Armitage Summer Splash Prompt: Picture Above, “We have all the time in the world”
Summary: Coronation and wedding to Thorin
A/N: I feel that I should warn you that as of today I am taking a Medieval England history class over summer quarter so…prepare yourselves for that (not some much with Thorin but others) summer quarter is also really intense bc its the full course in half the time (and i have 3 classes) so these are probably gonna be short fluffy sweet escapism
Warnings: hella fluffy
Word Count: 1242
You stared at yourself in the mirror, seeing the ornate deep blue dress representing the Durin family color with white fur cape representing your world’s white dress tradition. Dis stood behind you styling your hair, leaving strands on each side of your face free for the upcoming wedding braid and Durin family braid, along with making sure the top of your head was prepared for the crown that would sit there.
Armitage Summer Splash Prompt: Only one bed & “I never knew it’d be like this”
Summary: While in Rivendell there were not quite enough beds for company in the little suite they gave the company. Not wanting to bother the elves and ask for another you decided to just share.
Warnings: drinking
Word Count: 2032
Rivendell was the most beautiful place you had ever been. Everywhere you looked was filled with breathtaking views, grand architecture, and beautiful artwork. It was stunning and the elves were kind despite the dwarves’ constant grumbling. Every elf you saw was elegantly playing music or discussing high philosophy. It seemed like an excellent place to live. As a peasant however, your dirty brown clothes and crass uneducated behavior made you feel like a fish out of water. Having all the dwarves nearby helped immensely. Some like Balin and Thorin were raised to be proper and noble; you never felt lesser talking to them. The same could certainly not be said for the elves, they were kind yes, but also very full of themselves. You were starting to understand what Thorin had been grumbling about, especially after Bofur started his song.
✨ Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Mista (Dwarf OFC)
✨ Rating: T (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 crossposted on AO3 (search for lathalea).
✨ A/N: Thank you, my lovely readers, for your patience and support! Thanks to your kind words I managed to finish this chapter sooner than expected, and another one is being written
Traditionally, a big THANK YOU goes to @legolasbadass for betaing this little monster and forgiving me for... writing things :) 💙💙💙
✨ Khuzdul:
Uzrak - Master, an honorary title given to masters of craft (miners, jewellers, smiths, and so on)
Tharkûn - Gandalf’s name in Khuzdul
Sig-ad-ad - grampa, a child’s way of saying “sigin’adad” (grandfather)
Mugrelê - “my best bear”, term of endearment
‘Arisê - “my spark”, term of endearment
Nan’ith - little/young sister
Nadad - brother
Iglishmêk - the dwarven sign language
Nungbâha - “lovable idiot”, term of endearment
Zabdûna - Queen
‘Urdêk - the local name for ‘the Lonely Mountain’
✨ Entangled Masterlist
In his arms, she felt like a dream beyond all dreams. More than a dream. She was real.
“Is it true what they say?” She lowered her gaze, her long eyelashes kissing the fair skin of her perfectly sculpted cheeks, and adorning them with a lace woven of shadow. Her golden hair, sprinkled with gems and fresh mountain flowers, seemed to glow like fire in candlelight, surrounding him with an enthralling, sweet scent. No words in the world could fully describe her beauty.
“Pray tell me, My Lady, what do they say?” he murmured, taking another turn to the sound of music.
“The rumour has it that you are the Prince of the Longbeards, the Heir of Durin.” Her voice was as bright and hopeful as the first snowdrops in spring, and her sparkling blue eyes made him think of those cobalt lakes he passed by on the way to Gabilgathol. Thorin yearned to drown in them. Forever.
“And what if I am?” His lip curled up in a half-smile that infallibly charmed many a lady in the past. But none of them was as alluring as this Lady of the Firebeard clan.
Before replying, she made a graceful step back, a slight bow and a turn, at the exact moment all the other dancing Dwarf-women did. After that, it was time for him to repeat the dance figure, and when she finally returned into his arms, her perfectly curved lips formed a lovely smile meant only for him. Thorin felt as if he were floating among the clouds.
“Then I am the luckiest woman in the whole world,” she admitted breathlessly. “I have never danced with a prince before, Your Highness.”
“Then I shall give you plenty of opportunities to do so for as long as you wish, My Lady.” He pressed his lips on the back of her palm as soon as the dance ended. He cared not about how bold this gesture was, nor how many eyes were set on the two of them at that very moment. He did not wish to part from her, the Gem of Gabilgathol, as she was called among her people.
When she gave him a modest nod and whispered a wish to dance the whole night away with him, Thorin felt like the happiest Dwarf in the whole of Arda. And when she lifted her eyes at him again, this time he drowned in her cobalt gaze for good, and they danced, and danced, until the stars paled.
Thorin woke up with a gasp. That cursed dream again. Those eyes…
Once again, he tried to banish these images from existence for good, along with all the other memories that followed, and once again, he failed. Swiftly — too swiftly — he rose from his bed. His body protested, sending a sharp jab of pain through his left shoulder. Thorin groaned. It was an old injury, a memento of the Battle of Azanulbizar. A different time… He was not that young, idealistic princeling any longer, but the king of a great dwarven realm. Today, he had vastly different battles to face.
With the winter months almost upon the Lonely Mountain, countless issues demanded Thorin’s attention. Sturdy homes, more food, and resources had to be secured for all of his people, including the newcomers. And more of them were expected, if the reports from the southernmost spurs of the Misty Mountains were to be believed. The latest news about Orc attacks that came with Uzrak Hrothgar and his people did not bode well. The Kingdom needed more warriors to protect it, and they required weapons. In addition, the Stone Masters demanded more equipment, and then there were the mines to think of, and, after the previous day’s tremors, the reinforcement of the structural integrity of the Forges was a priority as well.
Thorin hissed, pulling on a fresh shirt. His shoulder again. He should train more often; it helped him in the past, he reminded himself, and returned to the matters at hand. All those tasks might sound quite mundane to some, but he most definitely preferred tackling such problems over fighting dragons or following a meddling wizard. As much as he felt pride at the fact that he and his Company managed to reclaim the Kingdom Under the Mountain, some feats were of the “one of a kind” variety, and Thorin would rather not repeat them. Besides, all those hardships (or, as his people insisted, “heroic deeds”), including the final Battle of the Five Armies, made him understand that he was not a young Dwarf any longer. His aching shoulder was a constant reminder of that. Of course, Thorin was not an aged greybeard either. On the contrary, he felt full of energy. Now, however, the wellbeing of his people and the prosperity of his kingdom were his main goals. As the wise Dagur Sture wrote in one of his treaties:
An epic victory is the mark of a valiant king, but the true greatness of a ruler is found where the people are happy, and their bellies are full.
Somehow, this quote appeared in his mind, spoken in his Grandfather’s throaty voice many a year ago. Now, Thorin strived to be a good king, as close to Dagur Sture’s unapproachable ideal as he could, just like his Grandfather Thrór had endeavoured. There was only one difference — Thorin would not follow in his Grandfather’s footsteps until the very end. When Thorin’s great trial came, and the foul dragon magic cast a shadow on his mind, he had stumbled, yet he had never truly yielded. Those dark days that happened almost exactly a year ago lay heavy on his heart, but he found quiet pride in the fact that he prevailed and emerged victorious against all odds.
After the Battle of the Five Armies, a new era for Durin’s Folk began. As the King Under the Mountain, Thorin was determined to rebuild the realm of his ancestors and leave a worthy legacy behind: a bright future for his kingdom. It also entailed securing the future of the direct line of Durin, as his advisors kept on reminding him ever so often — and so did the Mountain. She was growing increasingly capricious of late, and Thorin understood why. As he had told Lady Mista the day before, the Mountain longed for more dwarves living in her depths, as it had been before the vile Smaug came. That, however, was only a part of what he heard whenever he touched its ancient rock. The Mountain wanted a strong line of Durin — Thorin felt her restless thrumming, urging him for an heir. She waited for a child of his blood who would sit on the Throne Under the Mountain after him, and care for the Kingdom along with the next generation of his people, just like Thorin did, his Grandfather before him, and their countless ancestors before them.
A faint childhood memory surfaced in his mind.
King Thrór sits on the monumental throne, the Arkenstone glowing above his head. The jewels in the King’s beard glint as he waves his hand.
In response, Little Thorin stretches out his short arms towards him.
“Sig-ad-ad!” he gurgles happily.
His Grandfather chuckles.
Thorin hears Grandmother Urtha’s soft voice somewhere above his head, her strong arms holding him securely as he wiggles in excitement.
“He wanted to see you, Mugrelê,” she laughs.
Grandmother is the one who carries him along the walkway of the throne room and places her grandson in her husband’s lap.
“Thank you, ‘Arisê. This is my favourite audience of the day,” chuckles Thorin’s grandfather, gently wrapping his arm around the boy.
Thorin giggles and claps his hands in clear approval. Then, he places one of his chubby little palms on the green-streaked stone armrest of the throne. His Grandfather hums in approval, and gently covers the pebble’s tiny hand with his large, weathered one.
“Say hello to the Mountain,” King Thrór whispers, his bushy moustache tickling Thorin’s ear.
“Hel-oo!” Little Thorin feels the pleasant tingling of stone against his skin and giggles, kicking his legs with joy.
The Mountain hums gladly all around him, and somehow within him too, and that makes Thorin even happier. His giggling echoes against the stone walls, reaching the darkest depths of the Mountain and staying there for a very long time.
Only after returning to the Mountain did Thorin feel the same kind of joy again; the good old reassuring song of stone echoed in his mind once again. It hummed inside him every day, but recently it had taken on more insistent tones. It should not have been a surprise to Thorin; he was now almost the same age as King Thrór was when Thorin, his grandson, was born. But the similarities ended there. Thorin did not even have a son yet. After helping Dís raise her sons, he was not opposed to becoming a father himself. Deep down, he often wondered how it would have been to have a child of his own; to see them grow. If only the woman he had once hoped to become the mother of his children was not lost to him for good…
Leaving his chambers, Thorin glanced at the adjacent door that led directly to the Queen’s bedchamber. Lady Mista. When he saw her for the first time following her arrival at the Lonely Mountain, one word came to his mind. Plain. Far from the statuesque figure of a queen one might imagine. There was no studied grace in her movements, and her bearing proved to be humble rather than regal. Thorin had to admit that he had yet to find a memorable trait about his lady wife. Her face would easily blend into a crowd on a market day. Her hair was soft brown and long, a far cry from the glowing cascades of gold from his dreams. Her eyes did not resemble the cobalt waters of faraway mountain lakes — to be honest, Thorin could not quite recall their colour. The only thing he remembered about her eyes was how expressive they were, and how vulnerable Mista looked with her oval-shaped glasses set on top of her button nose. It gave her the demeanour of a young, innocent lass, and not of a grown woman, half a century older than Fili.
Besides, Mista was not her.
How many years had passed since he glanced upon the breathtaking countenance of — he almost said her name, the name he strived to forget — the Gem of Gabilgathol for the very last time? As always, Thorin forbade himself to count, but deep down he knew it to be far too long for any Dwarf to dwell upon such memories, to dream of her voice saying his name in those precious secret moments they shared away from the prying eyes of the world, of her fingers playfully braiding his hair under the stars, of the taste of her lips… and of her tears.
Sitting down behind the desk in his study, he scolded himself inwardly for this embarrassing bout of mawkishness. He was far too old for such pointless musings, and yet he could not stop himself. That chapter of his life — a bright spark of hope in those dark years — had ended far too long ago. Yet, ever since he had left Gabilgathol behind, he found himself unable to move forward and bury the past at the bottom of his heart. Some noble ladies expressed their interest in him at one time or another, and there were those who caught his eye during the years that followed as well. But… none of them could compare to her. None of them made his heart sing like she did.
While living in the Blue Mountains, Thorin had often thought that fate parted them, perhaps, for the best. Without a kingdom, he was not pressured to marry. Until two years ago, it seemed that Thorin’s future was settled. He had thought that when the time would come for him to join Mahal’s guard, hopefully of old age, the new halls of the Longbeards in the Blue Mountains would be ruled by Dís and her sons — and then their children. He did not feel compelled to prolong his line. Instead, for years, Thorin had focused on his duties as a leader of his people and on his craft. He had buried his feelings and bittersweet memories deep in his mind, vowing to forget them once and for all.
After that, life felt enough. Almost. When love bloomed between Dís and Vili, he was truly glad for them. And yet, he found himself turning his gaze away from their affectionate gestures, and wondering whether his union with her would have been as happy as theirs. When Fili and then Kili appeared in the world, and later, when Mahal called Vili to his side, Thorin gained a taste of what fatherhood would have been like had he married and sired progeny. For far too long, he had been convinced that this path had closed for him years ago. There was no kingdom to rule, no throne to sit on, and no heirs to think of. No legacy.
And then his path crossed with the wizard, Tharkûn, in Bree on that fateful day.
When Thorin came to in a field tent after the Battle of the Five Armies, a realisation came upon him. He became the King in truth, not only in name. Apart from other honours and duties, countless riches were at his disposal. If only that wealth had been within his grasp sooner… but time was an unrelenting master. As the King Under the Mountain, Thorin found himself able to obtain nearly every single thing in the world, except for the one he had truly yearned for so many years before. And so the half-forgotten dreams returned to torment him, sowing seeds of reluctance every time his advisors raised the issue of his royal marriage and the urgent need for an heir to the throne. Thorin was painfully aware that his actions were those of a fool who hoped for the impossible to happen. His folly endangered the future of the Kingdom he reclaimed for his people.
The path that lay before him was clear: Thorin had to conquer this embarrassing weakness. The first step on that path was taking a spouse able to bear children. He left the choice of the most suitable candidate to Dís and Balin. Now, he had a lady wife, and his people had a queen. That left him with only one duty to fulfil.
Begetting an heir.
Bedding the lady he married and not…
Mahal, his thoughts were running in circles.
Thorin had barely noticed when the door to his study creaked open, and Ranul approached his desk with a breakfast tray. The smell of food made his stomach growl. As soon as he thanked his manservant, Thorin began eating, barely noticing when the Dwarf left the chamber. He commenced the frontal attack on his third egg and then sank his teeth into the second freshly baked bread roll with fervour when a familiar rapping sounded against his door.
“Come in,” he muttered between the bites. Those bread rolls with crunchy seeds were almost to die for.
“Mmmm, breakfast?” A Dwarf-woman appeared by the door, her dark hair gathered in a thick braid around her head.
“Good morning to you too, Nan’ith!” Thorin took a sip of water as she entered.
“It smells delicious! Can I have a bite of that egg?” Dís peeked at his plate hopefully.
“No.”
“What about that ham?”
Surrender was not an option. Not when it came to those perfectly fried, mouthwatering slices of ham.
“Shall I ring for a breakfast tray for you?” he grunted.
Dís chuckled, “I have already eaten, but just looking at your food makes me hungry again!”
She reached out, most probably in an attempt to snatch a piece of creamy cheese, but Thorin, always vigilant, swatted her hand away.
“Shoo, you starveling! Find your own food!”
“Well, well, well, someone is very territorial about their breakfast!” Dís grinned.
“It is worth it. Every bite of it,” Thorin admitted.
“Mista will be glad to hear it.”
“Mista?” he almost choked on a bite of honey-glazed carrot. To his surprise, Thorin recently discovered that he liked them.
“Yes, Mista. Who else?” Dís raised her eyebrow.
“What does she have to do with my breakfast?”
Dís sighed, “Who do you think prepares it for you?”
“I thought perhaps that Bombur hired a new cook.”
“You thought? But never asked?”
“Why? The food is good.” Thorin shrugged and attacked the last egg on his plate. “It was not perfect in the beginning, but now… I told Ranul to send my compliments to the cook. Why are you rolling your eyes, Dís?”
“It is interesting how that new cook just happened to appear exactly after you got married, and happened to know that your favourite breakfast was six eggs and ham right away, just the way you like it…” she mused, as if to herself.
“Lady Mista could have learned of it and told the cooks what to prepare.”
“For almost two months she has been cooking your breakfasts, you cave mole!”
Thorin stared at his sister.
“Why would she do that? Is she not busy with the newcomers and—leave that cheese alone, Dís!—was she not opening the new infirmary? At the last council meeting, she could hardly keep her eyes open.”
“Waking up much too early to prepare breakfast for your husband will do that to you,” Dís groaned.
“Has Lady Mista truly…” Thorin began.
“Lady Mista? You have been married for, what, over two months now, and you are still calling her Lady Mista?” Dís rolled her eyes.
Thorin cleared his throat.
“It is a way of showing her due respect.”
“I know a way that is even more fitting. How about you spend some time with your lady wife?”
With a heavy sigh, Thorin put his empty plate aside.
“Why did you come here, Dís? To cause me indigestion?”
“Hardly. I wanted to share a rumour with you. The members of the royal staff are talking…”
“Let them talk. You know very well how much I care for rumours.”
“The word is that the royal marriage has not been consummated yet.”
Thorin found himself staring at his fisted hand, crumpled up pieces of parchment sticking out between his fingers.
“My marriage is not their business.”
“It is, if it becomes annulled,” Dís objected. “If the royal couple does not consummate their marriage on time, that means one of them deems their spouse unworthy. And if that spouse happens to be a lady of one of the most influential houses of the Broadbeam clan…”
“I am aware of the marriage contract I signed, and of its political repercussions,” Thorin grunted.
“Good, because I was beginning to worry that you had an early onset of senility and forgot.”
“How could I forget those endless meetings with you, Balin, and the Lineage Masters? The ones when I was being harassed about the importance of finding a well-born wife and siring an heir with her as swiftly as possible?” He raised his voice.
“Ah, yes, I still remember those tantrums of yours.” Dís pointed a finger at him. “Half of the Mountain heard how you refused to be a ‘studhorse’ and a ‘pawn’ with no possibility of having a private life. The other half probably still hears the echoes of your roars when you accused us of denying you a modicum of happiness. In case you wish to repeat it, let me remind you: you are not the only one whose marriage was arranged! I had to go through it, and I survived, so don’t you tell me that you are weaker than an average Dwarf-woman!”
Thorin sneered, clenching and unclenching his fists. He was very well aware of what Dís was doing; he refused to take this blatant bait.
“I can assure you, sister dear,” he poured venom into his words, “that I treat this marriage contract with utmost importance. And so does Lady Mista.”
“Does she now?” Dís cooed softly, but her brow was still furrowed.
“She does. We both have the same outlook on this… relationship. She is a tradeswoman and understands this marriage for what it truly is: a business transaction. A duty — first and foremost.”
“Is that what she told you?”
“For Mahal’s sake, Dís!” Thorin raised his voice again, tightening his parchment-wielding fist. “We are rebuilding the Kingdom, this is hardly the time for frivolities!”
“Is this what you are planning to tell the lords in two weeks when they convene to assess the fulfillment of your marriage contract, Nadad?”
Two weeks. Those words hit him like an anvil.
Only two weeks. He must have lost track of time. It was much too soon for Thorin’s taste.
“Pray, do not worry about it. The matter lies safely in my hands,” he stated firmly.
Dís sighed. “Thorin, would you like to know where I found Mista the other day?”
“I gather that I am expected to say ‘yes’?” Thorin made sure to imbue his words with derision.
Dís sighed again. “She was in the royal nursery. Alone. Crying.”
The crumbled ball of parchment rolled down from the desk and fell onto the floor.
“What are you saying, Dís?”
“Only this, and nothing more, Thorin. Do what you will with that knowledge. Simply remember that…” she paused, and then added more softly, “she has feelings too, brother. I know you are capable of empathy.”
“And that is precisely why I do not wish to be yet another brute of a husband forcing himself upon a lady he barely knows.”
“Ah. So that’s where the shoe pinches,” His sister drummed her fingers against the desk.
“And what is that supposed to mean, sister dear?” Thorin retaliated, folding his arms on his chest.
“That you are still stuck in the past. Forgive me, Thorin, but how many years has it been…? Ninety? More?” Dís mirrored his gesture. “For all we know, lady…”
“Don’t,” he barked. “That has nothing to do with my marriage, Dís.”
His sister sighed.
“Is your overgrown sense of honour bothering you again?”
Thorin refused to grace her with a response.
“If you are under the impression that you may be dishonoring your… past acquaintance,” she continued, “consider this: does clinging to old memories not dishonor your new wife?”
Thorin fumed.
“She… It was not an acquaintance and you know it very well!” He glared at Dís, her eyes narrowed. She was there when it all happened. She remembered.
“I also know that it ended.” Her words slashed him like daggers. “And how.”
“Enough!” Thorin slammed his fist against the table, the silverware clinking in protest. He was not certain what angered him the most: Dís for reopening the old wounds or the fact that she fenced with words better than a dwarf warrior with a sword. Either way, now she had him cornered.
“Exactly, brother: enough!” Dís let her hand cut through the air like a steel blade. “You are not the only one who lost someone dear! But none of us has the luxury of grieving the past forever! Life goes on!”
Thorin could not believe his ears.
“At least you had the luxury of being married to that someone!” He rose from his chair, facing his sister, who mirrored his movements. Now, they glared at each other with the same fire in their eyes, none of them willing to budge.
“You have the luxury of being married to a smart, capable woman, and yet you ignore it!” Dís was the first to attack.
“I shall not repeat myself: I know full well what I am doing!” Thorin parried.
“Do you?!” She yelled.
“I do!” He roared.
“Then enlighten me, Thorin!” she demanded, her fists resting over her hips. “Do you wish to continue this marriage, or shall we ask the Law Masters to begin drafting an annulment?”
Thorin looked away, his gaze falling on his empty breakfast plate with a handful of breadcrumbs scattered across it in some undecipherable pattern. He felt his sister’s eyes piercing a hole in his head, just like her words did with his conscience. Deep down, through the haze of his flaring temper, he knew that Dís meant well. Her punches were brutal, exactly like the truth they uncovered.
“We both know an annulment is out of the question!” He raised his shield.
“Then what is stopping you?” she relented, searching for a crack in his armour. “Why are you jeopardizing both our relations with Tumunzahar and the relationship with your wife?”
In order to jeopardize a relationship, you first need to have one, Thorin wanted to say, but he thought better of it. That was exactly what Dís wanted to hear.
“I am not jeopardizing anything! I am giving her time.” Thorin hissed, trying to sound as if he believed in his words.
His attempt did not fool Dís. She snorted.
“Be honest with me — and with yourself, Thorin. If you find Mista, well, unsatisfactory, there is no need to drag it out further. There will be a price to pay, but I’ll help you. Let us simply quickly finish this farce, for your and her sake!”
An image from the previous evening appeared in his mind. Lady Mista. Thorin had to admit that although she was not a great beauty, something within him stirred at the way she looked in that elegant green gown. He recalled the way her bespectacled eyes widened in fear as the first tremors came, and the way her plump lips quivered; and then she clung to him as if he were a raft on a great stormy sea and she — a castaway; and the way she felt in his arms, so soft and vulnerable, the way her silky braids felt under his fingertips, and that bright fruity scent which surrounded her… it all made him see her not only as a business partner, but as woman of flesh and blood. And he did not know what to think of it. To be honest, thinking about such things irritated him. He was a seasoned warrior, not an overly affectionate youth.
Then, he recalled the moment when both Mista’s and his palms were placed against the rock of the Mountain, and he heard her song, the Mountain’s powerful thrumming telling him to act, urging him to hew out an heir, then and there, and then to place the babe on the Throne, marking him as the future King, like the countless generations of his ancestors did before him. Thorin remembered the way he recoiled from the Mountain’s urge that, for a blink of an eye, overwhelmed his senses, like an avalanche. He recalled the surprise on Lady Mista’s face afterwards, the way she bit her lip, and that fading spark in her eyes that almost made him… made him…
“I do not find her unsatisfactory,” he heard himself say, his words almost a whisper, surprising both himself and his sister.
“Are you certain, Nadad?” she tilted her head. “Because if you…”
“Dís. I. Am. Certain.” He uttered after a brief pause, raising his gaze to meet hers. “I know what to do. And now, you must forgive me, I have matters to attend to.” He gestured at a pile of parchments on his desk.
His sister snorted.
“Oh no, you will not dismiss me with that ancient trick! Not when the future of the Kingdom and our line is at stake!”
“Do you think I do not know that?! It is on my mind every waking hour!”
“Then stop hiding in the Forges and act!”
Thorin groaned inwardly. So she knew. Of course, she would. Since he was a smooth-cheeked blacksmith’s apprentice, the Forges was the place he would go to whenever his burdens felt too heavy; where the metal sang its clear, sharp song, and where the Mountain hummed in the background like a sated bear at the threshold of winter.
Thorin glared at Dís with one of his intimidating stares, folding his arms over his chest. She pushed her chair back with a screech, clearly immune to his ploy. He expected her to march out of his study, slamming the door behind her. Instead, she stretched out her arm towards him. Her hand covered his forearm and squeezed it gently.
“Thorin…” she spoke more softly this time.
He patted her hand.
A truce.
“Worry not, Dís,” he offered. “I shall do my best.”
She leaned towards him and pecked his cheek.
“I know, nungbâha. You always do.”
***
Thorin’s stubborn shoulder still refused to cooperate, reminding him of its presence with a lingering ache whenever he moved it. Hoping for a short warmup session before the King’s Council meeting, Thorin turned his steps to the training grounds, expecting to see Dwalin, Dori, or any other of his old Company members there, but none of them was present.
Irritated, he wandered aimlessly through the corridors of the Mountain, the recent verbal sparring with Dís still fresh in his mind. Even though he had his course of action staked out even before they had this discussion, something still stopped him from fully committing to his duty, nagging at him like a stone in a boot on the last day of a long journey.
When the bell struck a full hour, it was time for the King Council’s meeting. Thorin’s mood still hung over him like an autumn raincloud, low and heavy. He barely spoke, his thoughts storming his mind in torrents, gnawing at him. As the lords busied themselves discussing various topics, he found himself stealing glimpses of Lady Mista from time to time, as if it could somehow guide him towards a resolution. Thorin took care to avert his gaze when she glanced in his direction. The last thing he wished for was Lady Mista noticing his glances and becoming flustered, as she often did in his presence.
At that moment, his lady wife seemed to be listening intently to the council. Her hair was gathered on the top of her head in a crown of several thick braids, framing her round face. Thorin’s eyes travelled from her thick, dark eyebrows down to her subtly curved lips, now pressed into a thin line as she scribbled something down.
Thorin knew how soft those lips were. He frowned at this uninvited recollection of their wedding day kiss. Even though it had lasted barely a few heartbeats and was intended only for their subjects, that moment apparently still lingered in his mind.
Lady Mista was his wife, yet besides the softness of her lips, he knew barely a handful of facts about her. She appeared to have an affinity for reading ancient tomes, made delicious breakfasts, smelled like an apple orchard in spring… and seemed to be terrified of her own husband. To make matters worse, it was all his doing. Thorin was painfully aware of how he purposefully drowned himself in work since Lady Mista had moved into the Queen’s apartments. Apart from spending barely any time with her, it was difficult to forget that only yesterday, he had let his temper loose at least twice in her presence — first in the Forges, then during their dinner. If his advisors, revered, elderly lords, cowered when he loudly showed his displeasure, it was far from surprising that Lady Mista would react in the same manner. Taking a sip from his goblet, Thorin admonished himself; he ought to be gentler with her. As a delicate lady who had lived her whole life in great luxury, surrounded by sophisticated, courteous lords, Lady Mista probably already saw him as a moody brute. It was most definitely not a fortunate beginning of a marriage — a relationship that was supposed to last for the rest of their lives. Thorin had to admit it: since the moment he braided her hair on the day of their wedding, there was no turning back. He had consciously agreed to take a wife for the sake of his kingdom. His heart was not in it, but when it came to fulfilling one’s duty as a king, the matters of the heart were irrelevant. It could not be any simpler. Now, it was only a matter of acting upon his reasoning. Simple — except for that annoying little stone in a boot.
