An Even Fifteen (Fili x reader)

(16) The Raven

You and the other dwarves continued to search the halls of Erebor for the Arkenstone to no effect. Either the Heart of the Mountain had been found already, or it would never be found again. Still, Thorin insisted on a brutal schedule that included searching for the stone and blocking the entrance to Erebor, all the while growing madder than ever over his treasure hoard. He guarded the gold zealously with eyes glazed by dragon sickness. He occasionally raved about betrayal after hours of fruitless searching through the piles, most frequently accusing you of finding the Arkenstone and keeping it for yourself. The only ones brave enough to speak to him still were Balin, Bilbo, Dwalin, and Fili, and only they could talk him out of killing you for betrayal on the spot.

You avoided the king at all costs.

Ori grew fonder and fonder of the Rhosgobels, and always offered to keep an eye on them while you were on your shift in the great hall. The other dwarves seemed to like the rabbits more as they grew used to them. Even Kili occasionally greeted them with friendly pats on the head if he came upon you with them in the kitchen.

The longer you spent with the dwarves, the more you liked them. They were so different from Gandalf or Radagast, with their raucous manner and rough demeanors. You learned that they were a proud bunch, prouder even than elves, with a rich heritage, which they were more than glad to share with you for hours and hours on end. You learned a great deal about the famed Durin, and how Erebor came to be, and even some of the company's favorite historic battles. The dwarves were overjoyed by your fascination with their culture, but sometimes they took it a little too far, and you would find yourself falling asleep in the middle of their tales out of sheer exhaustion. They were gracious about those occasions, laughing at their own folly and shooing you off to bed with good-natured smiles.

But you did not see much of Fili. He seemed vastly busy with the search for the Arkenstone, and with the duties his uncle placed upon him as heir to the throne of Erebor. He would smile at you as you passed in the halls, or he would work alongside you during your shift, but other than that, he was otherwise engaged. You tried not to feel neglected, but you missed his presence and conversation. Though dwarf history was fascinating, you could use an occasional change in topic.

Sometimes, if you found you could not sleep, you would take one of the Rhosgobels for an exploratory walk through the maze-like halls of Erebor. It was on one of these midnight walks that you found your way to a richly-decorated wing, with torches blazing in the gilded sconces that lined the walls. Cedar, the rabbit accompanying you on that night's wanderings, hopped ahead of you into the light, then froze, ears swiveling nervously. You stilled and followed suit, listening hard for what had startled your Rhosgobel. "What is it, Cedar?" You whispered. Your words echoed in the hall, making the skin on the back of your neck crawl. You did not expect the answer you received.

"The rabbit hears a friend." A voice croaked in Ravenstongue from somewhere over your head, the source hidden in the shadows that the light from torches could not reach. You shuddered. Cedar thumped his foot on the stone floor, his ears stilling at the sound of the grating voice.

Could it be? You had heard the stories of the raven chiefs of Erebor, messengers and servants of the King Under the Mountain, but you had not believed them to still be alive, or to have found their way back to Erebor with the rest of the ravens.

"Is the rabbit-friend also a friend of mine?" You asked the voice in the same language.

A long pause, then a croaking reply, "If she is a friend of Erebor, she shall be my friend, too."

Before you could respond, the soft flutter of wings warned you as the raven swooped down from above and landed on the ground before you, sending Cedar scuttling to the wall. He was an old, decrepit thing. His feathers were graying around his beak, and he had bald patches on his chest and back. A scar crossed one wing, making it unshapely. Yet he bore himself with the pride equal to the dwarven king's as he studied you with one beady black eye. "How did she come to speak Ravenstongue?" The raven asked as you knelt to reassure Cedar.