–     ✧     –
Chapter Two: The Heir of Erebor
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      NAERIEN CONVINCED HERSELF that the sun and moon themselves wished to torture her. The hours until the arrival of Imladris' visitors passed with agonizing slowness. Perhaps she should have been more kind to the celestial beings, though. They were, after all, giving her time to recover herself. She had lost quite a lot over the years.

     It had been less than an hour after coming to her conclusion that she had told Lord Elrond that she would accompany him to welcome the dwarves of Erebor. It had taken no small degree of courage, and he had looked rather surprised. But he welcomed her decision with wholehearted delight.

     Naerien spent the time given to her by the sun recovering her polite formalities and manners. Painful as it had been to admit, she spoke to a rare few after returning from the ruins of Dale. Chief among them being Lord Elrond or Lindir, though conversations were always formal and stiff. And while Elrond never once treated her any different than he had treated Alassaran, she hated to see the pity in Lindir's eyes. The only other soul she ever spoke to was Glorfindel, a close friend of her father. Those moments were rarer than diamonds.

     She had, in recent years, befriended the young Estel altogether by accident. But he had become her most frequent companion. Perhaps it was the way he held no preconceived notions as to who she should be. Or that he possessed no idea of who she had once been. With a childlike innocence and affection, he had accepted her as who she was. Naerien had no idea why, but it was a relationship she had come to cherish.

     Naerien pulled out one of the boxes from her living room chest, laying eyes on the delicate golden diadem encrusted with rubies. Not even during her trips to Erebor with Celebrenon had she worn such beautiful jewelry. She set it upon her head and took in her appearance in the mirror in her bedroom. She had put on a deep blue dress with swirling red accents, and a gold necklace to match. For a flash of a moment, she was standing among the halls of Ost-in-Edhil, her home. It was a time so distant that it pained her to recall, a time when the Ñoldor, her people, had been prosperous. It was a time when she held her chin high, when life filled her green eyes.

     But she blinked, and the memory flickered away like a candle's flame in a storm. The bright light of day faded to late afternoon. The joy of her youth washed away to reveal the sorrow set so deep into her features. Naerien took a deep breath, rolled her shoulders back, and offered her reflection a slight nod. A childish action, perhaps, but it gave her some courage.

     Lindir met her in one of the courtyards of Lord Elrond's House. She regarded the absence of the central marble statue with amusement before she regarded the minstrel. There was no hiding the shock on his face at the sight of her; she did not blame him. He recovered his manners a moment later and placed a hand on his breast, bowing with respect. "Thiol vae¹," he told her, genuine in his compliment.

     Naerien bowed in return. "Annon allen. Le vilui²." She glanced around the courtyard and noted the lack of the third member of their welcoming party. "Where is Lord Elrond?"

     A look of exasperation crossed the minstrel's face. "He is dealing with his ward, who cannot seem to stay out of trouble. He asked that we welcome Mithrandir and the dwarves without him; he will be occupied the rest of the day, I fear."

     Naerien suppressed the frown that had begun to form on her face. She had, deep down, hoped to be a mere statue at Lord Elrond's side. Though she knew that would not have been true regardless of his presence. The thought of speaking to the Heir of Erebor without him, however, made her stomach churn.

     She cleared her throat and lied. "No matter. I do believe you and I can handle Thorin Oakenshield and his kin on our own."

     Lindir's lips turned upward into something fond and almost nostalgic. "It is good to have you back, Naerien."

     She offered him a smile in return, though it did not come from her heart; Lindir was mistaken. "Let us go greet our visitors."

     They did not have to wait in silence for long, for the voices of the younger elves heralded the company's arrival. The youth among them often spent their days writing and singing songs that ranged from poetic to absolute nonsense. The arrival of the Grey Pilgrim and a band of dwarves provided the perfect opportunity for a new tune:

"O! What are you doing,
And where are you going?
Your ponies need shoeing!
The river is flowing!
O! Tra-la-la-lally
here down in the valley!"