Deep in his thoughts, Thorin saw Lady Mista leaning towards Dís, who sat beside her, and whispering something. His sister nodded, giving a discreet sign in Iglishmêk to Balin.
“Now.”
Balin cleared his throat.
“The next matter on our agenda shall be presented by Her Majesty the Queen.”
Mista stood up, clutching a piece of parchment in her hand. He noticed the paleness on her face, the stiffness of her posture, but a silent kind of resolve emanated from her stance.
“Thank you, Lord Balin.” She turned to Thorin and then to the whole chamber, “Your Majesty, honourable Lords of the King’s Council. As a solution to some of our most pressing issues that have been mentioned today, I would like to propose a new, highly profitable treaty with the Woodland Realm.”
Thorin felt a few surprised glances cast in his direction; he schooled his face into his usual inscrutable expression and nodded slightly. If certain lords counted on him to demonstrate his very well-known disdain towards certain crown-bearing Elves, and therefore, to this idea, they would be gravely disappointed. After the discussion with Lady Mista on the previous day, Thorin had to admit that, objectively speaking, the proposal made sense. Remembering how his conversation with his lady wife ended, Thorin expected Lady Mista to be hesitant about bringing up her bold idea during this meeting without a solution. For some reason, she had decided otherwise, and that intrigued him.
Several whispers were heard around the council chamber, but no one, not even Lord Galar, voiced their protest aloud. As for Dís… she had a wide smile on her face and a special glint in her eye, like a war ram readying for a battle. Thorin’s eyebrow rose.
“Let us hear it, Your Majesty,” he addressed his lady wife, his curiosity sparked.
Lady Mista began presenting her idea, mentioning the same arguments he had heard on the previous day. Now, however, she seemed much calmer and more eloquent, confidently replying to the various questions, both obvious and cunning, from around the table. She even managed to throw a little joke at Lord Njall and his great love of coin that, surprisingly, was met with a sincere burst of laughter from his side. Thorin, too, found himself unable to stifle a chuckle.
“Allow me to admit, Your Majesty,” the chancellor, Lord Bori, said, “that I find this idea quite interesting. May I ask who would be conducting the negotiations with the Woodland Realm on our behalf?”
Thorin made a conscious effort not to grunt irritably. Of course, all of the council members knew his sentiment towards Thranduil, or rather, lack thereof. It was hardly surprising that the decorous Lord Bori worried that the negotiations would be broken off at the very first meeting with Thranduil due to Thorin’s temper. Judging from the look on Balin’s face, the chancellor was not the only one to have such thoughts. Thorin decided not to ruin the surprise.
“As His Majesty’s schedule will not allow him to participate personally, Princess Dís has kindly offered to join me at the negotiation table,” Lady Mista’s voice wavered almost imperceptibly, and Thorin caught her casting an uncertain glance at him. He nodded approvingly, as a demonstration to the council members. Unwilling to show his bafflement, he schooled his face into an expressionless mask yet again. Quite a few years have passed since Dís dabbled in politics. Such a declaration from her was far from unwelcome, but Thorin had reservations about its manner. He had agreed to Lady Mista’s idea under one condition: Lady Mista’s safety. If Dís thought that he would agree to both his wife and his sister travelling into the dangers of Mirkwood, the latter was gravely mistaken.
Another wave of whispers rippled through the chamber, and Lord Bori asked a subsequent question, but deep in his thoughts, Thorin did not care to listen. Lady Mista’s reply, however, instantly brought him out of his musings.
“On the contrary. As King Thranduil is to visit King Bard in Dale quite soon,” she began, “we shall use this opportunity to conduct the negotiations there. In case His Majesty’s expertise is needed, we will be close enough to discuss any necessary issues that might arise.”
Check and mate.
Thorin shot a quick glance at Dís. She grinned triumphantly at him. Regardless of who had come up with this clever idea, Thorin was convinced that Dís put it in motion. She would not waste an opportunity to take the starch out of some of the more conservative lords of the council when it came to Dwarf-women.
At that very moment, Lord Galar turned to Thorin.
“This is quite an unorthodox idea, I must say. Our Zabdûna and the Princess conducting the negotiations on their own? And outside of the Mountain? Does this idea truly have your approval, Your Majesty?”
There it was. Before Thorin could reply, Dís interjected.
“Are you implying, My Lord, that two highly experienced Dwarf-women are unable to perform such a feat? Or are you concerned that we might lose our way when traveling to the faraway city of Dale?” Among chuckles and whispers, she gave Lord Galar one of her charmingly predatory smiles. Even Lady Mista, usually composed, had problems maintaining a dignified facade behind her spectacles.
Thorin did his best to conceal his grin. He hadn’t seen this mischievous side of Dís since… for a very long time, and he had to admit to himself that he missed that side of hers. Now, with his sister in her element, this council meeting was becoming more and more amusing. Rising from his high chair, Thorin repressed a pained hiss when his shoulder protested at the sudden movement. Then, he eyed several furrowed brows, Lord Galar’s included.
“Rest assured, Lord Galar, that this matter was discussed in detail between me and Her Majesty. It has my full support,” Thorin spoke in his gravest of tones, his eyes resting on each of the council members in turn. “Since some of you, my lords, may not be aware of the significant experience of my lady wife and my lady sister in such matters, let me reassure you. Both are more than capable of conducting the negotiations on behalf of ‘Urdêk. Any further questions?”
“May we perhaps ponder the possibility of adding another negotiator?” One of the lords asked. “I would like to suggest Lord Glóin, the King’s Pursemaster!”
“Me? I respectfully decline,” Glóin shook his head vigorously. “I have too many matters to attend to as it is.”
Thorin noticed Dís rolling her eyes and whispering something to Lady Mista, who covered the lower part of her face with some parchments. Judging by the tiny wrinkles that bloomed in the corners of her eyes and her barely shaking shoulders, his lady wife was concealing a laugh. He wondered if her lips were now covered with her ringed hand behind those parchments, or would he see her smiling wide and freely if he peeked behind them?
And then their gazes met, and from behind her oval-shaped spectacles, Lady Mista looked straight into his eyes and gave him a small smile. This time, Thorin did not look away.
“What about Lord Hafnar?” A voice from across the table offered, making Thorin turn his attention back to the meeting.
“You must be jesting!” Master Yagrun pulled at his wheat-coloured beard.
“Aye, Lord Bjarne would do a better job than that fancy-pants youngster!”
“Over my dead body! Master Mundr and no one else! That is my final word!”
Thorin groaned.
“That will do, my lords.”
When the chamber was silent again, he continued. “Two negotiators will be sufficient. Especially since one of them has a rare skill: being fluent in spoken and written Sindarin. Is that correct, Your Majesty?”
Lady Mista blinked with a start, “Why, yes… Indeed, Your Majesty.”
“Splendid,” Thorin replied. “That, I believe, may be our key advantage: the ability to understand what Thranduil and his advisors speak of between themselves.”
It felt good to see Lady Mista’s features soften when he offered her an encouraging smile.
“Now, let us return to the matter at hand,” he continued, “and discuss the main matters to be included in the treaty. My Lady Mista?”
As Thorin addressed his lady wife, she rose again, thanked him, and began speaking, glancing into her notes from time to time, her voice decidedly bolder. While listening to her and observing the reactions around the council table, one thing occurred to him. Even if some of his advisors had had any doubts about Lady Mista’s competence, those would have been reduced by the end of the meeting, like wisps of smoke over a fading fire.
That was when Dís glanced towards him and winked. Almost imperceptibly, Thorin nodded back at her, their morning dispute forgotten for good. He had expected the matter of the trade negotiations to take a lion’s share of time during the meeting, and with a probable outcome of a lesser lord or two being sent to the Woodland Realm for lengthy and inconclusive talks. Now, as the discussions around the table continued, they made Thorin think of a battle. It became obvious that both Lady Mista and Dís managed to gather significant support for this idea. Knowing his sister, she would be ecstatic after cutting some of the traditionalist lords down to size on the account that they would rather suffer the end of the world than see dwarf-women handling high-prestige matters. He wondered how many lords would openly oppose the negotiations after the dust settled. Political charades and squabbles for influence did not amuse Thorin in the slightest, but if his sister and lady wife would continue on their course, he perceived a great deal of amusement for himself during the future council meetings. The moment when the lords understand how much they underestimated those two dwarf-women could not come soon enough. A quiet sense of pride filled him when he thought of them coming up with a solution that he had no other choice but to accept if he wanted to stay true to his word, and at its execution — even if his own pride was slightly bruised in the process. It was a small price to pay for not being forced to look at the pale countenance of that treacherous Mirkwood sprite.
The meeting was coming to an end when Lord Bori said, “Since there are less than three weeks until Durin’s Day, may I ask how the preparations are coming along?”
Thorin swallowed. Durin’s Day. The first Durin’s Day after the Lonely Mountain was reclaimed, and it had completely slipped his mind. He felt as if the ground gave way beneath his feet.
“Quite well, thank you, My Lord,” Lady Mista’s reply was like a gold vein in a forgotten mine shaft. “At this point, we are almost finished and Master Yagrun assures me that we have enough provisions and refreshments for a week of celebrations.”
“That’s correct, Your Majesty!” The Storemaster rose to his feet and offered a detailed account of the current stores.
While Glóin presented the list of planned events and their cost, relief washed over Thorin. He cast a hopeful glance at Lady Mista, but she was engrossed in discussing all the aspects of the upcoming celebrations.
His sister’s words echoed in his mind.
You have the luxury of being married to a smart, capable woman…
Thorin hissed. His damned shoulder again.
Half a bell later, the heavy doors of the council chamber shut behind the last of the lords. Thorin rested his back against his chair, enjoying the silence, his eyes closed. He was about to rise and leave for the training grounds when a little voice reached him.
“Your Majesty?”
Thorin opened his eyes.
“My Lady Mista!” He rose as the courtly manners dictated, looking down at his lady wife. There were few dwarf-women of similar stature in his surroundings, and he still marvelled at their height difference, wondering if she ever felt overwhelmed by the monumental size of his Kingdom’s doorways, staircases and chambers. Did she ever feel that way about him?
Lady Mista wore a modest dark brown gown of a sober, unfrivolous cut. In her hand, she clutched a bundle of parchments, and there was a charcoal writing stick tucked behind her ear. It made him think of a merchant’s daughter working behind a store counter rather than the Queen Under the Mountain.
With a wavering smile, she adjusted her glasses, leaving a small dark smudge on her nose.
“Your Majesty, may I ask whether you are satisfied with my solution to the Mirkwood conundrum?” she said. “Lady Dís assured me that you would gladly approve of it, but it did not feel right to me to surprise you in such a way. I have simply… I could not find you before the council meeting… and I hope you don’t mind…”
“My Lady Mista,” he began softly, determined not to terrify her yet again. “There is no need to worry. I told you that I would support this idea if certain conditions were fulfilled, and they were. All I can say now is to congratulate you on your solution.”
“Thank you, My Lord,” Thorin could have sworn that her cheeks darkened with a blush. “To be honest, I did not expect for the notion to gain approval of the King’s Council.”
“It was not unanimous, but the lords can recognize a clever idea when they see one.” He offered Lady Mista an encouraging smile.
She cleared her throat and shuffled her feet.
“It would not have been approved without your support, My Lord. And for that, I am thankful.”
“It is I who should thank you for coming up with it in the first place — and for handling the preparations for Durin's Day,” he paused and added, surprising himself, “to be honest, it completely slipped my mind.”
Lady Mista’s eyes widened, but she quickly composed herself.
“Well… It is not surprising, My Lord, you have a lot on your mind these days. That is why I took the liberty of handling it with the help of Dís — your lady sister — and she is not the only one. So many of your subjects wish for the first Durin’s Day in our reclaimed Kingdom to be a grand celebration!”
“I am very relieved to hear it, My Lady. May I…” he paused, “offer my assistance? On any of those matters…?”
“Thank you. In fact, when it comes to the negotiations with King Thranduil… May I ask… this treaty is such an important undertaking. Do you think, My Lord, that I could succeed?” Lady Mista stumbled over her words, clearly flustered. “I have never conducted this kind of negotiations on such a large scale. Are you not worried that I— that my lack of experience in political matters would influence their outcome?”
Thorin shook his head vehemently.
“Not at all, My Lady!” On an impulse, he took her hand into his and clasped it. “I saw the trade agreements we signed with Dale thanks to you, and your work so far has been truly admirable. And in case of any doubts, you will have my sister to assist you, as well as Balin.”
Lady Mista bit her lower lip, staring at their joined hands. Her delicate skin was pleasantly cool under his touch.
“My Lord… You are too kind. I am aware that I need to learn a lot in this matter. Perhaps, if you could find a moment of your time to discuss the treaty clauses with me… if you felt like it, that is, I would be more than grateful.”
“Consider it done, my lady,” Thorin patted her hand gently before letting it go. “Simply name the day and time and I will be there.”
He heard her whisper, “thank you,” when he reached into the inner pocket of his tunic.
“Lady Mista…” he waited until she lifted her gaze towards him. “May I?”
A frown appeared on her face when she saw a linen handkerchief in his hand. As soon as she nodded, hesitantly, he brought it to her nose and wiped the charcoal smudge off her nose, as gently as he could. Lady Mista’s breath hitched. It was difficult not to notice the way she stiffened for an almost imperceptible moment, blinking nervously, only to relax slightly as he moved his hand away. Her hand reached out towards his, just to freeze halfway, her fingers speckled with charcoal dust.
“Oh…” She blinked, gazing from her lithe hand to the dirty linen fabric.
To Thorin, there was something vaguely familiar about this moment — the handkerchief with his monogram, their hands, the way Lady Mista looked at him from behind her gold-rimmed spectacles — but the feeling disappeared as quickly as it surfaced.
“My apologies,” his voice sounded hoarse in his own ears. “I did not wish to startle you, My Lady. I do not imagine you would wish to appear with a charcoal-stained face before our subjects.”
His clumsy attempt at a jest was met with a little smile that went all the way to her eyes, brightening her gaze.
“You are correct, My Lord. That was… very thoughtful of you,” she lowered her head in appreciation. “Would you— Would you forgive me now? I left my secretary waiting; there is a matter… a meeting I need to attend.”
“Of course. Until later, then,” he replied.
Lady Mista stumbled slightly, “Indeed, My Lord, until later.”
Hurriedly, clutching her parchments by her chest, his lady wife left the chamber — and him — behind. Thorin grunted, sitting back in his chair with resignation. He managed to scare her away yet again.
As he watched her disappear behind the massive door, countless thoughts raced through his mind, but only one surfaced: were Lady Mista’s eyes brown or amber?
Summary: Although Erebor is his once more, Thorin knows there is still a great threat to the peace of Middle Earth. Azog is gone, but another has taken his place and has sworn to finish what Azog began. Erebor is back, but it’s sadly lacking in protection and as much as he hates the thought of it, Thorin knows there is one thing that will guarantee the safety and continuation of his line.
War is coming and all Eirlys of Mirkwood wishes to do is fight alongside her brother Legolas and the other elves, united with Men and Dwarves in their attempt to quell the renewed tensions between them and the orc army of the north. But, her father, Thranduíl has other plans. Unite his kingdom with the newly reestablished kingdom of Erebor and use the power of both to defeat the orcs.
An arranged marriage that neither side wants, but both sides need. But what happens when the two sides realize that maybe—just maybe—being together isn't quite as bad as they'd thought...
Pairing: Thorin x ofc Eirlys of Mirkwood
Warnings: None
Rating: T
Word Count: 2.7k
Read on AO3
The room was quiet and Eirlys sighed softly at the serenity all around. She was exactly where she wished to be—her head nestled against Thorin’s chest, his arm about her, his fingers skimming along her upper arm, her arm draped about his hips. The linens and quilts lay in a tangle at the foot of the bed, their clothes heaped in a pile on the floor on his side.
It was perfect.
“What’s on your mind?” Thorin’s whisper rose like a mist to hang in the tranquil peace enveloping them.
“Not much, really.”
His fingers slowed. “Is that good or bad?”
She rose onto one elbow to gaze down at him. A lone candle flickered on the bedside table on Thorin’s side, burnishing his left side ivory while leaving his right side in shadow. His dark hair streamed across his pillows, that candlelight dancing along the curls, highlighting the silver threads woven amongst the black strands. His eyes glittered like pale stones, heavy-lidded and seductive without his even trying.
“It’s good,” she murmured, reaching down to trace her forefinger along his jaw. “I’m trying not to think about Ravenhill all that much, as I’d much rather just put it all behind me.”
“I understand that all too well.” A slight smile accompanied his words.
“I know. If anyone, you would definitely understand.”
“And I will understand if you’d rather not speak of what happened there.”
She hesitated. It seemed silly to her to want to avoid the topic. She certainly didn't suffer up there the way he had when he’d battled Azog. The worst part of it was, of course learning of Madris’ betrayal, but that was nothing compared to being run through. She carried no wounds, no scars.
“Thorin…” Her finger went still. “Do you… do you still think about what happened, when you faced Azog at Ravenhill? Do you replay it in your mind and think about what you might have done differently?”
“More than I care to think about,” he told her softly, his fingers resuming their strokes, sweeping up, then down over her arm. “I let my guard down with him, underestimated his strength and his resolve, which was almost as strong as my own. But, you have to understand, Eirlys… I chose to let him run me through.”
“You—you let him?” She couldn't keep the surprise from her voice. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“I had to. It was the only way to make certain that my family—or what would be left of it—was safe. I’d failed Fíli. I’d failed Kíli. So, if I let him run me through, I thought I might buy myself enough time to repay him the favor and in doing so, remove the threat permanently.”
“So, you let him run you through?”
He nodded. “I did. And it worked. And fortunately for me, I didn't die, but that’s mostly because Óin refused to let me.”
“Remind me to thank him for that.”
He grinned up at her. “Of course.”
“Weren’t you scared? Because when I was there, I was terrified.”
“I know I’m supposed to tell you no, that I wasn't at all frightened, that I knew exactly what I was doing and how it would play through.” He shifted then, easing away from her to roll onto his side. His hand came to rest on her belly, his thumb brushing in a gentle arc atop the quilt that lay over them. “But truth be told, I had no idea if what I’d hoped would work, would actually work. And all I knew was that if it didn’t, it would mean the end of the line of Durin, for I had no doubt he wouldn’t have stopped with me, Fíli, and Kíli. He wouldn’t have stopped until we were all gone. I would not fail my sister as I had her sons.”
“Dís?”
He nodded. “His intention was to end the line of Durin. And that meant Dís. She would have been the last of us. I’d failed her sons. I would not fail her if I could possibly help it. And so, to answer your question, Eirlys, yes. I was scared. But I also had no choice. And that helped temper any and all fear I might have felt.”
His gentle strokes added to her growing drowsiness, but she didn't want to close her eyes. “I’m afraid to go to sleep,” she whispered. “I’ve had terrible dreams since that night.”
“They’ll fade in time,” he told her, his hand going still. “And while they might not ever leave you entirely, the nights you don't dream will one day outnumber the nights you do. And until then, wake me when you have nightmares.”
“You need your sleep. You’re far too busy during—”
“Let me worry about that,” his eyes grew soft, his thumb resuming those gentle arcs once more, “and wake me if you need me.”
“Thorin—”
He bent to capture her lips in a soft kiss, drawing back far enough to whisper, “Wake me if you need me.”
Before she could answer, his lips claimed hers again and she offered no argument, but eased her arms about his neck to draw him flush against her. He offered no resistance, but eased over her, settled gently against her as his kiss deepened. Warmth swept through her, her arms tightening about him.
His beard scraped along her jaw, her neck bowing as he kissed his way down along the curve of her neck. Her skin tingled in his wake, her toes curling as he crept down, scattering those gentle, teasing kisses along the slope of her shoulder, down along her breastbone.
That drowsiness returned, only this time sleep was the last thing she wished, as small knots twisted deep within her, both growing and tightening as those tingles swept through her. His lips brushed the inner curve of her left breast, over the slope, to her already-beaded nipple, and she sucked in a sharp breath as his lips closed about it, as the tip of his tongue flicked over it. Her blood swept hotter through her veins, the tingles growing sharp and stronger, spiraling through her with each teasing kiss, making her breath that much harder to catch.
Not that she minded. The world all around them could go up in flames and she wouldn’t care, as long as Thorin kissed her the way he was right then. Not when his lips moved so teasingly from her nipple, down her belly, the tip of his tongue flicking against her to send fresh shivers through her.
Her fingers slid up through his hair as he crept lower, pressing a kiss along her ribs, above her navel. Below it.
He nuzzled the white-gold fluff at the apex of her thighs and a moment later, her eyes were rolling back in her head as his attentions. Her breath hitched. Her body shuddered. Fire filled her, slowly at first, but then streaking through her as if she’d been hit by lightning. Her eyes squeezed shut. Her breath became impossible to catch. White lights burst beneath her eyelids and she couldn't hold back her cry of delight as he pushed her over the edge into madness.
Her hips bolted up to meet him, his caresses fast and unyielding even as she grew hoarse and her fingers twisted in his hair to keep from being swept away. Deep within her core, those tight knots burst to flood her body with exquisite pleasure and she surrendered to the moment and let it carry her away.
Thorin lifted his head, his eyes blazing sapphire. He gave her no chance to return the favor, but came up over her, reached between them to position himself, and then thrust hard to fill her.
Her legs wrapped about his waist of their own accord, her hips arcing toward him. His lips found hers, hot and hungry and fierce, and she returned each kiss in kind, devouring him as he devoured her. His rhythm became hers, the bed squeaking in time to both of them as his thrusts grew deeper, more powerful, and threatened her sanity once more.
Fire flashed through her. She clung to him, shuddered beneath him, gave herself up to the moment once more as they reached the summit as one, pleasure feeding pleasure. His climax fed hers, and they came together, heat and fire and ecstasy mingling to melt her from the inside out.
Thorin surged hard, his body going rigid from the strength of his release. She raked her fingernails along his back, her thighs dug into his sides, and when he sank against her, his breath came in short, hard blasts and his head came to rest in the slope of her neck.
“Eirlys, oh, love… maralmizi…” he murmured breathlessly, sounding almost dazed.
“Mmmm…” she smiled into the semi-darkness, finally letting her eyes slide shut, “I love you, too…”
He eased free of her, but remained where he was, nuzzling her as he murmured, “I care not if I ever move again.”
Eirlys chuckled. “Be that as it may, you are a very heavy dwarf, you know.”
He lifted his head. “Am I smashing you flat?”
“A little, yes.”
A heavy sigh rose to his lips, but he smiled, brushed her lips with a kiss, then eased off her. “I’d hate to crush you.”
Without his heat, the air stirred cooler and she shivered, moving to snuggle against him. “This is nice, too, though.”
“Indeed.”
He drew his arm about her shoulders, tugging her up against him, and she smiled as he pressed a kiss into the top of her head. Her eyes slid shut of their own, and with a soft sigh, she let sleep carry her away.
When she opened her eyes again, Eirlys smiled at the sight of Thorin sound asleep beside her, stretched out on his back, his dark hair streaming across the pillowcase. She traced a forefinger along one long, curly lock of silver-streaked black hair. It was far softer than she would have guessed by looking at it, just as he was far softer than she would have ever guessed the first time she’d seen him.
No one would believe her, should she describe the Thorin she’d come to know, the one she’d fallen in love with—soft, tender, gentle. She wouldn’t have believed it herself, actually.
With that, she slipped from the bed, dressed without waking him, then went above. The great hall bustled with activity, but she really didn't feel much like making small talk with anyone, nor did she feel like being stared at and whispered about, as everyone had done since she’d returned from Ravenhill. She knew everyone wondered what really happened in the tower, and truth be told, she did not feel like being the object of curiosity. None of them would approach her, none would dream of being so forward as to ask her flat out what happened. She was their queen and still rather a stranger to almost all of them.
That in mind, she strode past the Great Hall and made her way up to the ramparts. The sky was still a midnight blue, but the streaks of gold hinted at the coming sunrise, and the air still held a hint of a chill. It would be a few more weeks before it would be warm day and night, but she didn't mind as she leaned against the stone and gazed off in the direction of Dale, of the Long Lake, and of Mirkwood.
“Woolgathering, are you?”
She started at the sound of her father’s voice, but smiled at him over her shoulder. “Perhaps a little. I’ve grown tired of being watched like a hawk watches its prey.”
Thranduíl’s golden hair gleamed almost white in the sunlight as he moved to stand beside her, forearms resting on the rough gray stone, hands clasped. He, too, seemed to look out toward Mirkwood. “They were concerned about you, you know. We all were.”
“Which I appreciate. But,” she looked over at him, “they all need to accept that aside from Madris’ surprise confession and death, nothing horrible happened.”
“So tell them.”
“I won’t. It doesn’t concern them. Not one bit.” She looked back toward the Long Lake, whose surface sparkled as if sprinkled with diamonds. “Besides, I’d rather just forget about it, if I’m being honest. I feel like such a fool, trusting Madris when all along, she planned to betray me, to betray all of us.”
“You weren’t a fool, Eirlys. She had us all believing she was loyal to us. I do hope you aren’t blaming yourself for what happened.”
“Had I seen through her, had I not been so trusting—”
“No, you will not do that.” Thranduíl’s voice grew sharp as he shifted and caught her by the chin. His fingers brooked no argument as he turned her to meet his eyes. “You are not at fault, Eirlys. Not even in the slightest. She was evil and cunning and you are not to blame at all.”
“Thorin said the same thing,” she told him softly. “And I want to believe you both, but—”
“There is no but. I’ll not hear such nonsense. None of this was your fault.” Thranduíl lowered his hand, clasping it with his other one as he said, “If anything, it is my fault. I thought you and your brother needed a mother after yours died. Especially you, since I had no idea how to raise a daughter alone. I thought it was a wise decision.”
“You didn't know,” she told him, covering his hands with her own. “You couldn't know.”
“Then how do you think you should have?” he countered gently. “You ought listen to your husband, you know. He’s a wise man.”
She managed a slight smile. “I miss Mother,” she murmured. “I wonder what she would think of all of this? I wonder what she would think of Thorin?”
“She would have told you the same thing in regards to Madris, although—” his voice cracked softly and he cleared it to repeat himself—“although, if she hadn’t died, Madris would have never set foot inside the palace.
“But, as to your dwarf?” A sad smile came to his lips. “I think she would approve, even if only because you are obviously smitten with him. She would tell me I worried too much, that if you love him, there must be something there of value within him and that I should stop thinking of him as stealing my daughter and start thinking of him as being the most important part of her new life.”
“And what would you say to that?”
“I would agree with her. She was also very wise, you know.” Thranduíl reached down to touch her cheek. “And I think she would like Thorin. If for no reason other than to force me to finally come around and admit he’s not quite the unsavory dolt I’d taken him for.”
She sighed softly, turning back toward the east, where the sun broke over the horizon. “I miss her.”
“As do I, love. But,” he tucked her hand through his arm to turn her away from the rampart, “she would tell us both to stop being maudlin and look to the coming days. She would be thrilled to see you happy, you know. And she would have been very fond of your husband. And in time, I know she would have hoped to be a grandmother as well.”
