’t royalty or a warrior of renown. You were just… you. The curious little traveler who had stumbled into a quest larger than herself.

But Fíli never moved far from your side. It was subtle—he didn’t stand in front of you like a guard, but beside you as though sharing his space was the most natural thing in the world. Every time someone jostled too close, he shifted, placing himself between you and them without drawing attention to the gesture.

You didn’t think he noticed he was doing it.

You did.

Thorin spoke with Elrond at length, their words heavy with duty and the weight of kingdoms, and you tried to listen. But your mind drifted—not from boredom, but because you could feel Fíli watching you. Not constantly. Not in a way that demanded anything. Just… glances. Checking in. A flicker of concern, like he expected you to vanish if he blinked too long.

At one point he leaned close—not touching, but near enough that his voice reached you alone.

“Are you all right?” he murmured.

“Yes,” you whispered back. “Why do you ask?”

He hesitated. Then: “You seem… quieter than usual.”

A small laugh escaped you. “I’m trying not to embarrass anyone.”

“If anyone here is embarrassed by you,” he said softly, “it would be their mistake, not yours.”

He said it with such conviction that it startled you. You turned to reply, but the council reached a point of tension—a raised voice here, an objection there—and the moment fell away.

Still, the warmth lingered.

When the council finally dispersed, the company filtered into the gardens, each dwarf settling into their own way of coping with the clash of politics and prophecy. The air smelled like rain on stone and pine needles warming in the sun.

You found yourself alone for the first time since morning. Or so you thought.

Fíli found you before long.

He approached slowly, bootsteps soft on the grass. Not hesitant—but careful, like he respected your space. You sat on a low stone bench overlooking the waterfall, and he stopped just short of joining you.

“May I sit?” he asked.

You nodded.

He dropped down beside you, elbows on his knees, staring out at the falls. His braids gleamed like gold wire in the sun. Silence settled—not heavy, just there, like a comfortable blanket neither of you needed to shake off.

“You look like you belong here,” he said at last.

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“In this place. All of this—” He gestured at the archways, the gardens, the gentle breeze lifting the leaves. “It suits you. More than the dust and danger and sleeping on rocks.”

You smiled, a little embarrassed. “I thought you’d say it made me look out of place. Like a stray dog someone brushed and put a ribbon on.”

His brows drew together, expression sharp and offended. “I would never say that.”

The fierceness of his voice surprised you. He turned to look at you fully, gaze steady and unguarded.

“You are not a stray. You chose this road. You walk it with us. That makes you part of the company—no matter how you’re dressed.”

It was rare to hear him talk like that. Fíli laughed easily, teased easily, fought bravely—but this direct honesty was something else. A glimpse beneath the confident exterior.

“And besides,” he added more quietly, “I think you look… well. Wonderful.”

Your heartbeat stuttered.

You turned away before he could see your expression, but he noticed anyway. You could hear it in the soft laugh he tried—and failed—to hide.

A short while later, Kíli called from across the garden, waving both arms like a child trying to signal a ship.

“Fíli! Come on! Spar with me before Thorin starts lecturing us again!”

Fíli groaned. “If he disapproves of seeing us fight, imagine how he’ll react to knowing we were avoiding him.”

Kíli shouted something about honor and blades and "stop stalling, brother!"

Fíli didn’t stand. Not yet. His fingers brushed the stone bench, just beside your hand. Not touching, but close enough to feel the possibility of it.

“I’ll see you at supper?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said, finding your voice. “I’d like that.”

His smile was brighter than the midday light.

He stood, took a few steps, then paused and looked back once more—as if committing you, clean and braided and unburdened, to memory.

Kíli tugged him away, laughing.

The moment remained.

Dinner was a lively affair. The elves were patient hosts; the dwarves were loud guests; you were somewhere in between, trying not to spill anything. After hours of travel rations and woodland scrap meals, real food felt like luxury.

Bofur leaned across the table with a wink. “So. About this little transformation of yours…”

You sighed, bracing.

He grinned. “I approve! Always said you had a spark to you. Now look at you—proving me right!”

You laughed, tension easing. “I think I just needed a bath.”

“A bath?!” Dwalin barked. “That’s all it took?”

Nori smirked. “We should throw half this company into the water, see if we get miracles.”

Fíli, you noticed, said nothing. He ate quietly, though his gaze lifted to you more often than he looked at his plate. When he did speak, it was only to agree with whatever compliment the others offered—not to repeat it, but to confirm it, as if speaking of a fact rather than an opinion.

At one point, when the table’s energy was high and no one was watching, his hand brushed yours beneath the table. Not an accident. Just the barest, tentative touch.

Enough to ask a question wordlessly.

You answered by not pulling away.

He stilled, as though that small contact meant more than any spoken declaration.

You wondered if it did.

By the time dinner ended, laughter chasing the lantern light up toward the carved ceilings, you felt… different. Not because of the dress. Not because of the braids.

Because you weren’t invisible. Not to them. Not to him.

On your way back to your room, quiet halls stretching long and starlit, you heard footsteps hurrying behind you.

Fíli.

He slowed when he reached you. Hands behind his back. Biting back nerves.

“I—uh—I wanted to ask you something,” he began, stumbling over the words like they were unfamiliar terrain. “Tomorrow, before we leave… would you walk the gardens with me? Just us? There’s something I’d like to say away from the others.”

Your breath caught.

Was this—?

You swallowed. “Yes, Fíli. I’d like that. Very much.”

He exhaled, relief flickering across his face like sunrise.

“Good. Then I’ll meet you here. In the morning.”

He hesitated, as if debating something.

Then, gently—so gently—he bowed his head toward you. Not a formal dwarven bow, not quite. Something smaller. For you alone.

“Sleep well,” he said.

You wondered, as he walked away, if your heart would ever return to a normal rhythm again.

Morning in Rivendell felt like waking inside a held breath—soft, suspended, waiting. Cool air drifted through the corridors in gentle drafts, carrying the scent of pine and distant rivers. You dressed in the elven-made clothes again, not out of vanity, but because they felt like armor made of comfort instead of metal. Like proof that you could be something other than survival and dust.

When you stepped into the hall, Fíli was already there.

He stood with his back turned, hands behind him, rocking slightly on his heels the way he did when nerves nipped at the edges of his confidence. His hair was freshly braided, beads catching flashes of gold in the early light. For a moment, he didn’t notice you.

Then he turned—and froze exactly the way he had the day before.

“Good morning,” you said softly.

Fíli blinked, recovered, and bowed his head in greeting. “Morning. You… well. You look ready for the day.”

“I hope I am,” you murmured. “Though I admit I haven’t walked anywhere yet. I might trip the moment we step outside.”

His grin appeared—quick, bright, unguarded. “If you fall, I’ll catch you.”

He said it easily, like a promise already made.

You walked together through Rivendell’s gardens. The path wound past fountains and carved bridges, through clusters of flowers that looked like they’d grown from music rather than soil. For a time, silence filled the space between you—not sharp, not awkward. Just there, like a companion.

Fíli broke it first.

“I used to think of you as—” He paused, reconsidering. “Someone the road changed. Someone who needed it.”

You swallowed. “And now?”

“And now,” he said slowly, “I see there was more to you the whole time. Not hidden. Just… waiting for room to breathe.”

The words hit harder than he probably meant them to. They felt like being seen—truly seen—in a way that was frightening and comforting all at once.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever had room before,” you admitted.

“Well,” he said, voice warm, “I hope this journey leaves space for you. Even when it’s difficult. Especially then.”

He glanced down at you, expression softer than the mist curling off the waterfalls.

“You deserve that much.”

You reached a quiet alcove where the stone railing overlooked the valley. Birds wheeled high above the water, their calls echoing like distant bells.

Fíli stopped walking. His boots scuffed lightly against the stone. You turned to face him.

He looked nervous. Not frightened, but uncertain—like someone stepping toward the edge of something important.

“I asked you to walk with me because there’s something I wanted to say,” he began. “Something I’ve been trying to find the right words for.”

You nodded, encouraging.

He exhaled.

“When you joined us, I thought you might turn back. I thought you were… fragile.” His face twisted with frustration. “That was wrong. You’ve held your own through everything we’ve faced. Longer marches than you should have had to endure. Nights without rest. Storms. Goblins. The things most of us have trained for, you survived through will alone.”

You opened your mouth, but he raised a hand—not to silence you, but to finish his thought before courage escaped him.

“But even then, I only saw how strong you were because the world made you be. I didn’t understand that strength can be quiet. That it can look like gentleness. Like patience. Like choosing kindness when you’re cold and tired and scared. I never thought that was less than steel.” His gaze was steady, earnest. “Now I think it might be more.”

He didn’t look away. Didn’t retreat into humor or bravado.

“I’m glad Rivendell gave you a chance to feel comfortable. To rest. To feel… like yourself.”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t know I could.”

“You can,” he said. “And I hope you will. Even after we leave here. Even when it’s hard.”

He stepped closer—not invading, just offering.

“And I hope—if you want—it doesn’t have to be something you face alone.”

The breath you released trembled.

“Fíli,” you whispered, unsure how to gather everything you felt into one sentence. “I don’t know what to say.. ”

He smiled sadly. “You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to know.”

He reached into his coat, hesitating only briefly, and withdrew something wrapped in cloth. He offered it, palm open.

“For you.”

You unfolded the cloth carefully. Inside was a small charm—a simple piece of worked metal shaped like a knot of three interlocking lines. Dwarven craft. Not ornamental. Not expensive. But personal. Something someone made with intention.

“It’s.. a traveler’s token,” Fíli said quietly. “From the Blue Mountains. Kíli and I were given matching ones when we came of age. I… well. I traded a bit with one of Elrond’s smiths to make a third.”

“You made this?” you breathed.

His ears went pink. “I helped. Somewhat. I held the metal and got very specific and very annoying about the engraving.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it—warm and helpless.

You lifted the charm. It felt solid in your hand. Safe.

“Fíli,” you said, voice shaking in the softest way, “I… don’t know what this means.”

He swallowed. “It can mean nothing. If that’s what you want. Just a token for luck.” Then, quieter:

“Or it can mean you’re not walking the world alone. That someone is choosing to share the road with you.”

You looked up. He held your gaze, nervous but unflinching.

“It doesn’t have to mean more than that,” he added. “Not until you want it to.”

Your heart felt like a small, trembling animal learning it could uncurl. Slowly. Carefully.

“I want it to,” you whispered.

Fíli’s breath caught. “You do?”

You nodded. “I don’t know what comes next. But… yes. I want that.”

Something in his expression went soft at the edges, like molten metal cooling into something strong.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” he said.

He carefully reached for your hand—pausing long enough to give you room to pull away. When you didn’t, his fingers laced with yours slowly, reverently. Like he’d been waiting a long time for permission.

His palm was warm. Calloused from training. Steady.

You stood there with him, overlooking Rivendell, and for the first time the journey ahead didn’t feel like a cliff you were about to fall from. It felt like a road.

One you didn’t have to walk alone.

Eventually, voices rose from the courtyard—a sign that the company was gathering. The moment had to end. The road was calling again.

Fíli squeezed your hand once before letting go.

“We should join the others,” he said. “Before they come looking.”

“They would,” you replied. “Some loudly.”

He laughed. “Kíli most loudly of all.”

You started down the path, but Fíli paused. You looked back at him.

“One more thing,” he said, voice low. “When I saw you in those clothes yesterday… I didn’t think you looked like someone changed by elves.”

“No?”

He shook his head.

“I thought you finally looked like someone who remembered she deserved care.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Words wouldn’t fit past the feeling in your chest.

Instead, you reached out and took his hand again.

This time he didn’t let go.

Packing to leave Rivendell felt different than arriving. On the way in, you had been dust, exhaustion, and the thin edge of hope. On the way out, you were still all those things—but now wrapped in something gentler. Something chosen.

Dwarves packed loudly, of course. Armor rang like bells. Boots thudded. Voices ricocheted down elegant corridors never meant for so much clamor. The elves bore it all with a kind of resigned serenity that was very nearly admirable.

You tightened the straps on your bag—a clean bag now, mended by skilled hands—and adjusted the little token Fíli had given you. You wore it tucked beneath your clothing, close enough to feel when you breathed. Not a secret, but not a spectacle. A promise in progress.

Fíli found you as the last of the company filtered out to the courtyard. He didn’t swoop in or hover; he just stepped beside you like it was the place he was always meant to stand.

“Ready?” he asked.

“I think so,” you answered. “Ask me again when my feet hit the road.”

He chuckled. “If they slip, I’ll catch you.”

You snorted. “At this point I’m starting to think you want me to fall, just to prove your reflexes.”

His eyes sparked with mischief. “If I did, would it work?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Worth a try,” he murmured, smiling.

In the courtyard, the company gathered. Thorin spoke with Elrond, voice low with the gravity of future choices. Kíli practiced restless footwork with his bow, unable to stand still for more than two breaths. Bofur hummed something cheerful and off-key. It all felt familiar now—reassuring in its chaos.

You stepped forward to join them, but before you crossed the last few paces, Fíli reached out, fingers brushing your sleeve.

“May I walk beside you today?” he asked quietly.

It was the carefulness in the question that undid you. Not possession. Not assumption. Choice.

“Yes,” you said, steady and sure. “I want you to.”

His expression warmed, like sunrise finding a window.

Then Kíli appeared at his brother’s shoulder with the subtlety of a falling tree..

“So!” he declared, clasping his hands behind his back like an innocent man. “Anything interesting happen on your morning walk?”

Fíli froze. You froze. Kíli’s grin widened like a child discovering contraband sweets.

“No?” he continued. “Nothing at all? Not even, say… emotional revelations? Promises of shared futures? A quiet moment on a balcony overlooking the waterfalls?”

Fíli groaned. “Kíli.”

“What?” Kíli asked, eyes bright. “Just trying to spark conversation. I’m making memories here.”

“You weren’t there,” Fíli pointed out.

“Not physically,” Kíli agreed. “But spiritually? I was absolutely there. Watching. Cheering.”

You pressed a hand over your face. “I’m going to start falling on purpose and see if I can take you with me.”

Kíli gasped. “You wound me! And so soon after I gave my blessing—”

“You didn’t,” Fíli muttered.

“I did in my heart,” Kíli countered. “And that’s what matters.”

Despite yourself, you laughed. It broke whatever tension lingered, and Fíli’s shoulders eased. He looked at you—really looked—and his smile turned into something small and private.

The road from Rivendell curved along the cliffs. The air was crisp, the world sunlit and wide. And though you were back on uneven ground with a pack tugging at your shoulders, it didn’t feel like returning to hardship.

Fíli stayed beside you, matching your tempo without fanfare. Not slowing down so you wouldn’t be left behind—simply choosing to walk with you.

“So,” he said, voice low enough not to carry. “When we reach camp tonight—there’s something I wanted to ask. Nothing heavy,” he added quickly. “Just… something.”

“Should I be worried?” you teased.

“Probably,” he said gravely. “I’ve been thinking.”

You gasped. “Dangerous.”

“The deadliest of all my activities.”

Your shoulders brushed as you walked. The contact lingered—a small spark of awareness in the air. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just a steady warmth.

You wondered if anyone else noticed.

They did.

About an hour after setting out, Bofur fell into step behind you like a man casually not-being-subtle.

“So,” he began.

“So?” you echoed.

He nodded toward Fíli’s back. “Our princeling seems rather… attentive today.”

Fíli heard his name and tensed like a startled deer, but didn’t turn around.

You cleared your throat. “He’s just being polite.”

Bofur snorted. “Lass, that lad’s been polite since the day we met. This is different. This is the sort of polite that’s practically holdin’ a banner sayin’ ‘look at me, I care.’”

Fíli tripped. Just slightly. He recovered immediately and pretended he hadn’t.

