Thorin was examined and deemed 'slightly bruised, but otherwise unscathed.' Then the healer washed his cursed hands again, while Thorin sat on the bed his arms crossed under the unblinking stare of the woman and the concerned gaze of Balin. And finally the healer, his apprentice, and the girl in the apron were gone.
The redhead stepped to the window, and Balin followed her like a pup. Thorin pressed his lips in annoyance. While the two other people in the room were whispering conspiratorially, Thorin used the opportunity to look around. The chamber was large, well lit through a wide, colourful stained glass window. If indeed they were in Erebor, then these were the Upper Halls. Traditionally, the Royal Halls were underground, deep in the Mountain. He wondered if these rooms had been chosen for the sake of the woman. He momentarily set the considerations of his unfitting spouse aside; and studied the surroundings. The furniture and the tapestries on the wall were very much to his taste: luxurious and lavish. What seemed inappropriate to him was the astonishing amount of what he assumed were the woman's belongings. Some items of her wardrobe - something unknown, gauzy and pink - were scattered on a bench by the wall, near a vanity. Some sort of jars and bottles were on the table in front of the mirror, mixed with brushes, pieces of cloth or ribbons. Could it be that she resided in the same bedroom? He had been told this bedchamber was his! That would be most unconventional. Just as any Dwarf Thorin knew men and their wives were to have their own, separate halls. He couldn't imagine a reason why she'd live here. Had she insisted because such was the tradition of Men?
This was of course a marriage of convenience. He threw her a quick discreet glance. She didn't look like the men of Dale or Esgaroth that he remembered - the tall, dark haired ones from the times of Girion. The accent in her speech - some sort of abnormal lull, some sounds stretched, as if sung - was not of these cities of Men. She was no Elf either, thank Mahal - although he doubted that whatever grotesque political circumstances had landed him in the marriage with this… frog, he still wouldn't have agreed on marrying an Elf, all treaties and alliances be damned.
The woman finally finished schooling Balin and stepped to Thorin's bed. Her face was dark.
"Thorin, let us speak," she started in Khuzdul.
He cringed. As many surprises as the last half an hour had brought, a woman of Men sullying the secret language of his people with her lips was the most distasteful.
"What would you like to know?" she asked, and sat on the edge of his bed again.
Waiting for his answer, she started jerkily taking off her cloak. He had been right - she was nothing but skin and bones. And her dress! It was appalling! No jewellery, no brocade! If he understood right and she had been travelling to Dale and Esgaroth - Thorin reckoned they had been restored - was this how his Queen was seen outside their private halls?! That was a disgrace!
"Where are you from… my lady?" Thorin stumbled, realising he didn't know the woman's name.
She stopped pulling her arm out of the surcoat's sleeve and gawked at him.
"Where am I from?" she asked, and some odd tick ran her face. Her sharp turn-up nose twitched, and the eyebrows jumped up. "Thorin, why does this matter?" She frowned. "Would it not make sense to ask about your people? Or how long we have been married? Or of our children?"
Thorin gaped at her and opened his mouth to ask about the children, when she exclaimed, "Oh I should have known. You are trying to understand why you married me."
Thorin shifted on the bed uncomfortably. The woman was observant and perceptive it seemed. That was disconcerting.
She sighed.
"My name is Wren, I was born in Enedwaith. Before marrying you I had served as a healer in Dale. You gained no political or financial merit by marrying me. And we have four children." She turned away and finally pulled off the coat. "The oldest is a boy, so you have an heir. There is a daughter as well, so Mahal was generous to you."
Thorin couldn't see her face, but it mattered not. His mind whirred. He had a son! Three sons! And a daughter!
The mosaic of his current life was quickly taking shape - although the woman hardly fit into it, which he decided to ponder later. Erebor was theirs; his halls were prosperous; he had an heir and even more children!
A question came. What children could this woman birth? Were they Dwarven enough? He glanced at her but refrained from the question - as well as from lingering his gaze on her face. He was starting to feel uncomfortable under her scrutiny. Until he knew more, he couldn't let her read his mind in his eyes - it was becoming increasingly alarming how much she could.
"Is there peace?" he asked, addressing Balin.
The cursed Dwarf looked at the redhead uncertainly. Thorin venomously thought that apparently the old man did nothing without the frog's approval these days. What sort of devilry did the woman possess?
"There's peace, and trade is blooming. All is well, laddie."
"Except our King doesn't remember his kin."
Thorin whipped his head and glared at the woman. Had he just heard her muttering right?!
Some sort of angry green light burnt in her odd slanted eyes; but then she sighed and the line of her lips softened.
"Forgive me, that was cruel," she said, and shook her head. "I have forgotten how hard it used to be."
If she thought her words could be considered an apology, she was mistaken. Whenever she spoke, her manner was just disrespectful and insubordinate. Whatever could have happened in the eighteen years for him to allow his wife to speak to him like that?
