Chapter Text
The halls of Nida Fells are bustling with excited energy as dwarves rush frantically back and forth. They’re preparing for the coming arrival and celebrations, some carrying red gold platters stacked high with pickled and dried meats, delicacies of the Ironfists. Others have decorations draped in their arms, all of which are made of the same red gold and encrusted with shining garnets and rubies. The chambers and banquet hall are so festooned with the colour red that they resemble a warm sunrise, or perhaps a burning fire pit, the gemstones glittering like tiny beads of blood.
In his private quarters, Fíli can barely sit still for excitement. He shifts and turns in his seat, twisting his head to catch glimpses of the passing activity through the heavy oak doors which stand ajar. Standing over him, Ori tuts in annoyance and barely suppresses a roll of his eyes as Fíli’s wriggling once again rips the braid he’d been carefully finishing right out of his hands. He can’t feel too annoyed however, this is the happiest he’s seen Fíli in a long while. He’s missed seeing his prince smile.
“Would you sit still?” he chastises lightly. “I’ve done this one three times over already.”
Fíli glances at him, he smiles apologetically and settles down in his seat, but he sends furtive glances towards the open doorway each time he hears a passing set of footsteps.
“Do you think they’ll be here soon?” he asks Ori excitedly. “They must be beyond the mountain range by now.”
“It’s likely, the last raven they sent was three days ago and they were crossing the Carnen fork.” Ori says. He’s frowning down at the braid as he twists the strands into intricate knots, it has been a long while since they’ve needed the ceremonial braids and he’s finding it difficult reminding his fingers what to do. Finally, with a satisfied shout, he ties off the end and tucks errant strands into a gold clasp, the red sheen of the metal stands out against Fíli’s yellow hair, flashing like fiery sparks in the torchlight. “I’d say they’ll be here by early this afternoon if we’re lucky.”
“I hope so.”
Ori shifts round to Fíli’s other side and takes up a carefully selected section of hair and starts mirroring the intricate braid. “What do you think it will be like?” Fíli asks then, watching Ori in the mirror. “Seeing them again.”
Fíli says ‘them’, but Ori knows what he really means. What will it be like seeing him again? Kíli, his brother.
“Can’t say I know really,” Ori says honestly. He’s thought about it often enough himself, if he ever got the chance to see his brothers again, to hear Dori chastising him or one of Nori’s wonderfully lewd tales, what would it be like? It’s thoughts like that that have kept Ori going through some of the longer, lonelier nights, the faint hope that maybe, one day, he would see them again. “Strange I imagine, but a good type of strange.”
Fíli hums his agreement and falls quiet for a moment. Ori’s grateful just for the stillness so he can finish his work unimpeded.
“Mahal, Kíli will be close to full grown by now,” Fíli remarks suddenly. “Do you think he’ll have a beard?”
“If he’s anything like you, probably not. Yours didn’t come in ‘til your mid-fifties.” Oi says with a tug on Fíli’s braid. There had been a time when Ori would barely have dared say a word to Fíli never mind teasing so blatantly, but that had been a lifetime and many hundreds of miles ago. Things had changed, and these days, they were about all each other had. An uncharacteristic ease had grown between them, a complacency that could only be found through friendship.
“I bet he’s attractive,” Fíli continues like he never heard the teasing. “He always looked like he’d grow into a handsome dwarf.”
“No doubt,” Ori agrees. “He’s got the same Durin blood as you do.”
“And he had uncle’s dark hair. And mother’s dark eyes.” Fíli sits up suddenly and almost pulls the braid from Ori’s grasp. Ori clutches it with a cry and guides Fíli’s head back within reach. “Do you think mother will be with them?”
“I’m not sure, but I wouldn’t stack my hopes on it, better to be pleasantly surprised than disappointed.”
Fíli snorts and catches Ori’s eye in the mirror and they share a knowing, not altogether happy look. “Hardly. Not much can disappoint me now Ori. Nor can it you.”
“These braids disappoint me,” Ori corrects with a mournful sigh as he ties off the end and secures the second clasp. He steps back to survey Fíli’s profile in the mirror, narrowing his eyes critically. “They’re nothing like my normal ones, I’m sure I did them wrong somehow.”
Fíli gives his head a shake, letting the braids swing back and forth, the clasps glinting and flashing. “They look fine to me,” he comments, patting at them. “Perfect.”
“Thank you but it’s not true.” Ori sighs again. “But they’ll have to do.” He sets a hand on the prince’s shoulder and gives it a brief squeeze. “If you finish getting ready, Sindri requested a moment of your time before their arrival.”
Almost instantly, Fíli’s expression flattens. Ori can pinpoint the exact moment that the light goes out of his eyes, leaving them briefly dead. “Did he?” he asks and all enthusiasm has left his voice. “Do you know why?”
