Oopsie daisie, now there are three more chapters, and counting. Yeah... It doesn't look like a mini-fic anymore, but I assure you it's all light and giggly, so I hope you enjoy! ;)

Love you all,

kkolmakov

"I am the King Under the Mountain..." he started, and Wren raised her index finger making him freeze with his mouth half open.

Let us be honest here, Wren had had a long day. She had bumped her head, lost her memories of dozen or more years of marriage, of her husband, of her four children, of being a Queen; her head hurt, and she just ate twice as much food as she had ever remembered to be able to afford; Wren was tired and sleepy. She had not time for his prattle.

"The name, please," she asked in a pleading tone. "I just need the name."

"Thorin," he answered simply, and she nodded with gratitude.

"And is that how I normally address you? That seems rather informal." Wren was not sure but in the married couples she had seen in her life - or remembered at least - some amount of decorum was preserved even in the intimacy of their homes. Wren could not vouch for the intimacy of their bedrooms, though.

"We are in a rather informal association," the Dwarf answered, and Wren watched as if under a spell, how his left eyebrow started crawling up under a whimsical angle. Wren gulped - loudly.

"So, just Thorin then?" she asked in a choked voice.

"You use other monikers as well sometimes… Depending on circumstances..." The baritone was turning into a low purr, and Wren's index finger flew up again.

"Perhaps, we could postpone this discussion… Thorin."

"I have forgotten this habit of yours. To shoosh me with this little finger of yours. You have given it up about ten years ago." He chuckled again; Wren squirmed some more.

"How long have we been… in the association?" Wren decided not to presume any sort of labels for her current position.

"We are married in the eyes of the Dwarves and Men equally, Wren. And it has been twenty years."

"What?!" A loud squeak burst out of Wren. "I am forty three years old?!"

"Forty four. We took two years to arrive at the decision to marry. Is that all that worries you now, my Queen?" the Dwarf asked sardonically. "You have been married to a Dwarf and a King for twenty years, and forgot it - and all that you ask about is your age. I have never noticed any vanity in you before now."

"It is not vanity!" she hollered, grabbed handfuls of her curls, and pulled. "I just realised how much I could have achieved in those years!"

"And you have. And still will," he said softly, and Wren quieted and looked at him. She did not even jerk when he picked up her hand. His thumb stroked her knuckles, and it felt amazingly pleasant. "You are a woman young in spirit and body. You are full of life and strength. You are a loving mother and an excellent leader for my people. And there are only more years of the same to come..."

Wren had to admit: she was starting to suspect how this marriage had come to be. He was far from ugly, and knew all the right words to say, while apparently wanting to charm her. The last part was still mysterious as of why, but the man surely knew what strings to pull.

Meanwhile, his eyes darkened, and as inexperienced as Wren was - or felt, to be precise - she rapidly grew tingly head to toe. And then she remembered they were alone in a dark locked room, and in his eyes she was his wife. Wren jerked her hand out of his warm fingers.

"I need repose… Thorin." Even pronouncing his name was making her agitated.

"Of course, my heart," he answered softly, but the fire in his eyes was not gone completely. Wren gulped again. "You normally sleep on the other side, though."

"What?! No! I am not spending a night in the same bed as you!" Wren shouted, and the Dwarf cocked his head, as if not understanding what flustered her. She was well aware he was only pretending. At no point since she had met him this evening, had he shown himself to be dim. "Please..." She decided to switch tactics. "Please, today was… too much…" Wren aimed for a pleading tone. "I need some privacy… And please, place yourself into my position. Everything is so confusing..."

The Dwarf sighed and nodded. And then, moving terrifying swiftly, he pulled her into tight embrace, but still mindful of her injured shoulder.

"Mahal help me, I thought I had lost you," he muttered, and Wren opened her mouth to allow more air to access her lungs.

The air brought the spicy grassy smell of the Dwarf's skin, more of the aroma of Wren's favourite lilacs, apparently stuck to his hair and clothes, and some sweet and pleasant pipeweed smoke. Wren hastily held her breath.

He then moved away slightly, just placing a few inches between their faces, and Wren blinked frantically. Interestingly enough, she seemed to have stopped noticing the headache. A ridiculous thought that she had not been kissed for six years - plus twenty that she had forgotten - crawled into Wren's overtired mind.

