Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I don't know why I wandered off. I was ten years old, and apparently ten-year-olds are always wandering off. I'd gone to pee, which seemed like a perfectly normal thing to do on a camping trip. The forest was quiet, the air was warm, and everything felt calm. Birds chirped, the leaves rustled, and there was nothing about the world that seemed likely to explode at any second.

Which, of course, is when it all went sideways.

I was just finishing up when I heard it—something that didn't sound right. It wasn't the usual forest noises. This was louder, heavier, like... like something big was stomping through the woods. Not one something. Many somethings. The sound made my stomach twist into knots before my brain could even process why.

Then I saw them.

Orcs.

You know how sometimes your brain just refuses to understand what your eyes are seeing? Like it's trying to protect you from something too big, too impossible to handle? That's what happened. I stood there, frozen, as they stormed past my hiding spot. They were huge—so much bigger than any person I'd ever seen—with gray-green skin that looked like it had been left out in bad weather. Their armor was all wrong angles and sharp edges, like someone had taken scraps from a junkyard and hammered them into shape. And their voices—their voices made my bones feel like they were trying to crawl out of my skin.

I pressed myself against a tree trunk, trying to become part of the bark. "This can't be real," I thought, blinking hard. "It's just—just a weird... I don't know, hallucination or something." But the heavy thud of their boots against the ground was too real. The way their weapons caught the sunlight—cruel-looking things that seemed designed to cause as much pain as possible—that was real too. One of them was waving a large stone attached to a string in a circle in the air, as though he were going to try and lasso something.

For a moment, they seemed to pass by without noticing me. I held my breath, counting heartbeats, thinking maybe, just maybe, I'd get lucky.

Then everything exploded into chaos.

A shout rang out—a human voice this time—and suddenly the forest was alive with movement. Men burst through the trees, weapons drawn, and the air filled with the terrible song of metal striking metal. The orcs roared—and trust me, there's no way to describe an orc's roar that does it justice. It's like every nightmare you've ever had decided to make a noise at once.

I had two very clear thoughts in that moment: One, don't get killed. Two, don't get noticed.

My body had a third thought: freeze completely and try not to throw up.

From behind my tree, I watched the fight unfold like some horrible dance. The orcs fought like they were trying to break everything—including themselves. The men moved with more purpose, but they were outnumbered. I saw one man take an orc's blade across his arm. Another barely dodged a mace that would have crushed his skull. Every clash of weapons made me flinch.

And then, because the universe apparently wasn't done with me yet, I saw him.

He moved differently from the others—more graceful, more controlled. Dark hair, leather armor that had seen better days, and a face that looked so much older than my Dad’s, although I would have guessed they were the same age. When he turned and locked eyes with me, I felt my heart stop.

For a heartbeat, we just stared at each other. I saw the surprise in his eyes turn to determination, and before I could even think about running, he crossed the space between us in three long strides and grabbed my arm.

"Quiet," he said in a language I didn't understand, but some words don't need translation when they're accompanied by that particular look of 'make-a-sound-and-we-both-die.'

I wanted to scream. I wanted to demand explanations. I wanted to wake up from whatever bizarre dream this was. Instead, what came out was a strangled "Huh?" as he pulled me along behind him, weaving through the trees with a purpose that suggested he knew exactly where he was going.

We ran. And ran. And ran some more. The sounds of fighting faded behind us, but he didn't slow down. My lungs burned, my legs felt like they were made of rubber, and my brain had given up on making sense of anything. Up ahead, I could see lights—a town, maybe, or a village. But nothing looked familiar. The trees were wrong. The ground beneath my feet felt wrong. Even the air tasted different.

That's when the real fear hit me: I wasn't just lost. I was somewhere else entirely.

Chapter Text

The transition from "normal life" to "living in a fictional town with a man who fought orcs" isn't exactly covered in any books I'd ever read. The first night in Lake-town passed in a blur of exhaustion and confusion. I remember wooden walls, the constant gentle movement of water beneath the floors, and the overwhelming smell of fish and damp wood. But mostly, I remember the silence.

Not actual silence—Lake-town was never truly quiet, with its creaking boards and lapping waves. No, this was the silence of not understanding a single word anyone said. It pressed against my ears like cotton wool, making everything feel distant and unreal.

Bard—that was his name, I learned through pointing and context—gave me a space to sleep in a small room with two children. He didn't say much beyond what seemed like essential instructions: eat, sleep, stay. At least, that's what I figured he meant from the gestures. I spent that first night curled up on a narrow bed, listening to the strange sounds of this impossible place and wondering if I'd gone completely insane.

The language barrier was like a wall of invisible glass. I could see everything happening around me, but I couldn't quite reach it. The words people spoke sounded like music played in the wrong key—beautiful in their way, but impossible to follow. At first, I tried speaking English, hoping that maybe someone would understand just one word, give me some tiny bridge to cross this gap. But all I got were those looks—you know the ones. The kind people give to lost dogs they can't help.

I learned to be quiet instead.

The children were harder to ignore. Tilda, the baby, couldn’t even properly sit up yet. She had these huge brown eyes that followed me around the room like she was trying to solve a puzzle. Sometimes she'd babble at me in that musical language everyone else spoke, and I'd babble back in English, and for a moment it almost felt normal. Almost. 

Bain was the real challenge. At four or five, he was old enough to be curious but young enough to be frustrated when I couldn't understand him. He'd follow me around sometimes, chattering away in his language, pointing at things and clearly expecting me to respond. When I couldn't, he'd get this look on his face—not angry, just confused. Like he couldn't figure out why this big person wasn't making sense. 

One morning, about three days in, he spent fifteen minutes trying to teach me a word. He kept pointing at a cup and saying something that sounded like "melon" but definitely wasn't about melons. I tried to repeat it, and he laughed so hard he had to sit down. After that, it became a game. He'd point at things, say words, and laugh at my terrible pronunciation. It wasn't much, but it was something. There was no sign of their mother, only Bard.

Bard was... complicated. He'd leave early, return late, always looking like he'd been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Sometimes he'd try to talk to me—slow, careful words that I still couldn't understand—and I'd see the frustration in his eyes when I just stared back blankly. He wasn't unkind, just... distant. Like he wasn't quite sure what to do with this strange child who'd fallen into his life.

The food was its own adventure. The pantry was full of things I didn't recognize—fish preserved in ways that made them look like leather, root vegetables that smelled earthy and strange, dark bread that was dense enough to use as a weapon. I spent the first week afraid to eat anything I couldn't immediately identify, which meant I was hungry a lot.

Then one evening, Bard caught me staring helplessly at the pantry. He sighed, got up from his chair, and showed me how to prepare a simple meal. We didn't share any words, but watching his hands as he worked, learning the rhythms of this simple task—it felt like the first connection I'd made in this place. Slowly, I took over more chores in the house. Meals for the children. Cleaning. A memorable attempt at laundry.

Some days, when the strangeness of everything became too much, I'd sit by the window and watch the lake. There was something hypnotic about the water, the way the mist curled above it in the morning, the steady movement of boats and people going about their lives. It made me think about my parents, about home, about all the normal things that seemed like they belonged to another lifetime now.

I'd whisper their names sometimes, just to hear something familiar in this unfamiliar world. "Mom. Dad." The words felt different here, like they belonged to a language that had no place in Lake-town. I wondered if they were looking for me. If they'd filed missing persons reports, organized search parties. If they thought I was dead.

The worst part was not knowing if I'd ever see them again. Not knowing if I even could. It was clear that wherever I was, going home was not an immediate option. I was clearly…somewhere else. 

That uncertainty followed me everywhere, coloring every interaction, every attempt to fit into this new life. I felt like an actor who'd been pushed onto a stage without learning the lines or knowing the plot. Every day was an improvisation, and I was pretty sure I was failing at it.

Then came the day of the meeting.

I had been there about three weeks. Bard didn't explain where we were going—he couldn't, really—but the way he gripped my hand as we walked told me this was important. The building we entered was larger than most in Lake-town, with high ceilings that disappeared into shadows and walls lined with dark wooden panels that seemed to absorb light.

The Master of Lake-town sat at the head of a long table, wearing robes that probably cost more than everything I'd seen in Bard's house combined. He had one of those faces that looked like it had been assembled from parts that didn't quite fit together, all sharp angles and cold eyes. When he looked at me, I felt like a bug someone had found in their soup.

The conversation that followed was like watching a play in a language I didn't speak. I could follow the emotions—Bard's quiet intensity, the Master's obvious disdain, the way the other people in the room shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The Master's voice dripped with something that sounded like contempt, and even though I couldn't understand the words, I knew they were about me. The gesturing alone would have been enough to tell me so, if not the constant sneers the Master sent in my direction.

Bard stood straighter, his voice firm but controlled. He placed his hand on my shoulder, and in that moment, I realized he was defending me. Fighting for me. The thought made my throat tight.

The Master's response was sharp, dismissive. He gestured at me with a flick of his wrist, like I was something unpleasant he wanted swept away. The room felt colder, and I found myself stepping closer to Bard without really meaning to.

But Bard didn't back down. His voice grew stronger, more determined. Whatever he was saying, he meant every word of it. The Master's face darkened, his lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile, wasn't quite a sneer.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the Master waved his hand in a gesture that clearly meant "fine, do what you want." But the look he gave me said he was clearly displeased with me and whatever outcome had been reached

Outside, in the cool air and relative quiet of Lake-town's streets, I wanted to ask Bard what had happened. But the words wouldn't come—not in his language, not in mine. So I just walked beside him, trying to match his stride, wondering what it meant to be defended by someone who barely knew me.

I might not have understood the words spoken in that room, but I understood this: Bard had chosen to fight for me. In this strange world where nothing made sense, that was something I could hold onto.

Chapter Text

The first year was the hardest. Everything in Lake-town felt wrong—the constant movement of water beneath the boards, the smell of fish and damp wood, the way people spoke a language that turned my thoughts to mush. I'd find myself walking into walls because I was too busy trying to parse simple sentences like "Time for dinner" or "Please pass the salt."

Bard—and I could only think of him as Bard then—was endlessly patient. He'd point at objects, say their names in Common Speech, wait for me to repeat them. Sometimes I'd wake at night to find him still up, making lists of words I might need to know, planning ways to help me learn.

The hardest part wasn't the language, though. It was the stares. The whispers that followed me through the market. Even when I couldn’t understand the exact words, I certainly could understand the sentiment behind them:

"Strange child..."

"Where did the bargeman find her?"

"Doesn't even speak proper..."

"Did you hear about the clothing she was found in?"

My original clothes had been a particular source of fascination. The synthetic fabrics, the machine-sewn seams, the elastic waistband of my pants—all of it marked me as foreign in ways I couldn't explain. Bard got me new clothes as quickly as he could, but people remembered. And people talked.

Bain, at four years old, didn't care where I came from. He just liked having someone new to play with, even if I couldn't understand half of what he said. He'd grab my hand and pull me along on his adventures, chattering away in a mix of Common and toddler-talk that somehow became its own language between us.

The baby was easier still. Tilda was too young to question anything—she just knew she had a new person who would hold her and sing songs in a strange language. Sometimes I'd catch Bard watching us during those moments, something soft and sad in his eyes, like he was seeing both what was lost and what was found. Their mother clearly wasn’t around, and I wasn’t about to ask. With Tilda being as young as she was, it had to have been recent.

And so, slowly, I adapted. I learned which docks to avoid. Which children were the bullies, and which would let me alone. Time moved strangely those first few years. Sometimes a day would feel endless—especially early on, when every conversation was a struggle and every interaction a reminder of how different I was. Other times, weeks would blur together in a rush of normal moments: helping Bain learn to write, teaching Tilda to walk, learning to cook without burning everything.

The nightmares came less frequently as time passed. Dreams of my parents, of cars and computers and all the things I'd lost, gradually faded into a dull ache rather than sharp pain. But sometimes I'd catch myself staring at the strange stars of this world, wondering if my parents were looking at our familiar constellations, still searching for their lost daughter.

It happened on an ordinary evening, about three years after I'd arrived. I was helping with dinner—mostly just chopping vegetables, since I still couldn't quite manage the wood stove without burning things. Bain was "helping" too, which mostly meant stealing bits of carrot when he thought no one was looking. Bard stood at the stove, his back to us.

"Bain," Bard said without turning around, "if you keep eating the carrots, there won't be any left for dinner."

"But I'm hungry now," Bain protested, reaching for another piece.

"Da, he's eating them all!" The words slipped out before I could catch them. Then I froze, the knife half-raised over an onion, as I realized what I'd said.

The silence felt huge. Bain took advantage of our distraction to grab another carrot and scamper off, but I barely noticed. I couldn't look at Bard. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

"I'm sorry," I whispered in English, then forced myself to switch to Common. "I didn't mean—I shouldn't have—I know you're not—"

"Sigrid." His voice was very gentle. "Look at me?"

I managed to raise my eyes. He'd turned away from the stove and was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"I—" My voice cracked. "I have a father. Had a father. I shouldn't—"

"Yes, you did. Do." He moved slowly, like he was afraid of startling me. "And nothing can change that. But Sigrid..." He knelt in front of me, bringing us to eye level. "You can have more than one father, if you want. You can carry the love of your first family and still build something new here."

"But what if—" I swallowed hard. "What if they think I've forgotten them? What if they think I've replaced them?"

"Love doesn't work like that," he said softly. "It's not a finite resource. It doesn't mean you love them any less."

I burst into tears. He pulled me into a hug, and I buried my face in his shoulder like I used to do with my father when I was scared or sad.

"You don't have to call me Da if you don't want to," he murmured. "You don't have to call me anything you're not ready for. But know that whatever you choose, you are my daughter. In my heart, if not by birth."

After that, it got easier. Not all at once—I still stumbled over what to call him sometimes, still had moments of guilt when "Da" slipped out naturally. But slowly, gradually, it became normal. Right. I didn’t have a new dad. Just…another Da. It never would have happened had Bard not shown such unconditional support those first few years. From the meeting with the Master to every instance of quiet support as he taught me to fish and showed me how to barter. I tried to make my heart big enough for the new family in my life. Some days, it even felt like I succeeded.

Small things marked progress. The day old Hilda at the market stopped watching me suspiciously when I approached her stall. The first time I successfully bargained for cabbage without having to repeat myself. When the neighbor's children started including me in their games without their parents telling them to be nice to the strange girl.

I wasn't particularly good at anything—my attempts at sewing usually ended in pricked fingers and crooked seams, my cooking remained basic at best, and I never quite mastered the art of walking on icy boardwalks without slipping. But I learned. I adapted. I found ways to be useful, even if they weren't extraordinary.

The water pump near our house had a tendency to freeze in winter. After watching Da fix it several times, I learned the signs of when it was about to seize up. It wasn't anything special—just paying attention, noticing patterns—but it meant I could warn him before it completely stopped working. Small things, but they added up.

By the time I was fourteen, most people had forgotten—or pretended to forget—how strange I'd seemed at first. I was just Bard's eldest, quiet but reliable, good with the younger children and willing to help when needed. Not extraordinary, just... present. Part of the fabric of Lake-town life. 

Tilda didn't remember a time before I was her sister. Bain had only hazy memories of when I couldn't understand him. Even Da sometimes seemed surprised when something would remind him that I hadn't always been his.

There were still moments, of course. Times when someone would use a phrase I didn't understand, or reference an event from before my arrival, and I'd feel that old sense of displacement. But those moments grew fewer and farther between.

I was fifteen when I overheard someone refer to me as "Bard's eldest" without any qualification, without the usual "adopted" or "strange" added on. It wasn't anything dramatic—just a market vendor telling his apprentice who to give a message to. But it felt like a milestone of sorts.

Not because I'd forgotten where I came from. Not because I'd stopped missing my family or wondering about my first world. But because I'd found a way to be both—to carry my past while living fully in my present.

"You're different today," Da noticed that evening. "Happier."

I thought about trying to explain the market vendor's comment, about what it meant to be seen as simply belonging rather than belonging-with-qualifications. But some things didn't need explaining.

"Just a good day," I said instead.

He smiled like he understood anyway.

Ten years later, when a company of dwarves climbed out of our toilet and turned everything upside down again, I found myself grateful for all those years of learning to adapt, to observe, to find my place in a world that sometimes seemed impossible. Those skills would serve me well in the chaos to come.

That's another story entirely. This story, in fact.

Chapter Text

The market days in Lake-town brought their own kind of music – the creak of wooden planks under too many feet creating a rhythm beneath the melody of haggling voices. After fifteen years, I'd learned every groan of these boardwalks, every shortcut and steady plank. The sounds reminded me of songs sometimes, snippets of melodies from another life. My mother's favorite ABBA song had a steady beat like this, the one she'd play while driving us to school. I was too young to remember a lot of pop culture from my world. But my mother used to play ABBA exclusively when we were in the car together. I couldn’t have forgotten those songs if I tried. The summer of our camping trip, I had spent most of the time on car rides reading the lyrics in the little booklets that came with the CDs. When I wasn’t completely sure of the lyrics, I either hummed or made words up.

"Sigrid!" Bain's voice cut through my reverie as he pushed through the crowd. The past couple years had transformed him, replacing gangly limbs with the steady strength that came from working the barges. "The traders from the south are here early this season."

I adjusted my basket of eggs, pulling myself back to the present. "Earlier than usual. Did you see if they brought any of that sweet wine Da likes?"

"Already checked." His grin matched the sparkle in his eyes. "Put aside two bottles with Master Toren. Though they cost more than last year."

"Everything costs more than last year," I sighed, thinking of how many more careful calculations at our kitchen table I’d have to do.

"Here!" Tilda materialized between two market stalls, her words tumbling out before she fully emerged. "Sigrid, you'll never believe what old Willem's charging for thread now. It's highway robbery!"

Despite being the youngest, Tilda had inherited Da's sharp eye for trade, always knowing which stalls had the best prices and which merchants might bend on their prices. She enjoyed the haggling more than the buying, though – that much was pure Tilda.

"Highway robbery would be cheaper," Bain commented, earning himself an elbow in the ribs.

"Did you at least get the thread we need?" I asked, already reading the answer in her triumphant expression.

"Better." She produced a small package from her basket. "Got her down to last season's prices AND she threw in some of that nice blue dye she's been hoarding. Just needs a bit of mending on her winter cloak in exchange."

I raised an eyebrow. "Mending you volunteered me for, I assume?"

"Well, you are the best with a needle," she said sweetly. "And the dye is that lovely shade you like..."

"The one that matches her best dress," Bain stage-whispered, dodging another elbow.

The familiar banter warmed me more than the weak autumn sun. We made our way through the market, collecting supplies with practiced efficiency. Bain carried the heavier items without being asked, his shoulders broad enough now that the sacks of flour barely seemed to trouble him. The sight caught in my throat sometimes – this capable young man who used to beg for piggyback rides.

"Oh!" Tilda's sudden grip on my arm nearly cost us the eggs. "Did you hear about the Masterson's daughter? She's going to marry that merchant from Dorwinion!"

"The one with the spectacles?" Bain asked, market gossip drawing him in despite himself.

"No, that's his brother. This is the younger one, the one who..." Tilda gestured vaguely at her face, "you know, the nose."

"Very specific," I said dryly.

"You know who I mean! He was at the harvest festival last year, the one who kept trying to convince everyone he could speak Elvish."

"Ah," I nodded, remembering. "The one who actually just knew three words of Sindarin and kept using them in the wrong order?"

Learning that elves were real here had been my first true shock after arriving – even more than the dragon supposedly sleeping in the mountain. But while I'd seen elves on Da's trading runs, the dragon remained as distant as a fairy tale. A story to frighten children and excuse the Master's taxes, nothing more.

We paused at the spice merchant's stall, where Tilda immediately began her usual dance of negotiation. I watched her work, pride mixing with a touch of concern at how skilled she'd become at reading people's weaknesses.

"She's gotten good at that," Bain murmured.

"She has," I agreed. "Though I'm not sure whether to be proud or worried."

"Both, probably." He grinned. "Like Da says about everything we do.”

"Speaking of Da," I said as Tilda rejoined us, clutching her hard-won spices, "we should head back. I want to get dinner started before the sun sets."

The walk home took us along less-traveled boardwalks, where the late afternoon sun painted the water in shades of gold. The familiar creaks under our feet played their own melody, mixing with the everyday symphony of Lake-town – boats at their moorings, traders calling their wares, children playing between the houses. The sound wrapped around me like a well-worn blanket, nothing like the smooth asphalt and car horns of my old life.

"Sigrid?" Tilda had dropped back to walk beside me. "Do you think Da would mind if I invited Marta for supper tomorrow? Her parents are fighting again."

My heart softened. For all her sharp edges and clever bargaining, Tilda had the kindest heart in Lake-town. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind. We'll make extra soup." A few more potatoes and some dumplings would stretch the meal far enough.

The sun was setting by the time we reached home, the lake shimmering in purple and gold. Inside, the house waited cool and dim, ready for us to light the lamps and stoke the fire. Da would be home soon, smelling of lake water and wood smoke. We'd have supper, share the day's news, and then settle in for the evening – Tilda with whatever sewing plans she was working on, Bain with his latest whittling project, me with my mending, and Da with his pipe and his quiet presence.

Home. The word had taken years to feel right in my mind, but now it fit comfortably. It had been quite a shock one day to realize I had been in this world longer than I had in my own. I still dreamed sometimes of smooth streets and hot showers, of a green yard with its white fence and that red door that used to welcome me home from school. Of my parents most of all. But those dreams had faded like old photographs, replaced by water-stained wood and crying gulls and the steady beat of life on the lake.

The next morning dawned bright and sharp, dust motes dancing in golden beams that slanted through our windows. I swept them away with practiced efficiency, humming Chiquitita as I worked.

From the kitchen came Tilda's slightly off-key humming, punctuated by the rhythmic thunk of her knife against the cutting board. I had taught her some songs in English, but I couldn’t quite figure out how to teach her to hit the right notes. The sound mingled with Bain's quiet muttering as he worked on mending a net, creating our usual morning symphony.

I leaned my broom against the wall and went to check on Tilda. She'd managed to cover herself in onion peelings but seemed to be producing an edible stew. The furrow of concentration between her brows matched Da's exactly.

"Smells good, Til," I said, and her face brightened.

"It's your favorite," she said, indicating a lumpy shape beside her cutting board. "Mushroom and leek pie."

"That sounds lovely. Want help with the crust?"

We fell into our familiar rhythm, chopping and stirring and scolding Bain when he tried to sneak a taste. Da had left early to pick up another batch of barrels from the elves, but not before Tilda had extracted a promise about dinner. "Wouldn't dream of missing it," he'd assured her. "I know better than to cross my girls." He avoided my eyes as he promised. I knew the real reason he often missed meals, trying to stretch our food a little further by claiming he'd already eaten at the docks.

But not tonight. Tonight we would gather around our scarred wooden table, tease Bain about the miller's pretty daughter, laugh at Tilda's impression of old man Yancy from the market trip yesterday. Da would tell one of his meandering stories about some distant ancestor, and we'd all groan at the terrible jokes woven through it. With luck, Tilda and Bain would clean up so I could work on Tilda's birthday present – a puzzle box I was trying to recreate from memory after seeing one at the harvest festival. Bain had been teaching me woodworking, and though the project was proving challenging, I was getting close.

The morning bled into afternoon, finding me on my knees scrubbing floors while Tilda performed her usual routine of making every chore look like torture. She pushed water around with her mop, sighing dramatically every few minutes.

"You missed a spot," I said, pointing with my own mop.

She rolled her eyes. "You know, in some families, the older sister doesn't act like a mother."

"In some families, the younger sister actually helps with the cleaning." I grinned at her. "Besides, you love me."

"Unfortunately." But she was smiling too. "Do you think Da will be home for dinner?"

Before I could answer, Bain burst through the door, breathing hard like he'd run all the way from the docks. "Da's coming," he gasped out. "With... company."

Tilda perked up immediately. "Company? We never have company."

"Well, we do now." Bain's eyes swept the room with that particular expression that meant he was assessing how presentable everything was. "And there's quite a few of them."

I set my mop against the wall, reading the tension in his shoulders. "Bain. What kind of company are we talking about?"

He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture so like Da it almost made me smile despite my growing unease. "Dwarves."

You know those moments when your brain tries to process about twelve different thoughts at once? Like: 'Well, that's new' and 'Wait, why are dwarves coming here?' and 'We don't have enough bowls for a company.’ All while a little voice in the back of your head is whispering that this can’t be good.

Yeah. It was one of those moments.

"Right," I said, because someone had to be practical. "Tilda, finish mopping. Bain, help me get more chairs."

We'd barely finished rearranging the furniture when the door opened. Da came in first, then gestured to Bain, who disappeared down the steps toward the toilet. What followed was like something from a fever dream – dwarf after dwarf climbing into our house through the toilet, all soaking wet and trailing water across our freshly mopped floor.

"Da," I started, then stopped, because really, what do you say when your father brings home a small army of dwarves? I settled for the obvious. "Why are there dwarves coming out of our toilet?"

"Will they bring us luck?" Tilda asked, her eyes bright with old tales of dwarven fortune.

"These men need shelter and dry clothes," Da said in that tone that meant 'don't ask questions right now.'

I nodded, mentally cataloging what clothes we might have that could fit them. "Of course. Tilda, help me with the blankets."

The next hour was chaos. Organized chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Getting thirteen dwarves and a very wet and disgruntled hobbit dried off and into borrowed clothes is exactly as complicated as it sounds, especially when most of them are too proud to admit they're freezing. Tilda couldn't stop giggling at the sight of rolled-up trouser legs, and I had to admit the image was amusing, though something about the situation set my nerves humming like a plucked string.

They weren't what I'd expected from fireside tales. Yes, they had the legendary beards – impressive ones that survived even a dunking in the lake – but everything else about them spoke more of warriors than tradesmen. They moved with unexpected grace, communicating in glances and gestures that spoke of long familiarity.

I found myself watching them as I worked, trying to read the dynamics between them. The two youngest ones – Fíli and Kíli, I'd heard them called – moved like Bain and Tilda, always aware of each other's position. But where my siblings coordinated their movements to avoid collisions while doing chores, these two seemed to be constantly preparing for battle, even here in our cramped living room.

The older ones were harder to parse. They orbited their leader – Thorin – like moons around a planet, each in their own pattern but always oriented toward him. The white-haired one called Balin carried himself like a scholar, while the massive warrior with the tattooed head positioned himself to watch every entrance and window. One with an odd hat tried to make conversation, his accent thick but friendly.

The whole scene felt like a dream where everything is normal except for one impossible detail. Here were thirteen dwarves and a hobbit, sitting in our living room wearing Da's spare clothes, while Tilda served them soup and tried not to stare at their beards. If you'd told me this morning that this would be happening, I'd have thought you'd had too much of the strong wine from Dorwinion.

But there was something else, something that made the hair on my neck stand up like it did before thunderstorms. It wasn't just their warrior's stance or their request for weapons– it was the way they kept glancing toward the mountain, the quiet conversations that died whenever anyone got too close, the meaningful looks they exchanged. They were planning something. Something important enough to bring them here and desperate enough to climb through a toilet just to get into Lake-town. And judging by Da's expression when he thought no one was looking, he knew exactly what it was.

I was no stranger to keeping secrets. But watching these warriors try to act like ordinary travelers while clearly orchestrating something momentous – well, let's just say I had a feeling our quiet life in Lake-town was about to get a lot less boring. I really should have remembered that boring isn't always a bad thing. Sometimes boring means everyone is safe and dry and not about to do something monumentally stupid like wake up a dragon.

Chapter Text

Something was wrong with Da, and it showed when he arrived home to find our dwarven guests missing. We had tried to keep them there, like Da asked, but there was only so much we could do. They were obstinate. 

I'd learned to read his moods over the years, the tiny signs that most people missed. The way his jaw would tighten before he got angry. How his left hand would twitch when he was worried but trying not to show it. The slight hesitation in his step when he was about to do something he thought was right but knew would be dangerous.

"Stay here," he told us, his voice carrying that edge of command that meant he expected to be obeyed. But fifteen years of being his daughter had taught me when to listen and when to follow anyway. As soon as the door closed behind him, I was reaching for my shawl.

"Sigrid," Bain started, but I cut him off with a look.

"Watch Tilda," I said, already moving toward the door. "I'll be right back."

The night air bit through my thin dress as I followed Da's footsteps through Lake-town's maze of boardwalks. He moved with purpose, his stride eating up the distance between our house and the central district. I'd learned to move quietly on these creaking boards years ago, placing my feet just so to minimize the sound. Still, I kept my distance. Da had sharp ears and sharper instincts.

The square was packed by the time I arrived, people pressed shoulder to shoulder in the chill night air. The Master stood on his balcony, looking down at the crowd like a particularly well-fed vulture. And there, in the center of it all, stood Da and the dwarves.

I'd never seen Da like this. Oh, I'd seen him angry before – at unfair traders, at the Master's greed, at a thousand small injustices. But this was different. This was fury and fear mixed together into something that made his voice carry across the square like thunder.

"You have no right," he was saying, his words cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "No right to enter that mountain."

Thorin's response was equally sharp. "I have the only right."

I pushed forward through the crowd. I needed to be closer, needed to understand what was happening. The air felt heavy with more than just the usual lake-town mist.

That's when Thorin started speaking to the crowd. His words were like magic – promises of gold and prosperity, of Lake-town returning to its former glory. I watched faces in the crowd change as he spoke, saw hope replace suspicion in their eyes.

But Da's face... I knew that expression. It was the same one he wore when teaching us about dangerous things – the weak spots in the boardwalks, the treacherous currents in the lake, the importance of always, always being prepared for the worst.

"Have you forgotten what happened to Dale?" His voice cut through Thorin's promises like a knife. And then he was telling the story – the real story, not the sanitized version we told children. The destruction, the death, the horror of dragon-fire. I'd heard bits and pieces over the years, but never like this. Never with such raw pain in his voice.

The crowd's mood shifted again, fear replacing hope. But then the Master spoke up, his oily voice somehow carrying despite his obvious drunkenness. He called Da a troublemaker, a revolutionary, accusations that made my blood boil. I started forward – to do what, I'm not sure – but suddenly my arm was grabbed by old Willem, who I hadn’t even realized was next to me.

"Don't," she whispered. "It'll only make it worse. He won’t thank you if he sees you."

She was right, of course. But watching the Master smile his smug smile while the dwarves just stood by – it took everything I had not to scream. As the crowd began to disperse, I realized I needed to hurry to beat Da home. Home to wait and worry and wonder what would happen next.

Dawn brought no answers, only more questions. And visitors.

They arrived as I was trying to convince Tilda to eat something. The knock was hesitant. Following Da to the door, we found four dwarves. 

Fíli, Kíli, Óin, and Bofur stood on our doorstep, looking nothing like the proud warriors who'd arrived through our toilet days before. Kíli especially looked awful – pale and sweating, barely able to stand.

"No one will help us," Bofur said, Fíli next to him supporting his brother's weight. "Please. He's sick."

For an uncharitable moment, I prayed Da would turn them away. Should have told them they'd caused enough trouble. He almost did, when he first opened the door. But Kíli looked so young in that moment, and the worry in his brother's eyes was so familiar...I was speaking before Da could answer.

"Bring him in," I said, stepping aside. "Tilda, get the spare blankets."

Getting Kíli up the stairs was a struggle. The wound on his leg had turned black, the flesh around it an angry red. He tried to hide his pain, but every step drew a barely suppressed groan.

"On the bed," I directed, already gathering what few medical supplies we had. "Tilda, we need hot water. Bain—"

"I'll get more firewood," he nodded, already moving.

"What happened?" I asked as I helped Óin clean the wound. The smell was terrible – sweet and rotten at the same time.

"Orc arrow," Fíli answered, hovering nearby. "In Mirkwood."

I glanced at the wound. Growing up, I had seen my fair share of injuries–far more than I would have back in my world. But this looked worse than anything I had seen, even worse than the infection from when our neighbor had his leg amputated after it had been mangled in a fishing accident. He had lost the leg, and once the infection set in, his life. I wasn’t optimistic.

Hours passed. Kíli's condition worsened. His fever spiked, making him delirious. He called out in a language I hadn’t heard before, his words slurring together. Sometimes he'd grab Fíli's hand and say something that made his brother's face crumple.

"What's he saying?" I asked once, bringing fresh water.

Fíli's smile was brittle. "He thinks we're home. In Ered Luin. He keeps asking for our mother."

The pain in his voice was so raw it hurt to hear. I touched his shoulder gently. "We'll help him. Whatever we can do."

He covered my hand with his for just a moment. "Thank you. For everything."

"Don't thank me yet," I said, trying for lightness. "Wait until you see my bedside manner."

It wasn’t long after that the rumble came. Not like thunder – deeper, more primal. The whole house shook with it.

Da went still. "The dragon," he said quietly. "He's waking up."

The next few minutes were a blur. Da gathering the black arrow, giving hurried instructions. Bain insisting on going with him. I wanted to stop them both – to beg them to stay – but I knew that look in Da's eyes. This was something he had to do.

"Take care of your sister," he told me, hugging me quickly. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Watching them leave was like having my heart torn in two. I wanted to go with them, to help somehow, but Tilda needed me. And we had a house full of guests who couldn't be left alone.

Time crawled by. Kíli's condition grew worse. His screams... I'll never forget those screams. Tilda couldn't take it – she kept finding reasons to be in other rooms, away from the sounds of pain. I couldn't blame her. Bofur left looking for some plant to help Kíli.

Then Bain returned, breathless and terrified. "They arrested Da," he gasped out. "The Master's men. They're saying he's disloyal."

My heart stopped. "Where are they holding him?"

"The jail. I tried to—" He broke off as Kíli let out another agonized scream.

I was torn between two disasters. Our father in prison and a dying dwarf in our house. Stepping out onto the balcony, I needed some air, one breath to take a moment to come up with a plan. Before I could decide what to do, the decision was made for us. Suddenly, I was no longer alone on the balcony.  

Fifteen years of living in Lake-town had taught me a lot of things. How to bargain with fishmongers. How to navigate the politics of a corrupt town. How to raise siblings while being barely more than a child myself. But most importantly, it had taught me how to react when everything goes wrong at once.

The thing about having seen orcs before is that it doesn't actually make them any less terrifying the second time around. If anything, it's worse, because you know exactly what's coming. I screamed as I darted back inside. It only got worse, as suddenly more and more of the orcs swarmed into the room. Unlike last time though, I wasn’t alone, which somehow made it easier. I frantically looked around for Bain and Tilda. Tilda was closest, so I grabbed her and pulled her under the table. An arrow whistled through the space where her head had been moments before. Bain was already moving, getting to the weapons we'd hidden earlier. The dwarves—well, they exploded into action like they'd been waiting for this all along.

It's strange, the things you notice during a fight. How the wooden floors creaked under the weight of the orcs. The way Fíli moved like he'd been born with weapons in his hands. The exact sound of Tilda's frightened breathing against my shoulder.

"Stay down," I told her, though it was kind of unnecessary given how tightly she was gripping my arm.

An orc landed on the table above us, making the whole thing groan. Without thinking, I grabbed a fallen knife and stabbed upward through the gap between boards. The resulting shriek told me I'd hit something important.

"Well struck," Fíli called from somewhere to my left, where he was dealing with his own problems. He sounded almost cheerful, which was either impressive or concerning.

"Thanks," I managed, pulling Tilda with me as we scrambled to a new hiding spot. 

The battle was chaos—broken furniture, splintered wood, the clash of weapons and the snarls of orcs. I caught glimpses of the others: Kíli fighting despite his obvious pain, Bain just far enough away that I couldn’t reach him, the other dwarves moving with practiced precision.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Elves had arrived from somewhere and suddenly the remaining orcs retreated, leaving behind broken weapons, destroyed furniture, and that particular smell that I remembered all too well from my first encounter with them. 

"Is everyone alright?" I called out, doing a quick headcount. Tilda was still clinging to me, Bain was breathing hard but standing. We were okay. One elf stopped over Kíli. Tauriel, I heard the other call her. She had some plant in her hand, and suddenly a soft glowing light filled the room. It was one of the most magical things I had seen, even if I wasn’t quite sure what I was seeing.

Then the dragon's roar shook the very foundations of Lake-town.

"We have to go," Tauriel said, already moving to help Kíli. "Now."

Smoke was already seeping through the cracks in the walls. Outside, we could hear screaming, the crack of burning wood, the splash of people diving into the lake. Tauriel led us to the back of the house where a boat was moored.

"Quickly," she urged, helping Kíli down first. The young dwarf was still hurt, but he tried to help as Fíli and Bofur lowered him into the boat.

I helped Tilda down next, then climbed in myself. The water reflected the growing fires, orange light dancing across its surface in terrible patterns. More roars from above, closer now. Each one made Tilda press harder against my side.

"Where's Da?" she whispered.

"He'll find us," I promised, hoping I wasn't lying. "He always does."

We weren't the only ones fleeing. Other boats pushed past us in the darkness, loaded with families and whatever possessions they could grab. But Lake-town was burning. Everything we owned, everything we'd built – all of it going up in flames because some dwarves couldn't leave well enough alone. The air grew hotter, thicker with smoke. Tilda started coughing. 

That's when we saw him – a lone figure in the bell tower, firing arrows at the dragon. Even at this distance, I would know Da's stance anywhere.

"Da!" Tilda cried out, but the roar of flames swallowed her voice.

"The arrows won't do any good," Bain said, his voice tight with worry. "He needs the black arrow."

"Where is it?" I turned to him sharply.

"He told me to hide it. In one of the boats by the dock. But I couldn't—"

I didn't let him finish. "Which dock? Bain, which one?"

"The fishmonger's, but Sigrid, you can't—"

"We have to go back," I said, looking at Tauriel.

The elf's face was grave. "We cannot. The dragon is too close."

"Then let me out. I'll swim if I have to."

"You'll die," Fíli said bluntly.

"He's my father." I met his eyes, then Tauriel’s. I had already lost one father. I couldn’t–wouldn’t–lose another. 

"Sigrid, please," Tilda grabbed my arm. "Don't go."

I hugged her quickly. "Stay with Bain. I'll bring Da back to you both, I promise." I looked at my brother. "Keep her safe."

Before anyone could stop me, I dove over the side. What I wouldn’t have given for some shorts instead of the dress I had on. The water was shockingly cold after the heat of the fires, but I forced myself to swim toward the dock Bain had mentioned. Behind me, I could hear Tilda crying, the dwarves calling me mad, Tauriel saying something in Elvish that was probably a curse.

The dock was already starting to burn when I reached it. Smoke stung my eyes as I searched the boats, trying to remember which ones had been here this morning. Then I saw it – the slight gleam of metal under a tarp.

The arrow was heavier than I'd expected, its point wickedly sharp. Getting it to the tower would be the real challenge. Streets I'd known all my life had become a maze of fire and falling debris. Twice I had to double back as buildings collapsed in front of me. The heat was incredible – like standing inside an oven.

By the time I reached the tower, my lungs felt like they were full of glass. Da was still at the top, firing arrows that might as well have been twigs for all the good they did against Smaug's scales.

"Da!" I called, starting up the stairs.

He turned, eyes widening in horror when he saw me. "Sigrid? What are you—"

"The black arrow," I held it up, already climbing the last few steps. "Bain told me where—"

That's when Smaug spotted us. He banked hard, flames building in his chest. The glow was visible through his scales.

"Get down!" Da shoved me aside as fire engulfed the tower.

I wasn't quite fast enough. White-hot pain blazed across my chest as a burning timber caught me, tearing through fabric and skin. I screamed, falling back against the tower wall.

"Sigrid!" Da's voice seemed to come from very far away.

"I'm alright," I gasped, though I wasn't. The burn across my chest felt like someone had laid a red-hot iron against my skin. "Take the shot!"

Da raised the arrow while I served as a makeshift support. Time seemed to slow. I could see everything with perfect clarity – the way Da's hands steadied, the gleam of Smaug's scales, the way Smaug's laugh shook the tower. "You've nothing left but your death!"

In that moment, I understood something about dragons – they couldn't resist toying with their prey. One quick blast of fire and we'd have been dead. But Smaug wanted to savor this, wanted us to know how helpless we were before we died.

That was his mistake.

The arrow flew straight and true, finding the one vulnerable spot in Smaug's armor. The dragon's roar of pain shook the very foundations of Lake-town.

He fell like a burning star, crashing into what remained of the town in an explosion of steam and fire. The impact knocked us both off our feet. I cried out as I hit the wooden floor, the movement sending fresh waves of agony through my burned chest.

The ruins of Dale became our refuge. Strange, returning to the city our ancestors had fled – their bones still here somewhere, buried under decades of dragon-scorch and winter frost. But its walls, broken as they were, offered more protection than the lakeshore.

I threw myself into helping organize the survivors, working alongside Da as he tried to bring some order to the chaos. The old market square became our base of operations – distributing what little food we'd salvaged, setting up shelters, treating the wounded. My burned chest still ached, but I pushed through it. There were too many people who needed help.

Then came word that an army was approaching. Not just one army – several. The elves arrived first, led by King Thranduil himself, bringing food and supplies. For a moment, hope flickered. Surely with the elves' help, we could negotiate with the dwarves. Surely there was enough gold in that mountain to help rebuild both Dale and Lake-town.

But I should have known better. When Da returned from attempting to negotiate with Thorin, his face said everything. The dwarf we'd helped in our home, whose companions we'd sheltered, had refused to honor his word.

"They're going to attack at dawn," Da told us that night, his voice heavy. "The dwarves won't negotiate."

"But they promised," Tilda said, her voice small. "They promised to help us rebuild."

I pulled her close, sharing a look with Bain over her head. We both knew promises meant nothing against gold-lust.

Dawn brought armies. The elves assembled in their gleaming armor, the men of Lake-town with whatever weapons they could find. I helped where I could – distributing arrows, carrying water, showing people the quickest paths through Dale's broken streets.

Then everything changed. The ground shook with the arrival of a dwarven army from the Iron Hills. For a moment, all three armies faced each other, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

That's when the earth split open.

Worms. Massive, horrible things that burst from the ground, creating tunnels through which poured an army of orcs. The battle that followed was chaos. The three armies that had been ready to fight each other suddenly had a common enemy, but the orcs had the advantage of surprise and numbers.

Dale became a battlefield. I found myself shepherding people to the Great Hall – the strongest building still standing – while trying to keep track of Tilda. Bain had joined the fighters despite my protests. He was old enough, he'd argued, and we needed every sword.

The orcs breached the walls faster than anyone expected. They poured through the streets like a foul tide, cutting down anyone in their path. I grabbed a sword from a fallen soldier – I didn't know how to use it properly, but it was better than nothing.

"Sigrid!" Da's voice cut through the chaos. "Get everyone to the Great Hall!"

I nodded, already gathering stragglers. "This way! Quickly!"

But we didn't all make it. The orcs cut off our path, forcing us to split up. I found myself in a narrow street with Tilda and three others – two children and their mother. The sounds of fighting echoed from all directions.

"There's another way," I said, thinking fast. "Through the old market. If we're quiet—"

An orc appeared at the end of the street. Its cruel blade was already dark with blood.

I pushed Tilda behind me, raising my borrowed sword. The orc's grin was terrible – it knew I had no idea how to fight. But I didn't need to win. I just needed to buy enough time for the others to run.

"When I say," I whispered to Tilda, "take them and run. Three streets down, then left to the Hall."

"Sigrid—"

"Promise me."

She nodded, tears in her eyes.

The orc charged. I swung wildly, more to make it jump back than anything else. "Now!" I screamed. "Run!"

Tilda grabbed the others and ran. The orc tried to follow, but I managed to block its path. My next swing caught its arm – more luck than skill. It snarled, striking back with a blow that nearly tore the sword from my hands.

The burn across my chest screamed as I dodged another strike. The orc was toying with me now, knowing I was tiring. Its next blow sent me stumbling backward, tripping over debris.

This was it. I was going to die in a broken street in Dale, just like Da’s ancestors had. At least Tilda would be safe. At least—

An arrow sprouted from the orc's throat. It toppled forward, revealing Bain standing at the other end of the street, already nocking another arrow.

"Nobody touches my sister," he said, helping me up. I gave him a grim grin. 

We made it to the Great Hall together, finding Tilda already there. Da appeared sometime later, bloodied but alive. The battle raged on outside, but in that moment, holding each other close, we were just grateful to be alive.

When it was over – really over, with the eagles gone and the dead being counted – I stood with Da and looked at the mountain. The dwarves had their home back. Their kingdom. Their gold. And all it cost was our home, our lives, and hundreds of dead.

"Was it worth it?" I asked Da, not really expecting an answer.

He pulled me close, kissing the top of my head like he used to when I was small. "Worth and cost are funny things," he said finally. "Sometimes you don't know the true measure of either until long after the counting's done."

The thing about dragons and battles is that no one ever talks about the aftermath. They tell you about the fire, the destruction, the running, the heroic deeds—but they never mention the weeks of cleaning up ash, or helping people rebuild their homes in a new city, or trying not to think about how every disaster makes you hope, just a little, that this time you'll wake up back in your own world.

We rebuilt, of course. Dale this time, not Lake-town.

And me? I learned. I watched. I remembered. I kept my bitter thoughts to myself, mostly. When the dwarves sent gold to help with the rebuilding, I accepted it graciously. When they spoke of alliance and friendship, I smiled and nodded.

But sometimes, late at night, I'd look at the mountain and remember the sound of children screaming as their homes burned. Remember the faces of those we couldn't save. Remember how it felt to watch everything you love turn to ash because someone else decided their home was more important than yours.

A week after the battle, Da pulled me aside. He had that look on his face—the one he gets when he's about to say something important.

"There's someone I need you to meet," he said quietly. "Someone who might have answers."

My heart stuttered. In fifteen years, we'd never really talked much about the day in the woods when he found me. Sometimes I wondered if Da thought he'd imagined it all. Some days I did too. But then I would find my t-shirt, long outgrown, that I kept shoved in the bottom corner of a chest. Or, at least, I would have found it before the dragon. Now, it was probably charred to bits, soggy at the bottom of the lake.

A wizard was waiting in Da's private study, his presence making the small room feel both larger and more confined. Gandalf the Grey, they called him, though his robes looked more dusty than anything else at the moment.

"Leave us," he said to the guards, then looked at Da. "You as well, Bard."

Da straightened. "She's my daughter."

Something in my chest tightened at those words, at the fierce certainty in his voice.

Gandalf's eyes softened slightly. "Yes, she is. But this conversation must be between the two of us first."

Da squeezed my shoulder before leaving. The door closed behind him with a finality that made my hands shake.

Gandalf studied me for a long moment. Then he raised his staff slightly, and the air... changed. Colors seemed sharper, sounds more distant. When he spoke, his voice resonated in a way that made my teeth ache.

"You do not belong to this world," he said, and it wasn't a question.

Fifteen years of carefully constructed normalcy crumbled. "No," I whispered. "I don't."

"Tell me about the day you arrived."

So I did. I told him about the camping trip, about wandering away to pee, about the orcs and the fighting and how nothing had made sense. Words spilled out of me, fifteen years of questions and confusion and desperate homesickness that I'd pushed down so deep I'd almost forgotten it was there.

Almost.

When I finished, Gandalf was silent for a long moment. "The veils between worlds are usually fixed," he said finally. "But sometimes... sometimes they thin. In moments of great significance, when powers beyond our understanding align..."

"Can you send me back?" The question burned in my throat. He was a wizard. I didn’t know much about wizards in this world, but the mere existence of one suggested that there were powers greater than I could comprehend. "Please. My parents—they never knew what happened to me. They must think I'm dead."

Gandalf's expression was gentle, but I knew the answer before he spoke. "The passage you used is closed, child. Such doorways open rarely, and never twice in the same way. You cannot go back the way you came."

I'd known. Deep down, I'd always known. But hearing it said out loud...

"Then why?" My voice cracked. "Why did it happen at all? Why me?"

"Sometimes we are placed exactly where we need to be," he said, "even if we don't understand why at the time."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw things. I wanted to demand a better answer than cosmic coincidence and vague platitudes about destiny. Instead, I just sat there, feeling the last thread of hope I'd been clinging to finally snap.

Gandalf called Da back in. I barely heard them talking, barely registered Da's arm around my shoulders or Gandalf's departure. I was too busy trying to breathe around the finality of it all.

"Sigrid." Da's voice cut through the fog in my head. "Look at me."

I did. I suddenly noticed he looked older, worry lines deep around his eyes.

"You are my daughter," he said fiercely. "Whatever else is true, whatever world you came from—you are my daughter. Nothing changes that."

I broke then, sobbing into his chest like I was ten years old again, lost in a strange world. He held me, strong and steady, like he had so many times before.

"I miss them," I whispered. "I miss them so much."

"I know." He stroked my hair. "I know you do. And that's all right. Missing them doesn't make you any less mine."

We stayed like that for a long time, until my tears ran dry and the shaking stopped. Outside, I could hear the sounds of Dale coming back to life—hammers on stone, voices calling to each other, the slow process of rebuilding.

I thought about my first family, lost to me now in a way that felt more permanent than ever. I thought about Da, about Tilda and Bain, about fifteen years of building a life in a world that wasn't supposed to be mine.

"Da?" My voice was rough from crying.

"Mm?"

"I'm glad it was you. Who found me, I mean."

His arms tightened around me. He didn't say anything, but he didn't have to.

Chapter Text

I'd been convinced that being whisked away to another world would remain the most bizarre twist in my life story. Then Da went and slayed a dragon, and suddenly I wasn't just a little girl lost in another world—I was royalty. We all were. The first time someone called me "Princess Sigrid," I burst out laughing, thinking it was an elaborate joke. But then I watched as people began addressing Da as "King," bowing their heads and hanging on his every word. A council materialized around us, complete with stern-faced advisors. All those fairy tales I'd devoured in my childhood loved to dwell on the glittering crowns, magical ceremonies, and heroic quests. But not one of them bothered to mention the true curse of nobility: the endless, mind-numbing meetings.

I found myself in the audience chamber that morning not because I was officially required to be there, but because I'd discovered something important about Da—he forgot to eat when he was stressed. And ruling a newly-restored kingdom definitely qualified as stressful. So I'd made a habit of bringing him lunch, which gave me an excuse to observe these meetings without raising too many eyebrows.

"My lord," the merchant said, bowing so low I thought he might topple over, "about the matter of the grain storage—"

"Just Bard," Da interrupted, looking about as comfortable with the title as a fish with a bicycle. He sat in what I'd started calling the "temporary throne room," though it was really just the largest intact room we'd managed to clear in Dale's old civic building. "Please, continue."

I stood near the window alcove, pretending to be fascinated by the view while actually listening to every word. Over the years in Lake-town, I'd developed a talent for fading into the background—a skill that had served me well then and continued to be useful now. People tended to speak more freely when they forgot you were there.

The merchant straightened, though his nose remained at a distinctly deferential angle. "Yes, my... er, Bard. But with the dwarves of Erebor demanding such high prices for their labor—"

"The dwarves," Da cut in, with the particular tone he used when trying very hard to be diplomatic, "are charging fair market rates for master craftsmen. If you'd prefer, we can certainly use local builders, though it might take longer."

I bit my lip to keep from commenting. This was the third complaint about dwarves today alone. The granaries needed proper rebuilding before winter, and the dwarves were the best stonemasons in Middle-earth. But their expertise came at a price many of Dale's merchants found steep.

"The granaries need repair before winter," Da finished, waving a hand to cut off the merchant. "I know. The masons are working on it. The western granary should be ready within the week."

"But my lord—Bard—that's not nearly enough space for—"

"For the amount of grain you're hoping to store and sell at a premium come winter?" I couldn't help interjecting. The merchant's head snapped toward me, eyes widening as if surprised to find I had a voice. "The western granary will hold enough for the city's needs. The eastern one can wait until spring."

Da's expression was a complex mixture of pride and exasperation. We'd had several conversations about me jumping into these meetings, but he'd never actually forbidden it. The merchant sputtered something about the proper channels for such decisions and backed out of the room, still bowing.

"That's the third one this week trying to corner the grain market," I said once he was gone. "You'd think they'd at least vary their approaches."

"Mm." Da was staring at the wall, that distant look in his eyes that meant he was counting problems again. "Some days I wonder if this was the right decision."

"You mean accepting the crown after you saved everyone from a dragon, united three armies, and helped rebuild an ancient city?" I moved closer to his chair. "No, clearly you should have let someone else handle it. I hear the Master of Lake-town is looking for work."

That startled a laugh out of him. "When did you get so sardonic?"

"Probably around the time I had to start calling you 'my lord' in public." I straightened the papers on his desk, organizing them by urgency. "Which, by the way, is still weird."

"Try being on the receiving end." He ran a hand through his hair, which was already standing on end from the same gesture repeated throughout the day. "I keep waiting for someone to realize I'm just a bargeman playing at being king."

"Good thing you've got me to keep up appearances then." I straightened his collar, which had gone askew during one of the more animated petitions. "Though you might want to work on looking more regal and less like you're planning an escape route."

"I am planning an escape route. Several, actually." He caught my hand, his expression turning serious. "I'm sorry about all this. You shouldn't have to—"

"Da." I squeezed his hand. "Stop. We've had this conversation."

"Have we? I feel like I've had so many conversations lately they're all blurring together."

"Yes, we have. The one where you apologize for disrupting our lives by becoming king, I point out that our lives were pretty thoroughly disrupted by the dragon anyway, and we both agree that at least this way we get better food."

I handed him the food I'd brought—bread, cheese, and dried fruit wrapped in a clean cloth. "Speaking of, you should eat something before the builders arrive."

He accepted the food with a grateful nod. "How are your meetings with Master Torbin going? About the water system?"

I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face. Back in Lake-town, I'd developed a fascination with how things worked—especially the intricate system of locks, canals, and pumps that kept the town from flooding during storms. Da had noticed my interest and encouraged it, finding old books and introducing me to craftsmen who could explain the mechanics behind various systems. It was one of the ways I'd managed to build a place for myself in this world—understanding its physical structures when its social ones still confused me.

"Good," I said, unable to keep the enthusiasm from my voice. "We've been working on plans to restore the old aqueduct system. It's actually quite brilliant—the original engineers designed it to collect rainwater from the mountain slopes and filter it through a series of channels before it reached the city."

"And you think it can be restored?"

"With modifications." I'd spent countless hours studying the fragments of plans we'd discovered in Dale's old archives, comparing them to what remained of the physical structures. "The original design had some flaws that probably contributed to its failure. If we reinforce certain sections and add a second filtration chamber here—" I gestured vaguely, then caught myself. "Sorry. I know you have more important things to worry about than water flow diagrams."

"Nothing is more important than making sure Dale has clean water," Da countered. "And you understand these systems better than anyone else on the council."

It was a generous assessment. The truth was that I was forced to learn everything piecemeal from whatever sources I could find. Sometimes I wondered what I might have become if I'd stayed in my own world—perhaps an engineer, designing bridges or water systems with tools and materials this world had never dreamed of. 

The thought must have shown on my face, because Da's expression softened. "What is it?"

"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just thinking about the next section of the aqueduct."

He didn't look convinced, but was spared from pressing further by a knock at the door. One of the guards announced the arrival of the builders' guild, and I stepped back into my unofficial role of observer as they filed in.

Later that week, I found myself once again helping Da sort through the various letters and proposals that had arrived from Erebor. The dwarves were meticulous in their correspondence, each document precisely written with elaborate headers declaring it from "The Court of Thorin, King Under the Mountain" and sealed with impressive wax stamps.

"Another request about the eastern trade routes," I noted, placing one such letter in the growing pile. "That's the third this month."

Da sighed, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "They're particular about those old routes."

"Because they think they own them," I said, perhaps a bit too bluntly.

"They believe they have historical claim to them," Da corrected diplomatically, though I could tell by the slight quirk of his lips that he didn't disagree. "Just as we believe we need equal access to ensure Dale's prosperity."

I sorted another letter, this one regarding stone quarrying rights. "It's strange, isn't it? We fought together against the orcs, but sometimes it feels like we're still negotiating with... well, not enemies, but not quite friends either."

"It's complicated," Da said, in that thoughtful way he had when considering a thorny problem. "The dwarves of Erebor lost their home for generations. Now that they've reclaimed it, they're protective of what they see as theirs. And the Dale they remember was a different place—a human settlement existing in the shadow of their mountain."

"But that's not what we're rebuilding," I pointed out. "We're establishing Dale as its own kingdom, not some... appendage of Erebor."

"Precisely. And that adjustment takes time—for both sides." He picked up one of the more official-looking documents. "But we'll get there. We need each other, whether Thorin fully admits it or not."

With all the work of rebuilding and ruling, some days flew by so fast they were over before I realized they were happening. Other times, like when I’d been stuck inside all day like today, I was more than ready to escape the endless meetings. I found myself in what had once been Dale's craft district, now slowly coming back to life as artisans returned. Master Torbin's workshop occupied what had once been a weaver's shop, its large windows perfect for the detailed drawing work he did.

"Ah, Lady Sigrid," he greeted me, not looking up from the diagram spread across his workbench. "Just in time. I've been considering your suggestion about the second filtration chamber."

I smiled at the title. Unlike with some of Da's advisors, there was no condescension in Torbin's use of "Lady"—just a pragmatic acknowledgment of my new status coupled with genuine respect for my ideas. 

"And?" I asked, moving to examine the drawings.

"It's sound," he admitted, tracing a weathered finger along one of the lines. "Though we'll need to adjust the angle here to account for the winter freeze."

I spent the next hour lost in discussions of water flow, stone composition, and the logistics of rebuilding structures that had been designed by engineers who'd died centuries ago. It was the most peaceful part of my day, filled with problems that had clear solutions instead of the murky complexities of diplomacy and court politics.

"You have a gift for this, my lady," Torbin commented as we finished. "Reminds me of the old Dale engineers. They understood that beauty and function could exist together."

I ducked my head, embarrassed by the praise. "I just want to make sure it works."

"That's precisely why you're good at it. Too many young folks get caught up in grand designs without considering whether the thing will actually stand." He rolled up the plans carefully. "You would have made a fine engineer in the old days."

The comment hit closer to home than he could possibly know. In my original world, women could be engineers, doctors, leaders—anything they wanted. Here, my interest in waterworks and building design was seen as unusual, tolerated mainly because I was the king's daughter. I suppose there were some benefits to having to learn a proper curtsey. Still, I waved my hand, trying to brush off the compliment.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" I asked, already mentally plotting the next section we needed to work on.

"Same time," Torbin agreed. "And bring those calculations about the water pressure. I want to compare them with some old measurements I found in the archives."

I left his workshop with a lighter heart than I'd entered it, my mind pleasantly full of practical problems and solutions. The sun was setting by the time I made my way back toward the royal quarters, painting Dale's partially rebuilt walls in shades of gold and amber. Most of the buildings were still skeletal, waiting for roofs and proper windows, but even in their incomplete state, they hinted at the grandeur Dale had once known.

The royal quarters were housed in what had once been the governor's mansion—one of the few buildings that had survived with its structure mostly intact. It wasn't nearly as grand as what we had seen of Erebor's royal halls, but after fifteen years in a cramped Lake-town house, it felt enormous.

I found Tilda in what we'd started calling the family room, a small chamber off the main hall that was furnished with pieces salvaged from various places around Dale. She was sprawled on a faded couch that had once graced some merchant's home, her legs dangling over one arm as she frowned at something in her hands.

"Hard day?" I asked, collapsing into a chair across from her.

She looked up, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. "I hate embroidery. My fingers hurt, I stabbed myself at least twelve times, and Maren says my stitches look like they were done by a drunken spider."

I couldn't help laughing at the image. "Lady Maren probably says that to everyone. She once told me my curtsey looked like I was having a seizure."

"Really?" Tilda sat up straighter, looking delighted. "She said your curtsey was bad?"

"Terrible." I demonstrated with an exaggerated wobble that made Tilda snort. "According to her, I have all the grace of a wounded duck."

"Well that makes me feel better." She set aside the embroidery hoop with obvious relief. "At least I'm not the only one failing at being a proper lady."

"Oh, I'm failing spectacularly," I assured her. "Today I interrupted a merchant in mid-sentence, spent over an hour discussing drainage systems, and then sneezed so loudly during the builders' presentation that one of them almost fell out of his chair."

Tilda's giggles turned into full-blown laughter. "You did not!"

"I absolutely did. Da looked like he wanted to disappear under the table." I kicked off my shoes and tucked my feet under me. "How was archery practice?"

Her face lit up. "I hit the target three times in a row! Master Kirin says I have a good eye. And then—" She lowered her voice conspiratorially, "—I heard him telling one of the other instructors that I might be ready for a real bow soon, not just the practice one."

"That's wonderful, Til." Her enthusiasm was contagious. "Maybe you can teach me sometime."

"Really?" She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "You're not just saying that because Da wants you to keep an eye on me?"

"I'm saying it because I'd like to learn a useful skill that doesn't involve waterways or curtseying." I reached over to tug her braid gently. "Besides, if there's ever another dragon, I'd like to be able to do more than just run away."

Her expression sobered slightly. "Do you think there will be? Another dragon, I mean."

"No," I said firmly. "They're extremely rare, and Da killed the only one anyone knows about."

"But there are other things," she said, more subdued now. "Orcs and goblins and who knows what else."

I moved to sit beside her on the couch, putting an arm around her shoulders. "Yes, there are. But there are also elves and dwarves and men who know how to fight them. And now we have walls and warriors and allies."

She leaned against me, the way she used to when she was little and scared of thunderstorms. "Do you ever wish we were back in Lake-town? Before all of... this happened?"

I considered her question carefully. 

"Sometimes," I said honestly. "Life was simpler there in some ways. But so much has happened that some days Lake-town feels more like a story I've heard than a place I actually lived." I twisted a lock of her hair around my finger thoughtfully. "And if we'd stayed there, we wouldn't be helping rebuild an ancient city or figuring out how to fix thousand-year-old aqueducts."

"Or failing at embroidery," she supplied helpfully.

"Or that." I laughed. "Don’t forget, I was terrible at sewing in Lake-town too, if it makes you feel any better."

"It does, actually." She picked up her abandoned embroidery hoop and made a face at it. "Do you think being a princess means I have to be good at this?"

"I think being a princess means you get to decide what you're good at, and then find ways to use those skills to help your people." I bumped her shoulder with mine. "You're excellent with a bow, you're fearless, and you have an excellent head for a bargain. Those are valuable traits."

"So... no more embroidery lessons?"

"Oh, I think we both still need those. But maybe not as many as Lady Maren thinks."

She groaned dramatically, flopping back against the cushions. "Fine. But if I stab myself again, I'm telling Da it was your idea to continue."

"Deal." I stood up, stretching. "Want to head down to the kitchens and see if we can convince Cook to give us some of those honey cakes before dinner?"

Tilda was on her feet instantly, embroidery forgotten. "Race you there!"

"That wouldn't be very dignified," I said primly, affecting Lady Maren's precise diction. Then I grinned. "Last one there has to sit next to Lord Podrick at dinner!"

She shrieked in mock horror—Lord Podrick was notorious for his lengthy, detailed discourses on sheep breeding—and bolted for the door, with me close behind. We raced through the halls of our new home, dodging servants and guards who were by now accustomed to such displays of royal "dignity."

Later that evening, after we'd all eaten (with Tilda gleefully reminding me throughout the meal that I'd have to sit next to Lord Podrick at the next formal dinner), I found myself walking the newly rebuilt walls with Da. Bain had joined us after finishing his own duties, and the four of us stood looking out over the darkening landscape.

"The western granary's roof should be completed by week's end," Bain was saying, pointing to the structure below. "The dwarven team says the stone supports are strong enough to last a thousand years."

"Let's hope we don't need to test that claim," Da replied dryly.

The sun was setting over Erebor, its last rays turning the mountain to gold and the lake to fire. From up here, you could see for miles—the forest of Mirkwood a dark line to the west, the Long Lake gleaming to the south, and countless small farms and villages dotting the landscape between.

"It's beautiful," Tilda said softly.

"It is," Da agreed, his arm around her shoulders. "And it's ours to protect now."

"And rebuild," I added, thinking of the plans on Master Torbin's desk, the slowly recovering buildings below us, the thousand small details that needed attention to make Dale live again.

"And improve," Bain put in.

Da smiled, looking between the three of us with an expression that made my heart twist with love and pride. "Yes. All of that."

A horn sounded from the direction of Erebor, its deep note rolling across the valley between our kingdoms. Da straightened automatically, years of guardsman's training warring with months of royal protocol.

"Just the evening watch," I reminded him softly. "Part of the treaty agreements."

He relaxed slightly. "I remember. Though sometimes I think Thorin insisted on it just to make sure we don't forget they're there."

"As if we could," Tilda muttered. 

I understood what she meant. Despite the focus of our efforts on Dale, Erebor was impossible to ignore, looming over Dale like a mountain-shaped reminder of all the history and politics we were trying to navigate. The dwarves were our allies now, had proved it with blood and sacrifice on the battlefield. But they were also proud and sometimes difficult, carrying centuries of grievances that occasionally surfaced in unexpected ways.

We'd attended a few formal functions with the dwarves since the battle. The spring feast had been particularly memorable—our first official appearance as the royal family of Dale in Erebor's grand halls. I remembered watching Thorin seated at the head of the table, his bearing regal despite the lingering shadows under his eyes. He'd been polite but reserved with Da, the conversation never straying beyond careful pleasantries.

Fíli and Kíli had been more approachable. Kíli had actually made Tilda laugh by demonstrating how to properly throw a dinner roll when the stuffy advisors weren't looking. Fíli had been quieter, watchful, though he'd made a point of thanking me for the care his brother had received in our home. Balin had been the most diplomatic, going out of his way to make us feel welcome. Dwalin remained stoic as ever, though I'd noticed his careful positioning always kept him between his king and any potential threats—as if he expected danger even at a formal dinner. The contrast between the formal setting and these dwarves who had once climbed out of our toilet was surreal, to say the least.

Still, watching another set of lights spring to life in Erebor's restored entrance hall, I thought we were managing as well as could be expected. King Thorin's brush with gold-sickness and near death had seemingly sobered him, but hadn't entirely smoothed his prideful edges. Relations between our kingdoms remained complex—respectful but guarded. Both sides recognized the need for cooperation, but centuries of established patterns were hard to break. The dwarves still looked at Dale as the human settlement that had once existed in Erebor's economic shadow, not as an equal partner in the region's future. And some in Dale still viewed the dwarves with suspicion, blaming them (however rightly) for waking the dragon that had destroyed our homes.

We stood in silence for a while, watching the stars emerge. The lights of Erebor twinkled against the mountain's dark silhouette, beautiful and imposing at the same time.

"Sometimes I wonder if things will ever be truly comfortable between our kingdoms," I said quietly, breaking the silence.

Da looked thoughtful. "It takes time to build trust, especially between peoples with such different histories. But we need each other—that much became clear during the battle."

"The dwarves don't always act like they need us," Bain remarked. "Those letters from King Thorin read more like demands than requests sometimes."

"They're proud," Da replied with a hint of understanding in his voice. "And they've reclaimed their homeland after generations in exile. That pride is... complicated."

Tilda remained happily oblivious to political concerns, pointing out a shooting star streaking across the sky. "Make a wish!"

We all fell silent again, and I found myself wishing for something I couldn't quite articulate—perhaps simply for peace, for stability, for all of us to find our places in this new world. After all, we'd survived dragons and politics and more meetings than anyone should have to endure in a lifetime. What was a little thing like becoming royalty compared to that?

Chapter Text

Rebuilding a city is like trying to solve a puzzle where half the pieces are missing and the picture keeps changing. Some days, it felt like we were making progress. Other days, it felt like we were just moving rubble from one place to another and calling it improvement.

I was in the eastern quarter when the messenger arrived, arguing with a stonemason about load-bearing walls. Even after a year of being "Princess Sigrid"—and wasn't that still the strangest thing to think about—I still felt like I was making things up as I went along. The stonemason wanted to rebuild exactly as things had been before, but even I knew that "that's how it's always been done" isn't always the best reason to do something. It helped that I had been studying whatever paltry books on architecture and building I could get my hands on ever since the move to Dale. Between Master Torbin and the books, my education was coming along quite nicely, piecemeal as it was.

"The supporting arch needs to be—" I stopped mid-sentence as I noticed the messenger approaching. He was in Da’s service–a young boy named Nelson who had lost both his parents in Smaug’s attack. Normally quick with a grin, today he seemed almost hesitant as he approached, and something about his carefully measured steps made my stomach tighten with anticipation.

"King Bard requests your presence, my lady.”

That in and of itself was odd. Da knew I had planned on being in the eastern quarter all day. He hadn’t said anything when I left home that morning. 

“Of course,” I said, trying not to let my confusion show in front of the stonemason. No point losing what little progress we had made in our argument by looking weak. I gave my apologies and began to follow Nelson towards home. 

“Is everything alright?” I asked, dropping my voice. “Did he mention what this is about?”

Nelson gave a small shake of his head. 

“He didn’t mention, my lady. He just asked me to come find you and escort you home.”

Perhaps it wasn’t terrible then. A true emergency or disaster would have had the whole house in a tizzy.

“Well then,” I said, squaring my shoulders and walking a bit more briskly, “Only one way to find out.”

Soon I was knocking at Da’s study.

“Enter,” he said, and I opened the door to find him sitting at his desk, eyes on a piece of parchment. He glanced up as I entered, then went back to the paper. The way his expression shifted as he read made me nervous. Da had gotten better at the whole "kingly poker face" thing over the past year, but I'd known him too long not to notice the subtle tells. Between Nelson and Da, I was truly starting to get worried. Finally, he took a deep breath and set the paper down. 

"We've been invited to Erebor," he said finally. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" I frowned. "That's... unusually short notice for a formal invitation."

"Thorin wishes to discuss an important proposal." Da's voice was carefully neutral in a way that set off all sorts of warning bells in my head.

"What kind of proposal?"

"We'll find out, I suppose."

I knew that tone. It meant he had suspicions but wasn't sharing them. "Da—"

"We leave at first light," he said, already turning back to his work. "Pack for a few days, just in case."

That night, I couldn't sleep. Something about the urgency of the invitation, about Da's careful non-reactions, kept my mind spinning. I found myself at my window, staring at the distant bulk of Erebor. The mountain was always there, impossible to ignore, like a sleeping giant that might wake up at any moment.

Not that I was bitter about the last time that happened.

Much.

The journey to Erebor the next morning was tense. Da was quieter than usual, lost in thought. I spent most of the ride trying to guess what kind of proposal would require such immediate attention. Trade agreements? Military alliance? Some kind of joint building project?

"You're thinking too loud," Da said as we approached the mountain.

"You're thinking too quietly," I countered. "Want to share with the class?"

He almost smiled. Almost. "Let's just... keep an open mind."

The entrance to Erebor was like something out of a fever dream. Even though I had now seen them a few times, each new visit I was struck by the same feeling. Massive doors carved with patterns so intricate they made your eyes hurt, opened by mechanisms I couldn't even begin to understand. Guards stood at attention, their armor gleaming in the morning light. Everything about it screamed "we have more money than you could ever imagine."

I tried not to think about how many families in Dale were still living in temporary housing. How many people we had lost during the harsh winter.

A dwarf I recognized as Balin met us in the entrance hall. He smiled warmly, but there was something careful in his eyes that made my nerves jangle.

"Welcome to Erebor," he said, bowing slightly. "I trust your journey was pleasant?"

Pleasant wasn't the word I'd use for two hours of wondering what political hammer was about to drop on our heads, but I smiled and nodded anyway.

The meeting room was vast, like everything in Erebor. A table of dark stone dominated the space, edges carved with the same intricate patterns that seemed to cover every surface in the mountain. Thorin sat at its head, looking every inch the king he was. Fíli stood to his right, not quite meeting my eyes.

