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Chapter Text

“It’s not too late to turn back.”

Ulvhild tightened her grasp on the reins of the steadfast pony pulling their small cart and swallowed a sigh.

It broke her heart to hear how cold and bitter Iora had grown, and her soul couldn’t bear any more strain in the given situation as it was.

She felt a cold chill run down her spine at the sight of the last resting place of the one she’d loved.

Having always solely yearned for a place and a person to belong to, Ulvhild had abandoned two homes, and now, she stood to lose Iora as well if she didn’t pull herself together quickly.

“We’ll stop in Laketown,” she replied, even though she knew that the child she’d raised as best as she’d been able to was no longer listening to her. “And then, we’ll be on our way again.”

Her knuckles were white, but she didn’t voice the helpless scream of frustration and grief as she swallowed the word “home”.

What did so flimsy a term even mean now to people like them, who’d spent so much of their lives on the road, running from things that had never even tried to pursue them?

A small, calloused hand came to rest on her tense shoulder then, and Ulvhild flinched.

“I’m sorry,” Iora sighed. “That beastly rock looming on the horizon makes me nervous, I guess.”

As so often before, her minder—more than a sister and yet never quite enough to replace the parents Iora had lost—swallowed the words burning on her tongue.

Ulvhild knew that her companion didn’t remember the place in which she’d been brought to life, and so it made sense that Iora wouldn’t have any desire to return to roots that had been left in ashes such a long time ago.

“It’s for your sake,” Iora added softly. “There’s nothing there for you anymore.”

Hanging her head, Ulvhild nodded jerkily.

“’twas not all bad,” she muttered under her breath. “I have fond memories of…”

“The dragon? The mewling orphan you pulled from the wreckage? The long flight?” Iora’s voice was as sharp and cold as shards of ice, but her hand still lay heavy and comforting on Ulvhild’s shoulder.

“My youth,” the other replied calmly. “And yes, the innocent life I’ve saved.”

“A thousand times over,” Iora interjected, genuine affection tinging her hollow voice now.

“And him,” Ulvhild added with a tremulous sigh. “Young Prince Thorin was glorious to behold.”

An uncomfortable silence descended, only broken by the muted sound of their pony’s hooves on the dry mud and the squeaking of the wheels.

It had been tacitly agreed that, if they were to set out together once more after Iora’s long absence, all talk of the love they’d lost would be forbidden.

In the distance, the warm lights of the human settlement came into view, and the two dams averted their gazes stubbornly from the Lonely Mountain, beckoning to them in the chiaroscuro of the dying light.

“Ori should be back by now!”

Leaning heavily on his cane, Thorin limped to the high window and frowned at the deepening night.

He usually avoided relying on such implements overmuch, for he was a proud creature and hated the idea of being seen as weak or ailing, but the damp chill pervading his chambers made his old wounds ache fiercely.

“I shall ride out,” Dwalin replied gruffly. “Perhaps the lad was tired and stayed the night…”

“Out in the open? Not he!” Thorin chortled darkly as he returned to the blazing fire in the hearth. “No, he’s too dutiful to linger. I have a bad feeling.”

Far from doubting his commander and king, the tall warrior insinuated a crisp bow and withdrew quickly, already bellowing for a pony to be readied.

It had been a tremendous blessing that Thorin II hadn’t succumbed to his grievous injuries, but his convalescence was slow and arduous, hampered considerably by the countless setbacks and losses he’d suffered since leaving the Blue Mountains.

What the King needed now was certainty, and—because Dwalin couldn’t very well scour the whole world for the dam his friend had left behind, believing that she’d wait for him—he was all the more determined to find their misplaced scribe.

Guilt gnawed at his insides; he himself had wondered whether it would not have been better to send an armed guard with Ori, but nobody had wanted to insult the brave soul by suggesting such a thing.

Something was amiss, Dwalin could feel it in his guts.

As he rode out, he craned his neck to see Thorin standing on a parapet, overlooking the scarred emptiness outside his mountain.

Even without seeing his face, Dwalin knew that his king’s mien was stern and his brows puckered with worry as he gazed into the distance, wondering whether he’d ever retrieve all he’d cast aside in the name and course of his great quest.

Thorin smiled grimly as he saw the perfunctory salute of a man he’d known and trusted for as long as he could remember.

This train of thought inexorably led back to Ulvhild, whose gleaming hair had caught his eye from the first time they’d met—he could barely recall a time when he’d not equated the word “beauty” with her stalwart heart and twinkling eyes.

Before the arrival of Smaug, he’d been bound by his duties to his family, but—in exile—they’d soon slipped into a beautiful friendship that had promised to blossom into a deeper connection yet.

Consequently, he couldn’t fathom why all the letters he’d sent to her since he’d been well enough to hold a quill once more had returned unopened and unread.

The thought that something terrible had happened to someone so precious was unbearable, so he chose to believe that she’d simply grown tired of waiting for him.

And yet, he sometimes couldn’t help but wonder where she was now and whether she still thought of him from time to time.

Ori knew that he was running a fever, and the agonising pain where a blade had cut through his breeches had long since melted into a dull, hypnotising ache.

“I can make it,” he muttered, squinting at the dancing light in the distance.

In truth, he was no longer sure if he was heading in the right direction, but he sincerely hoped that he wasn’t about to ride into a foreign town, full of unhelpful strangers.

It had been stupid to take a shortcut, after all, scouting missions were meant to be surreptitious and secret rather than comfortable.

The small, pathetic band of stragglers had jumped out of the bushes, and had there been but a single other person by his side, Ori might well have made a clean getaway.

Alas, the haphazard thrust of a desperate, probably starving wretch had found its aim, and he’d had to ride hard to outrun them.

A new wave of dread overcame him as he realised that he was probably still leaving a trail of blood that would lead any pursuers straight to his whereabouts if he didn’t reach a safe haven soon.

Weakened and delirious, he would be an easy target for roaming bandits, and—having grown up poor and wanting—Ori was loath to part with anything he proudly called his own.

By now, his numb fingers were clawed into the mane of his mount, and he was swaying precariously as they entered a magical world of twirling and twisting lights.

The fact that he was far more severely injured than initially thought became evident to him when, upon sliding from the pony’s back onto the blessedly cool ground, he had a vision of Meliora.

“Is it then time to come to terms with all my failings?” he thought dazedly, for he was sure that his former friend couldn’t possibly be here, so close to a place she’d sworn she’d never visit.

What felt like a lifetime ago, sweet, passionate Iora had been the light of his life…and then, she’d just vanished.

As always, when he was tired or indisposed, Ori was haunted by the ghost of what could have been again. Well-loved and daring, Iora had been an integral part of all their most inane and reckless games, and it had been in the context of such a puerile dare that she’d kissed him.

Even now, years later, Ori’s heart quailed at the recollection of how she’d thrown back her head to give a peal of bellowing laughter as if he were little more than a simple toy to pick up and discard instantly.

From that day onward, he’d avoided her, devoured internally by shame and longing.

 Of course, Fíli and Kíli had sworn that there had been a misunderstanding, but—by the time Ori had mustered up the courage to confront her—Iora had disappeared without a trace, leaving her sister and the community to worry endlessly.

Her name was on his lips as blessed oblivion finally took him.

“No marriage braids?”

Iora baulked at the innkeeper’s broad grin; she was unused to strangers being so unduly familiar with her people’s mores and traditions, and she didn’t like it.

“No,” she barked and slammed a pouch of jangling coins onto the counter. “Dinner, ale, and two beds for the night, please.”

“Suit yourself, Mistress,” the man said, barely chastened by her gruff reaction. “What is your business if I may ask?”

Again, Iora gave him a long, suspicious glance.

“Medical supplies,” Ulvhild answered quickly before Iora’s bad temper could come to the fore and cost them a roof over their heads. “Tinctures, tonics, and tools.”

Iora gave her an incredulous look; Ulvhild was a marvel at devising implements and gadgets to help others, and she’d herself spent much time with various Elven clans to study their lore and practices.

Nevertheless, she wasn’t foolish enough to disregard how dangerous it could be for two unwed women—no matter their race—to travel without guards.

At best, people suspected that they sold other remedies and sources of solace than mere potions.

At worst, they tried to rob them of these very same things.

Therefore, she nodded solemnly and shuffled towards a small table in a dark corner, far away from any windows or doors, because the oddly familiar smell of the lake made her heart clench with inexplicable Sehnsucht.

“I didn’t mean any offence,” the innkeeper said as he brought them two steaming bowls of stew and a loaf of dark bread, straight from the oven. “We see a good deal of the dwarves here. They stop over sometimes, and we trade with them a little.”

Iora cocked her head, wondering whether the man was genuinely proud of that connection or whether he was merely trying to put them at ease so he could trick them more easily when the time came.

“Is that so?” Ulvhild muttered politely without looking up.

“Yes…Oh, excuse me!”

There was a ruckus somewhere outside, and the rotund man rushed out of the room hastily, leaving his two foreign guests to enjoy their dinner in peace.

Or so they thought.

“Forgive me, ladies,” the innkeeper—now flushed and panting—wheezed as he returned. “I’m afraid that the room I’ve promised you was needed urgently.”

Just as Iora was about to fly into a blind rage, his gaze grew shrewd.

“You said you were medical people?” he muttered.

“Not really, no,” Ulvhild exclaimed hastily, unwilling to be dragged into a matter that would delay their immediate departure as soon as the sun came up.

“It’s one of your kind,” the man explained sheepishly. “Took a bad turn; they found him outside, unconscious.”

Ulvhild’s bright, warm eyes settled on Iora’s flushed face.

“Wouldn’t hurt to take a look as we’re going to share a room apparently,” Iora said, relenting, and followed the bumbling fool to the upper floor.

As soon as she entered the room, though, she gasped and tumbled backwards in wordless shock, clutching at her throat.

Chapter Text

Rushing forward to steady her dangerously swaying sister, Ulvhild realised how stupid it had been to believe that their path wouldn’t inevitably cross that of Erebor’s inhabitants.

All the warning signs had been there: the mountain looming on the horizon, the innkeeper’s familiarity, the gnawing feeling in her gut.

In a single heartbeat, she made up her mind; had she had the misfortune of encountering any of her former peers, she might have been able to harden her heart, but seeing Ori—a child she’d rocked to sleep more than once—undid all her stolid detachment.

Of course, he’d broken her sister’s heart, but Ulvhild found that she was unable to leave him to his miserable fate, nevertheless.

Before she could act, though, Iora had torn herself free to rush to the occupied bed.

“Oh, you know him?” the innkeeper asked, something akin to relief in his voice.

Iora’s eyes were wild as her head snapped up, but she merely muttered that they’d been “young” together.

Then, her gaze wandered beseechingly to Ulvhild, and the older dam understood.

“I’ll fetch your supplies,” she said in a forcibly calm voice. “Stay here.”

And, without further ado, she rushed down the stairs again, all thoughts of their delicious, steaming dinner forgotten.

Even as she rummaged through the belongings they’d left in the cart, Ulvhild felt her heart sink; even though they’d stubbornly refused to discuss it, both she and Iora knew that they’d better stock up in Erebor if they planned on working on their return trip.

The sound of approaching hooves interrupted her downward spiral into bleak despair.

Looking up, she saw the bald pate of a dwarf, gleaming like a miniature moon in the night, and her heart lurched.

“Master Dwalin,” she called in a tremulous voice.

“Hild?” Leaping off the back of his steed, the warrior rushed towards her, driven by disbelief and wonderment. “Is that really you?”

There were so many things she should have said to her old friend, Ulvhild knew, but time was precious, so she explained what had just transpired in short, cut-off sentences.

“I’ve come to look for the lad,” Dwalin admitted, blanching.

Digging her fingers into her palms, Ulvhild feverishly recited a list of the supplies Iora would most urgently need, begging him to put her mind at ease.

“Óin may have what you seek,” Dwalin muttered, looking again and again at the inn with dread. “You’ve always been the better rider. Here, take this. I’ll stay with the lad.”

He handed her one of his axes as a token of safe passage.

In return, Ulvhild dumped the satchel of herbs and tinctures she’d been able to locate in the darkness into his arms. “Iora is with him,” she whispered. “She’ll need those.”

“The little one is back?” Dwalin beamed with relief, but then became serious once more. “Go now, I’ll keep watch over both of them.”

And, because she wouldn’t let her sister suffer the same fate as her, Ulvhild hastened away fearlessly.

When the door opened, Iora looked up, half-mad and panting, only to see a face she’d never expected to behold again.

“Lady Meliora,” the hardened warrior intoned, bowing slightly.

“Dwalin,” she sobbed, extending her blood-stained hands as if she could run towards him as she’d done as a pebble.

“Is it very bad?” he asked, drawing closer warily, to look down at the shivering wretch stretched out on the scratchy sheets. “Why haven’t you undressed him?”

“I can’t,” Iora wailed. “Because it’s…Ori, because I’m me. It wouldn’t be proper, it wouldn’t be pure.”

“Nonsense,” he barked, drew his knife, and slashed through fabric and leather without a qualm to lay bare their unwitting patient’s body.

Iora had, in the few moments since Ulvhild’s departure, done her best to wash out the gnarly wound in Ori’s thigh, and she was relieved that her trembling hands found no other injuries upon a quick examination.

Soon, the innkeeper came bustling in, carrying another pail of fresh water from the well to be boiled above the small fire.

Sickened by the bloody situation, he withdrew hastily, much to Iora’s displeasure.

“Give me this,” she barked and, at once, turned her mind to the brewing of a fortifying tea and the making of a healing poultice, for she couldn’t bear to think of all the things she’d deserted in a fit of juvenile vexation.

“Can I help you somehow?” Dwalin asked after she’d finished bandaging Ori’s wound and cooling his burning brow with a damp cloth. “Come here, child, you’re shaking like a leaf.”

Gently—Iora remembered how tender he’d been to her as a child—he took her hands and wiped them clean of the residue of dried roots and powdery herbs. “You should sit.”

“You take the other bed, I’m dirty. I’ll…” Iora protested, instinctively reminded of the reverence she owed her elder.

“Then sit on his accursed bed,” Dwalin thundered. “The lad’s so out of it, he won’t mind.”

When she refused to comply, he simply pushed her down on the edge of the lumpy, yielding mattress.

“Where’s Hild? What have you done to her?” she then asked, glowering at him as if Dwalin was to blame for all their hurt.

“ME? To her? Nought, I say. I’ve met her outside, and she’s flying to the Mountain even now to get you what you need.”

Iora’s eyes closed in a moment of profound despair. “She shouldn’t have to be in that huge tomb,” she groaned.

“Tomb? Nobody’s going to die, don’t despair, lass,” Dwalin exclaimed, drawing a superstitious warding sign into the air. “Why don’t you sing us a song? I’m sure it would do much to restore his spirit to hear your voice.”

Iora wanted to protest and question, but her mind was abuzz with fear and confusion, so she complied, transitioning from old Elven ballads she’d learned during her travels to ribald drinking songs.

Finally, running out of ideas, she reluctantly sang one of her own creations, titled “Ori’s song”.

More than once during the quest, Ori had wondered what it would feel like to die. If he’d known then that the loss of his life would return Iora to him, he might have been less careful.

The darkness pressing in on him from all sides grew lighter and more translucent with every passing moment, and he thought he’d felt a blessedly cool rag being pressed against his forehead every now and again.

Moreover, the stifling heat in which he’d been trapped had finally abated, and he could breathe again.

And then, there was this voice that he’d have recognised anywhere.

How often had Iora enlivened their evenings with a song? He dared not count, for he was afraid of the cruel finality of a number that would never change.

On the downside, his leg was hurting something fierce, and he gave a throaty groan of discomfort.

“Hush, darling,” that disembodied voice whispered. “You’ll be as right as rain.”

Now certain that he was dreaming, Ori tried to stifle his moans so as not to ruin this final blessing.

Iora hadn’t ever spoken to him in that melting inflexion or uttered such words of tender affection, and he knew that she never would, so he had to hold on to this feverish fantasy with all the might of his weakening mind and broken heart.

Another voice, which unfathomably sounded like Dwalin, spoke of the need for rest and the danger of overtaxation, but the phantasmagorical Iora refused to leave his side.

“Very well, then climb into bed with him. Just, for Mahal’s sake, slow down. You’ve done what you could; what both of you need now is to sleep and heal! I shall keep watch. You might have forgotten, but I’ve done it before…” the shadow of the royal guard barked.

A moment later, something cold and hard was pressed against Ori’s lips, and he opened his mouth obediently to welcome a dribble of warm, sweetened tea on his parched tongue.

“You have to live, you foolish creature,” his Iora, such as she’d never been, whispered into his ear.

Her name fell from his lips then, the last prayer of a dying man, a desperate, humble plea for absolution.

“I’m here,” she replied. “Sleep now. Hild will hopefully rush back with fresh bandages and…Oh, I’ll tell you about my discovery if you recover.”

The note of challenge and mystery in that charming voice gave Ori’s wandering thoughts a much-needed anchor; she’d been away so long, and he yearned to know what long-lost lore she might have found on her travels.

Gentle fingers caressed his cheek, making him sigh happily.

“That was a lovely song,” the illusion of Dwalin praised. “I’ve never heard it before.”

“I wrote it,” Iora’s phantom replied morosely. “It’s his song. For him. About him. In his memory.”

I’m not dead, the prostrate patient tried protesting to no avail. Not yet, at least.

Dying, Ori found, was the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to him.

Thorin recognised the pony flying towards the main gate and the flashing axe catching the oblique moonlight as it was waved around frantically.

Nonetheless, it wasn’t Dwalin’s tattooed scalp that shone like molten gold in the ethereal gleam—it was the unkempt mane of a much shorter dwarrow.

His heart realised the truth before his mind could catch up.

During his long stay in Óin’s halls of healing, he’d imagined this very scene so many times that the scene unfolding before his disbelieving eyes felt like a dream.

It couldn’t be Ulvhild. Why would she, who was half a world away from this forsaken place, ride up to his doors as if all the demons of the depths were on her heels?

He stayed by the window, unsure whether he was finally losing his mind after being cooped up inside for so long, until she’d moved out of his field of vision.

By the time he managed to descend to the gates, all he could make out was a cloud of dust in the distance.

“Was that…” he gasped, violently cursing the fact that he still had to move slowly and take many a break before reaching his destination, even within his own home.

Óin slid out of the shadows, his face grave and his hands atremble. “They found Ori,” he informed his king with a slight bow.

“Who found Ori?” Thorin thundered, impatient more than angry.

“Ulvhild, the Brave,” Óin chuckled. “And the kid. Do you remember her?”

Thorin flinched at the thought of Iora. In a fit of rebellious passion, she’d left home in the middle of the night, and Ulvhild had insisted on waiting for her return before even considering following Thorin back to Erebor.

“She’s back?” he asked breathlessly.

Nodding, Óin patted his beard pensively.

“So why then did Ulvhild not get my letters?” Thorin expostulated. He was more than tempted to take out a pony of his own and follow her to confront the only people who could answer the questions that had been burning holes into his mind for months.

Not even bothering to reply, Óin turned on his heels to return to his chambers. “The lad is injured—Ulvhild wouldn’t say how badly. I must inform his brothers.”

In the heat of the moment, Thorin forgot that he had to be careful. His arm shot out to hold back the elderly dwarf before he could melt into the wavering shadows of the endless hallways of Erebor.

“We must go and retrieve him,” he declared confidently.

“Aye!” Óin gave him a quizzical look. “But the hour is late, and I am sure that neither the ladies nor the innkeeper would appreciate half the company crowding into one room.”

He was looking around thoughtfully now, rubbing his bearded chin. “I can’t fathom why she’d expect a monument to you. Let’s leave them to their work—they’ll have their hands full with Ori and Dwalin already.”

“Tomorrow at first light,” Thorin insisted stubbornly.

“As you command.”

Chapter Text

“He seems better already,” Dwalin commented as she padded over to the bed into which he’d crammed Iora alongside her patient as if they were still pebbles to be herded and guarded. “It’s good to see you, little one. I’m sure that your presence will heal him in ways beyond our imagination.”

Suppressing the tears that sprang to her eyes, Iora nodded bravely. “How are you holding up?”

Cocking his head, Dwalin regarded her with a certain wariness. “What do you mean, lass?”

Iora bit her lip as she realised that, in all the time since her shamefaced return to her childhood home, she’d never once spoken the word “dead” out loud. “Y'know, after what happened,” she muttered carefully.

Ori stirred beside her, and she gave his hand a soothing pat.

“What do you think happened?” Dwalin asked. “Hild already made an oblique reference that left me baffled.”

Frowning, Iora pressed her lips together. She believed it to be bad luck to speak of untimely deaths in a sickchamber, and she was loath to tempt fate. Not where Ori was concerned.

“What did you hear, child?” Dwalin insisted.

“I…didn’t. Of course, I kept Hild apprised of my continued well-being, but I never gave her a way to reply to me, so I only learned that Thorin had been lost upon my return,” Iora finally admitted, feeling wretched for the way her voice broke.

She had no right to cry—after having deserted all of them over injured pride and a broken heart, she’d forfeited the right to feel bereft.

“He’s…very much alive,” Dwalin said, visibly dumbfounded by her demeanour. “Grumpy but mending. Something must have gone awry in the transmission of the news—it was a chaotic time, but please be assured that all of us made it through the ordeal with our lives.”

When a dry sob tore itself from her throat, he strode over and touched her cheek comfortingly.

“We’re fine, and so will Ori be, thanks to your care. We’re a hardy people, as you can attest. Oh, don’t cry, little raven. You’re both back.”

“We’re not,” Iora hiccuped. “We had no intention to even come to Erebor. Too much…pain.”

“Now, Lady Meliora!” Dwalin pulled himself up to his full height and gave her a forbidding look. “I remember you promising me that—if we took the Mountain back—you’d come and sing for us.” He winked. “That was one of the many reasons we gave it our all.”

Sniffling, Iora narrowed her eyes at him.

“He really hoped you’d come,” Dwalin nodded at the blissfully sleeping dwarf beside her.

“Poppycock. He broke my heart,” she spat, echoes of her old bitterness rattling her bones viciously. “Why did you take him with you? He doesn’t seem the kind to—“

“He couldn’t stay and bask in your absence, lass,” Dwalin sighed. “He needed to find a place to which you might return in time.”

Averting her face, Iora tried to make sense of everything she’d learned.

Every bone and muscle in Ulvhild’s body ached by the time she slid back into the room they’d booked for the night.

Upon entering, she saw Dwalin, sitting on an empty bed and lifting his thick finger to his lips.

“I’ve just gotten them down,” he mouthed, which made her roll her eyes in fond mockery.

Her heart quailed as she realised how damn easy it was to slip back into this easy, amicable dynamic with the tall, tattooed warrior, even though it had been years since she’d last seen him.

In a flash, she remembered the countless times they’d taken turns watching the pebbles, desperate not to let them feel displaced or unhappy in a hostile world.

Dwalin motioned at the door urgently, and—setting down her burden—Ulvhild followed him outside.

“How were they?” she asked out of habit.

“The fever has broken, I think. Iora was a bit…antsy, but she finally fell asleep a little while ago. Was your excursion successful?” he replied, but she could see that there was something else he wanted to say.

Nodding, she waited.

“She’s also told me some truly wondrous things. Thorin is not dead, Hild—a thing you’d know if you’d read any of the letters he’d sent you.”

Ulvhild’s stomach dropped, and her head started spinning. She’d been surprised and a little outraged that she’d not seen a single monument in honour of the brave leader and king, who’d given his life to secure his family’s future.

Now, she understood why.

“No, but how?” she sputtered, clutching at her seizing chest helplessly. “We were told—“

“I’m not going to lie and pretend that it wasn’t a near thing, lass,” Dwalin sighed. “But he came around. Iora also said that you planned on passing through without visiting us.”

His stern face twitched. “That hurt, Hild. Why would you avoid the ones who love you so well and waited so long for you?”

Ulvhild stared at him in disbelief, her lips parting to let out a snort before her mind could come up with an articulate answer.

“I gather that there have been misunderstandings, but—“ Dwalin let his voice trail off suggestively. “We need you more than ever,” he then added. “And you shouldn’t be travelling alone until we’ve taken care of the threat that has gotten to Ori.”

Again, Ulvhild thought of all the things she should have said to him—words of gratitude and warning. Instead, she just sighed anew and leaned heavily against the wall behind her.

“You’re exhausted,” Dwalin remarked. “Why don’t you lie down? I’ll stay here and make sure that no ill can befall you.”

Even though she wanted to protest, Ulvhild shuffled back into the room without any further comment, shrugged out of her travel-stained clothes hastily, and crashed onto the hard mattress like a rockslide.

She’d fallen head over heels into an unexpected, intricate dilemma, she knew, and she sincerely hoped that the dawn would bring wisdom and clarity to her.

Ori woke up thirsty, disoriented, and shivering.

The oddly familiar smell of healing herbs and hot tea made him momentarily believe that he’d succeeded in returning to Erebor before fainting, but—upon opening his eyes—he saw sturdy wooden beams instead of solid stone.

And then he heard it; the subtle snoring of another person so close to him that he twisted around in visceral alarm.

He blinked a few times, but the incomprehensible picture didn’t change or vanish.

Beside him, her half-undone braids spilling across the discoloured pillow like black ink, lay Iora, and she was apparently fast asleep.

Later, he would blame his injury and the resulting fever, but Ori couldn’t help but reach out to touch her cheek, desperate to convince himself that this wasn’t just another heartbreaking dream.

At once, Iora’s eyes flew open, and the haunted expression in them sent shivers of dread and regret through Ori’s whole body.

“Are you all right?” she asked hoarsely, pressing the back of her hand against his brow gaugingly.

“A bit cold,” he replied.

It was only then that the thought of looking down came to him. His stomach twisted and churned at the sight of his bare chest and naked legs.

“What happened?” he hissed, unable to understand what miracle would have led to him waking up all but naked in the same bed as Iora.

For an agonising moment, he wondered whether his most despicable fantasy and most intimate dream had come true, and he’d simply forgotten it. That would, no doubt, have been deserved.

“I don’t know,” Iora replied softly. “You were found outside, wounded and feverish, and—by chance—we were spending the night in this inn.”

A small crease appeared between her brows. “As we were forced to share a room with you, we took care of you as much as we could.”

Then, as he was still struggling with the ludicrous situation, she got up and retrieved the scratchy blanket they’d previously removed from the bed.

From where he lay, Ori could see the outline of her body through her translucent chemise, and he wondered whether she hadn’t been cold, lying next to him.

“Don’t distress yourself,” Iora warned him as she retraced her steps slowly. “I can see you blushing with whatever emotion assails you.”

Yearning, Ori thought. Wonderment. Regret.

The sight of her unapologetic beauty, softened by the dim light from the dying embers, hit him like a blow, and he had to forcefully remind himself of his disadvantageous state of nudity to avert his eyes bashfully.

“Were you on your way to come to us?” he asked, barefaced hope trembling in every note.

“No,” Iora scoffed and tossed her head back haughtily. “You’ve made your feelings on my subject clear a long time ago, and we believed many of you had perished. No, we wouldn’t have set foot in that wretched mountain for all the gold in the world.”

Her face hardened, and Ori almost wished he had died.

Thorin didn’t sleep.

Between his worry for Ori’s well-being and his indomitable desire to see Ulvhild, such a frivolous indulgence thoroughly evaded him.

Instead, he paced through his room, wondering how he’d get to Laketown without being reduced to shambles by the time he arrived.

Go he had to, so there was no purpose or sense in lamenting about his sorry state of temporary decrepitude—no, what was needed was a solution.

The hours crept by slowly, each one mocking him in passing.

Finally, dawn broke, and so he donned his most formal and hopefully impressive garments with stubborn determination and made his way to the gates.

“We readied a cart to transport Ori,” Óin informed him. “As far as I know, Ulvhild has her own, and I’m sure she’d be willing to escort you back to your Halls. Undoubtedly, you have much to tell one another after all this time.”

Bowing in wordless gratitude, Thorin felt his heart mellow.

Thus, he didn’t even demur when the old dwarf helped him into the bed of the cart. He merely took his seat and schooled his face into a mien of calm self-possession, even though his mind was racing with questions and long-held grievances.

What was he to say to the woman who’d chosen to be a stranger?

On the one hand, Thorin was desperate to prove that he’d achieved all he’d once promised he would, but—on the other hand—he was aware that he was no longer the young prince Ulvhild had known.

Wounded and weary in a myriad ways they could never have foreseen, he might well have become a stranger to one who’d known him so well.

Dís had arrived shortly after the fateful battle, and—by her account—young Meliora hadn’t returned, and Ulvhild had been growing more wan and wary by the day.

The eminent princess had even penned a letter to her old friend, but she hadn’t received an answer either.

At least, Thorin now thought bitterly, Dís’s missive had not come back to her unopened.

After what felt like an eternity of bone-rattling agony, the cart slowed down in front of an inn, which looked oddly lacklustre in the cold light of the early morning.

Heart beating nauseatingly in his throat, Thorin dismounted and strode over to pound his fist on the door.

“Oh, wonderful, more dwarves,” the innkeeper, still in his sleeping clothes, grumbled. “First floor, second door on the right. There should be four people in there, and I will charge double for it!”

Dropping a heavy purse into the man’s hand, Thorin pushed past him and stared at the daunting flight of rickety stairs distrustfully.

A moment later, Dwalin’s thick skull appeared, and then he rushed down the stairs noisily.

“Ah, you came yourself,” he grinned. “You won’t believe the things I’ve learned this night!”

Thorin knew that his friend’s eagerness was a pretence, allowing him to link arms with his king and drag him up the stairs.

“Tell me!”

Chapter Text

The thundering steps resounding just outside the door made Ulvhild sit up in blind panic.

Over the years of solitary silence, she’d managed to convince herself that her instincts in connection with her former friends had wilted like saplings that hadn’t gotten enough sun.

Now, she had to admit that they’d merely been dormant—and this night had brought them back with a vengeance.

Thus it was that she recognised Dwalin’s hasty, careless footfalls at once.

Throwing a nervous glance at the other bed, she saw her little sister, beard awry and eyes flashing, crouching on the edge of the mattress.

There was a small knife in her hand, and she seemed ready to launch herself at whatever would cross the threshold to their sanctuary.

“I’ll check,” Ulvhild whispered, ignoring the twinge of melancholy at the sight of her baby girl in such a state of unbridled aggression.

Easing herself off her own bed, Ulvhild picked up Dwalin’s axe, which was still wedged between the supplies she’d procured from the accursed mountain.

Then, she padded across the room and wrenched open the door fearlessly.

Dwalin blinked at her in confusion, but it was not he who drew her incandescent gaze.

There, impossibly handsome amidst the shabby décor of a tavern at dawn, stood Thorin, alive and hale.

“Hild,” he said in that warm, rumbling voice that had always made her stomach clench and her heart skip a beat. “How fare you? And the patient? And…the little one?”

“She’s not little any longer,” Ulvhild replied dazedly.

It felt to her that she was caught within an enchanting dream, which would turn into a nightmare at any moment.

“I've mourned you,” she gasped, unable to make sense of what she saw. “You…and all the things I once thought possible.”

Bristling, Thorin stared at her with indisguised dismay. “I’ve written to you many times, and you wouldn’t even open my letters. If your affection for me has cooled in the meantime, you might have had the generosity to let me know. Didn’t I deserve at least that much?”

“Cooled…” Ulvhild echoed, confusion and fatigue writ plain across her face. “I thought you were dead!” she then exclaimed vehemently. “Dead and buried in that ghastly mountain of yours. Iora was gone. You were gone. So, I left as well. I’ve never received any letter.”

As if buffeted by a gust of strong wind, Thorin took a wavering step backwards. “Dead?” he whispered, horrified.

“Forgive me for not throwing myself on your grave, wailing and tearing at my beard,” Ulvhild said, raising her head proudly. “I was needed still.”

“And you didn’t think to verify so absurd a claim? Write to Dís or Dwalin…or Ori for that matter? You never considered reaching out to those who were waiting for you?” Thorin bellowed, unmindful of the other patrons who might have been sleeping behind the flimsy wooden doors.

He looked older now, tired and haggard in the cold light. “You simply gave up on us.”

Thorin couldn’t believe his eyes. There she was, bright and beautiful as the dawning day—the woman he might have loved if she’d given him half a chance.

Holding Dwalin’s axe as if it weighed little more than a toy, Ulvhild was visibly unbothered by the fact that she had exited her room in nought but a worn chemise and a pair of scuffed boots.

The sight of her bare, alluringly muscular thighs and sturdy calves made Thorin’s insides flare up like the furnaces deep within Erebor.

“Did not,” she replied angrily. “I couldn’t. Don’t you understand? That wretch in there has almost cost me my sister. And, it bears repeating, I believed you’d perished on your foolhardy quest. And even if not…you’d be the king!”

“I am the king,” Thorin gave back in a steely tone. “What of it?”

“What was I to say to one such as you?” Ulvhild groaned, covering her eyes with her hand.

There were no new rings on those strong fingers, Thorin noticed instantly, and her locks bore no beads that would attest to another’s claim on her heart and hand.

The relief flooding him at that realisation was positively laughable, but he allowed himself a moment of respite, for he felt his strength failing him.

Far too proud to ask to be taken to a chair, he resigned himself to eventually fall to his knees before her, thus cementing the irrevocable alienation that had come to cleave them apart.

“I was a prince when we met,” he reminded her. “What difference does the Raven Crown make? The throne?”

“It changes everything, and you know it,” Ulvhild sighed, fidgeting with her fingers nervously. “I couldn’t bear the thought of arriving in Erebor like a beggar, calling upon old acquaintances to take advantage of a bond that they might now regret.”

Before Thorin could tell her how profoundly stupid what she’d just said was, Dwalin snorted derisively.

“So, you call us liars to our face?” the axe-wielding brute asked accusingly. “Every vow we made, every promise we gave one another…did it take so little for you to doubt the veracity of our words and the honour of our hearts?”

“Of course not,” Ulvhild cried, flushing with irritation. “Don’t you stand there and tell me that it all meant nothing to us when you were the ones who left.”

“And I did my utmost best to invite you to join us,” Thorin interjected in a wheeze.

Stomping up the stairs, Óin, who was blessedly deaf to their protests, ordered them all into the room. “The King must sit, I want to check on the lad, and you’re waking up the whole house. If I can hear you, it means you’re being too loud,” he declared and threw open the door with a flourish.

Thorin’s heart sank anew.

“Kid,” he whispered.

“Thorin,” Iora sobbed, tears streaming down her face. “I’m so sorry.”

“Look what you’ve done,” Ulvhild hissed into his ear from behind. “You made her cry!”

Iora had heard every word of the impassionate fight taking place outside the door.

It was all her fault! In running away, she’d tethered her sister to the place she’d deserted, keeping her from pursuing her heart’s true desire.

Moreover, it had been to find her that Ulvhild had finally left their desolate lodgings in the Blue Mountains, thus missing all of Thorin’s letters.

How much heartbreak could have been prevented if she’d been strong enough to bear the indignity of being rejected by the one she’d loved and loved still?

“Oh no, little raven,” Thorin cooed, apparently unfazed by her shocking state of undress.

When he drew nearer, though, Iora couldn’t help but notice the ripples of pain flashing across his face, and so she leapt up and steered him towards Hild’s bed.

“Warm,” he whispered distractedly as he sank onto the mattress with a wheezing sigh.

Then, his massive hand shot up and touched her cheek, much like Dwalin had done a few hours prior. “How are you, little one?” he asked in the same tone she’d heard a hundred times before.

What have these wretched boys pulled you into this time?

Little did he know, Iora thought, that she had been the instigator of many of their trespasses and ill-advised adventures—Thorin, masterful and demanding—had always held his own sister-sons accountable for the trouble they’d stirred up.

“Fíli? Kíli?” she asked in a wavering voice. If Thorin wasn’t dead, as they’d hitherto believed, other nefarious news might well turn out to be untrue.

“Kíli is fine,” the King replied carefully. “He’s badgering his brother into mending.”

A gusty sigh of monumental relief shook Iora’s whole frame; even though she’d never expected or intended to meet her childhood companions again in this life, she couldn’t bear the thought of a world devoid of their strength and light.

“Would that other people could be charmed, convinced, or coerced into taking their healing seriously,” Óin muttered, his grave eyes passing from one occupant of the chamber to the next.

How bad? Iora signed in the elusive language of moving hands and unguarded expressions he’d taught her as a child, and which far exceeded the general use of Iglishmêk others were familiar with.

Bad, he replied curtly, eyeing Ori’s bandaged leg curiously and sniffing the air.

What is this?

Iora shrugged, open-palmed. Nameless. She touched her chest. Mine?

“Oi, I’d forgotten how much I hate it when you do this!” Dwalin exclaimed, miffed.

“She’s asked how we are,” Ori translated in a soft, unobtrusive voice. “He’s asked what she put on my leg. No conclusive answers have been given.”

Iora whirled around; she’d almost managed to forget that Ori was there, by her side, bleeding heat into her clammy flesh.

She’d grown so used to his torturous absence that his overwhelming presence unsettled her profoundly, and—as per usual—her first instinct was to run, mentally if not physically, from what she couldn’t confront without losing a part of herself.

