Wanderingsmith, Krystal lazuli - I can't tell you how much your support means to me. You kick my ass when I need it, hold my hand when I falter, and just generally don't let me be lazy ;)

Chapter 16

Trials of a Self-Rescuing Princess...

-..-

Tilda had a split second to wonder if this was perhaps Not a Very Good Plan, before everything was turned to chaos and dust.

And terror. Clawing, biting terror as her world narrowed down to that airless, black death of suffocating rock and ruin as around them the tunnel continued its collapse.

The next few minutes were nothing but dust and noise and gut-wrenching fear as the ceiling came down around them. It seemed to go on forever, simply because it was too much stimulus all at once to process—the noise, like a thousand war pigs charging; the abrading rock dust that threatened to scour the soft inner tissues of her throat raw as she tried to breathe; the projectiles, big and small, raining down around her, and ricocheting from every direction until it seemed she must be cut into ribbons. It felt impossible for so much to have happened in such a short time, but in truth, it probably only lasted one, or maybe two minutes, at most, and Tilda was as surprised as anyone could be when she was alive to open her eyes at the end of it.

She'd been forced to the ground during all the violence, of course, and for a moment, she just stayed there, supine and aching, giddy beyond measure that she had survived; she even laughed out loud, though the sound was quickly swallowed up by the oppressive silence, leaving only a thin giggle to be heard.

Laying there with her eyes closed, she took a moment to take stock, wiggling her toes and gingerly moving her limbs until she was satisfied that they all still worked, more or less. The air felt close, she thought; still, and without the almost unnoticeable drafts that usually kept the tunnels feeling fresh. The fall had churned up massive amounts of dust, fine and powdery and slow to settle, making each breath taste of dirt and rock, and catch in her throat. Breathing shallowly and with eyes still closed, Tilda fumbled blindly for a torn edge of her gown and yanked, thankful when the abused fabric gave way after only a few tugs. Held over her mouth and nose, the handkerchief-sized scrap provided some relief as Tilda lay there, cautiously breathing through her make-shift mask.

Opening her eyes was of little use, as her surroundings were nearly pitch black, with no mirrored vents to ease the darkness, but Tilda could discern a faint ember in the shadows, just enough to make out an outline of Alfrid's overturned lantern. The red glow looked angry, like dragon's fire in the blackness, bringing up uncomfortable memories, and Tilda forced herself to take deep breaths and worked to shove away the panic these reminders were trying to evoke. Gingerly, she pushed herself to her feet. Her ankle throbbed worse than ever, but it was one ache out of many now, which made it easier to ignore amongst the clamour. Another deep breath. The tiny glow was guttering, the little puddle of light it cast wavered alarmingly in the unremitting shadows, and Tilda felt fear rise up, churning in her belly, before she managed to get a hold of herself.

The light mustn't go out, she thought plaintively, but it was a child's complaint, simple and unreasoning, and she forced herself to set it aside, and breathe.

Think, Tilda. Alfrid was still here, in the darkness, too; perhaps unhurt, and would likely try to make his way towards the lantern light as well. The thought of Alfrid's greasy fingers finding her in the dark was enough to make her flesh creep. Still, the debate of was-he-or-wasn't-he changed nothing, and she needed that lantern light if she were to find a way out. That was the salient fact in the here-and-now, and the only one she could afford to consider.

Taking a deep breath, and letting it out slowly, she cautiously crept forward, wincing at every missed step as she tried to keep her limping passage as quiet as she could possibly manage. She stubbed her already bruised and bleeding toes, biting her lip to stifle her pained little cries, each moment seeming a week long with her muffled breath rattling in her chest as she strained to hear any noise in the darkness. Nothing stirred.

When she finally managed to shamble over to the lamp, she discovered the heavy brass-and-iron lantern haphazardly laying amongst the debris, cracked and radiating heat, and far too warm to touch. Fumbling in her haste, she tore a strip from her ruined dress and wrapped her fingers as best she could, while her heart continued to pound in her chest, expecting a hand to come out of the darkness at any moment to grab her.

Even with the extra protection, she had to tip the lantern quickly as the heat of the shuttered glass bled through her improvised potholder, but though it wobbled ponderously for a moment, the solid lamp righted itself on its base easily, freeing the handle. Tilda breathed a near silent sigh of relief, and then paused, horribly conflicted. If she did rekindle the light, it would be a simple matter for Alfrid to find her. But if she didn't get the lantern glowing again, she would be stuck trying to shuffle around in the dark, which would be equally likely to get her caught, if she wasn't lucky and Alfrid wasn't brained by one of the fallen rocks, and helpfully unconscious somewhere, in no condition to hinder her.

Finally, her own impatience won out, because inaction didn't sit well: she would rather know the extent of her difficulties than sit here in the dark and imagine the worst. With a silent prayer, she blew gently against the still faintly-glowing wick. A tiny flame appeared, and Tilda had to bite her lip against the squeak of gratitude that tried to escape as that warm glow quickly chased the oppressive blackness back. Though she kept the wick turned down low, the small light bounced off the close walls of the tunnel, magnifying the lantern's tiny circle of light into something that almost felt like a haven, and gave her the courage to truly look around and assess her new predicament.

The arch seemed to have helped form a rough sort of a dome, directing the cave-in, so that she was contained in a small pocket of space not much bigger than her and Kíli's modest suite, and completely surrounded by newly-settled rock. To her left, no more than a boat-length from her shuffling path, lay a shape in the darkness, and it was like a horrid game of Blind Man's Bluff, because she didn't have dwarven sight here in the dark, and she couldn't tell if what she saw was really something, or just a darker bit of blackness. Tilda let out her breath, slowly, eyes trying futilely to pick out the form from the shadows.

Alfrid?

The pick she had used to cause all this was lost; buried under the debris, like as not, so Tilda scooped up a rock, holding it aloft—though she wasn't entirely sure she could bring herself to use it, even as a deeper, harder part of her was absolutely certain that she could. Cautiously, Tilda crept a limping step closer, then another. The shadow that might be Alfrid didn't move at her approach, didn't make a sound. He could be shamming, she cautioned herself. The feeble lamplight wasn't really enough to see more than a foot or two from its faint circle, and Tilda squinted, trying to speed her eyes' adjustment, until suddenly the details detached from the darkness.

It was indeed Alfrid laying there, obviously knocked down in the confusion of the rock-fall; his arms outstretched, as if he had been flung where he lay. It took a long, tense moment before Tilda could make her feet move forward again, and as she traversed the last bit of distance, the rest of what she was seeing finally resolved itself from the confusing shadows; the shape of a large rock, completely crushing his chest. With a startled little cry, she realised that the damp slowly seeping into her stocking was blood, only slightly cooled by the cave floor.

The stone she'd been holding fell from nerveless fingers as she promptly leaned over and vomited, heaving up the memory of yesterday's stale bread and this morning's water. Truthfully, it was mostly bile, and it burned.

It wasn't horror at a body, so much—she'd both encountered, and dealt with, far too many of them after surviving two fully pitched battles in the streets of her town, but...oh, she even didn't know. A release of tightly held fear...of tension and a sick, creeping worry that had plagued her; the worry that Alfrid might get bored with simply holding her captive, and get...creative.

And the knowledge that she had caused this. And that she would do it again. She wasn't sure why she felt so tainted by her culpability, as if some of that heaviness in the air that seemed to surround Alfrid when he was contemplating new cruelties had somehow clung to her, like bog mist. It felt odd; cold and numb, and like...like her insides were suddenly smaller than they had been, which made no sense at all.

It was that confusion, more than anything, that had her stumbling backwards, towards the brightest part of the lantern's light; the farthest she could get from the body. Wearily, she let herself collapse onto the floor, legs sliding out from beneath her as she sat down rather hard, with her back pressed tight against the wall. She didn't feel very brave in this moment; she felt tired and wrung out and ready to go home to a nice cup of tea.

