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They say Prince Fili’s pony has got hooves covered in solid gold.
They say his braided hair and moustache has real golden thread woven into them and his knives are incrusted with jewels so precious that the thieves purposefully put themselves in their way.
They say he trains by fighting with twenty dwarves simultaneously and always wins.
They say King Thorin, as well as both his heirs are not allowed into the treasury of their own kingdom on the pain of death, by the order of the king himself.
They say Erebor will never again be without a ruler and the Durin’s line will never end – for the kingdom, although officially lead by one king, actually submits to the rule of Four, each capable of overturning the decrees of the others. Four, who act as one.
Lyrion could barely contain his excitement as he put on his most valuable and ornate tunic, fantastic visions of the legendary kingdom filling his head.
It’s been decades since Erebor was retaken and although Durin’s folk were still rebuilding their kingdom, the stories of gold flowing out of the Lonely Mountain were widely circulated.
It was like a whole new age came for the dwarves, even those living in small and remote kingdoms such as his own. There was an air of respect now, and curiosity, when he walked among men, and with the royal visit fast approaching, there was an opportunity too.
Lyrion dreamt of restoring the former glory of his own people – after all, if Erebor could do it, they could do it.
And was it really so unthinkable that the two Princes a mere fifty years apart in age could go hunting together and sitting side by side at the great banqueting halls?
Even if one of them seemed to have walked straight out of a legend.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Lyrion was starting to lose hope when the hooves finally thundered in the courtyard. The retinue was late and the court was tired of waiting; there were already whispers of disrespect and impudence.
There was commotion and the young prince finally lost his patience. Eyes shining with excitement, he looked to his father for permission. The king sighed, but gave him a tight nod and Lyrion bolted up the stairs into the gallery with a balcony facing the courtyard.
The riders rolled in in full gallop, circling around the tight space a couple of times to ease the ponies out of their momentum. This seemed odd and strangely undignified, but Lyrion supposed they were late. He squinted and tried to make out their leader.
Even from where he was, there was no mistaking the Heir of Erebor. He rode a magnificent beast with a dark, shining coat, on top of a high riding saddle, ornate-looking stirrups and gilded harness. The royal crest adorned the rims of his fur-lined coat, golden markings etched into his thick belt and around his heavy boots. With a pang of disappointment Lyrion noticed that the pony’s hooves were not, in fact, covered in gold.
Prince Fili wore a simple, but evocative battle-crown of Erebor. His trademark blonde hair was lighter shade than Lyrion expected, like a sun at noon, but elaborately braided and with golden clasps. Again, he could see no golden thread, but perhaps he was stood too far to notice such a fine detail. His beard though looked magnificent – some of it also braided and cascading all the way to his belt.
So engrossed he was in studying the royal attire that Lyrion missed the most obvious thing until the commotion erupted, Prince’s guards jumping off their horses and rushing to his side.
There was a long arrow with black feathers buried deep in the dwarf’s side. Prince Fili swore particularly un-kingly-like in Khuzdul, snapped the shaft between his fingers and collapsed off the saddle and into the waiting arms of his men.
Lyrion gasped. “Father, he’s –“
He was interrupted by the deep grunt of the enormous wooden door being pushed open by a single guard from Prince Filis’ group, two other dwarves carrying their leader inside behind him.
“We need help!” the rider marched into the Great Hall as if he owned the place.
Nobody moved. The golden rays of the setting sun flooded the Hall, until Lyrion could see tiny specks of dust floating in the air.
“Medic! Now! My Lord has been gravely injured!”
The spell had been broken. Orders were shouted, servants moved, courtiers descended into urgent conversations.
Lyrion moved like a recoiling spring. Within moments he was at the Prince’s side, eager to do something, eager to at least meet the dwarf before it was too late.
“Come on, old friend! You’ve had worse than this, you’ll pull through,” the guard was saying, one arm around his injured master’s shoulders, the other tearing off his own helmet.
“What happened?!” Lyrion demanded, using the hem of his best tunic to try and stop the bleeding.
“We were ambushed on the road. We fought of course, but it was a well-organised band of orcs, at least thirty in number. They chased us all the way to the city gates,” the guard reported grimly.
Prince Fili coughed violently and spat out some blood. Only now did they notice a smaller arrow, perhaps from a cross-bow, lodged in his back, just under his shoulder blade. Lyrion cursed under his breath. He didn’t know much about healing, but he was sure that this much blood was nothing good.
“We… agreed,” Prince Fili rasped, “you would not… apologise.”
“We agreed no harm would come to you,” the other replied, his face tight with worry.
“No,” the wounded coughed again, “that’s what you agreed… in your heart. I heard no such promise when I… agreed to this.”
