Chapter Text
The night outside was vast and silent, draped in a heavy velvet stillness that settled over the rolling hills of the Bree-land. The moon hung high and pale like a polished shield, casting long shadows that stretched across the road, while the air held the sharp and biting chill of late autumn. It was the sort of cold that seeped through leather and wool, whispering of the coming winter and the long dark that lay upon the mountains in the East.
Inside The Last Hearth, however, the world was fire and noise. The common room was a haze of pipe-smoke that curled in the air like grey spirits, thick with the scent of roasted mutton, damp wood, and the yeasty tang of ale. The hearth at the far end of the room roared with a generous fire, casting a flickering orange light that danced upon the faces of the travelers gathered there.
Fíli sat in a shadowed alcove with his back pressed against the rough-hewn timber of the wall. He preferred the corner where the light did not quite reach, for it allowed him to watch the room without being watched in return. Beside him, Kíli had already succumbed to the exhaustion of their hard riding from the Blue Mountains. His younger brother’s head rested upon his folded arms on the stained oak table, his soft snores lost amidst the raucous laughter of Men and the clinking of pewter tankards.
Fíli envied him that easy sleep. For Kíli, this journey was a grand adventure, a chance to prove his worth in the eyes of their uncle and to see the world beyond the stone halls of their exile. Kíli saw only glory and the road ahead. But Fíli was the heir. He carried a heavier burden in his mind. He knew that at the end of this road lay a dragon, fire, and a silence that had swallowed his grandfather’s kingdom whole. He had spent his entire life preparing to be a King, yet he feared he would not live long enough to be a prince in his own homeland.
He took a long draught of his ale. It was watery stuff compared to the dark, heavy stouts of the Dwarves, but it served to dull the sharp edges of his worry. He set the mug down with a dull thud and his eyes began to wander the room again, seeking distraction from his own grim thoughts.
They landed, as they had done many times that evening, upon the serving woman.
She was not a creature of rare beauty by the standards of the Eldar, nor did she possess the bearded, sturdy grandeur of a Dwarrowdam. She was a daughter of Men, soft-skinned and fleeting in her lifespan, yet there was a vitality to her that arrested his attention. He had heard the innkeeper call her Elswyth.
She moved through the crowded tables with a grace that defied the chaos around her. She carried a heavy tray laden with steaming plates in one hand and a pitcher of wine in the other, weaving between drunken merchants and muddy farmers without spilling a single drop. Fíli watched the way a loose tendril of hair, the color of autumn wheat, escaped her kerchief and fell across her cheek. She blew it away with a huff of impatience, her brow furrowed in concentration as she dodged a grasping hand from a patron with a sharp glare that sent the man shrinking back into his seat.
She looked tired. There were shadows beneath her eyes that spoke of long hours and little rest, yet her smile when she greeted the regulars was genuine enough, though it did not quite reach her eyes.
As if feeling the weight of his gaze, Elswyth turned. Her eyes met his across the smoky room. They were grey, clear and bright like the waters of a mountain stream, and for a moment she paused. Most humans looked upon Dwarves with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, treating them as oddities to be stared at or feared. But her look was different. It was a frank assessment, stripping away the royalty he tried to hide beneath his travel-stained cloak and seeing simply the dwarf beneath.
She approached their table, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Your friend has found his dreams early, master dwarf," she said. Her voice was low and husky, worn smooth by the smoke of the room. "Can I bring you another? Or perhaps a bed would be more fitting for the both of you."
Fíli looked up at her. Up close, he could smell her. She smelled of baked bread and fragrant soap. A clean and domestic scent that made his chest ache with a sudden, fierce longing for comfort. It was the scent of a home he did not have.
"He will sleep where he lies for now," Fíli said, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. "But I find myself wide awake. The ale is thin, mistress. Have you nothing stronger to warm the blood on a night such as this?"
Elswyth raised an eyebrow. A small, knowing smirk touched the corner of her lips, softening the tiredness in her face. "I have a bottle of spirits from the Southfarthing kept in the back. It burns going down, but it warms the belly sure enough. It will cost you extra."
Fíli reached into his tunic and withdrew a silver coin. He placed it on the table, covering it with his thick fingers before sliding it slowly toward her. "Bring the bottle. And a glass for yourself. I do not like to drink alone while my brother snores."
