Let us all just pretend my absence never happened (I may or may not have been caught up in writing another story, soon hitting 50k words, and forced this to take a backseat)! I read the old chapters, and I've attempted to hit the same note of writing as then, but I'm not sure I got it right. Alas, the results of a break in writing has struck me hard.

This chapter is rather short, but it's mostly a warm-up!

Enjoy!

When Ravens Fly

Chapter XVI: Turmoil

It felt as if ten Dwarves were beating away in his chest, wielding great hammers, for surely his heart could not pound this strongly on its own. Yet it did, and the rhythm was loud in his ear; so much that Fíli feared the minstrel by his side could hear it just as clearly. They walked, side by side, through the market place. Little was said between them, but whether she found the silence uncomfortable or not, he was not sure. Instead many great thoughts passed with swiftness through his mind, attempting to bring forth a topic of conversation that would neither be dull and mundane, nor overly much.

"How do you find your time in Dale?" Fíli closed his eyes briefly, praying Mahal would pick him up and drop him somewhere far away. Very far away.

He could have just as well have commented on the weather!

A smile played at her lips, and a soft hum of consideration was her first reply. Her brown orbs looked to him. "It is both beautiful and charming," she responded, "And there is a quiet I do not see elsewhere, where life is often fast-paced like in Minas Tirith. The people here are kind. Would you not agree?"

With a thoughtful nod, Fíli's gaze watched his brother and the other Dwarf ahead. The warm sun was bright over the open square, bathing the stones in gold and the roofs fire-red, and while most stalls stood ready there were only few customers about. He could only agree with the minstrel. In this very moment, the world seemed at peace. "It is indeed so," he said, "The people of Lake Town were most accommodating when my brother and I first arrived."

Fíli, of course, mentioned nothing of their capture and almost-imprisonment, before their uncle's promises of wealth and prosperity had turned dishonourable intentions to great esteem. Nor did he say anything of the dragon's attack, or the following strife between Dwarves and Men – and near war, that came as a result. All things considered, the Lake-men could be considered most friendly. Now, at least.

The minstrel paused to watch glassware of many colours, shimmering and clear; red and blue drinking cups, intricate figurines of great swordsmen and ancient beasts.

But her thoughts were still on his words, for soon she responded with a question. "When did you decide to return to Erebor?"

To avoid answering right away, Fíli picked up a gold-rimmed bowl of true beauty, and turned it over in his hands. For a long moment he felt uncertainty; torn between honesty and deceit, and which he should choose from that point onward. What would her thoughts be of him, if she came to learn his true heritage? That he was a member of Thorin Oakenshield's company, and – even worse to him – heir to the throne of the Lonely Mountain? His mouth felt dry. Would she not then act like so many others; with eyes on his wealth and not open honestly on him.

He could not blame a minstrel for such thoughts. From the corner of his eye he looked to her shoes; how thin and frayed the leather was. Anyone who had ever felt hunger, would surely take any chance given to them to never feel it again. But Fíli did not wish for such a fate, not for himself nor her. "With the dragon's demise, there was no reason not to live here with my kin. It is the home of my ancestors, and a place of longing and legend, and I have wished to return since I was but a young Dwarfling. So I returned with haste, and as soon as I was able."

There. No lie had been told.

Again, the corner of her mouth tilted up, and with a fondness she looked at him. "That is much the same Mister Frár said, when I asked him."

When the sun hit her eyes just right there was gold in them, Fíli noted, but then the woman carried on after his brother through the continuously increasing mesh of people. They passed several times after, pausing at many different stalls to see the wares at display, but the Dwarf spent more time gauging her reaction than marvelling at the workmanship. Often she would ask the seller questions of interest; where such skills originated from, or how they made a certain colour – and could two ingredients be combined, or would a third one be needed to create a mixed colour? – but other times she would turn to Fíli and ask for his opinion.

She explained that Dwarves were many times master artisans, and their eyes were keen on such things.

Fíli gladly indulged her.

With some diffidence, the minstrel revealed a little secret. There was a smile on her lips still, but the soft gloom in her gaze did not go unnoticed by him, when she spoke. For the minstrel it was a nice change to look at wares, where usually sellers would turn her away with but a single look; there was no gold to be made from a wanderer. So, walking with a lord of Dwarves gave her ample chance to see things she usually could not. He felt honored, both by her honesty but also that he could be of service.

Though he did not feel worthy of such praise, she thanked him nonetheless.

The air was warm and dry, and he hoped it was enough to mask the reddening hue now spreading over his face. He told her about the forges of Erebor, and how they could make many things, both great and small, of molten gold – almost like rivers – and gems of ethereal beauty. She had great interest in all he could tell and share, and she asked many questions to even the smallest of things that most would find of no importance. How they knew where to dig for gems, or how to prevent collapses.

