#Thorin Oakenshield x Oc

[lathalea]

Entangled 4/10

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Dwarf OFC (The Hobbit) Rating: G (subject to change) Warnings: ANGST Summary: Arranged marriages are common among the dwarven nobility. After reclaiming the Lonely Mountain, the Kingdom Under the Mountain needs to be rebuilt. Thorin agrees to marry a lady from the Blue Mountains, securing a mutually beneficial alliance with the Broadbeam Dwarves. Lady Mista is said to be a practical and hard-working dwarf-woman, willing to give him an heir who would secure the line of succession. A decent queen material, his advisors say. If only Thorin could let go of his past… You can find this fic on AO3 (search for lathalea).

A/N: First of all, sorry it took me so long to update this story but your comments and messages kept me going! TRSB and Real Life™️ hit me hard, but I haven't forgotten about this story. In fact, I have a treat for you: an XXL-sized chapter as a thank you for your patience 💙 Special thanks to @legolasbadass and @absentmindeduniverse for your help. You are amazing and you made this chapter so much better than it originally was! 🤩🙏💙 -*-*-*- KHUZDUL: ‘Urdêk - ereborean variant of Lonely Mountain (referring to the Halls within the mountain) Nadad - brother Nan’ith - little/young sister Zabdûna - the Queen Zabdûna undu ‘Urd - Queen Under the Mountain Khagal'abbad - Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains Azsâlul'abad - the Lonely Mountain (both the mountain and the dwarven kingdom known among Elves and Men as Erebor) Tumunzahar - an ancient dwarven city in the Blue Mountains rebuilt by the Broadbeams in this story. The Elves call it “Nogrod”. Gabilgathol - an ancient dwarven city in the Blue Mountains rebuilt by the Firebeards in this story. The Elves call it “Belegost”. Thorinuldûm - Thorin’s Halls, the settlement of the refugees from the Lonely Mountain in the Blue Mountains Iglishmêk - the sign language widely used by all the dwarves -*-*-*-

✨ Chapter list: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4... ✨ Entangled Masterlist

Thorin opened his eyes with a gasp. That cursed dream again. Those eyes…

Several deep breaths helped to banish the haunting afterimages from his mind for good. Deep inside the Mountain — much deeper than the Royal Chambers — the mine bell struck eleven times. One hour before noon. It was later than he expected.

Thorin’s head was pounding, and the bitter aftertaste of rowanberry brandy in his mouth made him yearn for a mug of water. Slowly, he rose, noticing that he was not in his bed but in his armchair, still wearing some of yesterday's clothes. His finely embroidered undershirt and similarly adorned trousers — now crumpled. Parts of his wedding attire. His wedding.

He truly needed a drink.

The only thing he found in his chamber was an empty brandy bottle that lay forgotten on the floor. For a moment, Thorin wanted to ring for a servant, irritated at the fact that he slept so long — and his usual breakfast tray was nowhere to be seen. Had they overslept in the kitchens as well? What could have been so important that… Of course. His wedding.

He grunted. There was not going to be any breakfast tray and no servants. Not until he rang for them, at least. No one would disturb him in the morning after his wedding night. Frowning, Thorin managed to recall that a celebratory dinner was scheduled later that day — not only for the people of ‘Urdêk, but also for the whole royal family and the family of the bride. His wife.

Thorin ran a hand down his face. He was a married Dwarf now. A husband. Years and years ago, in another lifetime, that thought would have made him enormously proud — and happy. And yet, on this very morning, the only thing he felt was that bitter taste in his mouth — and shame; his foolish dreams of youth long forgotten. The weight of a new braid in his hair, the marriage braid, was not a symbol of perfect, eternal love he had foolishly envisioned as a youth. This braid only denoted the contract between the two dwarven houses: the Longbeards and the Broadbeams. 

A memory from the previous day appeared in his mind: pale, small, pale fingers nervously sliding through his hair, braiding a pattern that was unfamiliar to him. The personal pattern of the lady who now occupied the adjacent bedchamber — Lady Mista. The woman he had barely met and knew nothing of. His wife.

He should have felt something about this image, anything — sadness or perhaps the satisfaction of yet another duty he fulfilled as the King; hope or disenchantment. There was nothing — only a gaping hole deep inside him where his feelings should be. He stared with disappointment at the empty brandy bottle in his hand, and placed it on the table beside him with a clank. 

Perhaps everything was as it should be. His was an arranged marriage, after all. The Kingdom Under the Mountain needed an heir to the throne. The future and prosperity of the realm depended on it. It was Thorin’s duty to fulfil, and time was of the essence. As the ancient scriptures stated, only the firstborn son of the firstborn son — of the current king — had the right to the throne of this realm. The Book of Law emphasised that it had to be the direct descendant of Durin — as the line remained unbroken since the beginning of time. If the direct line was to be lost, the next in line was the second son and his progeny. Thorin closed his eyes and Frerin’s kindred face appeared before him — and quickly disappeared. That future perished more than one hundred and forty years ago beneath the East Gate of Khazad-dûm before it even had a chance to come to fruition. As for the other possibilities… they were just as painfully non-existent.

“Is there truly no legal way to name Fili or Kili as my heir apparent, Master Maldur?” Thorin crumpled a piece of parchment in his hand.

“I am afraid not, Sire.” The elderly scholar adjusted the emerald pince-nez on his nose. “They are both the sons of a daughter of Durin.”“Besides, since Fili is married to Lady Fridvi of the Firebeards. According to the treaty between our houses, their firstborn child will rule in the Blue Mountains,” added Balin with an apologetic smile.

“Aye. Even if it’s a daughter,” Thorin said and added, as if to himself, “I have always thought the Firebeards to be more sensible when it came to the laws of succession.”“Yes, well, Your Majesty…” Master Maldur cleared his throat in ill-disguised disapproval, shuffling some parchments in front of him. “The Longbeard laws, however, clearly state that if no male heir is procured by the current king before his 200th birthday, the next Dwarf in line — albeit one who is not a direct descendant of Durin — would be the grandson of your Grandfather’s brother, Grór, the firstborn son of his firstborn son, Nain, your…”

“I do know the lineage of my cousin, Dain Ironfoot, quite well, thank you,” Thorin remarked curtly. Genealogy, lineages, and recounting endless familial connections always made him irritable.

“And hypothetically speaking, if your revered cousin was not there to claim the crown of the Kingdom Under the Mountain, may Mahal give him long life,” Maldur spoke in his hoarse voice that made Thorin think of crumbling stones, “the next in line would be, of course, Lord Balin, the firstborn son of Fundin, the firstborn son of Farin, who, in turn, was the firstborn…”

“Thank you, Master Maldur.” Thorin nodded to him, having heard enough, and then turned to the firstborn son of Fundin. “Balin, how would you feel about becoming the next king?”

“I would rather not. Unless you and Dain plan to drink your way to the Halls of Awaiting together anytime soon?” Balin chuckled, shaking his head. “I have other plans, laddie, and besides, I’m not getting any younger.”

“And yet your wit is as sharp as it was one hundred years ago,” Thorin offered him a half-smile.

“Your Majesty, may I take this opportunity to point out how crucial it is that a direct descendant of Durin sits on the throne of Azsâlul'abad?” The frown on Master Maldur’s forehead deepened. “Additionally, the unfortunate discord between Your Majesty’s Grandfather and his brother, Grór, is vividly remembered by your subjects. Sadly, because of this, Lord Dain is quite an unpopular personage here. Not a favourable position to be in for a prospective ruler. If such an event were to happen, of course.”

“Of course.” Thorin sighed. “Any more ideas, Balin? Lord Bori?”

Balin slowly shook his head.

“May I remind you, Your Majesty, that we have received several offers of alliance through marriage?” said the white-haired chancellor, who — until that very moment — remained silent. Lord Bori always picked the perfect moment to strike.“Very well.” Thorin stood up, signalling that the meeting was adjourned. “It seems that we have run out of heirs. Balin, would you be so kind as to discuss the matter with my sister? I entrust you both with choosing a suitable royal consort for the King Under the Mountain.”

A thud brought him out of his reverie. It came from the adjacent bedchamber. Thorin heard two distinct voices, although he could not quite make out the words. It must have been Lady Mista discussing something with her maid, he suspected. He clearly recognized the soft lilt of his spouse’s voice, so characteristic among the Broadbeams. Perhaps she was readying herself for the day, as he should as well. Thorin was about to ring for his servant when a resonant voice reached his ears despite the thick door between their rooms.

“Why doesn't it surprise me, Mista?!” The voice was definitely feminine. “You had one job…” “Let me explain…” That was Lady Mista speaking. Thorin was able to recognize only one or two words.

“There is nothing to explain!” The first voice returned. “It was your wedding night, for Mahal’s sake! Couldn’t you have made an effort? Just look at yourself! For once in your life…”

“Mother, you don’t understand, I…” Lady Mista’s words trailed off. She sounded tense.

The pounding in Thorin’s head intensified. He glared at the door.

“Have you forgotten how hard your father and your uncle worked to achieve this?! Is that how you repay your family, Mista? By ruining everything? On the very first night?”

Without thinking, Thorin placed his hand on the door handle and pressed. He had heard enough.

“What is the meaning of this?!” he demanded.

In the silence that filled the room, just after he stepped into Lady Mista’s bedchamber, he saw Lady Mista sitting in her bed. Her face was as pale as the bed linen, her eyes wide, and her quilt pulled up to her chin. She looked at him as if she wanted to disappear underneath it. With her hair tousled and her slightly skewed spectacles, she looked more like a defenceless young maid than an adult Dwarf-woman.

Next to her bed stood a corpulent red-haired matron in a fashionable green-and-gold gown, her hair immaculately dressed, her neck and wrists adorned with elegant jewellery, her fisted hands resting against her hips.

“Your Majesty.” The matron executed a customary curtsy, offering him a sweet but artificial smile. “What an honour to see you in my daughter’s bedchamber. I believe…” “Lady Milva.” He gave her a curt nod of recognition and graced her with a cold stare. “You will have to forgive me, madam, but I do not intend to reciprocate. I, for one, cannot understand why you would choose this particular time to visit Her Majesty the Queen.”

“Ah, but Your Majesty would surely understand that I wanted to see to my daughter’s comfort on the very first day of her rule.” Her smile widened.

“Do you wish to imply that I am incapable of such a feat, madam?” Thorin hissed.

“Oh no, Your Majesty, not at all!” The matron attempted a giggle. “On the contrary, I believe it is my daughter who failed to see to your comfort.”

Thorin’s head seemed to be pounding even more than before.

“Mother, please…” He heard Lady Mista’s strained voice behind him.

“Enough, Mista, you should be apologising to His Majesty for disappointing him!” Lady Milva turned to her daughter and Thorin decided that he had heard enough.

“My lady, you are disturbing me and my spouse in our private chambers. Only because you are my wedded wife’s mother, My Lady, I am going to ask you kindly.” Thorin hissed. “Leave now.”

Silence filled the chamber for several heartbeats. Lady Milva’s gaze moved between her daughter and Thorin before she spoke again. 

“Very well, Your Majesty,” she replied stiffly, abandoning her insincere manner. “Mista, I will return later, to prepare you for dinner.”

“Is that what you wish, My Lady?” Thorin turned to Mista.

“I… Thank you, Mother,” Lady Mista’s words were a mere whisper as she clutched the quilt, “but I think I will manage on my own this time.”

Her mother stood there for a moment longer, her brow furrowed, and then she replied, “If that is what you wish.”

She made another curtsy to Thorin, and then, in a swift flurry of her opulent gown, she stormed out of the bedchamber.

“Forgive me, My Lord, have we woken you up?” The bedclothes rustled, making Thorin gaze at Lady Mista — the woman he wed yesterday. As she left the bed, he caught a glimpse of her bare feet, so much smaller than his, and so dainty. Her sleeping gown flowed elegantly down her body, hugging her figure and revealing patches of smooth skin that only a husband was allowed to see. Quickly, he looked away. He did not feel like one.

“I was already awake,” he offered, glancing around the chamber. “Have you broken your fast yet, My Lady?”

“No, My Lord,” she replied. “I’m afraid I lost track of time. I was reading.”

Thorin followed her gaze to the thick tome that lay open on the bed. It looked like something from the Royal Library of Erebor, but he did not recognize the cover.

“I’ll ring for breakfast for you then. You must be famished,” he offered. 

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” Lady Mista replied, her words barely audible, like the chirping of a frightened little bird. “Would you… would you like to join me?”

Thorin shook his head decidedly. 

“I am expected elsewhere. The meeting of the Guildmasters is going to be held quite soon,” he was amazed at how easily this half-truth slipped out of his mouth. That meeting was on his general agenda, but no one expected him to join it, not so soon after his wedding.

“Oh, I see,” Lady Mista’s voice wavered, but she continued after a pause. “In that case, allow me, My Lord, to thank you for your… intervention. My Mother can be tempestuous at times, but she means well.”

“Forgive me, My Lady, but her behaviour was out of place,” he said, attempting to ignore the insistent pounding in his head. “You are not only her daughter but — first and foremost — the Queen. No one is allowed to treat you so, no matter the circumstances. No one. Not even her.”

Thorin took a deep breath in order to rein in his temper. He was abrupt, his words far from courteous, but his patience was wearing thin. The last thing he was willing to endure was a lady on the verge of tears, bullied by her own kin. A half-forgotten memory surfaced in his mind: those sobs, that lavish but abhorred wedding dress, and his sister’s words: “You can’t help it, nadad. This is women’s lot in life.” 

This time, unlike that other time, Thorin could help it — and so he did. That was the least he was able to do for this terrified woman. His wife.

He did not find the strength to look into her face once more and see those glossed-over eyes and those trembling lips. Instead, he excused himself under the pretence of procuring breakfast and left her bedchamber.

He found his reward in the form of a full jug of water in the adjacent parlour. Quenching his thirst, he rang for a servant. Katla, Lady Mista’s new maid, arrived soon after. She was one of the maids who worked for their family when they lived in the Blue Mountains. Now, however, Dis decided that Katla was exactly the person Lady Mista would need. The girl was unusually agitated, and as soon as Thorin asked about Lady Milva’s presence in the Queen’s bedchamber, her countenance wavered. 

“Forgive me, m’lord,” she curtseyed, her gaze lowered reverently. “I had no means to stop Her Ladyship, I asked her not to disturb Your Majesties, but she said that she was the Queen’s mother and the Queen would dismiss me right away if Her Ladyship was not allowed to enter, and I thought…”

“Thank you, Katla, I understand,” he said. “You are not going to be dismissed. However, Her Majesty does not need such disturbances. Should someone attempt to storm into Her Majesty’s private chambers without her consent again, do not hesitate to call the guards.”

“Of course, m’lord,” Katla nodded stiffly. “And… Thank you. For not dismissing me.”

“My Mother, the Dowager Queen, always spoke highly of you. Now, I need you to take care of the new Queen in a similar manner. This is her new home, and we need to make her feel like it. Can I rely on you?”

“Always, m’lord.” A hopeful smile appeared on her face. “Does the Queen need anything now, m’lord?”

“She is requesting a hearty breakfast,” he ordered.

“I’ll be right back with her tray! Shall I bring one for you as well, m’lord?”

“No, thank you. I have matters to attend to.”

With these words, Thorin directed his steps to the Royal Baths. Hot water and steam were exactly what he needed at that very moment. A sizable pile of documents waited for him on his desk, but he needed to clear his head first.

***

“Here you are, nadad! I’ve been looking all over for you!” Dis’ voice made him raise his gaze from a parchment.

“Where else should I be?” Thorin tilted his head, observing his sister as she approached his desk. There was only a handful of braids in her modest hairdo — her wavy strands as dark as his own — and she wore a simple day dress. Yet, Dis looked more elegant than many other ladies in their finest gowns. She inherited her noble bearing and facial features from their paternal grandmother, after all.

“Where should you be? Let me see…” she tapped her mouth with her index finger and then asked innocently. “Perhaps with your wife?”

Thorin cursed inwardly. Dis inherited their grandmother’s wit, too.

“If only those trade licences could somehow sign themselves…” he grunted.

“And while you are drowning in parchments, your newly-wed wife is halfway through the second volume of The Golden Age of Azsâlul'abad,” she grunted back.

“The second volume?” Thorin’s eyebrow rose as he recalled the size of that monstrous twelve-volume work. He never managed to make it past the first one.

“Yes. Apparently, Mista finished the first one during lunch. Which she ate alone.” Dis folded her arms on her chest. It had never been a good sign when Grandmother Birgit folded her arms like that.

“I ate my lunch alone as well.” He pointed at a plate with a forgotten piece of dark bread left, half-covered by a couple of documents.

“On the first day of your marriage,” Dis retorted.

“These licences are vital for…”

“Thorin…” His sister rolled her eyes.

