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Pride & Prejudice
Chapter One
A slow hand brushed your thigh, tracing the crease, now sliding between your legs. Gifted fingers teased you apart. A fingertip, honed to roughness from sword and smithing, set up a circling rhythm.
Soft lips framed by short bristles crept along your shoulder to your neck. The pinch of teeth gripping skin shot a flutter low in your belly, internal muscles clamped on emptiness, a shiver rushed the wrong way up your spine. It all converged and came tumbling out of you in a noisy tangle of squeaks, cries and panting breaths.
You climbed the ladder of arousal three rungs at a time. Nearing the top, ready to bound over the edge in glorious release.
Your belly convulsed. You gurgled. Your hand flew to your mouth. His hand shot away as you fast-crawled to the side of the bed and disgorged your dinner, all over Thorin's boots.
Your mind grabbed hold of the mystery as to why he kept leaving his boots on your side of the bed. You'd nagged him countless times after you'd gotten out of bed and tripped over them. Bruised shins and knees became the norm for you. Thorin never seemed overly worried or fussed over you.
He called your colourful welts, war-wounds.
You called him a Prick!
You eased back to reality, glad you're vomiting had stopped. You sunk back into the feathery mattress, wiping your mouth on your forearm. How long you were going to suffer from morning sickness was anybody's bet. It really was! You'd heard Bofur running the betting pools. One for morning sickness, one for gender, and one for when your child would be born.
It seemed there weren't any interspecies children born between dwarves and humans. So nobody knew how long you'd be pregnant. And as sickly as you were now feeling, you didn't want to dwell on that subject.
A damp cloth pressed against your forehead, ran over your warm cheeks and sore throat, over the back of your neck and up your jaw wiping your mouth. Thorin had developed a routine, the quickest way to cool you down and clean you up.
You slumped against him, burying your face in the pit of his shoulder, hiding away. You were grungy, and that acrid smell of vomit surrounded you like a gross aura. A sob escaped jarring your aching torso. A big, warm hand enveloped your cheek, his thumb stroked the slight depression beneath your eye.
While his lips fluttered kisses to your forehead, his hand caressed your back. Thorin murmured about the coming morning. How he'd have a bath ready for you. How he'd scrub your back and feet, even between your toes. How he'd wash your hair and braid it simply, rather than the intricate twists your maid inflicted on you.
You gave him sluggish nods, your boneless body lowered to cool sheets, the warm blankets pulled up and snuggled around you. His muscled arm curled over your body, his spooning tightly to yours. It was all you needed to send you back to sleep.
You'd been back in Middle Earth for eight months. The same amount that saw you back in your own time. It seemed odd that you were counting the days.
You knew, in your time, you counted because of the sadness that infected you. Now you were home where you belonged, and yet, the happiness you craved alluded you.
You were seven months pregnant and barely even had a bump there. If you were a dwarf, you wouldn't be showing at all. Though your symptoms — as Thorin called them —positively labelled you as an expectant mother. For four months you'd suffered morning sickness. Except you weren't only sick in the mornings, afternoons, evenings and night times were huddled into that description.
It became a running joke amongst your friends that you threw up more times in a day than hobbits had meals. Which had been funny at first, now it annoyed the hell out of you.
"Good morning, my lady."
You were dragged out of your thoughts by the hurricane that was your maid, Hath. The dwarrowdam, as female dwarfs were called, bustled in, you glanced over your shoulder to see the space behind you.
Thorin, once more, hadn't kept his promise. You weren't sure if he was called away early, or more likely, as was becoming the norm, he just forgot. Either way, a large part of you ached that he wasn't here to help you into a warm bath and scrub your back.
"Your bath is ready, my lady." Her bland voice abraded your nerves, every muscle tightening.
Hath stood across the room waiting for you to lumber out of bed, with a pose worthy of a soldier standing guard over the enemy. She had the door to your private bathing suite open, and some rough-looking towels thrown over her arm. Her imperious glare browbeat you out of bed and across the room. It was like volunteering for a torture session.
In the tepid bath, your back wasn't scrubbed. Instead, Hath scoured away five layers of skin. Your hair washed via the convenient bucket of cold water poured over you.
You thought your maid would be a brilliant addition to the CIA. No one would keep their secrets for long with Hath working them over.
Your body glowing a fierce pink you were given no time to wallow in the bath until your skin pruned. Hath near yanked you out and dried you with scratchy towels that eroded another five layers. Next, your maid wrapped you in your dressing gown and marched you to your vanity.