     Fourteen dwarves on ponies accompanied the wizard Mithrandir, or so Naerien had first believed. Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thrór she recognized. The sights of the aging dwarf Balin and his grizzled brother Dwalin were familiar to her as well. The rest she had no memory of, though she was sure she would come to know them soon enough. The smallest of the dwarves, she realized after a moment of studying him, was no dwarf at all. He was a halfing, a hobbit. His bright blue eyes were wide with excitement and wonder as he beheld the Hidden Valley, though they darted away when he found her curious gaze.

     "Greetings, Mithrandir," Lindir called as they walked down the steps to the group.

     "Ah, Lindir," the wizard replied in kind, a warm smile under his long grey beard. When she locked eyes with him, she found little surprise to be had in his ocean eyes. His smile became almost conspiratorial, as though he had planned to meet with her, whether she had known it or not. He had visited Imladris many times, their paths crossing more than once over the years. He knew of her past, of her tragedy.

     "Lady Naerien," he bowed in greeting, his expression becoming neutral. "It is a welcome surprise to see you here."

     "It is good to see you again, Mithrandir," she replied with a nod, though her eyes narrowed at him with slight suspicion. "We heard that you had crossed into the Valley."

     "I must speak with Lord Elrond," the wizard said.

     "I am afraid our Lord Elrond is otherwise occupied at the moment," she informed him. Her lips quirked upward in amusement. "I apologize."

     "He is dealing with a slight...issue," Lindir added in the same tired tone that had matched the expression he had given Naerien. "Nothing of grave importance, rest assured. However...." The elf trailed off, unable to find the proper words to explain the situation.

     "There was a small problem with one of the younger among us," Naerien finished, glancing at Lindir. "He should not be gone long."

     There was a humorous twinkle in his eyes that implied he knew exactly whom she was speaking. "I see." He stepped aside to introduce the dwarf who had been waiting with great impatience for the formalities to be done with.

     "Thorin, son of Thrain," Naerien greeted, forcing all formal politeness she possessed into her words. There was an unexpected twisting in her heart upon locking eyes with him. "Welcome."

The Heir of Erebor regarded her with the suspicion she had been expecting, studying her head to toe. "Have we met?" He questioned. Through the guarded expression on his face, there was a flicker of recognition.

     "Indeed, we have," she nodded, eyebrows raising. "I am Naerien; my brother was Celebrenon. We were emissaries of Rivendell while your grandfather was King Under the Mountain."

     "I remember," he rumbled. The deep distrust in his eyes had faded somewhat, but his gaze was still hard as stone. "Where is your brother, then?"

     The appearance of Lord Elrond himself saved her, looking only mostly put together as he descended the white stone stairs. When he made it to the bottom, Naerien took a step back. "Ah, I see our guests have arrived."

     "Mellon nín!" Mithrandir greeted his friend with a warm embrace. "Mo evínedh?³"

     "I trust Lindir and the Lady Naerien have informed you," Elrond stated as they broke away, none too bothered by the physical contact.

     "Yes, they have. I trust all is well with your ward?"

     The Elf Lord smiled. "Not to worry, Mithrandir. He is quite well." He then turned to the dwarves and welcomed them. The tide of distrust rose once again in Thorin Oakenshield, rippling through the group of dwarves as Elrond spoke to his kin. "Nartho i noer, toltho i viruvor. Boe i annam vann a nethail vin.⁴"

     He had not needed to order the elves to prepare a meal for their guests in his native tongue, but Naerien guessed he had spoken Sindarin on purpose. The look in his eyes confirmed it, and she suppressed a smile.

     "What is he saying?" Demanded one among Thorin's company, an angry-looking dwarf red in the face as well as the beard. He held his axe aloft. "Does he offer us insult?"

     "No, Master Gloin," Mithrandir corrected with an exasperated sigh, "he's offering you food."

     Master Gloin relaxed with no small degree of sheepishness washing over his face. "Well, in that case," he faltered, "lead on."

– ✧ –

     BILBO BAGGINS HAD NEVER SEEN ANYTHING quite like the elf realm of Rivendell. Everything left him completely speechless. No amount of words in his books back in Bag End could begin to describe how incredible the Hidden Valley was. He had read many books on elves, but no words could describe in full accuracy their true bearing.