The problem with feeling sorry for yourself, even for a teeny moment, was that it was a slippery slope.

Tears welled up, stinging her eyes and making her throat tighten, and she forcibly pushed back the need to cry before she could give in to it. Instead, she clutched her arm fiercely, where her beautiful armlet had been hours before, and tried to draw courage from it, despite the pain in her heart that it was gone. It had been a talisman of Kíli's faith in her; that she had courage to spare. She needed to be that girl right now, Kíli's Lady—more than that: Tilda of Erebor. She could give into her need to blubber later, she promised herself with a watery little smile. That her situation was now improved, was a fact she tried to keep firmly in mind.

Yes, she was trapped in a rock-fall, and she resolutely did not think of the bodies of the miners she had seen before; but Alfrid was no longer able to complete his mischief, and something in her had been instinctively repelled by the idea of him possessing this trinket of Kíli's, whatever it was; so, victory. The dwarves still did not know of this force of Wainriders, presumably camped in the area, but with this tunnel blocked off, hopefully they no longer had egress to the mountain unnoticed, so, also victory. That Dale was vulnerable to their raiding presence was something she could do nothing about right now, but Wainrider raids were always a possibility, one for which her father had made provisions, so she had to trust that her people would be safe. Fláim and Róa had escaped, and she had to believe that they had been found by now, so with luck, her dear dwarves were alerted to some of the goings-on in their mountain.

All in all, that made at least three victories by Tilda's tally; and Alfrid, none.

And, most important of all, Kíli would find her. She had to believe that; there was simply no other option, so, he would find her.

He would bring her a cup of tea in the mornings again, and everything would be alright.

She gave a little nod while stiffening her chin, sternly telling herself that the matter was settled.

Her nerves were stretched thin, with a jittery sort of energy thrumming beneath her skin now that she was sitting still, with no active goal to distract herself, giving rise to half-formed wisps of impulse encouraging her to move and to do despite muscles and mind that felt entirely used up. Her fingers were still stroking absently at her arm; at the memory of her missing armlet, soothing despite its absence, and she decided that, tired and muddled-feeling as she was, she was entirely content—at least for a moment—to sit quietly and try to catch her breath, because so much had changed since yesterday morning, when missed tea and confused feelings seemed like her biggest concerns.

From this distance, Alfrid's body had faded into the general shadows, and she could pretend that she didn't see it; that it was just part of the rubble.

But...Alfrid's body. Her fingers, the ones thoughtlessly gliding over and over the same patch of bare skin through the rents in her gown, slowed, and then stopped, unheeded as she thought it again: Body. As in, dead, and not alive to be a threat...

...and still possessing her armlet.

Quite suddenly, she was angry; fiercely, and perhaps even irrationally, angry. She wanted that back, dammit! That beast did not get to keep it—not on top of everything else that he had put her through.

Righteously incensed, and debility forgotten, at least for the moment, Tilda pushed herself to her feet again, only to catch herself on the wall when she swayed. Right then—Slowly, she admonished herself, And maybe on your knees is better, she admitted ruefully, when dehydration and her brief idleness proved to have resulted in the stiffening of both her aching muscles and injured ankle.

It wasn't a graceful trip across the chamber, by any means; there was scrambling, crawling on hands and knees, and, when all else failed, sitting on her backside and pushing herself along with her hands, with several small moments to catch her breath in-between, and lots of dust getting kicked up in the process.

Eh, it wasn't like she could get any more dirty, at this point, she reflected with a cheerfulness that might, possibly, resemble hysterics on closer examination.

The trip cost her a few more scrapes, and her ankle throbbed so horribly it was actually starting to alternate burning with feeling tingly-numb, if the tingly parts were accomplished by hundreds of rapiers borne by tiny mice stabbing her ankle and foot and calf in turns.

So, not necessarily worse, but...different, she consoled herself.

The lantern made for an awkward burden, but no more awkward that any number of things she did daily in the Nursery Halls, where tasks always seemed to require more hands and eyes than the average body possessed; and Tilda was nothing if not stubborn. She nearly burned herself catching the lantern as it tried to tip over, before she figured out the trick of pushing it ahead of her laboured gait. She focused on counting her breaths to mark her progress, keeping a quiet litany, reminding herself that the distance wasn't that far, really...rather short, actually...just a few more steps. Just 30 seconds; not 30 minutes, despite what it seems....and desperately thanked her lucky stars that the distance wasn't a longer one. A painstaking metre more, then two, and something flashed in the gloom; gleaming platinum wavering lamplight, and Tilda let out a relieved little sigh.

The blood...that was enough to give her pause, and she very carefully avoided the places where it had pooled in rocky depressions; ignoring it and the little puddle of acrid-smelling bile, the best she could. Don't look; don't think. Just focus on the cuff, she repeated to herself, using the mantra as a distraction and keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the blue-green gleam of the largest aquamarine—the one Kíli had said was for courage, and always seemed to feel the warmest beneath her fingers.

Sweat dripped down her forehead in the close air of the cave, stinging her eyes when she tried to blink it away, and seconds crawled by as she coaxed her armlet free. When it finally came loose, to fall softly into her palm, she was so startled she stared at it in surprise for a long moment, just appreciating the weight and feel of it in her hand once more.

The moment ended abruptly when abused muscles gave out, and she overbalanced, falling back on her bum with a painful thump. Slipping her prize into the pocket sewn into the waist of her tattered outer-gown, Tilda took a deep breath, grabbed her lantern once more, and struggled, as quickly and carefully as her adrenaline-less state could manage, back to the farthest reaches of her earthen bower.

Her quickest wasn't very quick at all, as it turned out, and she acquired several new bruises in the process before gratefully settling against the rock wall once more, and pulling the cuff out to examine in the yellow lamp light.

Surprisingly, it seemed to have suffered little, or even no damage, and just having it there, in the palm of her hands, warmed her, and made it easier to ignore her various hurts. Sliding it onto her arm—over top of her gown this time, bravely on display where it belonged—was both defiant and therapeutic. For a long moment Tilda just sat there, drained of all energy; back pressed firmly against the wall and simply existing, left hand pressed to the familiar metal, and without another thought in her exhausted head.

But even the comfort of Kíli's gift couldn't keep the anxieties of her situation from creeping back in, and the walls seemed to creep minutely closer; looming in on her from the periphery and making her breathing hitch uncomfortably and her feet and fingers twitch, restless and ready to flee.

The rock that rested around her seemed...uneasy, and even though that was likely her own overactive imagination, it was enough to convince her not to muck about shifting stones, trying to dig her own way out, lest she bring down more. There is nothing further to be done, she reminded herself firmly, working on smoothing out her hitched breathing once more. And hairbrained antics like that could very well make the situation worse.

Rescue was coming; she just had to wait.

Closing her eyes helped a little, but only so long as she could keep her mind from circling back to the fact that she was trapped in a large stone box, with limited air. Thoughts of home, of warm tea and flowers under the sun; of warm embraces and even warmer smiles proved impossible to hold, slipping through her fingers like dry sand. Panic nipped at her thoughts, and it was a struggle to keep her eyes firmly closed as the last of the adrenaline drained from her system, and she began to shake, hard little tremors that made her teeth rattle in her jaw, no matter how tightly she held herself, and how hard she tried to keep her thoughts on comforting things.

This wouldn't do.

What if Fláim or Róa were still here with her? What would she tell them, to distract them from their fear?

What could she possibly have distracted them with in this shallow cave? There weren't any lakes, or withies for her to race boats with them, again. Nor could she have taught them to fish. The cave was singularly bereft of any helpful inspiration, actually.

That wasn't entirely true, Tilda realized with a start. It had stone: Lots and lots of stone. They had come down here to learn how to commune with their Mountain, after all, and if she understood the purpose of them going to the mines, it was stone that was disturbed or uneasy that was more able to be heard by those with the ability to listen.