“And what of you, Papa?” Eirlys asked with a grin. “Do you see yourself as a grandpapa?”
“Why?” One well-manicured eyebrow rose. “Are you telling me something?”
“No. I’m just curious.”
“Eirlys.”
“Honest, Papa. Thorin and I are not making you a grandfather just yet. Perhaps, we will in time, but—”
“Eirlys? Are you up here?”
She looked over at her father, whose smile grew wistful. “Go. It isn’t me he’s looking for.”
“Eirlys?” Thorin appeared on the rampart and his smile faded into a more serious expression. “Is everything all right?”
Eirlys slipped her hand free of her father’s arm and paused for a moment to look over at him. Then, she turned her gaze back to Thorin, and as her eyes met his, she said, “Everything is just fine, Thorin.”
With that, she joined him, slipping her arm through his, and as the sun rose to shatter the night, she and Thorin went back below.
Summary: Although Erebor is his once more, Thorin knows there is still a great threat to the peace of Middle Earth. Azog is gone, but another has taken his place and has sworn to finish what Azog began. Erebor is back, but it’s sadly lacking in protection and as much as he hates the thought of it, Thorin knows there is one thing that will guarantee the safety and continuation of his line.
War is coming and all Eirlys of Mirkwood wishes to do is fight alongside her brother Legolas and the other elves, united with Men and Dwarves in their attempt to quell the renewed tensions between them and the orc army of the north. But, her father, Thranduíl has other plans. Unite his kingdom with the newly reestablished kingdom of Erebor and use the power of both to defeat the orcs.
An arranged marriage that neither side wants, but both sides need. But what happens when the two sides realize that maybe—just maybe—being together isn't quite as bad as they'd thought...
Pairing: Thorin x ofc Eirlys of Mirkwood
Warnings: None
Rating: T
Word Count: 2.6k
Read on AO3
“How does she fare?”
Thorin looked up from his uneaten breakfast to find Thranduíl, coffee mug in one hand, tugging out the chair across from his with his free hand. “She says she is fine.”
The chair creaked as Thranduíl sank into it. “Has Óin been to see her?”
He shook his head. “No. She has refused to see anyone.”
“You might have to override her on this, Thorin.”
He met Thranduíl’s blue eyes. “I will not betray her. She’s had enough of that to last a lifetime.”
“Eirlys was not the only one fooled. That—woman—slept beneath my roof. I trusted her with my dearest of treasures—my children.”
“Eirlys saw her as far more than a servant.”
“I know. That is why I sent Madris along with her. And if I could, I’d raise her from the dead to kill her again myself.”
Thorin sighed. Three days had passed since the battle at Ravenhill. Three days and Eirlys refused to leave the apartments, refused to eat much, spent most of her time just sitting on the sofa, wrapped in her quilt, watching the fire burn.
“As would I,” he finally said, tracing the rim of his coffee mug with one finger. “Thranduíl, I’m worried for her. She barely eats, barely sleeps, she says she’s cold no matter how close to the fire she sits.”
“Has she said what happened in that tower?”
Thorin shook his head. “Every time I ask, she says she has no desire to dwell on the past. All she will say is that filth never touched her.”
Thranduíl visibly stiffened. “Do you think she is lying about that?”
A heavy sigh rose to Thorin’s lips. “I wish I could say no, but—”
“You feel she might be.”
He slowly nodded. “I do, yes.”
Thranduíl’s expression grew far more serious. “Does she have reason to fear you if the creature did touch her?”
“Fear me? No,” Thorin shook his head, “absolutely not. I would want to kill him and the maid again, but I would not fault her.”
A hint of relief crossed Thranduíl’s face. “Good.” He tapped his forefinger against the table. “Speak to Óin if it will put your mind at ease, but I think Eirlys only needs time.”
“I know. I simply do not know how much time and I do not wish to press her, to make her think about things best forgotten. I know all too well what happens if one dwells in that past.”
“Thorin, she needs move forward. That is the only way to put it behind her.”
Thorin rose from his chair. “I will deal with this in the way I feel is best.”
“She is my daughter—”
“And she is my wife, and I think I know her well enough to make the decision how to broach it.”
Thranduíl’s lips disappeared into a thin, white line as he pressed them together. Still, he said nothing, but gave a slight bob of his head and turned back to his coffee.
Thorin took his leave then, making his way down the shadowy corridor to his apartment, where he paused outside the door. He truly was at a loss as to what to do, despite what he’d told Thranduíl. He certainly didn't wish to press her, to make her relive anything she did not wish to face just yet, but at the same time, perhaps Thranduíl was right and that was how he helped her move forward, helped her heal from Madris’ betrayal.
At least, he hoped so.
The door swung open with only the softest of creaks. “Eirlys?” he called as he crossed the threshold and didn't see her on the sofa in the sitting room. Only the blanket she’d been wrapped in lay neatly folded on the cushion as a sign she’d even been in the room.
“Eirlys?”
Only silence greeted him in return.
He moved through the apartment, only to find no sign of her. A hint of unease swirled through him, one that made him stop in his tracks and chide himself for being so foolish. If she’d left Erebor, he’d know about it. He’d given the sentries strict orders to alert him if Eirlys even looked to leave. They didn't have to stop her, but they were to let him know at once.
That in mind, he left the apartments once more to go above. This time, he made his way out to the courtyard. Work had begun on the damaged wall, and he wasn't at all surprised to see Eirlys on the far side of the courtyard, where the sun touched the corner and a small stone table and benches stood. She sat on one of those benches, her white-blonde hair loose and wafting gently on the warm breeze, her face lifted toward the sun.
He paused in the doorway. Part of him did not wish to disturb her. But his concern for her outweighed that and so he stepped over the threshold and out into the sun-dappled courtyard. In the far corner, nearest where Eirlys sat, the first shoots of spring flowers poked through the ground. In time, the courtyard would be alive in bursts of red and yellow and orange flowers, both perfumed and unscented. The grass would grow green and lush, and the trees on both sides of the stone wall would offer shelter when their branches grew full with leaves.
“Eirlys?”
She started, but didn't turn toward him. “Please, leave me be.”
“What brings you out here?”
“I needed to see the sun. To feel it on my face. It’s too windy up on the parapets.”
He crossed to where she sat, and sank onto the sun-warmed stone beside her. “The noise of the workers doesn’t bother you?”
She shook her head. “I don’t hear it, to be honest.”
The wind picked up, blew through her hair to send it sweeping away from her face, gleaming in the light like spun silk. He reached for it, let it slip along his hand, through his fingers, and when she didn't pull away, he gently tucked it behind her ear, then let his fingers graze along her jaw.
“Would you care to go for a walk? To get out of earshot of the workmen?”
She shook her head. “No. Here is fine.”
As she spoke, she gently leaned into his hand, her eyes closing as she did. He let his fingers trail back toward her ear, eased his arm about her shoulders and as he drew her close, her head settled against his shoulder. A soft sigh teased his ear. Without thinking, he tightened his hold on her.
“Would you like to go into Dale? We could do a bit of shopping, have supper there?”
“No. I’m in no mood to deal with people,” she shook her head, “to have them stare at me and whisper about me.”
“If they do stare, it will be because they are no doubt enamored of how beautiful Erebor’s queen truly is in person.”
She offered up a long look, one brow slightly raised. “Why do I doubt that?”
“Have you seen you, amrâlimê?”
“I think you are a bit biased.”
“Eirlys, I thought you were beyond stunning the first time I laid eyes upon you.”
“I was dressed in my finest.”
“No,” he shook his head, smiling at her as she gazed up at him, “I don't mean when I was last there, in the days before our wedding. I mean when I passed through with the rest of the Company on our way to retake Erebor.”
To his surprise, her eyes widened. “You saw me then?”
He nodded. “Of course I did. You were just outside the door of the Throne Room. I can only imagine what you thought of me, covered in spiderweb, cursing out your father.”
“Well,” a slight smile lifted her lips, “you were a sight.”
“As were you. When those guards dragged me from the room, I saw you around the corner, and all thoughts of fury were gone in an instant.” He shifted, easing one leg over the bench’s back to face her. “You were, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And had your father sent you to bargain in his stead, I’d have no doubt caved without hesitation.”
A hint of pink swept along her pale cheeks. “It seems we are a good match, Thorin. I was at that door because I’d had but a glimpse of you and wished to see more.”
“And now you are stuck with me.”
“And you with me.” She curved her hand against his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly along his beard. “But, I don’t see it as stuck in the least. I do love you, you know.”
“I know.” He covered her hand with his, then gently drew it away from his face. “And I love you.”
With that, he leaned toward her, capturing her lips in a gentle kiss. Her fingers curved about his, her lips parting as he gently eased his tongue between them to caress hers. Her breath hitched. Her lips trembled against his. And when he drew back, she leaned into him, her forehead coming to rest against his chest.
He folded her in his arms, drawing her into his embrace. The tremble in her lips had spread through her body, and he held her as she cried.
He held her long after she went quiet, her head aching and her eyes swollen and most likely red. He held her, one hand stroking her hair with a gentle rhythm that soothed her as much as her crying had.
She lifted her head, swiping at her eyes with both hands. “I’m so sorry I fell apart that way.”
“You’ve done nothing to be sorry for,” he told her, drawing several wet tendrils away from her cheeks. “I think falling apart is warranted every now and again.”
“I just…” She turned toward the workers, busily laying mortar and setting stone in the far corner. Just beyond, she could see Ravenhill, rising in the distance. She shuddered at the sight, and turned her gaze back to the workers. “I feel so stupid, Thorin. How could I not see her for what she truly was?”
“Mostly because she didn't wish you to see her that way. She was a good liar, amrâlimê. A good liar and a skilled one. Not a one of us saw through her. So, I do wish you would stop feeling stupid. Your trust was misplaced, but she hid it so very well.”
“My misplaced trust could’ve gotten all of us killed.”
“But, it didn’t. We are all of us fine, more or less.”
She sat back, exhaustion creeping over her. “I’m tired, Thorin. Could we go inside?”
“Of course.” He rose and offered her his arm.
She also stood, slipping her arm through his, and leaned her head against his upper arm as he escorted her out of the courtyard and back inside.
Eirlys sank onto the sofa with a low sigh, her eyes closing of their own as she let her head come to rest against the back of it. “I have never been so tired.”
“You’ve been through much.” Thorin unfolded her blanket to drape it about her shoulders before settling down alongside her.
She shifted as the now-familiar chill set in, snuggling up against Thorin. “I’m cold.”
His arm came to rest around her and as it settled about her shoulders, not only did the heat from his body rise to sink into her and soothe her, but for the first time since she awoke in that cold, dank cell in Ravenhill, she felt safe.
“I can fetch you another blanket.”
He made to rise, but she caught him, her arm tight about his hips. “No, please… don't go.”
“If you’re cold—”
“I’m not. Not anymore, that is.” She gazed up at him. “You know, I trained alongside my brother, with Tauriel, and with some of my father’s finest warriors. Had I a weapon, I might have been able to free myself.
“But, I couldn’t.” Her throat tightened. Her eyes stung. She blinked back the tears, shaking her head as she tried to organize her thoughts, which were just so tangled up in her mind. “I couldn’t. I couldn't free myself. I couldn’t fight back. I couldn't do anything but sit and wait and see what happened to me. And I was never so afraid as I was when I heard your voice.”
“You didn't think I would—”
She cut him off with a soft, “No, I was afraid you would be distracted and Rildu would take advantage of it and then… And I always thought, if necessary, I would be able to fight, to defend myself, but now… now I’m not so sure of that.”
“Eirlys,” he shifted, “I have no doubt in my mind that you are every bit as capable as Tauriel, as Legolas, and if you had to, you would have absolutely been able to defend yourself. But, with any luck, neither one of us will ever have to worry about that again.”
“But—”
“No but,” he offered up a gentle smile, his eyes soft as they held hers, “and do not do this to yourself. I know you and I’ve no doubt you could’ve bested Rildu if you had to. No doubt whatsoever.”
“When he killed Madris, I was sorry he’d done it. I wanted to be the one to do it.” She drew the quilt more tightly about herself, her gaze going to the dancing flames on the hearth. The more she thought about what had happened up at Ravenhill, the more heavily it lay upon her that Rildu had been the one to end Madris. She’d suffered because of her maid, had nearly died because of her, and yet, could never take revenge against her because of Rildu. It troubled her to no end, although now, as she bared her soul to her husband, some of that dissipated as she confessed, “And it bothers me that I wanted to be the one. It also bothers me that it bothers me.”
She looked back at him. “But, after what she did… it seems… unfair that I wasn’t the one to end her, to make her pay.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, then let out a soft sigh. “In truth, I don’t think either way would have brought you much in the way of peace, mesmel.”
“Perhaps not, but I wouldn’t feel quite so… so foolish…”
“You weren’t foolish, though. You had no reason to distrust her.”
“Apparently I did, Thorin.”
“And if she’d given any indication at all as to how she truly felt, I’ve no doubt whatsoever that you or Thranduíl would have tossed her on her ear. But, she hid it all too well and I’ll not sit here and let you blame yourself for something you had no hand in doing.” He reached out to curve a hand against her cheek. “You did nothing wrong. You were a child when she came into your lives and from that moment on, she did everything in her power to make you believe she was something she wasn’t. So, stop blaming yourself, Eirlys.”
He leaned in, his lips brushing hers softly, his palm warm against her cheek. Without thinking, she eased an arm about his waist, the other about his neck, and for the moment, lost herself in his kiss.
Summary: Although Erebor is his once more, Thorin knows there is still a great threat to the peace of Middle Earth. Azog is gone, but another has taken his place and has sworn to finish what Azog began. Erebor is back, but it’s sadly lacking in protection and as much as he hates the thought of it, Thorin knows there is one thing that will guarantee the safety and continuation of his line.
War is coming and all Eirlys of Mirkwood wishes to do is fight alongside her brother Legolas and the other elves, united with Men and Dwarves in their attempt to quell the renewed tensions between them and the orc army of the north. But, her father, Thranduíl has other plans. Unite his kingdom with the newly reestablished kingdom of Erebor and use the power of both to defeat the orcs.
An arranged marriage that neither side wants, but both sides need. But what happens when the two sides realize that maybe—just maybe—being together isn't quite as bad as they'd thought...
Pairing: Thorin x ofc Eirlys of Mirkwood
Warnings: Battle violence
Rating: T
Word Count: 2.3k
Read on AO3
Eirlys felt the blood drain from her face at Thorin’s words, and her gut twisted into one large and painful knot. Her mouth dry, she shook her head. “Absolutely not, Thorin,” she called down, although she wasn't at all certain he could hear her. He was easily six stories below her, with the wind howling as it picked up. Gray clouds rolled overhead, gathering to block out the sun as if they were on Rildu’s side.
“I do not think I heard you, runt!”
Eirlys pressed her lips together as Thorin shouted, “You heard me. I willingly trade my life for hers, but you release her first. I want to see with my own eyes that she is unharmed.”
“Thorin, don’t be stupid,” she muttered.
The fingers about her arm tightened, biting into her flesh with such ferocity she gritted her teeth to hold back her reaction. The wind picked up, whipping hard into the turret, hard enough that it pushed her back into Rildu. She stiffened at the contact, fighting back a wince at the feel of his decaying skin against her.
“Your king wishes to see you,” Rildu growled, his fingers tightening about her so he could tug her from the shadows out onto the turret’s balcony.
The wind up that whipped the turret from that height had yet to realize it was spring, for it was icy cold, stinging her cheeks, tearing her hair from its plait to send it in all directions. Eirlys swallowed hard as she squinted against that icy wind to see Thorin so far down below her. She felt strangely calm, almost reassured at the sight of him, even though he appeared to be alone.
“Eirlys?” His voice carried perfectly on the wind, so he sounded as if he stood only a few feet from her, instead of nearly sixty feet down.
“It’s me,” she called back, her mouth dry despite her strange sense of calm.
“Have they mistreated you?”
She shook her head, then silently chided herself. He couldn't have seen that. She was far too high above him. Her eyes darted about of their own, searching for any sign that he hadn’t been foolish enough to try to face Rildu alone. He had to know better, after so many years of being hunted by these beasts. Her heart then beat a little faster when she failed to see anyone else from Erebor down at the base of the tower.
“Eirlys?”
“I’ve not been mistreated,” she managed to shout, wincing as her voice cracked. She swallowed hard as the image of Madris being beheaded flashed unexpectedly through her mind and without warning, her eyes stung. Squeezing them shut, she added, “I’m fine, Thorin.”
“Let her go,” Thorin repeated, his voice harder now, “and as I said, you can have me.”
“Thorin, don’t be a fool—”
The breath left her in a rush as Rildu grabbed a handful of her tunic and jerked, yanking her back and off her feet. She stumbled, slamming into the rough stone behind them when he let go of her as suddenly as he’d grabbed her, hard enough to knock the wind from her.
Without meaning to, she went to her knees, her head swimming and her lungs refusing to do their one job. In what seemed an endless moment, she couldn't draw breath, no matter how hard she fought. A hint of panic set in, one that was only received by the sudden breath she sucked in. Her eyes closed, and she savored each deeply drawn breath that helped to clear her head.
“I’ll make no such exchange,” Rildu shouted, “unless you wish me to simply toss her from this ledge.”
He twisted, his arm coming back as if he made to grab her. She instinctively recoiled, although she was nowhere near close enough to him for him to reach her.
“Be reasonable,” Thorin returned. “I am the one you hunt, not some weak girl.”
Weak girl? Eirlys bristled at those words. He knew full well she was anything but a weak girl. He might have been trying to convince the orc she meant nothing to him, but he’d still hear about his words when this was all over.
But for now, she did her best to look frightened, which really wasn't all that difficult, as she was frightened. She had trained alongside her brother, alongside Tauriel, and other eleven warriors, but unlike them, she’d never seen true battle.
Never mind, she had no weapon. Madris had so completely turned on her that she’d even taken the dagger she knew Eirlys often carried.
Without thinking, she glanced over her shoulder, at the headless body lying forgotten in the stone passageway. She didn't know where Madris’ head had rolled to, but it was nowhere in sight, and for that, Eirlys was thankful. She wasn't at all certain she could stomach the sight of just Madris’ head, with its lifeless eyes staring up at her (although she had no idea whether or not those eyes would be open.) Her stomach roiled just thinking about it now.
“She is an elf. Daughter of the woodland king,” Rildu replied. “I imagine her father values her, even if her husband does not.”
“Think so, do you? Remember, he has a son.” Eirlys winced at the derision in Thorin’s voice. He sounded so very sincere, she wondered if perhaps his declaration of love for her was only a ruse.
“You value not your queen?”
“I did not choose this marriage for love,” Thorin shouted, “but for the alliance it created.”
“Has she given you an heir?”
“Not yet.”
“Does she carry your child now?”
“No.”
Rildu glanced at her. She stared back, making a face as he called, “Are you so certain, dwarf?”
“I am, yes. Her courses finished only days ago. I pay close attention to her cycle, you know, since an heir is the first order of business.”
“And if she gives you no child?”
“It matters not. I can and would marry again. Harming her would serve no purpose, so you lose nothing in trading her for me.”
“And yet, you’ve come for her. Your words make no sense, dwarf.”
“Perhaps not. But, they did buy me time.”
“What?”
Eirlys did not see where the first arrow came from, but it whizzed past her, past Rildu, to bury in the throat of the orc standing alongside him, who crumpled like an old rag doll. His sword clattered to the stone and without thinking, Eirlys lunged for it, relief surging through her as her fingers wrapped about the grip. It was heavier than anything she’d ever wielded, but she didn't care. She’d manage.
Arrows flew in both directions then, and Eirlys flattened herself against the stone as she backed away from the balcony and out of harm’s way. She stumbled, but held tight to her purloined sword and came up swinging at the orc who lunged at her.
Steel sang against steel as her blade met his, the vibration ringing along her arms with far more force than she’d anticipated. Around her, the sounds of battle exploded, and the thunder of footfalls had her swinging around toward the stairs, taking the head of her opponent with her as she did.
Ready to swing at whoever happened to be first up those stairs, she caught herself before removing Legolas’ head from his shoulders when he emerged, followed by Dwalin and her father, who looked more ready to kill than she’d ever seen before.
He spun about as orcs emerged from a stone doorway to their left, and he and Dwalin made quick work of them, while she spun back to Rildu, blood-spattered and furious as he staggered back from the balcony, an arrow protruding from his chest.
Her relief was short-lived, however, as he grabbed the arrow’s shaft and snapped it off without some much as a wince. The shaft clattered to the stone, where it landed in one of the many pools of blood slicking the stone, the heavy, acrid stench of orc blood bringing a fresh wave of nausea.
He swung, his blade whistling as it sliced the air before her, but she was too quick, bending backward, away from that merciless steel. She slipped, losing her footing in the sticky black spatter, and stumbled back, tripping over a slain orc to slam down hard against the cold stone.
Rildu lunged, and she couldn't hold back her scream as with a single, fluid swing, Thranduíl did to Rildu what Rildu had done to Madris. His head went spinning over her, foul black orc blood splattering in all directions, while his foul body slammed down against hers to drive the breath from her lungs once more.
Her gut curdled, revolted, and she shoved the vile corpse off her, coughing and gagging as she hurried to crawl away before she could no longer fight off being sick.
“Eirlys!” Thorin’s voice reverberated off the stone walls, his boots like thunder on the stone stairs, growing louder with each thud.
Steel clattered against stone as Thorin dropped to his knees alongside her. “Eirlys?”
“I’m fine,” she managed to choke, aftershocks still causing her stomach muscles to spasm although she had nothing left to bring up.
He gathered her in his arms, cradling her against him as he said, “Easy, amrâlimê. It’s all over now.”
She nodded, sinking against him. An icy chill bit into her, and what started out as a slight tremble burst into a shiver she couldn't control. Her teeth rattled. Her body shook. As much as she wanted to just pull away from him and pretend none of it troubled her at all, she simply could not do so. Her eyes stung, relief mingled with grief to overflow in unexpected tears that slipped down over her cheeks despite her best efforts to stanch them.
Thorin tightened his arms about her, rocking her gently as he whispered, “Shhh… it’s over…”
Her throat tightened, making speech impossible, so she nodded, tucking her head against his chest, trying to absorb as much of his body heat as she could. Perhaps then she would get warm.
Perhaps.
The battle ended as quickly as it had started and not a single orc was left alive when it was all over and the last weapon lowered. Thorin helped her to her feet, keeping his arm wrapped tight about her shoulders as he guided her toward the stairs, whispering, “Don’t look, mesmel.”
“I already know,” she told him, swiping at her eyes with an impatient hand. “She betrayed me, Thorin. She slipped something into my tea and when I awoke, I was here. She handed me to that… that… she handed me to him.”
He muttered something in khuzdul, words she didn't understand but sounded filled with fury. She could ask him later. Now, she wanted only to get out of the tower and as far away from Ravenhill as she could. In fact, she didn't care if she ever again laid eyes upon the fortress, she simply wanted to go home.
Eirlys sat by the fire, wrapped in a thick quilt, and yet she still couldn't get warm. She simply stared at the flames dancing on the hearth, but saw nothing. She no longer shivered, but still felt the chill that had seeped into her bones. Aside from that, however, she felt nothing. Numbness had set in halfway back to Erebor and even now, several hours later, it had yet to recede. She didn't know what happened to Madris’ body. She didn't care. That betrayal cut through to the center of her being, and even that had gone numb.
“Eirlys?”
Thorin’s voice came from behind her, but she didn't turn. She just watched those flames. “Yes?”
“You should eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
His boots thudded, first loud against the floor, than softer as he joined her on the hearthrug. “You haven’t eaten since we returned and you must be hungry.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“Eirlys,” he sank onto the sofa beside her, “your stomach just growled as I was standing there.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Amrâlimê—”
“I said, I’m not hungry, Thorin. Please, let the matter drop, won’t you?”
A soft sigh rose to his lips and she stiffened as he caught a loose curl to draw it away from her face. “Are you certain you’re all right? That filth did nothing to you?”
“I’m fine. And no, he did nothing.”
She glanced over at him and saw the disbelief on his face. “Thorin,” she waited until his blue eyes met hers, then continued, “he did nothing to me.”
His hand went still, coming to rest on her shoulder. His fingers tightened on her briefly, then he took his hand away. “I’ll let you rest, then.”
She turned back to the fire. “Thank you.”
The sofa shifted as he rose, and his steps receded as a log shifted on the fire with a loud pop and a small burst of embers. When she’d first opened her eyes and found herself up on Ravenhill, all she wanted was to be home, to be in the apartments she shared with Thorin, preferably snuggled up against him under this very quilt.
But now? Now all she wished was to sit and be left completely alone. Her father had come down earlier, only to find she’d told Thorin she wished to receive no visitors and he would see her wish granted. Thranduíl. Legolas. Dís. They were all turned away. As far as she was concerned, she could spend the rest of her days sitting just as she was, wrapped in the quilt, staring into a fire without seeing a single thing.
How could she have not seen what Madris truly was? How could she not know that her own maid, who she’d trusted with her deepest, darkest secrets, who she’d trusted with her life even, would betray her so thoroughly? How could she have been so—so stupid to not see how Madris hated her? How could she have thought of her almost as a second mother, when all the while that second mother thoroughly hated her?
How could she have been so utterly, astonishingly, astoundingly stupid?
She continued to stare into the fire, not even realizing that her cheeks were now wet with tears.
✨ Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Mista (Dwarf OFC)
✨ Rating: T (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 crossposted on AO3 (search for lathalea).
✨ A/N: If you're reading this, I wanted to thank you SO VERY MUCH for your patience! Extra special thanks with a cherry on top to everyone who supported and motivated me recently, you made me finally finish this chapter (and it was a difficult one in places).
As usual, I'd like to thank the one and only @legolasbadass for betaing this chapter and supporting my wild ideas :) It means a lot 💙💙💙
✨ Khuzdul:
Tumunzahar - an ancient dwarven city in the Blue Mountains rebuilt by the Broadbeams in this story. The Elves call it “Nogrod”.
‘Urdêk - [ereborean] Kingdom Under the Mountain
Zabdûna - Queen
✨ Entangled Masterlist
Until the evening, My Lady.
Those words rang out in Mista’s ears all afternoon, sometimes even drowning out the ever present feeling of shame. A big part of her dreamed of crawling under a blanket and hiding in her bedchamber for the whole evening. However silly her behaviour in the Forges had been, she had to forget about it for the time being. On the next day, the King’s Council would convene, and there was an idea she hoped to present to the Lords. In order to gather support, she needed His Majesty’s approval first, and she had to do her best to secure it tonight — during the supper.
The evening had to be perfect. Mista asked the Kitchens to prepare roast duck with cranberries for the main dish — one of the King’s favourite dishes, according to Dís. As soon as Katla heard about the evening plans, she was beside herself with joy. In a blink of an eye, she picked a newly made dress from Mista’s bridal trousseau that, according to her, was “the perfect choice for a romantic dinner with His Majesty”, and at once began plaiting countless decorative braids in Mista’s hair. While Katla chattered happily, sharing all the newest gossip, Mista realized the reason behind her maid’s exceptionally cheerful mood. As a clever dwarf-woman, Katla must have noticed how rarely the royal couple spent their evenings together, as well as their nights. To put it plainly: never.