Ori, as well, had overheard the whole discussion, and he felt profoundly sorry for all the parties involved. It was clear to him that there were deep-seated scars that time had not mended on the hearts around him, and—to his horror—the realisation that he wasn’t alone in his suffering comforted him.

In truth, he felt as if every part of his being were on fire with agony, from the wound in his thigh to his clenching heart.

Nothing made sense anymore! Thorin had barely left his chambers since the battle, and so Ori couldn’t fully believe that his king was here until the door flew open with a resounding bang.

It also vexed him to see how easily and naturally Iora seemed to revert to her previous dynamic with Thorin, even allowing him to touch her, whereas she’d stubbornly avoided any contact with him.

Alas, things got worse when Óin appeared.

Suddenly, all the time that had passed contracted into a single moment of expectant silence, and Ori resented being the only one left behind in that breathless abyss.

Clearly, Iora had not forgotten a single thing since her flight; she still remembered the secret language she’d learned under Óin’s tutelage, and her mastery of manipulation had not weakened at all by the soft expressions on Thorin’s and Dwalin’s faces.

Of course, they’d all known her as a feisty orphan, and—childless and caring—they’d taken her under their wing without batting an eye.

To Ori, though, she’d been a peer, a friend, and a sacred dream, and he hated the thought that he alone had lost his place in her life.

“How are you, lad?” Óin asked, sniffing once more at the clean bandage Iora had fastened so masterfully. “You seem to have been cared for expertly. Who would have thought that our little songbird would grow up to be a healer?”

“Not so,” Iora coughed. “I just…I’ve always liked experiments.”

The tone of her voice drove shivers down Ori’s spine—while he’d been enmeshed in theoretical preoccupations, Iora’d always put her ideas to the test, and it had been that reckless bravery he’d recalled to his mind during the quest.

Yes, she’d ever been with him, even when she’d been worlds away, and he wished he had the words to let her know as much.

“No, lass, this is beautifully done,” Óin insisted. “And you got him to sit still?”

“He was more or less unconscious,” Iora replied, scratching her head awkwardly.

Unwilling to be shut out from a discussion about his person and his body, Ori cleared his throat. “I’ve been cooperative,” he insisted defiantly.

“Aye, for the lass, you would be,” Óin chuckled, turning to Iora with pleading eyes that looked somewhat incongruous in his weathered face. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help an old dwarf? I have much work, and…”

Ori suppressed a gasp of outrage and admiration—Óin, devious and sly, might convince Iora to come to Erebor after all.

Chapter Text

Iora gave the old dwarrow a long, hard look before shaking her head, shrugging into her clothes, and stoking the fire without further comment.

“The innkeeper will bill us a fortune if we don’t get rid of our guests soon,” she mumbled even as she prepared another batch of tea.

“He’s been paid,” Thorin said gruffly and took the proffered cup with a thankful smile.

The whole scene felt so much like the past she’d thought she’d left behind that her heart sank, for she knew that one thing, at the very least, had not changed in the intervening years.

“So, will you consider Óin’s invitation?” Thorin then asked, wrapping his thick, warm fingers around her wrist to keep her from retreating again. “And mine?”

Neither one can make it back to the Mountain, Óin signed. And they’re too proud to admit it. We need your cart.

Narrowing her eyes, Iora stilled. She was no stranger to the guiles and tricks of her elders, and she was rightfully wary of their words.

Nonetheless, she couldn’t deny that the pallor of Thorin’s face and the grisly wound she’d tended with her own two hands couldn’t possibly be ascribed to a clever ploy to abduct her.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Ulvhild cut in, her voice holding the same barely contained fear Iora had caught more than once in the last few weeks. “If it’s still too painful.”

“It will never stop being that,” Iora sighed. “I owe it to you to give you the chance to…” She didn’t know how to finish that sentence, because she’d never asked her sister if she even wanted to be with Thorin.

In truth, she’d simply accepted that as a given, and—in her childish simplicity—she’d not once thought to question her indifferent assumptions.

“You don’t owe anyone anything.” Ulvhild’s voice rose like a sudden storm in the cramped, warm room. “What’s done is done. We may as well let it rest.”

As much as she wanted to believe her sister, Iora could read the truth in Óin’s patient gaze.

“Only the dead rest in peace,” Iora whispered, touching the smooth river pebble she wore around her neck on a long chain for fortitude and courage. “The living have to fight their way to the light. Tell me true, sister, if I hadn’t disappeared, would you have gone to Erebor? Would you have gone home?”

“No,” Ulvhild smiled wistfully. “When I dragged you out from under the wreckage, I swore that I’d never forsake you. No, little one, I’d have chosen your healing heart over mine anytime.”

And there it was, the awful truth Iora had always suspected.

“I’d hoped you would follow Thorin and be happy,” she breathed into the sudden, oppressive silence. “I feared that you’d choose my misery over your happiness, so I removed myself from the equation.”

Taking a deep breath, she added, “I was clearly wrong, but I’m here now, and I’ll follow you to hell if necessary.”

“Or just to Erebor? We have breakfast, you know?” Thorin tried to make light of the situation, even though his soul was weary, and his old wounds burned like fire.

“You’re unwell,” Iora said gravely. “I can see it. Will you allow us to make amends for all the time we’ve squandered by helping you?”

He’d been so enthranced by their unexpected resurfacing that Thorin had almost forgotten that they’d had to make a living since his Company’s departure from the Blue Mountains.

While Iora had been barely more than a girl back then, enamoured with songs and…Ori, Ulvhild had been a gifted smith and a truly inspired engineer.

He remembered now how much she’d disliked the idea of crafting weapons, wondering if she’d found a more wholesome, constructive use for her rare talent.

He sincerely hoped so.

“I don’t need help,” he muttered haughtily, an assessment starkly belied by the noticeable tremor in his hands.

“Please, Thorin,” Iora whispered. “Don’t let her grieve for you twice.”

How could he deny the beautiful eyes of a child he’d once rocked to sleep in his arms?

“I shall be your creature once more, little raven,” he sighed. “And I’ll let you fuss and fret as much as you want. But come with me now—it’s not safe here.”

He gave Dwalin a long look, and his best friend and most trusted brother-in-arms nodded gravely as he understood.

They would have to send out armed scouting parties to find and neutralise the ones who’d waylaid Ori.

It had been Thorin who’d given the order, and Ori wasn’t wont to disregard or dismiss direct instructions, so it was evident that this danger lurked much closer to home than was comfortable.

With him and his nephews still getting back to their former strength, the Mountain was vulnerable, and he dreaded the vultures circling his home—especially now that there was a distinct chance to keep Ulvhild and Iora by his side once more.

Even if it was just for a short time.

“The boys would be so happy to see that you’re well, both of you,” Thorin purred, delighted when he saw Ulvhild shiver from the corner of his eye. It comforted him to realise that he hadn’t lost all effect on the proud, self-possessed dam.

“I don’t have to remind you that we haven’t had news from you in a very long time,” he went on, never one to give up before being utterly defeated.

A surge of the old-familiar, nigh-reckless courage that had sustained him throughout the hardships of his youth pulsed through him then, and he reached out to take Ulvhild’s strong hand, cradling it in his palm like the most precious of ores.

“Please,” he whispered against her warm skin before pressing a humble kiss upon it. “Say you’ll take Iora and yourself to safety. The great threat lies dead beneath the waves, and the Mountain is secure once more.”

Ulvhild’s face softened gradually, and Thorin’s heart soared with hope.

“There are dark memories tied to that place,” Ulvhild whispered mournfully. “It’s a place of loss.”

She didn’t dare speak the word “orphan”, but she was afraid to take Iora back—physically and mentally—to the moment when she’d lost everything.

Too long and too indefatigably had Ulvhild laboured in humble determination to make the girl forget that Smaug had robbed her of her parents and the future that had been dreamed and laid out for her—she wouldn’t willingly embrace the risk of driving Iora away again.

“Because it’s where my parents died?” Iora asked soberly. “Or because it’s where you abandoned your youthful innocence by rescuing me?”

Ulvhild twisted without withdrawing her hand from Thorin’s grasp, speechless.

Before she could find an answer, Thorin spoke up in her stead. “It’s where your family lives. Granted, it’s not the one you were born to, but—by Mahal’s grace—it’s the one who’s loved you through mewling cries and skinned knees.”

“Aye,” Óin commented, adjusting his ear trumpet with a vexed sniff.

“I never said I wouldn’t come,” Iora said with a lopsided shrug. “I’ve had a lifetime to come to terms with my status.”

Ulvhild flinched as she heard the dark undercurrent swirling like a destructive maelstrom in Iora’s voice—she understood then that her sister felt much the same as she did.

Iora was painfully aware of the irreversible difference in station between her and the boys she’d grown up with, and—stubbornly dismissive—she pretended that she’d always known them to be out of her reach and that it didn’t faze her in the least.

“It wasn’t your fault, baby,” Ulvhild said gently. “You don’t have to tear yourself to pieces for my sake.”

She didn’t miss the quick side glance Iora gave Ori, sitting on the bed, still half-naked and shivering, like the orphaned boy he’d once been.

Even though he’d filled out nicely and might have been considered a stately dwarf by those who’d never seen the knobby knees and jug ears on the shy pebble of the past, Ulvhild couldn’t help but see the child she’d cherished.

“Did you not tell me that you had fond memories of that place?” Iora asked challengingly. “You’ve never hesitated to sacrifice yourself for my sake, and I’ve licked my wounds in silence and in solitude for far too long. Thorin is not dead, so your reasons for avoiding the place are null and void.”

Of course, she was right, but Ulvhild hesitated still, afraid of finding only memories and no way forward in Erebor.

She was no longer a young dam, carelessly flirting with an equally juvenile prince. She was Iora’s minder and an astute businesswoman now, and she couldn’t lose herself in a silly fantasy of what might have been.

Feeling leaden with fatigue and grief, Ulvhild hung her head indecisively.

“Come have breakfast in my Halls,” Thorin finally pleaded. “Sit with me and tell me all about the life you’ve led since we last spoke!”

A decision had been made, Ori realised, when the whole room burst into bustling activity all of a sudden.

As he had exactly one spare, not-very-clean tunic in his satchel, it was slid over his torso with rough efficiency by Óin while everyone gazed in dismay at the bloodied rags that had once been his breeches.

“We’ll steal the blanket,” Iora declared, a hint of her former mischievousness in her voice.

“If the lad doesn’t want to be paraded around bare-assed, I guess that’s not the worst idea,” Dwalin agreed reluctantly.

At the thought of being manhandled by either the gruff warrior or the impatient healer, Ori flinched.

See? Óin signed at Iora, visibly exasperated.

“Don’t be a squirmy pebble,” the dam of his dreams chuckled and promptly bundled him in the blanket before carefully lifting him into her arms.

Iora was a smidgen older and the shadow of a few inches taller than him, but Ori, nevertheless, found it undignified to be carried around like a babe.

Not that he was sure or even convinced that his injured leg would have carried him, but he preferred not to linger on that dispiriting thought.

In a single file, they left the room.

At the bottom of the stairs, the innkeeper was already waiting for them, eager to pocket some more coin for the prolonged occupation of his room by supernumerary visitors.

“She also made me draw fresh water from the well twice and demanded bone broth that had to be prepared especially for her use,” he reminded the assembly of ill-tempered dwarves sharply, pointing at Iora.

Grumbling and effectively immobilised by her charge, Iora nodded at Ulvhild. “Give him the brown parcel in my coat pocket.”

As soon as the small packet was withdrawn, a strong, spicy smell of rare herbs filled the air, and Ori’s eyes grew round. Such spices couldn’t be found in this region, and they must have been of tremendous value.

“For your care, my good man,” Iora hissed accusingly.

“You’ll be welcome to stop by any time you care to,” he grinned, affable once more. “It was a pleasure, I’m sure.”

“You’re just relieved we take this one off your hands,” Iora muttered grumpily.

Ori might have been vexed by her words if he hadn’t been so distracted by the faint scent of flowers emanating from Iora’s beard; tired and heartsick, he let his head fall against her shoulder and closed his eyes to bask in the illusion of warmth.

She’d kissed him once, he remembered, but she’d never held him like this before.

He’d often dreamed of being in her arms, but he had been too craven to take any steps to that effect, and it shattered his heart to now experience the pale shadow of all he’d once yearned for.

She didn’t mean it, she didn’t care.

He’d waited and hoped to find her again, and now, he had to accept that all his naïve faithfulness to her ghost had been for nought.

Chapter Text

Getting Thorin into her cart was considerably harder than Ulvild had expected, especially as she was reticent to lay a hand on him, given his lofty station and undeniable importance.

“What happened?” she asked under her breath once she’d ascertained that nobody else would be joining them.

“Gnarly battle, almost lost,” he gave back in a tone that made it very clear that he’d rather not revisit these events. “Pulled through. All is well.”

All was not well, Ulvhild knew, but she swallowed those words bravely. Clearly, he was still suffering from the aftermath of what had to have been a serious injury, and—if he’d not grown much wiser and more mature in the intervening years—Thorin was sure to be a particularly uncooperative patient.

“You should use a cane,” she said without turning around on her perch, keeping her eyes stubbornly on the road ahead.

“I have one,” he admitted. “But it’s…I don’t like the way it looks and the impression it might give people.”

Pride and vanity, Ulvhild thought with a shiver of annoyance. How often had those impeded an otherwise perfectly smooth healing process?

“As we’re your captives,” she muttered, “I might be convinced to make you another. Do your forges work?”

“Of course,” Thorin spluttered with so much indignation that Ulvhild had to grin into her beard involuntarily. One would have thought she’d insulted his mother!

“Also,” he added softly. “You’re hardly my prisoners. Is it so wrong of me to want to detain you for a little while after having been robbed of your comforting presence for so long?”

Comforting, Ulvhild thought bitterly. There were a thousand epithets she’d have preferred to so lacklustre a term, but she understood why such a thing could not be.

Thorin, against all odds, had finally been crowned, and so he could no longer go around complimenting random dams as he pleased.

When they drew up to the main gate, Ulvhild scanned the surrounding area in search of a good spot to pitch her tent. “Can you hand me those rods, please?” she asked, extending her hand blindly to Thorin.

“What for? You won’t be camping outside the Mountain when there are perfectly pleasant quarters inside, ready for you.”

“For guests, you mean?” she corrected warily.

“No, for you. Unlike you, I was waiting for confirmation that you’d died before giving up on my fervent hope of welcoming you in my halls someday,” Thorin declared haughtily.

Shaking her head, Ulvhild finally turned around to look at his beaming face. He was just the kind of stubborn, self-confident goat who’d ready rooms for people he didn’t know would ever arrive.

“You’re still impossible!” she groaned.

“And you’re still beautiful, Hild. Now, if it’s not too much to ask, can you help me get off this hellish contraption?”

Aware of how rare an occurrence it was whenever Thorin asked for help, Ulvhild all but launched herself off the cart to assist him.

“Breakfast,” he ordered imperiously. “And your story, please!”

Once he was dumped into a cold, sterile bed without so much as a word of goodbye or encouragement, Ori steeled himself against the inexorable wave of abject sadness about to devastate his poor heart.

“Was that…” Fíli craned his neck, struggling to sit up.

“Oh, it absolutely was,” Ori replied morosely. “You wouldn’t believe the night I’ve had.”

And, after his bedridden friend waved a stiff hand at him to get him to continue, Ori shared what little he’d been able to cobble together.

“You look fine, though,” the prince commented with a touch of bitterness.

“She has some kind of wondrous herb in her keeping,” Ori explained sheepishly. “And, of course, there were songs.”

“And then, of course, you told Iora that you’d been a fool, and that you love her, right?” Fíli, who was chafing considerably at having to live vicariously through other people’s adventurous tales, hummed. “You begged her to forgive you for being a wavering coward and invited her to kiss you again?”

“Evidently not,” Ori groaned. “She made it very clear that whatever affection she might once have held for my sorry person has long since dried up like the morning dew.”

Speaking this devastating discovery out loud made his stomach turn to the point where Ori truly believed he was going to be sick with grief.

“So, nothing has changed,” Fíli mumbled angrily. “You still won’t take a risk. Ah, if only my bones could mend faster—I’d make sure that those wretched creatures that attacked you are dealt with. Also, I’d never let Iora slip away again.”

Frowning at his friend impatiently, Ori leaned back against the horribly cold mattress with a disgusted grunt.

“No doubt, you’ll get your chance one way or another,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “They’ll probably both come to check on you."

As Iora had withdrawn with Master Óin as soon as she’d arrived, Fíli seemed much less convinced than his friend, though. “Do you think she’s still angry at all of us?”

“Who’s angry with whom?” Striding in with the same grace and self-evidence as the rising sun, Kíli nevertheless sat down on the edge of his brother’s sickbed with the utmost care. “Oi Ori, what happened to you?”

“He got attacked and nursed back to health by, hold your breath, our very own Iora,” Fíli filled his younger sibling in, visibly delighting in his newfound knowledge.

“She’s come back?” Less wary and grandiose than his elders, Kíli allowed himself to grin broadly. “Where is she? Oh, I can’t wait to see her and tell her all about the quest, and the dragon, and—“

When he saw Ori’s face, he fell silent with an apologetic shrug. “How are you, friend?”

“Hurt in a thousand tangible and invisible ways,” Ori admitted and closed his eyes in hopes that he’d find a way to fall asleep once more.

Alas, without Iora’s warm, watchful presence, he felt far too wretched and lonely for such a well-deserved reprieve.

Ulvhild followed the king without a word, amazed by the rebuilding efforts that had already been made.

“We’ve not forgotten,” Thorin muttered and pointed at a small tablet that had been nailed to a smooth, flawless pillar.

Etched into the shimmering, iridescent stone was the portrait of a dam, clasping a small bundle to her broad chest. The likeness was uncanny, and Ulvhild instinctively traced the outline of her own face in speechless bewilderment.

“Bofur made this,” she whispered. “He’s always been so good with details.”

In this very spot, what felt like a lifetime ago, she’d dragged a miraculously unharmed baby from beneath the wreckage of broken stone.

Knees buckling, she leaned her forehead against the foot of the new pillar in wordless gratitude.

She’d not thought of that moment in many years, but now it felt as if she’d only have to close her eyes to travel back to the past; she could almost feel Thorin’s hand against the small of her back and hear his rough, urgent voice telling her to run.

It had been a long, meandering trek to the Blue Mountains, and—unmarried and deplorably young—Ulvhild would have despaired if it hadn’t been for her friends’ solidarity and support in keeping the tiny orphan alive.

“She’s ours,” Thorin spoke behind her now. “And she’s late for breakfast.”

“She won’t come,” Ulvhild chuckled. “She can’t let the lad out of her sight.”

“If that’s so, you might want to come to my rooms to have breakfast? Take a look at my odious cane, mayhap.”

Ulvhild knew that there was more he wasn’t saying, but just being back in the garden of her lost innocence made her feel vulnerable and uncertain.

The hard shell she’d built from crushed dreams and tears had started to crack, and she was afraid to let him see the raw, living tissue underneath for fear that he’d get the wrong idea.

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” she said tonelessly as she struggled back to her weary feet and dusted off her clothes absent-mindedly.

“None of this, Hild,” Thorin interrupted her harshly, limping closer to glare at her. The mesmerising colour of his eyes reminded Ulvhild of stormy summer skies and the endless ocean she’d only seen once or twice in her life.

“There are years of misery standing between us already, don’t widen the abyss, please,” he went on in a softer tone and took her arm resolutely. “Do you remember where my chambers used to be?”

Surely, Ulvhild thought, he’d have moved. He was the king, for crying out loud!

“Evidently, I used to sneak in most nights,” Ulvhild laughed, desperately dissimulating her inner turmoil.

They both fell silent then as the realisation of how inappropriate and reckless their juvenile behaviour had been struck them.

Nevertheless, Thorin didn’t relinquish his firm hold on her until the heavy door fell into the lock behind them.

“It’s…much the same,” Ulvhild sighed, breathing in the old-familiar smell of warm leather and steel eagerly.

“You look miserable, girl,” Óin commented a little too loudly for comfort.

“I’ve not spent the most restful night of my life, I admit,” Iora spat and grimaced; there was no good excuse for her to act like an ill-tempered brat to one who’d been nothing but kind and generous towards her.

Alas, the old dwarf knew her well and merely gave her a questioning look.

Then, he ostentatiously put aside the trumpet he used to hear while keeping his gaze, level and calm, on Iora’s twitching face.

We could make you a new one, Iora signed, pointing at the battered old thing.

Unimportant, he replied with an impatient gesture. How are you? What do you need? A bath? A bed?

A way out. Iora shrugged uncomfortably. But I hope that Hild finds what she’s been yearning for.

And you?

The thick, enviably steady finger extended like a lethal arrow made Iora flinch; she’d been on her own for so long that it felt oddly threatening to be observed and minded by others once more.

It’s long gone, she finally answered, drawing her hopelessness into the still, fragrant air between them with vague, sluggish movements.

He’s alive, Óin contradicted in that language that didn’t allow for soft tones and apologetic inflexions. There was only truth in his gestures and unyielding faith in his mien. Can you keep him thus?

Piqued in her honour and ambition, Iora drew herself up despite the overwhelming desire to crumple to the ground in a tight ball of desolation. She had promised her sister that she’d be fine here, so she’d rather be caught dead than be proven a despicable liar.

Wordlessly, Óin nodded at the half-open door that led from his small private room to the chamber in which the sick and injured were housed.

Light? Iora was surprised.

Good for the soul, he replied. At least for those who’ve spent much time outside.

A private ward, then, Iora thought as she padded towards the door as noiselessly as she could to peek out carefully.

“Iora, is that you?”

A moment later, she was swept off her feet by two strong arms being thrown around her midriff.

“Oh, it’s really you,” Kíli exclaimed. “Finally, you’ve come! We already thought we’d grow old and grey before we’d ever see you again.”

“May you grow old and grey with or without me,” Iora gasped instinctively. “May the hammer and the shield of the maker keep you on all your paths.”

Whirling her around giddily, Kíli gave a resounding bellow of overjoyed laughter. “And you, sister,” he cheered. “Welcome home.”

Once he’d set her down again, he bowed low. “As ever, at your service. Come knock some sense into my brother and tell Ori that he should eat his porridge.”

Scoffing, Iora patted his shoulder weakly. “Is this how Durin’s line welcomes esteemed guests? By putting them to work?”

“Guest?” Kíli snorted. “You’re not a guest, you’re…” He cocked his head like a startled bird. “Ours. His.”

Chapter Text

While Óin was giving him the least gentle sponge bath of his life, Ori tried to focus on the conversation taking place on the other side of the thin privacy curtain.

“So, what magical healing ointment did you apply?” Fíli asked, an undeniable note of yearning creeping into his tired voice.

“In the beginning, it was just an old mystery,” Iora replied. “Yavanna, regretting the strife between her and her beloved husband, brought forth a flower that would sustain and heal his children. Each mountain is said to have its own variant.”

“And you just pluck it?” Fíli sounded utterly unconvinced.

“No, of course not. It has to seep in a menstruum for a long while—I don’t know, Fí. There are prayers and chants involved,” Iora answered slowly and reluctantly.

“It being a sort of love potion,” Kíli interjected cheekily. “Do you think that’s why it has worked so well on Ori, because you know—“

Ori wanted to curse the old dwarf who had chosen this exact moment to empty his bucket of grimy water noisily.

For a long while, the only sound in the vast room was the grotesque sloshing and the laboured breathing of the spellbound audience of injured dwarves.

“You should get out of this room more,” Iora finally said, pointedly refusing to verbally comment on their friend’s insolent inquiry.

“My bones are shattered,” Fíli hissed. “Don’t you think I’d love to leave this pit of misery?”

“I shall talk to Hild,” Iora mumbled. “Maybe some kind of wheeled contraption. Anyway…”

When Óin cleared his throat surreptitiously, Ori almost jumped out of his skin. It was clear from the expression on the old dwarf’s face that he knew his patient had been eavesdropping.

“Lass?” the healer called. “Can you please help me hold him down while I wash out the wound again?”

As a chorus of sniggers and encouraging whispers started swelling, the curtain shivered, and then Iora stood by the foot of his bed.

“I’m here,” she declared, keeping her eyes on the crisp, white linen of the scratchy bedsheets.

Ori flinched as the blanket he’d just mentally denigrated was pulled away with a flourish.

“Oh, don’t be like that. We used to go swimming together,” Iora scoffed. “Until you stopped coming, that is.”

Sure that his friends were listening as intently to their conversation as he’d strained his ears before, Ori pressed his lips into a thin line to avoid saying the wrong thing.

Soon, though, his thoughts were dragged away from such sensitive matters, as Óin cut away the bandages and proceeded to clean the deep gouge in his thigh thoroughly.

Thick beads of sweat formed on Ori’s pallid brow as he clenched his jaw to keep from screaming.

“If we want to sew it, we need to clean it,” Óin explained, pity writ plain on his aged features.

“Hold his hand, lass,” he then ordered, and—to Ori’s surprise—Iora complied at once.

And then, there was a deafening, clattering noise.

The spread was impressive, and Ulvhild realised in the moment she lifted a honeyed cake to her numb lips that she was starving.

“Eat, eat,” Thorin encouraged her, sipping a strong-smelling brew and smiling at her with profound pleasure.

“So,” Ulvhild enunciated carefully between two bites. “How is everything coming along?”

She could see that his ostentatiously disinterested shrug caused him pain, but, again, she knew better than to comment on it.

“We’re working hard to rebuild,” Thorin finally said, his voice whistling and thin. “Dís and Dwalin do most of the work these days, as I…”

“Struggle to get around, yes,” Ulvhild supplied without audible pity or emotion.

“Yes,” he said darkly. “I play the harp to keep myself busy, and I check on the boys whenever I can.”

Even though she’d previously prided herself on having known him well enough to anticipate his moods and moves, Ulvhild was taken by surprise when Thorin took her hand once more.

“If you could stay just a little while, it would do us a world of good. My sister deserves your help, especially as Dwalin has to leave for a while.”

Cocking her head, Ulvhild picked up another cake and waited.

“Scouts have to be sent out at once,” he explained firmly. “And I can’t expect Dís to do it all by herself. If only you could lend her your expertise and good taste, and Iora could keep an eye on my nephews, it would be such a relief.”

The cane, the injured, the reconstruction of Erebor, Ulvhild thought, torn between exasperation and old-familiar fondness, Thorin had always been excellent at devising new plans and ambitions.

“If I agree, will you stop tiring yourself out by coming up with yet another task to be fulfilled?” she asked, trying to imbue her voice with more kindness than impatience.

“Mayhap,” Thorin smiled, a wicked gleam in his eyes that now held the placid, bright light of a cloudless summer sky. “Until the next time you try to escape. So tell me, how has your life been? Have you…missed me, I mean us?”

Almost against her will, Ulvhild chuckled.

“Iora ran away, you left,” she recapitulated curtly. “I spent my days waiting for news from either one of you—I worked, I prayed, I despaired. Finally—“

She tried to take a deep, calming breath and failed.

“A travelling merchant told us that you’d perished, along with your nephews.”

Crumbling her cake to dust between her restless fingers, Ulvhild suppressed an anguished sob. “I don’t recall much of the days following that revelation, but—finally—I packed all my belongings into a cart and went out to retrieve my sister.”

At that recollection, a tender smile broke over her face like a pale dawn after a night of violent tempest.

“She’d already been headed my way, and we just took off to wherever the road led us.”

Embarrassed to have unburdened herself so inelegantly, Ulvhild fell silent abruptly.

“Fate,” Thorin mumbled. “I knew it!”

“What now?” Óin exclaimed and gave Iora a short, decisive nod before hastening away to check on his other, much more wayward patient.

For a moment, the young dam just stood there, Ori’s hand in hers as if their disappointing, wordless goodbye had never happened, and they were friends once more.

It was just pity, she told herself as she looked upon the woefully matted hair clinging to his ashen brow; she wouldn’t fall into the same trap again.

“Dori still cuts your hair?” she asked, desperate to hear his voice, which would prove that he’d not inadvertently slipped into a dead faint once more.

“Yes,” he replied softly. “As a matter of fact, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d be ever so grateful if you could…”

He pointed at the slanted slab of stone in the corner, next to which a bucket of cold, clear water stood ready.

Iora shivered; despite her own flippant remark, she was only too aware of how intimate and sacred a ritual hairwashing was for their people, and even if she only poured water over his head, she’d be a part of it.

This was the role of a wife or a sister, and she was neither of these things to him.

Nevertheless, she agreed, because she believed that a comfortable state of mind was vital to a successful recovery.

Averting her eyes as he combed out his braids, she waited for the moment she was needed, much as she’d always done until she’d finally understood that—at least when it came to Ori—that instant of perfect bliss would never come.

As much as she tried not to heed his jerky movements, Iora couldn’t help noticing that he still wore the braids of unbroken purity that most males his age had long since left behind.

“I’m ready,” Ori whispered, closing his eyes and awaiting the imminent cold shower.

It took all of Iora’s self-control not to reach out and brush away the delicate suds, dancing like clouds on the copper horizon of his beautiful hair, and she blinked frantically against the tears of indecent longing and hurt pride gathering in the corner of her eyes.

Handing him a length of rough-spun cloth without a word, she decided to busy herself with preparing the new bandage that would have to be applied once Óin came back from his excursion.

Presentable once more, Ori looked over at her like a forlorn fawn, tomes of unspoken words hovering just beneath the inky surface of his dark eyes.

“I stopped coming because I didn’t want to be perceived by you,” he muttered miserably.

Whirling around, Iora stared at him, hard and unforgiving. Though he’d been an alluring youth, he was gorgeous now.

The contrast between his perfectly rounded stomach and the delicate collarbones, dusted with golden freckles to this day, did strange things to her insides.

His soft features had gained definition, but his shy smile was still the same.

“I’ve always perceived you,” she whispered.

Thorin had known that he was missing something, and he’d been terrified that the madness coursing through his blood would at last take its toll on his weakened mind.

After risking and almost losing everything, he’d expected to wake up triumphant and satisfied, but soon, his days had grown long and wearying and his heart restless.

“Hardly,” Ulvhild laughed. “Given the nature of our occupation, it’s rather understandable that we’d inadvertently follow a path of war and destruction.”

“And yet you didn’t expect it to lead you back here?” Thorin teased, near-intoxicated with the sense of relief flooding his overwrought system at the sight of her impatient glare.

“I knew that there was a risk,” Ulvhild admitted. “I just thought I could resist and turn away before it was too late.”

“You know that I’d never go to a place where you cannot find me,” he said, looking down on their intertwined fingers as if to make sure he wasn’t merely dreaming her presence.

“So you said, yes,” she scoffed, eyeing yet another cake.

“Eat it,” Thorin laughed. “Bombur will be delighted, and I shall claim that I’ve eaten at least half of the treats that have disappeared.”

“You should eat more,” Ulvhild agreed with those who hounded him day and night about the most inconsequential of matters. “How are you to get your strength back if you don’t sustain yourself?”

Suddenly, Thorin was overcome with the humiliating and humbling urge to tell her the truth.

“How can I indulge when Fíli’s still ailing? When the realm is still in shambles?”

“And you withering and fading will help either one of those causes?” Ulvhild asked calmly.

“No,” he sighed. “It’s good to have you back, Hild, it really is. It all feels less hopeless already, now that you’re here to chide me.”

“I wouldn’t dare, Your Majesty,” she said, but—this time—there was laughter in her voice and wicked mirth dancing in her eyes.

“Oh, yes, what a glorious king I make. Slumping in chairs, creeping down hallways, grumbling at anyone who dares come too close,” he chuckled in a rare moment of earnest self-depreciation.

“You’re still healing,” Ulvhild reminded him. “The Mountain is as well. You must give both of you time.”

“Time,” Thorin echoed. “What a luxury it would be to mine time and store it in great, empty vaults. Already, you’re chafing at being detained. So, why don’t you give me time?”

When Ulvhild’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, Thorin knew that he’d struck gold; she’d always enjoyed a bit of debate and verbal sparring, and he knew that he’d beaten her at her own game.

“Very well,” Ulvhild agreed. “We’ll stay as long as it pleases you.”

“Then you’d better choose a gravestone, Hild, for I shall never let you go!”

As soon as the words had left his lips, Thorin’s eyes widened as he understood that he’d let slip a devastatingly raw and inescapably true confession, which had recklessly escaped the depths of his tormented soul.

Chapter Text

“Iora,” Ulvhild said, feeling that the atmosphere had suddenly shifted. She cursed herself for using her sister as a shield and a cheap deflection, but she wasn’t ready to confront the oddly intense gleam in Thorin’s beautiful eyes. “Let me see that cane, too, please.”

As soon as it was handed to her, she turned on her heels to leave the room.

“Hild,” Thorin called after her, baffled by her reaction.

“I’ll be back with designs and ideas very soon—I just need to check on the girl,” Ulvhild stammered hastily and all but ran down the corridor in search of Óin’s domain.

“She’s gone,” Kíli informed her sourly as soon as Ulvhild stumbled into the surprisingly bright, comfortable room. “Ori has managed to make her flee again. What a pleasure to see you, though, Hild. How have you been?”

Unable to withstand, Ulvhild reached out and pulled him into a tight embrace, breathing in his fresh, clean smell greedily.

“I’m all right. Do you know where she went?” she then asked.

“She muttered something about some flower and the face of the mountain; beats me,” Kíli grinned, inherently convinced still that Iora would manage to succeed in whatever hare-brained plan she’d concocted.

“Hild,” Ori greeted from behind a half-drawn curtain. “Are you also angry at me?”

“A little,” Ulvhild confessed earnestly. “What did you do now?”

Miffed, he repeated his conversation with Iora verbatim for her, which made her hum pensively.

“Yes, I guess that’s true,” Ulvhild murmured under her breath. “After all, she’s known you a long time.”

“Yeah, I’m like that crooked chair you used to have in your kitchen,” he replied dejectedly.

“Don’t be silly; you’re nothing like that chair,” Ulvhild interrupted impatiently. “So, you didn’t make peace?”

“I can’t shake the feeling that I ought to apologise, even though it was she who laughed at me.”

“She laughed at you? When?” Ulvhild questioned, dumbfounded by the incongruous affirmation of Iora’s guilt.

“After she kissed me, she laughed as if she’d made a wonderful joke.”

Remembering how vexed her sister had been at Ori’s decreasing presence during their outings, Ulvhild felt her face soften in pity.

“I don’t think that she laughed at you, Ori,” she then said carefully. “Did you stop coming to the river because you didn’t want to be perceived?”

Fiddling with his blanket, he nodded miserably. Then, his head shot up. “Now that I’m better, she mustn’t mess around with my legs no more!” he called desperately. “Please, Hild, you have to stop her.”

“Why?” Eyes narrowing, Ulvhild stiffened.

“We were children no longer; we certainly aren’t pebbles now. And—I can’t have her hands on my skin like that. Something terrible will happen, and she’ll probably geld me right there and then, and—“

Overcome with a myriad of contradictory emotions, Ulvhild broke into hysterical, sobbing laughter, leaning her forehead against the wall beside her for support.

All the misery she’d endured, and this was the reason? Nascent arousal? Nothing more?

Ori stared at Ulvhild in utter confusion.

“Hild, are you laughing or crying? What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded to know, his injured pride crumbling under her mirthless cackling.

“I’m sorry, my boy,” the dam finally wheezed. “But I’m afraid that you’ll have to tell Iora yourself that you don’t want to be touched by her.”

He felt treacherous, angry heat mounting into his cheeks at this wilful misrepresentation of the convoluted facts.

“Oh, you thrice accursed stonehead,” Ulvhild groaned, visibly exasperated. “She liked you, and when you stopped coming completely, it broke her heart. Believe me, my first instinct was to pour a flood of words so scalding and vulgar over your woolly head that your ears would have burned, but this shall do.”

Without further comment, she nodded at the princes, snatched up the cane she’d brought in and took her leave with the icy composure of a queen.

“Well, she’d let you have it,” Kíli hooted, and Ori thought he’d end up positively apoplectic if he didn’t manage to make sense of all the things he’d learned and discovered since setting out from the Mountain for his scouting mission.

“That was Uncle’s cane,” Fíli then commented softly. “Do you think they’ll manage to make him better?”

Turning his back on them, Ori found that he had no inclination to muse about Thorin’s lame leg or aching back at the present moment; his mind was consumed by the memory of Hild’s grotesque laughter upon learning that he’d merely tried to protect his honour and dignity.

A new fear arose in his mind. What if Hild had thought that he’d accused her sister of being a despicable tease? That, of course, had not been his intention, and he’d be devastated if he’d caused offence to one so gentle and generous.

Why could he never find the right words? Why did everything come out wrong?

“We should be on our best behaviour forthwith,” Kíli declared wisely. “I still feel bad about all the romantic moments we’ve ruined.”

In their innocent youth, they’d found Thorin’s clumsy flirting hilarious, and they’d delighted in sabotaging him whenever they could. It had been in good fun, but they hadn’t known that he would only get so many chances before the world turned upside down on them all.

“Do you even know if she still likes him in that way?” Ori asked morosely, biting his lip; he was usually never the person to put another down or discourage someone’s dreams, but his heart was heavy with agony.

“Those things don’t change that easily,” Kíli said, utterly convinced of himself. “Also, he’s the King now. All things considered, he’s not a bad match.”

“We’re all too damaged to deserve that kind of affection,” Fíli interjected darkly.