Did Tilda really believe she could sense the rock, like the dwarves did?

Maybe not the rock; she was nearly certain that she couldn't—though, what had Kíli said in the mine yesterday—Eru above, was it only yesterday? Something about the way Kíli had encouraged her to try sensing the stone around them with the children...hadn't he implied that perhaps she might get a hint of...something, because of their connection?

Were they even connected?

Two days ago, Tilda certainly hadn't thought so, but maybe...maybe she had been wrong. Possibly about a number of things. Besides, trying would certainly be better than panic, wouldn't it?

Sincerely doubting that her efforts would produce any results at all, she nevertheless took a deliberate breath, still holding the edge of her gown to her mouth against the lingering dust, and tried to relax her muscles, and just focused on counting her breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out...

...gradually, the shaking diminished, and the pressure of the looming walls seemed less oppressive; less threatening.

She took another slow breath, and tried to focus on the pleasure of her lungs expanding.

Sound. That was the first thing that really permeated her senses; the fact that the rocks were not really creaking and groaning ominously around her, as she'd fearfully been convinced they were.

The air was actually almost dead-silent, a stillness broken only by the faint sounds of her own breathing.

Determinedly, she held on to that, and tried to focus on only that, like some kind of anchor, before tentatively reaching out with her mind.

Kíli, of course, was not waiting there, in the welter of her thoughts, to reassure her and tell her everything was going to be okay, and she felt profoundly silly at the small swell of disappointment that told her that some tiny part of her had half-expected that he would be. Blowing out a huff of air at her own foolishness – just because Kíli had hinted at the possibility of some sort of connection...some kind of sharing of his abilities, it didn't mean mean that he was being anything other than kind by suggesting it; and even if it were a real possibility, she had no idea if it would even work that way. She tried again to clear her head, focusing again on the sound of her breath in the stillness, and thought of what she would tell Fláim, if he were here.

She would tell him not to give up, of course.

There was a sense of...solidity, enveloping her, and she could almost imagine it was the stone-sense that Kíli spoke of, and it gave her comfort, making her feel less alone as she tried to distract herself with this silly exercise.

Her thoughts kept drifting, despite her best efforts, like errant leaves on the breeze; thoughts of Kíli, of their wedding day, and whatever it was that had happened between then and now.

The depressing fact was, nothing had happened; that was the core of her disappointment.

Absently shifting for a more comfortable position, Tilda frowned, trying to stick with her attempts to reach out to her husband, silly as it was making her feel, but since she was already more than half convinced this was going to accomplish bugger all, it was difficult to summon the necessary focus.

Perhaps that was the real problem, both now and in her marriage; she wasn't a dwarf. She was of the race of Men, and, unless the rock itself were feeling magnanimous—if it even could feel magnanimous—or unless Kíli had somehow shared some of his dwarfness, or whatever, that allowed him to commune with stone, than this was all just a very frustrating exercise in keeping back panic.

But she couldn't help but imagine that she felt a faint glimmer of something; a reassurance. The feeling warmed her, and bolstered her flagging spirit until she felt a bit calmer, and more like herself, which in itself probably meant that the frustration was worth the effort; so she continued, sitting alone in the flickering lantern light, breathing slowly and keeping her eyes closed.

She gave up trying to concentrate, since her thoughts just kept running aground anyway. They drifted, often in wide arcs and tangents, but always circling back, anchored to their fulcrum; the tipping point that supported and gave force to every lever, or thought process, it seemed.

Anchored...to Kíli.

His smile.

His kindness.

His...love.

And the realization was like a completed formula, applying a lever to the stumbling blocks in her thinking; she wanted him to love her; wanted what her da'd had with her mum, before her mum had passed. Though Tilda had very few memories of her mum, she got to witness her da's devotion to her, even years after she was gone. She had only to look at him, at the look in his eyes, to know how very much he still carried that love with him, and was stronger for it.

That was something she wanted, fiercely, she realised, and it was an epiphany she hadn't realised she'd been carrying with her all this time; to know that she made someone stronger and better, just for being in their life, and knowing that the same was true of herself.

He was important to her. She'd come into this wanting an equal, and she had been about to run at the first sign that he might indeed be a kindred spirit; for who else would be her match, but someone who apparently ignored the rules, too? At least, she hoped that was the case; it was still very possible he simply couldn't love her the way she wanted, but he didn't seem to be entirely convinced of that, either.

That hopefully counted for something.

Blast. They needed to find a way to actually talk; not with tattoos or arrows or perhaps even spoons, but actually talk; using something they both understood, until they both were on the same page. She didn't want to leave Erebor...it had become home in a way she never would have suspected, last year. Oh, she had hoped, desperately, when contemplating Kíli's proposal with Sigrid, that she would be able to settle in, and find some measure of acceptance from the taciturn people of the Mountain, and that she would eventually find and fulfill some useful, domestic role, as she had been (admittedly badly) groomed for, and that hopefully, she wouldn't have to lose her sense of self completely. It seemed the best she could hope for from her future, back then.

Instead, she found that she liked the who she'd begun to glimpse in herself, here in the mountain. She liked this version of Tilda: this girl-no-longer, but young woman, who was brave and inquisitive. Who practised shooting with Dwalin and who occasionally cussed at Nori; who played with the children and learned from their development.

A Tilda who got as muddy as she liked, and tickled the fish in the Clock Hall and used whole reams of paper to try to learn even bigger numbers; to see all the ways in which the world was connected, if only she knew the right formulae.

That Tilda would find them, too—even if she had to invent them all, first.

A Tilda who seemed to have found a place, finally.

And Kíli had encouraged her; listened to her, tried to anticipate her, even with something as complicatedly simple as a cup of perfect tea...and just, seemed to genuinely want to walk this journey beside her.

Wasn't that love?

Blast—she needed to know what that tattoo was all about. Because if it was a marriage tattoo...well, he'd come to their marriage bed already marked with it, hadn't he?

What would that mean?

Well, it would mean he had come to their union with his decision already made, wouldn't it? That he'd blended his traditions to hers, without her even knowing that they needed to be.

It would mean that they really were married, in the eyes of his people. Not just a political union, or someone their Inner King was stuck with, out of noble sacrifice for his brother and his kingdom; but...joined. And not just in the eyes of his people, but in Kíli's eyes...and heart.

It would mean...it would mean that she had been wanted.

And that was the kernel of all her hurt, wasn't it?

Wanted. Just as she was. No longer outside, but tied to some vast community.

Not for the first time, and probably not for the last, she wished she could commune with the stone the way Kíli could. It sounded so grand; being a part of a living whole; accepted by, and connected to the kingdom as part of a great moving tide; or perhaps, in this case, like the deep, slow-moving pools; teeming with secrets and riches no one but the best fishermen ever coaxed to the surface.

Perhaps then, the stone could tell her what to believe was true in all this.

What the stone was communicating, in her prosaic reality of the cave-in, was claustrophobia; even with her eyes firmly closed, she could still sense it, looming around her, pressing down on everything in its barren cocoon.

Resolutely, tiredly, she marshalled her flagging spirit to push that feeling back, concentrating on reaching out into the ether, to Kíli. Or even Bifur, if he were listening, but she doubted she would have any luck there, given that her connection to Kíli's Master was of the remotest kind, even if there was any validity to the idea that she could share in Kíli's senses, even for a moment.

Of course, she doubted she would have any luck, of any sort; the stone didn't hear the pleas of daughters of Men.

Wasted effort or no, her pulse slowly settled, the ominous feeling of the stone's presence receded as she painstakingly pushed it back until the fear fell away once more, leaving her with a warmth in her heart that she could pretend was Kíli, lending her some bravery in the face of her predicament.

