EAD: Radiance: Pale Moon’s Light

Title: Pale Moon’s Light
Series: Radiance #2
Fandom: The Hobbit/LotR
Pairing(s): Elrond/fem!Legolas, Thorin Oakenshield/Bellamira Baggins (fem!Bilbo)
Genre: Romance, fantasy, action adventure, genderbend, alternate universe
Warnings: genderbend of several Tolkien characters (because I can and because there are entirely too many male and too few female characters in those books-slash-movies), canon-typical violence (which covers a lot). EAD Warning: Not complete, no beta but Grammarly, and that was half-assed.
Word Count: 18 035
Notes: see Series Page for full notes;  Bilbo, Legolas and Kíli are female for reasons. I’m using the movie verse as my primary canon, with a dash of book and Tolkien lore, and fusing elements of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. Movie casting unless otherwise specified; see series page for Casting. Glossary on series page.
Part One is here

One

Thorin Oakenshield did not envy elves. Not their height or supposed beauty, and certainly not their immortality. Not when there were days he crawled into bed, shaking with exhaustion and so worn that even sleep felt beyond him. After such a day, the thought of eternity rather than a handful of centuries filled him with horror. It was the only time he felt any sympathy for elvenkind for, if his own two hundred years left him worn by life and grief, how terrible must millennia be?

In those moments, he could very nearly forgive the way elves retreated to their hidden lands while time and mortal lives flowed past like a river.

Nearly.

No, Thorin did not envy them. He was a dwarf of the line of Durin, and they were a proud people even when brought low. He might not be immune to cold or able to see by starlight as if it were midday, but dwarrow were hard to kill and more skilled with their hands than any race on Arda. They could find the faintest stirring of air from within miles of tunnels and were immune to the heat of all but the hottest forges. The great smith Mahal had shaped them with his own hands, using ore and stone to make them robust and sturdy.

And rock-headed, but dwarrow chose to take pride in that as well.

If Rivendell inspired anything in Thorin, it was a fierce desire to see his people have the same. Not this open-air city, with too many windows and not enough solid walls but a home that was safe and comfortable and theirs.

He absolutely did not envy the sight of the library, with room upon room of books and scrolls filled with wisdom and history preserved against the ravages of time. It made him grieve for the Royal Librarium of Erebor and pray that the precautions his forebearers had taken against the soot of the mountain’s forges would hold out against dragon fire.

Balin sighed. Again.

“Get a hold of yourself,” Thorin said.

“Aye, laddie, I am sorry.” The older dwarf touched a gilded spine as they passed. “Though I won’t be too sorry if circumstances keep us here awhile. Just a day or two, of course,” he added quickly. “Dori did take a hard blow, and he’s not so young as he was, you know.”

Dori wasn’t the only one who had been injured by the orcs who’d pursued them to the boundary of Rivendell, and he was a century younger than Balin. Thorin had already decided the company would rest here at least three days, however little he liked being among elves. Fortunately, the library would distract Balin from complaints of being treated like a fragile old dwarf. Though, it would take Dwalin and Thorin together to pry him out when it was time.

Ori, the most dedicated of Balin’s many apprentices, might well move in.

“After we speak to the elf-lord,” Thorin said. “Tharkûn said to meet him in the reading room.”

“It’s at the end of this wing.”

For the second time in one day, the burglar startled Thorin into reaching for his sword. As his hand fell from the hilt, he glared up at where she peered over the railing of the upper gallery. “Must you do that?”

The burglar pursed her lips to hide a grin. “Turnabout is only fair, Master Oakenshield. Aren’t you glad to have a burglar who can prove her worth?”

“You are supposed to sneak up on others, not me,” he grumbled as Balin chortled.

“It’s important to keep in practice — or someone might mistake me for a grocer. Again.” With that pointed statement, she pushed away from the railing and vanished from sight.

“She has you there, laddie.”

Blasted burglar. Thorin frowned and started for the stairs. “Oh, hush, you old dwarf.”

“Old I may be,” Balin said, following Thorin. “Blind, I am not.”

Thorin said nothing in response because something so foolish hardly needed disputing.

He found the burglar studying a statue with an expression of awe. Instead of the trousers she’d donned for their travels, she wore a dress much like the one he’d first seen her in, framed by the door of her underground home. He did not make note of how the colour highlighted the sapphire colour of her eyes, or that all she needed was some proper jewelry and embroidery to look quite dwarven.

“Hard-headed and soft-hearted,” Balin muttered. “Damned fool.”

Thorin said something vulgar to him in Khuzdul before striding forward. “I told you not to wander alone, burglar.”

“It’s full daylight in Rivendell, king.”

He crossed his arms and loom. “Exactly. Rivendell.”

“You might be one poorly timed joke away from war with the elves,” she huffed, planting her hands on her hips, “but the Shire has a long history of trade and good relations with Rivendell, and I’m not about to ruin it by being rude!”

“Burglar —”

“And I don’t take orders from males who can’t be bothered to remember my name. In fact, I don’t take orders from males at all, or anyone else for that matter,” she added pertly. “You can confirm that with my cousin if you care to. He’s the head of the Took family and the Thain besides, and the last time he tried to make me do something for my own good, I dumped a basket of tomatoes on his head and pushed him into a watering trough!”

“What did he tell you to do, lass?” Balin asked, saving Thorin from doing so.

“Get married,” she said lightly. Thorin’s frown darkened. “Even the Tooks were beginning to despair of me, you see. The Bagginses had long since decided I was unnatural for my lack of interest in a husband — though why anyone would expect it, I’ve no idea. I have enough males trying to tell me how to manage my affairs,” she frowned at Thorin, “without adding another. Especially since I couldn’t close and bar the front door against a husband like I can annoying cousins or the Sackville-Bagginses.”

Balin chuckled. “Well, when you put it that way.”

The burglar — Bellamira — frowned at Balin before apparently deciding he wasn’t amused at her expense. “Look at this. I didn’t know a sword could shatter.”

Shaking off the disquieting feeling her talk of marriage had caused, Thorin followed her pointing finger to the statue and what it held. “They usually don’t, provided they are well-made.” He lifted a shard of the broken blade, testing the weight and edge. “Still sharp. It would take tremendous force to do this.”

“You are not wrong, Thorin Oakenshield,” Elrond appeared behind the burglar — behind Bellamira. “Dark magic and unnatural strength shattered that blade.” He gestured to a nearby painting.

It took Thorin only a moment to realize what the canvas showed: a dark and menacing figure, far larger than the man that defiantly held a broken blade. “Sauron,” he murmured, recalling all his lessons and the stories of the past age. Reverently, he laid the fragment of steel back in its place. “This is Narsil, the King’s blade.”

“Yes.” The elf tucked his hands into his sleeve, seeming older than only a moment ago. Thorin abruptly remembered that Elrond had been witness to that day. “Here it waits for one who will rise up and lead the race of men so that it might be reformed for a new king and a new age. ‘Not all that have fallen are vanquished / a king may yet be without a crown.’”

The words rang in his head like a hammer against an anvil, and Thorin found he couldn’t look away from the elf’s dark eyes. His words were deliberate and not merely a recital of an old poem about the empty throne of Gondor.

“Lass?”

The spell was broken by Balin’s voice, and Thorin looked at the hobbit. She was staring at the painting, unmoving. “Burglar?” When she said nothing, he snapped, “Bellamira,” and grabbed her shoulder.

It seemed to work for she turned to them, looking pale and shaken. “It’s so real,” she murmured, eyes wide and unfocused. “You can hear the sounds of battle, the screams of the dying.”

As far as Thorin knew, the hobbit had never seen a battle before their recent encounters with trolls and orcs, and that was far too accurate a description for one who had never joined a battlefield. “What is this?” Thorin demanded.

“I do not know,” Elrond said, kneeling. “Bellamira.” When she met his gaze, he frowned. “I wonder. . . ?”

“Wonder what?”

“A little patience would not go amiss, Oakenshield. Hold still, little one.” He touched his fingertips to her eyelids and murmured in what Thorin thought might be a variation of Quenya. Balin gripped his shoulder before he could do anything rash — like interrupt or accuse the elven lord of witchcraft.

“Well, now, you are full of surprises, little one,” Elrond finally said, releasing her. Thorin reached out to tuck her in between Balin and himself.

“I’m quite tall for a hobbit, you know,” she replied, then blinked rapidly. “I feel lightheaded like I’ve had one too many glasses of the Brandybuck’s ten-year-old cider.”

“No doubt.” The elf rose to his feet. “You appear to be sensitive to magic.”

“What does that mean?” Thorin demanded. “What happened to her?”

“It means exactly what I have said, she has some sensitivity to magic. An awareness of when it is near. As for what happened . . .” he looked from the hobbit to the artwork. “There was magic used during and after the making of it to preserve the paint and canvas. Magic can resonate with strong emotions, and this piece was painted from memory. I believe she brushed against an echo of that memory.”

Bella looked from the painting to Elrond and then touched the elf’s hand. Thorin might have growled, but it seemed to draw the elf back into the present. “It that good, or bad?” she wondered.

“That will depend on the kind of magic,” Elrond told her. “Dark magicks may well make you ill should you come across them. But you will be less susceptible to that which clouds the mind and senses.”

“So, it could be worse?”

The elf lord stilled. “Things can always be worse. Always. And it is never wise to tempt fate thusly.”

“Good to know.”

***

The wizard was waiting in the airy reading room and raised an amused brow when they all came in together. “Did someone get lost?”

“The burglar is not to wander alone,” Thorin told him, prodding her over the Gandalf’s side.

“The burglar has a name.”

“Bellamira Baggins,” Elrond said deliberately and got a smile in return, “has a sensitivity to magic. Should she take an aversion to something, I recommend you all take heed.”

“Well, now,” Gandalf murmured. He examined the hobbit tucked in a fold of his robe as if he had never seen her. “Extraordinary. Hobbits, especially Tooks named Bella, are full of surprises.”

“I’m a Baggins,” she huffed.

“You are far more Took than anyone, even I, suspected.” He patted her shoulder. “Thorin has a map that has recently come to him. It is quite old, and I can think of no one better to wrinkle out its secrets than you, Elrond.”

“How kind of you, Mithrandir,” the elf drawled. Thorin’s lip twitched, and the wizard offered an innocent smile.

“A little kindness does go far, doesn’t it? Your ancient Khuzdul has not grown rusty, has it?”

Elrond pressed his fingers to his temples. “Mithrandir, you are a menace upon all sensible beings.” It might be petty, but Thorin was glad to see that another could be as exasperated by the wizard’s tricks as he was. “I suppose your interest in this map is academic?”

“Indeed! What an excellent guess!”

Elrond let out a heartfelt sigh. Bellamira giggled, and Thorin very nearly smiled at the elf. “Of course. May I see the subject of this academic inquiry?”

Thorin touched his coat pocket. Everything in him rebelled at the thought of showing a dwarven treasure — and their last, best chance of winning back Erebor — to an elf.

“Show Lord Elrond the map, Thorin.”

It wasn’t the wizards, but the burglar who spoke and Thorin frowned at her. “This map is a legacy of my people, and we have but few of those left to us.”

“It’s a legacy you can’t read, you great clod-head!”

Thorin gaped at her while Balin laughed. “Clod-head?”

She frowned. “What? Should I call you a rockheaded instead? Seeing as you’re a dwarf.”