Now, however, the royal couple was about to have a private supper for the first time since their wedding, and it was truly happening this time. Mista wanted to pinch herself when Ranul, the King’s valet, brought a message from His Majesty, informing her he would arrive in one bell. Since then, Mista could not stop herself from smiling. He did not forget it this time. Thorin would truly spend the evening with her, despite her unbecoming behaviour earlier that day.
She would truly share a meal with the King Under the Mountain, and he would be fully dressed this time, so Mista would not lose her head or start blabbing like a dimwit again. She promised herself she would not. Besides, His Majesty would certainly be courteous, as always, and if she was lucky, he would not mention that silly incident from before. Mista would present her new idea very eloquently, hoping with all her heart that the King would approve of it. Perhaps this time, he would even smile at her. And maybe, just maybe, an evening together would turn into a night…
A quarter of a bell before the supper, Katla finished working on Mista’s hairdo. Hurriedly, the new Queen put on her spectacles, and a beautiful pair of gold and emerald earrings. Only then did she venture a glance into the mirror before her.
“Katla, my hair!” she gasped, admiring her stunning coiffure that somehow made her dull brown hair look a bit more lustrous. “It looks… beautiful!”
“That’s because you have beautiful hair, M’Lady. I just made use of it. Fourteen braids — simple, yet elegant, just like you wished.” She beamed at Mista’s reflection in the mirror.
“If this elaborate braid chignon is your definition of ‘simple’, I don’t want to know what you consider ‘elaborate’,” Mista shook her head, making her braid beads and earrings clink pleasantly.
“This emerald necklace brings out the lovely dark amber of your eyes. And it fits your gown even better than I thought! His Majesty will notice it right away, this gown has the perfect neckline for it.,” Katla winked at her.
“I doubt that,” Mista protested. She did not have an impressive bosom, but the cut of her lovely new forest green gown and those lacy adornments in front made it look as if she actually had one. She promised herself to write to her sister Adla and thank her for recommending the dressmaker who had created this work of art. Wearing this dress was Mista’s conscious choice, and was not aimed at seducing the King, not at all. She had a clear plan in her head: this evening was about politics, and nothing more. They had to find a reliable source of food for the winter as quickly as they could. And if the King happened to like her new gown (although not necessarily its contents, she did not expect miracles), perhaps he could look at Mista — and her idea — more favourably than he had looked at her in the Forges.
“I still think the neckline is much too deep,” Mista added, as if to herself.
“Forgive me, M’Lady, but I don’t think His Majesty will be against it. I have yet to meet a Dwarf who would complain about a neckline being too deep,” Katla offered, her eyes sparkling with mirth.
“Katla,” Mista tried to protest. “His Majesty and I are to discuss important matters of state tonight and not… the depth of my neckline!”
Her maid chuckled, “If you say so, m’lady.”
***
His Majesty, the King Under the Mountain, Thorin II Oakenshield, Mista’s lord husband, arrived precisely on time. They both entered the spacious dining room from opposite ends of the chamber, and they both stopped in their tracks beside the table.
“My Lady,” Thorin bowed his head stiffly.
“My Lord,” she responded in turn, adjusting the spectacles that threatened to slide down her nose, and told herself for the millionth time not to ruin anything.
Silence fell in the chamber, neither of them making the slightest move, as if waiting for something. Mista took in the sight of her lord husband before her. The King wore fresh garments, and his slightly damp hair made her suspect that he must have taken a bath after his visit to the Forges, exactly as she had. He wore a crispy white linen shirt, dark brown trousers, and a sleeveless burgundy red tunic adorned with gold and black embroideries, held by a wide black belt. The cut of his tunic emphasized both his imposing height and strong build, clinging slightly to his torso and hinting at the lean muscles underneath, the muscles that Mista saw clearly from a very short distance mere hours ago.
She swallowed, suddenly feeling as hot as if she were at the Forges again. To make matters more confusing, the King seemed to stare at her intently for some unknown reason. Something in his brilliant blue eyes made Mista lower her gaze. Somehow, it felt better to admire the elaborate pattern on the carpet under her feet than meet his gaze.
Two servants entered, carrying food and saving Mista from losing her head completely.
“Shall we sit, My Lady?” the King offered gallantly, and soon they both sat before their plates, facing each other. Relief washed over Mista as she found that there were no traces of the displeased expression he bore in the Forges. Was it her imagination, or did his beard conceal a hint of a smile? No, that was a ridiculous notion. Why would her lord husband smile?
As soon as the servants left the dining room, the same awkward silence crept into the chamber once again. The royal couple were alone now, the scenery was perfect — the diamond-shaped table laden with elegantly served delicious food, crystal goblets glinting in the soft candlelight — but it seemed as if there was a gargantuan knot in Mista’s stomach. Perhaps it was caused by the King’s proximity; if she felt brave enough, she could reach out and touch his ringed hand, but she scolded herself inwardly. She had to control herself better this time.
“Allow me to compliment you on your attire tonight, My Lady.” Thorin’s voice reached her ears as he raised his goblet into the air.
“I… Oh, thank you, My Lord,” Mista muttered, feeling warmth on her cheeks, and reached for her goblet. Her throat felt parched, and the wine tasted sweet on her tongue. “Your tunic… It suits you very well.”
“You are too kind, My Lady,” the King replied, giving her one of his official half-smiles as she cringed inwardly for her silly utterance.
And so their polite-but-stiff conversation continued. They began eating, exchanging remarks about cold autumn winds and the well-functioning geothermal heating shafts under the Mountain. During the second course, her lord husband mentioned the improved efficiency of the air vent system and Mista, of course, agreed. The third course — and the third goblet of wine, or perhaps fourth — found them talking about possible long-distance trade opportunities. Coming from a merchant family, Mista found it an interesting subject, and it did not seem boring to Thorin either; he began telling her about the trade challenges his people encountered in the Blue Mountains and how they tackled them. It was not quite the main topic she had in mind for this very evening, but according to Dís, talking was a way of breaking the ice, and their marriage truly needed it.
Halfway through the dessert, Mista decided to put a Broadbeam saying into action: grab the goat by its horns. She took yet another sip from her goblet and began speaking.
“Your Majesty, about the matter I wished to discuss with you, it is a very profitable opportunity…” Mista began, suddenly realizing that she had left all of her meticulously prepared notes on her bedstand, several rooms away. She would have to make do without them. Taking a gulp of wine to calm herself, she tried to convince herself that all would be well; she remembered their contents by heart, and besides, the King could not say ‘no’ to such a reasonable idea.
“I am listening.” The King’s voice was low and rich, like the wine in their goblets, and his eyes shone in the candlelight like two coals on a winter night.
“It is somewhat connected to the food issues we are facing. I would like to present it tomorrow at the King’s Council meeting… if you approve of it, that is.” Seeing her lord husband’s raised eyebrow, she added, “It is a delicate matter, you see.”
“Even more delicate than convincing some of our lords that growing our own food will not make our ears pointy?” he asked, a half-smile curling up his lips. Mista’s heart made a tiny flip. It was just one smile, but the memory of it would keep her warm during many evenings. Perhaps this conversation would not be as difficult as she thought.
“I’m afraid my proposal may be seen as highly controversial, and I would rather avoid antagonizing some of the lords again,” she admitted, looking down at her half-eaten pudding.
Thorin chuckled, “Lord Galar’s outburst during the last Council meeting was very much needed. You managed to weaken his position, and for that I thank you.”
He toasted her with his goblet, and it took a moment before she fully understood what her lord husband was saying. To think that her words, unknowingly, became a part of a larger political game, made her slightly dizzy… Still in slight disbelief, she lifted her own goblet in response.
“Now, please tell me about your proposal, My Lady,” the King said.
“Of course…” Mista gathered her thoughts. “The efforts to enlarge our dairy production are already underway, but it will take more time than we thought. At least months to double the current numbers. As for diversifying our own food sources, I have sent for a Master Grower from Tumunzahar, and some of our Stone Masters are working on finding a safe way into the Library to find those old records that would help us immensely. We have already staked off a few potential areas for plant and fungi cultivation, but we will be able to begin it earliest in the early spring… First, we have to survive the winter.”
The King nodded, “All the while our food stores are shrinking instead of growing. What about the merchant barges from Harad? Any news from our scouts in the south?”
Mista shook her head, “Still no sign of them.”
Her lord husband’s only response was a grunt. He toyed with the stem of his goblet, deep in his thoughts, and Mista noticed it was almost empty. She rose and, refilling both of their goblets, she continued speaking, feeling a pleasant warmth in her belly and on her face.
“I may have found a solution. When Lord Balin and I were going through the diplomatic mail the other day, there was a letter that made me think,” she paused. Grab the goat by its horns. “It was from King Thranduil; a reply to our letter in which we thanked him for the wedding gifts. The silks and Dorwinion wine, if you remember.”
“From King Thranduil?” Her lord husband’s demeanour suddenly changed into a frown, his voice resembling a growl. “A reply to our letter?”
Nodding, Mista stood up, retrieved the Elvenking’s letter from the side table, and brought it to the King, placing it beside his plate.
“I took charge of the diplomatic mail, Your Majesty, if you remember. Per your request. Balin… Lord Balin has been teaching me all I need to know. With his assistance, I wrote letters to our most prominent wedding guests, thanking them for their presence. In your and mine name. Here is King Thranduil’s reply.”
The King Under the Mountain glared at the piece of parchment and made a strange sound.
“More wine?” she asked. He shook his head.
“What does that Woodland Elf want from us?” her lord husband asked, still glaring at the letter, but making no attempt at opening it.
“Nothing.” Mista’s smile faltered, her excitement about conveying the great news lessening. She did not understand the King’s reaction. “On the contrary — he offered help with anything we might need and…”
“Help? Him? That honourless tree-lover?” The King raised his voice, rising from his chair, his gaze darkening. “He is offering his help now, that self-centered bastard?! Where was Thranduil when Smaug attacked? Where was he when the orc army arrived on our doorstep?!”
Mista’s eyes widened at the sudden fury her own innocent words seemed to evoke.
“But… Your Majesty… I studied the alliance treaty you both signed after the Battle of Five Armies and…” Mista’s voice trembled, and she took half a step back. She had never seen the King in such anger before, not even during the council meeting.
“That treaty? It is worthless,” he bared his teeth as his temple braids danced along his cheeks, “If not for the common enemy, nothing in the world would have convinced him to sign it! It is simply a piece of parchment the Elf is going to disregard whenever it suits him! Exactly as he did in the past,” Thorin’s hand clenched into a fist, slamming into the piece of parchment on the table, his cheeks reddening with anger.
Reflexively, Mista leaned forward and placed her hand over his fist, her rings clinking against his, metal against metal. Skin against skin.
She saw him freeze half sentence, his mouth open; his Durin’s apple bobbed.
“My lord husband…” Her voice, almost a whisper, trailed off when his stormy blue eyes met hers. Then his gaze travelled down to their joined hands. For a few heartbeats, he stood there in complete silence. Then, he gave out a deep sigh.
Mista did not dare to move.
The King opened his hand, wrapped his fingers around her palm, and — before she could retract it — covered it with his other hand. Exactly like he had at that feast in Tumunzahar so many years ago.
“You must forgive me, My Lady. It is the wine… and my cursed temper speaking,” he offered. Mista suddenly felt dizzy, and it was not because of the wine. He did not reject her hand. He took it. He…
Her cheeks burned for the millionth time that evening.
She muttered, “I have angered you, I am sorry. I was not aware of the extent of your animosities. Perhaps… we could discuss this matter some other time?”
The King still held her trembling hand in his. When he spoke, his voice was no more than a whisper.
“Have I scared you so?”
Mista looked down at his strong palms covering her hand. It was a gentle hold, not a forceful one. She could have retracted her hand whenever she wished, but she did not. The warmth of his touch spread onto her skin.
“No, Your Majesty…” She tried to keep her voice calm. “I was simply keen on this idea. Believe me, I was not aware of your past with King Thranduil. I should have asked Lord Balin first, before wasting your time on this matter.”
“Do sit down, Lady Mista,” the King spoke surprisingly softly. “You are not wasting my time. So far your other ideas have proven valuable. Unconventional, yes, but we, the Longbeards, are very much set in our ways. Too much for our own good sometimes. Perhaps the wisdom of the Broadbeams is what we need now?”
“You are too kind, Your Majesty…” Mista mumbled, sitting down. Had the King, her husband, truly praised her? Warmth bloomed in her chest. It must have been the wine.
“Pray, continue.” He let go of her hand and reached for the wine to refill their goblets. “I will endeavour to remain civil from now on.”
She gave him an uncertain smile and began once again, this time from a different angle.
“There is this old saying, A wise king keeps his allies close…”
“…and his enemies closer,” the King finished with an understanding smile. “Dagur Sture’s words.”
“Exactly.” She nodded hopefully. It was encouraging to know how familiar her lord husband was with the old philosopher’s writings. “When it comes to our relations with the Woodland Realm, I see two options: we can keep the elves at hammer’s length or even ignore their existence if that pleases Your Majesty, or we can try to follow Dagur Sture’s advice. We could work on trade relations and other beneficial kinds of cooperation… which would keep us informed about the latest activities of the Mirkwood Elves.”
One of the King’s thick sable eyebrows rose slowly. Humming, he finally took the Elvenking’s letter in his hand and read it.
“Do you not think that the way Thranduil wrote about offering his help was simply an empty courtesy on his behalf?” he asked, looking back at Mista.
“I very much think so,” she grinned. “King Thranduil most probably expects us to politely thank him and decline his offer.”
“Indeed.”
“That is why we shall do the opposite. If you agree, Your Majesty.”
“You surprise me, My Lady.” King Thorin’s lips twitched as a glint in his eyes replaced the earlier frown. “Please, continue.”
“Based on historical sources, I learned that the Longbeards — our people — built the Old Forest Road. As a result, trade relations with the Mirkwood Elves thrived. Why not return to that state of things? We could start by negotiating food trade or hunting rights in their woods,” Mista said, feeling more confident with every passing moment.
The King shook his head, “Thranduil is as fond of me and our people as I am of him. I doubt he would be interested.”
“Helping to manage my family’s trade business taught me one thing: it is always about the price. Balin tells me that Mirkwood is still infested by those giant spiders, is that correct?” she asked.
“It is a regular plague,” Thorin nodded. “They seem to multiply very quickly.”
“Might King Thranduil not be interested in assistance from the best dwarven warriors in order to eradicate those foul creatures?”
“Perhaps. It would be a great blow to his pride, though.”A visible smile appeared on her lord husband's lips. “If I were to allow my warriors to risk their lives in this manner, of course.”
“Of course,” Mista agreed, undeterred. She had to be careful now, but she also had another ace in her sleeve. “There is one more option as well. Are you very attached to the Gems of Lasgalen, Your Majesty?”
The frown returned, as she expected. The King took a sip from his goblet before speaking.
“Not at all. But I cannot deny that it brings me joy, knowing that they are safely stored in our treasure chamber,” the King’s demeanour was serious, but Mista could have sworn she saw a mischievous spark in his eyes, “and not, say, in the chambers of the King of the Woodland Realm.”
She chuckled, “The legendary Thorin Oakenshield admitting to being petty?”
“Even a king has to have his little joys,” he admitted, joining in her chuckles.
His laughter was heartwarming, deep and sonorous, and when their eyes met, Mista felt like drifting in the clouds.
“You have a mind of using them as a bargaining chip when negotiating with Thranduil, am I correct?” the King said when their chuckles subsided.
She nodded, “Are the gems useful to us in any way? Besides being the source of your joy, that is?”
“I am certain that Balin has already informed you about this. He has quite a strong opinion on that matter.”
“I prefer to hear it from you, Your Majesty,” Mista admitted. “If I may.”
“We both know that you are hoping to hear me say that the only usefulness of those gems lies in Thranduil’s interest in them, or, to be exact, in how much we may receive from him if we use the necklace as a leverage in our negotiations,” the King said. “However, you should know, Lady Mista, that I have no intention of negotiating with that… Elf.”
Mista sighed inwardly. The King’s feelings on the matter were not unexpected; Balin had warned her about this.
“Very well. This will not be a problem, Your Majesty,” she stated calmly. “I can take care of the negotiations.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I can pay a diplomatic visit to King Thranduil and secure a beneficial agreement. On behalf of my family, I took care of trade relations with the Elves of Grey Havens as I managed to learn some Sindarin,” Mista explained. “I imagine the Silvan Elves of Mirkwood aren't too different from their kin.”
“If you think, My Lady, that you are going to travel into that accursed forest…” Thorin protested.
“How else are we to gain what we need? King Thranduil is instrumental and he is not going to travel here, seeing as he was not even present at our wedding,” Mista said, stumbling upon the last two words. She still remembered that event in detail. And the way Thorin’s lips tasted. The lips that were now pressed into a thin, hard line.
“My Lady,” the King huffed. “We have already discussed this. I will not have you risk your life.”
“I will take with me as many guards as necessary,” she retorted. “Even a whole army, if you so wish.”
“That does not change a thing. Mirkwood is full of foul creatures and dangerous magic.”
“How else am I to conduct the negotiations?”
The King said curtly, “This is not up for debate.”
“Neither are the empty bellies of our people,” Mista quipped, surprised at her own boldness.
The King grunted and rested back on his chair, his arms folded on his chest, piercing her with his icy blue stare. Silence rang in Mista’s ears as she nervously toyed with the stem of her goblet and took a gulp of wine, to steady herself.
When the King finally spoke, the frown on his face deepened.
“My Lady Mista, I shall not change my mind in this matter. You are…” The King cleared his throat, “It is my duty to ensure your safety. And I strive to fulfill my duties to the best of my ability. Ensuring the wellbeing of my people, you included, is among them. Now, I find your idea bold but worth discussing further. If you propose it at the Council meeting tomorrow, I will support it as long as it does not put your person in danger. Perhaps another negotiator could be found, or a less perilous location for such talks.”
Mista took a moment to take another sip of wine. This was not the outcome she hoped for, but a road towards this goal had been paved.
“Very well,” she began. “I think…”
A loud booming sound drowned out her words. The ground shook under her feet, the tableware clattered, there was a distant crack, and a string of dust trickled down from the ceiling. Everything seemed to shake: her vision, her hands, the furniture, and the walls; something thudded behind her back, and the light of the candles danced frantically over the walls. Disoriented, Mista exclaimed, grabbing the table to regain balance; Thorin shouted something, but she could not understand the words; she was not certain where they came from. The ancient chandelier above them clattered. A burning candle fell on the floor. Petrified, Mista could only stare as it rolled away over a rug that immediately caught fire. It was quickly crushed under Thorin’s heavy boot, the fire quickly extinguished. The tremors intensified; a distant bell — the mine bell perhaps — began tolling the alarm.
“Mista!” someone — Thorin — shouted and pulled her to the side as parts of the chandelier, metal ornaments and crystals, began raining down onto the floor.
She clung to her lord husband, the only solid element in the chaos that surrounded them, her hands holding tightly on to his sleeve, his arm encircling her waist. Something fell nearby, making her cry out and recoil, but Thorin’s steady arms held her close, one of his hands covering her head protectively, her face hidden in the folds of his tunic.
“We need to leave!” He pulled her close and led her swiftly through the quivering rooms and hallways into the main corridor. Its walls kept on shaking as well; in the distance, Mista heard heavy footsteps and a couple of voices shouting.
“We will be safer here, the walls are sturdy.” The King’s voice rumbled in his chest, his arms firmly wrapped around her, as if she were the most precious thing in the world.
Then, she felt one of Thorin’s arms moving away. She clung to him even tighter, as if to prevent him from pulling away. He did not; instead, the King placed his hand flat against the wall beside them and closed his eyes for a few heartbeats. His other arm held her close. Pressed against him, Mista felt his hand splayed over her shoulder blades, the reassuring hardness of his chest rising and falling. A wave of relief washed over her, and she wanted to stay like this, so very close to him, even if the world around them was ending.
A sigh.
“It will pass in a moment, My Lady. The bones of the Mountain are settling.” Thorin’s voice reverberated against her cheek.
When he removed his hand from the wall, he asked with a surprising softness in his voice, “Are you unharmed?”
Mista swallowed, trying to calm her racing heart, and murmured into his tunic, “I am.”
Just as the King said, the tremors began subsiding, but she refused to move away from him.
“Your Majesties!” A guard was running towards them. “Were you injured?”
“We are both well, Áki,” the King said. “The Mountain is, too. She is returning to her slumber. Any casualties?”
“I don’t know yet, Your Majesty,” the guard panted, parts of his chainmail covered in stone dust.
“Tell Captain Dwalin that the source of the tremors was in the area of the Forges. Check and report back as soon as you can.”
“Right away, Your Majesty!” the guard saluted, placing his fist against his chest, and then turned around and hurried back.
“Lady Mista…” Thorin’s voice was like a murmur of a mountain stream. “All is well now.”
She refused to react. With his arm around her, she simply wanted to stay in that moment for eternity. When his arm slowly fell away from her body, stubbornly, she refused to let go of him.
The King spoke again, “Please, My Lady, look at me. There is nothing to be afraid of. I promise.”
Swathed in the velvet of his words, Mista took a deep breath. The stone ground beneath them finally seemed as steady as it had been before.
“I have never experienced such strong tremors before,” Mista spoke, looking up at her lord husband’s face and feeling like an utter fool.
“Understandable,” Thorin said. “The Blue Mountains are much older. And not as stroppy as our Mountain.”
As he spoke, he patted the wall with some kind of glint in his eyes, as if he would pat a brother in arms on the back.
It was time for Mista to take a reluctant step back on her trembling legs. It was not easy to find balance; she scolded herself for drinking all that wine.
“How did you know?” she asked. “About the Mountain? That the tremors were subsiding?”
Thorin glanced at his palm, covered with stone dust. “I listened.”
She followed his gaze, “Is it like the Stone Sense some of the Broadbeam miners have?”
“In a way,” he shrugged. “My Grandfather had it, my Father, and I as well. Dís has it too, and… my brother, he also had it. We hear our Mountain. She tells us things. We see them. It is… not something that I can explain well.”
“That must be a wondrous feeling,” Mista said, touching the stone wall in the same place where Thorin’s hand was moments ago. The stone was coarse and still slightly warm but silent against her skin.
“The Mountain can be loud sometimes. She has been growing louder since we returned,” Thorin admitted softly, as if to himself.
“What does she tell you?”
The King touched the stone wall once again, his hand beside Mista’s, and closed his eyes again.
“The tremors… We were too enthusiastic about remodelling the Forges. We need to be more careful. And she insists…” he cleared his throat and paused. “She wants me, us, to… bring more dwarves here. As soon as possible.”
“She was alone for a long time,” Mista’s gaze met Thorin’s, their hands only a finger width apart.
A pause.
“She was.”
His features were softened by the weak light of the corridor. When he nodded, she thought she saw something in his eyes, a shadow of melancholy, or perhaps tiredness. Mista wanted to embrace him, to chase that shadow away, and keep it at bay for as long as she could. She took a minuscule step towards him, her hand slid over the stone surface, and then their thumbs touched, and she was facing him, and her heart was beating fast. Embla’s words echoed in her mind, Dwarf-men are sometimes as blind as cave bats when it comes to matters of the heart, so it’s up to us to show them the way.
Perhaps this was the right time.
“Your Majesty… Thorin… There is something I would like to ask…” she licked her lips, her fingers playing nervously with her necklace. “I… I have studied our marriage contract and… I have been wondering…”
Trying to find all the right words, Mista noticed how his gaze fell from her eyes to her lips, and down to her necklace — exactly over her bosom. His Durin’s apple bobbed, and his lips parted; and all the words deserted Mista.
“Would you consider…” she tried again, her cheeks feeling very, very warm, from the wine, no doubt. “When the dust settles…”
“Mista…?” Thorin rasped out, his eyes slowly wandered up to meet hers; she did not know if her mind played tricks on her or if his thumb truly brushed over her hand, leaving a heated trail in its wake, or maybe it was just a whiff of warm air. A moment later, she felt a peculiar kind of tingling under her palm, and heard, or maybe felt, an echo, like a very old, forgotten song.
That was when the King suddenly moved his hand away, a frown appearing on his face.
“You were saying, My Lady? Our marriage contract?” His voice was hoarse, as if his throat was parched.
Mista’s arm fell limply to her side, the tingling gone. Her hand felt cold as stone. She must have been imagining things.
“Yes, the marriage contract. We…” she nodded stiffly, trying to rein in her emotions. Then she blurted out, “Would you like to… discuss the value of the sapphires we are to receive from the Blue Mountains this year according to the contract?”
Mista sighed. Coward. On the other hand, seeing how suddenly he recoiled from her, she should feel happy to have avoided humiliation. Whatever had just happened between them, it was clear that the King would not be inclined to spend a night with her. A beautiful hairdo and an elegant dress were not enough; Mista was simply not alluring enough to tempt him.
She barely heard his response. The King admitted distractedly that they did indeed need to discuss that matter, and the fragile bond they managed to create moments ago seemed to have frayed as quickly as it came into existence.
Soon, several guards and engineers came, along with Dwalin, who informed Thorin about the situation in the whole Kingdom after the tremors (no casualties, several minor injuries, some structural integrity issues in the Forges). In the meantime, the engineers busied themselves with assessing the situation in the whole royal wing.
The royal chambers were practically untouched, but it took a while longer before Mista was allowed to return to her rooms. To her surprise, the King offered her his arm and accompanied Mista to the door of her bedchamber, for which she was grateful as both the wine and the events of the evening made her steps less steady than usual.
“Thank you for the evening, My Lady,” her lord husband offered, covering her hand that rested on his arm with his hand. “I shall see you tomorrow at the King’s Council meeting.”
“My Lord?” Mista blinked, staring at his hand, feeling the reassuring warmth of his touch. “Thank you for joining me.”
“Allow me to bid you good night,” he added, moving his hand away and quickly glancing back towards one of the engineers waiting for him in the nearby hallway. “Duty calls. Sleep well, Lady Mista. The Mountain will not bother us again tonight.”
Mista’s gaze rested on her lord husband until his silhouette disappeared in the darkness and his footsteps faded away.
“Sleep well, Thorin…” she heard herself whisper, still clinging to the warm echoes of his touch. Her silly heart fluttered, even though it had no business performing such acrobatics. It was clear that the King’s gesture was dictated by pity towards a fearful dwarf-woman with whom His Majesty was stuck now. His inadequate wife.
***
“My dearest Niece! What an unexpected surprise!” Lord Taran’s voice echoed in the corridor behind Mista as she hurried out from the King’s Council’s chamber.
She let out a groan. The morning meeting of the Council had gone quite well; her proposal of entering into negotiations with the Woodland Realm had encountered some difficulties, but it was approved at the end, with the King’s support. Mista was still puzzled at the fact that he accepted her idea after she had embarrassed herself the previous day. After a nearly sleepless night filled with self-pity and then being stuck in one room with numerous boisterous Dwarf Lords, she only wished for some quiet time. A conversation, or rather, verbal sparring with her uncle was definitely not on her agenda.
“Your Majesty!” With his long strides, Lord Taran caught up with Mista in the blink of an eye.
She was not fond of white lies, but when it came to her father’s brother, she often seemed to be in dire need of a solid excuse.
“Good day, Uncle.” She gave him a curt nod. “I am on my way to a meeting with the newcomers and cannot spare you much time, I am afraid.”
“Those Longbeard miners can wait.” He waved his hand as if he were swatting a fly. “Tell me, dear niece, have you talked to your husband about that new kind of hardened steel they have begun producing here?”
