A/N: Can you believe this lovely piece of work? kkolmakov wrote this beauty as a gift prompted by Thorin's unforgettable quote in Mirkwood. If you enjoyed this, please stop by her page on fanfiction, and ao3, same username. She also has a blog at kolmakov dot ca.
An Acorn Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree
It was all Beryl Baggins' fault. It was definitely the fault of the nosy, hinting, winking, full of good intentions Hobbit. It was her who was to blame for the fact that currently Wren found herself sitting on a thick branch of a giant oak, in the company of her husband Thorin II Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror. And an immense bear who was standing underneath it on back paws, licking its muzzle in anticipation of a lunch made of an apt bodied but perhaps too sinewy Dwarf, and a bony woman of Men.
But let's tell the story from the beginning. It all started five weeks before, with Wren strolling into Beryl's chambers to ask her whether the Hobbit needed help packing for their family visit to the Iron Hills. Wren found Mistress Baggins running around her bedroom, with a heap of clothing in her hands, muttering something under her nose, a stocking thrashing behind her like a battle banner.
Wren rolled up her sleeves and joined the Hobbit's panicked attempts to plan outfits for a fortnight of feasting, and then stuffing the aforementioned outfits into large trunks.
Half an hour later, Beryl could be found sprawled on the floor like a sea star, her opulent chest heaving. Wren was sitting on the Hobbit's bed, folding Mistress Baggins' undertunics.
"So, what was it you were doing, my dearest Hobbit, that all the packing was left till the last moment?" Wren asked in a cheeky tone, and heard a groan from the floor boards.
"I lost track of time! I was perusing the library, looking for old schematics. You know that Balin, Ori, and I have been looking for the plans of the lower levels, to restore the heating pipes systems, leading from the forges to the Upper Halls?" Wren nodded. "Well, and all those books that the Longbeards coming back to Erebor had brought with them, they all are now piled up everywhere! And it's pretty much impossible to find anything! So I was digging through, and ran into this book!" The Hobbit was going back to life, apparently, since her curly head popped up from behind the edge of the bed, her large brown eyes shining. "It is a history book, and it tells of the Battle of Moria." Wren hummed and nodded again. Usually, that was more than enough for a person to say in a conversation with the wife of Prince Fili. "You know Thorin's shield right?" the Hobbit asked, her tone pointed. Wren nodded, once again.
Of course she knew the shield. It hung above the large oaken desk in her husband's study. Wren felt somewhat proud when looking at it - hardly deservingly, of course. During the Quest for Erebor she had picked up the shield when it fell out of wounded Thorin's arms during the fight with the Orcs and Wargs out the Goblin caves. It later served honourably to the King during the Battle of the Five Armies.
"So, his name - Oakenshield - and the shield made of an oaken branch, right? What happened is that after the Battle of Moria, Dain wanted to pay homage to Thorin's valour, and they planted an oak, in a valley, half a day travel from Dain's Halls." The Hobbit finished her announcement with a wide gesture of her charming round hands, as much as saying 'ta-da!' by it.
Wren smiled. The story sounded lovely! She shared Dain's sentimental attachment to connecting the noble tree to the noble warrior in her mind. To Thorin's constant merriment, she had a few of her garments embroidered with acorns, including a few undertunics and pairs of bloomers. He would laugh at their view and kiss her soundly; she would blush. Altogether, acorns and oak leaf patterns were a source of constant joy in Wren's life.
"You two should go!" The Hobbit's loud voice and a gentle poke of a finger into Wren's knee returned the latter to reality.
"It's an official family visit, Beryl. We probably won't have time." Wren sighed, and went back to folding.
Five weeks later Wren was finishing her breakfast, the King still sleeping after the excessiveness of the night before, when Beryl marched into the small parlour adjoin to Wren and Thorin's guest chambers in the Halls of Dain Ironfoot.
In her hands the Hobbit carried a large basket, clearly heavy, and a walking stick. Wren stopped in her tracks, cup midway to her lips, knowing well enough that the decisive and somewhat impish expression on Mistress Baggins' face never boded well.
"The two of you are going to see the Oak of Azanulbizar!" Beryl announced, and plopped the basket down. "Food inside. Both your favourites. A bottle of cider. And here is a new walking stick for you, as a gift from me!" The Hobbit rubbed her hands as if it were her and Fili that she was planning a day for. "I made Fili make sure the two of you aren't needed for anything today, so you can go and enjoy yourselves."
