"I cannot be your mistress, my lord," her words are simple and sharp, and he feels even more irked, she is too calm, while he looks like a blithering idiot.
"I was not intending to offer, Wren," he does not mean it to sound as if he did not want it. He still says hurtful things, he thinks, while he is just trying to be understanding.
"I cannot be anyone's mistress, not after..." She stops and takes a deep breath.
"I know, Wren," he softens his voice, he does after all, and she turns to him. Her eyes roam his face, he is withstanding her inspection, and then she frowns.
"You do not understand, I cannot... I cannot lie with anyone anymore..."
"Wren..." He is trying to stop her, but she lifts her hand halting his words.
"You have to listen to me!" Her voice gains strength, and she looks directly in his eyes, "It is not about status, or my place in Erebor, I just… I am incapable. I cannot allow anyone touch me, it terrifies me..."
"Wren, I know, I can see it." Her lashes flutter in a nervous gesture, he sees she was hoping she was hiding it well. "Worry not, I do not think others see it. But Wren, what I said yesterday… I would not ask this from you. If you did not desire it… If you did not desire me."
"Then what would you ask from me?" Her brows are hiked in confusion, and suddenly he chuckles. He is not certain himself that it is not hysterics, there is truly nothing funny in the situation they are in.
"If you were by chance to return a miniscule of my affection, I would ask for..." Her studying look is unnerving, and he is frantically trying to understand how they ended up in the situation of proclaiming feelings. He is endlessly uncomfortable, especially from sudden understanding of how crucial his next line might be, "...companionship." She blinks and then stares at him. There is a mixture of doubt and mockery in her eyes.
"Companionship?" And then he can see there is an impertinent remark she is trying to keep from falling off her lips, and then he notices the corners of the said lips twitching. She is mocking him, and then to his own surprise his mood changes as well.
"Yes, my lady," he realises he is chaffing, "I am capable of companionship, and I can even say I crave it. Is that too ludicrous to imagine?" She cannot help it anymore, to keep her sharp tongue under control she sinks her teeth into the bottom lip, but a short snort escapes, and she presses a hand over her mouth. "Oh, I see. You think I only crave some base services from women. Mindless lechery perhaps?" Her hand is still covering her mouth, but the slanted eyes are laughing at him, and he theatrically shakes his head. "I did not expect such shallowness from you." That is her undoing, she bursts into a small laughter, and he smiles to her. She is endearing with her funnily wrinkled nose, squinted eyes and a few little curls jumping around her face. She is still chuckling, her eyes lowered, and he inhales slowly, "Wren, I gave you my word all those years ago, and I have kept it. You are never to be forced into anything you do not wish yourself. But if you were ever to..." He does not know how to ask, and he is suddenly terrified to scare off her lighter mood, but she nods and he sees her lift her hand. The long delicate fingers are trembling, and then she places her cool palm on his wrist.
"I have nothing to offer you, my lord," her voice is quiet but firm, and she meets his eyes, he thinks he sees melancholy in her amber irises, and he wants to reassure her, tell her it is alright, he is not asking for anything, but she speaks first, "But I would love for us to spend more time together. Perhaps our association could be expanded beyond silent drinking tea in the same kitchen at night." She is giving him a shy questioning look, and he chuckles. He is feeling foolishly hopeful, he has not felt so even in his adolescent years when his first interest in women woke up.
"We also see each other in your son's rooms."
"Hardly what you probably had in mind when you said companionship, my lord," she tentatively jokes, and he nods.
"Hardly, but not that unrelated. I do enjoy my visits to his rooms. And when you observe my training," suddenly her face wavers, and he does not understand the shift in her mood. He wonders if she thinks of Frerin. She looks almost panicked, and he covers the hand she left on his wrist. "What is it, Wren? Is it Frerin? He does not train with me anymore..."
"Oh," her red lips form a circle, and he makes himself tear his eyes off them. And then suddenly she starts laughing loudly. This time it is unrestrained, merry laughter, and then she presses her hands to her cheeks. "No, it is not Frerin… Not at all..." He does not understand, but he is distracted by the blush spilling on her cheekbones.
"Are we in agreement then, Wren?" He might need some confirmation, some sort of closure for this unexpected conversation, and she chews at her bottom lip and then nods.