“Are they? I have not heard.” Mista frowned. “Why would I talk with the King about it?”
“It is only fair to expect that our family will receive the monopoly when it comes to trading this new steel in the Blue Mountains.” Her uncle’s voice was as smooth as the finest elvish silks.
“I do not remember any steel being a part of the marriage contract.” As always with her father’s brother, she feigned ignorance to make him speak openly.
“Only because we did not know it existed, niece!” The tone of his voice was much too condescending for her taste. “It is being kept secret.”
“But now you know it is being produced here?” she asked. “How?”
“I have my ways,” Lord Taran hummed.
Mista knew that very well. If there was a secret worth knowing, her uncle knew how to make people talk.
“Strange,” she said. “The Forges are not producing anything at the moment.”
“But they will, I am certain of it, niece. Your father is about to send out our first generous shipment of the best sapphires from our mines, and a steel monopoly would be a welcome gesture in return, wouldn’t you say?”
“I am afraid I do not know much about steel. Perhaps you could ask His Majesty for an audience and discuss it directly with him?” she replied innocently.
“Ah, dear niece, you still have a lot to learn when it comes to trade. In such cases, one needs to work behind the scenes, using the best tools available.”
Mista had to stop herself from gritting her teeth. At least her uncle spoke openly: even as a queen, she was a tool to him, nothing more.
“So, uncle, do you want me to bribe or perhaps blackmail His Majesty in order to secure that monopoly for you? Provided he decides to sell the steel at all?”
“My dear, what an interesting sense of humour you have,” Lord Taran’s chuckle sounded like a cough. He lowered his voice, “Use your feminine wiles for once, my dear. Fawn over him, fulfil all his wishes in the marital bed, and then present the idea to him as a whim of a devoted wife. What Dwarf would refuse the woman he has barely bedded?”
Mista’s burning cheeks made her look away.
“Uncle, I do not wish you to speak of such things to me. It is highly unseemly.”
“Ah, but you are a married woman now, there is nothing to be ashamed of!” Lord Taran’s smile widened, making Mista feel as if she were a thirty-year-old lass again and not a grown dwarf-woman.
“Please, understand, uncle,” she lowered her voice as a couple of courtiers were approaching them. “I spoke my vows over the marriage anvil and I will not use my marital bed for political games.”
Her uncle’s dry chuckle reached Mista’s ears again.
“If you say so, my dear Queen.” He bowed, a tad too theatrically for Mista’s taste, and at the very moment when the courtiers were passing them by. “But I am delighted to hear that there is finally a marital bed to speak of when it comes to you and His Majesty.”
Mista stopped in her tracks, her throat tightening.
“Uncle,” she breathed. “My marriage is not a matter I wish to discuss with you.”
“So be it,” he shrugged. “I must say I am quite relieved. You do not know that, dear niece, but your marriage contract contains a clause which states that if the consummation of your marriage does not take place within the first three months after the wedding day, we have the right to annul the marriage and receive proper remuneration for the trouble.”
Her uncle was wrong. Mista knew it all too well. Together with Dís, she had studied the marriage contract thoroughly several weeks ago. With each passing day, she was painfully aware of the fact that there was less than one month left until the King’s Council would convene to confirm that all the clauses of the agreement had been fulfilled so far. She and the King would have to speak under an oath about whether the consummation had happened or not. And no honourable dwarf would dare to swear an untrue oath. A ball of ice began forming in her belly.
“I greatly appreciate your concern, uncle,” Mista spoke slowly, putting in an effort to keep an emotionless face. “Please do not worry on my behalf, all is as it should be.”
Lord Taran clasped his hands, “Splendid, dear niece. Splendid. Now, about that steel monopoly…”
“Forgive me, uncle,” she interrupted him, “but I am already late to the meeting. Let us talk at a more convenient time.”
“Every day you sound more like a real queen, my little niece. I am truly glad for you, as long as you remember your roots.” Lord Taran’s smile did not reach his eyes.
Not honouring her father’s brother with a reply, she turned into one of the side corridors, walking away as fast as dignity allowed her.
***
The chamber was dark and musty; cobwebs and dust seemed to cover every single surface, leaving dark streaks on Mista’s gown, but she did not care. Neither did she care about where exactly she ended up — this was the first unused room in the less frequented part of the royal wing she found and hid in, away from her advisors, Embla, and even Katla. A place where she could be herself.
Here, in this forgotten chamber, Mista plopped down on some kind of low table and allowed her tears to run freely. Her days as the Queen Under the Mountain, King Thorin II’s wife, were coming to an end. What was she thinking? The King did not wish to have anything to do with her. Except for minor acts of kindness, he mostly avoided her and did everything he could to not spend an evening—not to mention a night—with her. Not even one single night. Since the marriage was still unconsummated, in three weeks Mista would have to return home, with coffers full of gold and precious stones, and a broken heart. Was this how the end of her fairy-tale life as a queen of the greatest Dwarvish kingdom would look like? Was there truly nothing she could do to change her indifferent lord husband’s mind? It was obvious to Mista that whatever reasons lay behind Thorin Oakenshield’s decision to marry her, he must have changed his mind on the day of their wedding, when he saw her after all those years.
A stream of sobs poured out of her. She had to face the reality of the situation and accept it, no matter how much it hurt. Whatever she did, Thorin did not seem to see her as his lady wife. Of course, he was not interested in someone like her, why would he be? He was a legendary warrior, a great king, and the handsomest Dwarf she had ever laid her eyes on, while she was… plain and forgettable. Mista forbade herself to think of the deep blue pools of his gaze, of the sound of his hearty laughter when he was amused, of the softness of his hair, or the warmth of his skin against her. On their wedding day, she had thought her love would be more than enough for the both of them; she simply had to do her job as best as she could and show him that she was both a good spouse and a worthy queen. She had hoped that their common goals, making the Kingdom Under the Mountain prosper and bringing a child to the world, an heir of Durin, would suffice.
She was wrong.
Tears stained her spectacles and her gown, flowing like the River Running in spring. Mista did not try to hold them back; now she could cry for as long as she needed, in a very unqueenlike manner, hoping that her tears would wash away at least a part of her sorrow and disappointment.
Something creaked in the distance. The door. A narrow, yellow stripe of light splashed on the floor. Mista held her breath.
“Mista?” someone whispered.
Dís, she realized with a sigh.
“Are you here, Mista?” Dís repeated.
Hurriedly, Mista took off her spectacles and brushed away her tears with her sleeve. She did not stand up, choosing to stay in her dark corner. Now, she probably looked like some kind of revenant in her dirty clothes, with swollen, red eyes and cobwebs in her hair.
She cleared her throat and said hoarsely, “I’m here.”
A few quiet steps, the creak of the closing door, and darkness devoured the chamber again.
“I have been searching for you everywhere,” Dís spoke softly. “Has anything happened?”
“No, nothing happened, Dís,” she took a deep breath, trying to sound like her usual self. “Nothing at all.”
This was not a lie, not even a white lie. “Nothing” was exactly what Mista could expect from her husband, the King. “Nothing” was how she felt whenever her uncle was around.
“I simply needed some time on my own,” she quickly mumbled.
“Here, of all places?” Dís said, looking around. It was too dark for Mista to discern the details of her face, but she sounded somewhat intrigued.
“This was the only quiet place I could find,” Mista explained, rising from her makeshift seat and stepping towards the princess.
Dís nodded, “I can understand that. ‘Urdêk is quite a busy place these days. Especially for someone working as much as our new Zabdûna.”
Mista forced herself to stretch her lips in a smile, blinking away her tears.
“I am doing my best. You said you were searching for me?”
“Our lunch was getting cold,” Dís offered.
“Oh… I completely lost track of time,” Mist scolded herself. It was Tuesday, and on Tuesdays Dís and her had lunch together. “Sorry.”
“Don’t,” Dís waved her hand dismissively. “Let us go and eat it now. Unless you would rather have it in your chambers?”
“I’d rather join you,” Mista admitted. Somehow, she did not wish to be alone any longer.
“Perfect! I have been looking forward to it,” Dís grinned. “You are the only one who will fully appreciate the newest piece of gossip I have accidentally stumbled upon…”
Mista heard herself chuckle. Dís never did anything “accidentally”. And the “gossip” usually referred to new business ventures or possible political leverage opportunities.
“Alright, I just need to change. I look like a monster from the mines,” Mista said, trying to get rid of the dirt on her gown. Relief washed over her when the princess did not make any comments about her dishevelled state.
“I will have to send someone to give this place a thorough clean up,” Dís looked around the room once again, and then looked Mista straight in the eyes. “And, after lunch, if you feel like it, we can have a chat about what bothers you.”
“It is nothing worth speaking of, truly,” Mista asserted. Even Thorin’s sister could not help her in her current situation. No one could. Even herself. A shroud of melancholic acceptance fell over her heart.
Marriage was not a business agreement, and there was nothing Mista could do…
… or was it?
✨ Entangled Masterlist
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Summary: Although Erebor is his once more, Thorin knows there is still a great threat to the peace of Middle Earth. Azog is gone, but another has taken his place and has sworn to finish what Azog began. Erebor is back, but it’s sadly lacking in protection and as much as he hates the thought of it, Thorin knows there is one thing that will guarantee the safety and continuation of his line.
War is coming and all Eirlys of Mirkwood wishes to do is fight alongside her brother Legolas and the other elves, united with Men and Dwarves in their attempt to quell the renewed tensions between them and the orc army of the north. But, her father, Thranduíl has other plans. Unite his kingdom with the newly reestablished kingdom of Erebor and use the power of both to defeat the orcs.
An arranged marriage that neither side wants, but both sides need. But what happens when the two sides realize that maybe—just maybe—being together isn't quite as bad as they'd thought...
Pairing: Thorin x ofc Eirlys of Mirkwood
Warnings: None
Rating: T
Word Count: 2.8k
Read on AO3
Eirlys stood in the corridor just beyond the doors to the Throne Room. She hadn’t seen who the Guard brought in before her father, but she heard the deep voice that teased her ears. It was the sound of rich black velvet, low and deep and soothing, and so she drew in a deep breath and stepped closer to peer through the opening between the doors.
A dwarf stood before her father, one with a long tangle of black, curly hair, his back and shoulders broad beneath a heavy leather and fur traveling coat. Where most men shrank before Thranduíl, this dwarf did no such thing. Instead, his voice rose as he growled, “Ish kakfê ai-‘d-dûr-rugnal!”
She had no idea what the words meant, but he sounded furious and Thranduíl’s eyes narrowed at what had to be a grave insult. A moment later, two of his guards each grabbed the dwarf by his thick arms and dragged him away from the high throne of woven branches.
Ducking around the corner, she waited for them to bring him out of the Throne Room and when they did, she forgot about not wanting to be caught. Instead, she straightened up and could only stare, for the dwarf was handsome beyond words, with his thick black beard and piercing pale eyes. She had no idea who he was, or why he’d been lurking in Mirkwood, but she stood, riveted to her spot as he was marched by, could only stare until they disappeared down into the dungeons.
Eirlys smiled at the memory of the first time she’d ever laid eyes upon King Thorin II, who wasn't exactly king yet, but certainly stood up to her father as if he already wore the crown. She’d had no inkling at that moment, what lay ahead of her, of how her life would change and change for the better.
Madris’ footfalls sounded just beyond the iron bars. She knew it was Madris, because her boots squeaked softly with each step, so Eirlys closed her eyes as she lay on the cold stone floor. It wasn't at all comfortable, and after a while, her bones seemed to ache from lying there, but she didn't want to listen to Madris, to hear her taunts, as to listen to her now, one would be hard pressed to believe she had ever been treated as anything other than a slave by the Greenleaf family. To hear her now, one would be forgiven for thinking that this poor woman spent her entire life being starved and beaten and treated as less than the lowest farm animal, when in fact, she’d been considered very much a member of the family. She could only imagine what her father’s reaction would be, when he learned of Madris’ deception. Fury wouldn’t even come close.
“I know you aren’t asleep.”
Eirlys ignored Madris, concentrating on the memories that replayed so vividly in her mind. It was the only way to block out Madris’ taunting tone and mocking words. Instead, she focused on the moment her life truly changed—the first time she kissed Thorin.
She laid her hand in his, allowing him to draw her up. They were nearly eye to eye, and as she stood, she caught a hint of leather and snow. His fingers tightened about hers and as she met his gaze, she leaned in and without thinking, brushed his lips with hers.
Eirlys had no idea what possessed her to do such a thing and jerked back in horror. “I beg your pardon, Thorin,” she blurted, staring at him. “I didn't mean—that is, I don’t know why I did that.”
A hint of color rose along his cheekbones, but he smiled and subtly shook his head. “Please, there is no need to apologize.”
Their first kiss. Awkward. Unexpected.
And only a hint at the wonderful things that were yet to come.
“Eirlys…”
She ignored Madris even harder. It wasn't so difficult to do as she focused on her and Thorin’s wedding night.
His smile widened, his eyes dancing with something that looked very much like merriment as he said, “I wish you wouldn’t worry so much about covering yourself. You’ve no need to, you know.”
Heat swirled through her, caused her to pull the robe more tightly about herself. “I—I beg your pardon?”
He took a step closer to her. “You looked fine the way you were.”
As he spoke, he caught the edge of the wrapper, curling his fingers into the stiff lace. Her heart pounded against her ribs at his gentle tug, at the lace scraping lightly against her. Her cheeks felt like they had to be bright scarlet by now, but there was no denying how the sudden race of her blood was far more delicious than it was unnerving. It almost made her tingle from the inside out.
He leaned toward her then, the coarse whiskers along his chin scraping her just as lightly as the lace dragging against her collarbone did, and when his lips found hers, they were warm and soft and gently teasing.
A foul stench wafted toward Eirlys, who did her best ignore that as well, even as it turned her stomach and tried to make her nose wrinkle. More footfalls thundered through the stone fortress and she wasn't at all ignorant of what made those sounds. At least two orcs made their way toward the cells.
She swallowed hard, forcing her roiling belly to calm and her mind to return to her wedding night and the magic she found with Thorin…
He surged hard then, crushing her close as the knots inside her burst once more and she cried out her pleasure, arching to meet him, wrapping herself about him. He drove them over the edge, her climax a shower of fire and ice and everything wonderful.
“Eirlys…” Her name was a husky growl on his lips. He thrust hard once more, tensed, shuddered, and then went rigid as he came.
A peaceful silence, broken only by their mutual fight to draw breath, settled about them as Thorin sank against her, his head coming to rest on her breast, his breath hot blasts against her equally hot skin.
Eirlys’ eyes were too-heavy-lidded to remain open and so she let them close, her fingers moving lightly along the silken length of Thorin’s tangled black curls, smiling when his lips ever so gently swept against the inner curve of her left breast.
“Are you all right?” she whispered.
He lifted his head, regarding her with eyes that were just as sleepy as hers. “Isn’t that what I am supposed to ask you?”
“Is that a yes?”
“Are you all right?”
She nodded. “I’m fine.”
“Good. I am as well.” He shifted sightly and they both winced as he slipped free of her. He eased off her and for a moment, she thought he was going to get up and leave, which brought down her blissful mood a tad.
But then, he stretched out alongside her and reached for her, drawing her up against him as he draped his arm about her shoulders. Eirlys hesitated at first, wincing at the damp stickiness between her thighs, but as she reached to draw the sheet and coverlet about them, she forgot the mess. The wet spot behind her was another story, but Thorin didn't seem to mind her curved up against his side, and she was so very comfortable with her head resting on his chest and her arm draped over his belly.
His thick fingers swept lightly along her shoulder, along her upper arm. “I am sorry I hurt you, Eirlys,” he murmured into the growing darkness as the logs on the hearth slowly burned up. “I hope I won’t the next time.”
“Is that Oakenshield’s bride?”
An icy chill tore along Eirlys’ spine at the low, raspy growl just beyond the iron bars. For a horrifying moment, she was positive she was going to be sick. Her stomach lurched so hard, she had to fight back the sudden brackish taste that filled her mouth.
“She is, indeed. And where is Rildu?”
“He’ll be along in time.”
“I’ll negotiate only with him.”
Eirlys cracked her eyes, peering through the fringe of her eyelashes to see the orc’s mottled gray legs, as thick as any tree trunk, stretching his fur boots. If those legs were any indication, he was a giant, probably even towering over Madris, who had inherited her elven kin’s height.
The orc laughed. “If you think he’ll negotiate, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. He negotiates with no one, especially an elf-maid.”
Eirlys almost smiled at the sneer in the orc’s raspy voice. Almost.
“He is not interested in the girl,” the orc went on. “At least, not once Oakenshield arrives.”
“He negotiates with me or else I set her free.”
The orc laughed, which sounded almost as terrible as when he spoke, for his laughter was more gurgle than anything and held absolutely no humor in it at all. “You are almost amusing, elf.”
Steel sang then and now Eirlys stopped pretending she was asleep as she opened her eyes to see the orc had drawn his sword. She slowly sat up, eyes on Madris, whose eyes were on the gleaming steel.
“He will not negotiate with you, elf, and you would be wise to accept that.” The orc held the sword out, its point mere inches from the hollow in Madris’ throat. “Unless you wish to find out what happens if you don’t.”
Madris stared at the blade for a long moment, then, with a slight bob of her head, replied, “I am certain we can work something out.”
He drew the blade away from her. “Wise choice.”
The tension broken, Madris looked over at her and her nervous expression faded. “Well, look who’s up.”
The orc turned toward her and Eirlys swallowed hard. No matter how many times she saw one, she would never not be disturbed by how absolutely, horrifyingly ugly and vile orcs truly were.
Then he smiled and she thought she might actually be sick. His smile was nothing more than rotting teeth in a crooked, misshapen mouth, beady eyes that looked as if they would simply roll about in their blackened sockets, with no warmth or humanity anywhere to be found in that equally misshapen and grotesque body.
Those beady eyes met hers and she actually shivered at the lack of anything but darkness in that stare. He turned back to Madris. “On second thought, I think we are done here.”
Steel sang again and Eirlys sucked in a hard breath as the orc spun about and one fluid motion, separated Madris’ head from her body. Blood spattered the wall behind Madris and the orc, and she crumpled to the floor like a rag doll while her head rolled across the floor and out of sight.
The suddenness of Madris’ death and the brutality of it left Eirlys speechless, hands cupped over her mouth, eyes filling with unexpected tears as her stomach gave a sickeningly sharp lurch. The air grew heavier and fouler as the orc looked into the cell. “Rildu will not, as I said, negotiate with elves.”
Eirlys shook her head slowly. “I have no intention of negotiating, orc.”
“Good. You will keep your head a bit longer, then.”
She swallowed hard as he stepped up to the door and with a rattle of a keyring, fit a key into the lock and the door swung open with an earsplitting squeal. Instinctively, she recoiled, shrinking back as the orc reached for her.
It hardly deterred him as he lunged and his fingers tightened about her forearm. With a rough tug, he dragged her from the cell and spun her away from him. A moment later, the sharp tip of his blade dug into the small of her back as he growled, “Walk.”
Thorin’s gut twisted as they approached Ravenhill, his ears ringing with the sounds of battles from days past. The scars on his belly tingled as if in warning when he stepped up to the stone terrace where he’d been when he realized he’d led his nephews straight into a trap.
His eyes went to the mottled gray and black stone tower rising through the mist, his gaze drawn to the ledge where Azog the Defiler had held Fíli in one hand, high above the stone base, and had run him through as Thorin stood there helpless to do anything to stop it.
Once more, the tower’s interior glowed with fires that had been lit throughout and this time, he saw the orcs at the tower’s base, saw them through the arched stone windows at various levels.
Beside him, Thranduíl drew his sword. “I will give the word—”
“Not yet,” Thorin told him softly, even though there was no chance of them being overhead. Nor did he fear being seen just yet. He knew Thranduíl’s army stood at the ready, but he couldn't see them at all, as they wore cloaks that helped them blend seamlessly with the snowy and barren terrain. Also lurking somewhere were both Legolas and Tauriel, although he knew not where. Still, he wasn't ready to give them away just yet. “I will go first and when I give the signal, then you go.”
“We did not agree to that.”
“I will take no chances,” Thorin told him. “They will expect us to attack. They will not expect me to come alone.”
“Thorin—”
“I go alone.” Thorin started for the cracked and broken stone steps that led down to the path that would take him to the turret’s base. “When you see me, that is your signal. You will not move, you will not so much as blink until then.”
Thranduíl looked annoyed, but merely nodded and replied, “Of course.”
“Thorin, at least let me go with ye.”
Thorin shook his head at Dwalin. “No. No one goes with me.”
He didn't wait for anyone else to protest, but started off down the stairs. With each step, his heart beat harder against his ribs, while unwanted memories slid through his mind. Water lapped softly along the riverbank, the giant ice floes that clogged the river in winter were now mere chunks still floating toward the giant falls that fed the Celduin River, which ran along and before Erebor’s main gates.
The last time he’d been on that river, the floes were actually a sheet of ice at this point, broken up only when Azog thought to try to crush him with a stone flail, only to realize his mistake too late, when Thorin simply stepped off the last broken chunk and let the orc and his stone sink to the river bottom where Azog drowned.
Or so he’d thought.
Then Thorin made his nearly fatal mistake, and found himself impaled through his foot just long enough for the pale orc to burst from the freezing river and pinned Thorin on his back, Orcrist being the only thing between him and Azog’s dual-bladed left arm.
Thorin swallowed hard, sweat prickling along his back. He’d chosen to move Orcrist, to use what time he would have left to finally wipe Azog’s stain from the face of Middle Earth.
Never did he think the scenario might replay itself.
The tower rising before him glowed orange and he heard the movement of orcs within. A moment later, an arrow sliced through the air, narrowly missing his left ear as it whizzed past him.
He stopped, then looked up to see the orc he assumed was Rildu. Like his kin, he was enormous and pale, with equally pale eyes as far as Thorin could tell. Unlike his kin, he bore fewer scars and seemed a bit spindlier than Azog had been. Spindlier, perhaps, but no less menacing and Thorin didn't doubt for a moment he was as formidable an opponent as the Defiler had been.
Still, Thorin didn't reach for Orcrist as he called, “Rildu?”
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Where is she?”
The orc stared down at him, his bow lowered. “Which she might that be?”
“You know which she.”
Rildu turned away to motion toward the tower’s interior. Thorin swallowed hard as another orc appeared, with Eirlys before him, his clawlike hand wrapped about her upper arm.
“Release her at once.”
Rildu’s laughter rang out as he shook his head. “Now, why would I do that?”
Thorin drew in a deep breath, mindful of the others behind him, waiting for his cue, who heard every word and had no idea of what he was about to say. “Release her and you can have me. That’s why you’re holding her, isn’t it? To force me to come to you? So, let her go and I come willingly.”
Summary: Although Erebor is his once more, Thorin knows there is still a great threat to the peace of Middle Earth. Azog is gone, but another has taken his place and has sworn to finish what Azog began. Erebor is back, but it’s sadly lacking in protection and as much as he hates the thought of it, Thorin knows there is one thing that will guarantee the safety and continuation of his line.
War is coming and all Eirlys of Mirkwood wishes to do is fight alongside her brother Legolas and the other elves, united with Men and Dwarves in their attempt to quell the renewed tensions between them and the orc army of the north. But, her father, Thranduíl has other plans. Unite his kingdom with the newly reestablished kingdom of Erebor and use the power of both to defeat the orcs.
An arranged marriage that neither side wants, but both sides need. But what happens when the two sides realize that maybe—just maybe—being together isn't quite as bad as they'd thought...
Pairing: Thorin x ofc Eirlys of Mirkwood
Warnings: None
Rating: T
Word Count: 3.6k
Read on AO3
Impatience bubbled hotly in Thorin’s belly, scorched through his veins as he paced the Throne Room. “This is madness, just sitting here, doing nothing.”
“Thorin, we are to wait for Thranduíl as well. For you to go charging up to Ravenhill now, with just a dozen of your men, will only serve to get you and Her Royal Highness killed.” Bard’s voice was calm and even, and that served only to irritate Thorin further, especially when he added, “We wait for the reinforcements and then strike.”
Although he knew Bard was right, and that they needed the elven army that hurried their way, it didn't make waiting any easier. As he paced, Thorin’s mind whirled with what might be happening to Eirlys and each thought made him angrier than the last. And at the moment, he was furious enough to take on the entire orc army and make certain Madris paid for her deception was well.
“Your Royal Highness?” Thorin spun about to see Grabu standing in the doorway, looking a bit nervous as he added, “I’ve His Royal Highness, King Thranduíl of Mirkwood to see you?”
Thranduíl did not wait to be bid entry, but swept past the sentry without hesitation, Legolas at his side. “Thorin, are you certain of where Eirlys is?”
“About as certain as I can be,” he replied, “but the only way we’ll really know is to go up there.”
Legolas looked from his father to Thorin. “I can go ahead and make certain.”
“No.” Thorin shook his head. “I will give Madris no chance to harm Eirlys. If anyone goes, it will be me.”
“And me as well,” Thranduíl broke in smoothly, “for if you think I’m going to simply sit here and wait—”
Thorin looked over at his father-in-law. “I did not think you would say anything else, to be honest. But, you do not know the terrain.”
“As if that matters,” Thranduíl told him, his tone brooking no argument. “What is your plan?”
The chill wind howled in through the windows, swirled down to bite into Eirlys with the sharpest of teeth. She sat against the stone wall, huddled in a ball, trying to fight off the call than seeped into her, that seeped clear through to her bones. Her head still ached from the valerian and no matter how she tried, she couldn't shake the nausea or the ache that settled into her joints.
She had no idea what time it was, only that clouds had blotted out the sun at some point during the day. She had no idea how long she’d been there. At some point, she’d drifted off to sleep again, due to the valerian, no doubt. She’d never taken the herb before, and had no idea how long it would remain in her system, but she knew she would never take it again. She couldn't remember the last time she felt so terrible, so groggy and detached from everything around her.
“Well, look who’s up now.”
Eirlys narrowed her eyes as Madris came into her field of vision. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Color me wounded,” Madris replied dryly, shaking her head. “I should think you would have plenty to say to me. I should think you would be demanding to know how I could hide my true feelings for you, how I could pretend that you were like a daughter to me all the while I knew that I would betray you the very first chance I had.”
“Does it matter now?” The words felt so thick and furry on Eirlys’ tongue. Her head slowly began to clear, and the ashiness dissipated with equal slowness, and as it did, anger replaced it. “All you had to do was say something, Madris, and I would have let you go. It was that simple.”
“You are so stupid,” Madris told her with all of the casualness of one discussing the weather, “so very stupid with your pampered and privileged life. By the time you had the power to free me, it was too late. I’d already sacrificed my life for you. For you and your fool brother. It didn't matter when you were grown. The man who’d wanted me for his had moved on and I was alone. You stupid child.”
“I had nothing to do with it, though.” Eirlys managed to get to her feet, managed to make them obey her as she crossed to the cell door. “I was but a child, remember.”
“You say that as if it mattered.”
“It should. I had no say in whether or not you remained indentured to us. Until this day, I had no idea you weren’t there of your own free will.” She linked her fingers in the cold iron, tightening them as her knees threatened to betray her. “You have directed your hatred at the wrong person, you know. There was nothing I could have done, especially since I didn't know. And you had already gotten your revenge, hadn’t you, when you made certain my mother was taken from me.”
