Archive of Our Own

Zhori, nâtha of Yori, stands before the tall arched window of her chambers, the cool stone floor pressing through the thin soles of her slippers. Below, the streets of Azsâlul'abad hum with life, hammer striking anvil in steady rhythm, merchants calling out their wares, carts rumbling over carved stone roads. Azsâlul'abad breathes industry and pride.

She sighs.

With slow, deliberate strokes, she combs her long bronze-brown hair, drawing the polished bone comb through the heavy strands until they fall like molten metal down her back. She works next through her beard, equally thick and carefully tended, braiding the ends with copper clasps engraved with her house’s sigil. When she finishes, she studies herself in the mirror.

Bronze eyes stare back, sharp, assessing, restless.

“Time to face the wolves,” she mutters to her reflection.

Her ‘adad has arranged another gathering of suitors. Another parade of polished armor and rehearsed compliments. Another evening of men pretending they see her.

She exhales sharply.

“I am a warrior first,” she says under her breath, flexing her fingers as though they itch for the weight of an axe. “A lady second. I hate these events.”

But she is nâtha of a noble house. And noble nâtha attend.

Her nana’, Inori, makes it look effortless. Inori with her serene smile and careful posture. Inori, who glides through conversations like a sword across a sharpening stone. Yet Zhori knows better.

Earlier, as servants laced their gowns, Inori had leaned close and whispered, “If one more suitor says I should be honored in being in their presence, I may accidentally spill wine on him.”

Zhori had snorted. “Spill the whole barrel.”

Inori’s lips twitched. “Tempting.”

They both despise these meetings, but for different reasons.

Zhori longs for the clang of steel, the roar of battle, the respect earned through sweat and blood. She is already a soldier of Azsâlul'abad, known for her precision and strength. She has no time for these frivolous matchmaking events.

Inori, on the other hand, wants something far more fragile, real affection. She wants to be looked at and seen. Not measured like a contract.

So the nanna’ endure.

For a time.

Zhori manages to last halfway through the evening’s spectacle before she slips away between dances, ignoring the scandalized look of one particularly perfumed suitor. She feels slightly guilty for leaving Inori alone.

“I’ll bring Inori something,” she murmurs as she descends the outer steps into the market district. “Something exquisite.”

The market streets welcome her like an old friend. Spices, fabrics, gemstones, laughter. No rehearsed politeness. No calculating eyes.

She moves through the crowd with ease, tall and broad-shouldered, her dress unable to fully disguise the powerful lines of her frame. Heads turn. They always do. Her beauty carries a mature edge, commanding rather than delicate.

She scans the stalls for something worthy of Inori.

And then—

She sees him.

Not a dress.

Him.

He stands behind a modest stall draped in fabrics of emerald, sapphire, and deep crimson. The materials are not the finest silk imported from distant realms, but the craftsmanship is undeniable. Intricate woven patterns ripple like mountain ranges and flowing lava.

He laughs at something a customer says, his voice warm and low.

Zhori forgets to breathe.

His hair, hematite black, gleams with an iridescent sheen as sunlight strikes it. Labradorite eyes flash with flecks of blue when he turns his head. His beard is styled with deliberate elegance: iron beads woven into precise hoops that draw the hair back, framing a strong jaw.

Tasteful. Refined. Confident without excess.

She has seen noble hairdos that resemble architectural disasters. His is art.

The customer leaves, clutching a folded dress and smiling in satisfaction.

Zhori moves.

She steps directly into his space, close enough that the scent of iron and clean linen reaches her. He startles, taking half a step back.

“Oh, hello there,” he says quickly, straightening. “Can I help you?”

He is nervous.

She notices everything, the way his fingers flex at his sides, the subtle widening of his eyes as he takes in her attire, her braids, the markers of nobility. And perhaps… her.

Zhori smiles slowly.

“I am looking for a dress for my nana’,” she says, her voice rich and measured. She steps closer still. “You see, I did something terrible to her. Quite terrible.”

His throat bobs as he swallows. “I—I see.”

“I abandoned her to a flock of suitors.”

A faint chuckle escapes him before he can stop it. “That does sound grave.”

“It is,” she agrees solemnly, though her eyes gleam. “I require something extraordinary. Something that says, ‘Forgive me for throwing you to the wolves.’”

He gestures to the dresses displayed. “We have many designs already woven. Or… I could customize one. Though we charge extra for custom work.”

“I would expect nothing less,” she replies smoothly. “She is particular.”

He nods, regaining a fraction of composure. “Then I would need her measurements. Preferred colors. Embellishments.”

Zhori tilts her head. “I can provide those.”

Silence lingers for a heartbeat.

“My name is Zhori,” she says at last, extending her hand in a firm, almost mannish offer. “And yours, handsome?”

His eyes flick to her hand, then back to her face.

“Vondal,” he replies, taking her hand carefully. His touch is warm and calloused from honest work. He bows slightly and presses his lips to her knuckles in polite greeting.

“At your service.”

Zhori’s smile widens, not delicate, not shy.

Predatory.

“Well then, Vondal at my service,” she murmurs, not withdrawing her hand just yet. “Let us design something unforgettable.”

After that first meeting, Zhori finds herself returning to Vondal’s stall again and again.

At first, she tells herself it is practical. Inori’s dress requires fittings. Adjustments. Embroidery decisions. A change of neckline. A different clasp.

But the visits continue long after the measurements are perfected.

She comes straight from training most days, the scent of steel and sweat still clinging to her. Her arms are flushed from exertion, the sleeves of her tunic rolled back to reveal thick biceps corded with muscle. Soldiers call farewells behind her as she leaves the barracks, and she does not bother to change before walking into the market.

Vondal always looks up the moment she approaches.

Always.

The first few times, Inori accompanies her under the excuse of discussing the gown. She watches quietly as Zhori leans against the stall, far too close to the tailor for simple politeness.

One afternoon, as Vondal disappears into the back to fetch a bolt of deep sapphire cloth, Inori turns slowly toward her nana’.

“You like him, don’t you?”

Zhori does not even try to deny it. She folds her arms over her chest, a grin tugging at her lips. “I do. I mean, look at him. He is gorgeous, no?”

Inori arches a brow.

“At first,” Zhori continues shamelessly, lowering her voice though her eyes sparkle, “I thought he would be good for a quick tumble in the sheets. But he is shy. And honestly? He is such a good khuzd.”

Inori’s brow climbs higher.

“He is attentive. Sweet. Very polite. And best of all,” Zhori adds with a soft laugh, flexing one arm deliberately, “he adores my muscles. I catch him staring at my biceps sometimes. He tries to be subtle. He fails.”

Inori snorts.

“And you enjoy that.”

“Oh, immensely. You know I love it when they stare.” Zhori leans closer. “But he is too polite to comment. I have to tease it out of him.”

“You like like him,” Inori says flatly.

Zhori pauses.

Her grin softens into something quieter. “Yes.”

Inori exhales slowly. “’Adad is not going to be happy about this.”

“Stop,” Zhori groans, though she laughs. “I am already interested in him. No need to give him more points for being forbidden.”

Inori folds her arms. “So what? You are waiting until he formally courts you?”

“Mahal, no.” Zhori’s eyes gleam with mischief. “I already smithed a courtship bead.”

Inori’s mouth falls open. “You did not.”

“I did. Silver inlaid with bronze. Strong, but not ostentatious. I plan to give it to him once he finishes sewing your dress.”

Inori covers her mouth to hide a giggle. “’Adad is going to throw a fit.”

“Not if we keep quiet about it.”

Inori bursts out laughing. “Oh, shut up. I know you. You will be too proud to stay silent. You will strut into dinner with him on your arm and dare ’adad to object.”

Zhori smirks. “Perhaps.”

Then her expression shifts, calculating, confident.

“Though I wish you luck, nana’,” Inori says more softly. “Our ’adad will do everything in his power to ensure this courtship falls to ruin.”

Zhori’s smirk deepens.

“Oh, trust me, Inori. I have a plan.”

A few years later, Inori stands in the great dining hall of their ’adad’s estate and watches that plan unfold.

Dinner is halfway through when Zhori rises from her seat.

Her armor is gone now, replaced with a rich bronze gown that fits her powerful frame without hiding it. At her side stands Vondal, no longer merely a tailor in the market, but her yasthûn. His hair remains meticulously styled, hematite black catching the candlelight. He squeezes her hand discreetly.

In Zhori’s arms rests a bundled infant.

“’Adad,” she says evenly.

Their father looks up from his cup.

Zhori steps forward and gently turns the bundle so he can see.

“This is Dori.”

Silence falls over the table.

Dori blinks up with wide labradorite eyes, Vondal’s eyes, bright and curious beneath a tuft of hematite black hair.

The cup slips from ’adad’s fingers.

Wine splashes across the table as he begins to cough violently, choking on what he had just swallowed.

“A dashat?” Yori wheezes. “You—”

Vondal laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Surprise?”

“Married,” Zhori corrects calmly. “We are married.”

The hall erupts into murmurs.

They had wed in secret. Quietly. Without permission. And now Zhori presents not only a yasthûn, but a dashat.

Yori’s face reddens dangerously. “You defy tradition. You—”

“I secured my happiness,” Zhori replies, her tone steady as forged steel.

Because Vondal is a commoner, the compromise is swift and bitter. Dori will be known as dashat of Zhori, not dashat of Vondal, as tradition dictates.

It is meant as punishment.

But Vondal only tightens his arm around Zhori’s waist and looks down at his dashat with unhidden adoration.

“That means I remain here,” he says softly, almost to himself. “With my dashat. And my yasthûna.”

Zhori’s expression softens as she looks at him. “Exactly.”

Inori watches it all from her seat, her heart twisting in ways she does not entirely understand.

She is proud. Impressed. Slightly scandalized.

And, if she is honest with herself—

A little jealous.

Dori squirms in Zhori’s arms, tiny fingers grasping at her beard before reaching toward Vondal. He coos softly, completely unbothered by noble tension and simmering outrage.

Inori rises and steps closer, brushing her finger gently against Dori’s cheek.

“Well,” she murmurs with a faint smile, “I suppose I shall be the best irak’amad this mountain has ever seen.”

Dori gurgles in response.

Inori glances at her nana’, at the defiant pride in Zhori’s posture, at Vondal’s unwavering devotion, and allows herself a quiet hope.

One day, perhaps, she will find something just as real.

Time passes, and for a while, everything is perfect.

Dori is a sweet angel of a babe. He sleeps more often than not, bundled in thick wool blankets, his tiny chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. When he wakes, he blinks up at the world with wide labradorite eyes, curious and bright.

But when he wants something, food, warmth, attention, he is loud about it.

His screams rattle the stone walls of their home in Azsâlul'abad, sharp and furious, as though the mountain itself protests.

Vondal winces the first time it happens. “By Mahal, he has lungs.”

Zhori only laughs, lifting her dashat high into the air despite his wailing. “Good. Let the whole mountain hear him.”

Their ’adad, Yori, strokes his beard proudly when he hears the cries echo down the corridor. “That,” he declares, “is the voice of a warrior. Strong. Unyielding. He will shake the halls one day.”

Zhori beams at that.

But Yori will never see the day Dori grows into that strength.

It happens suddenly.

Dori is seven, still small, still soft with nadanhood. For a dwarf, it is the equivalent of a human nadan of three. His hair is thick and black like Vondal’s, though shorter and untamed, for he refuses being brushed, and his labradorite eyes flash when he laughs.

He is sitting on the floor of his room, stacking wooden blocks into a crooked tower. His tongue peeks out in concentration.

“Higher,” he murmurs to himself. “Higher.”

Inori sits nearby, sipping some tea while watching him.

“Careful,” she warns gently. “If you build it too high, it will fall.”

Dori shakes his head stubbornly. “No fall.”

“It always falls, irakdashat.”

He huffs, but adds another block anyway.

In the sitting room down the corridor, Zhori and her yasthûn Vondal sit close together at a heavy oak table, writing letters. Vondal’s baraf resides in the Khagal’abba, far to the west in the Blue Mountains, and he writes to them regularly.

Zhori leans over his shoulder. “You tell them Dori can already lift a practice hammer.”

Vondal chuckles softly. “He drags it across the floor, Zhori.”

“He drags it with determination.”

He smiles and continues writing.

Elsewhere in the estate, Yori sits in his office surrounded by scrolls and ledgers, handling noble affairs with steady patience.

Then—

The bells ring.

At first it is distant.

Then louder.

Warning bells from Dale.

Moments later, the alarm echoes through Azsâlul'abad itself, the sound bouncing violently off stone corridors.

Inori looks up sharply.

“What—”

Guards rush past the open doorway. One stumbles, pale-faced, shouting, “Dragon!”

The word barely leaves his mouth before an ear-shattering roar splits the air.

It is not merely sound, it is force. It vibrates through bone and stone alike.

Dori shrieks and clamps his hands over his ears. “Too loud! Too loud!”

Inori does the same, wincing as the roar reverberates through her skull. Dust trickles from the ceiling.

When the roar finally fades, the silence is worse.

Then Dori begins to cry.

Not loud and demanding as before, but terrified. Broken.

Inori quickly scoops him into her arms. “Shh, shh, I have you. I have you.”

His small fingers clutch her dress, trembling.

Footsteps pound down the corridor. Zhori bursts into the room, Vondal close behind her, and Yori just after them.

“You all must leave,” Yori orders, voice sharp and commanding. “Quickly! The blasted serpent has broken through!”

“No.” Zhori steps forward instantly. “I must go assist. I am a warrior. I trained for this.”

Her fists clench. Her eyes blaze.

Yori turns to her, and for a brief moment he is not a lord, but a ’adad.

“No,” he says firmly. “You will go with the others.”

“I am sworn to defend our people!”

“And you will defend your dashat,” Yori snaps. “Dori is too young to lose you.”

Zhori falters.

“I am old,” Yori continues, softer now. “You have already outgrown me. Let your ’adad do one last thing to protect you.”

He pulls Zhori into a fierce embrace. Then Inori, still clutching Dori.

“For our people,” Yori says, stepping back.

“For our people!” several guards echo.

He turns and strides away, leading soldiers toward the inferno.

“’Adad!” Inori cries out, but he does not look back.

Guards usher them through the corridors toward one of the many exit tunnels carved deep within the mountain.

Dori buries his face into Inori’s shoulder. “Scared,” he sobs.

“I know,” she whispers, covering his eyes with her hand.

As they near the tunnel entrance, the world outside erupts in flame.

They see it.

The dragon.

Massive. Terrible. Wings blotting out torchlight. Scales gleaming like molten gold. Fire spills from its jaws, flooding the streets of Azsâlul'abad.

Smaug.

Though they do not yet know the name history will carve in dread.

The beast turns its great head toward them.

“Move!” Vondal shouts.

He shoves Zhori and Inori forward just as fire blasts across the stone behind them. Heat sears the air. The roar of flame devours screams.

Those behind them are not as fortunate.

The tunnel fills with cries, high, raw, cut short.

Zhori glances back once.

She sees dwarrows engulfed in fire. Armor melting. Flesh blackening. Bodies collapsing into charred husks.

But the worst is not the sight.

It is the smell.

Burning hair. Burning meat. Lives turning to ash.

Inori presses Dori’s face hard into her shoulder, shielding his eyes, though she cannot shield his ears and nose.

They run.

Through smoke.

Through chaos.

Through the shuddering heart of a dying mountain.

Behind them, Azsâlul'abad burns.

Later, the scribes will name this day the Sack of Azsâlul'abad.

They will write of fire and ruin. Of treasure claimed by a dragon. Of a kingdom fallen.

But Dori will not remember it in such grand terms.

He will remember heat.

Noise.

The way his irakdashat holds him too tightly.

And the mountain, his home, vanishing behind a curtain of flame.

Dori barely remembers the journey.

What lingers in his mind are not roads or mountains or the faces of those who walk beside him.

He remembers hunger.

Fear.

Cold.

When he is older, much older, he understands that his lashar and his irak’amad shield him from the worst of it. He learns that Zhori nearly loses her life more than once, standing between their small band and orcs with nothing but a chipped axe and stubborn fury. He learns that Inori endures lewd comments and sneers in foreign markets while selling the last of their jewels for a fraction of their worth. He learns that Vondal, gentle Vondal, teaches himself to steal bread in the dark so his yasthûna and dashat do not starve.

But Dori does not know any of this now.

Now, he is only a nadan.

A dwarven nadan. Confused. Hungry. Cold.

Home is gone, though he does not understand that word yet: gone. He still thinks, in some quiet corner of his mind, that they will turn around soon. That Azsâlul'abad waits behind the next hill.

The adults argue in low, urgent voices some distance away.

“We cannot stay here.”

“And where do you suggest we go?”

“Khagal’abba is too far.”

“We need allies—”

Their words blur together. Dori knows the tone is important. Serious. Heavy. He knows he should not interrupt.

So he is not with them.

Instead, he sits in a wheelbarrow that his ’adad Vondal pushes along the rough road. A few crates rattle beside him, their remaining possessions reduced to scraps and tools.

It is late.

He should sleep.

But he cannot.

He is wrapped in cloth, though it is threadbare and thin. Nothing like the thick woven blankets from home. The cold seeps through the fabric, through his tunic, into his small bones.

He trembles.

As a dwarf, he should endure the cold better than most. But he is too young. His body does not yet know how to keep its own heat.

He curls in on himself, teeth chattering softly.

A sound nearby makes him flinch.

A scrape. A frustrated huff.

Dori slowly peeks over the edge of the wheelbarrow.

A dwarfling stands a short distance away, about his age. Coal-black hair falls around his face, woven with small shining beads that catch what little light remains. Zircon eyes flash with irritation as he crouches over a tiny pile of sticks, trying, and failingto spark a flame.

The flint slips again.

He growls under his breath.

Dori watches him for a moment.

He looks important. The beads say so. Dori knows that much from lessons, though the details escape him now.

The flint strikes again.

Nothing.

The dwarfling’s shoulders slump.

Dori can see the way he shivers.

“Hey!” Dori calls suddenly, his small voice cracking the quiet.

The dwarfling jumps and spins around, eyes wide.

“Hey you! Come here!”

The dwarfling blinks. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Dori gestures with a tiny, mittened hand. “Come join me. ’Adad says we can share warmth by cuddling.”

The dwarfling stares at him.

Dori frowns. “I can see you’re cold. Come on.”

The other nadan hesitates, glancing toward where the adults murmur in the distance. His pride wars visibly with his discomfort.

Finally, he nods once. “Alright.”

He abandons the failed fire and climbs toward the wheelbarrow, using a crate and the wooden wheel for leverage. Dori scoots aside to make room.

“Careful,” Dori says importantly, reaching out to steady him.

The dwarfling scrambles in, nearly tipping them both over before settling awkwardly beside him.

Dori immediately pulls half of the threadbare cloth over him.

“There,” he says with satisfaction.

They sit stiffly for a moment, shoulders touching.

Then another icy gust of wind cuts through the camp.

Without speaking, they both instinctively press closer.

Small arms wrap around each other.

Their foreheads bump.

It is warmer.

Not much.

But enough.

“I’m Dori,” he says quietly. “Zhorinul.”

The other dwarfling studies him in the dim light.

“Balin,” he replies. “Fundinul.”

Dori nods solemnly, as though this explains everything.

They fall silent after that.

The crate close by creaks softly whenever Vondal shifts on it. Somewhere nearby, Zhori’s voice rises in argument, fierce and protective. Inori answers someone sharply.

But inside their small shared cocoon, the world narrows.

Balin’s shivering slows.

Dori’s teeth stop chattering.

“Your beads are shiny,” Dori murmurs sleepily.

“They mean I’m important,” Balin says, though his voice is already thick with exhaustion.

Dori hums. “You can still be important and cold.”

Balin snorts faintly.

Within minutes, they are asleep, curled together, tiny beards brushing, breath warming shared air.

After that night, they gravitate toward each other without thinking.

They play with carved wooden scraps when there are no toys. They invent grand underground kingdoms in the dirt. They distract each other from hunger with games of counting steps or spotting shapes in the clouds.

When the cold bites too hard, they sit shoulder to shoulder.

When attacks come, shouting, steel, the distant shrieks of orcs, they hide together behind wagons or rocks, clutching one another until the noise fades.

Dori does not care about the beads.

He does not understand lineage or status.

It is only much later, years later, that he learns Balin is more than important.

That he is nearly royalty.

But during the long, bitter journey toward an uncertain new home, Balin is only this—

A friend.

A small, warm body beside him in the dark.

The first years of exile pass in Dunland.

“Pass” is generous.

They survive.

The men of Dunland offer help, some of it freely given, some of it barbed. A few bring bread and blankets without asking anything in return. Others leer. Others demand labor for coin so small it feels like mockery.

Dori is too young to understand the politics of desperation, but he understands tone. He understands when his ’adad’s jaw tightens. He understands when Zhori’s hand drifts too close to the haft of her axe.

He hears whispers at night.

“They underpay us.”

“They think us broken.”

“We are not broken.”

King Thrór grows restless in those years. Angry. Proud. At last, he leaves on a journey with only Nár beside him to seek possible riches for his people.

Dori does not understand why the king leaves. He only knows the adults look grimmer when they speak of it.

Through it all, he stays close to Balin.

As they grow, Balin begins to know more, about lineage, about grievances, about what was taken from them when Azsâlul'abad burns. Dori notices the difference. Balin listens more when adults speak. Asks sharper questions.

But when they are together, they are still just boys.

They race along muddy hills. They carve small figurines from scrap wood. They dare each other to sneak extra crusts from cooling racks.

“Bet you can’t climb that,” Balin challenges once, pointing to a low stone wall.

Dori squints. “I can.”

“You’ll fall.”

“I won’t.”

He climbs anyway. He does fall. Balin laughs so hard he nearly falls too.

Those are the good days.

Eventually, they move again.

Khagal’abba becomes their next refuge.

