You thrash in his arms, and you are not a scared young lass from Dale, you are a ranger's wife, you press your palm into his wound with trained precision and twist out of his arms. He growls from pain and ire. "Do not dare doing it ever again, I am not your property, Thorin Oakenshield. I do not what harlots you have dealt with all these years, I will not be..." He roars in rage and grabs your shoulder. "Harlots?!" He shoves you forcefully, and you tumble on his bed. "I have not touched a woman since you left my house! How fast have you spread your legs after leaving me?!" He is pressing you in the sheets, his knee between your legs, one hand on your hip, another controlling your shoulders. You jerk and try pushing him off. You still cannot believe it is happening, you are more confused and frightened than enraged, and you are not fighting to the hilt.
He pushes one of his hands up your skirt and cups between your legs. You try hitting him with your knee, but he is too large, too strong. He snarls and bites into your neck. It hurts, and you cry out. He grabs the collar of your dress and jerks it, ripping the fabric. He is baring his teeth, and suddenly your body sags, and you feel tears running down your face.
It is not the Thorin you knew, not the Thorin you loved, and it is all your fault. You did it to him. You are still, your eyes on him, and he halts. And then he moves off your body, steps away, and he is pallid. The right side of his shirt is crimson with his blood, there is blood on his hand, he is disheveled. You sit up on the bed, there is blood on you too, and you pull the collar up, covering your breasts, visible through the gauzy undertunic.
"Mahal help me..." His voice is hollow, just like his eyes. He sways and heavily leans on the wall. His legs give in, and he slides on the floor. You quickly glance at the door, if you run now, he will not have time to intercept you. Panicked thoughts thrash in your mind. How are you to walk through passages? And Amrod… How are to explain the way you look? He will kill Thorin… Any other time you would doubt the result of such fight but the King is weakened…
You look at him. He is sitting by the wall, his head dropped into his hands, and you cautiously get up. "Your clothes..." His voice is rough and choked. "You still have your clothes in the dressing room… I will not touch you anymore, you have nothing to be afraid of… But if you want to conceal it, you have clothes to change into..." You are staring at him.
He lifts his eyes at you, they are pained and remorseful, there are tears pooling in them, he looks completely broken. "I will not ask for forgiveness, I will never deserve it… But he will try to kill me, and I do not think Erebor will take it well. Mira needs her father..."
You can go to the dressing room, find a simple dress, change quickly, wash off his blood from your hands and legs, take your husband and daughter and leave Erebor. You can go back to your small clinic in Ithilien and to your books, you can play with Mira in your garden and cook dinners. You can forget about the King Under the Mountain, you can pretend that nothing happened and forget what it felt like to kiss him after seven years and how your blood sang. That is what a good wife and a decent person would do.
But you realise you are neither. You walk up to him and kneel in front of him. You cup his face, his eyes widen in astoundment, and you lean in and press your lips to his. You feel his tears on your cheeks, and you deepen the kiss. You love him, you always have, and you forget about anything, your hands tremble from the painful desire, and tenderness, and yearning, and lust. His palms lie on your shoulders, it feels as if he is going to halt you and push you away, but you open his lips with your tongue, he gasps into your mouth, his hands clench, hurting you, and you welcome the pain, you do not deserve anything else.
He pushes you on the floor, his large body covering you, the weight both familiar and thrillingly, astonishingly strange, you arch into him, your legs wrap around his waist, and you moan, pushing your hands in his hair, the thick silky waves run through your hands, and his hot mouth is as demanding and luscious as you remember, and a thousand times better, and your head is spinning. His lips are on your throat, and he is feverishly murmuring in Khuzdul. The words are love, and lust, and rage, and blame, and guilt, and you drop your head back.
He jerks your drawers off, and you unbuckle his trousers. You push them lower, and he thrusts in you. You cry out, he is so large and hot, and you forgot the explosive ecstatic sensation of it, and you sob and chant his name. He starts moving into you, ravenously, greedily, no savouring, mashing your body, crushing you, and his hips jerk several times, and he spills his seed. You whine in disappointment, you want more, you do not wish for it to end, and he is breathing heavily, his forehead pressed in your shoulder. You remember that he always recovers fast, and your heart clenches. Once his mind is clear again, you will have to face him and the crime you have just committed. Just you, it is all you, you are the one to blame. Tears come, they roll off your face, to your temples, into your hair, and you suddenly remember your first night with the King. He fell asleep, his cheek pressed to your chest, and you were lying in that narrow inn bed, and the tears like these, hot and desperate, were running, burning your skin, the same mixture of love and pain tearing at your heart.