“You’re a friend. I thought it was a given,” he tried for a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Then best… you avenge me… as one,” the dwarf shuddered and arched up violently for a moment before his body froze and his breath stilled.
It was at that moment that Lyrion noticed the guard’s hair. It was also blonde, but closer in shade to honey, looking more natural where the loose strands slipped free of his pony tail and framed his face. He wore simple garments of a royal guard, dusty from the road and splattered with black blood in places, but his eyes held unusual intelligence. His plain boots looked better quality than those of the others and Lyrion could now see some of the many throwing knives concealed among his garments.
The healers arrived just in time to pronounce the death or the Royal Heir, causing the murmurs in the room to erupt into full-blown panicked cries and wailing. Even his father looked pale as a sheet, as he kept repeating: “On my land he died. Attacked on my roads…”
But Lyrion didn’t care for any of that. Instead his eyes were trained on the simple road-weary guard, who closed his friend’s eyes and slowly rose to his feet, straightening with more pride than befitted a soldier.
“I am Fili, son of Dis, nephew to the King under the Mountain and the Heir to the throne of Erebor,” his voice was calm, but it cut through the cacophony like steel.
The throne room froze, all eyes locked on the single figure standing in front of the king.
“I salute you, Delion, the Great King of Nargothrond, the River Fortress, your son Lyrion, and all your people. I have come to discuss trade arrangements between our two kingdoms. But first I ask for your blessing, Sire, for I am about to hunt down some orcs.”
*~*~*~*~*~*
The hunting party returned in the early morning hours and it was agreed that all official business would be postponed until the afternoon. They had their wounded – both among the Erebor dwarves and the escort the king provided for them – but no dead. The same could not be said about their enemy, judging by the amount of black blood on their ponies and armour.
“Books,” Prince Fili was saying, finally dressed in robes befitting his status. “Those are our main objective, though we will consider every proposal.”
“Whatever do you need them for?” Lyrion and his father quickly learned that flattery wasn’t getting them anywhere; it was honesty and relevance that were allowing the talks to progress quickly and smoothly.
They were pleased to be offered the same courtesy in return.
“Knowledge,” the blond dwarf patiently explained. “Your people belong to an ancient and proud bloodline. We believe that much of the skill and techniques lost in Erebor when the Royal Library was burnt down can still be found here.”
This was not a reply Lyrion was expecting. If the dwarves of Nargothrond were once proud of their learning, it was no longer so.
And yet, somehow, Erebor saw value where his own people did not.
“Your forefathers knew how to forge a metal stronger than steel, which would not melt or even heat up when treated with fire,” Prince Fili continued. “We wish to learn this secret. I will not have our people robbed of our homeland again, when another Drake from the North decides to pay us a visit.”
“It’s unattainable,” his father sat back. “We’ve tried. Either this skill is lost forever, or it has always been a myth.”
“Aye, but you have not tried in the great forges of Erebor.”
The king glared. “I am telling you: it cannot be forged, no matter what burning inferno you cast it into. But if you wish to waste your time on a fool’s errand –“
“It is but one of the many secrets we seek. We’d like to explore your library, if you allow it.”
“Under what conditions?” Lyrion couldn’t help his own curiosity.
The prince sent him an approving look.
“Ori!” he motioned for one of his companions to come closer. “My friend here will need a few days to review your collections. Those volumes that he deems of value to us will be catalogued and transported back to Erebor. For each book we take, we will pay you ten times its weight in gold.”
“Your offer is unfair,” his father pointed out calmly, “for every unique item you manage to produce using my people’s legacy will be worth far more than that.”
“I thought you believed those items unattainable,” Prince Fili gave them one of his easy smiles and somehow Lyrion didn’t feel offended. “The books will be copied in Erebor and returned to you in the spring. Then you will be free to try and decipher them yourselves and whatever secrets you learn, you may use however you wish,” he continued. “Meanwhile you will have enough gold to re-kindle your own forges, as well as your trade.”
“But we’ve only a modest selection,” Lyrion tried to think like a strategist. “Why come to us?”
“Indeed, yours is but one of the collections Erebor has sought out.” Prince Fili admitted, sitting back in his chair. “It is true that we have gold enough, but it hardly matters, if it isn’t being used. Wealth in itself brings nothing but misery and calamity – I have been there to witness it first-hand. But trade… Trade is the bloodline of the dwarven culture and the means to its prosperity; not just for my people, but for all. And knowledge and skill are the heart that pumps it.”
If this was how kingdoms were re-built and history was written, Lyrion couldn’t say he understood it completely. A sword or an axe, those he preferred over a pen any day, and he would have dearly liked to have been included in the orc-hunting party last night.