Keeping her eyes closed, she tried to grasp the thread of her previous thoughts; to slip into some kind of meditation or something, where she didn't have to be brave for a little while.

Threads like the epiphany that, amazingly, she felt like she had finally found a niche for herself; that slowly she was discovering that she could be Tilda of the Mountain, Kíli's Tilda, and it fit, in a way that nothing in her life had before. She'd tried so hard to think like a dwarf, as Bilbo had suggested, that she'd stopped examining her reasons for it; hadn't realised when it had become as much about understanding Kíli, as it was about fulfilling her role among his people, supporting him in the only ways she could...

...because she loved him.

...

Oh.

That...that—well, she'd suspected for a while, of course; felt that it was more than likely she could love him, but no, she was truly in love with him. And if, as he said, he could love her too, despite his culture, and all the rules and history against it, than she would greedily accept it.

She would even fight for it. And she would most definitely try anything, no matter how silly or far-fetched, to have the chance to tell him so.

Rallying her flagging spirit with all the determination she could muster, she reached out again—not as an exercise in distraction, or a halfhearted attempt to meditate her way out of fear, but with real intent, and as much belief as she could possibly summon—and to her startled delight, it almost felt like something was...open, that hadn't been before. Like a gentle summer breeze was blowing across her thoughts. It was a strange sensation, like the inside of her head was larger than the outside, and Tilda grinned a little at her own silly imaginings—as like as not the air was getting thin, and she was starting to hallucinate—but she let the warmth of them envelop her, because right now, she could almost imagine the faint pulse she felt came from somewhere outside herself, tethered to her with a finely-wrought chain, or the pull of a tide.

And that was a comforting thought, here in the darkness, one that allowed her to almost ignore the vicious stabbing of her headache, or the way the throbbing in her ankle was now almost numb from the swelling, despite the binding she'd put on it earlier.

Kíli would find her.

And in the end, that was enough to drive back the panic, and let her drift comfortably in a place somewhere between dream and wakefulness, a small smile touching her lips.

.o.O.o.

He was in his chambers when it happened; in the outer rooms he'd shared with Tilda just yesterday morning, and had it been an entire day already? He was surrounded by people, both family and officials, as he tried to resist any more suggestions that he go rest.

As if he could crawl into the bed that they had shared, and possibly get any kind of rest.

He was reaching out, again, with whatever limited senses he could, trying to get some hint of Tilda, as he had countless times already over the last eighteen hours or more since his Umùrâel went missing. Each time, he could find nothing, no trace, beyond the conviction that she lived still. Balin's teams had reached the Mithraeum hours ago, and searched the whole bloody area, up three deeps, and down the same, but came back with nothing to report, except a small cubby matching Fláim's description that might possibly have been used for them to rest—or as a refuse pile. Dori, who had accompanied them, didn't seem inclined to swear to either possibility, it was so filthy; his moue of distaste succinctly expressing his opinion of even rats sleeping there.

There was no indication of where they may have gone, but the dragon had weakened much, Master Ásbergur had pointed out in his tactless way; everyone looking anywhere but at their prince as the brilliant engineer stated what they were all thinking, but were far too socially aware to actually say. There were likely many ways out to the surface from the old structures, he added, absently salting Kíli's wounds, almost as an afterthought.

Hope within the mountain was definitely waning.

But still, Kíli tried.

He was, therefore, supremely unprepared when this time, it felt like the top of his skull was lifted away, filling his brain with noise and pressure; impossible to ignore, and he was fairly sure he cried aloud at the sensation. All around him, hands reached for him, but he barely felt them as his mind lit up like fireworks, brilliant and blinding to all else.

He stumbled, hands splayed as he caught himself against the smooth stone wall. As he waited for the sensation to fade, or lessen enough for him to be able to see, be aware of his surroundings again, let alone feel confident of his balance, he was distantly aware that now discretion might be completely shot.

"I'm okay," he rasped, and his voice sounded like he had swallowed glass. He felt like he had swallowed glass, if by swallowed he actually meant, had his head opened up and glass poured in. He was scrapped and bloody, leaving everything inside his mind raw and exposed, like you felt after being carelessly exposed to arc-lightning. None of the dwarves with him seemed inclined to accept his reassurances, though to be fair, Kíli had to admit he certainly didn't sound or look okay, slumped against the wall, clutching his head as if to block out light no one else could see.

One thought cut through the maelstrom, had him swimming for consciousness, for clarity.

Tilda needed him.

This was her distress, her need that was strong enough to call to him when he'd been unable to get a single hint of her—so strong, he couldn't help but wonder if it weren't perhaps aided by the mountain itself.

He just had to find her.

This thought, the only clear one he had at that moment, got him moving, forced him to get his feet back under him. "I'm okay," he said again, with more conviction, and pushed himself upright, doing his damnedest to appear steady. Dori, who had been closest to him, eyed him with concern and an urge to wrap him up in a blanket with a hot cup of tea writ plainly in his expression, but he stepped back, shoeing several others as he did so. A few paces away, Thorin frowned, eyes sad, while several other dwarves, mostly guildsmen, miners and a few engineers—though Kíli couldn't even remember any more what they were here to discuss, other than the futile suggestion of his resting, watched him dubiously, ready to grab him again if it looked like he was going to collapse.

He supposed it was a good sign they were still wanting to catch him, all things considered.

"She's...she's somewhere in the Old Tunnels; the very edge of our Mansion. I think," he told them, and he could only imagine the picture he presented; their normally bright and exuberant prince, wide-eyed and staring like a maniac, apparently having religious experiences. The Mountain was going to think Master Bifur looked sane in comparison.

Couldn't be helped now.

"I know where to go," he said instead.

The raw feeling, like layers of skin peeled off his thoughts, was already fading, leaving behind a...throbbing, almost; a sense, like a compass needle that just needed a magnet to find north. The effect was making him a bit dizzy, but that was easily pushed aside. There was no way he would be able to explain his conviction that the anxiety and pain he was feeling were Tilda's, other than to point out that she was the other half of his soul; he would know the feel of her anywhere, despite never having allowed himself the luxury of touching her like this before. It was impossible to mistake the bright laughter in her very essence; and a part of him, the part that wasn't being flayed alive with worry, was caught up in wonder at the feel of her fëa sliding against his very being like this, and he grabbed onto that feeling with both hands and refused to let go.

Around him were venerable, respected dwarves; advisors to the throne, and each one important to the running of the kingdom.

They were all, to a dwarf, staring at him. These were not good stares.

Kíli dodged those closest to him, moving to Thorin's side and mentally dismissing everyone else in the room; their hard looks and their doubtful whispers. "Please, Uncle..." he murmured his appeal, no louder than for just they two

"Kíli," Thorin murmured, looking every bit his almost two centuries of age, right then, as his tone managed to convey a complicated wealth of emotions; great sadness and compassion, as well as his resignation to the path Kíli was now going to be forced to tread.

None of that made its way into his words, though, as Thorin set it all aside, to deal only with the problem before them now. "The Old Tunnels mark the very edges of our kingdom—if we commit all our resources to a rescue that far, Tilda could die in the time it would take us to correct course, if you are wrong. Are you absolutely certain of this path?"

"Yes," he stated firmly. Being wrong was almost a laughable concept, when his brain felt like it was on fire with that glowing, burning thread pulling him toward her.

Thorin didn't even blink; he nodded once, and turned back to their spectators, all of whom were now trying to pretend that they hadn't been gawking a moment before, as though their King and their Prince were penny street-theatre.

"I want a party, assembled in the Clock Hall within the half-hour; and send a runner for Óin," Thorin rumbled, staring down any who dared to look like they were even thinking ofobjecting.

Of course, there was always one. "We don't even know if the Old Tunnels still stand," one dwarrow stated, though he was doing his absolute best to keep all notes of querulousness from his voice.