You tried not to laugh. “Bofur, it’s fine. We’re just—figuring things out.”

“Aye,” Bofur said. “I know. Just wanted to say: if it ends with you lettin’ him braid some of ya' hair, we'll pretend not to see. Fo' a while at least.”

Fíli made a noise of despair.

You smiled. “Thank you.”

“What are uncles for?” Bofur replied.

“You’re not my uncle,” Fíli muttered.

“Spiritual uncle,” Bofur corrected.

Kíli shouted from ahead, “Spiritual uncles can give blessings too!”

“No they cannot!” Fíli shouted back.

When you finally stopped for the evening, the world glowed with dying sunlight. A clearing opened by the river, and the company set about making camp.

Fíli approached you once more.

“Would you sit with me?” he asked. “Just for a moment.”

You nodded. You found a fallen log overlooking the water, away from the bustle. The river shimmered with the last of the light, the sound of it like a lullaby.

Fíli sat close—not touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating through the space between you. He fiddled with his hands, searching for words.

“I know the road ahead is dangerous,” he said. “And I know there are no guarantees. For any of us.” His gaze flicked to you. “But if there is room on that road for something good—for a reason to hope—then I want to make space for it.”

Your heart slowed, not with fear, but clarity.

“What are you asking?” you murmured.

He swallowed. “I’m asking if it would be all right… if I stayed by your side. Not because you need me. Not so I can protect you or worry over you. Just because I want to.”

You breathed in. Out.

“Fíli,” you said softly, “you’re already there.”

He blinked, uncertainty cracking.

“I want you beside me,” you continued. “Not as a guard. Not as a prince. Just… as you.”

Silence. Then a slow exhale. Like he’d been holding his breath since the moment you left Rivendell.

He reached for your hand again. This time, when your fingers laced, it was certain. Not tentative. Not hesitant.

Chosen.

Fíli leaned just slightly toward you. Not asking for a kiss. Not assuming one. Just sharing the same space, the same air, the same moment.

“I’ve never done this before,” he admitted quietly.

“Neither have I,” you said.

“Good,” he whispered. “Then we can learn together, " he said, fingers already in your hair, playing with it absentmindedly.

As night settled, the company gathered around the fire. Kíli clocked the hand-holding immediately, elbowed Bofur, and both looked delighted. Thorin noticed next. His eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in assessment. After a long moment, he inclined his head once, almost imperceptibly.

Permission.

Respect.

Maybe even approval.

No one made a spectacle of it. No one teased loudly. The world didn’t stop and point. Life just… continued. With Fíli’s hand in yours and the token resting against your heart.

The journey ahead was still long. Still frightening. Still uncertain.

But now, for the first time, the road felt like something you could survive.

Not alone.

Never alone again.

Night fell in quiet layers—soft darkness, crackling firelight, the hush of the river threading through the trees. The company settled in around the flames, each dwarf finding a comfortable sprawl of bedrolls and cloaks, the subtle sounds of sharpening blades and murmured conversation fading into the rhythm of sleep.

Fíli sat beside you, close enough for warmth but far enough to give you a choice. He always seemed to give you choices.

“You should sleep,” you murmured.

He shook his head. “You first. I’ll take the watch.”

“You had the last watch.”

“I don’t mind,” he said, gaze drifting toward the darkness beyond the trees. “There’s a peace here tonight. I’d rather keep it than hand it off.”

You wrapped your blanket around your shoulders and settled on your bedroll. The air held a lingering chill, curling around your ankles and wrists the way night air always did on the road—sharp enough to bite. You lay still, trying to get comfortable, trying not to shiver.

It didn’t escape him.

Without a word, Fíli slid his cloak from his shoulders and draped it over you. The fabric smelled faintly of travel and metal and the campfires of a hundred nights before this one.

“Fíli,” you whispered, “you’ll freeze.”

“I’ll live,” he said simply. Then, after a beat: “But if you don’t take it, that would be a different story.”

You hesitated. He lowered himself beside you, not under the blanket, just near enough that his presence reached you like a hearth’s heat.

“Is this all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said. And it was. It truly was.

He lay back, hands behind his head, eyes on the stars peeking through the canopy overhead. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled. Someone snored. Someone else muttered in their sleep about food.

It felt normal. It felt like belonging.

Fíli’s voice eventually broke the quiet, soft enough that only you could hear.

“There’s a saying in our language,” he murmured. “A dwarven phrase I grew up with. My mother used to tell us before long journeys.”

You turned your head to look at him. “What does it mean?”

He hesitated, then spoke the words in Dwarvish. "Baruz-kadad amrukh farn.”

They rolled like mountain stone, warm and deep and old.

“It means,” he translated slowly, “may your steps find a road that welcomes you back.”

You felt the weight of it settle in your chest—not heavy, but rooted. A blessing, not a prayer.

“Is that what you wish for me?” you asked.

Fíli turned his head then, eyes finding yours in the dim firelight. “No,” he answered. “Not just that.”

He shifted, bracing himself on one elbow, leaning just slightly closer—not enough to trap you, only enough to make the moment real.

“I wish,” he said, voice steady but threaded with something vulnerable, “to be someone that road leads back to.”

Your breath caught. He waited. Not demanding. Not expecting. Just waiting in the space between question and answer.

You reached out, fingers brushing his—the barest touch, like testing the edge of dawn. He didn’t move except to turn his hand so your fingers could slide into his. It felt like choosing something. Not a story. Not a dream.

A future.

“I hope it does,” you whispered. “I hope it leads to you.”

Something in him loosened—tension melting away as if it had been waiting for that single sentence. He lowered his forehead to yours, not quite a kiss, not quite a bow. Just contact. Just closeness. A promise made in silence.

“I’ll walk with you,” he murmured. “As long as you’ll have me.”

You squeezed his hand. “Then stay.”

He laid back down beside you, closer this time, sharing the blanket. Not wrapping around you, not overtaking your space—just a warm line of presence at your side, solid and reassuring.

The river sang. The fire dimmed. The stars held their breath.

And as sleep pulled you under, the last thing you felt was Fíli’s thumb brushing the back of your hand—once, like punctuation. A quiet vow in the language of touch.

Not a beginning.

A continuation.

Together.

Thorin’s gaze settled on your eyes. He knew you were troubled. Had this been another of his kin questioning his actions, he would have scolded their wavering faith. But you? What thoughts he had to reprimand vanished before they could form, replaced with only a strong urge to reassure your safety.

“What troubles you?” He asked.

You faced him once more and answered with honesty. “Everything.” You took note of how the warm light of the Hobbit’s home softened his features. He waited quietly for you to finish. “There is an unsettled feeling in my chest that has taken hold. I almost fear the journey ahead.”

Thorin set the ale aside on a small oak table and took your hands in his. He stroked the skin gently before pulling you two steps closer, nearly flush against his chest. A hand settled on your waist as his eyes held contact with your own melting away the rest of the world.

“I must do this.” He whispered. “I also do not wish you such discomfort. If you choose to wait for me in the Blue Mountains, I would never fault you for doing so. But if you are willing to join me, I will be with you every step of this journey. Over every bridge crossing, past every unsavoury creature, and unstable mountain path, I will be by your side.”

“What of the dragon?” You asked in return, voice equally soft. Smaug was the beast that was laying wait at the end of the journey.

“If our burglar can take back the Arkenstone, we will have no reason to face down the beast.” Thorin answered. He let you sit with his answers for a moment longer before asking, “Do I have the privilege of your company for this quest?”

Worry still seeped into your bones but you could not fathom remaining behind and waiting for days on end with no news. You squeezed his hands and sighed softly, decision coming to pass. “I will be at your side to reclaim Erebor. You have my heart, Thorin.”

Thorin raised your hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss atop the knuckles. “As you have mine.”

~ More imagines here ~

Thranduil

-Listen- Thranduil is hard to reach, he’s a tough nut to crack as one may say, and he is quite distrustful of strangers, but this is not a scenario where you’re a stranger to him, oh no. 

-While you have caught the interest of the elven king and as his knowledge is ever so deep on both elven customs and that of man, he can’t say he has ever indulged in the human customs quite so much. You sort of make him want to indulge in it all. 

-Thranduil is not the one to hastily discard his public image and reputation for the sake of a fleeting touch of fingers or a graze of your lips across his cheek in a farewell bidding, yet seeing you do so with your company with which you travel with makes him think.

-For a mind that has seen so many centuries and so many faces, you have made him feel as if the memories of friends of old and strangers came before his eyes only in preparation to see you. Quite weird, but it is what his mind makes him think. Were you sent to his path for a reason?

-And where do you get your boldness from, to try and touch him so easily? What makes you think that is proper? When have you become so brazen when just yesterday you seemed to struggle with speaking to him formally? 

-He does request your company alone from time to time, walks through the woods and dinnertime especially, and this opens way for more privacy and attempts at intimacy.

-Here, you’d find him more forgiving at accepting your advances

-He is still getting used to the feel which your hands leave behind after gripping his own hand or his arm, or the tug at his sleeve the poke of your fingers at his side - yet he wouldn’t trade it for anything else. It’s such a small change in his life, but it feels surreal to experience it all the same when he is so used to the generally the same routine and schedule, especially in his relations with others. 

-At the end of the journey of your outing, he’d return the gestures with one of his own, one a bit more subtle than yours, but he makes sure his kisses on your knuckles linger

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Legolas

-Humans are touchy, yes, Legolas has witnessed much of this displayed affection since he departed Mirkwood for his journeys, but what he felt when he saw all of it wasn’t shock or disgust like some of his peers felt when they saw these “crude and hasty customs” - rather he felt some longing instead, a yearning.

-He craves a close connection too, but he is hopeless in seeking it out in the world of mortals and he is a bit without a clue on how to develop such a closeness with someone. He wasn’t raised in a place where emotions are foreign, but as established before - human and elven customs do differ, and they both perceive emotions and displays of it differently. You can say Legolas fits a bit more into whatever human ways are of expressing emotions. Firm hand holds and tight hugs instead of brush of fingers and longing looks during long periods of courting. Man, Legolas just craves a strong friendship, let alone a relationship

-I think it would be safe to say Legolas is touch-starved in his own right, simply put

-So when you come along, and you both click as companions? He is quite happy to put it lightly. I don’t think there is an adequate term that can summarize his elven giddiness when he simply sees you being openly affectionate with your friends, he feels a sense of belonging since you are not a stranger he observed, but someone he has come to understand too. He knows your name, your story, what you do and don’t like

-Yet this doesn’t prepare him for when you show the same affection to him as well. Suddenly all lectures and elven courting rules and traditions come pouring in his head all within a blink of an eye and it is the first time you have seen him look so taken aback. 

-He doesn’t reject your advances however, he’s much more accepting of them than his father, and it is just you and your shared small company, sometimes not even them, that get to see this exchange. He is.. giddy, quite happy.

-It feels fulfilling sharing in the affections, although he is much more reserved than you by quite a lot - he tries though. He’d still absolutely love it if you accepted his proposal of courting, so he can court you properly and as you deserve. Please let him he is on the edge of his seat, he is about to fall off waiting

-Despite what he feels and how human his smiles and expressions have become since you began to pay him this attention, he is patient, he moves at a slower pace than you and he is your grounding rock when you become too hasty

-It is not a rare sight to see him draping his cloak around you, or - at your request - see him sitting next to you huddled under the same cloak or a blanket by the fire. Coziest he has ever been tbh…

-In some summary - your hands are held gently, your brows are kissed tenderly and you are well taken care of with him around

-(Please send me more Legolas thoughts or requests I love my bbg sm)

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Lindir

-Now this one is a little more dense. Denser than the Elven King? I hear you ask, and I say to you - possibly.

-Now, correct me if I am wrong, but he isn’t exactly too old, by elvish standards of course. He is relatively young by their norms, and has spent a lot of his time in Rivendell, serving Lord Elrond

-A very personal headcanon, take it or leave it, but he is even younger than Legolas.

-Anyhow, Lindir is quite dutiful in his work and doesn’t accept it comfortably when new energies are introduced to his environment. He can get quite skittish and tense when things aren’t going according to some mental plan he has set out in his mind, or even worse - if the events aren’t following a plan shared by him and the others. He is very keen on sticking to this familiarity of routine and stagnancy, in some way.

-So, note his surprise when you stick around and worm your way into his daily schedule.

-For a long while he swore to himself up and down how he will never get used to you, perhaps if you grew as old as he then he might, but your life was a flicker in comparison to his own

-He is even more surprised and confused when he sees himself looking for too long at you sharing hugs with your friends, bidding them goodbye and safe travels by kissing them hard on the forehead and trying to..wrestle them? What an odd thing to do to your friends..

-He is more baffled when you attempt to do the same to him. How could you?!

-He is an elf, an elf with standards!

-An elf with standards which you break through anyway since you’re so..infectious. Lindir had the funny thought, although it was a bit unsettling to him at the moment, that he was sick or fading/dying.

-In the days and months following, it took much effort to finally see the fruit of your labor. Lindir was finally, although still slowly, opening up to just spending more time with you instead of going by his strict routine that he played on repeat.

-He doesn’t sit three feet away from you anymore, but rather two and a half.. Not literally, of course, but the distance between you seems like it is miles with the way he sometimes acted in the beginning of these outings with you.

-The distance surely shrinks until he is actually next to you, his fingers brushing against your skin as he traces a small scar there which you claim you earned in your childhood. By elvish standards, humans are nowhere near perfection, but his thoughts have begun to change, and he no longer sees perfection in the standards he was raised with, but rather he sees it in you. Each little thing that separates you from another, and little by little he begins to sow you into his memory.

-He isn’t the best at remembering mortal souls, they all pass by quickly, but you linger and linger and he doesn’t want you to not linger. Linger with him by the fountain, will you? Let him ask you questions to distract himself from the fact your hand embraced his?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Wondrous though they were, yet you gazed upon their greatness with a tugging at your heart which you couldn’t place, only that the walls held a certain sadness that simmered behind every rock, behind every corner. Did they grieve with your companion, you wondered, casting a careful glance at Gimli where he had huddled himself into a corner, shoulders heaving with sorrow, eyes brimming with tears that ought not to fall. A quiet kind of pain, one which tears through your body slowly, cruel in its own way, for it stuck with you until it frayed your bones, marked their way through your soul.

Such a revelation would have destroyed you, you thought as your gaze dropped, thinking it better to let him be, not wishing to prod at his freshly drawn wound. It seemed you weren't the only one who thought so, for the others had retreated for the time being, their chests moving beneath their blankets timidly, as if aware even in sleep of the unearthliness that had become more potent the further you had wandered.

 You thought it to be a real shame to find the halls of Moria so desolate, reeking with forgotten memories, yet tainted with a smell that reminded you of old, bloodied rags. A certain sweetness clung to it, yet something acidic seeped in, ready to eat away at the fibers of the fabric. It made a chill traverse the expanse of your skin, and you found yourself increasingly appreciative that you needn't tread through this place on your own.

“It will pass,” a hushed voice spoke beside you, quiet yet seeming so loud in the silence that had settled over the fellowship—your friends remaining curled in cloaks and shadows, distant and unmoving.

“I’m not so sure,” you said, giving Gimli one last look, your brows drawing deep shadows to rest over the valleys of your face. 

Warmth suddenly radiated from beside you when Legolas seated himself on the damp ground, and it was a welcome change, still finding yourself rigid from the frost that had found its way into your skin and settled deeply inside. Welcomed, yet unnerving, and you found your eyes dancing wildly at the darkness that spread its hold before you, not entirely too sure where to look. 

But, you would come to find that you needn't decide, for you felt the nimble touch of something soft against your face. It was unwavering, the way his fingers hesitantly pressed onto your cheek, his eyes steady yet tinged with something that sent a shiver through you when he gazed at the small cuts littering your face. 

