Chapter Text
A storm was coming. One could see it in the steel grey of the sky stretching into every direction, dark and light in places where the clouds gathered, like the ripples on a sword. One could feel it deep inside one’s bones. This far above the world, Philip even was certain that he could feel the queer buzzing of power of it, in a way that wasn’t natural.
Well, it wouldn’t have been natural back in England, but Arda still held surprises for him, even after nearly seven years of living in it, and even after four years of technically being one of its ruling family.
The hall of the princess’ own quarters was ridiculously tall; the stone structures were solid and imposing, but the frame and patterns woven over the windows, as well as the glass plates, seeming too fragile to be real. That was something Philip had just accepted. Buildings looked like they were from a fairy tale, when you lived in a fairy tale world.
He only had eyes for the storm, and the mountains beneath it, tiny peaks far away from the one the city below was build into. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, until a voice called his name.
“Is everything alright?”
The princess was cool and magnificent, dressed for court as she was, looking very much like some ancient Queen or perhaps a Goddess from old legends. Like some magical being that belonged to the stones, the net of blue gems in her hair and the delicate silver jewellery adorning her body somehow only enhancing that impression.
Even the curve of her belly, emphasized by the cut of her dress, did not make her any less soft. Only her kind face gave her appearance a sort of regal warmth.
It was times like this when Philip wondered how he, a simple human blacksmith, had ended up as the lover and consort of such a person.
“I don’t know, I worry, my Blackbird,” he admitted. There was no use in lying. He’d learnt that Dís did not care for people trying to spare her the burden of complicated or sad matters.
Dís stepped closer, until he’d only have to reach out to take her hand.
“Tell me?”
Philip looked up at the sky. It was so quiet in these rooms, he wondered whether all the servants happened to be off-duty, or that the storm calmed all for the moment.
“I worry about the future,” he eventually started, slow, and unsure how to explain what he felt. “I worry about our child.”
He glanced at Dís’ belly, a vague fear in his chest. Was this what it meant to be an adult? Or was it a feeling all consorts experienced in an uncertain time? He hadn’t been this worried when their first child was born, and he’d barely been either for long at the time.
Dís smiled and her be-ringed hand curled over her belly.
“Our child will be fine. Or do you have some cause to worry?”
Philip’s frown did not ease off as he took her other hand in his.
“It’s our second child,” he started, “I’ve heard about the royal line’s history…”
The new monarch was not determined by the order of birth, as had always seemed sensible to Philip, but rather by anything but that. He’d read of it in the ancient tomes in the royal library, of how siblings and cousins had slaughtered one another, and how the firstborn ruling was sort of an accident more often than not.
Thrór’s siblings had either wandered away without a family and kept some contact, or were ruling too far away in a land of their own. Thráin had none, and Dís had never wanted the throne. Her brother Frerin had preferred adventures as well, leaving Thorin as the current heir to his father, and his father too.
It made Philip fear for what his children would do. The thought of his darling golden haired and golden eyed boy and the unborn child fighting, or even killing for the crown… he did not want to think of it.
Dís looked like she wanted to laugh.
“I promise you, none of the ancient history of any of the ruling houses will happen with the children of Durin. Not if they’ll grow to be who we’ll raise them to be.”
Her fingers squeezed against Philip’s in reassurance. He wanted to believe her. It was too easy to get caught up in stories, fairy tales from his own world, and the histories of his new one.
“There’s also… well, the thing about these creatures of the North…”
This time Dís’ face hardened and she did not react with a joke. The threat was real after all, even if it barely carried the same implications to Philip. Not knowing the full extent perhaps made him worry more.
“Our children will be safe,” Dís said firmly. “Nothing will happen to my children as long as Arda’s stones still stand.”
She didn’t reassure Philip that everything would be fine, and he wasn’t sure whether he should be glad for it. Was truth and uncertainty better than the royal line insisting nothing could throw them, that nothing could threaten their people? Philip supposed he preferred the truth, since he’d agreed to be a part of this.
“We will be safe,” he repeated, and Dís nodded.
They both turned to look over the land below. Dís’ eyes were fixed lower than Philip’s, watching the city and her land, where Philip had watched the gathering storm.
He wondered how this had happened, how the pretty, colourful world had suddenly turned to grey and black. Fairlytale worlds had their fairytale monsters, he supposed.
Somewhere in the distance lightning began to dance across the sky, too far away to even be audible. The way the wind was set, it would be upon them soon enough.
A storm was coming to Erebor.