It is there that Dori meets his irak’adad Vonbin for the first time, nadad to his ’adad Vondal.

Vonbin sweeps him into a tight embrace the moment they arrive.

“Thank Mahal you are alive,” Vonbin breathes, clutching him so firmly Dori squeaks. “All of you. I feared the worst.”

Dori blinks up at him. “You’re loud.”

Vonbin laughs shakily and presses his forehead to Dori’s. “Don’t worry, little one. Here, you will be safe and sound.”

Safe, yes.

Sound… mostly.

Khagal’abba is not Azsâlul'abad. The mountain halls are smaller, colder. And there are too many refugees. Too many mouths.

They are protected from dragons and marauding armies.

But they are hungry.

Often.

Meals grow thinner. Blankets grow thinner. Work grows harder.

Vonbin does what he can. He is a writer, ink staining his fingers as he drafts stories and histories by candlelight. He sells what he writes when he can.

Vondal weaves from dawn until his back aches, creating sturdy fabrics for trade.

Zhori takes guard duties in nearby settlements of Men, her axe once more an extension of her arm. She returns home smelling of iron and sweat.

Inori paints, murals, portraits, illustrations for Vonbin’s novels. Her hands are always dusted with color.

They all work.

They are not alone in that.

But coin remains scarce.

Labor remains heavy.

As Dori grows, understanding dawns slowly and painfully.

He sees the hollow beneath his ’adad’s eyes. The way Zhori rubs old scars when she thinks no one watches.

He approaches Vondal one evening while the loom clacks steadily.

“Teach me,” Dori says.

Vondal looks up sharply. “Teach you what?”

“Weaving.”

Vondal frowns. “Dori… you do not have to choose my Craft because it is convenient.”

“I’m not,” Dori insists. “I like it.”

“You should explore. Find your own path.”

Dori steps closer to the loom, running his fingers along the threads, trying so hard to convince himself he will like this craft, and not the great Crafts like smithing. “I like how it becomes something. From nothing. Just threads… and then it’s cloth.”

Vondal studies him for a long moment.

“You truly wish this?”

Dori nods firmly.

Slowly, Vondal’s frown melts into something softer. Pride. Relief.

“Very well,” he says quietly. “Sit. Watch my hands.”

Dori becomes his apprentice.

And he discovers something unexpected.

He loves it. He truly does love it.

The rhythm. The precision. The quiet creation. It feels right in his bones.

His friendship with Balin changes in Khagal’abba.

Not in affection.

In frequency.

Dori sees him less.

It is here that Dori truly learns who Balin is.

Blood of Durin flows in his veins. He is kin to the king of their kind. Royalty, if such a word can exist in exile.

Then Dwalin is born, Balin’s nadad.

A loud, sturdy babe who seems to exist purely to demand Balin’s attention.

“You’re always busy now,” Dori says one afternoon, trying to sound casual.

Balin grimaces apologetically. “Dwalin bites.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“It is when he has teeth.”

They laugh, but distance creeps in.

Dori assumes he will fade into memory. A nadanhood friend Balin once knew during harder times.

But every so often, Balin proves him wrong.

He shows up at the weaving hall unexpectedly.

“Come on,” Balin says, tugging at his sleeve. “Walk with me.”

They wander the outer ridges of the mountain.

They do not speak of politics.

They do not speak of suffering.

Instead, Balin lists the good things.

“Did you hear? Three new births this week.”

“I saw,” Dori replies. “Strong lungs on that last one.”

“Thorin nearly split a man’s lip for insulting one of our traders.”

Dori grins. “Good.”

“And ’amad broke an orc’s arm yesterday.”

“She’d break both if she could.”

They laugh.

In these moments, they are simply dwarrows together. No titles. No burdens.

Dori can almost forget Azsâlul'abad.

But he sees it sometimes.

When Balin thinks he is not looking.

That flash in his zircon eyes.

That quiet tightening of his jaw.

Anger.

Not fleeting.

Rooted.

Balin does not let go of their lost mountain.

Dori… does.

Or at least, he tries.

They never argue about it. They never speak of it directly. Their time together is too rare to spend on bitterness.

Sometimes, they are interrupted.

Dwalin, now sturdy and broad even as a youth, appears with crossed arms.

Or Nori, Dori's own nadad who was born four years later after Dwalin, who loves following Dori around.

Or Thorin, Balin’s iraknadad, looms nearby, watchful.

Once, Dwalin narrows his eyes at Dori.

“So you’re the one,” he says.

“The one what?” Dori asks innocently.

“The one my nadad keeps running off to see.”

Balin flushes. “Dwalin—”

“Are you good enough?” Dwalin presses.

Dori bursts into laughter. “Good enough for what?”

Before Dwalin can answer, Balin clamps a hand over his brother’s mouth.

“Apologies,” Balin mutters, dragging him away.

Nori looks up at Dori and asks, "What did he mean by good enough?"

Dori laughs until his cheeks ache, though he cannot help the faint heat rising to his face.

They do not court.

Not then.

Not until Balin asks Vondal's permission to formally court Dori, despite them still not being of age.

When they do, it is quiet.

No grand announcement. No spectacle.

Just a private exchange. A bead. A promise.

And very little changes.

They still walk the ridges.

Still talk of small, good things.

Only now, there are soft kisses stolen in shadowed corridors. Murmured words meant for no one else.

“You always smell like wool,” Balin teases once.

“And you always smell like ink,” Dori counters.

“I do not.”

“You do.”

They lean their foreheads together and smile.

Around the same time, Vonbin and Inori grow close as well.

Late nights of illustrating manuscripts turn into shared laughter. Shared glances. Lingering touches.

Dori notices.

He smiles.

Despite the hunger.

Despite the cold.

Despite the loss of Azsâlul'abad.

Love still blooms in the cracks of exile.

And Dori thinks, perhaps foolishly, perhaps not—

They will be alright.

Poor.

Scarred.

But together.

And for now, that feels like enough.

Of course, it is not perfect.

Exile does not strip blood from veins.

Balin still carries Durin’s line within him, ancient and heavy. And there are dwarrows who remember, who whisper, that Vondal, a commoner, married Zhori, nâtha of a noble house.

Tongues wag.

They had called Vondal a hahdumral once. A false lover. A dwarf who faked devotion to climb status and wealth.

Never mind that it was Zhori who pursued him.

Never mind that Vondal had nothing to gain in exile but hardship.

The word lingers.

And now, as Dori grows and openly courts Balin, some of those same tongues turn toward him.

“Hahdumral,” they murmur when he passes.

“Like ‘adad, like dashat.”

Dori hears it.

He pretends he does not.

He knows Balin does not believe it. Balin’s gaze never wavers when he looks at him, never questions, never doubts.

But doubt seeps in elsewhere.

At night.

In quiet moments.

He knows what he lacks. He is a weaver’s apprentice. Clever with his hands. Skilled with thread.

But Balin?

Balin speaks easily with nobles. Understands lineage and alliances. Knows the histories of houses stretching back generations.

Dori does not.

And worse, there is Nori.

Sweet, curious Nori, still small enough to trip over his own boots. Dori does not want his naddith growing up hearing those whispers about their baraf.

So one evening, he finds his ’amad.

Zhori lies stretched across the couch in the main room, one arm thrown over her eyes. Her armor rests discarded on the floor nearby, still smelling faintly of iron and sweat from patrol.

She exhales slowly. “If one more man tells me to ‘smile more’ while I guard his grain stores, I will throw him into his own silo.”

Dori huffs a faint laugh despite his nerves.

“’Amad, may I ask a favor?”

She shifts her arm away and looks at him properly. Her sharp bronze eyes soften instantly.

“A favor, gulmalûm? Whatever for?”

He steps closer, wringing his hands together.

“Well… ’amad, you know Balin and I are courting, yes?”

Zhori pushes herself upright. “Of course I know. I have eyes.”

“And you know what some dwarrows call me.”

Her posture changes.

Subtle, but immediate. Her shoulders square. Her jaw tightens.

“Yes,” she says evenly.

“Balin doesn’t believe it,” Dori continues quickly. “And it doesn’t get to my head. Not really. But…” He hesitates. “I worry about Nori. When he grows up. I don’t want him hearing those words about our baraf.”

Zhori says nothing.

“And I know,” Dori adds more quietly, “that I’m not exactly the perfect partner for someone like Balin. I lack the education. The… polish.”

Zhori’s brows draw together.

“So I was wondering,” he finishes, swallowing, “if you could teach me how nobility works.”

“Ah.”

Zhori bites her lower lip.

She is a noble. Or was. Dori would have grown up among formal dinners and political lessons if Smaug had not burned Azsâlul'abad to ash.

But in exile, titles are little more than memories. A few connections. A voice at certain meetings.

And Zhori herself—

She huffs a short laugh.

“As much as I would love to help you, dashat… I cannot.”

Dori blinks.

She rubs the back of her neck sheepishly. “Your irak’amad Inori would be better suited. I did not… pay much attention to my lessons.”

Dori stares at her.

Zhori snorts. “What? I was more interested in sparring than table etiquette. Your sigin’adad used to despair.”

For a flicker of a second, something like regret crosses her face.

“I wish,” she mutters, almost to herself, “that I had listened more.”

Dori steps forward and kisses her cheek.

“Thank you, ’amad. I’ll ask her.”

He finds Inori in the backyard, brush in hand, putting the final strokes on a small painting propped against a crate. The late light catches in her hair, and she hums softly to herself.

She notices him immediately.

“Irakdashat,” she says, lowering her brush. “What’s wrong?”

He rarely looks so serious.

“Irak’amad…” he begins, and tells her everything.

About the whispers.

About Nori.

About feeling… lacking.

Inori listens without interrupting. When he finishes, she sets her brush aside and smiles, not amused, but warm.

“Oh, Dori.”

She rises and cups his face gently. “You have your ’adad’s hands and your ’amad’s stubborn heart. Do not ever think you are lacking.”

He flushes faintly. “Still…”

She nods once. “You wish to learn.”

“Yes.”

Her eyes brighten.

“Then I would love to teach you.”

Relief floods his face.

“We do not have many books,” she continues thoughtfully. “So I cannot teach you full genealogies or the deeper politics of the houses. But I remember manners. Formal address. The art of polite conversation.”

She begins pacing lightly, already thinking aloud.

“Posture. Tone. The language of jewels. Symbolism in braiding. The proper way to host. The proper way to decline.”

Dori blinks. “Decline?”

“With grace,” she says firmly. “Always with grace.”

Once a week, they begin lessons.

They sit at the small kitchen table with scraps of parchment. Inori writes what she remembers, recreating fragments of their lost education.

“Shoulders back,” she instructs, tapping his spine.

He straightens.

“When greeting someone of higher standing?”

He bows slightly. “It is an honor to stand in your presence.”

“Too stiff,” she corrects. “Warmth, Dori. Nobility is not arrogance. It is composure.”

They practice for hours.

Polite smiles.

Measured speech.

The subtle meanings behind different gemstones in courtship beads.

When to speak.

When to remain silent.

Dori absorbs it eagerly.

To Inori’s surprise, and delight, he enjoys it.

Balin discovers this one afternoon when he arrives early and finds Dori correcting a line in his own phrasing.

“That is not the proper form of address,” Dori says mildly. “You would omit the third honorific in that context.”

Balin stares at him.

“…Since when?”

Dori flushes faintly. “Since recently.”

Inori beams from the corner.

“You are taking lessons?” Balin asks.

“Yes.”

“For me?”

“For myself,” Dori replies, lifting his chin slightly. “But also for us.”

Something soft passes over Balin’s expression.

“I did not ask you to change.”

“I am not changing,” Dori says gently. “I am expanding.”

Balin exhales a quiet laugh. “You are intimidating.”

Dori’s eyes widen. “I am not.”

“You corrected my etiquette.”

“Well,” Dori says primly, “it was incorrect.”

Balin steps closer, lowering his voice. “Careful. I may start believing the rumors.”

Dori freezes.

Balin smiles faintly and brushes their foreheads together. “I am joking, you fool.”

He kisses him softly.

“You were never a hahdumral,” Balin murmurs. “Nor was your ’adad.”

Dori closes his eyes briefly.

The whispers do not vanish.

But they grow quieter.

And that is enough for Dori.

Nori grows much like Dori once did, sheltered, protected from the sharpest edges of exile.

For a while.

He is small and bright-eyed, forever trailing after his nadad, fingers tangled in loose threads at the loom. He laughs easily. Climbs where he should not. Asks too many questions.

But exile has a way of carving truth into bone.

As he grows, Nori begins to see what Dori saw years earlier, the hollow in Vondal’s cheeks after long days, the way Zhori counts coins twice before setting them aside, the quiet whispers between his lashshar when they think their dashshat are asleep.

He notices.

And he decides.

“I want to weave,” Nori announces one morning, arms folded in imitation of stubborn authority.

Vondal looks up from the loom. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

Dori snorts softly from the other side of the room. “You’ll have to sit still.”

“I can sit still,” Nori protests.

“You cannot.”

“I can!”

Vondal chuckles, but there is warmth in his eyes. “Very well. Sit. Let us see.”

To Vondal’s delight, Nori has the hands for it. Steady. Precise. He learns patterns quickly. Understands tension instinctively.

And, most importantly, he enjoys it.

The loom sings beneath his fingers.

But talent is not the problem.

Temper is.

When they travel to nearby settlements of Men to sell their wares, Nori stands beside the stall at first with chin high and eyes sharp.

Some Men are polite.

Some admire the craftsmanship.

Others are not.

“Copper for this,” one man says dismissively, holding up a finely woven scarf as though it is common burlap.

Nori’s jaw tightens.

“My ’adad is a master of his Craft,” he replies evenly.

The man snorts. “You’re refugees. Take what you’re offered.”

Copper.

For dwarven weave.

It is an insult.

Dori feels the tension from beside him. “Nori,” he warns softly.

But Nori’s temper, Zhori’s temper, flares hot.

“You insult our work and expect gratitude?” Nori snaps.

Voices rise.

A shove follows.

Before long, market guards intervene.

More than once, they are barred from selling in certain markets because Nori refuses to swallow humiliation.

Later, as they pack up unsold goods, Vondal rubs his brow.

“You must learn,” he says quietly, “that not every insult deserves steel.”

Nori says nothing.

But he listens.

Not just to advice.

To stories.

Sometimes, at night, when Vondal’s old friends gather, their laughter carries through thin walls. They speak of the early years, the desperate years.

“…And then Vondal slips right through the window—”

“Like smoke!”

“With a whole loaf under his arm!”

Vondal groans. “You make it sound grand. It was not.”

“You fed your dashat,” one friend counters. “And your yasthûna. And your agnât-nana’. That is grand enough.”

Vondal shakes his head. “It was desperation. Not heroics.”

They laugh anyway.

They do not notice Nori listening from the hallway.

He absorbs every detail.

Which windows are weakest.

How to distract a watchman.

Where purses hang loosely from belts.

He has a new target.

Not the poor.

Not the desperate.

The Men who smirk at their stall.

The ones who toss copper coins like scraps.

A purse goes missing here.

A strongbox lightens there.

A quiet break-in while a household feasts loudly downstairs.

Nothing sentimental. Nothing obvious.

Just excess… redistributed.

For a while, he thinks he is clever.

Until Vondal finds out.

It happens when a merchant storms into their modest home, red-faced and shouting.

“You little rat!” the man roars, pointing at Nori. “My coin—”

Zhori steps between them instantly, hand resting on her axe. “Careful how you speak in my home.”

The merchant falters but presses on. “He was seen near my window. And my purse is lighter!”

Nori’s chin lifts defiantly.

Vondal’s stomach sinks.

The confrontation ends without proof, but the accusation lingers.

That night, Vondal closes the door firmly and turns to his youngest dashat.

“Nori,” he says quietly. “Is it true?”

Silence.

Then—

“Yes.”

Zhori’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Dashat,” Vondal breathes. “How? Why did this happen?”

“Copper, ’adad!” Nori bursts out. “They pay us copper! For your work! It’s worth more than that. They have plenty. Why should we starve while they hoard?”

Zhori crosses her arms. “He is not wrong.”

Vondal shoots his yasthûna a hard look.

“Zhori.”

“What?” she retorts. “Those Men are vile.”

“That does not make this right.”

Nori’s hands curl into fists. “I just wanted to help.”

Vondal steps closer, lowering his voice.

“I became a thief because I was desperate,” he says. “Not because I was proud of it. I did what I had to so your nadad and your ’amad would not starve.”

“And we’re not starving now?” Nori challenges.

“We are struggling but we have food to eat,” Vondal corrects. “There is a difference.”

Nori looks away, jaw trembling with frustration.

“I don’t want to see you behind bars,” Vondal continues. “Or worse.”

“I can handle myself.”

“You think so,” Zhori mutters, almost impressed.

“Zhori.”

She raises her hands in surrender but does not hide her faint grin.

Nori looks between them. “I just… I just wanted to help. And I will help.”

Determination burns in his eyes.

Vondal studies him for a long moment.

Exile is no longer as desperate as those first years, but it is still hard. Coins still stretch thin. And they are unable to pay their meals with pride.

At last, Vondal sighs.

“If you insist on walking this path,” he says slowly, “then you will do so with a code.”

Nori straightens.

“You do not steal from those who cannot afford to lose,” Vondal says firmly. “No widows. No struggling families.”

Nori nods once.

“You do not take sentimental items. No family heirlooms. No keepsakes.”

Another nod.

“And whatever you do,” Vondal adds, voice sharpening, “you do not take a life to escape your actions. Killing to defend yourself from orcs or bandits is one thing. Killing because you were caught stealing is another entirely.”

The room goes quiet.

“I won’t,” Nori promises. “’Adad, I won’t.”

Vondal searches his face, then exhales slowly.

“I cannot stop you,” he admits. “But you will not become cruel.”

Zhori steps forward and claps a heavy hand on Nori’s shoulder.

“If you are going to be troublesome,” she says with a wolfish grin, “at least be clever about it.”

Vondal groans softly.

Nori, however, smiles.

The next evening, an odd dwarf stands inside their modest home.

Dori and Nori both stare.

The first thing anyone notices is his hair.

It rises high, impossibly high, sculpted upward like one of the old watchtowers of Azsâlul'abad. Not a strand out of place. Oiled, braided, structured into a feat of architectural defiance.

Nori blinks. “How does that not tip you over?”

The dwarf arches a brow. “Balance, boy. A useful skill. So this is him eh?", he circles Nori slowly, assessing him with sharp, knowing eyes.

“This is the boy,” Vondal confirms.

Nori shifts under the scrutiny. “Why do I feel like livestock at market?”

Vondal gestures between them. “Nori, meet Baern. He is the guildmaster of the Rathkh Shathrul.”

Nori frowns. “The guildmaster of the what now?”

He knows guilds. Weavers. Smiths. Miners.

But—

“That sounds… illegal.”

Baern smiles faintly. “Not originally.”

He folds his hands behind his back and begins pacing.

“We were once the king’s informants. Under Thrór of Azsâlul'abad, we gathered secrets. Spied on enemies, and allies. Ensured our king always had the upper hand, whether on the battlefield or in council chambers.”

Dori listens from the doorway, intrigued despite himself.

“Our Craft,” Baern continues, “is not theft. It is knowledge. We create paths. We shape circumstances. We uncover what others wish hidden.”

Nori tilts his head. “And now?”

Baern’s expression hardens slightly. “After the fall of Azsâlul'abad, we adapted. Information does not feed refugees. Coin does. So we use our talents where we must.”

“To steal,” Nori says plainly.

“To survive,” Baern corrects.

Nori glances at Vondal. “You knew about this?”

Vondal nods slowly. “Baern tried to recruit me years ago. I was part of the Rathkh Shathrul for a time.”

“You never told me.”

“You never asked.”

Nori crosses his arms. “And you think I should join?”

Vondal exhales. “If you insist on walking this path, I would rather you walk it safely.”

Baern grins suddenly. “Which brings us to the first order of business.”

Nori narrows his eyes. “What business?”

“We must give you a hairstyle.”

“Excuse me?”

Baern gestures to his own towering masterpiece. “Members of the Rathkh Shathrul wear elaborate hair as proof of dedication. It requires time. Precision. Discipline. If you cannot maintain your own crown, you cannot manage a mission.”

Vondal nods. “It also makes you visible. Obvious. A challenge. You must be skilled enough to disappear despite it.”

Nori blinks. “So… you make it harder on purpose?”

“Exactly,” Baern says, pleased.

He leans closer to Vondal and whispers something.

Vondal’s lips twitch. “Yes. That would suit him.”

Nori eyes them suspiciously. “What would suit me?”

“Come,” Vondal says, already steering him toward his room. “Let us begin.”

It takes hours.

Combs. Oil. Pins. Tiny internal braids to support the structure.

Dori hears the grumbling from down the hall.

“This is ridiculous.”

“Hold still.”

“My arms hurt.”

“You insisted on this path.”

When they finally emerge, Nori’s caramel hair and beard are sculpted into the shape of a star, sharp, defined points radiating outward. It is bold. Dramatic. Impossible to ignore.

Baern studies him critically.

“…Yes,” he murmurs. “You will do.”

Nori turns toward a polished metal plate and stares at his reflection.

“Well,” he admits reluctantly, “it looks good on me.”, still he scowls. “But by Mahal, that took too long.”

Baern’s grin widens. “And tomorrow, you will do it yourself.”

Nori groans loudly.

From that day forward, Nori becomes an apprentice of the Rathkh Shathrul, the Veiled Hand.

He learns how to move through crowds without being remembered.

How to lift a purse without brushing fabric.

How to climb silently.

How to wield hidden blades without drawing attention.

He practices smiling at customers by day, fingers flying over the loom beside Dori.

By night, he becomes something else.

Coin begins to flow more steadily into their home.

More food on the table.

Better thread for weaving.

Vondal and Dori both notice.

They are proud.

And worried.

