Feb. 14/14 - FINAL NOTE: The more I fleshed this story out and added chapters, the more I loved Averil, and the less I liked her introduction to be mostly about sex (even though this admittedly started out as a smutty one-shot). So I've toned it way down, but I still hope you get a feel for her desire for Thorin before moving on to chapter 2.
"You must keep pace!"
Thorin was shouting at the company again, but Averil knew it was really directed at her. She was the slowest one there, that was for sure. It was not because she had refused to continue riding with Bofur when she finally felt well enough to walk. It was not even due to fatigue, despite the long journey across the treacherous and unpredictable terrain.
Her steps were calculated and steady, each one striving to be a more perfect imprint on the land than the previous. It was her way.
The band of dwarves and one hobbit, led by their imposing and at times irascible King Thorin, had found her three weeks ago, collapsed and parched near the opening of a cave, which she'd had neither the strength nor the will to enter for shelter. Rolled up beside her limp body were the only possessions she'd taken from her former home: a tent, two blankets, a goblet, a change of clothes, a knife.
Despite his initial objections about bringing her along ("This woman is the last distraction we need!") Thorin had acquiesced to Bilbo and Bofur's pleas not to leave her there. They argued that she was vulnerable not only to the elements, but Orcs, wargs and other repulsive creatures that would have no problem devouring her small, delicate frame within seconds. They assured Thorin that as soon as they came to an inhabited area with abundant shelter and food, they would unload their burden.
Averil looked up. Ahead was a forest bathed in thick shade that beckoned the company to stop for the evening. Thorin was the first to dismount, his heavy feet pounding the ground with authority. She watched him closely, all the time. Averil was almost certain that he grabbed looks at her, too, though he would probably rather spear himself with his own sword than admit it. He was definitely more likely to yell at her for being a burden than to take the time to get to know her.
But his rough and sometimes biting words did not scare or bother Averil, for she knew good leaders had to be blunt and immovable at times. That's how her father had once been, and Thorin had these same traits, always.
She also felt a connection to this dwarf, though their dealings with each other had been few. Of all the people in the company, Thorin was the person with whom she had the most and the least in common.
A fierce and fiery dragon had forced Thorin and his kin to flee their beloved Erebor. Her homelessness and subsequent solitude were not due to outside forces, but her own father, King Daimereth, who'd let the excesses of wine and women console him after the sudden death of his Queen. He let his grief cloud his judgment and reign. He had become reckless, foolish. The subjects of his small kingdom of Fairlea suffered while he indulged in every food and delight, a sad effort to mask his pain. Branon, his wisest adviser, had no more influence on him - his counsel at first mocked, then ignored completely. Averil, trying to heal after losing her mother, ached for the return of her father's attention and love. But he could not provide it.
Finally, in the wee hours of her 21st birthday, Hevyk, the head of the army and someone she once considered a confidante, staged a bloody coup d'etat. Daimereth was not spared, and Averil figured she was surely slated for the same fate. She managed to narrowly escape, taking advantage of the long-unused underground service tunnels to save her life.
For weeks she had wandered, cloaked in shock and grief, but careful to cover her tracks as she heard the wail of hounds picking up on her scent. She found water to dead-end her trail, climbed up and down trees, rolled about in stolen clothes, then tossed them in various directions, to help elude the dogs.
Keeping her head low, she stole food from market vendors and unattended homes and gardens. Since most of the subjects were poor, she never gathered much. And at the end of one particularly difficult week, the company found her. She had drifted nearly 40 miles from Fairlea.
Now, as the group bustled about starting a fire, preparing to hunt for food and setting up camp, she eyed a clearing away from the activity that seemed to be made for her tent. She headed toward it with purpose.
The durable, rugged canvas structure had been an heirloom from her father. He had once been loving and caring, an experienced soldier who, in addition to educating her on royal duties, taught her basic survival skills that he felt every person should know. The tent, which had been his and his father's before him, was part of the lesson, as was building a fire and most importantly, defending herself. She did all well.
After effortlessly erecting the tent, she sat inside on her blanket, legs folded, eyes closed. The din of the company, laughing, talking, and singing, was oddly comforting. Several of the dwarves had stashed ale, and eagerly shared and slurped it in their sturdy cups. Kili hunted a few rabbits, and the smell of the sweet meat cooking over the flames wafted into her tent. Though she told herself she was not hungry, she inhaled the scent deeply, trying to feel satisfied by it alone.