“Dis…” He sighed. “You know what I mean.”

“Some things need time,” he heard himself say.

“I know, Thorin,” Dis stepped to him, placing her hand on his forearm. “Of all the people in the world… I know.”

“At least you knew Vili before your wedding,” Thorin put his quill aside.

“Vaguely. While you managed to spend a whole evening with Mista in Tumunzahar.”

“Which apparently happened a long time ago — and of which I remember nothing.” He admitted with a frown and then drummed his fingers on the desk. “Nan’ith, I may have made an utter fool of myself yesterday.”

Dis sat heavily on a chair beside him, “Let me hear it.”

“Lady Mista was convinced that I remembered meeting her at a feast. Apparently, we danced and talked, and she expected me to…” He sighed. “I don’t know. The problem is that instead of playing along with it, I told her that I did not remember it at all.”

“Nadad, I have always admired your disarming honesty, but…” Dis paused and then grinned. “Well, it looks like you have figured it out yourself. You are an utter fool.”

When she elbowed him, as if they were smooth-cheeked youths again, Thorin simply had to elbow her back.

“Thank you, dearest sister. I know I could count on you.” He let out a lukewarm chuckle.

“How did she take it? Is that why you are hiding in here?” Thorin shook his head, “Lady Mista did not seem offended. I’d say she was perhaps… surprised? Disappointed?”

“I would be too if my future husband first sent me a letter in which he spoke fondly of our meeting years ago and then admitted to not remembering it at all,” Dis waved her hand in despair.

“A letter?” Thorin’s frown deepened.

“The letter. Don’t tell me you haven’t read it.” A frown appeared on her face as well. “Balin and I spent half a day composing it before it was sent along with the marriage contract.”

“For which I am very thankful. I have no head for this sort of letters, as you know.” “That was precisely why you were supposed to read it before it was sealed, Thorin.” She rolled her eyes.

“I knew I could trust you with its contents. Dis, we were rebuilding the Forges at that time! I barely had time to eat or sleep; that letter was hardly on top of my agenda.” 

His sister let out a long sigh.

“It is not me you should explain yourself to. What happened, happened. Tell me, do you truly not remember anything from that meeting?”

“This was one of many feasts I was obligated to appear at. Amicable relations with our allies, and all that,” he offered.

“We were there together, you know.”

“Were we?” Thorin searched his memory. To no avail. All those feasts seemed like a blur in his mind.

“Balin was there, too. And Dwalin, I think.” Dis added. “And Mother. She wore that emerald green gown.”

He tried once more. Still nothing.

“There was lots of food, lots of political scheming… Oh, and there were quite a few mothers flaunting their offspring at me and you. Mostly at you, the Crown Prince,” she snickered.

“You have just described most of the feasts I have attended in the past.” He ran a hand over his face. “Every time I felt like game during hunting season. Did I really spend the whole evening with Lady Mista?”

“Quite a bit of it.” Dis nodded. “You were seated next to a matron who insisted on making you dance with each of her daughters — I think she had two or three of them — and then you did what you usually used to do. You disappeared. When you returned, Mista was with you already, and then you danced. That matron, together with her cronies, was of course appalled, because you never even looked at anyone else. And Mista was not even formally out, she was maybe a few years over half battle-age at that time!”

“It seems that I scandalised the matrons of Tumunzahar and nearly robbed a cradle. What an achievement. And I cannot even remember it.” Thorin smiled wryly, although an image or two flickered before his eyes. A handkerchief with his monogram in a lithe hand. Grey-brown hair adorned with pearls.

“At least no one bothered you afterwards,” she put her hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Now, I hope you find a way to make amends with your wife, nadad.”

Thorin gave her a nod, “You and me both. I simply do not have the slightest idea how to talk to her. I feel as if she is afraid of me.”

“We both know that you are not the greatest charmer when it comes to the matters of the heart,” she offered him a smirk. “And neither am I. I can only tell you what Mother told me once. Marriage is like the endless forging of a sword. If you want to make a great blade, you have to keep the fire going, and work the metal every single day. Draw it, shape it, and then keep on tempering it so that it never breaks.”

“She knew her way around the forge,” Thorin admitted fondly. He liked to think that he inherited his bladesmithing skills from their Mother.

“She knew how to deal with Father, too. I took her words to heart, and it worked for me — for us. Vili and me…” Dis cleared her throat. “We had nothing in common — or so I thought at first.” 

A sad smile softened her features, and Thorin covered her hand with his. 

“He was even younger than me,” she continued, “so rowdy and boisterous, and talked only of mountain goat races and throwing knives. Remember how terrified I was when I had to braid his hair?”

“You? Terrified? You were as decorous as Grandma Birgit would,” he said.

“That was because I knew Grandma Birgit would have been appalled if I fainted halfway through the ceremony. You cannot believe how mortified I was before the wedding night!” His sister chuckled.

“You asked me for two pints of the strongest malt beer we had,” Thorin offered lightly. It was good to see her smile.

“I only wanted to take the edge off things!” Dis grinned. “How was I supposed to know you spiked it with Dwalin’s horrible brandy?”

“You weren't. And you and Vili were supposed to drink them together. How should I know he would down them both at once?” He shrugged as if he had not seen it coming.

“I think I was the first bride in the history of Arda who spent her wedding night listening to her new husband’s loud snores.”

“You should talk with Bombur’s Ronja,” he quipped.

“Nadad! I shall not discuss their wedding night with her!” Dis feigned outrage only to burst out in laughter.

“Be glad that you did not hear his snores during the Quest. Every. Single. Night. He even made us think a storm was coming! And once, in the Misties…” It was so easy to fall back on the anecdotes from the past, and Thorin was awarded with another bout of laughter. Since Dis arrived back to the Mountain — their home — for the first time in years, it was easy to make her smile. There was a new spark in her eyes too, one that Thorin saw in countless eyes these days. A glint of hope for their reclaimed homeland they were rebuilding — and for their future. Was the same glint present in Lady Mista’s eyes last night? He could not say.

“Thank you”, Dis startled him, pecking him on his cheek.

“For what?” He met her eyes.

“For many things… like not terrifying your bride too much.”

Thorin swallowed, “What do you mean?”

“You know how you can be sometimes.” Dis patted his hand.

“Are you going to tell me once more that I scare others away with my ‘brooding’, or whatever you call it?” He rose from his chair and looked down at her.

“Not at all! Brooding is not as loud as snoring.” Tilting her head up, she winked at him. “Do you know you sometimes come off as quite intimidating?”

“I have never heard of such a notion,” Thorin let his lip curl up. “Especially from you.”

“What about that agreement you managed to hammer out last week with those stubborn donkeys, the Guildmasters?” Thorin knew better than to offer a reply.

“I heard your voice all the way to the warehouses! And when the Masters left the council chamber, they were meek as lambs, even the fiery Master Karg!”

“I simply reminded them that the world did not revolve around their coin pouches. Loudly.”

“I am glad you made use of it this morning.”

“You heard about what happened,” Of course. His sister had a knack for knowing things that did not happen in her presence.

“A word or two.” “Lady Mista’s mother needed to be put in her place,” Thorin quickly recounted his confrontation with Lady Milva. 

When he finished, Dis pressed her lips in a thin line.

“What a viper,” she huffed. “Now I know why Mista looked so shaken today. But we are in luck. The whole Broadbeam delegation is leaving in a week or so. We will manage.”

“We have managed worse.” He finished the thought, their private saying, one that they used since the vile Smaug ravaged their kingdom. Last time they spoke it happened just before the Quest to reclaim their homeland. Now, both the current circumstances and stakes felt vastly different, and Thorin could not help but wonder — would he manage?

“I must say you did wonders with the Queen’s bedchamber in such a short time.” Thorin admitted in a hasty attempt to change the subject. “It looks quite… comfortable. Especially with that tapestry from Grandmother’s chambers. And to think it survived Smaug almost untouched…”

“Oh, so you did spend some time with Mista after all?” Dis raised an eyebrow, her eyes twinkling. “Were there two pints of malt beer involved or not? Don’t you make that face at me, nadad! This was your wedding night and everyone will jest about it, whether you like it or not!”

Sadly, she was right.

***

Dis’ prophetic words proved true in the evening at the celebratory dinner. It was held in the largest cavern under the Mountain, the Great Hall. It was as tall as several levels of the Dwarven kingdom, making it easy for people to freely join and leave the festivities, catch a glimpse of the royal family or listen to the music while feasting in their local quarters. Thorin remembered that this natural formation in the depths of the Mountain was where all the largest festivities happened when his Grandfather, King Thrór, ruled. He himself did not expect to celebrate his royal wedding in these legendary chambers as well. After all, marriage had not been a part of his plans for the future.

Upon entering the Great Hall, it was difficult not to notice all the lavish adornments he remembered from the day before, countless tables filled anew with various dishes, lanterns and candles that cast their golden glow on the walls, brightening everyone’s faces — and the fact that all the eyes were now set on Thorin and his new royal consort. They were both clad in matching attires made especially for this occasion; every detail, pattern, and jewel on those black, silver, and gold garments was supposed to symbolise the imperishable beauty and opulence of the Kingdom Under the Mountain. Judging by the reactions of his subjects, the newly-wed royal couple made a favourable impression on them. 

Casting a sidelong glance at Lady Mista, Thorin expected to see the joyful or perhaps even triumphant smile of a new queen. Instead, he noticed the strained lines of her face, the paleness of her cheeks, and her bespectacled gaze set somewhere above the heads of the guests. Only the crown over her temples softened the solemn impression somewhat and lent her a regal air. Lady Mista’s palm rested stiffly on his forearm as Thorin led her through the chamber towards the royal table. He could feel how stiff her muscles were, as if she was a wooden doll controlled by an invisible puppeteer.

Thorin made an effort not to look at Lady Mista’s kin, who had already gathered at their side of the royal table. After what he experienced with the members of this family so far, it was not at all difficult to infer what face — or rather, faces — that puppeteer bore. 

That poor, terrified girl. His wife. The new Queen Under the Mountain.

“Our people are curious about you, My Lady,” he whispered just as they walked onto the stone dais where the royal table was placed.

“Oh?” Quickly, she turned towards him, her eyes wide. “About me?”

“They do not know you yet, and many of them are wondering what they can expect of you, their new Zabdûna,” he murmured, leaning slightly closer to her.

“Of… of course I will do my best to care for them,” she lowered her gaze and a blush darkened her cheeks. Then she added, “There is no Kingdom without its people.”

The last time Thorin heard those words, he was barely a youth, and his days were filled with endless studies and training. One of his Grandfather’s sayings — words of Dagur Sture, an ancient philosopher from Khazad-dûm — spoken in the trembling voice of a Broadbeam lady from the distant Khagal'abbad, the Blue Mountains. 

“Indeed,” he said, shaking off the surprise as they both turned towards the guests, an endless sea of faces before them . “Pray, show it to them, My Lady.”

“But how?” Lady Mista blinked, adjusting her spectacles on her nose. “I do not know what to do…”

“Simply greeting them will be enough,” Thorin attempted to say these words with an encouraging smile. “Acknowledge your new subjects.”

Lady Mista nodded slightly and swallowed, lifting her gaze upon the crowd. He felt her right hand tighten on his forearm, but then her left hand rose into the air, and she waved to the gathered crowd. An avalanche of cheers went through the cavern; some of the guests responded to her greeting in turn, their faces brightening.

Thorin chose this moment to greet the gathered Dwarves in the same fashion, enhancing their jubilation even further. All it took was a wave. A simple trick his Grandfather taught him a lifetime ago, but one that never failed.

When he glanced at Lady Mista’s face again, there was a new glint in her eyes and a timid smile on her lips as she took in the enthusiastic response to her gesture.

“They like you already, My Lady,” he whispered, nodding to her in approval and seeing her features finally soften when her lips curled up slightly. A welcome change, he thought. People needed to see their rulers glad, especially on such an occasion. Appearances mattered more than one’s true feelings; he had learned that bitter lesson well.

After the customary welcoming speech — Thorin somehow managed to keep it short — he led Lady Mista to their chairs at the centre of the table, and then the feast began. Soon, he found himself in a lively conversation with Glóin, Dwalin and Lord Taran, Lady Mista’s uncle, discussing the strategy applied in the siege of an Orc stronghold that happened during the Great War. Various pieces of golden tableware turned into numerous units of dwarven troops, a nearby platter with fruit acted as a mountain range, the octagonal brass salt cellar became the stronghold, and leftover pheasant bones served as Orcs.

“What a battle it was! We hadn’t slept for three days in a row!” Glóin announced as the culinary re-enactment of the battle came to an end. “When we were done with the Orc scum, Thorin looked every bit as tired as he looks now after one night with his bride!”

Thorin grunted.

“Aye, he does, but can ye imagine his state after three nights of storming her stronghold?” Dwalin roared with laughter.

Thorin glowered at his friend, who, in response, laughed even harder.

“With such a meek lass like our Mista, he doesn’t have much storming to do!” Lord Taran bellowed, the tattoos on his cheeks stretching in a wide grin.

Thorin clenched his fist. 

Dis threw him a meaningful glance from across the table. We will manage. Mahal, give him strength. Casting a fleeting look at Lady Mista, Thorin saw that she was deeply immersed in a conversation with Balin, who at that very moment patted her on her hand.

“May Your Majesty strike a gold vein quickly so we have a new reason to celebrate soon, a naming ceremony!” Lord Tair, the new Queen’s father, raised his goblet, meeting Thorin’s gaze. “May Mahal bless this union with many children!”

Other cups shot into the air, and the toast echoed across the hall, countless eyes set on the royal couple. Thorin gritted his teeth. This was not a purely well-meant wish, not in Tair’s mouth. The Broadbeam lord, who negotiated the marriage contract himself, alluded to its crucial clause: children from this union meant prosperity for both of their houses. On the other hand, no offspring by Thorin’s 200th birthday meant the dissolution of the marriage, the end of the vastly profitable trade agreements for the Broadbeams, and the end of the direct line of Durin for the Longbeards — and Thorin. The stakes were high for both houses.

Decidedly, Thorin grasped his own goblet and returned the gesture. A quick glance to his left told him that Lady Mista followed his lead, her fingers stiffly holding her goblet’s stem. He felt her eyes on him, but he found himself unable to reciprocate her gaze.

Another toast came after the first. This time, it was Dis wishing the newly-wed couple a long and happy marriage. A couple of toasts full of platitudes followed, and when everyone in the Great Hall drank their fill, conversations returned. Thorin’s sister was talking with Lady Mista now; he thought he heard them speak of a library when a sonorous voice reached his ears.

“Such a match happens once in a lifetime, Lord Balin, wouldn’t you say?” Lady Mista’s mother gave the older Dwarf a charming smile.

“As you say, Lady Milva. And it is a prosperous one, too,” Balin nodded with a twinkle in his eye.

“I am truly overjoyed that I had this idea! I told my husband: ‘Remember that winter feast we had in Tumunzahar, love? The one when Prince Thorin — for His Majesty was merely a prince then — danced only with my dear Mista?’ He only had eyes for her that night! So many mothers had fits of jealousy, because he did not even spare a glance for any of their daughters!” Lady Milva chuckled.

“That must have been quite an event,” Balin admitted. 

Thorin gritted his teeth, acutely feeling the weight of his crown on his head — and the eyes of his subjects on him. Instead of addressing a few curt words to Lady Mista’s mother, he took a large gulp of wine.

“So it was, Lord Balin, so it was! If you only had been there to see it!” She dabbed an invisible tear from her eye. “They danced, and danced, and afterwards my sweet daughter would sigh, and dream away, and ask if Prince Thorin would attend the next feast! So when the Lonely Mountain was finally reclaimed, I told my husband: ‘My love, if you are not going to send that marriage proposal to King Thorin, I am going to take her to Azsâlul'abad myself!’. And do you know what he said?”

Thorin’s old mentor declared, “I have not the slightest idea, My Lady.” 

Neither had Thorin. He refilled his goblet. Beside him, Dis asked Lady Mista a question he did not quite hear, but she received no answer. Lady Milva’s daughter, the new Zabdûna undu ‘Urd, sat unmoving, staring at her empty plate, her lips pressed into a thin line, while her relentless mother kept on talking. 

“Well, my dear Tair said ‘No need to do that, my dearest, for I have already sent the proposal!’. I swear, we act and think as one, is it not so, my lord husband?” Lady Milva turned to her spouse and loudly pecked his cheek.

“You speak the truth, my dove,” her husband replied, running his hand down his thick silver beard braid with clear contentment. “It was a great honour that His Majesty agreed to our offer this time!”

“Oh, hush, my gem, no need to bring that up, it happened such a long time ago,” Lady Milva waved her hand. “It is of no consequence now.”