“I doubt anyone has called Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, any kind of insult since he first grew a beard,” Elrond said. “Not many people call a royal prince, much less a king, a fool. To their face, at least.”

“Maybe if they did, they wouldn’t get so —” she waved a hand at Thorin. “ — so stuffy!”

“Stuffy?”

“Stuffy! It’s a perfectly suitable word, meaning proud and disagreeable, and you are except when you forget to be. Then you can be quite nice and good-humoured.” Bellamira frowned. “Up until you remember to be all solemn and angst-ridden and stuffy again.”

“Lass, he’s the king.”

“So?” She looked baffled at the attempted explanation. “Surely, dwarves would be better off if their king would smile without worrying about cracking his face?”

Gandalf cleared his throat, not even trying to hide his grin. “An excellent point, Bella, one I am sure Thorin will consider. The map?”

Shocked and distracted by the indignity of being called stuffy and clod-headed by his burglar, Thorin offered the map to Elrond without hesitation. “Solemn? Angst-ridden?”

Unashamed, Bella shrugged. “The occasional smile will hardly make anything worse and may very well make your situation better — especially for the people around you. And you’re quite handsome when you forget to scowl.”

Absolutely nothing in 195 years of living had prepared him for a scolding by a pretty hobbit lass with blue eyes and amber curls who, in the same breath, called him stuffy and handsome. A quest to face a dragon? Leading a people in exile? A doomed battle against a seemingly unstoppable foe? Those he was equipped for.

Being told to smile more?

“Moon runes.”

Startled, Thorin looked away from Bellamira to Elrond. The elf was holding his father’s map to the light and studying it with careful fingers. “What?”

“There are traces of mithril here in the empty space. There is a special ink made from mithril dust that is invisible to the naked eye once dried.” He lowered the map. “Cirth ithil, moon runes, is written thusly and may only be read by the light of a moon of the same shape and season as which they were written.”

“Can you read them?”

“Yes.” Thorin exhaled. “These runes were written under a crescent moon in summer, and that will occur at moonrise in three days.” The elf offered the map back, and Thorin took it reverently. “In the meantime, your company is welcome here. Though Erestor may never forgive me,” he added wryly.

“Well, since we’ll be staying a while,” Balin begain, “perhaps I might . . .?”

“Go, old dwarf,” Thorin said and watched as his cousin vanished among the nearby shelves. “I hope your librarian has a strong back. Balin will have him moving half the books here.”

“Lindir will be pleased, and he has several healthy young assistants to do the hard work.” Elrond smiled and moved towards the exit. “Though I will have to send someone to fetch them for meals.”

“That was not so hard, was it?” Gandalf asked as they followed the elf out. “A civil conversation between an elf-lord and a dwarf-king. Now, if only you can manage it with a hobbit lass, Thorin, your reputation as a diplomat will be assured.”

Thorin eyed the frowning burglar warily. “I doubt I will ever be known for diplomacy, Tharkûn.” She huffed, and the wizard chuckled.

They caught up to Elrond quickly for the elf had frozen, staring across the gardens at a distant fountain. “Thorin Oakenshield,” he ground out.

Thorin rubbed his beard, carefully hiding a grin from the elf. Bellamira squeaked and hid her face behind her hands. Thankfully, the fountain that was currently full of dwarrow was far enough away to hide most of the details — though no one could miss the fact that they were all bare-arsed.

“In their defence, I doubt you put up a sign forbidding swimming,” he told the elf, receiving a dark glare in response. Thorin refrained from laughing.

“Why are they naked in the fountain?” the hobbit moaned from behind her hands.

“Because it’s there?”

Elrond’s lip twitched. On the balcony above them, several elves gaped at the spectacle, torn between horror and amusement. “Public nudity may be part of the dwarvish culture, Oakenshield, but the rest of us have more delicate sensibilities.”

He could say something about elven prudery, but in truth, a little naked dwarf went a long way. “I will talk to them.” They heard a muffled shout and a splash, followed by roars of laughter. “Later.” Once they’d had their fun. And gotten dressed.

“Thank you.” It was rather more heartfelt than the elf-lord was wont, but Elves were known for their excellent eyesight.

***

“Now, Elrond,” Gandalf said, “what is peace without laughter?”

“Quieter.”

Kíli snorted and shared a grin with Legolas. They had laid claim to a shady pavilion in the gardens, out of the main flow of traffic and complete with comfortable benches and a table large enough to work on. Most importantly, however, their backs were to the spectacle most of the company was making.

“Without joy, peace is empty.”

“Joy does not require nudity,” Lord Elrond declared, coming into sight.

“No,” Legolas said, smiling at the elf-lord, “but it does occasionally help. Have you had a trying morning, hervenn?”

“Dwarves,” he said in a dire tone. Thorin smirked at his back.

Kíli hid her own smile by ducking her head and focusing on fletching the arrow in her hand. “There was no stopping them,” Kíli apologized. “It’s not all of them, at least. Ori cornered Glorfindel, and a healer threatened to drown Dori if he got his stitches wet.”

“And you?” Thorin asked Fíli. Her brother was sprawled over another bench, sharpening one of his many knives. He was positioned to watch the fountain in the distance, Kíli, and the entrance to the space they’d claimed. He’d always been foolishly overprotective. “I expected you to be in the thick of things.”

“Someone has to keep an eye on Kíli —”

“Kíli can look after herself,” she interrupted.

“— you know what she’s like while fletching.” He ignored her and waved a hand at the workspace where Kíli and Legolas had spread out their kit. There were piles of shafts, tufts of feathers, stacks of arrowheads and discarded materials on the ground around them.

Kíli huffed. “Also, I told him that if he bared his arse to all of Rivendell, I’d take it as an invitation — and shoot him in it.” She grinned at Elrond. “You’re welcome.”

“Thank you, Durin’s daughter.”

“Besides, none of the dwarrowdams chasing after his arse are here for him to show off for.”  She smiled at her brother’s dark look. Served him right, the flirt.

“Why couldn’t I have been an only child?”

“Because you’d have never survived to adulthood without someone to keep an eye on you.”

“You mean tattle to mum every time I tried to do something fun?”

“Fíli’s idea of fun made his mother’s hair silver before her time,” Thorin said. “Not that Kíli was much better. It’s a miracle either of them survived childhood. Largely because Dís nearly murdered them both a dozen times over.”

“And I thought Took faunts were trouble,” Bella said, coming to sit by Kíli. “What’s all this?”

“I went through a lot of arrows yesterday — and that was after I lost an entire quiver when the ponies bolted.” She finished the arrow in her hand and laid it aside so the glue could set. “Fortunately, I still have a decent supply of spare arrowheads, and Legolas offered to provide me with shafts.”

Legolas checked the arrow shaft she was nocking before adding it to a pile of completed ones by Kíli’s right hand. “I would have offered finished arrows from our stock, but above and beyond the difference in draw length, I know how an archer feels about their arrows.” She selected another shaft, checked the straightness and spine, and smiled at Thorin. “Also, I thought it might mortally offend to give Kíli elf-made arrows.”

Uncle Thorin snorted but didn’t glare, which was as good as smiling when it came to him and elves. Kíli was glad to see it, and not only because snapping and snarling at the beloved wife of their host was a terrible idea. Kíli didn’t have many female friends, and few dwarves shared her interest in archery over the heavy melee weapons favoured by their race.

“He could hardly say anything about it, seeing as he’s using an elvish blade,” Bella said with a huff. Fíli winked at Kíli, and she smirked back. Bella and their uncle had been clashing from the moment they’d met, much to the amusement familiar with Thorin’s generally stoic demeanour.  Her brother thought that Bella and Thorin’s snapping meant that they would take forever to get together, but Kíli figured it only made it more likely. They’d probably argue their way right into a bed, and sooner rather than later, which meant that Kíli would win the bet and Fíli would owe her a debt.

“I did notice that,” Elrond said, raising a brow at the wizard. “And I know you were not carrying that sword when you passed through here in the spring.”

“There was a small incident with trolls,” Gandalf said, retrieving a pipe from his sleeve and lighting it. “They were surprisingly selective in their hoarding.” He drew the long blade he’d claimed from the troll horde and offered it to Elrond.

Elrond made a surprised sound and accept it. “This was made in Gondolin, in the first age.” He handled the blade with reverence, studying the runes inscribed on its blade carefully. “Glamdring, the Foe-Hammer. It was wielded by Turgon, King of Gondolin.”

“Elrond,” Legolas said, reaching out to touch his sleeve.

He shook his head. “I didn’t expect to see such a thing again, especially not in possession of a troll, of all things.” He offered it back to Gandalf, hilt first.

The wizard frowned. “If it was the blade of Turgon, then it should be returned to his kin, my friend. You are his descendant.” Kíli blinked and shared a glance with her brother and uncle. Even they knew that the rulers of Gondolin were hailed as High Kings among elves.

“I have my own swords, forged for my hands, that have seen me through many battles, Mithrandir.” The wizard nodded and accept the sword. “I am glad it is returned to the world, and to its purpose. It is a blade meant to be wielded against the darkness.”

“Thank you, my friend.” Gandalf raised a brow at Thorin. “Well?”

With a scowl that was much milder than Kíli expected from her uncle, he produced the oddly curved sword. Elrond made another soft sound. “Another relic of Gondolin. Orcrist, the Goblin-Cleaver. Wielded by Ecthelion, one of the great Lords of Gondolin, against goblins, orcs, and even the most terrible of balrogs, Gothmog.” Thorin stiffened, for they all knew that the Bane of Durin, the beast that had brought down the kingdom of Khazad-Dum, was a Balrog. For one of Durin’s line to carry a blade with that legacy was more than enough to make up for its elven forging.

Legolas rose. “May I?” When Thorin nodded, she took the blade, checking the weight and then moved away to gain room. The steel sang in the air as she spun the blade in a brief dance. When she came to a stop, Legolas admired the blade once more and handed it back to Thorin, who just managed to hide his surprise at its return. “A beautiful blade.”

“In the right hands, it can cut down a dozen goblins with a single swing,” Elrond told Thorin. “And like all blades of its provenance, it will glow with a cold blue flame when orc or goblins are near to you. It will serve you well, I think.”

“It has already,” Thorin agreed.

Beside her, Bella touched the dagger at her side. To Kíli, it was the length of a long knife, but at the hobbit’s hip, it seemed more like a short sword. “Going to ask?” she murmured.

Bella bit her lip and shook her head. “Later, maybe. In private.”

Nodding, Kíli went back to her arrows, sighing over how few spare heads she had left. She’d been so careful in planning for this quest, determined to prove herself to her uncle, brother and mother. Two full quivers of arrows, a spare bow, and enough arrowheads and fletching to replace every one of her arrows twice if need be — she’d been sure she was prepared for anything.

Except for wargs running off the pony carrying half her arrows and spare tips, and hours of being hunted to whittle away the rest of her arrow supply.

“Kíli?”

She looked up at her uncle’s voice, familiar with his worried tone. “I’m fine.” He frowned at her, and she sighed. “I need to forge more arrowheads.”

“I told you, you’re welcome to the forge,” Legolas said, “and if you don’t have time for it, we can provide spares, though they won’t be the broadheads you are used to.”

“We’ll be here at least three days,” Thorin reassured her. “The runes on the map cannot be read until moonrise in three days, so the morning of the fourth day is the earliest we might leave. You’ll have time.”