"Are we to arrange some… shared pastime, my lord?" She blinks and then snorts herself from the absurdity of her question. And then just as he expected there is a gleam of impishness in her eyes. She schools her face into a serious expression. "A walk to the Tapestries Halls perhaps?" Those are the habitual place for courting couples to have a stroll in, and he cocks a brow at her. "I would offer a musical evening but with my lack of talent you might reconsider your proposition. I expect my singing to disenchant you in a matter of minutes." He has forgotten her drollery. She is mournfully shaking her head, and he is tempted to silence her with a kiss or another gesture of sorts but he remembers what this conversation started with.
"Are you enjoying yourself, my lady?" He feigns an exaggerated cantankerous frown, and she snorts again. It is a funny sound, like from a cat that got into a dusty corner under a bench.
"Perhaps a bit," she is pressing lips together, hiding a smile, and he gives her a sarcastic "uh-huh."
"I think we should limit ourselves to accidental meetings under favourable circumstances. I am afraid my ego is too bruised to withstand a premeditated meeting with you. There will be no mercy from your wit if you have time to prepare your quips."
She once again nods, and after giving her a bow he leaves the balcony.
Dis has been watching Wren's sensuality wake through the last few years. Unlike the thick skulled men, who have just thrown Wren aside like a broken toy, Dis is patient and observant. She notices the small changes, softer line of lips, brighter eyes, how Wren's long fingers brush at her neck when she is absorbed in her work more and more often. Wren's slim body seems more supple these days, and sometimes the woman runs a quill to the underside of her jaw, in a slow unconscious caress, and Dis cannot tear her eyes off the soft last twist of a copper runaway curl that brushes on Wren's neck.
Dis is watching the delicate line of the jaw, the small pink ears, slender shoulders. Dis is a Dwarf, she has been taught to appreciate strength, sturdiness, the men of her race, their might, the hair, all over their bodies, the rough skin. Wren is made of smooth cool lines, fluid movements, she is frail, and at the same time Dis finds her most enthralling. There is an unbendable will in Wren. If Dis tried she'd never be able to compel Wren to do what Dis dreams about. All Dis can do is wait and make sure when time comes Wren is to come to her for comfort and tenderness. Dis has never felt that much tenderness towards anybody, even her sons when they were tots. She is a passionate woman, but all she wants now is to cradle this narrow angular face in her hands and taste the bright red lips, the caresses she craves are only for Wren's pleasure. In heady indecent dreams she sees running her hands along the slender legs, caressing the tiny breasts, pressing her mouth to the pulse beating in the pale blue vein on the delicate throat.
And now, in the last few moons Dis is feeling as if she is watching a snowslide. It starts with small cracks and shifts, just like those avalanches she saw when travelling the mountains young. It starts with looks and slightly curved up corners of lips, with Wren's body staying relaxed when Thorin enters the room, with her not being startled when he passes by her in the passages, with him coming more often into Thror's rooms. All Dis can do is watch with cold terror clutching at her heart as the snowslide gains power, as Wren smiles wider, the looks change, from friendly and open, to half lidded, from under her black lashes, as Thorin comes unnecessary close to her divan when asking of how the boy has been doing. Dis watches Thror showing more familiarity with the King, she listens to louder and louder laughter to be heard in the child's rooms. Like a person caught between two slopes with an avalanche coming, all Dis can do is watch the all ruining power come crashing into her, destroying her hopes, breaking her world.
Thorin finds himself in an excellent mood these days. He comes to visit Thror as usual, this time the boy shows him a drawing of hammers his teacher assigned to him that morning, and a few minutes later Thorin finds himself fixing the mistakes in the boy's draft and explaining the differences in peins. Thorin's and Thror's fingers are covered in graphite stains, and the boy rubs his nose in frustration, his wide small hands are not deft enough to sketch what he wants. Thorin sees the stains on the child's face now, and laughs.
The boy's tutor comes, and Thorin gets up to leave. Wren rises too, and then she smiles to him mischievously and offers him to proceed to her bathroom. He gives her a confused look, and she gestures towards his face.
"You have identical stains on your nose and cheeks, my lord."