“You are hurt,” he stated, thumb trailing down, careful to avoid the slivers that tainted it.

A few moments passed, the steady beating in your heart pulsing loudly, just as if someone had grabbed it and held it right beside your ear. His movements had then turned unsure, a flash of recognition drawing over his face as he withdrew his hands. A deep ache settled in the pit of your stomach, and if it was in disappointment of losing his touch, you dared not admit for yourself, for it would speak too clearly—and you didn't want to open yourself to the wounds it could create.

It lingered in the air, the tension that never seemed to disappear when you strayed close to one another. Small hidden glances, ones who dared not be obvious yet seemingly not able to pull away for even the shortest of time. Small prickles, like hundreds of nails breaking the thin, first layer of your skin, were in moments like that present, as if sensing the nearness of the other. Yet it wasn't painful, it was pleasant, and the feeling never ceased to disappear.

“Oh,” you said, the word more breathy than you liked. “It’s alright.”

His words reminded you of your path here, and how it never occurred to you how harshly the weather fought from such a height from as it did on the passage of Caradhras, how it seemed much darker—almost eerie—the growing threat from beyond the clouds only making the sight appear as if all light had been removed from the world. It made you feel small, the towering mountain walls casting shadows which cut grimly through the pass way, coloring the snow beneath you in a grayish blue that looked none the colder than it actually was. For it was cold, the type of chill that settles deep within you, relentless in its torture and brutal in its jeering.

You had despised every small, melting flake that thought the already frigid skin on your face had been a great place to land upon. It made the decision of venturing into the mines much less daunting, for you decided that anything was better than that—even if that meant treading through the dark, dwarfish corridors that to any but themselves appeared cold and menacing. Beautiful, of course—like so many terrible things are, in their own strange way—yet all the more alluring as another gust of wind had slipped through the cotton of your tunic, as if it were made of nothing but paper. A taunt, you had stated to yourself, a taunt from nature against your very sanity as if it wasn’t already hanging on by a very thin, very frail piece of thread.

“Turn back!” the booming yell of Gandalf had cut through the roaring wind, and if it wasn’t for the sheer force that always clung to the edges of his voice, you wouldn’t have heard him as the stones crashed against the other, the splinters falling around you like rainfall. “We’ll have to go through the mines!”

You passed a hand over your face mindlessly as you remembered the rocks that had scattered from the impact, the darkness which gave upon you in the room extinguishing any chance of glancing at your reflection, whether it was at the blade of your dagger or the grimy, slinky pools of water. Yet you winced when the touch irritated the sore edges lining the red cuts; scratchy and small you'd come to find but their amount made the pain more extensive than you originally thought. 

Once more, you felt your hand encased by one much larger, ending your wandering exploration abruptly in dismay. “It is better to leave it be,” he mumbled, eyes trailing over your face till they met yours, faltering when he realised your gaze was already set upon him. “You should be more careful.”

Your first instinct would be to face him with malcontent, as you would any that opposed your ability to defend yourself, yet the vulnerability behind his words made you hesitant, your thoughts fraying inside your mind. There was a certain tenderness behind it that bled through the cracks of his voice, blurred the edges of what he should have meant and what he actually implied. It might’ve been on purpose, or it might have been a moment of weakness; a short, futile attempt to cover what you shouldn’t know, shouldn’t hear. 

A few moments passed, a short silence settling over you. It wasn’t uncomfortable, per se, yet a strain filled the air, flickering slightly around like small bursts of static. It was as if something in the air was waiting, watching, filling the spaces around you till it grew shallow in suspense. The faint rustling could be heard nearby, the scrape of a shifting foot, but it all faded, neither here nor there anymore. You tried not to look, tried not to let your eyes wander. Truly, you did. But your curiosity was too grand, a poor habit that now seemed so incredibly unwished for. 

“I am careful,” you whispered eventually, though the words came out later than you’d like and softer than intended—barely a breath, like you’d forgotten how to speak. “Mostly.”

Peeking through your lashes, you saw the slight tug of his lips—not a smile, not really—but something faint. “Then I dread to see what you look like when you are reckless.”

A sound so soft it hardly deserved the name of laughter rose in your chest, and his head turned towards you, like the sound surprised him. “Do you jest with me, Legolas?” 

There it was again—that nearly smile. Yet his eyes were too serious. Too still.

“No,” he said. “I only find it a shame to see such cruelty taint your delicate skin.”

You had meant to scoff, to tease, to brush it of—but something in the way he said it made your skin feel too tight. It was his words, and the way he looked at you, as if he tried to convey that what he said held such a truth it couldn’t be anything other than factual. What could you say in return, you thought, your mind frozen from the suddenness of what he said, the unexpectedness of it not failing in hushing your lips.

You looked away first. And yet you didn’t move.

“Are you cold?” he asked, suddenly, and you knew it for what it was—a bridge. A gentle way to ask may I stay? A way to hide the question neither of you wanted to ask aloud.

“A little,” you admitted. It wasn’t just a little, for the coldness from before seemed to have settled deep in your bones, coursed through every muscle until it felt like your whole body tried to fold into itself to regain any sense of warmth, of normality.

His movement was immediate, draping his cloak over your shoulders without asking, without waiting for your permission. It still held warmth to it, still bathed in the heat from his skin that never seemed to feel the chill that settled as dusk came or when snow fell. You envied it, but you also gazed upon it in wonder—a quiet amazement that such a thing could be possible, for it seemed so far away to you, so unfamiliar. Yet the scent was comforting, and you believed it held no right to still cling to him in a place so devoid of growing things such as this. 

“You will warm up soon,” he said quietly, meeting the ends of the cloak at your front so not the smallest wisp of air could penetrate, yet he did it slowly, and you wondered if he did it in wish for the moment to be prolonged.

“Thank you,” you said, eyes flickering up to his face a few times. “The weather on that mountain wasn’t kind.”

He hummed, tucking the cloak carefully beneath the bend of your legs. “Yet the air is fouler in these halls,” he mumbled. “I fear we traded one danger for another.” 

His voice held no hesitation, but it did little to quiet the anxiety coiled in your chest. The thought of threading deeper into these shadowed corridors—trapped with no chance to turn back—settled heavy in your chest. That was what you feared the most: not the darkness itself, but the forward motion of it. The certainty that retreat was no longer an option, that what lay ahead was neither foretold nor safe. 

“You are frightened.” 

It was more a statement than a question, eyes boring into yours when you gazed up at him. 

“I’d be a fool if I wasn’t,” you said, fingers tightening around the edges of the cloak as it began its slow descent down your sides. But your voice betrayed you—it wavered, soft with something too hopeful, too unsure, belaying the brave acceptance your words tried to claim.

Legolas was kept leaning over you, yet his motions had stilled, close but not quite touching—the careful distance he always kept. He seemed carved from the quiet, a piece of the dark given breath and golden hair as his profile caught the faint silver light of a dying fire—sharp and unreal, as if he had stepped out of a dream. One moment his gaze was distant, unreadable as it always seemed to be—and then it shifted, a vulnerability drawing up the confines of his face as he leaned in closer, not quite touching but close enough for your skin to pulse with the nearness. 

Your breath caught—his own one warming your cheek, his thumb ghosting your sides, eyes dipped low and dangerous—and you found that you couldn’t look away. A certain look glazed over then, as if trying to convey something that could only be told by feeling rather than something spoken, and you found yourself leaning in closer as if it would make his message clearer, as if by doing so you could crawl through his head and read every thought that crossed his mind.

“Do not be afraid,” a hushed, barely there mumble of words. “There is not a moment where my eyes stray from you.”

His lips were soft, and they held a kind of tenderness that crawled up your body in a small—slow yet grasping—hold, leaving behind tingles that made you want to curl into yourself to hide from their onslaught. It was featherlight, yet bruising—welcomed, and yet somehow illicit—and it didn’t fail to make your hands tremble where they had risen from the ground, holding them in front of you as an imaginary shield stemming from the suddenness of the elf's advance. Hanging in the air, your head rested against the stony wall, and you weren’t sure if it was in an attempt to escape his grasp or have him lean in closer, to feel his body nearer when his arm trespassed your futile blockade.

Leather was the first thing that reached your nose. Not the sharp bite of a polished saddle or new boots, but something lived in—damp, softened, dark. The kind of scent that clung to old gloves left out in the rain, like something remembered rather than new, warmed by the heat of his body. Yet there was a breath of lightness to it, like cold sunlight when it touches the high mountain air—crisp and unmoving, yet beneath it something that didn’t belong to time. A stillness. Patience. As if time had settled on him like dust and never stirred again. Not dead, not stale—just… paused. 

He shifted, slow and sure, and your shoulder jumped when you felt the light touch—as if testing the shape of you—pressing against the curve of your waist. The palm was warm, long fingers bleeding through your vast layer of clothes, and it sent such warmth that small shocks of heatwaves traveled throughout your body. He leaned closer as the wall behind you welcomed his weight, the other arm reaching across, bracing against the stone just above your shoulder, caging you as his body seemed to fold into you. Not crushing nor towering, but present, larger than you in a way that felt quietly devastating.

There was no room to move—not because he held you down, but because your limbs had frozen shut, as if your flesh had turned to clay. Yet the beating of your heart seemed too loud, too alive, and you felt him everywhere—his shoulders grazing yours, the broad stretch of his chest pressing against your own, his knee that had shifted just enough to bracket your thigh and the quiet strength like a tension in his limbs, a coiled stillness as though he was holding back more than just a breath. He moved too gracefully, too quietly, too much like wind to seem human—but now, pinned in the cradle of his arms, feeling the lean strength of his body, it occurred to you that this was not the grace of something untouchable—this was the quiet grasp of something so devastatingly real.

You arched, just slightly, as if your spine was being drawn upwards by an invisible string. It wasn’t by any means a drastic move—just a soft, instinctive pull of your chest into his, one which he met whereas his hand, once still yet twitching against your waist, followed the subtle curve of your body to curl around your back. It didn’t fail to make a small, quiet gasp travel from the back of your throat, pure and true, for the anticipation building up inside your chest was welling over and you found it too much to handle, his sudden affection nauseating. 

Your hand, which had been faltering in the air until now, flushed suddenly with blood—sharp and stinging as your fingers finally dared to move. Tentative at first, as if afraid to break the spell, you reached for him. A light caress glided over the expanse of his arm, trailing up the soft fabric of his tunic, and beneath it: heat, sinew, and tightly coiled restraint that tensed beneath your wandering touch. They followed along the path to his shoulder, and the motion made his lips against yours deepen, pulling you further into his hold as if your touch had prodded an old wound inside him. 

And his hair was silken, like fine-spun starlight, threading around your fingers as you grazed the roots, tangled gently in the braids that followed the curve of his head. You let them rest there for a while—then, you let them graze downward mindlessly, just barely across the curve of his ear as they wandered, anchoring themselves as his mouth moved over yours, to convince yourself that this wasn’t some sort of dream, that the stone at your back was real and the ground beneath you not made of air. One finger—curious— slipped too high, too light.

A breath caught sharp in his throat, and then—before you could apologize—he flinched. Not away, no, but inward. Not a moan, not a groan, just a scrunch of his face, a twitch of his brows. His lips parted from yours by a hair’s breadth, just enough for air to pass between you as his mouth remained slightly open, a breath escaping him—a soft, involuntary puff of air, warm and shaken. An unsteady heart, a quick pulse, a warmth shared, and his eyes remained half-lidded, dazed as he looked at you, like sight might ruin it—too bright, too close to be real. 

“I lebid gîn… díheno nin” His words came out low yet scratchy, trembling, as if they were unraveling from the back of his throat. Strained, yet something much deeper hid behind it, like an ache simmering beneath the surface of his voice. 

It was but a short moment he strayed from you, for surrender brimmed inside him, and you—gods, you felt it all. The flutter came first—deep in the caverns of your belly, featherlight and stuttering, growing wildly as he kissed you once more, deeper this time, yet not with the careful reverence of before but something more desperate, his hand sliding further down to grasp at your hips with a tenderness that felt so unfamiliar to you, yet the thought of it had warmth blooming throughout your chest. 

Deepened, it became something that pulled at the root of the spine and curled beneath the ribs. No longer was it only the meeting of mouths, but mouths seeking and asking, and his parted yours, and you let him, breath catching on the hinge of a sigh. 

Then—

A voice, sudden and sharp, carved into the silence like a blade. 

“I have found the way!”

Gandalf's voice, distant but clear, echoed through the darkness, and you found yourself breaking apart—slowly, like waking dazed with wide eyes, pupils blown like ink dropped in milk, from a dream. Time floated slowly as if you’d been pushed underwater,  Your mouth hovered, still near, still breathing the same breath, inhaling the same air.

Yet the silence that followed was thick as you stared at him, lips parted, red and bitten and his hand lingered on your jaw, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth with lidded eyes gazing through eyelashes as if in a haze, as if still entangled deeply in your web. His fingers shifted slightly, not to tighten but to remain, a touch both reverent and selfish—spurred on by the softness of your eyes, the faint tremble in your throat betraying the chaos behind your stillness. And something in you quivered—not from fear nor doubt, but from the thought that what just unfolded between you could not be folded away as easily as it had begun. No undoing, no swallowing it whole. 

A second voice now—--Boromir's low groan, followed by the rasp of a chainmail, the scrape of boots on stone. 

Scene 1 – Entrance

The sound of each step of your boots bounces off of the walls of this grand fortress, the heart of the wood. Fergrath and Candaer lead you into the halls.

“Follow, please,” Fergrath orders quietly, posture rigid, spear held straight up and down. Candaer left your side, now behind you. You look back at him, and his eyes are blank, staring at nothing, a thousand miles away. Frowning, you turn back forward.

“Where are we going?” You ask with a whisper-yell. As you implore them to orient you in any way, you try to turn your head in every direction, taking in the walls, decorated with carvings of vines and flowers, of oaks and fir trees. The beauty of these carvings must have been as old as the King himself, or older. They must show the forest before the darkness befell it. You frown. The ceiling has arches and comes to pointed domes that mirror the shape of the grand doors to the court. Tree shaped pillars that hold the eloquent shape of the impressive domes hold lanterns, lit by dancing lights bouncing around inside of amber-glassed cylinders. 

The doors closed with a similar gritty scrape against the floor. You futilely attempt to fix your face to a neutral gaze in an effort to mirror your stoic companions. Despite the doors closing, the river could still be heard. Water, drummed against something, coursing still; perhaps even under the floors here in this grand foyer or court of sorts? There is a vibration to the stone beneath the soles of your boots. In this hall, both to your right and left, between the pillars there are various archways with halls (or tunnels, rather). Next to every entrance is a guard, similar in dress to the two ellon who you spent the last few days with, though they wore elven-forged helms as well. 

You get no response. Underground, the air is stale and former travelling companions turn cold, you note. 

There is another set of tall doors — just shorter than the ones to the outside — that are set into a massive and ornate wall at the end of the hall. You swallow, wondering if those doors lead to the throne room of the elvenking. What, am I going there now? A pulse of anxiety wracks your body with the thought; leaden weight drops onto your sternum and your heart speeds up. You look back at Candaer, hoping to meet his gaze, hoping that he’s not marching you into the throne room right now. In a panic, you start smoothing your unwashed hair back, combing through the ends of it with your fingers, trying to adjust the clasp on your cloak. 

Fergrath pivots at the last offramp hallway on your right before the main doors. While relief hits you for a moment, that you were probably not going straight to the king, the relief only lasts a moment because if you’re not going there then…where were you going? The unanswered question unsettles you to the point where you think to yourself, if it was between this feeling and the spider, I’d take the fucking spider.