That's when the first tendril of dread started curling in my stomach.

"King Bard," Thorin inclined his head. "Princess Sigrid. Thank you for coming on such short notice."

Da took his seat with the kind of casual grace that still surprised me sometimes. A year ago, he'd been a bargeman. Now he was negotiating with kings.

Life is weird sometimes.

"You mentioned a proposal?" Da's voice was neutral, but I caught a slight emphasis on the word 'proposal.'

Thorin nodded, his expression serious. "Our kingdoms have been... cautiously cordial this past year. But cordiality is not enough to build a lasting peace. We need something stronger. Something more binding."

He paused, although whether it was to judge our reactions or compose his next sentence was unclear.

"A marriage alliance," Thorin continued, "between our houses would benefit both our peoples."

For a moment, I was confused. Was Thorin getting married? Da certainly hadn’t mentioned any plans to seek a new wife, but maybe he had been thinking about it, now that he was king. Didn’t have a widowed sister? Still, they certainly wouldn’t need me for that. Nor would it explain Fíli.

Then the hammer dropped. I felt like someone had dumped ice water down my spine. Marriage alliance. The words echoed in my head, bouncing off each other like badly thrown rocks.

"Between whom?" Da asked, though I could tell from his voice that he already knew the answer. Since I was the only other one here from Dale, I had a sinking feeling I already knew too. 

"My heir, Fíli," Thorin gestured to his nephew, who was now studying the table like it contained the secrets of the universe, "and your daughter, Princess Sigrid."

The room felt suddenly too small and too large all at once. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. I wanted to point out how absurd this was. Instead, I sat there, trying to remember how to breathe. I looked at Fíli, really looked at him. He glanced up, finally catching my eye, and a grimace flashed across his face, gone before it could really register. That wasn’t promising.

I found myself studying Fíli more carefully than I ever had before. Strong features, proud bearing, and that elaborately braided golden hair that seemed to be a point of pride among his people. But he was also... well, short. I had several inches on him in height, which wouldn't matter except that it did, somehow. It was unfair and shallow, but for some reason it was all my brain could come up with. I couldn't help thinking about how we'd look standing next to each other at formal functions. He was handsome enough, I supposed, in a dwarven way. But this wasn't about attraction. This wasn't about love or compatibility or any of the things I'd dreamed about when I was younger.

This was politics.

I thought about all the times I'd wondered if I'd ever find someone. Dating in Laketown had always seemed complicated—how do you explain to someone that you're from another world? And how do you really, truly love someone you can’t share your whole self with? Or trust that they love you? I'd told myself it didn't matter, that I was too busy first surviving, then helping rebuild a city to worry about romance.

But somewhere, in a corner of my heart I tried to ignore, I'd hoped. Hoped that maybe someday I'd find someone who would understand me, all of me.

When Da didn’t immediately reject Thorin’s offer, instead sitting there, thoughtfully looking at Thorin and Fíli, the frozen feeling in my spine spread until my entire body felt numb.

So much for that dream. Quashed. Like so many others.

What followed was a detailed discussion of terms. Gold and finished goods for Dale. Access to desperately needed farmland for Erebor. Reduced hostilities between dwarves and humans. A trading partnership that would strengthen both kingdoms. They talked about me like I wasn't there, like this wasn't my life they were planning.

The meeting dragged on. Details were discussed. Contracts were mentioned. Through it all, I sat there, feeling like a chess piece being moved across a board.

Da asked me if I had any questions, and it took my brain a moment to catch back up to speed. Of course I had questions. A million. Most wildly inappropriate to share in front of Thorin and Fíli. But I should ask something. Couldn’t have them thinking I was dimwitted. I looked at Fíli, who also had said nothing over the past couple hours. A few options came to mind, but I settled for what was arguably the simplest.

“Fíli,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady despite the whirlwind blowing in my mind. “You’re sure about this? About… about marrying me?”

Fíli’s gaze shifted slightly. He was still standing there like a statue, his arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed forward. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His silence was as thick as the stone walls around them, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of frustration.

Finally, Fíli spoke, and when he did, his voice was low, measured, almost flat. “I don’t make such decisions lightly, Princess Sigrid.”

I blinked at the formality of his words, the deliberate precision. Well. I guess that answered that. I tried not to bristle at the fact that he seemed fully aware what this meeting was about, while I was the only one left in the dark. But I couldn’t let it go. The more I thought about it, the more my blood boiled. Everyone in that room had known what this meeting was about except me. Da, with his careful non-answers when I'd asked about the invitation. Fíli, who couldn't even look me in the eye. Even Balin, with that look he'd given me in the entrance hall. They'd all known. They'd all prepared. While I walked in blind, thinking this was just another diplomatic meeting, they'd been planning to reshape my entire future. The unfairness of it hit me like a physical blow. Did they think I couldn't handle knowing in advance? That I'd make a scene? Or was I just so inconsequential to the whole process that no one thought to warn me? 

Finally, mercifully, it was over. The meeting had taken most of the day, and it was too late to depart for Dale. We were given rooms for the night, though I knew there was no way I'd be able to sleep. Two nights in a row. I’m sure that would improve my mood considerably.

"You could have warned me," I said once we were safely in our rooms, my voice tight with barely contained anger. We stood in a small parlor, the invitation scroll lying between us like a declaration of war.

"Would it have made it easier?" Da asked, his voice maddeningly calm.

"Easier? No. But at least I wouldn't have felt like a complete fool walking in there unprepared!" I started pacing, the nervous energy making it impossible to stand still. "Do you have any idea how humiliating that was? Sitting there while everyone else in the room already knew what was happening?"

"Sigrid—"

"And of all people—the dwarves? After everything that happened? After they nearly got us all killed? After they promised to help rebuild and completely turned their backs on us?"

"The past is complicated," Da said, in that diplomatic tone he'd developed since becoming king. It only made me angrier.

"Complicated? They used our toilet as an entrance, ate our food, took our hospitality, and then nearly got us all burned to death by a dragon! And now you want me to marry one of them?"

"What I want," Da's voice took on an edge I rarely heard, "is to ensure our people survive the winter. The rebuilding is bleeding us dry. The dwarves have gold, expertise, and resources we desperately need."

"So I'm to be sold to pay our debts?" The words came out bitter and sharp. 

"You know that's not fair." Da's shoulders slumped slightly. "They need us too. The alliance would benefit both kingdoms. Trade routes would be secured. The constant tensions would ease. Our people wouldn't have to choose between rebuilding their homes and feeding their children."

I almost pointed out that he'd chosen to accept the crown, while I'd never had a choice about any of this. Instead, I just stood there, trembling with all the things I couldn't say.

"The winter storms will be here soon," Da continued, his voice gentle but firm. "Without better trade agreements, people will die. Not soldiers or nobles—children, elderly, the ones who can't survive another winter in temporary shelters."

And there it was. The truth I couldn't argue against. Because he was right—people would die. Real people, with names and faces I knew, who looked to us for protection and leadership. What was my happiness worth against their lives?

He was silent for another long moment, then continued, his voice softer and quieter. "In our world, whether we like it or not, marriage has always been one of the strongest ways to secure alliances like this. It’s our best option. And I want what's best for our people and our family. I don’t know that there’s a right answer."

Something in the way he said it made me pause. 

Oh.

Oh.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. If I refused, they'd still need an alliance. Another marriage. Another princess.

Tilda. They'd want Tilda.

She was so young. Still chatting with dolls sometimes when she thought no one was looking. Still believing in fairy tales and happy endings.

"I'll do it," I said, the words coming out before I'd fully processed them.

Da looked at me, his eyes sad. "Sigrid—"

"No, I mean it." I took a deep breath. "It makes sense. Politically, economically... it makes sense. And I'm..." I swallowed hard, clawing back several different adjectives that threatened to make me sound horrible, bitter, or scared.  "I'm older. More practical. It should be me.” I paused. “But don't expect me to be happy about it."

Da blew out a sigh. "I know." He moved to pull me into a hug, but I stepped back. I couldn't handle comfort right now—it would break me completely.

"You deserve happiness. And I have no right to ask this of you," he said softly. 

"Just... promise me something?"

"Anything."

"Promise me Tilda gets to marry for love."

His arms tightened around me. "I promise."

The worst part in all of this was, I understood. I understood the economics, the politics, the desperate need for stability in these uncertain times. I understood why the alliance made sense, why marriage was the strongest way to bind our kingdoms together, why I was the logical choice. I understood everything except how to make peace with it.

Chapter Text

With the decision made, there was no need to leave and come back. Da spoke with Balin after dinner was brought to our room, who said he would arrange everything the next day.

It was a disconcerting feeling, having made such a momentous decision so quickly. Clearly Thorin had thought through the terms of the contract—likely had it drafted even before we'd arrived at the mountain. And Dale truly, desperately needed the money. The terms were as fair as we were going to get. Credit where it was due, Thorin didn't seek to extort us.

Still. One day for everything to change.

I suppose that's the nature of things. One moment you're preparing supper, and then dwarves are coming up your toilet. One minute you're camping in your own world, the next you're in another entirely. One moment your biggest worry is how to deal with conniving businessmen trying to corner the grain market, the next you're bartered away to be married to a dwarf prince you barely know.

I didn't sleep. Of course I didn't sleep. How do you sleep in a mountain full of strangers after agreeing to marry someone you barely know?

The guest chambers were nice enough, if you like the feeling of being buried alive in luxury. Everything was stone and metal and gems, precisely carved and absolutely foreign to someone who'd grown up in a wooden house on a lake, or a small house on a quiet street. The bed was too soft, the air too still, and the silence—the silence was the worst part. No creaking boards, no lapping water, no birds or wind. Just the weight of a mountain pressing down from above.

I got up before dawn and paced. Seven steps from wall to wall. Fifteen-three steps around the perimeter. Numbers helped. They always had. Math was the same in any situation—reliable, predictable, safe.

Unlike arranged marriages to dwarf princes.

A soft knock at my door made me jump. It was Da, already dressed and looking far too alert for this hour.

"Ready?" he asked.

"No," I said honestly. "But let's do it anyway."

With my nicest dress on and hair freshly braided, I had hoped to hide the circles under my eyes from lack of sleep. Given the look Da gave me, the illusion may not have been as effective as I had hoped. Balin once again met with us and took us to a smaller chamber than we had met in yesterday. He explained that, as formal recognition of the acceptance of betrothal, there was a short ceremony where I would be presented with the first betrothal gift. He was explaining the significance, but I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts to pay much attention.

In the chamber, we met briefly with Thorin and Prince Fíli. They clearly knew of my decision, because our time together was short, perfunctory. They and Da had looked at me one last time, and I managed to answer their unanswered question. This was my last chance. I tried taking a deep breath, but found all I could manage was a shallow sip of air.

"I'll do it."

Thorin then led all of us to a larger hall. The formal receiving hall was even more overwhelming in the morning light that somehow found its way down through carefully designed shafts and mirrors. I tried not to gawk at the engineering of it all—being impressed felt too much like forgiveness. I wasn't there yet.

It seemed like half the mountain's population filled the hall. I recognized some faces from the company that had stayed with us that fateful night, including Fíli's brother, but others were strangers. All of them were watching me with various degrees of curiosity and skepticism. How did they all know to come? Why couldn't we have arranged for Bain and Tilda to be here? The unfairness of it all stoked a small fire in the pit of my stomach. Still, I tried to keep my face calm. Neutral. Pleasant. I chose this, to represent the future of our alliance. No use complaining now.

Fíli stood apart from the crowd, dressed in formal clothes. The fabric looked rich enough to feed a Dale family for a year, but he wore it like armor—protection rather than decoration. His hair was elaborately braided in patterns that probably meant something significant to anyone who understood dwarf culture.

I didn't. There was going to be so much to learn.

"The acceptance of the first courting gift," Balin announced, his voice carrying through the hall, "is a tradition as old as Durin's line itself. It represents the beginning of understanding between two hearts, two families, two peoples."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Politics dressed up as romance was still politics.

Fíli stepped forward, holding something wrapped in deep blue velvet. His expression was also carefully neutral, but I caught a flicker of... something in his eyes. Uncertainty? Resignation? Hard to tell with dwarves.

"Princess Sigrid," he said formally, "I offer this gift as a symbol of our future together."

The object he presented was heavy and cold against my palms. As I unwrapped it, a gleaming weapon emerged from the velvet – a ceremonial dagger encased in an ornate sheath. The hilt was gold, inlaid with sapphires that matched the blue of the fabric it had been wrapped in. Dragons were carved into the metal with exquisite detail, their ruby eyes glinting hungrily in the light. When I partially withdrew the blade, I saw runes etched into the steel, which undoubtedly told some heroic dwarven tale.

"This was crafted by my own hand, forged in the ancient forges of Erebor," Fíli explained, his voice formal and distant. "The gold was recovered from our treasuries after the dragon's defeat. The blade is perfectly balanced and keen enough to split a hair."

I stared at the weapon in my hands, turning it over carefully as everyone watched. It was undeniably beautiful, a masterpiece of dwarven craftsmanship. The detail work alone must have taken weeks, if not months. Under different circumstances, I might have appreciated the artistry.

But all I could think about was how this dagger embodied everything that had gone wrong in my life – gold that had attracted a dragon, destruction that had driven us from our home, death that had left so many destitute. The gleaming metal felt like it was burning my hands, though its surface remained cold to the touch.

And the dragons—those were the worst part. Carved with such loving detail, each scale perfectly rendered, their ruby eyes seeming to glint with malice. Here was Smaug, immortalized in precious metal, being presented to me as a gift. Smaug, who had destroyed Lake-town. Smaug, who had left children orphaned and families homeless. Smaug, whose fire still haunted my nightmares.

"The dragons," I said quietly, tracing one of the carved beasts with my finger. "An interesting choice of decoration."

Something flickered across Fíli's face—a flash of uncertainty, perhaps, or annoyance. "They represent our triumph over adversity."

"Of course." I tightened my grip on the hilt, forcing a polite smile for the watching crowd. I was acutely aware of all the eyes upon us, of the carefully blank expressions of the dwarven nobles who still viewed humans with barely concealed suspicion. This wasn't the time or place for honesty—not with half the mountain watching our every move. "It's... very fine work."

I caught Da's relieved glance as I swallowed further comment. The air in the hall felt too thick, too still, as if everyone was collectively holding their breath to see if the human girl would embarrass herself or her father.

"I accept this gift with gratitude," I said formally, the words hollow but necessary. The weight of politics pressed down on me, heavier than the mountain above.

Fíli bowed stiffly, a perfect model of royal decorum. "You honor me with your acceptance."

Liar, I thought. But then, we were both lying, weren't we? But I said nothing, did nothing, except hold the dragon-carved dagger and smile as though I'd been given something precious instead of a reminder of everything I'd lost.

Before the gathering could disperse, Thorin caught my eye and made a subtle gesture. I glanced at Da, looking for a way out, but he gave a subtle shake of his head. Sighing, and understanding that this was not a request I could refuse, I followed him to a small antechamber off the main hall. The room was spartanly furnished with a single table and two chairs, but the walls were covered in elaborate tapestries depicting what I assumed were scenes from dwarven history.

"Sit," Thorin commanded, though his tone was not unkind. I sat.

He remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back as he studied one of the tapestries. "Do you see this scene?" he asked, indicating a particularly dramatic battle sequence. "It depicts the War of Dwarves and Dragons, nearly a thousand years ago. Our people united against a common enemy, despite centuries of previous feuds and disagreements."

I waited, sensing there was more to come.

"What the histories often fail to mention," he continued, "is that this unity was cemented by marriage. Alliances between clans, between kingdoms. Not all of them were happy unions, at first. Many faced opposition from their own people, who saw such marriages as a betrayal of tradition."

He turned to face me then, his eyes intense. "There will be those in Erebor who oppose this marriage. Just as there will be those in Dale who question your choice. They will watch, they will wait, and they will hope to see this alliance fail."

"I'm aware of that," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Are you?" He leaned forward slightly. "Are you aware that every interaction between you and Fíli will be scrutinized? That every disagreement will be seen as proof that this was a mistake? That there are those who would use any sign of discord between you to argue against future cooperation between our peoples?"

I swallowed hard. "I... I hadn't considered it quite so thoroughly."

"No," he said, his voice softening slightly. "You're young yet. But you must understand—this marriage is more than just a political arrangement. It is a symbol of hope for both our peoples. A chance to build something new from the ashes of the past."

"Even if we don't love each other?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Thorin's expression was unreadable. "Love is not always where we expect to find it. Sometimes it must be built, stone by stone, like any other lasting structure." He paused. "My nephew is not always... adept at expressing himself. But he is honorable, and he takes his duties seriously. As I believe you do."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

"Then that is where you must begin. With duty, with respect, and perhaps, in time, with understanding." He straightened. "The rest will come as it may."

Then he nodded, almost to himself, and walked away. When I rejoined the others, Balin approached me with a kind smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He gestured to a small alcove away from the main gathering, where Da was already waiting.

"A moment of your time, Princess Sigrid? There are certain... logistical matters that require discussion."

I followed him, clutching the dragon-adorned dagger like it might protect me from whatever was coming next. Da's expression was grim, which did nothing to ease the knot forming in my stomach.

Balin settled himself on a stone bench, smoothed his beard, and folded his hands in his lap with precise movements that spoke of centuries of diplomatic practice.

"The betrothal has been formalized," he began, his tone businesslike despite his gentle demeanor, "but there are specific arrangements that must be addressed. According to the terms agreed upon, the wedding ceremony will take place exactly one year from today."

"A year." I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. A year seemed both impossibly distant and terrifyingly near.

"Yes," Balin nodded, his elaborate white braids swaying slightly. He paused, and something in his hesitation made my shoulders tense.

"However," he continued carefully, "it is customary—and indeed necessary—for the betrothed to begin integration into their new household well before the wedding itself."

My stomach dropped. "What does that mean, exactly?"

Balin's eyes flickered briefly to Da before returning to me. "It means, lass," he said, his voice softening slightly, "that you will be expected to take up residence in Erebor within the month. You'll need to begin learning our customs, our language, our ways. Our history, our court protocols. These things cannot be mastered overnight."

"A month?" I looked to Da, who wouldn't meet my eyes. "I have to leave Dale in a month?"

The reality of it hit me like a physical blow. A month. Four weeks to say goodbye to everything familiar, to pack up whatever pieces of my life I could carry, to prepare myself for living under a mountain with people who were still strangers.

"Your father may visit, naturally," Balin added quickly, perhaps sensing my growing distress. "And you will be permitted occasional visits home, with proper escort. But the alliance depends on your visible integration into our society. The people of Erebor must come to see you as one of their own, not merely as a foreign princess who appears on ceremonial occasions."

"And if I refuse?" The words were out before I could stop them, sharp with a defiance I wasn't even sure I felt.

Balin's smile tightened, the warmth in his eyes dimming. "Then I'm afraid the contract would be considered breached." He spread his hands in a gesture of regret that seemed genuine enough. "The agreement is quite specific on these matters."

Of course. The money. Always the money. The unspoken reality of Dale's precarious position hung in the air between us. Without Erebor's gold, Dale would struggle through another winter. People would suffer. Some would die.

"You'll have your own chambers," Balin continued, as if offering a consolation prize. "Quite comfortable ones, near the royal wing but with appropriate privacy. We've begun preparations already—windows have been added that catch the morning light, and the furnishings will be suited to human proportions rather than dwarven."

It was a kindness, I supposed. Small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

"You'll be assigned a lady-in-waiting familiar with human customs," he went on, "who will serve as your guide in adapting to ours."

"How generous," I murmured, not quite managing to keep the edge from my voice.

Balin either missed or chose to ignore my sarcasm. "There will be a formal period of courting, with specified meetings between you and Prince Fíli. These are ceremonial in nature, but crucial for public perception. The prince will present you with two more courtship gifts before the wedding, and you will be expected to present him with tokens of your own."

I almost laughed at that. What could I possibly give a prince who had a mountain full of treasure?

"And there will be lessons, of course," Balin added, almost as an afterthought.

"What sort of lessons?" Da spoke up for the first time, his brow furrowed.

"Nothing too strenuous," Balin assured him, though something about his careful phrasing made me suspect otherwise. "Princess Sigrid will need to study our history and traditions, learn the proper forms of address for various ranks and clans, familiarize herself with our social hierarchies and court protocols. Standard knowledge for anyone joining the royal line."

Lessons. As if I were studying for a degree rather than being married. As if this were an honor to be earned rather than a political necessity to be endured.

"The month will pass quickly," Balin added, misreading my silence for acceptance. "But it should give you sufficient time to prepare for the move and bring whatever personal items you wish to make your chambers feel more like home."

"One month," I repeated, trying to wrap my mind around it. "To say goodbye to everything I've known."

"To prepare for everything you will become," Balin corrected gently. "A bridge between peoples. A new beginning for Dale and Erebor alike."

I nodded mutely, clutching the dagger harder. The dragons seemed to mock me, as if they knew something I didn't. That I was trading one cage for another, one set of responsibilities for a heavier one.

Balin bowed slightly. "I'll send formal documentation with all the details to your father by week's end. In the meantime, I suggest you begin preparations. The mountain can be... challenging for those unaccustomed to its ways."

Then he walked away to join Thorin, who was speaking with a small cluster of dwarves. Da and I sat there for a moment longer. I think we both were overwhelmed with everything that had just happened.

It wasn't until we were preparing to leave that Fíli approached me again. We were alone in one of the smaller antechambers, a circumstance that seemed too convenient to be accidental. Probably his careful design—the first private moment we'd had since the betrothal was announced. The room was smaller than most spaces in Erebor, though still impressive with its vaulted ceiling and intricately carved columns.

He cleared his throat. "Princess."

"Prince," I replied, matching his formality.

An awkward silence stretched between us. I hadn't planned on speaking to him again before leaving, but now that we were face to face, all the words I'd been holding back bubbled to the surface.

"Dragons," I said finally, gesturing to the dagger I still carried. "Of all the symbols in your mountain, you chose dragons."

It wasn't a question, but he answered anyway. "They hold significance for my people."

"They hold significance for mine too," I said flatly. "They represent death and destruction."

His expression hardened. "For us, they represent what we overcame. What we reclaimed."

"How convenient to see it that way."

"It wasn't meant as an insult," he said, though his tone suggested my reaction was the real insult. "It was meant to honor your father's role in slaying the beast."

I laughed, the sound hollow in the stone chamber. "Honor. Is that what you call it?"

"What would you call it?" he challenged.

"Thoughtless," I replied. "Like this entire arrangement."

Something flashed in his eyes—anger, maybe, or merely irritation. "The alliance is necessary."

"So I've been told. Repeatedly." I looked down at the dagger, then back at him. "A month, then. That's all the time I have left in Dale before I'm locked away in your mountain."

His jaw tightened at that. "No one is locking you away."

"Aren't they? A month, Prince Fíli. A month before I'm expected to leave my home, my family, everything I know, to live among strangers who see me as nothing more than a political convenience."

Something like genuine surprise crossed his face. "Balin told you already?"

"Did you think he wouldn't? Or did you think I'd be pleased by the news?"

He didn't answer directly. "It's traditional. You need to learn our customs before the wedding."

"Your customs. Your mountain. Your traditions." I shook my head. "I'm beginning to see a pattern."

"Would you prefer to enter our society completely unprepared?" He sounded genuinely puzzled. "The time is for your benefit."

"My benefit would have been considered by not arranging my marriage without consulting me," I said, unable to keep the edge from my voice. "Instead, I get a dagger with dragons on it and one month's notice before I'm expected to leave my home."

"This isn't what I would have chosen either," he said stiffly.

"But you're not the one being uprooted."

"No," he agreed. "Just the one expected to marry a human who clearly despises everything about my people and our home."

I opened my mouth to deny it, but closed it again. What was the point? This conversation wasn't going to change anything. The contracts were signed. The gold would flow. Dale would rebuild. And I would marry this dwarf prince who gave dragon daggers as gifts and thought a month was sufficient time to prepare for leaving one's home forever.

"Is there anything else you wished to discuss, Prince Fíli?" I asked, slipping back into formal address like armor.

He seemed to consider for a moment, then shook his head. "No. I simply wanted to... clear the air before your departure."

"Consider it cleared," I said, though the tension between us was now thick enough to cut.

"Safe journey," he said with a slight bow.

"Goodbye," I replied, not bothering to curtsey.

That was that, then. We'd spoken our minds—or at least parts of them—and nothing had changed. Nothing could change. We were both caught in this arrangement, both resentful, both powerless to alter our course. The only difference was that in a month, I would be the one leaving everything behind.

As Da and I rode back to Dale, I thought about Thorin's words. About duty and understanding and bridges that needed to be built. About the difference between conquering dragons and living with the consequences.

The dagger sat heavy in my saddlebag, its carved dragons and gleaming jewels pressing against my leg with each step of my horse. A weapon forged from victory and reclaimed treasure, as cold and unforgiving as I feared my future might be.

But hey, at least we were both equally unhappy about it. That was something, right?

Right.

Chapter Text

Breaking news to your siblings that you're marrying someone you barely know is awkward in any world. Breaking news to your siblings that you're marrying a dwarf prince and moving into a mountain? That's a whole different level of complicated.

We told them over dinner. Da's idea—something about how people are less likely to shout when their mouths are full. Though given how many times I'd seen Bain talk with his mouth full, I had my doubts about that theory.

"So," Da began, after we'd all settled in with our stew, "something important happened at Erebor yesterday."

Tilda perked up immediately. "Did you see the treasure room? Is it really full of gold? Did you—"

"I'm getting married," I interrupted. Better to just get it over with, like ripping off a bandage.

Bain choked on his stew.

Tilda's spoon clattered against her bowl. "What?"

"To Prince Fíli," I added, because in for a penny, in for a pound. "It's a political alliance. To strengthen ties between Dale and Erebor."

The silence that followed was deafening.

"But..." Tilda's voice was small. "But you don't love him."

"No," I agreed. "I don't."

"Then why—"

"Because sometimes," Da cut in gently, "being royal means doing what's best for your people, not what's best for yourself."

Our eyes met across the table. I knew he hadn't wanted this for me. Da had always supported my independence, my practical approach to problems, my tendency to roll up my sleeves and fix things myself. But Dale needed this alliance more than ever—the winter had been brutal, our resources stretched too thin, and rebuilding was costing far more than our initial estimates. Erebor had gold and expertise that could save lives in the coming months. And I—well, I suppose I was the most logical bargaining chip.

Bain had finally stopped coughing. "When's the wedding?"

"About a year from now." I pushed my stew around with my spoon. "Apparently there are a lot of... preparations needed."

"What kind of preparations?" Tilda asked.

"Well, for one thing, I need to learn some Khuzdul. But apparently not too much? And dwarf dances. And about seventeen different types of formal bowing." I kept my tone light, practical. No use dwelling on what couldn't be changed. "Oh, and I'll be moving to the mountain in a month. Did I mention that part?"

"Moving?" Tilda's eyes filled with tears. "But... but you can't move! Who's going to help me with my hair? Who's going to tell Bain when he's being stupid? Who's going to—"

"Hey." I moved around the table to pull her into a hug. "I'm not leaving forever. The mountain's not that far. And you can visit. Both of you," I added, looking at Bain. I chose that phrasing carefully. I truly wasn’t sure how much I would be allowed to visit them. One more fact on the pile that felt like a slow suffocation. But I couldn’t put that on them.

"Do you want to do this?" Bain asked quietly.

This time I avoided Da’s eyes, choosing instead to look at Bain. "I want to help our people. This alliance will bring trade, protection, stability. That's worth... well, it's worth a lot."

"It's worth your happiness?" Tilda's voice was muffled against my shoulder.

"Who says I won't be happy?" I tried to sound optimistic. "Maybe I'll discover I have a hidden talent for speaking Khuzdul. Maybe I'll revolutionize dwarf fashion. Maybe I'll—"

"Start a trend of extremely tall dwarves?" Bain suggested.

I threw a piece of bread at him. He caught it and grinned, and for a moment everything felt normal.

"When do you start?" Tilda asked, wiping her eyes.

"Next week, actually." I returned to my seat. "I'm being assigned a... well, I guess you'd call her a lady-in-waiting? Someone to teach me everything I need to know about living in the mountain. I was graciously allowed a month to pack and prepare." I didn't bother hiding the sarcasm there.

"A dwarf lady?" Bain raised his eyebrows.

"Dwarrowdam, yes. She's from the Iron Hills. Lady Hilda. She's supposed to arrive here next week."

The rest of dinner was quieter than usual, but not uncomfortable. Tilda asked about a million questions about the mountain, most of which I couldn't answer. Bain tried to teach me what he claimed was a dwarf drinking song, though I had my doubts about its authenticity. Da just watched us, smiling that sad-proud smile of his.

Later, when the younger ones had gone to bed, I found myself in my bedroom at my desk. Bain jokingly called it the workshop. It wasn't much—a workbench, some tools, and half a dozen projects in various stages of completion. Tonight I was working on a system of pulleys and counterweights that could help lift heavy stones during the rebuilding of Dale's eastern wall.

The repetitive work of shaping wood and metal had always calmed me. It gave my hands something to do while my mind sorted through problems. And right now, the problem of my impending marriage felt larger than any engineering challenge I'd faced.

I couldn't help remembering Fíli from our previous encounters. First emerging from our toilet with his uncle's company—muddy, bedraggled, and oddly charming in his desperation. I remembered his easy smile then, the way he'd thanked us for shelter with genuine warmth, how he'd joked with his brother while borrowing clothes that were comically too large. Then there was his fierce bravery during the orc attack, and later, his help as we evacuated Lake-town.

That Fíli seemed worlds apart from the stiff, formal prince I now encountered at diplomatic functions. Somewhere between reclaiming his mountain and assuming his role as crown prince, the warm, somewhat reckless dwarf had been replaced by this distant royal figure. His smiles now were careful and measured, his words chosen with diplomatic precision. We hadn't spoken much since the battle. Even before the betrothal, our paths only crossed occasionally during formal meetings between our kingdoms, and those interactions were always stiffly polite, overshadowed by the lingering tensions between our peoples. 

I sometimes wondered which version was the real Fíli—the prince-in-exile who'd shown gratitude for simple kindness, or this formal heir who carried the weight of his reclaimed kingdom in every carefully measured gesture. And more troublingly, which version was I agreeing to marry?

The door creaked open, and Da stepped inside. He didn't say anything at first, just watched me work. That was something I'd always appreciated about him—he never felt the need to fill silence with empty words.

"The counter-tension needs adjusting," he finally said, nodding toward my model. "It'll bind if the load shifts too far to the right."

I studied the mechanism. He was right, of course. I made a few quick adjustments, realigning the center pulley. "Better?"

"Much." He leaned against the workbench. "You know, most people would be drowning their sorrows in ale tonight, not designing construction equipment."

"Rebuilding Dale isn't going to pause just because I'm getting married." I tested the pulley again. Smooth movement now, even with an unbalanced weight. "Besides, this wall still needs reinforcing before winter, regardless of where I'm living."

"True." He paused. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"About the wall?" I deflected.

"Sigrid." Just that—my name, spoken with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

I set down my tools with a sigh. "What is there to talk about? The decision's been made. The arrangements are in motion. My opinion hardly matters at this point."

"It matters to me," he said simply.

I looked down at my hands—calloused, practical hands that knew how to build and fix things. Hands that would soon be expected to perform perfect curtsies and delicate dwarven crafts instead of the sturdy, useful work I preferred.

"I don't want this," I admitted. "Not because it's Fíli specifically, though that's... complicated. But because I'm being traded away like a resource. A means to an end." I met Da's eyes.  "I understand why. I do. Dale needs this alliance. We need the trade, the protection, the gold. After how many we lost last winter..." I trailed off, thinking of the graves we'd dug in frozen ground. "But understanding doesn't make it any easier to accept."

"No," Da agreed. "It doesn't."

"And Fíli..." I shook my head. "He's made it perfectly clear how he feels about this arrangement. He looked at me like I'm some kind of mild inconvenience he's being forced to tolerate. Not hateful, just... dismissive." I picked up a gear, turning it over in my hands. "I don’t know that we’ve had a real conversation since they first came through our toilet. Since then, it's been nothing but stiff formality. This is going to be the longest, most awkward marriage in the history of Middle-earth."

Da was quiet for a moment, considering. "You're both being forced into this," he finally said. "His reluctance might not be about you specifically."

"Oh, I'm fairly certain part of it is," I countered. "I'm not exactly what dwarves consider ideal. Too tall, too human, too..." I gestured vaguely at myself. "And let's not forget I'm from another world entirely. That's not something I can exactly share with my future husband."

It wasn't something we discussed often. After Gandalf had confirmed that I couldn't return to my original world, we'd tacitly agreed to focus on life here. I preferred it that way, and I’m sure it was easier on Da. But in moments like this, the strangeness of my journey felt particularly acute.

Da put his arm around my shoulder. "You've faced every challenge this world has thrown at you with more courage and grace than anyone has a right to expect. You've built a life here, made a difference for our people. Whatever comes next, you'll find your way through it."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know my daughter," he said simply. "And she's the most stubborn, resourceful person I've ever met. Even before she started redesigning water systems and arguing with councilmen."

That earned a small smile. "I don't argue. I present alternative perspectives."

"Very loudly, sometimes."

We laughed, the sound easing some of the tension in the room. For a moment, we were just father and daughter again, not king and princess weighed down by responsibility.

Lady Hilda arrived precisely when she said she would, which I took as my first lesson in dwarf punctuality. She was tall for a dwarrowdam, with steel-gray hair pulled back in elaborate braids that somehow managed to look both elegant and practical. She carried herself with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly who you were and what you were doing.

I was determined to dislike her on principle. She represented everything I was dreading—rigid traditions, impossible standards, the loss of my autonomy. But when she fixed me with those sharp gray eyes and said, "This isn't going to be easy for either of us, Princess," I found myself respecting her directness, if nothing else.

"Please," I said, "just Sigrid is fine."

She smiled slightly. "Perhaps in private. But lesson one: titles matter to dwarves. They are earned through deed and blood, and to diminish them is to diminish the achievements they represent. By calling you 'Princess,' I acknowledge not only your position but the actions of your father in becoming king. To call you merely 'Sigrid' in formal settings would be seen as dismissing his accomplishments."

"Right." I sighed. It still seemed excessive, but at least there was logic behind it. "Princess Sigrid it is, then."

"Good." She settled into a chair with fluid grace. "Now, let's be clear about something. I am not here to transform you into a dwarf. That would be impossible and undesirable. I am here to give you the tools to navigate dwarf society without causing diplomatic incidents. What you do with those tools is your own affair."

The bluntness surprised me. "That's... refreshing."

"I find honesty saves time," she replied. "And we have precious little of that. One month isn't nearly enough to teach you everything you'll need to know, so we'll have to prioritize."

"What comes first?" I asked, genuinely curious despite myself.

"Titles and forms of address," she said promptly. "Get those wrong and you'll insult half the mountain before breakfast."

Over the next few days, I discovered that Lady Hilda wasn't interested in blind obedience to tradition. She wanted me to understand why dwarves did things the way they did, what values their customs reflected, and how their history had shaped their society. It was still overwhelming, but at least it wasn't mindless memorization.

"What about these?" I asked one afternoon, tugging at my simple braids.

She raised an eyebrow. "What about them?"

"Do they... mean anything? To dwarves, I mean."

"Ah." She set down her teacup. "The language of braids. A complex subject." She studied my hair critically. "Currently, you're telling everyone you're an unmarried craftsman of middle rank who recently won a bet."

I stared at her. "I'm what?"

The corner of her mouth twitched. "That was a small joke. But braids do have meanings for us—they can indicate family lines, guild affiliations, accomplishments, and personal status. The pattern, placement, beads, and clasps all contribute to the message."

"So I could accidentally be saying something inappropriate with my hair?"

"Unlikely. Most humans don't use enough complex braiding for it to register as meaningful to dwarven eyes." She paused. "Though there was that incident with the envoy from Gondor who accidentally proclaimed himself a master brewer..."

"Should I be taking notes on this?"

"Absolutely," she said. "There will be a test."

I couldn't tell if she was joking again. 

The days blurred together in a flurry of lessons. Proper greetings for various ranks of nobility and guild status. The complex history of dwarven clans and their traditional alliances. Which topics were acceptable for dinner conversation (metalworking, gem-cutting, historic battles) and which were never to be mentioned (certain ill-fated expeditions, the exact population of female dwarves, anything related to beards and courtship in the same conversation).

It was exhausting, but at least it was interesting. And Lady Hilda proved to be unexpectedly understanding when I needed breaks from the endless protocol.

Still, by the end of the first week, I was desperate for something practical to do. When word came of flooding in the lower market, I practically ran out the door, grateful for a problem I actually knew how to solve.

Sometimes, I’ve found, being a princess means wearing fancy dresses and attending formal functions. Other times, it means standing in ankle-deep mud arguing with a city councilor about drainage systems.

It’s amazing how relieved I was to find myself in the latter situation.

"With all due respect, Your Highness," Councilor Aldrich said in a tone that suggested exactly how much respect he thought I was due, "this is hardly a matter requiring royal attention."

I looked pointedly at the flooding that had turned the lower market into a small lake. "Really? Because it looks like exactly the kind of thing that requires attention, royal or otherwise."

The market vendors who'd gathered around us nodded in agreement. Their stalls were half-submerged, their goods either ruined or hastily moved to higher ground. The smell of wet wool and vegetables hung heavy in the air.

"These things happen during the spring thaw," Aldrich said dismissively. "The water will drain naturally—"

"Into people's cellars," I interrupted. "Into their food stores. Into their homes. Just like it did last year."

"The traditional drainage systems—"

"Are traditional because they're old," I said, "not because they work."

A few of the vendors snickered. Aldrich's face reddened.

"Perhaps," he said stiffly, "this is a discussion better held in the council chambers, where we can properly—"

"Properly what? Ignore it for another year?" I pulled a rolled parchment from my coat. "I have plans here for a new drainage system. One that actually accounts for the way water flows downhill, instead of pretending it will magically go wherever we want it to."

"Plans?" He didn't quite snatch the parchment from my hands, but it was close. "And where did these come from?"

"I drew them." At his skeptical look, I added, "Believe it or not, Councilor, some of us actually studied water management instead of just complaining about it."

More snickers from the crowd. Aldrich's face went from red to purple.

"This is... highly irregular," he spluttered. "The cost alone would—"

"Be less than replacing ruined goods and rebuilding damaged homes every year." I turned to address the gathered vendors. "How many of you lost inventory last spring? How many had to repair water damage?"

A forest of hands went up.

"The traditional ways—" Aldrich tried again.

"Nearly got us all killed when Smaug came," I cut in. "If Da had followed tradition instead of thinking for himself, we'd all be dragon food. Sometimes tradition needs to be updated."

"Your father," Aldrich said through clenched teeth, "would never approve such an expense without proper council debate."

"My father," I smiled sweetly, "already approved the plans this morning. I'm just here to oversee the initial survey." I gestured to the surveyors who'd been quietly taking measurements while we argued. "Unless you'd like to explain to him why you're countermanding his orders?"

Aldrich opened and closed his mouth several times, looking remarkably like a fish that had just discovered water wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

"I... will take these plans under advisement," he managed finally.

"You do that." I turned back to the vendors. "Work should start within the week. In the meantime, the crown will compensate you for any goods damaged by the flooding."

The resulting cheer made Aldrich flinch. I pretended not to notice as he stormed off, though I did allow myself a small smile of satisfaction. It felt good to be doing something practical, something I understood, after days of memorizing obscure dwarf customs.

I was examining one of the old drainage culverts, trying to determine if any of it could be salvaged, when a familiar voice caught me off guard.

"Interesting approach to civil engineering."

I straightened up, mud squelching around my boots, to find Prince Fíli standing at the edge of the flooded area. He was dressed more practically than usual, though his clothes still probably cost more than most of these vendors made in a month. Behind him stood several dwarves I recognized as master craftsmen from the Guild of Builders - apparently he hadn't come alone.

"We were meeting with your father about the proposed trade route through the eastern quarter," he explained, apparently reading the question on my face. "The road will need significant reinforcement to handle the weight of our supply wagons. When we heard about the flooding..." He gestured to his companions. "Our builders thought it might be relevant to their plans."

Of course. The trade route. Another piece of our carefully arranged future falling into place.

"Your Highness," I said, keeping my tone neutral. "Come to inspect the problem or offer solutions?"

His lips tightened slightly. "We have some experience with water management in the mountain."

I bit back the retort that immediately rose to my lips. This wasn't the place for a diplomatic incident, not with half the market watching. And besides, he wasn't wrong—dwarf engineering was famously effective. I just hated the assumption that their methods were automatically superior to human ones.

"The principles are the same," he continued, a hint of that typical dwarven certainty in his voice. "Water flows downhill, whether you're in a mountain or not. Though I suppose the concepts might be somewhat advanced for—"

"For surface application?" I finished for him, refusing to be baited. "You're right. Underground water systems and surface drainage work on the same basic principles, but the applications differ significantly." I climbed onto a partially collapsed wall to get a better view of the blockage. "The real challenge here isn't simply directing the water—it's accounting for seasonal changes in the water table, frost heave, and soil erosion."

He frowned, clearly not expecting me to engage on technical grounds. "The foundation work does appear compromised."

"Hand me that pole," I said, pointing to a long measuring rod one of the surveyors had left behind.

He hesitated only a moment before passing it up. I used it to probe the culvert, confirming my suspicions about the collapse point.

"The problem isn't just the drainage system," I explained, addressing the gathered crowd as much as Fíli. "It's the foundation work from the original rebuild. They didn't account for soil erosion or seasonal freeze-thaw cycles. The whole thing's been slowly shifting for years."

"Like your balance is about to," Fíli commented as I edged along the wall.

I ignored him, reaching down into the culvert with the pole. "If we can just... there!"

Something shifted, and water began flowing more freely through the channel. Several vendors cheered.

"That's temporary," I said, carefully making my way back and starting to step down. "The whole system needs to be—"

My foot slipped on the wet stone. Before I could fall, a strong hand caught my arm, steadying me. Fíli had moved faster than I would have thought possible.

He released my arm quickly. "Perhaps next time you could demonstrate your engineering expertise from a less precarious position?"

"Perhaps next time you could offer actual help instead of condescending commentary?" But I kept my voice light, remembering Thorin's warning about people watching for signs of discord.

"In the mountain," he said, voice clipped, "we have systems in place to prevent such issues. Everything properly engineered, properly maintained—"

"Well, we're not in the mountain," I pointed out. "We're dealing with different conditions here—rain, temperature fluctuations, shifting soil. Perfect systems aren't always practical when the environment keeps changing."

His expression hardened. "Are you suggesting dwarf engineering is impractical?"

"I'm suggesting it's designed for different conditions," I replied evenly. "Just as our methods would likely be inadequate for your needs underground. Different environments require different approaches."

We stared at each other for a long moment, neither willing to back down. The watching crowd grew uncomfortably quiet, sensing the tension.

Finally, Fíli nodded curtly. "I'll send some of our engineers tomorrow. They may have insights about stabilizing the foundations that could prove useful."

"That would be... helpful," I conceded. "Thank you."

He inclined his head slightly—not quite a bow, but an acknowledgment. "Until next time, Princess."

As he and his companions departed, I heard one of the vendors murmur, "Thought you two were supposed to be getting hitched?"

"Politics," I said shortly, turning back to the drainage work. "Not romance."

An understatement if ever there was one.

Chapter Text

True to his word, Fíli sent engineers the next day. I'd expected them to be difficult—stubbornly insistent on doing things the dwarven way regardless of whether it made sense for Dale. Instead, the team arrived with surprisingly open minds, curious about our existing water management systems and full of ideas about how to adapt their techniques to our circumstances.

"The key is flexibility," explained Master Bylnar, a gray-bearded dwarf with spectacles perched precariously on his bulbous nose. "Underground, we build for permanence. Everything must last centuries. But here—" he gestured at the ever-changing sky above us, "—nature demands systems that can adapt."

I found myself enjoying their company, especially when they began sketching modifications to my plans that actually improved upon my original designs. By midday, we'd developed a hybrid approach that incorporated the best of both human and dwarf engineering techniques.

"The prince spoke highly of your practical knowledge," Master Bylnar mentioned casually as we finalized the plans. "Said you had an engineer's mind."

I nearly dropped my measuring rod. "Prince Fíli said that?"

"Aye." The old dwarf's eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. "Rare praise from him. He doesn't suffer fools gladly, especially when it comes to craftsmanship."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that. It seemed impossible that Fíli would have praised me to his engineers after our tense exchange. Then again, it was equally impossible to imagine this proper, traditional dwarf lying about such a thing.

"Well," I said finally, "please thank him for sending such knowledgeable assistance."

Master Bylnar nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I'll be sure to tell him the princess found us... adequate."

I laughed despite myself. Perhaps not all dwarves were as stiff and humorless as I'd feared.

The first formal courting visit came three days later, announced by a messenger bearing a scroll with so many flourishes and seals it looked more like a peace treaty than a dinner invitation. Lady Hilda was beside herself with excitement—or as close to excitement as her dignified demeanor would allow.

"This is the beginning of the formal courting period," she explained, examining the invitation as if it might contain secret runes. "The prince will present himself to your family, bringing a small entourage to demonstrate his status and intentions."

"He's already given me the dagger," I pointed out. "And we’re engaged. Isn't that enough?"

"The dagger was merely the acceptance gift," she said with the patience of someone explaining colors to a blind person. "Now comes the true courtship. There will be conversation and a series of meetings, designed to gradually build familiarity between your houses."

I felt my lips purse as I resisted the urge to point out that familiarity had already been established when they climbed through our toilet. Such reminders seemed counterproductive at this point.

Lady Hilda chose to ignore me, mind already racing ahead to focus instead on preparations. "You should wear the royal blue gown—the one with silver embroidery." She scrutinized my hair with a critical eye. "And we'll need to do something about... this."

"What's wrong with my hair?" I touched my simple braids defensively.

"Nothing, for everyday affairs. But for formal courtship?" She sighed. "We'll incorporate some dwarven patterns, but keep the overall style human. A compromise, just like this marriage."

I couldn't argue with that assessment.

The evening itself was as awkward as I'd expected. Fíli arrived precisely on time, accompanied by his brother Kíli, Balin, and two stern-looking dwarves who were introduced as distant cousins from the Iron Hills. Da welcomed them with the formal phrases Lady Hilda had coached him on, and we proceeded to a dinner that felt more like a diplomatic negotiation than a family meal.

The conversation was stilted, punctuated by long silences that made me wish desperately for some kind of disaster—a fire, perhaps, or another dragon—anything to break the suffocating politeness. Fíli remained as reserved as ever, offering only the most perfunctory responses to Da's careful questions about trade and rebuilding efforts. His posture was rigid, his expressions guarded, as if he expected a trap in every exchange.

I spent the first course trying to remember which fork was for what while Tilda stared openly at our guests' beards. Bain, bless him, kept nervously clearing his throat every time the conversation lagged, which was approximately every thirty seconds.

"The new eastern watchtower is progressing well," Da offered, after one particularly lengthy silence.

"Indeed," Fíli replied with all the animation of said watchtower. "The stone is of good quality."

More silence. Tilda's gaze ping-ponged between us like she was watching the world's most boring archery competition.

"How do you get your braids to stay like that?" she finally blurted to one of the cousins, whose beard featured an intricate waterfall of plaits that would have made a master weaver weep with envy.

The dwarf—Nar, I think his name was—looked so startled by the direct question that his eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. "Beeswax," he muttered after a moment. "And persistence."

"Can you teach me?" Tilda asked eagerly.

An expression of absolute panic flashed across Nar's face. I bit my lip to keep from smiling. The mighty warrior, slayer of orcs and reclaimer of kingdoms, undone by the enthusiasm of a twelve-year-old girl.

"Perhaps another time," Balin interjected smoothly. 

Tilda slumped back in her chair, clearly disappointed. Kíli, who had been watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement, winked at her. "I could show you a few simpler styles," he offered. "Though I'm nowhere near as skilled as Nar."

The other cousin—Davar?—looked scandalized. Fíli shot his brother a warning glance that could have frozen the lake in mid-summer. But Tilda beamed, instantly restored to good humor.

"Prince Fíli," Da said, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters, "Balin mentioned you have an interest in metalwork?"

"Yes." Fíli's response was so clipped I half expected it to bounce off the table.

"He's being modest," Kíli jumped in when it became clear his brother wasn't going to elaborate. "Fíli's one of the finest silversmiths in Ered Luin. Made all of mother's best jewelry himself."

"Indeed?" Da looked genuinely interested. "I've always admired dwarf craftsmanship."

"The craft is in our blood," Balin explained. "Passed down through generations, honed through centuries of practice."

The conversation turned to metalwork and craftsmanship, with Balin carrying most of it. Fíli offered occasional terse comments, while Kíli interjected colorful anecdotes that seemed designed to make his brother either laugh or murder him—I couldn't quite tell which. The cousins ate steadily and spoke rarely, though Nar kept casting nervous glances at Tilda, as if afraid she might lunge across the table and start braiding his beard at any moment.

By the time dessert arrived—a honey cake that Cook had spent two days perfecting—I was mentally counting the minutes until the evening would be over. My cheeks ached from maintaining a polite smile, and I'd run out of ways to rearrange the food on my plate to make it look like I was eating more than I was.

"So," Tilda said suddenly, addressing Fíli directly, "are you really going to marry my sister?"

The table went silent. Fíli looked at Tilda, then at me, then back at Tilda. "Yes," he said finally. "That is the arrangement."

"But you don't even know her," Tilda persisted, ignoring Da's warning look. "What if you don't like each other?"

Fíli's expression remained carefully neutral. "The alliance is not about personal preference. It is about the future of our peoples."

"That sounds awful," Tilda declared with the brutal honesty of a child. "I'm never getting married if that's what it's like."

Kíli made a strange choking sound that might have been suppressed laughter. Even Nar looked like he was fighting a smile.

"Tilda," Da began, clearly mortified.

"No, she's right," I said, surprising myself. "It does sound awful when you put it like that." I looked directly at Fíli. "But I suppose we'll get to know each other and make the best of it, won't we, Your Highness?"

For a moment, something like genuine emotion flickered across Fíli's face—surprise, perhaps, or grudging respect. Then the diplomatic mask slipped back into place. "Indeed, Princess Sigrid. The best of it."

The evening ended with elaborate formal goodbyes and precisely executed bows. As they departed, I found myself watching Fíli's straight back and squared shoulders, wondering what he was really thinking behind all that perfect correctness. Did he dread this arrangement as much as I did? Or was he simply resigned to it, another duty to be fulfilled with the same stoic determination he seemed to bring to everything?

"Well," Da said once the door closed behind our guests, "that went... interestingly."

"Fíli's about as much fun as a funeral," Bain observed. "But Kíli seems alright."

"He said he'd teach me how to braid properly," Tilda added happily. "And he didn't even mind when I asked about their beards."

"You shouldn't have been so direct," Da chided gently. "These formal visits have protocols."

"Protocols are boring," Tilda declared. "And so is Prince Fíli."

"Tilda!" Da exclaimed.

"She's not wrong," I admitted. "Though I suspect there might be an actual person hidden somewhere beneath all that formality. The question is whether I'll ever get to meet him before we're married."

Da looked at me with sympathy. "Give it time, Sigrid. This isn't easy for either of you."

"No," I agreed. "But at least one of us pretends to have a personality."

Da gave me a look that was both sympathetic and gently reproving, but said nothing more on the subject. We retired soon after, the evening's formalities leaving us all drained in different ways. As I climbed into bed, I wondered if Fíli was also reflecting on our awkward gathering, or if such discomfort was simply another duty he endured without complaint.

The next morning, I found myself staring out the window at the mountain, replaying last night's painful dinner in my mind. Each terse exchange, every agonizing silence—they hung in my memory like cobwebs I couldn't brush away. I was still trying to imagine what life would be like married to someone who could rival a statue in expressiveness when Lady Hilda's voice cut through my thoughts.

"You need to create a courting gift," Lady Hilda announced, entering the room with her usual purposeful stride.

I turned back to her, sighing. "I know. Balin mentioned it when we were in Erebor."

"And you've given it no thought since then?" She raised an eyebrow.

"I've been a bit preoccupied with the whole 'leaving my home and family to live in a mountain with strangers' aspect of this arrangement," I replied. "Not to mention recovering from the most uncomfortable dinner of my life."

"The first formal dinner always feels strained," she said dismissively. "It's tradition."

"Is it also tradition for my betrothed to answer every question with as few syllables as possible?" I asked. "Because if so, I admire his dedication to custom."

Lady Hilda's lips twitched in what might have been amusement. "Prince Fíli is... reserved."

"A rock is reserved. He's practically mummified."

"Nevertheless," she pressed on, clearly deciding to ignore my commentary, "you need to consider your gift. It represents your commitment to the alliance."

"What exactly am I supposed to give him?" I asked. "The mountain is literally full of gold and jewels. What could I possibly offer that he doesn't already have in abundance?"

"That," she said, "is precisely the point. The value of a courting gift lies not in its material worth but in its meaning. It should reflect something of yourself, something uniquely... Sigrid."

I thought about this. What did I have that was uniquely mine? What represented me?

"It needn't be elaborate," Lady Hilda continued. "In fact, personal craftsmanship is highly valued, regardless of skill level. A simple item made by your own hands would carry more weight than the finest purchased trinket."

"I'm not exactly skilled at traditional crafts," I admitted. "My needlework is passable at best, and I've never had the patience for decorative arts."

"What are you skilled at, then?" she asked.

I thought about the puzzle box I'd made for Tilda years ago, now likely lost beneath the lake along with everything else from our old life. She'd loved it – a small wooden box with sliding panels and hidden mechanisms. In the end, it had taken me weeks to build. But it was worth the effort.

"I once made a puzzle box," I said slowly. "It was nothing fancy – just wood with some clever mechanisms. But it was... me. The planning, the details, the way all the parts had to work together. Could that work?"

Lady Hilda nodded thoughtfully. "That sounds promising. Dwarves respect craftsmanship and cleverness. A puzzle would appeal to their nature."

"I only ever made the one," I warned. " I'm out of practice."

"You have time," she reminded me. "The presentation of your gift isn't expected until later in the courtship, once you’ve moved to the mountain."

I nodded, already mentally planning what such a box might look like. Not too ornate – I didn't have the skill for elaborate carvings – but clever in its construction. Something that would require patience and thought to solve.

"I'll need tools," I said. "And some good hardwood."

"I'll arrange it," Lady Hilda promised. "Though I might suggest you practice first. No need to give Prince Fíli a box that falls apart the first time he touches it."

"That might actually liven things up a bit," I mused. "He'd have to show at least some emotion if it crumbled in his hands."

Lady Hilda's expression remained stern, but I could have sworn I saw a glimmer of humor in her eyes. 

The second formal dinner somehow managed to be both better and worse than the first. Better, because there were fewer people—just Fíli, Kíli, and Balin this time, without the stone-faced cousins who seemed capable of communicating only through various degrees of grunting. Worse, because with fewer bodies at the table, the silences stretched longer, echoing against the walls of our dining room like particularly awkward ghosts.

"Prince Fíli," I said, deciding to break the ice directly, "I wanted to thank you for sending Master Bylnar and his team. Their input on the drainage system was invaluable."

Fíli looked up from his meticulous dissection of a mushroom. "Master Bylnar spoke highly of your plans," he said after a moment, his voice neutral as ever. "He said your approach showed... unconventional insight."

"Unconventional?" I raised an eyebrow. "Is that dwarf-speak for 'completely wrong but we're being polite about it'?"

Kíli snorted into his wine, and even Balin's eyes crinkled with suppressed amusement.

"No," Fíli replied, his expression unchanged. "It means you approached the problem from a perspective our engineers would not have considered. They found it... educational."

"He means they were impressed," Kíli translated helpfully. "But dwarves don't like admitting when someone else has a good idea, so they call it 'unconventional' instead."

"Kíli," Fíli warned, but there was something in his tone—a slight softening that hadn't been there before.

"What?" Kíli spread his hands innocently. "I'm just helping with the translation. You know how these formal dinners go—everyone saying one thing and meaning another. It's exhausting." He turned to me with a conspiratorial look. "Last week, Thorin told the Guild of Jewelers their new designs were 'worthy of consideration,' and they celebrated for three days."

Da, who had been taking a sip of wine, barely managed to avoid choking.

"So you're a metalsmith?" I asked Fíli, trying to keep the conversation flowing. "Kíli mentioned it last time, but we didn't get to discuss it."

"Yes," he said after a moment's hesitation. "I specialize in silver work, though I'm proficient with most metals."

"He's being modest," Kíli jumped in. "He's brilliant. You should see the pieces he creates—though perhaps not his first attempts. Remember that ring you made for mother that turned her finger green for a week?"

"Kíli," Fíli's voice held a warning, but the slight flush creeping up his neck betrayed him.

"What? It's a perfectly factual account," Kíli insisted. "He mixed the metals wrong, and mother's finger looked like it was growing moss for a week."

I couldn't help the laugh that escaped me—not at Fíli's expense, but at the familiar sibling dynamic. It reminded me of how Bain would gleefully recount my own early failures with cooking to anyone who would listen.

Fíli glanced at me, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw his expression soften slightly. Not quite a smile, but perhaps an acknowledgment that we shared the burden of overenthusiastic siblings.

"Every craftsman has their failures," he said, his tone slightly less formal than before. "Though some are more eager to recount them than others."

"Tell me about it," I said, glancing at Bain. "My brother loves to remind dinner guests about the time I accidentally used salt instead of sugar in a birthday cake."

"It was like eating the lake," Bain volunteered helpfully. "Tilda cried."

"See?" I gestured toward my brother. "Siblings are the same everywhere, apparently."

"Indeed," Fíli agreed, and though his formal expression barely changed, there was a new note in his voice—something almost approaching natural conversation.

The remainder of the meal passed with fewer painful silences. Kíli carried much of the conversation, with occasional interjections from Balin. Fíli remained reserved, but his responses grew marginally longer as the evening progressed, and once or twice I caught him observing me with what seemed like genuine curiosity rather than diplomatic assessment.

As they prepared to leave, Fíli approached me while Kíli was engaged with Tilda and Balin spoke with Da.

"Princess Sigrid," he said, his formal tone firmly back in place. "Thank you for the meal. It was most... enlightening."

I couldn't tell if that was meant to be a compliment. "Enlightening?"

"It is helpful to observe how your household functions," he explained. "For the alliance."

The reminder of our arrangement cooled whatever warmth had briefly kindled during dinner. "Of course," I said stiffly. "The alliance."

Something like regret crossed his face, but it was gone as fast as it arrived. "And the drainage system," he added after a moment. "Perhaps we could discuss your plans further at some point. As you'll be moving to the mountain soon, understanding the engineering principles of both our cultures would be... beneficial."

It wasn't exactly a heartfelt invitation, but it was more than I'd expected. "I'd be interested in that," I said carefully.

He nodded once, precisely. "Until next time, then."

As I watched them depart, I realized that while we were far from friends, something had shifted slightly. A crack in the formal facade, perhaps. Not enough to build a marriage on, certainly, but enough to suggest that living under a mountain with Fíli might not be quite as coldly unbearable as I'd first feared.

It wasn't much. But for now, it would have to be enough.

Ten days before my scheduled departure, Tilda and Bain appeared at my door with determined expressions.

"We have a plan," Tilda announced. "You're coming with us. No arguments."

"Coming where, exactly?" I asked, amused by her commanding tone.

"It's a surprise," Bain said. "But you'll need your coat."

Intrigued despite myself, I followed them out of the house and through Dale's winding streets. We headed west, away from the bustle of markets and reconstruction, until we reached the edge of the newly planted orchards that would someday provide Dale with apples and cherries.

"I'm not seeing the surprise," I commented as we continued past the last of the saplings.

"Almost there," Tilda promised. "Just over that rise."

We crested the small hill, and I stopped short. Below us, in a small protected valley, a blanket had been spread on the grass, laden with food and drink. Nearby, a small fire pit had been prepared, with wood already stacked for lighting.

"What's all this?" I asked, genuinely surprised.

"A proper goodbye," Bain said. "Just the three of us. No protocols, no lessons, no politics. Just... us."

Something warm and painful bloomed in my chest. "You did this for me?"

"Well, the food is mostly for me," Bain joked, earning himself an elbow in the ribs from Tilda. "But yes, the sentiment is for you."

We spent the afternoon as we hadn't in months—just being siblings. We ate the food they'd packed, told stories, and refused to talk about anything serious. Tilda sang all her favorite songs, including a terribly off-key rendition of "Dancing Queen" that I'd taught her years ago. She didn't know half the words, but she sang with such enthusiasm that it didn't matter. 

"Oh, I almost forgot!" Tilda exclaimed suddenly, digging through the basket they'd brought. "We have a going-away present for you."

"You didn't have to—" I started.

"Shut up and accept it graciously," Bain interrupted with a grin. "We went to a lot of trouble."

Tilda pulled out a small package wrapped in cloth and handed it to me with a flourish. "Open it!"

I unwrapped it carefully to find a small wooden frame holding a charcoal sketch. It showed the three of us, sitting together on the steps of our Lake-town house, laughing at something. Da stood behind us, his hand on my shoulder, his expression fond. The artist had captured us perfectly – Tilda mid-giggle, Bain trying to look serious and failing, me with my head thrown back in laughter.

"Where did you get this?" I asked, tracing the lines with my finger.

"Remember that artist who came through last month? The one who was sketching the rebuilding?" Bain explained. "I asked if he could do this for us. Described how we used to sit on the steps in Lake-town."

"We didn't have anything to show him," Tilda added, "But he was really good at drawing what we described."

"It's perfect," I whispered, fighting back tears. "I'll keep it with me always."

"That's the idea," Bain said gruffly. "So you don't forget what you're coming back to."

As the sun began to set, we lit the fire and sat close together, watching the flames dance against the darkening sky.

"Remember when Da used to tell us stories about the stars?" Tilda asked, leaning against my shoulder. "About the hunter and the bear and the seven sisters?"

"I remember," I said softly. "Though I always thought his version of the constellations was a bit different from the ones in the books."

"That's because he made half of them up," Bain laughed. "I caught him at it once. When I asked where he'd learned about 'The Bargeman's Daughter' constellation, he admitted he'd invented it because you loved star stories so much."

"He did not," I protested, though part of me suspected Bain was right.

"He did," Tilda confirmed. "But I like his stories better than the real ones anyway."

We fell silent for a while, just watching the stars emerge one by one.

"Will you be able to see the stars from inside the mountain?" Tilda asked eventually, her voice small.

"I don't know," I admitted. "But I'll make sure to come outside to look at them sometimes. And remember this night."

"You'd better," Bain said gruffly. "And remember to visit. Not just official visits with guards and protocols. Real visits."

"I'll try," I promised, though I wasn't sure how much control I'd have over such things. "And you can visit me too. We'll scandalize all the proper dwarves with our human ways."

We stayed out late, later than was sensible given how much work awaited us the next day. But I couldn't bring myself to cut the evening short, knowing how few of these moments remained before everything changed.

The day of departure arrived with cruel inevitability. My trunks had been packed and loaded onto the wagons that would take them to Erebor. Lady Hilda had gone ahead the previous day to ensure my chambers were properly prepared. All that remained was for me to say my goodbyes and join the escort waiting in the courtyard.

Da found me in my workshop, staring at the half-finished designs I was leaving behind.

"You can bring those, you know," he said gently. "I'm sure there's room for a few more boxes."

I shook my head. "They're for Dale. They'll do more good here."

"And you'll do good there," he said, coming to stand beside me. "Building bridges—literal and figurative—between our peoples."

"I'll try," I promised, though doubt gnawed at me. "But I'm not sure they want bridges. They seem quite content behind their mountain walls."

"They wouldn't have proposed this alliance if they were truly content with isolation," Da pointed out. "And despite everything, I believe Thorin understands the value of cooperation. He's seen the cost of pride."

"At our expense," I couldn't help adding.

"Yes." Da didn't try to deny it. "But perhaps that's why this is so important. To ensure history doesn't repeat itself."

I turned to face him, suddenly overwhelmed by everything I was leaving behind. "I don't know if I can do this," I admitted, my voice small. "Be what they expect. Represent Dale. Make this alliance work."

"You don't have to be what they expect," he said, gripping my shoulders firmly. "You just have to be Sigrid. Stubborn, practical, brilliant Sigrid, who finds solutions where others see only obstacles."

"I'm going to miss you," I whispered. "All of you."

"And we'll miss you." He pulled me into a tight hug. "But Dale is just across the valley. We're not losing you—we’re gaining an outpost in the mountain." He attempted a smile. "Think of all the secrets you can uncover for us."

It was a weak joke, but I appreciated the effort. "I'll send detailed reports," I promised. "With diagrams."

"I'd expect nothing less." He released me reluctantly. "They're waiting."

I nodded, taking one last look around my room. Then I squared my shoulders and followed Da to the courtyard, where Bain, Tilda, and a small crowd of well-wishers waited.

Tilda was trying very hard not to cry, her lower lip trembling despite her obvious efforts to be brave. Bain stood straight and tall, though his expression was unusually solemn.

"It's not forever," I reminded them as I hugged them goodbye. "Just the next phase of a very strange adventure."

"Write to us," Tilda demanded. "Every day."

"Every week," I countered. "I'll have lessons and duties and—"

"Fine," she conceded. "But you have to include all the interesting details. Especially if Prince Fíli does anything romantic."

I laughed despite the lump in my throat. "I think 'romantic' might be a stretch, but I promise to include any diplomatic breakthroughs or unexpected revelations."

"Typical," Bain said, his voice rougher than usual. "Finding the practical angle even in courtship."

I turned to him, suddenly aware that when we next saw each other, everything would be different. "Take care of them," I said quietly. "And yourself."

"Always do," he replied, pulling me into a quick, fierce hug. "And if the dwarves give you any trouble—"

"I think I can handle a few stubborn dwarves," I assured him. "I've had plenty of practice with stubborn humans."

The dwarven escort, led by Dwalin, was waiting with barely concealed impatience. I understood—they had schedules to keep, protocols to follow. But I needed these last moments with my family.

Finally, there was nothing left to say. I mounted the horse they'd provided—a gentle mare far more appropriate for a princess than the sturdy gelding I usually rode—and took my place at the center of the escort.

As we rode through Dale's gates, I didn't look back. I couldn't. Instead, I fixed my gaze on the mountain rising before me, solid and immutable, my future carved in stone.

"Ready, Princess?" Dwalin asked gruffly.

No, I thought. I'll never be ready for this.

"Yes," I said aloud. "Let's proceed."

The Singing Trout was Dale's oldest pub, one of the few establishments that had survived the dragon with enough of its structure intact to be quickly rebuilt. Its low ceilings, smoke-darkened beams, and perpetually sticky floors gave it an atmosphere of comfortable shabbiness that appealed to those who preferred their ale without royal fanfare or fancy trimmings.

Councilor Aldrich was on his third pint, the flush in his cheeks indicating it wasn't likely to be his last. Across from him sat Councilor Deven, a thin, nervous man who specialized in nodding at appropriate intervals while appearing to listen.

"It's outrageous," Aldrich declared, slamming his tankard down with enough force to send foam slopping over the sides. "Absolutely outrageous."

"Mmm, quite," Deven agreed automatically, though he had only the vaguest idea what Aldrich was ranting about this time. Something about drainage systems, or perhaps grain tariffs.

"The girl overrules my every decision," Aldrich continued, his voice rising. "As if ten years on the council means nothing compared to her... her ideas ." He spat the last word like it tasted foul in his mouth.

Ah, Princess Sigrid then. Deven should have guessed. Aldrich's dislike of the king's eldest daughter had become something of a running joke among the council members, particularly after she'd publicly corrected his calculations during a budget meeting.

"And now she's to marry the dwarf prince!" Aldrich threw up his hands in disgust. "A foundling! Representing our people to the mountain!"

At a nearby table, four dwarves who had been engaged in quiet conversation paused briefly, ears catching the loud complaint.

"Lower your voice," Deven hissed, noticing the dwarves' momentary interest. "There are travelers present."

Aldrich waved dismissively. "What does it matter? Everyone knows the story. The bargeman found her wandering in the woods. She's not even his by blood!"

"The king took her in, raised her as his own," Deven reminded him. "That makes her his daughter in every way that matters."

"But not by blood," Aldrich insisted stubbornly. "And now she's to marry into the line of Durin? It’s absurd.”

The silver-bearded dwarf at the nearby table frowned slightly, exchanging glances with his companions.

"She'll embarrass us all in that mountain," Aldrich continued, too deep in his cups to notice his expanding audience. "Mark my words.”

Deven sighed, clearly tired of the same complaints he'd been hearing for weeks. "The alliance is made, Aldrich. The contracts are signed. Whether you approve of Princess Sigrid or not, she’s on her way to the mountain."

"Poor dwarves," Aldrich muttered, taking another deep swing of his ale. "They have no idea what they're getting."

The silver-bearded dwarf quietly signaled for his group's bill, his expression thoughtful as they gathered their belongings. The men paid them no mind, too caught up in their own conversation to notice the traders exchanging significant looks.

Chapter Text

The journey to Erebor was blessedly uneventful, which was about the only blessing I could count that day. We moved at what Dwalin called a "comfortable pace," though I suspected the slow procession had more to do with protocol than consideration for my comfort. My arrival was meant to be seen—a visible symbol of the alliance between mountain and valley. No rushing allowed when you're making history. Or ruining your life, depending on your perspective.

Erebor swallowed the sky as we approached, growing impossibly larger with each hoofbeat. I'd visited before, of course, for diplomatic functions and negotiations. But there's a difference between visiting a place and moving there. Between seeing something as a curiosity and recognizing it as your future.

"Quite a sight, isn't it?" one of the guards commented, clearly mistaking my stunned silence for awe.

"Quite," I agreed, not bothering to correct his assumption. Let him think I was impressed rather than terrified.

The great gates stood open, gleaming in the afternoon sun. A formal reception party waited on the broad steps leading into the mountain—Thorin at the center, flanked by various nobles and officials whose names I'd memorized but couldn't match to faces. Fíli stood slightly behind his uncle, his expression carefully neutral. If he was pleased, displeased, or completely indifferent to my arrival, his face revealed nothing.

I straightened my shoulders, fixed my expression into what I hoped was a suitably dignified smile, and tried to look like someone who was pleased to be here.

The formal greetings passed in a blur of ceremonial phrases and carefully measured responses. I spoke when required, bowed when appropriate, and generally managed not to embarrass Dale or myself in any noticeable way. Lady Hilda's drilling had paid off, at least. Through it all, I kept waiting for some sign from Fíli—some small gesture or expression that might suggest how he felt about my arrival. Nothing. He performed his part in the ceremony with perfect precision and absolutely no warmth.

Finally, Balin stepped forward. "If it pleases Your Highness, Lady Hilda will show you to your chambers. I'm sure you'll want to rest after your journey."

Rest was the last thing I wanted—my nerves were too jangled for that—but I nodded graciously. "Thank you, Master Balin. That would be welcome."

As I followed Lady Hilda through the grand entrance hall and into the corridors beyond, I became acutely aware of the eyes following our progress. Dwarves paused in their activities to watch me pass, their expressions ranging from curiosity to open suspicion. I tried not to fidget under their scrutiny. This was to be expected, after all. I was an outsider, a human in a dwarf mountain, a visible symbol of change that not everyone welcomed.

"Don't mind them," Lady Hilda murmured as we turned down a slightly less populated corridor. "They'll adjust."

"It's fine," I said automatically. "I would stare too, if a dwarf suddenly moved into Dale's palace."

