Spoilers: Mentions of evens in The Hobbit: the Battle of the Five Armies.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hobbit, but Kili and Tauriel seem to have followed me home. Can I keep them? Please?

A/N: I love AUs in which Kíli becomes King Under the Mountain, simply because I enjoy seeing how he - and those around him - might deal with it all. Then I realized that if Kíli did become King, it would have far-reaching consequences for every Dwarf in Middle Earth. After all, Kíli does seem to prefer doing things his own way. :D

I'm a Hobbit movie fan, so I'm not all that familiar with LOTR lore, and I have heard a few different takes on just when a Dwarf is considered to be an adult. Some say 40, some say 60. The most common view I've run across myself is that Kíli, who was 77, was considered to be an adult, but a young one. So, for this fic, that's what I decided to use. If I'm wrong about that, please excuse my "fanon" interpretation. :)

As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I would be utterly lost without him.

I hope you enjoy it, and please let me know what you think! :)

Leading By Example

It was ridiculous, that's what it was.

Ridiculous.

Other mothers needed only to worry about their sons picking fights, carousing, or drinking too much ale. But Elda? What did her son do?

He'd just informed her that he wanted to become an archer. An archer.

Mahal's beard, that boy was going to drive her into an early grave, and he wasn't even in his 30s yet! Bows were well and good when it came to hunting, but to choose it as a main weapon seemed almost - dare she say it - Elvish. And, yes, their clan resided in a village of Men, but that was no excuse! Emmer had been raised to be a proper Dwarf!

Why, oh, why couldn't he have picked the sword like his father? Or an ax like his uncle? Even a mace or a club would have been more sensible.

And that's exactly what she told him, too.

"But, Mum," Emmer objected, "they say that the King Under the Mountain uses a bow."

Elda sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to stave off the rapidly encroaching headache.

Ever since the King's coronation, it had been nothing but "the King this" and "the King that." Now, she respected Durin's line as much as any other Dwarf, but no Dwarf worth his salt would ever try to claim that King Kíli was, well…traditional.

He was young, for one thing, terribly young. An adult, yes, but only by the span of a few years. Still, that couldn't be helped. With both his uncle and his elder brother gone, he was the last surviving member of his line, and there'd been no choice but to have him ascend to the throne of his forefathers.

Most agreed that he showed great promise. He was already a respected warrior, having been among the company who'd journeyed to reclaim the Mountain. It was said that he'd fought bravely, with skill and honor, even suffering a nearly fatal wound in the Battle of the Five Armies. In that way at least, he was a great deal like his uncle, Thorin Oakenshield, so surely he would grow into his role as King. Time would temper him and shape him into a wise and prudent ruler.

Still, Elda hadn't been deaf to the rumors that had quickly spread about this new, young, and - as many claimed - impetuous King. Rumors which said that he'd rejected many of the time-honored traditions of his people, choosing, instead, to defy them openly.

Anarchy, a few of the more outspoken gray beards had warned. There'll be nothing but anarchy while he wears the crown! You mark my words!

Elda thought that might be too dire a prediction, since, by all accounts, the restoration of the Mountain was well underway, old alliances were being rekindled, and the name of Erebor was once again spoken with joy.

That was what really mattered, wasn't it?

All the same, it was hard not to agree with the gray beards' proclamations of doom when her son - her dear, precious, usually obedient boy - wanted to be an archer of all things!

Elda sighed again, her hand dropping from the bridge of her nose and falling back down to her side.

It was no use. That headache was here to stay.

"Emmer, even if that's true," she said at last, "and King Kíli does use a…a bow," she could barely get the word out for all of her distaste, "he's a king. He's allowed to choose an unusual weapon if he wishes. You, on the other hand, are a young Dwarf whose duty it is to mind your mother! And I will not have you be an archer."

"But, Mum-"

"No buts. That's final! Now," she put one hand on her hip and waved the other at the door, "off to your chores. The stable won't muck itself and it's getting late."