“You are careful?” Dori asks one evening, voice low.

“I am excellent,” Nori replies.

“That is not what I asked.”

Nori rolls his eyes, but squeezes his nadad’s shoulder gently. “I have a code.”

Vondal watches him often, silent, measuring.

Zhori, however, laughs outright when she hears of his progress.

“My dashat a master thief,” she says proudly. “I always knew you’d cause trouble.”

What Nori does not expect is the effect his new hairstyle has.

He is adjusting one of the star’s sharp points outside the weaving hall when a familiar voice clears its throat.

He turns.

Dwalin stands there.

Broad. Solid. Muscles straining beneath his sleeves. His gaze locks onto Nori’s hair, and then quickly flicks away.

“You uh…” Dwalin mutters.

Nori smirks instantly. “Yes?”

“You look um… you—”

“I know I’m hot,” Nori interrupts smoothly. “You can say it too, handsome.”

Dwalin goes utterly red.

“I did not say that!”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was not!”

Nori steps closer, adjusting one of his star-shaped points deliberately. “Then why are you staring?”

Dwalin sputters, completely betrayed by his own face.

Nori has always thought Dwalin handsome. Strong. Steady. The kind of dwarf who could lift a cart without complaint.

Originally, Nori only intends a bit of fun. A quick tumble in the sheets. Something easy. Something they could laugh about and forget.

He does not expect it to become… frequent.

He does not expect them to click.

Dwalin is blunt where Nori is sharp. Honest where Nori is sly. They balance.

One stolen kiss turns into another.

One late-night meeting turns into habit.

“You are impossible,” Dwalin mutters once, breath warm against Nori’s ear.

“And yet,” Nori replies smugly, “you keep coming back.”

They are not yet of age and has not asked for permission when Vondal discovers with a look of deep, exhausted dismay.

“You are what?” Vondal demands.

“It’s not serious,” Nori insists quickly.

“It is absolutely serious,” Dwalin counters at the same time.

Zhori bursts out laughing so loudly the neighbors probably hear.

“Oh, let them be,” she says, wiping a tear from her eye. “At least he has good taste.”

Vondal presses his fingers to his temples.

Nori only grins.

Exile may have taken their mountain.

But not their fire.

And certainly not their audacity.

Their fire and audacity do not burn unchallenged for long.

The day Nár returns, the mountain trembles, not from dragonfire, but from grief.

Dori, Nori, and their ’adad Vondal are away in a settlement of Men, selling woven goods. They return at dusk, carts lighter, coin pouches modestly heavier.

Something feels wrong before they even reach home.

The air is tight. Heavy. Dwarrows stand in clusters, speaking in low, furious tones.

Dori slows. “What happened?”

No one answers him directly.

It is Vonbin who finally meets them at the door, face pale beneath his beard.

“Nár has returned,” he says.

“And? What about the king?” Vondal asks carefully.

Vonbin’s jaw tightens. “Nár returned… with the king’s head.”

Silence.

Dori feels the words but does not understand them at first.

“The Pale Orc,” Vonbin continues. “Azog. He branded him. Defaced him.”

Nori’s fingers curl into fists.

King Thrór, who left seeking wealth and hope for their people, has been slaughtered.

And now, Thráin wears the crown.

Revenge follows swiftly.

War is declared.

Every able dwarf is called to fight.

Even those not yet fully of age.

The house fractures into argument.

“We cannot send the young,” Inori says sharply.

“We cannot ignore the call,” Vonbin counters, though his voice wavers as he feels the same.

Vondal sits heavily, hands clasped together. “This is not going to be a skirmish. This will be war.”

Zhori stands apart from them, eyes blazing, not with fear, but with fury.

“They killed our king,” she says, voice low and dangerous. “Azog branded him like cattle.”

She grips the haft of her axe until her knuckles pale.

“I will wade into their blood.”

But when she looks at her dashshat, Dori and Nori, something else flickers there.

Worry.

Not for herself.

For them.

If they must fight, they will not fight unprepared.

Zhori takes the reins.

“Up,” she orders at dawn the next day. “If you are to survive, you will learn properly.”

Every dwarf is raised knowing how to swing a weapon. To protect themselves.

But Zhori teaches them war.

Formation with others.

Footwork that will not trip their allies.

How to read both enemy’s and ally's shoulder before a strike.

How to conserve strength.

How to kill efficiently.

“Every dwarf knows how to fight,” she tells them, circling as they spar. “That doesn't mean every dwarf knows war. You will learn war, whether we like it or not”

Dori adjusts his grip on his sword, sweat dripping down his brow.

Nori practices throwing knives, retrieving them again and again until his aim is flawless before taking out his mace.

Vondal and Vonbin relearn spear formations, fighting back-to-back.

Inori swaps brush for battlehammer.

They become sharper.

Harder.

When Thráin calls upon the other dwarven clans, they answer.

The numbers swell.

Battles rage underground first, where dwarrows hold advantage. In the dark, their stonesense guides them. They feel the tremor of unstable ground. Hear the hollow shift of loose rock.

Orcs falter in those tight corridors.

Dwarven axes do not.

Aboveground, they bring machines, ingenious engines of war that hurl bolts and stone into orc ranks.

For years, it feels like systematic eradication.

Orcs fall in droves.

In the Malasul’abbad, their presence thins to near nothing.

Six years.

Six years of blood and steel.

But war strains more than muscle.

It strains hearts.

Balin and Dwalin, though not in the direct line, are still royalty. Their time is not their own.

Dori sees Balin rarely.

Nori sees Dwalin even less.

When they do meet, it is brief.

In quiet corners before battle.

Behind supply wagons.

They hold each other tightly.

“We must survive this,” Balin whispers against Dori’s forehead.

“We will,” Dori answers.

“We marry after this,” Balin says firmly. “No more waiting.”

Dori smiles. “After this last push, you and I can be together.”

“Aye, forever,” Balin murmurs.

Nori grips Dwalin’s armor once before a march.

“Do not die,” Nori mutters.

Dwalin snorts. “I won't, not easily.” he says as his hand lingers at Nori’s waist longer than necessary.

By the sixth year, hope grows dangerous.

It seems possible they will win fully.

Until Azanulbizar.

The final stand.

The remaining orcs gather there, no longer scattered bands, but a unified, brutal force.

Ready.

Waiting.

Dori stands beside Balin before the battle begins. They are of age now. Grown. Hardened.

“After this,” Dori says, breath unsteady despite himself.

“After this,” Balin agrees.

They clasp forearms.

Behind them, Vondal and Zhori exchange a look.

Approval.

Acceptance.

Dori’s heart soars.

One more battle.

Then peace.

Azanulbizar shatters that illusion.

The valley becomes a slaughterhouse.

Steel screams against steel. The air reeks of blood and smoke. Dwarrows roar. Orcs shriek.

This is no longer systematic victory.

This is chaos.

Zhori moves like a force of nature, her massive battle axe carving arcs of death through the press of bodies.

She scans constantly.

There.

Inori, hammer cracking skulls.

Vonbin and Vondal, spears thrusting in disciplined tandem.

Nori, knives flashing, each throw precise, though limited.

Dori, blade working desperately to cut down any orc that slips past the spear wall.

They are surrounded.

Encircled.

“Break through!” Zhori roars. “We must break free!”

Orcs press tighter.

“Follow me!”

She charges.

Her axe swings wide, splitting armor, bone, and flesh. She drives forward with brutal efficiency, carving a narrow corridor through the crush.

“Move!” she bellows.

Her baraf surges behind her.

Orcs attempt to close the gap.

Zhori turns, taking blows meant for others, shoulder-checking one aside, burying her axe into another’s chest.

Dori fights at her flank.

Nori’s last knife flies, and so takes out his mace and smashes ribs.

Inori smashes a skull that rises too close.

Vondal and Vonbin stab and withdraw, stab and withdraw.

Again and again, Zhori throws herself into the thickest press, clearing space.

The noise is deafening.

The ground slick.

Time loses meaning.

Seconds stretch.

Minutes vanish.

Perhaps hours pass.

They do not know.

They only know this—

If they stop fighting, they die.

And Zhori, blood splattered and breath ragged, refuses to let her baraf fall. She will make sure of it.

But war is a place where nothing is certain.

Not skill.

Not strength.

Not even Zhori.

An orc slips through the spear wall.

No one sees it until it is too late.

The spear drives forward—

—and punches through Zhori’s shoulder.

She screams.

The sound rips through the din of battle, raw and furious.

Inori spins at once. “Nana’!”

Her hammer comes down with a sickening crack against the orc’s skull. Bone caves. The body drops, limp, the spear still embedded in Zhori’s flesh.

“Nana’! Are you alright?!” Inori demands, already stepping in front of her sister.

“No!” Zhori roars through clenched teeth.

Blood soaks her armor, hot and dark.

With shaking fingers, she grabs the shaft of the spear and snaps it in half.

“Don’t pull it out!” Vondal shouts from somewhere to her left.

“I know!” Zhori snarls back. “I’m not stupid!”

If she removes it, she bleeds out.

More orcs press inward.

Zhori shifts her grip and raises her axe with her uninjured arm, but the weapon is built for two hands. The weight drags. Her stance falters.

An orc lunges.

Dori moves without thinking.

His sword arcs cleanly.

The orc’s head separates from its neck in a spray of black blood.

Nori snatches the broken spear shaft from the ground and hurls it with practiced precision. It buries deep into another orc’s eye.

Both naddad roar in unison—

“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!”

Axes and blades flash as they charge forward in fury.

“Those idiot dashshat of mine,” Vondal mutters, though pride flickers beneath the exasperation. “Vonbin, protect my yasthûna. I’m going to make sure they don’t get themselves killed.”

Vonbin nods sharply. “Go.”

“I’ll be with him,” Inori adds, gripping her hammer tighter.

“I’m fine!” Zhori growls, swaying slightly. “Just—agh!”

Vondal leans in and presses a quick, fierce kiss to her blood-splattered cheek.

“Stay alive,” he murmurs.

Then he plunges back into the fray.

Dori fights recklessly.

Too wide. Too angry.

He swings in broad arcs, leaving his flank exposed. His footing slips in the blood-slick mud.

An orc seizes the opening.

Vondal’s spear thrusts forward just in time, piercing the creature’s throat.

“Focus!” Vondal snaps.

Nearby, Nori crushes skulls with his mace, each strike fueled by rage. He does not see the orc rising behind him, blade raised high.

Vondal pivots and stabs the creature through the shin. It collapses with a howl.

Nori turns and finishes it with a brutal crack of bone.

“Dashshat!” Vondal barks. “Back in formation!”

“But the—” Nori protests, still burning with fury.

“NOW!”

Both dashshat flinch.

The tone cuts deeper than any blade.

They fall back, breathing hard, and reform around their baraf.

When they regroup, Vonbin is wiping blood from his brow.

Dori’s eyes widen. “Irak’adad!”

“Not mine,” Vonbin assures quickly. “Headbutted an orc.”

Inori huffs. “Cracked its skull doing so.”

Zhori, pale but upright, flashes a crooked grin. “That’s my baraf.”

“We have to reach the others,” Vondal says, scanning the battlefield.

Then Nori freezes.

“’Adad, look!”

They turn.

Across the valley, a fresh wave of dwarrows surges forward, banners of Zirinhanâd snapping in the smoke-choked wind.

Reinforcements.

The ground trembles with their charge.

Hope, fragile and desperate, blooms in exhausted hearts.

“Hold!” Zhori shouts, lifting her axe once more despite the spear lodged in her shoulder.

The tide shifts.

Slowly.

Brutally.

When the battle finally ends, it does not feel like victory.

The field of Azanulbizar is carpeted in the dead.

Dwarrows.

Orcs.

Friends.

Prince Frerin lies among the fallen.

Names echo in mourning cries across the valley.

King Thráin stands grim and hollow-eyed as he assumes command of what remains.

“We must return to Khagal’abba,” he orders. “We grieve there.”

The march home is worse than the battle.

They are fewer.

Weaker.

Healers are overwhelmed.

Wagons creak beneath the weight of the wounded.

Some who survive the battle do not survive the journey, with one of them being Baern, Nori's master.

Zhori's shoulder, struck during the chaos, worsens by the day.

By the time they reach Khagal’abba, infection has set in.

The healers do what they can.

They save her life.

But they cannot save her arm.

When Zhori wakes to the absence, her jaw tightens, but she does not weep.

“It is only an arm,” she says hoarsely.

Vondal presses his forehead to hers. “You are still you.”

Dori and Nori stand at the doorway, silent.

Their baraf lives.

All of them.

No graves bear their names.

And yet celebration feels impossible.

Too many others are gone.

Too many empty seats.

Back in Khagal’abba, mourning drapes the halls.

Songs of lament replace war chants.

And among the countless dead of Azanulbizar, is Fundin, and his name carries weight. ’Adad to Balin and Dwalin. Warrior. Descendant of Durin.

His body returns to Khagal’abba with the others, wrapped and silent. And because Durin’s blood runs in their veins, Balin and Dwalin do not weep in public. They stand straight during the rites. They hold their heads high. They accept condolences with measured nods.

“For the sake of our people,” Balin says when his nadad grips his shoulder.

“We endure,” Dwalin adds, jaw locked tight.

They become pillars.

But pillars crack in private.

Dori visits often.

Balin’s home feels wrong now, quieter, thinner. One less laugh. One less heavy set of boots by the door.

The first time Dori enters after the funeral rites, he hears it before he sees it.

Broken sobbing.

He does not knock.

He finds Balin sitting on the edge of his bed, hands clenched in his beard, shoulders shaking violently.

Dori crosses the room in three strides and kneels in front of him.

“Balin…”

Balin looks up, eyes red and swollen.

“I didn’t notice,” he chokes. “He was right behind us. We were running from the arrows, he was right there.”

Dori gathers him into his arms.

“I thought he was still with us,” Balin continues, voice cracking. “I thought he was just a few paces back. I never turned around. I never—”

His breath fractures into another sob.

“Balin, I am so sorry,” Dori whispers, brushing trembling fingers through Balin’s hair. “Let it out. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“How could this happen?” Balin demands hoarsely. “’Adad was one of the best warriors on that field. He should have lived! And I—”

He pounds a fist weakly against his own chest. “I didn’t notice.”

Dori tightens his hold. “It was chaos. None of us could see everything.”

“I should have.”

The grief spills out of him like a breached dam.

Dori stays.

He does not rush the tears. Does not try to silence them. He simply holds Balin as he trembles, as he curses, as he weeps until his voice is raw.

Eventually, the sobbing fades into uneven breathing.

Balin falls asleep mid-sentence, still clinging to Dori’s tunic.

Dori remains there a long while, letting him rest.

When he gently lowers him to the bed and pulls a blanket over him, Balin does not stir.

It becomes routine.

Dori comes by almost every evening.

Sometimes he finds Balin composed.

Often, he finds him broken.

Dori holds him through it every time.

And when Balin finally sleeps, Dori rises quietly and begins tending the house.

For grief makes simple things heavy. Dishes stack up. Laundry sits untouched. Dust gathers.

Dori mends torn tunics by the hearth. He washes dishes with slow, steady movements. He sweeps floors and repairs loose hinges.

Once, Dwalin catches him scrubbing the kitchen table.

“You don’t have to do that,” Dwalin mutters, though his voice lacks force.

“I want to,” Dori replies gently. “Let me.”

Dwalin studies him for a moment, then nods once. “Thank you.”

But grief does not belong only to Balin.

Dori carries his own.

He hides it from his baraf. From his lashshar. He does not want to add to their burdens.

Yet the nightmares come.

He wakes in cold sweats, heart racing, ears ringing with phantom steel.

Sometimes he sees Zhori fall again.

Sometimes Vondal’s spear misses.

Sometimes Nori does not rise.

One night, he jerks awake with a strangled gasp.

“Dori?”

Balin is already sitting up beside him.

Dori presses a hand over his face. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Balin slips from the bed and returns moments later with a steaming cup of tea. He presses it into Dori’s shaking hands.

“Tell me.”

Dori stares into the liquid, watching it ripple.

“It was the orcs again,” he admits quietly. “I saw ‘Amad… The spear— I couldn’t reach her.”

His voice trembles.

Balin sets the cup aside and pulls him close.

“I’m here,” Balin murmurs. “I’m right here.”

Dori exhales shakily against his shoulder.

After a long silence, guilt creeps in.

“I’m sorry,” Dori whispers. “Here I am complaining about nightmares when you lost your ’adad. I am horrible to you.”

Balin pulls back just enough to look at him properly.

“You are not,” he says firmly.

“But—”

“You held me while I wept until I had nothing left,” Balin continues. “You clean my house. You keep me standing. Do not deny me the chance to do the same for you.”

Dori’s eyes fill again.

“I’m glad you need me,” Balin adds softly. “It means we are still here. Both of us.”

Dori leans into him, and this time he lets himself be held without apology.

Time passes in this quiet rhythm of shared grief. They remember their promise. Marriage after the battle. A celebration. A new beginning. But Khagal’abba is wrapped in mourning. Their people are weary. Their hearts fragile.

Balin traces Dori’s fingers one evening and sighs.

“Perhaps we wait.”

Dori nods. “Until we are stronger.”

“We are young,” Balin says. “Time is not our enemy.”

Dori smiles faintly. “No. It is not.”

When Dori tells his lashshar of the decision, Vondal’s brows lift in mild disappointment.

“I had hoped to see my eldest dashat wed soon,” he admits.

Zhori nudges him.

“But you are wise to wait,” she tells Dori. “Build your foundation first. Celebration will mean more when joy does not feel borrowed.”

Dori inclines his head. “We want to do this right.”

Vondal rests a hand on his shoulder. “Then you already are.”

And so they wait.

Not because their love falters—

—but because they choose to heal first.

They are not the only ones trying to heal.

Nori pushes open the tavern door and is immediately hit with the thick scent of ale, smoke, and unwashed grief.

The room roars with laughter too loud to be real. Too many dwarrows drink these days. Too many drink alone. His eyes scan the dim light until he finds him.

Dwalin sits hunched over a scarred wooden table, broad shoulders slumped, red beard unbraided. Empty bottles crowd his space like fallen soldiers. He stares at nothing.

Nori exhales slowly and makes his way through the patrons. No one stops him. No one comments. Grief like Dwalin’s is common now.

Nori slides onto the bench beside him. For a moment, he says nothing. He simply reaches out and runs his fingers gently through Dwalin’s hair.

“Sanzigil-kaiku…” he murmurs softly. “Balin is looking for you. We should go.”

Dwalin blinks as if surfacing from deep water. “Took you long enough,” he mutters thickly.

“You’ve had enough,” Nori replies, already reaching for his arm.

Dwalin sways when he stands. Nori steadies him without comment, wrapping an arm around his waist as they step out into the cool night air. They walk slowly. Halfway home, Dwalin speaks. “I should have died instead of him.” The words are slurred but heavy.

Nori tightens his grip. “Would you leave me alone then?”

Dwalin falls quiet. They walk several more steps before he answers. “…No.”

His voice is firmer now. “I can’t do that to you, Nori. I won’t.”

Nori smiles faintly. “Good,” he says. “Because I would drag you back just to punch you.”

A ghost of a huff escapes Dwalin. When they reach the door, Dwalin catches Nori’s hand before he can pull away.

“Stay,” he says quietly. “Stay with me tonight. I don’t want to be alone.”

Nori’s expression softens. “I won’t let you be alone.”

Inside, the house is dim and quiet. Balin is already asleep. Nori helps Dwalin out of his boots and armor, guides him to bed, and slips in beside him. Dwalin clings immediately. Nori wraps himself around him and whispers nonsense comforts until the trembling eases.

But Dwalin is not the only one haunted. Some nights, Nori wakes with tears already on his cheeks. The dream is always the same.

The spear flies—

—but this time it does not take his ’amad’s arm.

It takes her life. He wakes with a broken sound lodged in his throat. Dwalin is upright instantly.

“Nori. Hey.” He grips his shoulders gently. “It’s alright. She’s fine,” Dwalin says firmly. “Your ’amad is alive. She’s still terrifying everyone. She’s fine.”

Nori’s breath shudders. “Kakhf… I’m sorry,” he chokes. “I’m such a bastard. Crying over her when she’s alive, and you— you lost your ’adad and I—”

Dwalin cuts him off by pulling him into a deep, steady kiss. When he pulls back, his voice is rough. “Shut up.”

Nori blinks at him.

“That battle was horrible for all of us,” Dwalin continues. “You nearly lost her. Of course you’re afraid.”

He swallows hard.

“And even if my ’adad were alive…” His voice wavers despite himself. “I’d still have nightmares. Just different ones.”

Nori’s hands slide up to grip Dwalin’s tunic. “Oh, Dwalin…”

They hold each other tightly, breathing in sync until the tremors fade. Like their naddad ’ugmal, Dori and Balin, they learn the shape of each other’s grief. They do not try to fix it. They simply endure it together.

Rumors swirl, of course. They always do. Nori hears whispers in the market.

“Always at the Fundinul’s house.”

“Like his ’adad before him.”

“Hahdumral.”

False lover. Climbing for status.

Nori snorts when he overhears it one afternoon. “Let them talk,” he mutters to himself. “They can eat kakhf for all I care.”

He knows Dwalin knows the truth.

That Nori love for him is not ambition. It is heat and loyalty and stubborn affection.

The same way Balin looks at Dori. Let the tongues wag. They survive worse than gossip.

Time moves forward.

Slowly.

Steadily.

Nori and Dwalin come of age. There is no grand discussion of marriage. No urgent planning. Unlike Dori and Balin, they do not sit down to map out a future together for they are more focused on the present.

One evening, sprawled across Dwalin’s bed after a long day, Nori asks lazily, “You ever think about marriage?”

Dwalin shrugs, staring at the ceiling. “Sometimes.”

“And?”

Dwalin turns his head to look at him. “I think I love you,” he says simply. “That’s enough for now.”

