Bracket D: Dragon Sickness/Goldsickness vs. Meddling Valar
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Chapter 40 of ‘A Deep Misunderstanding’. Link to Series Masterlist. Also find it over on A03!
MASTERLIST
OC(s) Used: Estel
Translation(s): Bard's Zahar: Bard's House
Khakhafê: My ass
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Um....Long time no see? I legitimately can't remember the last time I posted here on Tumblr. (Probably like 2 years ago or something). Anyways, life is slightly less busy for me now as I wrap up my final semester in college before I'm student teaching, and like 3 weeks ago I reread ADM, started editing it, and actually got inspired to write it again after like 2 years of not touching it. This thing is literally like 5 years old. But the bones are still solid and I hope 2025 sees me actually finish this thing once and for all. Anyways, enjoy this chapter that I finally finished off after having it sit for a few years!
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I watched, teeth chattering loudly, as Dwalin disappeared under the murky water. The rest of us waited our turns in the icy depths, all wishing that there were other options. I mean, truly, how humiliating was it to come up through the toilet?
A gust of wind blew over us and sent chills down my spine, prompting my nervous system to launch an involuntary shiver through my body. Merciful Manwë, my nipples felt like they were going to burst out of my blouse, it was so cold!
My only comfort was that everyone else seemed to feel the same way. As we had entered the bitter cold water, each dwarrow had made their discomfort very obvious. There had been more than one muttered conversation about switching to a different gender.
The water lapped uncomfortably at my chin, and I nervously shifted my weight. I clung tightly to the hem of Thorin’s shirt, afraid to let go lest I fall and not be able to get back up.
“Are you sure there isn’t any other way?” I asked again, and Thorin turned to look down at me. His hair, just beginning to dry from our trip in the barrels, fell into his face, causing him to raise a hand to brush it back.
“Unfortunately not, Estel,” he murmured, glancing over as Ori vanished beneath the water. I suddenly became aware of just how fast my heart was beating; like it was about to pound out of my chest.
I took a deep breath, trying to slow my accelerated heartrate. “You know, I don’t think I can do it. I’ll just take my chances…” I began to mutter breathlessly, biting my lip.
Thorin reached out a hand to gently squeeze my shoulder, his eyes soft. “You’ll be fine, my love. I’ll be right behind you. Just breathe, okay?” He said reassuringly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Now, let’s go.”
He pushed me forward and a cavern opened up in the pit of my stomach, sucking my pounding heart down into it as I realized that it was my turn.
“No, I really don’t want to do it.” I whispered, staring up at Thorin beseechingly. “There has to be some other way.”
“Estel,” Thorin’s voice hardened, “you have to do it. I know you can.” He disentangled my fingers from the hem of his tunic even as I clung desperately to him.
“Thorin—” The ominous shortness of breath returned.
“Estel, I will push you under the water if I have to. You have to go, now.” Thorin commanded, his voice harsh. I stared up at him in disbelief. It had been a very long time since he had used that gruff tone around me, and I had forgotten just how it sent chills down my spine. And not in a good way.
That and the threat of being forced beneath the water was frightening enough for me to swallow hard and try and get a grip on my thoughts. Taking a deep breath, I plunged beneath the surface of the water.
The chill that bit straight through my body and into my very marrow almost had me opening my mouth to let out a gasp.
Blindly, I swam forward, reaching to find the wooden posts that made up the foundation of Bard’s house. With each second that passed by and I still hadn’t touched anything other than water, my heart began to pound again.
Just as I thought I was going to have to surface to snatch a gasp of air, my fingers brushed against a slimy, thing. Flinching at the disgusting feeling of the slick, icky algae, I hesitantly reached back out to grab hold of the post and pulled myself up.
The next second, my head broke through the surface of the water and I eagerly filled my burning lungs with great gulps of air.
Forget that I was coming up out of someone’s toilet, I was just glad to have a breath of—
I was suddenly hoisted up into the air as something solid rammed up against my thighs. Letting out a shriek of surprise, I grasped wildly for something to hang onto. The closest thing in reach was the head of dark hair that had sprouted between my legs.
I clung tightly to the wet strands of hair, causing whoever had surfaced beneath me (and was now carrying me on their shoulders) to let out a growl of pain.
“LET GO!” They hissed, grabbing onto my legs to hold me steady. “Get off!” His snarls trailed off into angry sputters as my weight forced him back into the water.
Oh, it was Thorin. He had said that he would be right behind me, hadn’t he?
“Here,” a dark-haired lad reached out to grab my arm and help me clamber over the side of the toilet. I collapsed on the floor as soon as I was free of the watery death-trap, legs numb from the anesthetizing effects of the frigid water.