"Not quite the same thing," she replied with a small smile. "You're not just any human. You're the future princess consort."

The title still felt wrong, like clothes that didn't quite fit. Princess of Dale had been adjustment enough—adding "consort" and relocating to a mountain full of strangers was pushing the boundaries of what I could comfortably process.

The corridors twisted and turned, following patterns I couldn't discern. Where Dale's layout had grown organically over centuries, Erebor's architecture clearly followed a grand design, with symmetries and proportions that would take time to internalize. I tried to memorize our route, but soon gave up. 

"Here we are," Lady Hilda announced, stopping before a set of impressively carved doors. "Your royal apartments."

The doors swung open to reveal a suite that was simultaneously more and less grand than I had expected. The ceiling soared overhead, carved with intricate patterns that seemed to flow like water across stone. The main chamber was spacious by any standard, with a sitting area arranged around a fireplace large enough to roast a small ox. Tapestries hung on the walls, depicting scenes of mountains and forests that tried to create the illusion of outside spaces despite the solid stone surrounding us.

"The bedroom is through there," Lady Hilda indicated a doorway to the right, "with a private bathing chamber beyond. That door leads to a small study. And through there—" she gestured to another door, "—is a reception room for more formal meetings."

I nodded, trying to take it all in. The furniture was a curious mix of dwarven and human proportions—clearly they had made adjustments for my height. That was thoughtful, at least.

"We tried to incorporate some elements of Dale's style," Lady Hilda continued, watching me carefully. "Though of course, the basic architecture remains dwarven."

"It's... very fine," I managed, not sure what else to say. The rooms were undeniably beautiful, crafted with the legendary dwarven attention to detail. But they weren't home. They weren't even mine in any meaningful sense. They were simply the space I had been allocated, decorated to someone else's taste.

"Your trunks have already been delivered," Lady Hilda informed me. "The handmaidens will help you unpack when you're ready."

Handmaidens. Another layer of strangeness to navigate. In Dale, I'd dressed myself, managed my own affairs, come and gone as I pleased. Here, apparently, I would have people hovering, waiting to assist with tasks I'd been handling on my own since childhood.

"I think I'd like some time alone first," I said, hoping I sounded diplomatic rather than desperate. “To rest after the trip. If that’s…if that’s okay."

A weak excuse, but Lady Hilda nodded, her expression sympathetic. "Of course. I'll return in two hours to escort you to dinner. The King has arranged a small welcome feast."

Small by dwarven standards probably meant fifty people instead of five hundred. But I smiled and thanked her, waiting until the doors closed behind her before letting my shoulders slump.

I explored the chambers slowly, trailing my fingers along the carved stone walls, testing the cushions of unfamiliar chairs, opening cabinets and wardrobes to find them somehow already partially filled with dwarven-made garments in my size. Everything was beautiful, everything was thoughtful, and everything felt wrong.

The bedroom continued the theme of careful accommodation. The bed was sized for a human, with richly embroidered coverings that matched the blue and silver color scheme of the main chamber. A dressing table stood against one wall, lined with small jars of dwarven-made cosmetics and hair oils that I couldn't imagine using.

The bathing chamber, however, stopped me in my tracks.

It wasn't just the expected basin and pitcher arrangement common in Dale. This was a proper bathroom, with what appeared to be running water plumbed directly into a large stone tub. And there, built into the wall, was an unmistakable shower—a metal fixture with a chain that, when pulled, would presumably release water from overhead.

I stared at it, frozen in place, a wave of memory crashing over me with such force that I had to grip the doorframe to stay upright.

Showers. Hot water on demand. The comfortable bathroom of my childhood home, with its cheerful yellow curtains and the little rubber duck Mom had kept on the edge of the tub long after I'd outgrown such things. Dad's terrible singing echoing off the tiles while he shaved in the mornings. The familiar smell of my shampoo, the one in the purple bottle that smelled like lavender.

I hadn't thought about those details in years. But seeing this shower, this unexpected echo of my first world tucked away in the heart of the mountain, broke something loose inside me.

I sank to the floor, my back against the cool stone wall, and finally let myself cry.

Not the dignified, single-tear-trailing-down-the-cheek crying of fairy tale princesses. Real crying. Ugly, messy, undignified sobbing that came from somewhere deeper than I'd allowed myself to go in a long time. I cried for the girl I'd been, for the parents I'd lost, for the world that had been taken from me. I cried for Dale, for Da and Tilda and Bain, for the life I'd rebuilt only to have it upended again.

And I cried for myself—for the woman who was now expected to build yet another life, forge yet another identity, in a place where everything was alien.

"Just once," I whispered to the empty room, my voice raw. "Just once I'd like something to be easy. To choose rather than have things chosen for me."

No one answered, of course. Just the deadening silence of the mountain, a quiet counterpoint to my ragged breathing.

Eventually, the storm passed, leaving me hollow but oddly clearer. I splashed cold water on my face, trying to erase the evidence of tears, and stared at my reflection in the polished metal mirror.

"Right," I told myself firmly. "This is happening. You can fall apart in private if you need to, but not in public. Never in public."

I straightened my shoulders, smoothed my hair, and went to find something suitable to wear to a dwarven welcome feast. Whatever else happened, I would not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.

The welcome feast, thankfully, was indeed small by dwarven standards. Perhaps thirty people gathered in a private dining hall, including Thorin, Fíli, Kíli, and various high-ranking nobles and council members. I was seated between Balin and Lady Dís, Thorin's sister and my future mother-in-law.

Lady Dís was more reserved than I expected. Where Thorin's presence was all barely restrained power and formal majesty, Dís carried herself with quiet dignity, her gaze attentive and measured. Her dark hair was streaked with silver, elaborately braided and adorned with beads that caught the light when she moved. Her beard, neatly trimmed and similarly decorated, framed a face that revealed little of her immediate thoughts.

"Princess Sigrid," she acknowledged once we were seated. Her voice was calm and measured. "Your presence honors Erebor. I trust the journey was not too taxing?"

"Quite manageable, thank you," I replied, retreating to polite phrases. "The escort was most attentive."

"Dwalin takes his responsibilities seriously," she said with a slight nod. "The mountain roads can be challenging for those unaccustomed to them." 

Before I could respond, servants appeared with the first course—some kind of rich soup that smelled heavenly after nothing but nuts and dried fruit to snack on during the journey. Conversation turned to more general topics, with Balin inquiring politely about Dale's rebuilding efforts and Dís commenting on the weather that suggested an early autumn.

Throughout the meal, I was acutely aware of Fíli seated across and several places down from me. He participated in the conversation when addressed directly, but otherwise seemed content to let others carry the burden of conversation. Kíli, beside him, more than made up for his brother's reticence with animated stories and enthusiastic opinions on everything from the quality of the wine to the latest mining developments. Once, when Kíli made a particularly exaggerated claim about a hunting expedition, I caught Fíli rolling his eyes and smirking when he thought no one was looking. I felt my own mouth turn up in amusement, but quickly smoothed it out before anyone could see me staring.

As the final course was being cleared away, Thorin rose to his feet. The room immediately fell silent, all eyes turning to the king.

"Tonight," he began, his deep voice filling the chamber, "we welcome Princess Sigrid of Dale to Erebor. Her presence among us marks a new chapter in the relationship between mountain and valley—a chapter of cooperation rather than isolation."

He raised his goblet in my direction. "To Princess Sigrid, and to the future she represents."

"To Princess Sigrid," the gathering echoed, raising their cups in a gesture that should have felt welcoming but somehow reminded me of being a trophy placed on display.

I inclined my head in acknowledgment, acutely aware of Fíli's gaze. When I dared to meet it, I found not the diplomatic blankness I expected, but a flash of something like sympathy before his expression settled back into its careful neutrality.

After dinner, the company moved to an adjoining chamber for what Balin called "informal conversation," though it felt about as informal as a council meeting. I circulated as expected, exchanging pleasantries and matching the faces to the names I'd memorized. Most were polite if reserved, their curiosity barely concealed behind formal manners.

I was in the middle of a conversation with a guild master about Dale's rebuilding efforts when I noticed Fíli and Kíli speaking quietly in a corner. Kíli seemed to be urging his brother, gesturing in my direction with unmistakable meaning. Fíli's posture grew more rigid with each passing moment, his expression closing like a fortress gate.

Finally, with a visible sigh, he made his way toward me. Excellent. The guild master tactfully excused himself, leaving us momentarily alone in the crowded room.

"Princess," Fíli said, executing a perfect bow that somehow managed to put even more distance between us.

"Prince," I returned with an equally formal nod. "A lovely feast."

"My uncle believes in proper hospitality," he replied, as if the whole affair had been Thorin's idea rather than any welcome he might have wished to extend personally.

We stood in awkward silence for a moment, searching for neutral conversational ground.

"How do you find your chambers?" he asked finally.

"Very comfortable, thank you." A safe, bland response for a safe, bland question.

He nodded, clearly relieved that the obligatory interaction was progressing without incident. "If anything is lacking, you need only mention it to one of your ladies."

"The shower was unexpected," I said, the words slipping out before I could consider them.

He blinked, momentarily surprised by the specific comment. "Ah, yes. Some of our engineers have been adapting mining technologies for domestic use. The water pressure systems are quite... efficient."

"It's impressive," I said, searching for some connection, however slight. "In Dale, we don't have anything so sophisticated."

"Dwarven craft has its advantages," he replied, with the slightest hint of pride.

I desperately tried to think of something, anything, that could segue from that comment, but more awkward silence stretched between us. In the background, I could see Kíli watching our interaction with obvious disappointment, and Dís wearing an expression that looked suspiciously like exasperation.

"Well," Fíli said finally, "I'm sure you must be tired after your journey. Please don't feel obligated to remain if you wish to retire."

In other words: you may leave. Don't worry about offending me.

"Thank you for your consideration," I said, matching his formality. "It has been a long day."

He bowed again. "Until tomorrow, then."

"Until tomorrow," I echoed, watching him retreat to his brother's side.

The next morning, I woke disoriented, momentarily confused by the stone ceiling above me instead of the familiar wooden beams of Dale. Then reality rushed back—the mountain, the welcome feast, a shower that had triggered a breakdown. I was in Erebor. This was my life now.

I had barely finished dressing when Lady Hilda arrived, accompanied by two dwarrowdams who were introduced as my handmaidens. Nia and Fria were sisters, apparently, though I couldn't see much family resemblance beyond their shared efficiency.

"Your schedule has been arranged," Lady Hilda announced, handing me a small scroll. "Lessons in the morning, formal meetings after lunch, and your evenings mostly free except for designated dining engagements."

I unrolled the scroll to find a meticulously detailed timetable. Every hour of every day for the next month had been accounted for, color-coded by type of activity and annotated with locations and participants.

"This is... thorough," I managed, wondering if bathroom breaks were indicated in some code I hadn't yet deciphered.

"Dwarves value order," Lady Hilda replied, as if this explained everything. "Your first lesson begins in half an hour. History and lineages with Master Ori in the eastern library."

The days that followed established a rhythm both comforting in its predictability and maddening in its constraints. Mornings were devoted to lessons—dwarf history, language basics (though not enough to be considered fluent, which seemed deliberately limiting), proper protocols for various ceremonies, and endless genealogies that I struggled to keep straight.

Afternoons brought a rotation of formal activities. Some days I was presented to various guild representatives or noble houses, each meeting following the same choreographed script of introductions and carefully neutral conversation. Other afternoons I was escorted through different sections of the mountain, from the grand forges to the bustling markets, always under watchful eyes, always a visitor rather than a participant.

Evenings were technically "free," though this usually meant being left alone in my chambers with books and embroidery projects I had little interest in. Twice a week I was expected at formal dinners, sometimes with Thorin's court, sometimes in smaller gatherings with key nobles or council members. Occasionally these included Fíli, though we were rarely seated near each other and almost never left alone in conversation.

The careful separation felt deliberate—as if someone had plotted our interactions to provide the appearance of a developing relationship without the substance. In public, Fíli was unfailingly polite, a perfect model of diplomatic correctness. But there was no warmth in his manner, no attempt to interact with me as anything more than an obligation to be managed. Whatever small hope I'd nurtured for at least a relationship of respect, if not friendliness, slowly withered. 

Lady Hilda strode into my sitting room one evening while made half-hearted stabs at an embroidered handkerchief, clearly on a mission.

"A welcome ball," she announced, presenting the formal invitation with a flourish. "King Thorin wishes to officially present you to the court and nobility of Erebor."

I stared at the elaborately sealed scroll. "Wasn't the welcome feast sufficient for that purpose? And all the meetings?"

"The feast was private," she explained, as if to a particularly slow child. "As were the meetings. The ball is public—a formal presentation to the wider court. All the noble houses will attend, along with guild masters and diplomatic representatives. I'm surprised Master Balin didn't mention it during your initial briefings."

"There were a lot of briefings," I muttered, mentally sorting through the blur of instructions and protocols that had preceded my arrival. "A lot of things to remember."

"Well, it's happening," she said briskly. "One week from today in the Grand Hall. King Thorin will be there, along with all the noble families and guild representatives. Most of the Iron Hills delegation is still in residence, so they'll attend as well."

A week. One week to prepare for a public spectacle where I'd be scrutinized by the entire dwarven aristocracy. "And I suppose there are specific dances I need to learn? Protocols to memorize? Outfits to be fitted?"

"Yes to all three," Lady Hilda confirmed, her efficiency somehow making it worse. "We'll begin dance lessons this afternoon. Three hours daily until the ball."

"Three hours?" My voice rose despite my efforts to remain calm. "Is that really necessary?"

"Absolutely." She fixed me with that no-nonsense stare I'd come to know well. "Dwarven dances are intricate and require precision. To perform them incorrectly would be... noticeable."

"Of course it would," I sighed, resigning myself to yet another crash course in dwarven culture. "And who will be teaching me these all-important dances?"

"Master Lero," she said. "He's agreed to put aside his other responsibilities to focus on your training."

"How generous," I said, not quite managing to keep the sarcasm from my voice.

Lady Hilda's expression softened slightly. "I know this is difficult, Princess. But the ball is important—not just as tradition, but as your first real introduction to society here. First impressions matter."

"I thought my first impression was made weeks ago when I accepted the betrothal gift," I pointed out.

"That was politics," she replied simply. "This is personal. The nobles and guild masters have heard about you, seen you in passing, perhaps exchanged formal greetings. The ball gives them a chance to observe you more closely, to begin forming opinions about the woman who will someday be their princess consort."

"All watching to see if the human princess trips over her own feet or commits some terrible breach of etiquette," I muttered.

Lady Hilda's lips twitched, though whether in amusement or disapproval I couldn't tell. "They will be watching, yes. Which is why we must ensure you are thoroughly prepared."

"When you put it that way, how could I possibly be nervous?" I laughed, appreciating her rare flash of humor.

She patted my arm in an uncharacteristically maternal gesture. "You'll manage. You always do."

Master Lero turned out to be a perfectionist of the highest order. Silver-haired, meticulous, and possessed of seemingly inexhaustible patience, he approached dance instruction with the precision of an architect planning a cathedral.

"No, no, no," he sighed, halting the lone violinist for what felt like the hundredth time that afternoon. "The transition between the fourth and fifth movement must be fluid, Princess. Again, please."

I bit back a groan and resumed the starting position. My feet ached from hours of practice, and my brain felt like scrambled eggs trying to remember the intricate patterns of steps, turns, and hand gestures that made up the opening dance. Apparently, this would be performed by Fíli and me alone while everyone watched. That was fun to learn. As my welcome ball, and Fíli's betrothed, we had the honor (as Lero phrased it) of opening and closing the ball. I perhaps would have phrased it as misfortune. But nobody asked me.

"One, two, three—pivot," Lero counted, demonstrating the movement with surprising grace for someone of his stocky build. "Then your right hand rises, palm up, while your left comes across your waist."

I followed his instructions, trying to capture the fluid quality he insisted upon.

"Better," he conceded.

"Master Lero," I interrupted gently, "perhaps we could pause for a moment? I think my feet will fall off if we don't take a short break."

He blinked, as if suddenly remembering I was human. "Oh. Yes, of course. How inconsiderate of me." He fussed with the music scrolls, rearranging them needlessly. "Ten minutes, then we'll work on the Mountain's Pride. That's the closing dance."

The next six days followed the same punishing pattern. Mornings were filled with normal lessons, afternoons consumed by dance training, and evenings spent soaking my blistered feet and trying to memorize the complex sequences.

By the sixth day, I was performing the dances in my sleep, much to Lady Hilda's approval. "Master Lero says you're progressing well," she informed me over breakfast. "He's particularly pleased with your grasp of the Thunder Step sequence."

"Glad to hear it," I said, wincing as I shifted in my chair. Every muscle in my body ached. "Master Lero said Prince Fíli be joining our final rehearsal today?"

"Indeed. The Prince has been practicing as well, of course. Today you'll run through the opening and closing dances together."

Fíli arrived at the practice hall exactly on time, dressed more casually than I'd seen him since that first disastrous dinner in Dale. The simpler clothes suited him, I thought, before banishing the observation as irrelevant.

"Princess," he greeted me with a formal bow.

"Prince," I returned with a small curtsy.

Master Lero clapped his hands together. "Excellent! Now we can begin proper partnered practice. The opening dance first, please. Starting positions."

Fíli extended his hand, palm up, waiting for me to place mine on top for the beginning of the dance. The height difference was noticeable, but not insurmountable. His expression remained neutral, but I noticed a certain tension in his shoulders.

"Is something wrong?" I asked quietly, as Lero fussed with the music.

"No," he replied shortly. Then, perhaps realizing how abrupt he sounded, added, "I haven’t had to perform these formal dances in quite so public a setting before."

"Well, that makes two of us," I said wryly.

The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but not his usual stoicism either. "True enough."

The music began, and we moved into the dance. Whatever Fíli's concerns about his abilities, they proved unfounded. He led with confident precision, his movements displaying the fluid grace Master Lero had been trying to instill in me all week.

"Better," Lero called as we completed the first sequence. "Princess, remember the wrist turn after the third step. Prince Fíli, excellent form on the Stone Arch."

We continued through the dance, finding a rhythm that surprised me with its ease. For all our awkwardness in conversation, our bodies seemed to communicate more effectively through the structured patterns of the dance. When his hand caught mine for the final turn, the movement felt almost natural.

"Very good!" DorLeroi exclaimed when we finished. "Now the closing dance, if you please."

The closing dance was more complex, with faster transitions and closer contact. As Fíli's arm circled my waist for the final sequence, I could almost imagine enjoying myself doing this. 

"You've learned quickly," he commented during a brief pause while Lero adjusted the tempo.

"I've had an excellent teacher," I replied. "And little choice in the matter. Though I suspect I'll forget half of them once we're actually in front of everyone."

"I suspect you sell yourself short," he said, and for once the words didn't sound like mere politeness.

"Places!" Lero called, ending our brief moment of almost-normalcy. "From the beginning."

The night of the ball arrived with all the subtlety of an avalanche. My chambers transformed into a flurry of activity—dwarrowdams coming and going with various items, Nia and Fria fussing over my hair, and Lady Hilda overseeing everything with military precision.

"The blue gown," she decreed, gesturing to an elaborate creation that had appeared in my wardrobe as if by magic. "With the silver belt and matched earrings."

The dress was undeniably beautiful—deep sapphire blue velvet with intricate silver embroidery along the neckline and sweeping sleeves. But looking at it only intensified the knot of anxiety in my stomach. This was really happening. In an hour, I would be presented to the cream of dwarven society as Fíli's future bride.

"Your hair will be styled in a formal arrangement," Lady Hilda continued, "with elements of both dwarven and human traditions."

I nodded mutely, allowing Nia to guide me to the dressing table. As she worked on my hair, weaving elaborate braids interspersed with thin silver chains and tiny sapphire beads, I tried to center myself. This was just another ceremony, another performance. I'd survived my first month in the mountain—I could survive one evening of dancing and forced conversation.

"There," Nia said finally, stepping back to admire her work. "What do you think, my lady?"

I hardly recognized the woman in the mirror. The elegant coiffure, the formal gown, the carefully applied cosmetics—they transformed me into something between human and dwarf, neither one nor the other but some new hybrid creation. It was beautiful, in its way, but deeply strange. And not me.

"It's perfect," I said, because that seemed to be the expected response. "Thank you."

A knock at the door announced Prince Fíli's arrival to serve as my escort to the ball. Lady Hilda hurried to open the door, revealing Fíli in formal attire that complemented mine—dark blue tunic and trousers with silver belt and trim, his golden hair elaborately braided and adorned with the insignia of Durin's line.

"Princess Sigrid," he said, his tone formal. "You look well tonight."

"Thank you, Prince Fíli," I replied. It was about as effusive a compliment as I expected. "Shall we proceed?"

The journey to the Grand Hall passed in silence, both of us either conserving energy for the social demands ahead or, more likely, simply having nothing to say. Guards and servants lined the corridors, bowing as we passed. Lady Hilda chaperoned at a respectable distance behind us. I kept my chin up, back straight, expression carefully calibrated to show nothing but serene confidence.

The Grand Hall took my breath away despite myself. Soaring columns rose to a ceiling lost in shadows, the entire space illuminated by thousands of crystal lamps that gave off a warm, golden glow. Long tables lined the perimeter, laden with food and drink, while the center of the hall remained clear for dancing. And everywhere, dwarves in their finest attire, a sea of jewel tones and glinting metal, beards elaborately braided and adorned with precious stones.

Our arrival was announced with a flourish of trumpets that made me jump slightly. Fíli's hand tightened on my arm—a warning or reassurance, I couldn't tell which.

We began our descent down the grand staircase, and I was acutely aware of hundreds of eyes following our progress, evaluating every detail from my gown to my posture to the precise amount of distance between us.

Thorin greeted us at the bottom of the stairs, resplendent in midnight blue and silver, the Raven Crown glinting on his brow. "Prince Fíli, Princess Sigrid," he acknowledged with a regal nod. "Welcome to the celebration."

What followed was a carefully choreographed procession of introductions. Noble family after noble family, guild leaders, visiting dignitaries, each requiring specific forms of address and particular conversational exchanges. For once I was grateful for the intensive lessons on etiquette. Nobody appeared visibly insulted, which I counted as success.

Throughout it all, I was aware of the whispers. Though most dwarves were too well-mannered to be openly rude, their curiosity and skepticism manifested in quick glances and hushed comments when they thought I wasn't paying attention.

"...taller than expected..." 

"No beard at all, poor thing."

"...not at all what I imagined for the prince..." 

"...why a human, when there are perfectly suitable dwarrowdams..."

I kept my expression carefully neutral, chin high, eyes forward. Let them whisper. I had endured worse than dwarven gossip.

Thorin stepped forward to address the gathering. "Friends, nobles, honored guests. Tonight we celebrate the betrothal of my nephew, Prince Fíli, heir of Durin's line, to Princess Sigrid of Dale." He gestured toward us with practiced majesty. "Their union represents a new chapter in the relationship between our peoples—a chapter of cooperation and mutual respect."

Polite applause followed, though I noticed several faces remained stoically unexpressive.

"As is our tradition," Thorin continued, "the betrothed couple will open the ball with the traditional first dance."

And suddenly it was time, the moment I'd been dreading and preparing for all week. Fíli led me to the center of the hall as the crowd formed a wide circle around us. The musicians began the familiar melody, now louder and more dramatic when performed by a whole orchestra, and we took our opening positions.

The music changed, signaling the start of the first dance. Fíli led me to the center of the floor, where we stood alone while the crowd watched in silent assessment. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I focused on the steps I had practiced until my feet ached. Right, left, turn, bow, cross, turn again...

"I must say," Fili said, as we moved into another turn, "you've mastered these dances remarkably well for a human. Most would find our rhythms too difficult to follow."

I nearly missed a step, the backhanded compliment landing like a small slap. "I am glad I don’t embarrass you with my human inadequacies," I replied, keeping my tone light though the words came out sharper than intended.

His eyes flicked to mine briefly. "That wasn't—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. I waited for him to continue, but instead we finished the dance in tense silence. It was harder than normal to maintain the pleasant smile on my face. Finally, the dance ended, and we parted with formal bows as applause surrounded us. 

Then we were being separated, drawn into different conversations as other couples joined the dance floor for less ceremonial revelry. I spent the next hour being passed from one group to another, engaging in carefully neutral conversations about Dale's reconstruction, the weather, and the excellent quality of the feast. At this point, I could carry on such conversations in my sleep. There were only so many suitable topics one could talk about, and in the past month, I had cycled through them all. Repeatedly. 

Throughout it all, I maintained the pleasant, slightly distant smile Lady Hilda had coached me to display—interested but not eager, friendly but not familiar. My cheek muscles ached from the effort.

I was speaking with a group of Iron Hills nobles when I became aware of whispered conversations nearby, with glances directed my way that were just frequent enough to make it clear I was the topic.

"Princess Sigrid," a familiar voice cut through my discomfort. Kíli appeared at my side, his usual cheerful expression firmly in place. "May I have this dance?"

Grateful for the rescue, I excused myself from the Iron Hills group and joined him on the dance floor. Dancing with Kíli was like dancing with an entirely different species. Where Fíli had been precise and distant, Kíli was all enthusiasm and charm, grinning as he occasionally improvised extra flourishes to make me laugh. The contrast couldn't have been more stark, which made me wonder how two brothers could be so seemingly opposite in temperament.

"Ignore them," he said once we were safely moving with the music. "They're just jealous that Fíli's marrying someone with actual personality instead of one of their perfectly proper daughters."

I couldn't help but laugh, though I tried to keep it subtle. "Is that your professional assessment, Prince Kíli?"

"Absolutely," he grinned. "I've suffered through enough formal introductions to those 'suitable matches' to know. Trust me, Fíli got the better end of this arrangement."

"I doubt he sees it that way," I said, then immediately regretted the admission.

Kíli's expression grew more serious. "Don't mind my brother," Kíli said as we moved through the patterns of a slightly more energetic dance. "He takes his responsibilities very seriously."

"I've noticed," I replied dryly.

Kíli's expression softened slightly. "He's not always so... formal. Before we reclaimed Erebor, he used to laugh more. Joke more."

I raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting the mountain itself has a sobering effect?"

"Not the mountain," Kíli shook his head. "The crown. Or rather, the prospect of it. Fíli has always known he would be king after Thorin, but it was abstract before. Now..." He glanced toward where Fíli stood speaking with several older dwarves, his posture impeccably royal. "Now it's very real. And he feels the weight of it."

Before I could respond, the dance ended. Kíli bowed with a flourish that managed to be both proper and slightly irreverent, then was promptly replaced by another partner—this time an elderly guild leader who spent our entire dance describing the mining projects he'd been overseeing for the past fifty years.

The evening continued in this fashion—dancing, conversing, smiling through thinly veiled assessment and occasional outright rudeness. I developed a splitting headache and began wondering if the final dance would every arrive.

Finally, s midnight approached, Thorin signaled the musicians, who transitioned to the familiar opening notes of the closing dance. My final dance with Fíli.

He appeared at my side as if conjured, offering his hand. "Princess."

"Prince."

We took our positions in the center of the hall, once again the focus of all attention. The dance began, more complex than the first but now familiar after a week of intense practice. As we moved through the intricate patterns, I found myself grateful for the structure—every step predetermined, every movement choreographed. No room for error, but also no room for uncertainty.

As we danced, he drew me closer than the choreography strictly required. "I've insulted you before," he said quietly. "That wasn't my intention."

"No?" I met his eyes directly, our faces closer than they'd ever been. "What was your intention, then?"

"To compliment your skill," he admitted. "I expressed it poorly. I'm sorry."

The apology caught me off guard – sincere and straightforward, without diplomatic maneuvering. "Thank you," I managed as we moved into the final sequence. "It's been... an eventful evening."

"Indeed." His hand pressed lightly against my waist as we completed another turn. "But nearly over."

I spun out away from him for a few beats before he was pulling me back in. We were facing each other now, my left hand on his shoulder while the right rested lightly in his pal.

"You've done well tonight," Fíli spoke again, as we moved together through a slower section of the dance. "Everyone is impressed."

"Everyone?" I raised an eyebrow slightly as we separated for a turn sequence. "I believe there are several dwarrowdams who would strongly disagree."

When we came together again, his expression was more serious. "You heard the comments, then."

"Some," I admitted as we executed a complex cross-step pattern. "Though I tried not to listen too closely."

"I'm sorry," he said as the dance drew toward its conclusion. "Not everyone welcomes change, even when it's necessary."

Necessary. Such a glowing assessment of our marriage. 

The dance concluded to enthusiastic applause. We bowed to each other, then to the assembled crowd. As the formal portion of the evening ended and guests began to disperse, I felt headache return in full force and the façade I'd been maintaining all night start to crack.

"Are you well?" Fíli asked quietly.

"Just tired," I said, not wanting to admit how the whispers had affected me, how exhausting the constant performance had been.

He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "I'll escort you back to your chambers."

The walk back was silent, but not uncomfortably so. The pressure to perform had eased slightly, leaving us in a strange limbo of shared experience without the words to process it.

At my door, he paused. "For what it's worth," he said finally, "I thought you handled everything with remarkable grace tonight."

"High praise from a prince of Durin's line," I replied, trying for lightness but too tired to fully succeed.

"Not from a prince," he corrected, something softening in his expression. "From someone who knows what it's like to have every word and gesture scrutinized for hidden meaning." He hesitated, then added, "Sleep well, Princess."

As I watched him walk away, I wondered if perhaps we'd both been performing for so long that we'd forgotten how to be anything else.

In the weeks that followed the ball, my schedule settled into a more manageable routine. The intensity of those first months eased somewhat, and I found small pockets of freedom within the structured days. The ball, despite its challenges, seemed to have established my place in the mountain more firmly. While not everyone welcomed my presence, at least they acknowledged it. But by the end of the second month, the novelty of mountain life had worn thin, and I found myself increasingly restless. The problem wasn't just Fíli's distance, though that was frustrating enough. The problem was purpose—or rather, my lack of it.

In Dale, every day had meaning. I helped with rebuilding plans, worked on water systems, supervised rebuilding efforts. Here, I was decorative. A symbol rather than a person with skills and ideas.

So when Lady Hilda informed me that the initial wedding planning meetings would begin the following day, I found myself almost looking forward to them, if only for the change of routine.

The first meeting was held in a small council chamber off the main royal suite. Seven of us gathered around a polished stone table—myself, Lady Hilda, Balin, Ori (who would apparently be documenting the proceedings), the Master of Ceremonies (a dour-faced dwarf named Telmor), Lady Dís, and Fíli.

"The purpose of today's meeting," Balin began with practiced diplomacy, "is to establish the framework for the royal wedding ceremony."

My stomach gave an involuntary clench. Still plenty of time until the wedding, yet somehow the date felt more concrete than before, transforming from a theoretical "someday" into a specific point on the calendar.

"Master Telmor has prepared an outline of the traditional ceremony," Balin continued, nodding toward the Master of Ceremonies. "He will walk us through the essential components, after which we may discuss any adjustments that might be appropriate."

Master Telmor cleared his throat importantly and unrolled an elaborately detailed scroll across the table. "The Royal Wedding Ceremony of Durin's Line follows a pattern established by Durin III," he began, his voice as dry as ancient parchment. "It consists of seven sacred phases, each representing an aspect of dwarven heritage and future prosperity."

What followed was a detailed explanation of rituals I'd never heard of, involving objects I couldn't pronounce, and traditions that dated back to before humans had written history. I tried to focus, making mental notes of the key points, but my attention kept drifting to Fíli. He sat perfectly still, listening with apparent concentration, though I wondered how many of these explanations he'd heard before.

"The Binding of Hands requires both parties to recite the Lineage Oath in Khuzdul," Telmor was saying, "followed by the Exchange of Ancestral Tokens."

I frowned slightly. "Excuse me," I interjected, "but I thought I wasn't permitted to learn more than basic ceremonial Khuzdul. How am I supposed to recite an oath?"

Telmor looked mildly affronted at the interruption. "The Princess Consort can speak the words," he explained stiffly. "The full oath knowledge remains protected."

"I'm to participate in a ceremony where I don’t understand what I'm saying?" The idea made me distinctly uncomfortable.

"It is traditional," Telmor replied, as if this settled the matter.

I bit back my first response, aware of the careful diplomacy required. "I understand the importance of tradition," I said instead, "but perhaps we could find a compromise that respects both dwarven custom and my position. Maybe a translated version I could speak in Common, alongside Prince Fíli's Khuzdul recitation?"

Lady Dís frowned slightly, but Balin looked thoughtful. "An interesting suggestion," he mused. "There is precedent in the Third Age wedding of—"

"The ceremony must be conducted properly," Telmor interrupted, his tone suggesting my suggestion bordered on sacrilege. "The Lineage Oath connects the couple to the very foundations of Mahal's creation. It cannot be... modified."

"I see," I said, trying to keep frustration from my voice. "Please continue."

Telmor resumed his explanation, detailing the Seven Processions, the Forge Blessing, and the Ancestor Invocation. It was only when he reached the Familial Witnesses section that something truly concerning caught my attention.

"The families stand as witnesses," he was saying, "arranged according to the Hierarchy of Blood Relations."

"Where will my family stand?” I asked. “They'll need to know their positions in advance."

A heavy silence fell over the room. I looked from face to face, finding various degrees of discomfort, but no one seemed eager to respond.

"Well?" I pressed. "Where will my father and siblings stand during the ceremony?"

Balin cleared his throat delicately. "Ah, Princess Sigrid, there is perhaps one aspect of the ceremony we should have clarified earlier. The dwarven wedding rite is... sacred. It takes place in our holiest shrine, deep within the mountain." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "It is open only to dwarves. No outsiders have ever been permitted to witness it."

I stared at him, certain I'd misunderstood. "But…I’m not a dwarf.”

“You are the exception,” Telmor said, his tone suggesting that even this compromise was a personal affront. 

“Are you saying my family can't attend my wedding?" I pressed.

"It is our most sacred tradition," Telmor interjected, as if repeating this phrase could somehow make the situation acceptable. "The ceremony connects the couple to Mahal himself. Non-dwarves cannot be present."

"I see." My voice remained steady, though inside I felt anything but calm. "And when were you planning to share this rather important detail with me?"

"Princess," Balin began soothingly, "we understand this is difficult—"

"Do you?" I turned to face him directly. "Because it seems to me that everyone at this table knew this rule except me. Everyone was aware that I would be standing alone, without a single member of my family present, and not one of you thought to mention it until now."

Lady Dís spoke for the first time, her voice measured. "It was assumed you understood the sacred nature of dwarven ceremonies."

"No, my lady," I replied, fighting to maintain composure. I turned to Fíli, who had remained silent throughout the exchange. "Did you know?"

His gaze met mine steadily. "Yes."

One word, but it cut deeper than I expected. Of course he'd known. They'd all known.

I took a deep breath, trying to center myself. "Could you all excuse me for a moment?"

I would not yell. I would not argue. I would not give them the satisfaction.

"Princess Sigrid," Balin began cautiously, "the planning must continue—"

"And it will." I rose from my seat, maintaining as much dignity as I could muster. "But not right now. If you'll excuse me, I need some time to think."

Without waiting for a response, I left the chamber, keeping my pace measured until I was safely out of sight. Then I quickened my steps, needing the sanctuary of my own rooms before my carefully maintained composure crumbled.

I was standing at the wall, staring at a tapestry trying to convince myself it was a s soothing as staring out a window, when the knock came. Not Lady Hilda's brisk rap or the handmaidens' tentative tap, but something firmer, more deliberate.

"Enter," I called. I suspected it was Balin, come to discuss the finer points of diplomacy and wedding planning.

Instead, the door opened to reveal Fíli. He seemed almost as surprised to find himself there as I was.

"Princess," he acknowledged with a slight bow. "May I speak with you?"

"I believe that's what you're doing," I replied, unable to keep a touch of coolness from my voice.

He closed the door behind him and approached, maintaining a respectful distance while glancing around my chambers. I realized it was probably the first time he had seen the inside.

"The meeting ended shortly after your departure. Balin thought it best to reconvene when emotions are less heightened."

"A diplomatic way of saying they want to wait until I've calmed down and become more reasonable," I said. I paused. “Do you think I’m being unreasonable? What are your feelings on the matter?”

I knew I wasn’t being unreasonable, but this was perhaps the closest Fili and I had come to a conversation. I’d take whatever chance I could to understand the mind of the dwarf I was supposed to marry.

"My feelings on the matter are irrelevant," he said finally. He was looking at everything in the room except me, finally settling on staring at the burning embers in the fireplace. "The alliance is what matters here." 

"Ah yes, the alliance. Always the alliance." I sank onto a nearby chair. "You know, we haven't had a single conversation about anything else since this arrangement began." 

He turned to face me, his expression inscrutable. "What would you have us discuss instead?" 

"I don't know—anything? The weather? Books you've read? Metals you've worked? Whether you prefer ale or wine?" I threw up my hands, the frustration of the day loosening my tongue better than any glass of wine. "Anything that might suggest we're people, not just political chess pieces." 

For a brief moment, something like surprise flashed across his face. "I prefer ale," he said after a beat of silence. "Except with certain fish dishes, where a dry white wine is... better." 

The absurdity of discussing beverage preferences in the middle of a fundamental disagreement about our wedding nearly made me laugh. 

"Well, that's something, at least," I said.

We were both quiet for a moment. Then Fili surprised me by speaking again.

“I understand why a bride…why you would want your family present on our wedding day. If our positions were reversed, I would feel the same." He met my gaze directly. "So while I believe in the sanctity of our ceremony, I also believe in finding solutions that honor both our peoples. What would you propose? Given that the sacred ceremony truly cannot be altered?"

The question caught me by surprise—not the dismissal or lecture I had expected. I considered for a moment, organizing the jumble of emotions into something more coherent.

"What if we had two ceremonies?" I suggested slowly, the idea forming as I spoke. "The sacred dwarven rite, conducted according to all your traditions, followed by a second ceremony in Dale, where my family could be present." I watched his face carefully. "The dwarven ceremony would satisfy your people's traditions, while the Dale ceremony would allow my family to witness our union."

Fíli was silent, his expression thoughtful rather than dismissive. "Two ceremonies," he repeated. "It's... unconventional."

"So is this entire arrangement," I pointed out. "A human princess marrying a dwarf prince? I think we left conventional behind long ago."

A hint of something that might have been amusement flickered in his eyes. "True enough." He was quiet for another moment, then asked, "What would this Dale ceremony entail?"

"Nothing too elaborate," I assured him. "Traditionally, the bride and groom exchange vows, promises of commitment and partnership. They exchange rings—simpler than dwarven beads, usually just bands of gold or silver. There's music, feasting, celebration." I paused. "It would be recognized by my people as a true and binding union, just as the dwarven ceremony would be recognized by yours."

"And this would satisfy you?" he asked, suddenly looking up and studying me with unexpected intensity. "Having your family present for the Dale ceremony, even if they cannot attend the dwarven rite?"

"It's not ideal," I admitted. "But it's a compromise I could accept. Both our traditions would be honored, both our peoples would witness our union in ways meaningful to them. And..." I paused. "Well...it would mean a lot to me," I finished quietly.

He nodded slowly. "I'll speak with Thorin and Master Telmor about this proposal. It has... merit."

Relief washed through me—not just at the potential solution, but at being heard at all. "Thank you."

"I cannot promise their agreement," he cautioned. "But I will advocate for this compromise."

It wasn't everything I wanted, but it was something—a small victory in what sometimes felt like an endless series of concessions. And more importantly, it was the first time Fíli had offered to actively support one of my suggestions rather than simply informing me of decisions already made.

"Thank you for your honesty," I said simply.

He nodded, then moved toward the door. "I'll speak with Thorin tonight. We can discuss his response at the next meeting."

"I appreciate that." I meant it sincerely.

He paused at the doorway, turning back with an expression I couldn't quite read. "For what it's worth, Princess, I don't think anyone intended to deceive you about the ceremony. Some things are so fundamental to our understanding that we forget others might not share that knowledge."

"Perhaps," I conceded. "But in the future, it might be wise not to assume what I know or don't know. I'd rather be told things that seem obvious than left in the dark about what's important."

"A fair point," he acknowledged. "Good night, Princess."

"Good night, Prince Fíli."

As the door closed behind him, I felt a curious mixture of exhaustion and hope. 

Two days after our conversation, I was summoned back to the small council chamber. When I arrived, everyone from the previous meeting was already seated, with the addition of Thorin himself at the head of the table. His expression gave nothing away, but the atmosphere in the room felt different—less rigid, somehow.

"Princess Sigrid," he greeted me with a formal nod. "Please, join us."

I took my seat, carefully keeping my expression neutral despite the nervous flutter in my stomach. Fíli sat opposite me, his face as unreadable as ever, though our eyes met briefly as I settled in.

"Prince Fíli has brought your proposal to my attention," Thorin began without preamble. "The matter of two ceremonies—one according to our sacred traditions, and another in Dale following human customs."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak yet.

"After considerable discussion," he continued, "and consultation with our lore-keepers and priests, we have determined that this compromise is... acceptable."

The relief that washed through me was so intense I had to focus on keeping my posture steady. "Thank you, Your Majesty," I managed, my voice calmer than I felt. "This means a great deal to me."

Master Telmor looked less than pleased, his lips pressed into a thin line beneath his elaborately braided beard, but he offered no objection. Balin, by contrast, seemed quietly satisfied.

"The dwarven ceremony will proceed exactly as tradition dictates," Thorin clarified. "No alterations, no exceptions to our sacred rites."

"I understand," I said.

"The Dale ceremony will follow one week later," he continued. "This will allow time for proper preparations and for our delegation to travel to Dale with appropriate ceremony. Both events will be recognized as binding by our respective kingdoms."

"We will, of course, need to coordinate the Dale ceremony with your father," Balin added, sliding a parchment toward me. "I've taken the liberty of drafting a preliminary schedule for both events, with the understanding that King Bard may wish to make adjustments to the Dale portions."

I glanced at the document, noting the meticulous timeline and the careful division between "Sacred Ceremony (Mountain)" and "Public Ceremony (Dale)." But they had actually done it.

My eyes found Fíli's again, and this time I allowed a small smile. He didn't quite return it, but something in his expression softened momentarily.

"Thank you," I said, addressing the entire table but looking at Fíli. 

"Now," Balin said, rubbing his hands together briskly, "we have much to discuss. Two royal ceremonies within a fortnight will require even more careful planning."

The meeting shifted into practical matters—dates, preparations, protocols for both ceremonies. As we worked through the details, I found myself occasionally catching Fíli's eye across the table. There was still distance between us, still the formality of two people bound by politics rather than choice, but something had changed. For the first time since arriving in the mountain, I felt like I had actually been heard.

When the meeting concluded two hours later, I lingered, arranging my notes as the others filed out. Fíli paused at the doorway, waiting until we were nearly alone.

"The compromise suits you?" he asked, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear. 

"Yes," I said simply. "Thank you for advocating for it."

He inclined his head slightly. "It was the right solution."

Not warm, not effusive, but straightforward and honest. Perhaps that was all we could expect from each other for now—small steps toward understanding, compromise by compromise.

"See you at dinner?" I asked, surprising myself with the casual question.

"Yes," he replied after a brief pause. "Until then, Princess."

As he left, I allowed myself a moment of quiet satisfaction. It was a small victory in what sometimes felt like an endless series of concessions. But perhaps, I thought as I gathered my papers, that's how bridges were built—one compromise at a time.

Wedding planning continued. As did the endless lessons. The formal presentations. All of it  congealing into a smothering blanket of boredom and frustration.

"I need something to do," I told Lady Hilda during one of our morning meetings. "Something real, not just ceremonies and lessons."

She looked up from her schedule scroll with surprise. "You have a full calendar of activities, Your Highness."

"I have a full calendar of being shown things and talked at," I corrected. "That's not the same as doing something useful."

"Your presence itself is useful," she said carefully. "It demonstrates the alliance, helps our people grow accustomed to—"

"To having a human in their midst, yes, I understand that." I tried not to sound as exasperated as I felt. "But I'm more than just a symbol, Lady Hilda. In Dale, I had projects, responsibilities. I helped design water systems, supervised rebuilding efforts. Here, I'm just... decorative."

She studied me thoughtfully. "What exactly are you asking for, Princess?"

"A purpose," I said simply. "Something that uses my skills, that contributes to the mountain in some tangible way."

"The dwarves of Erebor have managed their affairs for centuries without human assistance," she pointed out, though her tone was gentle rather than dismissive.

"I'm not suggesting they need my help," I clarified. "I'm saying I need to be helpful. For my own sanity, if nothing else."

Lady Hilda was quiet for a long moment, considering. "There are limits to what would be considered appropriate for your position," she said finally. "But perhaps we could find something suitable. Let me speak with Balin."

I knew it wasn't a promise, but it was at least an acknowledgment of my frustration. "Thank you."

A week later, I was still trying to fill my time. Nia had agreed to teach me how to weave. I was pretty sure I could enjoy the process, if I could ever figure out how to warp the loom on my own. I’d seen bridges that required less exact technical specifications. Nia was explaining something about how my tension was causing the scarf I was working on to flex like a drunken road when Lady Hilda arrived at my chambers with a formal announcement. 

"It's time for the presentation of your first courting gift," she declared, scrutinizing me as if assessing whether I was equal to such a momentous task. "According to tradition, the presentation should take place before witnesses, though not as publicly as Prince Fíli's gift to you."

I nodded, trying to look appropriately solemn while my stomach twisted with nervousness. I had started the puzzle box back in Dale, during those tense weeks between agreeing to the marriage and leaving my home. Da had helped me source the wood—beautiful oak with sections of walnut and cherry for the inlays. I'd spent hours in my workshop, sketching designs, testing mechanisms, finding comfort in the practical work of creation while my future loomed uncertain before me.

"When?" I asked, mentally calculating whether I'd have time for the final adjustments I'd been working on in the small hours when sleep evaded me.

"Tomorrow evening," she replied. "In the Small Hall of Witnesses. Family members and selected officials will attend."

One day. I'd have to finish tonight, then. The box was mostly complete, but the final mechanism still needed smoothing. I'd been tinkering with it here in Erebor whenever I could steal a few private moments, the familiar work keeping me grounded amid all the strangeness.

"Will I need to say anything specific during the presentation?" I asked, remembering the elaborate formal phrases that had accompanied Fíli's gift to me.

"You will present the gift and explain its significance," she said. "The exact words are your own, though they should reflect proper respect for both the recipient and the occasion."

That night, I stayed up late making final adjustments, testing the mechanism repeatedly to ensure smooth operation. The box was simple compared to dwarven standards, I knew—but it was mine, created with my own hands. I had to hope it would be enough

Inside, I'd placed a small scroll with a message I'd rewritten a dozen times, trying to find the right balance: "May our alliance prove as rewarding as this modest puzzle, revealing unexpected possibilities with each new understanding." Diplomatic enough to be appropriate, personal enough to be genuine.

The Small Hall of Witnesses turned out to be a chamber that would have been considered quite large in Dale, with soaring stone arches and elaborate carvings decorating every surface. Dozens of lanterns cast golden light over the assembled guests—Lady Dís, Kíli, Balin, and various nobles and officials deemed important enough to witness this step in our courtship.

Fíli stood at the center of the chamber, dressed formally though not as elaborately as at the welcome ball. I clutched the box tightly as I approached, suddenly aware of my sweating palms and quickened heartbeat. This was ridiculous—I'd faced down council members, merchants, and even orcs without this level of anxiety. Yet here I was, approaching my betrothed with a wooden box I'd made, feeling like a child presenting a crude drawing to critical adults.

"Prince Fíli," I began, and to my horror, my voice cracked slightly. I cleared my throat, painfully aware of the watching eyes. "In accordance with the traditions of courtship, I present this gift as a symbol of our future together."

Fíli accepted the box, his eyes meeting mine briefly. Could he tell how nervous I was? For my own dignity’s sake, I hoped not. But he held my gaze a moment longer than necessary, and I thought I saw understanding there—maybe even a hint of reassurance.

"Thank you, Princess Sigrid," he said, his voice steady but somehow gentler than his usual formal tone. He turned the box carefully in his hands, giving me a moment to gather myself.

"The box," I continued, getting back on script, "is a puzzle of my own design. Each sequence reveals new mechanisms, requiring patience and... careful observation to unlock."

My hands, now empty of the box, didn't know what to do with themselves. I clasped them together to keep from fidgeting, a gesture Lady Hilda would have despaired of.

Fíli nodded, examining the box with what appeared to be genuine interest rather than merely diplomatic courtesy. "May I?" he asked, gesturing toward the first panel.

"Of course," I said, relief flooding through me that we were past the formal presentation. "It begins with the panel on the left side—though I suppose you could discover that yourself."

Lady Hilda looked pained at my departure from formal protocol. But to my surprise, the corner of Fíli's mouth twitched upward—not quite a smile, but close enough that I caught my breath.

"A hint freely given," he said, his tone almost conversational. "Most puzzle makers prefer to watch their victims struggle."

Victims? Had Fíli just made a joke? In public?

"Where's the satisfaction in that?" I replied, forgetting for a moment that we had an audience. "The point isn't to frustrate but to provide the pleasure of discovery."

He nodded thoughtfully, pressing the panel I'd indicated. It slid smoothly aside, revealing the first stage of the puzzle. "Crafted with the solver in mind, then. A generous approach."

"I wouldn't call it generous," I said, warming to the subject despite my awareness that we were straying further from the formal script. "Just practical. A puzzle that's too frustrating gets abandoned."

Something in his eyes—interest, perhaps, or mild surprise—made me realize how candid I was being. I fell silent, remembering where we were and who was watching.

Fíli seemed to recall the same, straightening slightly as he returned to more formal phrasing. "The workmanship is precise," he said, though his tone remained warmer than his usual diplomatic cadence. "Each element serves both function and form."

He pressed the second mechanism—correctly, to my surprise—and it clicked softly, revealing the next layer of the puzzle. Another murmur ran through the gathered witnesses.

"The solution will await your leisure," I said, remembering Lady Hilda's instructions. 

"I look forward to the challenge," he replied, and though the words were formal, his expression suggested genuine interest. He carefully reset the visible panels to their starting position before addressing the assembled guests. "I accept this gift with appreciation. Its craftsmanship reflects well on both the giver and the alliance we forge."

The formal part of the ceremony concluded, and the gathering shifted to polite conversation. I found myself approached by various nobles offering careful compliments on my gift—none particularly effusive, but not dismissive either. The general sentiment seemed to be surprise that a human could produce something requiring such precision.

"A clever design," Lady Dís commented when she found me near the refreshment table. "My son appreciates puzzles and mechanisms more than he admits. He had quite a collection as a child."

"I wasn't sure it would be received well," I admitted. "It's not exactly dwarven craftsmanship."

"It needn't be," she replied with unexpected frankness. "The purpose of courtship gifts is to reflect the giver, not to imitate the recipient's culture. Your gift succeeded admirably in that regard."

Before I could respond to this surprisingly encouraging assessment, I noticed Fíli approaching, the puzzle box still in his hands.

"Princess Sigrid."

The formal address remained, but his tone carried a different quality than before—less performative, more direct.

"I wanted to thank you again," he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "Few understand that puzzles reveal as much about their maker as they do about the solver." His fingers traced the inlay pattern along the edge of the box. "You've put considerable thought into this."

"Sometimes I find it easier to express myself through creating than through words," I admitted.

He nodded, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. "As do many of my people." He hesitated, then added, "Perhaps that's one thing we have in common, after all."

For a moment, the three of us stood in surprisingly comfortable silence. Then Balin approached to claim Fíli's attention, and the moment passed. But as Fíli moved away, I noticed that he kept the puzzle box with him, his fingers occasionally tracing its edges as he spoke with others.

Later that evening, as I prepared for bed, there was a knock at my chamber door. One of my handmaidens answered it and returned with a small scroll sealed with the prince's personal insignia.

The message inside was brief: "The craftsmanship of your gift is admirable. The third stage proved particularly challenging, though satisfying to solve. I appreciate a puzzle designed to reward persistence rather than frustrate the solver. —F"

It wasn't much, but it was something real—and in that moment, it felt like enough. He had actually taken the time to work through the puzzle, to appreciate the details I'd labored over. And more significantly, he had felt compelled to tell me so.

Another small crack in the perfect diplomatic façade. Another glimpse of the person behind the prince.

Still not enough to build a marriage upon—but perhaps enough to nurture the fragile seed of mutual respect taking root between us.

Chapter Text

There are few things more humbling than discovering the limits of one's knowledge. I'd spent years studying water systems, adapting designs, solving problems with the limited resources available. I'd thought myself quite knowledgeable.

Three hours into my first meeting with the Erebor Water Guild, I realized I was barely a novice.

"The tertiary overflow systems connect through these channels," Master Graedo explained, his thick finger tracing a line on a map so complex it looked more like the veins of a leaf than anything man-made. Or dwarf-made, rather. "The pressure differentials create a self-regulating flow that prevents backwash during heavy rainfall."

"And this connects to the drinking water how?" I asked, trying to follow the intricate network of lines.

"It doesn't," Master Graedo looked at me like I'd suggested mixing ale and milk. "Drinking water comes from the eastern aquifers, completely separate system. This is flood management and waste disposal."

"Right," I nodded, as if I'd known that all along. "Of course."

The meeting had come as a surprise that morning when Lady Hilda arrived at my chambers with an expression that almost resembled excitement.

"Prepare yourself," she'd announced while I was still picking at my breakfast. "Master Balin has found you a project."

I'd nearly choked on my tea. "A project? What kind of project?"

"The Water Guild is reviewing plans for expanding the drainage systems in the eastern residential quarter," Lady Hilda explained. "Master Balin suggested your experience with Dale's water management might provide a useful perspective."

"And they agreed to this?" I couldn't keep the skepticism from my voice.

Lady Hilda's lips twitched. "Let's say Master Balin was... persuasive. And Master Graedo was... persuaded."

Which explained the less-than-enthusiastic reception I'd received upon arriving at the Water Guild's workshop. Master Graedo, a barrel-chested dwarf with a beard so intricately braided it seemed to defy gravity, had greeted me with a nod so minimal it barely qualified as acknowledgment. The five other guild members ranged from openly suspicious to carefully blank in their expressions.

"Princess Sigrid," Master Graedo had said, his voice gruff. "We understand you have some experience with water systems."

The word "some" carried enough emphasis to sink a barge.

Now, three hours later, my head swimming with terms like "pressure gradients" and "capillary flow restriction," I found myself simultaneously intimidated and fascinated. The dwarven water system was a marvel—channels and pipes carved directly into the mountain, using natural pressure and carefully engineered flows to move water where it was needed without pumps or external power.

"The problem," Master Graedo was explaining, "is that the eastern quarter expansion requires additional drainage capacity. The existing channels can't handle the projected increase."

"What about widening the existing channels?" suggested one of the younger guild members, a dwarf named Fridi with a neatly trimmed russet beard.

"Too disruptive," replied Graedo. "We'd need to reroute everything during construction. The eastern quarter can't go without water for that long."

"What if you don't widen them, but deepen them?" I asked.

Six pairs of eyes turned to me as if suddenly remembering I was there.

"Deepen them how?" Master Graedo asked, his bushy eyebrows drawn together.

"In Dale, we found that V-shaped channels carry more water volume than U-shaped ones with the same width," I explained, sketching quickly on a scrap of parchment. "The velocity increases at the narrower bottom, which actually prevents sediment buildup."

There was a pause as the dwarves studied my rough drawing.

"That works for surface water," said another dwarf, his tone skeptical. "Our channels are enclosed."

"The principle is the same," I replied, trying not to sound defensive. "It's about flow dynamics, not whether it's open or closed. And if you're worried about capacity during heavy rainfall—"

"We don't get rainfall inside the mountain," interrupted the same dwarf.

"No, but you get increased usage, seasonal changes in the aquifer levels, and occasional flooding from outside sources," I countered. I'd done my homework over the past months, reading whatever I could find about Erebor's water challenges. "Which, from what I understand, is why you have the tertiary overflow systems in the first place."

Master Graedo's eyebrows rose slightly—whether in surprise at my knowledge or irritation at my correction, I couldn't tell.

"The princess has a point," Fridi said unexpectedly. "V-channels would increase capacity without widening. But the stonework would be more complex."

"Not necessarily," I said, warming to the subject. "It's actually a simpler cut if you're starting from scratch. And for existing channels, you could insert pre-carved V-sections rather than reshaping the entire channel."

"Pre-carved sections?" Master Graedo stroked his beard thoughtfully. "That would minimize disruption during installation."

"Exactly," I nodded, trying not to look too pleased. "You could prepare everything in advance, then install section by section, requiring only brief interruptions to the water flow."

For the first time, the guild members seemed to be genuinely considering my input rather than merely tolerating my presence. Master Graedo's brow furrowed in thought rather than disapproval.

"Show me how this would work with the eastern junction," he said, gesturing to a particularly complex section of the map.

I leaned forward, pointing to where several channels converged. "If you modified these sections first, you'd create a buffer zone that could handle the diverted flow while you work on the others..."

The discussion continued well past the time Lady Hilda had indicated the meeting would end. By the time we finished, my throat was dry from talking and my fingers were stained with ink from drawing multiple diagrams. But Master Graedo was nodding thoughtfully, and the other guild members were engaged in animated discussion about implementation rather than dismissing my ideas outright.

"We will consider your suggestions, Princess," Master Graedo said finally, his tone considerably less grudging than when the meeting began. "There may be... merit in combining our approaches."

From a dwarf, I was beginning to learn, this qualified as high praise.

"Thank you for allowing me to contribute," I replied, carefully diplomatic. "I've learned a great deal about your systems today."

Master Graedo nodded, then added unexpectedly, "Perhaps you would return tomorrow. We will have prepared more detailed junction maps by then. Your perspective on the installation sequence could be... useful."

I blinked in surprise. "I would be honored," I managed, hoping my face didn't betray just how pleased I felt.

As I gathered my notes, Fridi approached, his expression curious. "The V-channels," he said. "You've implemented these in Dale?"

"Yes, in several sections," I replied. "Though our challenges are different. We deal with more seasonal variation, freezing in winter, and silt accumulation from the river."

"Interesting," he mused. "I'd be curious to see your designs sometime. For comparative purposes."

"I'd be happy to share them," I said, grasping this unexpected olive branch. "Though they're not as sophisticated as your systems here."

He shrugged, a gesture that seemed to say sophistication was relative. "Different problems, different solutions. But the principles remain worth studying."

As I left the guild workshop, I felt lighter than I had in weeks. They hadn't welcomed me with open arms, certainly. The suspicion and skepticism hadn't disappeared entirely. But for the first time since arriving in Erebor, I'd been judged on my ideas rather than my race or status. I'd been useful in a tangible way, contributing something that mattered.

I was actually looking forward to tomorrow, to diving deeper into the project, to earning respect not because of who I was marrying but because of what I could do. It wasn't freedom, exactly, but it was purpose—and sometimes that was just as important.

Of course, the good feeling couldn’t last. 

"There is one more tradition we must discuss," Lady Hilda said, her voice taking on that carefully neutral tone that I had come to recognize as a harbinger of particularly uncomfortable topics.

We were sitting in my chambers, reviewing what felt like the thousandth wedding preparation detail. My head already swam with protocols for greeting noble guests, the precise wording of various ceremonial responses, and the bewildering complexity of dwarven gift-giving customs.

"Just one?" I asked, attempting levity. "Not seven more? I'm disappointed."

Lady Hilda's lips twitched—the closest thing to a laugh I had yet witnessed from her—before settling back into their customary straight line.

"This concerns the... verification," Lady Hilda said, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her skirt.

"Verification of what?"

"Of the marriage's consummation."

I blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"After your wedding night, the royal physician and two female witnesses will examine the bedsheets to verify that consummation has occurred and that you were... intact."

The room seemed to tilt slightly. "You're joking," I said flatly.

Lady Hilda's expression made it abundantly clear that she was not, in fact, joking.

"That's barbaric," I said, heat rising to my face. I couldn't quite make the comparison that it was practically medieval. There wasn't a word for that in Common, though I was beginning to think there should be. Perhaps I could coin one. "Dwarvish" might work, except that would probably start another diplomatic incident. "I'm not some... some mare being checked out."

"It is tradition," Lady Hilda replied, as if that explained and excused everything. "The royal line must be secured beyond question. The succession cannot be subject to doubt."

"And I suppose no one's checking Fíli's purity?"

Lady Hilda had the grace to look slightly uncomfortable. "The prince's... status is not relevant to succession claims."

"Why?" I demanded. "Because he's male? Because he's a dwarf? Or because this whole tradition is based on treating women like property to be verified before purchase?" I was briefly tempted to march before the council and point out that if they were so concerned about bloodstains, they should see what happened during my monthly courses, but I suspected that might actually cause several of the older councilors to faint.

"Princess Sigrid," Lady Hilda said, her tone softening marginally, "I understand this seems harsh to you. But royal marriages have always been subject to different standards than common unions.”

"Is there no way to avoid this... inspection?" I asked, without much hope.

"None that wouldn't cause greater difficulty for you in the long term," Lady Hilda said. "If the verification is refused, there will always be those who question the legitimacy of any heirs you bear."

I pressed my fingers to my temples. "And who are these 'witnesses' to be?"

"Traditionally, female relatives of the groom. In this case, since Prince Fíli's mother is the only living female relative, she will select trusted noblewomen to accompany her."

Somehow, the thought of Fíli's mother examining my bedsheets made everything worse.

"I see," I said, though what I saw most clearly was the trap closing around me. "Thank you for explaining."

Lady Hilda stood, gathering her ever-present stack of parchments. "I suggest," she said carefully, "that you view this as simply another formality. Like the presentation of gifts or the blessing ceremony. It will be conducted with discretion and dignity."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak further without saying something crass. Lady Hilda hesitated, as if considering whether to offer some further comfort, then gave a small bow and departed.

Alone, I sank back into my chair, trying to process this new indignity. It wasn't that I had any concerns about "passing" such a verification—I'd had neither time nor inclination for romantic entanglements while running a household and then rebuilding Dale. But the idea of being subjected to such scrutiny, of having my privacy invaded in such a fundamental way, made my stomach turn. I may have left my own world behind at ten, but even I knew that something like this was way out of the norms I would have grown up with. Even here it seemed a bit extreme.

And the double standard galled me. Fíli, I was certain, had not been expected to preserve himself for marriage. I stalked over to the loom. My weaving had gotten marginally better, but you wouldn’t know it looking at the fabric being created. Lately, I had been using weaving as a way to vent my frustrations, and it showed. The fabric was so dense it was almost bulletproof. Arrow-proof. Whatever. 

I settled in, sending the shuttle back and forth under the threads as I took several deep breaths. The repetitive movement quenched some of the hottest fire, and after a few minutes, I had calmed down enough to begin humming. 

"Sorry for herself, feeling stupid, feeling small. Wishing she had never left at all,” I sang softly. “I saw myself as a concealed attraction, I…” No, that wasn't right. What came next?

I sat there, shuttle frozen in mid-motion, frantically searching my memory for lyrics I'd known by heart since childhood. But they wouldn't come. The more I grasped for them, the more elusive they became, slipping away like water through cupped hands.

Panic tightened my chest, sudden and irrational. It wasn't just the forgotten lyrics—it was the realization that pieces of my first world were fading, eroding like stones under running water. How much else had I forgotten? Would I someday wake to find I couldn't remember my parents' faces, the sound of their voices, the color of our front door?

And abruptly, the stone walls seemed to press in around me. The air felt too still, too close. I pushed back from my weaving with shaking hands, a sense of panic rising in my chest. I needed sky. I needed wind. I needed to not be underground, surrounded by countless tons of mountain.

Without conscious decision, I found myself at my chamber door, then moving swiftly down the corridor. I had no destination in mind beyond "away" and "out," though the rational part of my brain reminded me that "out" was a relative term in Erebor.

I turned a corner and nearly collided with someone coming the other way.

"Whoa there!" Strong hands steadied my shoulders. "Where's the fire?"

I looked up to find Kíli grinning at me, though his eyes held a note of concern.

"Sorry. I—" I swallowed. "What do you people have against windows?" I asked, hating the desperate edge in my voice. "How do you get any air down here?"

Kíli's expression shifted to understanding. He considered me for a moment, then nodded decisively. "Come with me."

He led me through a series of corridors—not toward the main gates, as I'd expected, but deeper into the residential quarters, though in a direction I hadn't explored before.

"Where are we going?" I asked, struggling to keep up with his brisk pace.

"Patience, Princess," Kíli replied with a wink. "Trust your future brother-in-law."

We ascended a narrow staircase that wound upward, until I was certain we must be near the mountain's upper reaches. Finally, Kíli stopped before a small door, carved with a simple geometric pattern.

"Few know about this place," he said, producing a key. "It was part of the royal family's private quarters—a secret indulgence, you might say."

The door swung open to reveal a small chamber with a stone bench along one wall. But my attention was immediately drawn to the far side, where an arched opening led to a balcony carved from the mountainside.

I moved toward it as if pulled by an invisible thread, stepping out onto the balcony and gulping in the cool evening air. The balcony was little more than a shelf of stone jutting from the mountain face, with a carved balustrade to prevent accidents. But it offered an unobstructed view of the valley below, the distant lights of Dale, and, most importantly, the vast expanse of sky, now darkening toward twilight, with the first stars beginning to appear.

"Better?" Kíli asked, leaning against the doorframe.

I nodded, feeling the tightness in my chest gradually ease. "Thank you. I didn't know places like this existed in the mountain."

"There’s a few," he said, joining me at the railing. "Though most are reserved for military lookouts or specific ceremonial purposes."

"But not this one?"

He shrugged. "It's too small for formal use, too high for practical defense. Most have forgotten it exists."

"How did you find it?"

A smile tugged at his lips. "I make it my business to know all the mountain's secrets, especially the ones that offer escape from tedious council meetings."

I couldn't help laughing at that, the sound releasing more of the tension I'd been carrying. "I'll remember that next time Lady Hilda schedules me for four consecutive hours of ceremonial etiquette."

He grinned suddenly. "Don't tell anyone, but sometimes even Fíli comes up here when council meetings get too tedious."

I smiled at that, trying to imagine my solemn, proper fiancé escaping his duties for a moment of fresh air.

"It's not locked, usually," Kíli continued. "The door sticks, but a good push will open it. You're welcome to use it whenever you need. It's not far from your chambers—just up the east staircase, third level, past the carving of the raven."

"Thank you," I said again, meaning it deeply.

"Just don't tell Lady Hilda," he said. "She'd probably schedule your 'outdoor time' and assign a chaperone."

I laughed, feeling the last of my panic dissolve. "My lips are sealed."

He gave me a crooked grin and disappeared through the doorway. I turned back to the view, drinking in the open space. I lost track of time, watching as the light faded and the stars came out.

The sound of footsteps on the staircase made me turn. Kíli had left some time ago, and for a moment I thought it was him, returning to check up on me. But the figure that appeared in the doorway was broader, taller, more formally dressed. I tensed.

"Sigrid?" Fíli's voice was concerned as he stepped onto the balcony. "Are you well?"

I took a breath, then glanced from him to the valley below and back again. "Your brother has a loose tongue."

"He mentioned you seemed... distressed," Fíli said, keeping a respectful distance as he moved to the balustrade, not quite beside me but close enough for conversation.

"Is that what he called it? No, I’m okay." I turned my gaze back to the distant lights of Dale, finding it easier to speak when not looking directly at him.

Fíli was silent for a moment. I could feel him weighing his words carefully, as he always seemed to do around me. "He was concerned," he said finally.

I sighed. I didn’t feel like explaining the song to him. I doubted he would understand. "It’s nothing. Lady Hilda had just informed me about the 'verification' after our wedding night. It was unexpected." 

From the corner of my eye, I saw him stiffen slightly. "I see."

"Did you know about this tradition?" I asked, unable to keep a slight edge from my voice.

"Yes," he admitted. "Though I had hoped to discuss it with you myself before—" He broke off, seeming to realize there was no good way to end that sentence.

"Before I found out I'd be inspected like a broodmare at market?" I suggested.

Fíli winced. "It's an old custom," he said, his voice careful. "From times when succession disputes led to bloodshed."

"I understand the reasoning," I said. "Lady Hilda was quite thorough in her explanation. What I don't understand is why your virtue isn't subjected to the same scrutiny."

A faint redness crept up from beneath his beard. "That's... fair," he said, which surprised me enough that I turned to look at him directly. "The custom is unequal and unfair to you. I won't pretend otherwise."

I hadn't expected such a straightforward acknowledgment. It didn't solve anything, but it was... something, at least.

We stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment, both looking out at the darkening sky.

"I'm sorry," Fíli said eventually. "You deserve better treatment than this."

I nodded, accepting the apology for what it was worth. "I suppose I had been so focused on the alliance and the wedding plans that I forgot…well, that there’s supposed to be heirs."

I hadn't meant to say something so blunt, but the words slipped out before I could reconsider them.

Fíli turned toward me, his expression difficult to read in the fading light. "Is that how you see this marriage? As just... duty to produce children?"

"Isn't that how the council sees it?" I countered. "A human bride for better relations with Dale, and hopefully one who can give you children."

"That's not—" Fíli stopped, took a breath. "That may be how some see it. It's not how I see it."

"Then how do you see it?" I found myself genuinely curious about his answer.

He seemed to consider his words. "As an arrangement neither of us chose, but one we might make into something worthwhile. Beyond politics."

It was a diplomatic answer, but not, I thought, an insincere one.

"Have you... thought about children?" he asked after a moment, clearly trying to navigate the subject carefully. "Beyond duty, I mean."

The question surprised me. No one had actually asked what I wanted in that regard.

"I think so," I said cautiously. "Someday."

Fíli nodded. "Dwarven children are rare and precious. Any child would be..." He trailed off, seemingly unsure how to continue.

"A blessing?" I suggested.

"Yes," he said, looking relieved. "Though I'm told I have much to learn about them."

"I practically raised Tilda and Bain. They're messier than you'd expect," I said, surprising myself with a small smile. "And louder."

"So like Kíli, then," Fíli said, his lips quirking upward.

The moment felt almost companionable.

"Well," he added,  "at least the choice about children isn't really yours to make now. Royal duty and all that. One more freedom sacrificed to the crown."

The silence that followed was absolute. Fíli's eyes widened in obvious horror at his own words.

"I didn't—" He looked stricken. "That was entirely—I meant it as a joke about royalty, not about you specifically—"

I stared at him, momentarily speechless. Then, to my own surprise, I felt my lips twitch. A small, slightly hysterical laugh escaped me.

"I'm so sorry," Fíli said, still looking mortified but with visible relief that I hadn't stormed off. "I was trying to make light of the situation and instead I made it worse."

"You did," I agreed, trying to get my laughter under control. "Though I suspect you've just proved you're related to Kíli after all. That's exactly the sort of thing he'd say."

"Please don't tell him that," Fíli groaned. "He'll be insufferable."

"Your secret is safe," I promised. 

The tension between us had eased, if only slightly. We stood together looking out at the stars, the silence now somewhat more comfortable. The wedding, the verification, all of it would still be waiting for me when we returned inside. But for now, for this moment, I could breathe. And sometimes sharing your burdens, even with the person partly responsible for them, made them easier to bear.

"Stop fidgeting," Lady Hilda said, adjusting yet another layer of what felt like enough fabric to make sails for an entire fleet.

"I'm not fidgeting," I lied. "I'm trying to figure out how I'm supposed to walk in this without tripping and causing an incident."

The wedding dress was... well, "dress" seemed like an inadequate word for what was essentially wearable architecture. Layer upon layer of silk and something called mithril thread (which apparently was worth more than everything I owned put together), all worked with geometric patterns that probably had deep cultural significance I was still learning.