"What 'it?'" Thorin asked menacingly.
"Your… astringency."
"My what?" Thorin barked.
She opened her mouth, but then seemingly stopped herself.
"We should not tire you more. And again, I beg forgiveness. I am being disagreeable. I have had a… shock, and forget myself." She gave him a strange long look and got off the bed. "I will go… speak with the healers. And you should rest."
She looked at Balin who immediately minced to the bed. 'A pup,' Thorin once again thought irkedly.
"Once you have some rest, please send for me," she said to Thorin.
A small grimace twisted her lips; but then she turned around and left the room. Thorin discreetly exhaled. The aggravating lass was finally gone, and he could start his investigation.
A short, thankfully business-like conversation with Balin revealed that Thorin had nothing to be ashamed of in his life. Nothing was amiss. He was the King of the Longbeards. His Kingdom and his rule were strong. The hoard of Erebor was safe and grew daily. Forges worked incessantly; mines burst with activity.
Balin gave him the concise account of their Quest, of the Dragon's demise, and the Battle of the Five Armies. Thorin made a mental note to find out more about the Quest.
While listening to the old Dwarf Thorin was also devising a plan for the nearest future. Obviously, no one besides those already involved should find out about his predicament. A ruler of the Khazad could not show weakness. He momentarily chasticised himself for dismissing the woman before making sure she knew she was to speak to no one about it.
Obviously, he didn't doubt he'd be able to perform his duties even without his memory. The rumours had to be contained, but he felt no fear. He just needed to make sure he relied on the right people.
The door in his room opened - without a knock! And the redhead came in with a tray in her hands. She wore a different dress - and it was of an even duller cut and colour!
"I've brought you lunch," she muttered, and placed the tray on the table near the bed.
So apparently Thorin's wife wasn't above doing a maid's work as well. What was happening in this household?!
"I have spoken to Brori, he will come shortly," the redhead said without looking up from the tray and clanking with some dishes.
"Who is Brori?" Thorin grumbled at Balin.
"Your secretary," the woman answered. "He can be trusted."
"You should have asked me first!" He had no choice but to address her now! "Who else knows now? Are you intending to announce my memory loss to the whole Mountain?"
She lifted her face and narrowed her eyes at him, like an angry cat.
"Brori can be trusted," she repeated tensely. "The healer will speak of nothing as well. Secrecy is scared for a healer. Balin and myself are the only two people left, and I doubt either of us will blather."
"What did the healer say?" Balin asked.
"He said we just have to wait," she answered. "The blow was very weak, and they do not anticipate a lasting damage to the memory. Anything can trigger its return."
"Do you mind turning to me when speaking of my health?" Thorin snarled at the woman. He was not going to be ignored! In his own bedroom!
She halted and then slowly turned her head to him.
"I will take my leave," Balin said at the background, but neither Thorin, nor the woman acknowledged it.
Only when the door softly closed behind Balin, she broke the lock between their gazes and dropped her eyes.
"I apologise again."
That was more like it. He much preferred this quiet obedient tone of hers - to her barging into his room and discussing him as if he wasn't there!
"What did the healer say I should do?" he asked.
She came up to the bed and placed the tray on his lap. He suppressed another wave of indignation at her unseeming behaviour. She was the Queen, for Mahal's sake!
"He said to follow your daily routine. Go about your day as if nothing happened. Familiar experiences and sensations could bring your memory back at any time."
She stepped back and sat down on a chair near the bed.
Thorin picked up a spoon and started on the bowl of mushroom soup she'd placed before him. He suddenly felt so hungry that his jaw hurt. He ate a few spoonfuls, and then saw a few slices of buttered bread on a smaller plate. The bread was fresh and fragrant, and cut just the way he always liked. He looked up and saw her wipe butter from her fingers with a napkin. Odd choice or not, at least she was an attentive wife.
"We will have to let the children know of your injury," she said quietly. "You can't deceive them, and you are too… different right now."
Thorin froze with a spoon mid-air.
"I am what?!"
"Different."
"You don't know that!" Thorin threw the spoon down into the bowl. "You have spent just a few minutes with me. Surely, I am still the same man as eighteen years ago. I might not know some facts my children..."
"Some facts?" she interrupted, and some sort of a hysterical giggle burst out of her. "Our children are used to a loving father who is considerate… content… fun! Not a warg in a tunic!"
Thorin's eyes boggled.
"A warg… in a tunic?!" he hissed and leaned ahead - to tell her that firstly, she needed to know her place; and secondly, that she was mad if she thought he'd believe he could be 'fun.'
The bowl of soup toppled on the tray pouring the scorching goo on his lap.
"M'imnu Durin!" he hollered, and the woman jumped ahead and pressed a napkin into…
To be continued… :)