Thorin more or less crawled out of the toilet, just in time before Bofur popped up right behind him, sputtering. Had I not been half-frozen and slightly shell-shocked, I would have taken the time to appreciate just how hilarious it would have been to see Thorin settled on Bofur’s shoulders.
Truly it was a once in a lifetime chance.
Propping himself up on hands and knees, Thorin took a moment to catch his breath before looking up into my wide eyes through dripping obsidian locks. “I apologize for my harsh words, Estel. You had quite the grip on my hair.” He said breathlessly, and I shook my head.
“You did scare me, lifting me up like that. I thought you were some sort of sea monster, to tell the truth. But you had every right to yell at me for yanking your hair.” I explained, causing Thorin to grin and chuckle.
“Me? A sea monster?” He laughed, pushing himself up off the floor and offering me his hand. “Where did you ever get that idea?” He pulled me to my feet and wrapped an arm around my waist, guiding me out of the bathroom and into Bard’s house.
I pursed my lips, “oh, probably around the time I touched the slimy post and realized that there just might be fish in these waters.” I gave him a side eye. “But I don’t think I have any need of fishing. Not after I have obviously caught the best catch of the day.” I murmured.
Thorin grinned broadly, shaking his head. “You are a witty one, amrâlimê. I do not know how I didn’t catch it before.”
“Me? Witty?”
A devious smirk began to wind its way across Thorin’s bearded cheeks, overtaking the grin. “Yes, Estel. You have quite the way with words. May I bring your attention to “khakhafê’?” He murmured quietly in my ear so the others didn’t hear.
The blood that had seemed to be basically nonexistent before, now rose in my cheeks at the memory of that conversation. “Okay, okay, I get the point.” I hurriedly to say before Thorin could continue on.
Bard strode into the room with an armful of clothes. Dumping them out on the table, he took a step back as the rest of the company swarmed around it. “They may not be the best fit, but they’ll keep you warm,” he promised.
Hovering on the outskirts of the jostling mass of dwarves, I stood on my tiptoes in an attempt to see what was available. Even if only a shirt was available I wouldn’t complain. I just wanted to be out of my sopping clothes.
Thorin, never the most patient dwarrow, proceeded to elbow his way to the clothes. Vaguely I wondered what it would be like to have such confidence in your strength. Manwë knew that I would just be squashed into jelly if I tried that move.
“Here,” Thorin emerged from the slowly dispersing crowd, holding out a red shirt that looked to be much too large for me.
Like, the neckline would hang halfway down my chest large.
“I’ve got something for you, miss.” Bard’s voice sounded behind me and I turned to look at him and the clothing he was holding out to me.
Thorin huffed behind me.
I took the offered clothing, trying not to frown at the sight of the faded grey pinafore and cream shirt. The last thing I wanted to wear was a dress. But if this was all that was offered, then I would just have to suck it up.
“Thank you, Bard.” I murmured quietly, trying to disguise the distaste in my voice. “Do you have someplace I could change?”
He nodded, “aye. Tilda!”
A young girl in a blue pinafore appeared, looking expectantly up at Bard. “Yes, Da?” She asked, and Bard pointed to me.
“Can you show her to your room so she can change?”
Tilda nodded, looking over at me curiously. I didn’t blame her; we were both the same height but far over a century apart in age. “This way,” she motioned, walking quickly to a staircase. “It’s the door to the left of the painting.”
I smiled at her, “thank you—” I stumbled over the last word as my eyes flickered behind Tilda to rest on the brooding expression of the obsidian-haired dwarrow.
Turning, I walked up the rickety staircase; each footstep eliciting a groan from the warped wood. Behind me, I could hear Thorin’s heavy steps garnering the same result.
Arriving on the landing, I looked up at the painting Tilda said I would find. It was of a man and a woman sitting next to each other, wearing slight smiles.
“What is so interesting?” Thorin asked, standing beside me. “It is only a painting.”
I blinked rapidly a few times. “It’s not just a painting, Thorin. It’s a memory.” I whispered, twisting my head in time to see Thorin’s brow crease.
“What do you mean, ‘a memory’?”
“Do you not see the resemblance? It’s Bard and his wife. Probably the only picture he has of her.” I said softly, biting my lip as a lump rose in my throat.
“Oh.” Thorin’s voice was quiet as he looked up at the painting with a new interest.
“I should probably change.” I murmured, tearing my gaze away from the painting and opening the door that lay to its left.
“I’ll make sure no one walks in on you.” Thorin promised gruffly, leaning up against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest.
I couldn’t help the smile that stole across my face. “Thanks, amrâlimê.”
~~~~~
“You have got to be kidding me.” I hissed, tugging on the pinafore in vain. I had harbored suspicions that Tilda might have been a bit smaller than me, and I was not disappointed.
First off, I couldn’t even get the shirt to button. Second, the pinafore was much too tight across my chest. If I made just one wrong move, the seams would burst and my stifled breasts would be in full view of anyone in the vicinity.