Even though that had exactly been also his thinking, Ori was disheartened by hearing his intimate misgivings spoken aloud with such steely assurance.

“I’ll prove you wrong,” Kíli exclaimed petulantly. “All of you, and I’ll start with needling Uncle!”

Robbed of his cane and Hild’s soothing presence, Thorin could do little more than sit around and muse.

He was aware that others might have given his present state of mind less flattering descriptions, but—as he was utterly alone—he could indulge in the self-serving illusion that he was merely overtired and resentful of being cooped up in his room.

After a long spell of switching between sitting by the window and staring into the fire moodily, he finally decided to check on his nephews.

No matter what this day would bring, it would be preferable to be close to the hubbub rather than staying locked away in his room.

Surely, Hild would need a guide to the forges, and they were all waiting for news from Dwalin.

Yes, it was his solemn duty to join his people.

For a moment, he wished that Hild and Iora needed introductions, for he’d have loved to supply those to the two charming dams. Alas, he had no doubt that everyone would be fawning over the charming additions to their rather drab settlement.

That thought finally pushed him over the edge and, in a flight of megalomaniac folly, he strode out of his chambers resolutely.

By the time he made it to the Healing Halls, he was half-convinced that Óin would simply keep him there, for his hands were shaking, and his tunic clung uncomfortably to his aching back.

“Ah, there he is now,” Kíli chirped as if he’d expected his uncle to arrive. “If you’re looking for your lady-guests, I’m sorry to say that both took a swing at Ori and vanished.”

Thorin gave him a severe look. “My what now?” he echoed in a cool, forbidding tone. “You’re not to harass them in any way. Or upset them. Or be otherwise disagreeable.”

Eyebrows quirking with suppressed laughter, Kíli met his stern stare with undaunted cheer.

“Do you say that because we’ve ruined your chances with Hild in the past by being our charming, mischievous selves?” he purred provocatively.

“No,” Thorin barked, rubbing his tired, burning eyes slowly. “I’m not sure there ever was much of a chance.”

Pushed to the brink of exhaustion, he sank into a comfortable armchair in which Óin had fallen asleep countless times while minding his charges.

“Why didn’t you try to win her?” Fíli asked curiously, certain that—if he’d ever have the chance to woo a beautiful dam—he wouldn’t hesitate.

“I…had you lot to mind; she had little Iora clinging to her apron strings. One doesn’t court strong, independent, wicked smart ladies with promises,” Thorin sighed, wondering whether it was wise to share such thoughts with his nephews at this time.

“So you waited for a moment that never came?” Kíli sounded amazed by the ludicrous statement.

“It did come—it’s now,” Thorin expostulated. “Alas, she seems to take offence to the throne, the crown, and everything else I once dreamed of laying down at her feet.”

“Seize the moment anyway,” Kíli grinned.

After clambering along narrow ledges and across hidden platforms, Iora sat down on what felt like the edge of the world, buried her head in her hands, and gave a frustrated groan.

“Don’t perceive me,” she grumbled in a mocking singsong voice. “Blushing ninny! If you don’t want to be looked at, you should take more decisive steps to disguise or mar your beauty. As if that silly haircut would dissuade any hot-blooded Khuzd. I swear!”

The hardy, blueish blossoms in her lap didn’t react to her passionate outburst, though, and Iora soon felt foolish screaming at herself.

Gingerly gathering the precious supplies she’d secured, she took a deep breath and smoothed her dirty, crumpled clothes as well as she could.

No doubt, Óin would let her use his laboratory, which meant that she’d gained another few hours of peace in which she didn’t have to think of Ori’s firm, milky thighs or avoid her sister’s all-seeing gaze.

The thought soothed her sufficiently to attempt the descent, and—by the time she strode back into the realm of ointments and tinctures—she was in perfect control of herself again.

“Lady Meliora,” Thorin greeted her, visibly startled by her appearance.

“Your Majesty,” she replied and bowed while crabwalking towards the small side door. “I wish you a pleasant day—I have work to do.”

“Will you sing to your herbs?” Kíli jeered.

“I…will try, yes,” Iora coughed. She’d almost forgotten how well the princes remembered everything they were told, and it warmed her heart that they took a genuine interest in her occupations.

“Kid, would you prefer to be housed closer to this rotten room?” Thorin asked gently.

“Oh yes, if possible,” she at once agreed. “But please, feel free to put Ulvhild into the most lavish, luxurious chamber you have. She deserves a bit of pampering.”

“She’d dislike being parted from you,” Thorin commented.

“Then you’d better keep her too busy to notice,” Iora shot back and walked away before she could be cross-examined by yet another unduly nosy semi-parental figure.

Singing melting love songs, imbued with anger and heartbreak, to the concoction of distilled spirit and flowers, she lost herself in her labours until Óin called for her.

“Your opinion, lass,” the old dwarf muttered. “Do you think we can close the wound?”

Iora swallowed heavily as her eyes fell on Ori’s thin, translucent tunic and bare legs.

He was sitting, propped up by pillows, in his bed like a ghost, stubbornly avoiding her eminently objective gaze.

“Let me see,” Iora muttered, pulling up a chair and sitting down beside him to squeeze his leg.

When he flinched, she apologised perfunctorily, trying desperately to focus on nought but the healthy flesh and clean blood beneath her fingers.

“We can try, yes,” she finally gave her verdict.

“Do you want to sew or hold him down?” Óin asked innocently.

Iora’s breath stuttered. “Can’t we medicate him?” she asked feebly.

“He’s refused,” the healer shrugged. “So, he’ll have to endure it.”

Chapter Text

“Ey! It’s the King himself,” Bombur exclaimed, wiping his thick, pudgy fingers on a hand-dyed towel a few times. “What brings you down to the kitchens?”

“Ulvhild has enjoyed your breakfast,” Thorin started, entirely out of context. “And I’ve been on my feet too much today, so I wanted to ask if it would be possible to have a heartening dinner tonight.”

“I would have believed that you get such a meal thrice a day, no?” Bombur asked, puffing up to a truly alarming size.

“I need something special,” Thorin insisted stubbornly. “But it shouldn’t seem like we made an extraordinary effort.”

“It shouldn’t be alive but still flap its wings?” Bombur went from vexed to thoroughly bewildered in a single instant. “What is happening here?”

“I want them to feel at home,” Thorin tried to explain. “Also, it has to be portable and easy to eat, because I foresee that we’ll take dinner in the Healing Halls.”

“Why?” Bombur heaved his massive weight onto a creaking stool and braced his elbows on his knees, settling in for a long, convoluted diatribe.

“Because Ulvhild will want to dine with Iora, and Iora seems tethered to the wretched place, and I haven’t seen my nephews in such good spirits in a long time…”

“Meat pies,” Bombur declared with finality, slapping his thighs enthusiastically. “They always loved those.”

“Perfect,” Thorin replied, fighting the urge to press a resounding kiss onto the other’s rotund cheek.

“I’ll send them up,” Bombur said cheerily. “You’d better change into something less cumbersome for your intimate, thoroughly improvised, not-at-all-planned dinner!”

And, because the merry cook was right, Thorin braved the seemingly endless stairs once more.

He was just in the process of deciding between two tunics when Dwalin burst into the room, smelling as if he’d rolled through offal repeatedly, to inform his king of the latest developments.

“We got a few,” the grimy hunter declared grimly. “Alas, a couple escaped down a narrow forest path, and we thought it wiser to turn back. We’ll find them, in time, but—“

Torn between guilty elation and blood-chilling dread, Thorin nodded. “Nobody is to leave unescorted.”

It was now Dwalin’s turn to nod sombrely. “We also came across a small caravan of itinerant merchants.”

“You brought them here?” Thorin asked, finally settling on a deep, dark blue garment.

“Evidently,” Dwalin chuckled. “With your permission, my liege, I’ll retire now.”

Half-stuck in his tunic, Thorin gave a displeased grumble. “Is my kingship a jest to all of you? All day, I had to suffer through mocking addresses and feigned curtsies.”

“Well, I won’t overtax my knees for you, old friend,” Dwalin guffawed and ambled away, whistling to himself.

Thanks to this interruption, which didn’t exactly put Thorin’s mind at ease, he was now late for his own surprise dinner party.

Giving his breeches considerably less thought than his chemise, he cursed the absence of his cane once more and set out, schooling his features into a mien of serenity.

Ulvhild wiped the sweat off her brow and sighed; she had an idea for Thorin’s cane, but the execution of such an idea would demand that she take a mould of his very hand.

The mere thought made her shiver with apprehension and anticipation.

His words still rang loud and true through her head, and she pressed her coal-smeared hand against her chest as if that could keep her heart from racing stupidly.

Letting her forehead fall to the surface of a desk littered with sketches and designs, she had to face the humiliating truth that her sister wasn’t the only one who’d once suffered from a laughable, doomed infatuation that she hadn’t quite shaken off.

As her eyes drifted closed, Ulvhild allowed herself a moment of guilty indulgence to review the last few hours and the man who’d burst back into her life like a firestorm.

He looked older than she remembered him, she admitted with a shiver of inappropriate delight. Sturdier, matured, and wiser, Thorin wore the wounds of his past with the same quiet dignity with which he’d once carried his glorious potential.

From the filaments of silver in the night sky of his flowing mane to the lines on his face, onto which life had written invisible words of love and endurance, he was still the most handsome dwarf she’d ever beheld, and all the childish feelings of helpless yearning stirred within her chest like venomous snakes.

Hankering after Thorin had always been hopeless, and she’d hoped that she’d grown past such girlish dreams of strong arms and flashing eyes.

Even in her youth, before her beauty had begun to wane as summer melted into autumn, Hild had been aware that a dwarf such as he could and should choose only the most gorgeous, erudite, and refined of ladies.

Ulvhild was convinced that she didn’t qualify as one of these most elusive of quarries, and she’d made peace with her lot in life a long time ago.

Groaning, she pushed herself upright, trying to stifle the mean, unfair part of her soul that sought to blame Thorin for the return of her most shameful foible.

Instead, Ulvhild resolutely turned her mind to her duties and tasks at hand; she had to find Iora and arrange for them to eat and sleep.

Congratulating herself for being so reasonable, she allowed herself the vain indulgence of combing her hair and donning a more flattering outfit.

Such measures were not taken for the consideration or approval of the dangerously alluring king who was hosting them, she told herself firmly.

On the contrary, she only thought of her own comfort and confidence, for—in times of turmoil and trouble—it was vital for her to feel good in her skin in order to do good for others.

Heartened by the grim determination she glimpsed in the small looking glass, Ulvhild set out to pry Iora away from her obsessive labours by any means necessary.

Just ahead of her, Thorin appeared.

Sweat beading on his brow, Ori tried to look neither at the long, gleaming needle in Óin’s hand nor at Iora’s shifting gaze as she explained that she didn’t feel comfortable performing such a procedure.

“Ah, you should have minded your needlecraft better, girl,” Óin chided kindly.

“I’m not a healer,” Iora insisted. “I just like concocting potentially unsafe brews.”

Humming derisively, Óin motioned vaguely at Ori. “You grab his leg then,” he commanded. “Hold it down firmly—they always inevitably wince sooner or later.”

Ori wanted to stop her, but there was no air left in his lungs. He’d been given a thin but clean tunic, which now stuck disgustingly to his clammy skin, but Óin had assured him that there was no need for pants while they kept monitoring his wound.

That notable absence of a vital garment made him feel increasingly vulnerable and helpless, especially when Iora moved to the opposite side of the bed to lean over his hale leg.

She’d changed into a sober, grey shift, and her hair had been braided back in the Elvish style, which allowed him to observe every minute movement and reaction on her soft-featured face.

Placing her clean hands, smelling faintly of something sharp and pungent, on either side of the injury, Iora gritted her teeth audibly.

“Lean into it, lass,” Óin chuckled. “He’s stronger than he looks.”

Again, Ori wanted to scream as he felt her bosom press against the knee of his uninjured leg.

Despite his mulish mutism, a small groan escaped him.

“Brace yourself,” Iora said without looking up from her task. “This might sting.”

In truth, Ori cared little about the needle being pushed through his skin. How could he focus on such a minor discomfort when Iora’s fingers left burning marks on his flesh where they were applied with gentle firmness to keep him from undoing their work by flinching?

As Óin progressed with suturing the gaping wound shut, Iora let her hands slide upwards until the edge of her palm slipped into the sensitive hollow where Ori’s leg melted into his hip.

If she twisted her wrist, he thought miserably, the back of her hand would brush against the regrettably lacklustre undergarment, which was his only shield in this battle of mental fortitude.

Unfortunately, this line of thought did nothing to assuage his anxiety. On the contrary, he bunched up the thick blanket in his lap, preferring that Iora thought him to be overly sensitive to pain rather than have her notice how much her proximity and touch affected him.

And then, just as he thought that he’d reached the height of agonising humiliation and dread, Iora’s thumb swept soothingly along the inside of his thigh, and he bit back another undignified groan.

He wasn’t sure she was even aware of her instinctive attempt at soothing his evident discomfort, but Ori was sure that he’d never been more focused on a sensation in his whole life.

“All right, I’m done,” Óin exclaimed mercifully.

“I’ll leave you to do the bandaging,” the old dwarf grinned. “He stays still for you.”

“Yeah, that’s his strong suit,” Iora muttered darkly.

She wasn’t sure whether she’d imagined it, but—when she finally took her hands off Ori’s pristine skin—she thought she heard him sigh in disappointment.

Before she could worry about that overmuch, they heard the door open, and—a moment later—Thorin’s voice resounded, declaring that he’d decided to have dinner here.

“Oh, what in Mahal’s name…” Óin grumbled and merely nodded at their patient once more with pointed emphasis.

For a long moment, Iora wondered how to proceed. Then, she simply climbed onto the bed and lifted Ori’s ankle into her lap to create enough space to move the bandage to and fro without having to jostle him continually.

Probably petrified by her lack of decorum, Ori didn’t react. Not even when the blanket he’d been squeezing spasmodically slid to the floor did he move a single muscle, and Iora was grateful for that.

Indeed, she was desperate not to be distracted from the series of relatively simple tasks she had to perform in order. Drench a clean cloth in healing salve. Apply the poultice onto the sutures. Keep everything in place with a bandage.

Alas, she could feel that gaze she’d once sought so shamelessly burn into the crown of her head as she sat bent over his leg, and it made her head spin and her insides turn to water.

“There, how does that feel?” she said when she’d finally managed to get her trembling fingers to comply.

When she looked up, she discovered that Ori had turned the colour of raw beets and was staring at her in abject horror.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, alarmed, and then her eyes dropped to the oddly distended fabric of his worn undergarments.

“Oh, that’s an unusual reaction. Perhaps, I should call Óin,” she exclaimed fervently, feeling cold panic rise like a storm of icy thorns in her throat. She’d told them that she wasn’t a healer—she had no idea what to do.

What if he’d had an adverse reaction to her liniments?

“It’s not the leg,” Ori squeaked, his eyes begging her to lower her voice. “It’s you.”

“I did this to you? How?” Bristling with hurt pride and compounded sorrow, Iora glared at him. “If you had any inkling that something was amiss, you should have said so.”

“Meliora,” he groaned. “Nothing is wrong per se.”

He lifted his hands to his face and sighed.

“You’re familiar with this predicament?” Iora asked carefully.

“Oh yes,” he laughed mirthlessly. “It’s cost me so many things: outings at the river, hugs, and ultimately, your friendship.”

“Do you want me to take a look?” she asked, licking her lips. She felt that she was on the verge of discovering some ancient, hallowed knowledge that had hitherto merely grazed her consciousness, and she wanted to understand.

“Would I…Oh, Iora,” Ori whimpered. “You have no idea.”

Chapter Text

“You’re here to check on Iora, right?” Thorin asked as he eyed the heavy door warily.

“Yes,” Ulvhild replied calmly, pushing it open and waiting for him to pass through first. She wanted to ask what he was doing here, but she caught herself.

Of course, he was the king, and he could go wherever he wanted, whenever he pleased.

A more worrying thought came to her then: what if he’d hoped to discreetly consult Óin on the subject of his own lingering pain?

“I thought so,” Thorin said woodenly. “I’ve taken the liberty of having dinner brought to us here; the boys could do with a bit of cheer.”

Having seen the princes only a short time prior and being convinced that they were in as good a mood as they could have been, given the circumstances, Ulvhild frowned suspiciously.

“So, how about my cane then?” Thorin asked, making her flinch guiltily.

Had she not herself encouraged him to make use of such an implement? And then she’d deprived him of its use for most of the day.

“I have a few thoughts. After dinner, you might want to come to my rooms so I can show them to you. I’ll, of course, also return the current one to your care. I’m sorry, I was a bit distracted.”

“I dare not ask what worries assail you,” he replied with a warm smile and turned when the master of these halls came charging at them like an enraged mountain goat.

“What is the meaning of this? You couldn’t get away from this place fast enough, I seem to recall, and now you’re slinking around incessantly.”

Biting back a grin, Ulvhild watched the eminent descendant of Durin’s illustrious line stammer through his explanation with more stubborn bravado than actual eloquence.

“Dinner, huh?” Óin squinted at them in much the same way he had upon catching them making mischief in the dead of night, in another life. “Well, I’ll retire. I’ve had quite enough of your shenanigans for today.”

“Did I hear something about dinner?” Kíli came shooting around the corner, his face alight with unguarded eagerness. “In a moment,” he then added in a conspiratorial whisper. “They’ve just sewn Ori’s leg up, and I’ve yet to hear him getting dressed again.”

A cold shiver ran down Ulvhild’s spine. She desperately hoped that the lad’s dispirited prediction had not come true.

“Iora!” she called, striding into the room hastily. “Iora, please tell me you’re not doing atrocious violence to Ori.”

“I’m not,” came the distressingly meek answer. “He’s in a state of confusion, I fear.”

“I’m not confused,” Ori’s voice resounded, vacillating between exasperated amusement and profound dejection.

Then he cried out in surprise.

“You’re not to put any weight on the leg,” Iora chided him firmly.

“Things seem to be going well between them,” Thorin whispered into Ulvhild’s ear. “Maybe the forges of Erebor shan’t be the only thing being rekindled.”

“Too little, too late,” Ulvhild said morosely, shaking her head.

The mere thought of food made Ori’s stomach turn after the mortifying incident he’d just caused, but Thorin had ordered enough of it to feed half an army.

“Still not inclined to eat a vegetable?” Ulvhild asked disapprovingly as he brought another meat pie to his lips.

“They taste like water and grass,” he complained, feeling chastised by the way Iora rolled her eyes.

It was said that she’d spent time with the Elves, learning their ancient lore, and living amongst them, so it made sense that she’d have adopted some of their other habits as well.

Even though he had no right to feel that way, Ori was inexplicably dismayed by the mental image of her, sitting by a beautifully carved fireplace with those long-limbed, well-spoken strangers.

It took a moment for him to fully accept that it was an insidious mix of envy and jealousy that turned the delicious morsel to ash on his leaden tongue.

The inescapable fact that he’d lost her and the idea that others had exploited that devastating circumstance filled him with impotent ire and abject misery.

“Iora could give Bombur a few spices that would make you eat your words,” Ulvhild scoffed benevolently.

“Of course, she could. There’s not a thing in the world she couldn’t make better,” Ori sighed under his breath.

When all eyes turned to him in speechless astonishment, he felt himself blush once more.

“Not even the dragon?” Kíli teased. “Then again, you did speak of her often during the quest. Seems like her memory alone was a comfort to you, huh?”

“Oh, Iora also still has that portrait of yours,” Ulvhild commented off-handedly. “It’s one of the few things that have made it through her flight unscathed.”

“Hild!” Iora cried, outraged.

“Portrait?” Ori echoed and then groaned. A travelling artist had come to the Blue Mountains once, and Iora had sacrificed the coin she’d hidden under her mattress to have him sit for a small painting.

He’d been sure that she’d thrown that one into the fire a long time ago.

Just to please her, he picked up one of the clearly marked vegetable pies next and shoved it into his mouth resolutely without recoiling.

The ghost of a smile flitted across Iora’s face before vanishing again when Ulvhild hailed her carefully.

“Do you think you can give me a hand in the forge?” the dam asked mildly. “There’s much to be done if you don’t plan on carrying Ori around like a pebble until he’s healed.”

Now, that idea was cruelly alluring and yet terrifying, Ori thought, as he remembered Iora’s strong arms cradling his weakened body.

“Would you be so good as to measure for me?” Ulvhild went on, her tone betraying that she was aware of how potentially contentious her demand was.

The absurd fantasies that had been haunting Ori for endless hours shifted yet again, melting into a vision of Iora holding a length of knotted rope to his naked body.

He shivered involuntarily.

Thorin flinched at the mention of “measures” being taken.

“You can do the king yourself, though,” Iora muttered petulantly, giving Thorin an almost apologetic smile. “You know best what you have in mind for him.”

Was he mistaken, or had there been the hint of suggestive wickedness in Iora’s tone?

“I shall,” Ulvhild replied sharply.

Remembering the apparently innocent invitation she’d extended outside the door, Thorin tensed even further as he realised that he might well find himself stripped of the protective layers he’d assembled so carefully before the night was out.

He couldn’t even try to deny the thrill it gave him to consider that Hild would lay her beautiful hands upon his marred flesh to soothe and assess it.

Oh, how he dreaded to be found wanting by one who’d once liked him so well.

“If the king allows, of course,” she added hastily, which jostled Thorin out of his quickly escalating thoughts.

“Evidently,” he answered quickly. “I’d be honoured to be the humble recipient of your craft.”

That was a lie. In all his dreams about finding Ulvhild again in the turbulent stream of life, he’d been strong and healthy, sweeping her off her firmly planted feet and whisking her away in a whirlwind…what? Romance? Adventure?

With a sinking feeling in his heart, Thorin found that he was no longer sure what he could even offer her.

Ulvhild gave him a doubtful look. “Given the nature of my creations, I don’t quite believe that,” she said confidently. “But it doesn’t matter; help is freely given, as you well know.”

Even though she’d spoken in an amicable tone, Thorin heard the undercurrent of a deeper meaning she wouldn’t bring up in front of the others.

Help, as she said, was freely given. Everything else had to be earned.

Looking down at his knees, disgusted with the lingering twinges of pain in his legs, Thorin was assailed by another visceral wave of self-doubt.

Once upon a time, he’d thought he knew what Ulvhild sought and appreciated in a man, but many things had changed since then, and she’d not given him the impression that she was particularly pleased with his advancement in life thus far.

“I’ll be happy to accept,” Thorin said, nevertheless. At the very least, this project she seemed willing to take on would keep her around for a little while longer.

After so many years of fighting his way back to his home and his throne, it was finally time to dust off his skills as a proper diplomat, he decided.

If he’d managed to establish a fragile peace with the accursed Elves and the mercenary Men crouching at his borders, he would be damned if he let the secrets of Ulvhild’s heart stump him.

No, he’d ascertain what it was she yearned for, and he’d do everything within his power to provide it to her, and then, she’d inevitably change her mind about leaving him again.

Suddenly unbearably hungry, he reached for a meat pie.

Iora pretended to eat, moving as through a hazy dreamscape to help clean away dirty cutlery and empty dishes.

Once or twice, she was afraid that Ulvhild would call her out on her distracted demeanour, but her sister evidently had her own preoccupations to manage.

Thus, Iora complimented Ulvhild and Thorin out of the Healing Halls with a little more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary or appropriate, hastening out after them to inform Óin that she’d take the nightshift.

“There’s no such thing,” the old dwarf signed, eyebrows cocked in quiet curiosity. “They won’t die; they’re not in any danger. Why don’t you rest?”

Grimacing, Iora bid him goodnight, leaving yet another person to wonder about her motivations and sanity.

Focus, she told herself as she approached Fíli’s bed to discuss the matter of a wheeled contraption to get him into the fresh outside air from time to time.

“What good would that do?” the prince sighed. “Everyone has better things to do than to push me around.”

“He doesn’t,” Iora whispered, nodding at Kíli who—having retained a gift that was usually only bestowed upon children and puppies—had fallen asleep with his head propped up on his arms on the edge of Fíli’s bed. “I don’t.”

She’d expected him to demur again, but he merely gave her a warm look full of understanding and affection. “You truly are Hild’s,” he smiled. “Will you strap Ori to your chest so you can take all of us for an outing on the ramparts?”

Bristling, Iora gave him a murderous look.

“He’s not asleep, you know?” Fíli mouthed soundlessly. “He’s sitting behind that dumb curtain, wishing and hoping you’ll come back to kiss him goodnight.”

And, because her heart ached at that thought, Iora spun on her heels and marched out of the room without another word.

Stubborn goats! She’d talk to Hild about her plan! Why had she even tried to get anything useful out of them?

Iora undressed, eyeing Ori’s portrait, which she’d propped up against a stack of tunics, warily, and then threw herself onto her bed.

Sleep evaded her. Every fibre of her being was questing the darkness for echoes of wails or calls for help.

After another long spell of stubborn stillness, Iora got up again and padded back to the room she’d left so tempestuously.

“I knew it,” Fíli grinned in the chiaroscuro of his temporary prison. “Why don’t you sing us a lullaby? Sit in Óin’s chair and be at peace, girl!”

Splaying her fingers against the cool stone, Iora lifted her voice in mournful song, but all the Mountain threw back at her were the rippling memories of the faces of those she’d loved and lost.

“Yes, to the chair,” Fíli finally said when she’d run out of breath and songs to sing. “Yes, to the hope of setting things right. You know, it was partially our fault that it all went to hell.”

“What are you talking about?” Iora hissed, sitting up.

Chapter Text

“Sit down,” Ulvhild commanded as she led the way into the room she’d been given.

She’d purposefully tried not to think about the fact that her chambers were suspiciously close to Thorin’s own quarters, and what that meant for her.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked, helping himself to a goblet of wine with as much natural ease as if he’d been sitting by his own fire. “And what do you need from me?”

“The one you have has the wrong height,” Ulvhild declared. “I need you to stand up straight for me.”

From the corner of her eyes, she saw him wince.

“Not right away,” she added soothingly and went to stoke the fire to warm his weary bones. “We can take the cast of your hand now.”

Cocking one eyebrow, Thorin extended his thus-demanded hand to her automatically, and—just as instinctively—Ulvhild took it and pressed a small kiss onto his knuckles.

“You can have my hand,” Thorin purred. “For whatever mysterious purpose pleases you and for as long as you want it.”

Forever, Ulvhild thought, fatigue having stripped her soul bare, layer by layer.

As his palm settled heavily against her skin, Ulvhild sensed the strength of those fingers that had wielded hammers and swords as easily as they had irreversibly changed the hearts and souls around him.

What would it feel like to see those thick fingers dance across her bare skin, the flash of his precious rings offset beautifully by the living velvet of her writhing body?

“Hild?”

Shaking her head violently, Ulvhild came back to the desolate reality.

“Where did you go? You were worlds away,” Thorin chided gently, seeking her eyes, which made her feel like a villain for evading those beams of unadulterated curiosity.

“Thinking about how best to proceed,” she lied and tore her hand away.

Thorin’s arm slipped onto unyielding wood with a muted thud, but he didn’t express either pain or discomfort.

Ulvhild was grateful for the mind-numbing process of preparing the malleable clay-like substance she used for such projects; she remembered the general dimensions of Thorin’s hands, so that mortifying scene just now had been patently unnecessary.

“Would it be too on the nose to use oak?” she asked without turning around.

“Oh, Thorin Oakencane, that’s hilarious, Hild,” he groaned.

Before she could dismiss her idea, though, he’d relented. “As you wish, of course. I guess it would be somewhat poetic.”

Finally, she could put it off no longer. She turned around and drank in his imposing form by the fire eagerly.

From the gorgeous cascade of dark locks to his broad shoulders and masterful demeanour, Thorin was still every bit the warrior and fairy tale prince she’d known in her youth, and she vowed to honour every part of him in her design.

“Stretch out your hand again, please,” she said as she knelt by his side, deftly moulding the damp material into an oblong loaf. “Now, grab onto this, please. Firmly. Squeeze harder!”

As his fingers twitched involuntarily, Thorin had to fight the urge to close his eyes in undue reverie.

Even though he knew perfectly well that Ulvhild was sacrificing her precious, much-needed sleep to help him—or rather because of that gnawing awareness—he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering to a thousand past moments that had inspired the same tremulous excitement in him.

It was undeniable that Hild was kneeling by his side, looking up at him through her dense, golden lashes, while he was told to squeeze a smooth, warm lump she held up to him.

Was it any wonder then that other images, involving bewitchingly malleable things pressing up against his palm eagerly, sprang to his befuddled mind?

“That will do,” she said suddenly, retreating as she always did at the last moment, and Thorin’s stomach flipped uncomfortably.

He watched her as she inspected her work before setting it down by the fire carefully.

Half-expecting to be complimented out, Thorin braced for the undignified challenge of getting out of the comfortable chair once more.

To his surprise, Ulvhild went on staring into the fire, once more lost in thought.

What he wouldn’t have given to read her mind and find out what fascinating musings kept her so enthralled.

“Will you not look at me, Hild?” he finally prompted, growing increasingly impatient and uncomfortable with staring at her back, no matter how strong and straight it was.

Outlined by the roaring fire, her beauty struck him speechless once more. The years had softened her strong, resolute features and dimmed her flaming hair into gleaming embers, but he still saw the girl he’d adored when looking upon that competent, world-weary lady.

“Forgive me,” she said with a smile so sweet that all his displeasure was promptly wiped away. “I must be more tired than I thought, but I…” She bit her lip.

“Please, don’t hold back. If there’s anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable and at home in Erebor, all you have to do is say the word,” Thorin exclaimed eagerly.

“I find it hard to sleep in new places,” Ulvhild admitted, a veil of rosy heat rising into her cheeks.

Of course, Thorin thought, he should have remembered. Ulvhild had kept watch so many nights, not only because she had a tendency to worry overmuch, but also because she couldn’t fall asleep in unfamiliar surroundings for a while.

“Do you want me to stay with you? I seem to recall that my rants about my family always made you quite drowsy,” he said, trying to imbue his voice with humour so she wouldn’t notice how much he wanted her to agree.

“I like your family,” she protested. “You just have a very soothing voice—don’t make it sound as if I found your accounts boring!”

“Ah, in that case, I’m happy to assure you that my voice has suffered no damage,” Thorin said with barely contained fervour. “Unlike the rest of me,” he added inaudibly.

This was absurd, Iora thought as she stared one of her oldest friends down mercilessly. Why did she still yearn to find redemption for Ori?

She’d been right to leave; she’d had no other choice.

Seeing him was torture, being in his presence a calvary, because she’d loved him and, in her heart of hearts, she knew that a part of her always would.

Despite the hurt he’d inflicted upon her, he was sweet, gentle, and smart, and she couldn’t help wanting to talk to him, help him, even just be close to him.

Yes, she’d had to leave, because how else could she have torn herself from the tiny blessings—a smile, a compliment, a long gaze—he used to keep her tethered to his indifference?

“We shouldn’t have laughed when you kissed him,” Fíli sighed. “We shouldn’t have needled him about it. We should have, instead, made sure that he was all right. We allowed him to withdraw.”

He shook his head in self-loathing.

“We were all young then,” Iora croaked. “And I’m not sure I’d have preferred being rebuffed explicitly.”

She’d often wondered whether it would have been better if Ori had told her outright that his affection wasn’t of that nature, but she’d ultimately concluded that it was too easy to find solace in an imaginary confrontation, years after the fact.

Fíli blinked slowly. “I’m not sure that’s what would have happened.”

Throwing out her hand as if to ward off a faceless, formless threat, Iora gave a strangled cry. “Do not!” she whimpered. “No more comforting lies, please.”

“But—”

“He knew, Fí, he did. He had weeks and months and years to reciprocate. Let’s not harp on that one moment of sweet self-indulgence on my behalf; it was but the last grain of dust that tore asunder a mountain of illusions,” she finally spoke aloud what had festered in her heart and soul for so long.

“Did he, though?” Fíli asked carefully.

“You knew, Kí knew, Hild knew, by Mahal’s beard, Balin knew,” she groaned. “There wasn’t a dwarf in the whole settlement who wasn’t secretly mocking me.”

“Oh no, there was one,” Kíli piped up, rubbing his eyes sleepily. “I swear on my mother’s beard that he was far too caught up in his own dreams to ever see what was right in front of him.”

An incongruously serious expression settled on his handsome face then. “He, we never expected you to leave. The key came to Thorin by chance and surprise. We really thought we’d have more time.”

“All the time in the world won’t change the facts,” Iora spat, feeling the echoes of that innocent, hopeful love she’d buried under resentment and grief stir within her chest. “Destiny will always find you, and whatever happened in the Blue Mountains was but a parenthesis in our lives.”

“Fate brought you back,” Fíli contradicted firmly. “It was but the start of a story you tried to cut short. Rewrite the ending, Iora, please!”

Fíli was, of course, perfectly right, and Ori was wide awake.

At first, he was perfectly content with eavesdropping, even though he resented this stark reminder of his own weakness.

Always in the background, listening in on other people’s conversations, never brave enough to speak up and put his best foot forward.

That was, until the tense exchange turned to the subject of his own person and his many despicable failings.

In a fit of irrational annoyance, he leaned out of his bed recklessly to pull back the flimsy partition that kept the speakers hidden from his flashing gaze.

“I’m right here, you know? If either one of you has anything to say to me, you can do so to my face,” Ori said, but, unfortunately, he couldn’t conjure up the necessary anger to give his words the appropriate weight and impact.

“How’s your leg?” Iora asked to distract from the violent tremor that had gone through her whole body.

“Will you only ever talk to me about the accursed wound?” he sniffed and threw back the blanket violently. “It’s fine.”

“May I check?” Iora asked, already moving around the bed slowly.

She’d changed, Ori noticed with a guilty shiver. The surprisingly archaic, long nightdress was uncharacteristically romantic, and it made her look like a tragic heroine.

This time, he braced before her warm hands alighted on his skin.

“It twinges a bit when I shift, but I truly believe that it’s all right,” he offered as her fingers were pressed against the skin at the edge of the bandage to check for undue heat or suspicious discolouration. “I’ve not moved a muscle as per your orders.”

“Oh? The curtain flew open of its own volition?” Iora scoffed before pressing her lips to his forehead without warning.

“No fever,” she declared softly. “I’m glad. You’ll be as good as new in no time.”

She was so beautiful in the dim light of the fireplace in the far corner of the room that Ori yearned to reach out and beg her to check him again, certain that his core temperature had just shot up.

Alas, he couldn’t allow himself to grow used to this—she’d be torn from him one way or another, and he wasn’t sure how to deal with that loss.

“Iora, did you ever think of us in exile?” Kíli asked softly, hanging off his brother’s bed now and giving her that melting gaze few could resist. “Or were you happy to be rid of the pesky kids you’ve seen grow up?”

Another question Ori had been too craven to ever put to her was out in the open, and he dreaded her dismissive reply.

“All the time,” Iora sighed.

“Is that why you aren’t wed?”

“You know why I never accepted another’s hand, Kí,” she hissed, and Ori desperately wanted to be in on that secret knowledge.

And then, he heard himself speak the awful, devastating secret he’d kept under lock and key for so many years.

Chapter Text

“You’re not like me,” Ori whispered. “Your parents’ names are on record, and Thorin can and shall restore you and Hild to your previous station—whatever you’ve lost when Erebor fell can be returned to you.”

Her face froze, and then a single tear rolled down her cheek.

“I can never retrieve what I’ve lost,” she whispered, blinking slowly.

“Yes, of course, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insinuate—” Ori felt his ears grow hot with embarrassment. “But, if it’s your desire to have a spouse, there shall be no impediment to such a thing.”

By now, her eyes had turned hard as flint and cold as black ice.

“I’ve considered this exactly once in my life,” she said, deliberately lifting her sleeping braids to reveal the shaved section underneath that marked her as an abandoned woman. “And I shan’t ever do so again.”

“Oh,” Ori said, afraid to inhale for fear that the unsteady movement would betray his inner turmoil. “Is that why you didn’t want to stay here?”

“Yes,” she replied softly.

“Who knows, they might be waiting for you at the other end of the world,” Ori said, hating himself for driving her into the arms of another.

At the end of it all, though, he wanted her to be happy. He’d have suffered a thousand cuts if it wiped the haunted expression from her eyes and smoothed the deep lines of sorrow from her pretty face.

“He’s not,” Iora smiled.

“He is,” Kíli interjected firmly.

“Well, thank you for checking on my leg,” Ori then said to change the subject, for he didn’t know how much more of this he could take. On the one hand, he couldn’t bear to see her so disheartened. On the other hand, he loathed the thought of another lover taking what he’d never even dared claim.

“And for saving my life,” he added. “That was generous of you.”

“I…I never wanted you to die, you fool,” she groaned. “For a while, I’ve lived in a world that I thought was now devoid of most of you, and I can promise you that it’s a desolate desert to wander, barefoot and bereft.”

She looked so fragile and miserable as she said this that he reached out a comforting hand before he could bethink himself.

Iora hesitated for a moment, but then she took it and let him pull her closer until she settled on the edge of his bed.

“If my life or death can assuage your torment, consider it yours to command,” he whispered into her ear, unwilling to let Fíli or Kíli intrude upon this vulnerable moment. “I don’t know how I caused you such sorrow, but I need you to believe that it was never my intention to hurt you.”