"Then you had better make sure that there is timber and picks packed in wagons, ready to bring with us," Thorin said firmly, fists on his hips; and in that moment, he looked like a certain pig-riding monarch. "You now have twenty-five minutes. Use them wisely, or you will be explaining to King Consort Bilbo and I the reason for your delay."

Kíli was privately amused, and exceedingly thankful, that they actually made it off in less than twenty minutes.

The rock was practically thrumming beneath his fingers now, and Kíli found he only had to hum with the faintest of breath to bring up a world of resonance, where everything seemed clearer than crystal, and he wondered if his worry had pushed his abilities to previously un-achieved heights, like adrenaline giving you the strength of an oliphaunt in the face of death; or if the Mountain had, incredibly, stirred itself on behalf of his Lady.

He might never know for sure, but he took comfort from the thought that it might be. Tilda was more than capable of finding stunning amounts of trouble. The idea of the Mountain itself watching out for her might give him enough courage to let her out of his sight again...say in a month or six.

Around him, Balin was organizing the dwarves, prioritizing warriors and those skilled at stone works, being that, as Denlier had already pointed out, the old parts of the kingdom, the very oldest, were likely in shambles after all this time. Kíli took advantage of the delay and the general confusion going on around him to continue to sing, softly, his bright tenor curling low enough to be lost in the general noise as he tried to slip into a light meditation while standing up; tried to be discrete, though it was a bit like closing the gate after the elves had already gotten in, as the saying went.

They would find her; and he would have the chance to set things right. He would convince her that she had nothing to fear from his ardour, and he would find the restraint to keep from raining kisses upon her the moment he held her in his arms again, somehow; but he would court her, however it was she wished. If she wanted a Confinement Ritual, to truly believe his commitment, then he would have Bifur consecrate one tomorrow, and that idea shouldn't send shivers of anticipation through him, but there was no denying he was hers, body and soul. If she wanted tattoos, or piercings, or any of the traditional markings of a dwarven union, he would help her design them, and forge the jewellery himself, with a glad heart. If the very idea of her wearing jewellery of his own hand like that, intimate jewellery of clear intent and purpose, was arousing, making a warm flush, like a tide of fire, bloom outwards to his skin, well...Mahal could damn him for it later.

He hoped. Oh, how he hoped.

But first, he had to find her. And if he got his hands on Alfrid, well, they could figure out what the bastard thought he was doing after Kíli had wrung his neck with his bare hands.

It took them more than an hour to get the whole group down deep into the mountain where the old tunnels ran, and half a day that felt like years, to travel along that warren of ancient passageways. They marched quietly, as only dwarves moving in their element could, but the minutes ticked heavily in each of their souls as the stone kept time for them in the measured tread of their iron-shod boots.

Too long, it said.

Eyes were on Kíli now, wary and assessing, all too aware of the impossibility of what he was doing; but for now, the young prince pushed it from his mind. He would have to abdicate after this—there would be no help for it; leaving his brother alone in a position Kíli never wanted to see him in.

But for Tilda's safety? There was no choice to be made.

The rock had been getting increasingly more agitated, and Kíli along with it, the closer they got, and the feeling of his wife grew within him until he was certain they could now measure the distance to her in yards, not miles. Kíli felt like his skin was practically crawling with his impatience when they rounded a slow bend in the tunnel to find the way forward blocked by a solid wall of stone. It was quite obviously a new fall, and Kíli must have gasped, a harsh denial leaving his lips as he surged forward, only to be held back by a firm grip and a sharp shake that succeeded in pulling his attention away from where Tilda had obviously been entombed. He could feel her, the certainty of her presence mere yards away thrumming through the open places in his skull and in his heart.

"Not that way," one of the miners, Tovin, murmured gruffly, cautiously quiet in the face of the rock-fall. Kíli gave a tight nod, to show he had mastered himself, and the miner's grip relaxed. "You sure her Highness is still alive?" he questioned careful to keep his whispered tone as neutral as he could.

"Absolutely," Kíli shot back, impatient, but careful to respect the need for quiet.

The other dwarf gave a nod, and with a few curt hand signals, had more dwarves pushing their way to the front, deploying themselves around the blockage, assessing the problem.

The old miner turned back to those left watching, mostly the warriors of their group. "Alright, move back, you lot," he ordered curtly. "That includes you," he told Kíli, eyeing him.

"But I—" he started, not at all liking the idea of being excluded.

"We need supplies, Highness; timbers for shoring and tools for digging. Make room for the carts, and let us work."

Kíli opened his mouth again, unsure of what he would say to protest, but feeling the desperate need to do something driving him.

"Stay. Here." Tovin cut him off, sternly, but his eyes were compassionate, belying his curtness. "We will get our princess back," he vowed, gruffly, eyeing the tunnel blockage like it was a personal affront.

Our princess, he'd said. Perhaps it was personal, and Kíli smiled at the though of sharing this with Tilda, later.

There would be a later, after all.

How long since he had first felt her cry? Eight hours? Ten?

How much air did Tilda have?

The miner seemed to have the same thought, eyeing the solid wall uneasily, before turning back to Kíli.

"I don't know exactly what's going on, highness," he shuffled uncomfortably, looking at his feet instead of at his prince as he spoke, "But if you've got any influence with that there stone, now might be a good time to see if you can't coax it to settle in patterns that allow for some airflow. There are gas pockets in this part of the mountain, and I don't like the smell in the air."

Gulping, Kíli nodded tersely, and settled back against the rock, closed his eyes and concentrated, like never before.

.o.O.o.

It took hours to dig her out.

Hours, and Nori had paced through all of them, which Kíli felt was rather unfair, considering he had to appear strong and confident in front of the people.

Hours of impatience and gut churning fear and urgency, and the Mahal-damned miners wouldn't allow Kíli to lift so much as a rock to help. The old miner who had been giving the orders, Tovin, was replaced by Bylgja herself when she accompanied the supplies as they were brought to the front of the column, bringing the practical, unsocial head of the Engineer's guild, Ásbergur, with her. Bofur tripped in her wake, looking as serious as Kíli had ever seen him.

Kíli had hovered as close as he felt justified to the miners as they worked, trying to watch everything even as he meditated. Bylgja had taken one look at him, and barked an order for the prince to Get the fuck back, for Mahal's sake! because she didn't like him well enough to be answering to Her Highness why she let him get himself hurt.

If it came from anyone else, Kíli would have been humiliated in the extreme, but Bylgja was in a class of her own, and bullied Thorin with equal impartiality. In fact, the only member of the royal family she did seem to show any deference to, was Uncle Bilbo. Bofur patted his shoulder reassuringly, even as he gave him a gentle shove to where it was safer before he passed, quickly losing himself to reports given in iglishmêk from the others. Right now, Kíli wished that Ori hadn't stayed behind with Balin to help Bilbo—what with half the kingdom, it seemed, running hither and yon. He missed his oldest friend; his sly wit, and his unfailing ability to see Kíli and not the future Dohyar-Melhekh.

Under Bylgja's watchful eyes, Bofur lead the team as they shored every step of the way. He organized a work-chain of dwarrow and dams to shift the rubble away as it was cleared, giving the miners room to work, and he supervised each careful pick-swing as, inch by painstaking inch, the rock was prised from the fall. Without a word, Fíli and Thorin took their place by Kíli's side when he joined the chain, as close as he could get to the working miners and where he had been banished from, and Kíli felt the warmth of their unflagging presence settle some of his restlessness and centre him. He threw himself into the work, grateful of the chance to finally do something tangible to effect Tilda's release, but it was slowly becoming clear that the cave-in was immense; Kíli's heart slowly squeezed into a hard lump in his chest, fear filling him that, despite his senses telling him otherwise, Tilda lay dead; that his lady couldn't possibly have survived when so much rock had come down.