That was a relief, though she would have been willing to use elven tips if it came down to a choice between that or being undersupplied. The last few days had proven just how dangerous this quest was. Still, she preferred to make her own arrowheads. Kíli was a silversmith by trade, but Thorin had seen she learned enough blacksmithing to keep her weapons and tools in good repair, and being able to make her own arrowheads saved her money as well as saving her from relying on the work of others.

“I’ll show you the forge after the midday meal,” Legolas offered, flipping a braid that was unravelling over her shoulder.

Elrond sighed and reached out to fix it, weaving the strands neatly and threading the end back through a mithril ring that decorated the elaborate plait hanging down her back. It was one of several matching ornaments worked into her hair, and Kíli could see the delicate engraving on the mithril. It was impressive craftsmanship for mithril was notoriously challenging to work with.

“There,” he said, finishing. Legolas smiled at him, seeming amused by his fussing.

“I like your mithril,” Kíli said, starting on another arrow. “Jewelry in your braids — very nice, even though they aren’t beads.”

“Only beads will do to be properly dwarven, I suppose?”

“Yes,” all three dwarves said immediately.

“Not that it can only be beads,” Kíli conceded. “I’ve seen dwarves with so much metal in their hair and beards that they rattle when they move. But beads holding your braid of age, family, and craft are a must.”

“Though, mithril is a good start,” Fíli added. “The metal and gemstones used for beads say a lot about the maker’s skill and how the one who gave them values the wearer. That’s why Kíli and mum wear family beads of mithril.”

“You’d think the king and his heir would rate higher than silver,” Kíli muttered, feeling her face heat.

“Daughters are precious,” Thorin said warmly, and she blushed harder.

Legolas touched one of the decorations and smirked at Elrond. “So, you value me as one might mithril?”

“The rarest of ores, valued for strength beyond measure even above its beauty and purity?” Elrond raised a brow. “Yes, actually.”

“That was very nearly dwarven, for an elf,” Thorin decided. Legolas’ smirk became a shy smile.

Two

Legolas tipped her face up to the night sky, taking a moment to enjoy the warmth of summer and the starlight. The peace of Imladris, and the magic that maintained it, pressed against her skin like a silken veil — delicate but tangible and instantly noticeable when it was absent.

Fingers brushed along her cheek, and she opened her eyes to smile at her husband. Dark eyes filled with love and desire were easily seen despite the darkness. Elrond preferred to weigh his words carefully and let his actions speak instead, but his eyes had always been Legolas’ window into his heart and soul. Even when he struggled to speak his heart, she had been able to see the truth in his gaze.

“Meleth nin?”

“I am enjoying the night and the song of the stars,” she explained. “It is beautiful tonight.”

“Yes, it is.” He touched his lips to hers as her mouth curved in a smile. She had never regretted falling in love with her elf-lord. Thranduil’s rage, the gossip of all the elven lands, even the injury that had brought her to Imladris — none of that outweighed the sense of belonging or joy she had found with Elrond. Gandalf had spoken of it as an epic struggle, a quest and a battle against titanic forces like one of the old stories. The reality had been much more and less exciting. Less, because it had been such a gradual thing, and more because her heart had been so full that everything had been so intense.

In the end, it had not been falling in love so much as discovering what had always been.

“You are supposed to look up when you say that, Elrond. You cannot admire the stars without turning your gaze to them.”

“I see their light reflected in your eyes,” he said simply, then kissed her again. “Moonrise is soon, and I am expected.”

Legolas tucked her arm through his as he drew away. “I will walk with you.”

He raised a brow as they made for the entrance to the underground levels. “What are you up to, wife?”

She turned a wounded look on him, her lower lip exaggerated in a pout. “Why would you say such a thing? It is a beautiful summer’s eve — can I not wish for a few minutes in my husband’s company without ulterior motives?”

He didn’t look convinced, but Elrond let it go with a look of amusement. Just as well, since she did have a purpose. Kíli and Bella had decided that Thorin was not to be trusted to mind his manners or temper tonight, and Bella would be coming along to ‘thump his thick head’ as she had put it. Legolas had offered to join and provide her aid; Thorin seemed to find her tolerable, for an elf, and she could prod her husband if he got out of hand.

“Really, it will just be better for everyone if they aren’t left to manage themselves,” Kíli had said. “They can’t rub each other wrong if you two are in the way.”

“What about Gandalf?”

Kíli and Legolas had laughed. “The only way he’ll keep them from verbal blows is by driving them to ally long enough to murder him in frustration,” Legolas had told Bella.

“You are not fooling me, Legolas,” Elrond murmured in Sindarin as they approached their waiting guests. Thorin was scowling at Bella as she scolded him while Balin and Gandalf looked amused.

“I would never try to fool my beloved husband,” Legolas said serenely. “Unless it was for his own benefit.” Elrond laughed softly and waved their guests to follow him as he leads the way into the lower levels.

Imladris was a sanctuary, a place of peace and beauty. The city was extensive though it currently housed only a fraction of the thousands it was capable of sustaining. Pathways twisted upon themselves among the labyrinth of gardens, which gave way to the wilder forests and fertile pastures of the valley. Buildings spread out across the valley’s width and up the canyon walls, rising seven levels above the central courtyard. Natural defences and Elrond’s powerful magic — aided by the power of Vilya, his ring — meant that Imladris had no need for defensive walls, moats, or battlements. There was little to mar the elegance and openness of the fortress city that stood on the spine of Middle-Earth, guarding both East and West.

And for all its splendour and opulence, Imladris was very much a fortress. One built and commanded by an experienced warrior.

Thorin made a surprised sound when he saw the hidden staircase leading underground, and his face was priceless when the narrow stairs gave way to the first cavern. He grunted in approval as they passed by an armoury stacked neatly with enough armour to outfit an elven company. And still, they continued downward.

Seven levels, one for each of the upper ones. There were food stores and weapons, wine cellars and rows of casks containing ale and cider. Carefully preserved and priceless originals of books and tapestries from fallen kingdoms, the copies of which were available in the upper halls. Stockpiles of cloth and leather, firewood and lumber and iron bars. There was also housing — long halls fit to shelter civilians or garrison whole companies — and kitchens ready to feed them, complete with access to water. Most importantly, there were heavily fortified, magically hidden exits leading out of the valley should the worst come to pass.

“I take back everything I thought about the defensibility of this place,” Oakenshield said as they emerged from the cliffside beneath a waterfall.

“The more open and accessible an elven settlement looks,” Legolas told him, “the more carefully hidden its defences.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

Elrond said nothing, but Legolas could see amusement in his face as he stepped up to a plinth of raw quartz, perfectly positioned beneath a waterfall to take advantage of the moon rising over the valley below. “The map?”

Legolas stood back as the dwarven king hesitated and then produced his relic, and her husband let the newly visible moon do its work.

“‘Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks / and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day / will shine upon the keyhole.’” He lowered the map and raised a brow at the innocent-looking wizard. “An academic interest, you say, Mithrandir?”

“Excuse me, but what’s Durin’s Day?” Bella asked. Legolas only half-listened to the explanation as she considered this new knowledge. A secret entrance explained Thorin’s willingness to make an attempt on Erebor. A frontal assault on a dragon was beyond suicide, but a strike from the shadows while the beast slept . . .

It was not bickering that broke Legolas’ musing but the rapid footsteps descending from above. She looked to the stairs just as Elrohir burst from the staircase. “Adar! Curunír and Galadriel were spotted to the south of Imladris. They will be here at dawn.”

Legolas frowned. Galadriel was always a welcome guest, but the white wizard was far from her idea of a friend. Saruman had all the worst of Gandalf’s traits — arrogance, high-handedness and deviousness — with none of his better ones. Nor did he have any love of her, being dismissive at best and insulting at worst. And the timing was suspicious indeed.

Elrond had closed his eyes, fingers pressed to his temple and Gandalf —

— had drawn Thorin aside in whispered conference.

“Stop,” Legolas commanded. Everyone turned to look upon her. “If you leave in secret, you will only make those who might wish to stop you feel all the more justified.

Thorin frowned. “We cannot afford delay — Durin’s Day will be upon us all too soon, and Tharkûn believes the white wizard will argue against our quest.”

“What concern is it of Saruman the White if Thorin Oakenshield travels to seek trade on behalf of his people?” She smiled as jaws dropped. Gandalf laughed brightly.

“They will never believe it,” Thorin said slowly.

“Why not? Have you not already travelled to the Shire, to bargain dwarven craft for the fruits of their fields?” She nodded to Bella, who had begun to smile. “A member of the Thain’s own family journeys with you, to make introductions between Imladris and Durin’s folk.”

“Saruman will not accept such an explanation.”

“Why shouldn’t he?” Legolas asked her husband. “Thorin is a king of an exiled people, and you are an Elven lord — no good leader would refuse a path to aid his people for the sake of pride.” Thorin shifted. “And who cares what he believes? He can prove nothing, and it will give us time enough to see the company properly outfitted.”

“Grandmother will go along with it,” Elrohir added, “even if she knows otherwise. Curunír’s lack of action disturbs her.”

“Lying to Saruman is not without risk — he is the wisest of our order,” Gandalf cautioned.

“If he were to proclaim the sky is blue, I would not believe him without proof,” Legolas snapped. “Arrogance is not wisdom, Mithrandir, and Saruman has too much of one and too little of the other.”

“You mean to help their quest,” Elrond finally spoke. “Legolas —”

“The Greenwood owes Erebor a debt.” At her words, Thorin grew tense, and his face darkened with anger. Legolas met his gaze. “Not for Smaug — my father had only a large company with him that day, and their number was far too few to match a fire drake — but for the aftermath.” She closed her eyes, unable to look at the dwarf king. Despite all his faults, she loved her father; his actions during the fall of Erebor were a hard thing between them. “Thrór’s actions broke faith between our kingdoms, but that does not justify the lack of aid to a desperate people.”

Warm hands cupped her face, and Legolas opened her eyes to meet Elrond’s. “There was nothing you could have done, Legolas. You were not even in the Greenwood.”

No, she had been in Imladris, recovering from the injuries that had left her bedridden and in Elrond’s care, unaware that a neighbouring kingdom had been decimated in an afternoon. She had only learned of the fall of Dale and Erebor after Thranduil’s arrival and subsequent events. At times, Legolas had wondered if the horror of witnessing the dragon’s assault, and the memories it must have brought to the surface of her father’s mind, had contributed to his overreaction. And then she remembered that this was Thranduil, and overreaction was his standard response — and that the reason he had witnessed the attack was that he had already assembled a full company to march upon another elven kingdom.

“And we offered aid to Thrór, as did Galadriel. It was refused,” Elrond continued.

“Because of pride?” She asked. “Or because Thranduil’s actions destroyed any hope of trust between Durin’s folk and the Eldar?” Elrond said nothing, and that was answer enough. “What happened before cannot be undone, but what is to come is ours to decide.” She looked at Thorin. “Perhaps the actions of our forefathers are not ours to repeat.”

Oakenshield opened his mouth to speak but said nothing, only looked at Legolas for a long moment before nodding slowly. “Perhaps.”

Elrond touched his forehead to hers. “You mean to offer more than assistance to their quest,” he said, so softly that only elven ears could hear it. Of course, he had realized her aim and was already fretting over it. Though Legolas had not her husband’s gifts, she foresaw long, fraught conversations in the coming days.

