"Things unnoticeable to all
Saw my face
And smiled.
I am one of them, as all were before me.
I have no doubt they will find no satisfaction in me
Nor did I ask for any as they colored my eyes with mist."
Ningalor hid and waited for the young, female guard to pass. That particular guard entered the dungeon quite often – too often. Ningalor wondered if Thranduil noticed the missing food and decided to burden the youngest guard with the task of patrolling that frequently as punishment.
She sneaked past the cells and the guard and made her way to Nori's cell. She explained her plan, which made the thief laugh quite a bit before he reminded her to steal back the weapons and pack a barrel full of food, and also money if she could find it. They would need it, he assured her. He also instructed her to find his coat, a brown, undistinguished thing, and unbutton the third pocket on the inner layer of his left breast and from there retrieve a small, green vial. A few drops, he promised, and the guards will sleep quite soundly, enough for her to smuggle the keys and lead them outside. He sounded quite excited, but the semi-cruel gleam was not to her liking. Still, she did as she was told.
It took her the whole night to empty the small room of their weapons and coats and transfer them into the barrels. She had to stop and wait, holding quite a bit of items, some very heavy, while guards passed or paused for small talk. She dared not cross next to them out of fear she might drop the items carried, so she crossed the same path many times, so tense and nervous she felt as if her body were about to snap.
When she finally finished, she once again raided the pantries, but this time, she stole smoked meats, hard cheese, and quite a bit of lembas bread. If they were lucky, they would not need to finish it, but she took every precaution and emptied her father's stores. She also sneaked into her father's coffers and filled three small bags with coins. That should do, she felt, still uncomfortable with the idea of stealing money.
She took a jar of fine wine, added the few drops Nori prescribed, and placed it carefully on the guards' table. She hid and waited anxiously.
This was the most important part of her plan. If she were to fail that, if the guards would not be tempted to drink, they would not fall asleep, she would not retrieve the key, and someone would be sure to notice the depleting pantries by now…
"Well, looks like even the guards will be having their share of the Mereth-en-Gilith!" declared one of the guards when he entered the room. Another guard followed him, the one who had the chain of keys tied to his belt. He looked at the wine with a frown.
The other guard had fewer qualms about drinking on duty. He poured both of them a cup and sat, sipping the wine appreciatively. "Say what you like about our ill-tempered Duke, but he has excellent taste in wine. Come, Galion, try it."
Galion shook his head, making her heart flutter in despair. "I have the Dwarves in my charge."
"They're locked up; where can they go?" the other objected, shaking his cup at him.
Galion sighed, took a seat and the cup and a sip of the wine. "Just one, then."
But one, apparently, was all she needed. Soon enough the guards were snoring, and Ningalor picked up the keys and dashed down the stairs.
She did not have time to waste.
Thorin woke up and glared at the darkness.
Something was not right.
Years of living under stone taught him to discern, from the nuances of temperature and sound, his location and the location of others. It wasn't a sound method, as echoes may be transformed by the stone before they reached his ear, but something still felt wrong. He was supposed to be alone.
Footsteps, and too many of them, echoed back and forth. Three men, at least. Five, ten… he blinked, must have counted wrong.
He stood up and walked toward the edge of his cell, curious and wary, when –
Lily.
The woman smiled brightly at him and entered a key into the lock of his door without much ado while he stared, eyes wide and utterly surprised. She did promise him she'd rescue him, but he never expected… he did not allow himself to truly believe.
She opened the door. "We must hurry! We need to –"
He stepped out of the cell, his body tingling at the notion, and took the woman in his arms. After yearning to do so for a period that felt like a lifetime, his nerves burned at the feeling of her soft body, firmly pressed against his with no bars to separate them.
"Khajimuizu uh ôhùfuk," he murmured, smiling at her shocked expression, the soft blush –
"Thorin!" That was Dwalin, gripping his shoulder. "Do it later, would you?" he hissed.
Thorin released the woman unwillingly, and only then he noticed that the entire company was there, apparently in the middle of being rescued as well. But still he held her hand as she led them down, then up, deeper into the mountain…
"We're in the cellars!" Kili whispered loudly.
"Lass, you are supposed to lead us out, not in!" Gloin groaned.
"I know what I'm doing!" she answered hotly.
She led them toward a dead end, however, and even Thorin allowed himself a moment of doubt.
"Into the barrels," she commanded. When no one moved, she added, "Trust me!"
Agitated, she turned to glance at Thorin.
Thorin looked at his woman and hoped her plan would work before barking, "Do as she says!"
The men stared, then each climbed into a barrel. Two were closed shut, but the other thirteen were invitingly empty. She nudged Thorin and led him into a barrel, but did not enter one herself.
Instead, she rushed toward a lever and appeared to be counting his men.
It was distinctively uncomfortable inside the barrel and felt no better than his cell. Thorin prayed to Mahal his woman came up with a sound plan, since he was the one who gave the command.
"What now?" Bofur asked, sounding as doubtful as the rest probably felt.
"Hold your breath," Lily commanded.
She pulled the lever.
The floor tilted, the barrels rolled and Thorin held on to the barrel with all his might and hoped he was not going to be sick – the barrels dropped, one by one, into the water of the river.
The fall was terrifying – he thanked Mahal when his barrel survived, and made sure that the rest landed just as safely.
He began to propel himself forward, as his barrel was the first, but soon he had no need for it. The river's flow escalated and pushed them onwards, and all he had to do was hold on and pray his barrel would not topple over.
Behind him, he heard his boys holler and cheer, and he smiled in response.