“This is NOT going to work.” I pulled the pinafore off with some difficulty and shed the shirt. Tugging my damp clothes back on, I peeked out the door into the hallway. “Thorin?”
“Done?” Thorin asked, pushing himself off the wall.
“Uh, no.” I said sheepishly. “The clothes don’t fit.”
Thorin raised an eyebrow. “In what way?”
Heat rose in my cheeks. “None of your business. Can you just get me something different?”
“On the contrary, as your husband I believe it is my business.” Thorin teased relentlessly, his blue eyes twinkling.
“Please?” I begged, “I’m freezing.”
He nodded, turning and heading back down the stairs.
In a few moments, Thorin returned with Bard’s elder daughter in tow, faded garments slung over one of her arms. “Sigrid has something that might fit you.” He said, and the young woman handed me the clothes.
“I don’t think anything of mine would fit you, so I found one of Bain’s old shirts. It should do.” She explained, pointing to a dark brown fabric. “And I found one of my smaller skirts. It may need a few more inches taken off, but it might fit you.”
I resisted the urge to make a face at the thought of wearing a skirt.
“Thank you, I’m sorry for all the trouble.” I apologized, but the woman just offered me a smile before she disappeared back down the stairs.
“No trouble at all.”
I closed the door again, heaving a sigh as I stared down at the clothes.
Thankfully, Sigrid had been right in her guesses, and Bain’s shirt had fit more or less perfectly. Sure, it hung past my hips, but you couldn’t tell when I had the dratted skirt on. Which, speaking of the skirt, I was less than pleased with it. The hem brushed my shins, which I considered far too long.
I could just imagine how it would impede me if I had to climb up a mountain or flee from an orc. With my renowned clumsiness, I was all too certain that I would get my legs tangled within the skirts.
And the faded blue clashed horribly with the brown of the shirt. While I do admit that fashion was not my highest concern (nor had it ever been) I still found the combination appalling. I could only imagine what Thorin would think.
A wistful part of me wondered if he would think I was pretty. The Valar knew that I had only ever dressed in very masculine clothes around him and didn’t flaunt my curves. How would he react to seeing me in a skirt?
I couldn’t help but daydream about watching him rake his eyes over me, a little smile—the one I coveted like it was the Arkenstone itself—tugging at the corner of his bearded cheek. Then he would step up to me and look down into my eyes, now grinning outright as he said: “you look gorgeous, amrâlimê.”
“Estel?” A knock sounded on the door and I was unceremoniously removed from my daydream.
“Almost done,” I called back, doublechecking the knots on my blouse—I didn’t fancy inadvertently showing off my cleavage—before scooping up my damp clothes and walking over to the door.
Stepping out into the hallway, I carefully closed the door before turning to look at Thorin. He was absorbed with taking in my new look, an eyebrow slightly raised. In turn, I noted that he was no longer dressed in his blue tunic and had swapped it for new trousers and a red shirt. Which looked suspiciously like the one I had rejected earlier.
“So, what do you think?” I asked, forcing in a note of nonchalance. He didn’t need to know about the new, odd desire for my appearance to please him. Honestly, I was surprised with myself. Since when had I ever cared about what a man thought of my dress? I’d spent the past five months traveling with Thorin and hadn’t had the thought cross my mind till now.
Thorin shrugged. “It suits you. Although,” his expression turned contemplative, “it isn’t the most practical for climbing a mountain.”
“My thoughts exactly…” I mumbled. Why had that little abyss opened up in my chest? Why was I so hung up on his thoughts on how I looked?
“Come,” Thorin jerked his head in the direction of the staircase. “The others are waiting downstairs.”
I followed him down to where the rest of the company was gathered around the single fireplace, dressed in new, mostly ill-fitting clothing.
Thorin made no move to join them; instead choosing to seat himself next to one of the windows near where Balin was standing.
The elder dwarf gave me a smile as we joined him. “Why, Estel, you look rather fetching,” he commented, seeming always to know what I needed to hear.
“Thanks, Balin.” I looked over at Thorin to see his reaction, only for him not to even spare a glance in my direction. “I don’t think the skirt is very practical, but it’s a temporary fix until my clothes dry, I hope.”
My glance at Thorin didn’t go unnoticed by Balin, and he spared a glance over at the dwarrow himself. “The practicality of something is up to you, Estel. It might suit a different purpose than what you originally assume.” He shrugged.
Thorin suddenly straightened, leaning forward to look at something through the window. “The Dwarvish wind-lance!” He gasped, drawing our attention to him.
Bilbo chose that moment to come over, shooting Thorin a look. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He commented, and Balin came over to peer out the window. As he caught sight of what Thorin saw, his face became drawn.