She looked at the coin, then back at his face. The playful glint in her eyes shifted into something darker, something more appraising. She saw the quality of his tunic beneath the cloak, the heavy silver clasps, and the undeniable strength in his hands. She did not pull away.
"I have duties to finish," she said softly, her gaze dropping to his mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to his eyes. "But the master retires in the hour. If you are still awake... perhaps I will join you."
"I will be awake," Fíli promised. His voice dropped, rough with an intent he had not planned but suddenly desired more than air. "I will wait for you."
Elswyth picked up the coin. Her fingers brushed against his, her skin warm and rough with work against his calloused ones. A spark, hot and sudden, jumped between them. She held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned and walked away, the sway of her hips drawing his eye despite his best efforts to look elsewhere.
Fíli watched her go, and for the first time that night, the shadow of the dragon felt very far away.
The hour grew late and the noise of the common room began to thin, much to Fíli’s relief. The farmers departed for their homes in the village and the merchants stumbled up the wooden stairs to their rented chambers. Soon the only sounds remaining were the settling of the timber beams and the rhythmic, snuffling snores of his brother.
Fíli stood and hauled Kíli upright with a grunt of effort. His brother was dead weight, heavy with ale and exhaustion, but Fíli was accustomed to the burden. He half-dragged, half-carried Kíli up the narrow staircase to the room they had paid for, dumping him unceremoniously onto the straw mattress. Kíli merely murmured something about a blue mountain and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow.
Fíli paused at the door. He looked at his brother, young and foolish and entirely unprepared for the fire that awaited them in the East. A dark mood threatened to descend upon him again, the crushing weight of his duty as heir, but he pushed it aside. Tonight he would not be a prince. Tonight he would simply be a dwarf seeking warmth against the cold.
He closed the door softly and returned to the common room below.
The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting deep, dancing shadows across the floorboards. The innkeeper had vanished to his own quarters, leaving the room silent. Only Elswyth remained. She stood near the hearth, the orange glow of the dying fire illuminating the curve of her hip and the column of her throat as she finished drying a tankard.
She looked up as he descended the stairs. The bottle of spirits sat on the table where he had left it, the dark glass catching the firelight.
"I thought perhaps you had retired with your kin," she said softly. Her voice seemed louder in the empty room, intimate and stripped of the professional veneer she wore for the crowds.
"I made a promise," Fíli replied. He walked toward her, his boots heavy on the floor. He stopped only when he was close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. "And the night is still young enough for sin, if not for sleep."
Elswyth let out a low laugh, a sound that vibrated in Fíli’s chest. She set the tankard down and picked up the bottle, pulling the cork with her teeth. She poured a measure into two small glasses and held one out to him.
"To promises kept then," she murmured.
Fíli took the glass. His fingers brushed hers, lingering deliberately. Her hand was small compared to his, her skin pale against the weather-beaten bronze of his own, but she did not pull away. He watched her eyes over the rim of the glass as he drank. The spirit was potent, a fiery liquid that burned its way down his throat and settled hot and heavy in his stomach. It was exactly what he needed.
"You are not a merchant," Elswyth stated, leaning back against the heavy oak table. She crossed her arms, pushing her breasts upward against the linen of her bodice. "And you are too clean to be a sellsword, despite the weapons you carry. You have the look of a warrior running toward a fight, not away from one."
Fíli closed the distance between them with a heavy, deliberate stride. He was broad and solid, a wall of living stone and mail that seemed to suck the air from the room.
"I am a dwarf who may not see another winter," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly growl that vibrated in the quiet room. "I am one who wishes to forget the road ahead, if only for a few hours. Can you help me with that, Elswyth?"
She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on the width of his shoulders and the heavy belt at his waist. Her breath hitched slightly as he reached out, his calloused hand tracing the line of her jaw. His touch was rough, the skin of his thumb rasping against her softness, but he was careful.
"I might," she whispered. "But my help does not come cheap, master dwarf."
"I have gold," Fíli said, leaning in until his lips were inches from her ear. He could smell the soap on her neck, stronger now, intoxicating. "I have silver. But I think that is not what you are hungry for tonight."