Wren's cup finally reached its destination, and she took a careful sip of tea.
"Well?" the Hobbit asked in astonishment, clearly not understanding why Wren wasn't dancing in exuberant joy around the parlour, like Mistress Baggins herself would, no doubt. "Go get dressed! The sun is up, and the day is rad!"
Wren sighed. She hated upsetting the Hobbit.
"Beryl, I am endlessly grateful for all your efforts. For the food, and of course for the gift..."
"Yeah, yeah," the Hobbit interrupted, pressing fists into her hips. "But? Because I know this tone, Wren of Enedwaith. All these lengthy thank-you's and much-obliged's are usually followed by the reasoning why you can't accept. What have I missed this time?" Beryl scratched her head, ruffling her wild honey coloured curls, switching from taken aback to sincerely upset, and Wren felt rather bad for the Hobbit.
"You haven't missed anything!" Wren jumped at her feet and ran up to the Hobbit. "It is a wonderful idea, and I would love to go! With all my heart, Beryl! To be honest, I am dying to leave the Halls for a bit. The Dwarven feasts are just a bit too much to my taste," she whispered conspiratorially to Beryl, who perked up and sniggered. "But Thorin seems to be enjoying them, and since it's kin, we can't just disappear for a day, can we?" Wren sighed again. "I'll be honest with you, my friend, I hardly see him since we came here. You know I can't drink any brew, and after a while I just don't know what to do at a feast, so I wander off..."
"I've noticed." Beryl's mouth drooped in sympathy, and then she jumped ahead and gave Wren one of her impulsive, bone-crushing hugs. Wren had been getting increasingly used to them.
"It's alright." Wren patted the Hobbit's back, as if she were the one who was to be soothed here. "There's a library here, and..."
Wren's mumbling was interrupted by the appearance of the dishevelled and sleepy King of Longbeards, yawning and rubbing his right eye, while his large left hand was ruffling the dark mane.
"Morning," the Lord of the Carven Stone grumbled, and Wren swooned. The man was adorable!
Meanwhile, the Hobbit was apparently overcome by quite different emotions.
"Thorin Oakenshield!" she barked, fists again pressed into hips and a foot tapping. "I have a word or two to say to you!"
The King who by then had sat to his breakfast and had just bitten into a thick slice of fresh bread froze with his cheek rounded with food behind it. With his widened unblinking eyes and startled expression, he bore such resemblance with a ground squirrel caught over its loot that Wren couldn't suppress a giggle.
Beryl took a step ahead and pointed her index finger into the King's long nose. He swallowed his food with a loud gulp.
"I have a picnic basket here, and Fili had arranged the two of you to have a free pass to spend the whole day away, so if you say..." Beryl started in a menacing tone.
"Oh Mahal bless you!" the King said, and smiled widely. "Thank you, Beryl! I can't tell you how much I wanted to escape for a day. And we can spend finally some time together, my heart." He stretched his hand to Wren, and she readily pressed her fingers into it.
Wren turned and saw the most astonishing picture one was to observe in Arda: a speechless Mistress Baggins of Bagend. Wren laughed, and the Hobbit muttered something about them not forgetting cloaks in case it got cold, and left the room.
The King pulled Wren on his lap and buried his nose into the hair behind her ear.
"What was all that about?" he asked, and Wren snorted, and scratched the back of his head.
"It's just Beryl being her usual thoughtful self," Wren murmured and kissed her husband's cheek.
"Excellent." The King was already stretching for a slice of cheese. "You get dressed, I'll eat quickly, and off we go!"
Wren didn't need to be asked twice.
Wren walked with a spring to her step, followed by the King, their path lying between two walls of rocky cliffs. She carried in her hand a map that Beryl had thoughtfully put into the basket. Wren had sneakily offered to read the map, since the King's hands were occupied by the basket; while in reality it was just that everyone knew how little one could trust the royal sense of direction. Wren on the other hand was exceptionally good with maps, and reading stars and terrain.
The King was humming pleasantly, Wren was picking up herbs and flowers on their path. Everytime she'd bend, humming would stop, Wren would snort, and a small warm chuckle would follow from behind her. And then they would walk again.
At some point the narrow hollow they followed spread wider, and the King caught up with her, and measured his step to hers. Couple times his hand would brush to hers, and Wren took mercy of him and picked up his fingers. He surely would never initiate such mawkish behaviour, but neither did Wren see him taking his hand away.
