Chapter Text
Pain or love or danger
makes you real again.
— Jack Kerouac
On the slopes of Erebor, spring was slowly edging into summer. Verdant moss and lichen of all descriptions covered the rock walls, wildflowers bloomed in the deep valleys and peeked out from underneath craggy monoliths.
The dwarves from Thorin's Company had been floating the idea of a hiking trip with varied degrees of enthusiasm for ages. All of them were eager for a taste of those golden days when they only had to worry about orcs and wargs and a distant dragon rather than mining discipline, or dealing with human merchants, or any number of small nuisances that emerged when somebody took thousands of stubborn dwarves from different clans and made them live together in an enclosed space.
When Ori had offered to organize an outing for the Company, including such pastimes as bathing in a frigid mountain lake, doing a spot of hunting, and sleeping under the stars like free males (and one female) unfettered by the chains of duty, he'd met with enthusiastic agreement. As the months progressed and the daily nuisances ground on everyone's nerves more and more, the promised outing became the single ray of hope in a tedious existence for the former members of the Company. It had many names: Get Me Out Of The Mountain Before I Kill Somebody Over Invoices was only one of them. If I Have To Mediate One More Bloody Dispute About Goats I Shall Raze This Mountain To The Ground, See If I Don't, was Thorin's version. There were other, more creative ones in Khuzdûl. Your ears had gone very red when Thorin had attempted a rough translation.
All in all, you were happy and looking forward to the future.
And then came The Row. In hindsight, it had been naive to think that you and Thorin would never argue just because you were madly in love with each other. Even the best couples argued occasionally.
But not like this. Not like this. Because a relationship could only withstand one argument like this before it was irreparably damaged. Sometimes not even that.
It had started so innocuously too.
* * *
"If you won't take me with you, will you at least talk to Thranduil about Tauriel?"
Tauriel was still in exile and you wanted Thorin to intervene with Thranduil on her behalf. He was having none of it. You'd tried again and again to make him see reason, but he wouldn't budge. Tonight was the eve of his departure to Mirkwood, and you'd wanted to have a quiet meal together, followed by some spectacular sex.
Instead you were both sitting stiffly at the table, eyeing each other in tense silence over an excellent but swiftly cooling dinner.
Thorin's hand clenched around his napkin. "No."
The ten times you'd asked the same question before, his answer had been considerably longer. His patience was exhausted. Well, too bad. Yours was too.
You closed your eyes and pictured his patient expression as he explained the reasoning behind his refusal to you for the hundredth time.
"Could you tell me why?"
He sighed. "Again?"
"Again."
"She pointed an arrow at her king, Y/N. Her king."
"She was worked up."
Thorin gave you a pitying look. "She is hundreds of years old. She's been the captain of his guard for longer than I've been alive. She had absolutely no excuse."
"She was trying to get him to help you!"
You could see the moment his patience snapped. His face grew cold, gaining that regal disdain that he had previously never, ever directed at you. "Then pointing an arrow at his face was a singularly moronic way to go about it. Not even Dwalin forgot himself enough to draw a weapon on me when he confronted me in my gold sickness. Exile is a mild punishment for such a transgression."
You leaned forward, incensed. "Would you rather he'd executed her?"
"I would have." Seeing your look of horror, he reined in his temper with an effort and qualified his statement. "You are not a warrior, love. The very first thing you are taught is that you do not draw a weapon unless you mean to kill. And she drew on her king, in front of his guards. What is to stop the next hothead with an axe to grind from following her example?"
You sighed. This was going nowhere. He had made up his mind, and you knew him well enough to understand he wouldn't budge, at least not at the moment. But Tauriel was one of the most amazing people you knew. It was patently unfair that her life should be ruled by a single mistake, however grievous.
You raised your pleading gaze to Thorin's. "If you won't talk to Thranduil, at least let her live part-time in Erebor. For Kíli, if nothing else."
"And condone her behavior, however obliquely? Endanger the treaty? No."
"Kíli loves her. Don't you care about his happiness?"
"He seems happy enough to me. He can visit her in Dale if the mood strikes him."
"When? You keep him so busy he barely sleeps."
Thorin shrugged. "He's a prince. He must learn the ropes. Even if he never becomes king, a position such as Balin's will be his eventually. What would you have me do?"
"Give him a little leeway? Allow her to visit him at least? Something."
"He'll live." Seeing your face, he added, "They will not be separated forever. If his feelings remain strong, he may visit her as often as he likes. In a few years' time perhaps more, but definitely not now. The arrangement with Mirkwood is volatile as it is."
You gritted your teeth in frustration. "You're a heartless bastard, do you know that?"
He pushed back his chair and stood up, gripping the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip as he leaned forward.
"I am a king, as I keep needing to remind you. Unlike you, I do not have the luxury of wallowing in misplaced compassion."
You saw red. You jumped up, slapping your hands on the table as you mirrored his stance. "Misplaced compassion? Then maybe I'm the wrong queen for you. Seeing as I'm so soft."
Thorin gave you an incredulous look. "Are you threatening to end our betrothal? Over this?"
This was dangerous territory.
A small voice at the back of your mind urged you to apologize. He was right; placing your relationship in the balance was the worst sort of emotional blackmail. It was wrong on so many levels. But then you thought of Kíli, pining hopelessly behind that cheerful facade, and reason died a swift death.
You straightened and turned away from the table, away from Thorin's too-perceptive gaze. "I don't know," you whispered.
Thorin said nothing for a long minute. When you next heard his voice, it was right behind your shoulder. "Is this what I am to expect whenever you cannot sway me to your opinion?" he asked quietly. "Insults and threats?"
You wrapped your arms around yourself as tightly as they would go. You were confused and hurt, angry and frightened at the same time. "I don't know," you repeated.
When you turned to look at him, you paled. He looked as if he'd been slapped. Conflicting emotions passed over his features. Affection. Disappointment. Resolve. And then a deep, knowing sadness.
"Think on it, then. Take your time. Before you say something you cannot take back."
And then he simply left, closing the door quietly behind him.
You pressed a fist to your mouth and cried.
Thorin didn't return to the bedroom, and when you finally swallowed your pride enough to search him out, you were told he'd already left.