The next morning you wake up in the guest bedroom, and to your surprise you feel the warmth of Amrod's body near you, his arm lying across your body. All through these years you are accustomed to waking up to an empty bed. He always sleeps on his half, sometimes half his body sloping off the edge of the bed, and he requires but five hours per night. Right now it takes you a fair amount of wiggling to slide from under his arm, and still he does not wake up. You throw a dress over your undertunic and go to Mira's room.
She is gone, and you catch a passing servant by the arm. On your way you have met five, and there are two more a bit further by the corridor. They are trying to behave inconspicuously, but you can feel their eyes on you. You understand they are curious, most of their faces are familiar, and you nod to them. The servant directs you to the King's bedchambers, as according to him "the young lady demanded an audience with the King." You rush by the passages, hurriedly braiding your hair on the run.
Mira is sitting on the edge on the King's bed, dangling her legs, he is reposing in the pillows, his hair wet after a bath, clean shirt covering the bandages. You hear your daughter's clear voice and freeze in the doors, "... and then she fell in love with him, and her heart was singing the song. And she knew he was her fire and her life." The King's brows are hiked up, and a small smile is playing on his lips. His voice is soft and low, "Because he was not grumpy anymore?" "No, of course not," she looks at him and frowns, "She loved him even though he was so grumpy. Have you not been listening, my lord? She knew he was the one because she heard the song in her heart. The song that only she could hear and only he could awaken. Do you know the song, my lord?" Thorin smiles, and your heart flutters. You know the smile, small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, his curved lips twitch, and he lowers his eyes, "I know the song, ursmim."
Mira turns her head to you, she always knows where you are, and speaks to you as if you were the part of the conversation from the start, "Emel, I found the magical bed you were telling me about in your stories." The King's eyes fly to you, and you can see a strange emotion flash through his features.
"Good morning, my lord. I hope she is not tiring you." "Morning, my lady, of course she is not. She is entertaining me with the fairy tales she apparently knows from since she was a child," there is light-hearted mockery in his tone, his eyes are smiling, and you suddenly feel alarmed. You did tell her a lot of tales of a free-spirited princess and a cantankerous but noble king.
"And this bed is almost as majestic as the one from your tales, emel, look at it," Mira sounds very pleased. You obediently give the bed a look over, and you realize you are avoiding looking at the King. And then you notice the room, and your breathing hitches. Everything in it is exactly the way you left it seven years ago, at least as much as you can remember. You see your desk, papers and quills still in the same places, small pots of herbs on the windowsill, and something tells you if you look in the dressing room you will still find two wardrobes there. You look at the King in confusion, and you see he is surveying your reactions.
Almost without your will, you make a step to the desk and see your own drawings scattered around its surface. Heady blush spills on your cheeks and down the cut of your dress, you had always thought they were so mediocre they should not be seen by anyone but you. And also, most of them depict the King, your sentimental ogling of him etched on the parchment, and you feel acutely embarrassed for the young enamoured girl, bending over her desk, again and again depicting the beloved face.
And then you shake your head and chuckle. You have not drawn since then, and now you think they are perhaps not that bad. You pick up one and look at the King's face. Frowned, heavy black brows drawn together, stern line of the lips, and you remember the day. Scouts brought alarming news from the North, he was sitting in his study, you were pretending to read in the corner, and piercing love grasped your heart. And then he lifted his eyes and asked for your opinion. You were so shocked by it that it took you a few moments to answer. Your judgement was heard and accepted, and you felt so very proud that day.
You realize the room is silent, Mira is gazing at the green canopy above her head, the King's intense eyes are on you. You put the drawing back and turn to them. "I think, guren, we should let the honourable King rest and perhaps find some breakfast." "She does not disturb me in the slightest, but you do need to eat, both of you." He stretches his hand to her, and she puts her delicate palm into his fingers. "I will come back after the meal, honourable King." You open your mouth to scold her for her insolence, but he smiles to her, "Do not forget about me, ursmim."
Little flame… She seems to have accepted the moniker, unlike you she loves her flaming locks, and nods to him. Then she jumps off the bed and heads for the door. "Let us go, emel, you do need to eat. You will be much less distressed after your favourite apple tea." She sounds so much like her father that you laugh. "I am coming, my heart, just wait for me in the dining hall. I need to speak with our honourable host for a moment." She nods and lets the maid escort her to the passage.
You make a few steps to gather your thoughts and then turn to him. His face is expressionless, lips set, eyes cautious. And suddenly you do not know what to say. Instead, you are studying his face, noticing the differences, lines harsher, as if it were possible he looks even more stubborn and conceited than all those years ago. While talking to Mira he was the Thorin you knew was there, underneath the temper and the arrogance, but this very instant you see the dark and menacing King Under the Mountain.