She touched their lips together briefly and spoke so everyone could hear. “We should prepare for our guests.”

***

Thorin managed a few hours of sleep, in between telling the company of the moon’s revelations and the tap on his door at false dawn. He dressed quickly, donning newly cleaned clothing and mail, and belting Orcrist at his hip, before following a silent elf to the main entrance of the city.

He had no knowledge of aid offered to his people after the fall of Erebor. Thrór had still been king then and Thráin the heir to the throne, with Thorin nothing more than a young prince, still a few years from coming of age. Apparently, that meant his grandfather had not seen fit to tell him, never mind that Thorin was the one who spent the most time among their people, leading the most fragile among them — young, elderly, and those untrained for war — as they crossed the dangerous lands, seeking refuge.

How many of them had suffered — had died — in the long wandering through the wilds? How many might have been spared by elven aid and healing?

“Heavy thoughts, Thorin?”

“Night is the time for deep thoughts and dark reflections,” he told the wizard.

“Too true — but the dawn illuminated all manner of things,” Gandalf said, nodding to the brightening horizon. “And it is not only the sun which brings light and warmth to all in its presence,” he added grandly as the elven lord and his lady joined them.

“Flattery, Mithrandir?” Legolas drawled.

“It is not flattery when it is true!”

She sighed while Thorin and Elrond exchanged a brief eye roll. The wizard was powerful, aged and wise — and often ridiculous.

Thorin noted he wasn’t the only one armed, for Legolas had eschewed the graceful robes of the last few days in favour of trousers, tunic, and leather armour, and he could see several blades about her. Except for the lack of a bow and quiver — and Orc blood — she looked much as she had when they had met. Only the circlet upon her brow and dark gold robe draped over her shoulders betrayed her as anything but an elven warrior.

Elrond, too, wore more elaborate robes than he seemed wont, the dark blue fabric with silver embroidery that matched his circlet. Thorin felt less subconscious of wearing his best tunic and coat, though whether the elf had dressed to impress or out of respect was the question.

The sound of horse hoofs against stone became audible, echoing through the canyon walls well before riders came into view — another subtle defence, he realized. The courtyard was soon filled by twelve elves in golden armour and imposing helms surrounding two figures in white who dismounted as Elrond stepped forward to greet them.

The man — wizard — was nothing uncommon but for the staff that marked him as Istari, his height, and his long white hair. But the elf . . . 

He’d thought that Legolas was the most attractive elf he’d ever met, but now he wondered that anyone, even Gandalf, would speak of her in the same breath as Galadriel.

As he completed the thought, an unknown voice spoke softly to him. : You have not yet seen Legolas at her best, Thorin Oakenshield. Though some would claim it is on the battlefield where the Greenwood’s princess is most herself: Thorin froze as he realized no one else could hear the words, resonant with age and fathomless strength beneath the warm female tones. Because the words were inside his head.

Galadriel looked over Elrond’s shoulder to meet his gaze. Her lips curved in the barest hint of a smile, not moving as she spoke to him again. : It is not her face, but her heart and valour, which are the fairest aspects of Legolas Glorimírë. I have time and wisdom on my side, and Legolas has courage and compassion. Each led their own strength and beauty:

Thorin made a faint sound, and Legolas patted his shoulder. “That’s the usual reaction. I’m convinced that it’s why she does it, actually,” she murmured.

:Courage, compassion, and humour: Galadriel seemed to glide forward, and Thorin bowed reflexively when Gandalf and Legolas did so. Surprisingly, the lady bowed her own head in return before reaching out to take Legolas’ hands in her own. “Well met, Legolas of Imladris and Greenwood the Great.”

“Be welcome, Galadriel of Lothlórien. You’ve travelled far — there are rooms prepared so you may all rest.”

“There is no need to delay our purpose,” the white wizard said, approaching from behind the elven lady, a sour look on his face. “Elrond, Galadriel and I would speak to you and Gandalf.” He ignored Thorin entirely and sent a narrow look at Legolas before turning away.

Only Legolas seemed unperturbed. Gandalf huffed, and Elrond frowned darkly at Saruman’s back. Galadriel’s previously warm voice was cold and held a bite when she spoke. “Saruman, we have spoken on this.”

“You will not change his mind, Galadriel, for there is no fool like an old fool.” Legolas’ words made the wizard turn and glare, and Thorin laughed aloud.

“If you will not rest first,” Elrond cut in, “then we will make this quick. Erestor will see to your troop, Galadriel, while we speak.” He offered his lady his arm and told Thorin, “we meet at the highest level, above the falls.”

“There is no need for Oakenshield — this is the business of the White Council. And whatever use you have of Legolas, she can offer nothing to the rest of us.”

Thorin hissed, and it was Legolas’ hand on his shoulder that stopped him from reaching for his sword. However subtle the insult, the meaning was clear.

“You do not give orders here, Curunír,” Elrond snapped. “You are a guest only, and that status can be revoked. As for Thorin Oakenshield, you have clearly come to speak about him; therefore, you will speak with him.” Legolas winked at Thorin as the pair swept past the wizard and lead the way.

“What was that?” Thorin demanded quietly of Gandalf. He had no love of elves, but Saruman seemed to take personal dislike of Legolas, the elf Thorin like best of her race.

Gandalf looked uncomfortable, making a noise in his throat as they followed. “Saruman is the eldest and wisest of the Istari —” Galadriel huffed, clearly disagreeing “ — but he has certain . . . blind spots.”

“The Istari are immune to desires of the flesh and romantic love,” the elven Lady said, apparently deciding Gandalf wasn’t up to explaining. “But most respect it. Saruman believes that he is superior to those who suffer love and passion because we are weakened by it. This makes him disdainful of displays of such feeling.

“For many centuries, Elrond was alone, and Saruman saw only a wise leader and a capable warrior. Legolas inspires great passion in him, as profound love often does — and to Saruman, this means that Elrond succumbed to a weakness better avoided. And,” she added coolly, “he chooses to blame the female, as so many are wont to do, for the perceived downfall of a male. He has always had little respect for womenfolk.”

Gandalf looked even more pensive. “Saruman sees wisdom in age and strength in great power. To him, Legolas is young and without powerful magic — and yet Elrond takes her council. It disquiets him.”

Thorin looked at Galadriel, whose beautiful face was drawn and dark. She met his gaze and shook her head, frowning. Clearly, the Lady of Lothlórien saw Saruman’s actions in a more severe light than the wizard, who still counted the man as a friend.

He thought of the advisor who would ignore any suggestion Dís made, only to agree to the same when a male repeated it. “I see.”

: I am glad you do, Thorin Oakenshield. You will find the coming conversation trying on your temper, for many reasons. Try not to draw your sword — but if you do so, watch for the wizard’s staff. Despite the appearance of age, Curunír is as quick as Mithrandir:

The meeting place was an open pavilion with an extraordinary view of the valley and beyond. It was a pity the atmosphere did not match the scenery.

Saruman sat at the hewn stone table like a king, a dark frown on his face. Legolas sprawled over another chair, blithely unconcerned, while Elrond declared his loyalty by standing at her shoulder. Thorin chose to drop in a seat by the she-elf, and Gandalf sat with his hands folded before him. Galadriel drifted around the pavilion after aiming a single glare at the white wizard’s back.

“You have been busy, Gandalf.”

“Boredom is the death of the mind, Saruman.”

The wizard frowned and then turned a sharp gaze on Thorin. “And what have you to say for yourself, Thorin, son of Thráin?”

 “I was not aware I answer to someone I have never met before today, wizard.” Thorin ground out the words from behind clenched teeth. Try his temper indeed. “Tell me, were you made king of my people when I was unaware?”

“That would be a feat,” Legolas mused. “As Oakenshield is King Under the Mountain and is first among the seven dwarf kingdoms.”

“He is uncrowned.”

“And yet, his people look to him as their king, and the other dwarf lords accept him as their equal, if not above them,” Gandalf corrected.

Well, they accepted him as a kind of poor relation, anyway. Still, they called him king, however begrudgingly, unable to ignore his birthright and descent from Durin on the bare chance Erebor or Khazad-dûm should be restored. But only the Arkenstone or an actual coronation would rally the dwarven kingdoms to his banner, and one was impossible without the other thanks to Thrór’s decree.

“I am a student of Aule, called Mahal,” the wizard said, his voice smoothing out and becoming low and persuasive.  “My master would wish me to advise his children, and I believe that you would wish my council as you cannot seek his.”

The sheer gall of it left Thorin speechless, his hands trembling. Galadriel gave him a concerned look as she drifted past. “Saruman,” Gandalf cautioned.

“Indeed, I am persuaded that the father of your race would wish you to be content in Ered Luin. Durin’s Folk have lost and rebuilt their home before, and always been the better for it.”

“A pretty sentiment,” Thorin managed to say calmly, despite the choking fury. “Tell me, wizard — where was this kinship when Erebor fell? When my people wandered, vulnerable in the wilds? Where was your fine advice in the days before we marched on Khazad-dûm?” His voice grew louder the longer he spoke, ire stoking the forge of his temper. “Or when that kingdom fell in the first place? Why do I know of no stories of the friendship between Saruman the White and my people? Perhaps it is because there are none, and your only interest in us is manipulation!”

“You overstep yourself, Thorin Oakenshield!”

“Then, I have followed your example, wizard!”

“Peace,” Elrond said, causing Thorin to exhale sharply and settle back in his seat instead of reaching across the table and seize the wizard by his beard, as he wished. “This will get us nowhere.”

“Indeed,” Saruman said, all attempt at warmth gone from his voice. “You will return to Ered Luin.”

Two elves and a wizard sighed in exasperation. “That is not what I meant, Curunír.”

“I will return when I’ve completed the task before me and aided my people.”

“We will not permit you to wake the dragon!”

“How will seeking trade wake that foul wyrm?”

Galadriel raised a brow, looking amused. Saruman sneered. “Do not try to deceive us, Oakenshield. You do not embark on a trade mission, but a quest to Erebor.”

“Can you prove that, wizard?”

“I do not need to prove it, for I know it to be true! As do we all.”

“I know no such thing,” Legolas said. “If Oakenshield says he seeks trade to enrich his people, I have no reason to doubt him.”

“Your opinion is not needed nor asked for, child.”

“But mine is,” Elrond said, “and I agree with her.”

Saruman frowned darkly. “Of course you do.” He eyed Legolas in an insulting manner. “I imagine she is very persuasive.”

The air grew heavy, and though the sun had risen fully, the pavilion seemed to grow darker. Legolas touched Elrond’s arm and murmured, “Mell nin.”

“Tread carefully, Saruman,” the elf-lord said in a low, echoing voice. The hair on Thorin’s arm rose; there was power here, and he could recognize its strength. “You might be the white wizard, but this is Imladris, and here, my power is greater than yours.”

“I am certain Saruman will choose his words more carefully in the future,” Galadriel added, and if Elrond’s power was a thunderstorm ready to unleash, hers was a wind that might erupt into a gale fit to strip trees from the earth at any moment.

The wizard didn’t seem pleased by the dual rebuke but managed a more polite tone. “I merely voice what must be a concern for this council. We stand against the Great Enemy, with whom there has been peace for centuries —”

“A watchful peace,” Elrond corrected.