Scene 2 – The Receiving Chamber

Down the hall into whatever gauntlet awaited you, delicate silver candleholders branch from the decorated relief pillars that line the wall. Various granite veins almost point in the direction of the next set of large rooms. Light chatter and conversation sounds, muffled by the distance and a wooden door at the end of the corridor. You get to the end of the long but straight hallway, about 15 feet tall and one hundred feet long. Opening the doors, you are smacked with the sound of conversation, a few heads turning to see who walked in before returning to their original discussions. Once more, looking behind you as Candaer moves from behind to your side, you see the 15 foot ceiling from the door to this antechamber as it gives way to a vaulted ceiling in an upward slope. The room is a vast soldier’s dining hall — larger than any you had ever seen in Mithlond. 

While some guards sit at various wooden tables, resting their spears against the worn benches, one elf in particular stands out. Gruff, with a scarred face, and more muscular than your two chaperones stood a man, clearly of higher rank and station. His armor is heavier, more intricate, more adorned in silver elven-forged leaf-mail. His gauntleted hands drastically juxtaposed the small goblet that he took delicate sips from. A slash across his left eye into his nose bridge seems deep, when you take him in, yet he wears it well. Sitting at the head of a table on your left, he lowers his goblet slowly, on his own time. 

“Fergrath, Candaer, you’ve brought me a guest!” He grunted in amusement as he pushed himself off of the chair. Your chin tilted upwards to meet his own analytical one. 

“A pleasure to meet you, sir, I am an emissary from the court of Lord Círdan and I have travelled from Rivendell to meet with your king regarding the state of…” You trail off as you notice the quiet of the room.Conversation paused the moment you spoke. 

“This lady of the Grey Havens does not know her manners, so it seems!” This heftier elven soldier blustered to the room. 

“I –” You feel as though you tripped on your dress during a ball, but worse. What rule did I even break? You wracked your mind, blushing wildly. You curtsy, “I apologize, that was not my intention, sir.” Genuflecting, and dropping your gaze. These are soldiers though, you think to yourself, recalling your patients from Rivendell. Humor over all manners. 

“Though,” You add, lifting gaze with a churlish smirk. “I am no titled lady, in the formal sense.” Several of the elves sat at the tables gave a whistle or a chuckle. 

The more experienced soldier you stand in front of gave a whopping laugh. “HA! A snappy one. Very well. Though, we do still address all ellith as lady, sea-daughter. And, all guests alike normally wait to speak openly until introduced.” A grin painted his scarred face.

Fergrath’s ears grow pink under the scrutiny of so many in the room. Forty or more elves in armor are watching the four of you in this conversation. Some whispering to the soldier next to them or craning their necks to get a better look at this foreign Child of the Falathrim. 

“Captain Bregolon,” Fergrath starts, and Bregolon’s pushes back golden brown hair, slicked back and short. A fitting name for a battle worn elf, you consider.

“Yes?” Bregolon sighs, reluctantly pulling his gaze away from you, smile dropping. 

“For the report…” Fergrath redirects. 

“Yes, yes, fine. Come with me.” He turns to the back right area of the room where there is a wooden door. Benches scrape as a path is made for him to exit. He doesn’t break his stride, a blonde ellith soldier opening the wooden door for him with a bow.

“Come on,” Candaer whispers out of the corner of his mouth, gesturing for you to follow him. You do – having to apply some dexterous care in dancing over butts of spears and edges of shields rested on the benches. How did such a large person weave and bob this? 

You pass through several hallways, feeling like an ant in an anthill, until you get to his office. It is a ruddy torch-lit space yet with deeply beautiful wood-carved desks that are splattered with wax, and there are shelves, jammed with scrolls and maps. He passes around the desk, plopping in a plain wooden chair. 

“So,” he grunts. “Report then.”

“Erm, yes, so –” Fergrath fumbles. 

“We came upon her in the woods, about a two day journey from here, standing above a spider’s body.” Candaer interrupts, his quieter voice becoming urgent to correct his friends’ 

“And this spider…” 

“Massive, at least 15 feet from leg to leg, maybe weighed a ton. When we found her,” Candaer glances over to you. “She stood with that very sword on her hip, embedded in the creature.” 

“You’re forgetting to mention that there was a nest of them,” Fergrath mumbles coolly, clearly frustrated that he got cut off.

“A WHAT?”

“A-a nest, sir” Fergrath shakily replied, curling his shoulders inward.

“A fucking nest, how about that…” Bregolon scratches at his chin, tilting back in his chair, looking from you to the two guards. 

“Is this true?” He whips his head over to you, eyebrows scrunched, seeking to verify. You nod, unsure if now would be the right time to add anything. As if he read your mind, he repeats himself. “Is this true, child?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“She also healed me, sir,” Candaer walks forward. “I was poisoned.”

“We have not seen a healer in these parts for many a year that can do much more than seal a pinprick. A lost art.” Bregolon removes his gauntlets, tossing them haphazardly onto his parchment-strewn desk. He stands, clasping his now-bare hands behind his back, pacing in thought. 

“The king will want to hear of your...adventurous arrival, my lady,” Bregolon says more formally. “Now, remind me, what did you come here for? On behalf of whom? And how may we verify this?”

“Sir, I have it all here in this letter from Lords Elrond and Lord Círdan. This is for the purpose of the introduction of myself to the King. I can summarize, if you would like the letter to remain sealed for the King’s eyes?”

“Yes, yes, I would think he would prefer it that way. But let me see the seals themselves," he offers, snagging the letter that you dig from your small satchel. The letter is sealed with an Amber wax from Rivendell, dusted in the silvers of the Grey Havens. The crescent shape of the seal is rotated so it looks like a bowl. In the center is a star, then two trees framing that, then two more stars framing the trees, then two mirrored waterfalls framing the stars. A beautiful stamp, to be sure. Well known. 

“That’s the seal alright. And Lord Elrond’s personal color,” Bregolon thinks aloud. I didn’t know he had a specific wax, you think as you nod along. 

“This dust is from…?” He looks expectantly at you. 

“Lord Círdan, sir. They seek to extend my help to King Thranduil and his kingdom, with handling the…healing of the forest. I have a connection to a form of healing most helpful for flora, though I do have training with people, as you’ve been made aware.” 

“That’s quite the sword at your hip, young ellith…or half?” Bregolon flits his eyes over towards your ears, less pointed than a traditional elf’s. 

“My father was human and my mother’s great love,” you say. If Bregolon has more questions, he bites them back.

“Mm, yes. Well, healer, half-elf, envoy, spider-slayer, and a great beauty…I daresay that the king would find you quite interesting.” You blush modestly, but hope that this captain did not plan to act upon that last remark. Though…nothing wrong with using what you could to your advantage. A simple act of diplomacy, right?

“I’m flattered. When may I seek an audience with his majesty?” You gave a half-lidded smile to the captain. 

“I am sure your travels have taken a toll on you,” Bregolon interrupts himself, getting the attention of the two guards. “Fergrath, Candaer, please see that she is situated in a diplomatic suite.”

He turns back to you, “But the king is incredibly busy, and…” He trails off, looking you up and down, giving a slight grimace at your ruffled and worn appearance.

“And…?” You ask expectantly.

“And, that being said, you absolutely may not visit the king in this state.” He gestures to all of you. What happened to ‘great beauty,’ huh? Your confidence shatters. What state am I in? I mean, sure it’s been a while since I’ve bathed, but when would you meet with him? Today,  tomorrow, months from now?

“I —” You move to ask about the king’s schedule, but you are interrupted. 

“Find Navë. She can take her through the necessary…” he gestures around vaguely, landing on “…things.”

Candaer bows, and leaves the room. You wait in silence for nearly ten minutes — a stiflingly awkward wait. Then, a Sindar elf with dirty blonde hair, cropped around her ears with the exception of two long and delicate braids that traveled from behind her ears to below her chest. Notably, she looks visibly owl-like with her large, round, brown eyes, shorter than some elves but still lean and regal looking enters into the room, bowing to the captain, before asking, “Is this the half-elf?” 

I’m right here…she can see me right? You think, confused.

“Yes, please, prepare her for court. Further instructions later tomorrow in the morning.” With that, she finally looks at you. She squints, almost as if trying to see through the layers of adventuring debris and mess. 

“Okay, come with me. Let’s see what I can do,” she gestures over her shoulder for you to follow.  Her light green and gold robes swish behind her as she turns past the door. You leave the three soldiers behind, casting a look at the two guards you had traveled with. Their gaze, stoic as ever, was trained on their captain. Sighing, you follow Navë.

Scene 3 – Warnings in Steam

“Where are we going? Sorry, I feel like I keep asking people that,” you nervously laugh, putting a little extra effort into your pace, trying to keep up with your new guide. Despite being the same height, when she turns to address you it feels like she looks down her high nose bridge at you. 

“The baths, Eärwen,” she says, simply. Her voice is clear, soft, yet carries a hint of irritation at having to speak.

“It’s nice to meet you, Navë,” you offer, eyebrows raised hopefully. 

“Thank you,” she drolls, picking up her skirts and walking faster somehow. 

“Well, I just — I was wondering what the procedure was here. Like, yes, baths, which thank you by the way! I have not had the chance since I entered Mirkwood.” She stiffens. 

“You know, elves from here prefer to call it the Woodland Realm. Mirkwood is only what it is called to some,” She scoffs, the light heels of her shoes clicking on the stone as you walk through the main entrance area, then down another tunnel/hall. “I do not know your age, half-elf, but in our long memory, it was only recently that we were called ‘Mirkwood.’”

The correction felt more like a slap, but a mistake that was better to make now than in a more critical moment. “I am deeply sorry — I had no idea the term was unfavorable. Thank you for telling me.” Now caught up, you desperately try to meet her gaze but she refuses to look at you nor acknowledge the apology until you arrive at a door at the end of a long corridor, which is down another corridor and a staircase.

Billowing through the cracks, as you breathe in,  are some of the most unctuous smells you had the pleasure of ever encountering. Smells you have never known. Fruits and dried apricots. Grapes and verdant pine. Herbs mixed with these smells, like rosemary and lavender. When the door opened, a wave of humidity poured out. Stepping in, you see the many tiered pools of steaming water, void of any other elves at this midday hour. 

Navë walks over to a natural crevice in the wall, a cragged shelf where gem-shaped bottles with ruby, amethyst, sapphire, and emerald colored glass where filled (to various degrees) with washing oils. Putting a slender sapphire-nailed finger to her lips, Navë hummed to herself, clearly in her element as she looked back at you, any visible disdain melting away. Instead, her face rather reflects careful consideration as she picks up the ruby bottle, before putting it down and selecting the emerald bottle. With a ding of the glass, she pops the star-shaped stopper off, smelling it delicately. 

She shakes her head, “No, no, that’s not right,” muttering. You’ve been standing in the entrance, either because you were awaiting further instruction or entranced by her consideration, you can’t tell which. She walks over to you, holding now the amethyst and sapphire vials. She holds the amethyst one up to your face, leaning in to lightly smell your neck. 

Only slightly scrunching her nose at your smell, she turns back and places the sapphire vial on the shelf. “We’ll go with the violet, sandalwood, blackberry, I think.” She places the bottle on the edge of the largest pool, the one that is in the ground, waterfalls from the higher up pools trickling into it. Navë then unties her sash around her waist and pulls at the string that seals the tunic at her neckline. The pale green and gold-embroidered fabric drops around her, pooling on the granite floor at her feet. Toeing it away from the edge of the bath, you take in her pale form, skin smooth and limbs willowy. 

Naked before you, she gives you a small smile, sits on the edge, then slides into the pool gracefully. The light blue, milky water lightly laps at her collarbone as she stands to grab the amethyst bottle. She swims over to the place in the bath, closest to where you might enter the pool, placing the amethyst bottle on that edge. She dips under the water entirely, then pops back up, propping herself up on the edge with her elbows. 

“I thought sea-elves enjoyed the water,” she teases. “Come in, allow me to attend to you.” 

“O-okay, if you’re sure. I usually take care of this…myself,” you inform her, awkwardly. The corner of her mouth dips into a slight frown. “I appreciate your company though!” You rush to correct yourself.

“I am assigned to help, and most of us here do bathe together. Company is often expected. Is it so private where you are?” She raises an eyebrow. 

“Not entirely private, just…alone in nature. In nature you are never alone. But no, if you’re asking, we don’t bathe with other people,” Then you pause, considering romantic pairs. You add, “…generally,” with a small blush. Placing Breeze against a bench that lines the wall, you unclasp your cloak, shrugging it off onto the same bench. Sitting down, you finally pull off your boots, not realizing how badly your feet ache. You peel off your leather pants and your blouse. Finally, you peel off your undergarments. Did the ellith not wear any? You wondered.

Now bare, yourself, you shuffled to the edge of the water. Sliding into the bath, you had not realized how cold your skin was. Tingles melt up your body at the warmth of the milky blue water. Navë, next to you, asks, “May I?” Pinching the neck of the bottle, she sloshes the liquid around.

As graciously as you can muster, you take a deep breath, “Yes, that’s very kind of you.” You turn your back to her, drifting into the pool a bit more, dipping your head back to let your hair get wet and for her to have access to it. You hear the tincture pour into her hands then feel the delightful pull of someone else touching your hair. She scratches at your scalp, and begins to wash your hair. 

“So,” you start to ask, her silence weighing on you as she massages the bathing oil into your scalp. “Have you grown up in this court?” 

“Yes,” she says simply. “I have served the guests of Thranduil for a long time. Diplomats, scholars, the like.”

“Who do you enjoy being around the most? Scholars? Diplomats?” You ask, humming appreciatively as she massages your weary neck and shoulders with the oil. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been asked that, honestly,” she laughs lightly. “Probably scholars,” she considers. “I always wished to study under someone else, to have a true teacher, beyond the basics or even beyond reading. Something of a learned skill to the point of mastery.” 

“Having a true teacher is always critical. Everyone needs one. I am lucky I was taught to heal by someone who became a dear friend.” Navë smiles at this. 

“I couldn’t agree more. I can keep going with the wash…there is a certain…standard of cleanliness here and I am sure of how to achieve it. But I will respect your wishes if you choose to wash yourself.”

Appreciative of the company and conversation, you agree, “I trust your judgement and I’d prefer to make a good first impression on the king. Any advice?” You ask, blinking softly. Moving around to your front, she pours more oil into her hands, gently lifting your arm out of the water and lathering. By the way she looks at you, you sense she is picking up on how travel-worn and exhausted you are. 

“Well, I can tell you’re strong enough.” At this, she pokes the light bruises along your forearms from the muck. They’ll go away by morning, you note, having healed such light bruising regularly. “And audacious enough to travel here without an invitation from the king personally,” she continues. “The king is very particular, very…stern. I would tell you, as I would tell anyone else, to choose your words carefully. Look him in the eye. Do not lie.”

“What lie is there to tell?” You ask yourself more than the ellith in front of you, concentrating on your other arm. She does not respond. It was more rhetorical anyway, you tell yourself. In the time, as Navë moves from section to section, you are slowly stripped of the forest: mud, spider ichor, travel sweat, sour river water, old blood, tangled hair. Your bathing companion checks your body for spider venom, scratches, bruises, even magical exhaustion. 

“I was told you are a healer,” Navë looks up from her work, into your eyes with an expression that begged sincerity. 

“Yes, I am.”

“I have always admired the profession, the skill, the magic. Can it be taught?” 

“Yes and no. Some of the skill is innate. Much of the skill is outside of the magic. Often it is the conversations you have with your patients, it’s the comfort you give them between moments of healing. It is the patience you provide, and the heart you put into it.” She nods, biting her lip. You can tell she wishes to ask more, but she does’t. You do not rush her. 