They possessed pale, ivory skin that seemed to be above blemish and flaw. Their faces were clean and bright, without facial hair. They dressed in fineries of silver and gold, with hair cascading down their backs like dark waterfalls. Most beautiful (and unsettling) of all their features were their eyes. They seemed to hold every emotion and every secret of Middle-Earth. The elves of Rivendell were otherworldly to Bilbo Baggins, a simple hobbit.

     One among them stood out to him as soon as they had locked eyes by mistake: the Lady Naerien. Unlike her male companions, her hair was the color of golden barley growing in the countryside. Her face gave no indication of her age, but she looked like what Bilbo had always supposed an elvish queen would. Tall and thin, adorned in gold and rubies, she glowed as if possessing the sun in her very soul. He had never seen a creature in all his years of life that was more stunning to lay eyes upon.

     It was only when their gazes crossed paths that the awe filling him washed away into embarrassment. Her gaze was the sort of vibrant green that he had only seen in the Shire, in its rolling hills and towering oak trees. But they lacked the warmth the Shire always had. In her voice, too, he could hear a cold melancholy. Strong and regal, her voice matched her elegant features. But ringing in the undertones of her words and writhing within her irises was something of deep despair.

     Her eyes made him terribly homesick in that moment, but they had caught him staring. He looked away, feeling his face and ears grow hot. Beside him, he heard Fili chuckle, having caught the entire exchange.

     Bilbo kept his own eyes on Thorn as Naerien spoke to him, his ears straining to catch what they were saying. The dwarves had shoved him in the middle of their group, as though they feared their burglar would get kidnapped...again. Bilbo thought he had redeemed himself for the troll incident when he had saved them all from becoming dinner. After that, Kili and Fili had not strayed from his side at any point. It had, after all, been Thorin's nephews who had sent him to deal with the trolls. That did not stop the invasion of personal space from being irritating.

     How could Thorin have such distrust of this place? He thought as the elves led the Company to an outdoor dining hall. Lord Elrond, Lindir, and Lady Naerien were more than welcoming. Their smiles held promises of hospitality, though Bilbo noticed the Lady rarely smiled at all. Gandalf had called Rivendell the Last Homely House East of the Sea. The hobbit was inclined to believe him. The thought had been a comfort, but it had also stricken his nerves. Rivendell was the last safe place he would be visiting on their journey to the Lonely Mountain.

     The Company of thirteen dwarves pushed Bilbo along as the elves led them to a dining pavilion shaded by a large tree. All attempts to wriggle free of them were in vain, so the hobbit let them carry him along to their tables. He sat with Balin, Fili, Gloin, Dori, and Ori at one of three tables laden with vibrant, fresh food. At the second table were Dwalin, Oin, Nori, Kili, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur. Above them at a smaller, round table were Gandalf, Thorin, and the elves. They were much more important, after all.

     Around them, elves played harps, lutes, and flutes for them. They crafted a soft, beautiful melody that lulled Bilbo into the most relaxed state he had been in a while. The dwarves, however, seemed to disagree. They complained about a lack of meat and grumbled their disdain for elvish music.

     Bilbo's attention, much against his conscious will, turned back to Lady Naerien. Thorin had handed her his elvish blade, one they had gotten from the troll hoard in the foothills. The she-elf's green eyes sparkled with interest, her fingers caressing the weapon with a degree of reverence.

     "This is Ocrist, the Goblin-Cleaver." Naerien read aloud the inscription written on the blade, studying the craftsmanship. It was a single-edged short sword with a swirling engraving curling up into the half-cross guard. She gave a soft gasp upon realizing that the tooth of a dragon made up the hilt. A fitting weapon, she thought.

     "A famous blade," mused Lord Elrond with a nod. "Forged by the High Elves of the West, my kin."

     "A beautiful blade," she added, running her fingers once again down the flat side of the sword. She returned it to its sheath and handed it back to Thorin Oakenshield. "May it serve you as well as it had served its previous master."