Thorin growled. “Perhaps in your towers and sanctuaries, but I have crossed much of Middle-Earth, and there is very little peace to be found.”

“An absence of war is not peace,” Galadriel said softly as she circled behind him.

“No, it is not,” Gandalf spoke up. “Trolls are descending from the Ettenmoors and orcs raid in even larger numbers — nearly to the entrance of Rivendell! The Greenwood —”

“What about it?” Legolas demanded, sitting upright. “What have you heard?”

Gandalf looked weary. “Men outside it have begun calling it Mirkwood and will no longer venture there to seek a living. There are spiders, dark creatures the size of horses, spawning and spinning webs large enough to block out the sun. They breed in the old fortress of Dol Guldur — where one known as the Necromancer dwells.”

“Tauriel!” At the demand, the copper-haired elf appeared as if from nowhere. Legolas didn’t look away from Gandalf. “I need to send a letter to my father immediately.”

“I’ll bring supplies and find a messenger bird,” Tauriel agreed and, with one glare at the white wizard, vanished as quickly as she’d appeared.

“There is no need —”

“Concern yourself with your own affairs, Saruman. The Greenwood is mine. When did you learn this, Mithrandir?”

“Only the day we came to Imladris. I had it from Radagast —”

Saruman scoffed. “Hardly reliable, then.”

“Watch yourself, wizard,” Legolas snapped. “Radagast has done more to care for the gentlest of creatures and green places in this world than you ever will and is trusted and much loved by the Silvan elves. Not even my father would dismiss Radagast’s words out of hand.”

“Of all of us, Radagast is closest to nature, and has dwelled in the Greenwood for centuries,” Gandalf added.

“Radagast the Brown is a fool.”

“Brave enough to lead an orc hunting pack away and give my company a chance to escape.” However odd and possibly mad the strange wizard had been, Thorin cared more for actions than appearances.

“Easy to be brave when one is addled by mushrooms,” Saruman dismissed.

“Perhaps you should try some — they might sweeten your disposition.”

Galadriel’s even tone cut through the bickering. “There is something else about Radagast — something that has been passed into your care.”

Gandalf lay a rough bundle on the table. “Radagast found it in Dol Guldur.” With a deft hand, he revealed a short, dark blade.

It was no crafting Thorin had seen before. Well-forged yet ugly, it made his skin crawl. “What is it?”

“A relic of Mordor,” Elrond breathed, catching his wife’s shoulder and drawing her away from the table. “A dark and terrible thing.”

“Forged by the hand of Sauron for one of his fell creatures,” Galadriel said. “The Witch-King of Angmar.”

Thorin shuddered. Those were stories only told with secure stone around you, ale to fortify you, and warm fires to banish the horror. “He fell.”

“First to the temptations of Sauron, and then in the service of him,” the lady agreed. She had stopped her movement to stand and stare down at the blade with a pensive face. “The northern men of Angmar took his body and entombed it in a grave so deep that it would never come to light.”

“Anything buried in the earth can be revealed, with enough effort,” Thorin said. “Even that which should not.” That was a lesson the dwarves had learned well, though far too late.

“There are powerful spells on those tombs.”

“Then powerful magic could unmake them,” Legolas told her husband. “If this was in Dol Guldur, I must tell my father. The old fortress is on the very edge of his lands.”

“Such panic for so little,” Saruman said. His voice was mild, but his expression held condescension. “A few trolls and orcs, a simple blade and a human sorcerer sowing fear with a frightening name and tricks. It is not so much to be concerned for, in the end.”

“He has been at the mushrooms,” Thorin decided.

“Now, back to our purpose — the dragon. I cannot permit anyone to seek it out. In any case, Oakenshield, you have enough trouble. What with being hunted by orcs.”

A dwarven head made bare by a broken crown. The taunt had preyed on him for the last few days.

: What you fear has come to pass — your enemy lives and seeks you out :

“Azog is alive.”

He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Gandalf answered. “Yes.”

“You should have told me — I would have never permitted my sister-children to leave the safety of Ered Luin!” Azog sought the end of Durin’s line, and Thorin was not yet the last of it.

“Would they have not followed you?”

“Not if their mother knocked them on their heads and tied them both in a sack!”

Legolas managed a laugh. “Kíli would gnaw her way out.”

Since it was true, and saying so proved how well the she-elf had come to know Kíli, Thorin huffed. Fear and anger still burned in his belly, but no longer clawed at his throat. “A box then.”

“Fíli would break it with his hard head.”

That was true as well and sounded like something Kíli would say about her brother. Legolas was definitely the least objectionable elf he’d ever met.

And that was when the wizard ruined it by opening his mouth, again.

***

Bella was enjoying a proper breakfast when Thorin stalked onto the terrace. “Balin, Dwalin — with me.”

“It went that well, did it?”

“Saruman has managed to heal the breach between elves and dwarves — by being so infuriating that we are all united in want to drop him in a deep hole and bury him.” Thorin looked at Kíli. “Legolas went to the archery range — you should join her.”

“What happened?”

He looked disgusted. “The wizard was insulting past bearing.” Kíli grabbed several oatcakes and trotted off.

“I’ll just — join them?” Bella asked.

“Do. I doubt very much Legolas wishes for any male company today.”

“That kind of insulting?” His face darkened, and Bella took a hint, snatching another roll and following after Kíli.

Legolas was indeed on the archery range, sending arrow after arrow into the distant targets. Kíli stood back, watching, while she munched the last of her breakfast. Bella was impressed by the steady thunk of striking and a little intimidated by the cold concentration on the elf’s face.

Kíli, however, was both incorrigible and fearless. Dwarrow walked where even Tooks feared to tread.

“Sloppy,” she chirped as Legolas released her bowstring. Since the arrow sank deeply into the centre of the target, Bella rather thought her friend was wrong.

“Watch your tongue,” Legolas huffed, firing again.

Kíli tsked.  “Your wrist is loose.”

“No, it is not.” Thwack.

“Now your feet are too close together.”

Thwack. “Do not attempt to teach your elders their craft.”

“You’re twisting at the hip too much.”

“Kíli.” Thwack. “You would try the patience of the Valar.” She fired two arrows in quick succession. Thwack-thunk.

“So uncle says.” Thwack. “You dropped your shoulder.”

Legolas drew three arrows from her quiver, set them all to her bowstring — and fired them all dead-centre on the same target. Then she raised a brow at Kíli. “Any comments?”

The dwarrowdam grinned. “You pulled down and to the left.”

A smile twitched Legolas’ mouth, and she huffed. “Wretched dwarf.”

“Tree-shagging elf.”

“Stone headed.”

“Lightweight.”

“Cave dweller.”

“Weed-eater.”

“Stubborn.”

“Foolish.”

“Hairy.”

“Beardless.”

“Child.”

“Old —”

“Oh, enough!” Bella interrupted, no longer able to hold back giggles at the foolish insults and exaggerated scowls they were trading. “Both of you are entirely ridiculous!”

Legolas laughed, and Kíli bowed grandly. “Made you laugh.”

“The next time you criticize my bow work, there will be tears instead of laughter. Yours.”

“Worked, didn’t it? Show me that trick with three arrows?” Kíli smiled winningly.

Legolas huffed. “I should use you for target practice. Get your bow, you ridiculous dwarf.”

Bella claimed a seat nearby and settled in to watch. She might not understand elves or dwarves, but she did understand friendship.

***

Balin was shaking his head when Thorin finished recounting the mornings business.

“I’ve rarely heard such — such —”

“Stupid, pigheaded nonsense,” Dwalin offered and ducked Thorin’s strike. His cousin had challenged him to a spar when it had been clear Thorin’s temper would only grow worse without an outlet.

“Aye, that’ll do. And from a wizard?” The older dwarf retrieved his pipe and set about smoking while Thorin and Dwalin continued to pound on each other. “No wonder the lass went off to the range.”

“She’s older than we three combined,” Thorin reminded him, deflecting Dwalin’s axe. “Twice — three times over.”

“Young for her kind, though, and hardly deserving of such scorn.”

“No female does, much less one who’s proven her mettle,” Dwalin grunted, swinging for Thorin’s head. “Shoulda tied his beard in a knot and choked him with it.”

“I was tempted to, but that honour belonged to Legolas. The elf lord was ready to feed him his own staff,” Thorin added. “And I think Galadriel would rather have booted him off the cliff.”

“Never thought I’d say it, but I cannot blame either of them.” Balin puffed for a moment. “About the story we’re selling the white-arsed wizard —”

“He’s not buying it, but as long as everyone else plays along, he can’t do anything.” Thorin caught an axe on the flat of his blade and kicked out, catching Dwalin in the gut. The other dwarf doubled over, then snapped upright with a head butt that would have cracked a man’s skull. Thorin was made of denser stuff, shaking off the blow before sliding away from Dwalin’s second axe. “He’s lingering like bad air in a mine, though, so our preparations need to be discreet.”

“We’ll be careful. Still — what if we made it real? The story,” Balin added.

Dwalin fumbled one of his axes, and Thorin nearly lost a braid — and possibly an ear — when he turned to Balin. “Trade with the elves?”

“Not right away, perhaps — no one would expect that — but this is the best relations have been between our people and Rivendell since we were forced from Khazad-dûm.” He blew a long trail of smoke. “As a foundation of future trade, it’s not a bad start.”

Thorin’s instinctive reaction — fury and denial — was muted. He wasn’t quite sure what to do without the rage that had so often fuelled him when nothing else had. “You — may be right,” Thorin sighed.

Dwalin choked, and even Balin looked surprised. “I often am laddie. And the hobbits?”

“What of them?”

“Well, that was part of the story, aye?” Balin watched him from under snowy brows. “That the lass joined us at the behest of the Thain. We passed through the Shire on our way. It’s a pretty place and a fertile one. It seems likely they’d do a good trade for food and seed, and few turn down dwarf crafting. Even if it is cookware and farming tools.”

‘No good leader would refuse a path to aid his people from the sake of pride.’

“Ask the burglar to write her kin,” Thorin said quietly. “I’ll send a letter to Dís. She’s best suited to dealing with the Thain.”

“Aye,” Balin managed, clearly surprised. “I will.” He shared a look with Dwalin. “I didn’t expect —”

“For me to be reasonable? Why would you?”

“You’re a fine king, Thorin, and a great warrior.”

“But rarely reasonable.”

Dwalin snorted. “Hardly a trait of dwarves or kings.”

Three        

Kíli rolled her shoulder to ease the ache between her shoulder blades. She’d been thoroughly trounced by Legolas, who was now sparring with Tauriel, and Kíli was relieved to see that the captain was fairing only slightly better. Close combat might not be her primary focus, but she hadn’t considered herself inept until the fifth time the Legolas had disarmed her and put her on her arse.

Fortunately for her Durin pride, she’d managed a few good strikes, coming in under Legolas’ guard and using her height to her advantage. The knowledge that Legolas had centuries of experience over her didn’t hurt, either.

“What are you doing?” Bellamira asked, coming around the corner. She frowned and flinched when Tauriel drove an elbow into Legolas’ ribs and gasped when Legolas retaliated by kicking Tauriel’s legs out from under her. “Goodness — are they alright? Should we do something?”

Kíli laughed. “Of course not! That would ruin the fun!”

“Fun? They’re fighting!”

