So Comes Snow After Fire

4.iv

This was the worst scrape he'd ever gotten himself into, Kíli thought miserably, prodding a brown tuft of grass with his boot as he sat looking down over the dusky mountainside. With the sun down, it had become quite chilly, but he was in no great hurry to return to the mountain and face the curious glances and whispers that were sure to greet him. Everyone must know by know that the younger prince had run away with the elf.

Yes, this was worse than finding himself about to be eaten by trolls or mangled by goblins or hewn down by the Defiler. Those times, he'd only been facing bodily harm, a prospect he certainly had not relished, but which called for a relatively straightforward response: you showed no fear—no matter what you felt—and you tried to take as many of them with you as you could. But now, he felt the threat went deeper than flesh and bone; he was being torn apart from within, and there was no easy way out.

His course had seemed simple enough last night: if Thorin insisted Kíli betray the things he believed and the people he loved, he could not stay.

"Remember where your faith lies," Thorin had demanded.

"Faith? You would have me disregard it." Kíli had made a promise to Tauriel good faith.

"If you think so, you prove you have none."

Kíli knew that wasn't true. He would hardly feel so wretched now if he did not hate the thought of doing ignobly by either Tauriel or his family. His love for her didn't have to conflict with his loyalty to his kin; it only did now because Thorin insisted that it did. Tauriel was good; she was honorable; and loving her could only make Kíli better.

That was why he had to go back. He would never prove his love was worthwhile if it lead him to abandon the people who needed him.

It was no insignificant choice to walk away from family, home, and heritage. He would do it, if staying meant becoming someone who was not worthy of himself, of his kindred, of her. But leaving simply because he was angry: that was not worthy, either.

He had felt the shame of his ignoble choice gnawing at him as he had turned his back on the mountain and walked away that morning. Tauriel deserved to be chosen for herself, not in retaliation for his uncle's blindness and intolerance. And Fíli and Mum—and yes, even Thorin—deserved more from him than to be forsaken without any better reason than a childish fit of pique.

And so, he would swallow his pride and the words he had hurled at Thorin, and return home. He wanted Erebor to remain his home.

Kíli pushed himself up from the stone where he had been sitting as the shadows had lengthened and the world had turned to grey. The river below mirrored the sunset's ruddy glow, becoming once more the stream of gold out of the old songs. Kíli looked back over his shoulder, following the water's course as it curved past Dale.

Bard had accepted Tauriel readily; it seemed her defense of his children in Laketown was all the proof of her worth he had required. Though visibly surprised to learn she was not returning to the Greenwood, Bard had sympathized with her explanation that she could not follow a king who required her to ignore the needs of her friends. Dale could use more huntsmen, guards, and scouts, the lake-man had said, and Tauriel was welcome among his people, if she did not mind their ways.

Tauriel would not be so far, Kíli told himself. The waters that flowed from the mouth of Erebor crossed the distance between them in mere minutes. And yet, when would he be able to see her again? Thorin would forbid it, and while Kíli had no intention of obeying that order indefinitely, he knew he ought not test his uncle's limits again so soon. The happiness he had felt with her over these last weeks would have to be enough for him, for now.

Indeed, that moment last night, while it lasted, had been perfect. Kíli smiled, remembering the feel of her: her skin, her lips had been so soft. He never wanted to kiss a woman with a beard on her face again, he thought and then wondered, briefly, if there was something wrong with him if he was no longer attracted to his own kind. But no, the truth was far simpler than that. He never wanted to kiss any other woman again, be she elf or dwarf.

And as for what Tauriel felt for him, well, he no longer worried that she might never find him fully desirable. Yes, she had been hesitant, even a little shy, but there had been no reluctance in the way she had kissed him. Would she have told him, if they'd been left alone, that she loved him?

Kíli had not made any promises to her beyond the one on the lake shore; he had not even told her since then—in words, at any rate—that he loved her. That one promise had been enough; his intent had not changed. He knew Tauriel knew, and that she remembered; and he would wait for her to declare herself in her own time. It it must be an elvish thing: if you lived forever, he supposed, falling in love must be something you did slowly, lingering over each moment, each new recognition and discovery. He didn't think he would mind lingering.

Maybe it was a fine line between lingering and waiting, he reminded himself as he turned away from Dale at last. But Tauriel deserved his patience, and so he would wait.

He set his face towards the mountain once more and began the walk home.