Nori grins. “Good answer.”

Dwalin snorts. “You fishing for a proposal?”

“Not yet.”

Dwalin rolls onto his side and pulls him closer. “Good cause I'm not ready yet.”

Nori hums in approval. “I'm not ready yet either.”

For now, love is enough.

Marriage can come later.

They have time.

Grief lingers in Khagal’abba. But life does not stop. And so, in the midst of mourning, there is to be a wedding. Inori and Vonbin decide not to wait.

“I want to marry you,” Inori says one evening, her voice steady as she adjusts the sling of her missing arm. “If we wait for perfect times, we will wait forever.”

Vonbin nods beside her. “I agree, it should.”

It is not the grand celebration either once imagined. It cannot be. Thread is scarce. Food is rationed. Many halls still echo with absence. Still, their baraf refuses to let the day pass without effort.

Vondal and his dashshat throw themselves into preparation.

“We will make it worthy,” Vondal insists, sorting through their limited stores of cloth.

Dori runs careful fingers over bolts of fabric. “We can double-line this section. It will look fuller.”

Nori squints at the thread supply. “If we unravel that old ceremonial sash, we can reuse the silver strands.”

Vondal pauses. “That was your sigin’adad’s.”

Nori shrugs gently. “He would rather see it in a wedding than sitting in a trunk.”

Vondal’s expression softens. “You are right.”

They work long into the night, weaving by lamplight. Dori focuses on fine details, careful and precise. Nori works faster, creative with limited materials.

When Inori finally sees the dress, her breath catches. It is simpler than traditional gowns, no heavy gemstone embroidery, no elaborate train, but the stitching is flawless. The lines elegant.

“It’s beautiful,” she says softly.

Dori ducks his head. “We did what we could.”

“You did more than that,” she corrects.

Vonbin’s suit matches in subtle complement, the weave sturdy but refined.

Vondal clasps his future irak’adad’s shoulder. “You’ll look every bit the groom.”

Vonbin chuckles. “I already feel overdressed.”

Zhori, though no longer able to patrol as she once did, refuses to sit idle. Work as a mercenary or guard has dwindled since she lost her arm, but she still takes on what labor she can.

“It is not as thrilling,” she mutters one afternoon while shaping metal with careful precision, “but coin is coin.”

She pours her energy into crafting the wedding beads and jewelry. Without her dominant arm, the work takes longer. Each piece demands patience. More than once, Dori finds her staring at her tools in frustration.

“’Amad,” he says gently, “you do not have to strain yourself.”

Zhori snorts. “This is for my nana’. I will strain.”

Vonbin joins her at the forge when he can. “You know,” he teases lightly, attempting to steady a piece of heated metal, “all you have to do is ask for help.”

Zhori laughs, a rare, full sound nowadays. “Hold it steady, Vonbin, or I will burn more than your fingers.”

Together, they craft simple but meaningful pieces: braided metal beads to symbolize unity, strength, and shared burdens.

Inori contributes in her own way. Traditional weddings boast carved statues of Mahal overseeing the vows. Stone is expensive. Time is short. So Inori paints. Across the wall of the modest hall, she creates a mural of Mahal, watchful, steady, blessing the union.

She paints one-handed. Slowly. Carefully. When she finishes, even the most stoic dwarrows fall silent before it.

“It feels like he is truly watching,” Vonbin murmurs.

“He is,” Inori replies quietly.

Friends who survived the war lend what they can. One brings preserved ale. Another contributes dried meats saved for special occasions. Someone else offers candles bought from a distant valley. Piece by piece, the celebration takes shape. It lacks the full splendor of tradition. But it has heart.

On the day itself, the hall fills.

The mural of Mahal looms above.

Beads gleam softly at Inori’s throat.

Vonbin stands straight despite visible nerves.

A cleric officiates, voice resonant as vows are spoken.

King Thráin himself attends.

His presence is deliberate, a reminder that joy still has a place among dwarrows.

“We must not forget how to celebrate,” he says when offering his blessing. “Even in hardship.”

Whispers ripple through parts of the hall.

Some tongues wag quietly.

Of course the king comes, they murmur.

Dori and Nori court Balin and Dwalin. Surely they asked.

Surely they persuaded.

Dori hears the whispers.

Nori hears them too.

Neither reacts.

“Let them talk,” Nori mutters under his breath.

Dori exhales slowly. “Today is not about them.”

And no one dares voice such thoughts within earshot of the king.

When vows conclude and beads are exchanged, cheers rise, genuine and loud.

Food is shared.

Drinks poured.

Laughter returns, hesitant at first, then freer.

Then comes the first dance.

Dwarven dances are not gentle affairs.

There are no delicate spins like those of Men. No gliding steps like the Elves.

Instead, there is strength.

Vonbin lifts Inori, careful of her balance, and turns sharply before setting her down. She grips his arm firmly and swings around him, feet striking the ground in rhythmic stamps.

There are tosses and catches, controlled but bold.

Arm gestures that display strength and pride.

At one point Vonbin dips too low and nearly loses balance.

Zhori shouts from the side, “Do not drop my nana’, agnât-nadad!”

Laughter erupts across the hall.

Even Thráin smiles faintly.

Dori watches, heart warm.

Beside him, Balin leans closer.

“It is good to see this,” Balin murmurs.

“Yes,” Dori agrees. “We needed it.”

Nori elbows Dwalin playfully. “Think you could manage a toss like that?”

Dwalin snorts. “I could throw you across the hall.”

“That wasn’t what I meant, but I'd love to see that.”

More laughter.

For a few precious hours, grief loosens its grip.

The war feels distant.

Loss does not vanish, but it does not dominate.

It is not the grandest wedding.

It is not the most traditional.

But it is full.

Full of effort.

Full of stubborn joy.

And for Khagal’abba, that is more than enough.

It does not take long after the wedding for news to ripple through Khagal’abba once more.

Inori is with nadan.

Dori knows the signs even before she says it aloud, the fatigue, the careful way Vonbin hovers near her, the subtle way Zhori watches her nana’ with sharper eyes.

When Inori finally gathers the baraf together and announces it, Vonbin at her side, there is a brief, stunned silence.

Then Zhori exhales. “Twelve months of worrying,” she mutters.

Inori laughs softly. “You worried when you carried Nori too.”

“I nearly died carrying both of my dashshat,” Zhori shoots back, though there is no heat in it.

Dori remembers.

He remembers his ’amad pale and trembling after Nori’s birth. He remembers how weak she looked, how Vondal barely left her side. And they said she was the same when he was born.

Dwarrowdams do not bear naddan lightly. Pregnancy is long, twelve months, and dangerous.

That night, Dori finds Inori alone, sketching gently by lamplight.

“Irak’amad,” he says quietly, sitting beside her. “You must rest.”

She smiles. “I am resting.”

He hesitates. “It is… dangerous.”

Inori’s expression softens. “I am only sketching, Dori. It's not dangerous”

He looks down at her still-flat stomach. “You will be careful?”

“I will,” she assures him. “And your ’amad hovers enough for three healers.”

As if summoned, Zhori calls from the other room, “Inori! Sit properly, your back will ache later!”

Inori rolls her eyes fondly. “See? And my stomach isn't even round yet”

The months stretch long.

Inori grows rounder, slower.

Vonbin becomes impossibly attentive.

“Sit.”

“I am sitting.”

“Then lean back.”

“I am leaning.”

“Do not lift that.”

“It weighs nothing.”

“Still.”

Dori often catches his irak’adad watching Inori as though she might vanish if he blinks.

Dori teases him once. “You’re worse than ’adad when ’amad was pregnant.”

Vondal clears his throat. “I was not that bad.”

Zhori raises a brow. “You followed me into the washroom.”

“That was one time.”

“Three.”

Despite the humor, worry lingers beneath every smile.

Dori counts the months quietly.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

And then—

The cries echo through the house.

Sharp.

Strong.

Alive.

Dori waits outside the room with Nori and Vondal, pacing grooves into the stone floor.

Vonbin’s anxious muttering bleeds through the door. Zhori’s firm instructions follow.

Then—

A newborn’s wail, loud and indignant.

The door opens.

Zhori stands there, sweat on her brow, but grinning.

“A dwarrowdam,” she announces.

Relief crashes through Dori so hard his knees nearly give.

Inside, Inori lies exhausted but smiling, a tiny bundle cradled against her chest.

Little Ivori.

Dori and Nori’s iraknana’.

“She’s loud,” Nori observes as the baby wails again.

Zhori laughs. “She rivals you when you were little, Dori.”

Dori flushes. “I was not that loud.”

“You were,” Vondal says calmly. “You screamed as if offended by the world.”

Nori blinks. “Was I as loud as her?”

Vondal shakes his head. “No. You were quiet. Cried when you needed something, but not like your nadad here.”

Dori groans. “Must you always tell that story?”

“Yes,” Zhori says sweetly.

Ivori grows.

And grows.

And grows.

She is bright-eyed, sharp-tongued, and fearless long before she should be. Her laughter fills rooms that once felt too quiet. Her presence draws smiles from even the most grief-worn dwarrows.

“A dwarrowdam,” elders murmur with reverence. “A blessing.”

Hope feels less fragile when she is around.

She adores Zhori.

Missing arm and all.

Especially because of it.

“Show me again,” young Ivori demands one afternoon, wooden axes clutched in both hands.

Zhori smirks. “You must adjust your stance. Balance is not in the arms, it is in the hips.”

Ivori mimics her eagerly.

Despite her missing arm, Zhori remains a formidable teacher. She teaches Ivori how to pivot, how to use momentum, how to compensate and adapt.

Ivori eventually favors twin axes.

Quick.

Sharp.

Relentless.

She grows into a spirited young dwarrowdam with a grin too wide and confidence to match.

She loves sparring.

Particularly with Dwalin.

One afternoon, Nori walks into the training yard and finds Ivori already circling Dwalin eagerly.

“Ivori,” Nori says, raising a brow. “Why are you here?”

She beams. “I’m here to spar with Dwalin!”

“Dwalin can’t,” Nori replies smoothly. “He and I are on a date.”

Ivori freezes. “Aww…”

Dwalin chuckles, adjusting his grip on his training axe. “We can spar after.”

Nori turns sharply. “Oh no, you don’t. You promised I could have you all to myself.”

Ivori plants her axes on her hips and pouts dramatically.

“Please, irak’nadad?” she begs, widening her eyes in exaggerated innocence.

Nori presses his lips together.

Dori, watching from a distance, mutters, “You’re going to give in.”

“I am not,” Nori insists.

Ivori steps closer. “Just one round?”

Silence.

Nori exhales dramatically. “Fine.”

“Yay!” Ivori cheers, immediately springing into position.

As Dwalin moves to join her, Nori grabs his arm briefly and leans close.

“You better not get tired for tonight,” he whispers.

Dwalin’s lips twitch. “I won’t.”

Ivori lunges, axes flashing.

Steel rings.

Laughter follows.

And in the yard of Khagal’abba, once filled only with the echoes of mourning, life continues, loud and bright.

Years pass, and Ivori grows from a loud nadan with wooden axes into a young dwarrowdam with real steel at her hips.

She grows taller, broader in the shoulders, quicker in her footwork. Her laughter does not fade with age, it sharpens, becoming something bold and infectious.

The day she announces she is ready to begin her formal apprenticeship, she does not ask.

She declares.

“I’m going with them next patrol,” she says over supper, stabbing a piece of roasted root with unnecessary emphasis.

Dori nearly drops his cup. “With who?”

“With Zhori’s old guard mates,” Ivori replies brightly. “They’re taking contracts along the trade roads. Nothing major. Just escort work.”

Nori frowns immediately. “Escort work leads to ambushes.”

Ivori rolls her eyes. “Only if you’re bad at it.”

Zhori leans back in her chair, expression thoughtful but proud. “They came to me first. Asked if she was ready.”

“And you said yes?” Dori asks, a crease forming between his brows.

“I said she would meet them,” Zhori corrects. “And she did.”

The meeting happens two days later in the training yard.

Three dwarrows arrive, scarred, broad, and grinning when they see Zhori.

“Well I’ll be,” one of them laughs. “If it isn’t the one-armed terror of the western roads.”

Zhori smirks. “You’re slower than I remember, Brokk.”

“Only because you’re not there to race me.”

They clap forearms in greeting.

Ivori watches them like a starstruck recruit.

Dori watches them like a suspicious hawk.

Nori crosses his arms. “They look like trouble.”

“They are,” Zhori says fondly. “That’s why they’re good.”

The guards assess Ivori properly then. They test her stance, her grip, her reaction speed. One of them lunges without warning, she blocks cleanly and counters fast enough to earn an approving grunt.

“Balance is solid,” Brokk says. “Footwork needs road practice.”

“That’s what we’re offering,” another adds.

Inori and Vonbin stand nearby, observing quietly.

Vonbin finally nods. “She will be under your protection.”

Brokk places a hand over his heart. “On my honor.”

Later that evening, the debate resumes at home.

“She’s still young,” Dori insists. “She hasn’t seen what the world can be.”

Zhori’s gaze softens slightly. “Neither had you.”

The words hang heavy.

Dori exhales slowly. He remembers Azanulbizar too clearly.

“They’re not sending her to the frontlines,” Zhori continues. “She’ll learn travel first. How to pack properly. How to sleep on hard ground without ruining her back. How to set up camp so rain doesn’t flood it. How to keep watch.”

“And how to read people,” Vondal adds gently. “That is as important as any blade.”

“There aren’t many bandits these days,” he continues. “The roads are calmer than when we first came to Khagal’abba.”

Nori remains unconvinced. “Calm roads can turn quickly.”

Ivori snorts. “I find it hilarious that you two are more worried than my own parents.”

Inori laughs softly. “We know Zhori’s friends. They are a tough crowd.”

“And,” Vonbin adds with a warm smile, “Zhori would not trust them with you if they were incompetent, targ rakl.”

Ivori grins at the praise. She has worked hard to earn that proficiency, to be recognized as skilled, not merely enthusiastic.

Zhori nods firmly. “If they were knuckleheads, I’d say no.”

Dori looks at Ivori. Really looks at her.

She is not a nadan anymore.

She stands steady under his gaze.

“I’ll be fine,” she says, stepping closer and squeezing his hand. “You taught me half of what I know. ’Amad taught me the rest.”

Nori sighs dramatically. “If you come back missing an eyebrow, I will personally hunt down whoever did it.”

Ivori beams. “I’ll miss you too.”

The morning she leaves, the courtyard feels different.

Lighter.

Heavier.

Ivori straps her axes securely to her back. Her pack is neat, Inori inspected it twice. Vondal adjusted the weight distribution. Nori slipped an extra throwing knife into a hidden pocket.

“For emergencies,” he mutters.

She notices.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

Brokk calls out from the gate. “Ready, little warrior?”

Ivori’s grin returns full force. “Ready!”

She hugs Inori carefully. Claps forearms with Vonbin. Lets Zhori rest her forehead briefly against hers.

“Make me proud,” Zhori murmurs.

“Always.”

She throws one last look at Dori and Nori.

“Try not to worry too much.”

“No promises,” Dori replies.

Then she is gone, boots striking stone, laughter trailing behind her as she joins the guards.

Her first journey lasts three weeks.

When she returns, she is sun-darkened, dust-covered, and glowing.

“I slept in rain,” she announces. “Ate terrible stew. Brokk snores like a dying warg.”

“I do not!” Brokk protests behind her.

She speaks of long roads and stubborn merchants. Of learning how to position bedrolls against wind. Of spotting a suspicious traveler before he caused trouble.

Each journey after that grows longer.

Harder.

She learns to track by disturbed gravel. To read tension in a caravan master’s voice. To anticipate ambush points before reaching them.

Her twin axes grow extensions of her arms.

Whispers begin to follow her name along the trade routes.

Ivori of the Twin Storms.

Ivori the Laughing Blade.

A dwarrowdam who moves like lightning and fights like rolling thunder.

When she returns from one particularly successful escort, bandits scattered without loss, Dori watches her spar in the yard.

She moves with confidence now. Precision. Controlled aggression.

Nori leans beside him.

“She’s good,” he admits.

Dori nods slowly.

“Yes,” he says. “She is.”

And as Ivori spins her axes in flashing arcs beneath the mountain sky, it becomes clear—

She is no longer merely their irak’nana’.

She is becoming a legend in her own right.

For a time, it feels as though life has finally chosen to be kind.

Ivori has come of age. Not an apprentice. Not a trainee. A full guard. She stands taller when she says it, chin lifted, twin axes resting easy at her hips.

Vonbin prepares for his own journey, south, toward Gondor. A merchant there has taken interest in his novels, real interest, with coin attached to it.

“If this goes well,” Vonbin says one evening, spreading maps across the table, “we may finally ease the strain on our coffers.”

“You deserve that,” Inori replies warmly. “Your words have carried us through darker times than coin ever could.”

Zhori has long since stepped away from guard work. With one arm, the contracts grow fewer, but her skill does not diminish. Instead, she pours herself into teaching dwarflings.

“Again!” she barks at a cluster of young trainees in the yard. “Your footing is lazy. You fight like tired goats!”

They scramble to adjust, wide-eyed.

Vondal and his dashshat have their own success. Their textiles, once modest survival work, are gaining recognition beyond Khagal’abba. Merchants speak of their weaves with admiration.

Dori beams quietly whenever a new order arrives.

Nori pretends not to care, though he polishes the stall sign twice as often.

And within the shadows of the mountain, Nori’s other Craft flourishes as well.

He has risen high within the Rathkh Shathrul. Not merely a thief now. A strategist. A Veiled Hand in truth.

One evening, Vondal corners him near the loom.

“You know,” Vondal says carefully, “you can leave the guild now.”

Nori glances up. “Leave?”

“We are doing better,” Vondal continues. “You do not have to live in shadows anymore.”

Nori shrugs lightly. “I suppose not.”

Dori looks up from his stitching, already sensing where this is going.

“But I enjoy it,” Nori adds. “The planning. The challenge. Outwitting men who think they’re clever.”

Vondal exhales slowly. “It is dangerous.”

“So is weaving if you stab yourself wrong,” Nori replies casually.

Dori rolls his eyes. “That is not the same and you know it.”

Nori grins. “Relax. I know what I’m doing.”

“That is what worries me,” Dori mutters.

Vondal rubs his temple but says nothing further.

And then—

More good news.

Inori is with nadan again.

When she announces it, Vonbin’s eyes shines as brightly as they did at their wedding.

“Another blessing,” he breathes, pressing his forehead gently to hers.

Dori feels the familiar mixture of joy and worry twist in his chest.

“I promise,” Vonbin says softly to Inori one night, hands resting over her growing belly, “I will try to be home in time to welcome our new nadan, amrâlimê.”

Inori smiles, brushing his cheek. “You better.”

“And keep an eye on Ivori,” she adds lightly.

Ivori, standing nearby with arms crossed, huffs. “’Amad, it’s supposed to be the other way around. I’ll be guarding ’adad and the traders.”

Vonbin chuckles. “I stand corrected.”

The morning of departure arrives too quickly. Packs are checked. Axes sharpened. Letters pre-written for the road.

“Stay safe, both of you,” Vondal says firmly, clasping Vonbin’s forearm.

“Do not underestimate the quiet roads,” Zhori adds. “They lull you.”

“Always have someone with you in human settlements,” Dori says to Ivori. “Never wander alone.”

Nori leans close to his irak’nana’ and murmurs, “If anyone grabs you from behind, go for the balls.”

Ivori bursts into laughter. “Nori!”

“What? It works.”

“Enough,” she grins. “We’ll be fine. We’ll be back before you grow bored without me.”

Vonbin looks to the others. “I trust you will keep Inori safe while I am gone.”

“We will,” Vondal promises without hesitation.

Zhori places a steady hand over Inori’s.

Dori squeezes her shoulder gently.

Nori nods once, serious now.

They embrace.

They part.

None of them know it is the last time.

The first raven arrives three weeks later. Ivori’s handwriting is bold and hurried.

Roads clear. Merchants loud. ’Adad complains about southern wine. Brokk nearly fell into a river.

Laughter fills the house as Vondal reads it aloud.

They send replies.

Khagal’abba steady. Business good. Zhori broke another training dummy. Inori misses them both.

More ravens follow.

Stories of long roads and strange markets.

Of Gondorian architecture.

Of Ivori besting a caravan guard in sparring.

Months pass like this, letters flying back and forth like a steady heartbeat.

Then—

Silence.

At first, they dismiss it.

“The road south is long,” Vondal says. “Messages take time.”

“Perhaps they got lost,” Zhori adds.

Inori tries not to show her worry.

Another week passes.

Then another.

Still nothing.

Dori checks the rookery daily.

Nori grows quieter.

And then—

A raven comes.

It lands clumsily.

The parchment tied to its leg is not Ivori’s hand.

Nor Vonbin’s.

Dori’s fingers tremble as he unties it.

He reads.

And the world tilts.

“What is it?” Nori demands.

Dori cannot speak.

Vondal takes the letter from his hand.

His face drains of color as he reads aloud, voice hollow.

“Orc ambush along the eastern pass… caravan scattered… many dead…”

Inori grips the table.

“Vonbin?” she whispers.

Vondal swallows.

“Vonbin fell defending the merchants.”

The room goes utterly still.

“And Ivori?” Zhori asks, voice tight as drawn steel.

Vondal’s jaw clenches.

“Missing.”

The word lands heavier than death.

“Missing,” he repeats. “Her body wasn't recovered but she was last seen fighting... surrounded by orcs.”

The parchment slips from his hand, holding onto Vonbin's family beads, the only thing they have of him now.

Inori does not cry at first.

She simply stares.

“No,” she breathes faintly.

Zhori steadies her as her knees give.

Dori feels something fracture in his chest.

Nori turns away sharply, fists trembling.

Outside, Khagal’abba remains unchanged.

Inside, their baraf breaks all over again.

