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This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
Not that Ori had ever given much thought to what was supposed to happen. All he had known was that this was Moria, the greatest kingdom of their ancestors, the seat of Durin himself. To be a recorder in the expedition that retook the mountain would be a great honour, though he was hardly lacking in honours. He was one of the Company, after all, had followed Thorin Oakenshield to Erebor and to the dragon and to battle, and that was an honour not many could claim. Only twelve besides himself, and only ten of them living.
Oh, how he'd longed to get away from Erebor, had jumped at the chance when Balin gathered his party.
It had been most ungrateful of him, he knew as much. Certainly it was the last great kingdom, growing glorious once again under Dáin's rule. He should have been nothing but delighted to make his home in its great halls and gleaming caverns rather than wasting away in the dusty chambers of Ered Luin. The surviving Company were all given grand titles by the new King Under the Mountain, showered in riches and honours beyond anything he could have wished for. He could have spent the rest of his life roaming the halls of the royal library, reading and studying and learning everything there was to know. It would have been a long life, too, long and peaceful.
His life would have been long and peaceful and so very, very lonely.
Right after the battle, when they had still been taking toll of their deaths, he had been in too much of a shock to truly feel the pain. Once it had surfaced, gnawing at his heart like a wild beast, he had foolishly thought it would fade away in time. It hadn't, though, it might have dulled but never faded, always there, always present. It was there in his heart which had been torn in two, in the words he sometimes spoke before remembering there was nobody there to hear them, in the empty space by his side where another should have been. Not a day went by that he didn't feel the absence, didn't try to reach out to someone he could not find anymore.
For a time he hadn't even been able to draw, to write. Whenever he tried to draw, no matter his subject, the lines always arranged themselves into a familiar face, smiling and laughing in the sunlight or lying pale and broken on the battlefield, and he wasn't even sure which images were the worst as he always tore them apart and threw them in the fire. Writing, too, was stolen from him, as anything he tried to mark down invariably morphed into the words he should have said, would have said, if only he'd had the courage. If only he hadn't hesitated, hadn't waited, hadn't been such a coward that he hadn't even been able to whisper the words to the deaf ear of his broken love. Sometimes he went off on a ramble that continued for page upon page, asking for forgiveness and lamenting his loss all at once, while sometimes all he could write were two words, again and again until his tears smudged the ink or his hand pressed too hard, ruining the tip of another pen.
My One. My One. My One.
His brothers had worried, of course, had wondered at seeing him without his books and pens when before he would not be parted from them. He'd tried to play it off, had pretended nothing was wrong, even though there was a gaping wound in his very heart that nothing could ever heal. Instead he had escaped his pain into dreams, welcoming the pleasant ones as well as the nightmares, relishing the chance to at least see the one who was lost to him in his waking hours. More often than not he woke up in tears, or else with a scream when he dreamed of the battle, dreamed of all the ways he might have saved his One yet always arriving just a little too late, finding him staring lifeless up to the sky. Always, always too late, and yet he sought those dreams again because at least he could then see the beloved face.
He had still insisted nothing was wrong, certainly nothing his brothers could heal, even when they found him sobbing in his bed or were shaken awake by his cries. The moment this could not carry on any longer came when one night his brothers had not found him in his bed at all. After a long search they had located him in the tomb chambers, curled up against the cold tomb and crying in his sleep. He hadn't recalled how he had gotten there, had no idea how he had found his way to the royal tombs in the middle of the night without being stopped by anyone, yet he had resisted their attempts to remove him from the cold stone.
Of course, such things could not be tolerated to continue indefinitely. They had kept him under close watch afterwards, had tried to encourage him to take up crafting, any crafting at all. It was by no means unheard of for a dwarf to give into despair after they lost their One, particularly in such a sudden and violent fashion, but it was also known such cases were rarely permanent and easily channelled into work. It hadn't been so easy for Ori, with his trade stolen from him by his grief and his craft similarly hindered. He'd tried knitting, of course, no dwarf wished to sit with their hands idle no matter how deep their grief, but could not focus on what he was doing and only produced unidentifiable scraps and snapped yarn and needles with his tight tension.
It had been Nori who had come up with the idea, of all people, Nori who had approached King Dáin and obtained permissions, who had sat him down and spoken in quiet, calming tones Ori was not used he hearing from his brother. He had spoken of the cold and dark, how very cold it was deep in the tomb chambers, how the Halls of Mahal were surely warmer but even there a chill might reach an unwary traveller. He had set Ori's hand on the needles for the casting on, had spoken to him through every last stitch of casting off, had stood opposite Dori and heaved the stone when King Dáin officially gave his permission for opening the tomb.
