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The concept of a soulmate was not beyond the ideas of those who lived throughout Middle Earth. Though most considered it just folklore, nothing more than a story to tell children who wish for fairytales of true love, the dwarrow thought differently. A rather secluded race, secretive of their ways, not many outsiders understood what a One was unless they found themselves being the object of a dwarrow’s affections. Your One was the other half of your heart, the one who would complete you and make you a better person in every way. Not everyone found their Ones, most ended up married to their crafts and left such notions behind, but the bond shared between a dwarrow and his one was said to be unbreakable.
Even if one had succumbed to the gold sickness and tried to throw his One off the ramparts.
Even if another had found their One to be a silvan elf, the enemy of the dwarrow of Erebor.
Even if Fíli had lost his chance to be with his One back in Ered Luin.
It had only been a decade before he joined his uncle on the quest to reclaim Erebor that Fíli met his One. He had been at the market with his mother, assisting at the stall where she sold their family’s makes - mostly nails and other metalwork from Uncle, or hairpins from his mother who specialised in the finer details of jewel-setting - when he had heard the most beautiful of singing. The words were of a song he had never heard, but the young prince would never forget the way that voice beckoned him closer. As the stall was quiet, Fíli had been able to slip away, finding a crowd by the fountain at the centre of town. He carefully made his way through the clobber of dwarrow and men alike, until he was able to see just where that music had been coming from.
He’d felt his heart skip a beat when he saw her.
A woman, far too tall to be a dwarrowdam, was happily singing away to the crowd. Her cloak hid most of her dress, but the slightest hints of blue peeked out from the bottom where the hem was nearly touching the muddy cobblestone paving. Those who passed tossed coins into the bowl at her feet, and each time she thanked them and continued with her song. Her skin was fair, hair dark and curly pulled back by a braid on each side. Eventually the crowd dispersed as people had to get back to work or back to their shopping, so the woman finished off her song and collected her earnings.
Just as she bent down to pick up the bowl, Fíli dropped what few coins he had on him inside. A little startled, the woman looked up at him, and with a smile Fíli offered her his hand. She accepted it and he helped her back up.
“You have a wonderful voice,” he said, and the woman smiled.
“Thank you, sir,” she replied. Her words still sounded beautiful even if they were only spoken.
“I haven’t seen you around before, are you visiting?” Fíli asked her.
“Yes, I’m afraid to say the rains caught me off guard,” she had explained. A silence fell between them, their hands still clasped. Fíli gave a polite bow.
“Fíli, at your service, milady.”
“Guinevere, at yours,” the woman, Guinevere, gave him a curtsy.
Though their conversation lasted not much longer, as Fíli had to return to the stall and Guinevere would soon need to be on her way, it was not the only time they spoke. Through passes in the street and an accidental meeting at the local inn of which Guinevere was residing, Fíli found out that she was remaining in the small settlement until the summer rains had ended and she was able to make the journey back through the Shirelands. Their talks grew longer and longer in length, both learning more and more about the other. Fíli learned that Guinevere was an only child, an orphan who had grown up travelling Middle Earth with her musician mother and had never really had a place to call home. A Wanderling, she called herself. She believed she was destined to follow the footsteps of her mother, traversing the realms performing wherever she could. Conversations in the street turned into talks over drinks at the tavern, which turned to walks through the town at night, and into sitting at the edge of a hill staring out at the world below them.
They talked of dreams. Talked of how Guinevere dreamed of a life of adventure and magic and wonder. Talked of how Fíli dreamed of visiting the halls of his ancestors and reclaiming the kingdom he never got to see. They talked of finding a place to call their own, that could be home for them. Of the millions of dreams for the world they could make.
Each time Fíli heard her voice, each time he listened to those words she sung, he felt drawn closer and closer to the daughter of man until the realisation began to dawn on him that he had found his One
That was where the problems arose.
Fíli had been named his uncle’s heir; he was the Crowned Prince of Erebor, even if he had no crown or kingdom to his name. Things were expected of him, one of said things being heirs and a continuation of the Line of Durin. The Dwarrow would never accept a daughter of man as their Queen, even if said lady was Fíli’s One. He knew she was, the pull he felt not one of magic but of longing. A longing to be near her, to share in her journeys and her perils and her hardships. If she asked, he was sure he would give up his place in line for the throne to journey through the worlds with her. Not that he could ever say that, especially not to his uncle.
Worst of all, even if by some miracle she felt the same, Fíli could not provide the life Guinevere desired. He could not give her that life of adventure and magic and wonder. All he could give her was a home that barely had food on the table, a kingdom with no crown and misplaced people. The last thing he wanted was to trap her in a life she would soon grow tired of being in, longing to travel the lands once more as the Wanderling she is.