Elswyth shivered. She turned her head, her nose brushing against his thick beard. "You are arrogant."
"I know hunger when I see it." Fíli’s hand slid down her neck to rest heavily on her shoulder, his grip firm and possessive. "I saw how you looked at me. You are bored, little bird. You are trapped in this cage of wood and ale, serving fools who do not know how to touch a woman properly." He pressed his body against hers, letting her feel the hardness of his form, the unyielding strength of mountain-root that ran through his blood. "I can show you what it is to be held by the earth itself."
She gasped as his other hand found her waist, pulling her flush against him. The difference in their height was notable, but the difference in their mass was stark. He felt like an anchor, immovable and solid.
"Talk is wind," Elswyth challenged, though her voice trembled with desire. Her hands came up to grip the fur collar of his cloak, dragging him closer. "Show me."
Fíli growled low in his throat, a sound of pure approval. He captured her mouth with his own, kissing her with a hunger that had been building since he first saw her across the room. It was not a gentle kiss. He tasted of the strong spirit and the wild, and with the desperate need of a soldier marching to war.
He broke the kiss only to drag his lips down her throat, biting lightly at the sensitive skin where her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against his mouth.
"My brother sleeps like a stone," Fíli murmured against her skin, his hands roaming over the curve of her hips to grip her backside through her skirts. "But I would not have him wake to the sound of your cries. Where can we go, Elswyth?"
"Through the kitchen," she gasped, her hands tangling in the thick mane of his hair, fingers catching on the intricate silver clasps of his braids. "There is a room behind the pantry. It is small, but the door has a bolt."
Fíli did not hesitate. He swept her up into his arms as easily as if she were made of straw, his strength startling a small cry from her lips. She wrapped her legs around his waist, burying her face in the fur of his collar as he strode with heavy, purposeful steps through the dark inn.
He kicked the door to her small chamber shut behind them and the darkness was total until Fíli fumbled to strike a flint against the lantern on the bedside table. The flame flared to life, casting long, jumping shadows against the narrow walls. The room was humble, smelling of dried herbs and wax, dominated by a simple rope bed piled with wool blankets.
He set her down but did not step back. His hands went to the lacings of her bodice, his thick fingers surprisingly dexterous as he undid the knots. He stripped the linen from her shoulders, baring her pale skin to the cool air and his heated gaze.
"You are beautiful," he said, his voice rough. "Soft as new snow. It seems a crime to mark you, yet I find I cannot help myself."
Elswyth pushed his heavy coat from his shoulders, the garment falling to the floor with a thud of metal and leather. She ran her hands over the chest of his tunic, feeling the hard ridges of muscle beneath. Her fingers fumbled with the heavy buckle of his belt, the leather thick and unyielding against her urgent touch.
Fíli covered her hands with his own, his patience fraying. He unfastened the belt with a sharp click of metal, letting it fall, followed by the heavy layers of travel-stained trousers that pooled around his boots. He kicked them aside, standing before her in nothing but his tunic, the firelight catching the golden hair of his legs and the formidable evidence of his desire.
"I do not want you to be careful, master dwarf," she whispered, her eyes widening as she took in the sight of him. "I want to feel you."
Fíli’s eyes darkened. He spun her around, pressing her chest down onto the rough wool of the bed until she was bent at the waist, her hips presented to him. He bunched her skirts up, his hands rough and calloused against the smooth skin of her thighs.
"Then you shall," he whispered.
He did not rush, though his blood burned like dragon-fire. He used his fingers first, slicking them with her own wetness, preparing her for the width of him. Elswyth moaned, a low, keening sound as he teased the entrance, stretching her.
"You are wet for me," Fíli praised, his voice a dark rumble right at her ear. He bit the sensitive cord of her neck as he lined himself up. "So ready to take a prince into your bed."
"A prince?" Elswyth breathed, her head turning slightly, confusion warring with lust in her haze-filled eyes. "You said…"
He did not let her finish. He thrust into her then, a single, powerful motion that drove the breath from her lungs and the question from her mind. She was tight, gloriously so, wrapping around him like a glove of silk. Fíli groaned, his hands gripping her hips to hold her in place as he began to move. He did not hold back. He drove into her with the relentless rhythm of a smith’s hammer, each thrust deep and filling, hitting a spot deep inside her that made her head spin.
