A/N: This chapter was co-written with Wynni, after all what do I know about Renaissance Faires? :D
Yeah, one thing. Before the aforementioned heavenly bodies clashed, the Golden Brown and Delicious, also known as Frerin Looking-Better-In-Skirt-Than-You Durinson gave the quickly growing crowd a low bow and announced that he was dedicating "this rammy to the lassie in the Robin Hood claes." Wren squirmed on her fence, she clearly imagined half of the birds around her tackling her to the ground and shredding her like a confidential document. The second half was sort of maybe even liking her, since they were extensively salivating over the older Durinson, but then he just had to open his gob as well.
"Aye, that is fair. How about it, lass?" Thorin I-Fancy-A-Girl-But-Won't-Do-Owt-About-It threw her a look over his shoulder and twirled his bloody sword over his head again. "A kiss for the victor?"
You know that moment when you suspect everyone might be staring at you? Well, Wren doesn't suspect, she knows every bloody pair of eyes in the vicinity is on her. She can obviously send him where the sun don't shine, but she wouldn't want to be billy-no-mates and spoil everyone's fun. When in Rome and such. She gives him a murderous glare and sees one corner of his lips curl up. Prick. Where was your lippy tude before? In the tent? When I was making eyes at you?
"Sure, just no slacking," she narrows her eyes at him, and he has the nerve to cock one brow at her. Oh, she so hates the git! "At least make it look real!" That gets her a bout of laughter from the crowd. After all, what's the worst that can happen, right? It's all probably like the carnies, all show and no real stuff.
"As my lady wishes," the Dark and Oddly Indecisive gives her a low bow, and she gives him an haughty tight smile. Her eyes meet the green eyes of the younger Durinson, he gives her a bow too, and she blows him a kiss. What's the worst that can happen, right?
"Lass, tell me you didn't just say that to my uncles?" A pleasantly low and masculine yet slightly tense voice comes from her right, and she turns her head to meet bright blue eyes of Bri's fella, and wow, it's like the best of the two worlds. He has the darker uncle's features, same glacial eyes, but there is sunny and chummy air around him, the same as his younger uncle has, except right now Bri's blonde prospective suitor looks a bit spun out.
"Huh?" Wren sees Bri standing near him and worriedly watching the two men on the grass.
"Oh lordy, Wren, what have you done?" Bri looks slightly pale, and Wren is starting to feel a wee bit uncomfortable.
"What? I mean it's just a show, right?" She is looking between Bri and her fella, but the concern on their faces isn't reassuring.
"Well, let me put it this way. This," Fili shows her a deep, terrifyingly looking bruise on his arm, and Wren is feeling slightly nauseated, not from the view, she has seen, inflicted and received plenty of these, but from sudden realisation that she might have arsed up, "This can happen on a good day. You just gave them good reason to swing for the fences."
"That's a real fight out there, Wren. It's not a scripted fight!" Bri is as close as Wren has ever seen her to wringing her hands. She keeps looking over her shoulder, as if hoping to see someone there. "Now would be an excellent time for Dwalin to show up."
Wren is going to ask who the mysterious Dwalin is, when the first blow cracks the air, and the crowd roars. Wren whips her head to look at the coliseum where she apparently just set up a 'morituri te salutant' match. Wren gulps. The two brothers circle, looking for an opening with a restless energy. The next strike is swift and brutal, Wren jumps up on the fence and bites into her bottom lip painfully. Luckily, a sword meets a sword, and not some of those long, bulging muscles, and surely the wood would break from the sheer bloody ferocity. Again, the sound is as sharp and loud as the first clash, and Wren is physically uncomfortable from the intensity in the two pairs of eyes. Carnies did not have eyes like that... Muscles bulge, bodies move, both of them remind Wren of some big barmy beasts of the wild kind, Wren is no good with animals, she probably wouldn't suss a lynx from a badger, but whatever is happening, and it's equally arousing and terrifying, makes her think of mountain lions. The terror in her is winning though, since Wren is used to her bagua cane, the noble and delicate martial art. These two are industriously trying to end each other in. And she is at fault! The crowd is roaring and cheering, but Wren doesn't share their enthusiasm. She both can't tear her eyes off them and is that close in covering her face with her hands. Bugger, bugger, bugger, that is utterly horrifying!