When they finally broke through the five-metre thick section of fallen rock and unstable pockets, opening the tiniest crack, barely enough to stick a nose into the chamber Tilda was trapped in, it was with palpable relief that they heard Bofur call back, pronouncing the air within the chamber to be, though thin, sweet and fresh and perfectly safe.

Tovin looked to Kíli, one bushy grey brow raised questioningly, even as he frowned, but Kíli met his gaze calmly.

His decision had already been made, and it was an easy one. If his throne and his people's trust was the price for Tilda's safety, then he would pay it without regret. Fíli noticed the exchange, and gave Kíli a sad smile, even as he griped his shoulder in solidarity and support.

He, too, knew what the coming reckoning would be, after all.

There was an even greater sense of urgency thrumming through the proceedings that reflected his own; the dwarves who had followed him down here, deep after deep, were grim-faced and determined as they toiled, carefully and painstakingly widening the opening until it was large enough for their healer to force his way through. Hands tried halfheartedly to hold him, but Kíli was right on Óin's heels, brushing past those who would keep him back without even noticing their interference, still needing to wriggle a bit, despite his slender frame, to make it through the hole that had been created in the rockfall.

On this side of the fall, the air felt close and humid, though it was thin, too, and not very sustaining; air that had been breathed too much already, and had most of its goodness stripped from it.

An hour from now, two at most, there wouldn't have been enough air left to sustain her, Kíli realized, stomach contracting into a tight ball, even as he tried to reassure himself that they had made it in time.

Óin had paused just inside the small chamber, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness before reaching for his belt tinder, and lighting his small lamp. Fresh air from the corridor was already mixing with the stale air of this place, and Kíli hastily sidestepped from where he had stopped in the entrance, to give the process more room to happen.

And promptly stepped on something soft, and for one long second, his heart seized in his chest.

He must have made some small noise, because Óin turned to him, shining the shuttered lamplight towards Kíli's feet, brows beetled in concern.

A hand; he'd stepped on a hand in his great heavy boots, its fingers outstretched and reaching, as if flung out from the body. Relief flooded him as soon as the lamplight showed him what his heart already knew: the body sprawled beneath his tread was not Tilda. Men tended to look a fair bit alike to him, and time, and death and a blanket of dust had changed this one, but Kíli felt it was reasonable to assume it was Alfrid. His clothes were torn filthy, his hair matted with blood and grease, and his sallow skin sagged around his frozen expression of surprise. Crouching down, Kíli gave a perfunctory search for a pulse, but found none. He sat back on his heels, scanning the darkness carefully.

"Crushed by the rockfall, poor bastard," Óin grunted, sounding no more sympathetic than Kíli felt.

"Probably better than whatever Dwalin would have done to him, had he gotten his hands on him," Kíli murmured, mindful of the uneasy feeling of the Mountain around them. Slowly, he pushed himself up as he and Óin, with a careful eye for pitfalls beneath their feet, resumed their search for Tilda.

The cavern was not large; they found her within moments, a dozen paces away, crumpled on the stone floor as exhaustion obviously overcame her. The dull gleam of her honey hair contrasted with the dark granite, stripped of its normal glorious colour by the pale light of Óin's lamp, and Kíli's hands fluttered uselessly, inches from running his fingers through the strands that had come loose, irrationally afraid for a moment that he would touch her and she would disappear again, a figment of his imagination. Her sage outer-gown was little more than a rag, split nearly in two and so tattered as to be almost in shreds, and Kíli was quite certain that, if not for the lacing, the whole thing would have fallen from her shoulders. Bruises bloomed on her pale skin, and though it was hard to be sure where the dirt stopped and the injuries began, Kíli was grateful she seemed to have avoided the worst of the rockfall.

'abad ghurira abadaz. It was a concept held within the very bones of all dwarves, everywhere:

The mountain sheltered its own.

Óin's glare was enough to have him backing away a pace, giving the old medic room to work as deft fingers found the flutter of her pulse, muttering and grumbling querulously under his breath as he did a swift and thorough examination. Kíli kept his mouth shut, and took care to hand over implements from his kit as Óin reached for them, just to keep his fingers busy. Tilda didn't stir, even when Óin manipulated her nearly-purple ankle.

Kíli wasn't sure if he was grateful, or worried about that. Probably both.

Still, minutes ticked by slowly as Óin dabbed the filth away, to wash her injuries in various concoctions of witch hazel and yarrow, listening to her lungs with an instrument that looked like a longer version of his ear-trumpet, and even, at one point, stuck some kind of glass stick in her mouth, though Kíli couldn't even begin to guess what the purpose of Óin's self-proclaimed ThermÓinmetre was.

"The ankle's more bruised than sprained or broken, I think," Óin pronounced finally, taking his bag from Kíli when he offered it, to pack away his vials and tinctures, and other instruments of his Craft. "A number of abrasions and bruises, a few minor cuts; she's exhausted and dehydrated, more than anything. Her Highness was exceedingly lucky." Groaning, Óin carefully manoeuvred himself up from his crouch, glaring at the hand that Kíli held out to him before finally taking it with a muttered 'Humph!"

Kíli stepped back from the older dwarf as soon as he was standing steady on his own feet, and scooped Tilda up—as he had been simply itching to do since finding her—being excruciatingly careful of her injuries both seen and imagined. His chest expanded; a proper breath for the first time since this nightmare began, but she was here, pressed close to his heart, and he could breathe again. He hummed, a vaguely questioning sound towards Óin, hoping he'd elaborate but not really wanting to tear his focus from carefully navigating the uneven flooring. Tilda looked so tiny in his arms; taller than himself when standing, but so slight that right now she felt frail as a bundle of sticks without her usual boundless enthusiasm and energy to animate her. Óin, of course, pretended he didn't hear Kíli's questioning noise, and marched on towards the waiting crowd.

Tovin and Bylgia had seen to it that the opening had been widened and shored, so that Kíli was able to walk through without jostling Tilda in the slightest. A litter had been constructed, and two apprentices held it rock-steady for Kíli as he lay Tilda down on it, gently arranging her limbs for her comfort, lingering just a little bit longer than he could justify to bask in the knowledge that she was safe. Beside him, Fíli reached over to drape someone's volunteered cloak over her rent and useless gown.

Around him, Kíli was vaguely aware of the relieved smiles of his people, and his heart swelled with wanting to share this moment with Tilda; that she was valued by her people, and an integral part of the Mountain kingdom. When he finally stepped back a pace, Fíli grabbed him, hugging him fiercely, his blue eyes shining and a bit misty with Tilda's deliverance, while Thorin rested his forehead against his own, bolstering his nephew with his own relief and happiness.

Bylgia and Ásbergur had strode into Tilda's chamber while the rest of them had been busy with Tilda herself, assessing the damage, and the threat of further fall. Bylgia's assessment had been quick, almost perfunctory, but Ásbergur seemed stymied by what he saw. For near a quarter of an hour he slowly paced the chamber, as if he were absorbing some hidden meaning, some fact that none of the rest of them could see. When he came out, much to everyone's bemusement, it was to march through the small crowd, to stand at the side of Tilda's litter. Brows drawn together in thought, he gave the unconscious princess a long, indecipherable look before he seemed to cast off his mood, and strode off, completely ignoring the rest of them as he fished his ever-present marking stick out from behind his ear, and began making frenzied notations on a notepad produced from one of his many pockets.

Bylgia snorted, and, clapping her hands sharply to get her miners' attention, she began barking out orders for a small crew to stay behind and do what repairs could be accomplished without more supplies, while Tovin, Ásbergur's second, stepped in to get the engineers organized to assist. It would be patchwork at best, and Kíli knew there would have to be serious discussions ahead on how to deal with these old tunnels. Obviously, they were an over-looked liability in times like now, when they hadn't the numbers to clear and patrol them: perhaps better to collapse them altogether, though Kíli knew it would be a bitter pill for Uncle Thorin to swallow.