Well, that explained Bella’s reaction. Kíli wondered what they did for entertainment in the Shire, and decided it probably involved gardening. “No, they’re sparring.” The hobbit frowned at her. “I promise, Bella. It’s all in good fun, and it makes for good training.”

Legolas knocked aside Tauriel’s blade, and the silvan elf raised her hands, yielding, before accepting a hand up. “You are a demon, Legolas.”

“So you have said, mellon nín, many times.” Legolas winked at Kíli and turned to Bella. “Your turn, Mistress Baggins.”

Bella’s eyes went wide enough to pop out of her head. The sound she made, somewhere between a squeak and a croak, made them all laugh. “Yes, very funny,” she huffed, pretending to be put out. “I’d expect no different from people who think hitting each other with swords is a bit of friendly sport.”

“See, you do understand,” Kíli said.

“I understand you’re all as barmy as honeybees who’ve gotten into the mead.” She shook her head. “Didn’t you get enough fighting the other day — what with the orcs and all?”

“This is different — yes, it is,” Kíli insisted, seeing the hobbit’s incredulous expression. “This is training. It is fun, yes, and builds camaraderie, but most importantly, sparring gives you the best chance of surviving when it’s a matter of life and death.”

“Like an ambush on the plains,” Tauriel offered.

“Or a mountain pass,” Legolas added, raising a hand to touch her side.

“It seems like a good way to get hurt,” Bella said, frowning thoughtfully.

“Bruises and strains, but hardly as bad as when you first start to learn weapon. I learned to fight from dwarrow,” Kíli said, “but orcs are more than twice our size. Training with Legolas and Tauriel is a good way to learn the advantages and disadvantages my height provides.”

“I suppose,” the hobbit said reluctantly, which was progress. Kíli was determined her friend would learn to use the elven dagger Gandalf had given her, and Rivendell was as good a place to start as any. “What is Dwalin doing?”

Kíli didn’t have to look, well aware of what had caught Bella’s eye. Dwalin was standing on an upper balcony, arms crossed and glowering down at them. “Being a fussy, overprotective, managing, bossy pain in the arse.”

Bella frowned up at him. “So — a male, then.”

Tauriel, who was not only Legolas’ friend but her guard, spoke in his defence. “The protection of Thorin Oakenshield and his heirs is his responsibility.”

“He might be Uncle Thorin’s Captain of the Guard, but the reason he’s up there glaring at me is that I’m in the company of elves, and he’s a grumpy old lump who cannot let a good grudge go.”

“So,” Bella said with a grin, “a dwarf, then.”

Kíli laughed and got to her feet. “Something like that. By the way — Legolas wasn’t jesting.” Kíli grinned at Bella’s horrified expression.

“Right,” Legolas said, brightly, “get that little sword of yours, Bellamira. We’ll start with the basics.”

***

“Your face will freeze like that, Dwalin.” Thorin joined his cousin at the railing and studied the other dwarf’s fierce scowl. “Come to think of it, no one would notice if it did.”

Dwalin growled, but his mouth quirked, so Thorin considered it a win. Dwalin smiled less even than he did. “I don’t like it.”

“Your face?”

“I’ll rearrange yours in a minute, king or no.”

Thorin snorted. They were relatively evenly matched, often leaving each other bruised and bloodied when training. “You would try, anyway.” He fell silent, watching the females below. The she-elf, Legolas, was taking his burglar through a series of moves with the little elf dagger while Kíli and the copper-haired captain sparred. He could admit to feeling a little clutch in his belly at the sight of his sister-daughter trading blows with an elf.

Then the elf, Tauriel, took advantage of Kíli’s habit of dropping her left shoulder. Kíli’s blade went flying, and she rolled forward to avoid a punishing hit before trying to take out the elf’s legs. The move failed but forced Tauriel to leap away and gave Kíli time to reclaim her feet and blade.

The elf lowered her sword, smiling, and said something that made Kíli beam. They took up positions and began again — and when Kíli dropped her shoulder again, Tauriel immediately lashed out.

“If Kíli finally learns to stop dropping her left, then she can spar with any elf she likes,” he decided. Dwalin grunted in agreement. “Dís will be pleased, anyway.” His sister’s opinion of Thorin’s attitude towards elves was usually exasperation and profanity.

“Let’s not tell her,” Dwalin said. “You know how she gets.”

“Smug.”

“Too late,” Fíli said from behind them. Thorin did not startle when his sister-son appeared behind them, but he did swat at Fíli, who managed to duck. Grinning, the brat leaned against the railing, well out of reach. “Mum made Kíli promise to write at her first opportunity. She sent a letter with one of Lord Elrond’s birds this morning, telling Mum all about our adventures. Including Rivendell and how we came to be here.”

Thorin cursed. “I’ll have to send one, as well.” He eyed his smirking heir. “Don’t be so cheerful, Fíli — what do you think she will have to say about getting letters from us but not you? And what do you think Kíli told her about you on our quest?” Fíli’s grin vanished, and he stared down at his sister, clearly imagining the worst.

“Better both of you than me,” Dwalin said.

***

To maintain the illusion they were selling to Saruman and allow for time to make plans without his suspicion, Elrond invited Thorin Oakenshield and his advisors to dine privately that night. The white wizard was kept occupied by a feast in the Hall of Fire, nominally in Galadriel’s honour. His twin sons presided over the meal, aided by Glorfindel, partly to represent their father and mainly because the less time that the heirs of Durin and Imladris spent together, the better. There had already been a few moments of minor chaos as a result of the four of them making friends, and Elrond could only stand for so much mischief in a se’enight.

The King Under the Mountain instructed the rest of his company not to undo any of the current goodwill between races, damage anything valuable, or crack any skulls.

“No promises,” Dwalin, son of Fundin, grumbled and herded the company to the feast.

This left Elrond and his wife, Mithrandir, Oakenshield and his heirs, Balin and the hobbit Bellamira to dine in Elrond’s private solar. Erestor and two of his most trusted people oversaw the service of the food and drink — which included hearty breads and meat, as well as ale, so as to sweeten the temperament of the dwarves.

“The white wizard?” Oakenshield asked after the first bites were taken and praised.

“Galadriel has taken responsibility for occupying him tonight, and the songs and stories will keep him in the Hall of Fire well into the morning,” Elrond assured him. “For all his love of knowledge, Curunír  also loves to be the centre of attention, and my people know to keep his cup full of his favourite wines. Though I will owe Galadriel a great deal for the favour,” he admitted.

“Glorfindel will not abandon her to the wizard,” Erestor offered as he filled the last wine glass. “His stories alone will keep Curunír well occupied, and the kitchens know to prepare all of the Lady’s favourites for the rest of her stay.”

“And no doubt the twins will help as well,” Gandalf said cheerfully.

“Elbereth help us,” Elrond murmured to his wife’s amusement.

“I am sure that Imladris will remain standing, hervenn. At least Kíli and Fíli are here, and not adding to the chaos.”

The heirs of Durin smiled winningly. Elrond exchanged a look with Oakenshield. His sons must be kept as far from those two as possible; the alternative was too much for sanity to bear.

Of course, his sons were not the only agents of chaos in Imladris, and Legolas had already grown close to one of the dwarf king’s heirs.

“Oin and your healers agree that everyone will be fit to travel after another full day,” Balin said, bringing them back to the topic at hand.

“Excellent,” Gandalf said, swallowing a mouthful. “Then, we need only gather our supplies.”

“Saruman does not venture into the lower caverns — I’m not entirely sure he knows they exist,” Legolas added, “so everything for your journey is being gathered there. One of the paths leads into the lower pastures, which will be convenient for loading the ponies when the time comes.”

“Let’s hope that these ones fair better than the last,” the hobbit lass murmured.

“Mountain ponies, bred with Rohirrim stock and elven trained,” Legolas assured. “These ponies are more likely to kick in a warg’s skull than bolt from one.”

“I still think that the High Pass might be the best option,” the wizard argued. “Though it is more dangerous, it is a shorter distance across the Misty Mountains.”

“The lower pass might be longer, but the crossing will be quicker thanks to horseback,” Legolas responded. “Only goats can traverse the High Pass, and going by foot will not only limit the supplies we can carry but will be a detriment once we leave the mountains behind.”

Elrond set his cup down abruptly, his chest tightening. He had known this was coming — had seen the resolution in Legolas’ eyes and in her voice when she spoke of owing Erebor a debt — but to hear her speak the words aloud —

“We?” One of the dwarves asked, and Elrond could not tell which as he attempted to remember how to breathe.

It was not the first time she would risk danger since they had wed, for Legolas was a warrior born. She rode out with Imladris’ guard often and had escorted Arwen to or home from Lothlórien on three occasions. Moreover, she had spoken on his behalf to both the Stewart of Gondor and the King of Rohan.

But while the Steward was difficult and stubborn, he was no dragon, and Tharunduil was not the only one old enough to have seen the death that a drake could bring. He was no more eager to see the one he loved ride off to face a dragon as a balrog.

“Yes.” A familiar hand, slim and strong, squeezed his own lightly until Elrond met her gaze. As ever, her eyes revealed her heart, for they brimmed with love, devotion, determination, and a hint of regret. “I am coming with you on your quest,” she finished, never looking away from him.

“Not alone,” Elrond managed in a normal tone. “Tauriel will go as well.”

“Mell nin —”

“It is not negotiable, hiril vin. Tauriel’s place is by your side, guarding your back, and she cannot do so if you are gallivanting about Middle-Earth while she remains here.”

“I have never gallivanted in my life,” Legolas said coolly. “And it will be hard enough to convince Oakenshield to allow one she-elf in his company, much less two.”

“Tauriel or an entire elven band — and Oakenshield would be a fool turn aside the aid of two such warriors.”

“Oakenshield can speak for himself,” the dwarf growled, then dragged a hand through his hair. “And he would like to leave his heirs and the elven princess safely here in Rivendell and far away from dragons, wargs, and orcs.”

“Uncle —”

“Thorin!”

“A debt is —”

“But since they’d all just follow along anyway,” Oakenshield continued, ignoring the outrage he’d invoked, “he will accept both she-elves and avoid being called a fool, thank you.”

“Bellamira leaned over and poked him. “See what happens when you’re reasonable? You win arguments without a sword or shouting.”

“I like shouting.”

“Dwarves.”

***

It was late when the shouting and planning — often the same thing with such a group — was done with. Elrond had eventually regained his equilibrium, Gandalf had finally relented on the matter of which path through the mountains to take, and the dwarves had conceded that perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to take lembas bread as part of their provisions.

When the final argument and the last bite of food were finished — coincidentally at the same time — everyone made their way to their beds. No sooner had the door closed to their private rooms than Legolas found herself drawn back against a broad chest, arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders and waist. She laid her hands over Elrond’s and felt him sigh into her hair.

“I am sorry, mell nin.”

“But you will still go.”

“Yes.” His armed tightened. “Will you attempt to stop me?”

“No.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “You are a free creature, and I gave my word to you that I would not constrain your freedom.”

“To my father’s pleasure and irritation,” she recalled. The elven king had been pleased Elrond was willing to put her wishes and happiness first and annoyed that Legolas would still wander Middle-Earth unchecked. “And no matter how much you wish otherwise.”

“I do not prevent my sons from choosing their own path, no matter how dangerous. How could I do so with my wife?”

“Some would say that those are two different things.”