"The weight distribution will be better once the final adjustments are made," one of the dwarf seamstresses assured me. Names Lihzad, she had the same intense focus I was starting to recognize in all dwarf craftspeople.

"Your mother would be proud to see you in this," one of the older seamstresses said, completely misinterpreting my expression.

I stared at my reflection in the enormous mirror they'd brought in specifically for this fitting. The dress was beautiful, objectively speaking. The kind of thing that would make headlines in fashion magazines, if this world had fashion magazines.

All I could think was: My mom would hate it.

"No," I said quietly, "she wouldn't. She would have taken one look at all this metalwork and asked if I was planning to go into battle after the ceremony."

The seamstresses exchanged looks I couldn't quite interpret.

"She would have made me try on something simple first," I continued, not sure why I was saying any of this out loud. "Something with flowers, probably. She loved flowers at weddings. She would have cried, but pretended she wasn't crying, and then made me try on her own wedding dress even though it would have been hopelessly out of style..."

I trailed off, realizing the room had gone very quiet.

"I'm sorry," I said, straightening my spine. "I'm being rather dreary."

"No," Lihzad said softly, "you're being honest. There's no shame in missing those who should be here."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. How do you tell people that you're missing a mother from another world? That you're grieving someone who might not even be dead, just unreachable?

"I need some air," I managed. "Can I...?"

"Of course." Lady Hilda helped me negotiate the layers of fabric. "Just don't go far. We need to finish the fitting."

I found a quiet alcove not far from the fitting room. The dress rustled with every movement, reminding me of its presence, its weight, its significance. I sat slowly, trying not to pull or tear anything.

"You look like you're planning an escape."

I turned to find Fíli watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. This habit of him finding me when I’d rather be alone with my thoughts was starting to be rather inconvenient. It was making it infinitely harder to maintain the facade of calm control I wanted. 

"If I was," I said, "this dress would definitely slow me down."

He smiled slightly. "It's... impressive."

"That's one word for it." I leaned against the stone wall, careful not to snag any of the expensive fabric. "I was just thinking about my mother. Wondering what she would think of all this."

Something flickered across his face. "I often wonder what my father would think. Of the mountain being reclaimed, of the alliances we're building..."

"Of you marrying a human?"

"That too." He moved to stand beside me, careful to keep some distance between us. "He died when I was young. Sometimes I can barely remember his face."

"I'm sorry." And I was, genuinely. "How did it happen?"

"Battle," he said simply. "Like many of our people." He glanced at me. "And your mother?"

I swallowed hard. "I... don't know. I lost her when I was young." It wasn't exactly a lie. "I don't even know..." I stopped myself. "It was a long time ago."

We were silent for a moment, each lost in our own thoughts.

"The dress suits you," he said finally. "Though you don't look comfortable in it."

"That obvious?"

"Only to someone paying attention." He smiled again, softer this time. He looked like he wanted to say more, but a messenger appeared at the end of the hallway.

"Your Highness," the messenger bowed to Fíli. "You're needed in the council chamber. Urgently."

Fíli frowned. "Now?"

"It's... a matter of some delicacy. Both of you are requested."

I looked down at my dress. "Both? I’ll need a moment to change."

"The matter can't wait," the messenger said, and something in his tone made my stomach clench.

I glanced up at Fíli, who looked equally confused. He gave an uncharacteristic shrug, then stepped back as I carefully stood up, rearranging the skirt of the dress before we followed the messenger down the hall.

The council chamber was full when we arrived. Too full for a routine meeting. Thorin sat at the head of the table, his expression thunderous. Several council members were on their feet, gesturing animatedly.

Everything went quiet when we entered.

"What's going on?" Fíli asked, moving to stand beside his uncle.

One of the older council members stepped forward, holding a piece of parchment. "Information has come to light," he said, his voice grave, "about the... legitimacy of this union."

"What information?" I asked, though I was starting to get a very bad feeling about this.

"You are not King Bard's natural daughter," he said, like he was pronouncing a death sentence. 

I blinked. "Yes? And?"

The room erupted into chaos. Dwarves shouting over each other in Khuzdul, gesturing wildly, some looking horrified, others angry.

"You knew about this?" Fíli's voice cut through the noise. He was staring at me like he'd never seen me before.

"Of course I knew about it. Da took me in when I was ten. Everyone in Dale knows about it. It's not exactly a secret."

"Not a secret?" Thorin's voice was dangerously quiet. "You mean to tell me that you knowingly entered into marriage negotiations without disclosing this... this vital information?"

I looked around the room, really looked. Every face showed some variation of shock, betrayal, or anger. Even Fíli wouldn't meet my eyes.

"I don't understand," I said slowly. "Why does this matter?"

"Matter?" One of the council members practically spat the word. "You would marry into the line of Durin without true royal blood? Without even the courtesy of honesty about your heritage?"

I paused, trying to give myself a moment to think before realizing I was at a complete loss about what to do. I was out of my depth.

"I need to go," I said, gathering up my ridiculous skirts. "I need to talk to my father. My adoptive father," I added, because apparently that needed clarification now.

"This discussion is not finished," Thorin started.

"Yes," I said, with all the dignity I could muster while wearing half a mine's worth of metal thread, "it is. At least until I speak with Da."

Then one of the council members said something in Khuzdul that made Fíli's head snap up. I caught the word "sister" and felt my blood run cold.

No.

No.

They wouldn't. They couldn't. But of course they could—isn't that exactly what I'd feared when this whole thing started? If I wasn't "legitimate" enough, they'd want someone who was. Someone with "true" royal blood.

Tilda. They'd want Tilda.

My little sister, who still braided flowers into her hair and dreamed of true love. Who deserved better than to be a political replacement for her defective older sister.

I didn't remember leaving the room. I didn't remember running through the halls, the ridiculous dress tangling around my legs with every step. I just knew I had to get home, had to warn Da, had to protect my sister from the political machine I'd foolishly thought I could handle.

Flying back into the dressing room, something tore as I ripped the dress off. I didn't care. Let them bill me for the precious mithril threads. Let them add it to the list of ways I'd failed to be the princess they wanted. I ran back into the hallway, my old dress barely done up, seamstresses shouting from the room I left. In the hall, someone shouted my name. It might have been Fíli. But I didn’t look back. Reaching the stables, I saddled my horse and urged him toward Dale, toward home, the wind whipping tears from my eyes.

Or maybe I was just crying.

Same difference, really.

I found Da in his study, because that's where Da always is when the world is falling apart. One look at me—still sloppily dressed, probably looking like I'd been dragged backward through the mountain—and he was on his feet.

"What happened?"

"They found out I'm adopted," I said, collapsing into a chair. "Apparently that's a problem. Apparently I'm not royal enough to marry into the precious line of Durin. Apparently—" My voice cracked. "Apparently they might want Tilda instead."

Da went very still. The kind of still that reminded me he wasn't always a king. Sometimes he was just a father protecting his children.

"Tell me everything."

So I did. The fitting, the council meeting, the looks on their faces when they realized I wasn't Da's "real" daughter. By the time I finished, Da was pacing.

"They can't possibly think—"

A knock at the door interrupted him. One of the guards entered, looking uncomfortable.

"Prince Fíli is here, Your Majesty. He requests an immediate audience."

"Of course he does," I muttered.

"Show him in," Da said. "Sigrid, perhaps you should—"

"I'm staying." I stood up, gathering my cloak around me like armor. "This involves me."

"Very well." Da's voice had that dangerous quiet again. "But let me handle this."

Fíli entered alone, which was unusual for a prince. He looked... tired. Good. He should be tired.

"King Bard," he started formally.

"No," Da cut him off. "No formalities. Not for this. You come to my city, question my daughter's legitimacy, and then dare to suggest—"

"The council has concerns," Fíli interrupted. "Legitimate concerns about—"

"About what?" I demanded. "About the fact that Da chose me? That I'm not enough for your precious bloodline?"

“Sigrid…” Da started.

"This isn't about—" Fíli interrupted.

"If you say this isn't about blood, I swear by everything holy I will throw something at you." I looked around for something throwable. There was a solid candlestick that would work nicely in a pinch.

"Sigrid," Da warned again, but I was beyond caring.

"You want to talk about legitimacy?" I advanced on Fíli. "Let's talk about how legitimate it is to try to replace me with my baby sister. Let's talk about how legitimate it is to throw away months of negotiations because someone finally noticed something that was never a secret!"

"No one is suggesting—"

"I heard them! In your precious secret language that I'm barely allowed to learn. I heard them talking about my sister!"

"The council was merely discussing options—"

"Options?" My laugh wasn't a nice sound. "Is that what we're calling it? Using my sister as a backup plan is an 'option'? Let me tell you right now. She is not. An. Option."

"Enough." Da's voice cut through the argument. "Prince Fíli, let me be very clear. Sigrid is my daughter. Not by birth, no, but by choice. By love. By fifteen years of family. If your people cannot understand that, then perhaps we should reconsider this alliance entirely."

"The alliance is important," Fíli said, but he sounded less certain.

"Yes," Da agreed. "It is. But not at the cost of my daughters' happiness. Either of them."

"The council feels—"

"I don't care what the council feels!" I was shouting now. "I don't care about their precious bloodlines or their traditions or their 'concerns.' I care about protecting my sister from being forced into the same position I'm in!"

"The same position you're in?" Fíli's voice went cold. "The position of marrying a prince? Of becoming a princess of Erebor? Is that such a terrible fate?"

"It is when it's not a choice! When every decision is made for you, when every tradition is forced on you, when you can't even have your family at your own wedding because it's not 'proper'!"

"Those traditions exist for a reason—"

"Those traditions exist because your people are so wrapped up in the past they can't see what's right in front of them!" I was furious, and angry tears that I couldn't stop leaked from my eyes. "You want legitimacy? Fine. I legitimately think you're all so obsessed with bloodlines that you've forgotten what family actually means!"

Silence fell. I could feel Da's hand on my shoulder, steadying me.

"The adoption was never hidden," Da said quietly. "It was never a secret. Every person in Dale knows Sigrid's story. They know she is my daughter by choice, not birth. And they accept her as their princess without question."

"Dwarven culture is different," Fíli started.

"Then perhaps," Da suggested, "dwarven culture needs to learn that different doesn't mean wrong."

More silence.

"I will... speak with the council," Fíli said finally. "And my uncle."

"You do that," I said. "And while you're at it, you can tell them that if anyone so much as looks at Tilda wrong, this alliance is over. I don't care if I have to tear that stupid wedding dress into pieces and return every scrap of mithril myself."

He looked at me for a long moment. "You really would, wouldn't you?"

"Try me."

He nodded once, turned, and left. No bow, no formal goodbye. Just gone.

I waited until the door closed before my legs gave out and I collapsed onto a chair. Da came over and hugged me.

"I'm staying here tonight," I said into his shoulder.

"Of course you are." He stroked my hair like he used to when I was small. It still helped. 

Later, curled up in Tilda's bed like we used to do during thunderstorms, I told her everything. Well, almost everything. She didn't need to know about being the backup plan.

"Are you still going to marry him?" she asked sleepily.

"I don't know." I stared at the ceiling. "Probably. If they let me. Politics doesn't care much about feelings."

"That's stupid."

"Yeah." I pulled her closer. "It really is."

I didn't sleep much that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the looks on their faces when they realized I wasn't "real" royalty. Heard the whispers in Khuzdul. Felt the weight of generations of tradition trying to crush me into a shape I'd never fit.

But I had my sister's warm weight against my side, proof that some things were worth fighting for. Worth protecting.

Chapter Text

There's something about sleeping in your childhood bed that makes even the most complicated problems seem simpler. At least until morning. I woke to sunlight streaming through the windows—real windows, with real sunlight—and Tilda's elbow digging into my ribs as she sprawled across three-quarters of the bed despite being half my size.

For a glorious, disoriented moment, I forgot everything. The mountain. The wedding plans. The council's horror at my common blood sullying their precious lineage. Then it all came rushing back, and I couldn't decide whether to bury my face in the pillow and scream or start planning my new life as a disgraced almost-princess.

"I forgot how much you snore," Tilda mumbled, her eyes still closed. "Like a troll with a head cold."

"I do not."

"Do too." She cracked one eye open. "Are you leaving today?"

The simple question carried so much weight. Was I leaving? Back to the mountain? Back to negotiations and compromises and traditions that made no sense to me? Or was I staying here, where the air moved freely and the sun warmed my face without having to be redirected through elaborate systems of mirrors and shafts?

"I don't know yet," I admitted. "We'll see."

She nodded against the pillow. "If you stay, can I have your fancy mountain dresses? The blue one with the silver bits would look amazing on me."

Despite everything, I laughed. "Those dresses would swallow you whole. And they weigh more than you do."

"I could grow into them." She sat up, suddenly more awake. "I mean, not that I want you to stay. Well, I do, but not because—I mean, if you want to go back—"

"It's okay." I squeezed her hand. "I know what you mean."

We fell into silence for a moment, the weight of the situation settling around us again.

"Do you like him now? Is that why you can’t decide?" Tilda asked, cutting straight to the heart of things as only she could.

"Prince Fíli? I hardly know him."

"That's not what I asked."

I considered the question. Did I like Fíli? The formal, distant prince I'd first met? Not particularly. But there had been glimpses of someone else—someone thoughtful, occasionally wry, surprisingly stubborn about the things that mattered to him.

"Sometimes," I admitted. "When he's not being so... princely."

Tilda nodded as if this made perfect sense. "That's how I feel about that boy in Master Kirin's class. He's nice when he's not showing off for his friends."

"I don't think it's quite the same," I said dryly.

"Isn't it, though?" She looked up at me. "People act differently when they're trying to impress other people. Maybe Prince Fíli's just trying to impress his uncle and all those old dwarves."

"Maybe," I conceded. The thought had crossed my mind more than once. "Or maybe that's just who he is now—the dutiful heir."

"Or maybe he's both," she suggested. "Like you're both our bossy big sister and Dale's princess." She grinned to take the sting from the words. "People can be two things."

"When did you get so wise?" I asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I've always been wise. You've just been too busy being responsible to notice."

I laughed, leaning over to ruffle her hair and escaped to find some breakfast.

The next three days passed in a haze of relief and anxiety. I spent my mornings checking on rebuilding projects—inspecting the improved drainage system I'd designed for the lower market, reviewing plans for the eastern quarter expansion, arguing with the same stubborn councilmen who'd always thought they knew better than "Bard's girl."

It felt wonderfully normal. Familiar in all the ways the mountain never had been. Here, people knew me—not as a foreign princess being grudgingly integrated into dwarven society, but as Sigrid who fixed things.

But underneath the comfort of routine ran a current of uncertainty. I'd expected some kind of messenger from Erebor by now—a demand for my return, a rebuke for my behavior, something. But three days had passed in silence. What was happening in the mountain? Were they already negotiating for Tilda? Was the entire alliance in jeopardy? Either they were deliberating longer than I'd anticipated, or they were giving me space. Both possibilities were unsettling in their own way.

Finally, a week after my dramatic departure from Erebor, Lady Hilda finally arrived. She came without fanfare or ceremony, simply knocking on my bedroom door one morning as I was trying to braid my hair in a traditional dwarf style for what felt like the thousandth time. The emphasis here is on "trying"—it looked more like I'd gotten into a fight with a ball of yarn and lost spectacularly. I was surprised to see her. I would have expected her to wait until I came back to the mountain. If I came back.

"You're overthinking it," she said, coming to stand behind me. Her own braids were, of course, perfect. "Here, let me."

I dropped my hands in defeat. "How do you make it look so easy?"

"Practice." Her fingers moved through my hair with practiced efficiency. "And patience. Two things you seem to be running short on lately."

"That obvious?"

"You've been avoiding the mountain for a week." She met my eyes in the mirror. "And your braids look like you're declaring war on the Iron Hills while simultaneously announcing your intention to become a cheese merchant."

I snorted. "That's... oddly specific." I was almost sure she was making that up. Almost.

"Braids are a language," she said, undoing my mess and starting over. "Right now you're speaking gibberish. Very angry gibberish."

We were quiet for a moment as she worked. The rhythmic tugging was almost hypnotic.

"I used to do this for my daughter," she said suddenly.

I blinked in surprise. In all our time together, she'd never mentioned a daughter.

"What happened?" I asked softly.

"Dragon fire." Her hands never faltered in their work. "When Smaug came to Erebor. She was just learning to braid her own hair. Kept getting frustrated because her fingers wouldn't do what she wanted."

"I'm so sorry."

"It was a long time ago." She started a complicated pattern near my temple. "But sometimes, when I'm teaching you, I see that same frustration in your face. That same determination to get it right, even when it feels impossible."

I swallowed hard. "I’m guessing you heard what happened? With the council?"

"I did." Her expression gave nothing away. "I also heard about Prince Fíli's response the next day."

I sat up straighter. The next day? She couldn’t have been referring to his visit here then. "What response?"

"You don't know?" She raised an eyebrow. "The council has been in session almost constantly since your departure. There were... spirited discussions. Apparently it got quite heated.""

"What do you mean, heated?"

"Well," she worked another strand into the pattern, "according to my sources, Prince Fíli argued most strongly on your behalf," she continued. "He reminded the council of the importance of the alliance, of the promises made, of the—" She paused, seemingly searching for the right phrasing. "Of the unique perspective you bring to the mountain."

"And did they listen?"

"We respect directness," she said, securing another braid and not quite answering my qestion. "And passion in defense of one's beliefs. There was almost a duel, in fact, after one councilor made some particularly crass remarks about you. Prince Kíli had to hold him back. He made quite an impression."

"And what did King Thorin say?"

Lady Hilda hesitated, which told me all I needed to know. "The King Under the Mountain values tradition greatly," she said carefully. "But he also values his sister-sons. And Prince Fíli made it clear that he would not consider another match."

I turned to look at her directly. "He said that? About me?"

"His exact words were somewhat more... colorful," Lady Hilda replied, a hint of amusement breaking through her composure. "But yes, that was the essence."

"What about Tilda?" I pressed. "Was there talk of replacing me with her?"

"Some council members made suggestions," she acknowledged. "Prince Fíli shut down that line of discussion immediately."

Relief washed through me. "So what happens now?"

"That depends on you," Lady Hilda said. "The betrothal still stands, if you wish it to. The formal documents will be adjusted to acknowledge your status as daughter by adoption, but the substantive terms remain unchanged."

I nodded, digesting this information. "And my sister? SHe’s truly safe from being considered as... a replacement?"

"Prince Fíli was quite clear on that point." Lady Hilda's voice held a note of respect I hadn't heard before. "The princess of Dale—you—or no one."

The knot of tension that had been lodged in my chest for days loosened slightly. "I see."

"You should know," Lady Hilda added, her voice gentler than I'd ever heard it, "that not everyone on the council opposed the marriage. Many were impressed by your work with the Water Guild, your quick mastery of our customs, your willingness to adapt. The prince had allies in his arguments."

"I..." I swallowed, unexpectedly moved. "Thank you for telling me."

"The mountain can be harsh and unyielding," she said, "but not everyone within it is made of stone. Remember that, Princess."

I nodded, unsure what else to say.

Two days later, I made my decision.

Not with any grand epiphany or dramatic moment of clarity. Just the slow realization that staying in Dale, satisfying as it might be in the short term, solved nothing. The alliance would still be necessary. The mountain would still be there. And somewhere in that mountain was a dwarf who had stood up for me when it would have been easier not to.

I owed him at least a conversation.

I didn't announce my intentions, didn't take a formal escort. Just saddled my horse early one morning and rode to the mountain alone, my mind racing ahead to what I might say, how I might explain the tangled mess of feelings I couldn't quite sort out myself.

The guards at Erebor's gate recognized me immediately, their expressions a mixture of surprise and relief. I asked them not to announce me—not yet. There was something I needed to do first.

Finding Fíli's forge took some doing. The craftsmen's quarter wasn't an area I'd spent much time in during my previous months in the mountain. But dwarves are proud of their craft-halls, and eventually I found a young apprentice willing to guide me to the royal workshops.

"The prince has been there since dawn," the apprentice told me as we wound through corridors I'd never seen before. We eventually came to a stop outside a door that looked the same as all the others in the hall.

"Here you are, Princess," the apprentice bowed. "Shall I announce you?"

"No," I said quickly. "Thank you."

The apprentice nodded and retreated, leaving me alone before the forge door. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and knocked firmly.

No answer.

I knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing.

Frowning, I tried the door handle. It turned easily, the door swinging inward on well-oiled hinges. The blast of heat that greeted me was startling—not just warmth but real, intense forge-heat that made the air shimmer.

The workshop was larger than I'd expected, with a proper forge at one end, workbenches along the walls, and tools hung in meticulous order on every available surface. It smelled of hot metal and coal, of flux and quenching oil, familiar scents that reminded me of Dale's smithies.

And there was Fíli, bent over an anvil, his back to the door. He wore a sleeveless tunic, his hair pulled back in a simple queue rather than his usual elaborate braids. The muscles in his arms flexed as he brought a hammer down on something I couldn't quite see, the metal singing under his precise strikes.Without the formal attire and rigid posture of court, he looked... different. 

He was so focused on his work that he hadn't heard my knocking or my entrance. I hesitated, suddenly uncertain about interrupting what was clearly an intense concentration. But before I could decide whether to speak or retreat, he set down his hammer, picked up the piece he was working on with tongs, and turned toward the quenching barrel.

That's when he saw me.

"Princess Sigrid," he said, surprise evident in his voice. "I... didn't know you had returned."’

"Hello," I said, suddenly feeling awkward and uncertain. What had seemed so necessary, so urgent back in Dale now felt impulsive and rash. "I... I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

He set down his tools carefully, his eyes never leaving my face. "Nothing that can't wait."

I  glanced at the item he'd been working on—something small and silver, with intricate detailing I couldn't quite make out. He noticed my interest and casually covered it with a cloth.

"My second courting gift," he explained with a hint of embarrassment. "It's not finished yet."

"Oh." I hadn't expected that. "You're still working on it? Even after..."

"Even then." He shrugged slightly. "I started it before... everything happened. And working with my hands helps me think."

I nodded, understanding that impulse all too well. How many hours had I spent at my workbench in Dale, keeping my hands busy while my mind tried to untangle problems?

"I apologize for the heat," Fíli said, wiping his hands on a cloth. "And the noise."

"It's fine," I said. "I didn't mean to interrupt your work."

"You didn't." He hesitated. "That is, I was nearly finished for the day."

Silence stretched between us, neither quite sure what to say next.

"Lady Hilda told me about the council," I said finally, deciding to approach the matter directly. "About your advocacy for the marriage to proceed."

His expression remained carefully neutral. "Did she?"

"She did." I took a deep breath. "I wanted to thank you. For that. And to apologize for my... reaction. In Dale."

He looked surprised. "You're apologizing to me?"

"For shouting, yes. For losing my temper." I met his gaze directly. "Not for what I said. ”

"You shouldn’t. Apologize for that, I mean.” His voice turned low and intense, a hint of frustration breaking through. "You're incredibly competent, practical, intelligent—exactly the kind of partner any kingdom would benefit from. And they were ready to throw all that away over some ancient protocol about bloodlines. I’m sorry I failed to stand up for you sooner."

The apology caught me off guard. "I... thank you."

He looked away, seeming almost embarrassed by his outburst. "It's only the truth."

"Still," I said. "It's nice to hear. Especially after..." I gestured vaguely, encompassing the whole debacle.

We stood there in the warm glow of the forge, the silence between us no longer as heavy as it had been. The constant hum of the mountain—the distant sounds of hammers and voices and life—filled the space our words had left.

"Lady Hilda also mentioned you refused to consider alternatives," I said carefully, watching his expression. "Including my sister."

His face hardened immediately. "That was never a real option."

"For some on the council, it seemed to be."

"Not for me." He picked up a small hammer, turning it in his hands as if checking for imperfections. "I made promises to you, not to your sister. And I would not..." He paused, searching for words. "I would not subject anyone else to this arrangement."

The phrasing made me wince. "You make it sound like a punishment."

He set down the hammer with more force than necessary. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I meant that this whole situation—the alliance, the marriage, the expectations—it's complicated enough. I understand what your sister means to you. Whatever my council might have suggested, I would never have agreed to it."

Relief washed through me again. "Thank you for that."

He nodded, looking almost uncomfortable with my gratitude. "It was the right thing to do."

"Still. Not everyone would have done it."

He turned away slightly, now busying himself with organizing tools that already looked perfectly arranged. Watching him made me want to fidget, although I had nothing to hand but the skirt of my dress. "I've been thinking," he said after a moment, "about what you said in Dale. About traditions."

I tensed, preparing for a lecture on the importance of dwarven customs.

"You weren't entirely wrong," he continued, surprising me. "Some of our traditions... they exist for valid reasons, but perhaps we cling to them too rigidly."

"I didn't mean to dismiss everything," I said, feeling suddenly defensive of him. "I was angry."

"Understandably so." He turned back to face me. "But it made me think about which traditions truly matter and which are just... habit."

I raised an eyebrow. "That sounds dangerously close to innovation, Your Highness."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Perhaps I'm not as set in stone as you thought."

"Perhaps not," I agreed, studying him in the forge light. Without the formal braids and royal attire, he looked younger, less burdened. More like the dwarf who had tumbled out of our toilet, who had sounded downright cheery when I stabbed an orc.

"I've been speaking with our lore-keepers," he continued. "About adoption in dwarven culture."

"And?"

"It's not common, but it's not unheard of either. Especially after battles or mine disasters." He picked up a polishing cloth, his fingers working it absently. "The council was reacting to the surprise more than the fact itself."

"An entire kingdom knows I'm adopted," I pointed out. "It's hardly a secret."

"A human kingdom," he countered. "And our people... we haven't had much contact with humans in recent centuries. Not until Thorin's quest. Things that seem obvious to you might not be to us."

I wanted to be annoyed at this explanation, but I found I couldn't. It was too reasonable, too honest.

"I think," he said, "we both have a lot to learn about each other's cultures. Not just the formal courtesies and ceremonies, but the deeper understandings."

"That's... surprisingly insightful," I said.

He smiled—a real smile this time, not the careful diplomatic one I'd grown accustomed to. "Don't sound so shocked."

"I'm not shocked," I protested. "Just... pleasantly surprised."

"I do have my moments," he said, a hint of humor in his voice.

I laughed, the sound echoing off the forge walls. "So you do."

We fell silent again, but this time the quiet felt companionable rather than awkward.

"Will you return to the mountain?" he asked finally. "Officially, I mean."

I looked around the forge, at the practical beauty of the space, the tools arranged with care, the evidence of skill and patience all around us. Then back at Fíli, standing there without his princely armor.

"Yes," I said. "I will."

His shoulders relaxed slightly. "Good."

"I just..." I hesitated, trying to find the right words. "I hope things can be different. Not completely different, but..."

"What would you like to see change?" he asked, his tone careful but not dismissive.

I considered my answer, wanting to be honest without sounding demanding. "I enjoyed working with the Water Guild. Having something real to contribute, using skills I've developed. I'd like to continue that, if possible."

He nodded. "I think that can be arranged. Master Graedo has been asking when you might return."

"Really?" I couldn't hide my surprise.

"Really," he confirmed, with the ghost of a smile. "Your 'unconventional perspective' apparently proved useful."

"And..." I continued, encouraged by his response, "I'd like to visit Dale when I can. Not abandon my responsibilities in Erebor, just... be able to my family and home."

"Of course," he said, as if this were the most reasonable request in the world. "I wouldn't expect otherwise."

I nodded, relief washing through me. "Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me for basic considerations," he said, his brow furrowing slightly. "This arrangement... it shouldn't feel like a prison."

"It doesn’t," I said slowly.. "Or at least, not so much anymore. Not because of you specifically, but the mountain itself, the protocols, the constant feeling of being an outsider trying to fit impossible standards. It’s a lot to get used to."

He nodded slowly, his hands settling on the workbench.

"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I think you've already proven you belong far more than you might think.” 

He met my eyes then, something warm in his gaze that made my breath catch slightly.

Right. This was definitely wandering into dangerous territory.

"I should go," I said, standing perhaps a bit too quickly. "I need to speak with Da—with my father—before I formally return."

"Of course." He hesitated, then added, "I'm glad you came here. To the forge, I mean."

"So am I." And I meant it. Seeing him here, surrounded by his craft rather than his duties, had shown me a side of him I might never have discovered in the formal halls of Erebor.

I turned to leave, then paused at the door. "I'll be back tomorrow. Officially, this time."

"I'll inform Thorin," he said. Then, with a hint of the wry humor I was beginning to recognize: "Perhaps we can avoid another council session."

"That would be preferable," I said. "For everyone's sake."

He laughed—a genuine, unguarded sound I'd rarely heard from him. 

"Until tomorrow, then," I said.

"Until tomorrow," he echoed.

As I walked away, I found myself smiling. Not because everything was resolved—far from it. We still had a mountain of differences to navigate, traditions to negotiate, an entire marriage to somehow make work.

But for the first time since this began, I felt like I was choosing rather than being chosen for. And perhaps, just perhaps, the dwarf I was marrying might eventually be someone I could actually like.

Chapter Text

Traditions are funny things. They start for a reason—perhaps practical, perhaps symbolic—but over time, the original purpose fades into background noise while the ritual itself takes center stage. Once, after a soccer game when I was eight, I was absolutely starving. The only thing my dad had in the truck was a bag of sunflower seeds. Rather than drive home, we sat on the tailgate and he taught me how to crack them between my teeth and spit the shell out while still saving the edible part. I still remember how much I enjoyed that, getting to spend time just the two of us. So of course, after the next game, I asked if he had any more. Despite teasing me that it made me more baseball player than soccer player, he pulled out a new bag from the backseat, and a tradition was born. I don’t remember all the rules of soccer, or even who my teammates were. But I remember fresh bags of salty sunflower seeds after every game and my dad and I competing over who could spit shells the farthest.

The dwarven traditions, I’ve found, are not quite so enjoyable. The second courtship gift was another opportunity for the bride and groom to show commitment, understanding, and admiration through gift giving. 

In reality, it felt more like a performance review with an audience.

Things with Fili had gotten…better. Since our conversation in the forge, it felt like we were both being cautiously warmer with each other. Or at least, no longer openly hostile. It felt like we both wanted to be friends, but neither of us quite seemed sure how to make it happen. It added even more weight to this next gift exchange. Well, I don’t know if Fili felt more pressure. But I certainly did. For a while, it seemed like it would be just Fili and I for this exchange, unlike the first exchange, which had been a public spectacle with witnesses from both kingdoms. I had been elated. It was one thing to embarrass myself in front of Fili. Quite another to do it in front of a full council.

Yesterday, I was informed that this exchange was actually attended by the immediate family of the couple—Thorin, Lady Dís, and Kíli on Fili's side and, to my delight, Da, Bain, and Tilda on mine. Better than a room full of councilors, true. But when the groom’s family included a literal king, there was still a certain level of formality. And intimidation. True, Da was a king. But he didn’t count, not really. 

Lady Hilda had spent the morning fussing over my appearance, weaving strands of silver thread through my braids until my neck was stiff from holding still. The braids and beads, of course, meant something. The pattern of the left-side braid signified my engaged status. The right side... honestly, I'd stopped listening after the tenth explanation. There are only so many meanings a person can absorb before breakfast.

"The blue dress," Lady Hilda decided, pulling the elaborate garment from my wardrobe. "With the silver embroidery. It complements the thread in the braids."

"Isn't this a bit formal for a private gift exchange?" I asked, eyeing the gown's multiple layers with trepidation. "It’s just family." Mine had made their way up from Dale this morning. According to Tilda’s letters, their invitation had arrived a few weeks ago. Fili had sent it himself, apparently. 

Lady Hilda's expression suggested I'd proposed attending in my nightclothes. "Private does not mean casual, Princess. This is still a ceremonial occasion."

I sighed, surrendering to the inevitable. Three months ago I would have argued, but I was learning to pick my battles. The dress wasn't worth the energy.

"Fine," I said. "The blue dress it is."

As Nia helped me into the gown, I found my thoughts drifting to Fili and the silver object I'd glimpsed in his forge. What had he created? Something practical? Decorative? Another weapon?

I'd spent weeks on my own gift, working late into the night after my lessons and meetings had concluded. I had asked for some insight from Lady Hilda, but she reminded me that choosing what to make was my decision. Fortunately, Master Torbin had no such compunction and helped me acquire the materials and provided guidance when needed. Still, the design and execution were mine alone. It wasn't traditional, but then, I wasn't necessarily a traditional bride-to-be either.

"There," Lady Hilda stepped back, surveying me critically. "You look suitable."

From her, this qualified as high praise.

"Remember," she said as we prepared to leave my chambers, "express appropriate appreciation regardless of your personal feelings about the gift. This is about diplomacy, not taste."

"I know how to be polite," I said, perhaps a bit more sharply than intended.

The chamber was already occupied when we arrived. Thorin stood near the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, looking every inch the king even in this private setting. Lady Dís sat nearby, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable. Kíli lounged against the wall, offering me a small smile and wink when I entered. 

And there was my family—Da, regal despite his obvious discomfort in the mountain setting; Bain, standing tall and trying very hard to look as though underground chambers were perfectly normal places to be; and Tilda, barely containing her excitement as she took in every detail of the room with wide eyes.

"Sigrid!" Tilda spotted me first, her face lighting up. She started forward, then seemed to remember where she was and executed an awkward curtsy instead. "You look so fancy!"

"So do you," I replied, genuinely pleased to see her in the new dress she'd been saving for special occasions. It made her look so grown up. "All of you do." I hugged them all, protocol be damned. It had been weeks since I'd seen them on my flight to Dale, and the familiar scent of home clung to their clothes, bringing a lump to my throat.

Da squeezed my hand. "You're well?" he asked quietly.

"I am," I assured him, and was surprised to realize it was mostly true.

Fili stood slightly apart from the others, dressed in formal attire that complemented mine a bit too perfectly. Clearly our outfits had been coordinated in advance.

"Princess Sigrid," Thorin greeted me with a regal nod.

"Your Majesty," I said with the curtsy I'd practiced a thousand times. At this point, it almost felt natural. "Thank you for hosting this occasion."

Formalities exchanged, I moved to stand opposite Fili. He looked... different. Not physically—he was as meticulously polished as ever, his hair and beard elaborately braided, his clothes impeccable. But there was something in his eyes, a tension I hadn't noticed before.

Nervousness? Surely not. Maybe his clothes were just as uncomfortable as mine.

“Thank you for inviting my family,” I said to him, dropping my voice. “It means a great deal to have them here.”

The tension eased slightly, even if he didn’t smile while he gave me a small bow. 

“No thanks are necessary,” he said, before being cut off by Thorin clearing his throat, drawing everyone's attention. "Now that all are present, let us proceed." 

"The second gift exchange," he announced, his deep voice filling the room, "represents the deepening bond between betrothed. The groom's gift symbolizes his commitment to provide for and protect his bride, showcasing his craft and dedication to their future together. The bride's gift, in turn, demonstrates her own commitment and understanding of her betrothed's character and needs. Both gifts reflect not just the givers, but the growing connection between them."

Fili stepped forward, producing a small box from inside his formal coat. It was carved from a single piece of dark wood, inlaid with silver in geometric patterns that reminded me of flowing water.

"Princess Sigrid," he said, his voice steady but somehow softer than his usual formal tone, "I offer this gift as a symbol of our future."

He opened the box, revealing what lay inside. For a moment, I couldn't quite comprehend what I was seeing. It was silver, that much was clear—beautifully worked silver that caught the light from the hearth and seemed to glow from within. But its shape...

It was a hairpin. A hairpin with a small silver dragon perched at one end.

A dragon. Again.

I fought to keep my expression neutral as my mind raced. Was he joking? Had he learned nothing? Or was he so oblivious to my feelings that he thought this was an improvement—a smaller dragon, at least, and one I could wear in my hair instead of carrying at my hip?

No, that couldn't be right. Fili wasn't cruel, and after our recent conversations, I couldn't believe he was oblivious either. There must be some meaning I was missing.

"Thank you," I managed, accepting the box with hands I forced not to tremble. At least this time, I was too confused and annoyed to be upset. "The craftsmanship is exquisite."

Something in my tone must have tipped Fili off, because he glanced up from where he had fixed his gaze on the box. I felt heat rush to my cheeks as he stared at me. "The dragon represents transformation," Fili explained, slowly, cautiously. "In our oldest tales, dragons were not always enemies. They were creatures of power and knowledge, guardians of sacred wisdom."

I looked more closely at the small silver sculpture. Now that he mentioned it, this dragon didn't resemble Smaug at all. Where the dagger had featured sharp edges and cruel angles, this creature was sinuous, almost graceful, its expression alert rather than malevolent.

"But more importantly," Fili continued, his gaze steady on mine, "this particular design comes from Dale's own history. Before Smaug, a guardian dragon was part of Dale's emblems—a protector of the valley and its people."

I blinked in surprise, then looked to Da for confirmation. He nodded, a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

"I’ve seen it in some of the old records," he said. "Though not many of them survived the dragon's coming."

"I searched our archives," Fili explained. "It seemed... appropriate to honor both our traditions."

"It's beautiful," I said, meaning it this time. "Truly. Thank you."

"May I see?" Tilda asked, unable to contain herself any longer. I passed her the box, and she examined the hairpin with unconcealed delight. "It's so delicate! Like it might fly away any moment."

"That's the idea," Fili said, a genuine smile briefly lighting his features. "The old Dale emblem showed the dragon in flight—guarding from above."

"I've seen something like it, I think," Bain added, leaning closer. "On some of the oldest buildings in the eastern quarter. The stonework's worn, but you can still make out the shape."

"The pin itself is mithril-strengthened," Fili continued. "Stronger than it appears. It will hold through any storm."

Like our alliance, I supposed. The symbolism wasn't particularly subtle, but it seemed sincere.

"Thank you," I said again, closing the box carefully. "I'll treasure it."

Kíli caught my eye from across the room and gave me a small thumbs-up, which I pretended not to notice. Lady Dís studied me with an expression I couldn't quite read, while Thorin remained impassive.

Even with Fili's explanation, I couldn't help but feel a complicated mixture of emotions. The boldness of offering another dragon after our first disastrous gift exchange was either remarkably brave or completely tone-deaf—I wasn't entirely sure which. He had to know how risky this choice was.

And yet... there was something almost admirable about his willingness to try again, to reclaim a symbol that had been corrupted. But I still wasn't sure how I felt about wearing a dragon in my hair, guardian symbol or not. Maybe I could. For the sake of the alliance. For his sake. 

This was off to a decent start. Now it was my turn. I reached into the small bag I'd brought, removing the package wrapped in blue silk.

"Prince Fili," I said, willing my voice to remain steady, "I created this gift with my own hands, for you, as a symbol of my dedication to our partnership."

I handed him the package, watching his face carefully as he unwrapped it. The silk fell away to reveal my creation: a water clock, small enough to sit on a desk but intricately designed with a series of chambers and channels that would measure time through the controlled flow of water.

It had taken me weeks to perfect, combining what I'd learned from books and Master Torbin, the few examples we had in Dale, and some new techniques I had picked up in Erebor. The clock's outer casing was carved wood—not as fine as dwarven work, but I had done my best to create something that resembles the outline of both mountain and valley. The interior mechanisms were brass and silver, each piece fitted precisely to control the water's movement.

Nobody said anything.

"It's a water clock," I said, unable to stop myself from filling the silence. "The water flows from chamber to chamber, marking the hours. I thought..." I hesitated, then continued, "I thought it might be useful for your forge work, to track time without having to check the great bell tower."

Fili turned the clock in his hands, examining it from different angles. His expression was carefully controlled, but I could see the slight furrow in his brow, the tightness around his mouth.

He didn't like it. My heart sank.

"The craftsmanship is impressive," he said after a moment, his voice betraying nothing. Some days I wish I had his skill of keeping my feelings hidden. "You designed this yourself?"

"Yes," I said. "With some guidance from Master Torbin on the metal fittings."

He nodded, studying the clock with what looked like genuine interest, if not enthusiasm. "The precision required for the water channels must have been challenging to achieve."

"It was," I said. "I had to remake several sections before the flow was consistent enough to measure time accurately."

Thorin stepped closer, examining the clock over Fili's shoulder. "An interesting choice," he said. "Water is not a medium we often work with in the mountain, except in our engineering."

"I know," I said. It didn’t sound like Thorin approved either.  "But you mentioned once that you'd worked through dinner twice in the same week. I wanted to create something that might help with that, something that wouldn't need constant winding or attention while you're focused on your craft. Water keeps flowing, just as your work continues, but it also reminds you that time is passing too. And it's useful, not just decorative."

The moment the words left my mouth, I realized my mistake. The implication that Fili's gift was "just decorative" hung in the air between us, impossible to take back. I might as well have announced to the entire room that I found his carefully crafted dragon hairpin frivolous compared to my practical clock.

To his credit, Fili didn't react visibly to the unintended slight. "It is indeed useful," he said, "and unexpected. Thank you."

But there was a stiffness in his voice that hadn't been there before. Great. 

Lady Dís broke the awkward silence. "A thoughtful gift, Princess," she said, her tone suggesting the opposite. "Though perhaps more aligned with human tastes than dwarven."

"Our traditions value beauty and craftsmanship," Thorin added, his deep voice rumbling with what might have been disapproval. "Functionality alone is not our highest aim."

"I didn't mean to suggest—" I began, but Kíli interrupted.

"I think it's brilliant," he said cheerfully, moving to examine the clock more closely. "We're always losing track of time down there. This would solve that problem neatly."

His intervention, while well-intentioned, only emphasized that my gift had missed the mark. I'd created something practical, problem-solving, firmly rooted in my own perspectives and skills. And in doing so, I'd once again failed to understand what would truly resonate with dwarven sensibilities—with Fili. Which was supposed to be the whole point of this exchange.

Tilda, who had been watching the exchange with increasing impatience, piped up. "Well, I think both gifts are wonderful. The dragon is pretty, and the clock is useful. What's wrong with having both?"

Now that was an intervention I could appreciate. The straightforward comment, delivered Tilda’s characteristic directness, broke some of the tension. Kíli laughed outright, while even Thorin's stern countenance relaxed slightly.

"Indeed, Princess Tilda," he said gravely. "A wise observation."

The gathering continued with refreshments and somewhat stilted conversation.  Kíli did his best to keep things light, chattering about recent hunting expeditions and upcoming festivals. Thorin and Lady Dís maintained regal composure, neither overtly hostile nor particularly warm. Having my family present made it bearable—Tilda's unfiltered enthusiasm for everything dwarven, Bain's earnest questions about mountain architecture, and Da's steady presence creating a buffer against the formality that might otherwise have overwhelmed us. And Fili... Fili was as formal and distant as he'd been during our first meetings, all trace of the more relaxed dwarf I'd glimpsed in his forge carefully hidden away.

I almost would have rather he told me he hated the gift than bear this return to formality. It made my heart do something uncomfortable in my chest. 

When it was time for my family to depart, I walked with them to the grand entrance hall, savoring those last moments together. By the time I returned to my chambers, my head was pounding and my spirits had sunk to somewhere beneath the mountain's deepest mines.

"That could have been better," Lady Hilda observed as she helped me remove the elaborate hair ornaments.

"That's one way of putting it," I said, wincing as a particularly tight braid came undone.

"The water clock was... an unconventional choice."

I sighed. "You can say it was terrible. Everyone else thought it."

"Not terrible," Lady Hilda corrected. "Simply unexpected. Dwarven courtship gifts typically emphasize beauty and permanence. Objects that endure, like our mountains."

"And I gave him something filled with water that will eventually evaporate if not refilled," I said, dropping my face into my hands. "Wonderful symbolism for a marriage."

To my surprise, Lady Hilda laughed—a genuine, warm sound I'd rarely heard from her. "Well, when you put it that way..."

I couldn't help joining her, the tension of the day finding release in slightly hysterical laughter. "I really am terrible at this," I gasped between giggles. "Maybe they should have reconsidered after finding out I'm adopted."

The hairpin sat on my dressing table, the silver dragon catching the lamplight. I picked it up, examining it more carefully this time. 

"What do you think of it now that you understand its meaning?" Lady Hilda asked as she tackled another thread-woven braid.

"I'm not sure," I admitted, turning the hairpin to catch the light. "It was thoughtful of him to research Dale's history, to find a symbol that predates Smaug. But it's still..."

"A dragon," she finished for me. "And dragons will always be complicated for you."

I nodded, setting the pin down carefully. "But I appreciate that he tried. And that he made sure my family would be present today. That meant more than the gift itself."

"He's learning," Lady Hilda said, her voice gentler than usual. "As are you. The water clock was..."

"A disaster," I groaned, dropping my face into my hands. "I practically called his gift useless to his face, in front of his family and mine."

To my surprise, Lady Hilda laughed—a genuine, warm sound I'd rarely heard from her. "Well, not in those exact words."

"Close enough," I said, though I couldn't help joining her, the tension of the day finding release in slightly hysterical laughter. "I really am terrible at this."

"You're learning," Lady Hilda repeated, her amusement fading into something gentler. "And the effort matters. The prince could see that, I think."

"Maybe," I hedged. "Or maybe he's just better at hiding his disappointment than I am. I suppose I could always claim the clock is meant to remind him that even water, given enough time, can shape stone.

"You could," Lady Hilda agreed. "Or you could simply accept that both gifts, imperfect as they are, represent genuine effort. And sometimes, that's enough."

With a sigh, I set the hairpin back down. Tomorrow, I'd find a way to wear it—to acknowledge his effort, even belatedly. It was the least I could do. And I found that I wanted to see more of the Fili I had met in the forge, and had been speaking to all those weeks ago. 

I didn't see Fili for three days after the exchange. He was "occupied with military matters," according to the palace staff, though Kíli had winked conspiratorially when passing along this information.

Was he avoiding me? I couldn't blame him if he was. Our gift exchange had left things awkward, the tentative progress we'd made seemingly erased in one uncomfortable afternoon. I couldn’t stop kicking myself over the whole thing.

I kept busy with my own projects—continuing work with the Water Guild, language lessons with Lady Hilda, and the endless stream of wedding preparations that seemed to multiply daily. Each morning, I faithfully wore the dragon hairpin, though I doubted Fili would notice or care at this point.

It was while leaving the Water Guild's workshop late one afternoon that I finally ran into him. He was coming from the direction of the training halls, his hair damp with sweat. My mouth went a little dry. From nerves. I think.

"Princess," he said, inclining his head politely when he saw me.

"Prince Fili," I said. Then, before he could continue on his way, I quickly added, "I've been hoping to speak with you."

He glanced around the corridor, which was busy with dwarves coming and going from various guildhalls. "Perhaps somewhere more private?"

I nodded, relieved that he wasn't simply going to excuse himself.

He led me to a small balcony overlooking one of the vast caverns that honeycomb the mountain. It offered a breathtaking view of the subterranean landscape—pillars carved to resemble ancient trees, bridges spanning impossible distances, lanterns creating constellations in the darkness.

"I wanted to apologize," I said before I could lose my nerve. "For the gift exchange. For my comment about the clock being 'useful, not just decorative.' I didn't mean to imply your gift was... frivolous."

He looked surprised. "I didn't take it that way."

"Your family did," I said ruefully. "I could practically feel Lady Dís's disapproval freezing the air."

A small smile tugged at his lips. "My mother tends to have that effect regardless of what's said."

"Still," I insisted, "it was thoughtless. Not that it’s an excuse, but I was nervous. I could tell you didn’t like the clock, and I said exactly the wrong thing."

“I didn’t not like the clock,” Fili said. “I was…surprised. Courting gifts are typically items of beauty or symbolic meaning, things to be displayed and admired rather than used daily."

"And I gave you something practical instead," I said, feeling the familiar sting of having missed the cultural mark yet again.

"You gave me something thoughtful," he corrected, his gaze meeting mine directly. "I've been using it in my forge, and it works remarkably well."

I studied his face, trying to determine if he was simply being diplomatic. But there was a genuine warmth in his eyes that hadn't been there during the formal exchange. "You actually like it?"

"I do," he said, and to my surprise, he smiled. "It's surprisingly accurate. Better than trying to guess the time by how hungry I feel."

The comment, delivered with dry humor, surprised a laugh out of me. "A truly scientific method."

"Dwarves are known for our precision," he said solemnly, though his eyes sparkled.

A comfortable silence fell between us. It struck me that these moments—away from ceremony and protocol—were when we seemed to find common ground. When we could simply be Fili and Sigrid, not Prince and Princess, representatives of our respective kingdoms.

"I'm sorry it wasn't more... traditionally dwarven," I said finally. "The clock, I mean. I didn't realize how important the aesthetic traditions were."

Fili shook his head. "Don't apologize for being who you are. The clock is functional, clever, and well-crafted. Those are values any dwarf can appreciate, even if our gifts typically emphasize different qualities."

I felt my cheeks grow warm at his praise. 

He gestured to the hairpin. "It suits you, by the way. The dragon."

"Thank you," I said, now feeling the flush creep up my neck. "It's beautifully made."

"It was my third attempt," he admitted. "The first two weren't quite right."

The image of Fili laboring over multiple versions of the hairpin, determined to get it just right, warmed something in my chest. "Your dedication to craft is impressive."

"It's who we are," he said simply. "Craft isn't just what we do—it's how we understand the world, how we express ourselves."

A bell sounded somewhere deep in the mountain, its resonance felt as much as heard.

"I should go," Fili said reluctantly. "I'm expected at council."

"Of course," I nodded. "Thank you for... this. For talking."

"It was my pleasure, Princess." He hesitated, then bowed. It was still formal but somehow warmer than before, and departed, leaving me alone on the balcony with my thoughts.

I stayed there long after he'd gone, watching the rhythms of mountain life playing out below.

Chapter Text

There's something deeply satisfying about being elbow-deep in mud and no one caring in the slightest. No lectures about princessly behavior. No scandalized looks. Just focused dwarves and one human equally covered in muck, all of us working to solve a common problem.

"The eastern junction is completely blocked," Master Graedo announced, his beard temporarily secured with leather ties to keep it from dragging in the sludge. "We need to divert the flow through the secondary channels until we can clear it."

I nodded, mentally mapping the system we'd spent months studying. "If we open the overflow valves on the northern section, we could redirect the pressure away from the blockage."

Fridi looked up from where he was examining a section of collapsed pipe. "That might flood the lower storage chambers."

"Not if we first close the tertiary regulators," I said, already rolling up my sleeves further. "The pressure will balance between the northern and eastern sections."

Master Graedo's bushy eyebrows rose slightly—not in skepticism but in consideration. He stroked his beard, leaving a streak of mud across the intricate braids. Not that I could judge. I certainly didn’t look any better, I’m sure. "It could work. Kaero, take Frega and secure the tertiary valves. Princess Sigrid and I will manage the northern section."

I couldn't help the small thrill of satisfaction that ran through me. Three months ago, Graedo would have dismissed my suggestion outright. 

We sloshed through ankle-deep water toward the northern junction. The water system was a marvel of engineering—channels carved directly into the mountain, using gravity and pressure to move water where it was needed. When it worked properly, it was elegant and efficient. When something went wrong, however, it tended to go spectacularly wrong.

"That new channel design of yours held up well," Graedo commented as we navigated the narrow maintenance corridor. "Even with the increased flow from the spring thaw, the V-sections had proper flow."

From Graedo, this qualified as effusive praise. I tried not to look too pleased.

"The real test will come with the summer rains," I replied, keeping my voice professionally neutral. "When the aquifer levels rise significantly."

"Hmm." Graedo nodded thoughtfully. "We should prepare contingency plans. Perhaps an additional overflow channel?"

"I've been working on some designs," I said. "I could show you the sketches once we're not quite so..." I gestured at our mud-covered state.

Graedo actually laughed—a deep, rumbling sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Clean is overrated when there's engineering to be done."

Four hours later, we'd successfully diverted the water flow, located the source of the blockage (a partial collapse caused by mineral buildup), and established a repair schedule. I was filthy, exhausted, and happier than I'd been in weeks. 

As I trudged back toward my chambers, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a polished wall sconce and had to stifle a laugh. I looked like I'd been dragged backward through a swamp and then rolled in a mud pit for good measure. My once-neat braid hung in clumps, dripping something I sincerely hoped was just mineral deposits. My clothes were a lost cause. Lady Hilda would have a conniption.

The thought made me grin wickedly. Maybe I should detour past the formal council chambers, just to see the expressions on those stuffy councilors' faces. I'd probably cause a diplomatic incident, but it might almost be worth it.

"Mahal's hammer! What happened to you?"

I turned to find Kíli staring at me with a mixture of horror and fascination, his eyes wide as he took in my mud-encrusted state.

"Water Guild emergency," I explained, gesturing vaguely at myself. "Blocked junction in the eastern quarter."

"Is that..." He leaned closer, sniffing, then recoiled with an exaggerated grimace. "Is that sewage?"

"Mostly mineral deposits and silt," I said with as much dignity as I could muster while dripping unidentifiable goo onto the marble floor. "Though I wouldn't rule out some... organic contributions."

Kíli's expression was caught somewhere between disgust and admiration. "And they had you—a princess—helping with this?"

"I volunteered," I said, straightening slightly despite the squelching sound my boots made with the movement. "The Water Guild needed all available hands, and I'm familiar with the system."

"Right," Kíli nodded, eyes twinkling with amusement. "And this has nothing to do with your unhealthy fascination with drainage mechanisms."

"There's nothing unhealthy about proper water management," I protested, though I couldn't help smiling. "Ask anyone who's ever lived through a sewage backup. It's character-building."

"I'll take your word for it," he said, carefully maintaining a few extra inches of distance between us. "Anyway, I was looking for you because—actually, perhaps this should wait until after you've had a bath. Several baths. Possibly with lye."

"Wise decision," I agreed, suddenly very aware of the eau de drainage clinging to me. "Was it important?"

"Nothing urgent,” Kili said. “Though..." He paused, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "I was actually on my way to a meeting with some of the more traditional nobility. I could escort you there first, if you'd like to make a dramatic entrance."

I laughed at the blatant attempt to create chaos. "Tempting as it is to traumatize the nobility, I think I'll preserve what little dignity I have left."

"Suit yourself," Kíli shrugged, his eyes still twinkling. "Just know you're missing a prime opportunity to go down in dwarven legend. They'd be talking about it for centuries."

"I suspect they'll find other reasons to talk about me," I said dryly. "The mud-covered princess is probably tame compared to whatever else they're saying."

Something softened in Kíli's expression. "You'd be surprised. The Water Guild has been quite vocal about your contributions lately."

"Really?" The information caught me off guard. I'd assumed most of the mountain's nobility still viewed me as an oddity at best, an interloper at worst.

"Really," Kíli confirmed with a nod. "Turns out competence makes an impression, even on the most traditional dwarves. Who knew?"

"Huh." I wasn't sure how to process this information. I'd been so focused on proving myself to the Water Guild that I hadn't considered how those efforts might be perceived by the wider mountain.

"Now go make yourself presentable again before someone mistakes you for a new species of cave troll," Kíli said, shooing me down the corridor. "Meet me in the western training hall in an hour. I've got something to show you that might actually interest you more than mud pipes."

"Impossible," I said with mock seriousness.

"One hour," he called over his shoulder. "And wear something you can move in!"

Intrigued despite myself, I continued my squelching journey back to my chambers.

The hot water in my bathing chamber was, without question, the single best feature of mountain life. After three thorough scrubbings, I finally felt clean again, my hair free of mysterious clumps and my skin scrubbed pink. The handmaidens had taken one look at my filthy clothes and whisked them away with expressions that suggested they might need to be burned rather than washed.

"I'm not sure those can be salvaged," Nia admitted when she returned. "Perhaps as cleaning rags?"

"They died a noble death," I said solemnly. "In service to functioning plumbing."

Nia's lips twitched in what might have been amusement, though she quickly composed herself. The handmaidens were gradually warming to me, I thought, though they maintained a professional distance that was probably appropriate given my status. Still, sometimes I caught glimpses of actual personalities beneath the formal training.

"Princess," Fria said tentatively as she helped me dress in something suitable for whatever mysterious activity Kíli had planned, "may I ask a question?"

"Of course," I said, surprised by the unprompted interaction.

"Why do you..." she hesitated, clearly weighing her words carefully, "...enjoy the water work so much? It's not a traditional pursuit for someone of your station."

I considered how to answer. "I suppose because it's practical," I said finally. "Water systems affect everyone, from kings to cooks. When they work well, people's lives are better. When they fail..." I gestured ruefully at my still-damp hair. "Well, you saw the results. Plus, I find it fascinating, seeing how the whole system works together."

"But the dirt," Fria pressed, her nose wrinkling slightly. "And the smell."

"Small prices to pay for doing something useful," I shrugged. "In Dale, after the dragon, we all had to get our hands dirty rebuilding. I learned that I'm happier solving problems than standing around looking decorative."

To my surprise, Nia nodded in understanding. "My mother was a jeweler," she offered. "She always said she felt more like herself with dust under her nails than with rings on her fingers."

"Exactly," I smiled. "Though I suspect your mother's dust was considerably more precious than drainage sludge."

"Gold dust or gutter muck, dirt is dirt to noble ladies," Nia said with unexpected candor, then immediately looked mortified at her own boldness. I laughed at the sentiment.

"Well, this noble lady prefers useful dirt to useless cleanliness," I assured her. "Though…I do appreciate being clean now."

Both handmaidens seemed to relax slightly after this exchange. As they finished helping me dress, their movements became less stiffly formal, and Fria even ventured a comment about how the blue tunic I'd chosen brought out my eyes.

Small steps.

The western training hall turned out to be an enormous cavern filled with various combat arenas, weapon racks, and dwarves engaged in what looked like extremely vigorous methods of trying to kill each other.

Kíli was waiting near the entrance, dressed in training clothes similar to what I'd chosen. He grinned when he saw me. "Ah, good! You clean up surprisingly well, Princess Mud."

"You're hilarious," I said dryly. "What's this about, Kíli? I doubt you brought me here to admire dwarven combat techniques, impressive as they are." I nodded toward two dwarves who were currently attempting to bash each other's brains out with practice axes.

"Close," he said, beckoning me to follow. "But not quite. I brought you here because you need to learn how to defend yourself."

I blinked. "What?"

"Self-defense," he clarified unnecessarily. "You know, the art of preventing other people from successfully murdering you."

"I know what self-defense is," I said, exasperated. "I'm questioning why you suddenly think I need it. I've survived twenty-five years without it, including a dragon attack and an orc invasion."

"Pure luck," Kíli declared, leading me toward a quieter corner of the training hall. "And luck eventually runs out. Besides, you're a princess now—a target for all sorts of nasty types who might want to harm Erebor through you."

I frowned, not having considered this particular downside of royal status before. "Has there been a specific threat?"

"No," Kíli admitted, "but that's not the point. You should be prepared for anything. And honestly..." he lowered his voice slightly, "I thought you might enjoy something physical after all those princess lessons and formal dinners. Something that involves hitting things."

Put that way, the idea did have a certain appeal. "What did you have in mind?"

"Basic knife work to start," Kíli said, producing two wooden training daggers from a nearby rack. "Everyone should know how to use a blade. They’re easy to have on you at all times, which makes them a good weapon to start with, princess or no. Perhaps some grappling techniques. You're taller than most attackers you'd face in the mountain—might as well use that advantage."

The next hour passed in a sweaty blur of basic positions, defensive moves, and increasingly creative insults from Kíli whenever I failed to block his attacks. To my surprise, I found myself enjoying it immensely. He was right. The physical exertion was a welcome change from the mental challenges of water engineering and the diplomatic minefields of court life.

"You're not terrible," Kíli announced after I'd successfully blocked a series of practice strikes. "For a human, I mean."

"High praise indeed," I said sarcastically, but I couldn't help feeling pleased. "For a dwarf, you're not a completely horrible teacher."

He clutched his chest in mock offense. "I'll have you know I help train some of our most elite warriors."

"Did these elite warriors include small children and particularly intelligent sheep?"

Kíli laughed, a loud, uninhibited sound that drew glances from nearby training pairs. "I've created a monster. A tall, sarcastic monster who's going to be absolutely unbearable once she masters the disarming technique."

We continued practicing until my arms felt like overcooked noodles and sweat plastered my hair to my forehead. When Kíli finally called a halt, I collapsed onto a nearby bench, breathing hard.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked, not even slightly winded, the infuriating creature.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked instead of answering. "Really?"

Kíli's perpetual grin faded into something more serious. "Because you're family now. Or will be, after the wedding. And I take care of my family."

The simple declaration caught me off guard. "Oh." I was oddly touched by this glimpse of genuine feeling beneath Kíli's usual irreverence. "In that case, same time tomorrow. If I can still move my arms."

"Excellent!" He helped me to my feet. "We'll work on those blocks. Your left side is still too open."

As we walked back toward the main corridors, muscles pleasantly aching and a new sense of competence warming me from within, Kíli's earlier words echoed in my mind. Family. The concept seemed both foreign and oddly appealing when applied to this boisterous, irreverent dwarf who'd appointed himself my combat instructor.

I had never had siblings before, in my old world. I had never thought I was missing out. But even now, my new family kept growing. He wasn’t a replacement for Bain, whose quiet strength and dry humor I missed daily. And certainly not a substitute for Tilda's bright enthusiasm and boundless imagination. But perhaps... an addition? An unexpected branch grafted onto my family tree?

The thought was still percolating as we parted ways, Kíli heading to some diplomatic meeting he was already late for, me toward a much-needed second bath.

"Much better," Lady Hilda nodded approvingly as I completed another row on the loom. "Your tension is finally consistent."

We were in what Lady Hilda called the "small salon," a room that still seemed absurdly grand to me, with its high ceilings and elaborately carved columns. It had become our regular setting for what I privately termed "Princess Refinement Torture Sessions"—endless lessons in everything from proper curtsy technique to the intricacies of dwarven social hierarchies.

Today's focus: weaving. Lady Hilda thoroughly approved of it as an appropriate hobby, but was a bit aghast when I showed her what I had been working on. Not the product itself, mind you, but the technique…well, it left a lot to be desired. Nia was a patient teacher, but my progress had stalled.

But then Lady Hilda had made a suggestion that changed everything: "Approach it as you would one of your water systems. A technical problem requiring precise solutions."

The advice had transformed my perspective. Suddenly, I wasn't failing at some mysterious womanly art—I was solving an engineering problem. The warp threads became channels, the weft the water flowing through them in carefully controlled patterns. Tension, thread count, pattern sequence—all variables to be balanced for a successful outcome.

"I think I'm actually starting to get the hang of this," I admitted, examining my work with critical satisfaction. The pattern wasn't perfect—there were still small inconsistencies that Lady Hilda could probably spot from across the room—but it was recognizably a geometric design, not the lumpy mess my earlier attempts had produced.

"You've made remarkable progress," Lady Hilda agreed. "I believe you have a natural affinity for the technical aspects."

The rhythmic click-clack of the loom had become almost meditative. Back in my world—my first world—I'd never had patience for this kind of detailed handwork. Video games, yes. Team sports, definitely. But sitting still to create something thread by thread? Never. Yet here, with the mountain's silence surrounding me and the mathematical patterns of the weave engaging my mind, I found it almost... peaceful.

"I never thought I'd say this," I admitted, "but I think I might actually miss the loom while I'm in Dale." I was leaving for Dale in a few days. Wedding planning for the human ceremony had been transpiring mostly without me, but someone (and I suspected Da) had successfully argued that my input would be helpful. I was very much looking forward to the trip. Not so much as an escape, not anymore. But simply a chance to see my family.

Lady Hilda's eyebrows rose slightly. "You could always take a small traveling loom. For practice."

I paused, genuinely considering the idea. A month ago, I'd have laughed at the suggestion. Now, the thought of having this calming activity available during what would undoubtedly be a whirlwind of wedding planning actually appealed.

"I might do that," I said, surprising both of us. "If nothing else, it would give me something to do when the wedding planners become overwhelming."

"A wise precaution," Lady Hilda said with the hint of a smile. "Wedding planners can be more fearsome than dragons when their visions are challenged."

I laughed, finishing the row and setting down the shuttle. "Hard to imagine anything more fearsome than Smaug, but I'll take your word for it."

We continued in companionable silence for a while, the rhythmic clack of the loom oddly soothing. I found my thoughts drifting, not unpleasantly, as my hands worked almost automatically now that I'd found the proper rhythm.

"You know," I said eventually, "when I first arrived, I thought these lessons were just about appearances. Making sure I didn't embarrass the mountain or Dale in public."

"That was certainly part of it," Lady Hilda admitted with unexpected candor. "But only part."

"What was the rest?"

She considered her answer carefully. "Creating points of connection," she said finally. "Bridges between your world and ours."

"Through proper forms of address?" I asked, though with less skepticism than I might have shown earlier.

"Through shared understanding," she corrected. "The skills themselves matter less than what they represent—cultural touchstones that allow you to participate in mountain life as more than just an observer."

I hadn't thought of it that way before. "I assumed it was about making me less... human."

"No," Lady Hilda shook her head firmly. "It was never about erasing who you are, Sigrid. It was about adding to it. Expanding your capabilities." Her expression softened slightly. "Though I'll admit, I didn't always communicate that effectively."

The use of my name without my title—a rare occurrence from Lady Hilda—didn't escape my notice. 

"Well," I said, deliberately lightening the moment, "if nothing else, I've discovered an unexpected talent. And possibly developed calluses in places I didn't know could have calluses."

Lady Hilda's lips twitched. "A princess with calluses. How shocking."

"That's me," I agreed cheerfully. "Shocking."

To my surprise, she actually chuckled—a brief, rusty sound as if it didn't get much use. "Indeed." She rose, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her impeccable gown. "That's enough for today. Tomorrow we'll review table settings for the formal dinner in Dale."

I groaned theatrically. "Must we? I'm fairly certain I can manage not to eat with my hands."

"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow. "And do you know which of the seven soup spoons is appropriate for fish broth served during diplomatic negotiations with elven dignitaries?"

"There are seven soup spoons? You’re joking" I asked, genuinely horrified.

"Only on particularly formal occasions," she assured me with what might have been a glint of humor. "Usually, you need only concern yourself with three or four."

As I packed away the weaving supplies, I found myself reflecting on how much had changed since my first lessons with Lady Hilda. The rigid formality had gradually softened into something more complex—not quite friendship, perhaps, but a relationship built on increasingly mutual respect.

Another bridge, I supposed, in a life that seemed to be collecting them.

For once, dinner was a relatively informal affair, served in my chambers rather than one of the grand halls. I'd grown to appreciate these quieter meals—no need for perfect posture or hypervigilance about which fork to use, just simple food and blessed silence.

I was halfway through my meal when a knock came at the door. Nia answered it, then turned to me with a slight bow.

"Prince Fíli requests a moment of your time, Princess."

I nodded, surprised but not displeased. "Of course. Show him in."

Fíli entered, dressed more casually than his usual court attire, though still impeccably groomed.

"Princess Sigrid," he greeted me with a formal bow. "I apologize for interrupting your meal."

"No apology needed," I assured him, gesturing to the chair across from mine. "Would you like to join me? There's plenty."

He hesitated, then shook his head. "Thank you, but I can't stay. Uncle has called a late council meeting, and I only wanted to wish you safe travels before your departure tomorrow. I’ll be in meetings all morning and unable to see you off properly."

"Oh." I was surprised by the gesture—Fíli wasn't usually one for social niceties beyond what protocol demanded. "Thank you."

He nodded, his hands clasped behind his back in what I'd come to recognize as his default formal posture. "Master Graedo mentioned you'll be collecting measurements for a reservoir project while in Dale."

"Yes, that's the plan," I confirmed. "Assuming I can find time between wedding preparations and formal dinners."

"I'm sure you'll manage." There was a flicker of something almost like humor in his expression. "You've proven quite resourceful."

"I'll take that as a compliment," I said, oddly pleased by the assessment.

"It was meant as one," he assured me. Then, with a hesitation that suggested he was venturing into unfamiliar conversational territory, he added, "Enjoy your time in Dale. I know how much you've missed it."

The simple acknowledgment of my feelings—feelings I hadn't always been certain he noticed—warmed me unexpectedly. "I will," I promised. "Though I'm sure I'll find plenty to keep me busy here when I return."

"The Water Guild would be lost without you," he said, executing another bow that somehow seemed less formal than usual. "Safe travels, Princess Sigrid."

After he left, I found myself oddly touched by the brief interaction. There had been a genuineness to it that felt like another small step toward something that might eventually resemble actual friendship.

Small steps, I thought again. But meaningful ones.

The morning of my departure for Dale dawned bright and clear—not that I could see it directly from my windowless chambers, but the quality of light filtering down through Erebor's elaborate system of shafts and mirrors suggested fair weather above. Good news for traveling, though I'd have gone regardless. A little rain wasn't about to keep me from two weeks in Dale.

I'd spent the previous evening sorting through what to pack, a task complicated by the practical need to bring appropriate attire for a royal visit while also desperately wanting to leave behind the most restrictive formal gowns. In the end, I'd compromised—some ceremonial outfits for official functions, but mostly comfortable clothes that wouldn't make me feel like a walking tapestry.

"The blue dress with the silver embroidery must come," Lady Hilda had insisted, supervising my selections with a critical eye. "And the formal green for the council reception. Oh, and the red for the guild dinner."

"How many formal events are scheduled?" I'd asked, dismayed. "I thought this was primarily for wedding planning."

"It is," Lady Hilda confirmed. "But you're also representing Erebor as the future princess consort. There will be official obligations."

I'd sighed but acquiesced. Politics never slept, apparently, not even during what I'd hoped would be a relatively relaxed visit home.

In a moment of sudden impulse, I'd also packed the small traveling loom Lady Hilda had mentioned. It sat now among my belongings, a surprising addition I couldn't have imagined including even a month ago. I'd even selected several spools of thread in Dale's colors, thinking I might create something for Tilda while I was there.

Now, with my trunks packed and departure set for mid-morning, I felt a curious mixture of excitement and something like nostalgia in advance. I'd been longing to visit Dale for months, counting down the days until I could escape the mountain, even briefly. Yet now that the opportunity had arrived, I realized there were parts of Erebor I might actually miss during my absence.

The Water Guild, certainly. My work there had become not just a refuge but a genuine source of satisfaction. Even, strangely enough, some of the people—Kíli's irreverent humor, Master Graedo's gruff approval, Lady Hilda's increasingly less rigid formality. Even Fíli and I’s tentative friendship. Maybe friendship was too strong a word, but I saw glimpses of it. ANd I’d be doing my darndest to get us there. 

Not that I'd admit any of this out loud, of course. Especially not to Kíli, who would be insufferably smug about my growing attachment to mountain life.

But the fact remained: Dale was still home in this world, would always be home in some deep, essential way. Yet somehow, without my quite noticing, Erebor had begun to feel less like a prison and more like... well, not home exactly. But perhaps something that could eventually become familiar. Comfortable, even, in its own strange way.

Nia and Fria arrived to help with final preparations, their manner noticeably warmer than it had been even a few weeks ago.

"We've packed extra soap," Fria informed me with a small smile. "The kind you prefer, with lavender. Dale's soaps are never quite as good."

"And Master Graedo sent these," Nia added, holding out a packet wrapped in waterproof cloth. "Testing materials for your reservoir project, he said."

I accepted both with genuine gratitude, touched by these small considerations. "Thank you. For everything, not just this morning. You've both been incredibly patient with me these past months."

The handmaidens exchanged surprised glances.

"It's our honor to serve you, Princess," Nia said formally, though her expression had softened.

"Even when I come back covered in drainage muck?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.

Fria actually giggled, then quickly covered her mouth, looking scandalized at her own breach of protocol. "Even then, Your Highness. Though perhaps with more soap."

