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Bard has had reason to curse his ancestors before today: for the expectations laid upon his head, the responsibilities he can no longer avoid, the people who look to him for leadership. The draft-riddled quarters he must now endure because the house of the Lords of Dale must face the great mountain. Today, he curses the fact that they never thought to pass down details of their dealings with the dwarven kings of old.
He stares up at the stone vault high above and suppresses a groan. Perhaps they did. Perhaps this was noted in some detailed tome, lost to fire when Smaug came. Perhaps it was written, and never spoken, because he cannot for the life of him imagine how he will tell this to his son, should the need arise.
Perhaps this is where the claim that dwarf women are indistinguishable from their men comes from. Perhaps his ancestors whispered about this, back in Dale, and eavesdropping servants turned the facts around. The claim itself is manifestly untrue - the plump and smiling figure beside him is evidence of that.
He drops his gaze back to the dwarf beside him. Despite the beard - which is braided with ribbon and decked with fine jewels - she cuts a motherly figure, all the more so when he notices her sons trailing behind her, nudging each other and suppressing laughter at his predicament. Bard has to remind himself that in years lived, the heir of Erebor and his brother are older than himself, and even if he were not in the throne room of their ancestors, he would be ill-advised to box their ears.
The former heir, he should say. Or soon to be. Which explains the lady's smile, and the boys' laughter, and his own complete bafflement.
With a smile that cannot quite match her own, Bard says, "If I might clarify - the King is - my apologies, Lady Dís, your sister is with child."
"Yes! At last. I had begun to think I would never see the day."
"But the King is - not."
"The King is not what?"
"The King is not with child?"
"Of course not. Whoever heard of such a thing? A king bearing a child? You'd sooner see elves do an honest day's work." The princes lose their struggle against their laughter, and Dís turns to them with a frown, showing a little steel beneath her softness. "Boys." They quieten themselves abruptly, and Dís turns back to Bard. "The King and his consort are expecting a child."
"As is your sister."
"Yes."
"Your sister, who happens to be the King, who is not with child, but is in fact, expecting a child with her -"
"His."
"His consort."
"Exactly."
"But -" He has learnt to make no assumptions about the halfling, but this - he shakes his head. No. Thorin is with child - obviously, blatantly, dare he say radiantly with child. But, just as she is King under the Mountain, not Queen, and just as the King is 'he', not 'she', the King cannot be pregnant, and therefore the King is not pregnant. And the gifts and honours due to the mother of the future heir of Erebor are to be presented to the King's consort. Who, while perhaps wider around the middle than when Bard first met him, is not with child, being, in fact, male, and, he notes with desperate satisfaction, at least as confused by this turn of events as Bard.
Distantly he hears a piping voice protest, "No, you may not massage my feet. My ankles are fine, thankyouverymuch!"
"Yes, my Lord?" prompts Dís, with some of that steel directed now at Bard.
"But why?" he says helplessly, and regrets the words the moment he says them. The boys behind them tense, shifting to battle readiness without a thought, and he remembers the days when he would not have thought of them as boys.
He expects Dís to be angry, but instead she reaches up to pat his cheek. "'Twas always thus," she says, which is no explanation at all, but better, he suspects, than he deserves.
"It is no different than when we called her Uncle in the towns of Men," says Fíli. He says it lightly, but he has not relaxed, and his brother nods sharply in agreement.
"It is not quite so, my dear," says his mother. "It is a tradition dating back to the days of Durin himself," she tells Bard, before her younger son interrupts.
"No, it is," contradicts Kíli. "As we did in Laketown, and before the battle." His voice is not so steady. Bard holds no great guilt over his actions following the burning of Laketown, but he does not know if he would have behaved the same if he had known more of the King. He does not know - and has not dared ask either side - if the elves knew, or know, or care.
Nor does he know, Bard thinks bitterly, if he would be standing here if Thorin's true nature had not been stumblingly revealed by the smitten halfling. He may be here at the summons of the King, but he cannot imagine the dwarves willingly bringing a Man into this strange charade.
"We dwarves guard our women jealously, Master Bard, as they are so few that the loss of even one cannot be countenanced," says Fíli, and he does not say it lightly.