Eirlys’ anger grew, burned from red to almost white with fury. Madris, who had been like a second mother to her, had been responsible for her mother, Lainien’s death. “You destroyed my father, my brother, and me with her death and that still wasn't enough for you, was it?”
“It did not even touch the surface, Eirlys. Not even close.”
Eirlys narrowed her eyes. “Do not think to speak my name with those vile lips.”
“Oh, well, look at you, all high and mighty,” a sneer wove its way through Madris’ words. “As if it matters now. A queen in a cell, her life lasting only a few hours more. We will see how high and mighty you are, when your dwarf is on his knees before Rildu, begging for his life, begging for yours to be spared.”
Eirlys’ stomach clenched. “Thorin has nothing to do with any of this, and you know it. He would have also seen to it that you were released from your obligations, had he but known.”
Madris’ graying brows shot up. “Are you begging for his life, princess? How very sweet.”
Eirlys bristled at the mocking tone of Madris’ voice. “I ask him to be spared because I love him. I should think you would understand that.” She paused. “Or, perhaps you don’t, since the man you thought loved you chose not to fight for you the way I will for Thorin. I suppose he didn't care for you as much as you did for him.”
Madris’ eyes widened, and her cheeks went red as she stared hard at Eirlys. Her anger was visible, her jaw clenching and relaxing before she snarled, “You know nothing about it.”
“Is that so?” Eirlys’ headache faded completely and even some of her nausea vanished as well. She stood taller, loosened her grip on the icy iron bars. “I know he left you. He couldn't be bothered to even try to spirit you from the palace, did he?”
“You do not even speak to me about it,” Madris’ voice rose with each word until she was red-faced and shouting, “and you will never speak of it to me again.”
“Is that so?” Her growing fury gave Eirlys a renewed strength, made it easier for her to stand upright without clinging to the iron bars. She held Madris’ frigid river-rock eyes as she shook her head. “You have no power over me, Madris. You betrayed me. Betrayed my brother and our father and our mother. You are a cold shell of a woman and it is no surprise your man chose freedom over you.”
Madris slammed her hand into the iron. “Shut your foul mouth! You know nothing of which you speak!”
“I know nothing? I know you will die alone. Alone and bitter, jealous of others’ happiness, of their ability to find love, to find one who would do anything and everything in their power to be with them. You have no idea what it is to love someone, to have them love you in return and to know they will always be there for you.”
“Is that so?” Fire flashed in Madris’ eyes. “For I see no runt here, fighting to save your worthless neck. Where is he, Your Royal Highness? Why hasn’t he come for you?”
“He will.” Eirlys replied calmly, with a slight shrug. “And when he does, you will regret ever even thinking of this madness, never mind carrying it out.”
“Of course I will. Your fool husband will of course come riding up here, full of fire and fury and determined to save your pathetic little neck. But what is he compared to an entire army? For Rildu and his soldiers are here already, just waiting.”
Madris’ eyes narrowed and her smile was icy. “He won’t make it past the gates.”
Some of Eirlys’s newfound strength faded. Madris was right. Thorin had no idea that an orc army lay in wait for him and she had no way to get word to him.
“Oh, princess, does that trouble you?”
“You are a horrid person, Madris. A soulless, miserable wretch who will always want what others have, only to have it just that much out of reach.”
“I am wounded,” Madris retorted, shaking her head, “that a spoiled and pampered child thinks me horrid. However shall I go on?”
Eirlys just held her stare. “You left children motherless, and for what? A man who cared so little that he left you? Was it worth it in the end, Madris? Will it be worth it when you have your payment from Rildu, but are still alone?”
“I will be rid of you. Rid of your brother and your father and my life will be my own.”
“Ah, but who will you share it with?” Eirlys swept a hand toward her. “You will still be alone. Alone and bitter and having wasted your youth.”
“I care not,” Madris growled, “for I will be rid of you. No more will I have to reassure you that your dwarf cares for you, that anyone cares for you. No more will I have to pretend to care when you whine about this or that, or to pretend that anything you babble on about actually interests me, for it doesn’t and it never has. You have always been a scared, whiny, insecure child. The difference is, I will not have to contend with you any longer.”
Despite her outward calmness, Eirlys felt the cuts from Madris’ words, each one deeper than the last. Never before had anyone treated her with such disdain, with such… hatred. She had loved Madris and to know this was how Madris felt and saw her in return was enough to make her eyes sting and her heart ache.
She stepped back from the bars. “I always saw you as a mother, Madris. You were everything I thought my mother would be and… I wish you had said something, for I would have approached my father and convinced him to give you your freedom. I didn't know you were there against your will. And if I—”
She paused. Why did she feel the need to explain? She should want to run Madris through, to remove her head from her body without a second look. And the truth was, had she a weapon, she would do just that. But at the same time, part of her still couldn't believe she’d been betrayed so badly, and that she’d been so bloody blind to it. How could she have been so blind? How did she not see it?
For Madris had played her perfectly, that’s why. She gave almost no indication of her true feelings. She had wanted to blindside Eirlys and had succeeded.
And Thorin would pay the price as well.
“And if you what, Eirlys? What were you going to say?”
Eirlys shook her head as she retreated to the back of the small cell. “I’ve nothing more to say to you.”
“No, you wish to speak, do so.”
A hint of panic seemed to creep into Madris’ voice, which made Eirlys want to smile. She wanted to, but managed to keep her expression neutral as she shrugged. “I’ve nothing to say.”
“You do!” Madris’ voice reverberated off the damp rock, rang through the entire fortress, it seemed. “Do not be a coward, but tell me!”
Eirlys merely smiled as she sank to the floor, settling up against the cold and damp stone. Madris stared at her, wide eyed, her face growing red as she sputtered, “Coward!”
“Call me what you will. It matters not.”
A low rumble sounded in the distance, the vibration traveling through the air, the stone, the mortar that held Ravenhill together. Orcs.
A chill rippled through Eirlys, her gut twisting into a sharp, sudden, uncomfortably tight knot. Her mouth went dry as her heart first skipped a beat, then sped up to pump adrenaline through her body. Orcs had killed her mother. They roamed the lands between Mirkwood and the Long Lake, the lands between Dale and Erebor.
And now they were on their way to Ravenhill.
To make certain Thorin’s life was ended.
Thranduíl’s pacing was enough to make Thorin dizzy, and he held up a hand. “Please, I beg you, Thranduíl. Take a seat.”
“How can you sit?” Thranduíl paused, spinning about to meet Thorin’s eyes. Unlike his daughter, Thranduíl’s eyes were piercing blue, and probably like his own, filled with worry.
“Because if I don’t,” Thorin replied, “I would go storming up to Ravenhill with a head full of steam and would most likely walk into a well-laid trap, just as I did the first time.”
Thranduíl sighed softly. “You believe it to be a trap?”
“I do, yes. Rildu most likely learned well at Azog’s side, at Bolg’s side. I do not doubt for a moment that that’s why Eirlys is there.”
“But how would she know? She took no part in the battle.”
“She didn’t, but I believe her maid knew of it.”
“Why would you believe such a thing?”
“Because I’ve been doing a bit of thinking. Who was Lachon?”
“He was a would-be suitor to Eirlys. I found him… lacking… and sent him on his way years ago.” Thranduíl resumed his pacing. “But. How do you know of him?”
“He was at our wedding.” Thorin rose from the throne and stepped down to approach Thranduíl. The elf towered over him, and for the first time, Thorin saw the resemblance between father and daughter. “But, I had the feeling you did not invite him.”
“Of course not. Why would I? He was nothing to Eirlys and he was definitely nothing to me.”
“Well, he was there the next morning and I happened upon him attempting to kiss Eirlys. I took offense to that and let him know. But, I was curious about how he came to be there, since Eirlys insisted he was nothing to her, so I did some looking into him.”
Thranduíl’s eyes lost a bit of their concerned look. “And what did you find?”
“Eirlys mentioned he’d spent time in Rivendell, so I asked Elrond about him and Elrond informed me that Lachon is actually is Madris’ kin. A second cousin, I believe. And I wish I’d asked him as soon as I learned of his existence because—”
He hesitated, but then went on.
“At first, I accused Eirlys of betraying me, but—” he held up a hand as Thranduíl’s expression slowly became one of protest and he opened his mouth to speak—“let me finish. I know she didn’t, and it was my own idiocy that had me convinced otherwise. I mean, why would she fancy a man like me?
“Why, indeed,” Thranduíl replied dryly, but with a hint of a smile. “I still wonder.”
Thorin chuckled. “You knew we’d suit and it must have galled you to no end.”
“It did, indeed.” A hint of a sigh wove into Thranduíl’s voice. “I admit, at first, your joining was strictly one of convenience, one that would benefit us both. But then I saw how she looked at you, how she watched you, and well… here we are.”
That was the closest Thranduíl would ever come to admitting that Thorin was perfect for his daughter, but Thorin hardly minded. Not now. “Would it ease your mind tio know I adore her to the ends of Middle Earth and that I will move mountains to bring her home safely. I only wish Elrond’s response had come before Madris could betray her.”
Thranduíl said nothing at first, but his eyes shimmered unexpectedly and his voice cracked as he finally said, “Yes. Yes, it does ease my mind. It eases it a great deal.”
“Good. Because I do and I will.” Thorin gestured for Thranduíl to follow him. “And now, before we make our way to Ravenhill, there is something I wish to give you, something I should have given you long before now. So, if you’ll come with me.”
Thranduíl said nothing, but fell into step alongside him as Thorin led him away from the Throne Room, down toward the main staircase.
From there, Thorin led him down the staircase and along a narrow corridor, the only light coming from the flames behind frost glass on sconces high along the stone walls. There, at the end of the corridor, he turned into a small room, ringed by shelves and with a large oak work table in the middle. On that table stood several scales, along with small screwdrivers, tweezers, and small wooden chests practically teeming with sparkling gems of all types.
A row of smaller chests stood along one shelf at the back of the room, and that was the one Thorin sought. He lifted the lid to it, and as the light hit, the chest’s contents sparkled like a winter’s night’s sky.
He reached in and with careful fingers, plucked a delicate necklace of pure white diamonds set on an elaborate lacework of mithril steel. The White Gems of Lasgalen. They had once belonged to Thranduíl—or rather, had belonged to Lainien, Eirlys’ mother.
“I should have returned these to you when I found them here, after we took Erebor back.” Thorin turned toward Thranduíl, who stared at the delicate necklace as if stunned by it. “And I apologize for not doing so.”
“Gems of pure starlight,” Thranduíl whispered. “I thought I would never again lay eyes upon them.”
“They are yours once more.”
Thranduíl lifted his eyes back to Thorin’s. “Why?”
“Because they mean something to you. If I were to lose Eirlys, I would want to hold onto anything that she held dear as a way of keeping her with me. And I couldn’t appreciate that you might feel that way until I found her, until I felt for Eirlys what you must have for her mother.”
“And do you, Thorin? Do you care for my daughter?”
Thorin met his stare and without hesitation, replied, “I have never loved another soul as greatly as I love Eirlys. And I promise you, I will get her back, alive and unharmed, even if it means exchanging my life for hers.”
Thranduíl lifted the delicate threads of mithril from Thorin’s fingers. The stones threw off a light that seemed alive, splitting it into a rainbow of colors to send them dancing across the shelf, across the floor.
Then, he cleared his throat. “You should keep them,” he said softly, pressing the necklace back toward Thorin.
“They belong to you.”
“They belonged to my wife,” Thranduíl corrected him softly, a sad smile coming to his lips. “And I should think Lainien would like to see them passed on to her daughter, who seems to be as happy with her husband as Lainien was—I think—with me. So, take them and give them to her when you see her. I think she would like them as well.”
“Thorin?” Dwalin appeared in the doorway of the gem room. “We are ready to depart.”
Thorin nodded slowly. “We will leave at once.” He turned back to Thranduíl, who pressed the necklace into his palm completely. “We can discuss this when we return. With Eirlys.”
“No.” Thranduíl stepped back, leaving Thorin no choice but to close his fingers about the necklace to keep it from spilling to the floor. “There is nothing to discuss. It goes to Eirlys and should the two of you have a daughter of your own, it will one day be hers.”
Thorin almost smiled. He had great hopes Mahal would see fit to bless him and Eirlys with a child in the coming days. But first, they had to rescue her and bring her back to Erebor.
He turned to Legolas, who’d followed Dwalin into the room. “Have you Eirlys’ dagger?”
“I do.”
“Good. She’ll need it.”
Thranduíl looked from Thorin to his son and back. “Her dagger?”
Thorin smiled. “She brought it with her from Mirkwood, and she saved my neck with it before we were married.”
“Eirlys did?”
Thorin nodded. “She did, indeed. I’d become lost in the wood and she had come after me, deflecting orc arrows aimed in my direction.”
At first, Thranduíl’s expression remained neutral, but then, a hint of a smile crept over his angular face. “We will get her back. I promise you, we will.”
“We will, indeed,” Thorin said softly, his eyes drawn to the sparkling necklace in his grasp. “And when we do, I will end that line of filth for once and for all.”
Summary: Although Erebor is his once more, Thorin knows there is still a great threat to the peace of Middle Earth. Azog is gone, but another has taken his place and has sworn to finish what Azog began. Erebor is back, but it’s sadly lacking in protection and as much as he hates the thought of it, Thorin knows there is one thing that will guarantee the safety and continuation of his line.
War is coming and all Eirlys of Mirkwood wishes to do is fight alongside her brother Legolas and the other elves, united with Men and Dwarves in their attempt to quell the renewed tensions between them and the orc army of the north. But, her father, Thranduíl has other plans. Unite his kingdom with the newly reestablished kingdom of Erebor and use the power of both to defeat the orcs.
An arranged marriage that neither side wants, but both sides need. But what happens when the two sides realize that maybe—just maybe—being together isn't quite as bad as they'd thought...
Pairing: Thorin x ofc Eirlys of Mirkwood
Warnings: None
Rating: T
Word Count: 2.2k
Read on AO3
“Thorin, what is going on?”
Thorin paused in his pacing as Dwalin and Balin both strode into the courtyard. His eyes narrowed at the two of them, his gut twisting sharply as he asked, “Where is Madris?”
Balin shook his head. “I haven’t the faintest idea. She was not in her chambers, nor in the Great Hall, and no one has seen her all morning.”
Although he expected Balin’s answer, that didn't make hearing it any easier. Forget twisting, his stomach knotted itself painfully as he tried to remain calm. Impossible. His heart sped up. His gut churned. The need to find Eirlys, to make certain she was safe, nearly devoured him.
“I let that viper into our home,” Thorin growled, turning to stare up at Ravenhill in the distance. “I let her in and she’s taken Eirlys and I have no idea why.”
“Taken her where, though?” Balin asked.
Without turning away from the tower looming in the distance, Thorin replied, “Ravenhill.”
“How do you know?”
He glanced over at Dwalin. “I cannot answer, for I don’t know. I feel it. She is there.”
Dwalin bobbed his head. “I’ll gather everyone.”
“Thranduíl was sending us reinforcements. Balin, I need you to ride into Dale and see where they are at this point.” Thorin said, his stomach twisting with fury that he only just barely contained. “We cannot wait for them much longer, so if they’ve not arrived in Dale, I’ll need you to find Bard and see if he has an estimated arrival.
“Meanwhile,” he turned to Dwalin, “go find Fíli and the two of you muster as many as you can. We have no time to spare, so do it quickly.”
Dwalin bobbed his head. “Aye. Ye won’t even notice I’ve gone.”
With that, he and Balin turned and hurried off, while Thorin stood where he was, his gaze drawn back to Ravenhill. He couldn’t explain how he knew Eirlys was somewhere within those stone walls, but he did. The longer he stared, the more certain he was that he would find her there. And if Madris or anyone else harmed a hair on his wife’s head, they would never be dead enough.
Eirlys’ head ached with a fury that brought tears to her eyes as she slowly fought to open them. Her vision swam. Her stomach tumbled. A sour, brackish taste filled her mouth and for a horrifying moment, Eirlys was certain she was about to be sick.
Icy wind blew in through the arched stone window high above her, swirling down into the small, dank cell, which smelled of damp stone and fear. All she could see through that window was iron-gray sky, and the occasional raven soaring above.
She shivered as she lay there, which only made her nausea worse. If her head would just explode, she would find it a relief from the relentless pounding. Her mouth was dry, her throat parched, and as the spinning slowly subsided, she swallowed hard and braced herself to sit up.
Slowly, her eyes obeyed and she looked around at the grayish black stone walls on three sides of her. Before her, a door made up of iron bars. She sat upon a hard stone floor, the chill from it creeping up along her spine to add to her headache.
Eirlys leaned her head back against the rough stone as she tried to remember what happened, how she’d come to be at this place. Rubbing her forehead with one hand, she tried to will her headache into the past, which wasn't easy. Her mouth was so dry. What she wouldn’t give for something hot to drink.
Tea.
Tea.
Her stomach twisted with such force, it brought that brackish taste roaring back. She gagged it back, her eyes stinging with the realization of what had happened and who was responsible.
“Ah, I see you’re finally awake.”
Eirlys turned toward the voice that always always been maternal and warm toward her, and found Madris staring at her through eyes that were like river rocks—black, shimmering, and icy cold. Her voice was also just as cold, icier than Eirlys had ever heard. Icier than she’d ever imagined Madris’ voice could be, for she’d never heard it sound anything over than maternal, had never seen her in any way that wasn't maternal. This Madris was a stranger to her.
Still, that headache made Eirlys’ thoughts sluggish and lazy as she slowly shook her head and brought her hand to her forehead. “What…? I mean, why…?”
Her stomach clenched and she let her eyes close, let her head come to rest against the slick stone wall once more. “I don't understand this… not at all…”
“No, I don't suppose you do. But then, you’ve never had to worry about a single thing a day in your life, have you? Princess to queen and all you needed to worry about was whether or not some idiot dwarf cared for you.”
Eirlys forced her eyes open, forced them to focus on her maid, now standing as her jailer on the far side of those iron bars. “Madris… why would you do this? I just… why?”
It was the only thing echoing about her aching head. Madris had been like a mother to her, had always comforted her when she was sick or scared or had had a nightmare. She was the one Eirlys turned to when she needed advice that only a mother or surrogate mother could offer, the one she trusted to confide in when the need arose.
“Why? Well, it’s quite simple. You cost me everything and now, the time has come for me to repay you the favor.”
“I cost you everything? I’m afraid I don't understand… my head…”
“Yes, I imagine you have a splitting headache. Valerian does that, you know. I’d apologize, but—” Madris shrugged—“I’d be lying.”
“Lying…” Eirlys struggled to make her thoughts behave, to make the headache recede and for her head to clear. All for naught. Her eyelids slid shut once more as the room swam wildly before her.
But she didn't fall back to sleep. She swallowed hard and inhaled deeply, and found that by doing so, some of the grogginess receded. The nausea receded. Her headache receded.
When she opened her eyes again, Madris still stood before her cell, almost as if waiting for her to fire questions her way.
“Where am I?”
“Are you truly so stupid, you do not recognize the very place you dragged that fool dwarf to under the guise of wanting to get to know him better? To understand him better?”
“Ravenhill?”
“Indeed. This is where we will wait.”
“Wait? For who?”
“Rildu. And Thorin, of course.”
“Thorin?”
Madris nodded. “Yes. He will come here looking for you.”
“How will he know I’m here?”
“Because he will. The fool loves you. He will be drawn here as a result, whether he knows why or not.”
Her headache finally fading, Eirlys lifted her head to meet Madris’ cold eyes. “Why here, through? And what do you want with him?”
“Nothing, actually. But, I know someone else who does want him. Well, Rildu really only wants his head, but he won’t mind being the one to remove it from his runty body.”
Her queasiness had yet to abate, but that didn't stop Eirlys as she slowly stood and crossed to the door, where she caught icy cold iron in both hands as the entire tower seemed to suddenly dip to the left. “What are you talking about?”
“There is a price on your husband’s head. One put there by Azog the Defiler several years ago. Your husband and his nephews did away with Azog and his son, but the first thing Rildu when he came to power was make certain that not only did that price remain on Thorin Oakenshield, but doubled it. That I will give him Thorin and Thranduíl’s daughter means I stand to have quite a payday.”
“But, why? What did either of us ever do to you? Why would you turn on me this way? You were like a second mother to me.”
“A position which I neither wanted nor asked for!” Madris’ voice rose with each word, reverberating off the cold, damp stone. “Do you think I wanted to spend my entire life in service? That I had no plans or dreams of my own? Because I did, you know! I absolutely wanted a life of my own and you ruined it for me!”
“Me? How?” Eirlys tightened her fingers on the iron. “I’ve never done anything to you.”
“I was indentured to your family, you little fool. Half-elf, half-Man, I belonged nowhere and to no one and my father sold me into servitude to your father because he knew he could never marry me off. But, I was to be free once your brother was old enough to no longer need a nursemaid.
“But then your mother… your mother announced she was pregnant again and wasn't that wonderful? And of course, the spoiled git would need a nursemaid and of course I wouldn’t mind staying on longer. Especially since it was not a request, but an order. I had no choice. I would remain in service to your wretched family. No matter that I’d met a man who would have me despite my mixed parentage. No matter how the King and Queen of Mirkwood refused to allow the man to remain in Mirkwood. They sent him away with no regard to my wishes, no regard to what I wanted to do with my life.”
“That’s who you meant, when you began to tell me—But, all you had to do was ask, Madris. I would have had no problem speaking with Father about letting you out of your contract.”
“I shouldn’t have had to beg anyone to release me to live my own life.”
“It wouldn’t have been begging. I—”
“You were the reason I was trapped, do you not understand? Your mother paid for reneging on our agreement and that was so easy, I thought I’d be able to rid myself of you as well. But then Thranduíl grew far too protective of you. But I could wait. I am nothing if not patient when the mood strikes.
“Then, he announced that he’d chosen to give you to the runt king of Erebor, and for a moment, I was thrilled. I’d be free of you at last. You’d be trapped in Erebor, buried alive with that madman for a husband. Fitting, I thought. And it would make up for how you ruined my life. But then, Thranduíl decided I was to go with you! So now, not only would I still be trapped with you, but I’d have to come to this forsaken place as well. And that’s when I thought, perhaps if there was no wedding—”
“You invited Lachon,” Eirlys broke in, “didn't you?”
“Figured it out, did you?” Madris sneered. “But, he was late, only arriving in time for the wedding reception. But then he pounced and I thought for certain Thorin would toss you aside. Only he didn’t. I had to do something before you and the runt successfully conceived and then I would never be free of you.And now, here we are.”
Eirlys just stared at her, at this stranger now before her. All this time and she never knew, never thought of Madris as anything other than family, and to hear the sneer in Madris’ voice, the hatred and anger in it, left Eirlys taken aback. Never in a thousand years would she have thought Madris capable of this, of such hatred. “And how are you planning to collect any bounty, when the orc pack is on the far side of the Long Lake?”
“Because they are on this side now. You were forbidden to leave Erebor, but no one blinked an eye at my leaving. I could come and go as I pleased, as long as I told the fool at the gate I was running an errand for their beloved queen. They couldn't let me out of that bloody city fast enough. I met up with Rildu and arranged to have him meet us here and you made it so very easy. All I had to do was offer you a bit of tea and then suggest a walk.”
“A walk to where? The guards knew Thorin had asked me not to leave Erebor, and I had no reason to defy him.”
“Because while you were playing about in the runt king’s bed, I had plenty of free time on my hands and Erebor is a large city, with several ways in and out, some of which are left unguarded. You were woozy and drowsy and when I suggested a quicker way to your chambers, you agreed to go with me. Such a trusting little lamb.”
She raised her hands, palms up and shrugged. “So, here we are. And now we wait.”
Eirlys’ heart skipped a painful beat. Thorin would be descending upon Ravenhill, if Madris was to be believed. And when he arrived, the orc pack would be there, waiting for him. And she had no way to warn him or stop him.
Tag List: @mrsdurin @i-did-not-mean-to @xxbyimm @kibleedibleedoo @lathalea
Summary: Although Erebor is his once more, Thorin knows there is still a great threat to the peace of Middle Earth. Azog is gone, but another has taken his place and has sworn to finish what Azog began. Erebor is back, but it’s sadly lacking in protection and as much as he hates the thought of it, Thorin knows there is one thing that will guarantee the safety and continuation of his line.
War is coming and all Eirlys of Mirkwood wishes to do is fight alongside her brother Legolas and the other elves, united with Men and Dwarves in their attempt to quell the renewed tensions between them and the orc army of the north. But, her father, Thranduíl has other plans. Unite his kingdom with the newly reestablished kingdom of Erebor and use the power of both to defeat the orcs.
An arranged marriage that neither side wants, but both sides need. But what happens when the two sides realize that maybe—just maybe—being together isn't quite as bad as they'd thought...
Pairing: Thorin x ofc Eirlys of Mirkwood
Warnings: None
Rating: T
Word Count: 2.6k
Read on AO3
Eirlys sat in a cozy corner in the Great Hall after all of the dwarves had left to get on with their days. She smiled at Narnerra and her son, impish little Gimli, as they passed through on their way out into the courtyard. Apparently they were not restricted from using it until the walls were repaired.
A sigh bubbled to her lips. She understood Thorin’s caution and of course respected his wishes, as they were out of concern for her. But for one who was used to being able to wander about her home as she pleased in Mirkwood, this one restriction was enough to make her fairly itch to go out into the sunlight.
But she’d given Thorin her word and she would abide by it, even if it meant sitting inside, with a book for company. The dwarves were friendly enough, if not overly welcoming to her once Thorin wasn't around, and she couldn't really fault them. She was an outsider. An elf. Although the mutual distrust between elf and dwarf wasn't quite as strong as it once had been, the thaw was slow in coming. It would be some time—if it ever came—before Erebor accepted her as one of them.
“Your Highness?”
She looked up as Madris strode across the Great Hall toward her, and smiled as she set down her book. “What is it?”
“I came to see how you fared last night.” Madris smiled as she drew out the chair across from Eirlys. “May I?”
“Of course.”
The chair creaks softly as Madris settled into it. “Did you speak with him last night?”
“With who?”
“His Highness!”
“Oh…” Eirlys smiled as she bobbed her head. “I did, indeed.”
“And?”
She couldn’t contain her smile as memory of the previous night swept through her to leave hints of heat in its wake. “Everything is fine.” She drew in a deep breath. “I told him how I felt about him.”
“And?”
“My father made a wise choice when he proposed this marriage, for it seems Thorin has decided that I am irresistible.”
“So, he loves you back, then?”
“Yes, Madris,” she laughed, bobbing her head, “he loves me back.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Madris’ smile faded. “You look serious all of the sudden, Your Highness. What is it?”
“Father wishes me to come to Mirkwood until the orc army is no longer a threat and Thorin was considering it.”
If this request came as surprise to her, Madris hid it well. Instead, her expression grew far more serious. “It might not be a terrible idea, you know. You might be safer at home than you are here. After all, the forest is heavily enchanted.”
Somehow, she just knew Madris would agree with her father. “This is my home now and I don't want to leave it. Besides, the trip back would be terribly dangerous, since the pack has moved closer to the Long Lake.” She sighed softly, tapping her fingers on the table. “And I’m worried because that wall isn’t finished and… well… Thorin told me about how the Gundabad orcs also attacked from the north. Two fronts and both determined to end him and his line. That courtyard wall is a weak spot.”
“Well, I’m certain he’s thought of that. He certainly isn’t a stupid man.”
“No. No, he isn’t and I’m sure he has, but… I can’t help but worry.”
