mithril

XXXII.

— XXXII —

ten years later

I glance up from my writings at the sound of the great gates opening in the main hall. Gathering my skirts around my legs, I start for the stairs. The Dwarves I pass grin and dip their chins, long familiar with my steps through these halls. I greet the ones I know by name, but do not stop to inquire after their health or families as I normally would. They don't seem to mind, as their attention has also been caught by the noise in the front halls.

A soft smile spreads across my face as I finally spot the large party entering the great double doors that lead into the face of the mountain. I step from the final stair, making my presence known to the Dwarves. The party dips in a collective bow, save for two figures. One, who is the only Dwarf who needn't bow to me, and the other splitting from the group. He races across the entrance hall, small legs working to send him crashing into my legs. I grin, reaching down to sweep the small Dwarf up.

"There you are! How were the Iron Hills? I hope your father behaved himself and didn't have too much fun with his cousin."

"Fun," the Dwarf child gasps, dropping his head onto my shoulder. His dark hair, already so long for his age, falls down my shoulder in a thick sheet. Black curls, just like his father. "Dáin gave me a goat."

"A goat?" I ask with a laugh. "Did I ever tell you the story of when I rode a goat for the first time?"

"She was a natural," the familiar voice booms across the space. I look up, a new relief washing through me. There was always an unease in me when he leaves for any period of time. This time, however, I had been more on edge.

It was the first time Thraven has ever left Erebor. Escorted by Thorin and the finest Dwarf warriors, I shouldn't have been as worried as I was. And yet, I knew the dangers of the Wild.

Thorin reads my face easily. He crosses the space between us, striding strongly through the entrance hall. I can't help but admire him, more in his prime now than ten years prior. A kingly figure. A strong husband and father. He kisses my forehead gently before patting our son on the head.

"We have had a long journey and the hour grows late. He should rest."

"Of course," I whisper over the dark head. "Come along then, young prince, What bedtime story would you like tonight?"

"The one about the Bear," he yawns sleepily. Thorin grins at me over his head as I turn. A promise that I will find him after the little Dwarf prince is asleep. I feel his eyes on me the entire time I walk away from him, my arms firmly holding our child to me.

Thraven is Thorin's pride and joy, that much I know. There had been no guarantee we would be able to have children, and it was only by the medicine of the Elves that I hadn't died in childbirth. Nearly six years after the battle Thraven had been born, marking the largest celebration in the kingdom only preceded by our wedding. When his son was born a healthy, loud, dark-haired boy, the feasts were those of legend. Children were a joy to the Dwarves. Even more so when they were heirs to a line more ancient than Erebor itself.

Thraven was a halfling, but an heir of Durin all the same. A Dwarf prince raised in the same way Thorin had been, but with my influence. He knew Elvish as well as he knew Khuzdul and the Common Tongue. He would grow up to be a friend of both Elves and humans. He would grow to be loyal and strong like his father, but as free as his mother. He will have friends in all the right places. When the time comes, I know he will be as good a king as his father has been.

I slip from Thraven's room after an hour, ensuring he's fast asleep before letting the light from the hall in. I find Thorin in our chambers, his face thoughtful as he considers a new tapestry hung on the wall. I study it as I slip to his side. His arm lifts to go around my shoulders, pulling me close.