Technically this is a sequel to Rue, and also Growing under the Mountain, but if you wish to just go ahead and read it, it shouldn't be too hard to catch up. For those who have read Rue and such, this is the promised story of her and Fili's children. Fali is roughly 18 and Gideon 19.5

Fali

The world I grew up in was one founded on myth and legend. My earliest memories were those of sitting on the knee of my father, Fili, the Prince of Erebor, or in the lap of my mother, Rue, hearing the tales of long ago. There were few stories of humble lives to be heard. Each legend was of epic proportions (certainly for someone who's heritage was that of dwarf and nymph, and was naturally shorter in stature). I was told of almighty beings, the Valar, of brave dwarven kings, Durin the Deathless and my own great-Uncle Thorin, courageous battles, and grand adventures.

Was it of any doubt that I desired to have such fantastic elements in my own life?

Of course, there was one small problem. These legends contained very few women in them. In fact, the only female character I knew of who had a significant part in the story was my own mother, and of how she met father and Thorin and Uncle Kili and the whole rest of the company, joining them in the quest to reclaim the mountain I spent my entire childhood in. Beside her, there was my very mentionable and beautiful Aunt Tauriel, a dear family friend named Hana, whom had later married Ori, and Varis, who I admired for being a nymphian warrior in every sense of the word.

But with peaceful, well fought for, days ahead of us, and Erebor no longer under threat from flying, fire breathing beasts, the stuff of legend and myth, my beloved stories, were only that…stories.

It didn't help any that I had three older brothers who were privileged enough to learn the art of sword fighting, while I was forced to impatiently wait to grow up. Luckily, with time to grow, my mother and father agreed to let me play with them, and spar with them as I wished. Before long, I had far more little wooden swords in my box of playthings than dolls.

But I was not content to merely play forever. I wanted adventure, something like what my parents had. I wanted to see the world, and run out into it. I wanted to explore, I wanted to use a sword.

Being a princess however, I had certain duties and expectations. A princess can't run off into the valleys below the mountain any old day she wants too. I had to learn to be proper, just as my mother and grandmother had. My ladylike attributes were limited. While I could never figure out tableware or the finer bits of etiquette, I was gifted at sewing, and my love of the high spirited celebrations we had in Erebor gave me ample practise for becoming a fair dancer, and a lover of song. My feminine talents stopped there.

In the training grounds I found my true passions. There were few spars I did not perform well in, if not won. Archery was more for my partly elvish cousins, but under their instruction I was passable enough to accompany them on hunts. My family noticed this, and eventually I was given my own sword, a real one, made of fine dwarf metal and not from wood, and told I would be able to train formally.

It may not have been very adventurous compared to the doings of my ancestors, but I found the chance to keep fighting my brothers and friends until I was successful quite thrilling. I was unstoppable until I had tasted victory from someone, be it one of my brothers, my dear companion Vesper, who was the only other girl I knew of who could fight like me, or a boy in my training who refused to lose…over and over again.

It was suitable for long time, my small adventures. But I grew, and still felt the need for something bigger, and of grander purpose. My oldest brothers Frerin, and Fien were well on their paths. I had no path, and I wanted to go forth and find it. I suppose I wanted to prove myself, and taste real adventure.

I suppose I wanted to become part of the wonderful myths I had heard.

Gideon

I was never a very brave individual. I had books in my hands more often than blades. The tales I had heard of as a child told of war, and victory, and strength. Other children thought of glory when they heard them. I thought of fear.

The people that came before me in my line, the proud line of Durin, were strong men. Men who stood tall, and broad, and ready to fight when danger came. They did not back away, nor did they cower.

Some may say they were stubborn, or pig headed, or just plain grumpy, easily grudged people. But to Erebor, my fore bearers were heroes. And heroes were meant to give rise to other heroes, ones who would lead them, and rise to meet the next challenge that stepped in front of my proud, stubborn, cranky, but always loyal people.

It was hard enough being the third born son. I was by no means neglected, but I was by no means the sort of person that others thought would be a hero, or a ruler.

Frerin was the first born, the next in line, and the child cast of gold. He did no wrong, he worked beside father hard and long, and he fought well. Fien was second born, a golden haired imp, but what he lacked in seriousness at times, he made up for with strength and forge skills. Even Fali took after our mother with her intense spirit, and her temperamental streak. She fought as well as any boy.

The kingdom knew them all by the blond of their heads, and the fierceness of their hearts.

The kingdom knew of me for my likeness to their great king Thorin…and for never quite living up to that name I bore in my blood.

I tried to be like them, I trained, and I fought, and I was told no one would be able to hurt me for I was too good at my defenses. But I ended up with my backside in the sand more times than I cared for. People thought I was weak, the fragile babe that cried when it was scared. In a way, I suppose the observation was an easy one to make, I was smaller, more wary, and I got sick more easily than my siblings.

While other dwarfs in the peak of their stubbornness might settle affairs with a spar, I dreaded conflict. Peace was what I wanted, not fighting. Mother said my smaller frame was probably from my nymphian background. The disappearing race was short as dwarves, but much more lithe. My gentler nature, according to her, was a thing all my own.

While the explanation was appreciated, it did left me feeling terribly…different. As mentioned, dwarves aren't the sort of people known for their 'gentle natures'. Nymphs may be known for that, but I had grown up around nymphs. At least, not many…

The nymphs (apart from my loving mother) that I did know were Hana, who was one of the sweetest ladies, and then the Vesper and her family. So even the people I was told to be more like were fighters, fierce nymphs of the South, and gifted nymphs of the North, whom had also seen battle. Even Mother, though she looked so slender and light footed to me, could hold her own, and win. Her and Father sparred often, and it was well agreed that their skills matched each other so well, each fight was left as a draw.

Vesper and Fali tried to encourage me, but I hated to fight someone for no reason other than sport. Any spar or hunt I did take part in was one shared with my siblings or cousins, or friends since birth. I felt as though I was judged poorly by anyone else I went with.

I acted different. I looked different from my family, the dark hair striking out among them. At it's best it was like being a black sheep among the white lambs.

At its worst it was like being a fawn among lion cubs.