And at first, he reveled in her attention.

The Dwarf prince felt both elated and incredibly horrified when he had come to understand his own feelings throughout the day. There was a tight knot in his stomach, twisting and coiling, and at times it was hard for him to reply to her openness. The newly discovered feelings were knifes in an already wounded heart. He liked to be in her presence, and, at the same time, he wished to flee to the safety of the mountain. To forget the last couple of weeks entirely. Like a man drowning, with struggles soon turning in vain – but if she was salvation or the dark embrace beneath the waves, he knew not. More than anything it was but one word that reverberated in his mind.

Over and over.

So much that he forgot to respond to her questions, and Fíli followed along while dragging his feet. Leaden and heavy. In the end, the conversation died between them, and there was little hope for him to salvage it. So neither was it not long before tension became apparent. Stifling and oppressive in the air that had earlier been so hospitable.

She is not a Dwarf.

Deep in thought, Fíli did not at first notice how his brother had dropped his pace to fall back to his side. Then the oldest prince felt an arm gripping his shoulders, and a familiar voice that drew him from darkened ponderings. "Miss Ranel, do excuse us for a moment! You can go ahead if you'd like, we will be sure to catch up." With no struggle, Fíli was pulled away to a distance where they could speak undisturbed. An awkward-looking group was left behind; the minstrel, the blacksmith's son, and Dwalin. The younger Dwarf regarded him for a few, long moments. "Is it because Dwalin is breathing down your neck like a Warg starving, that you reply with little more feeling than a stone when she talks to you? I know you are boring, but not that boring."

Fíli blinked, perplexed. Boring? "What–? No. It is not."

"Then what, pray tell, is wrong with you? I have given you the perfect chance to talk to her alone, and you look to be downright dying in her presence!"

He had not thought his predicament would be seen, and so visibly, in his face, for he had much tried to keep it only in his heart. "It was not my intention to do so," he argued, albeit rather feebly and with little conviction.

"Well, that is certainly not the impression you are giving," Kíli sighed, "Do you wish to practice before we return?"

Fíli's face turned blank. "Practice?"

"Yes. I will be her, and then you talk to me without a face that speaks of great suffering."

"No."

"It will be good for you," Kíli argued. The smile was hard to miss.

"No," Fíli said, this time with more certainty in his voice. There were some things he would not do, and this was certainly one of them.

"Are you certain?" The high-pitched voice, accompanied with bashfully fluttering eyelashes, his brother then used, made him almost turn and walk away without a reply. "I believe I could play the part well." The smirk could not be missed now, as he did not attempt to hide it, and the blond-haired Dwarf could not resist laughing; he grasped his brother's shoulder, shaking it with firm fondness for he now understood quite clearly.

He thanked Mahal for giving him a brother, both wise beyond his years and so incredibly silly.

"Absolutely," he said, "But thank you, Kíli, I know now why you do this. But tell me, when did you know?"

Side by side, the brothers began down the path between vendors to find their companions. Kíli gave a light shrug. "I knew for certain already the second time you saw her." The absurdity of their conversation had driven out his darkened mood, head-shaking but with a new lightness to his steps, and Fíli decided to do better. "I should also mention that, while you looked like you wanted to storm and retake Kazad-dûm single handedly – and could scare the hide off an orc – I asked our new friend a thing or two. It may prove helpful to you."

Fíli hid his face in his hands, mortified at the picture painted by his brother. It was terrible to think, that he may have ruined something long before it had even started. He groaned out a reply. "Was it truly that horrible?"

"If you ask me, I'd say you look like you always do. I am accustomed to your ugly mutt of a face," Kíli replied, "It is just a pity she is not."

Ranel felt increasingly uncomfortable, although she could not explain why, and she silently attempted to key together the day. From their meeting in the inn, to their walk through the market; the words and questions she had asked, everything from the pace of her steps to the length of her greeting. The amount of questions she had asked. Had she somehow insulted the Dwarven lord by her side, broken decorum with her actions in some way she did not understand? The Dwarf's face had become progressively paler, until he looked almost sick.

Long fingers clenched and unclenched, clutching at air, much as her words grasped for a foothold only to find none. Despite her best efforts, there was little more to do as the conversation stilled between them. Any goods within reach were picked up, examined, commented, and returned; just so she had something, anything, to do in the strained tension that hung heavy between her and the Dwarf.

Her mouth twitched.

The minstrel knew not what else to say, afraid it would only make matters worse.