The men are once again circling, when the younger Durinson lunges with what appears to be an all or nothing plunge, his brother manages to counter it, the loud snap of their swords meeting becoming almost familiar, when she sees Frerin using the energy of the backswing to fuel an almost immediate second strike. Thorin is wearing an almost indulgent grin, a prick much? Frerin's clever stroke meets only air, the Dark One has spun away from it and used the moment to swipe Frerin's feet out from under him.
"Did ye really think to catch me with a strike I taught ye, wee brither?"
"Eh, I thought ye might have forgotten, in your dotage, auld as ye are." Frerin wisely rolls to his feet well out of Thorin's range.
"It only takes one lesson with Dwalin to learn to not be where that strike lands, and one never grows auld enough to forget a lesson from Dwalin's hawns." Thorin is again twirling that sword, as if loosening up his arm muscles, and shrugs back into a ready position, cocking an eyebrow at his brother.
Wren has one consoling thought though, she suspects this whole barney has little to do with her. Firstly, they are doing a wee bit of a show for the potential patrons. And also, Wren has three adopted brothers, she knows what blokes are like, and brotherly rivalry is no news to her. Given her brothers mostly used their fists and not mental wooden swords that are taller than her, but still...
"Just what do you mucklehead ed glackits think you're about?" Wren jumps up on her fence from a booming voice coming from the side of the lawn, and although she is not one of the 'muckleheaded glackits,' she feels like reconsidering her behaviour. Judging by Fili's suddenly relaxing posture and Bri's relieved exhale, that is Dwalin. Blimey, he is huge! Those arms could wear her belt probably and feel tight in it. Jaysus.
"Just a wee ceilidh!" Frerin yells back cheerfully, his eyes on his brother. Wren knows that word, it's 'a dance party.' But blimey, what is happening there is no bloody dance party! She throws a hopeful look on the shaved-headed giant hoping he'll stop it.
"I dinna ken how even barmy tosspots such as yerselves could possibly forget every single bleeding bit of sense I've taught ye!" He is roaring like a wounded bull. Maybe. Wren has never seen a wounded bull. "Ye ken we'll have to retire those practice blades now?!"
Frerin, apparently ignoring Dwalin, again tries for a preemptive strike. Thorin, still wearing that infuriating indulgent grin of his, spins behind his brother and sweeps low with his blade, brushing Frerin off his feet, and plowing him face first into the ground… Where he slides rather satisfactorily, like those septic baseball players, except clock down, right into a puddle at Wren's feet. Yep. Thorin Grouchy Grouch Durinson is not shy to add an insult to the injury. And to do it spectacularly and painfully humiliatingly.
OK, so, on one hand, Wren should feel sorry for the younger brother. He is stretched on the ground bum up, yum, not right now, fanny, but the only thought in Wren's head is "aaahhh!" And that probably the Dark and Egg Producing's lips are soft. They looked soft. Oh god, they were looking so, so soft. Wait, why is she thinking about lips? No one specified the location of the victor's prize!
The Muddy and Defeated groans and lifts his torso on his arms. Awww, you poor lambkin! Wren is torn between jumping down and consoling the loser, and jumping the victor. Wait, what? What is wrong with her?!
Bri's snorting and giggling, her face pressed into the wide shoulder of her own blonde Durinson, isn't helping Wren a bit. She tears her eyes off the muddy one who is now sitting on his jacksie, shaking his head like a stroppy pony, and Wren glares at her childhood friend. Traitor.
"Bri?... A bit of help would really be nice right now," she hisses, trying to delegate the level of torturous discomfort she is in. Bri gives Wren a laughing look from the corner of one of her gorgeous brown eyes, still hiding her face into the Durinson. By the way the git is snorting too.
"What would you have me do, Wren? I cain't pick for you!" Oh so infuriating.
"I am not talking about choosing, I am talking about being forced into a snog..." Wren doesn't get to finish her half choked tirade when there is a cough. A bloody delicate polite cough. She freezes like a bunny in her Nana's yard that just a jiffy ago was peacefully munching on a carrot and now is about to get shot in the head with Granddad Leary's rifle.
