So Comes Snow After Fire

25.i Twelve Days in the Year, Much Mirth and Good Cheer

"Once Yule is past, I'm going to speak to Thorin about formalizing my renunciation," Kíli remarked to Tauriel one evening as they stood before one of the great fires in the royal dining hall. The meal was long since over, but he and Tauriel often lingered here, she finishing her wine and he smoking. "Once that's done, I'll only have to think about building our home and planning our wedding." He felt quite eager to have nothing stand between him and the performance of his latest promise to her.

"Kíli, wait. You may not have to renounce."

He looked up from refilling his pipe and stared at her.

"I thought it did not matter to you if I remained in the succession," he said.

"It doesn't; not for my sake." Tauriel shrugged lightly, her copper hair rippling like the flames of the fire as she moved. "But I see now, after the Council of Seven, how much Durin's bloodline means to all of your people. I do not wish to strip you of honor here at home and before the other clans. So I have thought on what I might do to spare you from losing your station."

"I'm not being stripped of anything," Kíli corrected. "I'll still be a prince. I'm voluntarily ceding my claim on the throne. There is no dishonor in making a free choice." He took hold of her arm. "There is certainly no dishonor in choosing you."

"But when your brother is king, will it not be better that you remain equally Thorin's heir alongside Fíli? What if others doubt your support? I know Fíli will not, but some—especially from distant kingdoms—may see your renunciation as a break from the crown." Her tone was reasoned and serious.

"Tauriel, none of this bothered you—or me—before." Kíli did not see why she should suddenly be troubled. He thought she had accepted his choice in the matter.

"I know," she admitted, her smile self-conscious. "And if there were no alternative, it would not bother me now. But I tell you, I think you need not renounce."

"Ah? So tell me your scheme." He quirked a brow at her, then stooped to light his pipe from the coals with one of the dried rushes kept by the fire for that purpose.

When he stood to face her again, she said, "It is no scheme. I have spoken to Balin, and he confirms that if we marry by the elvish rite alone, our children will not be eligible for the throne under dwarven laws."

Kíli gaped at her, horrified.

"Tauriel, I will certainly not do that!" he said fiercely.

She blinked, clearly startled by his vehemence. "Would an elvish wedding not be good enough for you?" she ventured, seeming, to Kíli's great surprise, almost hurt.

Kíli shook his head, eager to disabuse her of that false notion. "Of course it would be! And so long as we signed the proper dwarven contract, the match would still be perfectly valid under my laws, as well as your elvish ones. But don't you see?" he went on, still ardent. "Without a contract, our children would be practically illegitimate! They could not inherit the throne, but neither could they legally inherit my property. And you would be little better than my mistress. No, I won't think of it!"

"Kíli, I do not need a piece of writing to bind myself to you," she said, and Kíli could sense a note of disdain in her voice for the idea that her love for him should need to be insured as if it were some mere trade agreement. "Your vow, sealed by our bodies' union, is all that I need to consider myself wholly yours. I won't be troubled if we never sign a bit of paper together."

"That bit of paper doesn't make our bond. It is my way of declaring, in the eyes of the law, who you are to me. Would you have me announce to all the Khazad that you are not truly my wife?"