“Don’t be sweet to me, please,” she begged tearfully. “I can’t bear your pity.”

“That makes two of us then,” Ori scoffed, pointing at his bandaged leg. “I’m forever a lame fledgling to you, am I not?”

Thorin wished he had brought his harp as he sat propped up against the headboard of Ulvhild’s bed and tried not to squirm overmuch.

Nevertheless, he was uncomfortable, and he didn’t know how to assuage the pins and needles in his back without disturbing her.

“Let me see,” Ulvhild suddenly said, sitting up as well.

“Let you see what?” he asked, pretending not to understand her meaning.

“Don’t play dumb. You’ve been trying to adjust your posture all evening. Let me see the damage!” she reiterated shamelessly.

The thought of revealing the gruesome scars and the knotted muscles to her genteel eyes horrified Thorin, so he refused staunchly.

“Why?” she asked, her eyes gleaming like rare gems in the ambient chiaroscuro of the quiet room. “Is this an indecent demand to make of the king, who’s in my bed as we speak?”

“It’s not like that,” Thorin spluttered.

“Of course it isn’t,” she sighed.

“Not the bed, I’m very much in your bed,” Thorin corrected the misunderstanding with more bravery than tact. “And there’s nothing wrong with that. We’re old friends—to be frank, I once hoped we might become more than that.”

“And yet you won’t let me see the wounds you’ve sustained,” she commented dryly.

“I cannot lose my pride and your good opinion in the span of a few moments, Hild,” Thorin muttered. “It’s not a pretty sight.”

“We’re too old to be vain, friend,” Hild chuckled. “I promise that I won’t pass judgment; I merely want to see if I can alleviate your discomfort.”

And, because his only two choices were to leave—which he very much didn’t want to do—or comply—which he’d also rather have avoided—Thorin shrugged out of his tunic carefully.

“Ah, I see,” Ulvhild hummed, and then her smooth, warm fingertip ghosted along the outline of the puckered scar on his back where the Pale Orc’s blade had exited his body.

Thorin had half-expected disgust or, at least, disappointment, but her hands were steady and firm as she let them move across his tense muscles to gauge the damage.

“Let me just find…” she muttered, leaping out of the bed and rummaging frantically in her meagre belongings. “AH! There it is!”

When she came back, she was holding a small clay pot. As soon as she unscrewed the lid, a sharp, burning smell filled the space.

“One of Iora’s unholy concoctions,” Hild explained with a small chuckle. “Don’t be alarmed when you feel a sensation of heat.”

“Hild, what are you doing?” Thorin asked sternly, for this had turned far more intimate and incriminating than merely watching over a friend while they tried to sleep.

“If you sit up with me, I want you to be comfortable,” she gave back with irrefutable simplicity and started spreading the pungent ointment.

Indeed, the combination of the salve and the gentle but unrelenting pressure of her ministrations soon undid some of the painful knots in his back, and Thorin sighed gustily.

“Lie down!”

Iora blinked at him for a long time before getting up to light the burned-down taper by his side.

“I want to perceive you,” she said ere he could even ask. “I need to see your face to judge whether you’re being wilfully obtuse!”

He looked heartbreakingly beautiful in the flickering light, his dark eyes pools of uncertainty and apprehension and his freckled skin positively translucent.

And she hated him for it, for it made her want to go to him and hold him until all his wounds had mended and his smile was restored.

“How? What?” Ori stammered, mouth agape. Then, a mask of desperate bravery slid onto his open, ethereal features, and his jaw tightened. “Well, I’m sure your mysterious lover wouldn’t fall prey to a potentially deadly fever after an encounter with some half-starved ruffians!”

“My…” Iora pressed her fingers against her temples until she thought her skull would explode like an overripe apple. “Who is he then, in your opinion?”

“Oh, some very elegant, handsome, well-spoken leaf-eater, no doubt,” Ori sniffed. “I have seen them, you know? I’m aware of their uncanny beauty!”

From somewhere behind the half-drawn curtain, soft groaning resounded, and Iora narrowed her eyes at the shivering partition.

“Quiet over there,” she barked, hoping that no other denizens of this crawling mountain would get it into their heads to come check on the sleepless patients.

Pressing her palms together under her chin, she begged Mahal for patience and the blessing of true sight to make it out of this maze of misunderstandings.

“And how exactly would getting my parents’ rank back help me win such an elusive swain?” she then inquired in a level voice.

His gaze dropped. “I don’t know. But you’re blessed.”

“How so?”

“Even without espousing your birthright, you’re still Hild’s treasure, and you have the favour of both the King and the Princes,” Ori exclaimed passionately.

Iora thought her eyes would bulge out of her skull with disbelief and shock.

“Hild, the King, and the blessed Princes were there when my heart was broken,” she whispered mournfully. “They stood by, helpless, as I drew away and cast myself into the void of endless wandering. Neither their love nor their favour could have swayed my formidable quarry.”

She watched him as the truth hit him, making his fingers jerk into trembling fists against his blanket.

“No,” he gasped. “No, it cannot be.”

“Told you, he had no idea,” Kíli crowed in uncalled-for, grating triumph.

“Hush, you fool,” Fíli hissed, and then added a little louder, “I’m so sorry that we didn’t intervene; we failed you, both, as friends.”

“No,” Ori repeated in increasingly frantic accents. “No, they put you up to it—it was just a jest.”

“We’d been friends for most of our lives at that point,” Iora spat, outraged by his groundless accusation. “Did I ever strike you as the kind of girl who’d joke about these things?”

“No,” he admitted shamefacedly. “But you couldn’t…you can’t. Not you.”

Ulvhild tried telling herself that she was merely helping a friend, and that her overactive moral fibre was just that: overzealous.

Surely, nobody could accuse her of acting in reprehensibly when her sole aim was to alleviate the discomfort of a fellow soul.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t, in fact, her only motivation.

There was no denying that it was marvellous to feel Thorin’s warm, surprisingly soft skin beneath her roving palms; she’d always admired his strong frame and well-balanced shape, and she delighted in discovering that time had only augmented and enhanced his once youthful beauty.

Moreover, it flattered her that he did relax progressively, sighing quietly into the pristine pillow cushioning his bearded cheek.

The whole scene was so touchingly intimate and peaceful that she sensed old dreams stir within her soul like a stubborn current beneath the river’s frozen surface.

Every so often, she felt him flinch and squint at the door suspiciously—and she understood.

“You’re also half-expecting them to burst in at any moment, aren’t you?” she asked as she moved on to his lower back, carefully avoiding the raised ridges of his scars.

“They can smell blood,” Thorin grunted, his voice thick with lazy comfort now. “One can only hope that the quest has taught them the value of discretion.”

Ulvhild could hear in his tone that he didn’t believe that for a second.

“Better?” she asked after a while, struggling to lift her hands off the soothing heat of his back.

“Hmmm, but you’re still not sleeping. I’m not being a good friend to you, I fear,” Thorin chuckled throatily. “And you’re one of the few people I’d hate to think that I’m selfish and greedy.”

That gave her pause, and she waited for him to turn around again before answering.

“I never thought unkindly of you,” she then said, resisting the urge to cup his cheek reassuringly.

“That’s a solace,” he grinned and extended his arm in a wordless invitation for a hug.

Alas, he was still bare-chested, and Ulvhild couldn’t help but stare longingly at the smattering of dark hair that covered his broad, muscular chest.

“Before we’re interrupted,” he mumbled languidly as he sat up slowly. “I think I should take advantage of this rare moment of peace.”

Ulvhild wanted to protest, even though she knew that he was perfectly right in his assessment of the near future.

The words were on the tip of her tongue, but then Thorin’s broad thumb was hooked playfully under her chin, and she was drawn into a melting kiss that felt like coming home to a completely uncharted place.

He’d pressed his lips to her temple, her hand, and even her cheek countless times in their youth, but he’d never touched her lips with such utterly irreverent familiarity.

Her toes curled, and her breath stuttered to a halt.

“I’ve wanted to do that for decades,” Thorin hummed against her tingling skin. “Welcome home, Hild. May you find happiness amongst the tragic ruins of our lives.”

Chapter Text

Thorin knew that he’d misjudged the situation when Ulvhild’s hands, still slick with Iora’s terrible concoction, were clawed into his shoulders.

Overwhelmed with compounded loneliness and mind-addling relief to have found her again, he’d merely wanted to taste the blessing he’d never achieved to secure in the past.

Now, though, he understood that he’d unleashed a storm for which he wasn’t prepared, and it tore him off his figurative feet.

Floating in the starless void of a guilty, irrepressible passion, he rolled around instinctively, pinning her solid body beneath his own bulk to deepen that first kiss they’d ever allowed themselves.

Had he been in possession of his full mental capacities, he might have recoiled at his own brazen disregard of decorum and dignity.

Alas, no such qualms found their way into his consciousness as he panted into Ulvhild’s mouth and her tightening grip made him arch against her indecently.

“We have to stop,” she groaned even as her legs inched their way upwards to encircle his hips and effectively cage him in an embrace that should never have happened like that.

During their long separation, Thorin had often imagined what he’d do and how he’d act if he’d ever be fortunate enough to find her again . There had been visions of walks and impromptu concerts, leading up to a first, careful peck beneath the radiant stars.

If there had been any advantage to their mendaciously coy relationship and long sundering in his mind, it had been that, older and wiser now, he’d be beyond rutting against her mindlessly at the first opportunity.

It was humiliating to learn that this was not the case at all.

“Thorin, I beg you,” she whispered.

In the feverish gleam of her eyes and the rosy pink of her cheeks, Thorin could read that it was not displeasure or fear that stayed her hand, which softened the blow of rejection only infinitesimally.

“Of course, you’re right,” he said, but the mere thought of prying himself off her soft, yielding body sent new shivers of pure agony through him. “I apologise for having lost control of the situation.”

As the words left his lips, Thorin wondered what would have happened if Hild hadn’t spoken up. Would he have ravaged her then and there? In the bed he’d put at her disposal for her comfort?

For the first time in months, his body felt alive with something other than pain, and he was loath to let that unlooked-for blessing fade away.

It hit him then how profoundly self-serving his actions truly had been, and a wave of soul-crushing shame surged within him.

Ever kind and generous, Ulvhild had willingly sacrificed her sleep and well-deserved solitude to soothe him, and he’d taken advantage of her goodness in the most despicable way.

“Slowly,” she cautioned as she felt him jerk backwards, desperate to relieve her of his offensive intrusion.

And then, her gentle, healing hand slid along the curve of his ass deliberately. “Let me help you up!”

“What do you mean?” Iora exclaimed in unnerved exasperation. “Not me? Who else? I don’t remember another girl following you around like a stray cat, and I’d have known and gutted her, or do you?”

“That’s true,” Kíli commented, evidently still convinced that he was very much a part of this conversation.

“But you could have…” Ori waved helplessly at the two eavesdroppers behind the curtain. “You saw me in swaddling clothes, how could you—”

“I was barely out of them at that time,” she replied, suddenly second-guessing her assessment of his fever. “And, in years of thorough reflection, I’ve not discovered the answer to that question. But it was you, it was always you. And everyone knew it.”

Having thrown her most undignified secret into his face, she had no reason or strength anymore to hold anything back, so she pulled out the small river stone she kept on a thin chain around her neck.

“I remember this,” Ori whispered, blushing beautifully. “I gave it to you for your name day. Dori was mortified. You kept it?”

“Yes, of course, I kept it,” Iora cried out.

“But it was so tawdry a gift for one such as you,” Ori muttered. “If we’re already talking about things that were always commonly known except for the one they concerned, let’s speak of the fact that you’ve always been unobtainable to me. You’re the sister-daughter of the king’s favourite; I’m the bothersome charge of a known thief!”

“Oh, Mahal take pity on you,” Iora sighed, sitting down on his bed and brushing a strand of copper hair from his brow. “I’ve been yours to claim for as long as I can remember.”

And, after all the years of torturous doubt and gnawing regret, Iora felt relieved to finally have spoken her mind clearly, forcing him to supply an explicit answer.

“And that is why you kissed me?” he asked, looking up at her with a dazed, dumfounded expression on his handsome face.

“Yes,” she groaned. “And why I was so miffed when you stopped coming to the river.”

From where she sat, she could see the wheels turning behind his fair brow, and her blustering ire evaporated like dew on a sunny morning, only to be replaced by that debilitating tenderness she’d always harboured for the foolish dwarf before her.

“I reacted badly,” he admitted. “I felt mocked. I felt cheated. It was too much to ever forget, yet too little to sustain me. I was hurt.”

Mindful not to disturb his injured leg, Iora leaned forward and let her aimlessly hovering palm settle on his shoulder to brace herself.

“There was a well of kisses waiting for you, but you wouldn’t even seize the bucket,” she breathed when his eyes flickered back and forth between her lips and her eyes nervously.

“I was afraid,” he went on. “Wanting things is dangerous when you have nothing.”

And, as he didn’t stop her, she bridged the gaping abyss and kissed him tenderly.

Getting Thorin back into a sitting position turned out to be more complicated than Ulvhild had anticipated, which was mostly due to his actively trying to impede her efforts.

By the time she’d coaxed him back onto what she already considered his side of the bed, she was out of breath, while he looked as if he’d drunk a jug full of vinegar.

“That was unforgivable,” he muttered sourly.

Stiffening as if slapped, Ulvhild lowered her gaze. “It was an emotional day for all of us,” she said carefully. “I merely tried to keep you from doing something you’d later regret.”

She was proud of that diplomatic speech, for—in truth—every fibre of her being decried her as a traitor and a coward.

At this point, there was no denying that she yearned for one of her oldest friends in the most reprehensible, lewd manner and that the bigger part of her would have preferred losing herself in the torrent of ill-advised desire they’d conjured up.

Alas, she respected and liked Thorin too much to stop looking out for him, even at her own detriment.

He blinked and reached out to cup her bearded cheek carefully.

“I meant my trespass, Hild,” Thorin sighed. “And I thank you for interrupting me, for I would have regretted not showing you the reverence you deserve.”

At that, her heart mellowed instantly. “You’ve always treated me well,” she promised. “And I hold you in the highest regard. Surely, all the kindness you’ve shown me in the past has not lost its value and impact.”

“That was different,” Thorin insisted. “I was a wandering prince, divested and defrauded of my birthright, back then.”

Suppressing her mirth, Ulvhild kept her peace, for she saw that he wanted to say more, and she was eager to give him the space to do so.

“I am he no more, and—as the king—I should know better than to treat you so abominably. I don’t know what possessed me to act in such a damnable fashion,” Thorin added gruffly.

Ulvhild had met and helped enough people to understand. Formidable and proud, he’d felt betrayed by a body that wouldn’t heal fast or well enough to satisfy his incorrigible impatience, and he’d been swept away by the first familiar and healthy reaction in so long.

As she’d always admired him greatly and couldn’t deny that it incomprehensibly felt as if they’d never been apart, she took heart.

Holding his stern gaze, she lifted her hands to his chest at a deliberately slow pace to give him the chance to rebuff her.

“As my ministrations seem to have done you good,” she breathed into the dangerously still air, “allow me to continue, my liege.”

When Thorin nodded woodenly, she plunged her hands into the soft hair and brushed them downward inch by inch, revelling in the way his muscles clenched and relaxed spasmodically.

“Hild,” Thorin growled warningly as her fingers danced along the waistband of his breeches and tugged.

A soft, breathy moan rang through the silent hall, and it took a heartbeat for Ori to realise that it had burst from his lips.

He still couldn’t fully comprehend or believe what he’d just heard, but he knew that he’d never felt anything even remotely as intoxicating as Iora’s mouth—more determined and less gentle now—pressed against his own slack-jawed one.

Still aware of the woefully thin blanket that dissimulated nothing, he found that he no longer cared whether Iora would see what it did to him to feel her soft, warm flesh press against him through the various layers of regrettably flimsy fabric.

When she shifted, existential fear rose within him like a storm, and he threw his arms around her to keep her from retreating.

“No,” he mouthed. “Don’t leave me. Not again. Not like this. Give me a moment.”

He pressed the heels of his hands into his burning, pulsating eye sockets, pleading with himself not to freeze. “Mahal, I can’t think,” he groaned, bleak despair oozing out of every syllable.

Half-crushed against his heaving chest, Iora looked up at him with a shadow of that amusement that had once toppled him into a maelstrom of shame and bitterness.

“What are you doing to me?” he whispered, not expecting an answer.

“Whatever you want,” Iora replied cheekily.

“This is hardly the place, Óin would have both of our heads,” he chuckled dejectedly.

Only after her face split into a truly devious grin did he realise what he’d insinuated. “Oh, no,” he stammered. “That was a very inappropriate thing to say!”

“A little,” she agreed readily. “But I liked it.”

And, just because she looked so beautiful and eager, lying in his arms, he bent down awkwardly to do what he’d failed to achieve twice in a row: he reciprocated her kiss.

He no longer cared about their friends or the old healer. Mahal himself might have appeared to chide him, and he wouldn’t have been dissuaded, especially after Iora gave a deep, rumbling purr.

Near-painful fire coursed through his veins, and the fact that he wasn’t theoretically allowed to move one of his legs put him in a delicious bind.

“This evening holds many surprises,” Iora smiled against his lips.

“I wanted to be kissed by you,” he declared to clear the air and set her grotesque misconceptions aright. “And I was terrified at the same time, because I knew it would make me yearn for things I cannot, in conscience, hope for.”

In his mind, he recalled all the times her scantily clad body and loud laughter had sent shivers down his spine in a way that had made his blood rush from his heated cheeks to less palatable regions.

“Just seeing you was enough to drive me to the edge of despair,” he admitted. “How could I allow you to touch me without making a fool of myself?”

“You should have trusted me,” Iora chided. “I would gladly have taken care of you.”

Chapter Text

Thorin was torn between being aghast and titillated at Ulvhild’s inexplicably forward behaviour, but—even after seeing what had to be a nigh-feral light in his eyes—she didn’t seem inclined to abort her imprudent foray into the world of illicit pleasures precociously.

“Don’t worry, I have other oils,” she said when his hand wrapped around her wrist like an iron vice.

“You don’t have to do that,” Thorin muttered, thinking of what his mother would have thought of him if she’d known that he accepted that kind of solace from a respectable dam.

While that blessed lady rested in stony peace, his sister was very much alive, and Dís would hear of this sooner or later.

“I know,” Ulvhild replied with a crooked smile. “Mayhap, I want to. Is that a terribly wicked thing to say?”

“Quite,” Thorin admitted in a wheeze as his windpipe clenched shut around the visceral moan he was holding back with all his might. “I have done nothing to deserve your clemency.”

“You’ve dragged us to safety,” she reminded him in a soft voice that distracted him from the meticulous work of her fingers, which were prying off his breeches inch by inch. “You served us good food, you put Iora at ease, you gave me a nice room, and you’re here to help me sleep.”

“Exactly,” he exclaimed, holding on to this wildly bobbing buoy in a raging ocean of covetousness. “I should be helping you.”

Scoffing, Ulvhild pushed him firmly into the pillows and then laid him bare in a single fluid motion, without jostling his various injuries.

He knew not what he’d expected to happen, for Hild had never been the kind of lady to back down from a challenge once her mind was made up, but he certainly could never have foreseen the cautious determination with which she now curled her fingers around his cock as if she’d done this a thousand times.

And, maybe, she had. That thought displeased Thorin mightily, so he pushed it aside resolutely.

“You’re fine,” she whispered soothingly. “You haven’t lost anything that cannot be retrieved.”

Even though he could appreciate that she was probably referring to his delayed convalescence, he desperately hoped that her words would hold true for other things as well, because the maddening sensations triggered by her gentle touch convinced him more than ever that he could never let her leave.

Warm and slick, her hand started moving slowly, twisting on every upstroke, and tightening on the way down again in a manner that made him see exploding stars at the edge of his field of vision.

Though no stranger to the mechanics at play, Thorin instantly admitted that his own impatient ministrations could never compare with the deliberate, mindful dance of delicate digits Ulvhild was performing.

Her eyes were half-closed in concentration, and her breath had grown shallow. She’d never looked more disarmingly beautiful, and his jaw clenched to hold back all the words welling up within his aching soul.

“What do you mean?” he gasped.

“Perhaps I’ll show you when it’s time for your next sponge bath,” Iora cackled, her eyes alight with mirth and her mouth curled into a feline smile.

Ori bit his lip, unsure how to reply to such a wilfully ambiguous promise.

His mind was reeling with confusion, and his body was aflame with a fire he’d tried to smother countless times to little avail.

“I could hardly…” he stammered, remembering the devastating mortification that had haunted most of their last encounters. “You’d have laughed at me.”

“Would I?” Iora cocked an eyebrow at him in impatient disbelief.

“That!” he exclaimed, nodding at her face. “This is the very expression I dreaded. Silly dreamer that I was, even I was aware that a dam such as you—older, wiser, and better-born—could and should not have so much as considered me.”

“Are you calling me a fool?” Iora rasped. “I think we’ve established that I was laughably smitten with you.”

The past tense struck his tender heartstrings like a hammer. If only he had known—if only he could have believed his friends when they’d called him a stupid bugger for avoiding Iora.

What happiness he might have known instead of lying on a distinctly uncomfortable cot, inwardly lamenting all the things he’d squandered.

“Let me measure you for a crutch,” Iora then said playfully and promptly slid her hand into his armpit.

Squealing in surprise, Ori stiffened warily as she proceeded to gather the necessary data by moving her hands, one hand span at a time, down the side of his body.

Once more, he was assailed by the demeaning recollection of the skinny pebble he’d been. How could Iora have found beauty in one she knew to have been so painfully plain?

“Wouldn’t want to disappoint Hild by admitting that all I did was kiss you, right?” Iora chuckled as she tapped her temple as if to manually commit his measurements to memory.

“You’ll tell her?” Ori was aghast by that offhand admission.

“Oh, she’ll know,” Iora grumbled darkly. “She knows me too well not to guess. But, as this is done, we might return to the kissing part if that’s agreeable to you.”

Torn between the certain, inescapable premonition that he’d not sleep a wink if he let her kiss him again after having felt her hands all over his aching body and the fear of losing what little goodwill he’d carved out for himself if he refused her, Ori sighed.

Ultimately, he had to concede that Iora was worth every second of torment to him, and so he hugged her closer to him and lost himself in the kind of melting kisses of which he hadn’t even dared dream.

Her fingers found what his friends mockingly called a “virginal” braid, and she gave it a light tug that sent shivers of raw desire racing along his nerves like lightning.

Iora sucked her teeth.

“You may have it,” Ori whispered breathlessly. “It’s yours.”

By the time Thorin’s heels were dug into the mattress below them forcefully enough to distend the material, Ulvhild had to admit that she’d utterly lost herself and all her moral principles in the folly of the moment.

Forsooth, she could no longer, in good faith, claim that she was merely trying to help a friend—not when her palms tingled, and her core was aflame with triumph and arousal at the sight of his heavy-lidded eyes and parted lips.

Of course, Ulvhild would never have admitted to something as crass as having imagined what her good friend would look like in the throes of passion, but the throaty sounds and the smell of fresh, healthy sweat filling the room now were, nevertheless, eerily familiar to her mind.

“Hild, you must…stop,” Thorin groaned incoherently, ebbing and flowing into her rhythmical caresses as if he couldn’t make up his mind as to his own stance on the matter.

“Do I?” she asked, for she couldn’t help but notice that his range of motion seemed to have improved, and his face displayed a healthy flush that almost dispelled the memory of his sickly, ashen pallor.

“Yes…No…Yes,” Thorin mumbled, tossing his head back as she tightened her grip infinitesimally. More unintelligible words fell from his lips then, and she slowed her movements.

Keening like a mortally wounded beast, Thorin opened his eyes wide. The frenzied light within them was reminiscent of the hottest part of a flame, and Ulvhild drowned in its blaze.

“You’ll be fine,” she promised. “We just need to get all of your muscles warmed up and stretched a little more regularly.”

She could feel the tension in his thighs and appreciate the alluring, firm arch of his back now that he’d been thoroughly distracted from the gruelling aspect of healing.

“Does that mean you’ll stay?” he asked hoarsely.

Somehow, the question took on another dimension of meaning now that her bare hands were curled around the most private, intimate, delicate part of him, and she shivered.

“Just stay with me,” he reiterated, deaf and blind to her hesitation. “You don’t need to do anything, just let me look at you and believe that things will be all right.”

By now, Ulvhild was no longer sure whether he was talking about his accursed mountain or this defiled bed, but she couldn’t have left either as the hold he’d always had on her waxed impossibly, until it eclipsed nearly all else.

Half-delirious with fatigue and disbelief, she picked up her slow, deliberate caresses once more, revelling in the way every fibre of his being seemed to contract to the comparatively small surface where her flesh was fused to his.

Again, Thorin started muttering curses and prayers, but his stubborn sense of pride wouldn’t dissuade Ulvhild now.

Thus, she stroked him patiently until a resounding bellow tore itself from his chest, and he collapsed back onto the mattress with a shivering sigh.

And then, the extent of her crime hit her.

Slipping in and out of sleep, Iora tried not to dwell on the hard knot of anxiety that was congealing in the pit of her stomach.

She was a foolish woman who had promised more than she knew she could keep and who’d end up breaking her own heart yet again.

As the hours slipped by in restless silence, she had to admit that Ori, at no point, had explicitly acknowledged her confession or said anything to the effect that he’d ever reciprocated her feelings.

At best, he’d hinted at the fact that she might inadvertently have provoked lascivious thoughts and impulses in him, and—instead of hitting him over the head with his own bedpan—she’d stupidly claimed to be able and willing to fulfil his wish.

It was only now, hours later, that she had to face the unavoidable fact that she had no idea of what that would entail beyond the odd lurid tale she’d found and perused during her travels.

As humiliating as such a thing was, she’d have to ask Hild for counsel and help, for—against her better knowledge—she found she was still eager to give Ori anything he might accept from her.

Even if it wasn’t her heart, love, and endless devotion.

What difference would it make? She’d never love or wed another, so she wasn’t squandering anything another might come to miss.

Craning her neck, Iora allowed herself to bask in the disarming beauty of his sleeping form, long lashes fanning out like rays of golden sun against his freckled cheeks.

Ori looked so terribly fragile in the faint glow of the dying fire that she was overwhelmed by tenderness once more; he’d sustained a serious injury, so it made sense that her silly confession would mean little and less to him.

“Live,” she whispered as she observed the first brightening of the horizon with a quiet sense of dread. “Forget what happened tonight.”

Moving slowly, Iora extricated herself from the precious warmth of his embrace and bed to pad back to her own room.

Hild had asked for her help, and help she would. Once more, she’d lose herself in good, honest work to keep the bone-crushing awareness of her renewed failure at bay.

Thus, Iora exchanged her flimsy nightdress for sturdy leggings and an old tunic before securing her braids out of reach of various blades and fires.

“Good morning, dear,” Hild greeted as soon as Iora entered the dilapidated minor forge they’d settled on. “Have you slept well?”

“No,” Iora confessed, and then, the whole sordid tale of what had transpired broke out of her. “Tell me, Hild,” she croaked. “How does one please a man?”

Blanching, her sister set down the lump of iron she’d been working on.

“Being morally correct and upstanding has brought us all nought but misery,” Iora spat defiantly. “So, I might as well throw caution to the wind.”

“Peace,” Hild replied in a choked voice. “I shall support you, my dove.”

Chapter Text

As she now regarded her sister with solemn curiosity, Ulvhild remembered the forlorn expression in Thorin’s eyes as she wiped him clean of the proof of his passion.

“How are you feeling? Physically, I mean,” she’d asked, and he’d admitted reluctantly that he’d felt better than he’d believed possible.

That had been good enough for her. Turning away from him with a soft smile, she’d closed her eyes, praying that he’d fall for her charade of sleepiness.

To her surprise, he’d neither withdrawn nor forced a discussion about what had happened. Instead, Thorin’s rumbling voice had lulled her to sleep with detailed accounts of everyone’s movements in the last few months.

Alas, the blessing had been short-lived, and—like a thief in the night—Ulvhild had stolen out of the room long before dawn could break, because she couldn’t bear the thought of having that cold light shine upon Thorin’s inescapable regret and desperate explanations.

They’d crossed a line, and they both knew it, but she wanted to come to terms with her own emotions and thoughts before feeling ready to face Thorin’s misgivings on the subject.

Listening to her heart, she was horrified at how little shame she found beneath the confusion and the abject longing—she’d made a conscious, even if reckless, decision, and she would stand by it.

“Hild, do you know?” Iora asked, interrupting her morose musings.

A part of Ulvhild wanted to project outrage and vexation, but she’d never been a good liar, and Iora was no longer a child who needed to be shielded from this kind of truth.

“Not as well as you might think I do,” she admitted softly.

“Did you and Thorin ever…” Whittling away at a piece of wood, Iora didn’t look up as she let her unfinished sentence hang in the air like a raincloud about to burst.

“Not as much as you might think,” Ulvhild repeated herself cautiously. “I’d say that they’re all different, and you need to listen and watch for what they like? Dear Ori doesn’t strike me as someone who’d demand outlandish things from his lovers.”

Setting her work down once more, she turned to her sister and gave her a grave, questioning look.

“Are you sure you want to do this? I admit that a part of me wants to shake him out of his bed and knock him over the head for even considering dishonouring you,” Ulvhild smiled wistfully.

“They’re not dead, Hild,” Iora said with a shrug. “And how many times is one given a second chance to do all the things one dreamed about?”

As she had come to a very similar conclusion, Ulvhild rolled her shoulders uncomfortably, for—while she was willing to embrace the consequences of her wanton behaviour—she baulked at the idea of such a fate befalling Iora.

“Be gentle to both of you,” she whispered. “And don’t let him take more than what you’re willing to sacrifice.”

“I’m his anyway.” Iora sighed.

“That’s what I fear.”

Thorin woke up comfortably heavy, as if his body had grown more substantial overnight.

Just as he was about to savour the wonderful sensations that flooded his surprisingly relaxed muscles, his hand landed on a desert of bone-chilling cold where Ulvhild had been.

Too fast and too vehemently, he sat up, the old-familiar tension of diffuse dread seeping back into his tensing frame.

Where had she gone?

Secretly, he’d hoped to wake her with tender kisses and sweet caresses to apologise for having been so damnably selfish and unsatisfactory the previous evening.

True, he’d been in no way prepared for the way the night had unfolded, but he, nevertheless, resented himself for having undeniably made a bad impression on her by revelling shamelessly in her generous attention while not reciprocating accordingly.

As he’d watched her sleep, he’d sworn to himself that he’d make it up to her without consideration for his sore back or bruised pride.

Surely, her strong thighs would support him marvellously as he covered her bare flesh with his lips, teasing sweet sounds of relief and rapture from her sensual lips.

He yearned to coax the tender buds he’d tended from afar for so long into full bloom and breathe in their heady aroma greedily.

Shuffling uncomfortably against the cool bedsheets now, Thorin at once was reminded of the way she’d melted into his embrace, and his blood caught fire once more.

“Woman,” he hissed impatiently. “Will you foil me at every turn then?”

Still, he was haunted by mad visions of her heaving bosom and alluring hips. For a precious moment, he’d felt her writhe beneath him, and he knew that he’d chase that delirious sensation forevermore.

In the wake of his frustration, cold doubt slipped in like a dagger in the night.

What if she’d merely wanted to alleviate his unbearable tension and get him to be quiet? What if she had no intention of ever letting him kiss her again?

Worse yet, what if she thought that this was the price for her safety?

Letting his feet drop to the shockingly cold floor, Thorin picked up his discarded tunic and glowered at the dead hearth.

He’d find Ulvhild, ply her with yet another meal, and then try to convince her to give him another chance to prove that he wasn’t a lousy, self-absorbed wretch.

Between Ulvhild’s self-sacrificing massage and his newfound sense of determination, Thorin strode out more purposefully than he had in months, whistling to himself as he went.

Despite the slight trepidation that shifted like a loose bone fragment within his chest, he was confident that Ulvhild’s innate kindness would prevent her from turning her nose up at him prematurely.

No, she’d always been willing to extend more goodwill to him than he deserved, and he held on to the hope that this—much as his pervasive weakness for her pretty eyes, whip-smart mind, and compellingly skilful hands—hadn’t changed in the intervening years.

And then, he heard the old forge rumbling.

Iora could appreciate that Ulvhild was worried, and she wished she could find the right words to assuage her sister’s fears.

“I know you deemed yourself in love with him,” Ulvhild said carefully. “But you were both very young, and—I have to ask—if you’re sure you like him like that.”

Biting back a self-deprecating guffaw, Iora lifted her hand to her forehead to rub at an imaginary speck of dust.

“Hild,” she then confessed in a low voice. “Ever since I was told about their adventures in bits and pieces, I have the strangest dreams. He’s not wearing clothes in most of them.”

“Ah, well, that settles that then,” the other dam chuckled breathlessly. “I’m, of course, almost certain that the fusty old dear was fully swathed in layers upon layers of wool and cotton at any given moment, but if your mind wants to imagine him naked in a barrel, so be it.”

“Well, no,” Iora grumbled. “He was wearing the mittens.”

“He was…what?” Ulvhild stared at her in utter confusion now. “I regret ever having doubted your devotion then, for—even in your most morally ambiguous dreams—you imagine him as he is at his core.”

Instead of answering that weak attempt at a joke, Iora put aside her carving knife and went to kneel in front of the forge, laying out a few small items methodically.

“I didn’t forget you,” she said quietly as she touched each of the objects tenderly. “I remember the hands that have cradled, soothed, and taught me.”

Her eyes—staring up at her sister –were deep, dark, and hard as a pit of slate.

“I’d whisper your names to the wind and the rivers, begging them to keep you safe,” she went on. “Believe me when I say that I’ve given all of this more thought than I ever wanted, so I certainly will not jump into an ill-advised folly heedlessly.”

“You know your own mind,” Ulvhild agreed readily. “But do you know your own heart? Do you know his?”

“It has no bearing on the matter,” Iora declared firmly.

“You do him an injustice,” Ulvhild cut in sharply, lifting a warning hand. “You say you’re willing to give up what you’ve saved for him anyway. You stand there, trying to convince me that you’d be unaffected if he took what you offer without demurring.”

She took a deep breath. “What if it’s not, as you always thought, too much for him but, on the contrary, too little? What if he understands your sacrifice as a vow?”

Iora flinched back as if slapped, her hands fluttering in her lap like captive birds.

“What if you had misunderstood him as much as he’s mistaken your honest elation as cruel mockery? What then, Iora? Can you turn back time and love him again as if he’d never broken your heart?”

Mouth agape and yet unable to breathe, Iora felt tears welling up from the dark well of deep despair within her core.

Ori woke up as the first pale sunlight started streaming into the sickroom.

He didn’t need to open his eyes to know that Iora was gone, and his heart seized with a sickening feeling of dread so visceral and debilitating that it made his stomach drop.

“Stop fretting, lad,” Óin grumbled as he stomped through the room, wrenching open the doors and shutters to let cold, fresh air stream in. “She went to the forges to help her sister.”

“When?” Ori muttered unhappily.

“Speak up, lad!” the old healer bellowed. “Don’t you go slipping back into your old habits of mumbling. She’ll be back soon enough, I daresay.”

A thoughtful expression slid over his face then. “I might convince her to take you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Ori stared at him in disbelief.

“To her room,” Óin exclaimed, throwing up his arms in exasperation. “As she’s jealously taken over your care—spoiling you like a pebble—she might as well whisk you away entirely to fret endlessly.”

Even though the wording was so harsh, Ori couldn’t help the rise of excited bubbles in his gut at the thought of spending the remainder of his convalescence in Iora’s room, in Iora’s bed, in Iora’s arms.

“It’s cold,” he complained.

“Then get dressed,” Óin scoffed with a wink. “Or do you want to entice her by baring your pudgy calves at her?”

And, with that, he tossed Ori’s clothes onto the bed. “Oh, don’t worry, she’ll have you out of those rags fast enough.”

Before Ori could defend himself in any shape or form, Óin had thrown back the curtain and was harassing Fíli into doing his daily flexibility exercises.

Lost in thought, Ori, by now at least half-dressed, listened to his friend grunt and grumble.

“It’s getting better every day,” he tried to encourage Fíli, but the withering stare he got in lieu of a reply made him relapse into uncomfortable silence.

“I still can’t stand for any stretch of time,” Fíli hissed as he fell back onto his cot with a pained groan. “Walking more than a couple of steps feels like dragging boulders through mud.”

Rolling his eyes, Óin twirled his moustache impatiently. “Ah, the folly of youth. If you’d put the energy you waste feeling sorry for yourselves into doing something about what ails you, you’d be much happier.”

And, having said his piece, he stomped away again, leaving his two patients shivering miserably in the cold draft.

“In the forges, hmmm,” Ori murmured to himself.

Looking out onto the pallid sunrise over Ori’s shoulder, Fíli nodded grimly. “We’ve got to get out of here, man! The mountain is abuzz with new blood, and we’re rotting in uncomfortable beds!”

“Neither one of us can walk, Fí,” Ori cautioned his foolhardy friend. “How are we to do that then?”

“Romp if necessary,” Fíli grinned, a shadow of his old determination and bravery returning to kindle a warm fire in his eyes.