But there was something… something about this dwarf, who appeared to appreciate both, that made him feel uneasy about sitting across the table from Erebor’s Heir instead of alongside him.
“Twenty times,” Lyrion’s father demanded. “By your own admission, you have gold enough.”
Prince Fili looked pleased. “Twenty times, and a well maintained line of ravens between our two kingdoms. It is good to know the news from the far corners quicker than the others do.”
“Deal.”
*~*~*~*~*~*
Fili watched Nori sneak along the corridors, quiet as a cat, as he made his way through the guest wing they’ve been assigned. The older, ginger dwarf had a look about him; a look which pronounced with undeniable certaintly that Nori had just bedded something. To Fili, he was utterly transparent.
Fili had changed out of the royal robes and into a much preferred attire of a simple, linen shirt and loose-fitting trousers, before perching on a high windowsill, where nobody bothered him, as he smoked his pipe.
However much he needed to be the competent heir earlier, the air was still heavy with melancholy and Fili chose to keep his own company for a while.
Nori found him all the same; it was hardly the first time he’d ignored Fili’s wishes.
“One day you’ll get in trouble for seducing the royal heirs, you know,” Fili offered, as his spymaster sank into the darkness that Fili had claimed as his own.
“One day you won’t need the power it gives me,” Nori shot back.
Fili only shook his head; Nori wouldn’t have gone where he wasn’t keenly wanted.
“He reminds me of Kili, when he was his age,” he continued instead. “Giddy with excitement, wildly impressionable and so full of ideas that he can’t sleep at night. And our dreams weren’t nearly as big as this lad’s.”
“You miss him,” the spy commented neutrally, reaching a hand upwards, expectantly.
Fili wordlessly passed him his pipe, watching the other dwarf light his own from the embers and take a satisfying drag.
“You know I do,” he said quietly.
“It’s nearly winter; he’ll be back soon,” Nori pointed out, returning the pipe. “He’s always back. But what do I know? I can’t pretend to understand your crazy, co-dependant hearts. You know my argument: if you’re stirring for a fuck you should just bed someone and be done with it.”
“Like you do?” Fili arched an incredulous eyebrow.
Nori ignored the quiet challenge. “You know how I hate goodbyes.”
“Aye,” Fili agreed and let the comfortable silence hang between them for a long moment. “It was good, Nori. He would have liked it. And we have avenged his memory, he will sleep easy now.”
It sounded like he was trying to convince himself, not the spy. The whole idea of a body double sat ill at ease with him. He understood the need to protect the royal bloodline, but he didn’t want anybody else risking their life in his place. He could take care of himself.
But Thorin had insisted and now his stubbornness saved Fili’s life.
“You’ve done the right thing, you know,” Nori said a’propos of nothing. “For thirty years we’ve been all over Arda, with one diplomatic mission or another. It was going to happen sooner or later.”
“Thorin will want another. I’m not sure I’m ready for another.”
“You know they were close to working out the New Mithril formula before we left. Perhaps there could be five mail shirts, instead of four,” Nori suggested, as if he wasn’t just describing the most closely-guarded state secret.
Fili stared. The Four each wore their own, which constituted every single ounce of the original Mithril found in any object in Erebor. It had saved their lives a dozen times over, and now, after over a decade of work, they were finally close to creating their own blend of minerals that might be smelted into more of the precious metal.
None of which Nori was supposed to be aware of.
His friend patted Fili’s knee in a soothing gesture. “Let it never be said that I don’t appreciate the value of your little book-collecting hobby, lad.”
Safe in his darkness, Fili rolled his eyes. For a moment he watched his spymaster yawn, stretch, tap out his pipe and move towards his chambers.
“Nori,” he called after him. “If it works out, there will be at least ten; it takes more than the Four to run the Mountain.”
*~*~*~*~*~*
It wasn’t quite the noise that woke Fili; it was a feeling.
Fortunately, Fili knew better than to second-guess his own instincts, however subtle.
His simple throwing knife sailed right through the open window and bounced harmlessly off the roof tiles below.
“Honestly brother, it’s a good thing you don’t have any liaisons, or they would all be ending tragically.”
It was re-assuring to see that despite all his skill and experience, Kili’s face retained the same stupidly surprised expression whenever he managed to dodge or deflect some missile aimed at his face.
“No. I just have you,” Fili pretended to scowl and the hooded figure, “climbing in through my windows. Once, just once you could try using the door.”
“I use the door all the time when we’re at home!” Kili protested.
“Only because there are no windows under the Mountain.”
Kili grinned and came to him like the summer rain: all at once, overwhelming and very, very welcome. Stripping him was a joint effort, but eager hands made light work, until Fili had him mostly out of his simple, travelling clothes and exactly where he wanted him: pinned to his bed.