The news breaks Inori in ways no blade ever could.

Her yasthûn is dead.

Her nâtha is “missing,” they say, but no one truly believes a lone guard survives long after an orc ambush.

Inori does not scream. She does not rage. She simply grows quiet. Too quiet.

She stops eating properly. Pushes food around her plate until it goes cold.

She does not sleep, when she lies down, her eyes remain open, staring at nothing.

Her laughter vanishes.

Her paintings remain unfinished.

The house feels dimmer, as if someone has drawn curtains over the sun.

“Inori,” Zhori says one evening, kneeling before her nana’. “You must eat.”

Inori nods faintly, yet she does not lift the spoon.

Vondal tries next. “For the nadan. If not for yourself.”

At that, her hand trembles. But still, she barely swallows more than a few bites.

Dori and Nori take turns sitting with her.

“Irak’amad,” Dori whispers one night, placing a shawl around her shoulders. “Please.”

She looks at him with hollow eyes. “I am tired, Dori,” she says softly.

“You can rest,” he insists.

“I am tired inside.”

Nori grips the edge of the table until his knuckles pale. “You’re not alone.”

She gives him a small, broken smile. “I know.”

But knowing does not bring her back.

The pregnancy only worsens things. Her body weakens further under grief. She grows paler by the day.

Vondal and Zhori speak in hushed voices at night.

“If this continues,” Vondal murmurs, “we may lose them both.”

Zhori closes her eyes briefly. “Mahal would not be so cruel.”

But prayer feels thin in the air.

The labour begins too soon. Far too soon.

Vondal and Zhori are away in a Men’s settlement, Zhori hired to train, Vondal trading wares.

Dori and Nori remain behind specifically to watch over Inori.

They are not prepared for this.

It starts with a sharp gasp.

Dori looks up from the loom. “Irak’amad?”

Inori doubles over, clutching her stomach. Pain twists her features. “No,” she whispers. “It’s too early—”

A dark stain spreads beneath her dress. Dori’s blood runs cold.

“NORI!” he bellows. “GO AND GET A HEALER! NOW!”

Nori freezes. “But it’s too soon! It could be false—”

“NORI!”

The tone sends him running.

Dori helps Inori to the nearest bed, which happens to be Nori’s bed. She is trembling violently.

“It hurts,” she breathes.

“I know,” Dori whispers, though he does not know anything at all.

Everything after blurs. Footsteps pounding. Doors slamming. Inori’s cries rising and breaking. Then Nori bursts back in with an older dwarrowdam in tow.

“Move!” she snaps before even fully entering.

Haban. The yasthûna of Gróin. A healer whose name carries weight.

Dori instinctively bows his head, but she snaps again, “Not now, lad! Out of my way!”

He moves instantly. The room becomes a battlefield.

“Hot water! Scalding!”

Nori nearly trips over himself to obey.

“Fresh linen!”

Dori tears open cupboards, hands shaking so badly he fumbles the cloth.

Haban commands like a general.

“Hold her steady!”

“Support her back!”

“Do not let her drift!”

Blood pools too quickly. Too much. Dori sees it and feels ice flood his veins.

When the worst of the pain hits, Inori grabs both irakdashshat and pulls them close.

“Irakdashshat… my dear boys…” Her voice is thin. Fragile. “I am afraid… I would not survive this…”

“No!” Dori chokes. “Do not say that!”

“Haban is here,” Nori says desperately. “She’s one of the greatest healers. She’ll save you. She’ll save you both.”

But even as he says it, tears spill down his face.

Inori smiles faintly.

“You have always been such good irakdashat…”

Another contraction tears through her. She screams, fingers digging into their arms.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps when it passes. “I can’t… Dori… Nori… I love you. I love you both.”

“Don’t—” Dori’s voice breaks. “Don’t speak like that.”

“Tell your ’amad the same,” Inori continues faintly. “Tell your ’adad… I trust Zhori with him…”

“No, no, no,” Nori shakes his head violently. “You will live, irak’amad. You will!”

“Please,” Dori begs. “Please stay.”

Inori’s eyes flutter. “Promise me… promise me you will care for my nadan…”

“We promise!” they both cry instantly.

Another scream rips from her, and then another cry joins it.

Small. Sharp. Alive.

Haban works swiftly, hands sure despite the blood.

“It’s a strong boy,” she declares. “Early, but he’ll live. I’m sure of it.”

She places the infant into Inori’s trembling arms. Inori looks down at him. For the first time in months, something lights in her eyes. “Oh… dashat,” she whispers, tears sliding down her temples. “I am so sorry… I must leave you so soon…”

The baby fusses, unaware.

“But you will not be alone,” she murmurs. “These two will love you as their own nadad… My nana’ will love you as her own… and her yasthûn…”

Her breathing grows shallow. “I name you Ori… my sweet Ori… forgive your weak ’amad…”

Her arms slacken. Her head tilts.

“Inori?” Dori whispers.

Silence.

“Irak’amad?” Nori shakes her gently.

Haban’s face says everything before her words do.

The room fills with sound.

Dori’s wail tears from his chest, raw and broken.

Nori collapses forward, sobbing uncontrollably.

And between them, tiny Ori cries the loudest of all—

Unaware that he has already lost his ’amad, his ’adad, and his nana’.

Ori grows up wrapped in layers of protection. Not smothered, never that, but guarded as if the world itself might reach out and snatch him away.

Vondal and Zhori do everything in their power to give the boy warmth and laughter. Dori and Nori take it further. If Ori is awake, one of them is nearby. If he stumbles, there are hands ready before he hits the ground.

The first months are the hardest. He is so small. Too small.

Premature and fragile, his skin almost translucent, his cries thin and reedy. They keep the hearth burning day and night to warm the house. Blankets pile high in his cradle. Zhori insists on checking his breathing every hour.

More than once Dori jolts awake from shallow sleep, convinced the house has gone too quiet.

They hire a nursemaid on Haban’s recommendation, Sannl, a sturdy dwarrowdam with kind eyes and steady arms.

“I won’t take coin,” Sannl says firmly when Vondal offers payment. “The lad needs milk, not pride. You can mend my roof before winter. And my fence.”

“We’ll do it,” Nori answers instantly.

So they do.

Dori fixes her shutters. Nori reinforces her gate. Vondal repairs her loom. Zhori carves her new pegs for hanging herbs.

And Ori drinks. Grows. Survives.

There are close calls, fevers that last too long, coughing fits that leave him gasping, but he pulls through each time.

“He’s stubborn,” Zhori mutters once, watching him cling fiercely to Dori’s finger. “Like all of you.”

As soon as he can walk, Ori trails after his iraknaddad like a shadow. If Dori moves, Ori toddles after him. If Nori slips out the door, tiny boots scuffle in pursuit.

“Where are you going?” Ori demands in his small, serious voice.

“Nowhere dangerous,” Nori replies every time.

The baraf makes certain Ori knows his story.

At night, Zhori sits him in her lap and tells him about his ’amad.

“Inori painted Mahal with such devotion,” she says softly. “Her hands were gentle. She laughed easily.”

“And your ’adad Vonbin,” Vondal adds, “was clever. Always writing. Always dreaming bigger than his purse.”

“And Ivori?” Ori asks once, wide-eyed.

Nori kneels beside him. “Your nana’ could throw an axe straighter than most seasoned guards. She would have taught you.”

Ori listens solemnly.

“I’ll meet them in the Halls one day,” he says with the quiet certainty of a nadan.

“You will,” Dori answers, brushing his curls back. “But not for a very long time.”

Still, for all the stories, for all the remembrance—

Ori clings to the ones who are here.

It happens on an ordinary evening.

Dori stands at the stove, stirring a pot of stew. The scent of onions and herbs fills the house. Behind him comes the soft wobble of unsteady steps. Small hands wrap around his leg.

“Ori,” Dori says absently, eyes still on the pot. He pats the boy’s head. “How are you, turgarug?”

“I’m hungry, nadad.”

The spoon clatters against the pot.

Silence.

Dori’s breath catches.

“Nadad?” he echoes faintly.

Ori peers up at him, completely unbothered. “I’m hungry.”

Dori swallows hard. His vision blurs, but he forces his voice steady.

“I… I’ll be done soon. Go sit at the table, Ori. I’ll bring it.”

“Alright, nadad.”

Ori toddles off.

The moment he disappears around the corner, Dori presses his free hand over his mouth.

Tears spill before he can stop them.

Nadad.

The word feels heavy. Precious. Terrifying.

Is it wrong that his heart swells at hearing it? That something inside him warms at being claimed so simply?

Is it disrespectful?

He thinks of Inori.

He thinks of Vonbin.

“I’m not replacing you,” he whispers to the empty kitchen. “I would never.”

But the joy is there anyway. Confused. Fierce. Real.

Nori’s moment comes in the public bathhouse.

Ori sits in the shallow basin, hair plastered to his forehead, mud still clinging stubbornly behind one ear.

“You know,” Nori says, pouring warm water carefully over him, “we wouldn’t be here this late if someone hadn’t decided to roll in the mud like a pig.”

Ori pouts. “I’m sorry, nadad.”

The jug slips slightly in Nori’s hand.

“Nadad?”

Ori nods solemnly. “I won’t do it again.”

“As long as you know what you did wrong,” Nori replies automatically.

He resumes scrubbing, grateful beyond measure that he stands behind Ori where the boy cannot see his face.

Because he is smiling like a fool.

His throat tightens.

Is it unfair to Ivori? To Vonbin? To Inori?

He does not know.

But Ori’s small back leans trustingly against his chest, and something protective and immovable settles in his bones.

The name sticks.

Ori calls them his naddad.

He understands, in the way naddan do, that they are not the ones who share his blood, who gave him life. He knows the stories. Knows the names. Speaks of his ’amad, his ’adad, his nana’ with reverence.

But when he wakes from nightmares, he runs to Dori.

When he scrapes his knee, he calls for Nori.

He calls Zhori ’amad and Vondal ’adad with the same simple certainty.

Not out of ignorance.

Out of closeness.

One evening, curled between Dori and Nori by the fire, Ori murmurs sleepily, “I know my real ’amad and ’adad are in the Halls.”

Dori strokes his hair. “You do.”

“I’ll see them one day.”

“You will,” Nori agrees quietly.

Ori yawns. “But right now… you’re my naddad.”

The words settle softly in the room.

Dori and Nori exchange a glance over the boy’s head.

No confusion this time.

Only acceptance.

Ori sleeps, warm and safe between them.

And whatever blood says, whatever loss shaped their lives—

This is baraf.

Years pass in Khagal’abba, and restlessness settles into King Thráin like a splinter beneath the skin. He speaks more often of the east. Of Azsâlul'abad. Of smoke no longer rising from the Mountain. Of whispers that the dragon may be gone. Soon whispers become meetings. Meetings become plans. And plans become an expedition.

“I will not die in exile,” Thráin declares before his gathered kin. “Azsâlul'abad is ours. If there is even a breath of chance that it can be reclaimed, I will see it with my own eyes.”

Volunteers step forward.

Among them, Balin and Dwalin.

They do not hesitate.

They are of Durin’s line. Obligation sits heavy on their shoulders. But before they march east, there are words left unsaid.

Balin finds Dori in the quiet of evening, near the looms. The workshop smells of wool and dye, steady and familiar.

“Dori,” Balin says softly.

Dori turns, already smiling at the sight of him. “You’re avoiding packing.”

“I am delaying,” Balin corrects gently.

Something in his tone makes Dori still. Balin steps closer. His hands tremble only slightly as he reaches into his pouch.

“Dori, amrâlimê… I will try my best to come home to you.” His voice is calm, but his eyes betray him. “But if I do not survive this journey… if fate decides otherwise…”

Dori’s smile fades.

“Do not speak like that.”

“I must.” Balin swallows. “If I fall… if I cannot return to you… may I walk into the Halls of Mahal as your yasthûn?”

He opens his palm, revealing an iron marriage bead rests there, inlaid delicately with gold. Simple. Strong. Unyielding.

Dori freezes, his hand flies to his mouth. “Balin…”

“It is selfish,” Balin continues quietly. “I know it is. But if I must enter the Halls, I wish to do so bound to you. Not as a suitor. Not as a promise left unfinished. But as your yasthûn.”

Tears gather in Dori’s eyes. “I will pray you come home,” he whispers. “I will pray until my voice fails me.”

Balin nods once.

“But if you do not,” Dori continues, stepping forward, cupping Balin’s face with shaking hands, “then yes. I will carry your bead. I will keep you as my yasthûn. In this life and beyond it.”

Balin exhales shakily, relief and sorrow mixing in equal measure.

They press their foreheads together.

“Thank you, amrâlimê.”

The wedding happens swiftly. No feast. No music. No dancing.

Only Thorin standing before them, solemn and watchful, serving as witness and officiant.

“Do you bind yourselves freely?” Thorin asks.

“We do,” they answer together.

Beads are braided. Documents are signed. Vows are spoken quietly, but firmly. It is done.

The next morning, Dori steps into the common room with Balin’s bead woven into his hair.

Zhori notices first, her eyes soften.

Vondal says nothing, only grips Dori’s shoulder firmly.

Ori stares up at him. “You look different.”

“I am,” Dori answers gently.

Only Nori reacts otherwise. He sees the bead. Understands instantly. And something in his chest twists painfully.

He turns away quickly and retreats to his room, shutting the door before anyone can see his face crumple. Because he had his own conversation the night before.

Dwalin stands before Nori in the dim light of their chamber.

“Nori… sanzigil-kaiku,” he murmurs, using the old endearment that always makes Nori smirk. Not tonight.

“I will do my best to return to you,” Dwalin says. “But fate is not ours to command.”

“Don’t,” Nori warns quietly.

“I have to.” Dwalin cups his face. “If I die… if there is no hope of my return… find a new love.”

The words strike like a slap.

“You’re asking me to forget you?” Nori breathes.

“No.” Dwalin’s grip tightens. “I’m asking you to live. To be happy. If I fall before you… do not chain yourself to my memory.”

He attempts a crooked grin. “If I come back and find you married, I will be furious.”

The joke falls flat between them. Nori’s eyes shine with tears. “You better come home,” he whispers. “Because I cannot imagine anyone taking your place in my heart.”

Dwalin exhales shakily and pulls him into a crushing embrace.

“This is only the worst-case scenario,” he murmurs against Nori’s hair. “Only that.”

They hold each other, memorizing one another's warmth. Later, they cling together in bed, desperate and slow, as if trying to carve the memory into bone and skin. If this is the last time, they will not waste it.

So when Nori sees Balin’s bead in Dori’s hair the next morning, everything crashes together inside him.

Happiness for his nadad.

Jealousy that Balin claimed that certainty.

Fear that he might never have the same.

He shuts himself in his room and presses his fist to his mouth to muffle the sobs.

Dwalin will come back.

He has to.

Because if he does not—

If he walks into the Halls without Nori beside him—

Nori does not know if he can ever love another the way Dwalin asks him to.

And that thought he has to, frightens him more than anything.

For a while, the ravens keep coming. Small scrolls tied to their legs. Familiar handwriting. Updates written in steady strokes.

We have crossed the Malasul'abbad.
Supplies hold well.
Morale is strong.
Azsâlul'abad grows nearer.

Each letter is read aloud at the table. Each one eases the tightness in Dori’s chest. Each one makes Nori breathe a little easier.

“See?” Vondal says after one such reading. “They are fine.”

“They sound fine,” Dori corrects softly, but he smiles anyway.

Life continues.

Dori and Nori work beside their ’adad at the stall, selling textiles in nearby settlements. Their craft grows more respected; customers linger longer, pay better coin. Nori still slips away some nights for Rathkh Shathrul business, vanishing into shadow and returning before dawn.

Zhori trains dwarflings in the yard, wooden weapons cracking together beneath her sharp commands. Sometimes even Men seek her instruction.

“Again!” she barks at a clumsy youth. “Your footing is weak!”

Ori flourishes in quieter pursuits. He sits at the table long after meals, scratching careful letters into parchment. Ink stains his fingers. His tongue peeks out slightly when he concentrates.

“You hold the quill like your ’adad,” Zhori tells him one afternoon.

“And you mix colors like your ’amad,” Dori adds gently.

Ori beams. “I want to be a scribe,” he declares one evening, chin lifted proudly.

Vondal and Zhori exchange a look.

“A fine ambition,” Vondal says warmly.

But scribes are rare among dwarrow. Most already have apprentices. The few without demand fees too steep.

“We have time,” Zhori assures them. “He is still young.”

So they wait. Months stretch into years.

Then—

The ravens stop.

At first, no one panics.

“Delays happen,” Dori says firmly.

“Storms. Illness. Distance,” Vondal adds.

But weeks become months. No scrolls. No ink. No word. Rumors spread.

“They’re dead,” someone whispers in the market.

“Thráin has fallen.”

“Thorin must take the crown.”

Thorin refuses. “My ’adad lives,” he says before the gathered clans. “Until I see proof otherwise, I will not take what is not mine.”

But even stubborn hope bends under time. Months pass. Silence persists. And at last, Thorin accepts the crown. The day it happens, Dori sits very still. Nori does not attend the ceremony. That night, both of them retreat to their rooms. Soft, muffled sobs bleed through wooden doors.

Dori grieves quietly. He fingers the iron-and-gold bead braided into his hair. Rolls it between trembling fingers. “My yasthûn,” he whispers to the empty room.

He cries, yes, but he rises the next morning. He cooks. He works. He moves like someone carrying a weight, but moving nonetheless.

Nori—

Nori shatters. He grows sharp-edged. Restless. Angry without direction. He goes to the tavern more often. At first it is one mug. Then two. Then enough that he forgets walking home.

More than once, Dori finds him slumped over a sticky table.

“Up,” Dori murmurs gently, hauling him upright.

“I’m fine,” Nori slurs.

“You are not.”

Ori notices. He says nothing. But in the mornings, when Nori groans awake with a pounding skull, a glass of water waits beside his bed. Ori stands there, solemn and silent. “Drink,” he says simply.

Nori stares at him.

“Thank you,” he mutters hoarsely.

Time moves on regardless. As if nothing has changed. As if two hearts have not been ripped open. Nori remembers his promise.

If I die… if there is no hope of my return… find a new love.

“You bastard,” Nori mutters one night into his ale. “You shouldn’t have asked that of me.”

But he promised. So sometimes he does not drink himself into oblivion. Sometimes he seeks warmth instead. Quick hands. Quicker departures. No names remembered. The whispers begin.

“Whore.”

“Easy.”

"Hahdumral."

Nori hears them. He does not care. What does it matter? The only one who mattered is likely bones beneath foreign soil. Tonight feels no different. He nurses a mug of stale ale, eyes scanning the tavern lazily. Broad shoulders. Decent beard. Willing eyes. Just someone to fill the silence.

Then he sees him.

A dwarf with a ridiculous miner’s hat perched atop his head. His beard is respectable, his moustache braided into little hooks that twitch when he smiles.

And his eyes—

Dark blue.

Like Dwalin’s.

Nori’s chest tightens painfully. He almost looks away. Instead, he stands. If he hesitates now, he will drown in memory. He approaches the table with a practiced smirk.

“Hello, handsome,” Nori drawls. “I see you’re all alone. Care for some company?”

The dwarf looks up, and breaks into a wide, joyful grin.

“If that company is your charming self,” he says warmly, “I would be very happy.”

His voice carries easy cheer, unburdened and bright.

“Bofur,” he adds, placing a hand over his chest theatrically. “At your service.”

Nori arches a brow, leaning slightly closer. “Oh? Are you now?”

Bofur winks, moustache hooks bobbing. “Oh, I can be. And more.”

Nori expects Bofur to be nothing more than another distraction. A quick tumble. A forgettable night.

Instead—

He laughs.

Truly laughs.

They sit shoulder to shoulder at the tavern table, mugs clanking together as Bofur launches into yet another story, hands flying dramatically.

“And so I ask him,” Bofur says between chuckles, “‘Delg, how exactly are you helping by drinking the supply dry?’ And he tells me, listen to this, he says he’s helping because if he drinks it, there’s less ale for the slackers!”

Nori snorts into his mug. “That’s the most ridiculous excuse I’ve ever heard.”

“Right?” Bofur slaps the table. “The foreman nearly strangled him.”

“Did he get in trouble?” Nori asks, leaning closer despite himself.

“Oh, with the foreman, certainly. But worse, his yasthûna.” Bofur waggles his brows. “She dragged him home by the ear.”

Nori laughs, really laughs, and it surprises him how good it feels.

Music begins at the far end of the tavern. Fiddles and drums. Someone starts stomping a rhythm.

Bofur rises dramatically and gives an exaggerated bow. “May I?”

Nori arches a brow. “I don’t know. Can you?”

Bofur grins and lunges for his hand. Nori yelps and darts away, weaving between tables.

“Oh, you little thief!” Bofur shouts, laughing as he gives chase.

They circle the tavern like reckless youths, jumping benches, ducking under arms, earning irritated grumbles and amused cheers. Nori vaults over a table; Bofur follows less gracefully, knocking over a mug in the process.

“Stop running!” Bofur laughs.

“Make me!”

At last, Bofur catches him around the waist, pulling him back. “Got you.”

“Fine,” Nori says with mock boredom, though his eyes sparkle. “I suppose I’ll dance.”

Instead of releasing him, Bofur suddenly digs his fingers into Nori’s sides.

Nori bursts into startled laughter. “Oy! Bastard!”

“Gotta loosen you up before the dance!” Bofur crows.

When he finally lets go, they fall into step with the music.

Bofur dances like a man possessed, big jumps, wide spins, arms thrown high. He nearly crashes into another couple and apologizes mid-spin without missing a beat.

“You’re terrible at this,” Nori teases.

“I am magnificent,” Bofur insists, tripping slightly.

Nori finds himself matching him, spinning, stomping, laughing. The ale buzzes pleasantly in his veins, but it’s more than that. There is something infectious about Bofur’s joy. It radiates outward, warm and unapologetic.