“Or we get Kíli to break us out?”

Chapter Text

Ulvhild kept her face expressionless as she waited for her sister to find the right words.

“I don’t know,” Iora finally admitted quietly.

After that, they worked as if their lives depended on it, dispelling the odd, lingering tension in the stiflingly hot room with soaring songs and empty chatter.

Neither one seemed willing to bring up the subject of their doomed love affairs again, and Ulvhild thought that it might be for the best.

When they took a small break, she pushed a few loose strands of rebellious hair back under the smooth silk scarf she’d tied around her brow and sighed.

“So, when it comes to Fíli,” she broached the delicate subject carefully.

“We can dismantle the cart and adapt those wheels?” Iora said, looking up from her mug.

“Are you sure, it would…” Ulvhild swallowed nervously. “I didn’t know whether you intended to stay.”

“Unlike them, I have two functioning legs,” Iora scoffed, cocking one eyebrow. “I could walk out this instant, and they wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

Remembering Thorin’s merely slumbering strength and the prodigious strain of stubbornness running in Durin’s blood, Ulvhild made an unconvinced sound.

“Don’t be silly,” a low, warm voice came from the half-open door. “They’d crawl after you, and they’d drag you back by your braids.”

When Balin entered, both Ulvhild and Iora stood to bow before the old dwarf.

“I came to check on you, and…” he made an expansive gesture with his arm. “Here’s one who claims to know you.”

“Alrún?” Ulvhild gasped as she drank in the strong-limbed, ferocious form of an exceptionally valiant and headstrong dam she’d once had the honour of helping.

“Lady Ulvhild,” the other dam replied, insinuating a sweeping bow. “What a surprise to find you here.”

“How come you hither?” Ulvhild asked, astonished by this most peculiar of coincidences.

“My caravan was attacked, and a tall, tired warrior brought us here to rest and recover.”

“How is your foot?” Ulvhild asked warmly.

“Functional,” Alrún replied with an impatient shrug. “And this young lady must be your sister, if I’m not very much mistaken.”

Ulvhild nodded; she’d stumbled across Alrún during one of her travels just after the young woman had tried to set an old, badly healed fracture herself. She’d lost a foot in a skirmish with orcs and had thought this a perfect opportunity to make other amendments.

Alrún, Ulvhild had learned, cared nought about pain, but she lived in the constant fear of becoming obsolete.

“Your sister not only made me a brace for my leg, but also fashioned an artificial foot for me,” Alrún explained now to a flabbergasted Iora. “She spoke much of you in that time.”

“Ah yes, that sounds like her,” Iora replied uncertainly.

“I’m in your debt; how can I help?” Alrún asked. “My services are no longer needed, so I’m yours to command.”

“How would you like to lug around grown dwarves?” Ulvhild asked humorously.

“Lead the way,” Alrún smiled. “I’ll follow you.”

Thorin was profoundly uncomfortable, eavesdropping on what sounded like another happy reunion.

He’d not yet met the people from the caravan Dwalin had rescued during his vengeful outing, and that omission as well filled him with impatience and guilt.

After endless months of imposed inactivity, he was keenly aware of his own shortcomings and failures—there were so many things he should have said, done, or initiated, and it filled him with shame to realise how much he’d let slide.

“Lady Ulvhild,” he spoke up, stepping into the room as confidently as he could.

“No,” she cried, moving around her worktable with enviable speed and grace. “You mustn’t spoil the surprise.”

The mere thought made Thorin frown in bewilderment; he’d never been overly fond of such notions, and it had been half an eternity since the last time that anyone had even attempted such a foolish thing.

Judging by the state of colourful chaos the dams had conjured up in the small, smoky room, Thorin could, nevertheless, appreciate that they’d been hard at work for hours.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, forcing his tone to drop into a warmer, more persuasive register.

“No,” Ulvhild blinked at him as if she couldn’t quite believe that he was really standing in front of her. “We’ve been so ensconced in our labours…”

“Come then,” he invited suavely. “Take a break and have a meal with me.”

She jerkily motioned at something unseen behind her back, but she didn’t outright refuse or rebuff him.

“You may steady me on the way up,” he said, arranging his sharp, angular features into a deceiving display of sweet innocence. “I’m sure you’ve been sorely missed upstairs. I’ve heard that Óin’s decided to throw his patients out.”

The small cry bursting from Iora’s lips as she sprang to her feet pleased Thorin exceedingly, for he knew that it would be far easier to convince Ulvhild to interrupt her work if she found herself deserted by her helpmate.

He watched, spellbound, as she waved him out of the room with masterful determination while already tearing her headband off her luscious mane.

Beauty devoid of vanity and practicality underpinned by artistry, he thought. Against all odds, Ulvhild had grown even more impressive than she’d been in her youth.

“Come with me, if you please,” Iora barked, waving at what Thorin suspected was a caravan guard. “Our creations are far from ready, and I’ll need your help to evacuate the Healing Halls.”

“Prince, right?” the ferocious-looking woman laughed and insinuated a mocking salute. “I’m all yours.”

And then, Thorin was gently pushed out of the room, and the door was closed firmly.

Torn between outrage and amusement, he strained his ears, hoping to make out the frantically whispered words that were exchanged beyond the thick, banded wood.

When Ulvhild reappeared, she was flushed but smiling.

“What will people think if you take all your meals with me?” she chuckled light-heartedly.

That I’ve not learned my lesson, Thorin thought. “I don’t care.”

“Iora, there you are!” Óin called from across the room as soon as he saw his unofficial assistant enter in a cloud of ash and acrid smoke. “And you’ve brought a friend.”

“And crutches,” Iora confirmed curtly.

“Alrún,” she introduced, driven by a nervous impatience she couldn’t quite explain and didn’t want to investigate further. “This is Master Óin. And here would be your charge.”

She drew back the curtain with a flourish. “Fí, this is Alrún, a friend of Hild’s. She’s willing to help us try and adjust the…tool we’re devising for you.”

When Fíli’s eyes roamed appreciatively over the sturdy frame and beautiful, bountiful auburn hair of the hitherto unknown dam, Iora narrowed her eyes in instinctive envy.

Nobody had ever looked at her like that; certainly not the only dwarf she’d ever wanted to gaze upon her with such evident approval and admiration.

“Prince?” Alrún repeated, letting her eyes sweep across Fíli’s golden hair and proud moustaches in turn. “That’s easy to believe.”

“Óin says I’m ready to be taken to a private room again,” Fíli declared in a tone that betrayed both pride and apprehension. “Apparently, I’m tiresome and growing lazy.”

“You can stand, you can walk to the washbasin, and you can eat on your own,” Óin confirmed in a steely tone. “So you’ll kindly stop treating my chambers as a hotel wherein you lounge about all day, complaining about the weather and the light.”

“I did not—” Fíli tried to protest.

“Yes, you did.” Óin scoffed. “Might do you good to get back on your feet and move around a room a tad.”

Just as Iora wanted to snigger, the healer’s firm gaze fell on her. “And you,” he said, pointing at her almost accusingly. “Why don’t you take Ori to your room, so I’m rid of both of you? I thank Mahal that my hearing has faded, for it would have been a bane upon me to—”

“Listen to us yap all night,” Ori completed the sentence from his side of the room in a tone that made it very clear to Iora that this wasn’t the first time they’d heard that speech.

“If that’s your desire,” she replied slowly and carefully.

“Mine? Mine?” Óin guffawed. “’twasn’t my desire that pulled you back into this very room in your nightclothes after dark, was it? I think not, for I’ve not been made aware of your unexpected presence. No, Milady, it’s for your sake that I propose this. I wouldn’t want you to meet with an adverse fate while sneaking through dark, damp corridors at night.”

As she couldn’t deny the allegations levelled at her in so compellingly sober a manner, Iora bowed her head in tacit acceptance of the proposal.

Handing the hand-carved crutches they’d fashioned to Ori, she encouraged him to stand.

“If he manages to follow me,” she declared challengingly, “I shall do as you say.”

She’d expected reticence and good-humoured laughter. Instead, everyone started loudly cheering on Ori.

An awfully familiar sensation of deep embarrassment washed through Ori as he lifted the beautifully crafted crutches from his bed and set them on the cold ground hesitatingly.

“For a while, you’ll have to use both,” Iora explained calmly. “Later, you may only use one to support yourself. Master Óin is quite right, though, you all ought to move more to keep from turning into stone.”

With a grunt, Ori gingerly slid off the bed that had been his island of refuge throughout the storms of Iora’s return—he didn’t feel stony in the least.

On the contrary, heat and colour were pooling treacherously in his cheeks, and his chest ached with longing at the sight of her dishevelled braids and soot-stained face.

“You look much as you did when we were young,” Fíli, inexplicably cheery, spoke Ori’s secret thoughts aloud.

"Dirty and disarrayed? I thank thee kindly, good Sir,” Iora cackled, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead, which did nothing other than to spread the dust clinging to her skin.

“Yes,” the prince agreed readily. “Goading our poor Ori into feats of bravery.”

“Hardly,” Iora sighed.

Only the insistent gaze of the strange dam and Óin’s collected mien kept Ori from saying something imprudent—he had a task to fulfil, and he couldn’t be sidetracked.

Thus, he cautiously transferred his weight onto the blessedly solid aids and hobbled slowly but determinedly towards the broad double doors at the far end of the room.

“Is my effort to your satisfaction, Meliora?” he wheezed, feeling cold perspiration gather along his spine.

Iora’s face contracted momentarily as an unfathomable thought or worry crossed her mind, but then she gave him an encouraging smile. “Quite,” she lauded. “Follow me then.”

Ori was surprised and aghast at the room she’d been given; it was unlike Thorin to let so esteemed a guest reside in so dreary a chamber, but—upon noticing his shock—Iora sheepishly admitted that she’d chosen these apartments.

“Why?” he asked, his breath whistling pathetically.

“Do you really have to ask?” she scoffed as she pushed open the door.

At once, Ori was engulfed in a cloud of warm steam as someone had brought in a big, copper bathtub that now stood before the small hearth like a monument to all the devious thoughts that assailed him incessantly.

Iora uttered a surprised sound that made Ori feel even more villainous for having allowed his mind to linger, even just for a heartbeat, on the idea of her naked body, submerged in blessedly hot water.

Rubbing her nose vigorously, she then chuckled. “Not a bad idea. So, can you make it to my bed? You can wait there while I bathe, and I’ll save some warm, clean water for you.”

Ori could only nod dumbly, praying that his limbs wouldn’t get fatally entangled on account of his brain’s sudden unresponsiveness.

Thus, he sat coyly, staring at an old leather partition while the heady scent of wildflowers filled the room.

Chapter Text

Fíli yelped as he was lifted off his feet unceremoniously by Óin.

It was bad enough that he had been made to stand in front of a complete stranger—and a very good-looking one at that—so he was now close to apoplexy.

“As the only two people I know by name have taken off with what I must surmise are their respective beaus, I wonder where to bring this fine specimen of dwarven strength,” the apparently utterly unfazed dam said as he was settled onto her back like an ill-fitting satchel.

Óin had the gall to chortle.

“I trust that our prince remembers where his chambers are,” he then replied and went to retrieve his trusty broom while whistling off-key.

With a grunt, Fíli’s perplexing steed jolted into motion. “Where to, oh Prince?” she asked as she reached the maze of corridors.

“I’m sorry they roped you into this,” Fíli said politely to break the tense silence between them. “Are you a friend of the ladies’?”

“Hmmm? No, Ulvhild did me a great service once upon a time, and I don’t mind staying here for a while longer. It’s a beautiful place,” she replied. “I’m Alrún, and I hadn’t met Hild’s sister before today.”

Fíli remembered; how could he have forgotten the name of someone so bewitchingly gorgeous?

“Oh, Iora is a friend of mine. Or, at least, she once was,” Fíli answered warmly as he pointed in the right direction.

“So, you’re the prince?”

“Yes, I’m even the heir, hard as that might be to believe in my present state,” he grumbled morosely.

“Ah, it takes a while. You’ll be all right,” Alrún said with quiet confidence. “Until whatever they’re cobbling together for you is ready, I’ll be your legs for longer trips. And, in time, you’ll learn to trust your own once more.”

“How can you be so sure about that?” he asked, profoundly impressed by her conviction.

“Because my leg tried to kill me twice over, and now I’m carrying around a prince. Trust and believe that the future is weirder than you can imagine.”

She chuckled softly, which made Fíli feel more hopeful than he had in a long time.

“So, I guess you don’t get a lot of gossip, locked up in there?” Alrún jerked her head back in the general direction from whence they’d come.

“Thorin, my uncle, the king, is an old friend of Hild’s,” Fíli said, eager to prove her wrong. “He’s always had a soft spot for her, and I hope he can win her over this time.”

Alrún hummed encouragingly. “What’s with the other one? Are he and Iora courting?”

A sound, somewhere between a groan and a guffaw, escaped Fíli, making his aching bones twinge.

“Mahal knows they’re not,” he muttered. “And only Mahal knows why not. I think they’ve been in love with one another for decades, but they somehow never managed to tell each other.”

Before his courage could fail, he asked, “And are you married?”

“Like old times,” Ulvhild laughed as Thorin led her into his favourite forge room, where he sank down on a sturdy bench with a muted groan.

On his way down, he’d intercepted a servant and tasked him with providing a small picnic for them, and he was pleased to see that his wishes had been heeded without question or hesitation.

He’d been so focused on getting Ulvhild to come away with him that he’d not really thought about how to go about telling her all the things he knew they had to discuss.

“About last night,” he started uncomfortably.

Looking up from the cake she was in the process of aspirating whole, Ulvhild cocked her head inquisitively, beckoning to him to go on.

“What you did—”

When her mien darkened, Thorin realised that his stiff introduction had sounded like a veiled reproach or criticism.

“It was wonderful, but I feel guilty for allowing you to pamper me so without—” Thankfully, he stopped himself before he could mention reward or compensation. “Help me, Hild, speaking of such things is difficult.”

Wiping a few stray crumbs from her luscious beard, she gave him a pensive smile.

“I vowed to make you more comfortable as a token of gratitude for your soothing presence. No debts have been incurred,” she then said mildly.

“Mahal’s hammer, Hild,” Thorin expostulated, slamming his tankard onto the scarred table before him.

He only fully registered how forceful and easy that movement had been after he felt the weak reverberations thrum through his loosened muscles.

“You know that this is not true,” he went on, his voice tinged by awe and uncharacteristic humility. “The care you’ve given me has far exceeded your duties.”

“You only say this because you don’t know how much your presence means to me, Thorin,” she replied with disarming simplicity and confidence.

Thoroughly flustered by her statement, Thorin could only gape at her for a few moments.

“If that is so,” he finally managed to choke out, “I’d love to be given the chance to reciprocate.”

The piece of dark bread fell from Ulvhild’s fingers as her eyes widened in amazement and confusion.

“If that would please you, of course,” Thorin added hastily. “I wouldn’t want to impose…”

Though he couldn’t be entirely sure, as memories were a fickle, unreliable thing, Thorin was almost sure that the potential of getting to kiss or touch Hild had been much easier to manage than the planning of such encounters.

Balin had always warned him to be careful what he wished for, but Thorin had never truly understood how right his old friend had been until now, as he had to unstick his leaden tongue from the roof of his mouth to utter suggestive and potentially offensive words.

“Yes, I think it would,” Ulvhild said in so low and tremulous a voice that Thorin felt his thighs tense and his skin crawl with greed. “The little ones are busy. I’ll see you tonight after work, then?”

Iora could hear Ori breathe, and his presence in the room, while she was undeniably naked and defenceless, sent shivers crawling down her spine.

Trying to keep her mind from returning to the woefully unhelpful instructions her sister had given her, she washed her hair and beard with more care than she usually would have wasted before also giving her clothes a quick rinse in the used bathwater.

“Are the crutches to your satisfaction?” she asked when she could bear the insidious silence any longer.

“They’re beautiful. Did you make them?” he replied instantly, his voice imbued with earnest awe.

“We made them,” Iora chuckled. Crutches were an easy, almost crude device to fashion, and she’d had plenty of experience with such simple tasks.

“The measurements are perfect,” Ori insisted.

“Did you think I merely wanted to grab you over and over again?” she hissed, vexed in her professional honour as a crafter and a minder.

“I’d dared hope that was the reason, yes,” he replied with a breathy chuckle. “But I’m profoundly thankful for your work, and also for harbouring me after Óin decided that he’d grown tired of my presence.”

“Nonsense,” Iora scoffed. “He’s just of the opinion that people who can receive visitors at all hours of the day might as well entertain said guests in their own quarters—rightfully so, I dare say.”

When he merely gave a vaguely acquiescing grunt, Iora had to smile to herself. Ori had always been both painfully polite and touchingly disinclined to hurt others, so it made sense that he’d be miffed at being thrown out for being tiresome.

“You move well on the crutches,” she praised him then, imagining the warm blush that would creep into his cheeks and suppressing a longing sigh.

“Thank you, I feel like a newborn filly on them,” he admitted in a low voice. “It’s more fatiguing than I’d have thought.”

“Do you want to freshen up? I can go to your rooms, if you tell me where they are, and fetch some clothes and other things you might want or need afterwards. And, if you’re feeling hungry, I could sneak into the dining hall and get us something if you don’t feel up to making the trip there.”

“Ah, and here I was growing used to getting sponge baths every other day,” Ori said, clearly in jest.

“If you feel so drained by the short walk,” Iora replied graciously, “I can, of course, supply that service for you in Óin’s stead as well.”

It was unforgivably forward of her to speak thus, but Iora understood what a golden opportunity had fallen into her lap.

How better to ascertain what touches and ministrations Ori would enjoy than to experiment under the cloak of eminently sensible, objective care?

A small hiccupping sound from behind the worn leather partition she’d brought in, along with all her other possessions, from the mutilated cart made her grin wider.

“If that’s your desire,” Ori croaked in an unsteady voice.

As Ulvhild laid out the various parts of Thorin’s cane for Iora to polish on the following day, she tried to convince herself that she’d misunderstood Thorin’s intentions earlier.

Surely, the king would not offer to touch her illicitly while they shared yet another truly delicious spread of cold meat and hot bread.

Mayhap, she now reasoned, he wanted to knead her sore shoulders after a long day in the forges. As a master smith himself, he was no stranger to the dull ache that was the price for a good day’s work.

Nevertheless, she took great care to cleanse herself thoroughly and braid her hair and beard in a way that would allow a potential lover to plunge their hands into them without destroying an artful coiffure or disturbing meticulously placed beads and other decorations.

After all, they had kissed, and he might want to do so again.

Ulvhild hoped that he would do so again. A lot.

She now felt like a hypocrite for having frowned at Iora’s determination when she herself was more than willing to sacrifice her good name and uncontested purity on the altar of Thorin’s desires.

“He’s always been my king,” she whispered as she slipped into one of the only formal dresses she’d taken with her upon leaving her home. “And allegiance can take many forms.”

Trying not to look over her shoulder every two steps, Ulvhild slid along the walls of the corridor leading to Thorin’s chambers like a furtive phantom.

At the first knock, the door swung open, and there he was: handsome as the day she’d first seen him and at least twice as impressive in his Durin blue tunic.

“Come in,” he said, but then his voice petered out as he drank in her unusual appearance. “Hild! You make behaving as I should much harder than it could be!”

“How so?” she asked coquettishly and chuckled when his eyes grew round with shock.

“Come, eat,” he barked, turning on his heels and stomping away, muttering unintelligible curses to himself, and wringing his hands against his chest.

Even though the dinner he’d somehow conjured up on the small, creaking table, which had been cleared rather hastily of the piles of papers and scrolls tucked into every corner, looked delicious, Ulvhild knew that her hunger was of an entirely different nature.

Indeed, all she yearned for was to see that expression she’d witnessed the previous night once more; she wanted to look upon Thorin in the throes of passion and know that it was her achievement when his flashing eyes grew feverish with ecstasy, and his strong legs tensed in anticipation of the monumental leap into the void.

“Hild?”

Thorin looked at her with unguarded curiosity. “What’s the matter?”

“Forgive me, I was lost in thought. What did you say?”

“I offered to have a glass of wine by the fire first,” he repeated in a peculiar tone. “But if you’re hungry…”

“Wine sounds good,” she replied. “Wine and kisses, maybe?”

Ori couldn’t believe his eyes when Iora, her hair and beard mostly loose and gleaming wetly, stepped around the partition with a small pail full of steaming hot water.

“It was a joke,” he squeaked, feeling his disgustingly damp clothes grow clammier yet as another wave of perspiration washed across his skin.

“So, you prefer to wash yourself?” she asked, halting a few steps away from her own, largely unslept-in bed. “I can give you privacy, if that’s your preference.”

She but turned her shoulders a fraction, but the mere insinuation of her leaving made cold dread well up in Ori’s heart, so he extended a pleading hand almost against his better judgment.

“No,” he exclaimed at the same time. “No, you may stay. Please do! It would be silly to be ashamed after all you’ve witnessed already.”

“Why would you be ashamed at all?” Iora asked in a flabbergasted tone. “You make no sense to me.”

Thinking of his unfortunate stature and the fine freckles for which he’d been mocked many a time, Ori flinched uncomfortably.

Iora claimed that she’d liked him in their younger days, but she’d known little and less about what he hid behind layers of wool and daring words—he’d made sure of that much.

Therein lay the core of all his troubles: he was terrified that she wouldn’t like what she found, and he couldn’t bear the mere thought of losing her good opinion over so immutable a matter as his appearance or awkward demeanour when it came to such subjects.

Swallowing nervously, he started peeling off the various items of clothing he’d donned to ward off the cold of Óin’s sudden love for fresh air.

“Ah, the mittens,” Iora sighed dreamily. “What a fine pair this is.”

Flabbergasted, Ori looked down at his hands in puzzlement. “Do you want me to keep those on?”

“Always,” Iora exclaimed and then cleared her throat guiltily. “I mean, they’d protect your hands when using the crutches.”

Ori had no intention of using the accursed things, beautiful as they might have been, that night, but he skipped the thick woollen mittens, nevertheless, in the course of the gauche removal of his garments.

Sitting in a dam’s bed, wearing nothing but his half-gloves and undergarments, was the very manifestation of his most vivid nightmares, but he tried not to let her see how humiliated he felt.

Iora, meanwhile, was humming to herself while dipping a soft cloth into her bucket.

He vaguely recognised the melody of an old love song, which made him smile despite his discomfort.

And then, she pressed the warm, wet fabric against the sole of his right foot, working her way up his feet and calves with meticulous, methodical care.

When her fingers brushed against the inside of his left knee, a small snigger escaped him.

“You’re ticklish?” she asked, visibly marvelling at her discovery.

“Just a little,” he muttered, hoping the floor would swallow him.

“Sure?” Iora grinned and set the rag aside.

Chapter Text

Throwing his own carefully laid plans over, Thorin slung his arm around Ulvhild’s waist and pulled her against his chest resolutely to seal her wicked mouth before it could let loose more corrupting invitations.

She tasted like the fresh herbs of a faraway land and felt like the heart of Erebor itself as she melted into his embrace with such self-evident readiness that Thorin felt profoundly humbled.

“I’m glad you don’t seem to hold my despicable behaviour from yesterday against me,” he mumbled hazily as they parted like two divers who’d been trapped beneath the surface for too long.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Thorin,” she said with tender insistence. “What I’ve done I did freely, and I regret it not.”

“You should,” he sighed. “These last few months, I’ve come to understand how much leeway I’m given, because of who I am, when—as a matter of fact—my identity should be the very reason people hold me accountable and make me redress my mistakes.”

“People love you, Thorin,” Ulvhild smiled. “They want to help you as best they can, because they want to see you thrive.”

Remembering his father and grandfather, he sighed. “The more readily love is given, the more earnestly it must be earned,” he echoed the words he’d heard a thousand times.

Of course, his forefathers had been married and had already sired sons at his age, so the saying was mostly applied to the people in their care rather than their romantic partners, but Thorin believed that the adage still held true.

“You don’t need to do anything to win my affection,” Ulvhild mumbled self-consciously. “You know that, right? You don’t need to pay me in kind for an act of friendship.”

“Friendship, ha!” Thorin cried out vehemently. “Is this how you treat all your friends?”

“Of course not,” she bristled, narrowing her gleaming eyes at him in justified anger. “But you and I have been friends for so long that all the lines are blurred.”

As the king, Thorin knew, he was not allowed to indulge such wilfully vague circumstances—he wouldn’t condemn one he’d always respected and cherished to the shadow existence of a disavowed courtesan.

“We have been mere ‘friends’ so long because we were torn apart by life,” he corrected. “Now, that Mahal has returned you to me, I shall no longer dawdle in changing that. Will you allow me to expunge my shame?”

Ulvhild rolled her eyes at him but didn’t resist when he motioned to the chair by the fire and handed her an ornate goblet full of fine wine, a gift from Thranduil’s own personal cellar.

“Have a care!” she expostulated in alarm when he dropped rather inelegantly to the floor before her. “I haven’t worked so diligently on your back for you to undo my progress by being foolhardy!”

Scoffing, Thorin deliberately lifted her heavy skirts and pressed his lips ardently against her bare knee, just above the upper edge of her sensible, woollen stockings.

She sighed.

Letting her fingers dance across his upper arms and along his ribs playfully, Iora delighted in the small, choked bursts of involuntary laughter she managed to extirpate from Ori.

“Torture of an unarmed dwarf,” he wheezed. “Injured too! What a cruel woman you are, Meliora!”

Cooing soothingly, she pressed her lips against the warm, soft flesh of his stomach in a fit of folly and tenderness.

Another impuissant salvo of chortles resounded, then Ori groaned loudly.

“And this is why I was terrified,” he whispered as if talking to himself. “I always knew you’d reduce me to a blubbering mess within a few moments.”

Chastened by the serious inflexion of his voice, Iora picked up her cloth once more and continued her work of silent devotion by cleansing his arms and shoulders.

She was charmed to see that the freckles he’d worn like his own, intimate pattern of sun-dappled beauty hadn’t fully faded over time, and she had to resist the urge to touch each and every pale star in that constellation of perfection.

Still pale and oddly fragile despite his sturdy build, Ori invariably struck her as a thing of ephemeral beauty akin to flowers that only bloomed once on a moonlit night or snowflakes arrested in their dance by the errant petal of an frail flower.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked anxiously as she moved on to his torso after hesitating for a heartbeat, her hand hovering indecisively over his chest.

“What do you surmise I’m thinking?” Iora asked fuzzily, feeling overwhelming heat pulse through her with every breath she took.

She wanted him to admit out loud that he knew how much she longed for every inaccessible, untouchable part of him.

“Maybe you’re revising your previous opinion of me,” he muttered instead. “You might have come to expect a hero of sorts, and I’m just…me.”

“Perfection,” she whispered.

The surprised but undeniably delighted expression that stole onto his face then emboldened her as she dropped her rag into the quickly cooling pail once more.

“Your bandage should stay undisturbed for a while. Is there anything else you’d want me to attend to?”

Determined not to startle or upset him by being vulgar, Iora didn’t allow her gaze to stray to the sober, unassuming fabric dissimulating the most intriguing part of him.

Alas, her pointed refusal to so much as look at his lower body was highly conspicuous.

“Do you want to go on?” he asked in an almost inaudible, breathy voice. “Why?”

“Because you’re beautiful, and I’m nosy,” Iora admitted, feeling her cheeks heat up even further with innate embarrassment.

“Have you ever…”

“No,” she admitted almost petulantly. “I was never interested in that kind of thing since—”

She didn’t want to reiterate how pathetically hung up on him she’d been and still was, so she fell silent abruptly.

“I wouldn’t deny you anything, Iora,” he sighed. “Dispose of me as you wish.”

His hand curled around her wrist then. “Don’t be disgusted, please!”

Fíli regretted his words immediately when Alrún’s feet stuttered to a halt.

“No,” she replied cautiously. “Are you?”

“No,” he sighed. “I’ve not had the great honour of meeting many dams, and my priorities lay elsewhere.”

She nodded soberly. “I’ve met a good many males,” she then admitted. “Alas, none of them could offer me a more interesting life than the one I’m leading.”

They’d finally reached his chambers, which were—to his surprise—clean and heated. Óin apparently really didn’t do things by halves.

“Come in,” he invited courteously. “Have some of what they supplied for my dinner. Tell me more about the outside world—I’ve not seen it in so long.”

Alrún gave another derisive chuckle. “Don’t be dramatic,” she laughed. “It’s still much the same as it has always been: dusty, dirty, and full of hidden dangers.”

Her irreverent tone and the undeniable dry humour in her words startled him into an earnest guffaw, which felt oddly liberating.

“But, if you really miss it that much, we could take a small trip outside tomorrow?” she went on between two bites of cold meat. “Not too long and not too far, of course, I wouldn’t want anyone to think that I’m abducting the prince.”

The idea was so frivolous and yet exciting that Fíli felt himself nod eagerly. “I would love that,” he sighed. “We could take my brother as a chaperone,” he added with a playful wink.

“Oh, so they’ll think that I’ve run away with two princes instead of just one?” Alrún scoffed good-humouredly. “I’d rather not have that tattooed brute chase me down.”

“Dwalin? Oh, he’s harmless enough once you know him,” Fíli said, only realising how loaded that statement had been when her eyes narrowed.

Of course, she’d only insinuated that she had some time to kill; it was absurd to suggest that she’d stay in Erebor anywhere near long enough to get to know its denizens.

Certain that his slow, arduous recovery had to be amongst the least compelling tasks she’d ever encountered or accepted, he felt his heart sink inexplicably.

A dam such as her—a true warrior—would soon long to get back on the road to chase the next adventure, and she wouldn’t waste another thought on this healing mountain and the people therein.

And then, the heavily laden platter of delicacies was pushed across the table amicably.

“Go on. There’s you—gorgeous heir to a broken throne—and your brother. There are the bald brute and the ill-tempered healer. The wilting ginger, the masterful king. Who else haunts these halls?”

Leaning back with a grin so broad it made the ends of his moustaches twitch with mischievousness, Fíli reached for a tankard of ale and snatched up a small bun covered in cheese.

And then, he explained the whole sordid story to someone to whom all of this was new and fascinating.

 Chin cupped in her hand, Alrún listened intently as if she’d never heard anything half as interesting.

Ulvhild tensed as she felt Thorin’s fingers slide up along the outside of her thighs and then down again, rolling her socks down to her ankles slowly and deliberately.

Despite everything that had transpired between them, she felt unbearably bashful under his burning gaze, sweeping over her bare legs in an almost palpable caress.

She wasn’t used to being given that much undivided attention, and it made her squirm in her seat.

“You smell so alluring,” Thorin whispered against the inside of her thigh.

His beard tickled the sensitive skin and drove gooseflesh down her arms as she fully realised how questionable his present position truly was.

She didn’t think it necessary to tell him that she’d stolen some of Iora’s tinctures in preparation for this meeting; a dam was entitled to some secrets.

Thorin lifted his incandescent gaze to her in an unspoken question.

Planting her feet firmly on the ground, she let her knees drift apart, hoping that he’d understand an invitation she’d never dare speak aloud.

The skirt of her best dress was bunched around her waist unflatteringly, and her face felt so hot that she was almost thankful for the awkward screen her disarrayed clothing provided.

Still, Thorin did neither halt nor accelerate his slow, maddening progress along the inside of her legs, kissing every inch of skin he found with something dangerously akin to reverence.

Ulvhild had expected him to either perform what he considered his duty with cool efficiency or to bow out gracefully before anything truly incriminating could happen between them, so she was considerably taken aback by the inescapable net of seduction he wove around her.

Helplessly enmeshed in the avalanche of contradictory sensations and desires he’d triggered so daringly, she could only claw her hands into the armrests of the chair and try to remember to breathe.

“Thorin,” she croaked warningly. “You’ve made your point.”

“I did very much not,” he contradicted in a silken voice. “Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are? Or how often I thought about this when we were young?”

Struck dumb by that revelation, Ulvhild let her thighs slide open further yet, which allowed him to press his fingers against the delta of her desire through the thin fabric of her undergarments.

She groaned as flashes of light and heat shot through her like stray arrows.

“May I take this off?” Thorin asked politely, but his pupils were blown wide as his eyes met hers once more.

Ulvhild could only nod, unable to fathom what ultimate goal he might be pursuing.

As the flimsy veil of maidenly purity was eased down her tingling legs, she suppressed a violent shiver at the sight of Thorin’s hungry gaze flitting across her shocking nudity.

“I’ve been told I need to work on my flexibility and stamina more seriously,” Thorin purred with a crooked, devious smile. “I’m nothing if not dutiful.”

And, as he spoke, he leaned forward and pressed his wandering lips onto her hitherto untouched flesh.

Despite, or rather because, of the diligent cleansing ritual he’d just undergone, Ori felt wretchedly dirty as Iora’s nimble fingers did short work of his worn undergarments.

The very situation he’d dreaded and dreamed of had at last come true, and he had no idea how to deal with being laid bare by the one whose opinion he’d always feared.

It felt absurd to be wearing nothing but his ridiculous mittens when every other part of him was on merciless display.

“You still make no sense,” Iora sniffed while picking up her accursed cloth once more.

After having been thoroughly washed by her, Ori knew for a fact that he could feel the outline of her skilful fingers through the fraying fabric, and he was terrified of the effect even a fleeting touch would have on him.

“Careful,” he heard her mumbling to herself as she gritted her teeth and let the damp, quickly cooling rag alight on his lower belly before moving downward resolutely.

As so often before, he desperately wanted to stop her before she could learn more than she’d ever wanted to know about the despicable weakness within him.

Alas, Iora wasn’t the kind of dam to be easily dissuaded.

For a moment, she seemed to hesitate, but then she gritted her teeth grimly and curled her hand around his member without the shadow of a shiver.

As expected, the flimsy piece of cloth was a subpar barrier, unable to protect Ori from the maddening effect of distinctly feeling Iora’s delightful digits.

“Polishing, I know,” she hummed conspiratorially.

Remembering how vigorously she’d washed every inch of his body, Ori tensed miserably. Already, his flesh was betraying him by swelling as if eager to fill her loose grip more significantly.

“Are you well? You look quite fevered,” she then commented, earnest worry and sympathy displacing the impish gleam in her eyes.

“I’m…” His answer dissolved like a drop of ink in a full washbasin, and his hips jerked involuntarily towards her.

At once, she let go of him, eyes wide.

“I don’t seek to cause you pain,” she promised, probably mistakenly assuming that picking up her task would pacify him as it had done before.

Alas, when her other hand reached out to lift his cock out of the way so she could wipe his balls, much as one would give tarnished glass decorations a quick polish, Ori was sure that he was going cross-eyed with overwhelming pleasure and guilty arousal.

“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asked, visibly pleased with her handiwork.

Suppressing a needy whine, Ori just stared at her in depthless incomprehension. “You’re not distressed by my irrefutable wickedness?” he gasped.

“You can be cold and dismissive,” she admitted carefully, “but I believe you to be incapable of wickedness. What are you talking about?”

“The way you just touched me makes me want to beg you,” he admitted.

“For what?” she asked, markedly intrigued by this raw confession.

“Not to stop,” he sighed.

Chapter Text

This was not what Ulvhild had expected, so her body jolted upright as she gave a little shriek of visceral shock.

Her muddled brain couldn’t make sense of the maddening sensations thrumming through her as Thorin’s lips parted against her skin.

Hands curled around her thighs almost possessively, he let that silver tongue that had once promised her all kinds of impossible delights sweep along smooth, damp flesh in a caress so unbearably intimate and shameless that her breath stuttered in her chest.

It had been one thing to go too far in her endeavour to alleviate his lingering discomfort, but this was deliberate and targeted, every stroke seeking to reduce her to a twitching tangle of raw nerves.

Moreover, she couldn’t help but wince at the sight of the king, kneeling between her open thighs, lapping at her with self-forgotten abandon as if they’d not just enjoyed a lavish dinner.

Plunging her hands into his unbound hair in an unforgivable moral trespass, Ulvhild groaned. She wasn’t sure what she was trying to achieve; did she seek to push him away or pull him closer?

Soon, she realised that her vague objectives were of no consequence as Thorin let go of one leg to rub a broad, calloused thumb along her oversensitive folds teasingly.

Ulvhild’s head fell back against the back of the chair with a muted thud as she gave in to the overwhelming wave of ecstasy, pulling her under.

She’d long since lost any semblance of solid footing, and she felt adrift in an ocean of blinding lightning and swirling darkness.

Who was she to deny a king? Who was she to stop a friend?

A part of her had always suspected that, if it ever came to this, Thorin would know exactly how to make her lose her mind. He might well have been the only one she trusted enough to allow herself to let go fully.

Marvelling at the strong arch of his back and the vigorous motions of his shoulders as he lost himself in his ever-growing fervour to unravel her deepest secrets, Ulvhild felt her core tighten impossibly.

Even then, she knew that she was wrong to allow him to demean himself so, but—just for a moment—she allowed herself a single instant of selfish weakness.

Thus, she tightened her legs around him, revelling in the way his silken hair tickled the inside of her thighs, and let the maelstrom of guilty rapture tear her soul from her body.

Everything, the fleeting years of youthful illusion and the long desert of loneliness, melted into a kaleidoscope of pulsating fire, and then all she’d been seemed to disintegrate and be forged anew into something entirely different.