Perhaps being a member of the Company could sometimes be useful, indeed.
It should not have been there. For all that he'd done his best work, used the softest wool and the finest yarn, it was still hardly comparable to the armour and finery of the crown prince, settled down for his final rest. Even so, Ori had not hesitated as he reached into the tomb to carefully slide the cowl he had knitted around Fíli's head and shoulders. He'd tried not to look too much, preferred to remember him as he had been in his life rather than the decay and ruin of death, but even so, he could not hesitate.
Nori had been right, after all. It was awfully cold in the tomb chambers.
It got better after that, somehow. The pain never left, of course, it never could have. By each passing day he had forced himself further into normal life, further away from the bottomless grief that had very nearly swallowed him whole. It wasn't because the ache grew less, though, he just learnt to live around it, and while someone with a missing limb might have found some device to aid them all he could hope for were pleasant dreams and sweet memories.
There were no sweet memories in Erebor. All he could recall was madness and fear, a hand seeking his in the shadows as they thought they might die, a gaze meeting his as they prepared themselves for battle they would not both return from. He remembered discarding the heaviest of the armour and helmets as they stood by their king, remembered thinking they might not survive, remembered feeling it would be all right. Except he had survived, but his One hadn't, and Ori suspected he was the one with the crueler fate.
He had thought of returning to Ered Luin, sometimes, of going back to where they had been young and hopeful and not yet known such pain and grief, where he might remember golden hair gleaming in midsummer sunlight rather than growing matted with blood against icy ground. That would have felt like a betrayal, though, like he'd abandoned the wish Fíli had fought for, the future he had dreamed of. Yet this wasn't that wish, nor that future, not with Dáin Ironfoot on the throne of Erebor. He might have been the wisest king they had since Durin himself yet that would not have consoled Ori, because he had never been supposed to take that throne. It should have been Thorin, King Under the Mountain, with the raven crown upon raven brow, and after him the golden Fíli, and Ori would have been content to serve in that Erebor, whether it happened beside his beloved or in the shadows of his throne. This Erebor, this life, was not what he had fought for, and every day that he lived had only been a shadow of what it might have been.
And then, Balin had asked for volunteers.
It had been a simple decision, really. He had known without asking that Balin was of a similar mind, that while he respected Dáin he could no longer see the throne without the intended king. It was the only reason someone like Balin, so calm and reasoned in his actions, would have decided to seek out glory and battle once more in his old age. He hadn't asked, though, and neither had Balin asked anything when Ori had signed on to be the main record keeper of the expedition, had only met his gaze and nodded slowly, a faint smile on his lips. They had set off, then, they and Óin and the rest of the expedition, in search of another adventure that might bring them glory or their deaths but at least it might chase away the ghosts that haunted their every day in Erebor.
At first, it had seemed almost too simple. Not that there hadn't been obstacles, but nothing they couldn't handle. They'd established their presence, had driven the orcs deeper and further, had made plans for the future of their new realm. They had celebrated Balin, Lord of Moria, and for a moment Ori had almost felt elated before he turned to his side and found no one there to hear his joyful words.
Balin fell alone, to an orc arrow as he wished to gaze into Mirrormere, and for all that Ori was a scribe in trade and heart he had never despised the old legends more than in that moment.
After that, one disaster had followed another. They'd fought and lost, lost so many, and Óin had been lost in the water and it was too much, too much, too much. The sound of the drums was sure to be forever embedded in his mind, drums in the deep and their approaching death, and the shadow moved in the dark and Ori was afraid, so afraid.
He survived the last confrontation, somehow, though he was wounded enough he knew this would soon be remedied. He still had his book, though not the strength to write in it, not that there was much else to record. What he had written made it clear enough what had happened, should anyone ever be foolish enough to venture into the darkness and find what remained, should anyone still make it out to take the word. He doubted it.
Even in keeping records, he had failed.
Somehow he managed to drag himself to Balin's tomb, managed to lean his back against it, a momentary relief as he could already feel the cold seeping into him while his life bled out in turn. He was too wounded to even tend to himself, and even if he might have managed he would then have found his death anyway, with no supplies or allies and no way out. This was the end of the road at last, the road that had started when he first set foot out of Ered Luin, headed toward a future that was never to come.