He breathed in deep the scent of the water, of the trees and the earth. Fresh and crisp, cool wind danced around him as he felt the ice-cold water splashing on his face – freedom! After being stuck in that cell for goodness knows how long, he was finally free.
Let them doubt Lily now, he thought proudly.
Then a sight appeared before him, peering shyly from between the wild trees, that made him forget everything else.
Erebor.
The Lonely Mountain spiked up into the sky, jabbing the clear blue with its claim, and ruled over the valleys and lakes and forests with the might of a king. The distinctive star-shaped mountain with six ridges radiating as spurs from the peak was a sight he never thought he would see again. And from the face of the mountain, two giant warriors were carved, guarding over the massive fortress that shadowed and dwarfed all other fortresses – Erebor. His Erebor.
The gates, which were always open, were now closed off and sealed, and the ruin was evident even from that distance. The fallen gate, the crushed walls… the claws of the serpent left a deep, bleeding mark in the living rock.
The trees that rose, as silent soldiers poised to guard the mountainside, bowed to him as the wind that propelled him forward shot through them. Between them, their fallen brothers lay, pale and skeletal; those were many, and the living trees – few. It was as if the earth itself had turned against her proud, aloof children and left them to face wind and fire and death all on their own. Many of the mast-like trees he saw were white and barren, and stood as grave marks in place of their living comrades.
But there it was, Erebor, after more than eighteen years. His Erebor, at last. Erebor.
He kept looking at it, the subject of his dreams and nightmares, with wistful eyes and beating heart. No living being could compete with the love he felt for his lost home. He will reclaim it or die trying. Erebor.
They floated down the river for several hours and reached the shore only at midday.
He got out of the barrel with difficulty, his muscles aching from being confined for too long and tossed about in the roaring river. He turned around to see the rest of his men paddling just as painfully, muttering and limping. He smiled when he saw Fili helping Kili and then… then his smile faded.
"Lily?" he bellowed, wading toward the group. His heart began to beat rapidly, anxiously. "Lily!"
He looked into the empty barrels and the men that climbed out of them, but those who managed to stand looked at him with the same worry. He clenched his fists, trying to think back… she led them, he held her hand, thirteen empty barrels and two closed, heavy looking ones… thirteen!
"Lily!" He refused to believe that, cursed his folly. He was so sure she came with them. She did not stay behind, would not! She would not have left him, not without telling him first – "Lily!" he cried out.
The heavy barrels reached the shore last, and a pale hand, clinging to the chime, released the hoop and drowned in the now gently flowing water… "Lily!" He rushed forward, the burning of his muscles forgotten, stooped down in the water and picked her up in his arms. Lily.
He crouched – his muscles were not yet strong enough and protested the exercise – tilted her on his knee and slapped her back forcefully, once, twice, until the woman gasped and coughed out the excess water in her lungs. He gently massaged her back, breathing hard, as relief flooded his form with each shallow breath the woman took. She went limp in his arms after a feeble attempt to push herself up. He hugged her to him, though most of her body was still inside the icy river.
"What the hell were you thinking," he scolded, "going down the river without a barrel? You nearly drowned! You could've –"
"Thorin, I don't think now's a good time." That was Oin, paddling toward them. He took one look at the woman and shook his head. "Get her out of the water, right now," he ordered. Then he turned to the men on the shore. "Gloin, start a fire! Now! Boys, fetch wood! Dwalin, Nori, stand watch!"
No one dared object to the healer's orders.
Not even he would dare, Thorin thought grimly and picked the woman up. Her eyes fluttered close and her body, limp and boneless, began to shake violently. "Lily?" he asked, terror replacing the relief he felt not a few moments earlier. The woman did not answer, and he rushed out of the water and toward the shore, burning muscles be damned.
"Heat loss," the healer diagnosed her. "We must get her warm, as soon as possible." He cursed. "I suppose she left the coat you gave her, or perhaps it was too heavy and she had to give it up lest she drown… we need dry clothes…."
"The barrels! Lily brought our stuff!" cried Bofur.
"And food!" added Bombur.
"The coats as well?" Thorin demanded.
"Aye! Everything!"
"Fetch it here immediately!" Oin ordered, "I want everyone to clear the area! Be quick!" He began to massage Lily's stomach and back with quick, smooth motions to try and stimulate the circulation of the blood. Bofur hurried forward and dumped all the coats into one, big pile, then handed Thorin the coat he gave his lover. For some reason, the fact that she packed it with the rest of the coats so it won't be lost touched him deeply.
"Fire's made, brother!" Gloin declared.
"Good, make another one for the rest to dry next to. Now, be gone!"
The men grumbled and left. Oin looked at Thorin. "You must strip her of her wet clothes and dress her in the dry ones. Quickly!" The healer fished out his coat and searched for his herbs, while Thorin did as he was told, nearly tearing the tight, unrelenting fabric in the process.
She was blue, ice to the touch. She looked more and more like a marble statue, and her sight terrified him. He never undressed her so quickly before, but this time, he took no pleasure in the act. He wrapped her in his bear coat first, as it had sleeves, then his own coat. When he finished, Oin took a small, metal cup, filled with freshly boiled water with herbs floating within, and began to ease the hot liquid down Lily's blue lips.
"Wrap the rest of the coats around her limbs, but make sure to heat her torso the most, otherwise, her body will lose the heat it managed to preserve. Don't massage the limbs! Only the middle, lad."
Thorin obeyed and cradled the woman in his arms, keeping her torso as warm as he could with the coats as well as his own body heat. They moved her closer to the fire, placed her in the sun, and Thorin willed his body to warm hers. He prayed with all his might, his heart beating frantically with each shallow breath she took.
