Bofur whistled a short yet happy tune as he adjusted the helmet on his head before shouldering his mattock. It had been just over a month since he, his brother Bombur, and his cousin Bifur had arrived in Erebor from the north. Everything had been fine until the mountain that the small clan of Dwarves had inhabited was mined dry. Some had been able to stay, but those for who mining was the main source of income, like Bofur, a new home had to be found. Erebor was a month long journey and, thankfully, very welcoming to their distant kin.

He walked over to the line he would be working on and slipped into his harness. He swallowed down the brief flare of anxiety at the thought of the infinite blackness below him and plastered a smile on his face when he faced his fellow miners. He ignored the whispered gossip about the chance that the prince might visit during the day to observe the process as he was lowered passed the edge.

The work was slow and backbreaking. Every time the line shifted suddenly Bofur's heart leapt into his throat, his mind flashing to images of plummeting, screaming, into the endless chasm. A shrill whistle sounded for lunch and Bofur felt that familiar jerking of the line being pulled back up. He gave an inaudible sigh of relief before he froze at another sound. The old pulley system creaked and groaned like always but there was something under it. He hooked his mattock into his belt and strained his ears. It sounded like something was fraying. His eyes widened and, as his arms clear the top of the cliff, he was given mere seconds to grip the rock as the line gave. The combined weight of himself and all those he's still attached to came down on his arms and he screamed for help as he clung desperately to the edge. The rock split his hands making his grip slick with blood and he could feel his joints fighting to stay in place. He knew that his mattock would offer a slightly better grip on the ground but he didn't dare remove his hand for even a second. He could hear those below him crying out in fear and through it all he was screaming for help, begging the gods for someone to hear him over the noise of the lunch rush. He screamed and pain flared in his fingers as the joints finally surrender their hold. He screamed again because he knew that someone has to help them now because he couldn't hold on. His hands slid over the rocks, his stubborn mind trying to will them into continuing to hold on, and he screamed because he was going to die before he was ready. He thought of how Bombur will be waiting at home for him. Waiting to tell him all about his day and ask if the actions of the female dwarf that caught the ginger's eye was still encouraging his courting. He thought of how Bifur will be hunched over another block of wood, working on perfecting his toys so that he can help bring in some more money. As he fell, the cry ripping through his throat, he thought of their faces when they're told of his fate and then a warm hand grips his arm and he wasn't falling anymore. The person was shouting, his deep gravelly voice barking commands and Bofur was slowly being hauled back up. He wanted to help, to pull his own weight up and help with the others, but neither his fingers nor his arms were willing to cooperate. The person that pulled him up murmured encouragement and comforting phrases and, as he was finally pulled up onto solid ground, he looked up to meet the ice blue eyes of Prince Thorin himself. Bofur could vaguely hear the other five dwarves that were below him being pulled to safety but it was all drowned out by that smooth voice still muttering soothing phrases to him. He could feel the rumble in the broad chest under his shaking hands and his last sight before he pitches forward into a different blackness is those icy blue eyes.

Thorin had entered the mine that day with his face a mask of indifference, the light glinting off the emeralds that had already been extracted created a display of color across his skin. It wasn't that he was uninterested. Quite the contrary, he rather enjoyed visiting the mines. He found the sound of the mattocks and chisels rather calming, if a bit loud. He would often watch the process with fascination, unseen by his fellow dwarves. He enjoyed how the light would glimmer off the gold, silver, and precious stones that were painstakingly extracted. He also had great admiration for the work the miners did. Willingly plunging themselves into the darkness below and risking life and limb for the treasure brought up had to require a great amount of courage. Thorin greatly enjoyed the mines; it was a small troupe of dwarves that worked in them he did not. Many dwarves had sought shelter in Erebor when the mountains of the North had become non-profitable; a great deal of whom didn't seem like they would have a problem making off with some of the treasure. Thorin had been in the throne room when each and every one of those dwarves had arrived, though only one stood out in his mind.

Thorin had been standing beside his grandfather, Thror, for almost two hours greeting the arriving dwarves. He was painfully bored and, while he looked to be at full attention, had let his mind wander while still keeping an ear open to what was being said. Just as he was about ready to pull his hair out with frustration, and hair pulling was not an activity he regularly partook in, he caught sight of it, the oddest looking hat he'd ever seen in his life. It was a warm chocolate brown, the inside lined with greying wool, and the flaps that stood out to the sides gave its wearer the appearance of having wings. It was quickly removed as the throne came into view, allowing Thorin to observe the messy mahogany hair, pulled into three braids, the ones on either side of his face somehow managing to curl upwards. The trio of cook, miner, and toymaker had bowed and laid any weapons or tools down in a show of respect. As they raised their heads, Thorin met the bright green eyes surrounded by sinfully long lashes that had been overshadowed by that hat. As he looked closer, Thorin realized that most of the strange dwarf's features had been overshadowed by that hat. The eyes were expressive and almond shaped, the slight lines at the corners speaking of a lifetime of laughter and bright smiles. His skin was only slightly tanned from the weeks of travel and, surprisingly, rather smooth with only his hands bearing the result of his work. His cheekbones were high and his nose was surprisingly small for a dwarf. Then Thorin's eyes were drawn to those lips. Surrounded by a thin beard and mustache, that remarkably seemed to possess the same gravity defying powers as his hair, they were full and only slightly chapped from the elements. The corners seemed eternally pulled up in a slight smile that seemed ready to burst into a full blown grin at any moment. As the dwarf explained the reason for their arrival to Thror, trying desperately all the while to control the thick accent, the voice washed over Thorin, easing all the tension out of his shoulders. As soon as the trio has left the throne room, Thorin requested leave as well and spent the next month searching for that winged hat and its remarkable owner.