At one point, Nori presses closer, hand sliding briefly along Bofur’s side. Bofur’s grin softens—just for a second.

The world narrows to music and warmth and blue eyes that are not the same shade as Dwalin’s, but close enough that Nori’s chest tightens and then eases.

For one night, the silence of lost ravens does not exist.

He wakes in an unfamiliar bed.

Sunlight filters through thin curtains.

He is naked. Warm. There is a pleasant ache low in his body.

And an arm draped over his waist.

Bofur sleeps beside him, equally bare, mouth slightly open, moustache hooks askew.

Nori groans softly.

Well.

At least it was a good night.

He expects this to end as they always do.

Quietly.

He slips from the bed, dresses without a word, and leaves before Bofur stirs.

No attachment.

No promises.

The next day is routine.

Dori fusses over him at breakfast. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine.”

Zhori watches him too closely. Vondal says nothing, but his eyes linger.

Ori hands him water without comment.

Nori avoids their gazes.

He works the stall. Checks in with Rathkh Shathrul, no assignments tonight. Good. Or maybe not.

By evening, he is back at the tavern.

Another drink.

Another body.

He barely settles onto a bench when an arm wraps around his shoulders.

“Hey, handsome.”

Nori turns.

Bofur beams at him. “You left me alone.”

“I didn’t feel like staying,” Nori replies evenly.

Bofur hums thoughtfully. “Then I suppose I’ll have to do better. Make you want to.”

The grin he gives is so open, so shamelessly hopeful, that Nori feels heat creep into his cheeks.

Time passes.

One night becomes two.

Two become a week.

Then more.

They talk.

They drink.

They dance, badly.

Bofur tells stories about the mines, about his baraf, about foolish coworkers and stubborn mules. He listens when Nori snaps. He doesn’t flinch when Nori goes quiet.

The first time they kiss without ale clouding their heads, it isn’t rushed. It isn’t desperate. It’s slow. Deliberate.

Bofur’s hand cups Nori’s jaw as if he means to remember the shape of it.

Nori feels something shift inside him. Something that isn’t numb. Something that isn’t grief.

When they part, Bofur rests his forehead against Nori’s. “Still planning to run off at dawn?” he murmurs.

Nori hesitates.

For once—

“No.”

Somewhere between laughter and warmth, between stolen glances and steady presence, Bofur carves himself a place in Nori’s guarded heart.

And without quite meaning to—

Nori falls in love again.

It makes everything unbearably awkward when they, Thráin's group, return. Not ghosts. Not bones carried in sacks. But alive. Thin. Scarred. Fewer in number. With the king himself missing. Word spreads like wildfire through Khagal’abba, for it is still a cause for celebration. Dwarrows have returned home.

“They’re back.”

“From the east.”

“Balin, Dwalin, are alive.”

Dori drops the bundle of cloth he’s holding and runs. He doesn’t think. Doesn’t breathe. He pushes through the gathered crowd until he sees him—

Balin.

Thinner. Beard longer. Armor battered. But alive.

“Balin!”

Balin turns at the sound of his name, and whatever composure he had shatters. “Dori.”

They collide. Dori grabs him by the face and kisses him hard, desperate and trembling. Balin exhales against his mouth and wraps both arms around him, lifting him slightly off the ground.

“I thought you were dead,” Dori breathes between kisses.

“I thought I might be,” Balin admits softly.

Nearby, Dwalin scans the crowd. “Nori?”

Nori stands frozen several paces away.

Dwalin is leaner. There’s a nick on his ear that hasn't been there before. His shoulders seem heavier.

But his eyes—

Those beautiful blue eyes—

“Nori!” Dwalin strides forward and sweeps him up without hesitation, lifting him clear off the ground. He kisses him deeply, fiercely, like a man who clawed his way back from the brink.

And Nori—

Nori kisses him back. All the grief. All the nights. All the anger. Then he shoves him away.

Dwalin blinks, stunned. “Nor—”

The slap echoes. Several nearby dwarrows gasp.

“That,” Nori snaps, eyes bright with tears, “is for making me think you were dead for months!”

Before Dwalin can react, Nori grabs his collar and kisses him again. “And that,” he murmurs against his lips, “is for coming back.”

Dwalin grins despite the sting on his cheek. “I deserve that.”

Then his eyes drop. He frowns.

There, braided carefully into Nori’s hair—

A bead.

Not his.

“Nori…?”

Nori’s stomach drops. “Ah.” He grabs Dwalin’s wrist. “We need to talk.”

They step aside, away from the noise of reunions and tears. “Remember what you told me before you left?” Nori begins slowly. “You said if you died… I should find someone else.”

Dwalin’s jaw tightens. “I remember.”

“Well.” Nori exhales shakily. “I thought you were dead.”

Understanding dawns painfully in Dwalin’s expression. “Oh.”

“It doesn’t mean I stopped loving you,” Nori rushes out. “Mahal, Dwalin, you broke me. I drank. I fought. I—” He swallows. “I was a mess.”

Dwalin says nothing. He just listens.

“Then I met him,” Nori continues. “His name is Bofur. He… he made me laugh when I didn’t think I ever would again. He stayed. He didn’t treat me like I was fragile. He just—” Nori drags a hand through his hair. “I love him. I do.”

The words feel treacherous and honest all at once. “But I still love you,” he adds desperately. “I don’t know how it’s possible. I don’t know what that makes me. I just know it’s true.”

Silence stretches between them.

“You can shout,” Nori says hoarsely. “You can be furious. I would deserve it.”

Dwalin lets out a slow breath. “You weren’t unfaithful.”

Nori blinks. “What?”

“You thought I was dead,” Dwalin says simply. “And I told you to find someone if I died. If there’s blame anywhere, it’s mine for saying it.”

“That doesn’t make this easier.”

“No.” Dwalin’s mouth twitches faintly. “It doesn’t.”

He studies Nori carefully. “You still love me?”

“Yes.”

“And you love him?”

“Yes.”

Dwalin looks away briefly, jaw flexing. “I don’t know how I feel about this Bofur,” he admits. “But I’d like to meet him.”

Nori narrows his eyes. “Are you going to hurt him?”

Dwalin scoffs softly. “No. I’ll thank him.”

“Thank him?”

“For keeping you smiling when I couldn’t.” His voice is rougher now. Honest.

A pause.

“And if I find I can tolerate him,” Dwalin adds carefully, “I suppose… I don’t mind sharing you.”

His expression says he absolutely minds.

But he is trying.

Nori’s throat tightens.

“I never thought I could love two dwarrows at once,” he whispers.

Dwalin steps forward and cups his face. “That doesn't mean it's wrong.”

He kisses him again, slower this time. Familiar. Steady.

“I’ll wait,” Dwalin murmurs against his forehead. “Whatever happens, I won’t blame you.”

Nori nods, heart pounding. “Tomorrow night,” he says. “I’ll introduce you.”

Dwalin squeezes his hand once before stepping back toward the others.

Behind them, the crowd still buzzes, reunions, questions, grief for those who did not return.

And in the middle of it all, Nori stands very still.

Old love, alive returned from a harrowing journey.

New love waiting in a tavern.

And somehow—

His heart belongs to both.

While Dori disappears home with Balin, laughter already drifting from their doorway, Nori finds himself in a far more uncomfortable battlefield.

A tavern table. Three mugs. Three dwarrows. Him in the middle.

Dwalin sits on one side, broad shoulders squared, arms crossed over his chest like he’s preparing for negotiation, or war.

On the other side sits Bofur, relaxed, one leg hooked casually over the bench, miner’s hat tilted slightly to the side as if this is the most ordinary evening of his life.

Nori clears his throat. “So.”

“Hi there!” Bofur beams, leaning forward eagerly. “You must be Dwalin! Nori’s told me all about you.” He extends his hand across the table.

Dwalin eyes it like it might bite him. Then, after a pause, he grips it firmly. “Have you now?” Dwalin says, voice low. He turns towards Nori, as Dwalin jerks his chin subtly in Bofur’s direction, brows raised.

This one?

Nori nods once.

Yes. This one.

Dwalin exhales through his nose. “Bofur,” he says at last, “I must thank you for putting a smile back on Nori’s face while I was gone.”

Bofur’s grin softens into something genuine. “Oh, that wasn’t hard,” he says lightly. “It’s easy to love Nori.”

Nori nearly chokes on his drink. Heat floods his cheeks. Only Bofur would say something like that so simply. So openly. As if it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

Dwalin studies Bofur carefully, then nods once. “Agreed.”

Nori blinks at him.

Dwalin turns serious again. “You know Nori loves us both.”

“I do,” Bofur answers easily.

“Good.” Dwalin leans back slightly. “Then how do you want to do this? Are you agreeable to sharing him? Or shall we fight for the right as in tradition?”

Nori groans. “Dwalin. You said you weren’t going to hurt him.”

“I’m not,” Dwalin replies calmly. “Unless he prefers the other option.”

Bofur raises a brow. “Oh?”

“I could throw him through that window,” Dwalin adds casually.

“You absolutely will not,” Nori snaps.

Bofur bursts out laughing. “Oh, I like you already,” he says to Dwalin.

Dwalin blinks.

“Actually,” Bofur continues thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on the table, “I was thinking something else.”

Both Nori and Dwalin turn toward him.

“Well?” Nori prompts warily.

“What if you and I go on a date?” Bofur says brightly.

Silence. Complete and utter silence.

“Pardon me?” Dwalin says flatly.

Bofur shrugs as if suggesting ale instead of emotional complexity. “I mean, it’s clear we both love Nori. And Nori loves us. So if we happen to fall in love with each other too, that makes everything much simpler, doesn’t it? Happy trio.”

Nori presses his lips together to stop the laugh bubbling up.

“Besides,” Bofur adds, turning his attention fully to Dwalin, eyes dragging shamelessly over his broad chest and thick arms, “Nori told me you’re a hunk. And I like hunks.”

Dwalin turns red.

Actually bright red.

“I’d be glad to take you for a ride,” Bofur finishes with a wink.

Nori loses the battle and snorts into his mug.

Dwalin sputters. “I—what?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re serious?”

“Completely.”

Dwalin looks to Nori again, as if silently asking whether this dwarf is mad.

Nori shrugs helplessly. “I did tell you he’s carefree.”

“That’s one word for it,” Dwalin mutters.

Bofur leans across the table and, without hesitation, takes Dwalin’s hand.

The tavern noise hums around them, utterly oblivious.

“So?” Bofur asks, squeezing lightly. “Think you can handle dating two dwarrows, big guy?”

Dwalin gulps. He’s used to Nori’s flirting, sharp, sly, calculated. Bofur’s is different. Open. Bold. Disarming. Utterly shameless.

“I—” Dwalin starts, then clears his throat. “I suppose… one date wouldn’t kill me.”

“Excellent!” Bofur beams.

Nori watches the exchange with growing amusement, and something softer beneath it.

This could have ended in fists. In shouting. In heartbreak.

Instead, Dwalin is blushing like a youth and Bofur looks like he’s just discovered a new favorite pastime.

Dwalin glances back at Nori. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Oh, immensely,” Nori replies sweetly.

Bofur stands abruptly and tugs on Dwalin’s hand. “Come on then. Walk with me.”

“Now?” Dwalin blinks.

“Why delay?”

Dwalin looks at Nori once more, uncertain.

Nori lifts his mug in salute. “Go on. I’ll still be here.”

Dwalin huffs, but allows himself to be pulled to his feet. As they step away, Bofur glances back and winks at Nori. Nori shakes his head, laughter finally spilling free.

This is not how he imagined tonight going. Not how he imagined any of this going.

But as he watches Dwalin stiffly match Bofur’s energetic stride—

He realizes something surprising.

He isn’t afraid anymore.

And for the first time in a long while—

It feels like Mahal has granted him a miracle.

With Balin home in Khagal’abba at last, he and Dori move into a modest house not far from Vondal and Zhori. It is small, but sturdy, stone walls, a narrow hearth, shelves already filling with scrolls and ledgers Balin insists on organizing himself.

“It’s ours,” Dori says softly the first night, standing in the doorway with Balin’s hand in his.

“Ours,” Balin agrees, squeezing gently.

They intend to live quietly.

They do not.

Dwalin drops by unannounced at least twice a week. Nori wanders in most evenings under the excuse of “just checking in.” Ori treats the place as if it is an extension of his own home, often curled in a corner with parchment and ink.

At some point, Balin chuckles and remarks, “I believe we have accidentally acquired a second home for our barraf instead of our own.”

Dori smiles. “You say that like you mind.”

“I do not,” Balin replies warmly.

One afternoon, Ori sits at the table, brow furrowed in concentration, copying a passage from one of Balin’s older texts. His letters are careful, deliberate. When he makes a mistake, he is quick to fold and put it away before starting again rather than smearing the ink in frustration.

Balin watches for a long moment. Then he clears his throat. “I would be honored to take him as my apprentice.”

Dori blinks. “You would?”

Ori freezes mid-stroke, eyes wide.

“I mean it,” Balin continues, stepping closer. “He has the patience. The discipline. And the hunger to learn.”

Dori hesitates. “Are you certain? You are the king’s advisor. Surely there are others, dashshat of notable barraf, who would wish to apprentice under you. I don’t want it to seem as though—”

Balin studies him carefully. “Dori,” he says gently, “have you been hearing them call you hahdumral again?”

Dori’s jaw tightens. He nods once.

The rumors never truly stopped. When Nori spiraled into drink and fleeting company during the months of silence, whispers followed him, whore, false lover. And because Nori is his nadad, because Dori married Balin swiftly before the expedition, the poison spreads.

He wed him for status.
He expected Balin to die and leave him inheritance.

Absurd. Balin has little to inherit while in exile.

But logic rarely quiets gossip.

“Ibinê,” Balin says softly, lifting Dori’s chin. “You love me for who I am. Not for my title. Not for my standing.”

“I know you know that,” Dori replies quickly. “It’s just… when we thought you were dead, I was not myself. I was raw. It was easier to ignore them before. But afterward…”

Balin’s expression softens with regret. “Amrâlimê, I wish I had come home sooner. I cannot erase what you endured. But I am here now.”

He brushes a thumb along Dori’s cheek.

“And I choose Ori because of Ori. I see his passion. His respect for knowledge. The way he treats books as if they breathe. That cannot be taught, it must already live in the heart.”

Ori flushes under the praise but tries to pretend he isn’t listening.

Dori exhales slowly. “I will speak with ’adad and ’amad. But… how would we afford it? Apprenticeships require payment.”

“Ori would work under me,” Balin replies calmly. “He will copy texts, assist with records, organize correspondence. His labor will be his payment. That is tradition enough.”

Dori knows it is true. Many apprentices pay in service rather than coin.

He also knows tongues will wag louder.

Advisor favors his yasthûn’s kin.
Convenient arrangement.

He closes his eyes briefly, steadying himself.

Ori’s future matters more than whispers.

“You wouldn't give Ori any extra favors right?” Dori says quietly.

“I never planned to,” Balin answers.

Dori smiles at last. “Very well. I am certain Ori would be thrilled.”

At that, Ori can no longer pretend disinterest. “Truly?” he blurts, nearly knocking over his inkpot. “Balin, you mean it?”

Balin chuckles warmly. “I do. Though if you are to be my apprentice, you must stop calling me by my name alone and start calling me ‘Master.’”

Ori beams so brightly it feels like sunlight breaking through stone.

Dori watches him, heart full.

Let them whisper.

Let them speculate.

Here, within these walls, there is only baraf, and love, and a future carefully being written.

Ori grows beneath Balin’s guidance the way a careful script grows beneath a steady hand, line by line, stroke by deliberate stroke.

Balin is strict.

He does not tolerate ink blots.
He does not tolerate lazy phrasing.
He does not tolerate assumption without research.

But he is patient.

“Again,” Balin says one afternoon, tapping the parchment. “You summarize well, but you must understand what you copy. Why did Durin III choose that alliance?”

Ori straightens. “Because isolation weakens trade routes and—”

“And?” Balin prompts.

“And because unity preserves culture in exile,” Ori finishes, more certain.

Balin’s stern mouth curves slightly. “Good. A scribe does not merely record history. He safeguards it.”

Ori thrives under that expectation.

As Dori predicted, tongues wag. Some mutter that Ori’s apprenticeship is favoritism. Others claim Dori uses his yasthûn’s influence to elevate his own kin.

But Balin stands firm.

Publicly.

Proudly.

And Dori, bolstered by that steady support, lifts his chin and endures.

Years pass.

By the time Ori comes of age, his handwriting is elegant, precise, unmistakably his own. He drafts correspondence for the court, copies treaties without error, and debates historical interpretations with dwarrows twice his age.

His only flaw is youth.

“And that,” Balin tells him quietly one evening, “will remedy itself.”

Despite this, Dori and Nori continue to treat him as though he might still topple over like the premature babe he once was.

“Ori, did you eat?”

“Ori, you’re working too late.”

“Ori, wear a thicker coat.”

“Nadad,” Ori groans one morning, “I am a grown dwarf.”

Dori fusses with his collar anyway. “You are our grown dwarf.”

Nori is marginally better, but only marginally.

Ori is secretly grateful that Dori lives with Balin now. As a nadan, he visited often, curling up by the hearth while Balin and Dori spoke softly in the evenings. But as an adult, it feels… intrusive.

He loves his naddad deeply.

He simply does not need to witness their affectionate murmuring.

And when Nori finally settles into a home with both Dwalin and Bofur after their own marriage, an arrangement that raises brows but endures nonetheless, Ori finds himself with even more breathing room.

He is happy for Nori.

Truly.

And perhaps a little relieved.

Life in Khagal’abba continues.

Then hope is born.

Princess Dís, nana’ to King Thorin, gives birth to a healthy dashat.

Prince Fíli.

The halls ring with celebration. Even in exile, a royal nadan is a symbol of endurance.

Five years later, another cry echoes through stone corridors.

Prince Kíli.

Two princes. Two bright sparks against the long shadow of loss.

Ori sees them often from afar, two small heads, one golden, the other copper, beside their ’amad, Princess Dís, or perched proudly near their irak’adad, King Thorin.

Fíli walks early, chin high, already carrying himself like a future ruler.
Kíli toddles behind him, laughter loud and unrestrained.

Ori always bows respectfully when they pass.

Then he returns to his work.

Princes belong to another world.

Or so he believes.

Until one afternoon, Balin summons him.

Ori enters the study, heart steady, expecting correction or new assignment. Instead, Balin gestures for him to sit.

“I have recommended you,” Balin says calmly, “to be Prince Fíli’s tutor for history.”

Ori blinks.

“I—pardon?” He looks behind himself as if another Ori might be standing there. “Me?”

Balin nods. “Princess Dís agrees. Fíli requires broader interaction beyond guards and royal attendants. Our circumstances have made his world… small.”

Ori understands immediately. They are exiles. Royal naddan are rare even in prosperity, here, they are guarded treasures.

“Princess Dís wishes him to study in the library at times,” Balin continues. “With dwarrows we trust.”

“And you chose me?” Ori’s voice wavers.

“I did. You are our youngest scribe. Closer to his age than the others. And I know your character. You would sooner cut off your own hand than allow harm to come to him.”

Ori swallows hard. “Master Balin, I am the least experienced. I have never taught anyone before. What if I fail? What if he grows bored? What if—”

Balin lifts a hand. “Be confident in your Craft, Ori. I would not place the future king’s education in uncertain hands.”

The words settle heavily, and warmly, in Ori’s chest. “You believe I can do this?” he asks quietly.

“I do.”

Silence stretches between them.

Then Ori inhales sharply. “Alright,” he says, pulse racing. “I will do it.”

Excitement flares through him, bright and sharp.

He, Ori of no great name, once a fragile nadan fighting for breath, will teach a prince.

It is terrifying.

It is thrilling.

And as he leaves Balin’s study, mind already racing with lesson plans, he cannot help but smile.

For the first time, when he bows to Prince Fíli in the corridor—

It will not be from afar.

Ori prepares for his first lesson with Prince Fíli as if he is about to present before the entire court. He drafts structured outlines. He copies maps of Khazad-dûm. He sketches careful portraits of Durin III and the Elven-smith Celebrimbor. He even practices his pacing in front of a mirror. “This will go well,” he mutters to himself that morning, smoothing his robes. “Clear. Informative. Dignified.”

The library is arranged neatly when the naddan arrive. Low stools. A central table. Scrolls stacked with care.

Prince Fíli enters with the confidence of royalty despite his small stature, golden hair gleaming in the lantern light. A handful of dwarflings his age trail behind him, part of Princess Dís’s effort to ensure her dashat grows among his people rather than above them.

Ori bows. “Your Highness.”

“Just Fíli,” the prince says quickly, dropping into his seat. “Irak’adad says I mustn’t let it get to my head.”

Ori smiles faintly. “Very well… Fíli.”

The guards take their places by the pillars. A few scribes linger at distant tables, pretending not to watch.

Ori clears his throat and begins. “During Durin III’s reign in the sixteenth century of the Second Age, the Dwarrows of Khazad-dûm struck a rare friendship with the Elves of Eregion—”

He gestures to the chart behind him. “Their cooperation led to—”

A soft sound interrupts him. Ori pauses. Another sound follows. A snore. He blinks.

Prince Fíli is slumped sideways in his chair, cheek squished against the table, drool slipping down onto Ori’s carefully inked timeline.

Ori turns slowly.

Two dwarflings are folded over their arms. One is sliding off his stool. Another is blinking heavily, fighting a losing battle.

The room is silent except for tiny, rhythmic snores.

Ori stares at the guards.

One shrugs. “I thought it was informative.”

Another mutters bluntly, “It was boring.”

A few scribes exchange sympathetic glances.

Ori exhales through his nose, long and slow. “Well,” he murmurs faintly. “That was… catastrophic.”