Lily began to shiver again.
"Good, good, that's a good lass." Oin finished the first small cup and filled it up again, placed it between the flames and withdrew the second one from the fire. "That's it. Steady."
Thorin kissed her cheek, whispering to her. He muttered her name, again and again, whispered his love to her in his own tongue and the common one. He hugged her cold, shaking body to his chest with all the strength he could muster and caressed her cool, wet skin as gently as he could. Mahal, she was ice.
"Lily, Lily, come back to me, Lily…." He kissed her. "Âzyunguh ana zu ubzûnatiki ubzar magh nâturma 'azahyi kidhuzaz. Âzyunguh ana zu tursiki uhrus magh Mahalul gabil khubûb…."
If Oin thought his declarations silly, he did not show it, and breathed in palpable relief when Lily's eyes fluttered open, her hands twitched and she took her first, deep breath.
"Lily!" Thorin cried out, heart racing again.
The woman shifted slightly, looked up – dazed and confused, exhaled and buried her face in the crook of his neck. "Tho… rin…" she managed. He swallowed thickly and cradled her against him, suddenly realizing how close he was to losing her.
"Lass, finish your medicine, then thank your rescuer," Oin reprimanded. When she did not respond, he cocked a bushy brow at Thorin.
He sighed and tilted her head gently. "Just a sip, Lily, that's all."
The dazed woman opened her lips with difficulty and exhaled when the hot, bitter drink was poured down her throat. "Good. One last cup, all right?" Oin fetched the small, metal cup. "Would've given you more, but I ran out of herbs." He once again fished out the small cup, blew on the hot liquid, and made Lily swallow the medicine. "We need to get her somewhere warmer where she could rest next to a fire. We cannot stay here. Already stayed too long."
Thorin nodded. He did not like the delay, but the sight of the shivering woman made everything else seem of little to no importance. She was so utterly vulnerable and defenseless, shaking and breathing erratically. He cradled her in his arms, wrapped the coats even tighter around her form and rubbed her back and stomach, as instructed. Oin wrapped the metal tools in the thick fabric and placed them next to her torso carefully, enticing the woman to cocoon in a fetal position and burrow into Thorin's lap in a desperate attempt to get warm.
"I promised her I'd protect her," he whispered weakly.
Oin looked on, his old eyes full of compassion. "And that you do, lad. Just keep her warm –"
" – the barge over there, it wouldn't be available for hire, by any chance?"
Thorin's eyes snapped to meet Oin's – that was Balin – talking, undoubtedly, to a stranger. Which meant trouble. Oin grabbed his staff, signaling to Thorin to not let go of Lily. He rose to stand between them and the bushes that separated them from the rest of the company as well as the stranger.
"What makes you think I will help you?"
Thorin cursed under his breath. The new voice belonged to a man, and a suspicious one at that. He was so focused on Lily, he must have missed the commotion that preceded that conversation.
"Those boots have seen better days," Balin said diplomatically.
"Don't try to buy me, old man. Those barrels are from Mirkwood, and I find it hard to believe you just appeared at the same time they did."
"As has that coat. No doubt you have some hungry mouths to feed. How many children?" Balin continued stubbornly.
"I'm not gonna answer to a runaway. Thranduil's men will come for you. I want no part in this."
Oin nudged at the bushes, revealing a tall, grim-looking man, his attire as weather worn as his face. The man noticed that, however, and aimed his bow at them. "Who's there?" he demanded.
"Must have been a rabbit –"
"I saw a man! How many of you are there? Speak up! Stand where I can see you!"
Thorin cradled Lily in his coat and stood, as weak as he was, and walked out of their hiding spot. They just escaped the cursed duke's dungeons. He could not afford getting caught again.
The man eyed them suspiciously, then loosened his bow slightly when he noticed Lily. His eyes widened first in shock and narrowed in confusion, but something about the woman's pitiful, shaking form must have affected him, for his eyes continued to dart in her direction.
"I am Thorin," he said gravely, "we are thirteen men and one woman, who is gravely ill. We need help."
The man glanced at Lily again. "What happened to her?"
"Heat loss," Oin supplied quickly, "a reaction usually triggered by prolonged exposure to cold elements, causing dangerously low body temperature –"
"I know what heat loss is," the man said impatiently. "Was it caused by the Forest River?"
"Aye," Oin replied somberly, "spent several hours in the icy water. I did what I could, but she still needs rest and plenty of warmth. Here, we cannot linger."
The man lowered his bow. He scratched his beard, deep in thought, eyes grim and troubled.
"You wish to go into Lake-Town?" he asked.
"Aye," Balin confirmed. "Just for a short while. We will pay you for your efforts."
The man glanced at them, noting the state of their belongings and the haggardness of their form. "No one enters Lake-Town but by leave of the Master. All his wealth comes from trade with the Woodland Realm. He will see you in irons before risking the wrath of the Duke."
"Smuggle us in, unseen, and we will pay you double," Balin promised him.
The man narrowed his eyes at him, suspicious, and scrutinized them once more. No man budged, all stood firm and true, ready to face and challenge the mistrustful eyes. The man glanced at Lily again, and Thorin's eyes narrowed when he noticed the sudden grief that darkened the man's lined, harsh face.
"Help me get those barrels to the barge," he commanded.
Thorin allowed himself a very small, and short, spark of relief.
She felt like she was burning.