“May I ask what you mean, My Lady?” Óin put his fork aside and brought his hearing trumpet to his ear. “Is there another layer to this charming love story?”

“Indeed, there is! I can tell you in confidence,” Lady Milva clapped her hands, leaning towards Óin, although Thorin noticed that she did not bother to lower her voice, “that we sent a marriage proposal to Thorinuldûm a few years later, but we were informed that King Thorin was not interested. I must admit that we made a grave error that day! You see, dear Lord Óin, we offered the hand of our daughter Adla in marriage instead of Mista! Therefore, it was not at all surprising that His Majesty was not interested. She was simply not the right daughter! The whole Blue Mountains wondered why he would not marry our Adla — for you must know that she is considered one of the greatest beauties of our clan — nor any other lady for one hundred years!”

“A true mystery indeed,” Óin agreed with a chuckle.

Thorin glared into his goblet. It was not a mystery to him. He clearly remembered the day the first proposal arrived. This missive from Tumunzahar came together with another letter from Gabilgathol, the city of the Firebeard Dwarves. The city he vowed never to return to. The memories he buried on the bottom of his mind, never to revisit. The eyes he would never look into again.

“...so when we sent our second offer,” Lady Milva placed her goblet on the table with a loud thud, “the answer came swiftly. And now — just look at these two, My Lord, and tell me this was not a match carved in stone.”

“May Mahal grant them happiness!” Óin said, lifting his goblet.

Lady Milva did the same, stood up and added loudly, “Let us drink for their long-awaited reunion! Will our royal lovebirds sweeten the toast with a kiss?”

“A kiss! A kiss!” Several voices from among the guests were heard at first, and then more and more of them joined in the chant. “King and Queen! King and Queen!”

What a viper, Thorin cursed inwardly. So that was her revenge. He should have seen it coming. At that moment, he could no longer pretend that he had not heard Lady Milva’s words. Neither had Lady Mista. Their gazes met; her spectacles slid slightly down her nose, uncovering a pair of brown eyes — wide open and terrified.

Thorin leaned towards her, whispering into her ear in order to be heard despite the continuous chanting.

“Forgive me, Lady Mista. This is not how I…” He paused, searching for the right words that did not seem to come. “I am afraid that we may need to make a little spectacle of ourselves, if you do not mind.”

“Kiss! Kiss!” The chanting grew louder, just like Lady Milva’s vicious smile, as people started clapping their hands, stamping their feet, and banging their goblets against the tables.

“I understand. I apologise for my mother.” She signed discreetly in Iglishmêk. Her fingers trembled when she added, “Let us turn it to our advantage and give our people the fairy tale they expect.”

Our people.

“Very well,” Thorin signed back, offering her his hand, palm up, and trying to empty his mind of all the importunate thoughts. With everyone in the Great Hall staring at them expectantly, they had to do it. There was no other way. Lady Mista took his hand, and it seemed to him that in that very moment, a spark of understanding passed between them. This was something they had to do together, something they were expected to do as the King and Queen Under the Mountain. A duty. Nothing more.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” The guests continued to chant.

Thorin stood up, waiting for Lady Mista to gather her skirts and do the same. A moment later, they stood, arm in arm, before the gathered crowd, their hands joined. The continuous chanting echoed against the ceiling of the Great Hall when he turned to face her. Their gazes met; in the candlelight, her eyes looked like molten amber. The new Queen nodded almost imperceptibly, her fine hand gave his a little squeeze, and he could not stall any longer. Thorin lowered his face towards her and his nose bumped against hers,  so he tilted his head further, mindful of her spectacles, and let his lips gently brush against hers. 

Her breath hitched, and he carefully moved to press his lips against hers, and she must have stood up on her tiptoes because he met the softness of her lips much sooner than expected, and she smelled, or perhaps tasted, like an apple orchard, sweet and innocent, and—

An enthusiastic storm of cheers washed over the Mountain, drowning all the importunate thoughts of his for a long while.

To be continued...

✨ Chapter list: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4... ✨ Entangled Masterlist

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[doodleferp]

Hobbit wife hobbit wife hobbit wife

[letaliabane]

Its been awhile but I have been working on the next 'Care For' chapter as promised. Here is a sneak peak.

'I know my request may have been sudden for your visit and that I've already asked plenty from you during our travels. But I needed to attend to a matter of urgency that needed your assistance.'

'Oh? And what might that be?'

Thorin sighed. 'I need your assistance in finding Y/N.'

Gandalf's eyebrows raise ever so slightly. 'Oh? Is that so?'

'Don't play coy with me Gandalf. I've been told that Kili saw you take her away when I was injured. I've been searching and searching, and I haven't found her. All I want ... All I want is to see her again.'

Gandalf took in Thorin's appearance. Though he carried himself with confidence, he could see the pain in Thprin's eyes, the longing. Dark shadows creased beneath his eyes, jaw tight and locked.

Coming soon!

[gwen-ever]

Deathless (2/3)

Deathless

Fic for the @tolkienrsb event 2021.

Author:gwen-ever (tumblr) gwen-ever (ao3)

Artist: Lathalea (tumblr)Lathalea (ao3)

Fic Rating: M

Warning:  Reincarnation - Angst - References to Illness

Relationships: ThorinxOc - DurinxOc - DurinVIIxOc

Characters: Thorin Oakenshield - Original Female Character - Durin the Deathless - Durin VII - Aule - Yavanna - Balin

Word count: 24458

Artwork rating: G

Artwork Link: Khazad-dûm Reclaimed.

Durin went over in his head every single market street he had walked the day before, taking in every intersection or tunnel that seemed familiar. His sense of direction was never fooled, even though the streets in the lower levels of the mountain were so different at night than they were during the day.

The hustle and bustle of the day before had vanished, the golden light that fluttered on the grey stone replaced by a weaker light from the few lit lanterns and the light coming from the windows of the houses set in the stone.

From time to time the sound of his heavy footsteps on the marble floor was interrupted by some distant laughter that echoed over and over again to his ears. He looked around alarmed that the palace had noticed his absence, but he had to sigh with relief every time, he was never the cause of the commotion that night.

As he walked there were no bows, greetings or reverences of any kind, everyone continued on their way ignoring his presence or true identity. It certainly wasn't difficult for anyone to assume, given his soot and coal stained clothes, that he was just a blacksmith returning home after a long day's work in the forges and that was partly the truth.

The shops were almost all closed, few dwarves came out of them and many of them were the owners busily barring the doors and windows carved into the stone: he hoped Ylva was doing the same. He hoped he had left the forges too late and that she was still busy among her tools and cloth and still criticising the faded labels in her shop.

He cast a glance towards the blue armguards he wore, smiling to himself as one of the pink stones glinted under the light of a torch: he had kept his word at last, though, he was coming back, though certainly not in the way she would have thought he would.

A part of him had been begging him all day to drop everything and go down to the markets to see her, to hear her voice, to pay her back, while his more controlled part kept him seated at council meetings, then mine inspections, then forges.

By the time he had finished his duties, however, nothing had stopped him from leaving the forges and walking over there. Ylva was coming back to him like the sweetest wine he had ever tasted, and in all probability it was the wine that was now guiding his steps to reach her.

He turned his head and walked into the corridors of the market, going deeper and deeper. He turned a corner towards the artisans' area and amidst the bluish half-light, a bright light in a window caught his attention and as fate would have it, it was the only light he wanted to see lit: she was indeed still in his shop.

Durin quickened his pace as he approached the window of the small shop, already anticipating the vision of the dwarf-woman busy behind it, but as he approached it, he immediately realised that the light he was seeing was nothing more than the flame of a forgotten candle lit at the back of the shop.

He clenched his jaw, trying to overcome his sense of disappointment: perhaps she was still inside and he had not noticed her yet. He cupped his hands and peered into the shop and to his disappointment his suspicions were true: she was already gone, he had come down too late. She was not standing on a stool arranging the boxes of gems that still lay stacked on top of each other, she was not scrubbing the dirty floor with pieces of cloth, nor was she sorting out the mountain of small sketches lying on top of the counter or in the back room near the unlit forge. With a sigh, he sat down on the front step of the shop, wearily running his hands over his face: what was wrong with him? What was he planning to do? To come all the way down there, to the markets without informing anyone, without leaving a missive, to do what? Chasing a craftswoman, chasing a feeling due to his overtiredness and increasingly confused dreams.

His Father would have laughed at him, his grandFather would have taken him for a fool or would have offered him a couple of rounds of pints to remind him that impulsive actions  had never been his forte.

And he would have been right.

He'd never acted like that, never had the reason, and yet the thought of her kept coming back to him. What he had felt as soon as he had seen her was nothing he had ever felt before in his life, or in his lives for that matter. He'd already seen her, he'd touched her, she'd kissed him, he'd already smelled her, and she'd already wrapped those arm guards around his arms.

What he had felt the day before was a fictitious memory, he knew, she could not have been alive back then, she could not have been part of his past, and yet she was the truest and most real memory he had ever seen unfold before his eyes.

Yet he knew her, he had seen her before, but it could not be so, it could not, it was not possible.

His temples ached and he brought two fingers to them and began to press, trying to calm his nerves, to calm those doubts and stupid riddles he was asking himself. He had to calm down, regain his senses and stop that boyish madness and return to the palace. It would have passed, just as everything had always passed him by.

He was about to stand up, but in doing so he gave a little kick to a piece of an old broken mug, making it roll straight into the middle of the street.

That simple gesture stopped him instantly, a sentence she said came back to his mind and a doubt, or more a hope, came forward in his chest. It was a ridiculous sentence, taken out of context, but it began to dig into his mind like a woodworm until his brain bled.

Perhaps he knew where to find her.

He threw his convictions to the wind, what he had been telling himself for many minutes. With a push he got up from the cold step and started walking again along the immense tunnels of the market, passing every closed shop he came across.

He turned left and right trying to cross paths with the building he was interested in, but the more he walked the more there was no sign of it: she was right on one point, he was not from there. He arrived at the central market square, now emptied of every stall he would usually find there. The huge marble statue of the Royal Battle Ram reigned supreme in the middle of it, welcoming every passer-by, including him, and it was behind it that Durin finally found what he was looking for.

With great strides he approached the entrance to the central inn of the market, passing the small group of dwarves who, shakily, were coming out of it, holding each other's arms. From inside came shouts, songs, music and a bright orange light that made his eyes squint as Durin came through the doorway, cutting his breathing.

The main tavern was filled with a life and warmth that Durin thought the forges located several levels beneath their feet looked like an icy, inhospitable wasteland in comparison.

The music of the violins and flutes rang out loud, echoing throughout the tavern, barely able to overcome the high-pitched laughter or deep cackles that came from every single table. He heard footsteps on the floor, the clatter of metal cutlery banging against each other, the cheerful shrieks of a few little dwarves chasing each other around the tables, hiding under them for a few moments before being discovered. A sea of colourful fabrics moved from side to side, carrying barrels full of beer, tray after tray of every kind of food imaginable.

Around the tables dozens and dozens of dwarves clutched each other in long embraces as they sang stories, shouted ancient names and legends, while others ducked to dodge pieces of food being thrown across the room.

Cautiously, always hoping not to be recognised, Durin stepped forward in turn through the hubbub, dodging and ducking into every cove the tables or groups of warriors and smiths created to chat, searching his eyes for why he was there, scrutinising every single face.

He searched for a hank of fire-red hair, tried to hear her crystal-clear voice, even tried to inhale the air to smell her again, but the further he went between the tables, the more his hope of finding Ylva became a dream.

Suddenly, in the midst of the noise and laughter, an ethereal voice rose above all the others, attracting his attention and, if that was the case, that of a good part of the room as well. There, in the middle of the wooden tables, on top of one of them, he saw her: she was moving her feet from one side to the other in time with the music, dancing holding the arm of another dwarf who was singing a traditional song of the Blue Mountains out loud, holding a full mug of beer in his hand.

Durin watched her wide-eyed as she danced, the red dress she wore that evening moving in every crazy motion in which the dwarf next to her pushed her, as she spun around the table in pirouettes or small jumps at every high-pitched sound she had to make, the let go with her neck back singing.

The dwarves around the table clapped their hands and feet in time to the music, slammed their mugs down on the table and shouted at every higher word, watching the little scene as he did, but Durin did not join in. He watched her in silence, as if hypnotised. He couldn't take his eyes off her, and every time she returned a higher note, or laughed, or pirouetted on herself as she sang, he felt his heart stop in his chest.

His throat suddenly went dry as he watched her, as he watched how the dwarf held her waist, making her move from side to side, and unconsciously he felt a discomfort rise up to his neck.

He exhaled, letting his back go against the wooden pillar behind him, letting his blue gaze drift over her body, and the dress she wore, to the small but precious patches of white skin she showed with every movement, to the smile that marked her face, to the thick, unruly red hair that swayed from side to side making her golden beads flap in her braids: he would never have admitted it out loud, not at that moment but she was beautiful, too beautiful.

A smell of blueberries and wild flowers entered his nostrils again, invisible hands touched his face, ran their fingers along his thick beard, a pair of lips rested on his and a soft breast rested on his chest and the roar, Ylva's voice, was no longer loud, it was low, it was close to his ear, and then close to his neck and then mixed with his breath.

An immense grip on his heart forced him to let go with his head back, panting and shaken. A second one made him clench his jaw and close his fists in a spasm. His vision suddenly blurred as the sounds around him gradually became muffled until they disappeared completely, as did the taverns and the shouting, and the laughter and Ylva's voice.

Sparkling diamonds shone through the blue marble walls. Golden veins, like tree roots, dug into the stone, embracing and supporting their wide, endless relatives. A cloudless starry sky, infinite and eternal shone underground, so high and mighty are the halls in which they stand. Rain, wind, bad weather were only a vague thought in that place without time or memory, where one minute is a hundred lives and a hundred lives a minute, where day and night alternate like the flames burning in the middle of the large circular room.

Though the world grows darker every day

And hope seems all but a memory

An angelic voice rang out, lulling him to sleep, making him close his eyes and taking him back into the world that had been built for them. Sweat still covered his body, his muscles tensed under his skin, not being calmed by the gentle caresses of the pale, soft hands that caressed his skin, face, mouth, wiping away with a wet cloth every sign of the work he had dedicated himself to as he had been ordered to do hours before.

Nothing can dim or extinguish this flame

Ignited long ago deep within me

No-one can break my will, nothing can change

My path is laid before me

Her hands trembled with every caress, for every smear of soot she removed from his face her touch grew weaker, as if that simple gesture cost her all the strength she had in her body.

He would have liked to grab them, to block her, to beg her to stop, but he couldn't: she continued to take care of him, without ceasing to smile, even though Durin's breathing became heavier with every movement, as well as his voice became weaker and weaker, less and less alive.

A cough, a single cough brought him to the limit of his endurance.

He took her face in his hands and forced her to look at his face stopping her singing.

"You should rest, the dawn of the Trees is near. You need to rest and you need to let your eyes drift shut," he murmured, holding her face almost completely bare, like a withered autumn leaf, like a flower struggling through the snow to bloom.

She smiled weakly at him, laying a small hand on his larger one and leaving a sweet little kiss on his palm "Don't feel sorry for me my love, I still have the strength to take care of you."  

"You didn't complete the work that was assigned to you by our Father," he told her, noticing the dark circles on her face lit by the flames beside them "I noticed your exhaustion as you worked to complete your task. Your hands were shaking, your eyes closed, I should have brought you help,"

She smiled weakly at him again, settling even more against his touch.

"Don't make me leave you," she said, smiling at him out of the side of her mouth, "I can't sleep if I don't have you by my side, my sleep is shaken by nightmares, and I don't want you to leave our Father's work unfinished," she explained gently but then another cough made her bend over and look away from his.

One, two, three, four, five times she coughed, bending over and bringing a hand in front of her mouth, which gradually turned red, a red that cost him a tear and a prayer to his Father.

He had to save her, if not him, their creator he had to do it, any way he knew how but he had to do it, he couldn't see her extinguish before his eyes before she was even born. He could not take her away from him.

As soon as she was calm he took her face in his hands and laid his forehead on hers, looking at her through a veil of unshed tears.

"I would take all your aches and pains if I could, I would go beyond time and space to make all your aches and pains vanish my sky, my sun, my treasure, my soul," he whispered leaving her a sweet kiss on her lips "I will take care of you, Frea I swear, I will take care of you."

Disoriented, Durin closed his eyes, feeling them moist again, feeling as if he had been crushed by a boulder that was impossible to lift. It had happened again, he had again had a dream about his past without it having dawned on him.

But no, that wasn't a dream, it wasn't a memory, it couldn't be, because Ylva was there.

And yet he had seen her, she looked just like that dwarf lady, whom he had just seen, whom he had just remembered. But it was not possible, what he had seen was not possible.