That looked as if it were to be rectified quickly. The hot palms cupped her face, and the Dwarf's thick black lashes fluttered. Men were not supposed to have such fan like, feathery lashes - the panicked thought galloped through Wren's mind. He leaned in, Wren stiffed.

And then he stopped, and his eyes slowly opened.

"I cannot… Not like this… You are in no state to agree..." he whispered, and Wren decided on two things.

Firstly, that was lovely of him. Clearly, he was a decent man and a considerate husband, and their marriage seemed of the best possible nature. Four children, and a man still asking for consent after twenty years of being wed? That was what Wren had considered the perfect relationship. Secondly, she decided he did have her consent.

"Maybe, just one..." she whispered, feeling her cheekbones starting to burn in embarrassed blush. She had never been that forward with a man! At least, she could not recall such happenstance.

He met her eyes, and studied them. Wren swallowed a knot in her throat. He was her husband! She had every right, and maybe - just because she was so overtaxed and bedraggled - she found him somewhat attractive, even for a Dwarf. Fortunately, the man had apparently been paying attention through the aforementioned twenty years, and had learnt the tells.

This time Wren closed her eyes first. The last thought before his lips touched hers was that if she needed an excuse, she would pretend she was hoping it would make some memories resurface. Which would be a blatant lie, since the honest answer would be that Wren was finding the man whom - as she found out an hour ago - she had been married to for the last twenty years, increasingly less ugly with each passing second.

His lips were soft and gentle, and the kiss was both considerate and passionate. He first tenderly pressed his closed mouth to hers, and Wren could not fathom how it happened that she was the first to move. She shifted, wanting to feel the curve of the lips, and even perhaps to find out what the black whiskers of his beard felt at the corner of the mouth. And then his bottom lip slid lower, brushed at hers, and his fresh warm breath caressed her lips, and she followed his example, and parted them. She felt worried for an instant, she hardly knew how to kiss a man! And then his hand slid higher, on her jaw under her ear, and he angled her face, kissing her more greedily now, moving and caressing, and then he caught her bottom lip between his lips.

For a moment Wren thought there was someone else in the room, because she heard a moan. It was low, raspy, and what she assumed was called lustful. And then the Dwarf pulled her bottom lip into his mouth, and the moan repeated. This time Wren had no doubt it was born in her. When she felt his warm slick tongue gently circle the inside of her upper lip was when Wren pushed the rest of her inhibitions aside, and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He moved away again, this time leaving her panting and dazed, and he softly brushed his hand to her cheek.

"We need to let you rest, my heart," he whispered, his eyes dark and clouded in front of her.

"But was it good?" she blurted out, and immediately flushed, terrified of her own blunder. He laughed softly.

"I forgot what you were like then..." He smiled to her, and leaned in, and Wren was hoping for another kiss, but he just softly pressed his lips to her cheek.

"You are always good," he whispered into her ear. The ear burnt right away. "I have never kissed anyone better."

That was a dubious compliment - what exactly was his basis for comparison? - but Wren decided that considering the extraordinary circumstances she would allow herself the pleasure of accepting it.

He rose, slowly sliding his arms from around her, with a sigh, as if saying goodbye, and Wren could not dare to lift her eyes.

"Rest, yâsithuh. I shall see you in the morning." Somehow the strange Dwarven language did not sound that rough and scratchy to Wren's ear any more. "I will send Til to stay in your room. And another maid will come at midnight. We need someone to watch you over when you sleep. The healer said the first night is the most dangerous."

Wren nodded agreeing. She had seen many head injuries. Everything seemed right.

He gave her last, wistful look over - Wren slid lower under the sheets - and left the room. Til came and took her seat in the chair. Wren had a lot to think, and she doubted she even could sleep under the watchful, almost unblinking stare of the maid, and then she fell into the deepest possible slumber.

In the morning - at least, Wren assumed it was morning, there was bleak light coming through the window with now open curtains - she sat up on the bed, feeling no less confused than the day before.