     He gave a nod of guarded appreciation as he took it back. "I will keep this sword in honor."
She turned to Lord Elrond, who handed her the second blade, one carried by Mithrandir. The two elves knew very well that Elrond could have read the inscriptions himself, but it seemed he wished for her to put her knowledge to good use. Lord Elrond was a warrior and a scholar, but Naerien had been a smith of the Ñoldor.

     She pulled the longsword halfway out of its sheath and her eyes lit up in recognition. She missed the fond smile on Lord Elrond's face as she studied it. "This is Glamdring, the Foe-Hammer," she declared. The faintest of smiles lifted her face as she studied the elegant weapon. Jewels encrusted its hilt and detailed runes ran along the cross guard. "This was once the blade of King Turgon of Gondolin. He fell with it in his hands, defending the city from goblins...or so the legend states."

She handed the blade in its ivory scabbard to Mithrandir, who bowed his head in thanks. "These must have come from an old dragon hoard or goblin plunder...how did you come by these?"

     "We found them in a troll hoard while traveling on the Great East Road," the wizard informed her. A look of horror and betrayal crossed Thorin's face from beside Naerien, as though the Grey Pilgrim had revealed a terrible secret. Had he? She wondered, glancing between the two.

     "And what were you doing on the Great East Road?" Lord Elrond pressed, eyebrows raised as he leaned forward in his chair. A fair question, the elleth mused. What were the dwarves doing traveling away from the Blue Mountains?

     "Excuse me," grunted Thorin, shooting a final glare in the wizard's direction before stalking off.
Elrond and Naerien's eyes turned to Mithrandir, who looked rather interested in the wine he was drinking all of a sudden. He glanced up and coughed, then lowered the glass. "It is not my tale to tell, I'm afraid."

     "Then..." Naerien started, rising to her feet; she locked eyes with Lord Elrond, "perhaps I should speak with him? I do believe such a conversation is long overdue."

     After a brief nod from Lord Elrond and Mithrandir, she excused herself. Naerien caught Thorin at the end of a corridor leading out to a balcony that looked over the River Bruinen as it tumbled down the Valley. "Thorin Oakenshield," she called, her voice soft in the light of the setting sun. "May we speak?"

     "Aye," said the dwarf, pausing at the doorway of the balcony to watch her approach him. He folded his hands over his chest, tilting his head up to never break her gaze. "You have not answered my question. Where is your brother? Why does Celebrenon not speak to me?"

     She stopped a few paces before him, not too troubled by the gruffness in his tone. She had expected it. She took a deep breath to steel herself. "...he is dead," she replied, her voice wavering. "We were in Dale the day the dragon came...I made it out, he did not." Unable to hold his gaze, she cast her eyes behind him, toward the view of the Valley.

     A long stretch of silence passed between them with Thorin's hesitance. He weighed his response with great difficulty. "I...am sorry."

     "Dragon fire took much from both of us that day, Thorin Oakenshield," Naerien murmured. Her eyes turned back toward him where she found faint sympathy etched into his gaze.
"Aye, it has..."

     "Son of Thrain, why do you and your kin venture out of the Blue Mountains?" She asked after a further moment of strange, strangled silence.

     Again, Thorin hesitated, on the edge of uneasy trust and complete rejection of her aid. His gaze hardened, but something was begrudging in his rugged features. "Gandalf had insisted we come here, for aid."

     "Aid in what?" She pressed, though she had a guess. Thirteen dwarves and a halfling led by the Grey Wizard. It was an unlikely group, and more unlikely that they were willing to go to Imladris for help. Whatever they needed, they were desperate. Desperate enough to come to their perceived enemies.

     Her question had turned him to stone again, and he glared up at her. Somehow, the look gave him an imposing appearance despite his shorter stature. Her soul winced as the bridge between them fell apart. "I do not agree with the wizard." His voice rose with each word. "We do not need your aid." His voice rumbled like thunder in the halls of Lord Elrond's House. Imladris had never heard such a hostile voice in its halls.

     Naerien arched an eyebrow, reining in her rising frustration. "I doubt that, Master Dwarf. You would not be persuaded into coming here otherwise. Your kind are too stubborn."