Frea, he had called her.

Just thinking about that name made a terrible lump in his throat and an urge to scream at the top of his lungs his frustration and pain, the pain he had felt in that memory.

"Will you ever accept my proposal of marriage, oh, shining gem from the deepest of caves in the Misty Mountains?"

A croaking voice, broken by several sobs and slurred, broke the vision that had appeared before his eyes, bringing him violently back to the reality of what was happening around him.

The dwarf with whom Ylva had been dancing just now was bending at her feet, his arms theatrically outstretched towards her, holding her hand between his.

Ylva laughed, patting him on the forehead with both fingers, "Only when you will propose it to me as you are sober, Farim," she shot back, making him and everyone around the table laugh.

It was at that moment, when a second dwarf held her hand to get her off the table, that their gazes met and the aftermath of that earlier memory disappeared from his mind, as did that anguish, that pain, that anxiety and everything seemed at peace again.

Her dark eyes widened with surprise when she saw him: surely she had never expected to meet him again in such a situation and if it had not been for his initiative this would not have happened at all.

She smiled at him in turn as she stepped down from the table and with a small gesture of her head she pointed to the counter at the end of the tavern inviting him to go in that direction.

He didn't know what what he had just seen meant: at other times he would have been worried about it, but not at this moment, he just wanted to... talk to her.

He followed her without thinking much about it, and after making his way through the small crowd in front of the bar he saw her sitting on a stool, carelessly brushing her red hair to one side of her neck and wiping the remains of dust from her bodice. From the fact that she didn't want to meet his gaze and how she had tactically left an empty seat next to her, he realised that she was deliberately ignoring him but absent-mindedly inviting him to sit by her side.

A small, amused laugh escaped him, glad that his embarrassment towards her had already vanished again. He sat down next to her, crossing both arms on the counter and watching her out of the corner of his eye as she absent-mindedly fastened the laces of her dress around her forearms again.

"Mor, I may need a lager for me and a double malt for the master blacksmith sitting next to me, would you mind?" she looked up at the long grey-bearded innkeeper behind the bar.

He nodded to her with a quick gesture of his head, stopped cleaning the jar in his hands and started to take two mugs and prepare them.

"How did you know that? The type of ale I drink?" he asked her pleasantly surprised.

He found it curious that she knew what kind of beer he drank and he wasn't even good at covering it up as he found himself staring at her in wonder and with his mouth slightly open.

"I didn't know, so call it luck if you prefer my lord," she replied to him absentmindedly, lowering again the sleeves of her dress that had been pulled up during the dance.

"You know this morning I also received a stroke of luck my lady, someone reached at my door and gave me these," he winked at her, extending his forearm towards her, showing her the blue arm guards she had made fastened over his shirt.

She absentmindedly lowered her gaze and grinned with the side of her mouth as she continued to adjust the creased sleeves of her dress.  "Oh really my lord? I have no idea who it could be, I was late for work today you know, I overslept, so some dwarf lady may have snuck into my shop and may have taken them," she winked at him in turn continuing to play dumb.

He raised an amused eyebrow. "She must have been a very patient and cunning dwarf lady to have played you."

"I could almost say she's on the same level as me my lord," she retorted as she looked up slyly and darkly at him, widening the smile on her red lips.

Durin let out a soft laugh, especially as Ylva seemed more and more convinced to carry on with this charade, a charade that wasn't bothering him, on the contrary, he had missed it terribly. But when he was about to reply in kind, the innkeeper finally brought him their beers and placed them in front of them.

He reached into the pocket of his breeches looking for the few gold coins he carried with him every time he went down to the forges, but he wasn't quick enough to put them on the counter as Ylva's pale hand slammed down on the table leaving four bronze coins on it.

She noticed his disappointed look, shrugged and took a large swig from her pint, making any objections she might have had vain, just as she had the day before.

Although he didn't like the gesture at all, especially since he already knew what she had done for him, he took a swig of beer in turn, letting the golden liquid cool his palate.

"I'll pay you back, I promise," he reminded her in an ominous tone, glancing across the rim of the mug.

She did not seem intimidated, however, and shrugged her shoulders. "And I've already told you it's a gift," she retorted, wiping her lower lip with her fingertip, "so unless you want to take them off and throw them at me, it's a gift you've accepted.

"I didn't have a choice, it seems," he reminded her.

"If you had, you wouldn't have accepted them and I wanted to see them on you, so I had to take away your choice."

"I also told you that I would return for you, did I not, my lady?"

"You are not mistaken, my lord, in fact you did!" she began, pointing from head to toe with the beer glass, "You didn't tell me when though! I only speeded things up and then told you that I don't take no for an answer!" she winked, smiling at him.

Durin lowered his gaze, but this time he felt his cheeks flush, not from embarrassment but from the hilarity and simplicity of the situation. Perhaps the memory of what had happened earlier was still too vivid, perhaps he would have regretted his words and his proposal a little later, but at that moment he wanted nothing more than that.

He moved his arm lightly across the table towards Ylva's, drawing her attention. "May I also have this claim on you?" he asked, looking up at her.

She jerked slightly, looked at him in confusion, letting the cascade of fiery red curls fall to the side, "What do you mean? The one about not getting a no for an answer?"

He nodded, biting his lip nervously; he'd never been good at that sort of thing. 

"I wanted to know if you'd like to have dinner with me one of these nights," he asked, trying to maintain eye contact, "I can have you picked up and escorted to the palace if you'd like," he said.

As soon as he asked her that question Ylva suddenly turned paler, her hand trembled and so did the glass she held close to her mouth: she looked at him surprised, perhaps too surprised.

She slowly lowered the cup and let it go on the table, blushing more and more and trying to mask her discomfort by smiling at him ironically, which made him feel terribly guilty even though his invitation was more than sincere.

"Y-you noticed we're in a tavern, right?" she asked, looking around as she continued to smile at him out of the side of her mouth nervously, "and it's just past dinnertime and... I don't need an escort, in that case, you know I'm already here with you." she explained, trying not to meet his eyes.

Suddenly he realised that it was not his proposal that had made her uncomfortable, but what followed and he had been a fool not to understand it: he had put her in an unpleasant situation and he was ashamed of it. He was like a king, she was an artisan. He was used to talking to women of his own rank, a little lower at most, but certainly his last words must not have been easy to understand, to swallow and to be heard.

"Are you proposing that I dine here with you Lady Ylva?" he asked her to be sure of what she was thinking.

She jolted again and smiled nervously at him, again adjusting her hair behind her ear with an impulsive gesture. "You said it, I just pointed out the current events and what they might entail," she chuckled softly.

"I made you uncomfortable, I'm sorry about that. My proposal-"

"I did not say your proposal made me uncomfortable," she interrupted him quickly, looking up at him.

Durin's eyes widened, taken aback by her answer: he had always prided himself on not being able to be taken by surprise, on always having the answer ready and always being the one to have the last word on any matter, but that dwarf-woman in two days had shattered all his certainties, every single reality he thought he was living, including his past ones.

He smiled to himself with a sneer and looked up at the tavern keeper. He forgot the lessons of etiquette he had been taught and settled into the fact that he was only Durin that night, nothing but Thrain, not a king, not Durin, just Thrain. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled so loudly that he drew the tavern keeper who had just been deep in conversation with a group of no less than five dwarves to a table and made him turn towards them.

"Prepare us two dishes of the day and don't worry about the portions or how many times you fill the mugs," he said in a deep voice and this time he was quick enough to put a single gold coin on the counter.

She looked at him in amazement, turning the mug over in her hands in satisfaction, "You are full of surprises, my lord," she grinned.

Durin rolled his eyes slightly but couldn't help but hide the fact that the statement struck him in a pleasant way.

"I always have a way to escape my life and I have enough practice doing it, whether it be in the suburbs of Erebor or in training camps or situations that put people around me under pressure," he explained and then smiled at her with the side of his mouth, becoming slightly more serious than before. "I'm a dwarf, no different than anyone else."

He didn't know if he said this to her or to himself to convince himself of what he was saying, to give himself some consolation that his role wasn't his world but either way she reached out her hand slightly towards his brushing the tips of his fingers with hers.

"Oh you are very much so actually, different, and you don't even realise it and different isn't always a bad thing."

With that single sentence Durin realised that he had made the right choice that night, that he had done well to go down to the markets to see her again that he had been risking the wrath of his brother, because in that moment he felt as he had felt in that memory moments before: adored.

He did not know how much time passed, perhaps even hours, and as far as he could know. It could have been dawn and he would not have noticed. They talked for so long, about everything and nothing at all, that Durin found himself immersed in a world he had touched with his own hands, a world where he was alone, where no one was forcing him to make choices or be someone else. In which a dwarf lady in front of him spoke first of the various types of weapons she had tried and failed to forge in her life, then of how she used to sew winter jackets for her goats when she was still in the Iron Hills, and then of how she had run away one night to see a blood moon from the hills.

He felt as if he had known her all his life, though he had only met her the day before, and he too had come to tell of his misadventures, how he was a terrible miner, how he nearly set fire to the throne room in Erebor when he was a child, or how once, after his brother's wedding, he had woken up asleep on top of the throne.

He was so engrossed in that moment that he hardly noticed that the tavern had emptied, leaving only silence and a few nearly consumed candles around them. A few dwarves were asleep on the benches, others were silently drinking their last mug of ale, while he and Ylva had barely touched what was in front of them, not even noticing how often their fingers were touching and brushing against each other, fiddling with each other.

"What were you doing at the market yesterday? You've never been there before from what people say, in fact you're not often seen there," she asked him, fiddling with the edge of his arm guard, tracing the seams with her fingertips.

"We need to build some new housing areas and a new wing for the markets on the floors above us," he replied as he watched her pale, shy fingers stop at one of the stones.

"Many will be delighted by this news, you know," she confessed, smiling softly at him. "Many still have no homes and live in their workshops, others have homes two hours' walk from here, in the old shelters..." she explained, lowering the tone of her voice almost to a whisper.

Durin sensed a veil of sadness in her words that made him turn his hand over and grasp her hand lightly, looking into her dark eyes.

"Like you?" he asked her, not at all pleased with the answer she might give him.

Ylva shook her head and chuckled, grabbing his hand in turn "I manage your majesty, old Mor makes me a good price for a room and food. It's small but it has a bed, a table, a bowl and even a tiny fireplace," he explained, gesturing with her free hand, forcing another smile.

Durin, however, was not convinced by what she told him: it was as he had suspected and she was not the only dwarf lady in that condition, in the precariousness of a kingdom that perhaps even after her death would continue to be rebuilt.

However, hearing that information from someone, especially her, and not reading it through reports written on old parchments hurt him more than he had expected and made him face the great responsibility he carried on his shoulders.

"When we arrived here, there wasn't much," he began to tell her over the barely audible sound of the candle burning between them in total silence, "the battle lasted for months, taking one room at a time and for a long time I lived on a blanket next to a bonfire, nothing more. I understand how you feel,"

Ylva looked at him wide-eyed, opening and closing her mouth ready to say something, perhaps to retort, but finally she only smiled at him, nodding and slowly crossing her fingers with his in an almost intimate gesture, but so innocent and sweet that Durin did not have the heart to stop it.

"I'm very well, don't let it bother you," she tried to reassure him, smiling, "when you build the new residential wing," she continued, raising both eyebrows, "I'll be the first to put my savings aside for one of those dwellings, in your majesty's name!" she giggled and raised her half-full goblet high in a toast to him.

An amused laugh escaped Durin, but she continued gesturing with the goblet in front of her.

"I'm going to buy me one with even a bathtub built into the floor, one of those where you can put bath salts, you'll see!" she continued proudly, laughing to herself.

"In the palace, every room has one, I think you might like them so..."

She shook her head laughing as her cheeks coloured again, "I don't think I can go back and forth from my room to the palace to take a bath if that is your intention, my lord.”

"It wouldn't be a problem if you wanted to do it once."

"Oh please don't make fun of me, I haven't had enough to drink yet!" she retorted laughing and taking another sip from her mug before wiping her lips with her fingertips, "Speaking of which, can I ask you a question, about the palace?"

Intrigued, Durin nodded, pulling himself up slightly to sit ready for any questions she might ask him.

"Ask me anything you like," he said again.

Ylva looked around, checking to see if anyone was listening to them and then stepped closer to him rolling up the sleeves of her elegant red dress. She moved closer to his face, almost touching his nose and placed a cupped hand to the side of his mouth so no one could hear them.

"Is it true that in the palace there is an adorned room with bas-reliefs of Mithril?" she asked him and Durin nearly jerked back in his chair "My mother told me that Durin IV, you, had ordered it to be built with a golden floor. That she had inscribed your family tree on the floor and that all around, on the walls,  bas-reliefs of mithril and precious stones tell the story of... your lives, our lives.  Is this true?"

Durin looked towards his armguard and then towards Ylva's eyes, which were dark and pleading, asking him to tell them the truth. It was difficult for him, not so much to explain the existence of that room, but so much because he had no memory of that room, not even the smallest one. Perhaps he had built it for that very reason, but he only knew of its existence and of what others knew about it. What was on the walls or on the floor was of no importance to him.

He nodded, not finding the heart to lie to her "It's the private room of the royal banquets, it's almost completely unused these days, but yes, it exists."

Her face suddenly lit up and her mouth at first contorted into an ecstatic expression. "Really? It exists!

Do you know that it is said to have taken fifty years to complete, and that it took more than three hundred goldsmiths and at least twenty thousand gems just for one wall?! It's the closest thing to a miracle a goldsmith has ever achieved!”

He bit his lip slightly and yet another madness rose in his chest and took possession of his words. A strange idea buzzed in his head, in perfect, too perfect an idea. "Would you like to see it?"

Ylva's eyes widened and she immediately stopped talking or even breathing if he didn't see her chest move under her low-cut dress. "W-would you... would you let me see it? But I, I am me..."

"Because it's you, I want you to see it, it's my payment."

The dark eyes lifted to the sky and rolled in on themselves "Oh again, I thought we'd worked it out? There is no need for any payment-"

"Get your things," he told her quickly, coming down from the stool in front of the counter with a small jump.

This time he didn't give her a chance to retort, he had well understood that reasoning with her was pointless the more he would let her talk the more she would object to any kind gesture he would make on her behalf. His only choice was to do the same thing he had done with him a short time before: not to leave her a choice.

Ylva in fact looked at him as if he had gone mad blinking over and over again gripping the edges of the table "You've gone mad it's the middle of the night, they'll cut our heads off if they see us!"

"They'll cut my head off? And who would order that?" he replied, grinning out of the side of his mouth.

Carefully, he reached out a hand towards her, inviting her to take it with a slight bow: if she couldn't take no for an answer, he wouldn't either.

She looked at him in bewilderment, first at him and then at his hand, and finally after a long time she reached out and took his hand with a smile on her lips.

"You are completely insane, your majesty."

In the silence of Khazad Dum's palace their heavy, laboured breathing was the only sound echoing through the deserted halls. Dawn was not far away and yet everyone was still in a heavy sleep, unaware of what the king was about to do and who was with him.

Not even the rays of the sun dared disturb them, remaining hidden behind the peaks of the misty mountains, giving themselves a few more minutes.

Thorin walked swiftly, holding Ylva's hand still inside his, their fingers intertwining more and more with each step they took. Her hand was warm, small, and smooth, the softest, most delicate thing he had ever touched in his life. Sometimes he was afraid of squeezing it too tightly and hurting her, but often it was she who held on tightly, making his heart beat faster in his chest.

He guided her through the other rooms, knowing every tunnel by heart, and for the first time in almost six years he did not get lost, arriving at the palace in less than a handful of minutes. They passed the huge hall, turning quickly between the gigantic columns of the palace's main hallway, which occupied metres and metres of surface. He heard her tug several times, entranced by the spectacle that surrounded them, for though he had seen it so many times he could not deny it, Khazad Dum's palace was a spectacle, the greatest work of his people... his work after all, though he had no clear memory of it.

They walked swiftly until they reached the centre of the palace, surrounded by grey marble and veins of priceless white metal, and stopped in front of a huge golden doorway. The engravings on it were faded, but Thorin could read every single letter on it, though many of the characters had vanished completely. Carefully he let go of her hand and went to one of the doors; he grabbed hold of the huge handle and gave a mighty push  opening the doors wide. It was old, it was heavy, and it had been so long since he had entered that room that it was almost like opening the door to a world unknown to him.

"After you," he told her as he turned, gesturing with one of his hands for her to enter first.

Ylva's eyes moved quickly from side to side scanning every single part of the entrance hall nervously clutching the edges of the dress she was wearing.

Her dark eyes shone in the half-light becoming just as precious as the door behind her, if not more so.

"Th-thank you," she murmured as she looked away from him again, though it was not easy for him to notice as she shifted her gaze back to the door immediately afterwards, looking at it amazed.