Thorin is lathering soap over a basin, Wren stayed behind in her bedroom he had to walk through the get to the bathchamber. There is a small mirror on the wall, and he washes off the dirt. He is wiping his face with a towel and steps out of the room. She is sitting on the edge of her narrow bed. The room is bare and modest, a wardrobe and a small desk, lots of drawings and books, no vanity. There are pots with some herbs on an alcove shelf, and a trunk by the wall. Thorin has just been in her son's rooms, with its luscious carpets on the floor, opulent, almost extravagant furniture, tapestries on walls, heavy expensive curtains, and Thorin frowns. He is a Dwarf, such lack of luxury is not appealing to him. He feels uncomfortable. He gives her a look, the dress is frustratingly simple and stern too. She lifts her eyes at him and smiles.
He sits near her, and their eyes meet. Today watching her son, he had a revelation. What years ago was born as a nagging feeling, then a doubt, in the recent years has become a well formed question. He needs to know, but it never came to his mind to ask her. The realisation of how simple it is makes his head spin.
"Whose son is Thror, Wren?" The slanted eyes widen, all colour rushes away from her face, and he keeps their gaze locked. She is frozen, then her lips part slightly, and then he can see tears pooling in the amber eyes.
"No one has thought of asking me," her voice is raspy, "Even your sister… She bore two sons, and even she didn't..." She blinks, salty drops spill, and she hastily wipes them with her hand. "I assumed everyone thought I did not know..." The familiar ache clasps on Thorin's insides behind the ribs. He is suddenly not certain he wants to know the answer. He asked himself, he is a man and a Dwarf, he requires clarity, but he realises everything will change, and suddenly he realises he is content with hoping Thror is his. After all, what does it matter? It would just be his possessiveness talking.
"And do you know?" Why is he asking? She nods, her eyes drop on her hands, fisted on her lap. They are sitting in silence, and he picks up her hand and brushes his thumb on her knuckles. It doesn't matter, he lies to himself, but then he remembers of the woman sitting near, he needs to take care of her, she is trembling, and he speaks softly, "Wren, forgive me, I should not have asked, it matters not..."
"Frerin was away that week, he was traveling South, to the meeting with Beorn's warriors..." Her eyes are immediately distant, she is lost in memories, and he is holding his breath. "I knew from the start... When I found out, I was terrified and did not think straight, but even without counting… I knew..."
He pulls at her hand, her body is the closest to his it has been in years, but then she presses her hands into his chest and breathes out, "No..."
It hurts, he feels sharp offense, from the refusal, it feels as if she does not perceive this moment as significant as he does, but then he makes himself let her go. The hands that were splayed on his chest do not move.
"Please, not like this." Her tone is pleading. "Not when it is mixed with those memories..." Her face is close, and he meets her eyes. He does not understand, sensations are not mixed in his mind, there is only the hunger for her lips. But in the years that passed he learnt that if not all women than at least Wren thinks differently from him. And he learnt to respect and admire this. He searches her eyes, they are frantic, she indeed did not want to offend or displease him, and he gives her a soft smile.
She is the first woman he has ever tried to and wants to flirt with. That is what allowed them to make the first steps, and he is not taking a new hammer while the old one still does the job.
"Will you give me a signal then when the moment is good? Perhaps a note? A raven?" He cocks a brow, showing her he is jesting but not jabbing, and her eyes change. The tension steps back, and she gives him an amused look. "Something short and to the point. Lips available for rent perhaps?" The joke is silly, but she snorts, and they both notice where her hands stayed. He thinks she will move away, but she leans in and presses her lips to his cheek.
"You will be the first to know," she murmurs, he is looking at the orange freckles on the turn up nose.
"Do send a courier for me," he is keeping his tone grumpy, her skin is an inch away, the fragrance of lilacs fills his nose, he is fighting the urges. "I do not trust those birds..." She hums in agreement, and the fingers curl on his chest. This is the limit of his self-control, and he roughly pushes her away from him. She almost falls off the bed, and he jumps on his feet. She looks dazzled, and he hastily bows and leaves.