"A fair compromise," I said, covering my own giggle.

The entrance hall was busier than I'd expected for such an hour. Not just my escort and the usual guards, but a small gathering of mountain residents—including Master Graedo and several members of the Water Guild. 

"Safe travels, Princess," Graedo said gruffly. "And don't forget those water table measurements. We'll need them for the eastern junction redesign."

"I won't forget," I promised. "I'll bring back everything we need for the project."

Kíli came over, somehow managing to look both formal in his princely attire and completely unserious in his expression. "Try not to forget all your combat training while you're away," he said, grinning. "I expect you to maintain your practice drills."

"I'll do my best," I promised. "Though I can't guarantee Da won't ask questions if he finds me attacking the furniture with dinner knives."

"Creative problem solving," Kíli nodded approvingly. "The mark of a true warrior."

I laughed, suddenly realizing I would genuinely miss his irreverent presence during my absence. "Two weeks, then back for more bruises and questionable combat advice."

"I'll be counting the days," Kíli assured me with dramatic earnestness.

The great gates opened, revealing a bright spring morning outside. The air smelled of pine and fresh grass, so different from the stone-and-metal scent of the mountain. I took a deep breath, savoring it.

"Ready, Princess?" the captain of my escort inquired politely.

The great gates opened, revealing a bright spring morning outside. The air smelled of pine and fresh grass, so different from the stone-and-metal scent of the mountain. I took a deep breath, savoring it.

"Ready, Princess?" the captain of my escort inquired politely.

Just as I was about to answer, I noticed a familiar figure hurrying down the grand staircase. Fíli, looking slightly out of breath, as if he'd rushed here.

"Princess Sigrid," he called, approaching with more haste than his usual measured pace. "I thought I might have missed you."

I paused, genuinely surprised to see him. "Prince Fíli. I thought you had council meetings all morning."

"I do," he confirmed, his usually perfect composure slightly rumpled. "But I wanted to... that is..." He cleared his throat, regaining a fraction of his formal demeanor. "Safe travels to Dale."

"Thank you," I said, smiling. 

For a moment, he seemed to struggle with what to say next. Then, with a glance around at our very public setting, he simply said, "The mountain will still be here when you return."

Something in his tone—a quiet certainty, as if my return was both expected and welcomed—warmed me unexpectedly.

"I know," I said, and meant it. "I'll be back before you know it."

The faintest hint of a smile touched his lips. "Then I wish you good roads and fair weather." He stepped back with a bow that somehow managed to be both perfectly proper and personally genuine.

Kíli, watching this exchange with poorly concealed interest, rolled his eyes dramatically behind his brother's back, making me bite my lip to keep from laughing.

"Ready," I told the captain, taking my place in the formation.

As we rode away from the mountain, I didn't look back, my gaze fixed firmly on Dale rising in the distance. Two weeks of home, of family, of open sky and familiar streets. Then back to the mountain, to water systems and language lessons and the strange, complicated life I was building there.

For the first time since this arrangement began, I found myself genuinely looking forward to both.

Chapter Text

As much as I would have liked to spend two weeks just visiting my family, wedding planning took up considerably more time than I would have liked. I had been home nearly a week, and felt as if I could have drawn the schematic of the great hall from memory. Tilda, on the other hand, seemed to never run out of energy.

"But what if we put flowers everywhere?" Tilda spun around the great hall, arms outstretched. "Like, covering everything. The whole ceiling could be flowers!"

"In early spring?" I raised an eyebrow. "Where exactly are we getting all these flowers?"

"We could..." she paused mid-spin, frowning. "Import them?"

"From where?" But I was smiling. It was hard not to smile at Tilda's enthusiasm, even if her ideas were becoming progressively more impossible.

"The Woodland Realm?" She brightened. "Ooh, or we could use paper flowers! I could make them! I've been practicing, and—"

"Tilda," Da interrupted gently, "perhaps we should focus on the more practical aspects first?"

She deflated slightly. "Practical is boring."

"Practical is necessary," I said, reviewing our lists. "Like seating arrangements that won't start another war, and making sure we have enough food for everyone."

"But it's your wedding," she protested. "It should be magical!"

Something twisted in my chest at those words. Tilda still believed in magical weddings, in true love, in happily ever after. Sometimes I envied her that.

"Speaking of magical," she continued, oblivious to my thoughts, "what about your dress? Can we at least make that special?"

"I already have a dress," I reminded her. "The one for the dwarf ceremony."

"But that's not..." she wrinkled her nose. "That's not a proper wedding dress. It's all metal and gems and... and... dwarfy."

"Dwarfy?" Da echoed, amused.

"You know what I mean!" She turned to me, eyes pleading. "Don't you want something pretty? Something floaty and poofy that makes you feel like a princess?"

I wore a princess dress once, I thought suddenly. For Halloween, when I was eight. Mom made it herself, stayed up late sewing sequins...

"Sigrid?" Da's voice was careful. He must have seen something in my face.

"It's fine," I said again, but my voice sounded strange even to my own ears. "Really. Let's just... let's focus on the seating chart."

We worked for another hour, making lists and plans. Tilda's enthusiasm gradually returned, though more subdued now. She suggested smaller things: ribbons on the chairs, flavors for the sweet cakes at the feast, little things that were actually possible. Unlike planning the dwarven ceremony, this was more what I imagined my wedding to be like. A human wedding with songs and parts and rituals I understood. That I actually had a say in planning.

I nodded and smiled and made notes, trying to ignore the growing pressure in my chest.

It wasn't until we were reviewing the ceremony itself that it finally broke through.

"And then Da will walk you down the aisle," Tilda was saying, "and everyone will stand up, and—"

My dad will never walk me down the aisle.

The thought hit me like a physical blow. My father, who taught me to ride a bike, who checked under my bed for monsters, who taught me to spit sunflower seed shells farther than he could... he would never know what happened to me. Never know if I was alive or dead or happy or lost. Wouldn’t see my wedding day.

And it wasn't just that. It was everything. All the futures I'd imagined for myself, gone in an instant. As I had gotten older and outgrown the one-room schoolhouse we all attended in Lake-town, I had imagined what I would have wanted to study in college. Maybe engineering, or architecture. Something where I could build things, make things better. 

I'd missed out on so much. Getting my driver's license at sixteen. Going to prom. Having a normal first job, probably something ridiculous like folding shirts at the mall. Applying to college. Getting my first job. Normal things that now seemed impossibly distant, like memories from someone else's life.

Sometimes I'd catch myself wondering what I might have become in that other world. Would I have gone to grad school? Had a career? Found someone to love that wasn’t a political arrangement? Over the years, the reminders of the home I left grew less painful. More bittersweet memories than things that regularly caused me pain. But a wedding. I had been so wrapped up in all the details of the arranged marriage and adapting to life under the mountain that I think I had forgotten that this was a major life event. In any world. 

Instead, I was here. Planning a political marriage in a medieval world, learning to be a princess instead of an engineer, trying to navigate dwarf politics instead of college applications and jobs. And yes, I'd built a life here, a good one. I loved my family fiercely. But in moments like this...

"Sigrid?" Da's voice seemed to come from very far away.

"I need..." I stood up so quickly my chair toppled backward. "I need some air."

I fled.

The lake had always been my refuge. Even in the old Lake-town days, there was something soothing about the water, the way it moved, the way it remained constant even when everything else changed. Normally, these kinds of thoughts didn’t bother me. After all this time, most memories didn’t faze me. But the heightened emotions and stakes around this wedding were turning my own emotions into a roiling mess. I couldn’t always tell what would upset me anymore. It was incredibly annoying.

I found my usual spot, a quiet stretch of shore where the stone retaining wall had partially collapsed, creating a natural seat. The water lapped gently at the rocks below, a steady rhythm that had always helped calm my thoughts.

The worst part was not even knowing what I was mourning. My memories of my parents stopped at ten—just fragments really, pieces of a life that sometimes felt more like a dream than reality. Did my mother really sing while she cooked, or had I made that up over the years? Did my father actually have a particular way of laughing that made his whole body shake, or was that something I'd constructed from wishful thinking?

Fifteen years is a long time to hold onto memories that were incomplete to begin with. Sometimes I caught myself filling in the blanks with what I thought should be there, and that terrified me. Was I remembering them as they really were, or just creating idealized versions that matched what I thought parents should be?

And how could I explain any of this to anyone? Even Da, who knew I came from somewhere else, couldn't understand the peculiar agony of mourning people who might not even be dead. Were they still looking for me? Had they aged fifteen years without me? Or had time moved differently between worlds? I had no way of knowing, no way of explaining, no way of making sense of this grief that had no proper shape or name.

So finally, finally, I let myself break.

Fifteen years of carefully not thinking about them. Fifteen years of pushing down memories, of pretending I was fine, of being strong and practical and focused on the present.

All gone, in an instant.

I cried for my mother, who would never help me pick out a wedding dress. For my father, who would never walk me down the aisle. For the life I lost, the family I left behind, the world that was now nothing more than a fading memory.

I cried until my throat was raw and my eyes burned and my chest felt like it might cave in from the force of it. Until the tears blurred the lake into nothing but a smear of gray and silver, until my hands shook from holding myself together for so long.

"I miss you," I whispered to the water, to the sky, to anyone who might be listening in any world. "I miss you so much it hurts."

I don't know how long I sat there, letting fifteen years of grief pour out of me like a river breaking through a dam. Time seemed to lose meaning, measured only in the steady rhythm of waves against stone and the stuttering catch of my breath.

"Sigrid."

Da's voice. Quiet, careful, like he was approaching a wounded animal. In a way, I suppose he was.

I tried to wipe my face, to compose myself, to be the strong daughter he needed me to be. But my hands wouldn't stop shaking, and fresh tears kept coming no matter how hard I tried to hold them back.

"I'm sorry," I managed, though I wasn't sure what I was apologizing for. For breaking down? For not being strong enough? For being someone else's daughter first?

"Don't." The stone wall creaked slightly as he sat beside me. "Don't ever apologize for missing them."

Something about the gentle understanding in his voice broke me all over again. I curled into myself, shoulders shaking with the force of holding back sobs.

Da didn't say anything. He just pulled me close, one strong arm around my shoulders, and let me cry into his coat like I was ten years old again, lost and scared in a strange world.

"I wanted—" My voice cracked. "I wanted my mom to help me pick out a dress. To do my hair. To tell me everything was going to be okay. I wanted my dad to walk me down the aisle. To threaten Fíli with embarrassing stories about me. To—to—"

"I know." His voice was rough. "I know."

"And I feel terrible because you're here, you're my father too, and I love you so much, but I still—I still—"

"Miss them." He stroked my hair gently. "Of course you do. Loving us doesn't mean you have to stop loving them."

"But I can't even remember what they look like anymore," I whispered. "Sometimes I wake up and I can't remember the sound of Mom's voice, or the way Dad smiled, or—or anything. They're fading away and I can't stop it."

Da was quiet for a long moment, just holding me while I cried. The lake continued beating against the stones.

"When I lost Tilda and Bain’s mother," he said finally, "I thought the pain would kill me. Some days I wanted it to. But then I had three children who needed me, who showed me that love doesn't end just because someone is gone."

I lifted my head to look at him. His eyes were suspiciously bright.

"You came to us like a gift," he continued. "This strange, brave child who needed a family as much as we needed her. Who helped me remember how to smile, how to hope. Who taught Bain and Tilda that family is about more than blood."

"Da—"

"Let me finish." He squeezed my shoulder. "You're my daughter. Not because I found you, not because I raised you, but because we chose each other. Every day, we choose to be family. And that doesn't make your other family any less real, or any less important."

Fresh tears spilled down my cheeks, but these felt different somehow. Cathartic rather than devastating.

"I wish they could see who you've become," he said softly. "They would be so proud of you."

"You think so?"

"I know so." He smiled, though his own eyes were wet now. "How could they not be? You've faced dragons and politics and arranged marriages with equal courage. You've helped rebuild a city, raised siblings, learned new languages and customs. You've become someone any parent would be proud to call their daughter."

I leaned against him, letting his solid presence anchor me. "I love you, Da."

"I love you too, my brave girl." He kissed the top of my head. "And I promise you this: on your wedding day, when I walk you down that aisle, I'll be carrying their love with me. Because that's what parents do—we hold the love of all those who came before, and we pass it on."

We sat there as the sun set, watching the lake turn to fire and then to silver. My tears eventually dried, leaving behind an emptiness that felt somehow peaceful, like a storm-cleaned sky.

"Da?" I said finally.

"Mm?"

"Thank you. For finding me that day. For choosing me."

He hugged me tighter. "Thank you for choosing us back."

Chapter Text

The trip back from Dale had been blessedly uneventful—clear skies, dry roads, and a distinct lack of bandits or other unpleasantness that might have added unwanted excitement to the journey. Still, I couldn't shake the mixed feelings that had followed me from home. Two weeks with my family had been simultaneously too long and not nearly enough. Too long, because every day spent in Dale was a reminder of the increasing gap between my old life and my new one. Not long enough, because leaving Tilda's enthusiastic chatter and Bain's quiet strength and Da's steady presence felt like saying goodbye all over again. Still, there was less trepidation now than on my last return from Dale. Granted, that had been after I had run away and there were noblemen threatening to force Tilda into marriage. Really, anything would have been better than the return under those circumstances. But even with that consideration, the shadow of the mountain was less oppressive. Instead of smothering, it was merely…looming. Which I considered a step up.

"Will you be returning to the Water Guild today, Princess?" one of my escorts asked as we passed through Erebor's massive gates.

"Tomorrow," I said, already dreading the mountain of correspondence that undoubtedly awaited me in my chambers. "I have matters to attend to first."

Matters like unpacking, readjusting to the distinctive absence of natural light, and mentally preparing myself for the resumption of dwarven wedding preparations that had been temporarily suspended during my absence. The wedding itself was only months away now—a thought that sent a fresh wave of anxiety through me whenever I allowed myself to dwell on it. The Dale preparations had been a welcome reprieve, despite being more emotional.

I was just settling back into my chambers, trying to decide whether to tackle the pile of messages or simply pretend they didn't exist for another few hours, when Nia arrived with a formal note bearing the royal seal of Durin.

"From Lady Dís," she explained, handing me the carefully folded parchment. "Delivered while you were still on the road."

I broke the seal with a flicker of trepidation. Lady Dís rarely sent written communications, preferring to summon people directly when she wished to speak with them. And she had certainly never written to me. The note was brief and to the point:

Princess Sigrid,

I would be pleased if you would join me for tea tomorrow afternoon in my private chambers. There are matters we should discuss before the wedding preparations resume in earnest.

Lady Dís

 

No elaborate greeting, no flowery courtesies, just straightforward purpose. I was learning that was Lady Dís in a nutshell—direct to the point of bluntness, with no patience for unnecessary embellishment.

"Is everything alright, Princess?" Nia asked, noting my expression.

"Lady Dís has invited me to tea," I said, refolding the note.

Nia's eyes widened slightly. "A private audience? That's... significant."

"That's what I'm afraid of," I muttered.

I've been trapped in meetings with dwarves who think bathing is optional, faced down orcs, and survived a dragon attack, but somehow the prospect of having tea with my future mother-in-law filled me with a special kind of dread that made all those other experiences seem like leisurely afternoons by the lake.

The next afternoon arrived too quickly. 

"The blue dress," Nia insisted, holding up what I privately referred to as the Not Quite As Uncomfortable As It Looks But Still Pretty Bad formal gown. "It shows proper respect."

"The blue dress makes me look like I'm attending a funeral for someone I didn't particularly like," I countered, eyeing it dubiously. "What about the green one?"

Fria, who was sorting through my jewelry box with the intensity of someone disarming an explosive device, looked up with horror. "Not the green! Green implies fertility and abundance. For a private tea with Lady Dís, it would be... inappropriate."

I raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realize my wardrobe was making so many declarations without my knowledge. What does blue say, then?"

"Loyalty," Nia replied promptly. "Steadfastness. Proper regard for tradition."

I suppressed a sigh and surrendered to the blue dress. This particular hill wasn't worth dying on. Besides, I had bigger concerns.

"What exactly does one discuss during tea with the mother of one's politically arranged fiancé?" I asked as Nia helped me into the gown. "The weather? Knitting patterns? How her son could have done so much better than a human with dubious royal credentials?"

Fria gasped so sharply I thought she might have swallowed her tongue. "Princess Sigrid! You mustn't say such things!"

"I wasn't planning to say it to her face," I said dryly. "I was just wondering what topics are considered acceptable. Lady Dís isn't exactly known for casual chitchat."

That was putting it mildly. In the months I'd been in Erebor, I'd seen Lady Dís reduce battle-hardened warriors to stammering apologies with nothing more than a raised eyebrow. Her reputation for directness was matched only by her fierce intelligence and unwavering loyalty to her family and people. And today, for reasons that remained obscure to me, she had decided we needed private tea.

No witnesses. No diplomatic buffer. Just me and the most intimidating dwarrowdam in the mountain.

"Perhaps she wishes to discuss the wedding preparations," Nia suggested as she began work on my hair. "Or to advise you on your role as future princess consort."

"Or perhaps she's finally decided to have me quietly disposed of and replaced with someone more suitable," I muttered. "A nice dwarrowdam with a proper beard and impeccable lineage."

"Princess!" Both handmaidens looked genuinely distressed now.

"Sorry, sorry," I said, immediately feeling bad for alarming them. "That was a joke. A poor one."

Nia shook her head slightly as she wove strands of silver thread through my braids. "Lady Dís is formidable but fair," she said after a moment. "She values honesty above flattery."

"That's comforting," I replied, though it wasn't entirely. I'd always had a knack for being a bit too honest at precisely the wrong moment. Just ask Councilor Aldrich, who still hadn't forgiven me for the whole flooded market fiasco.

"There," Nia said, putting the final touches on my hair. She'd managed to incorporate Fíli's silver dragon pin into the arrangement, the small creature seeming to take flight from within the braids. "Perfect."

I studied my reflection, barely recognizing the formal, polished woman who looked back at me. Gone was the Sigrid who spent her days elbow-deep in water systems and engineering problems. In her place was Princess Sigrid, future consort of Erebor, properly attired and appropriately intimidating.

Or at least, I hoped I looked intimidating. I certainly felt like I might throw up.

"Remember," Fria said as I prepared to leave, "Lady Dís appreciates direct answers. But perhaps not too direct."

"So be honest, but not really," I said. "Straightforward, but tactful. Simple."

"Exactly!" Fria beamed, missing my sarcasm entirely.

"Any other helpful advice?" I asked, adjusting the neckline of the dress for the hundredth time. The dwarven seamstresses seemed to have a fundamentally different understanding of where a human woman's collarbones actually were.

"Try not to spill anything on yourself," Nia offered. "And don't mention the incident with the ceremonial battle axes."

I blinked. "What incident with the ceremonial battle axes?"

They exchanged glances. "Ah," Fria said. "If you don't know, then... best not to bring it up."

Wonderful. Now I'd spend the entire tea trying not to think about mysterious battle axe incidents that may or may not be conversational landmines.

As I left my chambers, heart pounding like I was marching into battle rather than afternoon tea, I tried to remind myself that I'd faced far worse than one formidable dwarrowdam with exacting standards and a legendary death glare.

Then again, dragons were straightforward. They just wanted to eat you or burn you to ash. Much simpler than navigating the murky waters of future in-law relationships.

Lady Dís's private sitting room was both more and less intimidating than I'd imagined.

More, because the space was so clearly personal—filled with evidence of a real life rather than the impersonal grandeur of Erebor's public spaces. Books with markers placed between pages, a basket of needlework with an unfinished project visible inside, small carvings that seemed chosen for sentiment rather than display. The room felt lived in, genuine. And somehow that made my presence here feel more intrusive than if I'd been meeting her in some formal hall.

Less intimidating, because the room was smaller and cozier than I'd expected for the sister of the king. There was a warmth to it, a sense of comfort that contrasted with Lady Dís's stern reputation. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light that softened the edges of the heavy stone walls.

What caught my attention most, though, were the framed sketches that lined the walls. Many depicted two young dwarves who could only be Fíli and Kíli—Fíli's solemn eyes and straight bearing recognizable even in childhood, Kíli's mischievous grin unchanging across the years. Others showed landscapes I didn't recognize, mountains unlike Erebor's solitary peak. Ered Luin, perhaps, where they had lived in exile?

I was examining a particularly charming drawing—both brothers sleeping back-to-back in what looked like a field, their small weapons still clutched in limp hands—when the door opened behind me.

"Their first hunting trip," Lady Dís said, startling me as she entered carrying a tea tray. "They insisted they would catch enough deer to feed the entire settlement. Came back with two rabbits and collapsed from exhaustion before they could even eat dinner."

"Their ambition hasn't changed much," I said before I could think better of it.

To my surprise, Lady Dís laughed—a rich, warm sound that reminded me suddenly of Kíli. "Indeed not. Though their skills have improved, thankfully."

She set down the tray, waving me back to my seat when I moved to help. "Please, sit. I prefer to serve tea myself. One of my small vanities."

I settled back into my chair, trying not to perch too nervously on the edge. Lady Dís arranged the tea things with practiced efficiency—fine porcelain cups on saucers, a silver pot that steamed invitingly, small plates of what appeared to be several varieties of biscuits and tiny cakes.

"My husband always said proper tea requires proper preparation," she said, pouring with a steady hand. The rich, fragrant steam rising from the pot smelled of flowers and something earthier beneath. "Even in our hardest years, I kept a tea set. Small comforts matter in difficult times."

She handed me a cup, and I took it carefully, noting the delicate pattern of mountain flowers encircling the rim. I tried to hold it steady without sloshing the tea over the rim. I never understood why tea had to be served in these cups that felt like you’d spill scalding liquid down your front with one errant twitch of your finger. 

"Thank you," I said, breathing in the aroma. "It smells wonderful."

"Mountain lavender and black tea," she replied. "My own blend. The lavender only grows on the eastern slopes, near the old lookout towers. Try it with this." She selected a small honey-colored cake from one of the plates. "Almond and honey cake. The combination works well."

I followed her suggestion, taking a careful sip of tea followed by a bite of the cake. The flavors complemented each other perfectly—the tea bold and slightly floral, the cake subtly sweet with the warmth of almonds. "It's delicious," I said, genuinely impressed.

Lady Dís inclined her head in acknowledgment, selecting her own cake.

For several minutes, we engaged in the careful ceremony of tea—appreciative comments about the food, small observations about the weather above the mountain, innocuous pleasantries that might have been exchanged by any two acquaintances. Her manners were impeccable, her conversation perfectly appropriate. Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being assessed, measured against some standard I couldn't see.

"You seem to be adapting well to mountain life," Lady Dís observed, setting down her cup with barely a sound. "The Water Guild speaks highly of your contributions."

I nearly choked on my tea. "They... do?"

"Graedo mentioned your work on the eastern junction redesign at the last guild council," she confirmed. "He doesn't praise often. The fact that he acknowledged your efforts at all speaks volumes."

"That's..." I searched for an appropriate response. "Unexpected. And flattering."

"Do you truly enjoy it?" she asked, studying me with unnerving intensity. "The water work? Or is it merely a convenient occupation to fill your time?"

The directness of the question caught me off guard. I considered deflecting but remembered Fria's advice about Lady Dís valuing honesty. "Both, I suppose," I admitted. "I needed something meaningful to do, yes. But I've always been drawn to problem solving—to understanding how systems work and making them better.”

"Fíli mentioned your practical nature," she said thoughtfully. "He seemed to consider it a virtue."

Something about her tone made me wonder if she agreed. "And you, my lady? Do you consider practicality a virtue?"

A smile flickered across her face, too quick to interpret. "Directness as well, I see. Good." She set down her cup decisively. "I tire of diplomatic evasions, Princess Sigrid. Let us speak plainly while we have this privacy."

My stomach tightened, but I nodded. "I'd prefer that."

"Had circumstances been different," Lady Dís said, her voice matter-of-fact, "I would not have chosen you for my son."

I blinked at the blunt statement, feeling it like a physical blow despite having half-expected something of the sort.

"Not," she continued before I could formulate a response, "because you lack qualities I value. But because I had hoped my sons might marry for love, as their father and I did."

"I understand," I said, finding my voice. "I wouldn't have chosen this arrangement either."

That seemed to surprise her. "No?"

"No," I affirmed. "Where I come from, people generally marry for love.” That was true whether it was Dale or my first world. “Political marriages are something from history books." I hesitated, then added, "But we don't always get what we want, do we?"

"Indeed not." She regarded me thoughtfully. "You know, when Thorin first proposed this alliance, I was against it."

"I... suspected as much."

"Not because you're human," she clarified. "Though that certainly complicated matters. But because I saw how heavily duty already weighed on my son. To add an arranged marriage—to someone from a culture so different from ours—seemed like cruelty piled upon obligation."

I didn't know how to respond to that. It was, perhaps, the most honest assessment anyone had given me of the situation.

"And yet," she continued, "I have watched you these past months. Watched how you've approached each challenge. How you've sought to understand our ways without surrendering your own perspective. How you speak to my son when you think no one is observing."

That last comment made heat rise to my cheeks. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"I mean that you treat him as a person, not merely as a prince or a political necessity." She poured more tea for both of us, the gesture somehow punctuating her words. "That is rarer than you might think."

She studied me over the rim of her cup. "You are not what I would have chosen. But perhaps you are what he needs."

I raised an eyebrow. "A human with dubious royal credentials and a tendency to talk about drainage systems at dinner parties?"

Lady Dís actually smiled at that. "Someone who sees beyond the crown he will someday wear. Someone practical enough to value solutions over traditions when necessary. Someone who might help him remember how to laugh."

"Laugh?" I couldn't keep the surprise from my voice. "Fíli?"

"You find that difficult to imagine?" She gestured toward the sketches on the wall. "He wasn't always so... contained. Before the weight of expectation settled on him, my eldest son had quite the mischievous streak."

"Fíli?" I repeated, still struggling to reconcile this with the formal, proper prince I knew. "Are we talking about the same dwarf?"

"Ask Kíli sometime about the Great Wool Incident," she suggested, her eyes twinkling. "Or perhaps the time they decided the ceremonial armor in the western hall needed 'updating.'"

The image of Fíli—solemn, dutiful Fíli—engaging in mischief was so at odds with what I knew that I couldn't help but laugh. "Now I'm afraid to ask."

"You should be," she agreed, her expression turning more serious. "But that is partly why I asked you here today. There is much about my son you don't yet know. Much about the family you are joining, the history that shapes us."

She rose and moved to a carved wooden cabinet in the corner. From it, she removed what looked like a stack of leather-bound books.

"These," she said, returning to place them on the table between us, "were my husband's journals. Not his official records or diplomatic correspondence, but his private thoughts. His observations about our people in exile, his hopes for our future. His reflections on watching our sons grow."

I stared at the journals, understanding the tremendous significance of what she was offering. "Lady Dís, I—"

"He recorded much about Fíli," she continued. "About the dwarf he hoped his son would become. About the responsibilities that would someday rest on his shoulders. About his pride in watching our firstborn grow into his strength."

She pushed the stack gently toward me. "Read these. Not all at once—they represent years of thought. But read them to understand the family you are joining. The legacy my son carries."

I reached out slowly, almost afraid to touch what was clearly a treasured possession. "Why are you showing me these?"

"Because regardless of how this match came to be, you will be my son's wife," she said simply. "Perhaps the mother of his children one day. A partner in whatever future awaits him. And I would have you know him—not just the prince, not just the diplomat he presents at formal functions, but the dwarf beneath. His history. His heart."

The weight of her words settled over me, heavier than the stack of journals now in my hands. "I don't know what to say."

"Say nothing," she replied. "Only read them. Understand."

She poured more tea, the gesture somehow lightening the moment. "Now," she said, "tell me about this reservoir system you're designing for Dale. Fíli mentioned it requires some innovative pressure calculations."

The abrupt shift to a technical topic caught me off guard, but I gratefully followed her lead. For the next hour, we discussed water systems, engineering challenges, and the practical differences between Dale's surface water management and Erebor's subterranean channels. Lady Dís, it turned out, had a surprisingly thorough understanding of mechanical principles.

"My husband was something of an engineer," she explained when I expressed surprise at her knowledge. "Perhaps that's where Fíli gets his technical mind."

From there, our conversation meandered to other topics—stories of Fíli and Kíli's childhood that made me laugh, questions about my siblings that I answered gladly, observations about mountain traditions I'd found particularly interesting or baffling. By the time the tea was finished, nearly two hours had passed.

"I've kept you too long," Lady Dís said, rising. "You surely have other commitments."

"It was no imposition," I assured her, standing as well. "Thank you for the tea. And for..." I gestured to the journals, which she had wrapped in a cloth for me to carry more discreetly.

"Read them when you have quiet moments," she advised. "They contain much that may help you understand not just Fíli, but all of us."

At the door, she paused. "One last thing, Princess Sigrid."

"Yes?"

"Whatever doubts I may have had about this arrangement, know this: I judge people by their actions, not their ancestry. You have conducted yourself with dignity and determination in circumstances that would have broken many." Her eyes held mine steadily. "That has not gone unnoticed."

It wasn't quite approval, but it felt like something close to respect. Coming from Lady Dís, I suspected that was rare currency indeed.

"Thank you," I said.

"We will speak again," she said. "Perhaps you might show me those revised drainage schematics next time. I find I'm curious about your approach to the junction problem."

As I made my way back to my chambers, the journals heavy in my arms, I found myself replaying our conversation—not just about Fíli, but about marriage itself. About building a life with someone who was still, in many ways, a stranger to me, despite our months of careful negotiation and formal interactions.

For the first time, I allowed myself to truly consider what that life might look like. The good and the bad, the challenges and possibilities. Not just as a political necessity to be endured, but as a genuine partnership we would have to build together.

I thought about Fíli's rare moments of openness—in his forge, on the balcony overlooking the valley, when we'd discussed our gifts. Glimpses of the dwarf beneath the prince. And now these journals, offering insight into the family that had shaped him, the legacy he carried.

The idea that there might be more to him than the formal, proper prince I'd come to know was both intriguing and slightly terrifying. What if I'd been wrong about him all this time? What if, beneath that carefully controlled exterior, was someone I could genuinely come to care for?

What a terribly inconvenient possibility that would be.

A week later, I found myself in what had become one of my favorite spots in Erebor: a small alcove near the western crafting halls, overlooking a vast cavern where multiple walkways and bridges crisscrossed at different levels. Unlike many spaces in the mountain, this one received a shaft of natural light for a few hours each afternoon, thanks to an ingenious system of mirrors that redirected sunlight from the upper reaches.

I'd discovered it quite by accident while looking for a quiet place to work on a particularly tricky design schematic. 

Today, I'd brought my small traveling loom—I still had a scarf for Tilda I was working on from my trip to Dale. It gave my hands something to do while my mind wandered, and after my tea with Lady Dís, my thoughts had been wandering quite a bit.

As I worked, I found myself humming softly, then singing—another of my mother's favorite songs "Slipping through my fingers all the time," I sang softly, the words emerging without conscious thought. "I try to capture every minute, the feeling in it. Slipping through my fingers all the time..."

I hadn’t understood the song when I was younger. Just one of many my mom used to sing while we were together. Now I did. The bittersweetness of time passing. I had been thinking more about home lately. The wedding planning some days seemed designed to dredge the memories up. My voice was quiet but clear as I sang the familiar English words from my childhood.

Lost in the melody and memories, I didn't hear the approaching footsteps until a voice spoke behind me.

"I didn't know you sang."

I startled so violently that I nearly dropped the shuttle, the song dying in my throat as I turned to find Fíli standing a few feet away. He looked surprisingly casual—dressed for the forges rather than for court, his hair in simpler braids, though the beads that marked his status were still woven throughout.

"I don't, usually," I managed, heart still racing from the surprise. "Not where anyone can hear, anyway."

"I apologize for startling you," he said, remaining where he stood, as if giving me space to recover. "I was on my way to the metalworkers' guild when I heard... I didn't recognize the language."

Of course he wouldn't. It wasn't Common Speech or any language known in this world. I felt heat rising to my cheeks, embarrassed at being caught.

"It's not from here," I admitted, the admission feeling both terrifying and strangely freeing. "It's from my first family. Before Da found me."

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, at my honesty. "It sounded beautiful. Sad, but beautiful."

I nodded. "It's about watching someone grow up. About how quickly time passes, how moments slip away before you realize they're gone." I twisted the shuttle between my fingers. "My mother used to sing it."

"You remember her well?" he asked gently.

The simple question about my past sent a complex wave of emotions through me. Lady Dís's words from our tea rang in my ears—about marriage being a life shared, day after day, year after year. About being a partner in all things. Yet here I was, keeping perhaps the most important part of myself hidden from the man I was to marry.

How could any marriage truly work with such a fundamental secret between us? Lady Dís had shared her husband's journals so that I might know her son more completely. What would she think if she knew how completely unknowable parts of me would always remain to him?

It was a loneliness I'd learned to live with over the years, but in that moment, with Fíli's kind attention and genuine interest, it felt particularly acute. This was as close as I could ever come to sharing my true self with him—these small fragments, these half-truths that weren't quite lies but were certainly not the whole story.

"Less than I'd like to," I said, the admission painful but true. "Time blurs the edges. Sometimes I can't remember if her eyes were blue or green. But I remember her voice when she sang."

Fíli nodded, a quiet understanding in his expression. "May I?" he gestured to the space beside me.

I nodded, surprised by the request. He settled on the bench, maintaining a respectful distance between us.

"I heard you had tea with my mother," he said, his tone carefully neutral.

Ah. So that's what this was about. "I did," I confirmed. "A week ago."

"And?" There was something almost wary in his expression, as if he expected bad news.

"And it was... nice," I said, realizing with slight surprise that I meant it. "Interesting. She's quite knowledgeable about water systems."

He blinked, clearly not expecting that response. "Water systems."

"Yes. We discussed the eastern junction redesign, among other things." I smiled at his obvious confusion. "Were you expecting something else?"

"I..." He shook his head slightly. "When Mother invites someone for private tea, it's rarely to discuss engineering."

"Well, we talked about other things too," I admitted. "Your childhood. The challenges of exile. The responsibilities of leadership." I paused, unable to resist adding, "The Great Wool Incident."

Fíli's eyes widened, a flush creeping up from beneath his beard. "She didn't."

"She mentioned it," I said, enjoying his mortification perhaps more than was strictly kind. "Though she didn't provide details. Only suggested I ask Kíli, which frankly sounds terrifying."

To my surprise, he laughed—a short, startled sound quickly suppressed, but genuine nonetheless. "If she's directing you to Kíli for the story, she's clearly trying to have it embellished. He adds a new, improbable detail every time he tells it."

I couldn't help smiling at that. "So there was no actual sheep stampede through the council chambers?"

"Mahal preserve us," he muttered. "Is that what he's claiming now?"

"No one's claimed anything yet," I assured him. "I'm just speculating about the level of chaos involved in something called 'The Great Wool Incident.'"

He shook his head, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes that I rarely saw. "Less than you're imagining, but more than I'm willing to admit to."

"Now I'm definitely asking Kíli."

"Please don't encourage him," Fíli said with a resigned sigh. "He needs no assistance in that regard."

We fell silent for a moment, but it felt less awkward than usual, almost companionable.

"I'm glad your tea with Mother went well," he said finally. "She can be... intimidating to those who don't know her."

"Intimidating is putting it mildly," I admitted. "I was terrified. Nia and Fria spent an hour debating which dress would least offend dwarven sensibilities."

His lips twitched. "And which did they select?"

"The blue. I didn't have the heart to tell them I've been wearing it mainly because it's one of the few formal gowns I can actually breathe in."

"A practical consideration," he nodded, still smiling slightly. 

I hesitated, then added more seriously, "I like her. She's... not what I expected, somehow."

"Few people truly know her," Fíli said. "She shows different facets to different audiences. The stern princess, the shrewd diplomat, the formidable war leader." His voice softened. "The mother who sang us to sleep during thunderstorms."

The image was so unexpectedly tender that I felt something catch in my chest. "She clearly loves you very much. You and Kíli both."

"I know." His gaze moved to the cavern beyond our alcove, watching the distant figures crossing bridges far below. "She gave up much for us. For our people."

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the play of light from the distant shafts. Something had shifted between us, I realized. Some of the formality had fallen away, leaving space for something that felt dangerously close to genuine connection.

"Thank you," he said suddenly, "for telling me about your song. About your first family. I know you don't speak of them often."

I looked at him, surprised by his perception. "No," I admitted. "It's... complicated."

"Family often is," he agreed, and there was a quiet understanding in his voice that made me wonder just how much he truly saw beneath his formal, controlled exterior.

With surprising gentleness, he asked, "Would you teach me the melody someday? Not the words, if those are too private, but... I'd like to learn the tune."

The request was so unexpected, so thoughtful, that for a moment I couldn't speak. "I... yes. I could do that."

He smiled—a real smile, not the careful diplomatic one I was accustomed to seeing—and something warm unfurled in my chest in response.

"I should go," he said, rising. "I have a meeting with the crafting guild masters. It was…good to see you." He gave a small, formal bow, some of his usual reserve returning. 

As he walked away, I found myself staring after him, trying to reconcile the glimpses I'd seen today.

I picked up my loom again, fingers automatically resuming their rhythm. But my mind was elsewhere, turning over this new Fíli like a puzzle I was only beginning to understand the shape of.

A terribly inconvenient possibility indeed.

Chapter Text

I waited until late that night to open the journals Lady Dís had given me. After months of carefully navigating dwarven customs and formal dinners, something about these felt different. Personal. Like I was about to peek behind a curtain I wasn't sure I had permission to look behind.

The journals were bound in plain leather, worn soft with handling. Five of them, each marked with dates in precise Khuzdul. They smelled like the forge—metal and coal smoke and something warmer. Pipe tobacco, maybe.

I'd been putting this off for three days. Every time I reached for them, I'd find something else to do instead. Check on the Water Guild project. Practice my weaving. Even reorganize my already-organized wardrobe. Anything to avoid whatever was waiting in these pages.

But tonight, with rain drumming against the mountain and the fire crackling in my chambers, I finally opened the first one.

The first entry was dated just after Fíli's birth:

My son was born today in a mountain that isn't ours. He will grow up hearing stories of Erebor, of the halls his ancestors built, but he will never have seen them with his own eyes. How do we pass on heritage we ourselves only know through tales? Sometimes I wonder if each generation's stories grow more distant from the truth, like a game of whispers played across decades.

Dís says I worry too much. That our people's memory runs deeper than stone, that the skills and traditions will survive as long as we do. But I look at my newborn son and wonder: what does it mean to be heir to a kingdom that exists only in story?

I had to set the journal down. This wasn't what I'd expected—formal records or philosophical treatises. This was just a father, worried about his kid. Worried about doing right by him.

It reminded me of Da. All those nights when I was younger, catching him staring at me across the dinner table with that look. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn't have all the pieces to.

A few pages later:

He has a gift for metalwork, though he tries to hide his enthusiasm. "Princes should be dignified," he says, mimicking Thorin's tone perfectly. I caught him singing to his work though, when he thought no one was watching. Some old craftsong his mother taught him. He has her talent for finding joy in creation, even here in these borrowed halls.

Kíli arrived today, screaming his defiance at the world from the first breath. If Fíli is my serious one, this one, I think, will be our wild heart. Already Fíli watches over him like he's made of precious metal, though he's barely more than a child himself.

I smiled, seeing echoes of the brothers I knew in these early descriptions. Some things, apparently, were constant across time.

Fíli's started asking about the forges. Not even ten years old and he wants to know how everything works. Reminds me of myself at that age, driving my own father mad with questions. "Why do we use this coal? Why does the metal turn red? Why can't I touch it?"

Caught him trying to braid his hair like mine yesterday. Made a complete mess of it, but he was so proud. "Look, Ada! I'm like you!" Sometimes I think he tries too hard to be like me. I should tell him it's okay to be himself.

Should tell him a lot of things, I suppose.

I could picture tiny Fíli, all serious concentration, trying to copy his father's braids. Some things never changed—I had seen that same focused intensity when he was working in his forge.

Then I found the entry that made my chest tight:

Found Fíli in the practice room again today, working on his letters. Not just common Khuzdul, but the old ceremonial forms. When I asked why, he said, "We have to remember everything exactly right. For when we go home."

He's twelve years old. Twelve. And he already feels responsible for preserving our entire culture.

I wanted to tell him it was okay to forget some things. That adapting isn't betraying. That keeping our people alive matters more than keeping every tradition perfect. But then I saw his face when he got a particularly difficult rune right, and I couldn't bring myself to say it.

Maybe he needs the weight of it. Maybe it gives him purpose. Or maybe I'm just a coward who can't bear to take away the thing that makes him feel important.

"What are you doing?"

I jumped, nearly dropping the journal. Fíli stood in the doorway, perfectly still except for his hands, which hung loose at his sides like he'd forgotten what to do with them.

"I—" I started, but he was already looking at the journals scattered around me. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Those are my father's journals." His voice held no inflection at all, which somehow felt worse than if he'd been upset. "Where did you get them?"

"Your mother gave them to me," I said, closing the one I'd been reading. "She thought—"

"Mother gave them to you?" He took a single step into the room, then stopped as if he'd hit an invisible wall. "When?"

"Last week. After our tea." I watched his face, but it was like watching stone. "She said they would help me understand your family better. Understand you."

A muscle twitched in his jaw. He stared at the journals for a long moment, his breathing carefully controlled.

"She never... I didn't know she was going to do that."

"Are you upset?" I asked carefully.

His shoulders shifted slightly—not quite a shrug, not quite a flinch. "I don't know." He ran a hand through his hair, the first uncontrolled movement I'd seen from him since he'd entered. Several strands came loose from his braids. "Those are... they're private. Personal. I haven't even..." He stopped, his hand dropping to his side.

"Haven't even what?"

The question hung in the air. Fíli's gaze fixed on something past my shoulder, his throat working like he was trying to swallow something too large.

"Read them," he said finally, the words barely audible. "I haven't read them. Not since he died."

The admission seemed to cost him something. His perfect posture wavered for just a moment before snapping back into place.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't realize. If you want them back—"

"No, it's..." He moved closer, then seemed to catch himself and stopped mid-step. His hands opened and closed at his sides. "What did you think? Of what you read?"

The question came out strained, like he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"Your father loved you very much," I said simply. "It's all over these pages. How proud he was, how worried he was about doing right by you."

Fíli's breath caught. "Worried?"

"About putting too much pressure on you. About whether he was helping you become who you were meant to be or just... molding you into what he thought you should be." I gestured to the journal I'd been reading. "There's an entry here about you practicing ceremonial Khuzdul when you were twelve. He wanted to tell you it was okay to make mistakes, but he didn't know how."

Fíli sank into the chair across from me like his legs had given out. He stared at his hands, which were clenched so tightly in his lap that his knuckles had gone white.

"He never did tell me that."

"No. But he wanted to." I leaned forward slightly. "He was doing his best, Fíli. Just like you're doing your best now."

His head snapped up. "Am I?" There was something raw in his voice now, the careful control finally cracking. "Because most days I feel like I'm just... fumbling around, trying to be what everyone needs me to be and failing at all of it."

"You're not failing."

"Aren't I?" His laugh was hollow, nothing like the rare genuine ones I'd heard from him before. "I can't even read my own father's journals. My mother’s offered them to me for decades, and I told myself I'd read them someday when I was ready, and I never was. What kind of son does that make me?"

His voice broke on the last word. He pressed his lips together hard, like he was trying to hold back more words that might betray him.

"A normal one," I said firmly. "A son who was young when he lost his father and had to figure out how to be strong for everyone else. A son who's been carrying the weight of an entire kingdom on his shoulders since he was a child."

He stared at me like I'd spoken in a foreign language, his eyes wide and unguarded for the first time since I'd known him.

"Grief doesn't have rules, Fíli," I continued. "There's no right way to miss someone or remember them. Your father would understand that."

"How do you know?"

"Because he wrote about it." I picked up the journal again, finding the passage I'd read earlier. "He talks about missing Erebor, about wondering if he was remembering it correctly or just holding onto stories. About feeling guilty for being angry at circumstances he couldn't control." I looked up at him. "Sound familiar?"

Fíli's breath shuddered out of him. He slumped forward, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands.

"I miss him," he said, muffled. "Every day. And I'm angry too—at him for dying, at myself for not being ready to take his place, at the whole situation. And then I feel terrible for being angry because none of it was his fault."

"Anger's part of grief," I said gently. "It doesn't make you a bad son."

"Mother never seems angry." He didn't lift his head.

"Your mother grieves differently than you do. That doesn't make either way wrong."

He finally looked up, his hair disheveled, his eyes red. "What else did he write? About me, I mean."

I smiled, remembering some of the lighter entries. "He wrote about you trying to make Kíli a toy sword when he was little. You were so upset when it didn't turn out perfectly, but your father was proud of how hard you worked to fix it. He said you cared more about making Kíli happy than about making something flawless."

Something shifted in Fíli's expression—surprise, maybe, or recognition. "I remember that sword. Took me hours to get the balance right."

"He was proud of that. Not the perfect craftsmanship, but the fact that you cared enough to keep trying." I paused. "He was proud of you in general. Worried about you, yes, but so proud."

"I wish he'd told me that." The words came out soft, wistful.

"Maybe he thought you knew. Maybe he was planning to tell you when you were older." I shrugged. "Parents aren't perfect either. They're just people trying to figure it out as they go."

We sat in comfortable silence for a while, the fire crackling between us. Fíli's breathing had evened out, though he still looked like he'd been wrung dry.

"Would you..." he started, then stopped. His hands twisted together in his lap. "Would you keep reading them? And maybe... maybe tell me about the parts you think I should know?"

"Only if you want me to."

"I do." He met my eyes, and there was something there I'd never seen before—trust, maybe, or hope. "I trust you with them. With him."

The simple statement made my throat tight. I nodded, not trusting my voice.

He stood as if to leave, moving slowly like he was still off-balance. But he paused at the door, his hand on the frame, and looked back at me.

"Sigrid?" he said, using my name without my title. Had he ever done that before?

"Yes?"

He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. "Thank you. For seeing him clearly. For seeing..." He trailed off, his throat working. "For understanding."

After he left, I sat staring at the closed door, something warm and complicated settling in my chest. The journals felt heavier in my lap now, weighted with more than just paper and ink. They were a bridge between us, fragile and precious and entirely unexpected.

I thought about the way he'd looked when he'd admitted he'd never read them—like a child confessing to breaking something valuable. The way his voice had cracked when he'd talked about failing. The careful way he'd asked me to keep reading them, like he was afraid I might say no.

I opened one of the journals again, but this time the words felt different. Not like I was prying into someone else's family, but like I'd been given permission to understand something important. 

The fire settled with a soft crackle, and I realized I'd seen him without his armor on. And he'd let me see him.

Chapter Text

The mountain felt different after that night with the journals. Not physically—the same stone corridors, the same elaborate carvings, the same carefully controlled lighting. But something had shifted in the way I moved through Erebor's halls, as if I'd been given a key to understanding not just the place, but the people within it.

I found myself paying attention to details I'd previously missed. The way younger dwarves stepped aside respectfully when Fíli passed, but with genuine warmth rather than mere duty. How his posture changed subtly when he moved from formal court settings to the crafting quarters. The careful way he listened when anyone—from master craftsmen to apprentice servants—brought him their concerns.

His father's journals had shown me the child who'd felt responsible for preserving an entire culture's memory. Now I was seeing the man who'd never quite shaken that weight, even after reclaiming the kingdom it had prepared him to inherit.

It made me wonder what other assumptions I'd been carrying without examining them.

The reality of having only one month left until the wedding hit me like a physical blow during our next major planning session. I'd been so focused on the day-to-day preparations that the timeline had somehow become abstract, a distant deadline rather than an approaching reality. But now. Now we were a month away, and somehow the planning sessions had only intensified.

"The final guest count is confirmed at four hundred and thirty-seven," Balin announced, consulting his ever-present scrolls. "That includes the delegation from the Iron Hills, representatives from the Blue Mountains, and of course the royal family of Dale."

Four hundred and thirty-seven people. All of them coming to watch me pledge my life to a dwarf I was only just beginning to understand, in ceremonies I was still learning, wearing clothes that made me feel like an elaborate doll.

"The ceremonial procession will begin at dawn," Master Thrain continued, his voice as dry as ancient parchment. "The sacred rites must be completed before midday, after which we'll have the feast and public celebration."

Dawn. In four weeks, I'd be waking up on my wedding day. The thought made my stomach perform an impressive series of acrobatics.

"Princess Sigrid?" Balin's voice broke through my rising panic. "Have you had your final fitting for your attire?"

"I... yes," I managed. "Yesterday."

The dress was magnificent, objectively speaking. Layers of silk and mithril thread, embroidered with symbols that told the story of Durin's line, heavy with the weight of tradition and precious metals. It was also completely overwhelming and made me feel like I was playing dress-up in someone else's life.

"Excellent," Balin made a note on his scroll. "And Prince Fíli, yours as well?"

I glanced at Fíli, who sat across the table looking perfectly composed except for the slight tightness around his eyes that I'd learned to recognize as stress.

"Tomorrow," he said.

“Very good. And I’m sure you have both begun the final courting gift?”

We both nodded. I was lying. That was a problem for…not today. The first two exchanges had been so disastrous that thinking about the third had me looking for escape routes.  

"The presentation is scheduled for the morning of the ceremony," Master Thrain added. "Immediately before the Binding of Hands ritual."

The Binding of Hands. Where we'd stand before hundreds of witnesses and promise to honor each other for the rest of our lives, speaking words in a language I barely understood about commitments I wasn't sure I was ready to make.

The discussion continued around me—logistics about seating arrangements, the order of ceremonial toasts, the specific timing of various rituals. Important details that would ensure everything went smoothly, that the wedding would be a diplomatic success and a worthy celebration of the alliance between Erebor and Dale.

I nodded at appropriate moments, made necessary responses, and tried to look like a bride-to-be who was excited about her upcoming nuptials rather than one who was quietly having a crisis of confidence.

By the time the meeting ended, my chest felt tight and my hands were trembling slightly. As the others filed out, discussing last-minute details, I remained seated, staring at the stack of planning documents that represented my future.

One month. Thirty days. The numbers felt both impossibly small and endlessly vast.

I needed air.

Without conscious thought, I found myself walking the familiar route to the hidden balcony Kíli had shown me during my first difficult weeks in the mountain. The door stuck as usual, requiring a firm push to open. The blast of cool evening air that greeted me was exactly what I needed—fresh and clean and blessedly unencumbered by the weight of ceremony and expectation.

I moved to the stone railing, gripping it tightly as I breathed deeply. Below, the lights of Dale twinkled in the distance, and above, stars were beginning to emerge in the darkening sky. Real sky, vast and open and indifferent to the complexities of royal weddings.

The sound of approaching footsteps made me turn. I recognized the measured pace, the slight hesitation before the door opened.

"I wondered if I might find you here," Fíli said, stepping onto the balcony. He'd changed from his formal meeting attire into simpler clothes, and his usually perfect braids showed signs of having been run through with anxious fingers.

We stood in comfortable silence for a moment, both looking out at the valley below. The evening breeze stirred my hair, and I felt some of the tension from the meeting begin to ease.

"Four hundred and thirty-seven witnesses," I said eventually.

"I know," Fíli replied quietly. "Rather daunting."

"I keep wondering what they'll all be thinking. Whether they'll see a princess of Dale entering into an alliance with Erebor, or just a nervous human girl trying not to trip over her ceremonial dress."

"Perhaps both," Fíli suggested. "Perhaps that's not necessarily a bad thing."

I glanced at him. "How do you figure?"

"Well," he said thoughtfully, "if they see only the symbol—the political necessity—then we're just playing roles. But if they see the people beneath... if they see that this matters to us as individuals, not just as representatives of our kingdoms..." He shrugged. "Maybe that makes the alliance stronger, not weaker."

"Does it matter to you?" I asked, surprised by my own boldness. "As an individual, I mean?"

Fíli was quiet for so long I began to wonder if he'd heard the question. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful but not evasive.

"It's begun to," he admitted. "More than I expected it would."

Something fluttered in my chest at those words. I tried to shove it down. We were becoming friends. That was more than I had hoped for. But that’s all he meant. I was sure. 

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it felt expectant, as if we were both waiting for something neither of us quite knew how to name.

"Would you like to see something?" Fíli asked suddenly, then seemed to catch himself. "That is, if you're not too tired. I know the planning sessions can be overwhelming."

I studied his expression, meeting his eyes before he looked down at his hands that were fiddling with his tunic. "What kind of something?"

"A place I think you might appreciate," he said. "Though it requires a bit of walking through parts of the mountain you probably haven't seen."

Curiosity won out over exhaustion. "Lead the way."

He guided me back into the mountain and through corridors I'd never explored—passages that felt older somehow, with stonework that seemed to flow like water frozen in place. The few dwarves we passed bowed respectfully but didn't seem surprised to see us together. That was promising

"This is the old residential quarter," Fíli explained as we walked. "Where the royal family lived before Smaug. Most of it's been converted to other uses now, but some sections remain largely unchanged."

We passed doorways that led to chambers I couldn't see, staircases that curved up into darkness. There was something melancholy about these empty spaces, as if they were still waiting for occupants who would never return.

"Do you ever think about what it would have been like?" I asked. "Growing up here instead of in exile?"

"Sometimes," Fíli said. "Though I'm not sure if what I imagine is memory or just wishful thinking. The stories made it sound like paradise, but stories often do."

"Your father wrote about that," I said. "About wondering whether the memories were accurate or just growing more idealized with each telling."

Fíli glanced at me. I couldn’t tell if he was surprised, perhaps, or happy that I had shares something from the journals. He didn’t say anything.

"Here," he said finally, stopping before a heavy wooden door carved with intricate knotwork. "This is what I wanted to show you."

He opened the door, and instead of another corridor, I saw light—actual, honest daylight streaming through an opening in the mountain's face. I stepped through eagerly, desperate for sky after the enclosed passages.

What I found took my breath away.

We stood on a wide stone terrace carved into the mountainside, but it wasn't the spectacular view of the valley below that stunned me—though that was breathtaking in its own right. It was the garden.

Someone had created an impossible garden on this rocky ledge. Not formal or manicured, but wild and natural, as if it had grown here organically despite the seeming impossibility of the location. Plants cascaded over the edges of stone planters, their leaves catching the golden evening light. Flowers I didn't recognize bloomed in clusters of purple and gold and deep red. Vines climbed the mountain wall itself, softening the harsh stone with living green.

"What is this?" I breathed, moving deeper into the space, my mind immediately trying to puzzle out the logistics. I recognized some of the plants, tender flowers that never should have been able to grow on the side of a mountain.

"Dwarf engineering," Fíli said, and I could hear the pride in his voice. "The terrace is designed to catch and channel rainwater through a series of hidden conduits. The soil was carried up from the valley below, one basket at a time over several years. Every plant had to be chosen for its ability to thrive in mountain conditions."

I knelt beside one of the planters, running my fingers over leaves that felt impossibly soft after months of stone and metal. The more I looked, the more I could see the careful planning that had gone into this space—the way the stone work created different microclimates, the almost invisible channels that directed water where it was needed, the strategic placement of larger plants to create windbreaks for more delicate species.

"This is more than that," I said, amazed. "It’s liiving engineering."

"My grandmother started it," Fíli said, settling on a stone bench positioned to catch the best of the evening light. "Before the dragon came. She was... unconventional for a dwarrowdam of her time. Interested in growing things as much as crafting them."

"She sounds remarkable."

"She was," he said softly. "My mother’s been having it restored using grandmother's old notes and whatever plants had managed to survive decades of neglect. There’s still a ways to go, but she’s insistent on bringing it back to life."

I looked around the garden again, seeing it now not just as a beautiful space but as an act of love—grandmother to daughter, mother to son, generations maintaining something precious despite impossible circumstances.

"I thought you might appreciate the technical aspects," Fíli continued, and there was something almost nervous in his tone. "The way all the systems work together to create something that shouldn't be able to exist but does anyway."

I turned to look at him more directly. "Is that why you brought me here?"

"Partially," he admitted. "But also because it's peaceful. And private. And I thought..." He paused, seeming to search for words. "I thought you might like to know there's somewhere you can come when the mountain feels too closed in. After the wedding, when this becomes your home."

The thoughtfulness of it made me smile.

I moved to sit beside him on the bench, not too close but near enough that we could speak quietly. "Thank you," I said. "This is... perfect."

"There’s a key for the door," Fíli said. "I’ll have a copy made for you."

We sat in comfortable silence, watching the play of evening light across the valley below. A breeze stirred the plants around us, carrying the scent of growing things and the promise of spring. Somewhere in the garden, I could hear the gentle trickle of water moving through hidden channels, a sound both soothing and alive.

"Fíli?" I said eventually.

"Mm?"

"Thank you. Not just for this, but for... all of it. For being patient while I learned your customs. For sharing your father's memories with me. For making this easier than it had to be."

He turned to look at me, his expression serious. "You don't need to thank me for basic consideration, Sigrid."

"Maybe not," I said. "But I'm grateful anyway."

Something shifted in his face as we looked at each other, the space between us suddenly feeling charged with possibility. The golden light caught the amber flecks in his eyes, and I found myself noticing details I'd never paid attention to before—the precise line of his jaw, the way his braids caught the evening sun, the careful way he held himself even in this private moment.

A bird landed on one of the planters near us, breaking the spell. It regarded us with bright, curious eyes before apparently deciding we were harmless and beginning to investigate something among the flowers.

"I should probably get back," I said, though I was reluctant to leave this peaceful space. "Lady Hilda will be wondering where I've gone."

"Of course," Fíli said, rising. "Though... perhaps you'd like to return sometime? Together? The garden changes with the seasons. I’d…I’d like to show you."

"I'd like that very much," I said, meaning it completely.

As we walked back through the ancient corridors, I found myself thinking about impossible gardens and the patience required to nurture something beautiful in unlikely places. About Fíli's grandmother, who'd dreamed of making things grow on a mountainside. About his mother, who'd restored that dream after decades of exile. About Fíli himself, who'd thought to share it with me.

Maybe there was more to Fíli's recent thoughtfulness than simple friendship. Maybe the care he'd shown in bringing me here, the attention he'd been paying to my comfort and happiness, meant something more than I'd allowed myself to consider.

The thought should have been terrifying. Instead, as we parted ways outside my chambers with careful politeness that felt somehow more intimate than elaborate farewells, I found myself smiling.

The effects of that evening in the garden were still with me days later when I found myself in the training rooms, attempting to work through the complex emotions that had been building since the wedding planning session. Physical exertion had always helped me think more clearly, and Kíli's lessons provided both distraction and focus.

Or they usually did. Today, I couldn't seem to stop my mind from wandering to golden evening light and the way Fíli had looked at me when he'd admitted that this marriage was beginning to matter to him as more than just political necessity.

"You're overthinking," Kíli announced, appearing at my elbow as I attempted to demonstrate a particularly tricky knife sequence he'd taught me the week before.

I lowered the practice blade with a sigh. "I'm doing exactly what you showed me."

"No, you're calculating angles and timing instead of letting your body remember the movement. Defense isn't mathematics, Princess. It's instinct." He gestured dramatically, nearly knocking over a weapon rack in the process.

"Some of us prefer to understand what we're doing before we do it," I replied, resetting my stance. "Revolutionary concept, I know."

Kíli grinned, dodging my halfhearted swipe at him. "That's your problem right there. You approach everything like it's an engineering project—all systems and logical connections."

"Because systems make sense. They follow predictable principles and produce consistent results."

"Unlike people?"

I paused, considering that. "People are... significantly more complicated."

"Indeed they are," Kíli said, settling onto a nearby bench with the casual air of someone preparing to observe rather than instruct. "Speaking of which, have you noticed my brother seems... different lately?"

The shift in topic caught my attention despite my attempts to appear disinterested. "Different how?"

"Lighter, I suppose. More present during conversations. Less like he's constantly calculating the political implications of every word." Kíli examined his practice blade thoughtfully. "It's been rather pleasant, actually."

"Maybe he's just getting more comfortable with the approaching wedding," I suggested.

"Perhaps," Kíli agreed. "Though I suspect it has more to do with the company he's been keeping. Present company included."

Heat crept up my neck, but I tried to keep my voice neutral. "We've been spending more time together, yes. Getting to know each other better."

"Is that what you're calling it?" Kíli's eyes sparkled with barely suppressed mischief. 

"You're reading too much into it," I protested. "We're learning to work together. To understand each other. That's what makes a good political alliance."

"A political alliance," Kíli repeated, his tone suggesting he found this assessment laughable. "Right."

"We're just... we're becoming friends," I protested. "Maybe. Eventually. When we figure out how to have a conversation that lasts longer than five minutes without devolving protocols."

I didn’t mention that type of conversation seemed tantalizingly close. 

"Friends don't usually blush when someone mentions the other person's name," Kíli observed.

"I am not blushing!"

"You know," Kíli continued, rising from the bench and completely ignoring my protests, "I've known my brother all his life. He's spent most of it doing exactly what was expected of him, when it was expected, how it was expected. But lately..." He shrugged. "Lately he seems to be doing things because he wants to, not because he has to. It's nice to see."

"Even if that were true," I said stiffly, "it doesn't necessarily mean anything. People change. Circumstances change. It's just... adaptation."

"If you say so," Kíli agreed with a grin that suggested he didn't believe a word of it.

Before I could formulate another denial, he tossed me a different practice weapon.

"Right then, let's work on your defensive footwork. You're still telegraphing your moves, and if you're going to be family, you need to be able to hold your own in a fight."

The subject was apparently closed, leaving me flustered and holding a practice sword while my traitorous mind replayed every interaction with Fíli over the past weeks, looking for signs I'd been deliberately ignoring.

Which I absolutely had not been doing. Because there were no signs to ignore in the first place.

But as we worked through the defensive sequences, my thoughts kept drifting back to impossible gardens, to the way Fíli had looked at me in the golden evening light and admitted that this marriage was beginning to matter to him personally.

One month until the wedding. One month to figure out if we could be friends and build a relationship we could enjoy. Build something that, if Kíli was right, might be more than either of us had originally planned for.

The thought should have been terrifying. Instead, it made me smile as I finally managed to execute a perfect defensive sequence, my body remembering the movement instead of calculating it.

Chapter Text

The final dress fitting was supposed to be a formality. After months of measurements, adjustments, and careful consultations about everything from the placement of ceremonial beading to the precise length of the train, I'd assumed we were past the point where anything could go catastrophically wrong.

I should have known better.

"The sleeves are still too tight," the head tailor, Master Dwaeva, announced, her voice carrying the particular tone of someone delivering tragic news. She stood back from where I was positioned on the fitting platform, surrounded by more mirrors than any person should have to face at once, and shook her head with the gravity usually reserved for announcing natural disasters.

"Too tight how?" I asked, trying to move my arms without disturbing the dozen pins currently holding various pieces of fabric in place. The dress was magnificent—there was no denying that. Layers of deep blue silk embroidered with silver mithril thread that caught the light like captured starlight, ceremonial elements that spoke of Durin's line and Dale's renewed prosperity. It was also the most complicated garment I'd ever seen, let alone worn. When I wasn’t feeling generous, I sometimes wondered if the wedding date had been chosen simply to ensure there was enough time to create the entire thing. I knew that my impromptu undressing before my flight to Dale had required at least a week to fix. The seamstress had not minced words when she told me exactly what she thought of that little stunt.

"See here," she gestured to where the sleeve met my shoulder, "how the fabric pulls when you lift your arm? During the ceremony, you'll need full range of movement. The Binding of Hands alone requires some prominent gesturing."

I attempted the first position from memory, immediately feeling the strain across my shoulders. The sleeve didn't tear, but the fabric went taut in a way that suggested it was considering it.

"Right," I said, trying to keep the frustration from my voice. Three weeks until the wedding. Three weeks, and we were still making major alterations. "What do we need to do?"

"Complete reconstruction of both sleeves," Dwaeva replied promptly. "The armholes need to be enlarged, the shoulder seams repositioned, and the ceremonial embroidery reworked to accommodate the new proportions."

Lady Hilda, who had been observing the fitting with her usual critical eye, made a small sound that might have been a suppressed groan, had she ever done something as un-ladylike as groan. "How long will that take?"

"Two weeks, if we work without stopping," the tailor said. "Though the embroidery guild will need to prioritize this over all other projects."

Two weeks. Leaving exactly one week of buffer before the wedding. I caught my reflection in one of the mirrors—pale, slightly wild-eyed, wearing a dress that was beautiful but apparently fundamentally flawed.

"There's no faster option?" I asked.

"We could simplify the sleeve design," Dwaeva offered reluctantly. "Remove some of the ceremonial elements, reduce the complexity of the embroidery..."

The horrified expression that crossed Lady Hilda's face made it clear this was not an acceptable solution. "Those elements aren't decorative, Master Dwaeva. They're sacred symbols representing the joining of bloodlines, the blessing of Mahal, the—"

"I understand their significance," Dwaeva interrupted. "But physics cannot be negotiated with. The Princess has human proportions. Which apparently were not taken into account when the armholes were cut."

I wanted to point out that my human proportions hadn't changed since we'd started this process months ago, but that seemed unproductive. Instead, I stood very still while they debated whether to prioritize ceremonial accuracy or basic mobility.

The discussion continued around me—technical details about seam placement, heated exchanges about the cultural importance of specific embroidery patterns, increasingly creative solutions that seemed to involve more work rather than less. Through it all, I remained frozen on the platform, afraid to move lest I disturb some crucial pin or measurement.

"We'll manage," Dwaeva finally said firmly. "Two weeks for the reconstruction. The embroidery guild will simply have to work in shifts."

And that was that. Two weeks of round-the-clock work by master craftspeople, all because no one had thought to account for the fact that human shoulders were just different enough to cause problems.

As I was finally helped out of the dress—carefully, so as not to disturb any of the marking pins—I found myself thinking about all the other details that probably needed last-minute adjustments. The ceremonial shoes that still pinched despite three fittings. The elaborate hair ornaments that required a structural engineering degree to arrange properly. The seven different pieces of jewelry I was supposed to wear, each carrying specific symbolic meaning I was still memorizing.

Three weeks. Twenty-one days to ensure that everything—dress, ceremony, feast, and approximately four hundred and thirty-seven expectations—came together perfectly.

No pressure at all.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of additional wedding preparations that seemed designed to test the limits of human endurance. A two-hour meeting with the Master of Ceremonies about the precise timing of each ritual. A consultation with the florists about arrangements that needed to complement both Dale's traditions and Erebor's aesthetic preferences. A tasting session with the kitchen staff that left me overwhelmed by the sheer number of courses planned for the feast. Fíli seemed unflustered, leaving me to wonder why I was having such trouble keeping up. If he could do it, why couldn’t I?

By dinner time, my head was spinning with details and my jaw ached from maintaining a pleasant expression through hours of increasingly minute discussions about everything from napkin placement to the specific pitch required for ceremonial horn calls.

"How did it go today?" Kíli asked cheerfully as he joined me at dinner. We'd developed a habit of occasionally eating together when our schedules aligned—partly because he was good company, but mostly because he served as an excellent buffer against overly formal dining situations.

"Wonderfully," I said with false brightness. "Did you know that the ceremonial candles need to be lit in a specific order, at precise times, and if we get it wrong, we risk offending three different patron spirits?"

Kíli winced sympathetically. "Ah. One of those days."

"Apparently my dress needs to be completely reconstructed because human shoulders don't work the same way as dwarven ones. Also, there are twelve different types of ceremonial bread that will be served at the feast, each representing a different blessing." I stabbed a piece of meat with perhaps more force than necessary. "I'm supposed to know which blessing corresponds to which bread."

"Do you?" he asked, clearly trying not to smile.

"Not even close. I can identify maybe four of them, and that's being generous. In fact, I’m almost certain three are the same bread, just with different amounts of salt." I set down my fork and rubbed my temples. "Sometimes I wonder if this would be easier if I just admitted I have no idea what I'm doing and asked someone else to be princess instead."

"You sound like Fíli," Kíli said, "He goes through the same thing."

I looked up at that. "He seemed fine today."

"Mm. He's gotten very good at hiding it. Yesterday he spent an hour reviewing protocols for greeting the Iron Hills delegation, even though he's met those people dozens of times." Kíli leaned back in his chair. "I think he's more nervous about this wedding than he lets on."

The idea that Fíli might be just as overwhelmed as I was hadn't really occurred to me. He always seemed so composed, so perfectly in control of every situation. Especially the wedding planning.

"Nervous how?"

"The usual prince worries. Making sure everything goes perfectly, representing the mountain properly, not disappointing Uncle or Mother." Kíli paused, then added more quietly, "Making sure you're happy with how it all turns out."

Something flickered in my chest at that last comment. "He worries about that?"

"Constantly," Kíli said with a grin. "Though he'd probably murder me for telling you that. He likes to maintain his mysterious princely image."

"Your secret is safe," I promised, filing this information away. It was oddly comforting to know that I wasn't the only one feeling the pressure of making everything perfect. It would be more comforting if actually showed it every once in a while.

The conversation shifted to lighter topics—Kíli's latest training mishaps, gossip from the guards about various nobles' romantic entanglements, a humorous account of Dwalin's attempts to teach diplomatic protocol to a group of particularly unruly new recruits. By the time dinner ended, I felt more like myself again.

But as the evening wore on and I tried to settle into my chambers for the night, the anxieties came creeping back. Lists of things to remember, protocols to master, ways to embarrass myself and everyone associated with me. The walls of my room seemed to press closer as I lay in bed, cataloging all the potential disasters awaiting me.

The dress reconstruction was just the latest addition to a list that seemed to grow longer each day. What if the flowers arrived wilted? What if I forgot the proper responses during the ceremony? What if I tripped on the train while walking to the altar? What if I mispronounced Fíli's full name during the vows and accidentally insulted his entire lineage? My mind kept drifting to all the ways this could go wrong, all the ways I might prove those who doubted this marriage right.

The rational part of my mind knew that most of these concerns were either unlikely or easily managed. Lady Hilda had contingency plans for contingency plans. Master Thrain had drilled the ceremonial responses with me until I could recite them in my sleep. The mountain's staff were all experienced professionals who had managed royal events before.

But rationality, I was discovering, had very little to do with pre-wedding anxiety.

I rolled over, punching my pillow into a more comfortable shape, and tried to focus on happier thoughts. The secret garden Fíli had shown me, where we'd sat in comfortable silence watching the stars emerge. The way he'd looked when he'd admitted that this marriage was beginning to matter to him personally. The journals his father had written, full of love and worry and hope for his son's future.

But even those pleasant memories led to new anxieties. What if I was misreading the tentative warmth developing between us? What if the ceremony went perfectly but the marriage itself turned out to be a disaster? What if we discovered, too late, that we couldn’t maintain even a friendship in the banal day-to-day of married life, let alone those of a Crown Prince and Princess?

After an hour of increasingly circular worrying, I gave up on sleep entirely. I wrapped my robe around me and headed for the corridor. Maybe a walk would help clear my head.

The mountain was quieter at night, but never truly silent. The distant rhythm of forges that needed tending around the clock, the gentle whisper of air through ventilation shafts, the occasional footfall of a guard making rounds. It was peaceful in a way that reminded me this wasn't just a palace but a living city, breathing softly in the darkness.

I found myself wandering toward the library without really deciding to go there. During my first months in Erebor, I'd often ended up there when I couldn't sleep—something about being surrounded by all those stories and histories made my own problems feel more manageable. And while there was still stonework, it was less oppressive when softened by the shelves of books.

The great doors stood slightly ajar, which surprised me. I slipped inside, expecting to find it empty.

A muffled thud and quiet curse drew my attention to a far corner of the library. Someone else was here? At this hour?