Ningalor opened her eyes sluggishly, feeling dazed and confused and very dizzy. Her skin felt horrible, as if every inch of it was prickled by needles and pins, and had her body been stronger, she would have stripped off all of the layers that caused that sensation. It took her a while to realize that she was, in fact, naked, and that her body was firmly pressed against another body.
She lay in a fetal position while the other body cocooned her form entirely, legs pressed against legs and her back against a chest as two, muscle knotted arms covered her own arms and hugged her firmly.
She felt an ache, a bone-deep ache, and incredibly weak and exhausted, as if she has not slept for several days. Her head felt stuffed and her world was blurry, and she felt, in short, incredibly miserable and sick.
Uncomfortable too, and too warm, but too utterly unfocused to manage to do anything about it.
She closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep.
It was late in the morning when she opened her eyes again, or so she thought based on the light floating through the drapes. This time, thankfully, her eyes managed to focus on her surroundings.
She lay on a wooden bed, cheap and small, that could support two people only if they were pressed against each other. The floor was wooden too, and the entire room looked (and smelled) like a fisherman's cabin. In the fireplace, a fire burned brightly, and next to it sat a young woman – she looked about seventeen, at the most, and washed her laundry by scrubbing the fabric forcefully against a metal washboard.
Ningalor groaned weakly when she tried to sit – her body protested vehemently against such exercise. The room was too hot, even for her, and her clothes irritated her skin, and from her location, she did not see any member of the company. Was she alone?
"You're awake!"
Ningalor blinked when the girl-woman walked briskly toward her, dried her hands on her dress and pressed her palm against Ningalor's forehead.
"You have a fever, but the real danger's gone."
Ningalor looked up at her, opened her mouth to say something, not sure what, and ended up sneezing quite pathetically.
She accepted the fabric the girl offered her and blew her nose. "Where am I?" she managed.
"In my Da's house," the girl said unhelpfully, "I'm Sigrid."
"Lily." She coughed. "Who is your Da?"
"Bard; he is a fisherman; and a bargeman." The girl looked at her. "Do you remember anything at all?"
"I remember many things." Lily managed to cock a brow, though she doubted it had any affect. "You might want to specify which event you are referring to."
Sigrid looked mildly embarrassed, but also intrigued. She was a pretty girl, Ningalor noted. Not yet a woman, perhaps, for her face was still round, but her eyes – large and almond shaped – were kind and clever, and her well-shaped nose and mouth and her round eyebrows made her expression comely. She will grow up, no doubt, to be as beautiful a woman.
"I meant from the accident. My Da said you spent hours in the Forest River."
"Yes…." She tried to think what should she say and how much of it. "I do not remember that too well. I just remember being cold." Safe enough, and not that far from the truth.
Sigrid nodded. "Your husband is very worried. You slept for two days straight."
Ningalor's eyes widened. "He- he is?" she asked weakly. She had no doubt to whom Sigrid referred, but did not want to contradict her, if that's how Thorin chose to introduce them. She did not know even if that innocent comment was a product of such declaration, or if that was what the girl assumed based on the closeness between them.
Sigrid nodded again. "He didn't really want to trust Da, at first, but eventually he agreed to do what Da said. We live on the river, so we've had our fair share of heat loss cases." She paused. "My mother died of it."
"Oh, I'm-" another sneeze, "very sorry to hear that, truly."
Sigrid shrugged. "It was many years ago. Besides, Da says she'd have wanted us all to be happy together, so we shouldn't grieve."
Ningalor offered a tender smile. "Your father sounds like a very nice man," she commented. "How many are you?"
"I have a younger brother and a younger sister. My brother sometimes goes hunting or fishing with Da, and my sister is too young, so I take care of the house," she said proudly, "and of you, since the men had to go out."
"And you are doing a great job, I'm sure." Ningalor smiled, then frowned. "Do you happen to know why they left?"
"Da shows them the way out, I think. Or something like that, in case the Master found out about you." She lowered her voice. "Mirkwood folk came to warn him, I think. Da said something like that."
Ningalor nodded, still frowning. There was more she'd have wanted to find out, but now was not the time, nor was Sigrid the right person to ask. She attempted a smile. "Now, I feel like I slept for far too long. Think maybe I could join you? I might not be a very good help, but I know a thing or two about house-keeping."
Sigrid frowned at her at first, then smiled hesitantly. "Well, I suppose… but you must rest, so nothing too tiring."
So thus she found herself seated at the table, a weather and food stained balancing book nearby and a just as weathered pen at hand, trying to balance the numbers and explain the math to the young woman, who tried to scrub the floors and listen to her at the same time.
Every once in a while, a younger child, named Tilda, appeared, glanced at them, and ran to hide in her room. "She's nine," Sigrid said, "and she's not that shy – she just doesn't want to do her chores."
"Who would?" Ningalor supported the girl, and both of them smiled wryly at that.
The time passed quite nicely in this manner, and both were immersed in trying to solve the issue of balancing the growing expenses (the master raised the taxes again, apparently). As a result, neither noticed the commotion of the men returning to the house, until the cries of "Lily!" made them both jump. Sigrid suddenly remembered that she had yet to take care of dinner, and Ningalor found herself effectively surrounded by the two heirs, Oin, and Bofur – all of whom seemed very excited at the notion of her recovery.
"Lily! –"
"You're awake! –"
"Thought you died –"
"Or worse –"
"Kili, what could be worse –"
"Now, now, don't exhaust the patient, that's Oin's job, lads!"
"Which I cannot do properly with all of you squabbling about!" the old man chastised, "Now, Lily, how do you –"
Ningalor sneezed.