“He has. The last time we saw such a weapon the city was on fire.” His voice was solemn. “It was the day the dragon came. The day that Smaug destroyed Dale.” He spoke of the Black Arrows; dwarf-forged and tough enough to pierce the hide of a dragon.
Thorin didn’t seem to hear Balin’s words. He was still gazing out the window, eyes focused on nothing more than memories. I sidled closer to him, wondering what he saw.
I knew Thorin had been a young dwarrow the day that Erebor had been taken from his clan. He’d told me how he’d stood before the gates, waiting for the dragon with his troops at his side. How out of all the men he commanded, he was the only one to make it out alive.
It was a burden that no one should have been forced to carry with them. A responsibility had been placed upon him that day to one day return to Erebor; take it back for his people. A responsibility that had only grown heavier as his Grandfather and Father fell in battle, leaving him the sole male of his line.
As I approached, Thorin seemed to return to the present, looking over at Balin before sapphire eyes came to rest on me.
“If the aim of men had been true that day, much would’ve been different.” He spoke, and the weight of the years rested on those words. His anger at the loss of his home. His sorrow over the thousands of lives lost. But there was also a thoughtfulness to it. What good things would not have occurred?
“You speak as if you were there.” Bard’s voice sounded curiously from behind Balin. The man stood, brow furrowed in question.
“All dwarves know the tale.” Thorin rumbled, returning his gaze back to the window.
“I didn’t.” I couldn’t help but mutter quiet enough that the man couldn’t hear.
Thorin huffed a short laugh. “All dwarves but you, then.” A small smile played across his face. “If you don’t know that story, then I must be failing as your teacher.”
“It’s a story about how your people were slaughtered and your whole world was flipped upside down. I don’t expect it to be one you enjoy sharing.”
~~~~
Somehow, it didn’t even shock me that the dwarves would take offence at the weapons that Bard offered them. All because they weren’t solid iron. As if they wouldn’t work just as well.
The thought had me rolling my eyes, leaning back against the wall with my arms crossed as I watched their argument from a distance.
“What is your name?” A curious voice piped up suddenly, and I jumped, looking over at the young girl who had sprouted beside me.
She looked to be no more than 10 years old, but was already as tall as me. Seeing my surprise, she was apologetic. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just was curious.”
“I just didn’t hear you coming. I get surprised rather easily, I’m afraid.” I smiled gently, “and my name is Estel. What’s yours?” I recognized her as the young girl who had showed me to her room to change, but wanted to keep the conversation going.
The girl brightened. “That’s a pretty name! I’m Tilda. How did you get your hair to look like that?”
Now I couldn’t help smiling at the girl’s innocent questions. “My husband did it for me. I could never do anything as intricate.” Which was true. Thorin had spent quite a bit of time creating the interwoven braids.
Tilda gasped softly. “Do you think he would teach Sigrid? I’d like to have braids as pretty as yours.”
I laughed, wondering how Thorin would react to the young girl asking her to braid her hair like mine. To replicate the intricate style that represented his proposal of marriage and my acceptance. “He may, I will have to ask him.” Perhaps he could teach her something harmless.
“I’ll go ask Sigrid if she’ll learn.” Tilda grinned, running off to go find her older sister.
“That’s sweet.” I murmured to myself, still smiling.
“What is sweet?” Thorin came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my middle.
“Nothing. You’ve just got an admirer.” I grinned, tilting my head back to look up at him. “Tilda was asking if you’d braid her hair like mine.”
Thorin chuckled softly. “What would my wife think of me proposing to another woman?”
“I figured you might just teach her something harmless. She doesn’t know what it means. She’s just a little girl and though it was pretty.”
Thorin nuzzled my neck, beard scratching against my skin. “I think it is much more than just ‘pretty’, amrâlimê.”
“Of course. Now, have you all figured out whether or not you’re going to lower yourselves to using Bard’s weapons?” I gently pulled away from Thorin, mindful of just how many watching eyes there were.
Reluctantly, he allowed me to turn to face him, his hands sliding down to grasp mine. “We’re going to raid the armory tonight. Those ‘weapons’, “he sneered the word, “will do us no good. We need real iron.”
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A whisper, low and resonating with a reverance one would associate with speaking the name of a God. Thorin’s head turned to acknowledge Frerin’s presence, but ever did his eyes linger on the warm glow of the treasure he stood on.
Opulence, riches- he wore it in the several rings on his thick fingers and layers upon layers of fine clothes and armor. He knew he finally, finally looked every bit a king; cloaked in a fine fur robe and covered in jewels and gold-
Gold.
Gold.
“Is it not beautiful, brother?” Thorin’s darkened, vacant eyes swept once again over the hoard, taking in every shine and sparkle of each jewel and coin. “The riches of Erebor belong once more to the Line of Durin.”