Thorin smiled, feeling incredibly light-hearted, as if he had just made the best gesture in the world, and he partly felt it, as if he had just made Ylva extremely happy with his small effort.

He followed her silently into the room, watching her as she walked through the door, looking around. She gasped and put her hands in front of her mouth as Thorin slowly grabbed one of the torches outside and quickly ignited one of the torches at the entrance, creating a chain reaction that lit up the huge square brazier that ran the length of the room.

Gleams of gold, gems and metal overhung each other and little by little every single drawing or rune or bas-relief, warriors, goats and towers alternated, showing in the greatest idleness the great deeds of his House. His figure was always there, with sword, bow, axe, dead or alive, he was always there.

Thorin sighed heavily, unable to look beyond that work of art, and turned his gaze towards Ylva, who instead kept her eyes focused upwards, holding her chest with both hands in amazement.

She walked slowly, her red hair shining in the light of the torches, her dress of the same colour draped over the golden floor, barely covering her pale skin. The freckles on her body looked to him like tiny rubies set in a statue of white stone and her dark eyes like two shining flakes of black obsidian as strong as it was elegant.

She was the most important jewel in that room, and he was unable to stare at her uninterruptedly: she was a sight that would never be repeated to him, and he wanted her to remain imprinted in his mind forever, to remain at least that memory imprinted on him for all his lives to come.

"This is.... in the name of… I've never seen anything like it in my entire life...."

" Beautiful...." he replied preceding her, not talking about the room at all, but she couldn't know that.

Ylva looked at him smiling shyly and nodded quickly "It is, yes it is, magnificent," she answered him almost with tears in her eyes, "I don't even dare to imagine how much it cost and how much it's all worth."

"It's not calculable, or at least that's what it says in the books, it's worth more than the earthly value, I suppose," he replied walking back to the centre of the room leaving behind the torch he was holding earlier.

Slowly she approached one of the walls, looking curiously at it walking with slow steps along its length without ever taking her eyes off the figures created with the gemstone settings or the backgrounds made of pure silver mithril.

"Do you remember these things depicted on the walls?" she asked, staring at one effigy in particular.

Thorin looked at himself, holding a two-pronged axe, while on the slopes of Mount Doom, an orc's head flying in the air He was flanked by an elf and a man: The Battle of the Last Alliance.

That, he remembered. It was only a few scenes, but inside he could hear the clatter of spears and swords, the screams of pain, the heat of the ground, and the Dark Lord advancing towards them covered in smoke and flames. He could feel the fear, the agitation, his desire to take revenge for all the evil on the land that had been caused by him, but... nothing more.

He brought his hands behind his back as he moved closer to her side "Not entirely, no," he answered as he lowered his gaze to the ground, "just bits and pieces, nothing more. It's not like you just pick and choose, I only remember small fragments, nothing more, like smudges on a paper, an incomplete drawing," he concluded, lowering his voice more and more, unable to hide his pain or his sadness that caused him those empty spots, the not knowing.

Ylva did not answer him and remained silent, observing the carvings for a few moments, before walking in small steps towards one of them. Thorin's eyes widened as she lifted her hand slightly, brushing her fingertips over his face in the bas-relief, touching his beard set with black gems and then his chest covered with blue gems.

He squinted his eyes slightly as if he felt her fingers on his body, as if she was touching him and not a piece of stone, and slowly every single affliction seemed to disappear from his chest. "It must be awful, not remembering, not... knowing a part of your life, even if it's one you've already lived," she said turning her gaze to him "I'm so sorry my lord,"

"It's not as bad as you think, memories can always be rebuilt," he answered her forcing a smile "and my new ones won't drown out my old ones and my old ones won't drown out my new ones."

"You must be very lonely," her voice cracked, "to see the people you love leave and know that… that you'll be back and they won't," she whispered in a voice full of sadness and melancholy, erasing the last string holding him to reality.

Thorin felt a dagger pierce his stomach, opening a wound that still continued to bleed, day after day: she had told him the truth and he, after all, had no one, no one was like him. Everyone was leaving and he was staying.

He clenched his jaw and quickly lowered his head, not wanting to look further, feeling deeply hurt, feeling as if the whole truth of his existence had been thrown back in his face. And she had understood it, no one else.

He did not see her, but he felt her jolt and her breathing quicken. 

"Oh no, I'm sorry, please, no, I... I didn't mean to..." she tried to justify in a trembling voice, broken by a soft croak.

But Thorin could not look at her, he was covered in shame at himself, at what he was.

"I'd better go, I've talked too much... I'm sorry, my lord, please forgive me..." she said, still in a broken voice.

He didn't answer, not knowing what to say to her, what lie he could tell her, what he could reveal to her about everything he felt every day, but it took him too long to think, because he saw her out of the corner of his eye starting to walk away from him.

No, he wanted anything but that, she had to stay, he couldn't lose her too, not her.

With quick steps he chased her and with a lightning gesture he grabbed her arm forcing her to stop and turn towards him.

 "No...." he murmured looking up into his dark eyes "stay here, with me, please..."

Ylva's eyes widened as she looked at him, stunned by his sudden gesture, which she would never have dared to make if not in that situation.

"Stay with me Ylva," he repeated, leaving her speechless for the first time, leaving himself speechless. "You're the most real and alive thing that's happened to me in all these years of... memories," he murmured through his lips, gently raising his other hand and brushing a wisp of red hair with his fingertips, afraid that she might disappear from in front of his eyes. "Stay here," he begged her, "just stay until dawn, that's all I ask, just a few hours, let me feel like this for a little bit longer,."

Ylva opened and closed her mouth several times and then suddenly her gaze softened to the point of breaking his heart in his chest: she was so beautiful, so perfect, so... right for him.

Gently, she lifted her hand to his face and hesitantly placed it on his cheek, gently brushing his beard. Thorin held his breath and squinted his eyes, settling slowly into the palm of her hand and enjoying those few moments of warmth.

"You look older than you are when you close your eyes," she whispered half-heartedly, stroking his jaw.

A sad smile escaped his lips.

 "I am," he nodded slowly opening his eyes "I have ages behind me, you on the other hand..." he stopped to speak taking a deep breath "You are radiant, you are, beautiful and spirited, and alive like a ray of sunshine in a too dark cave, like a jewel in the middle of a barren rock, like the brightest of stars reflected in the Kheled Zaram," he said.

Her cheeks turned red, her pupils widened and she tried again to mask her expression with one of her beautiful half-mouthed smiles, "Now you are exaggerating."

He shook his head anxiously "And I've never been so serious in my life... in my lives".

Durin's forehead went to rest gently on hers bringing her so close he could feel their noses brush against each other as their mouths drew closer uncontrolled and uncontested, because neither of them would be able to stop at that moment and neither of them wanted to. He slowly slid his thumb over her chin, gently cupping her cheek with his hand, watching her half-closed black eyes and the sparkle they gave off beyond her long black lashes, for him, just for him.

Ylva's hands went to move over his chest, resting both of them on it, for a moment she almost seemed to want to push him away, to stop him somehow becoming able to block that huge mistake, that huge and sweet mistake in which they were about to let go.

In that small corner of infinity, made of stars and flames, their mouths met, shaking the very roots of the mountain and untying the thread that had only been pulling them to each other day after day, and it was as if they were breathing for the first time.

 All the stars in the universe froze and slowed their turn shattering the veil of day only to observe that moment branded under both their names long before they had uttered their first wail.

 No, he knew she was right, they could not go back, not anymore, welded together by a bond as unbreakable and as eternal as Arda herself.

Durin felt small silent tears pass over his eyelashes, his whole existence going back, his whole life becoming clear before his eyes, her becoming living flesh before his eyes and under his hands.

He held her close, desperate, afraid she would slip from his hands again as the falling tears welded their kiss, their first kiss in hundreds of years.

Ylva. Sylvi. Frea. 

He had found her again. His soul, his breath, his heart, his sun, his stars. He - Durin, Thorin, he... had her again, she was his again one more time.

[downeydeppworld]

I start writring a fanfic about Thorin and a OC but don't know if I'm going to post it 🫣🫣😅

[hiltofthesword]

Silent Strike

Series Masterlist

Summary: Valacirca is a linguist and a merchant. When she is asked by the great wizard Gandalf to aid Thorin Oakenshield and his company in their quest to reclaim Erebor, her feelings become conflicted quicker than she can comprehend.

Content: canon divergence (duh????), violence, death, smut (maybe ????? idk)

A/N: this is my first time writing anything ever. I'd like to thank the absolutely desert that is The Hobbit ao3 page (specifically those writing on it cause finding a good fic on that page feels finding an oasis in a desert)!

Prologue: Gandalf recruits a last minute extra (you don't need to read this but part one will probably make more sense - sorry!)

Part One: Valacirca has a slightly rushed introduction to the party. As well as a reunion!

Part Two: Valacirca learns the purpose for her presence amongst the party

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 1: I've Got You ~ Thorin Oakenshield/OC [2,818 words]

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

Erebor was beautiful. Gwen had thought so when they’d first entered – sneaking through the hidden door and doing their best not to wake the dragon slumbering within. Although she’d quickly forgotten all about it thereafter. Not because of the dragon, but because of how she was forced to watch as the Gold sickness claimed the dwarf she’d so reluctantly come to love over the months that had passed between her taking on this ‘job’ and now.

Now, though? Now that Smaug was defeated, the battle thereafter was won, all were alive, and Thorin was himself again? Now she was able to appreciate the splendour of Erebor once again. Save for the damn walkways.

“I don’t know how I feel about your sending everybody out from the Throne Room just for this,” she commented to Thorin where he stood somewhere behind her, the great walkway to the throne stretching before them.

“You said you wished for no witnesses as you overcame this.”

“Because I thought you’d find a quieter walkway to practise on.”

“I am King – and in a moon’s time, after your coronation, you will be Queen. We can order all from the mountain, if we so wish.”

“That’d make for a pretty depressing kingdom,” she said, doing what she could to keep her tone light as he led her to the main walkway that led up to her husband’s throne.

“Did you run out of stone to make railings? Is that it?”

“Dwarves are sure-footed.”

“And hard-headed.”

“I heard that.”

“I did not whisper,” she countered with a smirk that felt much too bold for the fear creeping up through her chest.

While that fear did not show on her face, however, it did in how her hand anxiously sought his where it was pressed over her hip, planting it there as if to make sure his grip remained firmly on her. Her shrewd husband recognised the gesture for what it was immediately.

“You’ve crossed higher paths than this before,” he pointed out. “On Durin’s Day.”

“That was different. I had a dragon snapping at my heels.”

“Well now you’ve your brute of a husband to offer you similar motivation.”

“Yes, well, it should warm you to hear that I much prefer you to dragons.”

Unless he was in a really foul mood.

“This is folly, Gwen.”

Thorin’s humour might have been lighter these days than it was during their quest, but an excess of patience in the face of what he viewed as foolishness was not one of his virtues. It showed now in the edge his voice gained. At least, it did until he moved from behind her back and saw just how pale her face had grown.

“I can’t help it,” she said quietly – too focused on the pit in her stomach to see how his features softened.

It was folly – he was right. If someone draw a chalk outline on a path the same width as this walkway, she could stick to it without so much as thinking about it, laughing all the while at the mere notion of being worried about somehow falling over the edge of that outline. But the mere presence of the unfathomable drop at either side of the walkway raised the stakes, and had her unable to think of anything but. It was instinct – self-preservation, the same sort of in-built thing that would have her thinking twice before she stuck her hand in a fire, or caused a problem with someone twice her size. She was unable to help it.

Nor would she be able to make a life here if she was unable to approach the throne at a speed greater than one foot per hour. The embarrassment only made this all the worse. Thorin had met her when she was a thief in Bree – hardly an occupation without its risks. Now she was paling over the prospect of placing one foot before the other. It hardly did anything to combat the beliefs of the Dwarves here who revelled in shaking their heads and grumbling over their King’s affection for a human. No doubt a Dwarrowdam would have covered the distance a hundred times or more in the span of time she’d stood here faltering like an idiot.

“Do you think I would bring you here if there was any risk of your falling?”

“I don’t think you’d love me if there was any risk of my falling, considering it would take an impressive level of idiocy to manage and you don’t suffer fools. Gladly or otherwise.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he teased. “You would make a very beautiful fool.”

“I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.”

He chuckled lowly.

“Whichever you choose, you’re distracted. See? We’ve already covered some distance. That is the key – do not think of it. Simply do it.”

Well, that was the sort of thinking that had gotten her here, wasn’t it? Not only to her shiny new station – regardless of how it had intimidated her, a woman of no birth who had once been a cutpurse far, far west of here – but throughout all of the hardships that had hounded their path to Erebor itself.

“All right,” she sniffed, straightening her shoulders and nodding decidedly. “All right.”

Thorin’s hand remained at her back, all the same…throughout the hundred strides up and down the walkway it took before she finally began breathing properly and trusting the fine stone beneath her feet not to suddenly crack and give way.

She did grow used to it – eventually. Over and over that day they’d strode up and down the walkway to the throne room until fear turned to unease, and unease turned to boredom. Gwen dreaded to think what the folk of Erebor thought they were up to in here that would cause their King to demand privacy for so long, but it did the trick, and she’d no longer spend this walk battling with the temptation to lower herself to the floor and crawl the distance towards the throne next time she had business here. Although that was a sight Thorin might enjoy, depending upon his mood.

Still, as she strode across the walkway not two moons later, shiny new sapphire-laden diadem upon her head, she had a surprise that she knew he’d enjoy a great deal more. And the drop on either side of the walkway was the furthest thing from her mind – a grin on her face, and a spring in her step.

The King was holding court, dealing with a visiting merchant who had seen fit to scam a number of the people, so no doubt he would be in need of a bit of levity once he was finished. She would wait on the sidelines, Gwen decided, until he was finished. Then she would tell him.

“I was not aware, your majesty, that steep prices were a crime.”

The merchant was kicking up a stink so loudly that he could be heard throughout the entirety of the hall.

“Perhaps not, but swindling the honest peoples of Erebor is,” there was a warning note in her husband’s voice. “Your trading permissions have been revoked, so unless you have some other manner of earning a living here, I suggest you leave and take your way of doing things elsewhere – and count yourself lucky that you have not found yourself in the dungeons.”

Was he so unimpressed because of the merchant’s misdeeds, she wondered, or because he was being forced to deal with something so beneath the notice of a monarch? She could hardly fault him for either one, although she suspected it was some combination of the two.

Folk cleared a path automatically to let her by as she neared the throne – something that was still taking some getting used to, even though it had been that way ever since Thorin declared his intentions to take her as his wife – but she seemed to escape the notice of one person. The merchant.

Either he thought the path had been cleared for him, or he simply did not care, whirling and beginning to storm his way down the walkway with a face like thunder – the fury in his eyes blinding him, no doubt. Or perhaps what he did next was an act of pure defiance in the wake of his dressing down. If it was, it was an incredibly stupid one.

When he barrelled into her, she thought little of it. Queening around didn’t come quite so naturally to her as to have her ordering beheadings because somebody shouldered their way past her; but it appeared the merchant himself wasn’t happy to let things lie there.

“Move!” he demanded, one hand planted flat in the centre of her chest so as to shove her backwards.

Which was when things very quickly went pear-shaped. Had she not gone on here stubbornly refusing to swap her sturdy and comfortable boots for the delicate slippers the ladies of the court here favoured, it would have been worse. Had she not had to wear a stupid number of skirts it disguise those boots, it would have been better.

For the grip of her soles stopped her from skidding back right over the edge of the walkway, but the skirts sent her tumbling to the ground, rolling to a halt not so much close to the edge, but at the very edge itself. Indeed, she feared to move at all, her body hanging over the endless drop right down to the bottom of her ribcage, face down. The silence that took over the throne room was unparalleled and stretched on and on…which was what allowed them to head her diadem clatter, and then smash, as it clattered down to the next level below.

Gwen let out a slow, shuddering breath. The angle did not allow for any purchase with which she might pull herself back, but before she could even think of how to best act, strong broad arms wrapped around her middle and pulled her back and up. She did not need to look to know who they belonged to.

“I have you. I've got you,” Thorin said, pulling her back from the edge. “Are you well?”

She took a moment to actually consider the question, rather than nodding automatically in response. Thank the stars she’d fallen on her side, and then rolled from there – her right hip ached something fierce, but her abdomen had taken none of the impact.

“Yes,” she nodded. “I’m all right.”

One hand remained at her hip – her sore hip, though she hadn’t the heart to shrug it off when he appeared just as shaken as she was. Although that worry quickly turned to ire, a positively glacial gaze turning in the direction of the merchant. At first the poor sod looked half-tempted to turn and run, but the guards at his back quickly made their presence known, and he was stuck between them and the King Under the Mountain. An unenviable position for him. The paling of his face told Gwen that he quite agreed, and the hall remained perfectly silent – all gathered dying to hear how Thorin would deal with this.