The men looked at her, slightly stunned, then chuckled warmly. Apparently the sight of her, red nose and cheeks and eyes slightly glazed, was a comic one indeed. Oin placed a hand on her forehead, made her open her mouth and checked her reactions. "Just a common cold, now!" he diagnosed. "You will need to drink a lot of tea, and rest, and soon you will be as good as new!" he declared.
Kili smiled cheekily. "Now maybe Uncle won't try to bite everyone's heads –"
He was silenced properly with an elbow to the ribs, and the too cheery smile on Bofur's face told her all she needed to know.
"Come, lads, Oin, let's see what's cooking in the kitchen, eh?" Bofur stirred them all toward the door, where stood, as sullen and grim as ever, Thorin.
Her heart jumped at the sight of him, but the displeasure vibrating around him made her worry her lower lip in uncertainty. He did not look pleased to see her, and the notion made her gulp uneasily.
The man leveled a glare at her, sighed in aggravation, and shook his mane as he stepped closer. "I am supposed to be angry at you," he informed her. "Your careless actions caused us quite a delay, too many headaches, and depleted what was left of Oin's herb supply." She flinched and looked down, then up in surprise and hope when he sat next to her and cupped her cheek gently. "But I am far too pleased to see you recovered." He paused momentarily to stroke her hair. "I thought you were going to die in my arms," he admitted.
Ningalor's eyes widened. She had never heard him speak like this before, voice weak and careful and full of emotions. "Thorin, I am sure my situation was not that bad –"
His eyes snapped to look at her, ablaze. "You were unconscious for two days, Lily! That was, by far, one of the worst cases of heat loss I have ever seen. Were the water colder, were I slower to find you…." He looked away, fists clenched. "You know you are susceptible to cold temperatures… you –" He looked at her again, and the blue eyes were clouded and shifting between rage and resignation. "Next time you make a plan, of any sort, I want to be informed. You rescued us, but nearly at too great a price."
Ningalor thought of Smaug, yet said nothing. Instead, she placed her hand over his and stroked his knuckles gently until the fist relented and his hand held hers, quite possessively.
"I promise." She cupped his cheek, fingers buried in his beard. "I am sorry I have caused you, all of you, such distress. I miscalculated. I thought I'd manage to climb on top of the barrel, I…." Her voice died on its own, for Thorin took her hand and kissed it gently. She blinked uncertainly, smiled carefully, and properly sneezed.
"I'm sorry –" she managed, flustered as she blew her nose, "I'm afraid I caught a cold…."
Next to her Thorin looked away, then again at her and, inexplicably, began to laugh.
The sound, low and quiet, vibrating deeply within his chest, and the soft wrinkles around the eyes as the face attempted to adjust to the unfamiliar expression made her eyes widen incredulously. The action induced her to sneeze yet again, which prompted Thorin to laugh some more and ruffle her hair when she still looked at him with eyes almost childishly wide.
Feeling almost foolish at the unexpectedness of the events unfolding, she managed a smile of her own and then, sensing her cheeks heating up, she dared to rise from her chair and move to seat in his lap.
Thorin, surprised, stopped laughing, but hugged her to him all the same. She hid her face in his hair nervously, but relaxed when one of his arms supported her back while the other rested on her knee, pulling her closer to him. He chuckled when he turned to look at her to find her glancing at him with eyes just a tad too bright and face all too red.
"How are you feeling?" he inquired, stroking her cheek.
"I'm sick," she confessed, pursing her mouth when he chuckled again.
"I can tell." He frowned. "You should be in bed, not…" He inspected the balancing book, "balancing equations." He groaned and muttered, "I hated doing those when I was younger."
Ningalor wrapped her hands around his neck and pressed her nose against his chest, feeling perhaps too warm and too dazed, but very pleased and relaxed. "I spent two days in bed, I don't want to –" She sneezed and accepted the cloth gratefully. "No," she finished and blew her nose.
Thorin tried to scowl at her. "By Mahal, Lily, you even sound like my nephews." His hand in her hair was tender, however, and he made no attempt to move.
Ningalor pouted, but indeed began to feel rather sleepy and merely muttered in response, "I missed you," she mumbled against his neck.
It took a long moment for the words to finally register and only when Thorin cuddled her closer and whispered, "I was with you the whole time, Lily. I told you, I want you always at my side."
He very gently kissed her cheek and Ningalor's eyes widened and her cheeks heated again when her mind finally caught up with the situation. She grabbed Thorin's shirt in her fist, feeling quite wretched all of a sudden – always, he said. Always.
But there won't be 'always'; not for them.
No, for the moment he learns the truth of her birth, he will send her away, cast her aside, leave her deserted and broken hearted and – Ningalor gulped, heart galloping.
He is going to break her, and she him.
She never thought – not about him, of what she will leave behind. That 'always' was a promise he was going to break, a promise she is going to face the consequence of. But while she knew that, he… he has no warning of what's to come. He thinks she is going to be with him, always.
She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and the strange misery that suddenly flooded her form. Not a moment ago, she felt happy like she had never felt before. Now, she felt like she was drowning.
No, this would not do. Determined to enjoy every stolen moment with her love, every precious second, she lifted her head and kissed his cheek affectionately, nuzzling at his beard and savoring the somewhat surprised chuckle.
She wasn't going to grieve her folly before her time. She wasn't going to grieve for Thorin, not while he was so peacefully pleased. Happy. She made him happy. She would wreck that same happiness later, but for now, safe and secure in his arms, she was not going to give that up.
Thorin turned his head to glance at her, and the arresting blue made her heart skip a beat. His eyes fluttered and focused on her lips, and Ningalor, quite unwillingly, angled her head away. "I'm sick," she explained bashfully when Thorin scowled.