Ori shakes his head, that, he doesn’t know. “I suppose just to talk you through tomorrow’s proceedings,” he guesses. Or at least, he hopes that’s all it is.
Fíli nods his head, he rises carefully from his seat and takes the robes spread out over the bed, pulling them over his head and patting them into place. Ori helps him straighten them over his shoulders until the blood red clasp is positioned directly over his heart.
Fíli smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, not properly. “Well,” he says. “The sooner we see him the sooner it’s over and we can look forward to the rest of the day. Are you ready?”
They had crested the peaks of the Red Mountains that morning and with their descent into Rhun, Kíli’s spirits had soared. Ahead of them, he can see the grand entrance of Nida Fells, twin statues almost as grand as those of Erebor cut into the red rock, two great dwarven sentries glaring out over the Rhun sea.
The air is warm here, the climate hot and humid and sweat gathers under his armour, making the leather chafe uncomfortably and causing beads of sweat to roll down over his brow. Overhead he can hear the eerie shriek of seabirds; it’s a sound Kíli has never heard before. Nor has he ever seen the sea and he can’t help but marvel at how it stretches out endlessly into the horizon. The water seems to glitter bright blue under the sun like hundreds and thousands of sapphires.
Kíli wonders what Fíli must have thought when he first saw the sea all those years ago.
The thought that finally, after so long, he is sharing the same sights and sounds as his brother is exhilarating and he watches the stone sentries intently, knowing that each step they march is drawing him closer to Fíli.
He was so young when Fíli had left; his memories are vague and have been reduced to but a series of moments. A scattered timeline leading up to the day.
He remembers the night after Fíli first showed signs of presenting as Omega. No one had expected it, not from a child of the Durin line, but the signs had been undeniable, the heir was no longer fit to rule.
Kíli had been too young to understand the full implications of that day. To him, Fíli was still the same dwarfling he had always been, his beloved older brother who would pile their blankets on top of each other when the nights were cold and curl around him, cocooning him with his warmth. The brother who would tease him and scold him in turn but would always be there with a hug when he was upset or hurt, ready to kiss away his tears.
That night it had been Fíli who had been crying, desperate broken sobs as he hugged Kíli close and rocked them back and forth, hidden from sight under their blankets.
“What’s the matter?” Kíli had asked, he remembered feeling annoyed, he didn’t understand the tears and they frightened him and he remembered feeling cross with Fíli like he was at fault. “It’s just dumb King stuff, ignore it.”
Fíli had laughed through the tears, breathless and choked and he’d kissed Kíli on the brow, hugging him tighter. “I wish I could, Kíli,” he’d said sounding mournful. “But it’s all going to be different now.”
Kíli hadn’t wanted to believe him that night, how could it be different? Fíli was the same, they were both the same.
But things did change. Before long, they began hearing talk in the halls, muffled conversations that were obviously meant to be kept from them. There was talk of politics and alliances, of what was to be done with an Omega presenting heir.
Kíli hadn’t any idea what any of it meant so he ignored it, but he could tell that Fíli grew more tense with every bit of information that drifted to them. He played less, laughed less willingly, he spent more and more time locked away in their room reading and writing. Kíli couldn’t understand any of it; that was the kind of thing they had to do for lessons, not for fun.
Thorin began requesting Fíli’s presence without Kíli. Again Kíli didn’t understand, surely whatever Thorin needed to say to Fíli he needed to say to Kíli too. He never found out what went on in those meetings, all he knew was that when Fíli returned from them, he was tense and solemn and oftentimes his eyes were red like he’d been crying. He’d never tell Kíli why.
The night before Fíli left, he sat Kíli down and he had looked at him with eyes that were older than they had any right to be. “I’m going to be going away, Kíli,” he’d said, gentle yet firm.
“What do you mean, can I come too?”
“No Kíli, you can’t come. You need to stay here.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
“I don’t want to go either but I have to.” Fíli’s expression had darkened with childish anger. Kíli had started to cry.
“Thorin’s making you go isn’t he?” he’d wailed. “I hate him!”
And then Fíli’s expression had softened, he’s pulled Kíli into a hug, stroking fingers through his hair. “No don’t blame Thorin, it’s not his fault.”
“Then why do you have to go? Who’s making you?”
“Thorin will explain to you when you’re older and you can understand better.”
“I can understand now.” Kíli remembers getting angry, driving his fists into his knees and scrunching his face up so Fíli was only a vague blurry image through his tears. “No one ever tells me what’s going on, just tell me please!”
Fíli had sighed; he’d pressed his mouth against the top of Kíli’s head. “You remember when I presented as Omega?” Kíli nodded tearily. “Well it’s because of that. I have to go away because while I’m no longer fit to be heir, I still have my duties. It’s not fair Kíli and I hate it but we can’t do anything about it. Now listen to me because this is important.” Fíli held Kíli out at arm’s length and waited until Kíli had wiped his eyes of the tears and was staring back at him. “You’re going to be ok. There’s no doubt that you’re Alpha so you will be heir.”