Emmer made a face at that, his shoulders slumping, but he nodded glumly and dutifully turned and trudged in the direction of the barn.

Elda watched him go, still shaking her head - an archer, really! But, she couldn't quite keep the fond smile off her face. Emmer looked so much like his father, with his blue eyes, large nose, and strong jaw, but he had her ruddy coloring and blond hair. Oh, he was a good boy. A little headstrong, maybe, and a little too preoccupied with the new King, but there were worse Dwarves for him to idolize.

This was, well…this was just a phase, that's all.

It would pass.

Night had fallen now, and the temperature with it, but Elda didn't mind.

She had a merry fire roaring in the hearth, and there was a rabbit roasting on the spit so that the pleasant scent of cooked meat and dried herbs filled the kitchen. She sat in her favorite rocking chair beside that fire, reaching out every so often to turn the spit, but most of her focus was on the small pile of clothes in her lap and the needle and thread in her hands.

Emmer for his part, was sitting across from her in what was normally his father's chair, but Kelmer had been one of those chosen to journey to Erebor last month. He and the others had been sent with the hope of finalizing a trade agreement between their clan and the newly reclaimed kingdom, and he wasn't due to return for a few weeks at least. Elda prayed he would bring good news. Their clan did well for themselves, working as smiths here in the village, but trade with the Mountain would be a boon.

It certainly wouldn't do anything to dissuade Emmer's interest in the new King, however. As it was, Emmer had begged and pleaded to be allowed to make the trip with his father, but both she and Kelmer had agreed that it just wasn't safe enough yet. It had been only a year since Erebor had been won, and there were still a few stubborn pockets of Orcs skulking around in the hills. Elda wondered, too, if the rebuilding efforts inside the Mountain were really as successful as everyone claimed. All those years as a dragon's abode must surely have left quite a mark.

Emmer had pouted about their decision for two weeks straight, but by the time Kelmer had left, he seemed to have finally come to terms with staying behind. Much as he could, anyway. He and his friends had taken to spending a lot of time at the inn, where they could always be sure to hear the latest gossip about Erebor.

Elda rolled her eyes a little at the ways of the young, then frowned as she reached for the next piece of clothing in her mending pile.

"Emmer, honestly, these trousers!" Elda exclaimed, holding up the offending garment. "They're the third pair I've had to fix this week. What ever are you doing to them?"

Emmer's cheeks turned a little rosy in the light of the fire. "Sorry, Mum. Brel is trying break that new pony of his, and I've been helping him. She keeps throwing me. He says we'll have her saddle broke soon, though."

"You'd better, or you won't have any proper trousers left to wear to the Fall Festival."

She waved the torn pair for emphasis, and Emmer had the good grace to duck his head.

The Fall Festival meant a great deal to him, she knew. Though it had begun humbly, as a way to celebrate the beginning of the harvest, over time it had started to draw merchants, traders, and performers from the nearby cities as well. It was the most excitement their sleepy little village saw all year, and Emmer had always reveled in it.

She studied her son for a moment, frowning again when she realized exactly how rumpled he looked. That just wouldn't do.

"That reminds me, Emmer, you'll need to reset your braids before the Festival. They're unraveling. And the state of your beard! My goodness, it's disgraceful. One would think you'd never heard of a comb."

She returned to her work on the trousers then, her fingers already moving deftly to mend the rip. She was so certain that she'd hear the usual "Yes, Mum," that it actually took her a full minute to realize Emmer hadn't spoken. She looked up again, only to see Emmer running a thoughtful hand down his beard, a faraway look in his eyes.

"I don't know, Mum. I've been thinking…they say that the King Under the Mountain doesn't have much of a beard at all. Maybe I should shave mine."

Elda gasped, nearly jabbing her hand with the needle she held. "You will not! Do not say such things! The…the very idea!" she sputtered.

"But, Mum, some even say it is the new fashion in Erebor."

Elda gaped at him, her mouth opening and closing several times before she managed to form a coherent response. "Well, this isn't Erebor, and no son of mine will go around with his face bared to the world! For shame, Emmer! For shame!"