"Tell me you can take it all," he demanded, his breath hot against her ear. "Tell me you are made for this."
"Yes," she moaned, bucking back against him, the title forgotten in the haze of sensation. "Please."
The friction was maddening, a heat that built at the base of his spine. He loved the sounds she made, the way her human voice broke into sharp cries that he smothered with his hand or his mouth. He pounded into her, reclaiming his dominion over the night, forgetting the dragon, forgetting the mountain. There was only this room, this woman, and the slick, heated glide of their bodies moving as one.
"Turn over," he ordered suddenly, withdrawing slowly, leaving her gasping at the loss.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his chest heaving, sweat gleaming on his brow. "Ride me, Elswyth. I want to see your face when you take it."
She scrambled around, her hair a wild halo of gold in the lantern light. She straddled his lap, her knees sinking into the mattress. She looked down at him, at the breadth of his chest and the fierce, possessive glitter in his eyes, and she shivered. Grasping his shoulders for balance, she lowered herself onto him.
It was a slow, delicious torture. Fíli watched her face contort with pleasure as she sank down, swallowing him inch by inch until she was seated firmly in his lap. The sensation of her surrounding him, tight and hot, nearly undid him.
"Good," he rasped, his hands coming up to cup her breasts, thumbing the nipples until they hardened. "Profound work. Now move. Use me."
Elswyth began to rock, finding a rhythm that suited her. She ground her hips against him, the friction sparking lightning through his veins. Fíli lay back on his elbows, watching her ride him, entranced by the sight of her softness bouncing against his hardness. He bucked his hips up to meet her thrusts, driving deeper, hitting that sweet spot again and again.
"You feel so full," she gasped, her head thrown back, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Too big."
"No," Fíli groaned, sitting up to capture her mouth in a bruising kiss. "Just right. You were made to hold me. Made to keep me warm."
The pleasure coiled tight in his belly, hot and heavy like molten gold. It rose fast, faster than he had anticipated. He gripped her hips, intending to slow the pace, but the feeling of her tightening around him shattered his control. He drove her down hard onto him, the pace becoming frantic, desperate.
He knew he should withdraw. The thought flickered in his mind, a warning from a lifetime of discipline. He should not spend himself inside a stranger. He should pull away, spill his seed upon the sheets or her skin.
But as the crest of pleasure hit him, the warrior’s discipline crumbled into dust. It felt too good, too right, too necessary.
"Elswyth!" he roared, his voice rough and broken.
Instead of pulling away, his hands betrayed him. They clamped onto her hips, anchoring her down against him, refusing to let her go. He thrust upward one final, bone-jarring time and poured himself into her, his body shuddering violently with the force of his release. He held her tight against him, helpless to stop the flow, pulsing his warmth deep into her and marking her in the only way that mattered in the dark.
The silence that followed was heavy and absolute, broken only by the ragged sound of their breathing and the settling of the inn’s timber frame against the wind outside. Elswyth collapsed forward, her weight a comforting pressure against his chest, her forehead resting against the damp skin of his shoulder. Fíli held her there, his hands moving soothingly over the curve of her back, his heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
As the haze of pleasure began to recede, the cold clarity of his actions washed over him. He had not meant to spend himself. It was a recklessness born of the moment, a lapse in discipline that a prince could ill afford. He knew he should gently lift her away. He should rise, offer his apologies or his gold, and return to his brother before the sun breached the horizon.
But Elswyth shifted atop him, her hair tickling his chin, and the simple, human warmth of her was a tether he could not bring himself to cut. She did not speak. She did not ask for promises he could not keep. She simply held him, her breath hitching softly as she drifted in the afterglow.
Fíli reached down and pulled the heavy wool blankets up to cover them both, cocooning them against the chill of the room. He kept his arms wrapped tight around her, anchoring her against him. The scent of soap and musk filled his senses, driving away the smell of the road and the dragon-fear that had plagued him for weeks.
"Rest now," he whispered into her hair.