He speaks first, "I have to thank you for saving my life yet again, honourable healer." The old title makes you cringe, "I do not serve anymore, my lord. I am a midwife now." "Where?" His tone is demanding, as if he has the right to question you. You sigh, talking to him suddenly does not seem as such a sensible idea. You hardly know him now, it has been so long.
"Gondor, Ithilien. Just a small practice, the lands are not safe these days, not so many women choose to bring children into this world." He nods, a familiar slightly tilted nod of his. Everything about him scrapes on your consciousness, memories mix with the differences you notice, darker, harsher tones, and you realize you are holding your back very straight.
"And your husband? Back to the service of a ranger, I presume?" You shortly wonder how much he is aware of and what is the point in his questioning, something tells you he has received that report all those years ago. You nod and shift your eyes to the window. You have always loved Spring in Erebor, the awakening of the nature, small streams of meltwater running through the streets, children and birds loud and drunk from the first waves of warm wind.
"When did you wed?" His tone is still curt, and you look into his eyes. "We have not, it never came to it. Life had other arrangements for us." You think of the cold brutal grief over the loss of your son and the months of numbness that followed. You gave up your periwinkle dress and never spoke of the wedding again. You remember the dream you had, the white velvet wedding dress of the Dwarven cut on your body, and then you shake your head.
"I shall leave you to your rest, my lord. If you wish, I can return later." He is giving you an indecipherable look. And then he nods, "Perhaps, after your meal you can come over with your daughter. She promised me the continuation of her tale of the swan princess and the lonely king." You feel blush on your cheeks again, there are so many details in those stories the King would find familiar. Judging by the mischievous glint in his eyes, he already has. You never expected him to hear any of those tales.
"Perhaps," you choose not to antagonize him, you are still not certain who the person you are talking to is, "I assume we will be leaving tonight, my lord, but I would not want to exhaust you, you need to recover." "The poison is gone, now it is but a flesh wound." And suddenly his voice is low and velvet, and you lift your eyes at him, "Give me your hand, Zundushinh..."
You see his face, emotion suddenly openly displayed, lips twitching, blue eyes burning, and something pulls you to him, you take a step closer and stretch your hand. A golden spark jumps between the tips of your fingers an instant before they touch, and his hand suddenly grasp yours with crushing force. He jerks you to him, you fall into his arms, kneeling on the bed at his seated body, and he crushes you in tight embrace.
"You came to me again, and saved me again, zundush, you cannot deny it, you cannot… not now..." You hesitate but only for an instant, and then your wrap your arms around him, and hide your face into his neck. A loud sob escapes your lips, and you are pressing yourself into him. It feels like death, it feels like coming back to life, his heat, his smell, the sensation of his hard scorching body, memories bursts behind the lids of your closed eyes, old and new sensations erupt in your body, and you hear the song. Your heart is elated, every nerve in your body is trembling in the thrill and ecstasy, welcoming his touch, celebrating your return to him.
And then his hands cup your face and he is kissing you, and you are returning the kisses, hands buried in his ebony strands, one of his arms around your middle, another one painfully grabbing handfuls of your quickly unbraiding curls. He tastes as life itself, intoxicating, flooding your senses, and you press closer, straddle him, one of your hands sliding on his shoulder, your palm slipping under his tunic on his nape, nails digging into his skin, and he moans into your mouth.
And just as suddenly you push away from him, scamper off his bed, not yours, not anymore, not for many years, you fall on the floor, swirl, jump up and away from him, press your back to the door. You grab handfuls of your hair, and your chest is heaving in sharp painful breaths, "What have I done?! What have I…? Oh Maiar, how could I?.." He tries to get up off the bed, but then he hisses and leans back on the headboard with an oak tree carved in it and a small bird singing on its branch. He is pressing one of his hands to his side. You see a blood stain blooming on his shirt, and you hate yourself hundred times more.
You press your palms to your face. "Oh Maiar, what have I done?!" "Zundush..." His voice is raspy, and you drop your hands, "No, no, do not talk to me, it is all my fault, how could I?! I am a married woman, I have his child, how could I?!" You bite into your bottom lip and taste blood. Good, anything is better than the taste of the King's lips on yours.
"We are leaving immediately, I am leaving… We shall never speak of this… You shall never see me again..." You need to run, you need to save whatever you have left of your family. But he jumps out of the bed, his shirt quickly soaking with blood, and he step ahead, presses you into the door, and you whimper, pushing your palms into his shoulders. He is snarling through his teeth, "You are not going anywhere! I am throwing your lover out of Erebor, and you are staying here." He slams his palm into the wood of the door above your shoulder, and you return to your senses.
"Thorin, what are you talking about? Listen to yourself! It was an accident, a snag, just some old memories returned, and you are grateful, I saved your life..." "Shut up, woman, do you not understand anything?!" He growls at you, and you shrink back into the door. "Your magic told me everything, you love me and desire me just as before, and you will stay, I am taking you back, no matter what happened."
You open your mouth to object, and he rudely grabs your chin with his large palm and claims your mouth.