"I'm sorry, my Lord," Ori murmured, and even he could hear his own words slurring together. "Sorry we couldn't… protect you." There was nobody to hear his words, not anymore, but that was fine. He wasn't entirely sure they were directed at Balin, anyway.
Once again he curled up against a cold tomb of stone, and this time, nobody found him there. Not while he was still there to be found.
When he woke, he was somewhere else.
He was still inside a mountain, that was for certain, with a stone ceiling above him and the feel of cold stone beneath his back. However, even his pitiful excuse for a stone sense could tell that this was not the dark ruin of Moria, nor the dusty halls of Ered Luin or even the glory reborn of Erebor. These were new halls, new stone, and as he cautiously sent the sliver of a thought deep into the mountain he almost grew dizzy at the feeling of how far it reached. He'd never heard of a mountain so large, so deep and high and grand, and yet it seemed to be teeming with life, the stone thrumming with energy that even he could sense.
No. Not life, not quite.
Gingerly he sat up, half expecting his wounds to protest, only to find that he did so with ease. He felt firm and solid rather than weakened by pain and blood loss, his body hale and hearty and not worn down by fear and battle and dwindling supplies. As he glanced down at himself, he found his old scribe's robes instead of ragged armour, felt wispy beard as he touched his chin instead of the long beard he had grown used to. A wavering hope raised its head within him as he rushed to his feet, hoping against hope that this was true and not some feverish dream taunting his last moments.
Dori had told him stories, sometimes, had sung him songs of the old days and the legends that were told. Of how in the Halls of Mahal all wounds were mended, and each dwarf was made again in the shape of their strongest and happiest years.
"Hello?" His voice, too, sounded clearer, for all that he was careful in calling out, still half expecting some foe to rush him from somewhere, and him without any armour or weapon. There was only one doorway to the room he was in, and the hallway outside seemed empty, but he'd spent too long in fearful wariness not to flinch a little as his voice echoed against the bare stone. "Is anyone there?"
For a moment he heard only silence. Then there were footsteps outside, soft at first but then growing louder and faster. Then someone burst through the doorway, and for the first time since a cold winter day at the gates of Erebor Ori felt his breath move easily.
"Ori." Fíli was standing there, young and bright and smiling without a care, looking even more beautiful than in Ori's memories. His golden hair was clasped and braided, his clothes still in the same practical designs he had favoured on the road but now made of rich fabrics rather than cotton and worn leather. "Balin and Óin told us what was going on, so I was waiting, but… you're here. You're really here."
"I am." Ori took a halting step toward Fíli, not entirely sure if he should approach. Fíli was… he was wearing something around his shoulders, drawn down to leave his head bare, but the shape was still familiar. It looked almost new, fine wool in a deep blue colour worked into an intricate cowl, not worn and faded as it should have been, given its age. It had been a long time, after all, so many years since Ori had knitted it, had placed it on him in the chill of the tombs. "I… is it really you?"
"None other." Fíli closed the distance between them, now. Ori almost expected an extended hand, or perhaps a forehead bump if Fíli was feeling more affectionate. Instead he was drawn into a firm embrace, strong arms drawing him against a familiar chest.
"I missed you," Ori murmured, closing his eyes against the tears that threatened to choke his voice. "Every moment of every day, I missed you…"
"And I you." Fíli's voice sounded rough with emotion, yet it was sweet and comforting in his ears. "All this time, I waited, except I didn't want you to come, not yet. I wanted you to live, for yourself and me both."
"I ached for you, the whole time." Ori clutched at Fíli's shirt. "I almost lost myself in my grief, and even when I found my way out, you were this… aching emptiness beside me." He shut his eyes tighter. "And the whole time, I just wished I had said it…"
"I didn't say it either. We're both to blame for our foolishness, and you paid double for mine." Fíli's arms tightened around him, just a little, before he let his arms fall to Ori's waist and took half a step back. "You're here now, though. You're here and nothing will ever part us again."
"Not ever again." Ori opened his eyes to look at Fíli, his beautiful, brave warrior prince, and though he felt tears pricking at his eyes he found himself smiling. "You have nowhere to escape from me this time, my prince."
"Always yours," Fíli replied with a grin, and as he leaned in Ori didn't even think of resisting, falling easily into the kiss. It was soft and sweet and searching, yet even sweeter were the words Ori felt more than heard, Fíli's lips painting them against his mouth, his cheek, his hair. Ori whispered them in turn, repeated them again and again, and at last the words didn't bring him any pain, not in these halls where everything was remade whole and true.
"My One."