“There’s only one cure for worrying and that’s a cup of tea,” Madris told her. “So, let me fetch you some and if I can, I’ll find out what is going on where the courtyard is concerned.”
Eirlys nodded slowly. “Tea would be lovely, thank you.”
“I’ll be right back then.”
Eirlys picked her book up again, but just as had happened when she tried to read before Madris’ arrival, she found she couldn't concentrate. Not that it was a bad thing. Quite the opposite, really. Instead, she smiled as the words on the pages disappeared, replaced by her memories of the previous night. Nothing would ever compare to hearing Thorin telling her he loved her. She would never forget how it felt to finally hear those words, to see the softness in his pale eyes, to hear it in his low and rumbling voice, to feel it in his touch. It was so difficult to remember that at first, she hadn’t wanted to marry him, had been convinced that he was being forced into it and that they would never get on.
And now look at them. A happy couple.
Madris returned with two cups of tea and set one before Eirlys before she settled into her chair once more. “So, where is His Highness?”
“I let him sleep. He’s been running mad with all the restorations at both Esgaroth and Dale, as well as making sure Father doesn’t worry more than necessary, and of course, dealing with Bard and the foremen and all of it. Besides, we were up rather late last eve, so I thought he’d earned a bit of rest.”
Eirlys lifted the cup and breathed in the sweet perfume of nectar and cinnamon. It reminded her of Mirkwood, of cool autumn mornings when she and Legolas and their father would have breakfast together and he’d explained that this brew was their mother’s favorite and one that he’d learned to love when they were married. He kept the recipe and made certain their tea sommelier always had a fresh tin prepared.
She took a long sip, her eyes closing as the warmth seeped into her like a warm hug. Although she had only the faintest of memories of her mother, this brought them back and made them seem a little less faint with each sip. She’d forgotten how relaxing it was to simply sit back and sip, and so she tried to shove her worry over Thorin to the farthest recesses of her mind and concentrate on sitting and chatting with Madris, just as they did back when they were in Mirkwood.
Thorin strode into the Great Hall, where he spotted Dís and Fíli lingering over their breakfasts. Dís looked up, smiling as he crossed over to them. “Well, don’t you look cheerful this morning?”
He sank into a chair across from her. “Why do you sound so surprised? Am I so much of a grouch lately?”
“No,” Dís shook her head. “I wouldn’t say you are of late, of course not. In fact,” a mischievous glint sparkled in her eyes, “I might say that you haven’t been since around the time you and Eirlys were married.”
“So you think she is a good influence over me?”
“Thorin, I think she is the best influence you could possibly have. Although, I thought she’d be up here by now. Was she still sleeping when you left your apartments?”
“No,” Thorin told her. “She wasn’t. I thought she was probably up here. Have you seen her at all?”
“I’ve not, no. When I came up, the Hall was empty, save for Dori and Nori. Fíli,” she turned to her son, “have you seen your aunt?”
Fíli shook his head. “Not since supper last eve.”
“Odd.” Thorin tried to ignore the apprehension that fluttered in his gut. “She wasn't in our apartment when I woke up this morning. I assumed she’d come up here.”
“It’s a lovely morning,” Dís told him. “Perhaps she went out into the courtyard again?”
“She wouldn’t. We had a long talk about it yesterday and I told her if she needed to get away for some time to herself, she should go up to the ramparts instead of that courtyard. At least, until that wall is fixed.”
“The ramparts?”
He nodded at Dís. “She’s used to seeing the sky and sunshine and the world around her, and at times, this place can be like being buried alive. It makes her uncomfortable time after time, so I thought she’d like to know where she could go if she had need to be outside and feel the air and sunlight upon her.”
His chair creaked as he rose from it. “And it’s of no mind. That’s probably where she is, so I’ll go up and make sure nothing too heavy lays upon her mind.”
“And perhaps spirit her back to your chambers?” Dís grinned. “I mean, if you’ve nothing pressing needing your attention, that is.”
Fíli made a soft gagging sound while Thorin chuckled. “I’m not saying a word. But, if you need me for anything, don’t come calling.”
Fili’s outright groan made him laugh harder as he skirted the table to head back toward the main entrance. As he left the Great Hall behind, his jovial mood shifted and a hint of concern nagged at the back of his mind. Eirlys wouldn’t go back on her word to remain out of the courtyard, of that he was certain. She was no fool. She understood the dangers and although he didn't doubt she could defend herself, she would be at a grave disadvantage if she found herself outnumbered.
Even so, as he made his way toward the main entrance, a faint sense of dread crept over him. He wasn't at all certain she was up on the ramparts. Not so early in the day, when the air would still hold the night’s chill and it would be enough to make one’s hands grow stiff with cold and one’s breath emerge as a silvery cloud for several more hours still.
“Thorin, do you have a moment?”
He glanced at Balin, who’d come up from one of the lower levels. “I’m on my way up to the ramparts to find Eirlys. Walk with me and you have my attention.”
Balin fell into step alongside him. “We should sit down with the carpenters working at Esgaroth. I’d like to see where they are compared to where they should be on time and on budget.”
“If you feel the need,” Thorin nodded, “send word to Bard and we can arrange a sit down in Dale or they can travel here, depending on that blasted orc pack that’s slowly moving toward us.”
Balin sighed. “We are not in any shape to be engaging in war.”
“I know. But, I am not at all certain we will have a choice in the matter. I’ve sent word to Thranduíl requesting reinforcements and I’ve also sent word to Dáin, letting him know what is going on. I see no reason why either of them should deny us any aid we need.” He glanced over at Balin. “I did not start this war.”
Balin offered up a smile. “No one is claiming you have, I’m sure. Rildu wants revenge, and he is not owed it. He would also be a fool to engage with three separate armies at the same time.”
“Not if he thinks Erebor is vulnerable, which it is to a certain extent.” They reached the door leading out to the stone stairs that would take them up to the ramparts.
As he opened it, a blast of chilly air greeted them. Wind swirled along the narrow stone staircase, chilling Thorin as he made his way up, with Balin right behind him.
“Are you certain she is up here, Thorin? It’s freezing and the wind feels like it’s slicing right through us and we haven’t even gotten to the top yet.”
“I’m fairly certain, yes,” he replied, even though that apprehensiveness grew stronger with each step. He didn’t know how elves handled such cold, but it was entirely possible she didn't feel it the way he did. Although he was quite used to the cold, the wind did indeed bite into them with sharp teeth and as they neared the top, it roared wildly about them. Angry iron-gray clouds rolled overhead and he was positive he smelled snow in the air.
“Eirlys!”
His voice carried out, only to be caught by the wind, so he cupped his hands about his mouth and bellowed again. “Eirlys!”
Only the growl of the wind responded and now the icy chill that crept through him had nothing to do with the air or the weather.
“Eirlys!”
“Thorin, there’s no one here.”
“She must be. She isn’t anywhere else. I’ve already looked.” Thorin hurried along the ramparts, to the far end and back, without a hint of Eirlys’ having been there. A sense of urgency swept through him as he checked a second time, which was foolish but didn't stop him.
Still no sign of her.
His gut twisted into tight, painful knots as he hurried back to where Balin stood at the parapet overlooking Erebor’s façade. The stone scraped his hand as he leaned against it to stare down and out across the plains separating Erebor from Dale.
His fingers tightened against the stone as he spied movement to the west. Even from where he stood, he knew he saw the orc pack, which was even more massive than he’d originally thought.
But what struck him was that they weren’t moving closer to Erebor. In fact, they seemed to moving in a westerly direction.
Away from the Lonely Mountain.
“Balin, go and summon the Guard. Tell Dwalin Eirlys is missing and I want every available body to begin searching for her immediately.” Thorin turned back to Balin. “And go find Madris. I want to know if there is anywhere else in Erebor Eirlys has mentioned she might go if she needed a moment to herself.”
“Do you wish me to ask her, or to bring her to you?”
“Bring her to me. I don't want anything lost in translation. I’m going to double check the courtyard and around it, just to be certain, so meet me there.”
Balin bobbed his head. “Of course. I’m on my way.”
He hurried off and Thorin turned back to the orc pack. There had to be a perfectly valid reason why Eirlys seemed to have vanished. She’d probably gone exploring somewhere below, and just lost track of the time. Or perhaps she’d gotten pulled into conversation with someone at the forges, or the laundry, or the polishing room. Or even the infirmary.
At least, that was what he told himself.
But the truth was, in the time since they’d arrived at Erebor, she’d shown no interest in exploring on her own. The one time she had, it was to the courtyard and she didn't seem put out by his request that she not go there alone until the wall had been repaired.
He made his way down to the courtyard and while he didn't expect to find Eirlys there, his gut still twisted into painful knots as he stepped out into the overgrown mess of weeds to find it empty. The crumbled part of wall had been cleared away, but that was the only work that had been done in several days.
The wind whistled through the trees, sending the winter’s dead leaf debris scuttling across the courtyard. He had never seen it look so… desolate… as it did right then, and a sense of sadness filled him as he looked about. He wouldn’t see Eirlys in a shadowed corner, nor around the side of the mountain.
His gaze diverted sharply, as if he’d heard someone call him, and stared hard at the black and gray stone fortress of Ravenhill. Without being told, he knew where she was.
Tag List: @mrsdurin @i-did-not-mean-to @xxbyimm @kibleedibleedoo @lathalea
Summary: Although Erebor is his once more, Thorin knows there is still a great threat to the peace of Middle Earth. Azog is gone, but another has taken his place and has sworn to finish what Azog began. Erebor is back, but it’s sadly lacking in protection and as much as he hates the thought of it, Thorin knows there is one thing that will guarantee the safety and continuation of his line.
War is coming and all Eirlys of Mirkwood wishes to do is fight alongside her brother Legolas and the other elves, united with Men and Dwarves in their attempt to quell the renewed tensions between them and the orc army of the north. But, her father, Thranduíl has other plans. Unite his kingdom with the newly reestablished kingdom of Erebor and use the power of both to defeat the orcs.
An arranged marriage that neither side wants, but both sides need. But what happens when the two sides realize that maybe—just maybe—being together isn't quite as bad as they'd thought...
Pairing: Thorin x ofc Eirlys of Mirkwood
Warnings: None
Rating: M
Word Count: 2.6k
Read on AO3
A single candle remained lit, its solitary flame casting only a small circle of light across the bedside table where it stood in its wax-dotted silver dish. But the darkness didn't trouble Eirlys as she sank back against the pillows, trembling as she tried to catch her breath. Her eyes closed of their own, her arms tightening about Thorin’s neck to draw him against her. He trembled as well, burying his face in the slope of her neck, his fingers tightening about hers as he pressed her hand into the pillow alongside her head.
His breath came as hot, hard blasts along her neck, his growled, “Eirlys,” a husky whisper in her ear. She shivered at the heaviness in his voice, at the solid, firm heat of his body against hers. Drowsiness swept through her as her heartbeat finally slowed and her breathing calmed. Eyes still closed, she nuzzled him, her lips brushing his ear. She smiled when that simple motion made him shiver against her once more.
His heart beat with such force, it reverberated through her, although it also gradually slowed to its normal pace. He didn't move though, and she had no desire for him to, either. They fit together so perfectly, she didn't care if he ever moved again.
Then, he lifted his head to gaze upon her with heavy-lidded eyes and a sleepy smile on his lips. “Maralmizi,” he whispered, his eyes soft but serious.
She held his blue-eyed gaze even as she offered up a slight shake of her head. “I’m afraid I don't know what that means.”
But even as she spoke the words, a strange chill rippled through her, one that had her almost breathless as it set free a flurry of butterflies in her belly.
The outer corners of his eyes crinkled as his smile widened. He didn't reply at first, but instead brushed her lips with his in a light, teasing kiss, then whispered, “I love you.”
Her heart stopped. It simply ceased to beat. She couldn't breathe, either, as her lungs refused to work properly. But strangely enough, neither seemed to cause any pain or discomfort in the slightest. Her, “You—you do?” emerged as a breathless whisper.
“You sound surprised.”
“Well… I suppose I am surprised.”
“Why?”
“Because you didn't wish to marry me, but were rather strong-armed into it.”
“Nonsense. You should know by now that I cannot be strong-armed into anything. I will admit, I was a bit hesitant because I had never thought I might be part of an arranged marriage, but make no mistake, I am with you because I wish to be with you. You have stolen my heart, Eirlys of Mirkwood, and I have no desire for you to return it.”
Now her heart beat once more, and at thrice its normal pace, but only for a moment as she smiled up at him. “Say it again, Thorin.”
His eyes softened further. “I love you.”
“Now say it in your tongue.”
“Maralmizi.”
She reached up, let her fingertips brush along the braid at his temple. “I love you, too, you know. I’ve wanted to say it for weeks now, but had not the courage to utter the words.”
“As have I,” he confessed, “and I’ve not for the same reason.”
“Am I to believe you didn't have courage? You faced off with a dragon, Thorin. And orcs. And goblins.”
“And not one of them frightened me as much as you laughing at me for confessing my feelings did.”
“Why would I laugh at you?”
“Because you, Princess Eirlys, are stunning. You could have any man you wish and yet you found yourself married off to me, of all people. No one would fault you for not wanting that.”
“Thorin, I was no more stuck with you than you were with me.” She shook her head and slipped her hand from his to ease both arms about his neck. It seems we both need to learn to trust each other a bit better.” She paused, then murmured, “So, tell me, how do I say I love you to you in your tongue?”
“Maralmizu,” he whispered, dipping to brush her lips with his.
“Mmmm…” She couldn't hold back her sigh as he swept a kiss along her jaw. Her eyelids momentarily slid shut of their own at the caress, which was followed by another when he brushed his lips along her neck. His beard scraped her softly, his lips grazed softer still, and when he crept lower still, she let her fingernails trace over his skin—his upper back, his shoulders—and let her fingers slip through his hair as he kissed his way down along her breastbone.
Her blood warmed as he moved along the inner curve of her left breast, feathering kisses over her sensitive skin until he reached the pebbled peak of her nipple. She shivered when his eyes flicked up to meet hers, when his tongue flicked out to sweep around that hard nub. Her back bowed of its own as fire swept through her, a soft sweet ache taking root deep in her core.
He teased her nipple, flicking his tongue over it, swirling around it, drawing it into the wet, welcoming heat of his mouth. Her fingers twisted in his soft hair, her legs tightened about his hips as she felt him swell against her, his arousal swift and thick against her, nestled in the cleft of her womanhood. He moved slightly, the friction sending a shockwave of pleasure darting through her. He did it again, and they sighed as one at the dampness of her arousal silkened his thrust, as the caress fired her desire for him.
Thorin shifted then, releasing her nipple to creep down along her ribs. He punctuated each kiss with a teasing sweep of his tongue, moving down toward her hip. Knots twisted in her belly, delicious and achy at the same time. Her skin ached for his touch, her body for more of the pleasure he sent rippling through her. Her blood fairly boiled its way through her veins, the dampness between her legs growing with each kiss, with each sweep of his tongue. Her fingers tightened in his hair, her breath almost impossible to catch.
His lips teased her. His tongue tortured her. Her hips slowly rolled to meet him as he kissed his way down into the darkness between her thighs and when he teasingly slid his tongue into that dampness, she couldn't hold back her moan of pleasure.
Fire speared her with that first caress. He moved gently at first, laving over that oh-so-sensitive bead, swirling lightly around it, but as her arousal grew, as the dampness grew, he offered up a far sweeter pleasure with harder, bolder strokes. She moved with him, her fingers twisting tighter still in his hair, tugging him this way or urging him that way to guide him as he patiently teased her. Spiky sweet pleasure whispered through her, and those whispers grew louder and more powerful to fill her from the center of her being outward. Her breath grew more difficult to catch. Her head swam and her body ached fervently with the need for him to shove her over the edge into the abyss.
“Thorin… oh… please…” She couldn't hold back her moan, the fire hotter and raging out of control. Her hips rolled faster now, his strokes coming with far more force, his tongue rough and teasing and filled her with the desperate need for release.
Then he found the spot and as his tongue swept along her, her hips bolted up to meet him. She tugged sharply on his hair, the knots coming undone one by one, slowly at first, but then… oh… but then…
“Thorin!” Her cry echoed off the stone walls as the fiery flash of her climax threatened to swallow her whole. Her entire body heaved beneath him, her hips rocking toward him as the knots exploded in a fiery eruption that had her throbbing and shuddering, each pulse sweeter than the last. He held her as she arched away from him, his fingers pressing into her thighs as he mercifully slowed his strokes.
Eirlys almost sobbed from the force of her release, the pleasure white-hot and all-consuming. Her blood roared in her ears. Her body quivered and shuddered. And when he gently brought her back, she could barely breathe, could barely think, could barely hear anything over the thunder of her own heartbeat.
Her arms trembled as she tried to push him onto his back, but he refused to yield to her. Instead, he slid a hand between them, and a moment later, gave a hard thrust to fill her.
He surged, and with that, came another wavy of fiery pleasure, one so powerful, she couldn't hold back her cry of delight. He seized her lips with his, his thrusts swift and powerful and deep, and she wrapped her legs about his waist to send him deeper inside her.
“Eirlys…” His moan was breathless and raw and ragged. She clung to him, wrapped herself all about him, greedily devouring him. She burned with the need to come again, to make him do the same, and as she tightened about him, his moan mingled with hers.
He thrust hard, buried himself deep, and surrendered as she erupted all around him once more. He came, his body first going rigid, then shuddering with each pulse of his climax. “Eirlys!”
She dragged her fingernails along his back, over the rough ridges of scars, down toward his hips. Her thighs squeezed his sides, holding him inside her even as he sank against her once more.
Dots danced before her eyes, her breath impossible to catch, mingling with his own rapid pants, and she let her eyes close once more, whispering, “Oh… my…”
A breathless laugh came soft upon her neck. “Oh, my, indeed,” he whispered back, his words somewhat muffled.
“Maralmizu…”
He lifted his head, his smile soft and sleepy and enough to make her fall in love with him all over again. “How would I say it in your tongue?” he whispered.
“Gi melin,” she whispered back.
He brushed a gentle kiss just below her ear. “Gi melin.”
“I do like how that sounds, Thorin…”
“Perhaps you might teach me some of your language.”
“Of course, but you must do the same.”
“You need only ask, amrâlimê.”
“Let’s start with that. What does that mean?”
He brushed her lips with his once more. “It means, my love.”
“You’ve been saying that for weeks, and you’re only telling me now what it means?”
“It was as far as my courage would allow.”
“Thorin.”
“What?” He smiled as he carefully eased himself from her, and shifted to stretch out on his back.
“I could brain you, you know. I’ve been wanting to tell you how I felt for so long, and I was just too scared, and now I learn that you’ve already been saying it to me all along?” She shook her head. “I should be angry with you for that.”
He held up an arm. “Let’s skip being angry and go straight to making up, shall we?”
Pressing her lips together to hold back her chuckle, she nonetheless shifted to curve up against him. “You cannot possibly be ready to do this again, Thorin. Surely you’re empty by now.”
He chuckled softly, giving her a gentle squeeze. “Are you telling me you aren’t up to the challenge?”
“Honestly?” She shook her head. “Not really, no. I’m rather sleepy, actually.”
A hint of relief shone in his eyes. “Good, because I am as well.”
“And what if I said I wasn’t?”
“I’d find a way to make you cry out my name again. Worry not.”
“Thorin!”
“What?”
She couldn’t hold back her laughter. “You are terrible, do you know this?”
He gave her another gentle squeeze. “Not always.”
“No,” she murmured, tucking her head against his chest, “not always.”
****
Thorin blinked his way up from a thick, dreamless sleep to find himself alone and for a moment, he wondered if it had all been an amazingly wonderful dream.
Then he caught a glimpse of a long blonde hair on the pillow beside him and smiled. No. It was no dream. Thank Mahal.
With a slight groan, he stretched and sat up, his bones and muscles letting him know what they thought about the motion. The stiffness wasn't too bad today, the scars on his belly didn't pain him either, both of which were a nice change. Before his trip to Rivendell, it took him a bit longer to loosen up his joints and muscles, took him longer to shake off the grogginess that came with a rough, interrupted sleep. Since his wedding night, however, his sleep was the best it had ever been. Not since he was a boy had he slept as well as he did with Eirlys curved up against him.
And wonder of wonders, she loved him.
Telling her how he felt was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done, for he’d never bared himself in such a manner before. He’d never felt for anyone what he did for Eirlys. He’d never ached for anyone the way he did her, no matter how many times they made love. His desire for her hummed away just beneath his skin every minute of the day. If she wasn't in the room, he ached to be near her. When she was near, he ached to touch her. When he touched her, he ached to be inside her. The spell she cast over him defied logic and reason and drove him to near madness with the need to have her and once he realized that what he felt was love, it all made sense. She was his, but more importantly, he was hers. He belonged to her—mind, body, and soul—and with her, he was complete.
Complete. It was something he had never felt before.
His wife.
His other half.
His One.
He smiled as he slowly rose and padded over to the chair, where his dressing gown lay. When he and Eirlys had returned from the rampart, they’d barely made it inside the flat before they were wrapped up in each other.
But the trail of clothes that had begun at the front door and had ended at the foot of their bed had since been picked up and deposited in the basket alongside the low chest across from the bed. He smiled, shrugging into the dressing gown, and called, “Eirlys?” as he left the bedchamber.
Only silence greeted him. He called her name again, expecting her to reply from the kitchen or perhaps the bathing chamber.
Again, only silence. Wherever she was, it wasn't in their apartment.
With that, he returned to their bedchamber, where he gathered up fresh clothes and underthings, then made his way to the bathing chamber. He’d wash and dress and then go up to the Great Hall, where he’d probably find her, deep in conversation with his sister, who’d mentioned something yesterday morning about holding a celebration of his and Eirlys’ marriage for those who couldn't be in Rivendell to see their king married, and he wanted to be there before to make certain Dís didn't get carried away.
Tag List: @mrsdurin @i-did-not-mean-to @xxbyimm @kibleedibleedoo @lathalea
Summary: Although Erebor is his once more, Thorin knows there is still a great threat to the peace of Middle Earth. Azog is gone, but another has taken his place and has sworn to finish what Azog began. Erebor is back, but it’s sadly lacking in protection and as much as he hates the thought of it, Thorin knows there is one thing that will guarantee the safety and continuation of his line.
War is coming and all Eirlys of Mirkwood wishes to do is fight alongside her brother Legolas and the other elves, united with Men and Dwarves in their attempt to quell the renewed tensions between them and the orc army of the north. But, her father, Thranduíl has other plans. Unite his kingdom with the newly reestablished kingdom of Erebor and use the power of both to defeat the orcs.
An arranged marriage that neither side wants, but both sides need. But what happens when the two sides realize that maybe—just maybe—being together isn't quite as bad as they'd thought...
Pairing: Thorin x ofc Eirlys of Mirkwood
Warnings: None
Rating: T
Word Count: 2k
Read on AO3
The sun still shone, although it was low on the horizon, but it didn't matter to Eirlys as Thorin led her out onto the rampart high above Erebor’s main gates. A breeze blew, harder than the gentle breeze in the courtyard had been, and the air held the chill that came with a spring evening. She barely felt it, though, as she made her way toward the center of the ramparts and turned toward Dale. The valley between Erebor and Dale was quiet, no travelers made their way along the wide, rutted road that led up into Dale’s main street.
The plains were so barren, but she thought she spied what might be the beginning of new life and hopefully, it wouldn’t be long before the earth healed itself and the last remnants of war vanished.
Dale, however, showed signs of life as twilight crept in and the street lights softly blazed to life, along with the lights in the homes and businesses. With a soft sigh, she leaned her elbows on the parapet and simply drank in the sights. After a lifetime tucked away in Mirkwood, these sights amazed her, as she never thought things as simple as a village and lights would be so beautiful as well.
“Do you come up here often?” she asked without looking away from Dale.
“A fair amount, yes.” He move to stand alongside her, mimicking her stance by bracing his forearms against the stone. “I find it helps me clear my mind, more so than down below does these days.”
“I’m surprised.” She glanced over at him with a smile. “I would have thought you preferred being down inside.”
“Most dwarves do,” he nodded slowly, “but we’ve spent more time above ground than we have below it, so I’m equally comfortable in both places. But, very few come up here, so if you would like to come up here to escape, know very few will bother you. And you will be safe up here, far more so than you would be out in that courtyard. Especially until that wall is finished.”
“Thorin,” she turned toward him, “what did Bard come to speak to you about?”
He didn't answer at once, and she thought about what Dís had told her, about how Thorin would see her as his equal, as his partner and not only as a pretty face and one day, the mother of the future King Under the Mountain. She wondered if perhaps Dís was mistaken, that Thorin would merely tell her she need not worry about it, that what happened in Erebor was none of her concern and nothing she need trouble herself about. As the silence stretched, she thought of a counterpoint to any reason he might offer for not telling her.
Then, he sighed softly. “He came to warn me.” He looked over at her, his blue eyes far more serious than she’d ever seen. “I told you what happened at Ravenhill. With Azog. ”
“Azog.” A sense of foreboding stole over her as she turned back toward Dale. Just beyond the white stone buildings, she could see the Long Lake, sparkling like a faceted onyx. It all looked so peaceful, one could be forgiven for not believing a massive battle had been fought between that lake and where she stood. “But, didn’t you tell me you’d killed him?”
“I did. But another has apparently taken his place.”
That sense of foreboding grew stronger, a sour taste rising in her throat. She looked back at Thorin. “Another?”
He nodded. “Rildu. That’s why Bard was here. To warn me.”
“Warn you? Warn you of what?”
He drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Azog had put a price on my head, one that I thought died with him. But apparently, I was wrong about that. That’s why orcs have been spotted so close to Mirkwood, and now, a second pack has been seen moving south from Gundabad. Your father has sent word that he would like you to return to Mirkwood for your safety.”
“Well, I’m not going back to Mirkwood. You just said yourself that the orc pack was moving closer to Dale. We’d be heading right into it. Surely, we are far safer here.”
“We are, but I just thought you should be given the opportunity to decide for yourself.” He managed a smile then. “Somehow, I thought if I decided for you, you might be unhappy about it.”
Despite her growing unease, she smiled back at him. “I would have been, but in time, I’d have admitted you were right. I mean, we are safer here, aren’t we?”
“More than safe. The gates are fortified and our numbers have grown since the last battle. I’ll send word to my cousin Dáin, in the Iron Hills and am certain he will aid us, should we need it.”
“I’ll send word to my father at once, ask him if he might spare—”
“He has already made the offer, mesmel. He is sending a garrison to Dale. If our need grows, he will send more troops. You have nothing to fear.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Eirlys—“
“I’m not.” She met his gaze, shaking her head. “They are the reason I grew up motherless, why my father has been alone all these years. I owe them. And to be completely honest, I’d be lying if I said I didn't want to take part in any fight that might come to our doorstep.”
“You are not facing them.”
“If they show up here, you had best believe I most definitely will be facing them. I’m not afraid of them.”
“You would be wise to be afraid, Eirlys. They will not spare you because you’re a woman, you know. They are vicious and revel in misery and death.”
Her belly kinked, but she tried to shrug off both her unease and his warning. “Still, I would face them if I had to.”
“I know you would, and I suppose we’ll simply have to cross that bridge when and if we reach it. But, I want you to give me your word that you will not venture from Erebor without me. Not one step beyond the gates without me, and I’d rather you not venture out into that courtyard until the wall is fully repaired as well.”