"I am ready to face the consequences," he declared gallantly. His fingers curled underneath her chin, tilting her head, as he gently claimed her willing lips.
Her breath escaped her at the tender touch as she buried one of her hands in his hair while the other gently cupped his jaw and caressed the rough beard. Thorin bit her lower lip and teasingly earned his way into her mouth as his fingers tangled in her hair and his hand traveled up her thigh…
"…I don't want to – you do it…."
"I knocked last time –"
"You opened the door, without knocking –"
"You open the door then –"
"But if they are... y'know…."
Thorin growled against her lips, inducing her to chuckle breathlessly. He lowered her back to her seat and marched to the door, which he opened with an annoyed thrust. "What?" he barked.
From her spot, she could hear Kili and Fili smiling unrepentantly in their uncle's annoyed face. "Dinner's ready."
"Thought you'd want to know."
"Before –"
A hiss of pain made her rise from her chair to find Thorin pulling Kili's ear before the youth managed to complete whatever unsavory nonsense he was about to utter. She smiled despite herself, walked toward the Durins, and rested her hand gently on Thorin's arm.
The man released the boy's ear immediately, but looked no less pleased with the duo. "Go," he ordered.
Ningalor smiled when the two all but bolted – eyebrows wriggling and Thorin snarling – and then rested her head on Thorin's arm.
"More trouble than they are worth," he grumbled, and Ningalor wondered if he was embarrassed by his nephews' teasing. The thought made her smile as she glanced up at him, which made Thorin scowl half-heartedly as whatever it was that stiffened his frame deserted his form.
"Come." He took her hand and led her to the dining room where the rest of the company waited for them, as well as two males she had yet to meet.
The older one was Bard, she assumed. The man had shoulder-length, tousled dark hair, that was kept somewhat in check in half a ponytail. His face was broad and handsome, grim and honest. His eyes were kind when glanced at his children and mistrustful when focused on them, his lips were thin and pursed and his forehead lines with worries. He had aristocratic cheekbones, hollow cheeks, a strong chin, a mustache as well as a small beard, and his skin was sunburned and weathered by the harsh winds and the long days spent facing the elements. He was dressed poorly – his coat looked like it was made from the hide of one beast, roughly cut and made into something wearable, and his tunic underneath looked like a sack someone cut holes into and then tied in the middle. The young boy next to him – probably his son – was better dressed, even if his clothes had yet to fit his frame, and Ningalor had no doubt that whatever coin the man made was spent on his children, and not on him.
The young boy resembled his father, but his face was round still and his eyes large and not as mistrustful. His brown curls and his pinkish cheeks, as well as his pale, blue eyes, reminded her of Frodo, which made her smile. He wore a coat similar to that of his father, but his tunic was made of leather.
Their clothes were a mix, she noted, glancing at Tilda and Sigrid as they ran to their father. Some pieces new and cheap, some weathered and of fine quality. They could have bought those items from a ruined family, or maybe received them as donations to the poor… but somehow, glancing at the man's too sure, too regal posture made her think it was the other way around.
The man nodded to her in acknowledgment, a gesture she returned, and they all sat around the small table (the children and the head of the family moved to dine in the kitchen). They supped jovially, with many stopping to ask her about her wellbeing – even Balin stopped for an encouraging pat, and Dwalin nodded her way…
Nori cocked his brow at her, eyes unreadable, but Thorin's hand on the small of her back and Kili's and Fili's ever bright smiles more than made up for that.
She crossed and escaped Mirkwood unrecognized, the company (more or less) trusted her, and Thorin's tender eyes never left her.
Feverish as she may be, Ningalor glanced at her lover, and dared to hope.
She woke up in the middle of the night, again, cocooned in Thorin's arms and pressed against his chest. She frowned, vague memories of dinner dancing through her fogged mind – she had a cup of mulled wine and leaned against Thorin's shoulder… she must have fallen asleep. The notion embarrassed her, but she felt too safe in Thorin's arms to worry about that overmuch. The man slept deeply, and despite the frost on the window and his nakedness under the thick fold of the fur, a thin layer of sweat glistened on his skin.
It was very hot in the room, she noted, glancing at the cheerful fire, and she was incredibly thirsty. After a short debate, she found herself waddling toward the kitchen, searching for a clean cup and a source of water.
The cabin was silent, if one ignored the rumbling snores. The wood creaked and groaned with the movement of the waves, and the scent of fish and salt was refreshing, if a bit too strong for her taste. The light shining in from the window – pure, unadulterated moonlight – was breathtaking, and Ningalor soon forgot all about her thirst. Spellbound, she stepped closer and closer to the window until her hands and face were nearly pressed against the muted glass. The sight of the lake and the cabins floating on top of it, rooted to the bottom on uneven sticks, made her heart flutter. Feeling around for hinges, she tried to open the window and actually see the unnatural settlement, boats instead of carriages and waves instead of grass and –
A hand on the window closed it shut before she had such a chance to get a proper look, untwisted by the glass, and Ningalor jumped with unease to find herself face to face with the cabin's grim owner.
Bard narrowed his eyes at her, and his suspicion remained even after she hurried to take a few steps and distance herself from him and from that window.
"Forgive me, I…." She sensed an explanation was needed, as well as an apology. "I found the sight to be captivating."
"Rotting wood on an icy lake," the man dismissed her, eyes narrowed further, "and the Master's watching. Shouldn't you be recovering or something?"