It was, truthfully, a much welcome respite when the younger brother came to her rescue. Whether he had meant to, or it was pure coincidence, she cared not – and she certainly did not disagree, when the Dwarven lords stepped aside to talk amongst themselves. A sigh of almost palpable relief escaped her, before she turned to the two Dwarves in her presence.

Lóni seemed on edge, or at least highly confused, but he gave a smile as their eyes met. The letter had been delived, and her companions had arrived safely; picked up their lives within the mountain again, returned to a childhood home that had been torn from them. It gladdened her deeply. But the second Dwarf in their presence could not be ignored, for it would neither be polite nor possible; tall, very tall for a Dwarf, and large in both frame and bearings, he stood by their side yet had only eyes on his nephews.

Her gaze took in the armor and weapons. Unquestionably a warrior, Ranel thought. "Mister Dwalin," she said carefully, forcing his head to turn. Dark eyes regarded her, and again she felt on edge at the look leveled at her. "Correct me if I am mistaken, but surely you must be well versed in fighting?"

"I can split a goblin's head in twain with one stroke," was his reply.

The answer was more bewildering than helpful, but Ranel assumed it was an affirmation. An affirmation that was difficult to react to in earnest. "Lóni is quite the skilled fighter, also."

She held out a hand toward the young Dwarf, though rather than seizing the opportunity to strike up a conversation he paled significantly. "Me–? No, no, I'm– no! Certainly not! Not like– no." Lóni stuttered, eyes shifting from one to another before he blanched even further. The hope of abating the strained tension – where she felt there was very little she, herself, could talk about with the old Dwarf – was quickly ruined. In her mind, Ranel reached out to the Valar. What have I done to deserve this?

"How about we go on ahead as suggested?" Ranel then attempted.

Even if it was but a sliver of hope, the two Dwarves both agreed, and so they carried on through the market place in silence. Although the pace was set slowly, so that the others could catch up, there was very little to pass the time with; she feared looking at stalls would likewise be cause for ire or insult, for she could still not understand what wrong she had committed previously. With discouragement, and a great tension in her shoulders, she looked about in the square.

Swift flowing clouds drifted by high above, and the sky was the blue of summer; the cool breeze from the mountain brought relief in the sweltering heat, and the air was filled with many different smells. Flowers bloomed in the streets of Dale, orange and red; traders selling spices from faraway lands, some she knew and others foreign to her. It was truly a beautiful day. There was little to be done against the aversion, flittering into her mind, from settling.

How glad she had been upon seeing Lóni again, suddenly standing in the dimness of the inn and to walk the streets of Dale with him. Often her thoughts had wandered to his family, hoping their life in Erebor was without hardships and it was as they had dreamed of. But she felt the reunion crumble, chipping away like rock against the winds, until there were but fragments left between her fingers. There was little enjoyment left of a day that had started so well.

Ranel sighed.

A pair of jugglers were preparing a performance, drawing a red circle over the cobbled stones with chalk, and she paused to watch. Lóni and Dwalin lingered further away. The performers called into the din, drawing people in with promises of extraordinary sights; with faces painted, and colourful and vibrant clothes that soon attracted a crowd. Wooden cones were thrown through the air or hoops, and caught again with both hands and feet, but soon they brought forward knives. Murmurs welled up around her, some with anticipation and others with grim voices of complaint; speaking of the rabble, pouring into the city from afar with blinding tricks. Swindling coins from good and honest people.

Thieves and beggars.

She breathed deeply through her nose. They were close to her, making her skin crawl at their words spoken with little understanding. She repressed the urge to argue – performing was just as honest work as any other. Dedication and endless practice. Ranel chewed her lower lip, glancing from the corner of an eye to the three men. "I would like to see them throw a knife and catch it again," a voice spoke by her side, drawing her attention away. "Without losing at least one finger, if not several."

The oldest brother had come to her side. Just as she, he had been watching the men and his face was set in displeasure. "It is easy to speak of things you know nothing of," Ranel said, hesitation lacing her words. Had he forgiven her transgressions? Although she knew not what they were. "To them it may look simple." The Dwarf nodded, fishing through the pouch at his belt, and she heard the sound of clinking metal. Her brow furrowed.

Then he looked to her with a smile. "Indeed."

Pressing through the crowd to the front, several coins of silver shimmered in the light as they landed in the collector's bowl, before he returned to her. Ranel watched him with surprise and some reverence; the gesture had been kind. And so she was even more confused than earlier, for he held out a hand and gestured for her to walk before him through the crowd. The strange animosity, so very clear to her, had disappeared. She felt like a leaf caught in the river, and there was not much else to do but allow the current to sweep her away – to a destination she knew not where.

"I saw a bread vendor just earlier," he spoke from behind her, pressing their way past the gathered. "May I offer you a sweet roll?"

Ranel began to cough violently.