“The dungeons,” he said flatly. “Until I deem that you’ve had enough time to recall proper courtly manners.”

Which would take months. If not years. Thorin was capable of many things, but swift forgiveness was not one of them.

“Your majesty, I did not mean to-”

“Or the blade. An attempt on my queen’s life is treason.”

The merchant looked to Gwen as though hoping for an intervention. He would not find one, her hand was itching to grasp the hilt of a blade that was now seldom at her hip. In the end, he seemed relieved when the guards stepped between him and Thorin so that they might clamp irons about his wrists.

“How long will you keep him in the cells?”

Gwen asked Thorin as she changed for bed that night. In the end, she’d decided to keep her announcement for tonight, any mood having been well and truly killed stone dead by the merchant and his idiocy.

“For however long that bruise takes to heal, tenfold,” Thorin replied grimly, his eyes fixed on the angry bruise already forming at her hipbone.

She sighed quietly, slipping into the nightgown and hiding the injury from his brooding eye.

“You could have died, Gwen,” he said sharply – misinterpreting her sigh.

“It’s not that,” she shook her head.

“I’ll craft your next diadem myself,” he said. “It will be good – to make something again, rather than sitting on my backside listening to inanities. If I’d crafted the first, it would have survived the fall.”

“It’s not that, either,” she laughed softly, slipping into bed beside him. “But thank you, husband.”

“Husband, now?” he echoed with a smirk. “You seek a favour from your king, then.”

“No,” she pressed a kiss to the side of his jaw, and received one in turn at her brow for her troubles, a broad hand settling itself into the curve of her waist. “Well. Perhaps. I would ask that you don’t lose your temper when I tell you this.”

“My temper? Why?”

The lazy sort of tired humour left his face and he became all King Thorin again, eyes searching her face as if he’d find the answer to his question hidden in the gap between her eyebrows.

“The reason I came to see you today…the reason I was in the Throne Room at all…I was going to wait until you were finished holding court, and then I was going to tell you…”

“Tell me?” he pressed.

Pulling her lower lip between her teeth, she pressed her hand over the top of the one at her waist, and then she brought it around her abdomen until it was pressed flat over the yet-unrounded area just below her navel.

His eyes flickered down in question and then realisation hit him with the impact of an arrow, and he met her gaze with eyes wide in wonder.

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

Any who liked to dismiss Thorin as nothing but grim and dour could only do so if they’d never seen him smile – truly smile, and the way it lit up his entire face, no, the entire mountain. Gwen was powerless to do anything other than grin back, laughing softly as he used that famed Dwarvish strength to draw her up nearer to him as though she were as light as a feather.

He kissed her then – a kiss that they both smiled into – and pulled back swiftly thereafter, unable to contain his joy to an extent that a longer embrace would require.

“Why would I lose my temper over this, my love?” he chuckled. “This is…”

He trailed off as it clicked, and then he looked downright dangerous.

“I’ll have his head, Gwendolyn.”

“Thorin…”

Already, he tried to slip from the bed – but she leapt forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, dragging him bodily back to her. He allowed it, she’d have never managed it otherwise, but he didn’t make it easy for her.

“I shall try not to take it personally that you’re willing to have his life as revenge for our child, but not just for your boring old wife,” she teased, leaning forward to press a kiss to the side of his jaw.

He made a noise caught somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff, and she knew she’d just saved the merchant from being murdered by Erebor’s half-naked king.

“I would have thrown him from the walkway myself, had I not known you wouldn’t wish it. This just makes me less inclined to heed that.”

“I had no idea I had such sway over your decisions,” she planted another kiss on his neck this time, then another on his shoulder. “Perhaps I might use it to tempt you back to bed.”

“You should see a healer – after that fall.”

“I did. I’m well,” her hands trailed across the muscular expanse of his chest, fingers threading through the hair there. “My hip took the impact.”

“That does not please me, either.”

“If you’re looked to be pleased, I can think of a thing or two better than bloodshed.”

“Oh?”

“Unless I’m mistaken,” she sighed. “After all, your husbandly duty is done. Perhaps you see no reason to-”

As she put on her best show of feeling forlorn and neglected (which still was hardly very convincing), she released her grip on him and made to untangle her arms from his body – only for  strong, rough hands to catch hers and keep her where she was.

“Your machinations have lost their subtlety over time, my queen,” he all but rumbled.

“You just know me too well now for them to work,” she laughed. “But I can hardly mourn that fact.”

“Mm. Nor can I,” he said softly – and then he did return to bed.

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

[legolasbadass]

Shelter From The Storm

Relationship: Thorin x reader

Summary: After leaving the Iron Hills and finding yourselves in the middle of a snow storm, you and Thorin find shelter in an inn and find more than one way of keeping warm until the storm passes. 

Rating: E

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: This fic was written as part of the @officialtolkiensecretsanta​ 2022 for my dear @lathalea​ ❤️ (Ah! I fooled you, didn’t I?) I had the best time writing this for you and I’m so glad the secret is finally out because I almost blurted it out way too many times and I don’t think I could have kept silent any longer 🙈

I hope this fic will keep you warm on cold winter nights, but fair warning, you may need a bucket of ice (or snow) to cool down after this one 😈

Khuzdul translations:

Amrâlimê: My love

Bunnelê: My treasure of treasures

You let out a deep sigh of relief when you entered the inn and, at last, left the cold, snowy night behind you. Now, you love snow as much as anyone else—that is, when it has already fallen, and the sun shines bright in the sky, turning the land into a field of glittering diamonds, or better yet, when you can admire it from the safety of Erebor, preferably while sitting in front of a roaring fire, the loving arms of your husband wrapped around you. But to be trapped in the middle of a storm while travelling through the wilderness? Well, let’s just say that made you speak curses that would have made even Dwalin blush.

It all started this morning when you left the Iron Hills. A fortnight had passed since you left Erebor, and since then, you had attended more dreadful, pointless council meetings than you could count (most of which dealt with matters that could have been explained in letters, mind you) and an even greater number of feasts, which you found difficult to enjoy because the ale was so much better in Erebor, and your husband had a tendency to drink too much when he was with his cousin. 

Your husband. You huffed in annoyance. It was all his fault! Thrice, Thorin delayed your return home, and when at last the negotiations between the two kingdoms came to a close this morning, a storm was brewing in the grey sky. And yet your husband—the stubborn fool!—was now intent on returning home and thus ordered your company to make haste despite how obviously unwise that decision was. 

And now here you were, completely frozen after plowing through the stupid snow all day, snowflakes stuck to your disarrayed hair and numb cheeks. If it was not for the thick fur collar around your coat, you were sure you would have frozen to death on that road, and now you prayed to Mahal that the inn had enough rooms available for your small company, for there were so few inns between Erebor and the Iron Hills, and who knew if you would even make it to the next? 

Thankfully, when the owner of the inn discovered the identity of his latest customer, he assured you that there was more than enough room for your company. Thank Mahal! As soon as everything was arranged, you rushed into your designated room as though your life depended on it—which it did, as far as you were concerned, you could barely feel your fingers! The innkeeper hastened to start a fire for you, and you could have sworn you could feel your muscles thawing as its warmth enveloped you, though some of your limbs had been so frozen that standing too close to the fire burned your skin. 

You were shaking out the ice from your hair when Thorin stepped into your small room, making sure to lock the door behind him. He was still in his travel clothes, but his hood was off, revealing his reddened cheeks and unruly hair, and despite how annoyed you were with him for forcing you to accompany him on this trip and then forcing you to travel in these conditions, you couldn’t help but melt at the sight of him, and when his gaze met yours, it made you feel warmer than any fire ever could. 

“Hopefully the storm does not last and by this time tomorrow we will be back in Erebor,” he said as he began to take off his cloak. You could only muster a hum in response. “Mahal, you look half-frozen to death.”

“That’s because I am half-frozen to death!” you groaned, despite knowing full well that he was not to blame for the unforgiving weather. 

Thorin watched you in silence for a moment, then slowly made his way over to you and wrapped his strong arms around your still-shivering body. His warm breath caressed your skin before he pressed a tender kiss onto your cheek; you could feel the shards of ice trapped in his beard, and you shivered, both from the cold and the intoxicating tenderness of your husband’s touch. 

“Amrâlimê,” he purred softly, pressing a few more kisses on your cheek and temple. 

“Why must I even accompany you to these negotiations, Thorin?” you asked suddenly as you sunk deeper in his embrace, desperate for warmth. 

He raised one hand to cradle your head, his fingers gently caressing your golden braids as he said, “Because I do not wish to be parted from you. And more importantly, I value your opinion.” 

“I do not wish to be parted from you, either,” you replied, your eyes fluttering closed as Thorin slowly began to unplait your braids with his skilled fingers. “But we hardly spend any time together the fortnight we spent in the Iron Hills… And I would still feel all my limbs if I had remained in Erebor,” you added teasingly.

His chuckle reverberated through you, warming your heart, and as you looked up at him, you found him gazing at you tenderly, the flames in the hearth dancing in the depth of his irises. 

“Well, I am certain we may find some way to warm you up,” he replied, the timbre of his voice sinking even lower. 

“You mean sitting by the fire?” you replied innocently, even as your heart began to beat faster in anticipation of what you knew would follow. 

“Aye,” Thorin replied as he leaned in closer, his forehead coming to rest against yours. “But are you not always saying that I am as hot as a forge?” 

You could not help but giggle, and though you were still cold, you already felt better than you had in days. “You are!”

“Then perhaps … you should come closer to this forge to be properly warmed.” 

“That is quite an interesting proposition,” you said as you wrapped your arms around his neck, “but I believe a demonstration is in order.” 

Thorin smirked at you in a way that made your whole body yearn for him, and when he leaned in to kiss you once more, parting his lips to tease you with his tongue while his hands found their way to your back to pull you flush against him, you whimpered. A stab of desire shot through you when he pulled you onto his lap, his large hands coming to rest on the swell of your hips; the many layers of skirts you wore kept you from the contact you so desperately craved, but you did not need to feel Thorin against you to know just how much he longed for you in return. His groans against your lips and nearly bruising grasp on your hips told you all you needed to know about the insatiable hunger brewing inside him. 

To your surprise, rather than hastening to disrobe you and pin you to the soft furs on the mattress to have his way with you, Thorin urged you to stand up. Your skirts were already terribly wrinkled, but there was nothing you could do about it; you stood, eagerly awaiting his next move, trapped between the flickering fire and Thorin’s broad frame as he watched you with hungry but tender eyes.

You remembered how nervous you had been the first time you had found yourself in this position, on your wedding night. You had been with a few men and women before Thorin, but still, you had felt so vulnerable under his piercing gaze, and not least because of all the rumours circulating about Thorin being a very intense lover. But now, you felt a thrill and eagerly submitted to his will. 

“This wool dress is ideal to keep you warm,” Thorin mused as he raised a hand to caress the high collar of your travelling dress, “but I have something else in mind….” 

You smirked, for you were sure you would approve of what he had in mind. 

With agonizing slowness, Thorin spun you around and reached for the ties of your wool dress, leaving feather-light kisses on your neck. You relaxed under his careful touch and let your eyes flutter close. No words were spoken between you as your dress fell to the floor at your feet; only the crackling of the fire and your increasingly heavy breathing filled the room. Then, when Thorin snuck a hand under your skirts and trailed it along the length of your stockings to reach your bare thighs, you could not help but lean back against him, suddenly finding it very difficult to maintain your balance. 

“You are trembling, amrâlimê—are you still cold?” Thorin asked, and you could almost hear the mischievous smirk you knew graced his face. 

“Oh, very, very cold, My King,” you replied, using the title you knew enticed him so when spoken in a low, breathless voice. 

He groaned and squeezed your thigh before removing his hand and letting your skirts fall back in place. Disappointment surged through you, but then you felt his hands fiddling with the ties to your skirt, and you shivered in anticipation. He struggled for a moment, perhaps due to the lingering numbness in his fingers, but he refused any help you offered him, so you were forced to stand there, desire simmering under your skin. 

When at last, all your layers of skirts lay in a puddle at your feet, Thorin instructed you to face him once more. In his eyes, you saw all your desire and love reflected, and you exchanged a soft smile as he closed the space between you, then reached for the ties of your corset. You sucked in a breath as the tips of his ringed fingers brushed against your bosom through the thin fabric of your chemise. Thorin halted for a moment, his eyes fixed on your heaving cleavage, painted golden in the low light of the fire, then began to unlace your corset, passing the ties through each eyelet until the corset released its hold on your bosom and hung loosely about you. Without losing a second, Thorin pushed the garment off your shoulders and dragged your chemise along with it, leaving you in nothing but your stockings. You expected him to hasten to take them off, but he did no such thing. 

Reading the confusion on your now flushed face, Thorin said, “I want you to keep your stockings. After all, we would not want you to get cold.” 

You shivered, somehow finding the suggestion scandalously alluring, and then before you knew it, Thorin stroked one of your beaded nipples, and you whimpered. That simple, teasing touch was enough to drive you wild with need, and Thorin knew it—oh, how he knew. But you also knew that you had just as much power over him; you had not touched him at all, and yet his eyes were dark with lust, his sensual lips half-open, as though begging you to taste them, and when you stole a glance lower, you noticed the significant bulge in his leather trousers. You licked your lips. 

That was all it took. In an instant, Thorin’s lips crashed against yours, devouring your mouth as though he had not tasted your sweetness in months. Your tongues tangled, getting lost in this dance you both knew by heart, tightening the knots of desire deep in your belly. His cheeks were warm now, but his beard was slightly damp from the ice that had melted, and you welcomed the coolness of it. One of his hands got lost in your now loose hair while the other continued to lovingly caress your curves, his rings cold against your now burning skin. A muffled mewl of surprise escaped you when he squeezed your buttocks and pulled you flush against him, his belt and leather clothes rough against your belly. 

“Not fair,” you managed to wine between two fervent kisses. “You are still fully dressed.”  

Thorin pulled away just enough to meet your gaze and raised one eyebrow. “Then by all means….”

You smirked. It was your turn now to tease, er, warm him. With nimble fingers, you pushed his fur-lined coat off his shoulder, then reached for his belt. Thorin’s eyes grew heavy under your ministrations, and when you unlaced his tunic just enough to plunge your hand into the loose neckline and graze his skin, he groaned into your ear. Heat pooled between your thighs at the intoxicating sound, and you pressed your thighs together, desperate to release the growing tension in your core. Thorin helped you by pulling his tunic and undershirt over his head, revealing his broad, sculpted chest to your admiring gaze, but left you to take care of his boots and trousers. His boots you tossed away impatiently, almost carelessly; his trousers, on the other hand, you took your time to remove, letting your fingers caress the trail of dark hairs just above the hem before grazing his bulge with the tip of your fingers. He groaned again, and fuelled by your own arousal, you caved in and pushed his trousers down his legs, allowing his impressive hardness to spring free. 

The next thing you knew, Thorin was pinning you into the fur-covered bed with all his glorious weight, his manhood rubbing against that secret place between your legs, leaving you breathless, and Thorin moaned when he felt just how aroused you were. 

“I do believe you are warming up, dearest,” he said playfully as he raised himself on his elbows to admire your body. “Mahal, you are so beautiful, bunnelê.” 

You sighed upon hearing the endearment he knew you loved, but your expressions of pleasure grew louder and more breathless as he explored your curves anew, caressing you in all the right places. All the while, you splayed your hands on his sculpted chest, following the lines of his raven tattoo and tangling your fingers in the curls covering his pectorals. Then you sank your hands into his dark mane, cradling the back of his head to bring him closer to you as he bent down to suck on your nipples, drawing a breathless cry from you. Instinctively, you spread your legs apart, offering him access to that secret place between your thighs that desperately needed to be filled by him, and after caressing your folds and sensitive pearl until you thought you would burst, he entered you. Impossible warmth spread through your limbs as he stretched you, and the tenderness in his deep blue eyes was like a warm blanket around your heart on this cold winter day. 

The whole world faded away, and the endless day of walking in the storm seemed to belong to another lifetime as you became one with your husband. Your One. His calloused hands caressed your thighs, then grasped your ankles to wrap you around him, bringing you even close to him, and even through the thick wool of your stockings, you could feel the warmth of his flexing muscles. Together, you abandoned yourself to this familiar passionate dance, moving perfectly in sync, the flames in the hearth the only witnesses to your love. It did not take long for both of you to reach your peaks of pleasure, and when that wave washed over you, licking you from the inside out, you cried out, uncaring that the other guests in the inn could surely hear your passionate laments. Your whole body burned with pleasure, and when Thorin spilled himself inside you, groaning in your ears and cradling you close, you thought that you actually looked forward to the day you would find yourself once more in need of such treatment after a wintry storm. 