I followed the sound, curiosity overriding caution. Around a shelf, past the history section, toward a small alcove I'd never noticed before...

And found Fíli, crown prince of Erebor, heir to the line of Durin, sitting on the floor surrounded by fallen books and looking decidedly un-princely.

He wore simple clothes—a plain tunic and trousers that made him look less like a prince and more like... well, like a person. His hair was coming loose from its usual careful braids, and there was an ink smudge on his chin that really shouldn't have been as endearing as it was. He was trying to gather the fallen books while muttering what sounded like very creative curses in Khuzdul.

"Need help?"

He startled so badly he dropped the books again. "Sigrid! I mean—Princess—I didn't—"

"Just Sigrid is fine," I said, dropping to my knees to help collect the scattered volumes. "I won't tell anyone you were anything less than perfectly dignified if you don't tell anyone I'm wandering the library in my nightclothes."

He blinked, then actually looked at what I was wearing—a robe hastily thrown over my nightdress—and quickly averted his eyes. "I... that seems fair."

We gathered books in awkward silence for a moment. They seemed to be a random assortment—engineering texts mixed with historical accounts and what looked like poetry collections. I noticed one was written in elvish script, which surprised me. I'd assumed dwarves would avoid anything elvish on principle.

I glanced up at him and saw a familiar frantic quality around his eyes. I'd seen it in my own mirror often enough these past weeks. "Hiding from wedding preparations too?" I guessed.

His shoulders sagged. "I have ten too many protocols spinning in my head," he admitted, then gave a short laugh. "Though probably not as many as you're dealing with. At least I already know all the ceremonial language."

"I'll have you know I haven't worried over ceremonial language for at least five hours." I settled back on my heels. "Instead, I've spent the past two staring at my ceiling, mentally catastrophizing about ceremonial sleeve construction."

That surprised a laugh out of him. "Sleeve construction? That's what's keeping you awake?"

"Among other things." I gestured at the cozy alcove around us, books scattered like fallen leaves. "Mind if I join your escape attempt? I promise not to judge your choice of hiding spot."

"Please." He sank back down, making room beside me on the carpet. "Though I should warn you, I've been reading the same page for twenty minutes. Not exactly productive use of insomnia."

I settled next to him, close enough to see the book's title. The elvish script caught my attention again. "Sindarin poetry? Ambitious choice for stress reading."

Color rose in his cheeks, and he looked suddenly younger. "My father used to read elvish poetry to us when we couldn't sleep," he said, then immediately looked embarrassed. "I thought... I don't know what I thought. That it might help somehow."

"Does it?"

"Not particularly. My Sindarin is terrible." He showed me the page, pointing to a particularly complex verse. "I think this is either about the beauty of starlight or the proper way to shoe a horse. Possibly both."

I couldn't help laughing at that, and after a moment he joined in. The sound echoed softly in our little alcove, warm and genuine in a way I rarely heard from him during formal occasions.

When our laughter faded, something shifted in his expression. He was quiet for a moment, and then he let out a sigh. "I thought it might help because I miss my father," he said finally. "Not... not the memory of him that everyone talks about. The real him. The one who used to sneak me sweets when Mother wasn't looking and taught me to sing crafting songs off-key just to make Uncle laugh."

The vulnerability in his voice made my chest tighten. I'd never heard him speak so openly before. My hands stilled on the book I'd been absently straightening. "What was he like? Really like?"

"He loved poetry," Fíli said softly. He leaned his head back against the shelf, closing his eyes. "Everyone forgets that about him. They remember the warrior, the craftsman, but... he used to read to me and Kíli at night. Said there was as much magic in words as in metal, if you knew how to listen."

"Is that why you're reading poetry tonight?"

"Maybe." He opened his eyes, looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "What about you?"

I couldn’t tell what he was asking. What I needed help with? Why I was here? What was really stressing me out? This conversation felt different, and I suddenly found myself wanting to match his honesty. I thought about my own father, my mother, about memories that felt more distant with each passing year. About all the things I could never explain. The words came slowly, like drawing water from a deep well.

"Sometimes," I said carefully, "I feel like I'm forgetting important things. Like there are pieces of me that don't quite fit together anymore."

"Because of the adoption?"

"Something like that." I focused on the book in my lap, running my fingers along its worn spine. "Sometimes I wake up and can't remember what my mother's voice sounded like when she spoke to me, or what songs my father used to sing, or... or anything really. And it terrifies me."

His hand found mine, warm and steady. I started slightly. I think this was the first time we had ever touched voluntarily, and found I didn’t want to move away. "Is that why you don't talk about them?"

"Partly," I admitted. "It's easier that way."

"Tell me anyway?" His voice was soft, gentle in a way I'd never heard before. "Not the formal version. The true one."

I looked at our joined hands, at the way his thumb was drawing small circles on my palm. So much for proper protocol. But here, in this quiet sanctuary of books and lamplight, protocols felt like distant concerns.

"I was ten," I said finally. "Everything changed so fast. New family, new language, new life. Sometimes it feels like everything before that was just... a dream. Like maybe I imagined it all."

"But you didn't."

"No." I squeezed his hand. "Just like you didn't imagine your father's poetry readings."

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of shared understanding settling between us like a warm blanket. The books around us seemed to lean in closer, creating an even more intimate space.

I found myself studying his profile in the lamplight—the strong line of his jaw, the way his loose hair framed his face. It struck me how different he looked from the composed prince I usually saw in court.

"You know," I said when the silence stretched, "I used to think the worst part of this whole arrangement would be the political pressure. Representing Dale, proving the alliance could work, all that."

He turned to look at me, eyebrows raised in question. "But it's not?"

"No. It's the little things." I leaned back against a bookshelf, letting my head rest against the leather-bound spines. "The way Lady Hilda looks at me when I use the wrong fork. The fact that I apparently need to memorize seventeen different ways to greet visiting dignitaries, depending on the situation. The realization that my wedding dress requires architectural engineering to fit properly.” I paused, feeling bold. "What about you? What does the crown prince worry about ahead of his pending marriage?"

He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer. His free hand traced patterns on the book in his lap, and I could practically see him wrestling with whether to be honest.

Then: "I'm terrified of disappointing everyone."

The words came out in a rush, like he'd been holding them back for too long.

"Uncle, Mother, our people... everyone has these expectations. Of who I should be, how I should act." He stared at the wall. "Sometimes I feel like I'm just... playing a part. Like the real me isn't good enough."

The raw honesty in his voice made my heart clench. "I know that feeling," I said quietly.

He glanced at me. "You do?"

"Of course. The strange foreign girl who arrived alone in Lake-town? The adopted daughter who became a princess? Who now has to prove she belongs somewhere new, again?" I gave a small laugh that wasn't really amused. "Sometimes I feel like I'm speaking lines in a play where everyone else knows the script except me."

The words felt dangerous once spoken aloud. I'd never admitted that to anyone—not to Da, not to Tilda, not even to myself really. But here in the quiet library, with only books to witness, the truth felt safer somehow.

Something fierce flashed in his eyes. "You belong here," he said with surprising intensity. "Anyone who says otherwise—"

"Will receive a strongly-worded diplomatic letter?"

The corner of his mouth quirked up. "I was going to say 'will fight me,' but yes, that sounds more princely."

I laughed despite myself, and the tension that had been building dissolved into something warmer. Something that felt dangerously like affection.

He shifted beside me, settling more comfortably against the bookshelf. The movement brought him slightly closer, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of metal polish and something uniquely him.

"Tell me something else," I said, emboldened by his earlier honesty. "Something that's not about ceremonies or protocols or being perfect. Something true."

He considered for a moment, his fingers still absently tracing patterns. "I miss being able to make mistakes," he said finally. "When I was younger, in exile, I could mess up a sword form or burn dinner or say something thoughtless, and it was just... a mistake. Something to learn from and move on. Now every error feels like it reflects on the entire kingdom."

The exhaustion in his voice resonated deep in my chest. I pulled my knees up to my chest, getting more comfortable. "In Lake-town, if I miscalculated a drainage system, the worst that happened was a flooded cellar. And what I said or did was of little importance to anyone but my family. Here, if I use the wrong honorific with a visiting dignitary, it could damage relations between kingdoms."

"The weight of it all," he agreed, nodding slowly. "Sometimes I feel like I'm balancing on a knife's edge, trying not to fall and take everyone else down with me."

I studied his face, noting the lines of tension I'd never noticed before. "And yet," I said, "you seem to handle it all so effortlessly. Every time I see you in council meetings or diplomatic functions, you're perfectly composed. Like you were born knowing exactly what to say and when to say it. Even today, with all our meetings, it seemed like that. I wonder how you do it."

He looked genuinely surprised at that, his eyebrows shooting up. "You think I look composed?"

"Absolutely. Cool, collected, completely in control. It's actually rather intimidating."

"Intimidating?" He seemed to find this amusing, a smile tugging at his lips. "I spend most of those meetings sure I'm going to say something that makes Uncle wince or causes some sort of diplomatic incident."

"Really?"

"Really.”

"At least you didn't accidentally challenge someone to a duel," I said. "I'm still not entirely sure what I said to Master Balin yesterday, but he looked very concerned and asked if I needed to speak with a healer."

His eyes widened. "What were you trying to say?"

"Something about being honored to serve the mountain. Apparently I said something closer to being honored to... well, I'm not entirely sure, but it involved weaponry and possibly livestock."

Fíli started laughing, although not at me. The sound filled our little alcove, echoing off the books surrounding us. The easy way we fell into sharing these embarrassing moments surprised me. I felt lighter somehow, as if admitting our mutual incompetence had lifted some invisible burden. Soon I was laughing too.

"You know what the worst part is?" I said, when we finally calmed down. "Everyone's too polite to correct me directly. They just smile and nod and change the subject, so I never know what I've actually said."

"At least people are polite to you. Kíli has started keeping a list of my mistakes.'"

This sent us into another fit of laughter, and by the time we recovered, my cheeks ached from smiling. The warmth in my chest had nothing to do with the reading lamp casting its golden glow over us.

"You know," Fíli said when he could speak again, his voice softer now, "this is the most relaxed I've felt in weeks."

"Sitting on a library floor making fun of our own incompetence?"

"Sitting with someone who understands. Someone who knows what it's like to feel like you're constantly performing instead of just... being."

Something in his tone made me look at him more carefully. The careful distance he usually maintained had evaporated completely.

"Is that what we're doing?" I asked quietly. "Performing?"

"Aren't we?" He gestured vaguely at the space around us. "The dutiful prince and his appropriate bride, proving to everyone that this alliance can work. That we can be what everyone needs us to be."

The question I'd been avoiding crystallized in the space between us. "And what if we can't?" The words slipped out before I could stop them. "What if we're both just... making it up as we go along and hoping no one notices?"

He was looking at me intently now, his gaze searching my face. "Then we'll make it up together," he said, and something in the way he said it made my heart skip. "We'll figure it out as we go, and when we inevitably mess things up, at least we'll have someone who understands why we're laughing about it afterward."

The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. This wasn't the careful diplomacy I was used to from him, or the formal courtesy that marked most of our interactions. This was real—unguarded and honest in a way I hadn’t expected.

"Fíli?" I said softly.

"Mm?"

"I'm glad it's you." The words came out before I could second-guess them. "I know neither of us chose this, but... I'm glad it's you."

He turned to look at me fully then, and for a moment I swore I saw something that looked like hope. Strange.

"Why?"

"Because you read elvish poetry badly when you can't sleep and you worry about disappointing people who care about you. Because you're real, not just some perfect prince from a story."

We were sitting closer now, though I wasn't sure when that had happened. Close enough that I could see the way the lamplight caught in his eyes, close enough to notice that he had a small scar near his left temple that I'd never seen before.

"Sigrid," he said, and my name sounded different in his voice. Softer, somehow. More intimate.

"Yes?"

For a moment, I thought he was going to say something, but before either of us could figure out what came next, a distant bell chimed, marking the late hour and breaking the spell that had settled around us. We both startled slightly, the sound pulling us back to reality and suddenly making us aware of where we were and how close we'd been sitting.

"We should probably..." I began, my cheeks warming with embarrassment.

"Yes," he agreed, though he made no immediate move to pull away. "It's late."

"And we both have early meetings tomorrow."

"More ceremony planning."

"More protocols to master."

"More ways to accidentally insult important people."

I couldn't help smiling at that. "At least we'll suffer through it together."

"Together," he agreed.

Finally, reluctantly, we began to gather ourselves. He closed his book while I smoothed my robe and tried to restore some semblance of propriety to my appearance. When we stood to leave, there was an awkward moment where neither of us seemed sure how to end this... whatever this had been.

At the library doors, he paused. "Perhaps," he said carefully, "if you can't sleep again... the library is often empty at this hour."

It wasn't quite an invitation, but it wasn't not an invitation either.

"Good to know," I said, matching his careful tone. "In case I need somewhere quiet to catastrophize about sleeves."

"And I'll probably be here too," he said. "Failing to read Sindarin poetry and worrying about disappointing people."

"Well, if you need help with translation..." I let the offer hang between us.

"I'd like that," he said softly. "Very much."

He walked me back to my chambers, maintaining a proper distance now that we were in the corridors. But just before we parted, he caught my hand and pressed a quick kiss to my knuckles.

"Sleep well, Sigrid," he said, then disappeared down the hall before I could respond.

I touched my hand where I could still feel the warmth of his lips, smiling like an idiot in the darkened corridor.

My chambers felt too quiet when I returned, too empty for all the thoughts swirling in my head. I moved to the window, gazing out at the starlit valley below. The night air was cool on my face, helping to clear my mind – though not necessarily in ways I wanted.

Tonight had changed something. Or maybe it had just made me admit what was already changing. This wasn't supposed to happen – this warmth in my chest when he smiled, this flutter when he touched my hand, this ache to tell him everything. The arrangement had been political, practical. A way to strengthen ties between Erebor and Dale, to show that the races could work together. It wasn't meant to involve actual feelings.

But here I was, standing at my window like some lovesick character in one of those elvish poems, thinking about the way Fíli's eyes crinkled when he laughed and how his voice went soft when he talked about his father. About how, for the first time since this whole thing began, I could imagine actually being happy in this marriage. Not just content, not just doing my duty, but truly happy.

And that terrified me more than any ceremonial protocol.

Because how could I build something real with him while keeping such a huge part of myself hidden? The truth about where I really came from, about my first family – it could change everything. But the thought of binding myself to him, of sharing a life, while holding back such a fundamental truth... it felt wrong. Dishonest in a way that made my chest tight.

He'd been so open tonight, sharing his fears and memories. And I'd shared too, but only the safe parts. The edited version. Always holding back the deepest truth, the one that sometimes felt like it would burst out of me if I wasn't careful.

I pressed my forehead against the cool stone of the window frame. Maybe that's why his tonight had affected me so much – because it had been real. Unguarded. Everything I wanted to be but couldn't quite manage.

Could we build something lasting on a foundation that wasn't completely solid? Could love – and my heart skipped at even thinking that word – grow in soil that wasn't entirely true?

I didn't know. But I did know that tonight, in that library, I'd seen a glimpse of what we could be. Two people who understood each other's pressures and fears. Who could make each other laugh. Who could be real together, even if only in stolen moments between all our careful pretense.

Maybe there was hope for us yet.

Chapter Text

The problem with having a revelation about your feelings at midnight in a library is that by morning, you still have to face all the practical realities that made the situation complicated in the first place. Including, in my case, the looming disaster that was my final courting gift.

I stared at the half-finished project spread across my workbench, my stomach churning with more than just pre-wedding anxiety. Three weeks until the ceremony. Three weeks to complete something that now felt completely wrong.

It had seemed like a good idea when I'd started it months ago—practical, thoughtful, demonstrating both skill and understanding of Fíli's work. But after last night, after seeing him vulnerable and real in ways I'd never imagined, the whole thing felt... insufficient. Safe. Distant.

He'd shared his father's poetry with me, his fears about living up to impossible expectations, his exhaustion from constantly performing. And I was planning to give him something that said "I know you're a craftsman" but nothing about seeing the man beneath the prince.

I picked up one of the components, turning it over in my hands. The craftsmanship was solid—Da had taught me well, and months of working with Master Torbin had improved my metalworking skills considerably. But looking at it now, all I could see was missed opportunity. A chance to offer something real, something that mattered, and instead I'd chosen to play it safe.

"Princess?" Nia's voice interrupted my brooding. "You have the final flower selection meeting in an hour."

Right. More wedding preparations. More opportunities to smile and nod while discussing the precise shade table linens would complement the ceremonial metalwork.

"I'll be ready," I said, not moving from my position hunched over the workbench.

"Is everything alright?" Nia stepped closer, her voice gentle with concern. "You seem... distracted this morning."

Distracted was putting it mildly. My mind kept drifting back to the library, to the way Fíli had looked when he'd admitted that this marriage was beginning to matter to him personally. The careful way he'd shared his fears, the genuine warmth in his voice when he'd said my name.

And here I was, planning to give him something that any competent craftsperson could have made. Something that demonstrated technical skill but revealed nothing about my heart.

"Just thinking about some project details," I said, which wasn't entirely a lie.

Nia glanced at the workbench, taking in the half-finished pieces. "It looks very fine to me, Princess. Very... practical."

"That's the problem," I muttered.

What do you give someone when you're just beginning to understand who they really are? When you're terrified of revealing too much but desperate to show that you see them?

I spent the rest of the morning in a haze of floral discussions and color coordination, nodding at appropriate moments while my mind churned with possibilities. Even Fíli seemed to notice the distraction, quietly asking once if I was feeling alright. 

By lunch, I'd convinced myself I was overthinking everything. The gift was fine. Practical. Appropriate.

By dinner, I'd changed my mind again.

It wasn't until I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the distant sounds of the mountain settling for the night, that I knew with sudden certainty: I had to start over. And I knew exactly what to do.

The thought was terrifying. Two weeks to create, and complete something entirely new. Something that mattered. Something that came from my heart instead of my head.

But as I finally drifted off to sleep, I realized I was almost excited by the challenge. For the first time since this whole arrangement began, I was choosing to be vulnerable. Choosing to take a risk.

This would be real. That had to count for something.

The summons to Master Graedo's office came on a morning when I was particularly grateful for any distraction from wedding preparations. Now, with only two weeks left until the ceremony, I'd just spent two hours with the florists discussing the symbolic significance of my bouquet for the Dale ceremony, and my head was spinning with the difference between "hopeful prosperity" and "enduring prosperity" as expressed through strategic placement of mountain lilies.

"Princess," Graedo greeted me with his usual gruff efficiency. "We have a situation."

I settled into the chair across from his desk, noting the scattered maps and what appeared to be very old architectural drawings spread across every available surface. "What kind of situation?"

"The challenging kind, if you don't mind controversy." He gestured to the documents. "The western quarter expansion has been approved for acceleration. King Thorin wants the residential districts completed before the spring trade season begins."

"That's... ambitious," I said, studying the timeline he showed me. "What's the current bottleneck?"

"Water supply. The existing systems can't handle the increased demand, and the proposed main line extension would take at least a year to complete through conventional excavation." Graedo's weathered finger traced a route on one of the maps. "But there might be another option."

He spread out what looked like ancient blueprints, the parchment so old it crackled when touched. "These are pre-Smaug engineering surveys. There's an abandoned aqueduct system that runs roughly parallel to where we need the new supply line."

I leaned closer, trying to decipher the faded markings. "Abandoned why?"

"Partial collapse during the dragon's attack. Multiple sections were sealed off when we reoccupied the mountain. But the preliminary assessment suggests significant portions might still be structurally sound. If we could access them, evaluate what's salvageable..." He shrugged. "It could cut months off the timeline."

"And if they're not sound?"

"Then we proceed with conventional excavation and finish next autumn instead of this spring." His eyes gleamed with the particular enthusiasm he reserved for engineering challenges. "But if they are sound..."

I studied the drawings more carefully, my mind already working through the possibilities. The old system was more complex than anything we'd attempted recently, with multiple levels and what appeared to be sophisticated pressure management. "This would require extensive underground survey work."

"Aye. Dangerous work, too. The areas have been sealed since the dragon came. No one knows what condition the tunnels are in, what kind of structural damage we might find." Graedo's expression turned serious. "And there's another consideration, Princess."

"Which is?"

"This isn't the kind of work typically expected of royal family members. We're talking about months of crawling through abandoned tunnels, detailed structural assessment in potentially hazardous conditions..." He paused meaningfully. "There are those who would question whether such activities are appropriate for the princess consort."

The implication hung in the air between us. I'd suspected that my more hands-on engineering work had raised eyebrows among the more traditional elements of the court, but no one had addressed it directly before.

"And you're concerned about the political implications?"

"I'm concerned about whether you're prepared for the criticism that would inevitably come from such a project. This isn't designing water systems from the comfort of an office—this is months of physical exploration in conditions that many would consider beneath your station." Graedo's weathered face was serious. "Are you prepared for that fight?"

The prospect of meaningful work that would extend past the wedding was more appealing than he could possibly know. "What would you need from me?"

"Complete survey and structural assessment of the accessible sections. We're talking about three to four months of detailed exploration work." He gestured to the complex drawings. "You understand water systems as well as most of my other engineers, and you're small enough to access areas that might be impossible for most of my team."

"What does Prince Fíli think of the proposal?" I asked, suddenly worried about his perspective on something that would clearly attract political attention.

Graedo's bushy eyebrows rose slightly. "The prince would have oversight responsibilities, naturally, but the technical decisions would be yours and mine. Though I suspect he'll have his own concerns about the... propriety of the work. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering about the political implications," I said, though that wasn't entirely true. I was genuinely curious about how Fíli would react to the controversy this project would inevitably generate.

"Well," Graedo said, "if you're interested, there's a preliminary meeting this afternoon. You can gauge the political climate yourself."

The meeting was smaller than I'd expected—just Graedo, myself, Master Torven from Architecture, and Fíli. We gathered in one of the engineering consultation rooms, surrounded by the ancient maps and surveys Graedo had been studying.

"The concept is sound," Fíli said after Graedo had explained the proposal, "but we need to discuss the broader implications. This isn't just an engineering project—it's going to attract significant attention."

"What kind of attention?" I asked, though I suspected I already knew. Graedo hadn’t minced words.

"The kind that questions whether the crown princess should be spending months crawling through abandoned tunnels," Fíli said. "There will be those who see this as... inappropriate for someone of your position."

"And what do you think?" I asked, studying his expression carefully.

He was quiet for a moment, clearly weighing his words. "I think your expertise is valuable, and this project could use your specific skills. But I also think you should understand what you'd be taking on beyond the technical challenges."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning every scraped knee, every torn dress, every day you come back covered in tunnel dust will be discussed in certain circles as evidence that you lack proper understanding of royal dignity." His voice was matter-of-fact, but I caught a hint of frustration beneath the diplomatic phrasing. "The question is whether you're prepared for that kind of scrutiny."

I looked around the table at the three men waiting for my response. Master Graedo, who clearly wanted my expertise regardless of political complications. Master Torven, who seemed primarily concerned with project feasibility. And Fíli, whose expression was carefully neutral in a way that suggested he had strong opinions he wasn't sharing.

"What's your opinion?" I asked him. "Not the diplomatic version—your real opinion."

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, at the direct question. "Honestly? I think questioning your involvement is shortsighted and politically motivated. Your engineering skills are demonstrably valuable, and excluding you from important projects because of arbitrary propriety concerns would be a waste of talent the mountain can't afford."

The fierce certainty in his response surprised me. "But?"

"But I also think you should know what you're walking into. This won't be just about engineering—it'll become a statement about what kind of princess consort you intend to be."

"And what kind is that?"

"The useful kind," he said. "The kind who contributes meaningfully rather than serving as decorative symbol."

Something warm fluttered in my chest at that assessment. "In that case," I said, "I'm interested. Very interested."

"Even knowing it will cause controversy?"

"Especially knowing it will cause controversy." I smiled. "If we're going to establish precedents for what the crown princess does with her time, I'd rather set ones I can live with."

A grin flashed across Fíli's face, quickly suppressed but unmistakable. "Then I'll support the project. With the understanding that criticism will come, and we'll address it as necessary."

For the next hour, we discussed timeline estimates, safety protocols, and the reality that this project would inevitably become a test case for my role within the royal family.

"Three to four months for complete assessment," I summarized, "assuming no major complications. Aside from, well, a wedding. After that, we'll know whether restoration is feasible or if conventional excavation is necessary."

"And you're comfortable with the physical demands?" Fíli asked. "Some of these passages appear quite challenging."

"I've done similar work in Dale, though admittedly nothing quite this extensive." I studied the old drawings. "But yes, I'm comfortable with the requirements."

"Then I'll recommend the project to Thorin," Fíli said. "Excellent," Graedo said with satisfaction. "We can begin preliminary access surveys next week."

As the meeting concluded and the others departed, Fíli and I walked side by side toward the main corridors.

"Thank you," I said, "for supporting the project despite the political complications."

"It would have been foolish not to," he said. "Though I meant what I said about the scrutiny this will attract."

"I can handle criticism about my choices."

"I know you can." He paused, studying my face with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. "Though I should warn you—some of the criticism will inevitably extend to me as well. Questions about whether I'm properly managing my future wife's behavior, whether I'm allowing inappropriate activities..."

"Are you worried about that?"

"Only insofar as it might affect you." His voice was quiet, serious. "I have no interest in managing your behavior, Sigrid. I'd rather support your choices and defend them when necessary."

The use of my name without my title, the sincerity in his voice—it made that warm feeling in my chest expand until I was afraid it might show on my face.

"Even when those choices involve me showing up to formal dinners with permanent tunnel dust in my hair?"

"Especially then," he said, and his smile was warm enough to make me forget, momentarily, that this was supposed to be a political arrangement. "Though I suspect I'll find it charming rather than scandalous."

We stood there for a moment, the conversation apparently concluded but neither of us moving to leave. The corridor was busy with dwarves going about their afternoon business, but somehow the space between us felt private, charged with possibility.

"I should go," I said finally, though I was reluctant to break whatever this moment was.

"As should I." But he made no move to depart. "Though... the library tends to be quiet in the evenings, if you need somewhere peaceful to review survey plans."

"Good to know," I said, matching his careful tone. "In case I need somewhere to think through structural assessments."

As he walked away, I found myself smiling like an idiot in the corridor. The tunnel project would be challenging, controversial, probably dirty and occasionally dangerous. But it would also be real work that mattered, supported by someone who valued my contribution rather than merely tolerating it.

The first preliminary survey, five days later, confirmed both the promise and the challenges of the project. The main access tunnel was in better condition than I'd hoped—solid stone construction that had weathered decades of abandonment remarkably well. But reaching the primary assessment areas would require navigating passages that were definitely not designed for comfort.

"The good news," I reported to Graedo at the end of the day, "is that the structural integrity appears sound in the areas I could reach. The engineering is more sophisticated than the old drawings suggested."

"And the challenging news?"

"Access is going to be exactly as difficult as we feared. Some of these passages..." I consulted my notes, looking for diplomatic phrasing. "Let's say they weren't designed with royal dignity in mind."

"Meaning you came back looking like you'd been wrestling with the mountain itself," Fíli's voice came from behind us. I turned to find him approaching, and tried not to be self-conscious about the state I was probably in.

"Meaning I have a much better understanding of why this work might be considered inappropriate for someone of my theoretical station," I said dryly. "Though the engineering discoveries were worth the indignity."

"Define 'indignity,'" he said, though there was amusement rather than criticism in his tone.

"Let's just say Lady Hilda would faint if she saw the state of my dress. And I may have left some dignity wedged in a particularly narrow passage about fifty feet underground."

Fíli actually laughed at that. "But the technical assessment was positive?"

"Very positive. This system is more extensive and better preserved than we dared hope. The original engineers were incredibly clever—some of the solutions I found down there are genuinely innovative."

"Innovative enough to justify months of undignified exploration?"

"Absolutely. 

"Then we proceed.” He paused. “If you’re willing, I'd be interested to hear about what you found down there. Ancient engineering is fascinating, even when it comes with dirt."

The genuine interest in his voice surprised me. "You really want to know about the technical details?"

"I really do. Though perhaps we could discuss them somewhere more comfortable than collapsed tunnels."

"The library has several excellent texts on hydraulic engineering," I suggested.

"Perfect. I'll see you there tonight?"

The casual way he said it, as if our midnight library meetings were an established part of our routine, made me smile. "I'll bring my notes."

That night, I was sketching modifications to the preliminary survey plans when familiar footsteps announced another nocturnal visitor.

"Tunnel planning or wedding anxiety?" Fíli asked, settling into what had become his usual spot beside me.

"Both," I admitted. "I keep thinking about the structural possibilities I glimpsed today, but also about Master Graedo's warnings regarding propriety concerns."

"Regretting taking on a controversial project?"

"Not for a moment. Though I am wondering how many formal complaints you'll receive about your bride's undignified behavior."

"Probably several," he said cheerfully. "I'm looking forward to responding to them."

I looked up from my sketches, surprised by his tone. "You're looking forward to it?"

"Absolutely. I've been waiting for an opportunity to clarify that the royal family values practical contribution over arbitrary social restrictions." His expression was more animated usual. "Your willingness to take on challenging work despite social pressure gives me an excellent platform for that clarification."

"So I'm serving as your political statement?" I said, raising my eyebrow.

"You're serving as yourself," he corrected. "The political statement is just a beneficial side effect."

Something about the way he said that made me study his face more carefully. "You've given this considerable thought."

"I've given you considerable thought," he said, then seemed to catch himself. "That is, I've given considerable thought to what kind of partnership we might build. Whether we'd be able to support each other's work, or whether we'd constantly be negotiating between personal interests and political expectations."

"And what conclusion did you reach?"

He was quiet for a moment, seeming to weigh his words carefully. "That I'd rather be married to someone with strong opinions and controversial projects than someone who never challenges anything."

The honest admission made my chest tighten unexpectedly. "Even if those controversial projects involve me coming home covered in dirt and complaints?"

"Especially then," he said, and his smile was warm enough to make me forget, momentarily, that this was supposed to be an arranged marriage rather than... whatever this was becoming.

"Well," I said, trying to keep my voice light, "in that case, you should probably prepare for months of detailed technical reports about tunnel conditions and structural assessments."

"I'm looking forward to those too," he said. "Besides, someone needs to ensure you don't get permanently wedged somewhere embarrassing."

"That's what safety protocols are for."

"Safety protocols," he said seriously, "don't account for the specific challenges of maintaining royal dignity while crawling through ancient tunnels."

"True. That's definitely not covered in any etiquette manual Lady Hilda’s given me to study."

"We'll have to write our own guidelines. 'Proper deportment for underground infrastructure assessment' could be a valuable addition to the royal library."

I laughed despite myself. "Chapter one: 'Accepting that dignity is temporary, but good engineering is eternal.'"

"Chapter two: 'Why tunnel dust is a perfectly acceptable accessory for the modern princess.'"

"Chapter three: 'Responding to criticism with detailed technical explanations until complainants give up and go away.'"

"That one might be my personal favorite," he said, grinning.

We fell into comfortable silence, both ostensibly returning to our respective reading. But I was distracted by the easy way we'd fallen into collaborative planning, by the genuine enthusiasm he'd shown for work that many would consider beneath royal attention.

"Fíli?" I said eventually.

"Mm?"

"Thank you for supporting this. Not just politically, but... personally. It means more than you might realize."

He set down his book, giving me his full attention. "It means I get to be married to someone who builds things instead of just attending ceremonies. That's not a sacrifice—that's exactly what I was hoping for."

He turned back to his book, which meant I was able to hide the grin stretching across my face. 

That started a regular ritual.

The second night, I told myself I was going to the library purely for the hydraulic engineering texts. The fact that Fíli might also be there was entirely coincidental.

He was already settled in our alcove when I arrived, surrounded by what appeared to be correspondence and looking thoroughly frustrated.

"Administrative crisis or diplomatic emergency?" I asked, settling beside him with my survey notes.

"Worse. Wedding gift protocol." He gestured helplessly at the scrolls. "I'm supposed to memorize the appropriate response for everything from 'ceremonial weaponry from distant allies' to 'handcrafted textiles from guild representatives.'"

I stared at the papers in horror. "Please tell me you're exaggerating."

"I wish I were. There's even a separate response for gifts that arrive damaged during transport." He rubbed his temples. "Sometimes I think the ceremony itself will be simpler than everything surrounding it."

I laughed, pulling out my own stack of papers. "Well, if it makes you feel better, I spent three hours today learning to distinguish between 'structurally compromised but potentially salvageable' and 'catastrophically failed beyond any hope of repair' in tunnel assessments."

"That actually does sound more straightforward than gift protocols."

"Everything's more straightforward than gift protocols," I agreed. "Though I did discover something fascinating about pressure distribution in the eastern passages..."

The third night, neither of us pretended it was coincidence.

"How did the dress fitting go?" Fíli asked, not looking up from what appeared to be a letter.

"Almost, but not quite, terribly. My shoulders still aren’t cooperating." I slumped against the bookshelf. "The seamstresses had to pull out two days worth of work. Again."

"Again?"

"Don't ask. It's a long and tragic tale of human anatomy versus dwarven tailoring expectations." I glanced at his book. "Let me guess," I said, settling beside him. "More diplomatic correspondence?"

"Worse. I have to write an official apology to the Textile Guild for 'questioning their methods' during today's ceremony planning meeting." He set down his pen with a sigh. "All I did was suggest that perhaps we didn't need quite so much fabric draped everywhere."

"And that was offensive?"

"Apparently." He rubbed his temples. "Though I suppose I should have known better. The last time I questioned textile arrangements, it didn't end well."

I perked up with interest. "Are we finally going to hear about the Great Wool Incident?"

Fíli went very still. "I never said anything about—"

"Your mother mentioned it. And Kíli's been dropping hints for weeks." I grinned at his obvious discomfort. "Come on, how bad could it be?"

"Absolutely not. If I tell you that story, you'll never be able to look at me with a straight face during the ceremony."

"Now I'm even more curious."

"Which is exactly why I'm not telling you." He picked up his pen again, pointedly returning to his letter. "Some secrets are too dangerous to share with one's future wife."

He paused, pen hovering over the parchment, and his expression softened. "Though I have to say, I'm glad we have this. These evenings here."

"The library meetings?"

"The chance to talk without audiences. To complain about textile guilds and dress fittings without worrying about protocol." He gestured around our quiet alcove. "It's the only time I feel like we're just... us."

I smiled at that. "Instead of the Crown Prince and the Future Princess Consort?"

"Exactly. Just Fíli and Sigrid, hiding from wedding preparations and sharing completely inappropriate opinions about ceremonial fabric arrangements."

"Well, when you put it like that, it sounds perfectly reasonable."

He smiled then, warm and genuine. "Good. Though I'm still not telling you about the wool."

"I'll get it out of Kíli eventually."

"Kíli's version involves sheep stampedes and a ceremonial banner. Don't believe a word of it."

"Sheep stampedes?"

"I've said too much already."

The fourth night, I found him already there, but fast asleep over an open book. His usually perfect braids were coming loose, and there was an ink smudge on his cheek where he'd been resting his head on his hand.

I hesitated in the doorway and was about to retreat when he stirred, blinking sleepily.

"Sigrid?" His voice was rough with sleep. "What time is it?"

"Late. Or early, depending on perspective." I moved closer, noting the scattered correspondence around him. "Council work again?"

"Trade negotiations with the Iron Hills." He sat up, trying to finger-comb his disheveled hair back into some semblance of order. "They're driving a hard bargain on mineral rights."

"When did you last sleep? Actually sleep, not just doze over paperwork?"

He paused, clearly trying to remember. "Tuesday?"

"Fíli, it's Friday."

"Ah." He rubbed his face. "That explains why the letters keep blurring together."

Without really thinking about it, I moved behind his chair. "May I?"

He looked confused until I gestured at his hopelessly tangled braids. "Oh. If you don't mind..."

I carefully began working out the knots, my fingers gentle against his scalp. He went very still under my touch, and I wondered if I'd overstepped some boundary. But then he relaxed slightly, his eyes drifting closed. I still couldn’t do the more complicated braids myself, but I was able to plait a practical braid that got the worst of the hair out of his eyes. 

"Better?" I asked softly when I'd finished re-braiding the worst sections.

"Much." His voice was quiet. "Thank you."

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the late hour and his exhaustion creating an intimacy that felt both natural and significant.

"You should go to bed," I said finally. "The trade negotiations will still be there tomorrow."

"Probably." He gathered his papers slowly, as if reluctant to break the peaceful moment. "Will you... will you be here tomorrow night?"

"Do you want me to be?"

His smile was soft, unguarded in the lamplight. "Yes. Very much."

As I made my way back to my chambers that night, I thought about the warmth in his voice when he'd said he wanted me there tomorrow. Somehow these stolen library hours had become the most real part of our entire arrangement.

Chapter Text

Three days later brought another round of wedding planning meetings, this time focused on the seating arrangements for the feast. Master Thrain had created what appeared to be a military campaign map, complete with color-coded sections representing different noble houses and their complex web of alliances and rivalries.

"The Iron Hills delegation must be seated with full honors," he was explaining, pointing to various positions on his elaborate chart, "but not adjacent to the Blue Mountain representatives, as there are still tensions from a mining rights dispute."

I nodded dutifully, making notes I'd probably lose within the hour. Not that it mattered. At this point, half these meetings were formalities, Fíli and I being told what was happening. Beside me, Fíli sat with perfect posture and an expression of polite attention that I was beginning to recognize as his diplomatic mask. But when Master Thrain launched into a particularly tedious explanation of why certain guild masters couldn't be placed near certain others due to ancient professional grievances, I caught Fíli's eye and he made an almost imperceptible face that clearly said "this is as ridiculous as you think it is."

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

"Princess Sigrid," Balin said, drawing my attention back to the seating chart, "your family will naturally be given places of highest honor. Your father at the high table, your siblings in the first circle of guests."

"That's very generous," I managed, though part of me was still thinking about Fíli.

"And of course," Master Thrain continued, "the traditional toasts must be considered. The order of precedence for speakers, the appropriate length for each address, the ceremonial significance of..."

His voice faded into background noise as I found myself studying Fíli's profile. There was tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there when we'd first sat down, and I wondered if he was thinking about the speech he'd have to give. The formal words about alliance and cooperation and the future of both their peoples.

Words that would be true, but wouldn't capture the complicated reality of what was growing between us.

"The wine selection has been finalized," Balin was saying when I managed to focus on the conversation again. "Three varieties from Dale's vineyards, complemented by selections from the mountain's own cellars."

The meeting continued for another hour, covering logistics that would ensure everything went smoothly, that the wedding would be a diplomatic success and a worthy celebration. But I found myself watching Fíli throughout, noting the small signs of stress he tried to hide, the way his formal responses carried just a hint more warmth when he was addressing me directly. Once, he even smiled at me. When I first came to this mountain, I wasn’t even sure he had remembered how to smile.

When we finally adjourned, I found myself walking with him toward the main corridors, both of us moving slowly as if reluctant to return to our separate responsibilities.

"That was enlightening," he said once we were out of earshot of the others.

"That's one word for it," I replied. "I particularly enjoyed the detailed analysis of why Lord Boset can't sit within three seats of Master Rimed due to some dispute about barrel construction techniques from forty years ago."

"Essential information," he agreed. "Clearly the fate of the alliance hangs on proper seating arrangements."

I couldn't help laughing at his dry delivery. "Careful, Your Highness. That sounds dangerously close to irreverence."

"Never," he said, though his eyes were dancing with amusement. "I have the utmost respect for forty-year-old grudges about woodworking."

We'd stopped walking, I realized, standing in the middle of the corridor while guards and servants moved around us with respectful bows. Creating a small island of warmth in the formal grandeur of Erebor's halls.

"I should get back," I said reluctantly. "I'm expecting correspondence that will require attention."

 "I'll see you at dinner?"

"Yes," I said, warmth spreading through my chest at the question. As if he was looking forward to it, not just acknowledging a scheduled obligation.

He smiled—a real smile this time, not the diplomatic one.

"Until then," he said with a small bow that managed to be both proper and somehow intimate.

As I watched him walk away, I found myself smiling for no reason I could articulate to anyone who might ask. Whatever was happening between us, it was becoming harder to hide. And I was discovering I didn't particularly want to hide it anymore.

The next evening found me in the library again. 

I'd been there perhaps an hour when familiar footsteps echoed in the corridor. My pulse quickened despite my attempts to focus on hydraulic principles.

"Research?" Fíli asked, settling into the space beside me that had somehow become his usual spot.

"Research," I said, glancing up from my book.

He was closer tonight than usual, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of metal polish that clung to his clothes. When he leaned over to examine the diagram I was studying, his shoulder brushed against mine.

"Pressure distribution calculations?" he asked, his voice quieter than necessary in the empty library.

"For the tunnel assessment. I need to understand how water pressure changes with depth and..." I trailed off as I realized he was watching me speak rather than looking at the book. "What?"

"Nothing," he said, but didn't look away. "I just... I like watching you think through problems. You get this small line between your eyebrows when you're concentrating."

His hand moved as if to touch the spot he'd mentioned, then stopped, fingers hovering near my face. For a moment we stayed frozen like that, the air between us charged with possibility. I could feel the warmth radiating from his palm, could see the way his breathing had grown shallow.

"Sigrid," he said softly, my name barely a whisper.

The library door creaked somewhere in the distance—a guard making rounds, perhaps, or another late-night scholar. The sound broke the spell, and Fíli's hand dropped away as we both jerked back to a more appropriate distance.

"I should..." he began, running a hand through his hair.

"Yes," I agreed quickly, though I wasn't sure what either of us should do. "The tunnels. I need to finish these calculations."

He nodded, but made no move to leave. We sat in awkward silence for several minutes, both pretending to read while stealing glances at each other. Finally, with obvious reluctance, he gathered his things.

"Good night, Sigrid," he said at the library door.

"Good night."

After he left, I stared at the same page for twenty minutes without comprehending a single word, my skin still tingling from his almost-touch.

Four nights later, I found myself once again unable to sleep, my mind spinning with the gift and the pressure of the approaching deadline. The anticipation was mixing with something else—a restless energy that had nothing to do with deadlines and everything to do with the way Fíli had looked at me during today's planning session. The warmth in his eyes when he forgot to be perfectly princely, the way our conversations had grown easier, more natural.

Without really deciding to, I found my feet carrying me toward the library. The great doors stood slightly ajar, which made my pulse quicken with hope.

He was there, as I'd both hoped and expected. But instead of wrestling with diplomatic correspondence or struggling through elvish poetry, tonight he was working on something with his hands. Small tools spread around him on the carpet, pieces of silver wire and what looked like tiny gears arranged in careful patterns.

I watched him work, noting the way his hands moved with unconscious skill, the careful attention he paid to each tiny component. "What are you making?"

"Mechanical flowers," he said, holding up one of the completed pieces. "The petals open and close based on temperature changes. It's meant to be part of a larger piece—a gift for my mother. She's been working so hard on restoring grandmother's garden."

The flower in his hands was beautiful, silver petals that moved with surprising fluidity when he breathed on a small mechanism at its center. "That's incredible. The engineering alone..."

"It's taken me months to get the mechanism sensitive enough to respond to small temperature changes but sturdy enough for regular handling," he admitted, setting the flower down carefully among his other tools. "The balance between delicacy and durability is... challenging."

"But that's what makes it beautiful," I said, shifting closer to get a better view of his technique. "The fact that something so delicate can also be functional. Lasting."

He paused in his work to look at me. "You think so?"

"I do." I gestured toward the scattered pieces of his project. "It's very... you, actually."

"What do you mean?"

"The attention to detail, the patience, the way you think through problems systematically but never lose sight of the beauty in what you're creating." I found myself studying his face in the lamplight. "It's like watching you distilled into metalwork."

"You see all that?"

"I'm starting to," I said. "It's taken me a while to look past the prince to see the person underneath."

"And what do you think of the person underneath?" The question was asked lightly, but I could hear the genuine curiosity beneath it.

I considered how to answer honestly without revealing too much about the direction my feelings were taking. Some days it felt like I was still feeling them out myself. "I think he's more interesting than the prince," I said finally. "More real. More... himself."

Fíli was quiet for a moment, his hands stilling on the delicate metalwork. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. "I've been wondering the same thing about you. About who you are when you're not being Princess Sigrid of Dale."

"And?"

"And I'd like to know her better," he said, meeting my eyes directly. "If she'd be willing to let me."

My heart did something complicated in my chest. This felt like the edge of something important, a conversation that could change everything between us if I was brave enough to step into it.

"She might be," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Though she's not always sure how to be herself around princes."

"What if the prince promised to be himself too?" Fíli asked, setting down his tools completely. 

The library around us seemed to lean in closer, our small circle of lamplight feeling like the only real place in the world. I found myself studying the way his hands moved as he carefully arranged his tools, the unconscious precision of someone who'd spent years perfecting his craft.

"I've been thinking," I said quietly, "about what you said. About feeling like you're always performing instead of just... being."

He looked up at that, something vulnerable flickering across his features. "Have you?"

"It's exhausting, isn't it? Never knowing if people see you or just the role you're playing." I tucked my feet under me, getting more comfortable. "Sometimes I wonder if I even know who I really am anymore, underneath all the princess lessons and diplomatic protocols."

"I used to know," Fíli said softly. "Before we reclaimed the mountain, before the crown became something real instead of theoretical. I was just... myself. Flawed, certainly, but real."

He reached for one of the delicate silver flowers, his fingers brushing against mine as I moved to steady the piece. The contact sent a jolt through me—warm and electric and entirely too brief.

"You're still real," I said, my voice catching slightly at the unexpected touch. "I see you. Here, like this. The way you worry about your work, the way you think through problems. The way you actually listen when people talk instead of just waiting for your turn to speak."

Something shifted in his expression, a surprise so genuine it made my chest tight. But beneath it, I caught something else—a loneliness so deep it took my breath away.

"Do you?" he asked, his hand still near mine on the carpet between us. "Sometimes I feel like I could disappear entirely and people would only notice that the prince was missing. Not... not me. Just the function I serve."

The raw honesty in his voice made my heart clench. I shifted closer, close enough that our knees were almost touching. "That's not true."

"Isn't it?" His laugh was hollow. "When was the last time someone asked what I wanted, rather than what Erebor needed? When someone looked at me and saw Fíli, not just the heir?"

"Right now," I said softly. "I'm looking at you right now, and I see Fíli. The dwarf who reads poetry badly when he can't sleep. Who spends months perfecting mechanical flowers for his mother. Who worries about living up to his father's memory." My hand moved without conscious thought, covering his. "Who makes me feel less alone in all of this."

His breathing changed, becoming shallow and careful. "Sigrid..."

"I see you," I repeated, my voice barely a whisper. "All of you. Not the prince, not the alliance, not the political necessity. You."

The space between us felt charged now, crackling with possibilities. I could feel the warmth radiating from him, could see the way his gaze kept flickering to my lips before darting away. My heart was racing, and I knew I was standing at the edge of something that would change everything between us.

This was dangerous. Reckless. If someone found us, if this complicated the alliance, if I was misreading the situation entirely... But looking at him—really looking at him, seeing the careful hope warring with uncertainty in his eyes—I found I didn't care about the risks. Not tonight. Not here in our sanctuary of books and lamplight.

I was tired of being careful. Tired of measuring every word and gesture for political implications. For once, I wanted to be honest about what I felt.

"Fíli," I said, his name barely a whisper.

"Yes?"

Instead of answering, I leaned forward and kissed him.

It was gentle, tentative—more question than declaration. His beard was softer than I'd expected, and for a heartbeat he went very still. Then his hand came up to cup my face, and he was kissing me back with a careful tenderness that made my heart race. I could feel the calluses from his metalwork rough against my cheek. His other hand found my waist, fingers spreading against the fabric of my dress.

The kiss deepened slightly, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone as I let myself sink into the warmth of him. There was something almost desperate in the way we held each other, as if we both knew this moment was stolen, temporary, too fragile to last.

When we finally broke apart, we stayed close, foreheads nearly touching, both breathing unsteadily. His hand remained against my face, thumb still tracing gentle patterns across my skin.

For a moment, everything felt perfect. Warm and right and exactly where I wanted to be.

Then my mind caught up.

What had I just done? The thought hit me like cold water, followed immediately by a dozen others. When had I started wanting to kiss him? Was this real, or was I just desperate for connection? What did this mean? What was I supposed to do now? What if someone had seen? What if he hadn't wanted it? What if I'd completely misread the situation and he was just being kind, just trying to make this arrangement work, and I'd thrown myself at him like some desperate—

"That was..." Fíli started..

I pulled back suddenly, my heart racing for entirely different reasons now. "I should go," I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

His hand fell away from my face, confusion flickering across his features. "Sigrid?"

"It's late," I said, already scrambling to my feet. My thoughts were spinning too fast to make sense of anything. "I’m sorry, I shouldn't... we shouldn't..."

"Wait," he said, rising as well, but I was already backing toward the door.

"Good night, Fíli," I managed, and then I was fleeing down the corridor, leaving him standing alone among his scattered tools and mechanical flowers.

I didn't stop until I reached my chambers, closing the door firmly behind me and leaning against it as if something might follow me. My heart was still pounding, and I could still taste him on my lips, still feel the warmth where his thumb had traced my cheek.

What was wrong with me? The kiss had been wonderful—better than wonderful. So why had I run?

Because I didn't know what it meant. Because I didn't know what I wanted it to mean. Because I suddenly realized I had no idea what he actually wanted from me—had he kissed me back because he felt something real, or because he was trying to be kind?

I touched my lips, remembering the gentle way he'd kissed me back, the careful tenderness in his touch. But now I couldn't tell if that tenderness meant affection or just politeness. 

Back in the library, Fíli was probably wondering what had happened. The thought made my chest ache with guilt, but I couldn't make myself go back. Not yet. Not until I understood what was happening to me.

I sank onto my bed, burying my face in my hands.

Chapter Text

The morning of the final gift exchange dawned gray and cold, matching my mood perfectly. I'd spent the night tossing restlessly, alternating between reliving that perfect moment when Fíli had kissed me back and torturing myself with all the reasons why it couldn't—shouldn't—happen again.

Three days since I'd kissed him in the library and then fled like a coward. Three days of carefully orchestrated politeness in public, of avoiding eye contact during meetings, of pretending my heart didn't skip whenever he entered a room. Three days of lying awake at night, wanting something I wasn't sure I had any right to want.

The worst part was that I couldn't tell what he was thinking. In meetings, he was perfectly cordial, perfectly appropriate. If anything, he seemed more princely than usual—formal and distant in a way that felt like armor. It should have made it easier. Instead, I realized I missed the tentative camaraderie that we had built. That I had ruined.

"You seem distracted this morning," Lady Hilda observed as she helped me dress. "Nervous about tonight?"

"Among other things," I said, absentmindedly straightening my sleeves.

The truth was more complicated than nerves. I wanted to see him alone again, craved those moments when he was just Fíli instead of Prince Fíli. But I also knew that what I was feeling was dangerous—not because it was wrong, but because it was built on foundations that weren't entirely solid. How could I love someone—really love them—while keeping such a huge part of myself hidden? 

And it could be love. That was what terrified me most. The warmth in my chest when he smiled, the way our conversations felt like coming home, the desperate urge to tell him everything about who I really was and where I'd come from. But love required honesty, didn't it? And honesty was the one thing I couldn't give him. And that didn’t even begin to take into account that I had no clue what his feelings were. 

"Princess?" Lady Hilda's voice broke through my spiraling thoughts. "The blue dress or the purple?"

"What?" I blinked, focusing on her with effort. "Oh. The blue, I think."

"Have you given thought to where you'd like to meet?"

I tried not to groan. "I assumed Lord Balin would just tell us where we were supposed to meet."

"Actually," she smiled slightly, "this one is private. Just you and Prince Fíli. And you may choose the location."

That got my attention. The thought of being alone with Fíli made something flutter nervously in my chest—part anticipation, part dread at having to navigate this new awkwardness between us.

"Private?" I tried to keep my voice steady. "No family or council members?"

"The final exchange the day before the wedding, it's..." she paused, considering her words carefully. "It's meant to be a moment of truth between the couple. A chance to be honest about whether they truly wish to proceed with the marriage."

"A bit late for second thoughts, isn't it?" I tried to keep my tone light, but the question hit closer to home than I wanted to admit.

Her expression softened. "It's never too late to speak truth. The tradition exists because even arranged marriages should have a foundation of honesty. Even if that honesty is just acknowledging that you're both choosing duty over personal desires."

I thought about our midnight meetings, about how different Fíli was when we were alone. How the careful prince facade would slip, showing me glimpses of someone who loved poetry and told terrible jokes and worried about living up to everyone's expectations. We'd been building something these past weeks—friendship, understanding, maybe even something more. 

"And if..." I hesitated, the question burning in my throat. "If we want more than just duty?"

Her smile widened slightly. "Then that's a truth worth sharing too."

By evening, I'd worked myself into a state of nervous exhaustion. The day had been a blur of final preparations, but my mind kept drifting to Fíli's request that morning—soft-voiced and almost shy as he'd asked if I'd meet him in the library. Of course he'd chosen the library. 

I'd spent weeks preparing my gift, hoping this time I'd manage to bridge the gap between us. Even getting the materials had been a challenge. Da had helped, though his diplomatic missions to the Woodland Realm suddenly involving extensive browsing of Thranduil's library had raised some eyebrows. I wondered what the elves thought of a human princess requesting access to their poetry collections.

I arrived to find the doors already ajar, warm lamplight spilling into the corridor. Our familiar alcove was arranged differently tonight—the carpet had been cleared, two cushions placed across from each other with careful space between. Intimate but not presumptuous. Safe but not distant. No ceremony to hide behind here, no protocols to guide us.

Fíli was already there when I arrived, his shoulders tense as he paced a tight circle near the shelves. At the sound of my footsteps, he spun around, one hand automatically running through his hair. He'd shed his formal outer layers, dressed simply in a tunic and trousers. I was becoming used to seeing him like this, I realized. I wanted to see him more like this.

When he looked up at me, the air shifted. There was that moment again – the same charged silence. The unspoken kiss hung in the air between us, making my cheeks warm.

"Hi," I said, then immediately felt foolish. We'd been engaged for months, had shared midnight conversations and one perfect kiss, and the best I could manage was 'hi'?

"Hi," he echoed, his shoulders finally relaxing. Then, more formally: "Lady Hilda explained the tradition?"

"Yes." I settled on one of the cushions. The space between us felt carefully measured—close enough for intimate conversation, far enough to maintain some semblance of propriety. "Though I have to say, it seems a bit late for second thoughts."

Something flickered across his face.

"Is that what you're having?" he asked quietly. "Second thoughts?"

I looked at him then, really looked. There was something careful in his posture, his shoulders tense again, as if he was holding himself very still. So different from the confident prince who stood beside me in council meetings. This was the Fíli I'd glimpsed in midnight conversations – the one who worried about living up to his uncle's legacy, who missed his father with an ache that never quite faded, who wanted to be more than just the perfect prince everyone expected.

"No," I said slowly. "Not second thoughts. Just... complicated thoughts."

He nodded, as if this was exactly what he'd expected. "About the other night?"

The careful way he said it made my chest tight, but his voice gave no indication of how he felt about the whole matter. So I chose the safe option. 

"I need to apologize," I said. "I shouldn't have... I made things awkward between us, and that's the last thing I wanted."

"You didn't make anything awkward," he said. "And you have nothing to apologize for."

"I don't want to lose what we've built," I said. "These past weeks, getting to know you... it's been the best part of this whole arrangement."

His smile was soft but didn't quite reach his eyes. "For me as well."

"So maybe we could just... go back to how things were? Before I complicated everything?"

For just a moment, his careful control slipped. His jaw tightened, and for a split second something flashed across his features before he composed himself again. "If that's what you want."

"I think it's what we both need," I said, hating how it sounded. "At least for now."

He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was steady. "Then that's what we'll do."

But something in his voice had changed—a careful distance that hadn't been there before our kiss. I tried not to dwell on it, but the silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken questions. The wrapped gifts beside us seemed to offer an escape from whatever this new awkwardness was.

"Shall we..." I gestured to the gifts we'd both brought. 

"Of course." He reached for a wooden box beside his seat. "Would you like to go first?"

I nodded, reaching for my wrapped bundle. My fingers fumbled with the ribbon I'd tied so carefully that morning. The words caught in my throat twice before I managed to speak. "It's not traditional," I warned, passing him the wrapped bundle. "And it's not particularly practical either." Which felt strange to admit – I'd always prided myself on practicality. But maybe some things needed to be more than just practical.

His smile was soft. "Good."

He unwrapped it carefully, revealing the book I'd spent the last three weeks creating. The binding was simple leather, worked with patterns I'd copied from Dale's architectural drawings rather than dwarven designs. Inside, carefully transcribed, were selected elvish poems about craft and creation - the ones that spoke of making things not just with hands but with heart. I'd chosen each one carefully, trying to find pieces that bridged our different worlds – that spoke of creation in ways both our peoples might understand.

"I know your elvish isn't very good," I said as he opened it. "But I included translations. And I thought... well, you said your father loved poetry, and these are about craft-work and creation and finding beauty in unexpected places..."

"You made this?" he asked, fingers tracing the careful writing.

"The binding took three tries," I admitted. "And I had to get Da to help me access Thranduil's library. Though I think the elves were more amused than anything when they realized what I wanted."

"You went to the Woodland Realm for this?"

"Well, technically Da did. On supposedly important diplomatic business that just happened to require extensive use of their poetry collections."

He laughed then, that real laugh I'd only heard in our midnight meetings. "I can just imagine Thranduil's face."

"Apparently he was quite intrigued by the whole thing. Even suggested some selections, though Da said his taste runs more to tragic romance than craft-songs."

Fíli was still examining the book, turning pages with careful reverence. "These translations..."

"I did those too," I said. "Though I had help checking them. I didn't want to accidentally start another war by mistranslating something important." The work had been worth it though – hours spent puzzling over elvish verses, trying to capture not just the words but the meaning behind them. The way they spoke about craft as something alive, something that grew from heart as much as hand.

"Thank you," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "This is... no one has ever made me anything like this."

My shoulders dropped from the vicinity of my ears. He liked it. Every late night had been worth it. Maybe I hadn’t ruined everything.

"Your turn," I said.

"I hope..." he started, then seemed to reconsider his words. "That is, I tried to make something you might actually want this time. Not what tradition dictates or what's properly impressive."

The box opened to reveal what looked like a drawing compass, but unlike any I'd ever seen. The mechanisms were intricate but clearly functional, with adjustable arms and carefully calibrated measurements marked along the edges.

"It's for calculating drainage routes," he explained. "The arms adjust to account for the grade of the mountain, so you can plan water flow more accurately. And these markings here..."

As I turned the compass over in my hands to see the markings, my fingers brushed against his where he was still pointing out the calibration markings. The contact was brief, accidental, but it sent a jolt of awareness through me that had nothing to do with engineering precision. His hand stilled under mine for just a heartbeat before he pulled back, and I caught the slight flush in his cheeks.

"The markings here..." he continued, his voice slightly rougher than before, and I realized the kiss was affecting him too. That whatever uncertainty we were both feeling, we were at least feeling it together. "They're scaled to match Dale's existing systems. I thought it might help with integrating the new construction with the old infrastructure."

"It's perfect," I said, meaning it. "This is exactly what I needed."

"Really?" He seemed uncertain. "Because if the measurements need adjusting..."

"No, I mean..." I set the compass down carefully. "You made something practical but beautiful. Something that shows you understand what matters to me. What I'm trying to build."

We sat in silence for a moment, both looking at our gifts. Proof that we saw each other, understood each other. Despite everything I was holding back, this was real.

"I want this to work," I said finally. "Not just because of duty, but because I think we could build something good together."

"We will," he said, and there was something fierce in his voice. "Whatever form it takes, we'll build something good."

The phrasing was careful, I noticed. Not 'we could'—'we will.' As if he'd already decided to make it work.

The light was fading outside, shadows creeping into our alcove. Tomorrow would bring ceremony and tradition, formal vows and public promises. But tonight felt oddly suspended.

"I should go," I said reluctantly. "Tomorrow will be a long day."

"Yes," he agreed, rising as I did. "Though I'm glad we had this chance to... to talk."

As he walked me back to my chambers—maintaining proper distance but somehow protective—I found myself studying his profile. There were lines of tension around his eyes that hadn't been there before.

"Sleep well, Sigrid," he said at my door. For just a moment, his guard dropped. The way he looked at me was soft, warm, utterly unguarded. Then the moment passed, and he was walking away down the corridor.

Inside my chambers, I couldn't shake the feeling that in trying to protect whatever was growing between us, I'd contained it instead.

Tomorrow I would marry Prince Fíli of Erebor. And maybe, someday, I'd be brave enough to figure out exactly what we each wanted from each other.

Chapter Text

In Laketown, Fíli had more pressing concerns than evaluating their temporary hosts. Kíli's wound was getting worse, infection setting in despite Óin's best efforts. Every pained sound his brother made felt like a personal failure - he was supposed to protect him, and instead they were trapped in a stranger's house watching fever take hold.

The bargeman's eldest daughter helped tend the wound without being asked. There was something almost familiar about her methodical efficiency - it reminded him of healers he'd known in the Blue Mountains, the ones who'd seen enough tragedy to develop a certain pragmatic compassion. Not that he spent much time thinking about it then. His world had narrowed to his brother's ashen face and increasingly labored breathing.

Of course, then everything went sideways with orcs and dragon fire, and any thoughts about their hosts disappeared in the chaos that followed.

Fíli had always known his life wasn't truly his own. Every prince learns this early - your choices belong to your people, your actions to your lineage, your future to your kingdom. He'd accepted this truth along with his first craft-beads, wearing it as naturally as the weight of his ceremonial braids.

But knowing something and living it were different matters entirely.

"A marriage alliance," his uncle said, in that tone that meant the decision was already made. "With Dale."

Fíli kept his face carefully neutral, though his hands wanted to clench. He'd expected this eventually - political marriages were as much a part of royal life as formal dinners and council meetings. He just hadn't expected it quite so soon.

"With Princess Sigrid," his mother clarified, watching him with those too-sharp eyes that always saw more than he wanted them to.

Ah. The tall human girl who argued with stonemasons and redesigned water systems. His brief acquaintance with her in Lake-town had been surpassed by formal relations between two royal families. Everyone knew her now. She moved through Dale like a storm wind, leaving changed plans and grumbling traditionalists in her wake.

"When?" he asked, because that's what princes do - they ask practical questions about inevitable things.

"Soon," Thorin said. "The alliance needs to be secured while both kingdoms are still rebuilding. While we need each other."

Later, in his forge (because he always thought better with hammer in hand), his brother found him.

"So," Kíli said, sprawling across a workbench with his usual disregard for proper prince-like behavior. "Marriage."

"Marriage," Fíli agreed, focusing on the metal before him. Sometimes if you said things matter-of-factly enough, they felt less overwhelming.

Kíli watched him work for a moment. "You're not angry about it."

It wasn't quite a question. Fíli considered it as he shaped the metal, letting the rhythm of hammer on anvil order his thoughts.

"No," he said finally. "It's necessary. For our people. For the future we're trying to build."

"That's not what I asked."

Fíli set down his hammer with perhaps more force than necessary. "What do you want me to say, Kíli? That I dreamed of marrying for love like characters in those stories Mother used to tell us? That I somehow thought I'd be different from every royal heir before me?"

"I want you to say what you're actually thinking," Kíli said quietly. "Not what you think you're supposed to think."

Sometimes Fíli hated how well his brother knew him.

The first meeting was... not what he'd expected. She'd arrived with her father, wearing simple clothes that spoke more of function than ceremony. Her hair was braided incorrectly and there was mud on her boots.

She was beautiful.

The thought ambushed him, unwanted and inappropriate for a political negotiation. He quickly dismissed it from mind. 

He saw the moment when Sigrid realized just what Thorin and Bard were proposing. A flash of surprise, then anger, quickly schooled away. Fíli felt the corners of his mouth tug down in a shadow of a grimace. Had no one told her? Warned her what this meeting was about? That hardly seemed a promising way to start negotiations.

"I'll do it."

Three simple words. He'd expected... well, he wasn't sure what he'd expected. More negotiation perhaps. Resistance. Questions about terms and conditions and expectations. That would have been the practical approach, and everything he'd heard about Princess Sigrid suggested she was nothing if not practical.

Instead, she'd said those three words with a quiet finality that made something twist in his chest. Not joy or triumph or even relief - those would have been simpler emotions, more appropriate for a prince securing a political alliance.

No, what he felt was... recognition. Because he knew that tone. Knew the weight of duty settling onto shoulders too young to carry it, but carrying it anyway because that's what you did when people needed you to be more than just yourself. It was the most royal thing he'd ever seen, though he doubted she knew it.

"Ready?" Balin asked, finding him at his anvil as dawn filtered through the mountain shafts.

"No," Fíli admitted. "But let's proceed anyway."

Duty never waits for readiness.

When Princess Sigrid entered into the formal receiving hall with her father behind Thorin and Fíli, whispers rippled through the crowd. She was tall, even for a human woman, making her conspicuous among the dwarves. Her formal dress, while clearly her finest, looked pitifully simple compared to the elaborate garments and jewelry worn by dwarven nobility. She held herself with rigid dignity, but Fíli noted the tightness around her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands.

Like a trapped animal, he thought suddenly, then pushed the uncomfortable comparison away.

The presentation of his gift should have been a moment of pride. Fíli had spent countless nights in the forge crafting the dagger, his hands remembering the work even when his mind was clouded with diplomatic concerns. Each scale on the dragon motif had been individually carved, the sapphires carefully selected to match the exact blue of Durin's house, the balance of the blade tested again and again until it was perfect. It was more than just metal and gems – it was a statement of identity, of reclamation, of triumph. His finest work since returning to Erebor.

But as the velvet fell away and Princess Sigrid's fingers traced the dragon carvings, Fíli saw something in her eyes he hadn't anticipated. Not appreciation. Not awe.

Pain.

The realization struck him like a hammer blow, sudden and jarring, at her first words. Dragons. Of course. To the people of Lake-town, to the Princess, dragons meant something entirely different than they did to dwarves.

Destruction. Homes burning on water. A woman diving into the water, towards fire and death, in a desperate bid to help her father. 

Their later conversation left Fíli unexpectedly unsettled. He'd anticipated polite formality, perhaps even fear of the unknown – but not the fierce directness with which Princess Sigrid challenged him. 

They parted with stiff courtesy, but as Fíli watched her ride away, he realized something uncomfortable: Princess Sigrid wouldn't simply adapt to life in Erebor as everyone assumed. She would question, challenge, and likely transform it in ways he couldn't predict. That unexpected realization was both unsettling and, strangely, slightly intriguing.

Fíli had spent the morning in what felt like the hundredth meeting about the new trade route between Erebor and Dale. The plans were sound - they had to be, he'd checked them himself three times - but the council kept finding new concerns to raise. Today's debate centered on whether the proposed road could handle the weight of their supply wagons.

When word came that Dale's lower market was flooding again, Fíli seized the opportunity to suggest a site inspection. It was a perfectly reasonable proposal - if the road's foundation needed reinforcement, they should understand how Dale's drainage affected the surrounding soil. The fact that Princess Sigrid was reportedly overseeing the flood response was irrelevant to his decision. Mostly.

They found her arguing with a council member, standing ankle-deep in muddy water with rolled-up plans in her hand. Her hair was coming loose from its braids (which were incorrect - wasn’t someone supposed to be teaching her?), and there was mud on her dress, but she handled the situation with the kind of authority that made him understand why his uncle had pushed for this alliance.

His attempt at professional conversation fell flat immediately. Something about her just... threw him off balance. She was too direct, too practical, too different from the carefully polished nobility he was used to dealing with. It was both fascinating and deeply unsettling.

When she climbed onto the partially collapsed wall to examine the culvert, his heart nearly stopped. The stones were slick with water and age, hardly stable enough for such inspection. But before he could voice his concern, she was already reaching for equipment, commanding his assistance as naturally as any guild master.

He found himself passing her the surveyor's rod automatically, years of training making him respond to that tone of command without thinking. Then he remembered he was supposed to be a prince, not a junior craftsman, and tried to recover his dignity with a comment about her precarious position.

She ignored him completely - probably for the best - and managed to clear whatever was blocking the culvert. Then she slipped.

His body moved before his mind could process it, catching her arm and steadying her. For a moment - just a moment - she was close enough that he could see the flecks of grey in her eyes, could feel the warmth of her skin through her sleeve. It was... distracting.

Their subsequent interaction was stiff, formal, full of the careful distance protocol demanded. But something about her practical approach to problems, her willingness to literally get her hands dirty for her people's sake - it stuck with him.

Fíli watched from the grand steps of Erebor as the procession from Dale approached. The formal reception party stood arrayed behind him—his uncle at the center, surrounded by nobles whose names even he sometimes struggled to recall despite countless diplomatic functions. He kept his expression carefully neutral, though his thoughts were anything but.

She was coming. Today. To stay.

He'd known this day was approaching, of course. The alliance had been planned for months, the chambers prepared, the ceremonies arranged. But knowing something and living it were different matters entirely. Today, Princess Sigrid would no longer be a diplomatic visitor but a permanent resident of Erebor. His future wife.

He straightened his formal tunic, aware of the weight of the ceremonial braids hanging against his shoulders. The perfect prince, prepared for his perfect political marriage. Another duty accepted, another expectation met.

"She carries herself well," his mother commented. "Though she looks like she'd rather face a pack of orcs than another hour of ceremony."

"Wouldn't we all," Fíli muttered, then caught himself.

Dís's knowing smile made him wonder, not for the first time, if his mother could read minds. "Try to remember, my son, that she's carrying just as heavy a burden as you are. Perhaps heavier, being so far from everything familiar."

The advice lingered uncomfortably as he watched Sigrid throughout the welcoming feast, noting how her eyes occasionally drifted upward toward the distant ceiling – searching, perhaps, for some glimpse of the sky she'd left behind.

After dinner, as the gathering moved to the adjoining chamber for continued socializing, Fíli fulfilled his duties methodically. He circulated, discussed appropriate topics with appropriate people, and maintained a careful awareness of the room's dynamics.

"You haven't spoken a single word to her," Kíli muttered as they briefly converged between conversations. "Not even formal pleasantries."

"There hasn't been a suitable opening," Fíli replied, which was partially true. The princess had been constantly surrounded by curious nobles, each eager to assess this human addition to their court.

But if he was honest with himself, he'd been avoiding the interaction. Every conversation with Princess Sigrid carried political weight, would be analyzed and interpreted by the watching court. The pressure to strike exactly the right tone felt suddenly overwhelming.

"Make an opening," Kíli insisted. "You're going to marry her, for Mahal's sake. You might try talking to her at least once before the wedding."

"This evening is about formal welcome, not personal connection."

"Brother." Kíli's voice dropped uncharacteristically serious. "She has left her home to live among strangers. The least you could do is personally welcome her to the mountain. As her future husband, not just as a prince of Erebor."

Fíli glanced across the room, where Princess Sigrid stood conversing with an elderly guild master, her posture perfectly upright despite what must have been hours of exhausting formality. Perhaps Kíli had a point. Basic courtesy demanded at least a brief personal acknowledgment.

Their conversation was stiff and formal until her unexpected comment about the shower. Something in her genuine fascination with dwarven engineering briefly cut through the diplomatic script they'd both been following. For a moment, Fíli found himself wanting to continue the thread, to explain the intricate systems their engineers had developed, to see that spark of real interest again instead of careful pleasantries.