When the lesson is formally abandoned, the lashshar arrive to collect their sleeping naddan. Some try not to smile. Others look apologetic.

Dwalin himself strides in to retrieve Prince Fíli. He scoops the boy up easily, adjusting the small princely cloak around him.

“It was a noble attempt, lad,” Dwalin says kindly. “But they’re still naddan.”

Ori rubs his temple. “You’re right. I should have considered their age. I approached it as though they were junior scribes.”

Dwalin smirks. “If you can make Fíli sit still for an hour, you’ll have accomplished what none of us can.”

“I will do better next time,” Ori says firmly.

That night, he does not sleep much. He sits at his desk surrounded by scraps of parchment, muttering to himself. “They need movement… visuals… engagement…”

He begins cutting shapes.

By midnight, his table is littered with crude, hastily colored figures, Durin III with an exaggerated beard, Elven-smiths with pointed ears far too large, tiny hammers drawn mid-swing.

Ori stares at his cartoonish rendering of one of the greatest kings in Dwarvish history. “I am so sorry,” he whispers to the drawing.

The next day, he stands before the naddan again.

He inhales deeply.

“In the sixteenth century of the Second Age,” he begins, forcing energy into his voice, “while Durin III ruled mighty Khazad-dûm—”

He lifts the cut-out puppet of Durin.

Gasps.

Tiny hands clap.

Fíli leans forward immediately. “Why is his beard so big?”

Ori dies a little inside. “Every great ruler has great beards,” he answers weakly, wiggling the puppet. “And it adds to his charm.”

He introduces the Elven puppet next.

“And this,” Ori continues, attempting dramatic flair, “is an Elf of Eregion, master craftsmen and—”

“Why are his ears like that?” one dwarf nadan blurts.

“Because… they are Elves.”

Fíli giggles.

Ori presses on, moving the cut-outs as though they are actors upon a stage.

“And so the Dwarrows and Elves worked side by side—”

He clacks the tiny paper hammers together.

The naddan laugh.

Ori’s soul quietly leaves his body.

From the corner of his eye, he notices someone else in the library.

Princess Dís.

She stands near a bookshelf, arms folded, watching.

And smiling.

Mahal preserve me.

Ori keeps his voice steady despite the heat creeping up his neck.

“When we cooperate,” he continues, now fully committed to the spectacle, “great works are forged, friendships as strong as mithril.”

Fíli’s eyes are bright. Awake. Engaged.

“Did they fight together too?” the prince asks eagerly.

“Yes,” Ori says, encouraged. “When darkness rose, they stood together.”

“Like warriors?”

“Yes.”

Fíli grins. “That’s better than treaties.”

Ori almost laughs. “History is more than battles, Your Highness. But yes. There were battles too.”

By the end of the lesson, no one is asleep. The naddan chatter excitedly as they leave.

“Can we see more puppets tomorrow?”
“Will there be dragons?”
“Can Durin fight something?”

Ori slumps into his chair once they are gone.

Princess Dís approaches.

He shoots to his feet and bows deeply. “Your Highness, I assure you the figures are merely instructional tools and not meant to diminish—”

She laughs softly. “Master Ori,” she says warmly, “my dashat has not spoken so enthusiastically about a lesson before.”

Ori blinks. “He… hasn’t?”

“He asked if he could come early tomorrow.”

Relief floods him so quickly he nearly sways. “I am… glad it was acceptable.”

“It was more than acceptable,” Dís replies. “It was clever.”

She pauses, glancing at the discarded puppet of Durin III.

“Though perhaps,” she adds with amusement, “a less hastily made depiction of Durin III next time.”

Ori covers his face briefly. “Yes, Your Highness.”

When she leaves, he exhales shakily. He looks down at the ridiculous cut-outs scattered across the table.

“This is not how I envisioned teaching history,” he mutters.

But the memory of the naddan's eager expressions lingers in Ori's mind, making him smile.

Years pass, and somehow the puppets remain.

Ori refines them over time. Durin III’s beard becomes more dignified, only slightly exaggerated now. The Elven ears are less absurd. He even crafts small wooden stands so the figures move more smoothly across the table.

Prince Fíli grows taller, sharper in his questions. And when Prince Kíli is old enough, he joins the lessons, bright-eyed, restless, forever glancing at his nadad 'ugmal for approval.

Ori quickly learns their rhythm.

Fíli listens first, speaks second.
Kíli speaks first, then speaks again.

“Why did they trust the Elves?” Fíli asks one day, chin propped on his hand.

“Because trust,” Ori replies, moving the puppet solemnly, “is sometimes more valuable than gold.”

Kíli squints. “Gold is very valuable.”

“Yes,” Ori agrees patiently. “Which is why it is impressive.”

The naddad sit shoulder to shoulder, whispering to each other, occasionally elbowing the other when one answers too quickly. They are nearly inseparable.

So when, one quiet afternoon, Fíli approaches alone, Ori immediately senses something is different.

“Your Highness?” Ori asks gently. “Do you have a question for today’s lesson?”

Fíli shifts on his feet. He looks oddly nervous, rare for him.

“I wanted to give you something,” he says, cheeks faintly pink.

Ori smiles warmly. Over the years, the naddan have gifted him many things, crooked drawings of kings, little stone carvings, once even a very lopsided clay inkpot.

“It is an honor to receive a gift from you,” Ori replies, kneeling slightly to be closer to the prince’s height.

Fíli beams and presses something into his palm.

It is heavy.

Cool.

Ori looks down.

An iron bead.

Simple. Hand-forged. Carefully polished.

His breath leaves him.

He nearly drops it.

“W—What is this, Prince Fíli?” he asks carefully, voice suddenly thin.

“It’s a metal bead!” Fíli says proudly. “For your hair! Irak’adad taught me how to smith beads yesterday. I made this. For you.”

Ori’s heart begins pounding in his ears.

Hair.

Beads.

Courtship.

Among dwarrows, gifting a crafted hair bead is intimate. Intentional. A declaration.

“Your Highness…” Ori swallows. “You remember Master Balin’s lessons, yes? About the meaning of such gifts?”

Fíli nods eagerly. “Yes! That’s why I made it!”

Ori feels faint.

“And… what meaning do you believe this carries?” Ori asks, already fearing the answer.

Fíli straightens his shoulders. “I wish to court you.”

Silence fills the library.

Somewhere in the distance, a book falls off a shelf.

Ori stares at him.

Of all the scenarios he has rehearsed in his mind, forgotten lessons, public embarrassment, even mild royal displeasure, this was not one of them.

He forces a small, strained laugh. “Oh,” he says weakly. “I see.”

Fíli looks so proud. So certain. “I made it myself,” the prince insists. “See? The edges are smooth. I polished it.”

Ori takes a slow breath. “Your Highness,” he begins carefully, holding the bead out again, “I am deeply flattered. Truly. But this is not a gift I can accept.”

Fíli’s smile falters. “Why?”

“Well,” Ori says, scrambling for composure, “you are still a nadan. Courtship is something dwarrows consider when they are much older. When they understand what it means.”

“I understand,” Fíli replies stubbornly. “It means you like someone and want to give them a bead.”

Ori resists the urge to bury his face in his hands.

“It also means partnership,” Ori explains gently. “Shared responsibilities. Shared futures. That requires time and maturity.”

Fíli frowns slightly. “But I like you. You are clever. And you tell the best stories.”

The sincerity in his voice makes this worse.

“I am honored,” Ori says softly. “But one day, when you are older, you will meet someone who stirs your heart differently. Someone your age. Someone who stands beside you as an equal.”

Fíli considers this. Then he nods slowly. “Oh. Alright.”

Relief crashes over Ori so fast his knees nearly give out. “Thank you for understanding, Your Highness.”

Fíli brightens suddenly. “I will ask again tomorrow!” he announces. “Then I’ll be older.”

He turns and walks off, humming to himself.

Ori remains frozen in place.

His face slowly drains of color.

Tomorrow.

He imagines the whispers already.

The scribe encourages the prince.
He has ensnared a royal nadan.
The baraf of hahdumral strikes again.

The word echoes in his skull.

His baraf has only just begun to quiet those rumors. Nori’s past recklessness. Dori’s marriage to Balin. The mutterings of opportunism.

And now this?

If anyone misunderstands, if anyone believes he encouraged it—

Princess Dís might think he manipulated her dashat. King Thorin might see predation where there is none.

His baraf could be ruined. Or worse.

Ori presses his hands to his face. “Mahal preserve me,” he whispers.

From across the room, one of the older scribes raises an eyebrow. “Everything well, Master Ori?”

Ori lowers his hands slowly, forcing a brittle smile. “Yes,” he says faintly. “Perfectly well.”

Inside, however, panic coils tight in his chest.

He looks down at the iron bead still resting in his palm.

Carefully crafted. Earnest. Innocent.

And potentially disastrous.

Ori mutters under his breath, “Kakhf.”

Ori lingers in the library long after the naddan have gone. He stacks the stools. He gathers the puppets. He aligns the scrolls that do not need aligning.

Anything to delay stepping outside.

His mind replays the moment over and over.

I wish to court you.

The words echo like a hammer striking stone.

By the time he finally leaves, dusk has settled over Khagal’abba. Lanterns glow along the corridors, and clusters of dwarrows murmur in low conversation.

As he passes, he catches fragments.

“—gave him a bead, I heard—”

“—Prince Fíli himself—”

“—that scribe—”

Ori’s stomach drops.

The library is a public place. Of course it spread.

He walks faster.

I should write to Princess Dís, he thinks desperately. Explain everything before it twists further.

He rehearses phrases in his head.

Your Highness, I would never presume—
It was a misunderstanding—

When he reaches home, he exhales shakily and pushes the door open.

“I’m back,” he calls automatically. “’Adad? ’Amad?”

He steps into the living space—

—and freezes.

Princess Dís sits at the central table. Zhori and Vondal sit with her. All three turn to look at him.

“Ori,” Dís says gently, “I was waiting for you.”

His mouth goes dry. He approaches slowly, heart pounding in his ears. “Your Highness,” he begins quickly, bowing low, “if I may speak first—I would never seduce—”

Dís raises a hand. He falls silent immediately. “Ori,” she says softly, “I did not come here to interrogate you. Nor to punish you.”

She stands.

And then—

She bows deeply. Ori stares in horror. “Princess! You don’t have to—please—”

“But I must,” Dís replies, straightening only slightly. “I am here to apologize for the behavior of my dashat.”

The room falls completely still.

“I know of your character,” she continues. “Fíli is never without guards. They report to me who speaks with him, who approaches him, how he behaves. Not once have I heard a whisper of impropriety from you.”

Ori’s chest tightens.

“Balin trusts you. My dashshat adore you. You have shown nothing but honor.”

Her expression darkens with regret. “And yet, because of my dashat’s foolish declaration, you and your baraf will once again be dragged through rumor.”

Zhori’s jaw clenches. Vondal’s hands fold tightly on the table.

“As your princess,” Dís says quietly, “I have failed to protect you.”

“Your Highness,” Vondal says gently, “please raise your head. Not even you can command the tongues of every dwarf in these halls.”

“Aye,” Zhori adds firmly. “We do not blame you.”

Dís straightens fully now, but her eyes burn with frustration.

“When rumors began around Balin and Dwalin’s relationships with your dashshat, I did not intervene,” she admits. “How one is perceived is not mine to govern. But this… this incident stems directly from my dashat.”

She exhales sharply. “I should have spoken to him more clearly about the meaning of such gifts. I should have anticipated nadanish impulses. I did not. And now you are harmed.”

Ori steps forward despite himself. “Your Highness, Fíli meant no harm. He is a nadan. He acted with innocence.”

“And innocence does not erase consequence,” Dís replies. “You know as well as I do how fragile reputation can be.”

She glances between Zhori and Vondal. “The royal baraf may not wield the power we once did, but we still possess some authority. I wish to offer compensation.”

Zhori and Vondal exchange a look. Ori understands immediately, this is pride as much as justice.

“As the offended party,” Ori says carefully, looking to his lashshar, and when they nod he continues, “Then may I request the form of compensation?”

“You may,” Dís answers.

Ori inhales slowly. “Allow me to step down from teaching the naddan. Assign me instead closer to court duties.”

There is a pause. Dís studies him closely. “You wish to distance yourself from Fíli so the rumors starve,” she says quietly. “And as Balin’s apprentice, your presence in the inner court will not draw suspicion.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“You sacrifice something you love,” she observes.

Ori forces a small smile. “While teaching does bring me joy, your Highness, puppetry is not my Craft.”

Dís nods once. “Very well. It will be done swiftly.”

Relief washes over him so intensely he nearly sways.

“Oh—Your Highness,” Ori says suddenly, fumbling in his pocket. “Before you leave.” He withdraws the iron bead. “I failed to return this in the moment.”

Dís takes it gently. Her expression softens.

“A nadan’s first creation is meant to be gifted to their lashshar,” Ori mumurs, as Dís turns the bead in her fingers.

“Thank you, Ori. I will keep it.” Dís says quietly. She looks at him one last time. “I am grateful for what you have given my dashshat, Ori. And I will be glad to see you serve in court.”

With that, she departs. The door closes. Silence lingers. Ori stands there for a long moment before his shoulders finally sag.

Zhori rises first, crossing the room to grip his shoulder firmly. “You handled that well.”

Vondal nods. “Extremely well.”

Ori lets out a long, trembling breath. “I was certain we would be ruined.”

Zhori snorts softly. “It will take more than a nadan to ruin this baraf.”

Despite everything, Ori laughs weakly.

The storm has not entirely passed, rumors rarely die quickly and it would go on for a few weeks still.

But tonight, at least—

They are safe from excecution.

Years pass, and Ori settles fully into his new role within the inner court. With the shift away from teaching naddan, Balin’s instruction deepens. No more puppets. No more exaggerated beards. Now it is treaties. Lineage disputes. Trade negotiations. Subtle phrasing in royal correspondence that can avert offense or ignite it.

“Words,” Balin says one evening as they sit beneath lamplight, reviewing a draft Ori has written to a neighboring settlement, “are blades. You must know where to cut, and where not to.”

Ori nods, absorbing every correction, every nuance.

Strangely, he sometimes thinks the incident with Fíli, mortifying as it was, pushed him here faster than he would have come on his own. He learns more in these years than he ever expected. His knowledge broadens. His confidence steadies.

If not for the lingering whispers, he might even call it fortunate.

But the whispers never vanish completely.

And neither does his naddad’ vigilance.

After the incident, Dori and Nori become even more attentive. Escorting him to work. Escorting him home. Watching every interaction a little too closely.

Ori knows why.

On her deathbed, his birth ’amad Inori had made them promise to protect him. And they take promises seriously.

Still—

“I can walk to court myself,” Ori protests one morning as Dori adjusts his collar unnecessarily.

“And you can trip on uneven stone yourself,” Dori replies calmly.

“There are no uneven stones on the main path,” Ori argues.

Nori claps him on the back. “Humor us.”

So he does. It is not all unpleasant. He enjoys the walks. The shared laughter. The feeling of baraf around him. But it is… suffocating at times. One evening, as they walk him home beneath warm lanternlight, Dori hums thoughtfully.

“So, Ori,” Dori begins casually, “has anyone caught your eye lately?”

Ori nearly chokes. “None really. And no one wishes to court me either.”

Nori scoffs dramatically. “I find that hard to believe. Our baraf is known to be lookers.”

He flashes a smug grin and gestures to himself. It is true, their ’adad’s side of the baraf is well regarded for striking features. Strong lines. Thick hair. Expressive eyes.

Ori rolls his own eyes. “Looks are not everything.”

“They help,” Nori counters.

Ori hesitates, then sighs. “You both know why.”

Silence falls. The old rumors. The suspicion that once painted him as something dishonorable. Though faded, some still glance twice at him. Dori’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Nori’s expression darkens.

Ori feels their anger simmering and quickly waves a hand. “But it is fine,” he insists. “Truly. I am focused on my work. I am still the youngest of the scribes, can you believe that? Years among them and they still treat me like an apprentice sometimes.”

“That is because you still look like one,” Nori teases.

“No I do not!,” Ori yells back, even after years he retained his youthful appearance, a trait Zhori said he shared with his birth ’amad Inori.

Dori chuckles softly.

“We can find you a date, if you like,” Nori offers suddenly. “Bofur has plenty of friends around your age. Not rich, but sturdy. Strong arms. Broad shoulders.”

Ori snorts.

Dori frowns slightly. “I like Bofur, but I am not certain Ori would be suited to a miner. No offense to their Craft, but what would they discuss? Ore density and ink composition?”

Nori shrugs. “Opposites can be interesting. And if it does not work out, Ori can at least enjoy a quick romp with a hunk.”

“Nori!” Dori snaps.

Ori bites his lip. “…I am a little bit interested.”

Dori whirls on him. “No.”

“I mean dating,” Ori clarifies quickly. “Not whatever he is implying.”

Nori grins unrepentantly.

Ori exhales slowly. “I am not searching for it. I will take it when it finds me. Like it found you both.”

Dori’s expression softens immediately. He reaches out and squeezes Ori’s shoulder. He and Balin had grown up together, friendship maturing into love over decades.

Nori and Dwalin had been the same, nadanhood attachment, deepened over time. Though grief and confusion once fractured them, it ultimately expanded their hearts enough to welcome Bofur in.

Love found them.

Ori hopes, quietly, it might one day find him.

“Well,” Nori says lightly, “if you ever change your mind, I will ask Bofur. He knows everyone worth knowing.”

“And several not worth knowing,” Dori adds dryly.

They laugh.

They reach home.

And so life continues in that steady rhythm, court work, family dinners, teasing conversations about hypothetical suitors.

Until one evening, that rhythm fractures.

It begins as a rumor in the halls.

A quest.

A dangerous one.

A king reclaiming what was lost.

When the three naddad stand together and hear the details, something shifts in the air between them. Balin and Dwalin will both follow Thorin, their king, as it is their duty. And Dori and Nori who once felt helpless in waiting for them, decides that this time they will join them. Bofur too decides to come along with his nadad and iraknadad. And Ori, fearing for his naddad's lives, join in as well. And so the Quest for Azsâlul'abad begins.

Bag End is unlike any dwelling Ori has ever stepped into. He pauses just inside the round green door, eyes sweeping over curved walls and polished wooden floors. The ceilings are lower than dwarf halls, but everything is deliberate, rounded corners, smooth beams, shelves built snugly into the earth itself. It is built into a hill.

Fascinating.

He runs his fingers lightly along the wall. Cool, but not cold. Solid.

Thermal mass, he notes silently. The ground retains temperature. Cool in summer, warm in winter.

For a structure of this age, the insulation must be remarkable. The air does not feel damp. The floors are dry. There must be an efficient drainage system beneath the hill. He wonders how the foundation is reinforced.

“I would very much like to see the schematics of this place,” he murmurs to himself.

“You’re admiring the walls?” Nori teases as he passes, already eyeing the food.

“It is structurally impressive,” Ori replies defensively.

Nori snorts. “It’s a hole in the ground.”

“It is a carefully engineered hole in the ground.”

Further inside, Ori spots shelves lined with books. A library. His steps slow automatically. Perhaps there is something written about hobbitish architecture. Or local agricultural systems. He makes a mental note to ask Bilbo later, if it would not be intrusive.

Speaking of Bilbo.

Ori studies their host from a distance. The hobbit is the first of his kind Ori has seen up close. Shorter even than dwarrows. No beard. Round face. Large, hairy feet entirely bare against the polished floor.

Strange.

But Bilbo, despite visible alarm at thirteen dwarrows crowding his home, feeds them.

Reluctantly.

Ori notices the way the hobbit glances at his diminishing pantry with growing horror.

Still, he feeds them.

That counts for something.

“I should ask Dori and Nori what they think of him,” Ori mutters quietly.

Though perhaps not tonight. Tonight is their last evening in safety for some time.

Dori and Balin sit close together already, speaking in low tones. Ori knows that look, after the meeting ends, they will retire early and hold each other close.

Nori is laughing loudly with Dwalin and Bofur near the hearth. Whatever plans they have likely involve very little sleep and even less modesty.

Ori looks away quickly.

As he considers what he himself should do with the evening, his gaze drifts, and catches something peculiar.

Thorin stands near the center of the room, watching Bilbo.

Not casually.

Intently.

Bilbo, meanwhile, is inspecting what remains of his pantry with mounting distress.

Ori tilts his head.

Odd.

But not his concern.

He turns back to the room—

—and feels it.

Eyes on him.

That, in a room full of dwarrows, is not unusual.

But this feels… pointed.

He turns slowly.

Prince Fíli stands across the room. Adult now. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Golden hair braided neatly. His features sharper than the boy Ori once taught with puppets.

Fíli smiles and winks when he notices Ori is looking at him.

Ori nearly swallows his tongue. He offers a stiff, nervous wave but does not approach. They have a forty-five-year age gap, modest by dwarven standards, yet enough that Ori still remembers Fíli as a nadan clutching a handmade bead.

They have barely spoken since that day. Even in court, their interactions were distant, formal. So when Fíli begins walking toward him, Ori freezes.

What does he want?

Fíli stops in front of him and extends a hand confidently. “Ori. Nice to meet you.”

Ori blinks.

Does he… not remember?

“Oh—hello. Nice to meet you too, Prince Fíli,” Ori replies, shaking his hand.

Fíli’s grip is warm and firm. “Just Fíli,” he says easily.

Ori nods. “Fíli.”

There is a brief pause, then Fíli tilts his head. “So what made you join this suicidal quest?”

Ori huffs a quiet laugh. “Ah. Straight to it, then.”

Fíli grins.

“Well,” Ori begins, clasping his hands behind his back, “many years ago, Balin and Dwalin left on a journey east. It was… not unlike this one.”

Fíli’s expression softens slightly.

“My naddad worried themselves sick waiting for news,” Ori continues. “When they heard Balin and Dwalin were setting out again, they decided this time they would not wait at home.”

