For the next two days with the weather finally having improved, the mood in the company is amended, the ponies seemingly sharing the cheerfulness, loudly snorting, the first spring breeze frisking in their thick manes. Upper cloaks are often stuffed in the saddle bags, conversations ringing above the small procession. The first night after Bree spent in a camp, the second day is drawing to a sunset, the village of Frogmorton with its hospitable inn, hopefully soft beds and hobbit ale your next stop. You are looking forward to stretching your back on actual sheets, but not before a long hot bath.
You are riding behind your King's pony, silent and detached, your mind focused on the little rhythm inside you. Since you left Bree, you have done nothing but attentively listen to the firm thumping inside. You forget to answer questions and mindlessly chew the food you are given, having a tentative inner conversation with what you envision as an evenly pulsating globe of golden glow. The beat is surprisingly strong, refuting your initial dread that the two bloods would contend in its, no, his veins. He is already strong and enduring, a warrior, and so soon, and this thought alone makes you dizzy. You are frantically thwarting your thoughts and imagination exploring further, stubbornly ambushing you with the image of the horror you will have to face when he wields his first battle axe. Do not get carried away, do not dream on, you silently command yourself, do not imagine him as a curious and stubborn toddler, with raven curls and steely blue eyes, or a youngling trying to escape the overbearing care of the older Dwarves, or as a strong skilled warrior.
You realize that the King has been addressing you for quite a while, judging by his slightly irritated, confused frown. "Kurdu?" you ask, feeling surprisingly guilty. He is slowing down and aligns his pony with yours. "Are you well, my heart?" "Yes, my Lord, never better, just tired". When did you become such a mediocre liar? That muttering would not convince a thick skulled troll! He is scanning your face suspiciously and then exchanges glances with Dwalin. The fearsome warrior nods, worry etched on his face as well. "I am in perfect health," you squeak and both Dwarves look at your even more incredulously. You need to try harder, buy some time to sort out your thoughts. "My back bothers me, it has been a while since I spent so much time on a horseback," that sounds much more convincing, and the King concedes. "Just till the end of this day, my heart. We will reach the inn in a few hours." You smile, and the King rides ahead, catching up with Balin. You exhale in relief but catch the doubtful eyes of the tattooed warrior. Fair enough, Dwalin, son of Fundin, your scepticism is more than reasonable, the hardships of road have never bothered me before, but bear with me this time! You smile to him and he nods, lips pressed together.
You return to your thoughts, scrutinizing the guilt you are feeling. Keeping your secret seemed an instinctive proceeding, caused by astoundment and sudden but intense protectiveness. You can hardly stop yourself from covering your stomach with your hands at all times. Another thought comes, dark and frightening. If the babe is not to survive, would you want your King to bear the pain of disappointment? Except, will you bear to lose the budding light in you, if your King will not be there to sustain you in the trial? And would he want to relish the days of joy even if they are to end before their time?
If what you hear is indeed a heartbeat, then the babe is at least eight weeks old, having survived his first two moons. The chances are high, somehow his strength and stubborn will of no doubt to you already. Your thoughts race back to eight weeks ago, rummaging through the lustful nights and days, looking for that special moment when the little seed of life planted itself in you. But there are too many memories, some tender and demure, some causing your cheeks to burn, wedding preparations augmenting your passion for each other. The bed, the dark locked passages, the pantries, the stables, the forge, the throne room… You curse your mutual fervour, wishing you could pin down that one time. Or the part of a day. Or a day. Was it that one evening when discussion of the wedding feast led to the King sampling mead from your naked stomach? Or was it the time when your King's singing drove you into sensual frenzy, leading to you interrupting and ravishing him three times before he managed to finish one song?
The darkness falls and you reach the Floating Log Inn. A merry rosy-cheeked innkeeper completely overwhelmed by the splendorous cortege of nine fully armoured Dwarves rushes the help to prepare the rooms, the kitchen is bursting with activity, young hobbits running around, awed and incredulous. You keep your hood down, staying in Dwalin's shadow, suddenly feeling exhausted. You do not need the wariness and suspicious interest you cause wherever you go. A female of Men, red haired and pale, an inch shorter than your King, you are singled out more than often on your own, more so dressed in a formal Dwarven attire with a broad Dwarven sword strapped to your back. Frankly speaking, sometimes you entertain yourself in your travels with your King by waiting till an opportune moment to shake off your hood and enjoy flabbergasted faces, but today is not the day. All you want is a bath and sleep.