But that wouldn’t be appropriate. Instead, the moment slipped away, replaced by awkward silence and formalities. When she departed, Fíli was left with the dissatisfying sense of an opportunity missed, though he couldn't have said exactly what opportunity that might have been.

The night of the ball transformed the grand hall into a sea of dwarven finery. Nobles from all the clans displayed their wealth and status in elaborate garments heavy with jewels and precious metals, their beards intricately braided and adorned with ornaments. The effect was meant to be imposing, and Fíli knew from the reactions of rare visitors that it succeeded admirably.

He wondered what Sigrid would make of it all.

When he arrived at her chambers to serve as her escort, Fíli was momentarily taken aback by the transformation. The elegant coiffure, the formal sapphire gown, the carefully applied cosmetics—they rendered her almost unrecognizable, a perfect diplomatic symbol rather than the woman who had practiced dance steps until her feet were sore.

"Princess Sigrid," he said, his tone formal, aware of the small army of attendants watching their interaction. "You look well tonight."

It was an understatement born of caution rather than honesty. She looked beautiful, but saying so felt too personal.

Later, as they stood at the top of the grand staircase, waiting for the formal announcement, Fíli felt her tense slightly beside him as the trumpets sounded. Following her gaze, he saw what must have been an overwhelming sight for someone unused to dwarven gatherings—hundreds of richly dressed nobles filling the vast chamber, the crystal lamps casting a golden glow over the scene.

He gently squeezed her arm in a way that he hoped was reassuring. And then they descended the steps into the crowd below. 

Throughout the evening, Fíli was aware of the whispers. He only hoped that Sigrid couldn’t hear. Each comment made something tighten in his chest—not exactly anger, but something protective he hadn't expected to feel. These nobles saw only what she wasn't—not dwarf, not bearded, not steeped in their traditions. They missed entirely what she was—intelligent, determined, adaptable, carrying herself with dignity through what must have been an overwhelming experience.

When the time came for the formal opening dance, Fíli led Sigrid to the center of the hall with practiced grace. The musicians began the familiar melody, and they took their positions, alone in the circle of silent, assessing observers.

The dance began, and Fíli found himself searching for something to say—something to acknowledge her efforts, to offer some connection in this public performance.

Instead, he insulted her. 

The words came out completely wrong—what he'd intended as recognition of her impressive accomplishment sounding instead like a backhanded compliment. The flash of hurt in her eyes made him wince internally. He tried to correct himself, but couldn’t find the words. The moment passed, and they finished the dance in tense silence. As they parted, Fíli was acutely aware of having failed at the simple task of giving a compliment.

Later, watching her dance with Kíli, Fíli felt a complicated twist of emotions. His brother moved with her across the floor with characteristic enthusiasm, making her laugh. The contrast between the interactions couldn't have been more stark—where Fíli had been stiff and formal, Kíli was all warmth and easy charm.

She looked different when she laughed, he realized. Less like the careful diplomatic partner and more like the woman who had questioned stonemasons about drainage systems. More real.

As midnight approached, Thorin signaled the musicians, who transitioned to the familiar opening notes of the closing dance. Fíli moved to Sigrid's side as if drawn by invisible threads, offering his hand. They took their positions in the center of the hall, once again the focus of all attention. 

He drew her closer, a small liberty taken in service of the apology he needed to make. It felt inadequate. He felt inadequate. But for the moment, it was what he could offer.

The dance concluded to enthusiastic applause. They bowed to each other, then to the assembled crowd, maintaining perfect composure. As the formal portion of the evening ended and guests began to disperse, Fíli noticed the careful mask she'd worn all evening starting to slip, revealing bone-deep exhaustion beneath.

"Are you well?" he asked quietly.

"Just tired," she said, though he suspected there was more she wasn't saying.

"I'll escort you back to your chambers."

At her door, he paused, searching for something real to say—something beyond diplomatic pleasantries.

"For what it's worth," he said finally, "I thought you handled everything with remarkable grace tonight."

"High praise from a prince of Durin's line," she replied, trying for lightness but too tired to fully succeed.

"Not from a prince," he said. He wasn’t sure why the correction mattered to him, but it did. "From someone who knows what it's like to have every word and gesture scrutinized for hidden meaning."

It was perhaps the most honest thing he'd said to her since her arrival. Not political, not diplomatic, but personal—an acknowledgment of the shared burden they carried.

He hesitated, then added, "Sleep well, Princess."

As he walked away, Fíli realized that for the first time since her arrival, he'd allowed himself to see beyond her role as political partner. Had allowed himself to recognize the person beyond the princess—someone struggling under the same weight of expectation and scrutiny that he'd carried his entire life.

It wasn't much. But it was a beginning.

The wedding planning meeting started predictably enough. Fíli, having grown up hearing these details, found his attention drifting. He'd watched Sigrid instead, noting how she carefully documented each unfamiliar ritual, her brow occasionally furrowing at particularly complex elements.

When she interjected with concerns about reciting oaths in a language she wasn't permitted to fully learn, Fíli tensed slightly, anticipating Thrain's reaction. The Master of Ceremonies' affronted response was predictable, his insistence on unaltered tradition equally so.

"It is traditional," Thrain said, as if this settled all possible debate.

Fíli watched Sigrid bite back what was likely a sharper reply, replacing it with diplomatic phrasing that nonetheless made her discomfort clear. "I understand the importance of tradition, but perhaps we could find a compromise that respects both dwarven custom and my position. Maybe a translated version I could speak in Common, alongside Prince Fíli's Khuzdul recitation?"

It was a reasonable request, Fíli thought. Creative, even—finding a way to honor tradition while addressing a legitimate concern. But before he could voice support, Thrain had shut down the suggestion with characteristic rigidity.

The meeting continued, with Thrain detailing each ceremonial element and Sigrid occasionally asking clarifying questions. It was only when they reached the Familial Witnesses section that the true problem emerged.

"Where will my family stand?" she asked. "They'll need to know their positions in advance."

The heavy silence that fell over the room made Fíli's stomach sink. He'd known this detail, of course—had grown up understanding the sacred nature of dwarven wedding ceremonies and their exclusion of outsiders. But somehow, in all the diplomatic negotiations and cultural briefings, this fundamental point had never been explicitly discussed with Sigrid.

The growing horror on her face as Balin and Thrain delicately explained the situation made something twist in Fíli's chest. This wasn't a minor cultural difference or an unexpected protocol—this was the exclusion of her family from what should have been one of the most significant moments of her life.

When her gaze turned to him, direct and demanding—"Did you know?"—his single-word acknowledgment felt heavy with all he hadn't said. Of course he'd known. They'd all known. And none of them had thought to mention this crucial detail to her.

He watched her leave the chamber, a tension in her shoulders. As the meeting dissolved into heated debate about traditions and exceptions, Fíli barely heard the arguments. His mind was still caught on the look in her eyes—not just anger or hurt, but something deeper. Betrayal.

Without waiting for formal dismissal, he followed her. Protocol be damned.

Standing before her door, Fíli hesitated. This was irregular, seeking private audience without proper arrangements, outside the carefully structured interactions their positions demanded. But the memory of her expression as she'd left the chamber overrode his hesitation. He knocked firmly.

When she called for him to enter, he was struck by the composure in her voice. He'd expected anger, perhaps even tears, but she maintained dignity even in private. It was... admirable. But also sad, in a way, that she felt the need to maintain her composure even behind closed doors.

The conversation began coldly, Fíli trying to maintain propriety. She made it difficult. When she characterized Balin's diplomatic phrasing as "waiting until I've calmed down and become more reasonable," he nearly smiled at the accuracy of her translation.

Then she asked something no one ever asked princes: "What are your feelings on the matter?"

The question stopped him short. Feelings? No one consulted princes about feelings—only judgments, decisions, pronouncements. He'd spent a lifetime learning to separate personal thoughts from public responsibilities. So he did what he did best. Deflected, and tried to steer the conversation back to a vein he was comfortable with.

She was having none of it. Something about her frustrated directness cracked through his careful reserve. 

"I prefer ale," he suddenly heard himself say. "Except with certain fish dishes, where a dry white wine is... better."

For a brief moment, they weren't prince and princess, but simply two people having an actual conversation. He almost smiled.

So this is what it takes to find common ground, he thought wryly. A diplomatic crisis and ale preferences.

He realized, with a sudden intensity, that he cared about the outcome of this conversation. The easiest path would have been to tell her that there was nothing he could do. Tradition was tradition. Instead, he promised to advocate for her proposal of a Dale ceremony. The relief and gratitude in her eyes made something shift in his chest—a warmth he hadn't anticipated, a satisfaction beyond diplomatic success.

As he walked away from her chambers that night, Fíli realized something had fundamentally shifted between them. And if he found himself wondering what other conversations might lie beyond formal diplomacy—well, that was a question for another day.

Advocating for the two-ceremony solution proved challenging. Traditionalists on the council balked at what they termed "dilution of sacred rites," but Fíli found himself arguing with unexpected passion. This wasn't just about politics anymore, but about fairness, about acknowledging her sacrifices while honoring her connections.

In the end, it was Thorin who settled the matter. "The Princess has shown remarkable adaptation to our ways," the king observed. "This compromise demonstrates equal respect from our side. The alliance is stronger if both parties feel honored."

Sigrid’s face when Thorin delivered the news made every moment of argument worth it.

The Small Hall of Witnesses felt unnecessarily grand for Sigrid’s first gift presentation, what should have been a personal moment, the assembled dignitaries transforming even this into political theater. Fíli stood at the center, acutely aware of every eye watching, judging, interpreting.

When Sigrid approached with the wooden box clasped in her hands, he noticed something unexpected—a slight nervousness that she couldn't quite conceal. This woman who had faced down a dragon and adapted to mountain life with remarkable composure was anxious about a gift.

As he accepted the box, their eyes met briefly. Could she tell how curious he was? Most courtship gifts were predictable—ceremonial weapons, jewelry, objects of status rather than substance. But this wooden box, with its intricate inlays of different woods, was unlike traditional dwarven craftsmanship. In fact, he wasn’t quite sure what it was until she explained.

A puzzle. Fíli felt his interest sharpen immediately. He'd always been drawn to mechanical challenges, to the satisfaction of understanding how things worked. 

That night, as he worked through the puzzle's remaining mechanisms in the privacy of his chambers, Fíli found himself unexpectedly moved by the gift. On impulse, he wrote a brief note of appreciation. As he sealed the note with his personal insignia rather than his official one, he realized he wanted her to know it came from him – not the prince, but the dwarf beneath the crown. The maker who understood and appreciated the work of her hands.

It wasn't much. But it was real – a small, honest connection amid political theater. And perhaps that realness, however small, was what both of them needed most.

Fíli was deep in correspondence when Kíli appeared in his doorway, wearing an expression that immediately commanded attention.

"Have you seen Sigrid recently?" his brother asked without preamble.

"Not since yesterday’s planning meeting. Why?"

Kíli leaned against the doorframe, considering his words. "I just ran into her in the corridor. She seemed... unsettled. Was trying to find a way outside."

The description sent a prickle of unease through Fíli's chest. He'd grown up surrounded by stone, had never questioned the mountain's embrace. But she was human, had lived her entire life under open sky.

"I took her to the hidden balcony," Kíli added. "Thought she might need some actual sky for a while. You might want to check on her."

After Kíli left, Fíli found himself staring at the trade agreements without seeing them. The image of Sigrid desperately seeking air, seeking escape from the mountain's depths, lodged in his mind like a splinter.

Without making a conscious decision, he found himself climbing the narrow staircase toward the hidden balcony.

He found her at the stone railing, staring at the sky. She looked as though she had been there a while. Fíli tried to think of something appropriate to say, within the bounds of propriety while also trying to ascertain if she really was alright. 

The conversation that followed felt like walking through a minefield. Every word carried weight, personal and political implications tangled hopelessly together. He tried to navigate between honesty and diplomacy, between acknowledging the constraints they both faced and suggesting there might be something more possible between them.

The resulting mental knot made him consider throwing himself off the balcony. It would have been easier.

Then he made his catastrophic comment about royal duty and lost freedoms.

The words were meant as self-deprecating humor about royal life in general. Instead, they landed with devastating accuracy on her specific situation - a woman who'd already sacrificed everything familiar, now being casually reminded that even her reproductive choices weren't her own.

The silence that followed felt endless. He could practically see her processing the implications, the way he'd dismissed something that represented yet another loss of autonomy. When she laughed instead of walking away, relief flooded through him so intensely it was almost painful.

As they stood together in the gathering darkness, Fíli found himself desperately wanting to offer comfort and having absolutely no idea how to do it. Everything he said seemed to land wrong - either too formal, too presumptuous, or catastrophically tactless.

He'd spent years mastering diplomatic conversation, but this was different. This was someone struggling with burdens he'd helped create, and his usual tools felt woefully inadequate. How did you apologize for traditions you couldn't change? How did you offer support without overstepping boundaries that were still being negotiated?

When his attempt at levity about royal duties backfired so spectacularly, it only confirmed what he was beginning to suspect: that he was fundamentally unprepared for the kind of relationship they were trying to build. Political alliances he understood. Friendship with someone whose entire life had been upended for his kingdom's benefit? That was uncharted territory.

Her laughter after his blunder felt like undeserved mercy. That she could find humor in his failures rather than taking offense suggested a generosity of spirit that made his chest tight with something uncomfortably close to gratitude.

Tomorrow would bring more careful negotiations around the life they were building together. But tonight, he'd learned something valuable about his own limitations: that good intentions weren't enough, and that learning to truly help her would require skills he didn't yet possess.

It was humbling. It was also, strangely, motivating. If he was going to be part of her life - if they were going to make something workable from this arrangement - he needed to become better at this. All of it.

Then came the news that shattered everything he thought he knew.

Fíli had found Sigrid in the alcove while he was on his way to the kitchen. She looked like she was planning her escape from more than just the mountain. She sat so carefully in the elaborate dress—as if she were afraid it might swallow her whole. She looked beautiful, certainly, but also trapped. Like a bird in a cage made of mithril and silk.

He was about to say more—something about how she seemed more herself in her practical clothes, how that suited her even more than this dress—when the messenger appeared.

The urgency in the man's voice set Fíli's nerves on edge immediately. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

The council chamber was packed with far more people than any routine matter would require. His uncle's thunderous expression and the animated gestures of several council members confirmed that whatever this was, it wasn't good.

When the older council member stepped forward with his pronouncement about legitimacy, Fíli felt something cold settle in his stomach. Then came the blow: "You are not King Bard's natural daughter."

Adopted. She was adopted.

The council's reaction was swift and vicious. Fíli found himself caught between multiple realizations: that crucial information had been omitted from her background, that she genuinely seemed to think this was already known, and that the political implications were catastrophic.

The confusion in her voice when she asked why it mattered cut through his anger, replacing it with something more complicated. She genuinely didn't understand. To her, this was simply a fact of her life, as unremarkable as her eye color.

But to his people, to his culture, bloodlines were everything. Legitimacy mattered. The idea of someone without true royal blood marrying into the line of Durin was... well, it was exactly the kind of scandal that could tear apart carefully negotiated alliances.

Uncle Thorin's reaction was predictably severe. The other council members were already calculating, already looking for alternatives, already treating her like a problem to be solved rather than a person.

Then she was gone, and the chamber erupted.

"This changes everything," Balin was saying, his voice cutting through the chaos.

"The bloodline implications alone—" another voice added.

"The entire alliance structure will need to be reconsidered—"

Fíli stood in the center of it all, his mind spinning between competing impulses. The political part of him understood their concerns perfectly. Royal marriages were about legitimate succession, about bloodlines that could be traced and verified. The council had every right to feel misled.

But another part of him - the part that had been learning to care about the woman who worked tirelessly to learn their traditions, who looked so at peace under the open sky, who seemed to thrive with with an engineering challenge at hand - that part was focused on the expression he'd seen on her face when she'd realized they might target her sister instead.

The council's attention shifted to practical matters - messengers to be sent, contingency plans to be considered, political damage to be assessed. But Fíli found himself moving toward the door, driven by something that had little to do with politics and everything to do with the memory of her face when she'd understood what they were suggesting about her sister.

Whatever the truth was about her background, whatever the political implications, she'd left looking devastated. And despite everything, that mattered to him more than the council's immediate concerns.

Not bothering to excuse himself, he ran out of the chamber, just catching a glimpse as she ran out towards the stables. 

“Sigrid!” he called. She didn’t stop.

Neither did he, following her all the way to Bard’s home in Dale. He had to. Had to face her and her father and try to salvage what he could of this increasingly complicated situation.

He hadn't expected her fury. Hadn't expected the way she'd stand there in her father's study, eyes blazing, ready to tear apart their entire alliance to protect her sister.

"If anyone so much as looks at Tilda wrong, this alliance is over. I don't care if I have to tear that stupid wedding dress into pieces and return every scrap of mithril myself."

Looking at her then - fierce and protective and absolutely unwavering - he'd felt something shift inside him. Because this, this was real. Not political maneuvering or careful diplomacy, but raw truth: she would burn down everything they'd built to protect her sister.

It was... admirable. Terrifying. Wonderful.

The argument had raged all night. He'd thrown every argument he could think of at them. He reminded them of the strategic importance of the alliance with Dale, of how the kingdom's position controlled crucial trade routes that kept Erebor's wealth flowing. He spoke of the promises made in good faith, of contracts signed and witnessed, of the dishonor that would stain the mountain's reputation if they broke their word now. Most importantly, he argued for the value of her unique perspective—how someone who had lived in both worlds, who understood both common folk and nobility, brought insights that pure-blooded royalty never could. She saw solutions where others saw only problems, built bridges where others erected walls. Anything to make them see that blood wasn't everything.

Finally, he reached his breaking point.

"Enough!" His voice cut through the chamber with unexpected force, silencing even the most vocal councilors. Thorin looked up sharply, surprise evident in his expression.

Fíli rarely raised his voice in council. He was the measured one, the diplomat, the heir who considered all angles before speaking. But the casual way they discussed replacing Sigrid—as if she were an interchangeable political piece rather than a woman who had uprooted her entire life for their alliance—ignited something in him he hadn't recognized at first.

"Princess Sigrid is my betrothed," he had stated, each word precisely weighted. "Not a trade good to be exchanged at the first inconvenience. The alliance was formed with her, not with whoever might be most politically expedient."

"But the bloodline—" old Dofin began.

"Was known to her father from the beginning," Fíli interrupted. "If King Bard saw no issue with it, why should we?"

"Because we have standards," Councilor Bromin said stiffly, his elaborate silver beard bristling with indignation. "Traditions that have preserved our line for generations. To disregard them for a—"

"For a what, exactly?" Fíli had asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

"For a human foundling," Bromin sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "A girl with no lineage, no proper heritage, who cannot even trace her bloodline. Who knows what common stock she comes from?"

The chamber fell silent, the insult hanging in the air like a blade. Fíli felt something inside him snap – a restraint he hadn't known was there until it broke. His hand moved to the dagger at his belt, a gesture as instinctive as it was unexpected.

"Say that again," he said, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying through the silent chamber like thunder. "Say it one more time, and I will call for satisfaction."

Kíli's hand caught his arm, halting the movement none had expected from the measured crown prince. "Brother," he murmured urgently, "not like this."

Bromin had paled beneath his beard, sudden understanding dawning that he had crossed a line. The Council of Erebor had not seen a challenge in centuries – not since the days before the dragon, when honor and insult sometimes outweighed diplomacy.

"You would challenge me?" Bromin sputtered, disbelief warring with dawning fear. "Over a human?"

"Over my betrothed," Fíli corrected, the grip on his dagger still white-knuckled. "Over a princess of Dale who has shown more honor and adaptability than some who were born beneath this mountain."

Thorin had risen then, his presence commanding immediate attention. "There will be no challenges in this chamber," he said, his voice brooking no argument. But his eyes, when they met Fíli's, held something unexpected – not disapproval, but a new appraisal, as if seeing his heir in a different light.

Later, Thorin had found him in his forge.

"You caused quite a stir," his uncle said mildly.

"Good."

"The council has concerns—"

"The council," Fíli said, setting down his hammer with careful precision, "can take their concerns and shove them up their ceremonial—"

"Fíli."

He took a breath. Then another. "Sorry, Uncle. That was... unprincely of me."

"Was it?" Thorin's voice held something Fíli couldn't quite read. "Or was it exactly what a prince should do - defend what he believes in?"

Fíli looked at his uncle in surprise.

"You're not angry?"

"About you standing up to the council? No." Thorin moved to examine the piece Fíli had been working on. "About you losing your temper in public? Perhaps a little. But..." he trailed off, studying the metal thoughtfully.

"But?"

"But I remember a young prince who challenged tradition before. Who dared to dream of reclaiming a lost mountain when everyone said it was impossible."

"That was different," Fíli protested. "That was about our people's future."

"And this isn't?" Thorin's eyes were knowing. "This alliance, this marriage - it's not just about politics, is it?"

Fíli looked away. "I don't know what you mean."

"No?" Thorin picked up one of Fíli's sketches - a design for a specialized drawing compass he'd been working on. One that would help with calculating drainage routes. "This seems rather specific for someone who's only thinking about politics."

"It's just... practical."

"Mm." Thorin set the sketch down. "You know, your father once spent three months designing a special set of crafting tools. Said they were just practical too. Your mother still has them."

Fíli didn't know what to say to that.

After his uncle left, Fíli stared at the compass design. He'd told himself it was just a practical tool, just something to help with the reconstruction efforts. But if he was honest...

He'd spent weeks on it, ever since he had heard of Princess Sigrid’s work with the Water Guild. Adjusting the measurements, refining the mechanisms, making sure every detail was perfect. Not because politics required it, but because he kept imagining her face when she saw how it worked.

Fíli paced the length of his forge, hammer forgotten on the workbench. His thoughts had been scattered all morning, making precise metalwork impossible. Seven days. She had been gone for seven days, and the mountain felt... wrong without her.

That first heated meeting had been the first of many. For seven days, the council had debated, argued, and finally—reluctantly—conceded. The marriage would proceed, with accommodations made for Sigrid's adoptive status in the formal documents. The alliance would stand.

But she hadn't returned.

Now Fíli stood in his forge, the half-finished silver piece on his workbench a silent accusation. 

A knock on the forge door interrupted his thoughts. He didn't answer, hoping whoever it was would assume he was too focused on his work to hear. The door opened anyway.

"You look terrible," Kíli announced, stepping inside without waiting for invitation. "And you're not even working. This is serious."

Fíli scowled at his brother. "Did mother send you?"

"Do I need mother's permission to check on my brother?" Kíli settled on a workbench, looking around at the uncharacteristically disordered forge. "Though she is concerned. We all are."

"I'm fine."

Kíli snorted. "Yes, clearly. That's why you've been haunting the mountain like a restless spirit, snapping at councilors, and glaring at anyone who mentions Princess Sigrid." His expression softened. "You should go to Dale."

Fíli turned away, focusing on organizing tools that were already perfectly arranged. "I've been busy."

"Yes, terrifying councilors and staring at unfinished metalwork," Kíli said, coming to stand beside him. "Very productive." 

"Why would I go to Dale?" Fíli asked stiffly. "She'll return when she's ready."

"Will she?" Kíli said. "After what happened? After the council suggested replacing her with her sister? Brother," he placed a hand on Fíli's shoulder, uncharacteristically serious, "this isn't about politics anymore. This is about the woman you're going to marry. Go to her. Tell her what you've been fighting for here."

With that, he left, the door closing definitively behind him.

Fíli stood motionless, his brother's words hanging in the air. Tell her. The concept was so simple, yet so daunting. What would he even say? That he'd nearly challenged a councilor to a duel for insulting her? That he'd argued for days on her behalf? That the mountain felt strangely hollow in her absence?

He finally returned to work on his second courting gift. The silver warmed beneath his hammer, responding to his careful shaping. There was comfort in this—the way metal yielded to patient skill, the way challenges could be solved through persistence and technique. Politics were messier, people more complicated. Metal, at least, followed predictable rules.

A visit to Dale would be appropriate, he thought. Maybe Kíli was right, for once. Tomorrow. He would go tomorrow. The thought made him feel oddly nervous. 

The sound of his forge door opening barely registered—likely another messenger with updates from the still-grumbling council, or maybe Kíli returning. But when he turned toward the quenching barrel, tongs in hand, he froze.

Sigrid stood in his doorway, her tall figure silhouetted against the dimmer corridor light. For a moment he thought he might be imagining her—a product of too many sleepless nights and too much focus on the political crisis her absence had created.

But no, she was real—solid and present and looking as uncertain as he suddenly felt.

"Princess Sigrid," he managed. "I... didn't know you had returned."

Their conversation flowed with surprising ease, initial awkwardness giving way to something more genuine. Her directness caught him off guard—the way she met his eyes when speaking about difficult topics, her willingness to acknowledge both her anger and her appreciation. So different from the careful diplomatic dance that characterized most interactions in the mountain. So different from how he had been treating her.

When she mentioned Lady Hilda's account of his defense before the council, Fíli felt strangely exposed. Defending her had felt necessary, inevitable even, but hearing it acknowledged made him uncomfortably aware of how personal his reaction had been. The dagger at his belt had felt like an extension of his arm in that moment, his body reacting with an instinct that had nothing to do with political calculation.

"You're incredibly competent, practical, intelligent," he heard himself saying, the words bursting forth with more intensity than he'd intended. "Exactly the kind of partner any kingdom would benefit from."

Partner. The word lingered in the air between them, carrying implications beyond the political alliance they'd both been maneuvered into. He found himself studying her in the forge light, noticing details the formal settings of their usual meetings had obscured.

The slight calluses on her hands that spoke of practical work. The determined set of her jaw. The way strands of hair escaped her practical braid, curling slightly in the forge's heat. The intelligent focus in her eyes when she looked at his work, seeing not just a pretty object but understanding the craft behind it.

He was starting to like her. Not just respect her abilities or appreciate her adaptability—though those things remained true—but actually enjoy her company. The forthright way she spoke her mind. The practical intelligence she brought to problems. The unexpected humor that emerged when diplomatic barriers fell away.

"For what it's worth," he found himself saying quietly, "I think you've already proven you belong far more than you might think."

Their eyes met, and something shifted between them—small but significant, like the moment in forging when metals first begin to alloy. Not just political allies finding diplomatic compromise, but two people discovering unexpected common ground.

As she prepared to leave, promising to return officially the next day, Fíli felt a lightness that had nothing to do with the resolved political crisis. The genuine laugh that escaped him seemed to surprise them both.

"Until tomorrow, then," she said.

"Until tomorrow," he echoed, watching her leave and finding himself genuinely looking forward to that promised reunion.

After she departed, Fíli stood motionless for a long moment, absorbing what had just happened. 

He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what, but something fundamental had changed. For the first time since this began, he found himself thinking about Sigrid not as an obligation or a symbol, but as a woman whose company he might actually enjoy. Whose perspective challenged him in ways he found stimulating rather than merely frustrating. Whose rare smile made him want to earn another.

It wasn't love—the stories his mother had told of heart-bonds and soul-recognition had no place in political marriages. But it was something more than duty, something with potential to grow into... what? Friendship certainly. Partnership perhaps.

And maybe, eventually, something else entirely.

The thought should have alarmed him—complicated everything further. Instead, as Fíli returned to his work, the metal warming beneath his hands, he found himself feeling something unexpected: anticipation. Not just for tomorrow's official return, but for the chance to discover who Sigrid might be beyond the princess—and who they might become together.

As the final detailing emerged under his tools, Fíli allowed himself a rare moment of optimism. He still had faith in this unlikely union—not as a political necessity to be endured, but as a partnership that might, against all odds, grow into something of value for them both.

And for the first time since the betrothal was announced, Fíli found himself not just resigned to his future, but cautiously, tentatively, hopeful.

Things changed slowly, barely perceptibly, after that. Yes, the second gift exchange could have gone better. But it also could have gone much worse, and it seemed to Fíli that, while not perfect, at least the exchange didn’t set back whatever slow thaw was beginning between them.

He was also pleased that Sigrid seemed to be finding her footing in the mountain. Thorin had come to him once with concerns over her work in the Water Guild. Fíli politely, but firmly, told Thorin to leave it be. He realized that Sigrid’s happiness was becoming important to him, and he had no plans to stand in her way. He'd grown protective of her in ways that had nothing to do with political alliances.

When had that happened? When had his dutiful acceptance of their arranged marriage shifted into something more personal?

The answer came to him weeks later, when he glimpsed her returning from whatever crisis had occupied her day. Even from a distance, her appearance was... striking. Mud covered her from head to toe, her hair hanging in bedraggled clumps, her dress—what remained visible of it—beyond salvaging. She moved with the exhausted satisfaction of someone who had accomplished something difficult and necessary.

She looked absolutely terrible.

She also looked radiant.

Fíli found himself staring, caught between horror and fascination. This was a princess of Dale, his betrothed, walking through the halls of Erebor looking like she'd been dragged through a swamp. The diplomatic implications alone should have concerned him. What would visiting dignitaries think? What would the more traditional nobles say?

Instead, all he could think was how genuinely happy she appeared despite her filthy state. When had he last seen her smile with such unguarded satisfaction? The formal dinners and diplomatic functions certainly hadn't produced that expression. But apparently, hours of manual labor in drainage tunnels had.

He was still processing this revelation when Kíli appeared beside him, following his gaze down the corridor.

"Is that...?" Kíli began.

"Princess Sigrid," Fíli confirmed. "Returning from Water Guild business, I assume."

"She looks like she fell into a mine shaft," Kíli said. "A flooded mine shaft. Full of things that died several months ago."

"Yes," Fíli agreed, unable to keep a note of something—amusement? fondness?—from creeping into his voice. "She does."

Kíli shot him a sharp look. "You're not horrified."

"Should I be?"

"A few months ago you would have been," Kíli said thoughtfully. "Most princes would be calculating the political damage of having their betrothed seen in such a state."

Fíli considered this. It was true—the old him, the prince who had first agreed to this marriage as a political necessity, would have been concerned about appearances. Would have worried about what the council would say, what rumors might spread, what precedent this set for royal behavior.

But looking at Sigrid now, even mud-covered and exhausted, he found himself thinking different thoughts entirely. She had spent her day solving problems that affected everyone in the mountain, from the highest nobles to the lowest servants. She had gotten her hands dirty—literally—for the common good. How could he be anything but impressed?

"The Water Guild needed help," he said finally. "She provided it. That seems... appropriate."

"Appropriate," Kíli repeated slowly. "That's one word for it."

They watched as Sigrid disappeared around a corner. The corridor seemed oddly empty in her absence.

"You know," Kíli said conversationally, "I was planning to suggest she learn some basic self-defense. After seeing her today, I'm thinking she might be tougher than I gave her credit for."

"Self-defense?" The idea caught Fíli off guard. "Why?"

“She's a princess of the line of Durin now, whether she likes it or not. That makes her a target. And honestly..." He grinned. "I think she might enjoy hitting things with sticks."

Despite himself, Fíli found the mental image amusing. 

"You're volunteering to teach her?" he asked.

"Unless you want to," Kíli said, his tone deceptively casual. "Though I suspect she might be more comfortable learning from someone…well, not you."

There was truth in that. Fíli's interactions with Sigrid had been improving, but they still carried the weight of formality, of diplomatic necessity. She might indeed be more at ease with Kíli's irreverent approach to everything.

The thought bothered him more than it should have.

"Do what you think best," he said finally. "Just... be careful."

"Careful is my middle name," Kíli declared, which was such an outrageous lie that Fíli didn't bother responding.

As his brother departed, presumably to arrange whatever chaos he had in mind, Fíli remained in the corridor, his thoughts circling back to that brief glimpse of Sigrid's mud-covered but satisfied face.

When was the last time he had felt that kind of uncomplicated joy in accomplishment? When had he last thrown himself into something so completely that appearances became irrelevant?

The questions followed him back to his chambers, where formal correspondence waited and the weight of princely duties pressed down like familiar armor. But the image of Sigrid's smile lingered, a bright spot in the careful calculations of royal life.

Fíli's morning began earlier than usual, pulled from sleep by restless energy he couldn't quite name. The council meeting wasn't until later, yet he found himself dressed and moving through the mountain's corridors with purpose he couldn't articulate.

She was leaving today.

The thought had taken root in his mind, impossible to dismiss. Two weeks. Fourteen days without her presence, without glimpsing her in corridors bent over engineering plans, without the possibility of those unexpected encounters that had begun to punctuate his routine.

He'd planned to let her go without ceremony. It was only two weeks. She was only going to Dale. He had wished her safe travels last night. But as the morning progressed, that plan felt increasingly inadequate.

By the time he realized he was hurrying toward the entrance hall, it was nearly too late. The sound of voices and movement suggested preparations were already underway.

He took the grand staircase faster than dignity strictly allowed, arriving slightly out of breath but determined not to miss her departure entirely.

"Princess Sigrid," he called, approaching with more haste than his usual measured pace.

The surprise on her face when she saw him was genuine, confirming that his presence here wasn't expected or required by protocol. Which made his decision to come both more meaningful and more revealing than he'd intended.

"Prince Fíli. I thought you had council meetings all morning."

"I do," he confirmed, aware that his slightly rumpled composure was drawing curious glances from the assembled crowd. "But I wanted to... that is..."

The words he'd planned - something formal about safe travels and diplomatic courtesy - suddenly seemed insufficient for what he actually wanted to convey. Which was what, exactly? That he would miss her presence? That the mountain would feel different without her in it? That he hoped she would think of Erebor, even briefly, while surrounded by the familiarity of home?

All of it too personal, too revealing for such a public setting.

"Safe travels to Dale," he settled on. For a moment, he struggled with the urge to say more. 

Instead, he settled for truth disguised as formality: "The mountain will still be here when you return."

The certainty in his voice surprised him. Not just that Erebor would endure - that was simple fact - but that it would be waiting specifically for her. That she belonged here now, whatever her original feelings about the arrangement.

Her response - "I know" - carried a conviction that suggested she'd reached the same conclusion.

As he watched her ride away, Fíli realized he was cataloging details: the way she sat her horse with easy competence, how she didn’t look back but faced forward toward Dale, the fact that her departure felt like something important leaving.

Kíli appeared beside him as the procession disappeared into the distance.

"That was interesting," his brother observed with barely contained amusement.

"A diplomatic courtesy," Fíli replied automatically.

"Rushing down here like your hair was on fire to wish a political ally safe travels?"

"I had a few minutes before council."

"Uh-huh." Kíli's grin was insufferable. 

Fíli opened his mouth to deny the observation, then closed it. 

"It's complicated," he said finally.

"The best things usually are," Kíli replied, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come on, brother. You've got a council meeting to attend, and I suspect the next two weeks are going to feel very long indeed."

As they walked back into the mountain, Fíli couldn't argue with his brother's assessment. Fourteen days had never seemed like such a significant span of time.

Fíli had been walking to the metalworkers' guild when he heard singing - a voice carrying a melody in a language he'd never heard before. Following the sound led him to one of the mountain's quieter alcoves, where he found Sigrid bent over her weaving, completely absorbed in her song.

For a moment, he simply listened. Her voice was lovely, but it was the raw emotion threading through the unknown words that arrested him. 

When he announced his presence and they began to talk, Fíli found himself studying her with new attention. This wasn't Princess Sigrid of Dale, the diplomatic ally he'd been carefully learning to work with. This was someone else entirely - someone who carried entire worlds within her, who sang in languages no one else knew, who faced impossible situations with quiet courage and unexpected humor.

Their marriage was supposed to remain safely political, a partnership built on mutual benefit rather than personal attachment.

Instead, as her melody stayed with him through the tedious guild meeting that followed, Fíli found himself hoping that whatever was growing between them might be worth the complications it would inevitably bring.

It was already too late to prevent those feelings. The question now was what to do with them.

The impulse to show her the garden came from nowhere, driven by a need to give her something beautiful, something that might ease the weight she was carrying. The walk through the old residential quarter felt different with her beside him - less like touring history and more like sharing something deeply personal.

When they reached the garden and she knelt among the planters, her entire demeanor changed in the presence of growing things. It was like watching someone come alive after months of careful performance. The thought of her seeking peace in this space, building new memories among his grandmother's restored dreams, felt more significant than any treaty.

Sitting beside her in the golden evening light, watching her face as she processed what he'd tried to give her, Fíli realized he was walking a knife's edge. 

This was dangerously close to becoming love, and the recognition sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with the evening breeze. Political marriages were meant to remain safely political, partnerships built on mutual benefit rather than the messy complications of genuine feeling.

Yet as they looked at each other in the gathering dusk, the space between them charged with possibilities neither had planned for, Fíli found himself hoping she might be walking the same dangerous edge. One month until they stood before hundreds of witnesses and made promises that had begun as political convenience, but what was growing between them now felt like anything but convenience.

Fíli should have known his mother would notice.

"You've been spending time in the garden," Dís observed without preamble, not looking up from the correspondence she was reviewing in her private study.

It wasn't a question. Fíli settled into the chair across from her desk, wondering how much she'd deduced and how much trouble he was about to find himself in.

"The restoration is coming along well," he said carefully. "Grandmother would be pleased."

"Mmm." Dís set down her pen and fixed him with the look that had terrified him as a child and continued to unsettle him as an adult. "And Princess Sigrid? Does she appreciate the progress as well?"

There it was. Fíli kept his expression neutral, though he suspected his mother could read him regardless. "She has an eye for the engineering aspects. The water management systems particularly impressed her."

"I'm sure they did." Dís leaned back in her chair, studying him with that particular intensity that suggested she was seeing far more than he was comfortable revealing. "You gave her a key."

Not a question either. Of course she knew - little happened in Erebor without his mother's awareness.

"She appreciates having access to growing things," Fíli said. "It helps with the... adjustment to mountain life."

"How thoughtful of you." The words carried multiple layers of meaning, none of which Fíli particularly wanted to examine. "And how are you finding the adjustment, my son?"

"To what?"

"To caring about her comfort more than protocol demands."

The observation landed with uncomfortable accuracy. Fíli found himself studying his hands rather than meeting his mother's knowing gaze. "The alliance benefits when both parties are content with the arrangement."

"The alliance," Dís repeated, her tone suggesting she found his diplomatic language amusing. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"What else would we call it?"

His mother was quiet for a long moment, long enough that Fíli risked looking up to find her expression had grown thoughtful. Dís picked up her pen again, but didn't return to her correspondence. "Tell me, when you think about the wedding in three weeks, what concerns you most? The diplomatic implications, or whether she'll be happy?"

The question struck closer to the heart of things than Fíli was prepared to admit. Because if he was honest, his primary concern had shifted from alliance management to Sigrid's wellbeing somewhere along the way, and he wasn't entirely sure when that had happened.

"Both are important," he said.

"Yes, they are. But one of them keeps you awake at night, and I don't think it's the diplomatic ramifications." Dís set down her pen and leaned forward slightly. "There's no shame in caring, Fíli. In fact, it's rather what I'd hoped for."

"You hoped for complications?"

"I hoped for possibility." Her expression grew serious. "This arrangement could have been merely functional - two people tolerating each other for the sake of their kingdoms. Instead, you've found someone who challenges you, who sees the world differently enough to make you question your own perspectives." She paused. "Someone who makes you want to share your grandmother's garden."

Fíli realized there was no point in denying what his mother had already seen clearly. "It's complicated."

"The best things usually are."

"And if she doesn't... if this is one-sided?"

Dís studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. "That's a risk you'll have to decide whether you're willing to take. But I will say this - hiding from your own feelings won't make them disappear. And it certainly won't make the next fifty years of marriage any easier."

Fíli stared at his hands again, feeling the weight of possibilities and the fear of misreading the situation entirely. "I don't know."

"Well," Dís said, returning to her correspondence with the air of someone who considered the matter settled, "you have three weeks to figure it out. Though if you take my advice, you'll stop thinking quite so much and start trusting what you feel."

As Fíli left his mother's study, her words echoed in his mind. Three weeks to decide whether to let himself fall completely, or to try maintaining the safe distance that was becoming increasingly impossible to preserve.

The thought of Sigrid in the garden, surrounded by growing things and golden light, made the choice feel inevitable rather than difficult.

These library meetings were becoming dangerous territory.

What had started as coincidental encounters had evolved into something he looked forward to with an intensity that should have alarmed him. The way she settled beside him each night, close enough that he could catch the faint scent of whatever soap she used. The easy conversation that ranged from tunnel assessments to textile guild politics. The comfortable silences when they simply read in each other's presence.

The night she'd found him asleep over trade negotiations had been particularly perilous. When she'd offered to fix his disheveled braids, her fingers gentle against his scalp, Fíli had gone very still for reasons that had nothing to do with propriety. The simple intimacy of her touch, the care in how she worked out the tangles, the soft way she'd asked if he felt better - it had taken considerable effort to maintain composure.

But it was her question as he'd gathered his papers - whether he wanted her there the next night - that had nearly undone his careful restraint entirely. The genuine uncertainty in her voice, as if his answer mattered to her beyond polite courtesy, had prompted an honesty that felt like stepping off a cliff.

"Yes. Very much."

The words had revealed far more than he'd intended, but her smile in response had been worth the risk.

Night after night, these encounters continued. Sigrid sharing technical discoveries with genuine enthusiasm. Both of them complaining about wedding preparations with increasing casualness. The gradual erosion of formal distance until they were simply Fíli and Sigrid, hiding from obligations and sharing inappropriate opinions about ceremonial requirements.

It was during one of these conversations, watching her laugh at something ridiculous about protocols, that the realization hit him with devastating clarity.

He was in love with her.

Not the careful affection he'd been nurturing, not the growing attraction he'd been trying to manage. Complete, overwhelming, impossible love that made her happiness more important than his own comfort and her laughter more precious than diplomatic success.

The recognition should have sent him retreating behind safer boundaries. Instead, it made every shared smile more significant, every casual touch when she passed him books more electric, every moment of genuine connection more valuable.

But it also made everything infinitely more complicated.

Because these library meetings existed in a space separate from their formal arrangement. Here, they could be honest about frustrations and fears, could laugh together, could simply enjoy each other's company without the weight of political expectations. Adding the complexity of his feelings would inevitably change that dynamic.

She'd found refuge in their friendship, had begun to trust him with vulnerabilities she shared with no one else. The thought of burdening her with feelings she hadn't asked for, of making her question whether his support for her work came from genuine respect or romantic motivation, made his stomach clench.

So he resolved to keep this revelation to himself. To continue being the friend she needed, the partner who supported her controversial projects and shared her midnight worries about protocol failures. To protect the one space where they could be real with each other by ensuring his feelings didn't complicate what they'd built.

Two weeks until the wedding. Two weeks to figure out how to function while loving someone he couldn't tell, how to be the husband she needed without expecting more than she was prepared to give.

It was going to be the longest two weeks of his life.

Later, in his forge, Kíli found him working on the compass again. Fíli wanted - no, needed - the third courting gift to be perfect.

"You know," his brother said, sprawling across his usual workbench, "when I said you should try being real with her, I didn't expect you to start sneaking around the library at midnight."

Fíli nearly dropped his tools. "How—"

"Please." Kíli rolled his eyes. "The guards have a whole betting pool going. Though I have to say, brother, reading poetry is not the scandalous activity I was hoping for when I placed my wager."

"You did what?"

"Oh calm down, I bet in your favor. Said you'd manage to maintain perfect princely dignity even while obviously pining."

"I am not pining."

"No?" Kíli grinned. "So this specialized drawing compass you've been working on for months isn't a token of your totally professional, completely political appreciation?"

Fíli looked down at the project in his hands. He'd rebuilt the calibration mechanism three times now, trying to get it exactly right.

"I hate you," Fíli muttered, but there was no heat in it.

"No you don't." Kíli's voice softened. "You love her though."

Fíli's hands stilled on the metal. "It's not... we're not..."

"Not what? Not allowed to feel something real? Not supposed to want more than just a political arrangement?"

"It's complicated."

"Only because you're both trying so hard to make it complicated." Kíli hopped down from his perch. "You love her. The rest is just details."

"Details like traditions and ceremonies and expectations—"

"Details like two people who are terrible at admitting they care about each other." Kíli clapped him on the shoulder. "Though I have to say, the midnight library meetings are a nice touch. Very romantic. In a completely proper, totally political way, of course."

"Brother." Kíli leaned forward, his expression shifting from mischievous to something approaching sincere. "You do realize you're allowed to actually like her, right? That this marriage doesn't have to be purely political duty?"

The question caught Fíli off-guard. "It's not about liking or not liking. It's about building a functional partnership."

"You're developing feelings for her," Kíli said with the satisfied air of someone stating an obvious conclusion.

"I'm developing an appreciation for her competence," Fíli corrected. "She's intelligent, practical, dedicated to her work. These are valuable qualities in a political partner."

"And beautiful."

"What?"

"Beautiful. She's also beautiful, which you've definitely noticed despite your careful focus on her 'competence.'"

Fíli felt his jaw tighten. "Her appearance is irrelevant to the success of the alliance."

"But not irrelevant to you," Kíli observed. "I've seen the way you look at her when she's concentrating on something, or when she laughs at one of your rare attempts at humor. That's not political appreciation, brother. That's attraction."

"You're reading too much into basic courtesy."

"Am I? Because from where I sit, it looks like you're falling for your own wife. Which, incidentally, would be a wonderful development if you'd stop fighting it long enough to enjoy it."

Fíli stared at his brother, annoyed by the accuracy of the observation and the casual way Kíli had delivered it. "I can’t."

"Why?"

"Because..." Fíli struggled to articulate what felt like a fundamental shift in the nature of their arrangement. "Because she agreed to marry a prince for political reasons. She didn't agree to deal with... personal complications."

"Have you considered asking her how she feels about personal complications?"

"No, because that would be presumptuous and potentially damaging to the alliance we've both worked to build."

Kíli was quiet for a moment, studying his brother with an expression that was unusually thoughtful. "You know," he said finally, "for someone who prides himself on strategic thinking, you're remarkably bad at seeing opportunities when they present themselves."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means maybe she's developing feelings too. Maybe those library conversations and engineering discussions mean as much to her as they do to you. Maybe she's also wondering if this arrangement could become something more than political necessity."

The possibility sent something warm and dangerous through Fíli's chest. "You don't know that."

"No," Kíli agreed. "But you could find out. If you were brave enough to risk a little honesty."

"And if I'm wrong? If she's simply being polite and I misinterpret professional courtesy as personal interest?"

"Then you'd be in exactly the same position you're in now - married for political reasons with the hope of eventual friendship. But if you're right..." Kíli shrugged. "Well, then you might actually get to be happy. Novel concept, I know."

Fíli picked up his pen again, ostensibly returning to work but actually using the motion to avoid his brother's too-perceptive gaze. "It's not that simple."

"It never is," Kíli agreed, rising from his chair. "But that doesn't mean it's not worth trying."

As his brother reached the door, he paused and looked back. "For what it's worth, I think she likes you too. The real you, not just the prince. I've seen her watching you when she thinks no one's looking, and that's not political calculation on her face."

After Kíli left, Fíli sat staring at the trade documents without seeing them, his mind turning over his brother's words. Was it possible that Sigrid was developing feelings beyond political partnership? That those moments of easy conversation and shared humor meant something more than diplomatic progress?

The thought was terrifying and thrilling in equal measure. Terrifying because it would complicate everything, transform their careful political dance into something with real emotional stakes. Thrilling because it suggested the possibility of genuine connection, of building not just a functional marriage but something that might actually bring happiness to both of them.

Fíli stood motionless in the empty library for a long time after Sigrid fled, staring at the scattered tools and half-finished flowers that suddenly felt like evidence of some crime. The taste of her still lingered on his lips, the phantom warmth of her hand over his burned against his skin.

She had kissed him.

She had kissed him.

The realization should have filled him with elation, should have answered every question that had been tormenting him for weeks. Instead, it left him hollow with a different kind of anguish entirely.

Because she had run.

Not immediately—for those perfect moments when she'd leaned into him, when her fingers had threaded through his hair and she'd kissed him like she meant it, like she wanted him as desperately as he wanted her—in those moments, everything had felt possible. The careful tenderness in how she'd touched his face, the way she'd responded when he'd deepened the kiss slightly, the soft sound she'd made when his thumb brushed her cheekbone.

Those moments had felt real. Honest. Like finally admitting a truth they'd both been dancing around for months.

But then he'd seen the exact moment her mind had caught up with her heart. The way her breathing had changed, not from desire but from something closer to panic. The sudden rigidity in her posture as she'd pulled back, walls slamming into place so quickly it left him reeling.

"I should go," she'd said, and the words had hit him like cold water.

He'd tried to reach for her, to say something that might anchor her in the moment rather than whatever spiral of doubt she was falling into. But she was already scrambling to her feet, already backing toward the door with that look of someone who'd made a terrible mistake.

Now, alone with his scattered tools and the ghost of her presence, Fíli finally allowed himself to sink into one of the chairs, burying his face in his hands.

What had he expected? That she would kiss him and suddenly everything would be simple? That weeks of careful political maneuvering would dissolve into some fairy tale where the arranged marriage became a love story?

The bitter laugh that escaped him echoed strangely in the empty library.

He was in love with her. Completely, desperately, hopelessly in love with a woman who had just kissed him and then run away like she'd been burned.

And he'd let her see it. Despite all his careful control, all his determination to protect their fragile friendship, he'd let her see exactly how much he wanted her. The way he'd responded to that kiss, the desperate relief in finally being able to touch her—it had probably terrified her.

Because what could she do with his feelings? She was trapped in this arrangement as much as he was, bound by duty and politics and the welfare of two kingdoms. The last thing she needed was the additional pressure of knowing her future husband was in love with her.

Especially when she clearly wasn't.

Fíli began gathering his tools mechanically, each piece clicking into place in his kit with the precision of long practice. The mechanical flowers looked foolish now, delicate and romantic and completely inappropriate for the harsh realities of political marriage.

His mother would love them, of course. Would probably see them as a sign that her son was finally allowing himself to create something beautiful simply for the joy of creation. She wouldn't know they'd been inspired by watching Sigrid work, by imagining her reaction to the intricate mechanisms.

As he walked back to his chambers, Fíli's mind was already working through damage control. Tomorrow, he would be perfectly professional. Courteous but distant. He would give her space to pretend the kiss had never happened, would follow her lead in rebuilding whatever careful boundaries she needed.

Because the alternative—pushing for something she wasn't ready to give, making her feel guilty for not returning feelings she'd never asked for—was unthinkable.

In his chambers, he sat heavily on the edge of his bed, still tasting her on his lips. The third courting gift sat on his desk, accusingly unfinished. A gift inspired by feelings he had no right to harbor, created with the hope that maybe, somehow, she might see past the political necessity to the man beneath.

But hope, he was learning, was a dangerous thing when it came to arranged marriages.

Sigrid had kissed him tonight, and for a brief, shining moment, he'd thought it meant everything was changing. Instead, it had only confirmed what he'd suspected all along: that loving someone didn't guarantee they could love you back, no matter how much you both might want things to be different.

The thought of facing her tomorrow, of pretending normalcy while carrying the weight of what had happened between them, made his chest tight with dread. But he would do it. Would be whatever she needed him to be, even if it meant watching her retreat behind diplomatic walls and never mentioning the taste of her lips or the way she'd whispered his name like a prayer.

Because that's what love was, sometimes. Not grand gestures or declarations, but the quiet agony of wanting someone's happiness more than your own comfort.

Even when that happiness meant pretending you felt nothing at all.

Fíli's blade connected with the practice dummy with enough force to send vibrations up his arm. Again. And again. The rhythmic impact was exactly what he needed—something to exhaust his body so his mind might finally quiet.

"You're going to break that thing if you keep hitting it like it owes you money," Kíli observed from the entrance to the sparring chamber.

Fíli didn't pause in his assault on the defenseless training equipment. "It's meant to take punishment."

"So are you, apparently." Kíli moved closer, studying his brother's form with the critical eye of someone who'd been sparring with him since they were children. "When's the last time you slept? And I mean actually slept, not that thing you've been doing where you stare at the ceiling for six hours."

"I slept fine."

"Right." Kíli picked up a practice sword from the rack. "Care to prove it? You look like you need to hit something that might hit back."

For a moment, Fíli considered refusing. The sparring ring was where they'd always worked through their problems as children—where complicated feelings got sorted out through controlled violence and the kind of honesty that only came when you were too tired to maintain pretenses.

But that was exactly why he shouldn't spar with Kíli right now. His brother had always been too good at reading him, too willing to push until he got answers.

Still, the prospect of physical exhaustion was too tempting to resist.

"Fine," Fíli said, moving to the center of the ring. "But don't expect me to go easy on you."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

They circled each other for a moment, testing distance and timing. Then Kíli attacked, and Fíli found himself grateful for the immediate demands of defense. Parry, riposte, dodge—simple actions that required nothing but reflex and training.

For several minutes, they fought in relative silence, the clash of steel on steel providing its own conversation. Kíli was fast, had always been faster, but Fíli had reach and power. Under normal circumstances, they were evenly matched.

These weren't normal circumstances.

Fíli's timing was off, his footwork sloppy in ways that spoke of sleepless nights and distracted thoughts. When Kíli's blade slipped past his guard to tap his ribs, he knew his brother had been holding back.

"All right," Kíli said, stepping back and lowering his sword. "What's eating at you? And don't say it's wedding planning, because I've seen you handle actual diplomatic crises with more composure than you've shown this week."

Fíli wiped sweat from his brow, using the motion to avoid his brother's too-perceptive gaze. "Just tired."

"Tired." Kíli's voice carried the particular tone he used when he thought Fíli was being deliberately obtuse. "Right. That explains why you've been avoiding Princess Sigrid like she's carrying plague, and why she's been doing the same to you."

"We're not avoiding each other. We're maintaining appropriate boundaries."

"Appropriate boundaries," Kíli repeated. "Is that what we're calling it when two people look like they're in physical pain every time they're in the same room?"

Fíli raised his sword again, hoping to cut off the conversation. "Are we sparring or talking?"

But Kíli didn't take the bait. Instead, he set his weapon aside entirely. "Brother, I know something happened. I don't know what, but—"

"Nothing happened," Fíli said.

"Nothing happened," Kíli said flatly. "Right. Nothing happened, which is why you've been working in your forge until dawn every night this week, why Princess Sigrid has suddenly developed an interest in studying engineering texts in her chambers instead of the library, and why you both look like someone died every time you're forced to interact."

The accuracy of the observations made Fíli's chest tight. Of course Kíli had noticed. His brother noticed everything, especially when it came to the people he cared about.

"It's complicated," Fíli said finally.

"You know, you say that with amazing frequency whenever I mention Princess Sigrid." Kíli leaned against the weapons rack, clearly settling in for a longer conversation. "Want to tell me what kind of complicated we're dealing with here?"

For a moment, Fíli genuinely considered it. Kíli was the only person who might understand the impossible situation he'd found himself in. 

But how could he explain that Sigrid had kissed him and then fled? How could he admit that he was in love with someone who clearly wasn't ready for that burden? How could he voice the growing certainty that he was going to spend the rest of his life loving someone who might always see him as a political necessity first?

"She kissed me," he heard himself say, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Kíli's eyebrows shot up. "And that's... bad?"

"She ran away immediately after."

"Ah." Kíli was quiet for a moment, processing this information. "And now you're both pretending it never happened?"

"We're giving each other space to process what it means."

"What it means," Kíli repeated slowly. "And what do you think it means?"

Fíli stared at his practice sword, watching droplets of sweat fall from his brow onto the blade. "I think it means she's as confused about this arrangement as I am. And I think I'm making it worse by... by feeling things I shouldn't feel."

"Shouldn't feel," Kíli said. "Like what? Attraction to the woman you're going to marry? Affection for someone you've been getting to know? Those seem like fairly reasonable things to feel, brother."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

Why wasn't it that simple? Why couldn't he just be honest about what he wanted, about how he felt?

"Because she didn't choose this," Fíli said finally. "She didn't choose me. She's here because of politics and duty, and the last thing she needs is the additional pressure of knowing that I'm..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"That you're what?" Kíli pressed gently.

"That I'm in love with her," Fíli admitted, the words feeling like a confession torn from his chest.

Kíli was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was uncharacteristically serious. "And you think that's a burden she can't handle?"

"I think it's a burden she shouldn't have to handle." Fíli set down his sword with deliberate care. "She's trying to build a life here, trying to find her place in a world that's completely foreign to her. She doesn't need the added complication of my feelings."

"Brother," Kíli said slowly, "I'm going to say something, and I need you to really listen to me."

Fíli looked up, surprised by the gravity in his brother's tone.

"You're an idiot."

The blunt assessment caught Fíli off guard. "What?"

"You're being an idiot," Kíli repeated. "You're so busy trying to protect her from your feelings that you're not considering the possibility that she might want them. That maybe—just maybe—she kissed you because she feels something too."

"If she felt something, she wouldn't have run away."

"Or maybe she ran away because she does feel something and doesn't know what to do about it either." Kíli moved closer, his expression earnest. "Maybe you're both so busy protecting each other that you're missing the obvious solution."

"Which is?"

"Talk to her," Kíli said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "Actually talk to her. Not the careful political conversations you've been having, but real honesty about what you both want."

Fíli shook his head. "I can’t."

"Why not?"

"Because..." Fíli struggled to find words for the fear that had been growing in his chest since that night in the library. "Because what if I'm wrong? What if the kiss was just... confusion, or desperation, or her trying to convince herself she could feel something that isn't there? What if I tell her how I feel and it just makes everything harder for her?"

Kíli was quiet for a moment, and Fíli could see him wrestling with how to respond. His brother had always been better with emotions, more willing to trust instinct over careful analysis. But this situation was beyond simple advice.

"I don't know," Kíli said finally, and the honesty in his voice was somehow more comforting than false reassurance would have been. "I can't tell you what she's feeling, and I can't promise that being honest will make things easier. But I can tell you that watching you both suffer in silence isn't working either."

"So what do I do?"

"I don't know," Kíli said. "But maybe... maybe start with being honest about the fact that you care. Not necessarily about being in love—but about caring. About wanting to understand what she needs instead of assuming you know."

The suggestion felt both terrifying and necessary. Because Kíli was right about one thing: the careful distance wasn't working. If anything, it was making them both more miserable.

"The final gift exchange is tomorrow," Fíli said quietly.

"Perfect timing," Kíli said. "Literally designed for honesty between engaged couples."

"And if it goes badly?"

Kíli clapped him on the shoulder. "Then at least you'll know where you stand. Which has to be better than this."

As they gathered their weapons, Fíli found himself thinking about tomorrow's ceremony. About the tradition that called for truth between couples preparing to marry. About the compass he'd spent weeks perfecting.

Maybe Kíli was right. Maybe it was time to stop protecting her from his feelings and start trusting her to handle the truth.

Even if that truth was more complicated than either of them had bargained for.

By most measures, the final gift exchange was a rousing success. The gifts were…perfect. Sigrid has clearly liked the compass. After the mixed results of the last exchanges, Fíli should have felt relief. Instead, he felt hollow.

After Sigrid left, Fíli remained in the library for nearly an hour, staring at the book of elvish poetry in his hands. The truth he hadn't spoken hung heavy in the air.

He opened the book again, studying the careful script of her translations. She'd included notes in the margins, small observations about word choice and meaning that revealed the depth of thought she'd put into each line. 

The irony would have been amusing if it hadn’t been so devastating. She'd spent weeks immersed in poetry about love and creation, about bonds that grew from genuine understanding, and then apologized for the one moment they'd let themselves feel what those words described.

"I shouldn't have... I made things awkward between us."

Fíli set the book down carefully, as if it might break. She thought she'd been the one to complicate things. As if he hadn't been losing pieces of himself to her for weeks—in the way she hummed while working, in her fierce protectiveness when discussing her sister, in the careful attention she paid to problems most people would dismiss as beneath notice.

She'd crafted him a gift that spoke to his soul, and then asked him to pretend it didn't matter.

The worst part was that he understood why. Could see the fear behind her request, the way she'd pulled back from vulnerability like someone who'd been burned before. She was already carrying so much—adapting to a foreign culture, representing Dale's interests, navigating the constant scrutiny of a royal court. The last thing she needed was the additional weight of his feelings.

But understanding her reasoning didn't make his agreement feel less like betrayal.

He'd spent months learning to read her moods, to recognize when she was frustrated with protocol or delighted by a solution. Tonight, he'd seen something new in her expression—a kind of desperate hope warring with terror. As if she wanted to be brave about what was growing between them but couldn't quite manage it.

And instead of giving her space to find that courage, instead of telling her that whatever she felt was safe with him, he'd agreed to pretend it didn't exist.

"If that's what you want."

"I think it's what we both need. At least for now."

The phrase "at least for now" had been doing something dangerous to his chest all evening. It suggested this wasn't permanent, this careful retreat into safer territory. That maybe, someday, she might be ready for honesty about what was building between them.

But how long was he supposed to wait? How long could he maintain this careful distance while loving her without overstepping the boundaries she'd drawn?

As he walked back to his chambers, the book tucked carefully under his arm, Fíli found himself cataloging all the things he couldn't say tomorrow. Couldn't tell her that he'd started timing his route to the council chambers so he might glimpse her in the corridors. Couldn't admit that he'd spent hours imagining what it would be like to wake up beside her, to build a marriage based on the easy intimacy they'd found in their midnight conversations.

Tomorrow he would stand before hundreds of witnesses and promise to honor and protect her. True promises, but incomplete ones. He would not promise to love her, because she hadn't asked for that promise.

He traced the binding of her gift one last time before standing. At least she wanted something real between them, even if her version of real was different from his. At least they could build something good together, even if it wasn't quite what his heart wanted.

But he would love her anyway. Quietly, carefully, in all the ways she would let him.

Even if she never felt the same.

Chapter Text

I'd been awake for hours, staring at the ceiling and trying to convince myself that the churning in my stomach was excitement rather than terror. Outside my chambers, I could hear the mountain coming alive—footsteps in corridors, distant voices calling instructions, the general bustle of hundreds of people preparing for what would undoubtedly be the most elaborate ceremony Erebor had seen since Thorin's coronation.

I'd always imagined my wedding day would be filled with family. With my mom fussing over my dress, my dad pacing nervously, maybe even grandparents telling embarrassing stories about when I was little. I had a vivid memory of finding my parents' wedding album when I was seven, sprawled on the living room carpet while they pointed out relatives I'd never met. My mother's dress had been simple white satin with tiny pearl buttons, and she'd worn flowers in her hair instead of a veil. My father had looked impossibly young in his rented tuxedo, grinning like he couldn't believe his luck. They'd been so happy, surrounded by people who loved them.

The contrast was stark. I would stand alone before the altar, speak vows I barely understood, bind myself to a man I was only beginning to know—all without a familiar face in the crowd of witnesses.

Then Lady Hilda arrived with what appeared to be half the palace staff, and the real preparations began.

They worked in near silence, weaving complex braids into my hair and fastening what felt like half the mountain's wealth onto my dress. I felt more like a ceremonial object than a bride.

"Hold still," one of them muttered as she wove another golden thread through my hair, the beads pulling at my scalp with every movement. "The pattern must be perfect."

Perfect. Everything had to be perfect. Every braid, every gem, every word of Khuzdul I'd spent months memorizing. One mistake and I'd dishonor not just Fíli's family, but apparently every dwarf who'd ever lived.

No pressure.

The dress was already becoming unbearable, and we weren't even halfway through the preparations. Layers of silk and mithril thread created an elaborate construction that seemed designed more for display than for any human comfort. The bodice was reinforced with what felt like actual armor plating, and the sleeves—despite all the reconstruction work—still pulled uncomfortably across my shoulders. Each time I tried to take a full breath, the fabric reminded me exactly how little room I had to move.

I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the massive mirrors they'd brought in for the occasion. The dress was a masterwork of dwarven craftsmanship, creating patterns that seemed to move in the lamplight. Golden beads winked from my elaborately braided hair, each one carved with runes I'd learned to read but still didn't fully understand. The weight of them made my neck ache already, and I wondered how I was supposed to get through an entire day like this.

I looked like a proper dwarven princess.

I'd never felt less like myself.

The attendants were finishing the last of the ceremonial braids, each one weighted with beads that felt like they were trying to drag me down to the roots of the mountain. By the time they stepped back to admire their work, my head felt like it weighed twice what it should, and moving too quickly made the beads chime together in a way that somehow managed to be both musical and ominous.

"And finally," Lady Hilda announced, producing Fíli's dragon hairpin. She worked it into my elaborate braids, the small silver creature seeming to take flight among the complex patterns of my hair.

"It is time," the head attendant announced.

My heart started pounding, which made the tight bodice even more uncomfortable. This was it. The ceremony that would bind me to the mountain forever.

And my family couldn't even be there to see it.

"Remember," Lady Hilda said as we prepared to leave my chambers, "the processional pace is crucial. Count three heartbeats between each step, maintain perfect posture, and whatever you do, don't look at the crowd until you reach the altar."

"Why not?"

"Because if you see four hundred dwarves staring at you with calculating expressions, you'll either faint or run," she said pragmatically. "Neither of which would be a promising start to the ceremony."

The journey felt like walking through a dream. Or perhaps a nightmare—I couldn't quite decide which. The corridors I'd grown familiar with seemed transformed, lined with guards in full ceremonial armor and nobles positioned at specific intervals to witness my passage.

The hall itself was breathtaking, I had to admit. Hundreds of candles lined the walls, each one lit and burning bright enough to make the whole space glow like the inside of a star. The assembled dwarves—what looked like half the mountain's population—created a sea of elaborate braids and fine clothes, all turned to watch me walk the long path to where Fíli waited.

Fíli.

He stood before the central forge, the largest and most elaborately decorated in the hall. His formal clothes were layers of deep blue and silver that made him look every inch the crown prince. But something was... off. His posture was rigid, his expression distant. None of the warmth I'd grown used to in our midnight meetings showed in his face. 

As I took my place beside him, he didn't even look at me. Not really. His gaze swept over me in the way he might assess any ceremonial object, checking that everything was in its proper place, but there was no recognition of me in it. 

As if I were a stranger.

As if the kiss in the library had never happened.

As if the easy companionship we'd built over weeks of shared books and engineering discussions meant nothing at all.

I told myself it was just nerves. Just the weight of the ceremony and the hundreds of watching eyes. But as I took my place beside him and he offered me the most minimal of formal bows, I felt something cold settle in my stomach.

"Princess," he said quietly, his voice pitched for my ears alone but carrying none of the warmth I'd grown accustomed to.

Not Sigrid. Not even a greeting, really. Just acknowledgment of my presence and rank.

It's just ceremony, I told myself. Just protocol. Don't read too much into it.

The ceremony itself passed in a blur of Khuzdul phrases I'd memorized but only half understood, even after getting to read the reluctantly shared translations. The sacred forge was lit with much fanfare, the flames leaping higher than seemed natural. The heat from it made the heavy dress even more stifling, and I could feel sweat beginning to gather beneath under my arms.

When it came time for the exchange of ceremonial hammers, I somehow managed not to drop mine, though the weight of it combined with the restrictive sleeves made the simple gesture feel like a feat of engineering. The metal was warm from the forge's heat, and my hands were already trembling slightly from nerves and the effort of holding myself upright in the ridiculous dress.

Then came the recitation of ancient vows. I'd practiced these words for weeks, but standing here with hundreds of eyes watching my every move, my mouth felt dry as desert sand. The first few phrases went smoothly enough, but then I reached the section about honoring the ancient bonds—

"Khazad-ai-gabil..." I began, then felt my tongue stumble over the complex consonants. The phrase came out wrong, the inflection all off, and I heard my voice crack slightly on the final syllable.

A ripple of murmurs went through the assembled crowd. Not loud, but enough to make my cheeks burn with mortification. I could feel hundreds of eyes weighing my mistake, could practically hear the whispered assessments of whether the human princess was truly worthy to join their bloodline.

Fíli didn't react. Just waited, stone-faced, for me to correct myself.

I took a shaky breath and tried again, forcing the words out with painful precision. This time I got it right, but the moment of failure hung in the air like a bad smell.

Through it all, Fíli remained distant. His responses were perfect, his movements precise, but there was none of the connection we'd built over the past months. 

Just ceremony. Just tradition. Just politics.

When we finally turned to face each other for the binding of hands—the moment that would officially make us married—I tried to catch his eye. To find some glimpse of my Fíli, the one who read poetry in the library and worried about living up to his father's memory.

For just a second, something flickered across his face. His eyes met mine properly for the first time all day, and I saw a flash of the vulnerability he'd shown me in our midnight meetings. His fingers, as they took mine for the binding, pressed gently against my palm in what might have been reassurance.

Then he seemed to catch himself. His expression went blank again, his touch became formal and distant. When the ceremonial ribbons were wound around our joined hands, he held mine like it was made of glass—like he was afraid any real contact might shatter the careful performance we were both maintaining.

But as the binding was completed, our palms pressed together by tradition, I felt his hand trembling slightly. Just for a moment, before he caught himself and went rigid again. Then the ribbons were removed, the final words spoken, and he pulled his hand away so quickly it was almost like he'd been burned.

The assembled crowd erupted in cheers. We were officially married—at least by dwarven law.

But I'd never felt more alone.

The feast that followed was exactly as elaborate as you'd expect from a people who considered gold to be a reasonable decoration for food. I sat beside Fíli at the high table, both of us playing our parts perfectly. He was unfailingly polite, properly attentive, and completely unreachable. The dress's weight made sitting uncomfortable, and every time I tried to shift position, something pulled or pressed or reminded me that I was more display piece than person today.

The food was rich and strange—even after months in the mountain, there were still courses I couldn't identify, flavors that were probably delicacies but tasted like homesickness on my tongue. I pushed elaborate arrangements of meat and vegetables around my plate, my appetite completely gone. The wine was strong enough to make my head swim after just a few sips, which didn't help with the growing sense of unreality.

I kept thinking about my family. About Da, who should have been there to see his daughter married. About Tilda, who would have loved the spectacle of it all but also would have made irreverent comments about the pompousness. About Bain, who would have made terrible jokes about the food just to make me laugh.

About my parents, whose simple, joyful wedding had been everything this elaborate display wasn't. Who would never know their daughter had grown up. Was married. 

I found myself humming under my breath without really meaning to. Something warm and familiar from another life, another world. "...super trouper lights are gonna find me..."

The words were so quiet I barely breathed them, but they helped. Just a little. Just enough to remind me that there was still something left of me under all this ceremony and tradition.

"Are you well?" Fíli asked quietly, leaning slightly toward me. For a moment, I thought he might actually be asking because he cared. But I didn’t think I could handle it if he wasn’t. So I lied.

"Fine," I said. "Just taking it all in."

He nodded and returned to his conversation with the dwarf on his other side, leaving me alone again with my homesickness and my mom’s song.

The wine flowed freely, the music grew louder, and still Fíli maintained his careful distance. Even when we danced—because of course there had to be dancing—he held me like a formal partner at a diplomatic function. Like maintaining exactly the proper space between us was more important than the fact that we'd just pledged our lives to each other. 

During one particularly intricate sequence that required us to move in close synchronization, our bodies nearly touching, I caught a faint scent that was distinctly him. For just a moment, it reminded me of our late nights in the library, when he'd been rumpled and real instead of this perfectly composed stranger.

"You've been practicing," he said quietly as we executed a complex turn.

"Every day lately," I said, trying to read something—anything—in his carefully controlled expression. "I didn't want to embarrass either of us."

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "You could never—" He stopped himself, the words cutting off abruptly.

"Never what?" I said, hoping for some crack in his armor.

But the moment had passed. "You’re doing well," he said instead, back to the safe distance of formal praise.

It was exactly the kind of careful half-conversation that could characterize our entire marriage if he continued this retreat into formality.

Was any of it real? I found myself wondering as we turned in careful circles. Had I imagined the connection between us? Had I been so desperate for any kind of genuine feeling in this arranged situation that I'd projected emotions onto small kindnesses and polite conversation?