To his surprise, he found his own eyelids growing heavy. He had intended to stay only for a moment, but the exhaustion of the journey and the profound peace of the aftermath pulled him down into a deep and dreamless slumber.
He woke before the dawn.
The room was grey and cold, the fire in the lantern long since extinguished. Fíli lay still for a moment, disoriented, until the weight of the woman in his arms brought him back to reality. At some point in the night they had rolled to the side; Elswyth was now fast asleep, her back pressed against his chest, his arm draped protectively over her waist.
Fíli carefully removed himself from her embrace, wincing as the cold air hit his skin. He dressed quickly in the semi-darkness, fastening his breeches and tunic with practiced speed. He buckled his belt, feeling the familiar weight of his weapons settle against his hips. The warrior returned, burying the lover beneath layers of leather and mail.
He stood by the side of the bed and looked down at her. In the grey light, she looked younger, softer. She knew him only as a traveler, a dwarf who passed in the night. She did not know his name. She did not know that he marched toward a kingdom of gold and death.
He reached into his pouch for the coins he had promised, but his hand paused. Gold felt cold. It felt transactional and cheap after the way she had welcomed him, after the way he had poured his very life into her. He felt a sudden, fierce desire to leave something of himself behind, something that would outlast the winter.
Slowly, Fíli reached up to the thick braids that framed his face. His fingers found the silver bead woven into the lock on the right side. It was a heavy thing, etched with the sigil of Erebor, a marker of his status and his history. With a deft twist, he slid the bead from his hair.
He placed the silver cylinder on the wooden table beside the bed, right where the morning light would catch it. It was a claim. It was a promise. It was a foolish sentiment for a dwarf who might be dead within the month, but he left it, nonetheless.
He did not kiss her goodbye. He feared that if he touched her again, he would not have the strength to leave.
The stable was freezing, the air thick with the smell of hay and manure. The ponies huffed and stamped as Fíli threw the saddles onto their backs, his movements sharp.
"You are up early for a dwarf who claimed to be exhausted."
Fíli stiffened, then turned to see Kíli leaning against the stable door. His younger brother looked bleary-eyed, his dark hair a mess, munching on a crisp apple he had likely filched from the kitchen.
"The road is long," Fíli grunted, tightening the cinch on his pony with more force than necessary. "We need to make the Shire by nightfall if we are to meet the others."
Kíli grinned, pushing off the doorframe to saunter closer. He walked around Fíli, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief. He plucked a piece of straw from Fíli’s cloak; a piece of straw that had clearly come from a bed, not a stable.
"The road is indeed long," Kíli mused, inspecting the straw. "But it seems you found a way to make the night short. You did not come back to the room, brother. I thought perhaps the trolls had taken you, but you look far too satisfied for that."
Fíli snatched the straw from Kíli’s hand and tossed it aside. "I found better company than your snoring. That is all."
"Better company?" Kíli laughed, vaulting onto his pony. "I should hope so. Was it the blonde? The one with the eyes that looked right through you?"
Fíli mounted his own pony, checking his stirrups to avoid meeting his brother’s gaze. "It matters not. We are leaving, Kíli. Ride."
He kicked his pony into a trot, leading them out of the stable yard and onto the frosted road. The sun was just beginning to crest the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and red.
"Wait," Kíli said, pulling on his reins. He turned in his saddle, looking back toward the inn. "Look."
Fíli could not help himself. He turned.
The door of the inn had opened. Elswyth stood there, wrapped in a woolen shawl against the morning chill. She was not looking at the road ahead, but at them. Even from this distance, Fíli could see the glint of silver in her hand. She was clutching the bead tight against her chest.
Kíli let out a low whistle. "By Durin’s beard, Fíli. You did not just warm her bed. She looks as though she is watching a king ride to war." He looked at his brother, his teasing smile fading into something more thoughtful. "What did you do?"
Fíli stared at her for a heartbeat longer, etching the image of her into his mind. The woman who held his silver and, unbeknownst to him, his heir.
"I said goodbye," Fíli said, his voice rough. He turned his pony’s head sharply to the west, away from the sunrise and the woman. "Come. Thorin waits."
He kicked his mount into a gallop, riding hard away from the Last Hearth, trying to outrun the sudden, sinking feeling that he had left the most important part of himself behind.