“Thorin—”
“Your word. You may come up here whenever you need to take in some air, or to see the sky, but that’s it. Nowhere else alone.”
His voice brooked no argument and really, she did not wish to fight him on it. She was not so arrogant to think she could take on an orc pack on her own, no matter how she might owe them. Bravado behind the safety of Erebor’s walls was one thing, facing an orc was entirely another.
“I give you my word,” she told him with a sigh, “but if something should happen, I won’t hesitate to face them.”
“I know you won’t. Which is why I’m making you promise.”
“I know.” She turned her gaze back to the road leading from Erebor to Dale. It was all so peaceful and calm, with those tree saplings dotting along the wide road. It looked so desolate, despite those saplings, despite the foliage that looked as if it fought to break through the rutted reddish-brown soil. “Did this always look like this? Because it looks as if things are trying to grow across the plains.”
“The landscape?” Thorin shook his head. “No. When I was a boy, this was all lush and green and teemed with life. Plants. Animals. You name it, it could be found here.”
“And then Smaug came.”
“He did.” Thorin shifted to lean back against the parapet, his back to the plains. “We felt him before we saw him. Have you ever faced a dragon?”
“I can’t say that I have, no.”
“Well, the entire world seemed to shake, with the most ominous ominous rumble. The winds pick up, the air becomes hotter than anything you’ve ever felt. That wind whipped through, like the fiercest storm you could imagine. And it just kept growing hotter, hotter than the hottest summer afternoon. It tore trees from the ground and tossed them about as if they were little more than sticks.
“Then I saw him as he descended upon Dale, as he set fire to whatever he could. He destroyed buildings and turrets in his path, and then… then he was here.”
She gazed up at him, as his voice took on a faraway note. His eyes appeared trained on Dale, as he continued, “We had ample warning. I sent Balin to summon the guards, to tell them we faced a dragon, and I thought we might be able to hold him at bay. But, we weren’t. He broke through our gates with the same ease as he’d blasted through the trees, through Dale.”
His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat before continuing, “We lost half of the guard in that first assault. I realized my grandfather was missing, and had to go find him, and I also had to get the rest of my people to safety.”
“I know.” She let her hand come to rest against his left shoulder blade, her thumb moving lightly in an arc over it. “My father told me what happened after Smaug attacked.”
“I was angry with him for that,” Thorin admitted softly. “For a very long time. Up until the day we crossed paths with the spiders in Mirkwood and I found myself face to face with him in his throne room. And I let him know it.”
“I know.”
He glanced over at her. “How could you? You weren’t there.”
“I was, actually. I was in the corridor, just outside the throne room.” Without thinking, she leaned her head against his shoulder. “I’d heard the guard captured a group of dwarves and I was curious, so I listened at the door and hoped I wouldn’t be caught.”
“Curious.”
“I had never seen dwarves, only ever heard of you.” She smiled. “And when I saw you… I was smitten. I didn't leave until my father’s guards grabbed you, and even then I didn't wish to go. I just thought it best if I did. My father was furious enough. It wouldn’t have been wise to make him even angrier.”
“Probably wise.” A low chuckle rumbled up from his chest, and she looked up, it was to find him gazing at her as he added, “Smitten, eh?”
She nodded. “Smitten. Very much so, actually.”
“Why don’t I believe that?” He turned toward her.
“Why wouldn’t you? Like I’ve said, you’re very handsome, you know. Is it so difficult to think I might have thought so even then?” She reached up to lay her hand against his cheek. “And I am a lucky woman, to call you mine, you know.”
His eyes softened as he leaned toward her, his lips coming softly against hers. Eirlys slid an arm about his waist, melting against him as he wrapped both of his about her. The kiss deepened, became slow and teasing and when he pulled back, she whispered, “I was smitten, Thorin. And I still am, if you want the truth.”
“As am I,” he murmured back.
“We should go back inside,” she told him, tracing her fingertips along his back. “I have this sudden need to have you all to myself.”
“We are the only ones up here, mesmel.”
“I know. But anyone could happen upon us here.” She met his gaze. “And I’d really rather not have that happen.”
A slow smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Then we should go below. Now.”
She leaned in and swept a teasing kiss across his lips. “I like the way you think.”
Tag List: @mrsdurin @i-did-not-mean-to @xxbyimm @kibleedibleedoo @lathalea
Summary: Elsa’s nightmares revisit her, not long after the Battle of the Five Armies.
Fandom: The Hobbit (post Botfa).
Relationship: Thorin Oakenshield x OFC Elsa
Rating: Teen.
Content: hurt/comfort, nightmares.
Word count: 642
She could only lie there, frozen with fear, as the dark twisted shapes - Azog, his horde, Bolg, and Wargs, accompanied by endless swirling flights of those frightening huge bats- approached her. There wasn’t any escape; she was trapped in the throes of yet another nightmare, probably her worst since the Battle.
A faint whimper- poor shadow of a scream- passed through her clenched lips.
“Elsa? Elsa.”
Thorin’s strong arm was swiftly around her, saving her again, before the shapes descended upon her. With a shaky whimper, Elsa managed to awaken. The phantom shapes vanished into the darkness. She lay still, heart pounding and nerves racing.
With great concern, Thorin sat up, lifting her with little effort and cradling her against him. Mahal, Elsa was shaking, almost as badly as when she’d braved the River Running with the Company so long ago as they escaped Thranduil’s dungeons (her nightmares of the Orc pursuing them had been very bad for at least two or three nights).
Even though all was over, the nightmares had clearly never gone away.
“Elsa, amrâlimê,” he murmured into her hair.
“Thorin, I can’t keep doing this to you!” Elsa pulled away from him. “I’m- I’m broken! I can’t ever recover from the raid on my village long ago. I- it was different when you weren’t in your kingdom, but now- what would people think if they knew your Queen had nightmares? They would despise you for choosing a weak girl of the Race of Men over a woman of your people.” She curled up within herself, sobbing and shivering despite the night being relatively comfortable. “I’m just a broken girl.”
There was a creaking, a sinking of the massive feather bed, and Thorin was beside her. His hand rested ever so gently on her fingers as he spoke, his deep voice a comforting sound in the dark:
“No, you are not, Elsa. You survived terrible things- the raid, the entire journey, Orcs and Goblins, the spiders, Smaug, my accursed Dragon sickness,” he sighed heavily, “and a terrible Battle. I nearly perished in several of those adventures, and was harsh and cruel during the Dragon sickness when I could’ve been a better Dwarf.
“Elsa, I fell in love with a strong, beautiful woman, and made you not only my wife, but my Queen. Never call yourself broken or weak; they’re untrue and do not describe you at all.”
With a shaky sigh, Elsa snuggled up against Thorin, burying her face in his shoulder. “I’m sorry. It’s- it’s that they came back- and I felt so weak in comparison to the women in your family- Dis, your mother, and all.”
“No, Dis thinks very much and highly of you; she’d always wanted a sister.” Thorin’s voice became a trifle grim. “She too had some bad dreams after Erebor was lost, mainly about losing our parents and grandfather to Smaug. She was so young too, a lass at the time.” The grimness faded away. “It never made her any weaker or lesser than the other Dwarven lasses.”
Encouragement at the thought of Dis (a literal force and very supportive of her Human sister by marriage) washed over Elsa in warm waves. She curled up in his embrace, and sighed contentedly as Thorin drew one of the soft wool coverlets around them. “She certainly is a strong woman.”
They sat this for a while, lost in the warmth and each other’s presence, as the minutes slipped by silently. Soon Elsa blinked slowly as sleep returned to her bones. “I think I can sleep now, Thorin,” she whispered, hesitant to break their moment.
Carefully, Thorin laid her down and covered her up snugly. “Don’t hesitate to awaken me if the dream does come back,” he murmured as he lay down beside her.
“You know I always do.” A smile underlined Elsa’s voice.
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For a moment, she didn’t open her eyes. She was tired—tired in a way that reached deeper than her bones. Tired of waking up in strange places. Tired of having no idea where she was, or why. Tired of slipping into unconsciousness like it was some sort of cosmic reset button.
She really had to work on staying conscious.
With a quiet sigh, she opened her eyes and blinked into the flickering orange glow. Shadows danced across the bark of tall trees. She was lying on a bed of moss and leaves, nestled beside a rock in a shallow grove just off a narrow road. It was night now. The stars blinked above through the tree branches, and somewhere beyond the glen, an owl called once and fell silent.
A small fire burned a few paces away.
And there—seated before it, pipe in hand, as though this were the most natural thing in the world—was Gandalf.
He was packing the bowl of his pipe with a pinch of dried herb, humming softly to himself in some language she didn’t recognize. When he noticed her stirring, he glanced over and gave a small nod of approval.
“Ah. Awake again,” he said. “That’s good. You gave me a bit of a worry there.”
Lyra sat up slowly, her muscles stiff and her shoulder still sore from the fight. “How long was I out this time?”
“Not long,” Gandalf replied. “You lost consciousness when the pain caught up with you. It happens. A knock to the side, a spill against the rock. You’ll bruise, but you’ll live.”
Lyra made a face and flexed her fingers. “Wonderful.”
Gandalf struck a match against a flat stone and lit his pipe. The scent that rose was surprisingly pleasant—earthy, spiced, calming. It curled into the air like a sigh.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Still near the East Road, not far from the borders of the Shire. This little nook seemed a fair enough spot for resting. The trees here are kindly, and the stones remember old silence.”
Lyra stared at him, blinking. “The stones… remember?”
He puffed his pipe thoughtfully. “You’ll find that the world speaks more than you’re used to, if you’re willing to listen.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to listen to anything,” she muttered. “Everything already feels like it’s shouting at me.”
There was a pause. Gandalf leaned back on one hand and looked at her more closely. “You truly don’t know how you came here, do you?”
“No.” Her throat tightened. “One moment I was in my living room, and then I was… somewhere else. And now here.”
He nodded slowly. “I felt it. When I came upon you in the glen. Something not of this world. Something—woven. I cannot say by whose hand, but the thread is bright. You are not meant for this land, and yet you are here.”
“Brilliant,” Lyra said, hugging her knees to her chest. “That’s just what I needed to hear.”
There was silence between them, filled only by the quiet hiss of the fire.
And then the panic hit.
It crept in slowly—first as a cold in her fingers, then a flutter in her chest. And then it bloomed fully: They don’t know where I am.
“My world…” she breathed. “They’ll think I vanished. They’ll call the police, search the woods, check the hospitals—I just disappeared, and they won’t know why.”
Gandalf’s brows drew together. “Your family will do their best to find you, I am sure.”
“I don’t have family,” she snapped, the words cutting sharper than she meant. Her voice cracked. “I have a cat. A stupid, spoiled, neurotic cat who hates everyone but me. And she’s going to be hungry, and alone, and think I left her.”
To her surprise, Gandalf laughed—a deep, amused, genuine laugh that echoed through the trees like warm bells.
“A cat!” he said, smiling around the stem of his pipe. “That’s what you mourn most?”
“She’s the only one I had left,” Lyra said softly.
He sobered at that, watching her through the rising smoke.
“If you were meant to come here,” he said, “then I believe things in your world will shift to meet the absence you left behind. Sometimes, when the world moves strangely, it leaves kindness in its wake.”
Lyra stared into the fire. “What if no one even notices I’m gone?”
“Then perhaps,” Gandalf said gently, “there is something here worth being found by instead.”
She didn’t reply. Her mind was full of questions, scattered thoughts that seemed to vanish as she tried to snatch them.
The fire cracked.
Gandalf looked at her with something like quiet certainty. “There is a purpose to your presence here. I do not know what it is. But I feel it in the wind. In the way the world tenses around you. There is a thread running from you that has not yet been tied.”
Gandalf took a long draw from his pipe, then exhaled a stream of smoke shaped vaguely like a ship with sails.
“You could look at it this way,” he said, his voice low and companionable. “Whatever force pulled you here didn’t mean to leave you stranded. It set you down neatly by the road, wrapped you in starlight, and placed you directly in the path of a wizard. That hardly seems accidental.”
Lyra raised an eyebrow. “So I should be… what? Grateful?”
“Not grateful,” he said. “But perhaps… curious. The world has a way of unfolding toward those who move forward with purpose. Trust your instincts. Something wants you somewhere. You just have to find where that is.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So she did neither. Instead, she let herself lean back against the stone and tipped her head toward the canopy above.
“We’ll rest here tonight,” Gandalf said. “It’s a gentle place, and the night will keep to itself. At first light, we’ll head into the Shire.”
“The Shire,” she repeated, almost numbly.
He grinned. “I’m expected at a party.”
“A party,” Lyra echoed. “Of course you are.”
“It’s a very notable one,” he said with some pride. “Marigold Tunnelly Brambleburrow is celebrating her seventy-seventh birthday. There will be dancing and rhubarb pie and far more pipeweed than is entirely proper.”
“Marigold Tunnelly… Brambleburrow?” Lyra repeated, lips twitching. “That sounds like someone who bakes excellent scones and has Opinions about butter.”
“You’re not far off. She’s a good sort—stubborn, bright, fiercely kind. She married into the Brambleburrow family, and their hole is practically overflowing with cousins. She’ll be able to help you into some clothing better suited to wandering.”
Lyra glanced down at her own clothes. Her oversized sweatshirt hung oddly on her frame now, and the leggings she'd once bought to "stretch and breathe" now sagged slightly at the knees.
“It wasn’t exactly a planned wardrobe,” she muttered.
Gandalf chuckled. “No, I suppose not. You wear it like armor, though—stubborn and soft all at once.”
He tapped out his pipe, then went still.
After a moment, he turned to look at her more closely. “You never told me your name.”
Lyra blinked. “Oh.”
A strange shiver went through her. Something about the question felt too large.
But she answered.
“Lyra.”
She didn’t offer a surname. She wasn’t sure it would matter here.
Gandalf tilted his head. “Lyra,” he repeated. “A star’s name. Fitting.”
She furrowed her brow. “Why fitting?”
But he only smiled and rose to his feet, reaching into a leather satchel. “Are you hungry?”
She didn’t answer right away. Because standing, she realized something felt off—again. Her body felt smaller than it had before. Lighter. Her center of gravity had changed, and the world suddenly looked taller.
She stood.
And gasped.
“What in the hell—” she looked down at herself, eyes wide. Her legs, her hands, her entire frame—everything was shorter. She reached for her jacket and held it out—far too long in the sleeves now, her hands swallowed by fabric. She turned in a circle, almost stumbling.
“I’ve shrunk!”
Gandalf, who had produced a small pouch of dried berries and a hunk of stale bread, gave her a sympathetic look. “Yes, I rather suspected.”
She rounded on him. “You suspected? And you didn’t say anything?!”
“Well,” he said, rubbing his beard, “you had quite a lot on your mind. I thought it best not to add to the list.”
Lyra opened and closed her mouth, utterly at a loss. “How much?”
“Ten inches, give or take.”
She stared. “I was five-six. That makes me—what, four-eight now?!”
He offered her a berry.
She ignored it. “I’m tiny.”
“You’re still taller than most hobbits.”
“I wasn’t a hobbit!”
“I never said you were,” Gandalf replied mildly. “Though I had to consider the possibility. You’re not nearly hairy enough about the feet, of course—and your soles wouldn’t last a half-mile barefoot. But still.”
Lyra stared at him in horror.
“Then I wondered if you might be a dwarf,” he went on, unbothered. “You’ve the temperament for it. Sharp and spirited. But you lack the… stoutness around the middle. And there’s not even a whisper of facial hair.”
A flicker of memory cut across her mind—the rogues in the road. One of them leering, calling her a dwarven lady.
Her stomach twisted.
“No,” Gandalf finished. “You are not quite either. Nor elf, nor orc, nor man.”
He looked at her again—truly looked—his bright eyes flickering like coals.
“So what, then, I wonder… are you?”
…..
The fire had long since burned down to embers.
Gandalf snored gently from his corner of the glen, one hand still loosely curled around his staff, his hat tilted forward over his eyes. Lyra sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, cloaked in an oversized coat that didn’t belong to her and a silence that did.
She couldn’t sleep.
It wasn’t just the hardness of the ground or the unfamiliar stars—it was the hollow feeling in her chest. That sense of absence. Like a word left off the end of a sentence. Like waking up from a dream that had mattered deeply, but dissolved the moment her eyes opened.
Something was missing.
She didn’t know what.
A memory, maybe. A name. A person. No matter how hard she reached for it, her mind slid past it like oil on glass.
It was maddening.
Her chest ached, but she couldn’t say why. The pain was real—it pulsed with her heartbeat—but it had no source she could point to. Just a heaviness, like she was carrying grief she had no story for.
Whatever she had lost… she knew this much:
She had loved it.
Loved them.
She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, curling against the earth as the night wore on. Her body still felt foreign. Shorter. Lighter. Looser in the joints, as if she’d been reshaped without permission. The grass whispered against her cheeks in a voice she didn’t recognize.
She blinked up at the stars.
They were different here.
Closer. Brighter. Older.
But one of them—just one—shimmered with a cold blue clarity that stirred something deep within her. Like a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Like the very edge of a memory that refused to step forward.
For a fleeting moment, she felt less alone.
Then the wind shifted. Morning crept into the sky like a secret.
To preserve her late father’s legacy and the knowledge he died protecting, Eira disguises herself as a male scholar and joins the Company of Thorin Oakenshield on the quest to reclaim Erebor. Cold stares, heavy footsteps, and a king with no patience for weakness — nothing could have prepared her for the mountain of a man who sees her as dead weight. But secrets never stay buried on the road to a dragon’s lair… and neither does desire.
Chapter 1: Deception.
𓅆
She shouldn’t have been there. Not among warriors, not among dwarves. Not with a pack on her back and a forged document in her pocket and her ribs bound so tight she could barely breathe. But then again, if anyone had asked what she should be doing, they’d have said embroidery. Or baking. Or marrying. They’d never say this.
Her boots sank slightly in the gravel outside the camp. The wind curled around her, cold and sharp and reeking faintly of iron and smoke. The Blue Mountains loomed behind, stark and bone-white under the clouds. And ahead...men. Dwarves. Warriors. Packing weapons, tightening saddles, arguing in Khuzdul. She adjusted your cowl, pulled it low over her forehead. Breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. She’d practiced this. In mirrors. In shadowed alleyways. In the stolen hours between midnight and morning. Confidence. That was the key. Not swagger. Just certainty. Enough of it, and people rarely questioned her. Her hand went to the document tucked inside her coat. The seal wasn’t real. The ink had barely dried. But the name, Eiran son of Marnil, cartographer’s apprentice, fluent in Westron and Khuzdul, trained in historical recordkeeping, lorekeeping, and royal lineage. That was real.
Marnil had been her father. Her teacher. The only man who ever told her that her mind was worth something. They didn’t bury minds, the Council had told her after his death. They buried daughters. She swallowed that memory and walked forward. A dwarf with kind eyes and a white beard was the first to notice her. He looked up from a worn piece of parchment and gave her a long, assessing glance.
“You’re late,” he said mildly. “We ride at dawn.”
She pulled the document from her coat and handed it to him without a word. Let the paper speak first. Let him read the lie with his own eyes. He scanned it. Then again. One bushy brow rose.
“Marnil’s son,” he said slowly, as if tasting it. “We’d heard he passed.”
“He did,” she said, voice low and even. “But not before teaching me everything he knew.”
He looked at her again. Closer this time. “You don’t look much like him.”
“I look more like my mother.”A pause. A flicker of something like amusement touched his face.
“Well, we’ve no shortage of warriors,” he said, folding the paper. “But minds are rarer. Especially ones with knowledge of old lineages. You’ll speak to Thorin.”
She stiffened. “Now?”
“Aye. Best not to delay. He doesn’t take kindly to surprises.”
No one told her what Thorin Oakenshield looked like, but she’d read the records. Descendant of kings. Hardened by exile. Crownless, but proud. And when she followed the white bearded dwarf who later introduced himself as Balin around the bend in the camp and saw him… There was no mistaking him. He stood by the fire with his arms crossed, speaking low to a taller, bald warrior beside him. Not tall by human standards but solid. Imposing. His hair was dark and thick, braided and bound, and his face was carved from steel. Sharp. Stern. Tired in a way that said he did not rest often. Balin handed him the document. Thorin read it, silent. Then looked up at her. He didn’t blink. She met his eyes and felt the bottom drop out of her lungs. There was nothing welcoming in his stare. Only calculation. Judgement. She could almost feel him weighing her, her size, her strength, her usefulness and finding her wanting.
“Another scholar,” he said flatly.
Balin cleared his throat. “He’s Marnil’s kin.”
“I don’t care whose kin he is,” Thorin said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it had weight.
“This is no errand for parchment rubbing sons of scribes.”
She bristled “My knowledge could aid you. I know old Dwarvish dialects. I’ve studied Erebor’s royal line, its vault systems, the histories of the First Halls and -”
“And can you wield a blade?” The question cut through her words like an axe. She hesitated.
“Not like a warrior.”
“Then you’ll die before the mountain’s shadow touches your boots.” He turned to Balin, dismissing her. “We’re not babysitting a scholar.”
“I’ll carry my weight,” she snapped, before she could stop herself. His head turned back sharply.
“And if you don’t?” he asked, voice like frost. “Will your ink and quills defend you when orcs come through the trees?”
“If you think ink has no power,” she said quietly, “then you don’t know the weight it can carry.” The silence stretched. Balin looked like he was holding his breath.
Then finally Thorin handed the document back to him. “You ride in the back,” he said, still looking at her. “You speak when spoken to. You do not delay us. If you falter, you’re left behind.”
She nodded once, trying not to shake.
“And if you die,” he added, “I won’t mourn you.” Then he turned and walked away.
𓅆
Later that night, she found a spot on the edge of the camp and sat cross-legged with a cold biscuit and her father’s compass clutched in her hand. She didn’t open it. Just felt the familiar shape under her fingers, the comforting weight. To find one’s way, even in darkness. She were in. She’d done it. The Company of Thorin Oakenshield would ride for Erebor at dawn and she would ride with them. Even if the man leading it hated her very presence. Even if her lie was a noose waiting to tighten. Even if every heartbeat in her chest reminded her that one wrong step could cost her everything. Because this wasn’t just a quest for gold. Or kingship. Or home. This was her father’s legacy. And her only chance to prove that she, too, were worthy of being remembered.
Spring had taken full root in Erebor. Even deep within the mountain, the air felt softer, scented with moss and warmed stone. The people rejoiced in peace. The mines were singing again, the forges aglow with life and labor. Thorin Oakenshield ruled with strength, but at his side stood something greater than gold, sharper than steel.
You.
They knew it now. All of them. The halls no longer whispered but instead they celebrated. You walked beside your king not as a curiosity, not as a hidden thing, but as a woman adored. Draped in deep silks and proud braids, you held his arm at feasts and laid beside him at night. He kissed your palms in public and called for you first when he rose. His people adored you. His court accepted you. But still, the words had not been spoken. Until tonight.
The moon was high above Erebor. Within the mountain’s heart, the sacred garden glowed with candlelight and steam. The heated pools shimmered beneath stone arches and moss-draped walls, their surfaces reflecting gold and silver light. The scent of earth and green things filled the air. And there, amid the quiet splendor of it all, Thorin waited.
He stood by the water’s edge, arms crossed, hair loose from its formal braids. He had removed his crown and coat, and his shirt was unlaced slightly at the throat, exposing the strong line of his collarbone and a glimpse of ink across his skin.
When you entered, he turned at once.
You wore a gown he had sent you days before —midnight blue, soft as smoke, with laces that clung to your waist and sleeves that fell like moonlight from your arms. He drank you in as if seeing you for the first time, though his eyes had never truly left you since the day you came into his kingdom.
“Come here,” he said, low and rough.
He reached for your hand and pulled you closer, until your chests nearly touched. You could feel the heat of him, the tension in his shoulders, the breath he held back just to keep himself steady.
“I could not sleep,” he murmured, “not with you gone from my bed.”
“Nor I,” you answered. “I needed to walk. To think.”
“What is there to think about?” His voice dropped further. “You are mine. I am yours. There is no doubt left.”
Your breath caught. You lifted your eyes to his and found something there, not lust, not hunger, but reverence.
“You say it as though it is already spoken.”
“It is,” he whispered, and then, with no hesitation, “I love you.”
The words hit you like thunder and melted into you like spring rain. You had known it, felt it in every touch and glance, but to hear it from his lips was to be remade.
You smiled. “I love you.”
He kissed you then, with all the weight of those words behind it. No rush. No war. No curse. Just Thorin warm, solid, hungry for you in the gentlest, fiercest way. His mouth moved over yours like he was learning you anew. His hands cradled your waist, his fingers grazing the laces of your gown.
You broke the kiss first, heart pounding. He stared at you, lips parted, eyes dark.
“Will you come with me?” you asked.
He followed you wordlessly, through the flickering garden, to the most hidden corner, where thick ivy crept up the stone walls, and candles burned low beside a long marble bench. You turned to him there and reached for the ties at your shoulders. His breath stilled.
Slowly, deliberately, you let the gown fall from your shoulders, leaving you in only a soft shift. He stepped closer and cupped your cheek.
“I fear I’ll never get used to the sight of you bare,” he said, voice almost reverent.
You dropped to your knees.
“Let me,” you said. “I have missed your taste.”
His chest rose, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, with one soft hand, he touched your hair, threading his fingers through the loose strands, and nodded.
You undid his belt with quiet fingers. You pushed back the fabric of his trousers, and when you freed him, your breath hitched. Still, even after all you had seen and touched, he stunned you. He was thick and hard already, flushed and aching.
He groaned low when your lips wrapped around him.
One of his hands found your hair again. The other gripped the edge of the bench beside him. You took him slowly, carefully, letting your tongue explore him, your lips glide down until he was nearly undone. He hissed your name through clenched teeth, his hips rocking once, twice, before he stilled himself.
You worshipped him there, with the sound of the water echoing softly behind you, with candlelight flickering against his bare skin and his voice breaking in your ear.
“Enough,” he growled, dragging you up to your feet with startling gentleness. “I cannot take any more.”
He turned you and lifted you, setting you on the marble bench as though you weighed nothing. Your shift was bunched at your thighs now, damp with your need, and he cursed in Khuzdul when he saw the way you trembled.
He kissed your neck, your breasts, the soft valley between. When he finally entered you, he groaned like a man falling to his knees before the gods.
You clung to him, your fingers grasping his back, his shoulders, anything to ground yourself as he thrust into you slowly, deeply, filling you in ways no words ever could.
“I love you,” he whispered again, over and over, with every movement of his hips, with every brush of his lips against your shoulder.
“I love you,” you said back, until it was a chant, a vow, a bond sealed by body and soul.
You came around him with a cry that echoed into the stone. He followed with a sound like reverence.
For a long while, neither of you moved. He held you, his forehead pressed to yours, his heart racing beneath your palms.
Then he pulled back slightly, still between your legs, and reached into the inner pocket of his coat, which lay beside the bench.
He opened his hand. In his palm sat a ring — silver and gold, shaped in the style of ancient dwarven craft, with a deep blue sapphire at the center.
“I was going to wait,” he said softly. “But I cannot. I will not.”
You stared, breathless.
“Will you marry me?”
Your laugh broke the silence, half-shocked, half-joyous. “Yes,” you said. “Of course. Yes.”
He slipped the ring onto your finger, then kissed you again, smiling against your lips.
And though the garden was hidden, though no one saw, it felt as though the entire mountain sang.
The King Under the Mountain had found his treasure.