Eons later, you lay on the soft furs, your limbs entangled as you shared a languid, open-mouthed kiss. The fire burned more gently now, and except for a few flickering shadows on the stone wall, darkness submerged the room, but you could still see the soft, content smile on Thorin’s face, and your heart was warmed by the sight. As though he could feel your gaze on him, Thorin leaned in and buried his face in the crook of your neck, causing you to giggle. 

“Perhaps it would not be so terrible after all it the storm kept us locked up in here for a few days more,” Thorin said, his voice muffled as he pressed myriad kisses into your neck. You smiled and pulled him even closer to you. No, that would not be terrible at all. 

Tag list: @lathalea​ @linasofia​ @mcchiberry​ @fizzyxcustard​ @bitter-sweet-farmgirl​ @i-did-not-mean-to​ @xxbyimm​ @middleearthpixie​ @myselfandfantasy​ @notlostgnome​ @laurfilijames​ @enchantzz​ @swoopswishsward​ @quiall321​ @dianakc​

Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from my taglist!

[shierak-inavva]

🫣

so uh. this is elowen lenbereth -- called teladriel (or abithir, if you want khuzdul) by mr. oakenshield here from lothlórien but ventures to mirkwood to try her hand at healing the greenwood even just a little; she’s a romantic and a very soft optimist that has very idealized notions of adventure and sets out to see more of middle earth and maybe fall in love--aaaaand then meets a very handsome dwarf prince and things get a little crazy

my tolkien friends have inducted me into the fandom recently and been very eagerly explaining....literally everything to me. elowen’s got her own lore now so if ur curious let me know !! 😳💦

[delicatenightfury]

Star of the Mountain Chapter 38

Warnings: fluff, angst, canon-level violence, spoilers for the Hobbit films

Pairing: OC x Thorin Oakenshield

Beta'd By: @mistys-blerbz

Author's Note: please do not steal my work! I do not own the Hobbit or the characters, but I do own my OCs and the parts of the plot that are not part of the movies. I have worked very hard on this fic. Please be respectful and do not steal.

Please comment, reblog, and like!

Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Oreliell ran down the halls as quickly as her feet would allow. She had left the others behind, only hearing them faintly calling her name. She hadn’t even bothered to speak to the guard standing at the entrance. She only had one thing in mind: her sister.

She took the stairs multiple at a time. The corridors got darker the further down she went. There were torches lining the walls, but they became less frequent the deeper into the mountain she went. She willed her eyes to adjust quicker to the darkness. 

“Vedis!” she called. “Muinthel! Answer me!”

Her voice merely echoed through the stone halls. She huffed in frustration, slamming her hand against a cell door.

The dungeons were a series of twists and turns with various sets of stairs and landings, meant for confusing prisoners if they somehow managed to escape. The cells were spaced apart from one another, more than those in the Woodland Realm had been. A majority of the torches were lit, but only toward the top half of the dungeon. From her understanding, the lower levels rarely got used and therefore the torches typically remained untouched. However, there were still a few lit in the lower levels.

Oreliell slowed to a stop. Her eyes darted around, searching for any sign of life, but all she saw was stone and iron reflecting in the dim fire light. She ran a hand through her hair in frustration. After a long moment, she forced herself to take a deep breath. She closed her eyes and focused on the sounds around her. She could hear dwarves in the upper levels, talking in hurried voices as they journeyed toward her. She tuned them out, focusing on the sounds around her.

“Come on, Vedis. Answer me. Where are you?”

A low groan caught her attention. At first she thought she had imagined it, that it was only a sound conjured by her wishful thinking in her mind.

But then it came again.

Oreliell turned quickly, eyes darting to one of the cells down the next small set of stairs. She stepped forward to look through the metal bars.

Oreliell gasped.

“Vedis!”

Further back in the cell, slumped against the wall, lay a tall figure. Oreliell pulled at the door, cursing when it wouldn’t budge. She ran her fingers over the lock, glaring when she noticed small black markings. She took her dagger from her belt, gave it a slight twirl between her fingers, before jamming it into the lock. The mechanism groaned loudly at her force. Oreliell twisted the blade quickly before stabbing it in deeper, putting her weight into the jab. The metal shook and then moved as the markings fizzled out.

Oreliell ripped open the door and raced inside. She knelt down and touched Vedis’s face. Vedis’s skin was pale, her blond hair having lost its normal shine. Her wrists were bound and there was a bruise forming on her temple. 

“Muinthel,” Oreliell said, her voice low. “Vedis, I’m here now. Can you hear me? All will be well.”

She shook Vedis, trying to get her to open her eyes. She tried not to panic when Vedis did not first respond, but released the breath she was holding when Vedis groaned again.

“Oreliell!”

“Here, Thorin! I found her!” She placed her hand on Vedis’s face, trying to coax her awake. “Vedis, please. Give me a sign, muinthel.”

Oreliell felt a tugging on her mind. She reached for it, trying to grasp on to the feeling.

“-liell?”

“Yes. Yes, Vedis, I’m here. Everything is all right now. I have you. But I need you to wake up.”

Oreliell watched Vedis’s face scrunch up slightly, another moan rumbling from her throat. Behind her, she could hear Thorin arrive with a small group of dwarves.

“How is she?” Thorin asked, standing at the door to the cell.

Oreliell took a minute to really look her sister over. Her skin seemed more ashen and her hair was a crumpled, dirty mess. Her wrists were chained together, the skin beneath red and tender looking. Every small detail made Oreliell’s heart sink and her blood boil. But what really caught her attention was the dark coloring to her hair. Oreliell touched it, only to discover that it was dried blood. She tilted Vedis’s head to try and rouse her more.

“She is alive,” Oreliell said. “We need to get her up to the study.”

Oreliell helped Vedis to her feet, steadying her when she nearly toppled. Thorin stepped forward to help steady her.

“Steady, muinthel,” Oreliell said. “We’re getting you out.”

“Where is the key?” Thorin called to the dwarves outside.

“No.” Oreliell looked at her sister upon hearing her voice in her mind. Her speech was slow, like each word was a struggle. “The key will not work. Morfaroth. Guldur.”

Oreliell cursed.

“A key will be no good to us, Thorin,” she said. “These chains are made with dark magic. A product of Baralin’s magic.”

“Then how do we break them?”

Oreliell pulled her dagger out again. She lifted Vedis’s hands and slid the blade between the links of the chains. With a quick, sharp movement, she managed to separate the cuffs. Vedis’s hands were at least separated, but the cuffs remained in place.

“That will have to do, for now,” Oreliell said. “We need to move.”

[xxbyimm]

XxByImm's Works in Progress - October 2024

Since Tumblr is a bitch and won't allow me to find or edit my old post (a bug I reported ages ago, twice ffs.), here's a new "Works in Progress" ❤❤❤😊

+ A Tale as Old as Time - Bard the Bowman x OC - Chapter 8 What would you do, if you were to choose between love and duty? The angst train continues.... 🙊

+ Anima Nera - Severus Snape x OC - Chapter 5 I didn't need yet another series, but my Severus crush awoke from its' slumber and it demanded a Sev story of my own. So, here we go.

+ (Anti-)Hero - Joel Miller x OC - Chapter 2 Joel and Jess got me by the balls, UNGGHH. I'm working on chapter 2 and their dynamic has me FERAL! Follow my sideblog @sluttyforpascal for the filthy updates. 😈😭

+ Enya’s Unexpected Journey - Thorin Oakenshield x OC - Revision of all chapters Yes, I am insane. Rewriting this fic is a disaster, but it must be done. Currently, I'm working on chapter 15, 14/30 chapters are done and waiting to be published.

Spoiler: Enya always gets what she wants... 😈🍑🍆

+ The Bet Series - Thorin Oakenshield x OC - Phase IV Orgasm Ooff I still have to finish this series. I truly intend to. 🥰

In the meantime.. Have some Sev with me. 🥵😈

[doodleferp]

Averil’s officially made the transition from self insert to oc! And to celebrate that, we've got a few GIANT sketch sheets to make up for the time lost to them!

Averil still follows the “modern human in middle earth” trope, but I will get a little more into that as I condense the timeline of events enough to throw up on Tumblr. The down-low is that Middle-earth and Earth are connected by a couple doors (a la Coraline and The Chronicles of Narnia) and Averil enters Middle-earth through one. They meet Thorin a year before the quest for Erebor, they hit it off, and the rest is for another time.

I really, really wanted to make them blonde, but I guess I like redheads. Huh.

[enchantingkryptoniteheart-blog]

-The Best of Intentions-

***********************

This is my first jump into the Tolkien/Hobbit/LOTR fandom.
Its been a while since I've written anything fun for myself. I recently reread The Hobbit an LOTR books, then proceeded to binge watch the Hobbit, followed by LOTR and then subsequently The Rings of Power. All those feelings I had as a pre teen reading the books and then the even stronger love/hate feels after BOTFA was released have led me to this moment of jumping back into my love of creative writing feet first . 
And here we go!


**I Do not own nor claim to own any of J.R.R Tolkien's work or characters. 
Reviews are appreciated. 


Chapter 1

***
The chest pain was acute and constant with each inhale. He closed his eyes and savored the feeling the leafy concoction of Gandalfs pipe gave him. The pain was worth it, eager to ease the pain and numb it. He couldn't help the shudder his body released when he finally exhaled, his eyes still closed as he leaned back against the destroyed wall of the rampart behind him. He let the feeling of the smoky substance seep into his weary body.


Gandalf chuckled as he reached to retrieve his pipe that the exhausted and beat up dwarf king offered back to him. "Oin would not be pleased seeing you all out here with me."


"He can go kiss a troll." Thorin quipped, his voice deep and slow, eyes still closed.


Gandalf's mouth twitched humorously as he heard the dwarves to his right snicker at their King's retort.

He felt a nudge against his right arm, "Care to pass that along?" Fili held out his hand, eager for the same reprieve his uncle was currently enjoying.


Gandalf shook his head and chuckled, taking a quick puff of his own pipe before passing it down to the younger dwarf.


"Share brother." Kili groaned as he adjusted how he sat against the demolished wall.


"Wait your turn. You weren't stabbed then tossed off a bloody cliff." Fili ground out before he took a deep inhale from the pipe.


"Attempted stabbing." Kili corrected, "And I caught you, lest you forget that. Nearly tore my arms from my body. One would think you were a bloody rock troll with how much you weigh."


Fili rolled his eyes and exhaled deeply, his body slowly relaxing. He grimaced slightly as his back twinged, reminding him of the ugly black bruise that covered the left side of his back. "Oh he tried all right. The mithril might have saved my skin but my back is screaming at me. I can barely move."


"Be glad lad, tha means yer alive. Thank the Valar we all decided to wear mithril mail before we joined the battle." Dwalin grunted roughly, still trying to calm the storm of emotion that stormed turbulently inside his gut. Only his eyes betrayed him to those who were closest to him, how terrified he had been that he nearly lost his closest companions to their sworn enemy just mere hours before.


Kili was wracked with a coughing fit, not anticipating Gandalf's pipe to contain a stronger substance he was used to. His eyes started to water as he held out the pipe to the bald, battle scarred warrior sitting next to him. "Here." He wheezed. "Don't be like that."


"Thank Mahal! There you are! Bilbo and I have been searching everywhere for you!" Balin exclaimed, his exasperation obvious. "You were supposed to be in the infirmary getting seen to. We need to make sure your injuries are cleared. Oin is fit to be tied."


"He has more pressing injuries to see to." Thorin growled. "We are fine. We will wait until every other warrior is seen to."


"Aule preserve me." Balin grumbled as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "At the very least let someone look you over. I don't want you bleeding out from some unseen wound."


"My mithril mail prevented any fatal injury. I am just bruised."


"Internal bleeding is nothing to scoff at." Balin ground back, his jaws clenched in frustration. "Give your kin this one peace of mind."


Thorin sighed, only to wince as his ribs protested the movement. "So be it." He conceded. His cerulean eyes opened slowly, slightly misty from the affects of the wizards pipe. "Come boys. let us prove that we are not the dead walking."


Balin let out a sigh in relief as he watched the king and his nephews get up, stiff and slow. Dwalin got up as well, slower than he normally would have. He would have to make sure his brother took time to be checked by a healer as well. Lost in his worrisome thoughts, he failed to hear Bilbo approach him. "Oh good, you found them. Are they coming willingly or am I going to have to go fetch Dain to drag them in?"


Balin huffed, his humor shallow and fleeting. "They are coming of their own volition. Probably because he's too exhausted to put up a real fight."


Bilbo's gaze fell upon Gandalf, who continued to sit against the crumbled rampart and puff on his pipe as he stared out into the battlefield.

Those who were able were respectfully moving the bodies of the deceased dwarves, elves and men away from the foul bodies of the orcs and goblins. Despite the cool breeze coming down from the mountain side, the stench of death hung heavy around them. Gandalf knew they narrowly won the battle, and it was sorely won. So many innocent lives cut short, death dealt quickly on swift wings. He also knew this was only the beginning. Despite the victory this day held, the darkness was encroaching upon them. Time was now bought, but paid for dearly. He could only hope they would have a reprieve from the evils he knew were ahead.


"Gandalf?"


Bilbo had approached the wizard quietly, concern seemingly a permanent look etched into his face. So much had happened in the past 6 months, how did he ever think this quest wasn't going to change him?


"Yes Master Baggins?" Gandalf spoke out of the corner of his mouth, the pipe stem still fixed between his lips.


"The quest … Its done is it not? Thorin and his people have claimed their mountain. We have defeated the orcs, Azog is dead at Thorin's hand…" Bilbo rambled, his hand gesturing dramatically as if personally checking off tasks on a to-do list.


"It is done for today, yes. And perhaps tomorrow, a week, a month or even years from now."


Bilbo's eyebrows furrowed. "I feel as if you are insinuating that this peace is not made to last?"


They both sat in silence for a moment, watching Gandalf's smoke rings drift off to be swept away on the breeze. "Not only is this Thorin's victory, but all of Middle Earths against the one who seeks to destroy all." Gandalf paused, carefully considering his words. "This is only the beginning. And now our dear King Under the Mountain is in his rightful place to help keep that evil at bay. He has a long, hard won path ahead of him."


Bilbo swallowed the dread that had settled thick against his Adam's apple. "Then we must make sure he has all the support he needs."


Gandalf smiled, despite the severity that hung thick around them like a fog. "Yes, Master Baggins. I have no doubts that he will have just that. And more if I'm not mistaken. All in good time." 
*********


[random-writerings]

Full Name: Áshildr

Age: 197

Species: Half-Dwarf, Half-Human

Birthplace: Dale

Family: Einar (father, deceased); Brünhildr (mother, deceased)

Occupation: Blacksmith; Warrior

Skills: Metalwork; Crafting; Fighting

Of Fire and Gold // Playlist // Cover

[bitter-sweet-farmgirl]

Zirin u Uzbad

Chapter 41 of ‘A Deep Misunderstanding’.  Link to Series Masterlist. Also find it on A03!

MASTERLIST

OC(s) Used: Estel

Translation(s): Zirin u Uzbad: Iron of Kings

~~

This is the first new chapter I've written of ADM in SO long. It feels so odd to be getting back into it, but so right at the same time.

~~

As evening fell, word spread through our company of our plan to raid the armory.  Nori disappeared to go do reconnaissance on the location, leaving the rest of us to stay and plan.

Thorin was adamant that we strike quickly and leave that night; an opinion that was unanimously shared by everyone else.  I was slightly more skeptical on exactly how that would work.

I didn’t want to stay in this place any longer than the rest of them, but I didn’t think we could pull off such a scheme.  There were just too many of us not to be noticed. 

Dwarves weren’t exactly the quietest bunch either. 

“Once Nori comes back, we can finalize our plan.  No use in trying to figure out the details when we don’t even know where the place is.”  Gloin offered the words of wisdom.  Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group of dwarrows.

I glanced over at them from my spot in the windowsill.  Whether on purpose or not, I’d been excluded from the discussion.  Or, at least, never invited to participate. 

Not that that was important.  I had no experience to offer them, so it made sense for me not to be asked my thoughts on the matter.  Even if they had, they wouldn’t have liked anything I had to say.  Part of being a voice of reason, I assumed.

Blue eyes rose to meet mine as Thorin raised his head from their plotting.  He jerked his head minutely, silently motioning for me to join him. 

I complied, weaving around Fili and Dwalin to stand by at Thorin’s side.  He placed a broad hand on my back, drawing me flush against his side.

“What?”  I asked softly, fidgeting with the laces of my shirt as I peered over at the sheet of paper they’d begun sketching a layout on.  “You need a woman’s touch or something to whatever chicken scratch that is?”  I motioned to the mostly unintelligible lines.