These were concerns for later, though. Right now, their procession had a joyful air, relief and excitement that Tilda had been found alive and relatively hale, and Kíli was quite sure that most were taking the fact that the intruder had been killed by the mountain itself as further proof of Tilda's favour and the Mountain's power.

Dwarves, he had to acknowledge ruefully, could be terribly superstitious. Kíli, though—and Ásbergur, perhaps—had seen the rusted pickax in the fall, and the tell-tale matching oxide stains on Tilda's hands; but more than that, he had seen the sharp, precise fracture lines of the rock, and the feeling of the fall, and his heart clenched when he realized what she had done—the incredible risk she had taken. His beautiful, clever girl; for whom all the world was seen as numbers. Complicated equations and algorithms done with naught but her head, lightning-swift and faster than he could tabulate using an abacus.

There was a small voice, full of rueful acceptance of future suffering, that couldn't help but note that it might be better to let the people go on thinking it was the Mountain's intervention; Kíli wasn't sure he was going to prove brave enough to handle Tilda being encouraged into any more heroics

Óin took his place by the litter, dishing out instructions to his healers, and gruff scoldings for any jostling in equal measure as they moved out, and for once, Kíli just let the combined emotions of those around him suffuse him and reassure him, trusting Fíli to guide him as he allowed his worry to dissolve in their combined relief.

It was a long walk back.

Thankfully, Fíli managed to reign in his sense of mischief enough to only allow Kíli to walk into a few rocks.

The future first king of Erebor was a mud-shovelling bastard.

Unfortunately, thoughts of more than just relief kept him busy on the march back up their Mansion, for Kíli had also noted that there had been no sign of Alfrid's mysterious compatriot in the rubble.

.o.O.o.

Soft moonlight filtered into the Healing Halls, bathing everything in deep blue and purple shadows. Kíli had always thought of the moonlight shinning on the surface world with fondness; the way it took away the harsh glare of the sun, transforming the ceiling-less world above into something easier and safer for dwarven eyes.

Right here, right now, he hated it.

Hated the way it robbed Tilda of her golden hue, and highlighted the pallor of her skin until she looked like the newly dead, rather than a sleeping child of Men. He hated how the fickle light made dark bruises stand out like glaring accusations; but most irrationally of all, he hated how the ghostly light would encourage his lady to sleep, making an already endless day into the longest night of his existence, until she would open her eyes and he could reassure himself that she was really, truly, restored to him.

The mid-night watch had just completed their patrol, and Kíli could hear their marching steps as they made their way down the tunnels, away from where he kept his own watch over his Lady. It helped to mark the passage of time, though the knowledge that Tilda had already slept through half the night cheered him somewhat; surely by morning, she would shake off the last of the sedatives Óin had administered to spare her the discomfort of her injuries being jostled on her journey here, despite the care that had been taken.

It seemed that Óin may have to adjust his dosages, next time, Kíli reflected sourly. When he had made the suggestion to Óin himself, he'd received a truly rude response, and been banished from the hall until he'd 'washed and eaten and come back with more sense in his head!'.

Washed and fed, he could handle, but he couldn't attest to the last. He did, however, take care to keep any further observations and anxieties firmly behind his teeth once he was permitted to return to his self-appointed vigil.

Of course, it wasn't until the soft light of dawn slowly crept into their underground haven—that special period of the day that had always been theirs alone—that she finally woke. Kíli had slipped into a fitful doze, his head slumped over his arms as he rested both upon the side of her cot, but the gentle tug of her fingers running sleepily through his hair finally permeated his stupor.

Soft grey eyes regarded him with that blinking, owlish quality that told him she was more than a little sleep-befuddled still, and his heart bloomed with warmth and sweet relief to see her awake at last, and he reaffirmed his love of the sun, and how it brought out the bright highlights in her hair, and the warm golden hue to her skin. Even the bruises looked better; painful, but less accusing when his Lady looked so vital and yet so delightfully sleep-mussed.

Definitely his favourite part of the day.

"That feels lovely," he murmured, not aware he was planning to speak at all, and he was thankful that she didn't stop the languid motion of her fingers, despite the slightly startled look in her eyes, and the warm flush in her cheeks that told him she hadn't, until this moment, been aware she was doing it.

"Good," she murmured back, and for several long moments, that's all that was said.

Funny how the events of the last few days had a way of putting everything in perspective. The madman running about their basement was dead, his nefarious scheme unfulfilled, whatever it had been, and his wife lay here, safe. If this was all he ever got, it would be enough, Kíli realized. He might burn in a lifetime of wanting more, but he would be content to hold even this corner of her heart.

Thankfully, he was nearly certain that he needn't be content with only glimpses of his Lady's affection—that his earlier conviction was right, and half the reason Tilda had been so angry was because she wanted more from their marriage than friendship. There might actually be a happy ending, at the end of this fiasco.

Provided they could actually manage to talk about what it was they really wanted, soon, before further misunderstandings could intervene and muck things up. Again. A task that seemed to be almost impossible, given their efforts in that direction so far.

The question was, how in the world did he go about manoeuvring a conversation in that direction? It would have to be gently, of course, given how they had left things in the mines; subtle and slow—

"Do you know," Tilda's voice, though husky with sleep, and maybe more—emotions Kíli didn't dare dwell on with her fingers still entwined so intimately in his hair—was still enough to break the tranquil moment, "I rather think I would like you up here, beside me." At Kíli's startled look, she heaved a low sigh, before tilting her head and staring at the ceiling, muttering to herself, or possibly some deity of Men, for a long moment, before twisting to look at a still-bewildered Kíli more directly. "I care about—and probably love, you. You care about—and maybe love, me," she said, sounding both boldly defiant, and achingly shy. "There, we talked. Can we leave the rest for later?" she asked, plaintively, as she fought, and lost, against a truly jaw-popping yawn, and Kíli smiled despite how utterly flummoxed he felt in this moment. "Like, maybe when I don't feel awkward, and raw, and emotional, and maybe after you've had more sleep than whatever it was you got slumped over like that—because that truly didn't look comfortable, at all, and—"

But Kíli's brain was finally firing, and he'd already scrambled up onto the cot to curl around her, gently bringing her rambling to a halt with one finger brushed against her still-chapped lips. Startled, she tilted her face up, cheek now resting on his breast as she stared up at him with wide, grey eyes, and Kíli felt like he could finally breathe. He'd propped himself up against the headboard, and wriggled around so that an unprotesting Tilda was curled into his side; one slender leg tangled with his, and both small hands tucked under her cheek as she stared up at him, pupils unnaturally wide in the dim light and obviously still more than slightly befuddled by Óin's potions and tonics.

Her warmth was seeping through his light clothing, and her moist breath tickled the skin exposed by the open vee of his tunic, stirring the few chest hairs exposed there, and Kíli inhaled deeply, simply for the pleasure of feeling her head pressed against his rising chest, and filling his lungs with her scent, not even noticing the strongly medicinal scent Óin's washes and ointments had left behind, overwhelmed and grateful as he was in the wake of such a sudden realization of all he'd wanted.

"There is no maybe," he murmured huskily. For a long moment, Tilda stared back at him, brow slightly furrowed as she made of his admission what she would. Kíli was no longer afraid.

"Good," she murmured finally, and snuggled a little more firmly into his chest, like she fully intended to go back to sleep after such a momentous confession.

Kíli gave a rueful little huff; he wasn't sure he'd ever sleep again. Instead, he lay there, staring into the slowly lightening darkness, grinning like a besotted fool, and trying to suppress the ridiculous urge to whistle; something jaunty and full of exuberance wholly inappropriate for the Healing Halls at this time of the morning.

Tilda would probably appreciate it, though. She was brilliant like that.