“Some are fools.” She turned in his arms, cupping his cheek in one hand. Elrond closed his eyes and turned into her touch, kissing her hand. “You are my wife and heart, Legolas, not my possession. I wish for you to be happy as well as safe. I wish for you to stay close to me of your own choice rather than by my decree.”

“I always wish to be with you, mell nin.” With her other hand, she cupped the back of his neck and drew him down in kiss. “Even when I leave you, it is not because I wish to be away, but because I cannot wait to return.”

“Meleth nin.” He took her mouth fiercely, then abruptly drew back to sweep her into his arms. Legolas laughed, clinging to his shoulders. “I should remind you of what you will miss while you are away — and why you should return swiftly.”

“Yes, you should.”

***

Elrond rose early, before dawn broke over the valley, despite the late night. His wife stirred briefly when he left their bed, but he soothed her back into Irmo’s embrace with a kiss to her brow and a murmured word. Legolas sighed and curled more deeply into the bedding while he sat upon the edge of the bed, watching her sleep for several moments before pulling himself away. He had a busy day ahead of him.

On his path, Elrond took a pass through the Hall of Fire, the feasting hall of Imladris, and was amused to see that Saruman the White was passed out beneath one of the tables, snoring. A smug-looking Glorfindel, who had likely been the one to drink the wizard into his current state, looked none the worse for wear. The Balrog Slayer nearly raised his cup of kava as Elrond passed before returning to watching the servants put the hall to rights.

Elrond found the object of his search on the Eastern terrace, enjoying the sunrise and the breakfast Erestor was laying before her. Like Glorfindel, Galadriel had been awake until the small hours, distracting Saruman with wine and tales, and she looked just as hale and well despite it.

“Milord —” Elrond waved a hand, stopping Erestor before he could say anything. The seneschal was always one for propriety, but Elrond had little patience for formality so early in the morning.

“Do not bother yourself, Erestor, I will be content with what is already here.” He recognized several Galadriel’s favourites but was mainly concerned with the kava upon the table. He was swift to sit and pour himself and Galadriel each a cup.

“Let me at least send for your usual —”

“Erestor.”

The seneschal sighed. “As milord Elrond wishes.”

“There is no need for ceremony before the sun has properly risen, my friend.” Erestor frowned and left, full of dignity, and Elrond resigned himself to formal meals for the rest of the day.

Galadriel laughed. “How it must chafe at you, Elrond, to council patience and restraint to others when both are so against your nature.” She sipped delicately from her cup, smiling. “And how shocked your sons would be to realize that you are so much like them.”

“I was half as reckless as they are, for there was only one of me,” he argued. Though he, too, had once been one of a pair, thoughts of his long-dead twin brother had ceased to cause him pain with the birth of his sons. He had been without Elros for far, far longer than not.

“By that logic, they are twice as sensible.” They both laughed. “Of course, Arwen is most like you of all your children. Impassioned and quick to act, and easily swayed by her kind heart, especially without the weight of years to temper her. What will love make of her, I wonder?”

“Can you not see it yourself?” Elrond asked though he knew the answer. He and Galadriel shared the same gift of foresight and had the same blind spots.

“Faint wisps of possibilities that slide through my grasp as the wind through leaves. Like you, I cannot see my own future — or that of those I love most.” Galadriel’s gaze turned inward. “Arwen’s fate — light and shadow, hope and despair. A light in the darkness and a new beginning when all else seems lost. A strength that endures beyond death itself and love forged in fire and fury.” Her voice faded as Elrond’s hand tightened on his cup, threatening to crack the fragile porcelain. “For as she is the bright star that heralds the end of day, he is a new dawn that sings the birth of a new day.”

“Not words a father wishes to hear of his child,” Elrond said calmly as Galadriel sighed, returning to the present. He set the cup down gently. “As ever, you are a comfort to me, Galadriel.”

She huffed. “When you are my age, Elrond, you may torment your juniors as you will. Great change is not born of peace and quiet,” she added, “and change is coming. We have both seen it. My dreams are full of shadows and whispers in the dark of late.”

“A storm on the wind,” he murmured, thinking of his own dreams. “It has been worse since Oakenshield’s company arrived.”

“Ever is Mithrandir upon the tides of change. A herald of things to come. The Gray Wanderer is the stone that tips the balance wherever he goes.” She smiled. “As he prefers.”

“A pretty way of saying he meddles.”

“That as well,” Galadriel agreed, far too cheerfully.

“Legolas will join Thorin Oakenshield,” Elrond said.

“Are you surprised?”

“No. But I am afraid.” He exhaled, looking out over the valley. “I cannot see ahead, nor know what they will face on their path.”

“You can no more see Legolas’ future than your own, for her fate is tied to yours. Such is the way of soulmates, Elrond.”

“But you can,” he managed.

“You of all people know the danger of what you seek, Elrond Peredhil,” the Lady of Lothlórien said, her words soft and full of meaning. “Once asked, it cannot be unasked.”

“What do you see, Galadriel?” He met her gaze.

“Shadows stir where once there was light.” Blue eyes bore into him as her words echoed in his head. “They spread their wings over land and sky, reaching ever to snuff out the hope and light of the world. Their shade is cast long over the path that is to come. Over mountain and water, through forest and glen — the road ahead is shrouded in shadows and ladened with enemies.

“And yet, there is hope where there is life,” she continued. “A seed of hope is planted among those who will walk this path. There is no greater alliance than that of friendship but for love, and both may flourish, or wither, in the coming days. In blood and in fire shall they be tested: man and elf, dwarf and hobbit; all the free races of Middle-Earth. And in their quest, we shall see the fate of us all. To stand or to fall as one.

“Autumn is here, and I fear winter is close upon us. Whether spring comes — and whether we will endure to see it — is a question that will soon be asked. And answered.”

His hand trembled as he refilled Galadriel’s cup. Hers did the same as she drank from it. “There is no man amongst the company,” Elrond murmured.

“Not yet.” Despite her pallor, she smiled. “And no man is more accurate than you know, Elrond.”

He set that aside as a puzzle for another time. “Should I stop —”

“You cannot stop her. And if you did, they might well fail.” Softly, she added, “They cannot fail.”

The fear in his heart was a living thing, twisting and writhing in his chest. He didn’t ask Galadriel if she was sure, for she was as certain as her foresight would permit her to be. And she had warned him. Elrond knew the dangers of visions, including how fluid they could be, even as they seemed as inevitable as the next moment in time.

“Enjoy your breakfast, Galadriel,” he said, rising.

“What will you do, Elrond?” she asked as he walked away. Her voice was calm again, full of her usual strength and certainty.

“What I must,” Elrond answered. His steps were sure and quick as he headed for the forge. He had a great deal of work to do, and only a few days to do it in.

Four

“You fool no one, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“Then it’s a good thing I am not trying to, Saruman.”

Thorin wasn’t surprised to hear the wizard’s voice, as he’d felt the man’s eyes following him for the last day. He was a little surprised the wizard had chosen to approach him in the forge — Saruman did not seem the kind to risk dirtying his robes, nor to give Thorin the advantage of confronting him in a place he had the upper hand. Either the wizard was very sure of himself, or he thought he had the advantage.

More fool him, to confront a dwarf in a forge.

“There is only death and destruction to be found in Erebor. Just as with Moria, the arrogance of Durin’s line has brought a great kingdom to an end.”

Thorin said nothing, only continued renewing the edge of Fíli’s sword. Their fights with trolls and orcs had left several of the company’s weapons and equipment — that which they hadn’t lost when the ponies had bolted — in need of repair.

“You will not ignore me, son of Thráin!”

“I will not be dictated to, wizard.”

“You are every bit as arrogant as your forefathers, to ignore the advice of those older and wiser than yourself.”

He brought his hammer down sharply, then returned the blade to the heat. The sounds and scent of the forge was a familiar comfort even in the elven city. Nearby, a pair of apprentices were making nails — a job so necessary and tedious that every apprentice spent years at the task, and every master smith passed the job off whenever possible. Deeper in the forge, the distinctive sound of steel being shaped could be heard, possibly by Elrond himself. After spending most of the last day in the same forge as the elven lord, Thorin had come to respect his fellow master’s craft. He might be an elf, but Elrond was a true smith.

“Worse still, you have brought those who should know better into your transparent lies. Aided, no doubt, by one as arrogant and foolhardy as you are.”

Thorin snorted. “There is nothing wise about constantly disparaging someone who has the love and respect of your peer. One day, you will push Elrond too far in your insults of his wife, and not even she will be able to stop him from knocking your fool head off.”

Saruman waved that off. “If you were truly on a mission of trade, you would not be travelling the wilds instead of in comfort. Your secrecy proves your story false.”

“And your words prove your ignorance, Saruman, for there are many among my people and my race who would see us starve before allying with men or elves.” At least three of the nobles on his council would burst at the very thought, and Thorin hoped to see it when they found out. “Before the summer ends, a caravan from Ered Luin will arrive in the Shire, ready to sell goods and trade for a part of their harvest.” Letters for Dís and Bellamira Baggins’ kin had left Rivendell two days ago arranging just that. “Should things go well, we will return in the spring to make more permanent agreements.”

And perhaps, if Mahal favoured fools and dwarves, they would bargain from Erebor instead of the settlement in the Blue Mountains.

The wizard’s face soured. “The halflings?”

Their hobbit had been swift to correct them on this front, breaking the company of the habitual term for hobbits on the first days of the quest. “Hobbits are half of nothing.”

“Indeed.” Elrond appeared from the depths of the smithy. Thorin realized that the earlier sounds of metalwork had faltered and fallen silent, allowing everyone to hear his argument with the wizard. “Curunír, unless you are here to work, I would ask you to leave the forge. You are distracting the apprentices from their task.”

There was a flurry of hammering as said apprentices pretended they were too hard at work to be eavesdropping.

Saruman drew himself to his full height. “They will wake the dragon on this foolhardy quest, Elrond. And when they do — it will be on your head for not stopping them.” With those words, he swept away.

“And I thought Tharkûn was dramatic,” Thorin muttered.

Something like a laugh burst from the elf lord. “Oh, he is — but his dramatics are tempered by humour. Saruman laughs at little, and never himself.”

“The dragon may be dead, you know,” he felt the need to say.

“Yes, he might be.” The elf raised a brow. “Do you believe that?”

Thorin raised his hammer and returned the blade to the anvil. “No. I don’t.” The hammer fell, the sound ringing through the forge.

Elrond removed the leather apron he wore, hanging it by the door as he left. Confident strides took him through the gardens to a stately cedar tree. Seated at its base, her back to the trunk and her face turned upward, was his wife.

“You smell of the forge,” she murmured when he settled beside her.

“If you find it unpleasant, I can leave to bathe.” Lithe fingers wrapped around his wrist and held him in place. “Or not.”

Legolas’ mouth curved, and she opened one laughing eye. “I was making an observation, not a complaint. Though I would note you have been in the forge every day.”

“Perhaps I have a great deal to do.”

“Perhaps you worry too much and are keeping yourself busy.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded.

“I wish I could ease your mind, mell nin.” Legolas tipped her head to rest on his shoulder. “I dislike causing you distress.”

“The situation distresses me — though I dislike that word — not you, Legolas.”

“A situation that I have chosen to insert myself in, thereby upsetting you, Elrond,” she pointed out. “My choice leads to your unhappiness; therefore, I have caused it.”