"So, what's in the basket?" the King asked a few minutes later, and Wren laughed. Romance was apparently boring the King by now, while the bottomless Dwarven stomach had made itself known.
"According to our dear Hobbit, all our favourites. I expect lots of cheese and seedcake." Wren looked at the King from the corner of her eyes, and saw a dreamy expression on his face. They'd only been walking for half an hour, and he had just had breakfast!
He lasted another half an hour, and then sighs started. By now Wren knew the wide range of the royal sighs quite well. This one was the expression of his longing for cheese. They found a large boulder, and gave full appreciation to Beryl's basket packing talent.
They started with mushroom and potato salad, moved onto roasted chicken, and then to cakes, and finally to cheeses. By then Wren could hardly breathe, and ended up stretching on the cloak spread on the ground and staring at the occasional white fluffy clouds running across the sky, while the King continued his meal. On everyday basis, he could consume exactly three times more than Wren; although today she was apparently exceptionally ravenous.
After washing the excellent meal down with the apple cider, they continued their travels. Wren pretended that she didn't notice that this time the King took her by the hand on his own volition.
And finally here it was. One hundred forty two year old oak, with its broad and opulent crown of branches stood proud on a small hillock, primroses and bluebells blooming at its feet. The warm sun danced between the leaves and on the grasses below it. Wren halted and watched the giant in front of her. The King was silent as well.
"It's almost seven times older than me," Wren whispered. "Just your name is..."
The King hummed agreeing, and Wren shook her head in disbelief. Seeing what had been just words for her before, reflected in a mighty tree, with its immense trunk, strong roots, and a roof of green leaves throwing shade large enough to give shelter to a small party, filled Wren's heart with reverence and pride.
"Have you visited it before?" Wren asked, taking the first hesitant step towards the tree.
"No, I never had a chance. And when I was younger and coming to the Iron Hills, this was just a twig."
"It is no twig now," Wren muttered in awe and walked around the tree. It took her sixteen steps. She stopped by the King and dropped her head back, looking at the canopy of leaves above.
"Neither am I," he whispered into her ear, and she smiled without turning to him. Pleasant shivers ran down her spine from the rumble and the velvet of his voice. "So, shall we open our basket again?"
Wren would've rolled her eyes, had she not been brought up by a well-mannered, strict grandmother. While she was full of veneration for his people's ancient history, their honour and their loss, and their perseverance, and the man standing near her himself - the Dwarf was once again hungry!
And then Wren had to admit, so was she.
While the King was sorting out their cloaks, and the provisions - rather depleted after the previous stop - Wren walked up to the tree and splayed her hand on the rough bark. It was warm from the sun, and some maudlin thoughts overcame Wren: of how familiar the bark felt, and how different was the destiny of the tree in front of her and its brother whose branch now decorated a hall in the Lonely Mountain, and how she herself was so small compared to…
Wren had no time to finish her thought, since the King was suddenly near her, for some inconceivable reason grabbing her under her buttocks. Wren stared at him. He surely didn't look overwhelmed with passion.
"Up, now! Climb!" he barked at her, and Wren acted on instinct. One large leap, she hung on a lowest branch, then swung her legs up, and dashed up like a squirrel. By now Wren possessed enough trust into her husband, to comply first, and ask questions later. The Dwarf followed, given with less grace and speed, but surprisingly deftly for his race.
And then Wren noticed the bears. It was a mother and a cub, cinnamon bears, in quite a business like manner approaching their lunch.
"Thorin, bears are excellent climbers! What are we doing on a tree?" Wren hissed at the King, and he stared at her with an unreadable expression. "Thorin..." The Dwarf mumbled something, and Wren considered gently nudging him with her foot, near which he was hanging off a branch.
"I said I panicked," he finally gave in, and Wren surely had nothing to answer to this. "They will eat and leave. The mother isn't attacking, and we don't seem like a threat to her like this."
Wren wanted to say that they probably seemed like oversized martens to the animal, but she kept her mouth shut. Underneath the bears were finishing Beryl's renown pot roast with mushroom gravy. And then Wren noticed the cub feasting on the King's cheese, and she saw her husband draw his brows. Wren stifled a giggle.
"Oh, don't be a grump. Isn't it charming?" Wren whispered. "Reminds me of Dwarven children. All sturdy and furry." The King tore his eyes off the cub savouring his Red Gold, and looked up at Wren. Now, when it had become obvious that they were out of danger, his eyes were laughing. And suspiciously shiny.