Thorin grinned, shaking his head.  “No,” he murmured, leaning down slightly so only I could hear, “I just wanted to have you next to me.”

“Ah,” I nodded, laying my head against his shoulder.  “That’s an acceptable excuse too.” 

He chuckled, dropping his hand from my back in order to intertwine our fingers.  “I’m glad I’m not intolerable to you.”  The smile vanished as his face became serious.  “I know I haven’t been the easiest person to be around lately.  We’re so close to Erebor…Closer than I thought we would ever get.  And the hardest part is yet to come still.”

I squeezed Thorin’s hand.  The closer we had gotten to Erebor on this journey, the more Thorin’s moods turned dark.  A shadow of something I didn’t recognize, but knew deep down I didn’t like, would flicker across his face. 

I had heard the whispers around the fire at night.  Of gold-sickness and the Arkenstone.  The madness that afflicted Thorin’s family, and was almost certainly the reason why Erebor had been lost. 

He worried over it.  Was determined not to follow in the footsteps of his grandfather.  But feared that he would fall just the same. And that trial had not yet come to pass.  It loomed in front of him now that we were in Laketown. 

“I will always be by your side, Thorin.  You’re stronger than your past, amrâlimê.”  I promised, trying to reassure this dwarrow who already had enough burdens to bear.  “I trust you.” 

A shadow of a smile appeared on his face as he looked at me.  “Mahal forbid I do anything to break your trust.” 

~~~

Nori’s arrival back brought a flood of new intel.  Apparently, the armory was housed in the local jail, and the only access point that wasn’t in full view was a single small window on the second story.

“Are there any guards around it?”  Thorin inquired, his hand still grasping mine.  “Where is it located?”

“Far as I could see, there aren’t any guards in the place.  It’s off a ways from the main bits of this floating slag heap, but the window’s on one of the canals.  Doesn’t seem te get used much though.”  Nori traced a finger down the map, delineating the canal in question.

Dwalin nodded silently, arms crossed over his chest.  “How are ye suggestin’ we get in this place then?”

The grin that Nori wore sent chills down my spine. 

“Oh, nothing difficult you know.  Just a running start and a strong hand.”  He shrugged, “for what I have in mind, you’ll need to be on the bottom.” 

The murderous look Dwalin sent Nori’s way had the rest of us cracking up into stifled giggles.  Nori being Nori, he had worded the sentence into an innuendo.

“Thorin,” Dwalin hissed, leaning over me to murmur in Thorin’s ear.  “Ye canna be serious ‘bout lettin’ ‘im plan this.” 

I looked over at the dark haired dwarrow beside me who wasn’t doing a thing to hide his smirk. 

“Out of all of us, he has the most experience breaking into places.  We need that iron, Dwalin.” 

Dwalin sighed heavily.  “Ah know we do…” 

Thorin clapped a hand onto his friend’s shoulder.  “There is a reason why each dwarf is here with us.  Nori’s talents have a use, no matter how he happened to come by them.  Now,” he turned to the rest of the gathered dwarrows.  “We leave here at nightfall.  Then once we have the weapons, we head for Erebor.” 

Erebor.  The word echoed through the group.  The shining star at the end of this long journey. 

~~~~

Miraculously, fourteen dwarves and a hobbit went unnoticed in the streets of Laketown as we made our way to the armory. 

A fog was rising from the dank canals and spreading over the city, which helped our cause somewhat. 

But nothing could stifle our heavy footfalls and mutters. 

“Shh, keep it down.”  Dwalin hissed at Bombur as we hid along the side of the armory while waiting for the pair of guards to wander away on the other side of the canal.

“As soon as we have the weapons, we’ll make straight for the mountain.  We cannot delay any longer.”  Thorin muttered, giving Nori the nod as the guards disappeared from sight.  “Go, go, go.” 

The dwarf clambered up the backs of the company, using them as human stairs to get high enough to slip through the window.  And, just as he’d told us earlier, Dwalin was on the bottom, giving Fili a boost to act as the last stair.

Once he was through, Thorin nodded to Bilbo.  “Next.” 

The hobbit repeated the maneuver, awkwardly springboarding off the dwarrows to haul himself through the window. 

“Bofur.  Then Kili.  Then me.”  Thorin directed, then turned to me.  “You stay down here with the rest.  Keep an eye out for the guards.” 

“Okay,” I nodded, “but are you sure about Kili?  He’s got a wounded leg, remember?”  I watched as Kili practically crawled up the last ‘step’ and had his brother practically shove him through the window.  Thorin didn’t even turn around to see it. 

“He’s fine, Estel.  Kili’s gotten himself scraped up more times than I can count.  He’s perfectly capable for this.”  Thorin brushed my concerns off with a nostalgic smile and a shake of his head before he made his own ascent and forced himself through the small window.

Well, I couldn’t say I didn’t warn the dwarrow, but regardless, I hoped he was right. 

With Thorin safely inside the armory, the rest of the company disentangled themselves and stood warily alongside the building. 

“Did Nori mention the best way out of here?”  I voiced the thought that struck me suddenly.  “I know he said they were coming out that door at the bottom, but where are we going from there?” 

I looked around at the rest of the dwarrows.  It wasn’t like we were going to be inconspicuous with our newfound weaponry. 

“To the mountain, of course.”  Dori whispered, and I tried not to roll my eyes. 

“Yes, I know that part.  I was talking about how fourteen dwarves all carrying swords are going to sneak through Laketown without being noticed.” 

“We’ll manage.  It won’t be the first time for---”  Balin’s calm reassurance was interrupted by an ear-splitting crash from within the armory. 

We all stared at each other in horror for a moment before the sound of approaching footsteps sent us scrambling. 

Thorin.  I had a split second to worry before all hell broke loose.

“Run!”  Dori yelped, only to stop short when a guard came around the corner and put a pike to his throat. 

“Halt!”  He barked, motioning over his shoulder and drawing more guards over to us. 

“Keep yer head down an’ stay close.”  Dwalin hissed under his breath to me as we were pushed forward. 

I nodded once, watching as Fili maneuvered himself to flank me as the guards marched us around the corner and past the wagon we had all hidden behind a few minutes ago.  The armory door was ajar and the guards stopped us from going any further. 

One left us, peering through the door.  “We’ve got a group of the dwarves here, Davrel.  I assume they’re the companions of yours.” 

I rose up on my toes, trying to see past him into the building.  There had been no noise of a struggle once we had been apprehended, so I assumed there had been no choice but peaceful surrender. 

“Git down.”  Dwalin growled, catching sight of me trying to peer around him.  He twisted slightly so he could grab my shoulder and shove me back down. 

“Keep quiet!  Another word and I’ll be seeing which of you can swim.”  One of the other men who surrounded us threatened, looking directly at me. 

I looked away quickly, trying to subtly hide myself behind one of the larger dwarrows as my heart began to pound. 

Almost instantly, I found my mind wandering to what would happen if they found out I was a woman.  What they would do differently to me. 

The existence of dwarrowdames was a very closely guarded secret.  It had become apparent to me very quickly that they—I should say we—were rare.  And then Thorin had explained further the status given to their womenfolk because of that.  That we were treasured and were to be protected at all costs.

So for a human man to learn what I was….I had heard too many stories about the curiosity of men about women. 

A shudder went down my spine, and I suddenly found myself grateful that I’d had the foresight to change back into my original outfit before we left Bard’s house.  The skirt would have been a dead give-away as to my sex.  Not that there weren’t other obvious things about me that screamed ’female’.

While lost in my thoughts, I didn’t see the quick, subtle hand motions Dwalin made to the rest of the group, catching the eyes of those who didn’t see to make sure they did. 

Don’t let them know E. is woman.

A commotion in the armory had us all watching as the rest of our group was led out at swordpoint.  I restrained myself from trying to catch the first glimpse of Thorin, allowing myself to be shielded behind Dwalin as they were herded into our midst.

“Think that’s all of them?”  The last man out of the building asked to the guard who was leaning against the doorframe. 

He shrugged his shoulders, spitting onto the wooden walkway.  “Looks to be.  Sure are plenty of them.”

“Aye.  Won’t make the Master happy at all…”  He dropped his voice, the rest of his sentence unintelligible.  The other one grimaced, straightening up and grabbing hold of his pike.  “Move along, now!”  He ordered, and we were funneled down the boardwalk.

Dwalin was almost immediately grabbed by one of the guards, who kept a tight hold on his arm as if they expected him to make a fuss.  I drew back, trying to keep hidden in the middle of the crush. 

Fili had moved up in the group, arm wrapped around Kili, who was limping.  Obviously, his wound wasn’t just a mere scrape like Thorin had tried to play it off as. 

The further into the city we went, the more people were gathered.  Whispers followed us as we were led straight into the heart of the floating city.  Speculations as to who we were and what we were doing. 

And then, we were shoved through the crowd and before a towering building that loomed imposingly over the town and its occupants.

I was given a push that sent me stumbling, almost tripping over the uneven planks.  Strong hands caught me, steadying me against a familiar broad figure.  But just as quickly, Thorin released me, shooting a glare over at a man who I guessed had pushed me. 

“Thorin—”  I whispered, but he shook his head. 

“They cannot know what you are.  Stay silent and beside anyone but me.”  He murmured quickly, taking a step away from me and allowing Dwalin to take his place. 

I shivered as his warmth retreated.  Snowflakes were falling gently from the sky, heralding the beginnings of winter.  I didn’t fully understand why I couldn’t be associated with Thorin.  He was obviously trying to keep my sex hidden from our audience, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t stand at his side.

The place where I felt the safest in this town.

“What is the meaning of this?”  A new, irritated voice called out, and all eyes were drawn to the pair of men emerging from the building before us. 

“We caught ‘em stealing weapons, Sire.”  One of the guards spoke.

So this was the Master….This bloated, overfed man who so obviously rung this town dry of anything it could produce. 

“Ah!  Enemies of the state, huh?”  He peered out at us, pulling his fur-trimmed robe closer around him as a gust of wind blew through the square.

“A desperate bunch of mercenaries, if ever there was, Sire.”  The second man spoke in a drawl, prowling out from behind the Master like a cat.

Dwalin bristled.  “Hold your tongue!”  He strode forward, drawing all eyes onto him.  “You do not know to whom you speak.  This is no common criminal.  This is Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror!”  He introduced his friend as though we had reclaimed Erebor and ruled from it.  The names of Thorin’s forefathers rang in the crisp air.

Murmurs erupted from the crowd as Dwalin said the last one.

As I stood, watching Dwalin defend my husband, Thorin stepped past me, coming to join him in the middle of the circle.  Passing by his friend, Thorin inclined his head, exchanging a look before facing the Master. 

“We are the dwarves of Erebor.  We have come to reclaim our homeland.”  His deep baritone thrummed through the square, prompting a whole new round of excited mutters from the crowd.

Butterflies erupted in my stomach upon hearing those words spoken aloud for the first time.  Suddenly, everything seemed…real.  Like until this moment, this entire journey—and what we were planning to accomplish—didn’t exist. 

Thorin began walking, locking eyes with members of the crowd.  “I remember this town in the great days of old.  Fleets of boats lay at harbour, filled with silks and fine gems.  This was no forsaken town on a lake.  This was the center of all trade in the north!

“I would see those days return.  I would relight the great forges of the dwarves and send wealth and riches flowing once more from the halls of Erebor!”

The crowd cheered around us, and I watched as the Master exchanged a look with his black-robed companion.  But they were forgotten by all as Thorin gave the crowd hope for their future.

This.  This was who he was meant to be.  It was so easy for me to see how comfortable Thorin was in this situation.  The ease with which he spoke to these people who struggled to eke out their existence. 

He was no princeling brought up on tales of grandeur and riches.  He had fought tooth and nail to earn his position and do right by his people.  He had walked miles in the same shoes as these folk.  Thorin had always chosen the hard path over the easy. 

That is what earned the respect of these people around us.  Why they so easily warmed to him.  They recognized the kindred soul who understood their hardships.  Who was so different from their current leader who leeched off their hard labour for his gain.

Thorin met my eyes as I watched him from behind Gloin.  He smiled minutely, not giving away any hints to those around us who might be watching.

“Death!  That is what you’ll bring upon us!”  Bard’s voice rang through the air, and he shoved his way through the crowd, passing by me and stopping in front of Thorin.  “Dragonfire and ruin.  If you awaken that beast, it will destroy us all.”

Thorin stared him down for a heartbeat before he turned slowly back to the crowd.  “You can listen to this naysayer, but I promise you this; if we succeed all will share in the wealth of the mountain.” 

He was unruffled; confident in the crowd’s reaction to his words.  But there was still the oliphant in the room.

If.  The word we treaded so carefully upon.

“You will have enough gold to rebuild Esgaroth ten times over!”  Thorin boomed, and the crowd erupted again into cheers.

Balin leaned over to whisper in my ear, unable to keep from smiling.  “Laddie’s in his element now.”

“It’s in his blood.”  I murmured back.

Bard turned to look at the crowd, casting his gaze over them with furrowed brow.  Like he didn’t understand why Thorin’s promises were so well received. 

How could they not?  This was something straight out of a fairy tale—a king returning to reclaim his stronghold and the riches within.  I was willing to bet this was the first glimpse of hope these people had seen in a long while.

“All of you!”  Bard entreated.  “Listen to me, you must listen!  Have you forgotten what happened to Dale?  Have you forgotten those who died in the firestorm?  And for what purpose?” 

Women began to shake their heads, gazes cast down to the ground.  The men looked staunchly ahead; reliving the tales that had been passed down from their fathers.

Bard swung about to look back at Thorin.  “The blind ambition of a Mountain King, so driven by greed, he could not see beyond his own desire!” 

Thorin’s sapphire eyes turned ice cold; his jaw set as if he couldn’t trust himself not to speak out. 

The Master cleared his throat, reminding us all that he still existed and was watching this whole exchange.  “Now, now.  We must not, any of us, be too quick to lay blame.”  He shook his finger like he was telling off a naughty child.  “Let us not forget, that it was Girion, Lord of Dale, your ancestor, who failed to kill the beast!” 

“That’s the pot callin’ the kettle black, right there.”  Gloin muttered to Dori, who nodded. 

“Aye, he’s just as much at fault.”

Beside the Master, his lackey nodded sagely.  “It’s true, Sire.  We all know the story.  Arrow after arrow, he shot.  Each one missing its mark.”  He tsked sadly, managing to not look sorry at all while doing so.

“You have no right.  No right to enter that mountain.”  Bard’s voice was quiet as he looked down on Thorin.

Mutters ran through the dwarves.  I bit my lip, silently disagreeing with his words.  He did not understand what we had all gone through in order to reach this point.  What we had fought or outrun.  What demons we had battled in our minds.

And that was only on this quest.  What I knew about the fall of Erebor and all that happened afterwards only scratched the surface of what really went down.  The struggles that each and every one of these dwarves had faced.  How they had suffered and struggled to make a living hundreds of miles from where they had been born and raised.  I could never truly understand, having not been there that day.

Thorin met his gaze easily.  “I have the only right.”  He murmured, turning away from the man to address the Master.  “I speak to the Master of the men of the lake.  Will you see the prophecy fulfilled?  Will you share in the great wealth of our people?”

I fully expected the greed of the man to present itself instantly.  How could he turn away such riches?  But he hesitated, and my heart dipped in my chest. 

Thorin asked him again, voice deepening into a command.  “What say you?”

“I say, unto you….”  The Master swallowed hard before throwing his hands out wide, “welcome!  Welcome and rise!  Welcome, King Under the Mountain!” 

The crowd erupted into cheers.  Bard was the only person who seemed disappointed that the Master approved of Thorin.  He stood with his back to me so I couldn’t see his expression, but he certainly wasn’t cheering with the rest of the townsfolk. 

“Come!  Join me in celebrating your return and continued success on your journey!”  The Master invited, grinning broadly.  “Dine at my table before you set out for the mountain.” 

We all exchanged looks.  Balin shrugged.  “I’ve never been one to turn down a good meal, particularly now.”

“Probably a good bit of ale, too.”  Bofur chimed in, and with that, we filed up the stairs and into the Master’s house.

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[ravnarieldurin]

Hmmm...I wonder why this sounds familiar 😜

(Shameless plug for my new fanfic ~ The Hobbit: Fire's Revenge)

Still in the beginning chapters, but many more coming! 😁

#1986 Despite I find dwarvish women cute, I just can’t imagine Thorin (or Kili/Fili) with one. Thorin’s woman absolutely must be a tiny skinny long-haired girl. Just imagine a bear-like huge man wrapping his huge  arms of destructive power around a pale slender fairy with a waterfall of beautiful hair falling down. Doesn’t such a contrast get you worked up?