Maybe this was who he really was. The formal prince, the dutiful heir. Maybe the Fíli I thought I'd been falling for—the one who worried about disappointing people, who read poetry badly when he couldn't sleep, who'd shared his father's memories with me—maybe that had just been another performance. A way to make the political necessity more palatable.

The thought made my chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with the restrictive dress. Because if that was true, if I'd been fool enough to start caring for someone who didn't actually exist, then what was I doing here? What was any of this for?

The worst thought, the tiny voice in the back of my head that had been growing louder all day, said this was all my fault. I kissed him, then ran. The conversation during our gift exchange, which I thought had salvaged the situation, clearly hadn’t. If I hadn’t been such a coward, maybe I would have been sitting up here with my Fíli. Not the prince. I guess I would never know.  

Finally, blessedly, the feast began to wind down. Traditionally, this would be when we'd retire to our chambers for the consummation. Instead, we were escorted to separate rooms, each with their own contingent of guards to ensure tradition was properly postponed until after the Dale ceremony.

"Goodnight, Princess," Fíli said formally, bowing slightly before disappearing into his chamber.

"Goodnight, Prince," I replied to his closed door.

My assigned chamber was beautiful, of course. Everything in Erebor was beautiful in that distinctly dwarven way—all clean lines and perfect geometry. But tonight especially, it felt cold. Impersonal. Like a lovely prison cell.

I sat at the vanity and began the painstaking process of removing all the ceremonial beads and braids. Each one had meaning, each one represented something important about the joining of our houses. And right now, I hated every single one of them. My scalp ached where they'd been pulling all day, and my neck felt strange without their weight.

The dress came off in pieces, requiring the help of two servants to manage all the fastenings and layers. When I was finally free of it, my skin was marked with red lines where the bodice had pressed too tightly, and my shoulders ached from the restrictive sleeves. I felt like I could breathe properly for the first time in hours.

A knock at the door made me jump. I tightened my robe.

"Come in?"

Lady Dís entered, carrying what looked like traveling clothes. She moved with her usual dignified grace, but there was something different in her expression—less formal than usual.

"I thought you might want these for tomorrow," she said, laying them out carefully. "For your journey to Dale."

"Thank you." I went back to unbraiding my hair, wincing as another section came free. "I don't suppose you know any shortcuts for getting all this out?"

She came to stand behind me without asking, her hands joining mine in the task. Her touch was surprisingly gentle, and she worked with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd dealt with ceremonial braids for decades.

We worked in comfortable silence for several minutes, my hair gradually coming free of its golden chains. Finally, she spoke.

"You handled yourself well today."

I looked up at her in the mirror, surprised. "I stumbled over the vows. In front of everyone."

"You recovered," she said simply. "And you completed the ceremony with dignity despite being in obvious discomfort." Her fingers worked at a particularly stubborn braid. "The dress was too restrictive, wasn't it? I could see it in your posture."

"A little," I admitted, not wanting to complain about their craftsmanship.

"More than a little, I suspect. Yet you never faltered, never showed anything but composure. That takes considerable strength of character."

I felt my throat tighten unexpectedly. "It didn't feel strong. It felt like barely keeping my head above water."

"Often the same thing," she said quietly. "You looked lost today, but you didn't let it break you.” She paused.  “And my son looked terrified."

"Terrified?" I turned to face her properly. "He looked perfectly composed. Like a proper prince should."

"Exactly." She resumed working on a particularly stubborn braid. "Fíli only gets that formal when he's afraid of making a mistake. When he was small, if he broke something or disappointed Thorin, he would stand perfectly still and speak in the most proper voice he could manage. As if being perfect enough could undo whatever had gone wrong."

I thought about his rigid posture, the way he'd avoided my eyes, how quickly he'd pulled his hand away after the binding. "What was he afraid of today?"

"Disappointing you, I imagine. Making you feel more alone than you already did." She set another handful of beads aside. "He came to me last night, you know. Asked if I thought you were having second thoughts. If there was anything he should say or do differently."

The admission surprised me. "What did you tell him?"

"To be himself. Though clearly my advice was less than helpful." A slight smile touched her lips. "He spent this morning pacing his chambers like a caged wolf. Kíli had to physically prevent him from coming to check on you three separate times."

I thought about the moment when he'd almost responded to my whispered words, the brief press of his fingers before he'd pulled away. "I figured he didn't care. That this was all just duty to him."

"My son has many faults," Lady Dís said quietly, "but indifference isn't one of them. When he cares about something, he tends to care too much. Makes him cautious." She paused. "Makes him terrified of ruining it."

She finished with my hair, which now hung loose around my shoulders. In the mirror, I looked like myself again—tired and uncertain, but myself.

"The Dale ceremony will be different," she said, stepping back. "Your family will be there. Your traditions. But don't shut him out of them just because today went badly."

"What if we're too different?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. "What if this was a mistake?"

Lady Dís studied me for a long moment. "When Fíli was seven, he desperately wanted to work in the forge like his father. But he was too small for the adult tools, too young for the dangerous work. He cried for days, thinking he'd never be a real craftsman."

She moved toward the door, then paused. "So we made him child-sized tools. Taught him simple techniques first. He learned the same skills, just... differently. At his own pace, in his own way."

Her voice softened. "Marriage is rather like that, I think. You don't have to approach it the same way to make something beautiful together. You just have to be willing to adapt.

She left me with those thoughts and a pile of traveling clothes. Tomorrow I'd go to Dale, to my family, to prepare for the human ceremony. Tomorrow I'd be Princess Sigrid of Dale again, not this strange hybrid creature weighted down with dwarven traditions.

I pulled the covers over my head, trying to disappear into silk and down. 

I tried very hard not to think about the closed door between me and my husband.

My husband.

Mahal help me.

Chapter Text

I was gone at dawn, my bags packed and loaded onto the wagon while most of the mountain still slept. The early morning air was crisp and I felt my shoulders drop from around my ears as my horse began the slow walk to Dale. I'd left a note for Fíli with Nia—polite, appropriate, explaining that I would see him at the human ceremony. 

I told myself I wasn't running away. I was simply following the planned schedule. There had never been explicit plans to see each other this morning. And between Lady Dís’ conversation last night and the memory of the wedding, I wasn’t quite sure how I’d react to seeing him. The fact that I'd specifically arranged the earliest possible departure time was just... efficiency.

The ride to Dale gave me time to think, though I wasn't sure that was entirely welcome. Every mile that passed seemed to make the previous day feel more surreal. Surely I hadn’t imagined the warmth that had been growing between us. I thought, after our conversation during the third gift exchange, we would be okay. That we could maintain the friendship that was developing between us. Maybe I had been naive. Maybe I had been wrong. 

But I wasn’t mad. That was the strange part. Despite the awkwardness of the ceremony, despite feeling like I'd married a stranger, I found myself missing the mountain already. Missing the Water Guild meetings, Lady HIlda, Nia and Fria, even the peculiar comfort of the library alcove.

And I missed Fíli.

Before too long, we arrived in Dale. I'd felt the weight of curious stares as our procession passed through Dale's gates. Everyone wanted to see the newly married princess, to assess whether their royal daughter had been transformed by her mountain marriage. I'd tried to sit straighter in my saddle, to project the dignity expected of someone who now represented both kingdoms. But all I really wanted was to collapse into Da’s arms and pretend, for just a little while, that I was simply Sigrid again.

"Sigrid!" Tilda's voice reached me before I'd even climbed down from my horse. She came running across the courtyard, her face bright with excitement. "How was it? Was it wonderful?"

"It was beautiful," I said, managing a smile. "Very impressive. The mountain ceremonies are quite something."

Da appeared behind her, his expression warm but careful. "Welcome back, Sigrid. Ready for round two?"

"More than ready," I said, and meant it. Whatever had happened in the mountain, whatever distance I'd felt during that ceremony, the Dale wedding would be different. It would be mine.

The sun streaming through my bedroom window felt like a gift after weeks of mountain lamplight. Despite my growing comfort with the mountain, there were some things I was sure I’d never get used to. I'd been awake for an hour, just lying there and listening to the familiar sounds of Dale waking up—birds calling from the orchard, voices in the street below, the distant sound of hammers on stone as the rebuilding continued. No echoing corridors, no weight of mountain pressing down from above. Just open sky and the promise of wind on my face.

"You're awake early," came Tilda's voice from the doorway. She padded into the room still in her nightdress, hair sticking up at odd angles, and without ceremony climbed into bed beside me like she had when we were both much younger.

"New habit," I said, making room for her. "The mountain keeps early hours."

She curled against my side, and for a moment we just lay there in comfortable silence. 

"How was it really?" she asked finally. "The wedding?"

I considered how to answer that. The ceremony itself had been magnificent, if overwhelming. The feast elaborate beyond anything Dale could match. By every objective measure, it had been exactly what a royal wedding should be. But...

"Not terrible," I said. "Just... not quite what I expected."

"And you're married now." She tilted her head to look at me. "Really married. To a prince."

Legally married, yes. But sitting here with my sister, still wearing my simple traveling dress from yesterday, no elaborate braids or golden beads weighing down my hair, I felt curiously separate from the mountain. As if the marriage had happened to someone else.

"I suppose I am," I said. "Though it doesn't feel quite real yet."

"Will it feel real after this wedding?"

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe. I hope so."

“He better be good to you,” TIlda said. “Otherwise…otherwise I’ll put frogs in his boots!”

“Frogs?” I said, smiling. 

“Well, I can’t fight him. Fíli has all those muscles from forging and stuff.”

I tried very hard not to think about Fíli’s arms.

“I’m sure it will be okay. No frogs required.”

"We’ll see,” Tilda said. Then she continued softly, “I miss you. The house is too quiet without you here to argue with Bain about everything."

"I missed you too," I said, squeezing her hand. "More than you know."

"Good." She grinned suddenly. "Because we have a week to catch up on everything, and I have so many questions about mountain life that Lady Hilda would probably faint if she heard them."

Despite everything, I found myself laughing. "In that case, we'd better get started. But first—breakfast. I've been dreaming about Cook's sweet rolls for weeks."

The next few days passed in a whirlwind of final preparations. Unlike the months of intensive planning that had gone into the dwarven ceremony, preparing for this ceremony had been, in some ways, much simpler. The guest list was smaller, the ceremony less strict, and the expectations much more reasonable. The great hall would be decorated with flowers, Cook had planned a feast that showcased Dale's best traditions, and my dress—finally—was designed for actually moving and dancing rather than standing still and looking ceremonial.

Tilda was in the room with me when the seamstress brought it over for the final fitting. It was everything the dwarven one wasn't—flowing rather than structured, soft where the other had been rigid, designed for movement rather than display. When the seamstress had first shown it to me weeks ago, I'd nearly cried with relief. It actually looked like something I might choose to wear, if I were the sort of person who had occasion to wear wedding dresses. It looked like something my mother would have liked too.

"Much better," the seamstress declared as she made the final adjustments to the neckline.

"It’s beautiful," I said, testing the range of motion. I could lift my arms above my head, could turn without feeling like the fabric might tear. After the dwarven dress’s restrictive layers, it felt like wearing air.

"And the color suits you," she continued, stepping back to assess her work. "That blue brings out your eyes."

The dress was deep blue silk, simple in cut but beautiful in its simplicity. No beading, no metalwork, no symbols requiring cultural translation. Just clean lines and fabric that moved like water when I walked. When I looked in the mirror, I saw someone who looked like a bride without looking like a political statement.

"Your father will cry when he sees you in this," the seamstress predicted with satisfaction.

The thought made my chest tight in the best possible way. Da would cry—he always got emotional at important moments, though he tried to hide it. And unlike the dwarven ceremony, where I'd stood alone before hundreds of strangers, this time I'd have family beside me. 

That evening, I found myself in the small parlor with my family, supposedly reviewing final details but actually trying to calm my nerves by focusing on familiar faces and comfortable conversation.

I'd been thinking about dancing more than I cared to admit. About whether Fíli would be more relaxed during a human celebration, whether we'd be able to recapture some of the easy conversation we'd shared during those late nights in the library. Whether he'd hold me differently when we weren't performing for hundreds of his critical subjects.

"I've been wondering," Da said carefully, breaking my train of thought, "about the specific traditions you'd like to include. Are there any particular customs you remember from... before? Things that might make the ceremony feel more familiar?"

The question hung in the air. My family rarely asked directly about my life from before Lake-town. Da knew it was difficult territory, that most of my childhood memories were wrapped up in loss and grief and not something easily discussed. Bain and Tilda took their cues from him. But they also knew that sometimes I needed to talk about it.

"I hadn’t been to many weddings. The only one I can remember was my cousin Abby’s wedding," I said slowly. "I went to it when I was... well, maybe nine?" 

Actually, it had been the same summer as that fateful camping trip. Only a few weeks before. They didn’t need to know that.

"What was it like?" Tilda asked, settling into her chair with the expression she got when she sensed a story coming.

"Different from what we usually do here," I said, trying to organize memories that were hazy around the edges. "Less formal, I suppose. There were traditions I'd forgotten about until I started planning this ceremony."

"What kind of traditions?" Bain asked, genuinely curious.

"Well, there was something called a bridal dance." I smiled at the memory, though it carried the familiar ache of thinking about that lost world. "After the ceremony, people would pay a small fee—usually just a coin or two—to dance with the bride. My mom said money went to help the couple start their new life together. But I thought it was just a fun way to get to dance with everyone at the wedding. Even I got to dance with Abby."

It wasn’t a coin. I remember my dad and I laughing as we wet a dollar bill and tied it into a knot.

“Keeps them busy on their wedding night,” he said, winking. The innuendo went over my head then, but I still giggled at the image of Abby having to unknot the dollar once it had dried.

"How clever," Da said, leaning forward with interest. "Everyone gets to offer personal congratulations, and it serves a practical purpose as well."

"That's what I thought at the time. Abby danced, oh, couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds or so, with each person—the kids, elderly relatives, family friends, even people I didn't know very well. She was laughing the whole time, spinning around in her dress, looking so..." I paused, searching for the right word. "Joyful. Not nervous or worried about protocol, just happy."

"That sounds fun," Tilda said. "Like the wedding was actually for her, not just for everyone watching."

"It was. The whole celebration felt personal. There were other traditions too—the bride and groom would feed each other cake, which sounds silly but everyone would cheer when they did it. And there was this thing with the bouquet..." I trailed off, realizing I was sharing more than I usually did about those memories.

"What about the bouquet?" Tilda prompted gently.

"The bride would throw it to all the unmarried women at the reception. Whoever caught it was supposed to be the next to marry." I laughed. "I was too young to participate, but I remember watching all the older girls jostling for position, trying to catch it. Abby’s best friend Jen caught it, and she was so excited she nearly tripped over her own feet."

"Did Jen actually get married next?" Bain asked.

"I don't know," I said quietly. "I never found out."

My family exchanged glances, and I could see them processing what I'd shared—not just the wedding traditions, but the rare glimpse into the life I'd lost.

"Those sound like wonderful traditions," Da said carefully. "Would you like to include any of them in your ceremony?"

"Maybe," I said. "The bridal dance, certainly. I like the idea of spending time with each guest individually instead of just sitting at the high table watching everyone else have fun. I don’t think we need to ask people for coin though."

"What about the bouquet?" Tilda asked. "That sounds like it would be exciting for the other women."

"We could try it," I said, warming to the idea. "Though I'm not sure how our guests would react to such an... energetic tradition."

"They'll love it," Tilda said confidently. "Especially if you explain what it means first."

I looked around at my family, seeing their encouraging faces. "I'd forgotten how much I liked that feeling. How weddings could be joyful instead of just ceremonial."

"Then that's what we'll do," Da said firmly. "Your ceremony, your traditions. If you want to dance with every guest and throw flowers at unmarried women, then that's exactly what will happen."

"What will the dwarven delegation think?" I asked, suddenly uncertain.

"They'll think they're witnessing human customs," Da said with a slight smile. "Which is exactly what they came here to do. This is your wedding, Sigrid. It should reflect who you are."

The day before the ceremony, Erebor's delegation arrived with considerably more fanfare than my own return had generated. The procession that wound through Dale's gates was impressive enough to draw crowds—about two dozen dwarves in traveling clothes that still managed to look more formal than most humans' best attire, pack animals laden with gifts and supplies, and at the center of it all, the royal family.

I watched from my bedroom window as they approached the guest quarters that had been prepared for them. Even from a distance, I could pick out the familiar figures—Thorin's bearing unmistakable even in traveling clothes, Lady Dís maintaining perfect composure despite what must have been a tiring journey, Kíli's animated gestures as he pointed out various features of Dale's reconstruction to someone riding beside him.

And Fíli, who sat his horse with the same careful precision he brought to everything else, scanning Dale's streets.

My stomach clenched with unexpected nervousness. I hadn't seen him since we'd been escorted to our separate chambers two nights ago, hadn't spoken to him since that formal goodnight outside his door. Would he maintain the same distant courtesy he'd shown during the ceremony? 

The thought was, unsurprisingly, depressing.

"They're here," Tilda announced, bursting into my room with her usual disregard for knocking. "The whole royal procession. It's quite impressive, actually, though not as many horses as I expected."

"Dwarves prefer to travel on foot when possible," I said absently, still watching the figures below. "Horses make them nervous."

"Prince Fíli looks very... princely," she observed, joining me at the window. "Serious. Is he still always that serious?"

"Usually," I said. "Though he can be different when he's not being official."

"Different how?"

I tried to think of how to explain the Fíli I'd been getting to know. "Less royal, I suppose. More real."

"Good," Tilda said with the confidence of someone who'd never doubted her ability to charm anyone she met. "I like real people better than princely ones."

As the delegation settled into their quarters, I found myself wondering which version of Fíli I'd encounter tomorrow. The formal prince, or something closer to the man I'd thought I was beginning to understand.

I’d find out soon enough.

An hour later, I was in the solar reviewing seating arrangements one final time when someone knocked on the door. I looked up, expecting to see Tilda or maybe one of the servants with a question about tomorrow's logistics.

Instead, Kíli's head appeared around the door, his expression bright with curiosity.

"May I come in? I wanted to see how human wedding preparations work. Fíli wanted to come too, but Tilda rather forcefully told him he wasn’t allowed."

"It's bad luck for the bride to see the groom before the ceremony,” I said, though I was smiling. My stomach swooped a little at the thought of seeing Fíli. Or, moreso, the fact that the first time I’d be seeing him was again in front of an altar. This was a terrible tradition.

"Is it?" Kíli asked, stepping fully into the room and looking around with interest. "That's not a dwarven custom. Why would it be unlucky?"

"I..." I paused, realizing I wasn't entirely sure. "It just is. Traditional."

"Whose tradition?" Kíli asked, settling into a chair without invitation. "Human tradition in general, or Dale tradition specifically?"

"I think it's a human tradition," I said uncertainly. "At least, I remember hearing about it when I was young." And they did it in Dale too, funnily enough. 

"Well, I'm not the groom," Kíli pointed out. "And I brought you something."

He pulled a small wrapped package from his coat and held it out to me. I unwrapped it carefully, revealing a delicate silver circlet worked with mountain lily designs. It was beautiful—clearly dwarven craftsmanship, but simpler and more elegant than the elaborate pieces I'd worn during the mountain ceremony.

"It's lovely," I said, turning it over in my hands. “Did you make it?”

"Fíli made it," Kíli said. "He's been working on it for weeks. Said he wanted you to have something that would work with this ceremony but still... you know, show that you're part of our family too."

"How is he?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"Nervous," Kíli said bluntly. "He keeps asking me questions about human weddings, but I don't know any more than he does. He's worried about saying the wrong thing or not understanding what he's supposed to do."

"He doesn't need to do anything special," I said. "Just be himself. And we’ve gone through the ceremony already."

The Dale Master of Ceremonies had come three times, in fact.

"That's what I told him, but you know how he is. He's been practicing his Common pronunciation all this week because he's worried about stumbling over the vows. It’s very tiring - I’ve heard them so much I could probably get up there and marry you in his place."

"His Common is fine. It’s as good as mine," I said, touched by the image of Fíli practicing in private.

"I know that, you know that, but he's convinced he's going to embarrass himself somehow." Kíli grinned. 

"There's no wrong way to do it," I said. "That's the point of human ceremonies—they're supposed to be personal, not perfect."

"I'll try to convince him of that," Kíli said. 

Before I could respond, he stood up and headed for the door. "For what it's worth," he said, pausing in the doorway, "I think tomorrow will be better. Smaller crowd, less pressure, more chance to actually talk to each other. And Fíli really is a good dwarf, once you get past all his worrying about doing everything perfectly."

I knew that. I knew I was marrying…no - had married a good dwarf. A wedding was stressful at the best of times. Two royal weddings? It was a miracle neither Fili nor I had gone completely mad. 

After Kíli left, I found myself alone with the circlet he'd brought, turning it over in my hands. The delicate silver work caught the afternoon light—mountain lilies rendered in metal, clearly crafted with care. All this time I'd been worrying about Fíli’s distance, wondering if he regretted the marriage or simply didn't care. But maybe he was nervous too. Maybe he was trying too.

The thought was strangely comforting. Somewhere in the guest quarters, Fíli was probably going over tomorrow's ceremony in his mind, the same way I'd been doing. Both of us trying to navigate something neither of us had chosen, but both of us—perhaps—hoping it might work anyway.

Chapter Text

Getting ready for my second wedding felt entirely different from the first. Instead of silent dwarven attendants, I had Tilda bouncing around the room like an excited puppy while Lady Hilda tried to contain her enthusiasm with minimal success.

"Can I help with the flowers? Please? I've been practicing with the arrangements and—"

"Tilda," Lady Hilda said with remarkable patience, "if you could just sit still for one moment while I finish your sister's hair?"

"You look beautiful," Tilda sighed, momentarily stilling her perpetual motion. "Like a true princess."

"As opposed to a fake one?" I teased, but my heart wasn't really in it. I kept thinking about the last marriage, about Fíli's careful distance, about all the ways this could still go wrong.

A knock at the door interrupted my brooding. "Are you decent?" Bain called. "Da wants to know if you're ready."

"Almost," Lady Hilda answered, making one final adjustment to my hair. She'd done it in a style that incorporated the circlet—intricate braids woven through looser curls, with just a few simple beads that caught the light.

"There," she said softly. "Now you look like yourself."

I studied my reflection. She was right—unlike the dwarven ceremony, where I'd felt like I was wearing a costume, this felt... real. Like me, just slightly more polished than usual.

"Da's going to cry," Tilda predicted cheerfully. "He always gets weird about formal stuff anyway, and this is like, extra formal, and—"

Another knock, more insistent this time. "Seriously, are you ready? The dwarven delegation is ready to head to the hall and Fíli looks like he's about to vibrate out of his skin."

That got my attention. "What do you mean?"

"He keeps adjusting his clothes and asking if there's anything he should be doing. It's actually kind of funny—ow! Da, what was that for?"

I heard Da's muffled voice saying something that sounded suspiciously like "stop teasing your sister's husband."

Husband. Right. Because we were already married by dwarven law, weren't we? This was just... what? A formality? A concession to human tradition?

"Almost ready," Lady Hilda called back, making one final adjustment to the circlet's position. "Give us five more minutes."

"Five minutes," Bain relayed, his footsteps retreating down the corridor. "Though I'm not sure Prince Fíli's nerves can take much more waiting."

The image of Fíli nervous made something soften in my chest. I'd been so focused on my own anxiety about seeing him again that I hadn't considered he might be struggling with the same uncertainty. After all, he was about to participate in foreign customs, speak vows in what was technically his second language, and do it all in front of people he barely knew.

Of course he was nervous. The realization made me feel oddly protective, though I wasn't sure what I could do about it from here.

"Ready?" Lady Hilda asked, her voice gentle with understanding.

I took a deep breath, smoothing down the silk of my dress one final time. "As I'll ever be."

The great hall of Dale had been transformed. Spring flowers draped every surface, their sweet scent mixing with early morning air from the open windows. Sunlight streamed through newly restored stained glass, painting the stone floors in jewel tones that would have made any dwarf proud.

But what really caught my breath was the people. Not just the formal dignitaries and nobles, but ordinary citizens of Dale. Merchants I'd argued with about drainage systems. Craftspeople who'd helped rebuild the city. Children who waved excitedly when they saw me.

My people. My city.

And at the front of it all, Fíli.

The sight of him hit me like a physical blow, stealing my breath and making me falter mid-step. He was dressed formally, of course—deep blue and silver that complemented my dress, his hair braided in the complex patterns that marked his royal status. Every inch the crown prince, maintaining perfect posture and dignified bearing.

He looked...nervous? That couldn't be right. Fíli didn't get nervous. He was all careful control and perfect protocol. Except...

Except Bain was right. He kept shifting his weight slightly, adjusting his sleeves, touching his braids like he wasn't quite sure they were right. When our eyes met across the hall, something flickered in his expression before the familiar mask of formality slipped back into place.

Da's hand on my arm brought me back to the moment. "Ready, my brave girl?"

I squeezed his arm maybe a bit harder than necessary. "Don't let me trip."

"Never." He smiled down at me, eyes suspiciously bright. "Though if you do, I'm sure your husband would catch you."

"Da—"

"Just an observation." But his smile had turned knowing. "Shall we?"

Walking down the aisle with my father felt entirely different from the solo procession I'd made in Erebor. The music was lighter, happier. People smiled as we passed. I heard a few children giggle, probably at something Tilda was doing behind me. It brought a grin to my face, one I knew hadn’t been there in Erebor.

It felt like home.

We reached the front of the hall, where Fíli waited with perfect princely posture. But this close, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clasped perhaps a bit too tightly behind his back.

"Take care of each other," Da said quietly as he placed my hand in Fíli's.

The ceremony itself was simpler than the dwarven one. No complicated ritual phrases or ceremonial tools. Just words about love and partnership, spoken in a language everyone could understand.

Fíli's hand was warm in mine, but he maintained that careful distance otherwise. When he spoke his vows, his voice was clear and confident—Kili and I were right - there was never any doubt in my mind he would be flawless. But there none of the realness.

Just ceremony. Again.

Until the rings.

Dwarves didn’t have wedding rings - they used beads and braids to signify their martial status. In Dale tradition, the rings were simple bands meant to be worn every day. Practical, like most human things. But when Fíli lifted my hand to place the ring, I realized this one was different.

Tiny patterns were carved into the metal, so delicate they were almost invisible unless you knew to look. Water flow diagrams. Like the ones I drew in my endless plans for the city's reconstruction. My work with the Water Guild. He'd taken something I loved, something distinctly mine, and worked it into this symbol of our union.

Our eyes met as he slid the ring onto my finger, and I smiled. For just a moment, his careful mask slipped, and I saw my Fíli. His shoulders dropped an inch as he gave me an embarrassed smile back. 

Then it was my turn to give him his ring, and the moment passed. 

We turned to face the assembled guests as the Master of Ceremonies pronounced us wed (again), but this time the cheers and applause felt like celebration rather than political theater. As I looked out at the faces of people who'd known me long before I was a princess, who'd watched me grow up and make mistakes and figure out who I wanted to be, I felt something I hadn't experienced during our first wedding.

I felt married.

The feast that followed was far more relaxed than the dwarven one had been. Children ran between the tables, stealing treats and giggling. Music played continuously, people came and went as they pleased, and the wine flowed freely without any ceremonial significance attached to it.

I was just starting to relax when Da stood and called for attention.

"My friends," he said, his voice carrying easily across the hall, "in Dale we have many wedding traditions. Some old, some new, some borrowed from other cultures as our city has grown and changed." He smiled at me, eyes twinkling with familiar mischief. "Today, I'd like to introduce a tradition that's new to Dale, but very old to... somewhere else."

My breath caught as I realized what he was about to announce.

"The bride's dance," he said, extending his hand toward me with a flourish, "is a custom where each guest takes a turn dancing with the bride, sharing a moment of connection, of family, of community."

The hall buzzed with interested murmurs as people processed this unexpected addition to the festivities. I could see the dwarven delegation exchanging glances, clearly uncertain about this sudden departure from the planned program.

"If the bride is willing?" Da asked, his eyes warm with understanding.

I was on my feet before I consciously decided to move, my face breaking into a grin that felt like sunshine after weeks of careful royal composure. "More than willing."

The musicians struck up something lively and joyful as Da led me to the center of the hall. The familiar chaos of my family's enthusiasm, the warm faces of people I'd known all my life, the prospect of actually celebrating instead of just enduring ceremony—it all combined to make me feel lighter than I had in months.

"I wasn't sure we'd be able to include this," I whispered as we began to dance, spinning in circles that made my blue silk dress flare around me.

"Of course we could," Da said, squeezing my hand gently. "This is your day, your celebration. And these are your people."

I definitely didn't cry. Much.

After Da came Bain, who managed to step on my feet only twice while telling terrible jokes to make me laugh. Then Tilda, who insisted on trying to spin me even though she was shorter. Then she took her place beside the makeshift dance floor, clearly appointed herself master of ceremonies, keeping the rotation moving smoothly and making sure each person had their moment.

More people joined in the line. Merchants I'd worked with on the reconstruction. Children barely tall enough to reach my waist giggled through brief, enthusiastic dances that consisted mostly of bouncing. Even members of the dwarven delegation joined the line, though they approached the unfamiliar tradition with characteristic caution. Thorin's dance was brief and formal, but he complimented my dress and wished me happiness with what seemed like genuine warmth. Lady Dís was more graceful, offering quiet words about family and belonging that made my throat tight with gratitude.

Kíli, predictably, threw himself into the spirit of the thing with enthusiasm, spinning me dramatically.

"This is much more fun than dwarven wedding traditions," he declared as he passed me off to the next dancer. "We should steal this idea."

As the line of dancers gradually dwindled, I found myself breathless but happier than I'd been in months. The combination of physical activity, genuine celebration, and the warm faces of people who loved me had created exactly the kind of joy I'd remembered from my cousin's wedding all those years ago.

Then, suddenly, the line was gone and there was only one person left.

Fíli stood at the edge of the dance floor, looking uncertain in a way that was endearingly different from his usual composed confidence. He'd been watching the entire proceedings with what looked like fascination, clearly trying to understand this human tradition that had spontaneously taken over the wedding celebration.

He bowed formally, hand extended in perfect courtly manner, but there was something almost shy in his expression. "My lady wife?"

The title should have felt formal, distant. But something in his voice made it sound almost like a question. My grin didn’t dim as I took his hand.

The music had shifted now, to something slower and softer as we slowed down and I could catch my breath. He danced as well as he did everything else, leading with quiet confidence.  But this close, I could feel the tension in his frame, see the way he was very carefully not meeting my eyes.

"Thank you," I said softly, not wanting to break the spell of the moment but needing him to know how much this meant to me.

"For what?" he asked, though his voice was rough in a way that suggested he knew exactly what I meant.

"For letting me have this. For..." I gestured vaguely at the celebration around us, at the tradition we'd improvised, at the joy that had filled what could have been another formal diplomatic event. "For letting it be mine."

Something crossed his face then, but it was gone too quickly to read.

We danced in comfortable silence for a few more moments, the music wrapping around us while the celebration continued at the edges of my awareness.

"I owe you an apology," he said suddenly, his voice quiet enough that only I could hear over the music.

"For what?" I asked, though something in my chest already knew what he was going to say.

"For our first wedding. For being..." He stopped, jaw working. "For being a complete ass."

I blinked, not expecting such blunt honesty. "Fíli—"

"No, please. Let me say this." His grip on my hand tightened slightly. "I was so focused on not making a mistake, on following protocol perfectly, that I forgot... I forgot you were there. That you were as nervous as I was, probably more so since it was all your world changing, not mine."

We turned again, and I could see the regret written clearly on his face now.

"I left you to walk through all of that alone," he continued, voice rough. "In a place where everything was foreign to you, surrounded by people you barely knew, speaking words in a language you were still learning. And I just... stood there. Like a statue. Like you were a stranger instead of..." He swallowed hard. "Instead of you."

The ache in his voice made my chest tight. "You were nervous too—"

"No." He shook his head firmly. "Being nervous doesn't excuse treating your wife like a political prop."

Wife. The word sent an odd little thrill through me, partly because he'd said it with something approaching warmth rather than dutiful acceptance.

"I left you alone," he continued, his voice rough with something that might have been self-recrimination. "I made you think I didn't want to be there, that I was just... enduring it."

"Weren't you?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

He stopped dancing entirely, right there in the middle of the floor. Other couples moved around us as he stared at me with something that might have been horror.

"Mahal's beard, no." His voice was fierce, quiet but intense. "Sigrid, no. I wanted to be there. I wanted to marry you. I was just—" He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing the careful braids. "I was terrified that I'd say something wrong or use the wrong gesture or somehow dishonor you in front of my people."

"So you said nothing at all."

We started moving again, slowly, as the music continued around us. I could feel people watching us, probably wondering why we'd stopped, but I didn't care.

"I wanted to talk to you," he said. "During the ceremony, after, during the feast. I kept thinking of things to say, but then I'd remember how important it all was, how many people were watching, how much was riding on everything being perfect..." He shook his head. 

Something in my chest loosened, a knot I hadn't even realized was there. "I thought you regretted it," I admitted quietly. "The marriage. Me. I thought maybe you'd realized what a mistake it all was."

"Never." The word came out sharp, definitive. "Never that. I..." He looked around the hall, at the people of Dale celebrating around us, then back at me. "I was proud to marry you. I am proud to be your husband. I just... I'm still learning how to be good at it."

"We both are."

"I wanted to do everything right," he said. "To prove I could be what you needed. A proper dwarven prince."

"By being perfect?"

"By being what I thought you deserved." He smiled ruefully, and I caught a glimpse of the self-deprecating humor I'd seen in our library conversations. "Someone who could fit into your world without... without messing it up by being too informal, or too emotional, or too..."

"Too real?"

Our eyes met, and I saw understanding pass between us like a bridge being built one plank at a time.

"I missed you," I said quietly. "During the ceremony, during the feast. I missed the person I'd been getting to know in the library.”

"I missed you too," he said, his thumb brushing over my wedding ring where our hands were joined. "The real you, not the perfectly composed princess version."

"I'm still here," I said, meaning it in all the ways that mattered.

"Are you?" His voice carried a note of hope that made my heart skip. "Because I'd like... I'd like to try again. Not the wedding—that's done, twice over now. But us. The real us this time, not the perfect political marriage version."

"I'd like that too," I said softly.

The song was ending. In a moment we'd have to part, to go back to our careful public faces. But something had shifted, some wall had cracked and let light through.

As we separated to rejoin the celebration, I felt lighter than I had since... well, since before our first wedding. The careful distance that had marked our mountain ceremony was gone, replaced by something that felt like the beginning of genuine partnership.

The rest of the feast passed in a blur of music, laughter, and the comfortable chaos of genuine celebration. There were speeches, of course—Thorin's formal but warm blessing, Da's response filled with genuine affection rather than diplomatic courtesy. But it was Kíli's toast that really captured the spirit of the day.

"To my brother," he said, raising his cup with a grin, "who worried for weeks about pronunciation and protocol, and to my new sister, who showed us all what celebration really looks like. May you build something together that honors both your worlds and creates something entirely new."

The cheers that followed felt like benediction.

As the afternoon wore on, Fíli remained close throughout it all—not hovering, but staying within easy conversation distance, making an effort to become part of my world rather than expecting me to simply adapt to his. The thought made something warm settle in my chest.

When Da approached with a bouquet—spring flowers from Dale mixed with mountain lilies from the dwarven delegation—I laughed.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked, accepting the flowers. "Some of our guests might not be prepared for the, uh, competitive aspects of this tradition."

"Only one way to find out," Da said with a grin.

As word spread about the impending bouquet toss, I was amused to see how quickly the unmarried women in attendance—both human and dwarven—arranged themselves in what could charitably be called a strategic formation behind me. Even Lady Dís joined them, claiming that widowhood technically qualified her for participation.

"Just aim for someone who actually wants to get married soon," Tilda said, positioning herself at the edge of the group with the wisdom of someone who was clearly too young to participate but wanted the best view possible.

I turned my back to the assembled women, raised the bouquet above my head, and threw it with enough force to clear the front row but not so much that it would cause actual injury.

The resulting scramble was everything I'd hoped for and more. Three dwarven women, two of Master Torbin’s nieces, and what appeared to be the head of the Seamstress Guild all converged on the bouquet's landing point with a determination that would have impressed military strategists. In the end, it was Lady Dís who emerged victorious, holding the slightly battered flowers aloft with a triumphant grin that transformed her usually dignified features.

"Well," she announced to general applause and laughter, "I suppose that settles that."

"Does this mean you're planning to remarry?" Thorin asked, eyebrow raised with what might have been concern or amusement.

"It means I'm planning to enjoy excellent luck in all my endeavors," she replied smoothly. "The flowers are just a bonus."

As the laughter died down, Fíli appeared beside me with wine, settling onto the bench with a smile that seemed to carry the entire day's worth of growing understanding.

"So," he said quietly, settling onto the bench beside me, "how do you feel about being married? Again?"

"Better this time," I said honestly, accepting the wine and letting myself lean slightly against his shoulder. "More... real."

"Good," he said, and I could hear the satisfaction in his voice. "Because I'm rather hoping we won't need a third ceremony to get it right."

"I think twice is quite enough wedding for anyone," I said.

As evening approached and the celebration began winding down, guests started making their excuses. The hall gradually emptied until only family remained, conversations growing quieter, more intimate.

Finally, inevitably, the moment came that I'd been both anticipating and dreading.

"It's time," Lady Dís said gently, appearing beside us with the kind of maternal authority that brooked no argument.

Time to return to Erebor. Time to fulfill the traditions that had been postponed after our first wedding. Time for the wedding night that would officially complete our marriage by both human and dwarven law.

My stomach did something complicated as Fíli rose and offered me his hand. The easy comfort of the afternoon suddenly felt fragile, threatened by the weight of expectation and the intimate unknowns that lay ahead.

"Ready?" he asked softly, and I could see my own mixture of anticipation and nervousness reflected in his eyes.

I took his hand, feeling the warmth of his palm against mine, the slight tremor that suggested he was as uncertain as I was about what came next.

"As I'll ever be," I said.

I left with the dwarven delegation after a round of fierce hugs with my family and promises to visit soon. The journey back to the mountain was quiet. Fíli kept glancing at me when he thought I wasn't looking.

"I'm sorry," he murmured at one point, soft enough that only I could hear. "About all... this." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the guards, the tradition, the necessity of what waited for us.

"Not your fault," I replied just as quietly. "Unless you personally invented this particular tradition?"

That got a small smile. "No, though I'm sure some of my ancestors are very proud of themselves for coming up with it."

"Remind me to have words with them in the afterlife."

His laugh was brief but real.

Chapter Text

Fíli's chambers felt enormous after months in my temporary quarters. Sorry, our chambers. Five rooms—sitting room, dining room, bedchamber, bathroom, and private study—all clearly lived-in. His books filled the shelves, his correspondence sat neatly stacked on the desk, his belongings occupied the obvious places. Someone had moved my things here while we were in Dale, but they looked tentative among his established routines.

The space was beautifully appointed: rich tapestries, carved furniture, ceremonial weapons displayed with care. Someone had added fresh flowers to the side tables, probably trying to make it feel more welcoming. With a shock, I realized I missed my old rooms. I'd begun to think of that temporary space as mine—a small refuge in the mountain. Now there was no place that belonged entirely to me.

But dwelling on displaced belongings felt like avoidance. The bed dominated the bedchamber with its pristine white sheets that would be inspected in the morning. On a side table sat a tray—wine, cups, bread—waiting for whatever came next.

We both knew what was supposed to come next.

Once the door closed behind us, Fíli stood motionless for a moment, his eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder. When he finally looked at me, the careful mask of princely composure had slipped, revealing uncertainty beneath.

"We don't have to—" he started, then stopped. His hands were clenched at his sides, and I noticed he was very carefully not looking at where my robe had slipped slightly at the collar. "That is, we could wait, or..."

"You know we can't," I said. They’d be checking those sheets regardless of our feelings on the matter. "Maybe we should..." I gestured vaguely at the tray.

"Right." Fíli moved to pour the wine, his hands shaking slightly. "Though I should warn you, ceremonial wine tends to be stronger than what you're probably used to."

In truth, I was still full from the feast at Dale. But some wine and bread seemed like an easier place to start than thinking about the night’s activities. I nodded and wandered over to sit by the table. 

We sat there sipping wine and picking at the ceremonial bread, both of us clearly trying to work up to addressing what came next. The alcohol helped, loosening some of the tension in my shoulders, but it also made me more aware of things I'd been trying not to notice. The way Fíli's formal clothes fitted across his shoulders. How his hands moved when he gestured. The fact that we were alone in chambers that contained a bed and everyone in the mountain knew exactly why.

"This is strange," I said finally.

"Which part? The rooms, the wine, or the general situation?"

"All of it." I set down my cup and looked at him properly. "A few hours ago we were dancing in Dale's great hall, and now we're here drinking ceremonial wine before..." I gestured helplessly.

"Before consummating our marriage," he finished, voice carefully neutral. "We can say the words, Sigrid. Pretending it's not happening won't make it less awkward."

"I'm not pretending it's not happening. I'm just trying to figure out how we got from there to here so quickly."

He was quiet for a moment, considering this. "We've been building toward this for months. Maybe it feels sudden because we've spent so much time avoiding thinking about it directly."

"Have you been thinking about it?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, aided by the wine and the strange intimacy of the situation.

Color rose in his cheeks. "Yes," he said quietly. "It's rather hard to ignore when everyone keeps mentioning consummation and duty and..." He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing the careful braids. "Yes. I've thought about it."

"And?"

"And I've been terrified I'll somehow ruin everything we've been building.”

"You're not going to ruin anything."

"You don't know that."

"I know you," I said, and realized I meant it. "You're careful with things that matter to you. You won't hurt me."

He went very still at that. "Things that matter," he repeated softly, like he was testing how the words sounded. Something shifted in his expression before he looked down at his hands. "And you? Have you thought about it?"

I felt my own cheeks warm. "Yes. Though mostly I've been worried about embarrassing myself completely."

"It's not a performance," he said. "It's just us. Figuring something out together."

"Is it though?" I gestured toward the ceremonial tray, the formal chambers around us. "It feels like everything else we do—weighted with tradition and meaning and expectations."

"It doesn't have to be." He set down his own cup and moved closer, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. "We remember what we said on the road. That we're going to try being real with each other. Real means acknowledging that this is strange and awkward, but also that we trust each other enough to figure it out." 

I looked down at the ceremonial tray, thinking about the strange journey that had brought us to this moment. From political necessity to tentative friendship to... whatever this was becoming. 

When I looked up, Fíli was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Slowly, as if giving me time to pull away, he reached across the small space between us. His fingers brushed mine, hesitant, before settling over my hand completely. His palm was warm but trembling slightly. 

"I'm nervous," I admitted, surprised by how right his touch felt. 

"So am I." His thumb moved slowly across my knuckles, as though he was worried I would startle away.

"But I'm not... I'm not dreading it anymore. If that makes sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

The wine and the honest conversation had created a kind of cocoon around us, making the formal chambers feel more intimate and less imposing.

"We should probably..." he said.

"Yeah."

But neither of us moved for a long moment, caught in the strange space between anticipation and action. Finally, Fíli squeezed my hand softly and stood, drawing me up with him. 

"Whatever happens," he said, "we're still us afterward. Still the people who argue about engineering and make fun of textile guild politics." 

"Promise?" 

"Promise." 

He led me toward the bedchamber, where candles cast flickering shadows across fresh linens and scattered flower petals. It should have felt romantic. Instead, it felt like a stage set, waiting for us to perform our roles.

"Ignore all of it," Fíli said quietly, seeming to read my thoughts. "The flowers, the candles. Just... us."

He was right. Underneath all the formal preparation, this was still just us—two people who'd been learning to trust each other, who'd agreed to try building something real together. The setting didn't have to define the experience.

What followed was awkward, certainly. Neither of us had any practical experience, and the weight of tradition made everything feel more significant than it probably needed to be. But it was also tender in ways I hadn't expected.

Fíli was so gentle it made my chest ache. His hands trembled when they touched me, his breath catching in ways that seemed to surprise him. He kept asking if I was alright, his voice growing rougher each time.

I tried to reassure him, though I could see the guilt written across his face. Neither of us had asked for this situation, but somehow we both felt responsible for putting the other through it.

There was a part of me that realized this could be enjoyable. The way his arms surrounded me, protective and warm. The feel of his skin against mine. Once or twice my own breath caught, despite myself.

I kept my eyes closed mostly, or let my gaze drift past his shoulders to the ceiling. But at one point, our eyes met and held. I couldn't look away. Something flickered across his face—my heart skipped without understanding what I was seeing.

Then the moment passed.

Afterward, we lay in the candlelit darkness, not quite touching but close enough to feel each other's warmth. The silence wasn't uncomfortable—if anything, it felt peaceful in a way our interactions rarely had before.

"That wasn't terrible," I said eventually, which made him laugh.

"High praise indeed."

"I meant it as a compliment."

"I know." His voice was warm with something that might have been affection. "It wasn't terrible for me either."

I turned on my side to face him properly. In the dim light, with his hair loose and his guard completely down, he looked like himself again—not the Crown Prince performing his duties, but simply Fíli, rumpled and real and somehow more appealing for it.

"What happens now?" I asked.

"Now we sleep," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips as he glanced away briefly before meeting my eyes again. "And tomorrow... well, tomorrow we'll figure it out."

His hand sought mine in the space between us, fingers intertwining with more certainty this time. The gesture felt natural now, like something we'd been doing for months instead of minutes. We lay there quietly for a while, and I could feel the exhaustion finally catching up with me—the ceremony in Dale, the journey back, the wine, the weight of everything that had just happened between us.

"Sigrid, I..." his voice was barely a whisper in the darkness.

I waited, but he didn't continue. My eyelids were growing heavy, but I managed to murmur, "Yeah?"

"Sleep well," he said instead, his thumb brushing once across my knuckles.

We fell asleep like that, hands linked across the space between us. When I woke briefly in the middle of the night, I found he'd moved closer in his sleep, though his breathing remained even and undisturbed.

Chapter Text

I woke slowly the next morning, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar weight of someone else's arm across my waist, the warmth of another body beside mine.

Fíli was still asleep, his carefully maintained braids a mess, face softer than I'd ever seen it. For a moment, I let myself just look at him. In sleep, every trace of his perfect princely posture melted away, leaving just... him. The man who'd been so gentle last night, who'd promised we'd figure this out together.

His arm was warm around me, and I found myself oddly reluctant to move away. Which was unexpected, considering I'd spent months convinced I'd never be comfortable sharing a bed with a virtual stranger I'd married for political convenience. Except Fíli didn't feel like a stranger anymore, did he?

When had that happened? When had I stopped thinking of him as the Crown Prince I was obligated to marry and started thinking of him as... what? My husband felt too formal, too distant for what was growing between us. My friend felt incomplete after last night's intimacy. Something else, then. Something I didn't have words for yet.

The thought should have worried me more than it did.

Then someone knocked at the door, and the spell broke.

Fíli's eyes snapped open, instantly alert. Our gazes met for a heartbeat—his immediately concerned, mine probably looking like a deer caught in torchlight—before we both seemed to remember exactly where we were and how we'd gotten there.

"Morning," he said, voice rough with sleep as he gently extracted his arm from around me.

"Morning," I said, suddenly hyperaware of how close we were on the vast bed. I shifted slightly, creating breathing room without making it seem like I was fleeing.

The inspection that followed was every bit as mortifying as I'd expected. I focused on a tapestry depicting some ancient dwarven victory while strangers examined our sheets, discussing evidence like engineers reviewing structural plans.

When it was finally over, after what felt like several small eternities, Fíli and I were left alone again. Neither of us seemed to know quite what to do with ourselves now.

"So," he said to the wall somewhere above my left shoulder.

"So," I agreed, finding the floor tiles suddenly fascinating.

The silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable exactly, but charged. Everything felt focused now—the way he moved through the space, the deliberate way he avoided looking at me directly, how conscious I was of his presence in a room I was still learning to think of as ours.

"Are you..." he started, then stopped. Started again. "I hope that wasn't too awful for you.”

"I'm fine," I said, meaning it. "Are you?"

"Yeah. I think so." He paused, running a hand through his hair and disturbing what remained of his careful braids. "It's just... different now, isn't it? Everything feels different."

"It is different." I pulled my robe tighter around myself, suddenly conscious of being in my nightclothes while having this conversation. "We're different now."

Another knock interrupted us—lighter this time, almost apologetic.

"Prince Fíli," came a voice through the door. "I apologize for the disturbance, but King Thorin has requested your immediate presence. There's been a development with the new trade contracts."

Fíli closed his eyes briefly, and sighed. "Tell him I'll be there shortly."

"Of course, Your Highness."

As the footsteps retreated, Fíli turned to me with a rueful expression. "Duty calls, apparently."

"How long do you think you'll be?"

"Hard to say. Could be an hour, could be most of the day, depending on what's gone wrong." He began reaching for his clothes, his movements slightly rushed. "What will you do?"

I considered this. After weeks of wedding preparations and ceremonies, the prospect of an unstructured morning felt almost foreign. "Library, I think," I said. “Get caught up on some correspondence.”

"Our alcove?" The question was casual, but I noticed the way his hands stilled on his shirt, waiting for my answer.

"Our alcove," I said, liking how natural the possessive sounded. Like we'd been sharing it for years instead of months.

"I'll find you there when I'm finished, if you'd like company."

"I'd like that."

I dressed quickly while Fíli rebraided his hair with practiced efficiency. When I couldn't reach a clasp at the back of my neck, his fingers were gentle, deliberate as he fastened it. They lingered for just a moment, warm against my nape, before he stepped back.

The brief contact sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. 

Fíli moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the handle. For a long moment, he seemed to wrestle with something, his jaw working silently. He turned back toward me, took a half-step closer, and I found myself holding my breath.

His eyes searched my face as if looking for something, and I realized I was leaning forward slightly, waiting for whatever he'd been about to say.

"I'll see you later," he said instead, his voice rougher than before, and was gone before I could respond.

I stood there for several minutes after he left, oddly disappointed by something I couldn't name. There had been a moment when he'd turned back, when something had shifted in his expression, and I'd found myself hoping—though for what, I wasn't entirely sure.

The library felt like sanctuary after the strange intimacy of the morning, but even surrounded by familiar books, I couldn't quite escape the memory of waking up in Fíli's arms. Or the way his touch had lingered on my neck. Or the disappointment I felt when he had turned and left from our chambers this morning.

I'd claimed our usual alcove and spread correspondence across the table, but my mind kept drifting. What was happening to me? A month ago, the thought of sharing a bed with anyone would have terrified me. Now I found myself remembering the warmth of Fíli's arm around me, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way he'd made me feel safe in a way I'd never experienced before.

Safe. Protected. Wanted, maybe? The thought made me pause, pen hovering over the thank-you note I was trying to write.

Did I want him to want me? The question felt dangerous. This was supposed to be a practical arrangement, a friendship that happened to include marriage. I had already almost ruined things with one disastrous, impetuous kiss. Friendship had seemed like the safer option for this marriage. So when had it become something that made my pulse quicken and my thoughts scatter?

I was still wrestling with these uncomfortable realizations when footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. My stomach did something pleased when I saw Fíli appear in the entrance, but instead of his usual smile when he spotted me, his expression was troubled.

"How bad was it?" I asked, noting the tension in his shoulders as he settled into his chair, laying some of his own paperwork down on the table.

"Not bad. Just…complicated." He ran a hand along his jaw. "Trade negotiations with Dale. Always more political than they need to be."

Something in his tone made me look up at him more carefully. He was staring at his correspondence but not really seeing it.

"Everything all right?"

He glanced at me, seemed to consider something, then just shook his head. "Different perspectives on what's best for everyone involved." He picked up a letter, set it down again. "It’s not that important."

But he didn't pick up his work again, just sat there with that same troubled expression. I went back to my reading, but found myself watching him from the corner of my eye. Whatever the meeting had been about, it was clearly still bothering him. Finally, he picked up a document and began reading. We settled into a more comfortable silence, working side by side. I had a small stack of thank-yous. Eventually, Fíli would have to sign them. I knew he had his own stack I would have to sign eventually. Suddenly, Fíli set aside the parchment.

"Sigrid?" he asked.

"Mm?" I looked up from my next card, noting the careful way he was holding himself. He didn’t look troubled anymore. Unsure, if anything.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"How are we supposed to do this?" The question came out in a rush, like he'd been holding it back. "Be married, I mean. I know we talked about it before, but now it's... real. And I don't actually know what I'm supposed to do differently."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Do we eat meals together now? Do I ask before I make plans for the day? Do we..." He gestured vaguely, encompassing all the small intimacies and daily negotiations that married people presumably navigated without thinking. "I don't know what the rules are anymore."

I stopped, wanting to answer this thoughtfully. Then, I blew out a breath.

"I don't know either," I said, setting the pen down completely. "Lady Hilda's instructions stopped at the wedding night. Like, this morning I didn't know if I should wait for you to return before eating breakfast, or if you'd want company, or if we’re supposed to coordinate our schedules now."

"Did you eat breakfast?"

"No. I decided it would just be easier to wait." I paused, then added quietly, "I wanted to wait."

His eyes snapped to mine, and I saw something flicker there. "I didn't eat either. Same reason."

We looked at each other across the small table, and suddenly we were laughing. Not because it was particularly funny, but because two adults who could engineer water systems and navigate court politics had been defeated by the simple question of morning meals.

"We're idiots," I said, wiping my eyes.

"Complete idiots," he said, grinning. "Two people who can redesign half of Dale's infrastructure but can't figure out breakfast etiquette."

"Maybe we should make our own rules," I suggested. "Instead of trying to guess what married people are supposed to do."

"What kind of rules?"

I thought about it, turning over the practical concerns that had been nagging at me since we'd woken up tangled together. The memory of his arm around me sent an unexpected warmth through my chest.

"Meals. Do you want to eat meals together?"

"Yes." The answer came quickly, without hesitation. "I do."

"Breakfast too? Or just dinner?"

"Whatever you prefer."

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Deferring to whatever I prefer. I can't be the only one with preferences in this marriage."

He was quiet for a moment, and I could see him considering how much honesty to offer. "Breakfast too," he said finally. "I'd like breakfast too. I usually eat early, but I could wait if you prefer later."

“Early is fine. With no wedding planning meetings, Master Graedo has promised to make good use of whatever time I have available.”

"Early it is." His voice was warm with something that might have been relief. "Speaking of Master Graedo…I think we can keep each other informed about our plans. Not asking permission," he added quickly, "just... letting each other know. Like…partners would."

I nodded firmly, the corners of my mouth twitching up. "I like that. And…" I hesitated, then forced myself to continue. "We don't pretend things aren't strange when they are strange. Like sharing a bed, or waking up..." I felt heat rise in my cheeks but pushed through. "We don't have to act like everything's normal when it isn't. We can admit when things are awkward."

"And we don't assume things," he added quietly. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable or push for more than you want to give."

"What would you be pushing for?" 

The question hung between us. His eyes met mine, and for a moment I saw something that made my pulse quicken—want and affection and something deeper that he was clearly fighting to keep contained. 

"More time together," he said carefully, but his voice had gone rough around the edges. "More honesty about what we're both thinking. Maybe..." He stopped, jaw clenching like he was physically holding words back. "Friendship that doesn't have to stay so careful all the time." 

But the way he said 'friendship' suggested it wasn't quite the word he wanted to use. The thought should have worried me more than it did. Instead, something eased in my chest—a knot I hadn't realized was there. Whatever he wasn't saying, whatever careful boundaries we were both maintaining, at least we had this foundation to build on. 

"We are friends though," I said, meeting his eyes. "Aren't we?" 

"I hope so," he said, ducking his head before giving me a small smile. "I'd like us to be." 

"Then that's what we'll figure out first," I said, smiling back. "How to be friends who happen to be married, instead of married people trying to become friends." 

His smile widened at that. "So... breakfast tomorrow? If we're both free?"

"I'll try not to lie there wondering if I should get up or pretend to be asleep until you leave."

"Excellent. Crisis averted."

"For now."

"For now," I said, and we went back to our respective work with something settled between us that hadn't been there an hour before.

When we prepared for bed, the hesitation was back but different now—less about not knowing what to do, more about navigating something genuinely new with conscious intention. It was like learning the steps to a new dance. I was hyperaware of him in ways I hadn't been before our wedding night. 

I settled into bed first, choosing the same side as before. Fíli followed, maintaining a polite distance between us.

"This is still strange," I said as we settled into the vast bed, maintaining a comfortable distance between us.

"Very strange," Fíli agreed, his voice warm with humor. "But not terrible strange, I hope?"

"No. Not terrible." I found myself relaxing just slightly into the mattress, no longer holding myself quite so rigidly. "Just... new."

"New is good," he said quietly. "New means we're figuring it out."

We lay in the darkness, both of us probably overthinking every breath and shift of position. The bed felt enormous and intimate at the same time—acres of space, but filled with awareness of each other's presence. I could hear his breathing, feel the warmth radiating from his side of the mattress, sense the careful way he was holding himself still.

"Fíli?" I said into the quiet.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For making this easier. Or trying to, anyway."

"You're making it easy too," he said quietly. "Being honest about it being strange instead of pretending everything's perfectly fine. That helps more than you know."

I thought about that, about how many ways this could have gone wrong if either of us had retreated into politeness or pretense. We had come a long way since those first few weeks of our engagement. "It is strange. But it's not... I don't hate it."

"I’m glad," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "Because we're going to be doing this for a while."

"The rest of our lives, presumably."

"Presumably."

The weight of that settled between us—not oppressive, but significant. The rest of our lives. It should have been overwhelming, but somehow it felt like a fact to be navigated rather than a crisis to be solved.

I let myself relax into the mattress, no longer holding myself quite so rigidly away from him.

"Good night, Fíli."

"Good night, Sigrid."

I woke in the middle of the night to find myself pressed against Fíli's side, his arm around my waist and my face tucked against his shoulder. For a moment, I didn't move, too comfortable and too sleepy.

He was warm and solid and I felt safe in a way I hadn't expected. His breathing was deep and even, and I could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek. It was... nice. Peaceful in a way I hadn't expected.

Then consciousness fully returned, along with awareness of exactly how improper our position was. I tried to ease away carefully, not wanting to wake him, but his arm tightened around me automatically.

"S'all right," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. "You don't have to move."

My stomach tightened, not unpleasantly. I was almost sure he wasn’t even properly awake.  "I'm not going anywhere," I whispered back, surprising myself with the truth of it. "Just getting comfortable."

"Mmm." His arm relaxed slightly, but he didn't let go. "Better?"

The gentle touch made something warm unfurl in my chest. "Better."

I settled back where I was—not quite pressed against his side, but close enough to feel his warmth and the steady rhythm of his breathing. Far enough to maintain the breathing room I thought I needed, but found myself not wanting as much as before.

His breathing had changed slightly—not quite the deep rhythm of sleep anymore. I wondered if he had become as aware of our position as I was, if he was lying there in the darkness thinking about how right this felt.

The thought should have worried me. Instead, it was oddly comforting.

When morning came, we woke naturally instead of to knocking. I was facing him, he was facing me, and there was maybe two feet of space between us instead of the careful ocean we'd started with.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning." I found myself smiling without meaning to. "Sleep all right?"

"Better than I expected, actually. You?"

"The same."

We lay there for a moment, not moving, just existing in the quiet morning light. It felt... right. Like maybe this strange new reality we were building together might actually work.

"So," Fíli said eventually. "Breakfast?"

"Breakfast," I said. 

And somehow, that felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Chapter Text

Three weeks into married life, I was discovering that explaining my relationship with Fíli to anyone—including myself—was considerably more difficult than engineering functional drainage systems.

Dear Tilda, I wrote, then stopped, staring at the blank parchment. How did one explain that waking up next to someone felt natural now? That breakfast conversations had become the part of the day I looked forward to most? That somewhere between political necessity and genuine friendship, something else was growing that I didn't have adequate words for?

Thank you for the pressed flowers from the garden. They're beautiful and remind me of home.

Safe ground. Flowers were uncomplicated.

Mountain life continues to be interesting. The Water Guild keeps me busy now that the wedding is over, and Fíli has been...

I set down my pen, frustrated. What had Fíli been? Attentive without being suffocating. Gentle in ways that made my insides warm. Present in a way that felt like he wanted to be spending time with me rather than obligation. But how did I explain that to my sister without sounding like I was writing terrible romantic poetry?

Fíli has been a good husband, I wrote finally, which was true but felt inadequate. We're learning to live together, and it's not as strange as I expected.

Also true, though it failed to capture the way he'd started bringing me tea without being asked when I was absorbed in work. Or how we had genuine conversations about my engineering projects or his council meetings, each of us remembering details from conversations days later. Or the way he'd started checking with me before making plans, as if my schedule actually mattered to him.

The mountain is beautiful this time of year. Spring comes later on the mountainside, but when it does, there are flowers in the terraced gardens that I've never seen anywhere else. Fíli has been showing me the different flowers that bloom throughout the season.

Better. This was the kind of detail Tilda would appreciate, and it was honest without being... whatever I was trying to avoid being.

I hope you're keeping up with your studies and not driving Bain completely mad. Give Da my love, and tell him we hope to be down to visit for the spring festival next month.

I was just sealing the letter when a knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.

"Come in?"

Nia appeared, looking slightly apologetic. "Princess, Master Graedo sent word. The guild meeting's been moved up to this afternoon if you're available."

I glanced at the technical drawings spread across my desk—preliminary plans for the next phase of aqueduct assessment. "Did he say why?"

"The clearance work's going faster than expected. They think they'll be ready for the detailed inspection within the week instead of two."

Which meant crawling through more ancient tunnels sooner than anticipated. I'd been looking forward to it -  I hadn’t had a chance to get my hands dirty since the wedding.

"Tell him I'll be there," I said.

The guild meeting was held in one of the engineering halls, surrounded by the comfortable chaos of ongoing projects and technical drawings. Master Graedo looked pleased in the way he reserved for problems that were solving themselves more elegantly than expected.

"The good news," he said without preamble, "is that the main distribution channels are in better condition than we dared hope. The pressure regulation systems are particularly impressive."

I studied the updated drawings he'd spread across the work table. "And the areas marked in red?"

"The eastern connector passage,” Graedo said, producing another set of maps. “We've done preliminary surveys, but we'll need detailed structural assessment before we can begin integration work."

I looked at the areas marked in red on his drawings—passages that extended deeper into the mountain, through sections that had been sealed since even before the dragon's occupation. "How extensive?"

"Three main arteries, each approximately two hundred meters in length, plus secondary channels that branch off at regular intervals. The stonework appears sound from what we can access, but..." He shrugged in the way engineers did when they were about to describe work that was both necessary and unpleasant.

"But we won't know for certain until someone gets down there and examines every joint, every support beam, every junction point," I finished. "How tight are we talking about?"

"Passages that were designed for maintenance access, not comfortable navigation," Master Torven said. "Though we've identified entry points that should be manageable."

I had been expecting this. The work had been progressing in phases, starting with the most accessible sections and gradually working toward areas that required more... intimate acquaintance with the mountain's interior spaces. It was logical, practical, and exactly the kind of challenge that I craved.

"When do we start?"

"End of next week, if you're ready."

I was ready. More than ready—this was the kind of hands-on engineering that made all the formal ceremonies and diplomatic dinners worthwhile. "I'll clear my schedule."

After the meeting, I made my way back to our chambers with my mind already turning over plans. The project would be challenging, certainly, but also exactly the kind of work that reminded me why I enjoyed this work so much in the first place.

I was still absorbed in the technical details when familiar footsteps in the corridor announced Fíli's return. 

"How’s my favorite engineer," he said, appearing in the doorway with his hair slightly disheveled and what looked like the beginning of a headache creasing his brow.

Despite the obvious tension in his shoulders, he moved to the side table and poured himself water from the pitcher there, then brought me a cup as well.

"And just how many engineers do you know?” I asked, arching my eyebrow. “But she’s doing very well - a long meeting. But productive. We’re moving on to the next phase and Master Graedo has me going down into the tunnels for some technical assessment in a few weeks."

 I accepted the water gratefully. "What about you? Council meeting go well?"

"Council ran long." He rubbed his temples. "Trade negotiations are getting... complicated."

Something in his voice made me look up from the drawings. The careful way he was holding himself, the slight frown between his eyebrows—this was the expression he got when he was trying to figure out how to explain something difficult.

"The trade negotiations," he said finally. "They're about grain contracts."

My stomach dropped, though I tried to keep my expression neutral. The way he'd been circling around this topic for days suddenly made sense. Of course it was about Dale. 

"With Dale?" I asked, though I already knew.

"Among others." He sat down heavily across the table from me. "The southern kingdoms have been offering contracts that are significantly cheaper than what we've been purchasing from Dale."

I set down my pen carefully, buying myself time to think. This was politics, pure and simple. Erebor needed grain, someone else could provide it cheaper, so they'd take the better deal. It made perfect economic sense. It also felt like being slapped.

"I see."

"Thorin thinks accepting them would be smart economics. Not just for immediate savings, but because it might force Dale to diversify your agricultural exports. Strengthen your long-term stability."

"Force Dale to diversify," I said. As if we had endless resources to just magic new industries into existence.

I could see the reasoning, could even appreciate the long-term thinking. Dale did depend heavily on grain exports to Erebor, and that dependence was a vulnerability. But the casual way they discussed upending my kingdom's economy—for Dale's own good, naturally—made me want to hit something. Or at least find Kíli for a sparring session

"The theory is that depending too heavily on grain exports makes Dale vulnerable to market fluctuations. If we shifted our purchases elsewhere, it would create pressure to develop other industries."

I studied his face, noting the careful neutrality of his tone and the way he wasn't quite meeting my eyes. This was costing him something to tell me. I could see the conflict written in every line of his posture.

"And what do you think?"

"I think economics and loyalty don't always play nicely together."

The admission was more honest than I'd expected, but it didn't make me feel better. Because I could see where this was heading as clearly as if it were laid out in engineering drawings. Fíli would wrestle with the decision, would agonize over the competing priorities, would probably lose sleep over it. He'd argue with himself, maybe even argue with Thorin. And then, in the end, he'd support the decision because he was a good prince who put Erebor's interests first.

Just like he'd been taught to do his entire life.

"The contracts would affect Dale significantly?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Enough." His jaw tightened. "It would send a message about our priorities that I'm not... comfortable with."

"What kind of message?"

"That our alliances are conditional on economic advantage. That we'll support our partners only as long as it serves our immediate interests. Renegotiating contracts from allies to save money feels like exactly the kind of decision that prioritizes gold over trust."

I wanted to shake him. To tell him that if he actually believed that, he should fight for it. But I'd been watching Erebor's politics long enough to know how these things usually went.

“Dale would adapt," I said, when he grew quiet. "Because what choice would we have? We survived rebuilding a city. We'd survive this too."

"You’re angry."

I stared at him. "What do you want me to say, Fíli? That I'm thrilled about the possibility of Erebor pulling contracts from Dale the moment something cheaper comes along?" I went back to my technical drawings, though the numbers were starting to blur together. "Politics is politics, but it's hard watching it happen to people you care about."

He reached across the table, fingers brushing mine where they held my pen. "I'm sorry. This whole situation is—it's not what I wanted to be discussing with you."

"But it's what we're dealing with."

"Yes." His thumb traced across my knuckles. "Whatever happens, Dale would have advance warning. Time to adjust planning rather than discovering changes when contracts come up for renewal."

That’s what this was, I realized. My advance warning. It might not be decided yet, but it would be soon.

We sat in silence for a moment. It wasn't comfortable, exactly—knowing that economic necessity might strain the very alliance our marriage was meant to strengthen. But it was honest, which felt more valuable than comfort, even if the honesty stung.

"We should probably get ready," Fíli said eventually, glancing toward the window where the light was fading. "Mother's dinner starts in an hour, and you know how she gets when people are late."

Despite being a small family dinner. Lady Dís outdid herself, like she did every time the family ate together. The private dining room was set with her best china, flowers from the gardens, and enough courses to feed a small army. Kíli was already there when we arrived, sprawled in his chair with the casual ease of someone who'd never met a chair he couldn't make comfortable. Thorin sat at the head of the table, looking more relaxed than I'd seen him since the wedding.

"Fíli! Sigrid!" Kíli called out cheerfully. "Perfect timing. Uncle was just telling us about his victory over Master Torven's latest engineering budget request."

"Hardly a victory," Thorin said, though there was amusement in his eyes. "Simply a matter of explaining that gold doesn't grow on trees, even in the Lonely Mountain."

"Poor Master Torven," Dís said with mock sympathy. "Always so optimistic about funding."

Fíli and I took our seats, and I found myself relaxing despite everything. There was something warm about being included in their family banter, in watching Thorin tease his nephews and Dís manage them all with fond exasperation.

"How's the tunnel work progressing, dear?" Dís asked me as she served the first course. "I heard the timeline moved up."

"Faster than expected, actually. We should be able to start the detailed assessments by the end of the week."

"Excellent," Thorin said approvingly. "The sooner we can get those water systems online, the better."

"Just promise me you'll be careful down there," Dís said with concern. "Some of those passages haven't been used in decades."

"We have safety protocols," I assured her. "And the guild members know what they're doing."

"I'm sure they do. Still, keep an eye out for loose stones while you're down there getting covered in dust.”

I promised I would.

"You know," Kíli said, settling back in his chair with a thoughtful expression, "all this talk of tunnels and engineering work makes me think Sigrid's been spending too much time underground. When's the last time you did something fun?"

"The entirety of Erebor is underground. And I happen to find engineering fun," I said defensively.

"I mean real fun. Relaxing fun. The kind that doesn't involve structural assessments or safety protocols."

"Kíli," Dís said with a warning tone that suggested she knew where this was heading.

"What? I'm just saying, she should experience more of what the mountain has to offer. The social aspects. Some of the more... recreational establishments."

"Your idea of recreational establishments involves too much ale and questionable decision-making," Fíli said dryly.

"That's exactly what makes them fun! Come on, Sigrid, one night out. I promise to have you back before midnight. Mostly."

I caught the look of horror on Dís's face and had to suppress a laugh. "I'll... consider it."

"That's not a no!" Kíli said.

"That's not a yes either," I pointed out.

"Details," Kíli waved dismissively. "You’re intrigued. I’ll wear you down."

The conversation moved on to lighter topics—the upcoming Dale festival, the progress of various reconstruction projects, Kíli's latest patrol reports. It wasn't until we were nearly finished with the main course that Thorin mentioned anything remotely political.

"The southern grain contracts should be finalized next week," he said, cutting his meat. "Should free up some resources for the eastern expansion."

I felt Fíli go still beside me, but no one else seemed to notice.

"That's good," Dís said. "I'm sure Dale will appreciate the advance notice."

"I imagine so. Regardless, it won’t go into effect until after the next harvest," Thorin said, already moving on to asking Kíli about his latest patrol reports.

The casual dismissal of it made my chest tight, but this wasn't the place to argue. This was family dinner, not a council meeting. 

The rest of the meal passed pleasantly, with the conversation returning to safer territory. When we finally prepared to leave, Thorin clapped Fíli on the shoulder.

"Stop by my study tomorrow morning before the council meeting. I want your thoughts on the implementation timeline."

"Of course, Uncle."

Back in our chambers, Fíli disappeared into the study with a stack of papers, but I could hear him pacing rather than working. After an hour of listening to footsteps and the occasional rustle of parchment being moved around rather than written on, I knocked on the door.

"Come in."

He was standing by the window, staring out at the mountain's lights..

"You're not actually working," I said.