“You’re heir,” Kíli had said shaking his head and his lower lip quivered with renewed tears. “I don’t want to be heir!”
“You will be and you’ll be brilliant, better than I ever would have been. You’ll make Thorin proud, alright?”
“Please don’t go Fíli. Please, I love you.”
Fíli shook his head, unshed tears glistened in his eyes and he pulled Kíli back in, wrapping him in a fierce hug. “I love you Kíli,” he said into Kíli’s hair. “I love you so much, remember that ok?”
The next day, Kíli remembers meeting Sindri for the first time. This strange, monstrous dwarf with long course hair and skin that was tanned and leathery from the sun. He had appeared from the East with a small army of dwarves and had left with his brother half hidden under his possessive arm. Ori had left with them, acting as aide to the prince.
Kíli remembers standing on the outer walls of Erebor and watching his brother ride out and he remembers that it was then that he realised that Fíli would never again be his brother. He had lost him.
“You will stay by my side for the duration of the banquet,” Sindri is telling Fili as he leans back in his throne. It is, of course, made of red gold inlaid with gemstones. “Remember, you are an Ironfist now, not a Longbeard.”
“Yes, my liege.” Fíli stands before Sindri on the steps of the great throne room. A small figure of yellow hair in a sea of wealth and extravagance. He keeps his head bowed and his hands clasped behind his back, remaining placid, agreeable.
It’s to be his crowning day, the day he officially becomes consort to the King of the Ironfists, a day that coincides with the sixty fifth anniversary of his birth. The day is going to be primarily all about Fíli, with the crowning ceremony and the series of banquets and celebrations that are planned to stretch long into the following evening – when dwarves celebrate, they don’t do it by halves, sometimes festivities can stretch on for days.
However, even though this day is about Fíli, he knows not to draw undue attention to himself, he knows not to be disagreeable.
“Do you know what you are to do and say?”
Fíli bows his head in affirmation, together with Ori he has been reciting his vows for weeks, determined to get them perfect. Sindri nods, satisfied. “When you have finished, you will take your seat to my left.” He pauses and a curious look passes over his sharp features. “Tell me, have you shown signs of your first season yet?”
Fíli shakes his head, keeping his eyes down. “No, my liege.” Even without looking, he can feel Sindril’s disappointment, but he remains quiet, waiting to be dismissed.
“Very well,” Sindri says gruffly, waving a hand lavishly decorated with rings. “Out of my sight.”
Fíli turns, glancing at Ori as he starts his descent; however Sindri’s voice stops him again. “And Fíli, have your aide redo your braids. You look a mess.”
Fíli nods once and then continues down the stairs, Ori falling into place behind him as they pass through the throne room.
Thorin rides front, watching the encroaching gates with severity. His pony picks its way uncertainly over the unfamiliar ground, lurching forwards as the sand gives way under its hooves. Thorin reaches down, patting a calloused hand to its shaggy neck, guiding it higher onto the path so they’re walking over the grassy banks.
They should be arriving at the gates within the hour; it would have been sooner if the treacherous path winding along the edges of the cliff face hadn’t slowed their procession so much. The marching dwarves are forced now to file along two abreast, sometimes in single file on narrower sections. Thorin is grateful that the surefootedness of their mountain ponies has allowed them to still carry their supplies, that at least has saved them some time and effort.
He hears footsteps, dull and muffled by the sand, approaching him and he turns to find Kíli picking his way over the path to walk beside Thorin’s pony.
Kíli has no mount, he is training to lead the guard and has insisted while he does so, he will receive no princely privileges. He will be treated as equally as the rest of the soldiers which means that when they travel, he will travel by foot. That stubborn streak is an aspect of Kíli that both impresses Thorin and frustrates him in equal measures. His sister son is as hard headed as any dwarf with Durin blood.
“There are riders approaching from the gates,” Kíli tells him and Thorin nods slowly, he had seen them too, had estimated that they would be meeting them where the path widens, just at the foot of the two dwarven statues.
“Make sure that everyone is dressed appropriately for when we greet them,” Thorin tells his nephew. He hadn’t missed the fact that gradually pieces of armour had been slipped from shoulders and sleeves and stockings rolled up to try and stave off the maddening heat of the sun. Until now Thorin had turned a blind eye to it, aware of the oppressive itch of sweat that drips between his own shoulder blades. But he’s determined that Durin’s Folk will be as respectable and proud as possible when greeting their allies.
Kíli nods once, but he is frowning.
“What is it?” Thorin asks. Kíli glances at him, for a moment confused, and then his expression softens as he purses his lips. “I’m thinking about Fíli,” he admits.