You are sitting on the bed, drying your hair, when the King enters with a large plate of food and a mug of ale. Gratitude floods you, a disagreeable thought of going to the common room has been fighting in you with ravenous hunger. You earnestly thank him and tuck in. You lift the ale to your lips and wrinkle your nose, the earthy spicy smell suddenly repulsive. The King is standing leaning to the wall, and you realize that he is studying you, black brows frowned. You pause your vigorous chewing and look up. "My Lord?" "Is it the women of Bree?" He has a habit of asking concise but somewhat confusing questions, following an inner dialogue that he apparently tends to lead with you. You blink and swallow the mouthful of mince-pie. "My Lord?" "You are not yourself since we left Bree. As you claim you are not ailing, I assume you are distressed. Is it their slandering that grieved you?" "They were not slanderous! If anything, they were curious, slightly suspicious, of course, but not hostile. Younger maidens were rather inquisitive," you laugh, "They wanted to know if Dwarves are covered in hair all over their bodies." The King, however, does not join you in your merriment. "Then what is it? Are you regretting going on this trip?" "No, of course not," you are suddenly overwhelmed with desire to tell him the truth. Do it, a soft voice is whispering in your head, he will be overjoyed, let him lift your worriment. Dwarven eminent devotedness to their children often vexed you previously, as choosing you as his Queen the King was possibly giving up on his hope for an heir. He made quite clear that it is indeed his choice, and the conversation would not return to it, but you would catch his eyes on a Dwarf youngling and your heart would painfully clench. You take a long breath and chew on your lips. You open your mouth not sure what you are going to say, when he puffs scornfully, "Be it your way. I wish you discussed it with me, but I'm not to force you. I will come back after dinner in the common room." You nod, not sure if you are actually relieved. "Would you send some tea up, my Lord? The ale does not agree with me today." He nods and leaves.
You are returning to your dinner when a knock at the door announces the help with a tea tray. You open the door without thinking, and a pair of widened eyes is staring at you. A young female hobbit is about to drop the tray when you catch it and take it from her hands. You realize a young woman with an unruly mane of half-dry copper curls in a night dress and a robe is not at all what she expected to find in a room payed for by an imposing Dwarven prince. "Thank you," you are smiling and she smiles back, though rather uncertainly. "Is there anything else you require, my lady?" "I seem to have misplaced my brush. Would you be able to purchase one for me, please?" The girl nods enthusiastically and disappears. She comes back when you are finishing your tea with a lovely brush, decorated carved handle absolutely delightful. "Would you like me to help you with brushing, my lady? There is a lot of work here," any trepidation forgotten, she is unceremonious and warm-hearted. "Oh, please do," you sit on a chair and she delicately touches the curls. "I used to help my sisters with their hair, but yours is so much softer. Like fitch's fur," she is caressing the tresses with the brush, carefully detangling and smoothing the disobedient strands. You have grown your hair long following the Dwarven customs, heavy braids and complicated dos in order. It flows down to your waist, and sometimes you feel like grabbing Thorin's favourite dagger and chopping it off. The impulse is fleeing though, to your King's great relief. He is very fond of your flaming mop. Men are ridiculously predictable in their preferences, no matter the race.
The hobbit, who introduces herself as Daisy, is brushing, her endless chatter about her family, the life in Frogmorton, weather and crops provides an unexpected pleasurable distraction from your quandary. "So, where are you travelling, my lady?" "The Shire. My companions are visiting an old friend." "Oh my, not something you see everyday," she shakes her round, curly head. "Nine Dwarves marching through the Shire, with their axes and beards and armour," she is giggling, her voice like a little silver bell. You laugh with her, "Eight Dwarves, I am not a Dwarf." She looks at you in surprise, "And I thought you were. I thought someone finally saw a Dwarven wife." You shake your head. "Dwarven women look exactly like their men, broad and sturdy," her eyes are large and blue, like the saucers in your Grandmother's cupboard. "And they have beards." "No!" she clasps a hand over her mouth. "I am of Men," you whisper to her as if sharing a secret. "But the Dwarf..." she bites her lip and blushes, obviously afraid to say something improper. You smile and shrug. She giggles and blushes even more furiously. "They are good husbands, loyal and devoted. Do you not find them attractive?" You ask conspiratorially. "Some are not that scary, but the beards!" You guffaw and thank Maiar for this girl's unexpected presence. She seems to be giving it a bit more thought. "And good fathers too probably. I heard that they fiercely guard their wives and children, locking them up underground," she realizes that she is sharing this telltale with someone who actually knows the truth, and falters. "They do not lock their wives in dungeons if that is what you heard, but they do sometimes tend to be overprotective," you are chuckling. "We do guard our treasures well," the velvet voice of your King startles you both, and you jump in the opposite directions, having furtively leant towards each other. "My Lord," the girl squeaks and curtsies. You are suppressing a sneaker. "Would that be all, my lady?" "Yes, thank you, Daisy," she gives you a genuine smile and hurries out of the room.