“Stubborn.”

“You knew that when you married me.”

“How many times did I find you under this tree despite barely being able to walk?” he asked, remembering her stubborn insistence on leaving the healing hall long before she was ready. He’d been forced to carry Legolas back to her bed when she had outreached her strength more than once.

“It is a very handsome tree,” Legolas argued, patting the trunk in a friendly manner. “His song is welcoming — a great comfort when one is feeling weak and foolish and not a little confused by one’s feelings for a stern and handsome elven lord.”

“Whereas I merely brooded in the baths over my feelings for a bright and beautiful silvan princess,” Elrond said, “and convinced Erestor that I was attempting to drown myself.”

Legolas laughed against his shoulder. “But I am the stubborn one?”

“I said you were stubborn, meleth nin, not that you were the only one.”

Kíli heard Legolas laugh and turned to find her friend tucked against Lord Elrond. The elf-lord looked surprisingly at home, sitting on the ground with his back to a tree trunk.

“Stop staring at them, Kee,” Fíli whispered, tugging her along. “Really, what’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing, Fee.”

“You’re a terrible liar, you know.”

“Then how come I’m always the one to talk us out of trouble?”

“People feel sorry for you — since I got all the looks and the brains between us,” he chirped, then yelped when her shove had him teetering on the edge of the stream running beside the path. “Oi!”

“You got all the slag, and I have all the metal, you mean. Idiot.”

He caught up to her in a few strides and nudged her shoulder. “No, Kee, really — what’s going on in your head? You’re forever watching the pair of them. Making friends with Legolas is one thing, and I understand that well enough —”

“Really?”

He snorted. “Can I understand why you’ve made quick friends with a female warrior who favours a bow, was born to rank and all the problems that entails, and who doesn’t care that you’re third in line for the throne of a fallen kingdom?” He swung an arm over her shoulder and shook her lightly. “No, Kee, it’s a complete mystery to me.”

“Shut up.” Her own arm went around him in return. “Most dwarves would throw a fit simply because she’s an elf. Even some of the company grumbles over it.”

“But not Uncle Thorin, and he’s the one that matters. And, let’s face it — if he were to have a fit over Legolas, it would be her parentage and not her race.” Fíli made a face. “She is Thranduil’s daughter, after all.”

“You can choose your craft, your weapon, your friends, and your spouse, but not your family,” Kíli reminded him. “Else, I wouldn’t be stuck with you.”

“You love me,” Fíli declared, tugging on one of her braids. Hard.

“Sometimes, but mostly, I tolerate you out of charity.” And she shoved him into the stream, arse first.

Bella heard a shout and a splash, followed by laughter and a roar. When she looked over the balcony railing, she caught a glimpse of a very wet Fíli giving chase to a laughing Kíli and shook her head. “No better than Took tweens,” she murmured, lips twitching as she sat back on the bench she had occupied. Bella rather hoped that Fíli’s temper eased before he caught up to Kíli.

And that the pair of them didn’t damage anything valuable in the meantime. Including each other.

The excitement over, at least temporarily, she returned to her task. She’d torn her jacket in the troll fight, and the hem of her cloak was coming undone. As for the state of the trousers she’d been wearing the day they came to Rivendell — well, that hardly bore thinking about. Adventures were very hard on one’s clothing, but Bella was a fair hand with a needle, and there was still time before they continued onward.

“You’re not a dwarf.”

She looked up from her sewing to find a child, no taller than she was, with dark hair and blue eyes and ears more rounded than her own. “And you are not an elf.”

“No, silly, I’m a man.”

“Oh?” Bella raised a brow, pretending to be shocked. “I was certain that Men were much taller.”

The child pouted, then laughed. “Fine then, a boy.”

“Well, that makes sense.” She set another stitch, then knotted the thread. Digging her scissors from a pocket, Bella snipped the ends and shook out her cloak. “Much better. You’re right though, I’m not a dwarf — I have far too little hair.”

The boy settled on the bench beside her as she chose another garment to repair. “I was looking for dwarves because Mother said there’s a whole group of them here, and Lindir is busy, so there are no lessons today and I’ve never met a dwarf, only read about them in books. If you aren’t a dwarf, what are you?”

Exposure to countless Took and Baggins cousins, not to mention all the other various relations, left Bella prepared to follow the rapid thoughts of the child. “I’m a hobbit of the Shire. Bellamira Baggins, at your service.”

“I’m Estel,” he offered, watching her stitching and drumming his heels against the bench. “Where’s the Shire?”

“It’s to the west, halfway between Rivendell and the Blue Mountains. Are you visiting Rivendell?”

“No, I live here with Mother. How come you’re travelling with dwarves?”

“Because they asked me to. Do you always ask so many questions?”

“Yes,” he answered immediately with a child’s lack of shame. Bella laughed, making Estel grin. He was missing a tooth, and there was a smudge on his chin. “Lord Elrond says you can only get answers if you ask questions. And then he sends me to ask Glorfindel because he’s older and knows more answers than Lord Elrond, even though he’s older than anything. Except for Lady Galadriel and Glorfindel. And dirt,” he added.

Bella bit her lip, imagining the look on Elrond’s face at being compared favourably in age to dirt. No wonder the elven lord sent the boy to pester Glorfindel with questions. “I see.”

“Then he presses his fingers to his head, like this,” Estel touched two fingers of each hand to his temples and rubbed then in an excellent approximation of someone trying to stave a headache, “and Legolas laughs.”

Legolas wasn’t the only one who wanted to laugh. “I’m sure she does.”

“She laughs a lot, and it makes Lord Elrond smile. He doesn’t do it with his mouth as much as his eyes, but anyone can make their mouth smile.” He plucked the hem of his shirt. “Mother smiles when she sees them together, but her eyes are sad when she does.”

“Is she sad often?”

“She’s always sad. It’s because my father is dead. I don’t remember him, but she does. She’s Fading,” he said solemnly. “No one says it to me, but I hear them talking sometimes.”

Bella’s needle went still as she remembered her father’s slow decline after her mother, Belladonna’s death. No one had told her, either, and she had overheard her relatives talking about Bungo’s decline as well. “Is your mother an elf?” She wasn’t aware that Men could Fade as elves and hobbits did.

“The Dúnedain fight like Mankind and love like Elvenkind,” Estel recited. “That means we have the strength and weakness of both races,” he explained.

“I see,” she murmured, remembering the history of the Dúnedain. Blessed and cursed in equal measure. “I’m sorry. My father Faded after my mother died.”

“Is that why you’re going on a quest?”

“What makes you think we’re on a quest?”

“I told you,” Estel drawled, “I hear the adults talking. Only Legolas and Lord Elrond remember to check if I’m nearby. They almost always catch me,” he grumbled.

“Only almost?” Bella asked with a smile.

“Sometimes they’re too busy kissing — or yelling at Elrohir and Elladan. They get in a lot of trouble even though they’ve grown up,” Estel confided. “They don’t think that it’s fair that Legolas is going on your quest, but Lord Elrond forbade them from going.”

Also, Thorin had threatened to lose the elven twins down a mine shaft if they followed, stating that he could only tolerate one pair of troublemakers — and his sister-children had come along first. Bella decided not to tell Estel that little tidbit, as the child clearly knew more than enough of the daily business of Rivendell. Clearly, elves were not used to dealing with curious little boys. Or they’d forgotten the knack of it since Elrond’s sons had grown up.

“Well, we are going on a quest, yes, but it’s a secret one. I’m glad it was you who found out, Estel since I can trust you to keep a secret.” Her matter-of-fact tone had him sitting upright; Bella had more sense than to scold him about keeping the secrets he overheard. Nothing bruised more easily than a child’s pride except their trust and overripened berries.

“Is it dangerous? Your quest?”

Considering how close they’d all come to death — and without coming close to the actual dragon yet? “A bit, yes. But you know, Estel,” she said softly, “it’s a dangerous business, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to. What I mean is, anything can be dangerous if you don’t keep your head and mind where you step. If one wants to be completely safe, well, you’d never leave your bed — and that’s no way to live at all,” Bella finished, realizing how true that was, and how close she’d come to just that by staying snug in the Shire. Safe, yes, but hidden away like the good china that never left the cupboard, always waiting for the right occasion.

Better to risk a few chips and cracks, than to never let it see the light of day. With that thought, Bella decisively knotted her thread, having finished repairing a torn pocket. You could fix things that were damaged from hard use — you couldn’t go back and make use of wasted opportunities.

“Then it’s good that Legolas is going,” Estel said, unaware of Bella’s profound epiphany. “She’s powerful and smart. Lord Elrond says she’s dangerous.” Bella choked back a laugh, managing to make a sound of agreement. Somehow, she doubted Lord Elrond meant that when he accused his wife of being dangerous. “Are you going far?”

“Very far, indeed. Over the mountains, across the whole of the Anduin valley, then past the Greenwood — all the way to Erebor. The dwarves want to reclaim their home, you see,” she explained gently. Better to teach him that quests and danger were only worth risking your life for if their purpose was just, rather than for glory’s sake. “It was lost long ago to a dragon, and they miss it very much. It was a great kingdom, one of the greatest in Middle-Earth. Before the mountain lay the city of Dale and beyond it, the great dwarven kingdom of Erebor,” Bella began, telling the story of Erebor and it’s fall to an enraptured Estel.

“ . . . and the dwarves have never forgotten Erebor, nor forgiven Smaug for the death he dealt that day,” she finished. “Not in these hundred years and more since it happened. Now, they will try to take it back and restore their kingdom — and reclaim their home.”

Wide-eyed, Estel stared out at the gardens. In the distance, she could see a few of the Company heading for the dining hall. “That’s — it sounds very grand. And scary,” he added softly.

“Yes, it does. I’m not ashamed to say I fainted when I found out about the dragon,” Bella confessed.

“But — Erebor isn’t your home, is it?”

“No, indeed. My home is called Bag’s End, and it’s the finest smial in Hobbiton — maybe even the whole Shire.” She smiled at his frown. “A smial is a hobbit hole — where we make our homes. They are warm and comfortable all year round, and just the right size for us. Bag’s End is lovely, filled with books and comfy chairs, soft beds — and a grand kitchen with three pantries!”

“It sounds very nice — wait, three pantries?”

“I don’t know how men and dwarves and elves manage on only three meals a day,” Bella mused. “Hobbits have seven, you know.”

He looked intrigued. “And snacks?”

“Absolutely! Afternoon, after dinner, and midnight at the very least!”

“I have to sneak into the kitchens for a midnight snack,” Estel grumbled, though he didn’t look terribly put out. It was probably an excellent adventure for a lad his age. “Then, why did you leave your nice home?”

“For the same reason the Legolas is going to,” she explained. “Because we have lovely, safe homes — and they do not. Did you know that Thorin once went ten years without seeing his family? He travelled so far in search of work to feed them, that he couldn’t come home to visit for years. And he wasn’t the only one to do so. The settlement they made in the Blue Mountains is productive now, but it took decades for that to happen, and in the meantime, many dwarves travelled all over Middle-Earth to earn coin.” To say nothing of the campaign to reclaim Moria and all those who never came back from it.

“That’s sad,” Estel said.

“Yes.” She looked up in time to see a figure that could only be Thorin emerge from the distant forge. “Yes, it is.”

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