“You’re eager to see him.”
“Yes of course,” Kíli nods and laughs briefly, then he shrugs. “But nervous too I guess. What if it feels strange? What if he doesn’t recognise me? I’ve changed so much…”
“You’ve grown, that is all, Kíli, you haven’t changed.” Thorin looks down at his nephew. Kíli’s walking close beside him to keep from the dangerous lip of the path, every few steps his shoulder knocks against Thorin’s thigh. “I have no doubt that your brother will recognise you.”
“I hope so,” Kíli says softly and for a moment Thorin sees Kíli for what he truly is; his youngest nephew, hopeful and scared and not as Kíli the heir and warrior in training.
Kíli has come so far and grown so well that Thorin feels nothing but pride for him. It hadn’t always been easy. For a long time after Fíli’s departure Thorin had been terribly worried for his youngest nephew.
For years after losing Fíli, Kíli had grown reckless and destructive, filled with anger that had no outlet because he had nowhere to direct it.
“Fíli told me not to blame you,” Kíli had told him once. “But I still hate you. I think you could have done something.”
Thorin had said nothing at the time, because honestly, he agreed with Kili. Letting Fíli go was a guilt that weighed heavily on his shoulders and would carry forever, just as he carried the deaths of his father and grandfather, just as he carried the death of Frerin.
To keep each of them with him and not let himself forget, not ever, was his own penance.
Thorin had been heartbroken when Fíli first presented as Omega, heartbroken and afraid because he knew then what life would be for Fíli, it would no longer be his own. No dwarf would follow an Omega king, keeping him as heir was out of the question. But whilst he would no longer be heir, he was still of value, perhaps more valuable than an heir. An Omega in any line of royalty is rare, not least one of the Durin line itself, others would want him. Once word got out all of the kings of the other clans would be wanting Fíli for their consort.
When Fíli first presented as Omega, he lost his identity and became a political asset.
Thorin can never forgive himself for allowing that. Kíli has since forgiven him and for the most part does not blame him, but Thorin knows his nephew has not forgotten, nor will Dís. Sometimes, even now, he will catch his sister watching him with this strange look on her face and it reminds him of that final night before Sindri had come for Fíli.
They’d been in his private study, Thorin sitting in front of the fire and Dís pacing behind him like a caged animal.
“You can’t mean to send him away!” Dís had cried, her braids were undone, her hair hanging wild around her face and her cheeks streaked with tears. “Just to—to sell him off like he’s no more than precious cargo!”
“It can’t be helped,” Thorin had told her, his head in his hands, trying to rub away a headache that had been with him for days. “You know this, if we refuse this deal there will be unrest amongst our clans, perhaps even war.”
“He’s just a child,” Dís had wailed, her heart was breaking for her son, just as Thorin’s heart broke for her. “He won’t even reach season for another twenty years.”
“I know, sister. But you know as well as I that we cannot put this off. Ever since he first presented this has been hanging over our heads.”
And Dís had looked at him with a wild, fierce glare. “You blame him, for being Omega. You think he’s less of a dwarf now and you’re angry with him!”
“I would never!” Thorin had shouted, then he fell quiet, reigning in his voice and his temper. “He is my nephew; I love him as dearly as you. If I could I would keep him here and have nothing change. But this is not about us, this is the sacrifice we have to make being of Durin line.”
“Durin line,” Dís spat. “What good is that?”
Thorin remained quiet. Normally, any dwarf who spoke ill of the Durin line, no matter their personal rank, would face punishment. It was testament of his love for his sister that he let it pass by.
“And what of Kíli? If he too presents as Omega what will come of him? Will you sell him off to the highest bidder too?”
“He won’t. You can see it too, Kíli will be Alpha. Perhaps we would have known earlier that Fíli would be Omega if we had only thought to look.”
Dís let out a broken sob; she crumpled down onto the floor, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. “My son,” she cried wretchedly. “He’s my son.”
Thorin had knelt down beside her and placed his hands on her shoulders, drawing his forehead close to her own. “I know,” he said softly and for the first time he let the sorrow he felt colour his words. “I know.”
Now, twenty years later, on the estranged Prince’s sixty fifth birthday, a year that is traditionally the age at which a dwarf first reaches season, Thorin can’t help but wonder himself what it will be like seeing Fíli again. He feels anticipation curdling in his belly. Kíli had told him that Fíli had understood and that he never blamed him, but what if all that has changed now?
Thorin shakes his head, distracting himself, he turns to Kíli. “Make sure everyone is ready,” he tells him.
Kíli nods once, firmly, and then he turns and picks his way back to the small troop of marching dwarves. Thorin hears his nephew shouting over the sound of the ocean and sea birds for them to rearrange their armour and he looks ahead to the small group of riders approaching them. He can see five, perhaps six, all wearing dark gold on their armour that burns red under the sun.