He slowly and silently climbed higher, and settled on the branch near Wren. Just like in his sighs, Wren was well versed in King's looks, especially accompanied by subtle movements of an eyebrow. This one was of passionate nature, which was surely preposterous in the circumstances. And yet Wren's suspicion was confirmed by the large hot palm on her nape, and a pair of soft lips firmly pressed to hers. Wren would've reminded the King of the bears and their rather unorthodox position at the moment, but sadly her mental capabilities had quickly grown impaired.
Additionally, the branch they were perched on was as if created for somewhat restricted, but enthusiastic activities. The King's back was comfortably leaned onto the trunk, his posterior stable in the branch fork, and Wren - without recalling how and by whose will - was now settled on his lap, facing him, her legs hanging on two sides of the branch.
"Are you trying to make me forget that you threw me into a tree, my lord?" Wren murmured into his ear, biting the helix, the ear cuff clanking to her teeth.
"Is it working?" he asked, twisted his head, and placed an open mouthed kiss on her neck.
"Exceptionally well," Wren answered, and caught his mouth.
About half an hour into trying to stay quiet, they noticed that the bears had long been gone - and the King and his Queen stopped restricting themselves.
They walked back holding hands; and the closer they were to Dain's Halls, the louder and wider Wren was yawning. When she stumbled yet another time, the King chuckled and picked her up into his arms. She mumbled a thank-you and settled her head on his familiar shoulder.
"Yavanna be merciful, what happened to you two?! It's dark already!" Beryl's holler made Wren wake up with a jerk. She lifted her heavy head and tried to focus on the fretting Hobbit. "There are twigs in your hair! " Beryl was going into one of her worrying fits, and Wren giggled. "Wren, are your knees scratched?!"
"Beryl, I think you don't want to know the answer to this question," Fili's soft baritone poured from the bench he was sitting on, smoking his pipe. The Hobbit continued running around the royal couple in circles. Wren knew it was only the matter of seconds before Mistress Baggins would catch up, but at the moment Wren could only snort.
"Were you attacked by wild beasts?" The Hobbit pointed at a purple assembly of scratches on Wren's upper arm, sincere concern on her face. Wren's skin was pale and bruised easily, and it was entirely her fault for not watching for branches while jerking the waistcoat off the King.
"Yes, yes, we were." Wren smiled blissfully. "First, there were two cinnamon bears, they ate your pot roast, but they were harmless. And then I was attacked by..." Wren snorted another stifled laugh. "A mountain lion. Large, black, with silver in its fur."
"There are no mountain lions in these lands!" The Hobbit flailed her arms. And then froze and blushed furiously. Her husband warmly chuckled at the back, pipe in the corner of his lips.
"And now I want my bed," Wren murmured and once again dropped her head on her husband's shoulder.
"Your wish is my command, my lady," the King answered, and then Wren didn't remember much, since she had fallen into the deepest slumber. A small, very realist growl she heard him fake was mostly likely a dream, as well as his "Mahal help me, a mountain lion" purred in a velvet voice.
After the visit to the Iron Hills was finally over two days later, Wren was only grateful to finally head back to Erebor. The return journey was a merry endeavour, with all her kin present, and the fortnight on the road seemed to pass very quickly.
The morning after their return to their halls, Wren was having breakfast with the whole family in a large dining hall. She was in the middle of a lively conversation with Dis about the new fabrics merchant that had opened his shop in the Dale market, when disgust suddenly filled her at the sight of her favourite fried stuffer mushrooms. Somehow their gills and the fleshy stems looked so repulsive that Wren discreetly pushed the plate with them behind the nearest bread basket.
"Wren, are you alright? You're positively green," Beryl quietly asked her, and all Wren could do was jerkily shake her head. The picture of the repugnant fungi just wouldn't leave her imagination.
"It's the mushrooms. They aren't agreeing with me today. You know, they just look..." Wren had no words for it, so she just made an unhappy grimace.
"But you love mushrooms." Beryl craned her neck and studied the offensive dish.
"I'm still quite alright with the smell, and I think even the taste would not be bad, but it's the… folds..." Nausea rose in a sharp wave, and Wren grabbed her glass and downed the water.
Lady Dis softly laughed at the background.