Pushed down onto the velveteen stool, your only comfort, your hair was tugged and tousled into many braids that were then looped back up into your hair, and secured with hairpins stabbed into your head.
You hated this severe look. Your hair pulled back tightly from your face, stretching your skin, giving you a skeletal look. It wasn't you. However, the dwarrowdams favoured these styles, and you'd been covertly cautioned to fit in any way you could.
Next came dressing. You were allowed to pull your underthings on thankful that your pregnancy meant no corsets for a while. Hath strutted to your wardrobe, pulled it open and grabbed a dress. You didn't get a choice. You were stuffed into a garish yellow thing with lots of fluffy petticoats and a low cut bodice that showed off your expanding bust.
"Hath?" You stared at your reflection. "Is Thorin expecting some visiting dignitaries today?"
"I've not been told so, my lady." You couldn't help cringing your shoulders at her stern rebuke. Maybe you'd got it wrong? After all, you had been listening in on Balin's private conversation. And, let's face it, ever since you fell pregnant it was like your brain cells were hijacked daily by the baby.
You nodded, and the dwarrowdam returned a single nod that was more like her silent way of telling you to dry up and blow away.
Left alone you slumped back on the stool, slapping down the mass of petticoats that rose up to smother you. You glanced at your desk and saw the flat surface empty bar your diary. You walked over, wincing at the pinch of your leather boots. You flipped open the leather-bound book and saw your usual duties. Meetings. Lots of them. All of them annoying.
The important stuff like trade negotiations and the council and guild meetings were handled by Thorin. You met with the rich wives, the cooks, the butchers, the bakers, and yes, even the candlestick makers. It was your duty to see to the upkeep of your home, like any good wife.
You closed your diary and sat in your chair staring out the window, tapping out an old love song on the wooden arm. This was your home and your life now. You condemned your shallowness for even harbouring a smidgeon of doubt.
Thorin had done much to find you. He'd even overruled his council to bring you here to be his Queen. You, at the very least, could suck it up and get on with it, even if you did resemble Tweety-Pie.
You trudged wearily down the stone corridor, dragging limp petticoats after you. Today was hell. No, that was a lie. Your average day was hell. This day was the ninth ring of hell.
You were getting sick and tired of walking into rooms populated with spiteful dwarves and dwarrowdams. You'd had enough of hearing them conversing easily in the common speech until they noticed you and switched to their language. A language that sounded like they were constantly hacking up hairballs.
Though what had turned your day treacherous were the dwarvlings. Yesterday, you'd ventured outside to a warm spring day and watched the little ones run around the blossoming trees. One of them, a stout little lad, bashed his friend on the head with his wooden sword, proclaiming he was King Thorin. You couldn't help laughing.
When they saw you, a shyness took hold in them. You flounced up to the very much shorter King with his makeshift bucket-crown and declared how brave and noble he was. The grin you were granted made all the bad things vanish like dawn's spiralling mists evaporated by the warm sun.
Today you'd bounded out wanting their infectious happiness to dissolve the gloom of your day. The dwarvlings were playing once more. Your boisterous little King was there, waving his wooden sword to ward off his friend — who was ordered to be Smaug and had to die theatrically.
It seemed history was all but ignored in this game.
Except, when they all saw you… they shrieked and fled. One little girl bawling to her friend that you would curse them and turn them into orcs.
You didn't think pain had a sound. Yet, as you stood there, watching them shrink into the distance, you were sure that ripping noise was your heart.
Stopping in the hallway, you leant against the cold wall, pressing your cheek to the frigid grey stone and rested a hand on your belly. The thought of your child running away from you like that, or, worse, dwarvlings bullying your child because of their Mother's race.
You closed your eyes and canted your body against the wall. You could feel the mighty thump of the furnaces deep below vibrate into your body. You matched your breaths to the steady thrum of the huge bellows. It was a stolen moment of peace that placed a band aid over your fractured soul.
When you dragged your worn out body into your room, you aimed for the bed and laid down. The feather mattress moulded to you, and you reached out for Thorin's pillow. Dragging it to your body, you pressed your face into it, inhaling leather, soap, sandalwood and patchouli. You let tiredness and your husband's scent drag you away to the past. Your dreams filled with adventures and gallant rescues, happier times and an extraordinary love blooming.
You woke once at the sound of Hath coming into your room, informing you that dinner would be served within the hour. You shook your head and sent her away, knowing it wasn't unusual for you to miss dinner in the great hall.
Thorin always brought you a plate of something later and would sit and talk with you, encouraging you to eat in that charmless way of his. Smiling in your sleep, you looked forward to seeing him later.