“Frankly, I am used to being the healer here, but you have the magic touch, I must say. Would you like me to wash your hair?” You offer as she places the amethyst bottle back on the edge of the bath. 

Navë opens and closes her mouth a few times before replying to you. “No, well — yes. I have already bathed today. Tomorrow, that’d be very kind of you. I had not expected to be helping a guest today. Again, nobody’s offered that before. Usually, if they’re not elven, they are a bit too shy.” She gives an eye roll at that last part, smiling at you.

“It’s only polite,” you return the smile. 

As you finish the bath, she exits the pool, moving behind a stone and grabbing two long robes, one for each of them. She puts one on, then holds one out for you. You climb out of the pool, slip into the robe, and then move to grab your things. 

“Ah, do not fret. They will be cleaned and then brought to your quarters. We have much to do yet to prepare you.” You look back at the sword and your mother’s clasp. Trust goes two ways, you remind yourself, and with an exhale, you follow her out of the baths and into the next gauntlet.

-----

Walking through the next series of halls and stairs both going up and down, you feel lost in the maze of Thranduil’s labyrinth. Your hair drips down your back into the fabric of the robe. 

You follow Navë, winding through, continuing your conversation until you reach a ramp to another hallway. She halts in her tracks. You nearly run into her. 

“Woah, what’s wrong?” You say, collecting yourself. She hushes you, putting a finger to her lips. You stand on the natural curves of the ramp one might use to cross to a second layer of tunnels, but Navë points down. You peer over the side of the ramp. Despite the late hour, a host of elves whisper to each other. You hear your name bounce off of the walls of the cave system. Your eyebrows shoot up. How did word spread so quickly? A pit in your stomach forms. You can’t hear everything but you certainly gather pieces, key words.

“Half-elf,” a feminine voice remarks proudly, excited to share this new gossip. 

“I heard, spiders!” A masculine voice adds. “Covered in its blood!”

“From Mithlond?”

“No, Rivendell…”

“Did the king ask for aid?” 

“I would assume he merely permitted her entrance as respite and as a kindness.” 

“Lord Círdan, I heard personally sent her.”

“The Sea Lord himself? To our kingdom? Why?”

The hushed whisperers continue to walk. They get far enough into another tunnel that you cannot continue to listen. Navë shoots you a concerned look, one of sympathy, almost apologetic. 

“I…” Your words fail you. I should not have trusted the guard. Thank goodness I didn’t show him the letter. How much does King Thranduil already know of me? Your mind spins, and you touch your lips in thought.

“This kingdom does not often get visitors from many of the other elven kingdoms, let alone an emissary from both. It is unsurprising that others from our king’s court are already spinning tales.” It’s an attempt at an excuse, a placation? At least she stopped, allowing you to hear them. A kindness? “Though, it is best to keep a tempo on these tales,” Navë adds, and you offer a nervous laugh and nod in return. 

Navë takes you to your quarters. The door is modestly sized compared to some of the grand doors you’ve been walking through this memorable day. Coming to the same arched point, this door swung open to a large, warmly lit sitting room, a bed in the back left corner crowned with gauzy, white, canopied fabric. Linens and silks adorn the bed with layers of lush pillows, leaning against the warm wooden headboard. Five or six massive red rugs strewn about the rocky floor maintained the warmth that was coming emanating from the lanterns that lined the walls. 

The blonde ellith ushers you over to the back right corner of the room, to the vanity with a plush seat and a mirror. She reaches into the drawer of the desk, then pulls out a silver-handled, horse-hair brush, so polished it was practically a mirror itself were it not for all of the intricate flowers melted into it. 

“May I ask,” she asks with a pause, “Why are you really seeking an audience with the king?” You briefly explain in the same manner you did to the captain. She responds with a ‘hmm’ of consideration.

As she brushes your hair, preparing it for a night’s rest with tonics, conditioners, and perfumes, she explains how to address the king, mimicking it in the mirror just behind you as you looked on. As she cleans up your eyebrows with tweezers, she warns that he notices the finest of details. As she offers you lotions for your face and body, she says sternly, looking deeply into your eyes,“But most of all, do not offer him pity or ‘help.’” 

“Pity is the furthest thing,” you say quickly, turning to look at her. “I would hate to give him that impression.” Though, you recall the look on Lord Círdan and Lord Elrond’s faces. In explaining your diplomatic mission, pity — or at least a deep concern — was painted all over their faces. I really need to figure out this verbiage before I see the king, you bite at the inside of your cheek in anxious consideration.

When Navë leaves you to rest, she informs you that there will be guards outside of your door, in case you need anything. You nod. She shuts the door behind her. Curious now about the tales being spun about you, the moment the door thuds against it’s limestone frame, you jump up from the end of your bed.

The evening is still young, at least, you think it is. 

Scene 4 – Golden Cage

Pressing your ear to the door, you listen for the sound of guard’s armor shifting, or Navë’s footsteps to fade. You wait an hour, or what you think is an hour. Gently, you creak open the door, tenuously sticking your head out of the doorway. 

You expect to see the guards posted by your door, waiting to escort you. But where are they? Not at their post, to your delight. Leaving the door cracked open, you hurriedly slip on some rose-colored espadrilles, the velvet embroidered with red stars. Wrapping yourself in a similar tinted robe around a longer white night slip, delicate, white embroidery lining the top edge, you take an experimental step out into the hallway. Looking both ways, you suck in a breath of air when you see Navë — at that very moment — round the corner. Her hair is mussed as she does not seem to immediately see you. Instead, she giggled girlishly with Candaer. Though, when they finally do see you, they halt in their tracks. A wide-eyed look of alarm passes between them, then they barge on over to you. 

“What in Valar’s name are you doing outside of these chambers at night?” Navë hisses, straightening her dress out. 

“I wasn’t aware that I had a curfew.” You narrow your eyes. That would have been helpful to mention. Also, why would I have a curfew? “And are you not the one who suggested that I learn what the people of this court might be saying about me?”

“Well, it’s not…a curfew,” Navë looks over nervously at Candaer, who is adjusting the strap of his shoulder guard, before pulling you into the room by your wrist, exasperatedly. She closed the door behind the two of you. She dropped your arm, before suddenly remembering your injury.

“Oh! I’m–wow. Did you heal this?” She asks, losing her train of thought.

“Yes, but please go on as to why I can’t leave this room. Is there an hour I might be able to explore? And, I mean no personal offense to you, but are you to be with me at all times?” You cross your arms, right eyebrow raising, a slight frown on your face.

“Listen,” she sighs. “My orders usually are to follow any emissary until they speak to the king, okay? Please, do not deeply concern yourself. In this way, you are no different. But –” Navë drops her voice to a whisper and her gaze down to your attire. “– unlike the baths here, there is a certain code of what is appropriate to wear about the king’s halls. And small clothes or the thin ones you might wear at nighttime are not.”

The tall ellith looks you over, shifting her weight back in consideration. “Though you do clean up quite nicely, even in our night clothes,” she adds, passively.

Navë is being fair. The interruption is fair, you consider. I’m not trying to scandalize myself on the first night with the clothing, and I can’t fault someone for following orders. “Sure,” you relent. “But what of the curfew. May I change and wander with you?” 

“Unless there is somewhere you are going, there are many watchful eyes in this court,” Navë glances around like she’s checking for someone even within your room. “And frankly, while I may be one to explore,” she nods over to the door, making explicit what you already detected with her and Candaer, “I am also not one to get the person in my care and watch in deep trouble.”

“What kind of trouble could I be in? It’s an evening stroll. I’d love to get to know the palace better,” you implore. Navë huffs, blowing an errant hair out of her face. 

“Imagine it, then. You wander along the halls at night. Then, either by chance or misfortune, you find yourself walking in the same passage as King Thranduil himself. Someone sees you. By morning, half of court may accuse you of trying to corner him or gain his attention before your formal meeting.”

“Fair. I mean, couldn’t we go places he won’t go?”

“I don’t pretend to know the movements of the king. I’m not that highly ranked, my lady.”

“That’s also fair. Fine. I will stay here tonight, tomorrow you will show me around, yes?”

“Entirely fair. I do also have a dress I am particularly fond of for your complexion. Should the king accept your request, he may send for you as soon as tomorrow. It would be mindful to prepare for that, should the moment come. I suspect an emissary from both Lord Elrond and Lord Círdan would catch his attention, let alone the rumors flying around of your beauty among the other attendants in our wing.” Navë rattles off, starting to pace around the room, making small adjustments to tidy the space.

“You mean to say he might meet with me so soon? And, I’m…deeply humbled, thank you,” you smile, clapping your hands together and moving to sit on the chase beside a fireplace of many candles, all lit. “You yourself are very beautiful, and I am excited to meet the other attendants.”

Her smile falls at this. “You wish…for another attendant?” 

“No! Not at all, just, I assumed you had friends here, and I do not know anybody here yet, beyond the two guards I came in with,” you ramble, urgently. Stop putting your foot in your mouth! She settles at your explanation. 

“So, before I go, is there anything else you may need or wish for that I can bring to your room now or in the morning?” You wrack your brain for anything in particular but find yourself only wishing for more time to ask her questions about the court and the proceedings, the nature of the king, but one question does bubble to the front of your mind.

“Before you go, is there a reason that you’ve been telling me all this? I feel as though this may go beyond the call of duty,” you ask.

“It’s been a long time since there has been a true elven healer in this court, half-elven or no,” she put her hand on the door handle, opening it, one foot out the door. “Maybe there’s something I can learn.”

You pause. A hunger to learn. I should’ve known from the baths. Compared to the ellith you first met, even her countenance when she pushed you in the room, Navë did not look sharp or embarrassed. Rather she looks hopeful, and clearly is trying hard to not let it show. She looks at you with bated breath, awaiting your answer. 

Then you respond, “While I am unsure of how long my stay will be here, I am confident that in our time together, there will be some time for us to develop some practice.” You smile kindly, and she exhales. 

“I look forward to it,” she says quietly, almost a squeak. Then, she gently closes the door behind her, not-so-quietly relaying that you may teach her some healing magic to Candaer, who listens patiently.

Moving to the desk, you reach for a quill, and begin to pen a letter to your friend in Rivendell.

Istel,

Dear friend, the journey was dark and full of challenges. While I do yearn for my home by the sea, I also yearn for the hearth of your living room, sharing a cup of something warm and an evening of lively discussion, a second home of sorts. Yet, what is a life where the greatest challenge is rising from one’s chair up to pour another drink? What stories are there to tell in a life without mutual adventure?  Really, what I am trying to say is, I miss you. Something you have always said is that there is no better way to learn something more thoroughly than to teach it for the first time. I already seem to have someone interested in learning the art of healing, perhaps an ally in healing the forest, though time will tell. You told me not to get ahead of myself; maybe one day I will listen better. Though, clearly, I do remember some things.  Based on the state of the woods, there is much work ahead. If I am here for a long time, just know I am safe and comfortable. Hopefully, I am not entrapped in a golden cage. Time will tell.

– Your favorite student

Scene 5 – Blackberries

Morning brought no sunshine into your room in the mountain. You had fallen asleep shortly after Navë left your room. Instead of being awoken by the door opening, many footsteps coming in to set up your attire for the day, lay out accessories, provide a spread of breakfast, it is Navë’s gentle nudge to your shoulder. 

A dreamless sleep, perhaps provided by the mattress that felt like laying on a fresh loaf of bread, soft and warm, though of course the sheets were the finest of linens. It was not like the coarser fabrics from back home, when they had to sustain the sea. The pillow cradled your head, and the blankets tucked you snugly in in the cool, almost dank air (despite your room’s aesthetic warmth from the brown stone and yellow torchlight).  

You groan into the pillow. You catch yourself; you are a guest in their home, be graceful, be graceful! You attempt to turn the groan into a yawn, apologetically looking over at Navë, who wore an amused look upon her face. Her crooked smile suggests to you that this is not the first time she nudged your shoulder.

“Are you fully awake, my lady?” She chuckles, sweeping the canopy away from the bed on either side. As you blink awake, sitting up to take in your surroundings, you find two elves, of perhaps many who had brought in the litany of new things into your room. One was a wiry red haired ellith in a light green robe, similar to Navë’s and a lithe olive skinned ellon, wearing a more masculine version of the same uniform, though theirs had less gold woven in. Perhaps a symbol of rank within this occupation, you think to yourself, though you are unsure this early in the morning, however early it is. 

“It’s quite disorienting, not waking to the sun,” you rub your eyes. “Apologies if I overslept.”

“You did not squander the day, sea-daughter,” Navë chuckles, offering a hand to pull you out of bed. You take it, knowing that mattress was a true temptress. “Now, please, if you would?” She gestures over to the other two elves whose heads are bowed, hands clasped in front of them. 

“This is…a lot, Navë. In the most gracious way, is this a normal amount of help for a guest?” You ask quietly, head tilted.

“Word reached the king’s head of staff, Galion, that we were receiving a guest that had the backing of two elvish kingdoms. I do hope you understand, my lady, word does travel fast and these circumstances are not a regular occurrence. As such, it is at his suggestion or will. I would not be surprised if his awareness did expedite your ability to present your purpose to the king.” The blonde ellith says, as she ushers you to the front of the room, in front of a large mirror, its frame ornately decorated with clusters of small gold and silver flowers, each bloom no bigger than the end of your thumb. 

She ushers you onto a platform, gesturing to the other two elves. Introducing them she explains, “They are in the last stages of their training with me,” stepping back. Navë sweeps her arm towards you, palm up, wordlessly inviting them to approach you.

They both do, shyly, having a hard time meeting your eyes. “Thank you for being here to help me, today, please do not fret. Any help is already a gift.” They nod, both gaining a bit more confidence.

“How cute,” Navë clucks impatiently. “Regardless, I did say I had a uniquely suitable dress for you.” She disappears into an adjoining room. You hear the soft clicking of her shoes as they transition from the carpet to the stone floor beyond your view. The two elves moved towards you, gently removing the nightgown over your head. Mouthing thank yous for their help, you stand bare before them, looking at yourself in the mirror.

In Grey Haven, the mirrors were normally of just the upper body, attached to a desk. Though, you didn’t mind getting to see your legs as well. At risk of seeming vain or like you were preening in the mirror, you did your best to apply a neutral smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Before it could get too uncomfortable under the gazes of the additional attendants, Navë reappeared with a dress beyond what you’ve ever seen in Grey Haven, beyond Rivendell.

Rich as forest fruit and wine, deep as blood, adorned with golden leaves and vines, the dress was floor length. You step into the skirt separately from the bodice. Lacing it up, you find the bodice is tight around you but feels secure. The neckline is mirrored in the V-shape of the basque waist, and Navë steps behind you. 

She reaches around and places a delicate, coin-sized, gold beech tree leaf pendant. The end of the leaf, like a puzzle piece nestles perfectly in the v-shape of your cleavage, brushing the apex between your chest. She then considers the various necklaces and jewels placed out upon the dressers in the room, tapping her chin, “What would you say the gem of your kingdom would be?”

“Traditionally, pearls,” you hum, craning your neck to try to see what she might select for you. Her fingers dance over several pieces, hovering over one before deciding against it and moving on. After doing this twice, she selects a necklace to layer as a choker. Twelve pearls spaced out along a gold chain so thin that it would simply look like the pearls were floating against your neck. A simple gold bracelet is placed on each wrist by one of the assistants. A gold-colored silk covered the flat slippers, with a similarly-golden silk ribbon securing the shoe around your ankle.

The elves usher you to the vanity to finish your preparations for the day as you eat some of the fruits and nuts available for breakfast.

“This is so different from the colors of home,” you say to the ellon who is twisting the top sections of your hair back and off of your face, the rest falling down your back. Looking back at yourself in the mirror you admire this delicate half-up style. Half. Fitting.