A week later Thorin cannot sleep, the kitchen in his halls is empty, and he does not want to stay in it alone. The day before Wren and he stayed in it all night, she was twirling an empty cup on a saucer, telling him of her childhood. He walks through the halls, to the Royal Halls kitchen and finds his brother roughly thrusting his hips into a maid, from behind, she is spread on the large table, her face pressed into its surface, her skirts bunched up. One of Frerin's hands is clenched around the back of her neck, the other one is fisted around a handful of her chestnut curls. The table legs are skidding on the stone floor, and Thorin grabs Frerin's collar and drags him back. The girl sobs and slides on the floor, on her knees. Frerin jerks in Thorin's grip, Thorin understands that Frerin is drunk, and he pushes him into the wall forcefully, aiming to inflict pain. Frerin groans and grabs the nearest shelf to stay upright.
Thorin picks up the girl's elbows and helps her get up.
"Did he force you?" She is looking at him, her eyes are mad and terrified, and he rubs her upper arms, "Did he force himself on you? Are you hurt?" She shakes her head, and Thorin isn't sure which question she is answering.
"She offered herself, she wanted it..." Frerin cannot speak clearly, Thorin has just noticed the stench of several days of drinking around his brother.
"Shut up, or Mahal help me, ag zasasmaki rathkh-hund," Thorin growls, gritting his teeth. The girl twitches under his hands, but then her eyes meet the King's.
"He didn't force me… I offered myself..." She is young, a maiden, and Thorin cannot understand this stupidity. Frerin can be charming, but she is of marriage age.
"She will not conceive, worry not, nadad," Frerin's words are slurred, "I made sure of it." The girl looks even more embarrassed, Thorin understands what exactly they were doing on the table. "No more bastards in these halls," Frerin's tone is derisive, and that is when Thorin places the blow. He is not holding back, sharp pain goes through his knuckles that he no doubt just broke over the cheekbone of his brother, and the pain flashes through his forearm and echoes in the elbow.
The girl screams, and Thorin adds a kick into the ribs of Frerin who fell on the floor from the devastating punch.
Frerin is given an opportunity to sleep it off, and Dis has a conversation with his in her rooms. It turns out he has been sleeping in the armoury for the past three weeks. Dis reminds him that every Dwarf is expected to withstand abstinence while his wife is expecting, and none is allowed to touch another woman once Mahal linked one's hands with a daughter of Aule, even if she tends to crash water jugs over her husband's head. There is slight vengefulness in Dis' tone. She of course thinks that Frerin and Fredna are equally to blame for what has happened.
The maid is sent away to Iron Hills, with a large dowry and a position reserved for her in Dain's Halls.
Three days after that night Thorin walks into the kitchen and finds Wren waiting for him, and tea is already poured into two cups. He heavily sits down, and she stretches her hands across the table and picks up his broken one carefully. He indeed shattered several bones there, and her cool fingers gently examine the swollen knuckles.
"You do not bear responsibility for everything that is happening in your Halls and your family, my King," she speaks softly, in her clear impeccable Khuzdul, and he looks at her in shock. He feels guilty but didn't expect anyone to guess it. "Frerin has always been the self-indulgent one, could never refuse pleasures," she continues in Common speech, and her head is tilted, amber eyes studying the purple bruises. "He is like a child, he is magnificent as long as everything is well and no changes transpire. But life is not all merriment and comfort… And not every Dwarf has a core of old mithril." She places his hand back on the table and gives him a soft smile. He feels like the previous phrase was a compliment to him, but he stops himself from this conceited thought. He is no better than Frerin, but then Thorin thinks that had he had the woman he loves in his bed, even if just to sleep intertwined, he would not run to the help. He remembers Wren's slender arms wrapped around him at night all those years ago, the soft little smile she would meet him with, without waking up, when he would slip under the covers, and he does not know how the words slip from his lips.
"If ever you feel you want it, come to my chambers, Wren. Just for a night, just to sleep..." She straightens up on her chair, her eyes immediately guarded, but he is not taking his words back. "You have nothing to fear, Wren, I can control myself." He gives her a calm look, he is certain of himself. She scrutinizes his face, and then her features soften.
"I will remember your invitation, my lord." She speaks quietly, and he nods. They start drinking their tea.
ag zasasmaki rathkh-hund = (Khuzdul) you will taste my knuckles