“And you followed them,” Fíli concludes.

Ori nods. “They may baby me relentlessly, but that does not mean I do not worry for them in return.”

Fíli’s smile grows warmer. “That’s sweet,” he says. “Of them. And of you.”

Ori feels heat creep up his neck. “It is simply what baraf does.”

Fíli studies him for a moment, longer than feels necessary. There is something thoughtful in his gaze. Something measuring. As if he wants to say more. But before he can, a voice calls across the room.

“Fíli!” Kíli is waving him over impatiently.

Fíli glances back, then returns his attention to Ori. “I’ve got to go,” he says. “Nice talking with you, Ori.”

“You as well,” Ori replies automatically.

Fíli hesitates half a second, then smiles again. “See you soon.” And he walks away.

Ori remains standing there, heart oddly unsettled.

What was that about?

He exhales slowly and looks around Bag End once more, trying to steady his thoughts.

Perhaps it was nothing.

A polite conversation before danger.

Still—

That wink lingers in his mind longer than it should.

Rivendell is beautiful. White stone arches, carved like flowing water. Open terraces. Fresh clean air. Open lighting. Nothing like the comforting weight of stone halls, but beautiful all the same.

But the food—

He grimaces at the memory.

“That was not a proper meal,” Ori muttered earlier, poking suspiciously at something leafy and raw. “It tasted like regret,” he adds.

Ori had eaten politely. Barely.

Now, escaping the memory of that meal, he finds sanctuary where he always does.

The library.

He steps inside and immediately relaxes.

Shelves climb high toward curved ceilings. Scrolls and bound volumes line the walls in careful order. The scent of parchment and ink grounds him. He scans the titles. Half are in Sindarin. He squints at a few spines, mentally translating, and quickly decides he does not have the patience tonight.

But the other half—

Westron.

His lips curve upward. He pulls a volume at random and flips through it. Elven historiography. Interesting. As he moves deeper into the room, he spots Bilbo already seated with a book in hand, feet tucked neatly beneath him on a chair.

And—

Thorin.

Standing not far from the hobbit. Watching Bilbo again. Ori slows in his steps. Thorin is not browsing, not reading, just watching.

Bilbo flips a page, oblivious, or pretending to be.

Ori’s brows lift slightly.

Oh.

He very deliberately turns away.

Dori and Nori become insufferable when their time with their lovers is interrupted. Ori has no desire to discover what a cranky king might be capable of.

He finds a secluded corner with a small table and settles into it, opening the Elven history text.

He reads about the Vanyar, first to answer the summons west. The Noldor, proud and skilled. The Teleri, divided into Sindar, Nandor, Silvan. The Falmari by the sea. The Avari who refused the call entirely.

Fascinating.

He becomes absorbed quickly.

Until—

That sensation again.

Eyes.

He looks up. Fíli stands a few paces away, arms loosely folded, expression curious.

“Hello there,” Fíli says casually. “What are you reading?”

“A book about elves,” Ori replies honestly.

Fíli’s face immediately contorts into mild disgust. “Why?”

Ori nearly laughs. “Their history is fascinating.”

Fíli drops into the chair opposite him, stretching his long legs out. “I used to like history,” he says. “Had a teacher once who made it fun. Puppets and everything. But I can’t remember who.”

Ori keeps his expression perfectly neutral.

“Nowadays it’s just plain boring.”

“I see,” Ori replies mildly.

Fíli leans forward slightly. “Anyway, Kíli and I are going to spar. I was wondering if you wanted to join us.”

Ori blinks. “Just the three of us?” he asks carefully.

“Well, yes. Kíli and I have been sparring each other since we could lift practice blades. We know all of each other’s moves. It’s predictable.” He shrugs. “The older dwarrows are busy, and I figured I’d ask someone our age.”

Ori opens his mouth—

—and pauses.

Our age.

Ah. There it is.

“I appreciate the invitation,” Ori begins slowly, “and you are correct that sparring with someone new is good practice.”

Fíli grins.

“But,” Ori continues gently, “I am not your age.”

Fíli tilts his head. “You’re not?”

Ori shakes his head. “I am forty-five years your senior.”

Silence.

Fíli blinks. “That can’t be right.”

“It is.”

“But you look—” Fíli gestures vaguely at his face. “You look so—”

“Young?” Ori supplies dryly. “I hear that often. I inherited it from my ’amad.”

Fíli stares at him, his mouth open. He closes it, then opens it again. “I—wow.”

“Yes,” Ori says. “A blessing and a curse.”

Fíli runs a hand through his hair, clearly recalculating several things in his mind. “You look younger than me,” he mutters.

“That is unfortunate for both of us.”

Fíli huffs out a short laugh despite himself. Then he straightens. “So… do you still want to spar?”

Ori glances down at the book in his hands. He would very much like to continue reading. But he is not naïve. This journey will not be won by knowledge alone. Sharpening his blade arm is likely a wiser use of time than studying Elven lineage while marching toward danger. He closes the book carefully.

“Yes,” he says. “I will join you.”

Fíli’s grin returns instantly. “Good.”

They rise together and leave the library.

As they step into the courtyard, Kíli waves from the far side, already holding practice weapons.

“You took long enough!” Kíli calls.

“Found us a new opponent,” Fíli replies.

Kíli looks Ori up and down skeptically.

Ori arches an eyebrow. “I assure you,” he says calmly, reaching for a practice blade, “I am not as fragile as I appear.”

Fíli smirks. “We’ll see about that.”

Ori rolls his shoulders once, settling into stance. While he is a scribe, he is raised by Zhori, and naddad to Dori and Nori, so he is going to have fun setting these young ones in place.

Beorn’s house sits in a wide clearing, surrounded by fields and carefully tended gardens. It is peaceful. However Ori is used to a different kind of peaceful. Ori is used to libraries, to archives, to shelves stacked high with knowledge. Here, there are no books. No scrolls. No quiet corners filled with parchment. Only open sky.

He sketches to keep himself occupied.

The lines of the barn. The slope of the hills. The animals, large, well-kept, intelligent-eyed. He has never seen such breeds before. He would very much like to document the flora in the garden as well—

—but Thorin and Bilbo have taken to walking there often.

Alone.

Often enough that the rest of the Company has begun exchanging looks.

Ori has given up attempting to understand why Thorin has not yet offered the hobbit a courting bead. The tension is so obvious even Bombur has noticed.

So Ori stays away from the garden.

Instead, he sits on a low stump some distance from the cabin, sketchbook balanced on his knee, charcoal smudging his fingers as he captures Beorn mid-swing, axe cutting clean through a log.

In this form, their host resembles a very large, very broad man.

Ori shades the shoulders carefully.

Behind him, he hears footsteps, light and quick.

Kíli.

Odd. Usually, he is glued to his nadad’s side.

“Hey, Ori!” Kíli calls, stopping a few paces away. “Got a question for you, if you don’t mind.”

Ori sets his charcoal aside and looks up. “Certainly, young prince. What can I do for you?”

Kíli rocks back on his heels, suddenly looking uncharacteristically awkward.

“You’re older than me and Fee, right?”

Ori nods slowly. “I am.”

Kíli glances back toward the cabin.

Ori follows the movement—

—and spots a flash of blond hair attempting to hide poorly behind the corner of the building.

Ah. This is interesting.

“So I was wondering…” Kíli continues, rubbing the back of his neck, “would you be interested in dating a younger dwarf?”

Ori blinks.

Well, that explains Fíli’s lingering looks. The wink at Bag End. The sparring invitation. He feels warmth creep into his cheeks despite himself. He takes a slow breath.

And then—

He decides to have a little fun.

“Well, Kíli,” Ori says warmly, “that is very sweet of you to ask.”

Kíli’s hopeful expression flickers uncertainly.

“And yes,” Ori continues smoothly, “I will accept your courtship.”

“Mine?!” Kíli squawks. “Wait—no—you got it all wrong! I—”

Ori tilts his head innocently. “You just asked if I would date a younger dwarf.”

“Yes, but not me!” Kíli flails. “I mean—you’re handsome, I won’t deny it, but—”

“I think you are handsome as well, Kíli,” Ori says serenely. “Which is precisely why I accept.”

Behind the cabin, the blond hair disappears briefly. Then heavy footsteps approach.

Kíli pales. “Oh no.”

Fíli rounds the corner with a storm brewing on his face. His expression is deceptively calm, but his jaw is tight enough to crack stone. He grabs Kíli firmly by the shoulder.

“Kee,” Fíli says, voice dripping with cold sweetness, “irak’adad is looking for you.”

Kíli nods rapidly. “Right! Yes! Of course he is!”

He shoots Ori a helpless look before darting away. Fíli watches his nadad flee, then exhales slowly.

When he turns back to Ori, the murderous edge is gone, replaced by a wide, knowing grin.

“…You knew he was asking for me, didn’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Ori replies, equally pleased with himself.

“And you decided to mess with us.”

Ori nods.

“By Mahal,” Fíli mutters, shaking his head. “You are Nori’s nadad.”

“Proud to be,” Ori says primly. “Even if you think I should not be.”

Fíli laughs under his breath.

Silence settles between them for a moment. Not awkward. Just charged.

Then Fíli reaches into his pocket. “So,” he says, suddenly more serious, “may I court you, Ori?”

He opens his hand. An iron bead rests in his palm. Ori’s breath catches. He recognizes it immediately.

“I did not expect this to happen again,” Ori says softly. “And with the same bead.”

Fíli frowns slightly. “Pardon? I’ve never given this bead out before.” He hesitates. “Well… ’amad used to tell me a story. About how, as a nadan, I gave my first bead to my history teacher and declared my undying love in the middle of the library…”

His eyes widen. “…Wait.”

Ori cannot help but chuckle.

Fíli’s face turns a brilliant shade of red.

“You,” Fíli breathes. “You’re the—”

“Yes,” Ori confirms gently. “The unfortunate scribe who had to explain to a very determined young prince why he could not accept.”

Fíli groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I tried to forget that. I did forget that.”

“And yet,” Ori says, smiling, “here we are.”

Fíli looks at him again, really looks at him. “You’re not rejecting me this time again are you?” he asks, quieter now.

Ori studies the bead.

Then Fíli.

He sees no nadanish impulsiveness now. No naïve misunderstanding of courtship. Only earnest intent.

Slowly, Ori extends his hand. “I accept,” he says.

Fíli exhales, relief and joy mixing in his expression as Ori takes the bead.

“But,” Ori adds lightly, “if you send Kíli to do your courting again, I may accept his instead.”

Fíli steps closer, eyes bright with mischief. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. “Though I would prefer you choose me.”

Ori smiles, turning the bead between his fingers. “Yes,” he says softly. “I think I do.”

Several years have passed since the Battle of the Five Armies.

Azsâlul'abad stands restored. The halls ring with laughter again. Trade flourishes. And unfortunately for Ori—

So do ambitious dwarrowdams.

“I am simply going on a date with Fíli,” Ori insists for what must be the tenth time. “We are not getting married.”

He stands in the middle of the baraf sitting room while Dori and Nori circle him like particularly judgmental tailors.

Nori holds up two bolts of fabric beneath Ori’s chin. both purple, one deep royal, the other lighter with silver threading. He squints critically.

“True,” Nori says, “but half the unmarried dwarrowdams in Azsâlul'abad think they still have a chance at getting the prince’s attention. We must crush their confidence.”

Ori groans.

Dori nods solemnly. “Decisively.”

“Nori,” Dori adds pointedly, “mentally. Not physically.”

Nori places a hand over his chest. “I did nothing.”

“You threatened that one baker’s nâtha with a spoon.”

“She insulted Ori’s beard.”

“She said it was soft.”

“Exactly.”

Ori pinches the bridge of his nose.

Across the room, Zhori laughs warmly. “Boys, I truly do not think such theatrics are necessary. The prince has had eyes only for Ori since he was a nadan.”

Ori flushes immediately.

Vondal chuckles from his chair. “Who would have thought all three of my dashshat would marry into the Durin line?”

Dori beams.

Nori preens.

Ori hides his face briefly in his hands. “It is only a date to the market,” he mutters. “A simple outing. Fíli said he has a surprise, that is all.”

Nori freezes. “A surprise?” he repeats slowly, turning with predatory interest.

“Yes, but—”

“So,” Nori continues, grin turning wicked, “you will require something easy to remove and put back on.”

Ori’s face turns bright red. “That is not what I meant!”

Dori hums thoughtfully. “Practicality is important.”

Ori whirls on him. “Who are you and what have you done with my nadad? You would normally insist the surprise is a proposal!”

Dori coughs delicately. “Well, you see, Balin has surprised me many times—”

Ori lunges forward and claps a hand over Dori’s mouth. “Stop. Stop right there. I do not want details about you and my master.”

Nori bursts into laughter.

Zhori shakes her head, amused. “Leave the poor lad alone.”

“We are helping,” Nori insists.

“You are terrorizing,” Ori corrects.

Dori gently removes Ori’s hand from his mouth. “Ori, listen to us. Since King Thorin married Bilbo—”

All three brothers pause in perfect unison.

“Finally,” they say together.

Even Vondal nods approvingly.

Dori continues, “—since then, the court has been restless. A married king means attention turns to the heir.”

“And that heir,” Nori says dramatically, draping the darker purple fabric over Ori’s shoulders, “is your dwarf.”

“He is not property,” Ori protests weakly.

“He is yours,” Nori counters. “And we intend to make that abundantly clear.”

Ori sighs. “Fíli has given no indication he desires anyone else.”

“He would not dare,” Dori says sweetly.

“Especially not after what happened to the spoon,” Nori mutters.

Ori glares at him.

Zhori rises and approaches, adjusting the fabric Nori has chosen. “This one,” she declares. “The deeper purple. It complements his eyes.”

Nori steps back, assessing. “Yes. Regal without looking like he is trying too hard.”

Dori nods approvingly. “And fitted at the waist.”

Ori looks down at himself in horror. “Why fitted?”

“So they know,” Nori replies simply.

“Know what?”

“That you are not to be trifled with.”

“That is not conveyed through tailoring!”

“It is,” Nori and Dori say together.

Vondal chuckles again. “Let them fuss. It brings them joy.”

Ori exhales dramatically but allows them to adjust the tunic, smooth the sleeves, straighten his braids. Dori carefully threads the iron bead Fíli gave him into its proper place.

There is a softness in Dori’s expression as he does so. “You look happy,” Dori says quietly.

Ori’s irritation fades. “I am.”

Nori steps back, folding his arms with satisfaction. “Good. Then go show the prince what he almost lost.”

“I was never lost,” Ori protests.

“Details.”

Ori grabs his cloak before they can add anything else. “I do not want to be late,” he says firmly.

Dori smiles warmly. “Have a good time.”

“And if anyone so much as looks at you improperly—” Nori begins.

“I will handle it,” Ori interrupts quickly.

Nori sighs, disappointed.

Ori heads for the door, then pauses. He turns back, taking in his naddad, his ’amad and ’adad. They are smiling at him. Proud, teasing, and protective as ever.

“I will be back before supper,” Ori promises.

“Take your time,” Nori calls with a smirk.

Ori ignores him and steps out into Azsâlul'abad’s bustling streets, heart lighter than he cares to admit.

It is only a date.

Just a simple outing to the market.

…With a prince who has promised a surprise.

Ori straightens his newly tailored tunic.

Perhaps Nori is right.

A little intimidation never hurts.

As Ori approaches the meeting place near the upper market square, he immediately spots the problem.

Fíli.

Specifically—

Fíli surrounded.

A cluster of dwarrowdams encircle the prince like brightly dressed hawks. They bat their eyelashes, giggle far too loudly, and twirl the ends of their beards with deliberate elegance. One even “accidentally” brushes against Fíli’s arm.

Ori stops a short distance away and folds his arms.

Fíli, to his credit, behaves exactly as an heir should. He smiles politely. Nods at appropriate intervals. Offers charming but noncommittal replies.

But Ori knows him.

He sees the boredom in Fíli’s eyes. The subtle tightening of his jaw. The way his fingers twitch like he would rather be sparring.

Then Fíli looks up—

And spots him.

His entire expression changes.

His eyes light up like polished gold catching torchlight.

“Excuse me, my ladies,” Fíli says smoothly, already stepping away. “Duty calls.”

Before any of them can protest, he crosses the distance to Ori. He is dressed in deep royal blue, the color of the Durin line. Silver embroidery traces the cuffs and collar. The color makes his golden hair seem brighter. He looks unfairly handsome.

“Hello, handsome,” Fíli says, grinning. “You’ve kept me waiting so long.”

Ori arches a brow. “My apologies. My naddad insisted I be dressed to impress.”

Fíli gives him a slow once-over, entirely unapologetic. “They did a remarkable job.”

Ori flushes faintly.

“Though,” Fíli adds, lowering his voice slightly, “it is difficult to ruin perfection when one starts with such an excellent canvas.”

Ori laughs despite himself. “You are incorrigible, Your Highness.”

“Fíli,” he corrects automatically. “And only for you.”

Ori rolls his eyes fondly. “You are a terrible flirt.”

“And yet,” Fíli replies lightly, offering his arm, “you accepted my bead.”

Ori takes his arm. “And I have yet to regret it.”

They begin their date properly.

First: the new theatre production. It is a dramatic retelling of the Quest to reclaim Erebor. Focused almost entirely on the “epic romance” between King Thorin and King Consort Bilbo.

Ori spends half the performance biting his lip to keep from laughing.

Thorin is portrayed as a tragic, fainting damsel in distress at least twice.

Bilbo delivers grand speeches about love conquering dragon-fire.

Fíli leans over at one point and whispers, “If Uncle sees this, the playwright will mysteriously disappear.”

“We will say nothing,” Ori whispers back solemnly.

They shake on it.

Next, they dine at Bombur’s new restaurant near the Cook’s Guild. The place is lively, warm, filled with laughter and the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread. Bombur himself waddles over, beaming.

“Prince Fíli! Ori! Everything on the house!”

“That is unnecessary,” Ori protests.

“I insist!” Bombur says. “Royal romance draws customers.”

Fíli smirks. “You hear that? We are economically valuable.”

Ori nudges him under the table.

Afterward, they visit the mines where Bofur and Bifur work. The glowing crystal caverns shimmer like captured starlight beneath the mountain.

“It still amazes me,” Ori murmurs.

Fíli watches him instead of the crystals. “You still look at things like it’s the first time.”

Ori glances at him. “And you do not?”

“Well I have something else I enjoy looking at,” Fíli replies quietly, looking at Ori.

Ori pretends to examine a crystal very closely to hide his blush.

They notice Bofur is missing.

“Suspicious,” Ori mutters.

“He claimed he had ‘important business,’” Fíli says dryly.

They continue through the market, greeting familiar faces.

Óin and Glóin stand at a jewelry stall, debating heatedly.

“It must be elegant,” Glóin insists. “Fit for my yasthûna.”

“It must be so many things, just pick one already,” Óin counters.

Judging by Óin’s unimpressed expression, success is unlikely.

They pass Kíli walking hand-in-hand with Tauriel.

Fíli slows slightly. “Should we—?”

“No,” Ori says gently. “Let them have their moment.”

Fíli nods and keeps walking.

By the time the sky darkens and lanterns glow along the stone corridors, the date has been full and warm and easy.

Fíli escorts Ori home, fingers brushing occasionally against his.

Ori tilts his head. “Is this the part where you reveal the surprise?”

Fíli’s mouth curves into a knowing smirk. “You’ll see.”

They reach Ori’s home. The door opens.

Ori steps inside—

—and immediately pauses.

Balin and Dwalin are there.

That is unusual at this hour; they should still be at the castle. Bofur stands nearby, grinning in a way that suggests he knows something. Thorin and Bilbo are present as well, which makes Ori’s confusion deepen.

Then he sees her.

A dwarrowdam he does not recognize.

And yet—

She looks familiar.

Painfully so.

Like looking into a mirror.

“Fíli…” Ori murmurs faintly. “Who is this?”

Thorin steps forward.

“Ori,” he says gently, though his eyes are on Ori, “meet Ivori. Your nana’.”

The world seems to tilt.

“Ivori?” Ori breathes.

Ivori steps forward, clutching a bundled shape in her arms.

“When she was attacked by orcs long ago,” Thorin continues, “she found refuge in the Zirinhanâd.”

Bilbo nods. “When she heard of our Company, she recognized the names Dori and Nori as her iraknaddad. She asked for our help in meeting them.”

“They reunited a few days ago,” Thorin says softly. “And she wished to come home. If you would have her.”

Ivori’s eyes brim with tears.

“Oh, Ori… my dear nadad…”

She rushes forward. Ori does not remember crossing the distance between them. He simply finds himself holding her, tightly. She feels real, solid, and warm. His nana' he only heard stories of.

Zhori and Vondal cling to one another, weeping openly.

Dori buries his face in Balin’s shoulder, sobbing with relief.

Nori tries to remain composed, but Dwalin and Bofur wrap him in their arms as his composure breaks entirely.

“Of course she can stay,” Ori chokes out. “She is baraf.”

Something shifts in Ivori’s arms. Ori pulls back slightly. The bundle moves. Ivori smiles through her tears and lowers the blanket. A tiny dwarrowdam blinks up at him.

Ori gasps.

“This is Nefi,” Ivori whispers. “Your iraknâtha.”

Ori’s hands tremble as he reaches out. The baby grasps his finger with surprising strength. That is when he truly begins to cry.

Fíli steps behind him, wrapping his arms around Ori’s waist, holding him steady.

“Your baraf is whole now,” Fíli murmurs against his hair.

Ori cannot speak for a moment. He looks at his lashshar. His naddad. His newly returned nana’. The nadan in her arms. His voice breaks when he finally manages words. “Thank you,” he sobs softly. “Thank you… all of you.”

Fíli presses a gentle kiss to his temple.

And for the first time in many years, their baraf is whole, complete, and safe.