The grey light of dawn gradually warmed as the sun peeped over the horizon in the above-world, and though it was still much too early for most of the mountain to be about daily tasks, Kíli lay wide awake, too busy being thankful for this soap-bubble of time; a private moment alone with Tilda and their almost-declarations. It was Tilda, of course, who gradually pulled him from this pleasant contemplation, when he slowly became aware of her shaking in the loose circle of his arms; tight little movements that made him sure she had been trying to suppress her shudders.

"Shh," Kíli murmured, hesitatingly stroking one broad palm down the long line of her spine, before bringing his hand up again, to cup the back of her head, running his littlest finger over the thin skin along the back of her neck in rhythmic, whisper-light circles as his first finger teased the lose strands of hair at her nape. "Shh," he soothed again, just concentrating on trying to be there for her as she worked through her grief, and quietly berating himself as an idiot for not expecting this, after everything she had endured.

"Whatever burden you bear, I'm here," he murmured. "I will lend you my strength, until you can find your own once more."

She shook and shook against him, and Kíli was at a loss for how to help her, so he murmured in Khuzdûl, words of bravery and of courage; of how brightly she shone in his eyes, and how much he loved her. She didn't understand a word, of course, but the rumbling sounds seemed to reach her, as gradually the shaking eased, infinitesimally.

"He was a living man, and I killed him," she finally whispered, and the tiny little hitch in her voice, like a child scared of the dark, tore at Kíli sharper than any blade. It was a tone that made him suspect that this was about more than just Alfrid's death; that this one incident may be standing in for the whole of her experiences these last two days.

"Shhh. No, no!" he struggled to reassure her. "You did what you had to do. The children are safe—you're safe—" Kíli almost choked on that, the feeling of fear, that he had almost lost her, was like a lump in his gut and throat that he couldn't breathe around.

That hitch broke free, and one fist pounded his shoulder as she wailed. "I caused it! I caused the cave in! If I hadn't—"

"If you hadn't, you would be dead," he said sharply, cutting through her building hysterics, trying to reach her through her mounting maelstrom of anxiety and irrationality. "Please value your life as greater than a man who would have thrown yours away." He gently manoeuvred her off his chest, holding her shoulders in a firm grip and pulling her until she was sitting up, looking down at him, and he could clearly look into her eyes. Her hair was dancing in a halo around her unkempt braids, distracting as they tickled his skin, but her eyes were commanding; dark and full of pain as they welled with fresh tears. Smoothing his thumbs over the damp tracks on her cheeks, Kíli asked, "Can you listen to me, My Lady? Do you hear me?"

She blinked slowly, breath still hitching as she struggled to get enough air, but obviously trying to bring her thoughts back to him, and his heart warmed. "What you did was brave, and selfless and I am so, so proud of you," he said slowly, with all the warmth he could infuse his words with. He needed contact, needed to reassure himself that she was really real in his arms and not just a phantasm of his own grief, so he leaned his forehead against hers, where he could feel the faint stirring of her essence strongest, the exotic vibrations that were distinctly Tilda mingling with his own, and he closed his eyes, taking reassurance from that deep connection, so intimate for his people, and he rejoiced, deep in his soul, that someday soon he would be able to share this with her; and explain its deep significance, and be sure if its welcome.

But that time was not right now. He had to guide her down to him to bring them into such contact, but she moved with him easily, offering no resistance to his gentle tug. "You are allowed to feel bad," he told her hoarsely, "and to mourn what you had to do, even against a man who would have harmed you, but know that the decisions that lead Alfrid to his death were his, and only his."

Her breathing had calmed some, though she still shook with tiny tremors as her grief spent itself, and he held her close and quietly thanked Mahal that she was there with him and not cold and alone, lost in a rocky tomb within the mountain.

Singing a lullaby, he gradually gentled her to sleep once more.

He kept watch, a willing sentinel against her further nightmares, and waited for the sun to rise.

.o.O.o.

Notes:

I am back!

This was a longer hiatus than I had planned, and this is going to be a long note! I owe it to you, for those who have stuck with this little story-that-could, but y'all have been warned that if author's notes are not your cup of tea, please skip over my personal narratives; no hard feelings, I swear! :D

Back in October, within seven days of losing our cat, one of my best friends passed away from a six-year long battle with cancer. The next day, my amazing, alzheimers-suffering grandmother passed.

...

I was a bit of a basket case, honestly.

Nero, I grieved fully, but I shunted the more complicated deaths to the side, to be dealt with after the comparatively simple grief of a cat who's life had been full and happy...but by then I was into the holidays and all the obligations and the baking, entertaining and piles of overtime at work that came with it, while trying to support my mother as she dealt with her first holiday without her own mother...Everything passed in a bit of a blur. New Year's came, and I still had this ball of grief to deal with.

Alzheimers is a horrid disease, that leaves a lot of complicated feelings that you sort of shove to the side to be there for the person you love in the time you have left; but the piper must be reckoned with eventually, and peace must be made with the jagged pieces of your heart that you ignored before... and cancer is even more horrid, if that is possible, when you find out that things like 'treatable, not curable' are actual diagnosis, and you realise that someone vibrant and wonderful is so, so strong as to live with that pronouncement with grace and courage.

So! A hiatus was had, and, skipping over a lot of grief and awful feelings, I am much better for taking the time, though I have missed my creative endeavors.

And, in fun news, because I can't just drop all that heaviness on you with out over-sharing something fun - We adopted a new kitten! Totally unexpected. We had planned on getting another cat, but every time the discussion came up, it kind of got abandoned for other topics...it still felt too soon, I guess. And then, after a couple of glasses of wine one cold night in early February while chatting with a friend, I ended up on the SPCA website, and saw this little Siamese kitten who looked and sounded so adorable...and I lost my heart...

...Only to promptly get let down, when, after I wrote a careful, essay-length email about why we were the most eager pet-parents ever, with a cute 2yr old, *lonely*, cat at home already, and did I mention we were awesome? and that my cat is lonely? And cute? Please, please can we have this kitten? I think I gave them my entire recent history, honestly ...

.. And, I got word back from the shelter that they didn't think this particular kitten would do well in a home with another big-personality cat, because he was very, very shy.

I was crushed. I had, foolishly, already been thinking of names in my head. I was totally sold on this cute little kitten, based on nothing but a good pic and a three-sentence blurb.

And then, a few hours later, I got another email, saying we were the kind of cat-parents they hoped to find, and that this kitten was one of 16 miss-matched little moggies that had been abandoned in the dead of winter on their back doorstep, in cardboard boxes. They had just finished all their medical treatments, and were now cleared for adoption, and several of them would be more than suitable...would we please come down and have a look?

Yeah, we drove the hour and a half the very next day...all while responsibly telling each other that we weren't going to bring anything home that wasn't absolutely a perfect fit for our existing cat, Spunk (who is a very rambunctious 17lb gentle giant).

Only to find this scrawny, patchy looking black kitten as soon as we walked through the door. He cuddled with our daughter, rubbed imperiously against my husband for scritches and pets, and chased a fluffy ball with my daughter's boyfriend, all while the attendant told me in all earnestness that he had never really shown any inclination in socializing with people, they had never been able to entice him to play, though he cuddled all the other cats at the shelter.

Yeah, I was signing the papers ten minutes later. The poor dear was so badly malnourished when they got him, that they could only guess as to his age - they think 10 months, but could be 6, or even 14... he was skin and bones, had been through every parasite and flea treatment known to man.

Three weeks later, and I am happy to report that he and Spunk are inseparable. Jareth's fur has filled in, and become soft; he's put on a bit of weight, his pads are no longer dry and flaking and he actually trusts us enough to be picked up, which was something he absolutely would not tolerate for quite a while.

He's charmed everyone he meets, with his busy and affectionate personality, and having him potting around with me has gone a long way in soothing my spirit, and helped me get my creative muse back and to get this chapter out. He is that special.

As are all of you! You make this all worthwhile, and I appreciate all of your support