"How do I never notice your stealthy approach, my Lord?" you are chuckling while the King is shedding his outergarments. "I am more curious how you survived the life on the road for so many years when lacking in observation skills so," he is grumbling, his legendary temper searing. You come closer and hug him from behind. "I have magic," you whisper in mock conspiratorial voice. You slide your arms around his waist and press your face into his back. "What have I done to displease my Lord?" Your submissive tone deceives noone. His back is still tense, hands on the footboard of the bed. "Should I not ask you the same question, my Queen?" You rub your face between his shoulder blades and sigh. His foul mood dampens your spirit. You feel tongue-tied, words swirling in your head, nothing seems to be the right thing to say. And then a sudden shudder runs through your body, dread flooding you, cold helplessness clenching at your heart. You are crushed under the weight of the dawning understanding that your life is not your own anymore, your body not to be disregarded or sacrificed in a battle at your will, your life not to be given for a cause you find worthy. You imagine the warm flickering glow inside of you, yours to protect, to care for, your life forever bound to your beautiful, brave son And even when he leaves the safety of your body, he will still be yours to guard with your life and magic. You grasp from how weak and defenseless you are now, relying on the benevolence of your changeable King. You jolt back, pressing a hand onto your mouth, a violent sob bursting out of you. The King swirls around and grabs your shoulders. "Kurdu, enough with that. Tell me what it is," he is almost screaming, frenzied fear thrashing in his eyes, "I cannot help if I know not what is afflicting you." You step further back, biting your finger, almost drawing blood, closing your eyes in futile attempts to govern your hysterics, to stop tears running down your face. You sink on the floor, shaking, fisting your hands. Thorin falls on his knees in front of you, grabbing your shoulders again, trying to catch your eyes. You throw yourself at him, wrap around him tightly and let the crying overwhelm you.
Your tears subsiding, your reason is coming back to you, and you feel suddenly remorseful. A panicked King is pressing you into him with bone-crushing force, probably on the verge of tears himself. Surely he thinks an irremediable calamity has befallen you, never previously has he seen you losing your composure in such a violent outburst. After years of midwifery you do not find your behaviour that perplexing though, having seen parturient women acting even more preposterously. You console yourself that at least your sudden anguish is justified, expectant mothers and those tending to infants being indeed defenseless and dependent. Therefore, it is customary for Dwarves to confine them to the underground chambers, no traveling allowed. Nonetheless, with your heightened emotions receding, your self-assurance comes back to you, and, taking a deep breath, you are ready to venture ahead. You straighten up and wipe your tears, "Forgive me, my Lord!" "For what?" the King cries out, his voice terrified. He is clenching his jaw, doubtlessly wondering what delinquencies you could have performed to be so heart-broken. Jealous, distrustful Dwarf! Surely, he is imagining an illicit love affair. And judging by the quickly darkening face, with an Elf. Your mood unpredictable and changeful, you suddenly feel giddy and mischievous and ponder continuing with the charade but then take pity of the anguished Dwarf. "For my outpouring, my spirit is just fickle these days." You have recovered sufficiently to give him an encouraging smile.
"Fickle?" He hissed through his teeth and squints his eyes at you. "You scared me to death, woman. What am I to think?" He jumps up on his feet, heating up from his own indignation, pacing around the room. "First you sulk for days, obviously hiding something. Then you are flighty like a lark. And then you are sobbing and lamenting on the floor! I was prepared for the worst! What am I to assume? An adulterous entanglement?" Why, you are not even surprised, you mentally sneer. of course, you did. "Theft? Treason?" Well, that is already ludicrous.
You get up from the floor and fix your robe. You sit on the bed and demurely place your hands on your knees. "Regretfully, you might have to accustom to these outbursts, my Lord. There are more to come." The King is standing in the middle of the room, panting at his boiling point, gnashing his teeth, resentment radiating from him. You are looking at him from under your lashes, consciously testing his temper. For the sake of you three, his quick rage and petulance have to abate. To ensure the immovability of his devotedness to you and the warm little being growing in you, you need to know he would always be at your side. You wait patiently, attentively watching him. The world shifts, and you see Thorin's face falter. Exhaling sharply, the King looks at you with exhausted, pained expression, his shoulders sag, fingers unclench. he sits on the bed near you and picks up your hands. "I am begging you, my heart, do not torment me further more. Confide in me, and whatever it is I will aid you, with all my ability" pleading, he is peering into your eyes. You smile into his eyes and whisper, "I am with child, Thorin."