No one would dare bother her, she thought. She was never unkind to the company, and they were certainly never rude to her, but she put up an invisible shield that let them know she didn't want to be questioned or befriended. With the exception of her rescue, she always made the first move if she needed anything.
She sat, then lay, for what must have been hours in her tent, listening as they spun their tales, ate their supper and relived their glories. She wanted to join them - and yet she wanted to be alone. She wanted to share her own shameful, painful secret - and yet she wanted to keep it hidden. It was no wonder her nickname, Ele-rahv, in her native tongue basically meant, "this way and that." Her father had unofficially christened her with the name as he watched her fly from activity to activity as a child, never for more than a few minutes at a time. She couldn't stand to miss out on anything. With this same attitude she looked forward to being involved in every diverse aspect of her reign. She would have been a dedicated ruler.
But it was not to be.
She covered herself with her remaining blanket, and let her memories drifted into dreams. Night fell slowly and silently, enveloping the forest in a sheet of black, topped with diamond stars. The noise around the fire died down as most of the company fell asleep.
Suddenly, her slumber was interrupted by a deep voice.
"Are you hungry?"
Her eyes flew open. It was Thorin, crouched at the tent's opening. He was holding a small plate, his own, with a few pieces of smoky, sinewy meat on it.
She sat up, startled. A flood of emotions rushed over her when she realized the king really was before her: anger for his intrusion, appreciation for the food, arousal by his majesty, embarrassment by her appearance.
She could not deny her hunger. She nodded eagerly and reached for the plate, thinking it would hand it to her and go. But instead, he slipped into the tent and placed it by her side.
He sat with his legs crossed beside her as she ate, quite unladylike. She minded, but did not say so.
"You should have joined us," he said as she finished the last of the meal. You should know by now that we are not going to hurt you. You shouldn't be afraid."
"I am not afraid of you, my lord," she answered truthfully, defiantly. Then – still annoyed that he had stayed without an invitation - she decided to lie. "But I don't want to join you."
He folded his arms and studied her face, his blue eyes like cold steel. "Then," he said, leaning in, his voice becoming a deep whisper, "what do you want, Princess Averil?"
She choked on the last bit of meat, struggling to recover in order to regain her composure. Her light brown eyes met his, and she saw the slightest smirk on his face.
"What did you call me?" she asked, knowing full well he'd said –
"Princess."
There was a long, heavy pause. Finally, she asked, "How - did you….?"
He reached toward her face, and she instinctively backed away ever so slightly. His right hand touched just behind her left ear and trailed down to the top of her neck, outlining the slightly curved, amber-hued mark which had been painstakingly tattooed on her delicate olive skin when she turned 13. It was an honorable distinction given only to the royal family, and had been for centuries. But it was now just a relic from an overthrown kingdom.
She, too, reached past her shoulder-length black hair to caress the tattoo. She was unaware that Thorin knew anything about her tiny homeland. Obviously none of the other dwarves took note of it, nor the hobbit, Bilbo. Surely big-mouth Bofur, who had actually become a trusted traveling companion and friend, never mentioned it. So she'd reasoned that if he didn't say anything, no one in the company knew.
Or so she thought.
Her fingers found the mark - and Thorin's sandpaper hands. Instead of moving away, he cupped the side of her face.
"What do you want, princess?" he asked again. His eyes burned through hers.
She sat up on her thin pallet of a blanket, her gaze never leaving his. She searched her heart, and like a dart finding a target, she knew exactly what her truest desire at that moment was. She wanted the one thing she had never had the chance to do. It was her birthright. It was the reason she sought to make even her steps on the earth perfect, regal, precise.
"I want," she said slowly, "to rule."
And then, looking at him, she wanted something else.
She grabbed Thorin's shoulders and pulled him toward her, bringing his mouth to hers. He tasted of meat and ale and smelled of earth and sweat. She stripped him of his heavy garments, not quite understanding this power and knowledge that had overcome her.
When he was completely unclothed, she looked over his battle-worn body. He was still magnificent in every way. She quickly removed the dirty, torn covering shielding her body, a formerly beautiful dress that had been reduced to a few yards of cloth. Once it was off, she gently pushed him to lay down on her pallet.
Throughout the night, there was a sweet intermingling of passion, dominance, submission, and desire – not just for the physical, but for something far beyond each of their grasp, something they both had lost, and both longed for.
Home.