"The show must go on," whispers Bri, and Wren is pondering kicking her best friend. And then she turns to the Dark and… Oh bugger, she has no more snidy remarks and titles for him anymore, since his eyes are on her, and they are burning. It's probably still the adrenaline coursing his blood. She suspects the gulp she emits can be heard over the hill the armoury is on.
And then he picks her up under her arms and takes her off her fence. Good fence, Wrennie loves her fence, Wrennie wants back on her fence! She shortly wonders if she grabs the rail whether he will still pull, making her leave claw marks on it. There is option two. She might lunge at him before they are nicely placed in the center of the lawn thingie, in front of all the spectators, and instead of the whole romantic medieval victor-gets-a-princess's-kiss, the crowd will be subjected to the view of her snogging all sense out of him.
He has giant hands, and the fingers are very long, and she feels them burning her skin on the ribs through the clobber, seriously, they are almost encircling her, and she is passively hanging while he is carrying her like a vase and puts her gently on the grass. And then the prick slightly bends down, because, let's face it, if he didn't she'd be kissing his sternum. OK, not thinking about this, oh god… She was right, the pectoral muscles are to die for. And the hair, oh the glorious, black, tempting chest hair. Wren gives herself a mental slap.
He is leaning down, and it is sort of a vague leaning, just placing his noggin on her level, so she can absolutely give his cheek an unassuming peck, and be done with it. The crowd is cheering and chanting "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" Wren can't say she fancies to be part of the show, not that she has a stage fright, she teaches in front of a giant room full of people, but still the cheeks are burning. Though again, when isn't she blushing?
OK, Wren, me darling, you cocked up, and now it's pay up time. Alright, cheek, cheek, she focuses her eyes on the cheek, and jayses, it looks delicious. The tanned skin above the thick black beard, and the long fluffy lashes are in front her, and what is it with lashes in this family?! There is one aggro though, he is smirking. And it is of the 'I'm a bloody alpha here, I'm entitled' type, and he is watching her from under a hiked brow, that is a very whimsical angle by the way, and he is quite obviously chuffed with her discomfort and feels very smug. Wren feels very cheesed off. Cheek, cheek, just one peck on the cheek, and she is good to go.
She grabs his head with both her hands and pulls his lips to hers. He jerks under her palms, but let's face it, he recovers very quickly. She might also be arching into him, and the large scorching hands meet on her back. Wren wonders whether that dull thud she just heard was his sword falling on the ground, or the leftover sanity of hers conking out, and then he pulls her in even tighter, and…
OK, Wren has to officially declare at this stage that she has never, ever, ever in her life behaved that way. A. She doesn't snog random blokes. B. She doesn't do public snogging, just not her thing. It happens, no one is perfect. One can get overwhelmed and aha! But in front of a crowd of people cheering and making praising comments on her technique? That's not Wrennie Leary for sure. And yet… And C. She is pissed off at him!
But wow, the bloke knows what he is doing. One hand is cradling her head, another is splayed on her back, and seriously, the fingers are fanned from her bra to the knickers! And slowly moving lower! Oh god...
"Ye fancy to take it some place private?" The grumpy voice of the one called Dwalin reaches Wren's foggy brain, and she jumps away from Thorin in her usual manner that Bri calls 'a caffeinated squirrel mode.'
Oh bugger, oh bugger. Her lips are tingly, she has a beard burn, and oh horror, the embarrassment! Her palms are burning from all the rubbing his chest she has just performed, how did that happen exactly? Wren does the only thing she has strength for, she twirls on her heels without looking at him and rushes back to her fence, looking for Bri with her eyes. Bri will save her! Bri is a brick! She'll be taking mickey out of her till no end, but she'll save her!
Wren forgets one thing. Her fence and Bri are at the same the location as the younger Durinson uncle. He is now standing, and mud is still dripping off him, and she hits the brakes in front of him. And then Fili, and she is going to bite his head off once they know each other better, pushes a towel into her hands. She is staring at it, and terror creeps into her mind.
"That's for Uncle Frerin," his hundred watt grin is lighting up the lawn and makes Wren think she hates this family. She turns, the chest covered in chestnut hair is suddenly in front of her nose, and she really has nothing to say but… Oh poop.
