A/N: I am sorry, my lovelies, but I seem to be completely incapable to write anything but Amrod these days :S No Word of A Day fics, no modern AUs, no Thorin smut that I usually drabble in a spur of a moment through my day and later utilize in my stories! Only dark-eyed hunk with long sensual fingers and endless legs and narrow hips! Don't throw rotten veggies at me, please! :(
Write me gentle reviews and PMs instead :)
All your prompts are kept safe and will happen when my ardour for the King Under the Mountain is back. And the second half of the story is Thorin centered, remember? :)
It starts raining by the time you finally reach the inn, and you take a table by the fireplace. You are starving and between you two the chicken seems to be disappearing very fast. Amrod has mesmerizing relationships with food. He can seemingly go on without any substance for days, which stuns you, after living among the always ravenous Dwarves for so long, but when he finally eats he can consume astonishingly copious amounts of food. He has delicate manners and thoroughly enjoys his meals, his elegant fingers picking up pieces of meat. He drops his head back and pops a piece of bread in his mouth. "That is the point of traveling in bad weather, is it not? Finally sitting down by the fire?"
You hum and take a sip of your wine. You are cautious, you tend to get fuddled very easily, after just a glass. He takes a big gulp, licks his bottom lip and looks at you. "Tell me of the King Under the Mountain." You look at him in surprise. "Pardon?" "King Under the Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield, what is he like?"
You put the glass on the table. "What a ludicrous topic for a conversation for the two of us!" He leans back in his chair and smirks. "Tell me about him, and I will tell you why I left the Rangers." His eyes seem very dark in the light of the fire, and you feel your cheeks burning. The temptation is too big.
"What do you want to know?" "How did you meet?" "I was visiting Erebor with a company of merchants and got lost in the halls," you take another sip to hide behind your glass. He narrows his eyes. You guess it is not that easy to lie to him. You sit straighter in your chair. You are not lying after all, you are just omitting some truth. "And then?" "And then we met several more times, and as time went by we…" You think back at those days and smile. "We did not realize another one returned the feelings, and then one night we just could not deny it anymore."
He is pondering you, and then he puts his elbows on the table, links his fingers, his body and the heat it emits so much closer to you. You fight the impulse to move back in your chair. "And how exactly has it transpired between you two? Have you yelled it into his face?" You blink. He is not that far from the truth. He chuckles. "You are indeed a marvel, Alfirin. As ignorant as I am in Dwarven ways, even I know that they do not bed women of other races. And that they do not bed women before marriage."
They do not. Either of these two things are unheard of among the Mountain dwellers, and yet the King broke both of these rules that night. Your cheeks burn harder, from the wine and from the memories.
The Gondorian chuckles again, "That good was it?" You take a big gulp of wine to silence the memories of the King's caresses. "And then he took you into his city?" "Not exactly," you give him a sly smile, "I made him wait three moons for me." The Gondorian laughs, "You are a wicked woman, Alfirin. Let him know the flavour and take the treat away. He must have been livid." You think of the greeting you received when the King came back for you, and it is suddenly hot in the common room of the inn. Amrod is smirking knowingly.
"Not so innocent and noble as I thought then?" "It was not a ploy! He needed to be certain!" He is pouring himself more wine, and for a second you think his face grows solemn. "I am sure he had been certain long before it." You think of your first kiss, months before that night, and you clench your fists. And then you think of all those myriads of kisses that followed. And then you brace yourself as you know what comes next.
The pain of abandonment clenches at your heart, cruel, piercing, humiliating... The cold bed, the hurried absent-minded attentions you have received the past few months, meals unshared, your usual walks together discontinued… You have become a commodity, a source of counsel, a half-forgotten trinket… You clench your teeth and look into your glass. It is empty.
The Gondorian lifts the jug but you shake your head. "Has he started treating you as a piece of furniture?" He looks at your over the rim of his glass, eyes brilliant and gleaming with mischief again, and your temper flares. "Why are you asking me all that?" "A good scout always surveys the tract before venturing into a hunt." "Am I a prey for you? A prize?" "You, Alfirin, are the most precious and desirable of prizes," his voice is low, seductive, and you frown. "And what if I do not wish to be a prize?" "Is it not better than a piece of furniture?"
And then you chuckle. Whether it is the wine, or the warmth of the fire, but you suddenly feel merry and at ease. "No, it is not. How is it any different? Is it not always the same story with men pursuing a woman? First we are a treasure, cherished and pampered, and then the treasure is used as a door stop." He snorts. "Fair enough," he places his hands over yours on the table, "But would you not want to enjoy the beginning of this journey again? To feel like a treasure and not a door stop?" He is laughing at you, but you are not offended. "No," you slowly shake your head, "I want..." You do not know what you were going to say, and you shake your head harder. The curls escaped your braid in the wind and rain of the road, and they bounce around your face.
"What do you want, Alfirin?" His fingers are stroking your palms in the already familiar caress. "I want peace. I want to cease feeling humiliated and rejected, I want to find a nice place to stay, perhaps open a small infirmary, accept patients, deliver babies..." He laughs, "That sounds endlessly boring! Why would you want to attach yourself to the same spot? Were you not caged for four years in dark, cold halls of Erebor?" You were, but you had a reason to stay. There is none anymore.
"Do you know what you really want, Alfirin?" You lift a brow. "You want to dance!" He jumps on his feet and pulls your hands. You press your heels into the floor, "No, I do not..." He is so much stronger, and you suspect if you continue fighting it he will just pick you up, your bum up, on his shoulder. He is dragging you to the front of the common room, where they are a few musicians lazily strumming their instruments. Amrod throws them a generous handful of silver, and they rejoice. A clarinet and a flute join in, but you are still hesitant.
He smirks to you, and you know his next move is coming. "Wine for everyone!" He yells, and the whole inn cheers. The music erupts exuberantly, and several couples jump on their feet. He pulls you into him, and his palm lies on your waist. He lowers his face, and his eyes are laughing, "Yield, Alfirin, and make merry!" You press your lips together but the smile bursts out of your control, and you put your hand into his large palm. The long warm fingers close over yours, and he twirls you.
The rhythm carries you two, he is light on his feet, and the inn claps in accordance. The steps are simple, and your heart is exuberant. He is moving gracefully, leading you, twirling and spinning you where he wants, and you submit, a merry laugh escaping your lips. He picks up speed, his hands strong and body graceful. He picks up your second hand and you two are spinning, holding each other hands firmly, arms straight, and you drop your head back, trusting him to catch you if you fall. The room is spinning around you, and you feel more alive than you have in months.
He sharply pulls you into him, and you are pressed flash into his hard body. The dancers bounce around you two, spin and twirl, and you are staring in his eyes. The pupils are enormous, hiding the dark brown, and the large palms cup your face. You close your eyes but the kiss does not come.
The rhythm is throbbing in your throat, whether the exuberant music, or your own heart, and you feel long forgotten thrill reverberate through your blood. And then his lips are on your neck, on the pulse, and you exhale sharply. His warm breath caresses your skin, and you are still. The lips move up, to the jaw, your lips tingle in anticipation, and then he lets you go. You feel a sudden emptiness in front of you and open your eyes . He took a step back and is looking at you with a strange expression. There is no smile in his eyes, and he is pale.
And then he turns around and strides out of the room. You are frozen in the center of the floor, patrons swirling around you in a dizzying rhythm, and your heart is beating painfully in your chest.