When Thorin sat back on his haunches, his lips glistened wetly, and the ocean of his eyes had darkened alarmingly, making Ulvhild yearn to drown again without consideration for her safety or sanity.

“I’ve not felt so painfully alive in a long time,” he groaned. “I need you.”

Eyeing Ori’s bandage, Iora splayed her fingers on his chest. “You’d better not upset your stitches,” she said warningly.

Dimly, she remembered all the promises she’d so flippantly given before: new, clean clothes and food. Alas, such notions struck her as entirely superfluous now his deep, dark eyes were glued to her face.

“What do you mean, though?” she asked cautiously, suddenly afraid of what terrible discovery his next words would bring.

A part of her wanted and needed to hear the unembellished truth he’d been holding back for years, and another was terrified of how she would deal with knowing what she’d hitherto only dreaded.

“You’re too beautiful—you always were,” Ori sighed, drawing up his uninjured leg in an instinctive desire to protect some guilty secret he didn’t want her to uncover.

“Am I?” she asked breathlessly. “How would you know? You avoid so much as looking at me.”

“Of course, I do,” he sighed, blowing up his reddened cheeks impatiently. “Looking at you makes my mind go blank, and that makes me nervous, because I need to be at my best to keep up with you.”

“Are you…complimenting me?” Iora exclaimed, baffled, and grabbed his hip as the room started spinning around her.

And then, he lifted his huge, inky eyes to her face, and she understood what he meant.

Every rational thought fled her mind as she bent down to kiss him again; only, this time, his hand slipped into her damp hair, undoing the loose braids she’d woven with such careless haste and pulling her closer to his bare chest.

“Did you really like me? Back then?” he asked under his breath.

“Yes,” she admitted with a heavy sigh. “How could you have doubted that?”

He shrugged awkwardly, which made her chuckle. “Sounded too good to be true,” he then confessed. “You were my first crush.”

When Iora flinched back as if his words had burned her skin, he closed his eyes in humble resignation. “The first. The only one,” he breathed. “And now you’re here, and I feel as foolish as every other time before. You’d think facing a dragon and fighting a war would have taught me a thing or two.”

“You were always a good scholar,” she mouthed, no longer trusting her voice. “And I’m a much more practical person. Will you teach me?”

When he nodded, she sat up straight and let her fingertips trace the outline of his collarbones. “Does this please you?”

Ori nodded hesitatingly.

Heartened by his reaction, she grew more daring, letting her palms follow the invisible path of her discarded washcloth down his sternum and stomach.

“Still pleasant?”

Again, he only jerked his head woodenly, while his fingers were clawed into the bedsheet with increasing vehemence.

“Does this hurt you?” she then asked as her gaze inexorably turned to the threateningly swaying appendage he’d tried so hard to hide from her.

“Not in the way my leg hurts,” he answered vaguely, frowning. “But it’s certainly unpleasant.”

Thorin knew that he should have felt ashamed of his position, kneeling at Ulvhild’s feet, his beard drenched and his hands trembling with greed.

When he saw her deeply relaxed, sated expression, though, he couldn’t find an ounce of regret or shame within him.

All he felt was a sense of pride he’d long missed.

And then, he remembered the imprudent thing he’d let slip in the heat of the moment, and his heart skipped a beat with apprehension and anticipation.

Ulvhild gave him a calculating smile. “You’re not well enough for such rigorous activity, I fear,” she said, letting her face display an insulting mix of regret and mockery.

“Mahal’s stony—” Thorin cut himself off before he could offend her sensitive ears. “I’ll show you how well I am.”

“Oh yes, you shall,” Ulvhild grinned. “Tomorrow, in the courtyard. Until then, I’m afraid it would be unconscionable of me to let you put your recovery in peril.”

Baring his teeth, Thorin stared at her in utter disbelief. The fire roaring in his veins drowned out the small voice at the back of his mind, whispering that she might be right.

There was no room within him for such reasonable considerations—all he could focus on was how much he wanted her.

The way she throned on that laughably plain chair as on a throne made his insides writhe with irrepressible desire, and he sensed that he’d go stark raving mad if he didn’t find a way to get rid of some of that torturous pressure building within him.

“Speaking of your healing, maybe you should sit down?” she hummed.

“I am sitting,” Thorin rasped, stroking her knees beseechingly.

“No, come here. What kind of subject would I be if I let my king kneel on the floor while I sit in a comfortable chair?”

Something in her voice made him look up sharply, a thrumming note of mischief he recognised from their younger days, which filled him with irrational hope.

Thus, he took the seat she vacated for him with as much dignity as he could muster on account of his unsteady legs and undeniable state of arousal.

He half-expected Ulvhild to continue alternating between teasing and berating him, but her plush lips were firmly pressed together as she, in turn, sank to her knees in front of the hearth.

“Not quite the throne I’d imagined,” she whispered, “but near enough as makes no difference.”

And then, she undid the laces of his breeches with the same focused dexterity she’d displayed the previous evening.

Her eyes were alight with something darker than playful merriment now, as she came face-to-face with his bare need once more.

“Now, it’s I who owes you,” Ulvhild said as she raked her short nails up his thigh.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Thorin looked down at her upturned face warily. “You owe me nothing, Hild,” he declared.

“But what do you want?” she asked provocatively.

Everything you’ll offer, Thorin thought desperately. And more.

Ori tried to breathe through his nose to avoid panting pathetically, but Iora’s fingers were still moving, and the air seemed to hit an invisible wall on its way to his burning lungs.

He still couldn’t fully trust himself not to be merely caught in a lurid dream, so he reached past her to press his fingers against the clean bandage.

Sharp, grounding pain shot through him like lightning.

“What are you doing, you fool?” Iora exclaimed impatiently and promptly clamped her hand around his wrist with surprising vehemence.

“Just making sure this is real,” he admitted in a low voice.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Iora cocked her head, her hand splayed tantalisingly against his stomach.

“I dreamed about this,” he confessed, resisting the urge to shimmy and squirm to entice her to move on to the part of him that was screaming for her gentle exploration. “Too often for comfort.”

“So you know what you’d want me to do, but—once again—you let me flail and fail for your own amusement?” she asked sharply.

Ori gave a small sigh of dejection. “No,” he then breathed. “These are not things I can ask of you. It would be improper.”

Iora cocked one eyebrow at him as she pressed her hand more insistently against his warm, damp skin. “I think we’ve passed the limits of propriety a while ago. Why won’t you just tell me what you truly desire?”

Because she could refuse, Ori thought, and she had every right and reason to do so.

She looked at him for a few moments longer before grunting in frustration.

“I like what you’re doing thus far,” he offered, fragile hope turning his voice brittle as ice in early winter. “You do whatever pleases you, and I’ll be your willing subject.”

“Why does this sound like a painful sacrifice?” Iora asked, letting her fingers dance across his shins and knees ever so lightly.

There was doubt and hurt in her eyes now, and—after learning how deeply he’d wounded her before—Ori would have done anything to prevent such a bitter tragedy from happening again.

He would swallow his pride and moral reservations and submit to her devastating judgment without flinching if there was but a minute chance that it would make her happy.

“Here,” he whispered, steering her hands back to his aching cock.

An uncharacteristically coarse curse escaped him as soon as he felt Iora’s skin alight upon his own; bereft of the flimsy shield of the washcloth, Ori was at once overcome with a myriad of sensations that threatened to drive him to the edge of insanity if he wasn’t careful.

“Smooth,” Iora muttered. “Warm. It’s like living stone.”

Visibly undecided, she tightened her hold, which made him surge against her involuntarily once more. It was mortifying to lose control over his senses and impulses, but he couldn’t resist.

“Your leg,” Iora warned. “You stay still! Do I…”

Then, her hand moved, emulating his clumsy thrust with consummate care.

Chapter Text

Humming, Iora revelled in how smooth and hot the strange appendage fused against her clammy palm felt, so she said a small prayer of praise to Mahal for having fashioned such intimate miracles.

Ori groaned fitfully, tossing back his head.

“Your voice is a gift,” he whispered.

“So is your face,” she replied without thinking. “Am I doing this right?”

“You could never do it wrong,” he said without the shadow of a doubt. “It’s you—it’s perfect.”

And, for the first time since that awful moment in Dori’s abode when a plate had fallen right out of her trembling fingers as she’d realised that she was helplessly in love with Ori, Iora felt hope.

She bent down once more, catching his quaking lips in a bruising kiss, and continued her ministrations with more conviction.

Before long, words of such uncharacteristic obscenity poured from that honeyed mouth that Iora would have believed that she’d been transported into an absurd dream if it hadn’t been for the undeniably solid proof of his presence.

A hitherto unknown fire coursed through her blood, and lurid, inexplicable images of shameful nudity and frantic movement arose half-formed in her mind.

Unknown to her. Had he always felt like that? As if he’d licked lightning? As if his flesh were about to melt right off his bones? As if drums were beating a corrupting song in his belly?

Eyes squeezed closed, Ori arched off the bed, his heels digging into the soft mattress as he gave a guttural cry of monumental relief.

Sticky warmth burst forth, covering her fingers and the thicket of coarse, copper hair covering the lower part of his abdomen, and then, he stilled with a long sigh.

“Are you well?” she asked, suddenly apprehensive again.

“I’ve never been better,” he replied with one of those soft smiles she’d missed so desperately during her long wanderings.

She was reminded of her sister’s question. Would she be able to make abstraction of all that had come to pass between them and love him again?

Had she ever stopped? Could she even pretend that she felt nothing now that his beautiful eyes sought hers so insistently?

“See?” he sighed when she wouldn’t meet his gaze for fear that he’d read her ridiculous idiocy in her gaze. “I knew that I’d ruin it.”

Cocking her head, Iora regarded him with unadulterated curiosity. “Was this not to your satisfaction then?” she asked warily.

“It was everything I’ve ever dreamed of and better,” he said miserably.

“And yet, you look unhappy,” Iora remarked pointedly.

“I am,” Ori admitted, averting his gaze as well. “Because, now that your curiosity is sated, what else can I offer you to keep you from leaving again? Mahal, if you do, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

And, as her heart skipped a beat, Iora made a decision. “Do you know what you’d do if I stayed?” she asked tonelessly.

Ori squared his shoulders, chin jutting out, brows furrowed. “Fight to keep you.”

Thorin held his breath as he felt those strong, skilful fingers dig into the taut muscles of his thighs without hesitation.

He’d lived long enough to have suffered countless fleeting touches from fawning dams, which had often left him feeling oddly uncomfortable.

Hild, as always, was different. He could see in her eyes that she didn’t seek to draw his attention coquettishly while pretending that any contact between their bodies was purely accidental.

On the contrary, she held his gaze fearlessly, gauging his every reaction with unashamed avidness.

As certain as the sun wheeled across the endless sky, her wandering hands eventually followed the natural path of his legs and converged atop his arousal, akin to a heedless bird alighting on a mountain about to break asunder.

Thorin made a breathless, gurgling sound.

“Are you going to be shy now?” Ulvhild asked with a crooked, mocking smile.

Thorin stared at her thunderously—to no effect.

Even though she was incontrovertibly right, he nevertheless felt that—since the previous night—they’d lost much of their plausible deniability.

The subterfuge of care and mutual amicable service had worn thin, and they were now stripped to the bare bones of their most ardent and guilty desires.

Despite all these thoughts swirling through his slowly dissolving mind, Thorin lifted his hips obediently when Ulvhild tapped his knee.

“Still stiff,” she commented. “Maybe, we should keep doing massages every night. It seemed to have helped.”

You helped, Thorin thought hazily. Your fearless, determined intervention helped. Your shameless, brave tenderness helped. He’d never known or even imagined a better incentive than her gleaming eyes and sensual lips, and—after tasting her—he was more resolved than ever to regain his strength.

The air felt cool against his heated skin, and he shivered instinctively.

“You’d look great on the throne like that,” Ulvhild chuckled, looking up at him from dangerously darkened eyes.

As the incongruous image of him throning on his ancestral seat, half-naked and panting with unquenched need, flooded his mind, another throaty moan tore itself from Thorin’s heaving chest.

And then, Ulvhild stroked his thigh soothingly as she shuffled closer, head bowed in a perfect persiflage of a meek supplicant.

Alas, after all the hardships, indignities, but also moments of great joy and humble happiness they’d shared, such a distant and respectful relationship would never be possible between them.

Ulvhild was as much a part of him as his kingship, and Thorin had always known and acknowledged that a queen ruled over far more than a king ever could.

The realisation took his breath away in its all-encompassing simplicity: he and Ulvhild had grown up together, led their people together, raised Iora together…she was what he’d been missing to breathe life into Erebor and take his place amongst his ancestors.

It had always been her. From the start. To the end.

Before he could say so, though, her warm lips had closed around the tip of his cock, and his mind went blank at once.

Ori couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so physically relaxed and yet so mentally tormented.

“And how would you do that?” Iora asked, sitting back on her haunches and gazing at him with incandescent curiosity.

His eyes followed the chain around her neck slowly, tracing the delicate curve of her throat longingly. “No more river pebbles for you,” he whispered. “With the share—”

When her eyes hardened, he realised that he’d said something wrong.

“I love my river stone, thank you very much. Also, I neither need nor want gifts,” she declared coolly.

“You saved my life,” he whispered. “You’ve taken care of me, you—”

He bit off the last part of his sentence, suddenly painfully self-conscious. “Oh Iora, we both know that I have nothing to offer that could ever be worthy of you.”

Her face mellowed then, and her fingers brushed against his shoulder, tapping the dense freckles absent-mindedly, much as she’d once done when they’d been young and carefree still.

“If I had been richer, bolder, stronger, I would have petitioned Ulvhild to be allowed to court you,” he said, tucking his chin against his chest dejectedly. “But neither she nor Thorin nor Dori would have agreed; they’d have laughed at me for even considering something so absurd.”

“No matter,” Iora barked. “I would have readily accepted your suit.”

“You would have allowed a skinny lad with jug ears and no fortune to his name to woo you?” Ori heard how incredulous his voice sounded and winced.

“I would have welcomed it,” Iora confirmed. “I would have been happy. I can’t recall my parents. I don’t remember Erebor. But you, oh, I remember you. Beautiful and kind, you’d grown from one of my most cherished friends into my most precious dream.”

Ori gave a strangled grunt of incomprehension.

The blow came hard and fast, hitting his forehead with such vehemence that his head snapped back.

“I loved you,” she hissed. “Ever since the day you gave me that stone, I knew that there would never be anybody else.”

As he gawked at her, Ori clasped her hand to keep it on his skin—he felt that he’d surely die if she pulled back now.

Having always been inclined to stick to his habits and study all implications thoroughly before finding his courage in extremis, Ori could now appreciate that Iora had never been burdened by similar qualms.

She liked to explore and feel things fully without minding the potential consequences of her actions; of course, she’d kiss the one she loved freely rather than agonise about the minutiae of their courtship.

A new idea crossed his mind then—it was so fragile and overwhelmingly beautiful that he was afraid to even face it head-on.

She’d touched him in the most intimate, amorous manner. Did that mean that there was still a chance for him to redress all his former mistakes and win her heart for good?

This was the time to speak or pine forevermore.

Ulvhild told herself that Thorin’s egregious trespass had opened the floodgates and that she was in no way to blame for what would follow, but she knew that she was lying to herself.

Since the moment she’d seized his cock and stroked him to completion, she’d wondered what that marvellous organ would feel and taste like, pressing heavy and hot against her spellbound tongue.

As a child of many places, she wasn’t in the habit of doubting the ancient wisdom and intrinsic knowledge that surged within her blood, so she relaxed her jaw and tried to keep her own greed at bay.

Ulvhild had never done anything even remotely as lewd as this before, but her natural affinity for shapes, sizes, and densities of known and unknown materials drove her on relentlessly.

While her hands explored the thrumming muscles clenching and unclenching against her palms in a dance that was both enchantingly mysterious and already oddly familiar, she swirled her tongue around the solid intrusion, tracing the bulging vein running along its underside and caressing its compellingly smooth head.

Thorin mumbled words she couldn’t make out in a tight, growling voice. As soon as she’d taken in as much as she could, though, and started moving away once more, hollowing her cheeks and raking her nails along the inside of his thighs, his mumbling melted into hoarse expletives and inarticulate shouts of self-abandon.

Arch your back for me, she thought. Show me that you’ll be fine.

The comfortable, dull pulsing of her own barely sated desire quickened into a crescendo of near-maddening heat, flames licking at her insides, and so Ulvhild plunged once more with far more urgency than before.

Thankfully, she wasn’t the only one to feel the reins of iron self-control slipping through their cramped fingers, for Thorin’s exclamations grew increasingly erratic with every haphazard stroke.

Clawing her hands into his legs to keep from being swept away in a firestorm of her own making, Ulvhild tried to emulate the blandishments Thorin had previously lavished upon her.

She curled her fingers around the base of his cock to keep it steady, and then, she dove into a merciless rhythm of rising and falling in his lap, in time with the galloping of her thundering heart.

“Hild!” he groaned, and her name sounded like a hallowed plea as it exploded in the soiled silence of the dim room.

Instead of answering, Ulvhild cupped his balls in her free hand.

Finally, the effect she’d sought was achieved, and Thorin arched into her eagerly.

As soon as she looked up, Ulvhild was drowning in the deep, dark ocean of his blown pupils and the flaming sunset of his bearded cheeks.

Mine, she thought with a mix of fleeting delusion and sempiternal affection.

And then, Thorin groaned and shattered like an age-brittle mountain under the enormous weight of a dragon of yore.

She knew that she was being indiscreet, but Ulvhild couldn’t help herself. She had to look. She had to see.

Chapter Text

“No,” Thorin groaned, but—as Ulvhild raised her impish gaze through dense lashes—he knew it was too late to stem the tide.

Convulsing with another hoarse cry, he held her gaze as he came undone against her restless tongue.

“Mistress Ulvhild,” he rasped. “What in Mahal’s name…”

“Oh, hammer meet anvil,” she laughed, wiping the corner of her mouth daintily in a manner he’d observed innumerable times after she’d devoured a particularly tasty morsel.

The realisation struck him then that he’d inevitably see it again if he planned on watching her eat more often, which he—for better or for worse—very much intended to do.

Thorin had no clue how he’d deal with witnessing so innocent a gesture now that he’d seen it in an entirely different context; surely, any reminder of their shared guilt and blatant disregard for decorum would drive him half-mad.

From what he’d gathered, Ulvhild believed that this had been a long time coming, and she was undaunted by the contemplation of their shocking misbehaviour.

And, if they’d given in to the undercurrent of tension that had ever thrummed between them in their youth, Thorin might have felt less queasy about it.

Alas, they’d waited too long, and such brazen acts of depravity were inexcusable henceforth.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, caressing his bare thigh tenderly. “Up for a massage before I tuck Your Royal Highness into bed?”

As the night before, Thorin couldn’t deny that the painful tension in his back had subsided, and his body felt warm and limber, basking in the warmth of the hearth and Ulvhild’s affectionate gaze alike.

“Will you stay with me?” he asked, driven to imprudence by the corrupting effect of her self-forgotten sensuality.

Ulvhild cocked her head slowly. “People may think that we indulged in much more reprehensible deeds than what has truly happened if I don’t return to my rooms.”

“Nobody will know,” Thorin scoffed.

“You’re the King,” she contradicted mildly. “Everyone will know.”

Reluctantly, Thorin had to concede that she might be right on that subject, and—as he had no desire to tarnish her reputation—he nodded gravely.

“Of course, I wouldn’t want you to suffer any undesirable consequences; that would be a poor reward for your generosity,” he said stiffly.

She hummed pensively.

He’d crossed a line, yes, Thorin thought, but he’d not entirely dishonoured her. Nor would he.

“I shall be very busy tomorrow,” he then added in a disgruntled tone.

Before she could take offence or believe that he’d dismissed her, he plunged into speech once more. “I’d be honoured if you’d be willing to accompany and assist me. I’m told I’m less detestable when you’re around.”

Chuckling, Ulvhild nodded. “I’ll have a few things to finish myself, but I’ll certainly try to come temper and guide you.”

“How did I survive without you?” Thorin sighed, debilitating hopefulness flaring like a beacon in his chest.

He and Erebor would finally heal and thrive under her aegis, he was sure.

Ori watched as Iora braided her hair once more, fiercely aware of how intimate the scene was.

Of course, he’d expected her to withdraw in shock and horror after having been tricked into taking care of his most despicable needs; instead, she allowed him to witness a moment only a kinsman or husband was ever meant to see.

He’d never touched her, and—seized by uncharacteristically selfish greed—he wondered whether she’d ever bestow the honour of caressing her silken skin upon his unworthy self.

Dismayed at how fast his thoughts and dreams had gotten out of hand, Ori swallowed hard.

Then, another thought occurred to him. “Where…Did they not bring another bed?”

At the thought that Iora would have to sleep in an armchair on his account, his stomach turned with shame and nausea.

“No, why would they?” she asked, perplexed. “This bed is quite large enough to accommodate both of us. Or does that offend your sensibilities?”

There was undeniable mockery in her tone now, which made Ori flush with embarrassment.

“I…” He faltered. He’d not slept in the same bed with another since his childhood, and he’d been known to be a clingy pebble.

“You what?” Iora prompted over her shoulder as she went to dispose of the cold water and the soiled washcloth she’d used only a moment prior to wipe his seed off her beautiful hand with admirably self-possessed efficiency.

“I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Ori provided in a wavering voice.

“I think I’ve proved that I can deal with whatever issues may arise due to my shameless proximity,” she quipped while tugging the coverlet free to spread it over his prone, irreproachably clean body.

No, you didn’t, Ori thought as his chest filled with cold dread. You have no idea of the dark secrets peaceful slumber might bring to the fore, and I’m afraid of your reaction still.

“What if I reach out for you?” he asked, trying to clothe his insecurities in a thin veil of moral propriety. “It would be unforgivable for me to disturb your slumber or—”

Iora looked adorably bewildered. Did she not remember that she’d confessed to having loved him once? Could she not imagine that—stripped of the good sense of the waking hours—his body and soul would strive towards that well of goodwill?

“If you need me for anything, feel free to wake me,” she said politely.

When she shrugged off the light overcoat she’d been wearing to reveal yet another enthrallingly translucent nightshift, Ori willed his heavy, sated body not to catch fire again, thus betraying how helplessly bewitched he was by every single part of her.

“You should sleep, Ori,” Iora then said in melting accents. “You’re quite safe.”

As she checked his bandage one more time, Ori couldn’t help but be half-amused and half-distraught by how clueless Iora was; he had risked his life during the quest, but now, his very soul was on the line.

He couldn’t fall asleep!

Ulvhild watched in amazement as Thorin got up from his chair to change into his bedclothes—his shoulders had relaxed, and his stride seemed a smidgen more natural.

She’d long suspected that his slow healing was at least partially due to all the weight, grief, and guilt to which he was clinging with desperate stubbornness.

Now, she understood his comment about being overindulged as well, his people—who’d been with him through the most harrowing quest imaginable—were too worried about him to challenge him openly on his mental constipation.

Neither she nor Iora had been there for that chapter of their friends’ lives, and it broke Ulvhild’s heart to see that—even months after their tenuous victory—the heroes of Erebor’s recovery were still suspended in a painful stasis preventing them from moving forward.

Thorin sat down on the edge of his royal bed carefully and looked up at her. “So, you’re progressing with your projects?”

Ulvhild nodded, leaning against the chair they’d just thoroughly sullied. “Now that my room is filled floor to ceiling with our meagre possessions, I might as well find a way to make use of our inventory.”

At that, Thorin’s head snapped up a little higher, his gaze growing fiercely inquisitive.

“If you want for anything, Hild, you only need to ask. Did something happen to your wagon?” he asked pointedly.

“Iora took an axe to it,” she replied with a chuckle. “We needed the wheels.”

As she met his bewildered gaze, Ulvhild was reminded of the deplorable fact that Thorin could not read her mind.

“It’s a long story,” she smiled. “A story for another time.”

“Will you check on the youngsters?” Thorin asked, transporting her back to another time in another place.

Even when he’d been cultivating his aloof façade with iron determination, Thorin had been thoughtful and overly concerned about those he considered under his care.

“They’re grown, probably doing grown things,” Ulvhild remonstrated gently. “I prefer to remain blissfully unaware of these trespasses, as I have my own to contend with. Sleep well, my liege. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

A jolt of pure joy shot through her, the words leaving a sweet taste on her tingling tongue.

At once, an echo of that overwhelming relief and wonderment rippled across Thorin’s august face. “Yes,” he said softly. “Tomorrow. You’ll be there. Iora will be there.”

His eyes closed as he savoured the thought.

“Don’t rejoice just yet,” Ulvhild warned him. “The time for sitting around, moping, is over. I’m sure Iora can find something in her miscellaneous hoard to give to your Elven neighbours as a token of goodwill and friendship, and we can send Alrún down to Dale with Fíli.”

Ideas and projects sprang to life in her mind—she would have to find Balin and inquire about Thorin’s correspondence. He’d never been diligent enough when it came to answering the letters he received.

“Haunt me, hound me, harass me,” Thorin cackled. “I shall submit to your wisdom once more.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Iora tried to visualise a peaceful, sunlit meadow to make her limbs relax.

She was so used to the sound of Ori’s breathing by now that she could tell that he wasn’t asleep yet, so she willed herself to be the beacon of serenity he’d need to let go of his turmoil.

Without opening her eyes, she extended her hand to touch the warm skin she knew to be beautifully freckled and woefully scarred.

“Are you in a lot of pain? I could give you something for it,” she whispered. “And I solemnly swear that I’ll retrieve whatever you might desire tomorrow morning.”

“No,” Ori gasped. “You mustn’t serve me. This is all wrong!”

Flinching, Iora bit the inside of her cheek to keep the angry, heartsick words burning on her tongue from escaping in a flurry of hurt.

“It is I who should grovel before you, mining precious stones from the heart of the mountain—”

“You’re a scribe, Ori,” Iora interrupted with an incredulous snigger. “A scholar, a warrior, a hero. Why would you go mining?”

“I would mine for you,” he insisted. “Or I’d learn how to sew dainty gifts, carve beautiful toys, polish stones. I owe you mountains of riches and heaps of beauty for every kind word and warm gaze you’ve already granted me. And—“

“I’ll take the mittens,” she suddenly said as she realised that her searching fingers had indeed found living skin rather than damp wool.

Evidently, her demand was met with disbelief as Ori pushed himself up on his elbows to look down at her with wide eyes. “I speak to you of invaluable treasures, and you ask for worthless fibrecraft?”

“Your idea of worthiness and mine seem to differ dramatically,” Iora laughed, rolling around to face his still shockingly undressed body once more. “I’ve never wanted nor asked for anything other than what is before me right now.”

When he made to speak, she lifted her hand imperiously to signify that she hadn’t finished.

“You don’t get to tell me that it’s not enough. It’s everything to me, so, if you want to give me something as a token of gratitude for my care, I petition you for your gloves.”

“They’re yours,” he said gravely, settling back onto the mattress with a loud sigh.

Silence fell, and soon, his breathing grew deeper and slower.

Iora was about to give herself over to sleep as well when she felt a slight tug on her hand, which was now gently cradled against Ori’s warm palm.

Groaning softly as he moved his injured leg, he then shifted onto his side, curling around her like a protective shell of sun-warmed stone.

Ori had always kept his distance during their wild outings, and Iora was touched to discover that it might not have been coldness but—to him—mortifying tenderness that had dictated his aloof behaviour.

“My sweet darling,” she mouthed as she closed her eyes. “Yes, this is painfully perfect.”

Chapter Text

“That’s ingenious,” Alrún exclaimed as she watched the other two dams fit the carefully adjusted wheels onto the light chair in solemn silence. “When can we try this out?”

Ulvhild gave her an amused look. “If you can coax Fíli into it, it’s all yours.”

“It’s not a toy, be careful,” Alrún said before the older dam could even draw breath. “I know! Remember that I went through this already. But…”

“It should be sturdy enough to withstand a mad dash around the plain outside the Mountain, yes,” Ulvhild replied in the tone of one who’d learned to anticipate the follies of those around her.

“Do not put Kíli on top of Fíli,” Iora chimed in, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Is that something that is likely to happen?” Alrún asked, scratching her head. She’d been on her own for so long that she felt horribly out of her depth when it came to the relationships others had with their friends and families.

“Oh, absolutely,” Iora laughed, but then grew serious once more. “It would be good to see them fool around again; there’s been too much suffering lately.”

This, Alrún understood only too well. “Can I take it now, then?” she asked. “I expect you have other matters to attend to.”

She gave them a meaningful look, which elicited only blank stares from the other two dams.

“Fíli has told me quite a few fascinating things,” Alrún chuckled with a nonchalant shrug and reached for the finished contraption that would allow her to move him more easily. “And, when he sees this, he’ll certainly spill more.”

Before Ulvhild could stop her, she’d manoeuvred the chair around and was rushing off, whooping under her breath.

As someone whose survival had often depended on her sense of orientation, Alrún had no problems finding her way back to Fíli’s rooms—she pounded on the door.

“Coming,” he called from within, and she ceased her onslaught to give him time to move around the room at his own pace.

“Oh, I’d hoped you’d come back. I dreaded that my lurid tales of disappointed love, bloodthirsty dragons, and graphic injury had scared you off,” he said, a little out of breath, when he saw her.

“Not at all,” Alrún cackled. “As a matter of fact, I am planning on getting more confessions out of you, once you’re out of these walls.”

She motioned at the chair she was pushing. “Ulvhild just let me have this; she and Iora must have been working really hard to finish it this quickly. Do you want to go for a spin?”

“Sure,” Fíli mumbled, not entirely convinced. “Will I not be too heavy?”

“I’m strong, and I can lean on the handles. We’ll be as right as rain, you’ll see.” As she spoke, she offered him her arm without comment so he could brace himself against it to lower himself onto the seat.

“Where to now, oh Prince?” she cheered, revelling in their shared, newfound sense of joy.

“I can finish the assembly on my own,” Ulvhild said, and Iora’s heart gave a leap. “I’m sure the boy is awake by now and yearns for your return.”

Scraping her teeth along her lower lip for a moment, Iora stood by her workstation, undecided whether she wanted to share the developments of the previous night with her sister.

Finally, she couldn’t stop herself.

“Are you telling me that, as we speak, there’s a naked dwarf in your bed? One who’s cuddled with you throughout the whole night?” Ulvhild said tonelessly. “One you failed to feed yesterday evening?”

“Clothes, food,” Iora mumbled. “Yes, I must stay true to my word.”

“Go back first,” Ulvhild advised warmly. “Check the bandage and kiss him softly. He’s the kind to be fretting about all the things that might eventually have gone wrong without him noticing.”

Iora wanted to protest, but—in her heart of hearts—she knew that Ulvhild was right, so she followed her wise counsel without delay.

As predicted, Ori was sitting up in bed, shivering miserably on account of the cold hearth.

“Good morning,” Iora chirped, hesitating on the threshold for a moment before deciding that kissing him was a priority.

“Hmmm, I need to stoke the fire,” she mumbled hazily against his warm, soft lips.

“In a moment,” he replied, flatteringly reluctant to let her go. “Where did you go?”

“Work,” she scoffed. “We can’t all be famed heroes. How’s your Sindarin?”

While she was reviving the fire and washing her hands and face, Ori informed her proudly that he’d been consistently diligent in his studies of foreign languages.

“Good,” Iora chirped. “Then I’ll tell Hild that we’ll butter up Thranduil. Now, do you have any preferences for your daily outfit or breakfast?”

Ori paled. “You could send someone else,” he mumbled, blushing.

“Nonsense,” Iora grinned. “I’ve not seen your living quarters since we were children, and I want to poke around a bit.”

“That’s what I feared,” Ori said dejectedly. “Please, do not think ill of me.”

This remark stayed on Iora’s mind as she entered the small, tidy room he’d occupied before his run-in with a band of despicable scoundrels.

Everything seemed perfectly ordinary, and—beside a few tomes of rather suggestive poetry—she found nothing in her first perfunctory scan that would have warranted such a passionate plea.

And then, she opened a heavy chest at the foot of his bed. Instead of sensible knitted garments, she glimpsed a stack of notebooks.

Upon further investigation, Iora discovered that most contained various accounts and the odd fictional story—she decided that she’d have to find a way back here to read those at her leisure.

The last one, though, was worn with use. As she flipped the cracked cover open, Iora looked down at her own face.

“Huh?” she gasped, leafing through the pages. They were filled with sketches of her face, her hands, her smile, ranging from clumsy, puerile drawings to flawless studies. “He’d better explain!”

Ulvhild stared at the finished cane on her table warily.

After all that had happened, she was oddly reticent to present Thorin with a reminder of his only slowly subsiding frailty.

Moreover, she wasn’t sure whether she should go out and actively look for him while holding a ridiculously elaborate walking stick she didn’t need, or whether he’d find her.

In the end, she chided herself for being so skittish, and—after a short stop at her own rooms to freshen up—she set out for his apartments resolutely.

With every step, she was beset by the memories of what had happened after she’d last walked along these corridors, but she pushed the disorienting heat aside stubbornly.

As if he’d been waiting for her, Thorin opened the door at the first knock.

“Did you tell Balin that I was finally willing to go through my neglected letters?” he groaned, waving an open letter wearily.

“I might have said something to that effect when I met him this morning,” she admitted. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you.”

And then, his eyes fell on her creation, widening noticeably.

“Is that…Mahal, Hild, it’s beautiful,” he gasped, instinctively reaching out to take it from her trembling hands.

Torn between humility and pride, Ulvhild watched him inspect the protective runes carved into the polished wood and the lovingly crafted pommel that espoused his hand perfectly.

“It’s a raven,” he mumbled in an awed voice.

From the oakwood to the sapphire-eyed raven, Ulvhild had chosen things that would represent his status, his strength, and his soul as much as possible, and she was profoundly gratified to see that he recognised every nod to his glory for what it was.

“It has some heft, too,” he commented then, swinging the cane leisurely.

“You could brain someone with it, yes,” she chuckled sheepishly. “It will do you good to remember your fortitude.”

“A weapon,” Thorin sighed. “A piece of art. I imagined a crutch made for an ailing doter; I’d not expected a sceptre, worthy of a king.”

“How vexing,” Ulvhild grinned. “Did you doubt my skill?”

“No,” he contradicted firmly. “But it pleases me to read respect rather than pity in your craft. Good morning, Hild. This is wonderful, and I bow to you.”

Indeed, he insinuated a stiff bow, barely wincing at the unfamiliar movement.

Then, he took her by the waist as he’d done the previous night and kissed her deeply.

The raging fire of the dark hours had given way to something slower, warmer, and much more profound, leaving Ulvhild’s soul shivering with inexorable vulnerability.

“Letters,” she breathed fuzzily. “We have work to do. This will have to wait until tonight.”

As she tapped his chest playfully, Thorin’s fingers curled around her wrist with sudden intensity.

“You’ll come back here tonight?” he asked, his eyes gleaming like polished sea stones once more.

“If you work through your correspondence and use your cane diligently, I might,” she teased and danced away before he could retain her.

Ori told himself that he was not fretting; it was only reasonable for him to be a little on edge after what had transpired between Iora and him the previous night.

Especially because he’d woken up, tired and alone, in her bed while she’d been nowhere to be found.

As the fire was crackling merrily now, he used the truly gorgeous crutches she and Ulvhild had made for him to hobble to the lonely chair next to it.

Alas, due to his present condition, he was unable to take the blanket with him, so he was shamelessly, shockingly naked still upon Iora’s return.

“Oh Mahal, we need to get some clothes on you before the food arrives,” she laughed, lifting her arms to display an obscene amount of fabric, stacked high in her strenuous hold.

“As you wish, Iora,” he replied meekly, which triggered a sonorous grunt from her.

“If it were up to me, you’d never wear clothes again. Don’t think for a moment that I’ve forgotten your offer when it comes to that maddening braid of yours,” she laughed. “Nevertheless, I’d rather not have the whole mountain abuzz with mendacious gossip.”

Almost swallowing his tongue with shock, Ori gaped at her, struck dumb.

“Were my rooms to your satisfaction?” he asked politely.

When she pulled that notebook from her pocket, his blood ran cold with dread. He’d so hoped that she wouldn’t find the proof of his most shameful longing—he should have known better.

“I can explain,” he squeaked, even though his mind went blank with panic as he tried to find the right words.

“Between your deportment during the night and this discovery, there are a lot of things you should elucidate for me, yes,” Iora said, dropping the garments she’d gathered into his lap. “I’m all ears.”

Once more, Ori had the overwhelming feeling that this might be the last chance to speak his truth before losing her forever; he tried reminding himself of his altered station in life as he sat up straighter in the chair.

“As I already intimated, I’ve never avoided you because I didn’t enjoy your company. If anything, I enjoyed it too much, as last night has made amply clear. You hit me during your confession of past love. I beg you not to do so again when I tell you that your feelings were both entirely inconceivable to me and desperately reciprocated. There hasn’t been a day since your departure that I haven’t missed you, and my desire to look at you was so strong that I fabricated likenesses in the absence of the real thing.”

By the end of his speech, he was out of breath and flushed, but also proud to have finally said what he’d hidden for so long.

For a long while, Iora didn’t answer. She merely gazed at him from calm, unfathomable eyes.