“Still colors of the natural world, are they not?” The ellon offers, calmly. You nod. You look at the blackberries on the plate, dressed in the same color as you wear currently. A very different world, natural or not. Those fruits did not grow near the coast of Mithlond. You pop it in your mouth. The taste is far more tart than any berry you have tasted before –– even for a blackberry –– yet delicious.

Navë takes over from the ellon attendant, taking over for final small details. She leans down behind you, making eye contact with you in the mirror, asking, “Do you remember where to stand? When to bow?”

“Yes, yes,” you nod, mentally checking boxes along with her.

“What title to use?” She quirks a brow.

“My lord.” You knew this from Rivendell. You sigh, a slight bit of irritation slipping in. She nods.

“Perhaps, given your task, it would be wise to tell you to not speak of the forest as if it belongs to anyone else but him.” Navë stands to her full height, towering over you in the chair. You bristle at that implication. The forest is wounded. It is not possessed. The tension on your face must have been incredibly obvious because your attendant notices. 

“Careful, sea-daughter. Your convictions, well-meaning, may sound like accusations.” King Thranduil surely could discern the difference between passion and care and insult…right? Regardless, knowing that the blonde-haired ellith was only trying to help, to advise caution. Patience, you tell yourself, rolling your shoulders back and lengthening your neck. Navë offers you a slight smile, eyes carrying a glint of nerves.

A knock at the door reminds you to breathe, popping the bubble of tension floating after so much preparation. The willowy assistant attendant reaches for the door, opening it widely. Fergrath is there, holding a small paper. He looks in the room. 

“A summons. You may follow me.”

Scene 6 – The Walk to the Throne Room

“I am not invited to attend, I presume,” Navë questions, sarcastically. 

“You’ve been asked to stay behind and anticipate receiving her after her audience with our king,” Fergrath says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“I knew that, I was joking,” Navë grumbles softly, rolling her owl-like brown eyes, more amber in the lantern light.

You give a final thanks to the junior attendants, a slight bow of your head in thanks to Navë. Fergrath leads you deeper into the halls, back to where you, him, and Candaer first entered. But this time, he does not lead you to the Captain or the mess hall for the guard. He leads you to the guard lined entrance into the throne room of the elven king. 

Your mind raced. What would he look like? You had heard tales of his great beauty from Istel. You had seen a likeness drawn in a historical tome. What will he say when I offer my help? Our help, you correct yourself, thinking of your lords who have given you this task. You play with the pearls at your neck, the necklace fastened closely to your throat.

Walking through the halls, whispers of Silvan courtiers seem to follow you. Sea-born, healer, spider-slayer, half-elven, Círdan, Rivendell. You notice that with every step towards your final destination Fergrath seems to stand straighter, speaking with you less. The corridors become more densely packed with elves moving less casually and strangely quieter despite the increasing ceiling height. It is as if the court is arranging itself around an unseen center. 

Wishing you had the hilt of your sword to rest your hands on, you catch yourself playing with the fabric of your dress, thumbing the texture of the embroidery between your fingers. Where even was Breeze. They never returned it nor your mother’s clasp, you realize.

As you approach the final doors, the journey has been a silent one with Fergrath. He looks over to you, kindness in his eyes, clearly wishing he could have said more. Yet, with dozens of elves taking you in, watching you approach the door, what else could he do but give a slight bow and step backwards to follow you. Two elven guards, dressed in the same uniform as your chaperone each take a handle to the split door. 

Scene 7 – Throne Room

Through the thick doors to the throne room, a deep and commanding voice sounds. You linger anxiously, snapping your hands — which were fiddling with your accessories and skirts — to your sides. Doors pull open. Your eyes don’t know where to look first. Far from the doors, but still clearly visible, King Thranduil’s silhouette, unmistakable, is in repose upon his throne which is crowned with the largest carved elk antlers you had ever seen, melting upwards into the natural stalactites stony drips from the ceiling.

In a throne room, more likened to a lair, had glimpses of sunlight, peaking in through spots and places, one beam drawn to the elvenking himself, as if the light of his white-blond hair was not enough to emphasize his fairness. Cavernous, winding, and beautiful, you walk the path, never breaking your gaze from the king. You entirely forgot where you were supposed to look, if it wasn’t at him. His throne, high up in the room had winding carved stairs, and like much else in this throne room and the architecture of these caves, it was challenging to distinguish what was ornately carved limestone to look like trees of his forest or trees themselves with elvish shapes adorning them. Before you got within a distance that you could truly start making out features on his face you drew your gaze down, eyelashes shadowing your cheeks in the violent chiaroscuro of the room. 

You pause at the first of two raised platform before the raised throne of the king. You sink into a deep curtsy, extending your skirts, trying to trace the golden leaves and vines on your dress to steady yourself. 

“Rise and approach, emissary of both Mithlond and Imladris,” at the timbre of his voice, you feel a vibration course through you. You stand, finally allowing yourself to look up at him in detail. Legends and stories could never have captured the beauty of the elvenking sitting before you, draped in deep grey fabrics and robes the color of clouds during a summer thunderstorm. The robes fell open over his throne’s arms. Resting on his elbow on one arm, and the other clutching the end of the other arm to lean forward, he peers at you with great amusement and curiosity, or with accusation of audacity. The churlish smile that forms makes him look even more devastatingly handsome, though, it is still largely unreadable.

You realize almost as soon as he does, that your dress is the same color as the flowers that decorate his autumnal crown which curls around his head with the branches that mimic the sharp arches of his people’s home, branches which connect him to the forest, where you swore you thought you saw dead rose bushes. You were mistaken. These star shaped flowers used to blossom instead. His dark eyebrows rose as you grew closer to him, rising to the platform before the climb to his throne. He leans back in his seat, spreading his legs, an amused smile, and a glint in his pale blue eyes as they raked over your form. 

“Tell me, do gifts from the west — healers from the Grey Havens — always arrive covered in blood? Go on, spider-slayer. Speak. I have heard many tales from the people of my court, much…” he paused, tilting his head to consider his words. “…praise. But I know very little of your purpose. All I understand is that you intruded into my woods, and I know on whose orders you did such a foolish thing.” Your cheeks burn but you reach into the pocket of your dress, pulling out the letter with the seal. His eyes narrow. 

“My lord, I bring this letter to explain my purpose here. It contains the stated intentions of my Lords Círdan and Elrond. I am deeply grateful for your gracious hospitality upon my arrival. I apologize that there was not more notice ahead of my arrival. I did kill the spider, though, the blood came from my healing of your soldier who aided in the slaying of the other spiders that were present,” you say with as much confidence as you can muster, your chin lifted, eyes half-lidded but firmly looking at him. Thranduil looks to Fergrath who shadows you many yards back for confirmation. Fergrath nods. 

Thranduil chuckles lightly, amusement gleaming in his eyes as they move to meet yours. Like lightning, when his eyes meet with you, it feels like he’s challenging, daring you to hold his daunting gaze. Pushing off the throne, he stands to his full height, the robes gathering at his elbows. Your gaze lift to rise with him. He’s so tall. His broad shoulders were suddenly far more apparent to you in your peripheral vision. An imposing figure to be sure. 

He makes his way towards the stairs, gracefully, and you finally break the eye contact, sure that Navë’s instructions were to fix your gaze ahead. You feel his presence as he approaches you, aura emanating in power. A tightness in your chest, reacting to his proximity causes your breath to escape you. You bow, extending the letter out to him; it rests on your palms. You find yourself staring at his boots, grey leather and shined. A click of the rings on fingers as he takes the letter reaches your half-elven ears. 

“Mm,” he hums, turning over the letter in his hand. “Stand,” he commands. You do. Then, you watch his hands as he removes a sharp knife from his sleeve, so sharp that the edge of it was as white as the large stone of the ring he wears. You’ve heard of his fondness for light green and white gems. He breaks the seal of the letter with a practiced flick of the blade. unfolding it, he looks at you over the edge of the letter, chin lowered. His eyes flit back down to the page, running back and forth across the lines. At several points, he glances back up at you. By all that is good, what is in that letter? Am I mentioned? What did they say? Your eyebrows knit together in concern, despite yourself.

Thranduil folds the letter back up, wordlessly, placing it in the folds of his tunic, a silvery or icy blue color that match his severe eyes that seem to pierce you like daggers, a practiced offense against those who might present him with facades or deceptions. “A healer, a half-elf. What providence and generosity,” he purred, voice curling within you. “So. Círdan has sent me something rare.” Now, you really want to know what was said in the contents of the letter. 

The elven king, looking down at you begins to stalk around you, robes trailing behind him, hand on his chin. You turn to catch his appraising glance, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. No, his eyes rake over your form, his left hand he brings to his slightly parted lip, lightly tracing his lower lip with his fingertips. “With training in Imaldris?” He poses to you rhetorically, eyes squinting with suspicion…or was it admiration? Something else entirely?

“Yes, my Lord,” you breathe. 

“Come to ‘support’ my realm? I deny not that there are residual symptoms of the great evil in my land. But ‘support’ is interesting. How do you intend to serve me, gaeriel?” He finally steps back into your vision, close to you now. Close enough that you smell the pine-scented bathing oils that cling to his perfect hair. 

You do not shy away, rather, you turn and look directly into his eyes, not stepping back at his proximity, your faces separated by his height. “I heal warriors well, but nature better, and I believe that with enough discovery, and time, my lord, I might be able to address some of your concerns about the forest: heal errant corruption.”

His brows furrowed further and further, his smile shifting to a stern scowl. ”My realm, my forest has endured long before western concern arrived,” he snarled, hand now tensing by his side. 

“Your Sea-Lord has placed me in a brilliantly challenging position. A healer whose first act in my kingdom was to slay a spider, alone competes with a thinly veiled attempt to undermine my authority.” Thranduil pauses, stalking back up to his throne, mulling the half-elven-shaped situation over like one might solve a riddle.

“My lord, if I may: if anything, I am a resource freely offered, and you may use my skills as you see fit. If you do not deny the trouble of the forest, then apply me to that task, and allow me to show you how dedicated I am to the task of ridding Sauron’s corruption from our world — to show your kingdom how willing you are to use all resources at your disposal to complete this important work,” you implore, gazing up at him as he stands by his throne, ever calculating. He takes a breath in through his straight, elegant nose, closing his eyes, letting his chest rise. Opening his eyes upon the exhale, he…laughs?

You are visibly taken aback. You were supposed to encourage cooperation among Elven realms after the war. But he’s laughing in my face? How much more desperately could she have failed? Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. Then, the king flips in a second.

“Aren’t you a rare, difficult thing? Very well,” he grins, clapping his hands together. “A tentative deal then, of sorts.” What was this? To say you are perturbed would be underselling the level of confusion you face. You falter under the hypnotic gaze of the elvenking. The red flowers of his crown practically preen on his crown in time with his strange and sudden satisfaction (that you mistrust). 

“Stay and investigate my forest to root out this…’corruption.’ However, I want you training at least three other elves of my kingdom to replace you at the soonest possible moment. Train them how you see fit. When you are able to depart, I shall provide you with a way back to wherever you call home,” Thranduil sat back in his throne, an eyebrow raised, asking you if you accept these terms. 

“Your generosity —” 

“Surprises you?” An irritated expression returns to his face in a flash.

“No, my lord!”

“I know what Elrond says about me. Do not think me so ignorant, healer.”

“I —” You start to think of the most courtly thing to say, before deciding against it, and deeply bowing. “I am so grateful,” you say, hand flying up to the spot on your chest that you would normally have your mother’s clasp. Instead you grasp at the leaf pendant, imploring him to believe you with your eyes.

It’s true; you are grateful. Though, you are unsure if it is gratitude for his hospitality or the fact that you have secured a chance to prove yourself, to complete your unlikely task. It was the king’s turn to be taken aback by your sincerity, but he corrects any reaction before you notice, only nodding in acknowledgement. 

He hums, seemingly satisfied with your deal, for now. Then, he firmly instructs, “Await further instructions. You are dismissed.”

You curtsy deeply, feeling his gaze on you, wishing you could look back upon his face one more time before you had to leave. But at you rise, you know you must turn and leave. You go to pass Fergrath, heading for the door.

“You,” Thranduil cooly snaps his stare to Fergrath. “Stay.” You continue on, bypassing the familiar ellon, and pushing out of the throne room, hearing the door shut behind you with a haunting echo.

Scene 8 – After the Audience

The moment the door closes, you are greeted by the wide-eyed stares of the court of King Thranduil. A door guard steps to your side, “Please, wait here until your chaperone rejoins you.” Oh, no, you internally lament. Is this a permanent fixture of your time here in Mirkwood? Fuck, no; the Woodland Realm, you correct yourself, internally. 

Fergrath, after only another minute, steps out of the king’s throne room. Despite already having an incredibly pale complexion, he is somehow even paler. He gulps. “Let’s head back,” he says, eying all of the watchful Silvan courtiers wryly. 

Upon arriving at your quarters, Fergrath opens the door for you. Navë, nervously awaiting your return, stands suddenly from a chaise. She rushes over to you, exclaiming your name with a jolt of surprise. 

“And?” Concern laces her voice. Your head spins. 

“She did very well, honestly,” Fergrath speaks up, stepping into the room. You spin around, not expecting him to follow you in. 

“Did I? Was that a good meeting?” He scoffs in response to your question. 

“Let’s put it this way — between the way he looked at you and you checking the boxes of the mission as I understand it — yes. I think it went well.” Navë’s mouth fell open at this. 

“Way he looked at her?” Her eyes dart about, thoughts racing in her mind before settling on “The dress. I knew it. I knew.” You laugh, though you do wonder the same thing. The way he looked at me? You might have been too distracted to focus on anything but his devastatingly ethereal features, his presence. 

“I dunno. Maybe. It went well,” he began. “Though, he did hold me back to give some further details.” Fergrath clears his throat, looking over to Navë, adding, “You might want to write these down.” She nods, rifling through a drawer, brushing past your unsent letter to your friend. 

“Alright,” he says, once Navë is ready. “You may assess designated sites only. You must have an escort outside of your quarters. You must consult with the order of Woodland Healers…” 

“I thought there were no more healers here?” 

“They’re medical not magical,” Fergrath clarified. “You may not perform any major rites without approval —”

“Whose approval?” You ask, crossing your arms. With this many restrictions, was this what he called a win?

“The king said any and all reports or findings must go through an appointed member of his advisory or directly to him.”

You huffed, “Sure, that’s fine. I was planning on that either way.” You weren’t.

“Well, also, myself and Candaer will be assigned to be your escorts around the palace. Either both of us or one of us and Navë,” he puffs his chest up a bit at this, giving you a crooked smile. 

“A relief to be sure. I’d rather it be the two of you.” He grins. 

“I should let you go. Candaer will be here in the evening, and I will be back tomorrow at daybreak.” Fergrath leaves the room. 

Navë slaps down the quill, and gives you a look of disbelief. “When you are ready, I would like all of the details you are willing to share. All.” You laugh, nodding your agreement. She takes you down to the baths where you spent time avoiding the gazes of members of the court, mincing your conversation with your attendant. 

When you finally are prepared to sleep for the night and everyone clears out of your quarters, you lay upon your side in your bed, and perhaps you imagine it in that liminal space between dreams and the last throughs of consciousness…somewhere below you hear water coursing. It couldn’t be. The river is outside of the mountain. Yet, as the water whooshes below your floor, it reminds you of the ocean current.

Nostalgia rocks you to sleep.

Next Part: Chapter 3

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~~~~~~~~~~~~Please do not copy ~~~~~~~~~~~~

He never did come after her. Of course, she didn’t go back either. (Y/n) couldn’t breathe, and not in the way she cannot around Kíli, this hurt, even more so than it did when the older Prince of Erebor confronted her. She had not headed to her chambers, instead she ran for the city, hoping that after a day or so of running she will be lost forever and never have to face anyone. Such a pleasant idea, to hide away from prying eyes, and never disappoint anyone ever again, lest herself.