"Wren," the King called to her softly and came up to the bed. He was dressed in a fresh white tunic, no doublet, no undertunic - which made Wren uncomfortable in a strangely pleasant way and painfully aware of what had transpired the night before - and some sort of soft linen trousers. He smiled to her, his eyes roaming her face inquisitively. "Morning. How are you faring?"

"If you mean, whether I remember you, you are Thorin, my… husband. But no, memories have not returned. I only have yesterday."

He looked down at her warmly.

"And your habit to blurt out everything that comes to your mind is back. In the recent years you only allow it to show with me. You have grown into a cunning politician."

He once again sat on the bed, chuckling. And Wren once again felt the need to use the bath chambers. She stretched her hand to the robe on the bed, but then she remembered that she would have to uncover to get dressed. She wondered whether he would turn away if she asked.

She chewed at her bottom lip, and he smirked.

"Are you flustered at the prospect of me seeing you in your lingerie?" he asked, and then leaned closer. Wren sucked a breath in. "I have seen all of it before." Wren felt her nose twitch.

With a soft chuckle the Dwarf theatrically covered his eyes with his hand.

"You can flee. I promise not to peek."

Wren did not know if she trusted him to keep his word - or whether she wanted him to. Nonetheless, she grabbed the robe, quickly wrapped in it, and minced to the bath chamber, firmly reminding herself that - all unbelievable circumstances aside - she had known the man for just a few hours, and her feelings for him were both preposterously undeveloped, and not to be trusted.

She came back to the bed chamber and found a breakfast tray on her bed, and a snacking Dwarf to boot. Wren once again creeped under the blanket, keeping a healthy - and definitely beneficial for her sanity - distance from him, and snatched a slice of a seedcake from the tray. The King once again chuckled and handed her a cup of tea. Wren would like to say she had not noticed his fingers brush at hers over the saucer, but Wren was never a good liar.

"So, my heart, we should discuss our predicament," the Dwarf drew out, and Wren reminded herself that, surely, not everything he was saying was an innuendo.

And then she asked herself, at what point had her thoughts even turned in that direction. It had been just yesterday that she had not known Men and Dwarves could be anything more than potential war allies, and had been terrified of and mildly apprehensive towards this particular Stumped One.

"I would like to see my children," Wren said firmly. "I understand it could be difficult for them to understand, but children are resilient." A doubt crawled into her mind. Who knew what a half Dwarf, half Man child was like. Wren threw the thoughts aside. It mattered not what they were like. They were hers, and she loved them even without knowing them.

"I think it will not be too much of a trouble," the Dwarf answered lightly, sipping his coffee. "You are not too different. You are always cordial and friendly with them. You have no memory, but you are still you."

"So, I need to see them. We will explain to them that I might seem confused, but I am still their mother." Wren made sure she sounded as if she were affirming, and not pleading. She had a strange feeling that it was the right way to proceed. Somehow the man innocently chewing a slice of cheese on her bed was radiating the vibe of a person who would take an ell when given an inch.

"After breakfast, perhaps?" he offered, and she enthusiastically nodded. He poured himself more coffee and sipped. Wren did not pay any attention to how his lips wrapped around the rim of the cup. Why would she? She only had met him the day before! "The healer said the memory may return," he slowly pronounced, and Wren hummed agreeing.

"Something might trigger it," she said. "Brain is just as any muscle. It heals. Wounds mend. One day I might wake up, and be the old me."

"Is there something we can try to encourage it?" he asked, and looked at her over his cup. Wren suddenly felt like a slice of some very appetising cake. The sensation was very disconcerting.

"Going back to my normal routine should help," she choked out, and quickly stuffed her mouth with more seedcake.

"Oh, excellent," the Dwarf murmured. "So, eating in the same room? Going back to your service in the infirmary? Spending afternoons with your children?" Wren was enthusiastically nodding with each proposition. "Sleeping in the same bed?" Wren froze mid-nod. "With the same people?"

"Were there more than one?" Wren blurted out a sarcastic remark of her habitual sort, and immediately bit her tongue.

The Dwarf guffawed.

"No, I do not think so. I do not recall noticing anyone third here. Not counting those four times, when someone was occupying the spot with you." He pointed at her stomach with his eyes, and Wren decided that drinking tea was safer than talking to the unsettling Dwarf.

To be continued...