"Probably," Ningalor shifted, frowning at the mention of that Master, again. Didn't Sigrid say something about him? Oh, if only her brain weren't so fuzzy at the time! "I was… thirsty," she admitted.
The man scowled, scrutinizing her, and apparently decided either to believe her or that a cup of water wouldn't hurt, for he turned his back to her and muttered, "Won't find water there," and entered the kitchen. She followed hesitantly.
Bard filled a cup from a barrel and offered the cold glass to her, which Ningalor accepted appreciatively and gulped thirstily, yet politely.
Bard observed her throughout the process, but she could not tell what thoughts crossed the troubled man's mind.
"Thank you," she said gracefully.
"Hmm." Bard accepted the cup and filled it again. "Feeling better?"
"Yes, quite." She smiled. "I am very grateful to you, for offering us a place to stay and for me to recover." She hesitated, then added, "At a risk, too, I was given to understand."
Bard was still frowning, but his features were grimmer than before. "Aye. A fact your friends do not appreciate, I have to say." He dismissed her when she opened her mouth in an attempt to explain. "You seem like a strange addition." He pointed out. "You don't fit."
Ningalor gulped, unsure, feeling the fear rearing its head from the shadows of her thoughts. "What makes you think that, good sir?" Had the Mirkwood guards mentioned her, as well? Why? How could they know? Did someone see her? Or –
The man's chuckle was bitter. "I am no sir, Miss, and that's exactly what I meant – you sound too… cultivated, for their sort. And judging by their clothes, they are not some mere travelers as they claim to be. That Thorin, especially."
She blinked, but kept her face expressionless. What could she say that won't expose them? They did not share their cover story with her; she had nothing to say, and so she remained silent.
Bard scoffed. "Figured you'd say nothing." He crossed his hands over his chest. "I just don't want trouble, Miss. My children have been through enough."
"We mean no harm," she hurried to reassure him, but Bard was not impressed.
"You escaped Mirkwood, didn't you? That's as bad as it gets, around here."
"We will be gone as soon as we can, and endanger you and your family no longer. You can trust us to remember this act of friendship and repay it when we can."
The man shook his head. "You speak like a lady, but you and your band of vagabonds have no title to your name, or you wouldn't be sneaking about. I want no business with you. I pitied you, Miss, because of my wife. That's all; no kindness, no friendship."
"And yet, we will treat it as such," she insisted.
Bard cocked a brow. "And who are you, Miss, to make such promises?"
"I am no one," Ningalor promised, "but I know quite a few influential people who… erm… hold me in regard high enough to aid those who aided me."
Bard scowled at her. "You speak in your own name, not theirs, and you aren't offering their aid, either…." He crossed his arms. "Why?" he demanded. When she did not answer, he mused, "You are unmarried." The accusation plain.
Ningalor cringed inwardly. "Indeed, I am not," she admitted softly.
Bard cursed. "Keep that to yourself, if you please. I don't want my daughters to… get the wrong ideas –"
"Of course," Ningalor hissed, eyes narrowed. The implication was clear enough, unwelcomed and humiliating.
The grim man did not appear to care for the insult he paid her.
Ningalor decided that, if the man allowed himself to ask such things and make such inquiries, she is allowed the same. "Forgive me, but earlier you mentioned… a master? Who might that man be?"
Bard scowled, then sighed. For a long moment, he said nothing. "I don't… are you from the area?"
"No," she was quick to mutter.
Bard did not seem suspicious of her reaction. He appeared to be lost in memories, somber and dark. "Well. It's… it's a long story, old history. But the short version is that once this shithole has been…. Something. The lake lodged between the two dukedoms wasn't settled for many, many years, and instead, the city of Dale flourished on its shores. That was eighteen years ago, before… before Smaug the Serpent came, with his machines of fire and armies of clansmen. The Duke of Dale failed that day, his aim was not as true as his people needed it to be, and Dale fell. Its people, to escape the fires of the Man Snake, built Lake-Town on the rotting beams and ruins of Esgaroth. The people of Esgaroth, in the days of old, had no duke. The new settlers didn't want one. Their old duke failed them, you see. So they voted for a man to rule over them, for a limited time. That's how the Master was elected. But people forgot the ways of the past, and now he rules like a proper duke and taxes us the same." Bard frowned at the lake, oblivious to the moonlight's beauty. ''We fell with Dale," he muttered, as if to himself, and added, "He will do whatever necessary to keep his position, and that includes silencing challengers and selling you all back to the Duke of Mirkwood."
"You have no love for him," she observed.
"Few do. And their number lessens each day."
"I dare say that you might be some of the opposition the Master fears?" Bard looked troubled at her observation, and she took that as a confirmation. "Why?"
"I don't think he rules as he should, that's all." Bard's eyes were fixed on something in the wall. Was it a… an iron arrow? An ancient hunting tool, perhaps? A decoration?
"Why don't you remind the people of that fact that his rule is timed, as you said? Replace him?"
The man's eyes snapped and focused on her, unreadable. "Can't," he said finally. He poured himself a cup of water as well. "You said you'll be leaving the moment you can," he said, changing the topic abruptly. She nodded mutely. "Where to?"
"Well, on our way."
Bard rolled his eyes at her. "You are in the middle of nowhere, woman!" She would have been offended at being addressed as a 'woman' had she not been preoccupied with questions she could not possibly answer. "Mirkwood is closed off to you, and the rest of the road leads to nothing but mountains."
Ningalor held her breath as the man's scowl turned darker and darker. "Where are you going?" he muttered darkly. He was beginning to guess, she realized, and his suspicion was not to his liking.