     Thorin narrowed his eyes. "Do not pretend to know my kind," he sneered, then pushed passed her. It took a great deal of effort not to snap at him in that moment. She had to hold herself back from tearing down his false assumption and point out the terrible irony of his words. But Naerien had thousands of years of emotional maturity. She was not a child who lacked the ability to control herself. However, Thorin would not rid himself of her with such ease.

     "I do not pretend," she called out; she could not keep the venom out of her tone, however much she tried. "I am old enough to recall a time when elves and dwarves did not think of each other as enemies – when there was friendship between us."

     "Those times are not now," he spat, spinning around and pointing at her; they had stopped near the entrance to Lord Elrond's library. "The elves have not offered any sort of aid, let alone friendship, to us when my people were scattered by Smaug, nor when the orcs overtook the Mines of Moria. I do not expect your aid now."

     "You do not have a choice, Thorin," a new voice declared. Naerien spun around to see Mithrandir emerging through the moonlight beaming down from the open archway of the library. Beside him were Lord Elrond, the aging dwarf Balin, and the halfling, whose name she did not yet know. The dwarf prince bristled at the authority in the wizard's tone.

     "Our business is of no concern of elves," he said, lips curled into a sneer underneath his dark beard.

     "For goodness sake," breathed Mithrandir. "Thorin, show them the map."

     Naerien's attention snapped to the Grey Pilgrim, then to Thorin, who had leveled his stony glare at Mithrandir. "Map?"

     "It is the legacy of my people. It is mine to protect," his eyes flickered over to Naerien, then Lord Elrond while Balin paced over to him, "as are its secrets."

     "Save me from the stubbornness of dwarves," muttered the wizard, shaking his head. "Your pride will be your downfall. You stand here in the presence of one of the few in Middle-Earth who can read that map! Show it to Lord Elrond!"

     Mithrandir sounded quite like an exhausted mother forcing her child to do something he had no desire to do. Naerien would have been amused, if not for the curiosity growing in her chest. His curt tone appeared to have gotten through to the dwarf prince, however. For he, after great hesitation (and protest from Balin) pulled a small, aged map from under his fur-lined coat. Without breaking eye contact with Lord Elrond, he handed the map to Naerien.

     She took it with great surprise, glancing up at Elrond. He gave her a nod, a twinkle of something she could not quite place in his eyes. He did not seem offended that the map had not been given to him, though it was evident that Mithrandir had. There was a half-irritated scoff from the wizard, but he seemed satisfied that Thorin had given up the map at all.

     Naerien unfolded the map and scanned the ink that stained the parchment. A large blank expanse spread out from a singular point that represented a mountain with a river running rightward across the space. Drawn in red ink beside it was a small fire-worm: Smaug. Painted at the end of the Running River, underneath the compass rose in the top right corner, was the gateway to the Long Lake. The Eastern edges of Mirkwood curved along the bottom, a small spider web and spider marked to its left.

     "Erebor," she realized. Her eyes lifted to pass over those gathered, first Thorin, then Balin and Mithrandir, and finally, the halfling. He cast his gaze aside, ducking his head. She had almost forgotten he had been there. She fixed her gaze on Thorin. "What is your interest in a map of Erebor?"

     "It is mainly academic," Mithrandir answered with a quickness far too swift to be casual. But his concealment of the truth seemed to earn back the gratitude and trust of Thorin, who sent a nod the wizard's way. "As you and Lord Elrond no doubt know, this sort of artifact sometimes contains secret text. You have knowledge of Ancient Dwarvish, do you not, My Lady?" Mithrandir asked. It seemed to be for the benefit of the others; he knew very well she did.

     The she-elf's lips quirked into a half-sardonic smile. "Of course. It would be quite neglectful of me not to." She stepped further into the library, lifting the map into the light of the moon filtering down to get a better look. To her delight, a series of glowing blue marks appeared on the page.

     "Cirth Ithil," Lord Elrond mused aloud, peering beside her.

     "Moon runes," she translated for the dwarves and the halfling.

     "Of course," Mithrandir nodded. "An easy thing to miss."

     "What — what are moon runes?" Asked the halfling. His voice was meek and hesitant, but there was clear excitement in his eyes as he observed.