Of course, when one’s body is shaking, and the throat is quivering, swelling, and the nose is blocking, you cannot run for long. So, she headed upwards and dived in the armoury next to the Mountain’s main entrance. A terrible idea, as that very day Bard would come with a preposition, Thranduil in tow, and this would be one of the armouries the Company search in.

An hour after the door thunks to a slow close behind her, and she began her hiding between stalls off shields, does it open again.

Gasping, she slaps her hand to her mouth, eyes wide as her other arm tightens it’s hold around her knees. The Dwarf is humming to himself, his heavy boots hitting the floor as he slowly makes his way through the main room of the armoury, to the secondary chamber where she is hidden. (Y/n) utters thanks to the Gods in her head when the footsteps go to the opposite side, where the short swords are.

Curiosity gets the best of her, and she cannot help but move her palms to press against the cold stone beneath her so she may gently push herself up with her fingers. Of course, as much as everyone praised her dress, apparently it has turned against her just like Kíli. (She knows she is in the wrong, but still). The sole of her boot catches on it before she releases, causing her knees to get pulled down just as she goes to stand, and she trips. As she is tripping whilst knelt down, she falls forward, and her hands catch her just as her nose hits the stone. A cry rips from her.

A sword clatters, Óin having been inspecting them to see how they had fared against time with no use. He may be deaf, but he is a healer, and he can sense these things. He has also attuned himself to listen out for his loved one’s pain as well as he can with his worsening hearing.

“(Y/n)? Lassie, are you alr-”

A cry of fury cuts him off as he hurries over to her. He grabs his wonderful tool from his belt and presses the end to his ear, as his other hand goes to her back.

(Y/n) is most certainly having a terrible day. Ignoring the itching embarrassment, her almost destroyed pride, and her wrenching heart, she pushes herself up and turns onto her knees, flashing the smile he had become so accustomed to. “Yes, Óin. I'm sorry for disrupting you. Please go on, I will take care of myself.”

He frowns, angling the horn better towards her, the hand that followed her goes to gently hold her chin. His hand is rough, no doubt from decades of swordsmanship, and gathering prickly herbs, yet his touch is so gentle she can barely feel him. “You took a nasty fall there, lass. Let me take care of you.”

She shakes her head, cheeks flushing an even darker shade of red that spreads to her chest, and the tip of her ears. Oh, how her cheeks burn. “No, please, I assure you, it is a simple knock -.”

Óin, having tucked away his horn shakes his head, “this isn’t your home lassie, we need to treat you now.” Gently he places a hand on either side of her waist and helps lift her up as if she were his daughter, his brow deeply furrowed. “You’re bleeding.”

Oh. (Y/n), preoccupied in her deep flushed cheeks, and searing nose failed to notice the blood dripping down her lip into her mouth. Óin quickly plugs up her nose with a scratchy handkerchief – more of a rag – and she wipes her teeth with her tongue. Metallic.

Ironic, as she is basically in a giant mine, she thinks to herself.

Her eyes are once again weeping, despite having run out of tears ten minutes ago. She doesn’t register Óin leading her out of the rooms and back into the main passage as she touches her own face in shock. How foolish of her.

Foolish. The perfect word. Foolish for not realising braiding was an offer of courtship. Foolish for courting Kíli before telling him how she felt. Foolish for giving him her precious bead. Foolish for taking signs of courtship as simple kindness. Wait. Who could blame her? Bilbo made her tea all the time, and the Company were always hunting for meat. Perhaps one should state their intentions. Ori had bought her flowers when she was sad during her most recent moon bleed, yes Kíli looked at him funny, but he was being kind. Furthermore, where were the courtship walks? The promenading? She did not bear witness in it, nor partake.

Yet, she is still foolish. Foolish for letting Fíli tell him first. Foolish for hiding in a place next to the Gate in which the Company are taking turns patrolling. Foolish for crying over a member of the opposite sex. Equally foolish for being nosey, not watching where her hem is, and tripping. (Y/n) has learnt to fight, defend herself, something she is quite good at, and she is especially foolish for allowing her first big bleed of the journey be by falling face first into the floor.

The heart will heal but the humiliation shall forever linger.

~~~~~~~~~~~~Please do not copy: Author is always me on this blog @daydreams-magic01-mrsdurin  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

How long has passed? An hour? Prince Kíli is yet to move from his place against the wall. The only part him which moves is his left hand, as he plays with his Runestone. He did not cry, the tears trapped in his eyes, they sting. He cannot take his eyes away from it, the single yellow dandelion on the floor. It mocks him.

Was (Y/n) mocking him? No. (Y/n) is as kind as she is beautiful. He tries to replay the argument, but all he can remember is the anguish he felt, her face as she spoke, the hands on her hips. Angry. Acting as if one verbalises their feelings when actions are sweeter. Surely his actions proved enough that he was at least attempting to court her as she did not realise, they already were in courtship. Hunting. Gifts. Touch. Were these not signs enough?

He is foolish. Foolish indeed.

“Good evening, Kíli – oh, Kíli what is wrong?” His eyes snap upwards to their kind Burglar clad in his waistcoat and blazer. Worriedly, he bends down, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. They had dropped formalities a while ago, they are friends. Yet, Kíli knows Master Baggins must have known (Y/n) and her feelings. That fact alone stings.

“Nothing,” the prince forces his familiar smirk, pushing himself up from the floor and wall, “what brings you here Master Burglar?” He frowns. “Is everything well? My uncle? My brother?” For the first time since he watched (Y/n) walk away his heartbeat quickens from the previous slow drawl. Surely the Men of Dale aren’t attacking? Bard is a good man. Kind. With a kind family.  No. That is not Bard’s way. Perhaps the elves? His lip curls at the idea of Thranduil. Legolas and Tauriel were kind enough, though he has a suspicion they are acting alone.

“No, Kíli, nothing like that.” Bilbo states, the familiar look of constant mild distress on his face as he too stands, gazing up at the Dwarf. “Are you sure everything is fine? You can tell me anything.”

Wrong. He can only talk to his big brother about this. The sentiment is kind, however. He shakes his head, smiling, his left hand playing with his mother’s runestone. He wanted to gift this to (Y/n), a promise, a promise like the one he etched into that dagger. His heart jolts, and his cheeks quiver as he forces away the frown. How foolish of him to think he could ever pass it down to their child.

“Well, uh. Watch. Ah, yes. That’s it,” the Hobbit suddenly smiles, and straightens, swinging back and forth on his heels, “Bofur sent me down to remind you that it’s your watch next. Only because when they brought over lunch, Bifur apparently mentioned that no one had seen you for three or so hours.”

Watch, of course. His turn tonight, without his brother. That conversation would have to wait. So will the tears he so desperately needs to shed, he daren’t weep and have to explain to Dwalin how foolish and naive he is.

“Thank you, Master Baggins,” he smiles down to him, “I shall bid you a good night.” He bows deep, his hair swinging behind him when he stands tall again.

The Hobbit’s brow remains furrowed. “Yes, thank you. Good night – I mean –” the Dwarf prince begins to walk away, but Bilbo jogs after him, scrambling with his words, “thank you, Kíli, but there is food waiting for you, Bombur kept a portion aside I believe, another for (Y/n) –”

That forces him to stop. Even if he wanted to move, his legs would not allow it. He turns to the Hobbit, who almost walks past him, placing a grounding hand on Bilbo’s arm.”

“(Y/n) has not eaten?”

“- so no need to bid goodnight, yet Kíli. We are headed to the same destination – wait.” Bilbo almost seems to grow in height as his gaze hardens almost to a glare, and his shoulders square, Kíli’s hand falls. “We all thought (Y/n) came to see you?”

Kíli has to turn away as the flashes of their exchange course through his mind. He almost feels shame. Why?

“Oh well,” the Hobbit chuckles charmingly, “she must have gone back with Fíli when her break finished and missed us.” He pats him on his shoulder before continuing on. “I did see her heading back inside the Mountain before she meant to find you, must have spent most of her time out there, not enough time to come see you. That makes sense.”

The dandelion. He jolts, making the poor Hobbit lean away. Before Bilbo can say anything, Kíli runs back to where he was sat, and gently kneels to pick up the dandelion. Soft. He wonders if her skin truly feels as soft as it looks. Not that he will ever know. It must do, compared to his hands, the hands of a workman.

He runs back to the curious Hobbit who keeps glancing back to him as they walk. Yet the prince cannot take his eyes off that single, yellow Dandelion. Alike the one he gave her, except fresh whereas he imagines the one he gave her is since long dead. She must have searched hard for the flower.

How foolish of him to think a fine, ethereal being as her could ever like him. He cannot shake the memory, of how she looked when he was dying, as Tauriel healed her. She looked – well, he cannot think any gods of any race compare. He hopes the memory never fades. Let it be the last he sees before departing. How foolish of him. For he is the Dwarf with no proper beard. The Dwarf taller than most. The Dwarf who looks more like he is of Men compared to his brother, cousins and friends. He is foolish. He has no people, yet. He isn’t even heir. How foolish of him to think – to believe otherwise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~Please do not copy ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nodding along to herself, (Y/n) fails to notice the kind Dwarf lead her to the chamber they all mingle in together – when they are not searching for the Arkenstone. The gasps of outrage and worry hit her first as Bifur, Nori, Dori and Balin crowd her. They all mutter questions about how this happened. As if it were more likely Men came down to take Erebor in the past hour with the watchmen missing it, all with the purpose of targeting her first.

“Stop crowding the lass. Bifur release her.” Óin almost shouts, horn against his ear. The other Dwarf grumbles in his mother tongue as he gently releases her from his chest where he had been cradling her side.

The other three step back, revealing the space between them. She doesn’t hear them. How can she? The second her eyes meet her Prince’s the world goes silent, until all she can hear is her own breath, and the thumping of her heartbeat in her nose.  

As if this whole situation cannot get worse. Now he can clearly tell she was crying, tripped over herself and face planted.

It hasn’t been long since she last saw him, yet it feels like it’s been years. His eyes soften, as he takes in her appearance, his brow creases in worry, his hands clench. “What happened?”

He does not meet her eyes, but she tries. His cheeks aren’t stained like hers. Of course not, he is a Prince. Better offers than her. She told him she ‘can’t believe she wanted to marry him’, and he said nothing. Well, beforehand he said he wanted to marry her, but not anymore.

She looks away, and grins at everyone, and laughs, “hem got stuck, tripped over and face planted. The Elves skill is unmatched, but it isn’t worthy for searching the for the Arkenstone in.”

“Don’t worry lass Bofur will fix you up, and Nori can sew the rip,” Dori states, patting his brother on the back.

“What? Why can’t you do it? You’ve got far more years of prac–” Nori gasps, baffled, although his chest does puff proudly at the idea of doing it.

“Because your keen eye for the treasures of this world has made you more detail orientated,” Balin jokes, though his brow remains creased. Dori nods along, Bifur and he thump his younger brother again, almost knocking him to the ground, whilst Nori squares his shoulder, grinning proudly as he grounds himself.

“Have no fear, Miss (Y/n), for Nori is here.”

It does make her laugh, and Kíli preens at the sound from afar.

 “Excuse me, excuse me,” the familiar distressed tone of Bilbo interrupts as he makes his way between Bifur and Balin, “let me look at her.” He stops in front of her, hands on her arms as his frown deepens. “This won’t do. It doesn’t look broken, thankfully.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~Please do not copy: Author is always me on this blog @daydreams-magic01-mrsdurin  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been a dramatic few days, no doubt, and dramatic several months more so. Of course, it will only get worse. Besides the constant ache in (Y/n)’s chest, there is a much larger issue. The Arkenstone.

It could not be found.

This has to be the worst week of (Y/n)’s life, and she was almost eaten by Goblins a couple months ago, not to mention then later imprisoned by the Mirkwood King. Although, admittedly, the cell was quite hygienic.

After her humiliation in the Armoury, their dear healer had cleaned her nose and stopped the bleeding. It’ll be red and hurt for a few more days, but no fracture. A relief, a small grace. She changed into her travelling dress, which was thankfully calf length, and had bathed. However, Bard had come in alliance with King Thranduil against them, but she cannot feel betrayed. Thorin made a promise, that must be kept.

She does not hesitate to follow Bilbo after seeing him sneak away during a break to find relief. Hurt at first, when Bilbo had explained she soon followed him.

After all, by then the entire Company knew the complete story of (Y/n) and Kíli, or at least his side from his brother. Thorin deemed her unworthy of a prince anyway in his dragon sickness, Nori was annoyed at her, Ori too, Dori was understanding somewhat, Balin understood her side, Dwalin too, Bifur, Bombur and Bofur did too but the last three remained on Kíli’s side. Glóin thought Kíli should have been clearer, the only one to speak out, due to his experience with the love of his life (his wife, although his son was also a love of his life). Fíli at least had the courtesy to look sheepish. It currently stood only Glóin, and Bilbo were on her side, Balin and Dwalin neither with everyone else on his. Óin sympathised, but still thought Kíli clear with his gifts, and letting her touch his hair. Understandable in (Y/n)’s eyes, touch is intimate. Still, it did not change the fact that he rejected her the first few times, making her think touch wasn’t intimate like with her own people, and he did not like her at first, and that the gifts after were Kíli being himself. Kíli is so kind, so gentle. Honestly, (Y/n) had not thought herself special enough to consider a Prince was courting her. Or perhaps she is stupid. She has always struggled with social cues.

Óin had told her to take the dagger off her side, it would give the wrong idea. (Y/n) told him, she told Kíli she had wanted to marry him before their dispute, and the prince did nothing to remedy that. The healer suggested Kíli did not hear her, (Y/n) had said maybe Óin could share his horn then.

Currently, she lies on a set up bed opposite Bilbo. That rat from Dale is meant to keep an eye on them. Why should they be punished? Bilbo has kindly offered them a negotiable item; the Company aren’t going to hurt them. If you had asked her ten days ago, she would have said the King Under the Mountain would never hurt them either – now she wasn’t so sure. Like Bilbo she is fiercely loyal to the entire Company, but King Thorin is in the wrong.

Sleep cannot find her, and she knows Bilbo well, he has a plan of escape brewing no doubt. She finds herself entertaining herself by pretending her fingers are people and making them converse and perform dramatic scenarios. Then she recreates her argument with Kíli, using far better comebacks, and delivering her point far better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~Please do not copy ~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where were you last night?”

(Y/n) jumps and yelps before turning around. Handsome. Kíli has always been the definition of that word and always will be. Her heart skips, a heat curling low in her belly. Now, he looked like a prince. An armoured one with no helmet, despite the high likelihood of an arrow in the head, a Prince.

Kíli has armour over his chainmail, ready to defend his Kingdom. (Y/n) despite her hurt cannot look away, it somehow highlights his hair, his skin tone, everything. Her face feels hot. (Y/n) has armour on also, though they could not find any women’s able to fit her chest due to altered bust size, so instead she wears men’s armour which at least pushes everything down. Bofur had spent an hour panicking, and dotting over her as he altered the straps to fit her, they dotted over Bilbo too. (Y/n) had previously shot Azog in his right eye after the Goblins, and he had accidentally pulled out the eye with the arrow, so they knew that she could handle herself against some Elves and Men, still everyone dotted over each other. It is what happens when a King decides to invite all his cousins on an adventure, and his closest friends.

“On a walk around the halls with Bilbo.” His brow furrows at her excuse. “Why do you care?”. It is still dark outside; the others are risen but keeping to themselves until just before sunrise. In truth (Y/n) and Bilbo had only returned an hour ago.

“You know why I care.” His gaze is soft, his eyes earnest, it hurts to look into them. She swallows the lump in her throat, and Kíli cannot stop his own gaze from drifting down to her neck to where it is then protected.

“I thought those feelings are gone.”

He flinches, gaze flying up, “what?” He whispers. He had spent all night worried about the attack, then worried she had been taken, and she truly deemed his feelings gone? How? “How can you say that to me?”

“You said it not me,” (Y/n) squares her shoulders, staring fiercely up to him.

Kíli was wounded, no doubt about that, but he is grown, not a child. He must make it clear, and they must talk through it. However, before he can, the passage begins to fill with voices, tearing away his gaze. Before he can stop himself, his gloved hand gently takes her own, causing (Y/n)’s breath to get stuck in her throat. He tries to ignore the heat spreading from her hand to his, and up his arm, “after this. After my uncle gives the people of Dale what he owes, I will find you.” The King, his uncle is a good person, he will do what is right, that he is sure off.

Her heart stutters at that, and despite her heart ache she finds herself biting her lip, fighting a smile. The prince notices and doesn’t try to hide his own smile at that.

How is it this dwarf can burn away her fury with a smile?

How is it this (y/r) can make his pain vanish with one look?

For a second both can only feel peace, as they gaze into one another.

(Y/n) gives a gentle nod.