"But, they say-"

"I don't care what they say! I'm you're mother, and I say that you're not shaving your beard!"

Something in her tone must have finally gotten through to her son - or perhaps it was the sheer volume her voice had reached - because he shrank back in his seat, nodding meekly.

It's a phase, Elda repeated silently, viciously stabbing the needle into the pair of trousers she held. A phase.

The Fall Festival arrived on a bright, sunny, autumn day the next week, and she hadn't let Emmer out of the house until she was completely satisfied by his appearance. His clothes were spotless, his braids were neat, and his beard had been combed until it shown. It wasn't terribly long yet, she thought, but it would be getting longer soon (and it would absolutely be getting longer).

When she was sure that Emmer looked like a respectable Dwarf should, she'd turned him loose into the crowded streets, unable to keep from smiling at his eagerness as he ran off in search of his friends.

She spent most of the afternoon wandering around on her own then, though she lingered at a stall which sold fine fabrics from all over Middle Earth. She just couldn't help eyeing a beautiful, blue silk brocade. It was terribly expensive, too expensive, but oh, it would make such a lovely dress…

"Did you hear…?"

"Yes, I did, and I can hardly believe it!"

Elda glanced up at the two dwarrowdams standing at the next stall over. Their voices were hushed but eager, and Elda picked up the bolt of fabric in front of her, pretending to study it. She was curious in spite of herself.

"I mean, courting an Elf!" the first dwarrowdam continued. "I've heard that he's a bit of a rogue, but that? It's unthinkable!"

Elda's eyebrows rose a little. An Elf? Who was courting an Elf? Surely not a Dwarf!

"If it's true, it must be a political match," the second dam declared. "I can't imagine that it will ever be a real marriage. He'll probably just trot her out for feasts and such - that would surely be enough to satisfy her kin."

Elda's eyebrows rose to meet her hairline this time, and she edged as close as she dared, her ears straining.

The first dwarf shook her head. "I don't know. There are those who claim he's actually in love with her."

The other dam scoffed. "What Dwarf could love an Elf? They'd have to be mad!"

"Hm, true. Well, you know what they say about Durin's line and madness…maybe the hammer hasn't fallen too far from the anvil, if you know what I mean."

Durin's line?! Elda nearly dropped the bolt of cloth she held. She managed to hang onto it - barely - and gave the stall's owner a painfully sheepish smile as she set the bolt back down among the others.

She must have misheard. The new King was young, yes, and he obviously had some strange ideas, but he would never court an Elf. Never.

"What about heirs? Will the Elf even be able to provide them? He's the last of his kind, and the line must continue!"

Elda nearly choked on her own tongue.

Emmer. She needed to find Emmer. Now.

Gathering up her skirts, she left the stall and hurried off to look for her son, knowing that she wouldn't feel any better until she had him in her sights again.

It took far longer than she would have liked because the streets were so crowded, but eventually, she spotted him by a stall that was selling sweet, savory pastries and miniature blueberry tarts. He hadn't seen her yet, so Elda stopped in a nearby alley and breathed a welcome sigh of relief, pressing a hand to her still-heaving chest.

Emmer was fine. Just fine.

His braids and his beard were a bit unruly now, but that could be fixed, and honestly, the sight was all-too-familiar and it just made her grin. Emmer. Her dear little Emmer, who had the most wonderful, entranced smile on his face as he stared at something in the distance.

Elda scowled suddenly.

Not something. Someone. He was staring at a woman!

Well…no…it wasn't a woman, Elda realized with a growing feeling of dread. She'd been around the race of Men long enough to recognize their kind, and while the figure in the distance was clearly female, it was too willowy, the hair was too long, and the ears…the ears were too pointy.

Elda groaned, slumping against the wall behind her until it was the only thing keeping her upright.

An Elf maid. Mahal help her. Her son was smiling at an Elf maid!

Whatever was this world coming to?!

Fin

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this, and please let me know what you think!

Take care and God bless!

Ani-maniac494 :)