“Oh, you utter fool,” she finally groaned, grabbing his chin firmly and kissing him until his lungs seized with incredulous bliss.

Thorin worked through his correspondence dutifully, inspired and heartened by Ulvhild’s unwavering support, so that, by lunchtime, he could report to Balin that he’d caught up with one part of his neglected duties.

“Will you come to the guild meeting?” the old councillor asked carefully.

For too long, stubborn pride had prevented the King from appearing before his loyal subjects and dutiful crafters as often as he should have, for he dreaded their poisonous pity.

“Yes,” he heard himself say now. “I want to hear their assessment of the rebuilding efforts.”

Balin scratched his head in embarrassment. “We’re making great progress,” he said, his voice still betraying the mindful caution that was but an understated confession of deep love.

“But we’re stalled,” Ulvhild interrupted. “We need help from outside. Am I wrong in the belief that we’d be in a strong bargaining position?”

At her confident use of “we” rather than “you”, Thorin’s heart warmed instantly, and his posture relaxed.

“No, you’re quite right, but with—”

“The King’s fine,” Ulvhild declared firmly. “As far as I can tell, neither he nor his nephews have fallen on their heads—at least, their folly hasn’t grown worse since last we met. They can and will assume their responsibilities.”

“That’s excellent news,” Balin cheered. “May I be so bold as to submit a list of items and materials we need to procure in the near future?”

“Of course,” Thorin sniffed, dismayed by the idea that his old friend had been holding back and hiding his various misgivings for the last few months. “You could always have come to me with these matters.”

“Ah, lad,” Balin sighed. “We had other priorities.”

Suddenly, Thorin felt unbearably guilty again. He’d grown too comfortable in his despondency, and he’d let those who relied on him down by failing to claw himself back to the mental fortitude needed to sustain and nurture a healing realm.

“Mistakes have been made,” Ulvhild said curtly. “All that was done was inspired by love and care, so we shouldn’t regret it. But now, we need to look to the future.”

When Balin bowed low and promised to have the relevant documents ready before the meeting, Thorin breathed a deep sigh of relief.

After the seemingly endless stasis that had followed the reconquest of what amounted to mere ruins of Erebor’s former glory, the mountain seemed to be thrumming with life and hope again.

When he saw Fíli, flushed with laughter, in his mud-covered chair, Thorin couldn’t help but chortle under his breath.

“I’ll clean it,” a sturdy dam, shockingly dishevelled and undeniably cheery, promised as they rushed past Thorin and Ulvhild. “Later!”

“Ah! Life!” Thorin mumbled, astonished to find that the warmth pervading his chest was true happiness.

“Work first,” Ulvhild contradicted in a steely tone. “Lead, my King, and I shall follow!”

Remembering that her nightly visit depended on his level of activity throughout the day, Thorin squared his shoulders resolutely and strode away towards the newly refurbished meeting rooms.

Chapter Text

Iora turned what she’d just learned around in her head like a blank piece of wood waiting to have patterns and secret wishes carved into it.

Could it be?

Just in that moment, she heard the telltale rattle of wheels somewhere outside her room, and—a mere moment later—someone knocked on her door tempestuously. “Are you decent?” Alrún called.

“I am,” she replied. “Give us a moment.”

Jolting into motion like an automaton, she helped Ori get dressed in the miscellaneous and rather oddly matched outfit she’d retrieved for that purpose before announcing breathlessly that she was ready to receive her visitors.

“Sorry, I couldn’t find Ulvhild,” Alrún explained sheepishly as she pushed Fíli into the room, leaving clearly visible mud tracks on the impeccably swept floor. “I think a few tweaks would be welcome.”

Iora lifted a hand, her eyes boring into Fíli’s.

“Did you know that he deemed himself in love with me?” she barked, relieved to have found an outlet for the roiling confusion within her.

“Yes,” Fíli admitted without breaking eye contact. “Of course, I knew that my dearest friends were stupidly infatuated with each other, but—before you ask—it wasn’t my secret to tell. At the time, I was convinced that I gave you all the right hints.”

“Oh, the plot thickens,” Alrún commented enthusiastically, throwing her thick braids over her shoulder in a display of eager curiosity. “Pray tell, oh Prince, how did you do that?”

“Mostly, I told them that they were wrong when moaning about the other’s unavailability,” Fíli mumbled sheepishly. “I’m now aware that I could have done more—there’s no need to tell me so!”

“Quite,” Iora scoffed.

“I appreciate your efforts and take full responsibility for my stubborn blindness,” Ori said nobly, which made both dams turn to him in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, Iora,” Fíli sighed. “As I told you before, we thought we’d have more time to encourage him to ask you out. There were festivals and name days all planned out—”

“But I had to go and kiss him,” Iora groaned. “And then I ran off. Is that what you’re getting at?”

“Yes, no,” Fíli shrugged infinitesimally, the healthy flush his outing had driven into his sallow cheeks fading once more. “Your disappearance, the quest…Let me redress my previous error.”

He leaned forward in his chair and winked at her. “Did you know, dear, that Ori—you know, the one with the messy bangs—is desperately besotted with you? He talks about you so much, it’s quite nauseating. Why don’t you ask him if he wants to spread your pages?”

Sputtering, Iora opened her mouth, but he wasn’t done.

“Ori, my man, go and pull Iora by her beard to the nearest quiet spot and kiss her silly. Read her your poetry, show her your drawings, and then ask her if she wants to sit for you in her nightclothes. I’m sure she’d love that.”

Satisfied with himself, Fíli sat back.

“Insolence!” Iora screeched.

“My King?”

For the hundredth time, Thorin had to forcefully recall his attention to the ongoing meeting—he inclined his head as if pondering a proposition he’d not heard at all.

Looking up from the small clay figurine she was moulding in her lap, Ulvhild gave him a mocking, knowing smile.

Was that a miniature depiction of him, shaking his fist angrily, or was he now entirely consumed by megalomania?

“I’m sure the King will take such matters under consideration,” she said in a charmingly subdued tone, thus saving Thorin the indignity of asking the Lord to repeat himself.

“We don’t want to overtax the King, of course.”

“Worry not,” Thorin said confidently. “All your demands and grievances have been submitted to me, and I shall address them as soon as I can.”

Ulvhild had been right yet again; it felt good to be back amongst his people. Moreover, it filled him with pride that he could, in good faith, promise that he’d deal swiftly and fairly with all the matters that had been pushed aside for far too long.

“Thank you,” he mouthed when next he caught Ulvhild’s twinkling eyes.

“Lady Ulvhild, it’s a pleasure to see you returned to the fold,” Balin suddenly spoke up, and Thorin’s blood ran cold.

Just as he’d been a kind of unofficial minder for his nephews’ generation, Balin had been with him since his earliest youth, and so the old dwarf’s words carried hidden weight and meaning.

“And the little one, too. It feels as if the family’s complete once more.”

And then, the door swung open, and Dís hurried in. “Forgive me for intruding, but I come back from a short diplomatic excursion only to find my son has flown the coop. Where is Fíli?”

Thorin half-rose, leaning against his new cane.

“What is that?” Dís surged forward, hand extended demandingly. “I know this handiwork—it can’t be.”

“Sister,” Thorin interjected hastily, knowing full well that he wouldn’t get a word in edgewise once she got going. “Welcome home; we’ve missed you.”

She gave him an impatient look. “Yes, brother,” she replied in a persiflage of his dignified, formal tone. “And the Father looks upon our reunion with goodwill. Now, explain yourself. How come that I find you in a meeting while my son—your heir—has disappeared without a trace?”

Grabbing her by the shoulders, Thorin leaned his forehead against the gem-studded circlet Dís was wearing with such pride. “The boy’s fine—he’s probably racing down unsecured fallen stones and collapsed walls.”

“If that’s supposed to pacify me—” she thundered, her unbridled passion a stark contrast to her eminently elegant accoutrement.

All the lords in attendance had fallen silent, afraid of attracting the princess’s attention or drawing her ire, but Thorin knew that their sharp ears and eyes didn’t miss a single detail of the exchange playing out before them.

“Peace, friend,” Ulvhild spoke up, standing and bowing low. “It shall be my honour to explain. Milords, Majesty, proceed!”

“I knew it had to be you, but…how?” Dís exclaimed as soon as they’d shuffled out of the meeting room, leaving Thorin to his own devices.

At least, Ulvhild thought, trying to squash the surge of guilt inundating her mind, he was very much awake and paying attention now.

Surely, he wouldn’t be thinking about her imprudent promise to return to his rooms after having been scolded by his sister, would he?

Haltingly, Ulvhild told Dís the improbable story of how she and Iora had come to be in Erebor, realising just how implausible the whole tale sounded when relayed out loud.

“Poor Ori,” Dís said. “How is he? Shouldn’t he be in the Healing Halls still?”

“Hard to determine as Iora hovers around him incessantly—she’s whisked him away to her own rooms,” Ulvhild said, basking in the relief and pleasure of being able to speak freely with one whom she’d once considered a dear friend.

“Are they still sweet on one another?” Dís asked, a similarly bright light flaring to life in her eyes. “Mahal, it’s good to talk to you again. Ever since I arrived, everything’s felt so dour and drab. Ah, this is just what I needed.”

“Gossip?” Ulvhild asked mockingly.

“A peer,” Dís corrected with sudden solemnity. “Another soul that’s alive in this mausoleum of lost dreams.”

“I’m not your equal, though,” Ulvhild reminded her mildly. “I never was. I never shall be.”

Cocking one eyebrow and nodding at the closed door behind them, Dís balanced her expertly coiffed head from side to side. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, my dear. Not if my Lord Brother has any say in the matter.”

This made Ulvhild blush furiously.

At once, Dís’s beringed finger shot out. “Ha! Has he made his intentions clear already? Why, I concede that I’m surprised by such timely and positive action from him!”

By now, Ulvhild was wringing her hands nervously. She didn’t know much of their conversation could be overheard inside, and she certainly didn’t want to let the whole council know what despicably delicious acts she’d performed with their recovering King.

When Ulvhild didn’t reply, Dís gave her a sharp, inquisitive look. “Oh no!” she suddenly cried. “He didn’t!”

She at once turned to storm back into the chamber, so Ulvhild grabbed her arm and wrenched her back.

“Forgive me,” she yelped, painfully aware that how unforgivable a crime it was to manhandle the princess. “He’s not behaved dishonourably towards me.”

She rubbed her forehead as if that could dispel the nascent headache—born of tension and frantic thoughts—that had assailed her all day.

“In truth, the lines between ancient friendship and the new order have been blurred and muddled, but that’s as much my fault as it is his,” she added humbly.

“Poppycock,” Dís spat. “He’s not an addled doter; he should know better than to indulge himself. Taking advantage of your affection means betraying both of your morals. You do still like him, don’t you?”

Alrún was fascinated by the incongruous play of passion and puerile petulance unfolding in a dam’s bedroom.

Mayhap, she’d been on the road for too long, but she was almost sure that it was highly unusual, not to say inappropriate, to have three unwedded guests in one’s private chambers.

The Healing Halls, she instinctively sensed, had been different. The presence of the old healer and the clean, impersonal beds had conveyed a patina of respectability to every interaction, but here, in the dim glow of a banked fire, there was no safeguard for their overbrimming emotions.

“I daresay they’re now glad that you didn’t intervene at a prior moment,” she teased, earning an outraged look from the prince.

The prince! She kept forgetting that he was not only of royal blood but also the literal heir to the ground she was standing on.

Alas, Fíli was so cheery and winsome a person that it was far too easy to overlook that he was indeed not but another skilled, seasoned fighter who’d been washed ashore in a cosy place to rest and recover.

He was exactly where he belonged, and she was fooling herself by imagining a sense of camaraderie and mutual understanding between them.

“There’s just no pleasing you,” Fíli sniffed dramatically.

Judging by the fond, distinctly delighted expressions on his friends’ faces, it became clear to Alrún that such antics had grown scarce during Fíli’s recovery—and they’d been sorely missed.

From what he’d told her himself of their quest, she could appreciate that he’d gone through tremendous hardship and crippling trauma, so she wouldn’t have been surprised if—like so many—he’d lost the innocence and levity of his youth somewhere along the way.

“You’ll make a great king one day,” she muttered as if to herself.

“Oh? How so? Please enlighten me—I’m not too proud to admit that I’d accept some praise in these trying times,” Fíli grinned, beaming as if he’d caught her red-handed while doing something naughty.

“Because you can heal and retrieve what others might have abandoned without a second glance,” she explained. “Hope. Love.”

Heat was mounting into her cheeks, and she touched the back of her hand to her skin in astonishment. Alrún was not prone to blushing, so she couldn’t quite understand what was happening to her.

“Wise words to live by,” Fíli exclaimed. “I came here to show you how well your contraption has worked, and so you can tell Hild to tell Uncle that I’m absolutely willing and able---with Alrún’s help—to go down to Dale.”

“Why don’t you tell Thorin yourself?” Iora asked testily.

“Because this is funnier,” Fíli smirked. “I’ve got to make sure that all the lines are connected, and all the knots are tied before risking a jump into the abyss.”

“I’ll pass it on,” Iora promised. “I’m glad to see that you had a good time outside.”

“The best,” Fíli confirmed enthusiastically. “Now, onto new, old things. Ancient hopes, novel dreams, right?”

“Fí,” Ori inclined his head. “Lady Alrún.”

“I’m no lady,” she laughed, but he could see her knuckles turn white with tension against the handles of the oddly elegant chair Iora and Ulvhild had constructed for Fíli.

“That can change,” Fíli grinned, winking at Ori conspiratorially. “One isn’t bound to the station of one’s birth. Isn’t that right, my friend?”

“Quite so,” Ori scoffed. “All you have to do is fight a dragon.”

“And brave a whole host of other adventures, or so I’ve heard,” Alrún cackled.

“Or you could marry a prince,” Fíli suggested with an air of exaggerated innocence, which made his eyes flash like ocean waves dancing in the summer sun.

“Ah, finding and defeating a dragon sounds more likely,” she answered in a light tone that didn’t sound entirely convincing.

“That’s what I thought,” Ori sighed. “And yet, Mahal, in his grace, blessed me beyond all measure.”

When he lifted his hand vaguely, Iora’s fingers curled around his own soothingly.

“Yeah, quite the coincidence that she should find you,” Alrún commented calmly. “Many a folk I’ve met on the road believe in that kind of serendipity. Do you?”

“I didn’t until I woke up in a dingy room, upon a worn mattress, with Iora by my side. I truly thought I’d perished,” he replied in a soft voice.

“Don’t make me strike you again,” Iora hissed. “You were nowhere near dying.”

Now that his leg was going through the detestably itchy healing phase, Ori could appreciate that he’d probably been lacking water and sleep, which had led to the deplorable state in which she’d found him.

Nevertheless, he still maintained that dying sounded just as likely as finding Iora again after all these years apart.

“Thank you for being our go-between,” Alrún finally said. “I must wipe away our tracks and get the prince back to his lodgings.”

“I wish you a pleasant day, Lady Alrún,” Ori said with consummate, purposeful courtesy.

“Likewise, Master Ori. We’re satisfied that you’re in good, loving hands,” she replied and wheeled Fíli out again.

“So, about that braid of yours…” Iora said, turning to him with a savage gleam in her flinty eyes.

“I’d be a fool to deny it to you,” he replied haltingly. “I won’t break my word, but—”

“But?” she prompted sharply.

“There’s a lot more to me than the braid,” he whispered. “And you may take as much of it as you desire.”

“And good riddance to the rest?” she inquired tonelessly.

He couldn’t quite read or interpret the expression settling on her face now, and it made him nervous to be left in the dark about her thoughts and emotions in this pivotal moment.

“It will be there still—if you ever change your mind,” he promised.

“Stop waiting, Ori,” Iora sighed, cupping his cheek hesitantly. “Stop abiding by the rules of another. Claim. Demand. Conquer.”

“You’re not a dragon,” he smiled. “You’re a queen to me, and all I can do is offer.”

Chapter Text

Ulvhild stared at Dís until she thought her eyes would pop out of her skull.

“I once hoped to call you sister,” Dís declared without false coyness. “Don’t look at me like that; I remember the sleepless nights we spent in each other’s company. Those moments of pain and relief have stripped us of titles.”

“I recall your frequent vow to forsake all claims to thrones and crowns, if only…” Ulvhild felt silent as her mind filled with images of red-faced, mewling babes who refused to sleep.

“And they live,” Dís said urgently. “My brother lives. Can you not set aside your pride and go to him?”

Swallowing, Ulvhild averted her gaze for fear that her old friend could read the undeniable guilt and excitement in her eyes.

“My pride?” she scoffed softly.

“He’s a stubborn fool, I grant you that,” Dís agreed readily. “But he’s also always been very fond of you. Did I not pluck you from his side just now? Already, you support him in his daily endeavours as you once did.”

They both knew that Thorin’s duties and responsibilities had changed drastically since their youth in the Blue Mountains, but Dís was not one to be daunted by such a monumental upheaval of all she’d known.

Indeed, Ulvhild had always admired how adaptable the princess was; she’d even tried to emulate her friend’s unwavering faith that one could overcome nigh-on every obstacle if one set one’s mind on doing so.

“But you didn’t answer my question,” Dís, ever-sharp, purred. “Once upon a time, it looked as if your friendship with Thorin was about to bloom into something else. Was I mistaken?”

Blushing, Ulvhild threw another nervous glance at the closed door.

“He’s always been very handsome,” she admitted reluctantly. “And noble. Kind. Generous. Funny.”

Dís threw up a hand in a perfect imitation of her brother’s favourite impatient gesture. “Now you’ve given yourself away, my friend,” she crowed triumphantly. “Nobody who doesn’t love the old goat would ever call him ‘funny’.”

Sucking her teeth, Ulvhild shook her head. “You do him an injustice—the King’s very amusing.”

“I’m sure he is,” Dís agreed. “Only, he rarely means to be. Be that as it may—” Her face grew soft as a wistful smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Forgive me for being unpardonably forward; he is my brother, and I worry about him.”

“I’ve taken most of my meals since arriving in his company, and I shall return to his chambers tonight,” Ulvhild admitted, eager to assuage the other’s anxiety.

“Meals,” Dís scoffed impatiently.

Ulvhild was afraid that she would be made to confess her barely concealed trespasses, but her saving grace came in the shape of Kíli, barrelling past.

“Fíli has a new friend,” he exclaimed plaintively. “I’m going to see Iora. I’ve heard that she might be sent out on a mission, and I want to offer her my services as an escort.”

Exchanging a fondly exasperated look, Ulvhild and Dís nodded.

“Where were those pretty words when I needed them?” Iora said lightly but regretted her outburst almost instantly as Ori flinched back as if physically struck.

“Caught in my throat,” he mumbled unhappily. “Which I’ve always regretted, this much you must believe.”

And she did; she could see in his doleful eyes that his sharp mind had mulled over every single interaction between them—past and present—obsessively.

He’d always been so incomparably skilled in analysing situations and drawing conclusions from facts she’d entirely disregarded—alas, by the sour expression on his face, she could tell that his secret calculations had led to a particularly disheartening result.

Iora paced around the room nervously. “Where is that food? I can’t deprive you of sustenance any longer—I’ve not kept you alive only to let you starve!”

“I’m not exceedingly hungry,” Ori muttered softly. “Don’t fret on my behalf.”

“I wish I could stop,” Iora whispered, blinking slowly. She couldn’t shake the horrible memory of seeing him stretched out on that less-than-clean bed, writhing helplessly in the grip of a murderous fever.

The very image had seeped like icy water into her bones, making her feel brittle and cold whenever she failed to push aside the gruesome recollection.

“Why can’t you?” Ori asked, hope and dread intermingling in his voice.

“Because I’m me and you’re you,” Iora replied cryptically.

He swallowed visibly. “Is this care or pity?” he asked.

And there it was: that heart he’d guarded so jealously throughout the years was pulsating in his huge, dark eyes like a beast caught in a trap.

It would have been both easy and dishonourable to lie to him.

“It’s love,” Iora breathed. “Violent, desperate, wounded but persistent. A love so deep and all-encompassing, I couldn’t tear it out of my soul without ripping open my chest and wrenching out my beating heart.”

When he didn’t reply, she rubbed her eyes to keep the tears of helpless, maudlin emotion from spilling over.

“It’s been a part of me for so long that I’ve grown up around it even as its roots spread through my body like veins,” she added softly.

As her dry lips snapped shut with a muted sound, Iora understood what Ulvhild had suspected from the start: she would never heal if she didn’t get closure.

After long years of running away, she had finally come face-to-face with the source of her pain, and she’d flee no more.

Lifting her head to meet his eyes, she was confused to discover that they shone like a midnight lake in the moonshine.

“Oh, fragile, destructive hope,” Ori wheezed. “You wanted me to make demands, and I shall—as ever—obey you. Speak plainly, dearest Iora. Did I then not lose you entirely?”

“I was only away, never truly gone,” she replied. “And I was and shall always be yours in ways I cannot fathom or explain.”

Ori gave a strange, choked cry then, which was cut short by Kíli’s ill-timed, unceremonious, jarring arrival.

Thorin hummed and nodded dutifully, but his mind kept wandering to the two dams who’d left the room so abruptly.

His stomach lurched. Ulvhild and his sister had always shared a bond that had escaped his understanding.

In their youth, they’d claimed that it was either his lofty station as the heir or his offensive gender that barred him from their secret meetings, and—even though he’d been too proud to admit as much—he’d ever chafed at being excluded.

Indeed, he’d have loved to drink sweet juice and giggle freely, but he and Frerin hadn’t been welcome.

Back then, the matters to be discussed were of little consequence, but he now quailed at the thought of what nefarious confessions these two dams would entrust to one another.

Dís, of course, had always suspected that Thorin had harboured distinctly inappropriate feelings for their friend, even though he’d neither confirmed nor denied it whenever she’d probed him.

The solemn oath not to betray his emotional struggles to Ulvhild undoubtedly had weakened over time, and Thorin wondered whether they were discussing his puerile infatuation even now.

“Very well,” he declared, pushing back his chair to stand. “I’m most pleased with the progress that has been made.”

When all eyes turned to him in quiet confusion, he realised that he’d cut off an eminent speaker from the stone masons’ guild mid-sentence.

“The King must be exhausted,” Balin interjected quickly. “Would you be so good as to write up the rest of your findings so he might peruse your statements at his ease at a later date?”

Insinuating a bow, Thorin walked towards the door as briskly as his still-healing body allowed.

Before he could even touch the weathered wood and stone, though, it swung open, and he found himself staring into his sister’s flashing eyes.

He knew her too well not to understand at once that she had something to say.

“Come,” he hissed, making her turn around by giving her shoulder a well-aimed shove. “What did I do now?”

“That’s for you to tell me,” Dís chirped playfully as they walked back through dark, winding corridors. “Hild spoke of meals you’ve taken together, and she intimated that she’s spent a considerable amount of time in your rooms. What have you to say about that?”

“That’s correct,” Thorin said, sounding suspiciously cagey.

“And, pray tell, what are you doing to my dear friend during those intimate dinners?” Dís asked, looking up at him with undaunted severity. “Surely, you’d not behave dishonourably towards Hild? I remember how dim a view you took of such things when it was I who was courting.”

“We’re not…I’m not…That was different,” Thorin exclaimed, feeling the ground shift beneath his feet.

Fool that he was, he’d let himself be goaded into another verbal spat with Dís, and it was already amply clear that he couldn’t win.

“So you say…” Dís said, thoroughly unconvinced.

“I daresay that we’re not behaving any better or worse than you once did,” Thorin sighed.

“It seems to me that I’ve intercepted your dinner,” Kíli grinned around a bun he’d snatched off the tray.

As he took in the tense atmosphere in the room, though, he grew grave. “I’m interrupting,” he mumbled, his eyes wide with shock and regret.

“You often are,” Iora said before Ori could speak up. “But, by all means, come in and join us.”

“What were you talking about then?” Kíli asked, his natural curiosity and indiscretion restored to their full force within an instant. “You look quite pale, Ori.”

Ori felt pale; he felt wan and weak with relief and debilitating hope.

“As you’re here, you can fulfil your royal duties to your subjects,” Ori said in a halting voice. “This isn’t the right order, and I shall have to petition Hild as soon as possible, but—as you’re my prince and my friend—I humbly request your blessing to court Iora.”

Kíli blinked owlishly. “Mine? It is freely given, Ori, but I think that words to that effect have been spoken before by my betters.”

Now, it was Ori’s turn to look perplexed.

“Fíli’s encouraged you from the start,” Kíli reminded him. “So have I. Many times. And, if memory serves, Thorin has told you at least once that you should set aside your books and be bold.”

“I don’t think that’s what he was referring to,” Ori mumbled.

“I’m certain it was,” Kíli insisted. Then, he turned to Iora with a radiant smile. “So, it’s finally happening? Mahal, I came here to complain about Fíli’s infuriating unavailability, but now, I shall have to find him to tell him about you.”

When Iora’s beautiful eyes met his once more, Ori realised how much he’d jumbled the proper order of introductions.

“That is, Milady Iora, if you’d be willing to accept so humble a suit,” he exclaimed hastily, resenting the fact that he was still ensconced in his chair.

“Don’t get up, you fool,” Iora barked and promptly sat down on his lap to keep him from rising in a transport of passion. “Of course, I’ll accept. Have I not just said that I loved you still?”

“So you did,” Ori agreed dazedly. “And I can, once again, only assure you that this precious sentiment’s very much mutual.”

“Say it, you coward,” Kíli demanded in a sing-song voice. “Speak the words and seal your fate.”

“Oh, I love you,” Ori sighed against the soft skin of Iora’s throat, his hands tightening instinctively around her shapely hips in a gesture so indiscreet and brazen, he’d never have considered it had he not been overwrought with fatigue and maddening joy. “I’ve always loved you, I always will.”

“Good,” Iora crooned. “For, by royal decree, you’re to be my husband.”

She gave that accursed braid they’d discussed far too often a provocative tug. “And this shall be my wedding present.”

Ori’s stomach sank into a pit of raging fire as she shifted on his lap.

“The waiting shall be delicious torture,” she promised.

Chapter Text

Ulvhild was wandering aimlessly through the Mountain, basking in the bustling of tradesmen and crafters, when the rhythmical clanking of hardwood on stone caught her attention.

She turned just in time to see Ori, dressed very oddly, limp down the corridor towards her.

“Lady Ulvhild,” he hailed her, audibly out of breath. “You’re not easy to find.”

“Oh, you should have sent for me. Iora will be cross if she hears that you’ve tired yourself out by searching for me yourself,” Ulvhild replied, retracing her steps hastily to meet him halfway.

Straightening solemnly, the sweet boy she’d ever adored bowed crisply.

“I come before you to beg you for…your blessing,” he announced in a steely, unwavering tone.

“My blessing?” Ulvhild echoed hollowly.

“To court Iora, who’s already accepted and claims that she doesn’t need anyone’s permission,” Ori explained with a small, indulgent smile that he tried to hide to no avail.

Ulvhild stared at him in amazement.

“She’s right, you don’t need my support, but I’m honoured that you’d seek it, nevertheless. It’s freely given, dear Ori. May you be very happy,” she replied in a choked voice.

“I think she plans on making me very miserable and desperate in the meantime,” Ori confided with a tremulous sigh.

“I’m sure she does,” Ulvhild agreed. “She’s a wicked dam.”

“I know,” Ori laughed. “I’m well aware of who she is, and I love her for it.”

Ulvhild’s heart gave a leap as the worry she’d carried for so many years finally dissolved and melted away. “I’m glad,” she croaked. “You’re all she’s ever wanted.”

Bowing once more, Ori grimaced. “Orphaned she may be, but she has many minders,” he said, pride gilding his words. “I must visit Óin and thank him for his well-meant meddling. And, of course, the King…and so many others!”

“Let me tell the King,” Ulvhild said hastily, jumping on the excuse to see Thorin as soon as possible.

Before Ori could bow again, she seized him by the arms and pressed her lips to his brow. “Thank you,” she breathed.

“It is I who should be thanking you for entrusting one so precious to me,” he replied, the heat of embarrassment and joy sitting high in his cheeks.

“Thank you for bringing her home,” Ulvhild insisted. “Perhaps, my wild one shall finally find peace. Here, where it all began. Isn’t that fitting?”

When Ori melted into her embrace, she remembered that he, as well, was motherless, and she allowed herself a moment of self-indulgent tenderness by holding him wordlessly.

This was the piece that had been missing, Ulvhild thought. She’d never have deserted Iora again, so her stay in Erebor had always been dependent on her sister’s willingness to remain here.

Now, there was no reason for her to ever consider leaving her homeland again.

Thorin wasn’t dead. Iora wasn’t unhappy. The Mountain wasn’t beleaguered by a dragon.

She could finally come home—she could dream of a future in these halls.

“Find the king,” Ori smiled.

As Ulvhild had offered to inform Thorin, Ori turned around and made his way to the Healing Halls, hoping to find Óin there.

“Ah, I see the crutches are a success,” Balin said loudly, looking up from his cup of tea.

“So they are,” Óin, who was nursing his own cup of steaming, fragrant deliciousness, grumbled. “What brings you back here? Has the lass thrown you out?”

“No,” Ori sighed. “We’re to be wed.”

“About time,” Óin commented calmly and extended his hand towards Balin, who promptly dropped a small purse into his open palm.

Ori stared. Had they wagered on his potential conquest of Iora’s heart?

“Dwalin will be so annoyed,” Balin laughed. “A day more, and he’d won the pot.”

“I know my ducklings,” Óin sniffed proudly.

“You’re…not surprised?” Ori asked, baffled.

“Of course not, lad,” Balin chuckled. “We have been waiting for that day for longer than you can imagine. Now, I must ask again, why have you come here?”

Bowing low, Ori cleared his throat. “I’m glad to find you here, Master Balin,” he declared solemnly. “Iora holds both of you in high regard, and so I wanted to inform you of my designs so you may weigh in.”

At once, their old, wizened faces softened.

“May Mahal bless your union, lad,” Balin smiled.

“Aye,” Óin grinned. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”

He gave the crutches an appreciative look. “She’ll take care of you.”

“Is this why she asked to see me?” Balin asked, scratching his beard. “I got a note saying that she’ll drop by my chambers later.”

Ori shrugged; he didn’t know where Iora had disappeared to after sitting in his lap for a torturously long moment, but he’d surmised that she’d gone to engage in one of her odd, enchanting rituals.

“Did you speak to Dori yet?” Balin asked.

Shaking his head ever so carefully, Ori took a deep breath. In truth, he dreaded the stern gaze of the one who’d clothed, fed, and raised him with such unwavering devotion.

What if Dori disapproved?

Of course, there was no way anyone could find fault with Iora, but there was a distinct chance that Dori still deemed his younger kinsman unworthy of her.

Ori didn’t know how he’d deal with that devastating knowledge.

“You should,” Balin insisted. “Don’t deprive him of the joy of seeing you fully come into your own. He loves you so much—don’t shut him out.”

“What if he doesn’t approve?” Ori whispered, feeling like a dejected pebble once more. How often had he confessed his most vulnerable misgivings to these kindly dwarves?

“Dori made your wedding beads a long time ago,” Óin thundered. “He always hoped that this day might come—we all did. Now run, little one. Leave us to our gossip! Fly, and spread the good news so the whole mountain may rejoice!”

Giving them a last grateful look, Ori backed out of the room again to let them drink their cold tea in peaceful companionship.

“Thorin!”

Whirling around, Thorin saw Ulvhild running down the corridor at full speed.

“What happened?” he cried, letting the excellently balanced cane slide upwards in a fluid movement to use it as a club to strike down whatever evil was pursuing her.

To his bewilderment, his living dream bowed gracefully as soon as she reached him and his sister.

“It’s my honour to inform you and the esteemed princess of my sister’s upcoming nuptials,” Ulvhild said, enunciating every word carefully.

“Indeed,” Dís exclaimed loudly. “What interesting developments! Please reassure me that she’s not accepted a loveless match.”

“Of course not,” Thorin scoffed. “Can’t you see that Hild’s delighted? It can be but young Ori who’s finally declared himself.”

“How well you read the face of one you haven’t seen in so long,” Dís teased him. “But I tend to agree with you, brother mine. Our friend looks far too pleased for Meliora to have chosen badly.”

Again, Ulvhild lowered her head in a show of humility.

“Mother!” Kíli came racing around the corner. He took one look at the scene and sighed. “Oh, Hild already told you, didn’t she? Anyway, I sanctioned their match in your name, Uncle.”

“Did you?” Thorin mumbled, slightly overwhelmed by how fast things had been moving since that pale morning in a dreary inn. “I guess that settles that then.”

“It’s one thing for the crown to ratify that union,” Dís commented slyly. “But I daresay that young Iora would want your personal blessing as well. Why don’t you discuss this with Hild in private? For much of the girl’s childhood, you stood in loco parentis for her.”

Thorin gave his sister a sharp side glance, which she ignored with perfect serenity.

“Come, son,” she said, wrapping her arm around Kíli. “It seems I’ve missed much during my absence. Why don’t you fill me in on all the latest developments?”

Finally meeting Thorin’s eyes, she gave him a warning look. “May you remember the words you’ve once spoken to me and heed them well,” she hissed.

“I shall, Dís. Thank you for your wise counsel,” he replied in the same tone.

Then, he watched her walk away, head held high and hips swinging.

“I missed her,” Ulvhild sighed. “So, how’s your back?”

Rolling his shoulders tentatively, Thorin found that the moderate activity and the well-adjusted cane had fulfilled their purpose.

“I could do with another one of your massages,” he purred, pushing open the door to his private chambers before yet another curious, meddlesome relative could spring out of the shadows.

“Your wish is my command,” Ulvhild smiled and followed him without hesitation.

As he undressed, Thorin gave the stack of parchments on his desk a disdainful glare. The idea of sending Iora to his detestable, Elven neighbours sounded increasingly seductive, and he admitted as much under his breath.

“Would they accept her as an emissary?” Ulvhild asked anxiously.

“They’d better. She’s yours, and you’re mine,” Thorin replied, his flaring ire fatally loosening his tongue.

“Meliora! Is something amiss with Ori?” Dori looked up from his needlework in alarm when Iora entered his sitting room.

“Is Nori here?” she asked, unsure whether the reason for her visit would count as “something being amiss” with their precious pebble.

Bellowing his brother’s name, Dori carefully set down his tools and looked at her with barely contained tension.

“What? Oh, hello, Iora, how are things?” Nori strode in, tucking a strand of hair back into his elaborate hairdo casually.

Going through her meagre belongings, Iora had found a few trinkets she’d been given by the various people she’d met during her travels, and these she now laid down on the scarred table reverently.

“I’ve come to…” she hesitated as the words escaped her. It was not for her to seek their blessing, but she wanted to explain herself before Ori could steamroll them into agreeing.

“I’m sorry for leaving,” she whispered. “I didn’t know what I know now, and—”

Dori lifted his hands to stem the tide of increasingly frantic words pouring from her lips. “What has he done?”

“He’s submitted a formal suit,” Iora said in a long, shivering exhale.

“He’s going to wed you?” Nori sounded thunderstruck. “Ori?”

“If Mahal wills it so, yes,” Iora said, shrinking. “And you have no reason to look kindly on this plan of ours, given how profoundly unhappy we’ve made one another in the past.”

“Because you were young and dumb,” Nori replied calmly.

“And craven,” Dori added curtly.

“Yes,” she admitted humbly. “I acted foolishly, and I beg your forgiveness.”

“It’s not our forgiveness you should seek,” Dori scoffed, but his eyes grew warm. “And, as the boy finally mustered the courage to pursue you, I dare say that all is well.”

Iora nearly fell to her knees in relief.

“I do love him so,” she exclaimed passionately.

“That’s good to hear,” another voice came from behind her, and she bowed instinctively.

“Oh, none of that, lass,” Balin laughed. “You’ve sent for me? I thought I might find you here. You have a moment to speak your mind before Ori arrives. My, my, how forceful you young people are today!”

“Master Balin,” Iora stammered, her whole carefully laid plan dissolving into confusion. “As our mentor and minder, you hold immense sway.”

He nodded encouragingly.

“And I wanted to tell you myself that I’ve mended my ways and shall have faith that my most cherished dream might come true,” she added, deflating.

“I’ll tell you what I told Ori,” Balin replied kindly. “I wish you well, and I thank you for bestowing the honour of being treated like an uncle or a father upon me.”

“Ori thinks me an orphan,” Iora sniggered. “I daresay he’s changed his mind on that subject.”

“He’s been diligent,” Balin agreed proudly. “He does things right, even if it costs him considerable time and effort. Ah, there he comes now.”

Iora’s gaze swept over Balin’s shoulder to see her true love’s beautifully flushed face.

Chapter Text

“Wedding anvils,” Alrún squeaked excitedly and almost slapped herself in the face with the dirty rag she was using to clean Fíli’s chair.

“Seems that I’m not the only one who can find true delight in a seemingly hopeless time,” he commented from his perch upon his bed.

Usually, it would have been unacceptable for a stranger, a woman, moreover, to see him lounging around in so informal a manner, but Alrún had been special from the start.

In many a way, she was more akin to a sister-in-arms on the battlefield or the road than a fawning maid trying to catch his royal eye.

She looked up at him, head cocked, embers of joy dancing in her open gaze.

“Don’t you just love a good wedding feast?” she asked eagerly.