"And there has not been a birth amongst our people these six years," adds Kíli. It shocks Bard into shame, knowing of a score of children born to his own people in the two years since the restoration of Dale. And while his people have been flowing into Dale as the town is rebuilt, the number of dwarves turning to Erebor has slowed to a trickle. The halls of Erebor are great, but they must seem very empty to its people.
"The Lords of Dale have always respected our traditions," says Dís, "and upheld our trust." Her words are directed to her sons, but her gaze never leaves Bard, and once more he curses his ancestors, because he may feel no guilt, but he has not earnt that trust.
Dís knows this.
The Men of Dale and the Dwarves of Erebor have an ancient accord, but years under the dragon's shadow wore it down to nothing. Dwarven arrogance would have severed it completely, if not for the hobbit's selfless sacrifice. And they may be at peace now, but Bard has ever found Thorin to be arrogant, imperious and intractable. Half their meetings have ended with one of them departing in a towering rage. If asked, Bard might say that his loyalty lies with the halfling, not the King, and that only necessity keeps him returning to the Mountain.
Yet he has never thought her unfit to rule. He knows her to be a fearsome warrior - knew that before he knew her sex - and he has never had to beg for help from Erebor when goblins harry the distant edges of their lands. And in truth, she is no more intractable than he. Erebor and Dale are not yet whole, but the trade between them flourishes, and it does not always favour the Mountain. He cannot honestly say that is his own doing - he may be descended from the Lords of Dale, but he was never raised as such. He is a soldier, and he struggles with such diplomacy. Thorin is only a little better, but she does not use what little advantage she has against his people. Him, yes, but not his people
He still does not quite understand this charade, but he begins to see his place in it. The secrecy around Thorin's sex he understands, and their caution over the child itself. He doesn't think the dwarves have the same reason for saying 'King' and 'he' amongst themselves that they do to outsiders - it is not her position amongst the dwarves that is threatened. So while the affected blindness of the dwarves bowing to their King and consort is a mystery to him, his own expected blindness is not. It is not Thorin's safety he could threaten, but Erebor's. Erebor, half-empty and still rebuilding, filled with enough gold to satisfy a dragon, let alone any envious man: an envious man might think a kingdom ruled by a woman - particularly one in her condition - was as good as leaderless, and bring another battle to Erebor's gates, one the dwarves can ill afford. But no man would be foolish enough to threaten the King Under the Mountain, not when he will soon have a new heir to protect.
Bard looks to the throne, where Thorin sits beneath the Arkenstone, bought with the halfling's gold as what he half thinks now must have been something of a courting gift between the two of them, for all Thorin's anger at the time. Thorin has made no attempt to hide her condition, the heavy furs of her station thrown off, the simple blue tunic beneath clinging to her newly obvious curves.
Bard doesn't think he is an envious man.
As he watches, Thorin shifts on the throne with a wince of discomfort, and in a trice the halfling is on his feet, climbing up on his own throne so that he is level with Thorin. The procession stops, and Bard hears a few unhappy mutterings from the line, but for the most part the dwarves simply act as if nothing is happening, even as Bilbo leans in to speak with Thorin, concern obvious on his face, hands fluttering around the King's swollen belly. Thorin catches one of those hands and presses a kiss to his palm, before whispering something in the halfling's ear that makes him blush, then drop back onto his throne with a scowl.
The pageant continues, and Bard realises he has nearly reached the royal couple, the lady Dís still at his elbow.
"May I at least offer your sister my congratulations?"
Dís goes very still. "I will pass on your good wishes."
She gestures him forwards, and he catches her arm. "My sincere good wishes, if it please you. A child long awaited is always cause for joy."
She looks at him then, all softness stripped away, and he sees just how alike the sisters are. Wrought from the very mountain, he thinks, and flushes, as much from the fanciful turn his thoughts have taken as from the lady's hard-eyed scrutiny.
"Go pay your respects to the King's consort," says Dís, her expression entirely too knowing. "I will tell my sister that you wish her child joy."
He bows to her, and her sons, and turns to face the King and his consort.
First bowing to the king, Bard then drops to one knee before the hobbit. As he kneels, the halfling glares at him with a betrayed expression.
Bard could swear that Thorin is laughing at them.