"I remember I had some strange hatred towards the look of tomato seeds for a while, for no reason whatsoever. It happened twice actually..." And then the Dwarven dame froze, her mouth half open.
"Oh?" Beryl seemed to catch up on something Lady Dis had just had a realisation on, and Wren still had no clue about. "Oh!" Beryl emitted a shrieky squeak, and then clasped her hands over her mouth. Wren looked between the two women in confusion - one was glassy eyed, her jaw slacking; another one was muffling her own shouts, and sounded like a pup stuffed into a sack.
"Wren, is Beryl feeling alright?" Fili asked from across the table, and Wren shrugged, eyeing her friend. Fili turned to his mother then. "Amad, are you alright? What is going on?"
"Mushroom gills," Lady Dis slowly mumbled, and then jumped at Wren hugging her around the neck.
A scream of "Mushroom gills!" burst out of Beryl, and she joined the strangulation attempts on Wren's life.
"I think they know something we don't." Kili pointed at the women with his fork.
"They are women, Kili. They always know something we don't," Fili answered, and gave Wren a sympathising look. "Still breathing, Aunt?"
"Hardly," Wren rasped.
And then she understood it too! Mushroom gills! And the Oak of Azanulbizar! Precisely two and a half weeks ago! She had been hungry then, ravenous almost, and libidinous, and overemotional. And now she hated mushroom gills!
"Let me go, I need air!" she yelled, and the women jumped away from her.
"Right, right! Lots of fresh air, aye!" Lady Dis hollered, and Beryl for some inconceivable reason started fanning Wren with a cloth napkin, occasionally smacking her to her nose with it. "And fresh greens! And well cooked red meat!"
"And mint tea! And fennel!" Beryl chimed in, and they both jumped on their feet and rushed out of the dining room, no doubt to bring Wren all of the above. The situation was growing perilous.
Wren quickly rose.
"Could I have a word in private with you, my lord?" she hissed to her husband, giving him a pointed look. The King's nephews exchanged confused glances, Lord Balin was smiling - why did Wren have a feeling that the white haired Dwarf always knew everything? - while his brother continued eating completely undisturbed by the madness around him.
The King took the napkin off his lap, rose, and followed Wren to the nearest parlour.
They entered, and he closed the door behind him. And then Wren realised she was not at all certain how she was going to inform her husband of this new development.
"What's going on? Have my sister and Mistress Baggins sampled some liberty caps?"
"No, it's not that..." Wren rocked on her heels, gathering her thoughts. "Do you remember the Moria Oak?"
"Quite vividly," the King answered, one corner of his lips curling up.
"Right…" Some sort of vague euphemisms swirled in her mind, about acorns, and planting trees, and saplings, and she opened and closed her mouth couple times, and somehow she just said, "I'm pregnant."
Wren spent the day cuddling her exuberant husband and avoiding her sisters-in-law. She didn't manage to avoid them completely, and couple times she had to accept trays of herbal teas and earfuls of advice. Wren eventually fled into the armoury, where no one would think of looking for her, and watched her husband spar with his sister-sons. Both the spectacle and the lack of fennel tea pushed under her nose worked wonders on Wren's nerves and stomach.
At dinner the whole family was formally informed of Wren's expectancy, and both Dis and Beryl were ordered by the King to 'stop smothering the Queen.' The ladies pouted, Wren exhaled in relief. In the absence of mushrooms on the table, she was feeling well and merry, and enjoyed her dinner immensely.
And then, between the tea and cheeses, Beryl suddenly started sniggering quietly. Wren tensed, foreseeing a calamity. Considering that the suppressed frolics would continue, and from time snorts and snortles would escape the Princess, Wren knew that whatever was entertaining Beryl's mind, once revealed, would turn this dinner into a complete pandemonium.
Thankfully, on contrary to her usual desire to include everyone in her escapades, this time Mistress Baggins decided to spare Wren's sensitivities and limited herself to leaning to the Queen's ear and whispering the following.
"Remember when we were in Mirkwood, and Fili and I were on that tree?" Wren remembered. And she seemed to know where Mistress Baggins was going with this sudden recollection. "And then Thorin said that no Heir of Durin would be conceived in a tree..." The Hobbit trailed away, and Wren felt her cheekbones burn. "Do I gather it right that the 'mountain lion incident' is exactly the reason for your hatred for mushroom gills these days?"
Wren didn't answer. Firstly, her marital relations with the King were no one's business. And secondly, her flaming cheeks surely answered that question for her.