“I wouldn’t know,” Fíli sighed. “My parents were wed before I could attend, and---as should be painfully clear by now—my other kinsmen and friends have not yet had that honour.”

He grimaced. “But yes, it’s good. Ori deserves it—if ever there were two dwarves made for one another, it’s them. Or Hild and Thorin, it’s a toss-up.”

Alrún pushed the chair against the door, so she remembered to take it back to the forges afterwards for the minor adjustments that had to be made, and sat down on a chair beside the bed.

Momentarily, she wondered whether it was unseemly to sit so close to the prince, but she needed to see his face clearly when she made the daunting suggestion that had just sprung to her mind.

“Do you think you could walk to your friend’s wedding?”

Fíli stared at her, eyes wide, mouth agape.

“Your bones are mended,” she assured him. “Alas, your flesh has weakened and withered in the meantime. Should we, you and I, go on another quest? Find and retrieve what has been lost?”

Face hardening with grief, Fíli averted his gaze to escape her burning intensity.

“You don’t understand,” he muttered.

Alrún took a deep breath; she was already alone with an unwed prince, sitting much too close to his body and bed. What difference would it make if she revealed a part of her body to him now?

Resolutely, she rolled up her leggings to lay bare the marvel of wood and iron Ulvhild had fashioned for her.

“Woman! What happened to your leg?” Fíli exclaimed in shock upon seeing the deep scars marring and distorting her sturdy calf.

“I thought I knew better,” she admitted honestly. “Hild was able to save most of the leg, though. So, don’t tell me that I don’t know what it takes to claw yourself back to a full life.”

Humbled by the stolid display of her own wounds, Fíli nodded slowly. “We can try.”

“I won’t coddle you,” Alrún promised. “There shall be no pity, only faith and encouragement.”

“Good,” he replied, relief flooding his frantically beating heart. “But…”

“We’ll muddle through as warriors do,” Alrún grinned. “We start tomorrow, all right?”

Ulvhild looked up questioningly. “Did your sister get under your skin?” she asked in a teasing tone.

“As much as it pains me to admit that, Dís is right,” Thorin admitted grudgingly as she padded closer to spread Iora’s mysterious ointment with tender determination. “I don’t seek to make you my courtesan.”

Stilling, she waited for him to turn his head and meet her eyes. “What does that mean?” she asked, throat tight and voice fading.

“I indulged myself too much,” Thorin groaned, intertwining their fingers without any consideration for the layer of salve coating her skin. “You’re not my nurse or just another well-meaning counsellor to me; you’re my friend.”

His jaw tightened.

“You’re overwhelmed by the joyous news,” Ulvhild squeaked nervously, desperate to dispel the sudden tension in the room. “Maybe you’ve overtired yourself.”

“No,” he thundered. “As you said yourself, I’m fine. I should have been clearer on my intentions from the start.”

“Hush,” she insisted, pushing him down into the pillows and bending over his tense, rippling muscles with frantic eagerness.

“Be mine, Hild,” Thorin mumbled, his demand muffled by fabric and feathers and yet perfectly intelligible.

“I am,” she replied in a light tone.

“No, don’t play coy. Take your place beside me—rule at my side as you once did,” he persevered stubbornly.

“You can’t do that,” Ulvhild sighed, regret threatening to drown her from the inside. “You must make a good match to fortify your kingdom.”

Was her mind playing tricks on her, or had he actually scoffed at her eminently reasonable, tempering remark?

“I thought that was what I’m doing,” Thorin said, turning around once more. “You know this mountain, you love its people…and you’re undaunted by its ill-tempered, unreasonable king. Even now, you glare at me impatiently!”

“Because you’re talking nonsense, Thorin,” Ulvhild replied, shaking her head. “You should wed, I don’t disagree with that thought, but your bride ought to be someone whose connections and dowry benefit the realm.”

It tore her apart to speak those words, but every time her own soul had dreamed of being with him in that manner, she’d squashed the thought as a mere fantasy, and she couldn’t bear the painful reawakening of that old, calcified hope.

“I disagree,” Thorin declared haughtily. “It’s for me, for us, to fortify and stabilise. Let future generations plot and build. Have we not earned the right to be happy?”

Cupping his taut, bearded cheek, Ulvhild sighed longingly.

“Or would you not have me?” he asked, eyes narrowing to hide the flash of hurt within them.

“Of course I would, don’t be silly,” she laughed mirthlessly. “Who could refuse you?”

“I don’t care about anyone else,” he grumbled. “Would you accept me out of duty and reverence or…”

Ulvhild frowned. Could he really be this blind?

“I cherish you, Thorin,” she admitted. “I’ve loved you long before I knew about crowns and legacies, and well you know that.”

“Then marry me,” he exclaimed. “For love, for hope, for us.”

 Upon entering the room, Ori soon realised that Iora had already made their intentions amply clear.

“Don’t cry, Dori,” he hissed warningly. “This isn’t my funeral!”

“It’s his prerogative to weep with relief and joy,” Nori interjected in a surprising show of loyalty to their ever-nagging, overly anxious minder. “Well done, my boy!”

Trying to dissimulate how much his kinsmen’s reaction alleviated his own anxiety for fear that Iora would believe him to be faithless and craven still, Ori smiled timidly.

“Is it appropriate for you to sleep in your betrothed’s room?” Dori asked, fussing with a tea towel to busy his shaking hands. “Not that I’d suggest you acting despicably towards young Iora, of course.”

Jaw dropping in outrage, Ori sputtered helplessly for a moment.

“If anything, such a reproach must be laid at my feet, I’m afraid,” Iora came to his rescue with a sweet smile. “Ori’s much too prim and proper to ever do anything untoward.”

If she thought that such a speech would allay his misgivings, she was sorely mistaken, and Ori’s brow furrowed with vexation.

His beloved had more or less explicitly stated that he was too much of a prude to take advantage of their illicit cohabitation! After what had happened between them, he found such a claim outright calumnious.

He’d show her how wrong she was.

“Speak, boy!” Balin prompted him gently. “Or did you come here to merely gape at your intended?”

“No,” Ori ground out. “I wanted to humbly ask for your blessing, but it seems Iora has been faster.”

“I have two hale legs,” she muttered almost apologetically.

“Blessing, pah!” Dori muttered, shaking his head. “Of course, we’re delighted, aren’t we, Nori?”

His face grew grave then. “As we’re your closest kin, it would be our honour to take care of the necessary preparations. Weddings are one thing, but the establishment of a household consists of more than just good food and drink. Especially if you plan on settling elsewhere.”

Ori withered—he wished he could say that he hadn’t thought that far, but he had, and his prospects had ever struck him as particularly bleak.

And then, Iora’s hand slid into his and squeezed his clammy flesh soothingly.

“No,” she declared softly. “There’s much work to be done here, and we’re needed. The Mountain is vast enough to afford us every comfort.”

“You want to stay here?” Ori asked, shielding her from the prying eyes of the older dwarves. “You deserve—”

“Desist!” she whispered. “These are your people; this is your home. What led you to believe that I’d desert all the bliss I’ve found in favour of an empty abode? I shall aid Óin and assist Hild and…go to the Greenwood with you. How would you get to work with your crutches if we left the Mountain?”

“I won’t be on crutches forever,” he reminded her, unable to mute the profound love and gratitude in his voice.

“I can’t wait that long to be yours,” she admitted.

Thorin sat up, cradling Ulvhild against his chest.

She still fitted into his arms as perfectly as the pommel of her cane espoused the shape of his hand, and he decided that he’d never let her go until she agreed to be his queen.

She had been made for him, and he couldn’t believe that it had taken him so long to wrap his stubborn head around so beautifully simple a fact.

“Thorin, we can’t,” Ulvhild sighed. “As much as I yearn to agree to this, we must be sensible.”

“Oh yes, that’s something I’m well known for,” he chuckled, rolling his eyes.

“Very well,” she agreed readily. “Then I shall be reasonable for the both of us. You cannot just ask a random dam to marry you.”

She licked her lips nervously. “If it’s because of what we started, you can have what you desire without compromising yourself.”

Thorin stared at her, blinking slowly.

“What I want,” he enunciated, “is for you to wear my mother’s and grandmother’s jewels while sitting by my side. You do me an injustice by doubting my motives.”

She shrank away from him then, and—robbed of her grounding warmth—he decided to retrieve one such adornment from a small chest, hidden in a discreet nook of his bookshelf.

When he turned around, Ulvhild had settled her chin in her palm and was regarding him with careful curiosity. “What are you saying, old friend?”

“I love you,” he expostulated. “For all the things you were and for all the things you are now. You complete me; you’re wise and kind where I fall short, and your strength of mind and body gives me hope. Dís thinks that I was in love with you, back in our youth, and that might well be true, but this is different.”

“Calmer, steadier, less mad hope and more quiet certainty?” she asked as if she could read the confused thoughts racing through his mind at such a speed that he could barely register them before they were gone.

“Yes, exactly,” he sighed, profoundly relieved and gratified that she understood.

“You make it very hard to stay the course,” Ulvhild complained when he held out a sapphire necklace his father had given his mother during their courtship.

Even though the piece was exquisite, her eyes never strayed from his face as she visibly struggled to keep her composure.

How could he not have adored her when it was so evident that she truly saw him for what he was and never so much as flinched?

She knew how impatient and ill-tempered he could be, and she didn’t shy away from these parts of his personality while also profoundly relishing his better qualities. He was selfish enough to long to be loved by one who was intimately familiar with every facet of his soul.

“Stay with me,” he reiterated the desperate plea he’d been repeating ad nauseam for the last few days one last time. “Be mine forever. Please, Hild.”

By the time Iora slipped into the forge room, which she secretly considered as hers and Hild’s, to catch her breath, her mind was spinning with excitement.

Everyone had agreed wholeheartedly thus far, and she was almost certain that Thorin wouldn’t object either.

“So it begins,” she whispered to herself while penning a small note to her sister, listing all the adjustments Alrún had mentioned lest she forget.

Her heart was thumping wildly at the thought of her future; she would rise every morning to check on Óin, work on her concoctions, and help Hild in the design and fabrication of her marvels.

In time, she might convince King Thranduil to let her forage in his forest in exchange for a share of the ancient remedies she brewed. Surely, he remembered his forefather’s wisdom and would be happy to discover the adjustments others had made to those age-old recipes.

She only realised how long she’d daydreamed and scribbled random patterns in the margins of her message when she heard the muted clank of many feet somewhere above her.

“Dinner,” she muttered. “I’ll be late for dinner.”

As Ori had proved that he could move around with relative ease, there was no reason for them to take their meals in the seclusion of her rooms anymore; on this day especially, they were expected to appear in the Great Hall to weather the various well-wishes and crude japes.

Hastening back to her rooms, she already tore open the fastenings of her deplorably unembellished tunic to change into something more flattering as quickly as she could.

“Ah, I’ve missed you,” the warm, honeyed voice of her betrothed resounded.

Iora came to a slithering halt, almost stumbling over the rolled-up edge of a rug.

“What in Mahal’s name,” she whispered breathlessly as she drank in the incongruous tableau presenting itself to her.

The one who’d soon be her husband sat by the hearth, knitting what looked like a replacement for the mittens she’d so shamelessly stolen.

Thus far, the scene was one she’d imagined a thousand times in the darkest hours of the night, when her heart was weary, and her bones felt brittle with grief and loneliness.

What she’d not pictured was that Ori would be gloriously naked, the trailing wool being the only shred of fabric touching his pristine skin.

Batting his dense lashes in an infuriating parody of startled innocence, he claimed to await her counsel regarding his outfit, but Iora could clearly discern the mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“So prim and proper, yes?” he purred, letting his thighs drift outwards provocatively. “Are you still so sure you have the measure of me?”

Iora’s mouth opened and closed a few times without producing any intelligible words.

Narrowing her eyes, she shrugged out of her own clothes brazenly, basking in the way his muscles clenched and his cheeks reddened.

“Do not challenge me, Ori dear,” she threatened, pacing towards him like a prowling predator.

“I’m unafraid,” he chortled, holding her gaze.

Chapter Text

Ulvhild’s chest constricted painfully.

“This was too much too fast,” Thorin said apologetically. “Of course, I wouldn’t demand that you accept me and a whole kingdom on top of that right away. Take your time—I just wanted to make my designs and desires clear to you.”

“We should get ready for dinner,” Ulvhild said distractedly as she realised that, instead of continuing to work as she’d intended, they’d whiled away most of their afternoon with delusional daydreaming.

“The people must see you, and Iora will want to talk to you, I’m sure,” she went on to fill the expectant silence between them.

Despite his generous offer of a respite to think things over, Thorin was a profoundly impatient person, and Ulvhild didn’t doubt that he chafed at her desperate attempt to change the subject.

She wanted to agree and cast all her reservations to the wayside, but she couldn’t.

Silly as that might have been, Ulvhild loved Thorin and Erebor too much to risk harming their progress by chipping away at what little stability they’d achieved.

No, she’d have to gauge the impact a potential betrothal would have on everyone. How would Dís feel? His nephews? His council? His friends?

Moreover, she would have to speak to Iora, so her sister wouldn’t think that she was trying to steal her thunder so soon after the fulfilment of her heart’s dearest desire.

Another terrible thought coalesced in Ulvhild’s mind then: what if Iora objected to her marrying Thorin?

“Share your thoughts with me, please?” Thorin pleaded over his shoulder while laying out what he thought to be an appropriate outfit for this evening’s feast.

She merely hummed vaguely, stepping up beside him to inspect his choice.

“Will you wear the necklace for me?” he then asked, giving her yet another of those intense stares that had always made her doubt her own sanity for a moment.

“Yes,” Ulvhild whispered. “They’ll see and know.”

She was afraid of being chased out of the Mountain by an angry mob, but she had to face that possibility if she ever hoped to gain any clarity on the matter at hand.

And then, Thorin’s strong arms were slung around her, and she could hear the calming, steady beating of his heart.

“They shall rejoice, I’m sure,” he chuckled. “My sister surely will. I guess she’ll insist on a humiliating scene with me telling her that she’d been right all along.”

*And will you do it?” Ulvhild inquired, her amusement breaking the spell of gloomy indecision.

“Evidently,” Thorin sighed. “It has taken some time, but I’ve learned to defer to the wisdom of the women in my life.”

“Is that why you left with an all-male company?” she teased.

Wrinkling his nose, Thorin glared at her for a long moment before sighing once more and planting a long, loving kiss atop her head.

“If I don’t let go of you now, we’ll not make it to dinner, I’m afraid,” he groaned, hugging her closer yet.

Ori knew that he was easily mistaken for being prudish and wilting, so he’d wanted to prove Iora wrong by taking a truly shocking risk.

“You’ve seen me undressed a few times lately, and you’ve agreed to wed me,” he said conversationally. He was proud of the fact that his fingers never slowed or stilled in their labour, even though his heart was doing somersaults in his chest in the face of her mind-numbing beauty. “This should hardly be considered an affront.”

By now, Iora had reached him, and the thunderous darkness in her gaze made his stomach drop deliciously.

This was the first time he’d ever seen her undressed, and it amused and charmed him that such an intimate act of surrender and submission would come as a challenge and a battle cry.

He should have known that—where his beloved was concerned—nothing would ever be easy or predictable, not even the most natural of developments.

In an uncharacteristically brazen gesture, Ori dropped his knitting and lifted his hand to curl his fingers around her hip.

It felt like claiming her, and—contrary to the fears that had haunted him for years—Iora didn’t jerk back or berate him; she gave a low, shuddering sigh before leaning into his palm’s warmth willingly.

“You wicked vixen,” she hissed. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for ambushing a poor, hard-working dam like that?”

For a breathless moment of doubt, Ori wondered whether he’d gone too far, but then she grabbed his half-finished mittens and tossed them onto the bed unceremoniously.

A small growl escaped her taut lips as she sank to her knees before him, her face set in a belligerent mien.

“Are you displeased, Lady Meliora?” he asked.

“You make us late for dinner,” she replied bitingly.

“If you’d only tell me what you me to wear—” The rest of his sentence was torn to shreds like mist on a windy day as her lips were pressed against the inside of his uninjured thigh.

“I’ll redo the bandage later,” she promised, patting the still-pristine fabric gingerly.

“Iora,” Ori yelped warningly. “Dinner…well-wishes…”

“Oh, you don’t get to lecture me about mores and appearances. You have brought this upon yourself,” Iora purred gleefully as she kissed her way up along his sensitive skin.

He wanted to protest again, but he couldn’t remember how to form words when her gentle, teasing ministrations sent shivers of maddening desire down his spine.

Ori dimly remembered Iora’s previous threats, and a wave of debilitating heat engulfed him—she’d sworn not to claim his braid until their wedding day, but she’d also insinuated that she’d fully intended to audaciously toe the line.

“What are you…” he whimpered as her breath ghosted along his treacherously filling cock.

“Putting your purity to the test,” she grinned. “You made this into a game, and I love winning.”

As her tongue lapped at his flesh, making him squeal in surprise and delight, Ori realised that he loved seeing her win.

“Care to give me a ride?” Kíli yelled as he raced through the hall to catch his brother before he could be wheeled into the dining hall.

“Ah, I’ve been warned that this might happen,” Alrún grinned. “And I’ve been told not to permit any shenanigans with Hild’s precious creation. I’m sorry.”

As she saw the younger dwarf’s face fall, she realised how difficult it was to deny Kíli, and she cursed the unpleasant role she had to play.

“That’s all right,” Kíli then said after a moment of intense dismay. “I shall relish the fact that my dear brother is amongst us once more—I’ve missed his silly remarks during dinner.”

Rolling his eyes, Fíli shifted in his chair to look at his brother warningly.

“You’ll join us, won’t you?” Kíli then asked with enviable levity.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Alrún muttered, petrified at the thought of being perceived by all these people. She was a stranger to these lands, and she was sure that nobody would look kindly at a shameless interloper who didn’t know her place.

“Of course, you will,” Fíli interrupted in a voice ringing with authority.

“Your brother can push you to your seat,” she tried to protest. “You don’t need me.”

A small silence fell then, as they stood on the threshold of the room, as much as on the verge of confessions that shouldn’t be made in so busy a thoroughfare.

“I disagree,” Fíli finally said. “You make me feel alive. I couldn’t bear sitting there like a broken doll without you.”

When she opened her mouth to dismiss the unflattering description, he grinned. “See? I need that; I need someone by my side who sees me as ‘on the way back to full health’ rather than ‘still ailing’.”

When her beautiful eyes softened, he knew that he’d won.

“Also, my mother won’t be too nosy if she knows that someone’s overhearing all her indiscreet questions,” Fíli added as they approached the small dais on which the royal family was to take their place.

“So, you’re throwing me to the wolves?” she asked, feeling self-conscious about her limp for the first time in years as seemingly every pair of eyes in the room zeroed in on her back.

“I’d never,” Fíli promised. “We’re in this together. You have my back, and I have yours.”

And, even in the face of the undeniable proof of his status, Alrún couldn’t help but feel the same easy complicity that had drawn her in from the start. It would have been much too easy to believe that such a thing could be more than the pleasant delusion a lonely mind had conjured up.

In another life, she thought, she could have yearned for that chair by his side. If either one of them had been born to a different fate, she could have loved him, and that realisation terrified her to her core.

“Why is everyone late?” Kíli complained.

“I have an idea,” Fíli groaned, sick with envy.

Thorin frowned when Ulvhild sprang back at once.

“You don’t have to be quite that eager to get away from me,” he complained dolefully.

“Don’t be daft,” she hissed. “I just realised that I, as well, will have to find something suitable to wear.”

She grimaced, and Thorin licked his lips, pondering whether to speak the words on the tip of his tongue or swallow them again. Thus far, he’d not been able to present his most earnest offers very convincingly, and he certainly didn’t wish to sound insensitive or patronising to the dam he wanted to marry.

Nevertheless, he knew that Hild had been on the road for quite some time, and thus, it was only reasonable and understandable that her wardrobe would be adapted to another lifestyle.

“I’m sure Dís would be delighted to lend you a gown,” he said carefully. “And, of course, we have tailors and dressmakers here.”

She gave him a wild look.

“Your new brother-in-law might knit you something?” Thorin joked.

Ulvhild chuckled reluctantly. “Very well,” she then said. “I shall seek out your sister to discuss such matters with her.”

An echo of his old grievance thrummed through Thorin. “Am I not to be trusted?” he asked sharply.

“When it comes to women’s garments? Oh no, my love, you’re not. Fret not, though, I hope this will be a pleasant surprise to you. And, if you’re behaving admirably during the dinner, I might just explain the intricacies of female dresses to you later.”

That thought cheered Thorin immensely. “Piece by piece?”

“Of course,” Ulvhild smiled sweetly. “I’ll let you undo every ribbon and button.”

It took all the fortitude and forbearance he’d acquired throughout his life for Thorin not to reiterate his clumsily impassioned proposal then, as he gazed at her impish mien and dignified posture with such abject longing that he thought his heart might burst.

“I’m sure you’ll be beautiful,” he said. “You always are.”

Shaking her head, Ulvhild breached the distance between them with two quick strides and gave his beard a gentle tug that sent shivers of blinding arousal through him.

“I’ll see you soon, Thorin II,” she whispered as he tilted his face towards her, eager to receive the casual yet heartwarming kiss he’d come to expect and depend upon to get through the next ordeal.

“Yes,” he muttered hazily. “But never soon enough.”

“You’ve survived years without me,” she reminded him.

“And what desolate years they were indeed,” he rejoined fluidly, delighted to see her flush with pleasure. “And now that I have you back, I can’t bear to let you leave my sight.”

Another might have either chafed or rejoiced at such an exaggerated exclamation; Ulvhild merely laughed.

“Silly, old fool,” she chuckled good-humouredly. “I’ll meet you downstairs. Take your time.”

As soon as she was gone, Thorin got dressed and rang for someone to tidy his room in his absence. Then, he set out resolutely so he could watch Ulvhild enter and walk towards him.

Iora could still feel the ghost of Ori’s touch on her skin as she leaned forward to close her lips loosely around the smooth, flushed tip of that mesmerising organ she’d recently discovered.

Her previous worries about time management and politeness became laughably irrelevant when his hips bucked involuntarily.

Ori had always been so perversely proud of his self-control that it filled her with wicked glee to realise that he was quickly losing all semblance of dominion over his mental faculties and physical reactions.

“Iora, you’re cutting it very close to the edge,” he stammered.

He was probably trying to recall various fusty documents he’d read on the subject, Iora thought derisively.

It didn’t count, she told herself. This was little more than a kiss, and those were allowed—within reason—during the courtship. At least, that was what she thought Hild had told her a long time ago; she was no longer entirely sure.

If she was mistaken, she might as well enjoy it!

Deliberately relaxing her jaw, she let his solid heat slide deeper past her tingling lips and was promptly rewarded with a deep, guttural moan from her beloved.

“Who’s the vixen now?” he wheezed, his heels scrabbling frantically against the warm stone floor beneath them. “I yield—I admit defeat. Iora, you mustn’t.”

Unfortunately, that was exactly the wrong thing to say; Iora had ever mistaken prohibitions and warnings for challenges, and so she stilled for but a moment to investigate that intriguing intrusion with the tip of her tongue.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Ori groaned softly.

Raising her gaze slowly as if in devout prayer, Iora caught sight of the single most beautiful picture she’d ever beheld. Flushed and panting, Ori stared down at her downturned face in amazement, his eyes dark and liquid like spilt ink.

She lifted a pleading, searching hand.

At once, he intertwined his trembling fingers with hers, grounding her.

It couldn’t be wrong, Iora thought. She could feel the mountain thrumming beneath her knees, echoing the slow beat of her own lust, and her dazed mind was awash with glorious melodies of love and victory. Surely, something so perfect couldn’t be a violation of all that was good and holy.

After all, Ori was a hero, and it behoved her to honour him accordingly.

Thus emboldened in her conviction, she closed her eyes and let his involuntary movements guide her in this act of pre-marital worship until he tensed, sputtering incoherently.

Remembering what had transpired previously, Iora braced for his fulgurous climax.

“Oh sweet Iora,” Ori exclaimed, cupping her jaw tenderly. “I should have stopped you before—”

“I wasn’t there,” she whispered. “Throughout your worst ordeal, I was but a painful memory, but I promise to ride out the waves of destiny by your side henceforth. I see no shame in proving this in any way possible.”

“If only we had more time,” he lamented, caressing her bare shoulder longingly.

“We do share a room,” she grinned.

Chapter Text

Ulvhild tried not to be ashamed as Dís piled up a mountain of dresses on her bed.

“So, is this for my brother or your sister?” the princess asked in a dangerously conversational tone. “What did Thorin say, by the way?”

“He asked me to marry him,” Ulvhild replied in the same casual inflexion.

A cascade of fabric tumbled to the ground as Dís’s whole body went slack with shock. “He did?”

“He did,” Ulvhild said.

“And you’re looking for a dress that makes him eat his heart out, because you’re going to accept or because you’re planning on breaking his heart?” Dís inquired, leaping over the heap of forgotten gowns gracefully.

“That was in no way my design,” Ulvhild exclaimed, horrified by the accusation. “In truth, I merely resented the thought of looking unpardonably shabby on this joyous day.”

“Nonsense,” Dís interrupted kindly. “You’re actively looking for a dress that my brother hasn’t seen yet, and I’m compiling a selection of my finest garments for you.”

Her face grew soft and understanding then. “I’m sorry for pressuring you earlier; you don’t have to marry Thorin if that’s not what you want. In time, he’ll understand.”

Sighing, Ulvhild buried her face in her hands. “Oh, but I’d love to. Only, I don’t even have an appropriate gown for a regular dinner. How can I expect his people to accept me as their future queen? Surely, there have been other, more advantageous matches?”

“Of course,” Dís snarled, shaking her head. “He wouldn’t hear of it. As we’re speaking honestly, these people you seem to worry about so much have all but given up on the thought that he’d ever take a wife.”

Taking Ulvhild’s cold hands and cradling them against her own warm palms, Dís gave her friend a long, loving look.

“If you love him, don’t torture both of you by holding back on anybody else’s account,” she said insistently. “I’m not sure he could bear it. He deserves to reap the fruits of a life of labour, wouldn’t you agree?”

“But—”

“No buts,” Dís cut her off. “Iora’s taken care of here. You’re both cherished and welcome.”

And then, the penny dropped. Ulvhild could see it in the other’s widening eyes.

“Oh, you need to see it,” Dís gasped. “You want the dress to walk up to my brother in front of everyone and observe their reaction.”

She grimaced. “Can I trust my sons not to do something utterly foolish? I cannot. Alas, I won’t find them in time…”

“It’s not them I worry about,” Ulvhild assured her. “I adore them.”

“See? You have my support, and I daresay that the boys would be overjoyed. Have you talked to Iora yet?”

Shaking her head, Ulvhild picked up a deep blue gown that had caught her eye.

Dís nodded slowly, pleased with her choice. “A gown worthy of a queen,” she commented. “It’s his favourite colour too.”

“I know,” Ulvhild sighed longingly. “Let’s get ready for a social battle.”

Ori shivered at the unspoken promise in her eyes.

“Come here,” he said, tugging at her wrist.

“We’ll be late for dinner,” she insisted, pretending to be the very image of social decorum, even though her lips were still reddened from her immoral assault upon his senses.

“We’re late already,” he grinned. “We shall go in a moment, but Iora, this is the first time I’ve seen you undressed, and I want to bask in this moment a while longer.”

“Fool,” she laughed, but stepped closer to him willingly until she was pulled onto his lap. “Your stitches! Have a care!”

“Oh, forget about my damn leg for a moment!” he chided. “I’ve never felt better or stronger in my whole life.”

Ori smiled up at her soothingly and traced the outline of her lower lip with a trembling thumb to commit her answering grin to memory; she was still the most beautiful, bewitching dam he’d ever seen, and he couldn’t quite believe that, in a few short months, she’d be his forever.

Mayhap, she hadn’t been so wrong after all in believing that he was somewhat prudish, for he’d been ready and willing to refrain from any carnal acts until their wedding day so as not to disrespect the hallowed vow they’d made.

This noble resolution had since dissolved in the stormy waves of her recklessness, and he’d match her folly only too readily.

Inclining his head slowly, he pressed his lips against the swell of her chest and let his hand slide up along her bare thigh suggestively.

“When you sit next to me, smiling at all the people who wish us well, I want you to think about this,” he whispered into her ear.

“About you naked? Why, future husband, what a naughty thing to say,” Iora chuckled.

“If you want,” he replied evenly. “But I meant this…”

Taking advantage of her relaxed, playful state of mind, he shifted her weight atop him and closed his lips around one perky nipple even as his fingers brushed against the plush seam of her folds tenderly.

To his surprise, Iora spoke his name—his full name—which he’d only revealed to her once. She’d not forgotten, and the rough-edged syllables tumbling from her parted lips rang like a prayer or a curse through the chamber.

“Yes, love of loves?” he mumbled around her flesh, nudging it with his tongue when she didn’t immediately reply.

“Oh, we’ll have to get really creative,” she moaned, angling her hips up to chase the mere insinuation of friction he’d given her.

“Say you’ll remember this when you eat and drink and make merry,” he demanded, moving on to her other nipple to lavish the same attention upon it.

“I shall,” she croaked. “And I’ll suffer immensely.”

“Good,” Ori crooned. “Then you’ll have a taste of how I felt all these times when I wanted you so much and couldn’t have you.”

“If you don’t stop, we won’t make it to dinner,” Iora whimpered.

“Well, there’s the King,” Alrún commented cheerily, admiring the stiff gait and regal deportment of the stately dwarf now stomping towards them like Mahal’s personified wrath.

“Uncle,” Fíli greeted, inclining his head respectfully.

“Ah, it’s good to see you looking so well, sister-son,” Thorin replied as he lowered himself carefully onto his chair.

“You have my excellent companion here to thank for that; she won’t accept defeat,” Fíli answered so suavely that Alrún only realised what he’d said when it was already too late.

Again, she blushed, wondering if she’d end up making a habit of that undignified behaviour.

“You have my thanks then,” Thorin addressed her with a surprisingly warm smile. “How do you like Erebor so far?”

Kíli sniggered loudly. “You know that you cannot hope to detain everyone who passes through here, Uncle, don’t you?” he grinned.

This made Alrún frown in confusion; she didn’t mind waiting out the inclement months in the safety of this recovering kingdom, but she also knew that she’d soon chafe at being contained within solid walls, no matter how beautiful they were.

“She may leave if that’s her design,” Thorin said with a sly smile. “But, as the ruler, I’d like to ascertain that this is a place she’d consider returning to…in time.”

“If I’m welcome to do so,” Alrún heard herself say before her heart had caught up with the unexpected turmoil assailing her from deep within.

She’d never had a home, and she hadn’t known how much that lack had ailed her before she’d heard the King’s words. Now, it was all she could think about.

Already, she was reconsidering her potential assignments and routes to make sure she’d be able to stop in Erebor every so often.

“Evidently,” Thorin laughed. “A friend of Hild’s is a friend of mine. Moreover, my nephew seems to be quite taken with your…talents.”

Grimacing, Alrún held his cool, unwavering stare. “I don’t mean any harm,” she assured him after a moment.

“Don’t let my uncle throw you off-balance; he likes asking indiscreet questions and insinuating himself into matters that don’t concern him. He is my mother’s brother after all,” Fíli interjected wittily.

“Would you cast aspersions against both your beloved uncle and your cherished mother in one sentence?” Thorin thundered, but Alrún could see the amused glint in his eyes. “How impertinent your recovery has made you!”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Fíli grinned boyishly. “Be that as it may, I hope you’re not that eager to desert us just yet, are you?”

His eyes were mesmerising, Alrún thought. Deep and shifting like a sunlit ocean, they turned like otherworldly beacons upon her tense face.

“No,” she stammered. “Of course not. We have plans, don’t we?”

Visibly satisfied with her answer, Fíli leaned back and let his luminous gaze sweep across the room.

“Ah, there comes Hild,” he exclaimed suddenly. “And she looks amazing!”

Alrún followed his gaze, and her jaw almost dropped.

“I wonder what that means,” she whispered. “It sure means something.”

Thorin had a similar yet diametrically opposite reaction to Ulvhild’s appearance—his jaw tensed until he could hear his teeth grinding.

He thought he vaguely recognised the uncharacteristically low-cut, sweeping dress she was wearing, but he wasn’t confident in his intimate knowledge of his sister’s wardrobe.

After all, he’d never looked at Dís with quite the same sharp-eyed interest as he now deployed in his study of his lover’s every movement.

As she crossed the room, Ulvhild drew the attention of many a dwarf in the hall, and Thorin felt an intoxicating mix of jealousy and pride flare within his heart; he knew that she’d been afraid of others’ disapproval, and he hoped that the unequivocally approving whistling would show her that she’d worried for nought.

“Why, lass, you look marvellous. I wasn’t made aware of a celebration,” Balin hailed her from a bench he shared with Óin.

“Must be something silly like the fact that my indolent patients finally found the wherewithal to drag their sorry bones out of my halls,” the healer grumbled. “If I’d known that all it took was a pair of pretty eyes, I’d have borrowed a cow from Bard.”

Sending a withering stare his way, Thorin drummed his fingers against the table impatiently.

As if she’d sensed his puerile displeasure, Ulvhild looked up and smiled in that half-mocking, half-indulgent way that always chastised Thorin faster than any harsh reprimand could.

Huffing, he thought that—once again—she inadvertently showed him how a queen was to behave. Far from rushing to her seat, she took the time to reconnect with old friends and make new ones.

Her natural grace humbled him, and he resigned himself to basking in her beauty until she was ready to return to him.

“Your Majesty,” Ulvhild finally said in melting accents as she stepped up to the dais.

“Milady Ulvhild,” he replied in a low growl. “You look stunning tonight. Dare I hope that such pains have been taken for my sake?”

Thorin could sense his sister rolling her eyes beside him.

Blushing prettily, Ulvhild curtsied, but he thought he’d caught the flash of a wicked smile before her face was obscured by the shadows.

“Vixen,” he hissed into her ear as soon as she’d accepted his formal invitation to sit by his side throughout the meal. “How am I to eat and be merry, watching you wipe your mouth, when you look like the incarnation of all my most lurid, vivid dreams?”

Again, she aptly hid her mirth behind her napkin and didn’t reply.

“Oh, you’d make a marvellous queen,” he gasped passionately.

“Aye,” Dís agreed, leaning over him unceremoniously.

“Who? What queen?” Kíli, whose hearing went from unnaturally sharp to non-existent depending on the situation, asked.

“Lady Ulvhild,” Thorin grunted. “If she’d make up her mind and accept my proposal.”

To his dismay, both his nephews now looked at him doubtfully as if unsure whether they’d encourage such a match.

“Do you want to marry Uncle?” Fíli asked.

Iora hoped that people would believe that her furious blush was due to the pointed attention shifting to her as she entered the Dining Hall.

Despite her brave talk, she was almost certain that some of the older members of the Ereborian community would take a dim view of the liberties she’d taken with the precepts of a traditional courting period.

Thus, it would be unfortunate if people were to guess the reason for her visible discomfort.

“Come here!” Thorin bellowed as a throng of well-wishers formed around them. “Disperse, you insolent mob. Let me congratulate the blessed couple before they must raise their tankards with all of you!”

Thankful for his intervention, Iora hastened towards the foot of the raised platform to fall to her knees before one who’d been the very symbol of benevolent authority throughout her life.

There were no right terms to describe the role Thorin had played in her existence, but neither father, nor older brother, nor blessed king might have been more faithful and reliable than he.

“Rise, child,” he chuckled. “Receive the blessing of one who’s loved you for longer than your memories stretch back and deeper than your thoughts might reach.”

She stood, lifting her face to him trustingly as she had a thousand times before.

“I wish you well, Meliora. May you find happiness, strength, and comfort in the late blossoms on a tree with such ancient roots,” Thorin said. “And you, Ori, have served me well through a harrowing time. I hope that the love of one so excellent shall be the reward for your stalwart bravery.”

Beside her, Ori bowed low in thanks.

“Meliora,” Thorin then added gravely, an incongruous note of trepidation slipping into his voice unexpectedly. “I, too, must ask you for your goodwill. I’ve asked your sister to marry me, and I know that she would never even consider such a match without your blessing.”

Iora’s head snapped back in surprise, and her eyes sought Ulvhild’s pleadingly.

“Is that so, Hild?” she asked breathlessly.

“It is,” the other admitted tensely. “He should not have brought this up, I apologise.”

“And is that your desire?” Iora asked, even though she was almost sure that it very much was.

“My wishes are irrelevant,” Ulvhild replied with noble equanimity. “Today, we celebrate your happiness.”

“If my happiness is your chief concern, then answer my question, for my bliss could never be complete if yours were stalled,” Iora declared stubbornly.

“Yes,” Ulvhild breathed inaudibly.

“Then you should heed your own counsel and claim what has been awaited and promised for so long,” Iora whispered, gaze pleading. “We’ve torn asunder our cart—we have decided to stay. Why remain in the shadows? You are the roots Thorin spoke of. You are the bark that protected me, the sap that nourished me, and the light that allowed me to thrive. On this blessed day, I will ask one more favour of you.”

“Speak,” Ulvhild sighed. “There’s nought I’d deny you.”

“Be brave!”