~~~~~~~~~~~~Please do not copy: Author is always me on this blog @daydreams-magic01-mrsdurin  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

King Thorin did not give the people of Dale what he owes. Instead at the revelation of Bilbo’s betrayal he tried to kill him, Kíli and his family having to intervene. Then, of course, Thranduil had to knock the Dwarves down as much as he can. So, he jested that they could not even trust the future bride of one of their own Prince’s. Of course, Thorin had pulled out his sword, and both his nephews fought him off as she ran for the rope.

Is it truly betrayal if the one being betrayed has lost the plot?

Well, yes, and (Y/n) did not take that lightly, same as Bilbo. Of course, Thorin refused to accept it, War went to unfold with his cousin’s appeared forces, until Azog’s armies decided to make an appearance.

Kíli had been confused, and distraught at the revelation of the betrayal from the two, but he understood, which makes him feel like he was the one who betrayed his uncle.

In the end, Thorin fought the sickness, and the Dwarves joined the battle. (Y/n) fought bravely, taking down enemies, counting how many. Much to the bewilderment of others, she and Glóin had previously started a competition some point in the journey for count of kills, and with this battle, she is now leading. Hopefully.

When she saw Thorin, and the princes go up the mountain, she did not hesitate to follow. Kíli a kind and gentle soul did not hesitate to defend Tauriel, attempting to save her. By the time (Y/n) arrived, Fíli was dead, Thorin fighting Azog.

Bolg, the ugliest Orc ever, went to stab Kíli through the heart. Of course, he never got the chance as (Y/n) threw herself onto his head (she’s not stupid, you would need more than two people to kill that monster), making him stumble, Kíli in one hand, until he walked to the edge, and knocked she, Tauriel, Kíli, and himself off the edge. Legolas got the kill in the end, Kíli was still injured, his leg stabbed.

This brings (Y/n) to the present. Four days after Azog’s demise. Four days since the death of sweet Fíli, and King Thorin. Dáin, and Thranduil had both bought healers with their armies, and were unafraid to share them amongst their allies, thankfully. Like the rest of the company, she had paid respects at the bodies, unable to find Kíli, the last she saw of him being when she handed him away. He’d whispered things, similar to when he was poisoned, but this time she knew some words, such as Amrâlimê.

After everything, their argument seemed silly, she shouldn’t have stormed off, and he should have listened to her. Funny, what feelings can do to someone.

What should she do next? Return home?

What ever chance she had with Mister Kíli before, without a doubt has vanished. For he is The King Under the Mountain, there will be plenty of dwarf-women with luscious beads a Dwarf like him should prefer.

If Kíli could hear her thoughts, he would most certainly ask her if she was well. Clearly, he should have been more verbal with his desires. For three days – after spending a night and day unconscious – he has been dealing with logistics, future plans, funeral plans, and alliances with those who helped protect the mountain. Never, was he supposed to be King, Fíli was.

The reminder of his name pulls hard at his heart, and he has to clutch it in order to try and breath again. Why him? Why does he live?

Of course, he knows his Amrâlimê made it so, but why would Aulë allow it? Surely, he was the least qualified, immature.

He had barely been given an hour with his brother and uncle alone. Is he not King? Can he not deem where his time is spent? He has since reunited with the rest of the Company but finds himself watching (Y/n) from afar. Did she feel as he felt? Unable to breath when away from her? Unable to see the true beauty of the emerald Erebor without her by his side?

His entire life he has waited to go to Erebor, but now the Kingdom feels predatory, as if Smaug is still here, without his brother, uncle and mother by his side.

He watches her, clad in a fresh linen shirt, and trousers. He tries to stop his eyes from lingering on her body, having only seen her in dresses. Her hair is twisted in an updo. No ribbon today, making him frown. She must have lost it in the battle. He must scour the battlefield for it. (Y/n) prefers it to the clasps and ties currently in her hair. She has clearly put on the first clothes given to her, yet he finds himself unable to look away. He has never seen such a beauty, Mithril can barely compare to her.

She helps as she helps an injured Dwarf walk with a stick for the first time. So gentle, so kind.

He cannot look away from her, cannot fight the urge to be with her, consume her.

“Blimey. It’s like waiting for the market to open three hours early,” the voice startles him. Bilbo. “Stop watching her like some sort of criminal and talk to her.”

He faces the Hobbit, “sorry?”

Bilbo looks quite the definition of unamused. “We’re not blind, you know?”

“Exactly!” The voice of Ori yelps from afar, once again, the Company present are clearly watching their favourite play. A yelp soon follows as Dori clips him over the head, making Nori bellow a laugh.

“Look,” Bilbo says, placing a hand on his back as he turns them away, “it is true, you should have asked her to court you, not presumed. She doesn’t know all about your culture, you know? There aren’t many books on it, your people are quite secretive.” Kíli nods, proud of his people’s privacy. “I know she has feelings for you; I saw that dandelion you leapt after. Now is the time, sweet Dwarf to go and make your intentions known.”

Kíli stops walking, biting his lip as he turns to his friend, “I don't know. There has just been a ba-”

“- Before she leaves.” Bilbo interrupts him, sighing, nodding slowly as he turns to stare at the ground wistfully.

“What?!” Kíli shouts, causing everyone to turn to look at him quizzically, including (Y/n). “Nothing to see here.” They all quickly avert their gaze, except (Y/n) who lingers. “What do you mean she’s leaving?” He whispers, eyes trying to meet the Halfling’s who fails to look up from the floor.

“Well, she can’t stay forever, she has a life. Perhaps you can send her share of the treasure via courier?” Bilbo fights hard to fight of a smirk, which continues to succeed.

“A life?” Kíli looks distraught. He will be in her life, not matter what. He inhales, nodding as he straightens his back, sharpening his posture. He puffs out the chest, “I will talk to her. Apologise.”

“Good on you,” Bibo lets himself grin as the young Dwarf turns on his heel, and begins to limp over to her.

He’s doing it. He is doing it! HE IS DOING IT!

“Excuse me, my King –“

He is not doing it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~Please do not copy ~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is only that evening is the King spare, having allocated supplies and food for the time being. Kíli’s easy smile falls to his face as he hobbles along to the new chambers delegated to his lady. Of course, if she accepted his offer her chambers will be far finer.

His knocks are firm, and within a minute (Y/n) opens the door, a flash of heat hits his body from the fireplace. His bow is deep, and he grins as he rises, then his smile falls. She is glad in a nightgown, a spare hide pulled around her shoulders. He gasps, quickly averting his eyes to her face as his cheeks redden, and he swallows the lump in his throat.

Her mouth opens in a gentle ‘oh’, her cheeks also flushing. Good, Kíli thinks to himself, having some hope she is as mad for him, as he is she.

“I have come to apologise. I told you I’d find you.” He smirks, trying not to watch as she fixes her grip on her makeshift shawl.

“You told me you’d find me.” She gently repeats, the cold of the stonework seeping through her thick socks.

“I apologise for the time; this is my first moment alone. But I was foolish, you are undressed, and I apologise -”

She cuts him off with a gentle laugh, it tugs at his heart, his arm twitching as he fights to stop it from clutching his heart. “Don’t be daft, Mister – My King, you have seen me in worser conditions on our adventure.”

He has not. She always had layers over her nightgown due to propriety and the temperature. In fact, he is certain she did not wear a nightgown, instead underclothes like men underneath another dress she wore for the evening. A dress not of white cotton, thin material.

She steps aside to let him in, and he bows in thanks, making her laugh. “A King should not bow.”

He turns to her, eyes firm, serious, making her cheeks flush harsher, “I will always bow to you.”

Oh my. Now her cheeks burn, she can feel it radiating, the muscles in her face hurt from smiling as she swallows, the warmth spreading through her.

“Oh.”

“First I wish to thank you for saving -,” one hand remains on his stick, grounding him, the other fumbling behind his back when she cuts him off.

Her mouth is set in a line, eyes firm, commanding as she shakes her head, shutting the door behind him, “don’t be so bloody ridiculous. I wasn’t going to just let you die.”

“No. No. Of course not, what I mean, is –,” the flush on his face and neck spreads to his ears, and down his arms, staining his skin pink.

“Ever.”

Blimey. Kíli nods to himself, unable to take his eyes from hers no matter how much he wishes to look away to gather himself.

“But you are welcome,” (Y/n) grins at him, teasing him. Blimey. He loves it.

“Thank you,” his easy smirk attempts to fight the flush on his face, “secondly – I. I know I am in the wrong. I shouldn’t have expected you to know our rituals, I should have asked you –”

“Wait, Kíli –” She shakes her head, reaching out a hand to stop him, but he cuts her off.

“Please, let me finish,” she nods, and he takes a gulp of air, “I shouldn’t have said what I did either. My pride was wounded; I should have listened to you.” She nods as he speaks, not in agreement but in earnest, to show she is listening. “I should have asked you, I thought you were asking me, but still, I am the Dwarf. I should have noticed how easily you kept asking to braid my hair, that you didn't know the meaning. I'm sorry.”

It is late, she was on the brink of sleep, and despite planning the conversation in her head the past week, she did not imagine it to occur like this. Here the King stands in her chambers, late at night, clad in similar wear to his journey, yet to step into fully into his reign. The crown he has donned the last few days is not here. He is here as Kíli, she realises, not as the second in line after Fíli, nor as the King. Kíli. With so long to stew in her anger, and humiliation, all that is left is her hurt, her vulnerability.

His eyes are soft, so soft, yet they attempt to strip back the layers of her soul as they gaze into her eyes, “the truth is – I was upset. I thought finally someone finds me... attractive. And not just anyone, you, the only one amongst Dwarves, a Halfling and a Wizard. The longer we spent together, the more I enjoyed your presence, then when we began to what I thought was courting, I could not consider being away from you.” He gasps for air again, watching as sweet (Y/n) clutches her chest.

“Please, please, just forgive me.” He almost whispers, lips parting dutifully as his earnestness in his eyes grows, “when Fíli told me the truth I was furious at him, even more so you. Still, I should have never spoken to my brother and you as I did. Especially you, when our relat – our friendship could not mend as easily. I didn't listen to you.”

So much more he wishes to say, yet he finds himself unable to, not when her lips part again, so eager to speak before she does.

“Oh Kíli,” his eyes clench shut for a second, unable to take how it sounds on her lips, “I should have noticed, especially with your most recent gift.” He fights back a flinch as he remembers how it looked to see her without it; how much it hurt when she took it off. All his own doing. “The truth is, I never thought you, as wonderful, as kind as you are… could ever fancy me.” His brows furrow at that. Does she not realise her beauty rivals the rarest jewel? “When you let me braid your hair, I enjoyed it far more than I should have. I was confused by your sudden change of character, thought you finally thought of me as a member of this company. When Fíli told me I was shocked and horrified I had been courting you without showing how I felt. I was shocked at finding myself courting anyone, this is my first time, you see.” Kíli fights back an evil thought of ‘good’ at the idea of (Y/n) never courting anyone beforehand. “When you confronted me, I was angry, angry you were playing victim, when I felt it was I who was fooled. You should have asked me to court you, but I also should have asked about the braiding and the looks the company were giving us. When you said you couldn’t believe you had ever wished to marry me, I was wounded and angry, that is why I said it back. I was angry, so angry, which is why I fled, why I cried, why I stupidly tripped over myself and hit my nose, and why I was even angrier at you for not crying when I came in with Óin.”

The smile that begun to grow, the hope in his chest falls. “I did this to you?” He whispers, heart breaking and before he can stop him self the hand behind his back moves to gently cup her cheek. He stops himself from actually touching her, thankfully, merely hovering. Under no circumstances would he ever wish to make her uncomfortable. “D-does it still hurt?” He gulps.

She shakes her head, brows softening, eyes as soft and as deep as a spring. Before she can stop herself, she clasps her own hand over his, placing it against her cheek. She does not move her hand, and both try to ignore the swarming butterflies in their bellies.

In truth her pain had long since faded, par when she touches it harshly, which she has learned not to do.

“Oh, my dear Kíli, I did this. My clumsiness,” she lets out a breathless laugh, “you would never hurt me, and never could. I’d kill you if you ever did.”

They both laugh at that.

“My world… my world has ended,” Kíli admits, “my brother is gone.” He clenches his eyes shut, head tilting up to the ceiling ever so slightly, and her own eyes begin to well at the memory, of her own friendship, but the tears that slip from her are for his pain. “My uncle, my King, killed. My mother is far away, I -,” he opens his eyes, letting his tears fall loose as he looks down to her, “I should want to die. I do, but not as much as I should.” She gasps at the idea of him ever dying, the pain too much and before she can stop her urge, she places her other hand on his chest, over his heart. “I know I have a duty, I know I should live for those we have lost. I want to make them proud – I-I do.” His voice cracks at that, “I confess, I am holding on that bit more because I know you are still here, on this plain. That somewhere, no matter where you are, you will be happy. And that happiness makes me happy. I wish to bare witness to it, to your happiness, everyone’s, but mostly yours.”

“Oh Kíli.”

His forehead tilts to meet her own, causing their breath to get caught in their throats, as their eyes shut closed. For a second, they stay like that, not moving, not touching further.

“I confess, my feelings remain unchanged. I must know if you accept my apology, you owe nothing else.”

Her eyes drift open, unable able to tear from his closed ones. “Oh Kíli, not matter how mad at you I am, I could never stop loving you.”

He gasps, eyes flying open, meeting hers. “O-oh.”

“I accept your apology, if you accept mine.”

“There is no need for me to, Amrâlimê. You did nothing wrong. I was the fool.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~Please do not copy: Author is always me on this blog @daydreams-magic01-mrsdurin  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

As much as the King wanted to marry her, he needed time to grieve, and (Y/n) to sort her affairs. So, seven moons later he proposed marriage, she accepted and four moons later they were married.

Oh, how glorious. How glorious indeed.

They only waited so long so Bilbo could attend, which he did.

Also, (Y/n) had to wait for the finest craftsman to make her headpiece. A gorgeous tiara, instead of spikes, gorgeous yellow dandelions spaced apart, and dripping down from each an array of jewels resting against her forehead. When Kíli saw the tiara, he’d never smiled so wide, and his cheeks were already aching, his lips feelings as if they would tear.

It was a wonderful ceremony, and an even better lifetime they spent together.

Amongst other things on their wedding night, Kíli presented her with a gorgeous bead, yet to take out the one she gifted him the year prior, and the two of them braided each others hair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~Please do not copy ~~~~~~~~~~~~