     Naerien gave him a kind smile. "Look," she said, beckoning him forward and showing him the map bathed in moonlight. "They are runes that can only be seen when the moon shines behind them."

     A faint, awestruck smile appeared on the halfling's face as he peered up at the map. "Such cunning handwriting," said he.

     "What is more," she continued, scanning the glittering runes as she held up the map again, "they can only be read by the light of a moon the same shape and season on the day in which they were written. The dwarves invented them and wrote with silver pens, as your companions could no doubt tell you. The makers of this map wanted precious few to read it."

     "Can you read them?" Thorin demanded.

     "These must have been written by the light of a moon on midsummer's eve," she said with a small smile, even as Thorin glared at her apparent non-answer. Beside her, Lord Elrond laughed.

     "Fate is with you, Thorin Oakenshield. The same moon shines upon us tonight. It would seem you were meant to come to Rivendell."

     Naerien murmured under her breath as she translated the runes. It had been almost an age since she had read or written in Ancient Dwarvish. But the thick, sharply-edged runes were as familiar as Quenya to her mind. She could hear the translation in the rough voice of a dwarf long-dead echoing in her mind.

     "'Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks," she read after a moment, "and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the keyhole."

     "Durin's Day?" Piped up the halfling once again, still in his soft, hesitant voice. Naerien was quite endeared to his curiosity.

     "It is the start of our new year," Balin explained, " when the last moon of autumn and the first moon of winter appear in the sky together."

     "This is ill news," Thorin muttered. "Summer is passing. Durin's Day will soon be upon us."

     "We still have time," Balin argued, coming to stand beside his prince.

     "So that is your purpose," Lord Elrond stated, looking down at Thorin, who only shot a glare back up to him. "You wish to enter the Mountain."

     "What of it?" Naerien was beginning to believe the scowl on the Son of Thrain's face was a permanent fixture of his appearance.

     "It would seem to some that entering the hoard of a dragon would be unwise," she said, handing him back his map. He all but snatched it from her fingers and stuffed it back into his coat.

     The dwarf scoffed. "Then it is rather fortunate that such people would stay clear of Erebor."

     Naerien watched him stride out of the library, Balin following close behind him. The halfling, hesitated, glancing up at Mithrandir, then shifting to look at her. His eyes were a gentle sort of blue, pools of still water rather than hardened sapphires. "Ah, thank you, My Lady."

     Her sour frown lifted at his words. "You are quite welcome. Forgive me, but I was never told your name."

     He blinked in surprise, but swiftly recovered his wits. The halfling offered her a half-bow. "Bilbo Baggins, at your service."

     "It is a great pleasure to meet you, Master Baggins," she told him, and found her polite words to be genuine. "If you should need any more assistance during your time in Rivendell, please, come find me."

     "I — I will," he stammered, his face warming into a light pink. "Thank you." He ducked his head, hiding what she could guess was a smile. Bilbo Baggins mumbled something about needing to follow after Thorin and Balin. He gave another polite bow, then vanished down the hallway.

     Naerien watched him go, but once he had gone, she felt the warmth that had begun to bloom in her chest fade. Her thoughts turned to Thorin, to the Mountain, to the dragon. The thought of them dragging the inquisitive and kind-eyed Bilbo Baggins to his death, all for the glitter of gold and a false hope of slaying the dragon...it sat ill in her heart.

– ✧ –

– ✧ –

Sindarin Translations:
(1) "You look well"
(2) "Thank you. You are kind. "
(3) "My friend! Where have you been?"
(4) "Light the fires, bring forth the wine. We must feed our guests."

a/n: second chapter, finally done! Much longer than I had anticipated, but I could find nowhere to split it up that made sense and didn't completely ruin the flow of the scene. I hope you enjoyed! 💖

Idk if I have mentioned yet, but I'm cutting a lot out of the movies to make them more book accurate. So think of this fic as based off the book, using the movies for embellishment. Especially for all the Rivendell scenes, seeing as Tolkien literally said it would be boring to spend more than a chapter there lol (hopefully y'all don't think this is boring 😅)

Anyway, lmk what you think! I'd love to hear from y'all 🥰