So, when the summer rains finally let up, Fíli found himself in the market once more. He let himself listen to those words one last time. “They can say, they can say it all sounds crazy,” Guinevere sang, “they can say, they can say I’ve lost my mind.” Fili left the stall and followed the words back to the fountain. “I don’t care, I don’t care, so call me crazy,” he carefully shouldered his way through the crowd, “We can live in a world that we design!” Fíli watched with sad eyes as Guinevere sang by the fountain for the last time.
They said goodbye that day, Fíli walking Guinevere and her horse and cart to the outskirts of the town. He presented to her a parting gift, a single bead with his sigil engraved onto it. It was nothing special, carved from steel as opposed to the silver or platinum or mithril he would have preferred. He had looped it onto a simple chain, and said it would give Guinevere something to remember him by.
“Oh, Fíli, I don’t need a gift to remember you, you will always hold a place with me wherever I go,” Guinevere had told him. No matter how much he had hoped, he dared not look too deep into the words.
On that midsummer’s day, Fíli lost his One before he ever got the chance to tell her how he felt.
Twelve years after that day they parted and Guinevere still sat on Fili’s mind. He wondered, as he dressed himself for the day, if perhaps she had heard of his grand adventure to the Lonely Mountain. If perhaps she still wore her necklace. If perhaps she still thought of Fíli as much as Fíli thought of her. As he slowly made his way to breakfast - his wound from the battle still ailed him, leg having never fully recovered from the fall - and saw his brother and uncle with their respective ones, he felt his heart pang as once more his mind drifted to a love lost long ago. Maybe he could try and reach out to her, listen to the gossip around the mountain to hear of any travelling musicians with the most wonderful voice. Maybe she would want to visit Erebor, or maybe Fíli would travel to see her wherever she may be.
Kíli dragged Fíli into the markets that day, nattering on about finding the perfect gift for Tauriel. He wanted to commission a cloak for her made of the finest furs, and for some reason that involved pulling his older brother away from important meetings that the Crowned Prince should be attending. Not that Fíli minded; any excuse to spend the day with his brother and avoid the responsibilities that fell on his shoulders to have a bit of a break. Erebor’s markets were bustling once more, just like the stories Uncle had told them. Merchants - dwarrow and men and even elf alike - had set up stalls not too dissimilar to the ones Fíli had helped his mother run back in the Blue Mountains. At least that time he could actually enjoy the markets and not work through them.
As he stood watching his brother become indecisive over furs, Fíli felt his mind wandering again. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear Guinevere singing that beautiful song. “They can say, they can say it all sounds crazy,” she sang, and Fíli’s eyes flew open. That wasn’t in his head. “They can say, they can say we’ve lost our minds.” Fili left the stall and followed the words through the market. “I don’t care, I don’t care if they call us crazy,” he carefully shouldered his way through the crowds until- “We can live in a world that we design!” Fíli watched with wide eyes as he felt his heart skip a beat.
A woman, far too tall to be a dwarrowdam, was happily singing away to the crowd. She wore no cloak, her deep blue dress on display only this time there was no mud below her feet to ruin the hem. Those who passed tossed coins into the bowl at her feet, and each time she thanked them and continued with her song. Her skin was just as fair, hair still dark and curly though now it reached only her shoulders, a single braid tucked behind her ear. Eventually the crowd dispersed as people had to get back to work or back to their shopping, so the woman finished off her song and collected her earnings.
Just as she bent down to pick up the bowl, Fíli dropped a few coins he had on him inside. A little startled, the woman looked up at him, and with a smile Fíli offered her his hand. She accepted it and he helped her back up.
“You have a wonderful voice,” he said, words spoken so long ago coming back like it was only yesterday. The woman smiled.
“Thank you, sir,” she replied. Her voice was as beautiful as the day he lost her.
“I haven’t seen you around before, are you visiting?” Fíli asked.
“Yes, I’m afraid to say the rains caught me off guard,” the lady spoke, her words slow and deliberate. A silence fell between them, their hands still clasped. Fíli gave a polite bow.
“Fíli, at your service, milady.”
“Guinevere, at yours,” Guinevere gave him a curtsy. They locked eyes.
Guinevere hit his shoulder. Hard.
“Ow! What was that for?” Fíli cried, grabbing the spot she hit. She had a strong punch.
“That was for not telling me your intentions when I left!” Guinevere almost growled at him. Knowing she meant the bead he gave her, Fíli spluttered, trying to form some sort of explanation but in the end, he was silenced by Guinevere’s lips pressing against his own. He melted into her touch. Though she was taller than him - only by about eight inches or so - they slotted together so perfectly in each other’s arms.
“That,” Guinevere began when they finally pulled apart, “is for all the time we have to make up for.” Fíli grinned brightly, arms wrapped around his One.
They had all the time in the world, now.
“Now, tell me why I got a letter from your mother saying you had gone on an adventure and nearly died?!”
“Uh… w-well that is a funny story! You see...”