“You’re back early,” Fili rumbled in between kisses, heavily invested in enjoying his unexpected gift.
“I was on my way; you happened to have ventured in the right direction.”
“Still early,” Fili evaluated, looking up from where he was half way down Kili’s chest.
“I missed you too,” Kili’s lips quirked upwards.
Fili let it go.
For a while they gave each other over to pleasure. It was never easy on them: the months they spent apart, away from the Mountain, however vibrant the correspondence they maintained. It hadn’t been easy to begin with either; took Fili years to admit that their skillsets were complimentary, but not the same. They each practiced a different kind of diplomacy: Fili, more overt, Kili, almost entirely covert. They made it work, asked few permission, took many decisions instead, and found ways to never hold anything above each other.
For all they have become, their people would have been surprised to know just how often Two out of Four could be found alone in the woods, sharing a campfire.
“So? What news?” Fili’s hands caught the last of Kili’s shivers, soothed them, returning each as a pleasant caress.
“No. Tonight is for me; for us.”
Fili pushed himself off the pillows. “You’re going back out?”
“No. I know all I’ve wanted to know for now.”
“Then there will be other nights to enjoy; I’ve concluded my business here. We’ll go back to the Mountain, take our customary three months off, spend the winter together, like we always do.”
Kili’s dark eyes met Fili’s blue. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to.”
Fili’s hands stilled along his brother’s spine.
Kili sighed, pressed a kiss over Fili’s heart. “Something stirs in the East. They won’t give it a name, but Gandalf is worried.”
“You rode with him for a while,” Fili remembered one of the letters.
“To Lorien,” Kili confirmed.
“How’s the Witch?”
The corners of Kili’s eyes creased in amusement for a moment. When it came to the elves, unlike Thorin, Fili could be civil, but only Kili could be friendly.
“Fair, mysterious, very dramatic.”
Fili snorted.
“Whatever Tharkun believes, she senses it too. He told me to strengthen our defences, Fili. And there’s more: I think the Easterlings are preparing to move.”
“That’s why you’re back early,” Fili connected the dots.
Kili didn’t respond, merely pressed another kiss over Fili’s heart.
“What do you need?” Fili simply asked, because right now Kili was best equipped to make decisions.
“Re-affirm our alliances, share what we know, send our scouts. Iron Hills, Grey Mountains, Esgaroth and Dale. Gather supplies, in case it comes to a siege.”
Fili nodded, taking mental notes to send the ravens in the morning, while Kili appeared to consider something else.
“There was a ring,” his brother picked up finally. “It belonged to our grandfather - a big, ugly thing. It was said to hold power. I’d like to see it.”
“I imagine uncle Thorin has it somewhere,” Fili considered. “Why do you need it?”
“Because I think we need to destroy it.”
*~*~*~*~*~*
Lyrion watched the party pack the last of their carts, double-checking the volumes they were borrowing.
To the young prince, the whole thing felt terribly anti-climactic: there had been no joined hunts whatsoever and merely one banquet to share. It was over before it had properly begun.
Granted, the visit had been fruitful: there were four new deals now in place, aside from the book-borrowing one, a return invitation to Erebor, and a splendid gift of a gilded dagger, forged by Prince Fili himself.
There was also a gorgeous and exotic dwarf who’d graced Lyrion’s bed, groomed to perfection and highly attentive. The prince had a whole new host of fantasies featuring said dwarf, some of which he wouldn’t have been able to begin imagining a week ago.
“How would you like to make a name for yourself?” Lyrion nearly jumped when Prince Fili’s pony came to a stop in front of him.
“Depends what name it is,” he squinted upwards.
Prince Fili sent him a friendly smile. “Great response, for a prince.”
And then he winked.
The dwarf on Lyrion’s very carefully maintained pedestal suddenly acquired almost mortal-like qualities. Being on the receiving end of such a wink felt both alarming and elating in equal measures.
Seemingly oblivious of the revolution he’d just caused, the Heir of Durin leaned down low to pat his pony on the neck.
“Keep a wary eye to the East,” he murmured low enough only for Lyrion to hear. “Gather your allies. If the need arises… Nori will have shown you the code. Though I can make you no promises – your kingdom lies far to the South of the Lonely Mountain.”
In the space of a few simple sentences Erebor gained a new ally, more devoted than any oaths of allegiance ever could. He was going to be ready, Lyrion thought seriously, watching the Ereboreans leave among the billowing dust, through the gates and down the North Road.
Only one thing puzzled him: there had been twenty riders with the Prince when they first arrived. There were twenty riders with him still.
*~*~*~*~*~*