Ningalor pursed her lips. She knew she could not answer that; she also knew Bard's mistrust meant trouble, but what could she say? Think!
"Well?" he demanded, "Where are you headed?" His hand twitched, and she could read the warning in his eyes; that if he were to guess that they are headed to Erebor, to awaken the sleeping beast that ravaged his people, he would…
"Iron Hills," suddenly a voice, deep and smooth yet as strong as thunder, cut between them, "to visit members of our Bond."
Thorin, dressed in his pants and not much else, emerged from the door and crossed toward them, eyes challenging the other grim man fiercely.
Bard took a step back and Ningalor a step forward, standing in between the men. Thorin's hand landed on the small of her back possessively, yet his eyes did not glance her way.
Bard nodded, eyes still wary and full of distrust, and only then did Thorin lower his eyes to look at her. His eyes were troubled, and she could sense the anger tinged with worry shifting underneath. "Why are you out of bed?" he demanded, voice low and raspy.
"I was thirsty," she admitted, heart hammering. Must his eyes look so tense? Mere hours ago, he smiled, even laughed, in her presence…
His eyes soften at her reply. "Did you drink?" His shouldered slumped slightly, but his voice was still worried.
"I did." She placed the cup on the table. Bard was still frowning at them, yet remained silent.
"Come," Thorin ordered, steering her toward their temporary bedroom with more strength than necessary. She could feel Bard's eyes following them all the way to the door.
Not a moment after he closed it Thorin grabbed her by the arm, his hold sure and firm. "Lily, what did you tell him?" he muttered, the worry rising yet again, carrying with it the same anger from before.
Her breath deserted her lungs, confused. "Thorin?"
"He asked you questions. About us. I need to know what you said," Thorin cut through her words, impatient. His grip tightened. "If you told him anything, I…."
"Thorin!" she hissed back, "Do not threaten me!"
Thorin blinked, suddenly conscious of his actions. He sighed, his grip loosened slightly, but his voice was still harsh. "I need to know if I need to awaken the men and leave now or not, Lily. And that depends on what you told –"
"Nothing!" she cried, feeling the pain welling in her stomach. "I thanked him for hosting us, promised him we would repay his kindness, and asked him who the Master was. Do not assume so little of me!"
Thorin breathed with visible relief and grumbled, "You already told Elrond –"
"The Duke of Rivendell already knew, do not mistake that," she reprimanded, then sighed, "I would not jeopardize your quest if I could help it, Thorin." She sounded hurt, though she tried not to, and cringed when Thorin's expression softened; he picked up on that, and the notion displeased her. She didn't like the ease with which he could read her. She felt naked before him, vulnerable.
"I woke up," he said suddenly, "to find you gone, and then I heard you speaking with that man and…." His hands cupped her cheeks instead of her arms and he kissed her forehead with a passion she did not expect nor understand. "Amrâlimê…."
She sighed, but did not protest. In truth, she missed the foreign words and the tenderness behind them. She smiled gently at him and took his hand; she did not pause to think about the way his hand had caressed her cheek before his fingers tangled with hers. "Let's go back to sleep," she offered shyly.
That, however, proved to be more of a challenge than she thought. The bed was, after all, narrow. Thorin took off his pants – the room was indeed warm – and lay on his side, then guided her to lie on her side next to him. His arms held her to ensure she would not fall off the bed, but the position did not allow her to move much and the cramped position was too uncomfortable.
She shifted, risking an embarrassing fall yet somehow, with Thorin's aid, managed to lie on her back and tried to entice Thorin to sleep on her chest.
The man looked at her, frowning. "Lily, I'd crush you," he objected.
"It's uncomfortable," she complained, "and I won't be crushed."
Thorin leaned over her. "Lie on me, then."
"Thorin, you are already sweating. Can you imagine having both me and that fur for a blanket?"
The man frowned, uncertain, so she opened her arms to him, gently caressing his beard, and slowly Thorin lowered himself onto her chest, placing his head above her racing heart, one hand pushed underneath her head, tangling in her hair, the other caressing her side.
At first, the added weight did knock the wind out of her and made it hard to breathe, but she welcomed that weight, that body, because it meant that Thorin was still there, with her, a reminder that affected every inch of her. She breathed in the scent of his hair and his skin and his sweat and thought there was no better scent in the entire world.
She couldn't stop herself; she kissed his head gently.
"Goodnight, Thorin," she whispered, with her hand stroking his hair, the other hugging his back and caressing the moist skin.
The man grumbled something back, and soon was sleeping deeply, peacefully, on her chest. Ningalor smiled to herself and etched the treasured moment into her memory.
Even Thorin needed a safe place where he could feel protected and secure, she mused, heart cringing in love and pain; and he found such a place between her arms, resting against her heart.
Gods, she really should have listened to Gandalf, didn't she?
Notes:
Translation:
-Mereth-en-Gilith - the Feast of Starlight.
-Khajimuizi uh ôhùfuk - You set me free.
-Âzyunguh ana zi ubzûnatiki ubzar magh nâturma 'azahyi kidhuzaz - My love for you runs deeper than an endless sea of gold.
-Âzyunguh ana zi tursiki uhrus magh Mahalul gabil khubûb - My love for you burns hotter than Mahal's great forges.
-Amrâlimê- love of mine Bard is NOT happy. At all. Which makes sense. Also, Thorin sucks as identifying undercover royalty.
What do you think? Next chapter next week! Also - thank you, thank you, thank you to lucife56 for her AMAZING art! It's beyond lovely. I have no words to describe just how overjoyed I am. It is stunning. Y'all should check out her Tumblr - .com
Again- Thank you so much!