It had been a great relief when Thorin had finally been able to sneak away from the guards constantly posted to him during the lunch rush in the mines. The only one that remained with him was his best friend, Dwalin, and even he kept a slight distance, knowing that the prince wanted some space. Just as he was about to suggest they head back before the guards had a heart attack, thinking that they lost the crown prince, he heard it; the screams for help in an all too familiar accent. A thick knot of dread settled in his stomach and it felt like the lump in his throat was trying to choke him. He tore through the mines like a madman, yelling at dwarves to get out of his way while Dwalin chased after him, curious as to what got his friend to such a state. He entered the mine just as the dwarf's hands failed him and he began to slide over the edge. Without thinking, Thorin lunged forward, gripping the dwarf under the arms, his face pressed into the worn fabric of that hat. With a start, he felt himself begin to pitch forward.

"Thorin!" The comforting aura of Dwalin appeared behind him as the older dwarf grabbed a hold of the prince's belt and the back of his outer tunic. "Get back up here you bloody idiot!" At Dwalin's shouting, the rest of the guards began to show up and Thorin quickly began to bark out orders. He could feel the dwarf in his arms trembling ever so slightly. In comfort, Thorin tightened his grip and took to murmuring comforting nonsense in the dwarf's ear. As soon as the dwarf's feet cleared the lip of the cavern, Thorin near ripped the harness of him. He winced in sympathy when the dwarf's fingers and arms refused to cooperate with him and, after noting the still bleeding cuts on his hands, carefully cushioned them against his chest. Still muttering in the dwarf's ear, he carefully removed the metal helmet and threw it into the pile with that cursed harness. He gave a soothing smile as he met those green eyes. Eyes that were far more beautiful than any emerald. Eyes that, though still harbouring terror around the edges, were shining with such relief and gratitude. Seconds later, those eyes slid closed and the dwarf pitched forward. Thorin easily scooped the smaller dwarf up into his arms, ignoring the small part of his mind that was overjoyed to have that lithe body in his arms, and followed Dwalin, who had appeared to near drag him out of the mines. He could hear the older dwarf ranting and raving, but he could only focus on the feel of warmth from where he had his cheek pressed into that odd looking hat.

"Dwalin, I…I think something's wrong with me." Startled, Dwalin whipped around, forgetting all about scolding Thorin, worried that his friend sustained some injury that he may have missed. Thorin just shook his head as Dwalin moved to inspect him. The older dwarf's brow furrowed and he crossed his arms over his chest, awaiting an explanation. Thorin swallowed hard, unconsciously pressing his face further into that hat, and avoided eye contact. "I'm not eating. I barely sleep and, when I do, the dreams Dwalin…oh the dreams." Since he had first laid eyes on the small dwarf in his arms, his dreams had been focused around him. It had started simply; standing on one of Erebor's balconies with the dwarf's face buried in the crook of his neck and arms wrapped around his waist, braiding the dwarf's hair while he sat in Thorin's lap reading to him, each one leaving him with a sense of warmth and fulfillment, but lately they had become steadily more erotic. "Is it wrong to say that, if he had fallen, I would have jumped off that ledge after him? Just the sound of his voice calms me. I feel this constant need to be close to him and, when I am, all I want to do is hold him. To be the one allowed to bury my face in his hair and neck. And…well…I think you can guess the rest." He trailed off quietly at the end, his cheeks turning a slight red. Dwalin chuckled slightly at his friend's predicament.

"I can tell you what's wrong better than any healer." Those familiar blue eyes looked up at him hopefully. "You've found your One that's all." Dwarves were all aware of the fact that their One was somewhere out in the world. It wasn't love per say. That had to grow over years of getting to know the other. It was more that a dwarf was more attracted to their One than any other. Their One also affected them more than any other. Thorin's reaction was stronger than normal but also very typical in how it affected him. Thorin's brow furrowed in confusion.

"None of the books or tutors talk about them affecting someone like this."

"They barely talk about them at all Thorin. It's meant to be a very private affair." Thorin blushed at the implication that he'd just broken an important social rule. "It's alright though; I highly doubt you can talk to your father or grandfather about this." Thorin's expression fell. Lately his grandfather had become obsessed with gold, spending his nights, sometimes weeks at a time down in the treasury. He was only dragged away when the call of his people became too great, Thorin's father filling in all other times. Since they had found the Arkenstone, those times had drastically increased. When the trio reached the healers, Thorin demanded that it would be Oin, who was the healer to the royal family, who was to treat his injured One. He sent out a passing servant to find out the dwarf's name and then to inform his family. Thorin then left to relax in his chambers for a while. The next afternoon, he was planning on having a long talk with Balin about how best to go about courting this miner.

When Bofur next opened his eyes, he felt stiffer than he ever has in his life. When he moved his hand, he could feel the bandages sticking to his wounds with dried blood. He smiled ever so slightly when he could move both his arms, though the task remained painful. He knew that his shoulders would be wrapped and his fingers in splints for a good long while and that his everyday life would prove more challenging but he was happy to be alive. And the dopey grin on his face had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the dwarf who saved him, the bloody prince of Erebor, was as breathtakingly handsome as he had been the day Bofur set foot in the throne room. Nor was it related to the fact that Bofur could still feel those strong arms around his waist and the back of his shoulders, or the hot, moist breath against his ear. And it definitely did not make him shiver and tingle pleasantly. Nope, not at all.