He takes a deep breath in and lifts his head. His eyes are cautious and vulnerable, he is obviously expecting to fight you on whatever you say now. But you are silent, you do not know what to say. He lifts on his elbows and his member slips out of you. "Zundush..." You shake your head and try to move his heavy body off you. He does not yield. "Zundush, we need to talk..." You are shaking your head again, "No, we do not. I need to go… You need to let me go..." You are suddenly suffocating, and you panic, gasping for air and pushing him off. He rolls off you, and you rush into the dressing room.
You vomit in a chamber pot in there, your body convulsing, ache running through your joints and abdomen, and then you push yourself to get up unsteadily. You wash your face and hands, pull off your dress, and wipe your legs from his blood and his semen. You open the wardrobe, everything is where you left it, the smell of dried flowers and dust hits your nose. You take the dress you wore for your herb gathering trips and pull it over your undertunic. Your drawers are still on the floor of his bedchambers and you need to go back there. You press the heels of your palms to your eyes and will yourself to calm down.
You return in the room, he has taken his shirt off and is trying to put on new bandages. Since he has to twist his upper body to encircle himself with gauze, his wound keeps opening and spilling more blood. You walk up to him and take the bandage out of his hands. Without looking at his face, you deftly tend to the wound, feeling his heat and his intense eyes on you through all of it, and then you step back. He is standing in front of you, his chest heaving, and you feel heartbroken. How many times have you seen him in your dreams in exactly such pose? Open and vulnerable, within the hand's reach, yours to keep.
You lift your eyes at him and speak decisively, "Thorin, forgive me, what I did was deplorable." He is silent, his eyes roaming your face. "I have made a mistake, I had no right… I just could not..." "You have nothing to ask forgiveness for..." His voice is quiet. "I do. I have betrayed my husband, and as I can see now, I have exploited your feelings for me. You do still love me, do you not, Thorin?" You look into his eyes, and he looks panicked.
You nod, you do not require an answer. "Because I still love you, and I always have," he makes a small movement towards you but you lift your hand halting him, "But I have no right to. I am another's wife, and I swore to be faithful to him. And now I broke my vow..." "You are not married!" "Wedding is just a formality. Seven years ago I promised him I was his, I chose him over you, and now I have broken my promise. I will leave Erebor now and on our way back I will tell him the truth. It will be up to him to decide whether he will allow me to stay with him, or not. And again, I am asking you to find enough generosity in your heart to forgive me. I should not have..." Your voice trails away, and you finally look at him.
All through your speech he was quiet, and now his face is unreadable. He is taking slow measured breaths in, and when he speaks his voice is dead, "You do not even consider staying with me." You morosely shake your head. You are Alfirin, a ranger's wife, and you will face any punishment for your crime. "Then you do not have my forgiveness. Get out." The pain slashes across your abdomen, and you clench your fists. You nod and leave his bedchamber. On your way out you pick up your drawers from the floor. You do not turn back to see what emotions are playing on his face.
The bedroom is empty, and you rinse your body and change quickly. You are calm, almost numb. You have your plan, and you have your determination. You send a servant for Mira, she has probably finished her breakfast by now. She comes back, and you start packing for your return trip. In the middle of your packing Amrod returns into the room. He silently joins you two, and two hours later you mount your ponies and set on the road. You do not say goodbye to anybody in Erebor.
The first day's travel passes in silence, and when the evening falls, you tuck Mira in, wrapped in warm blankets, and you sit on the log near Amrod. You are resolute but you do not know how to start. He chuckles, a joyless hollow sound, and turns to you, "I have to say, seeing you tongue-tied for once is refreshing, Alfirin." You are not looking at him and poke the burning wood with a stick. And then you start talking. In detached emotionless tone you tell him of your transgression and inform him that it is for him to decide how the two of you are now to proceed. You are willing to take any punishment for what you did, including leaving him, but you tell him you do not wish it. You ask him to let you stay by his side, and then you finally look at him.
His face is wan and somewhat vacant. And then he looks at his hands, his fingers intertwined, and his tone is astonishingly calm, "I did not expect you to come back to Ithilien with me, Alfirin. So in some manner I am almost grateful. You are going back, so I still have Mira, you obviously would have taken her away from me, had you chosen..." He chokes on his own words, and the narrow, long-fingered hands clench. "I will allow you to stay, and you will never speak of it, Alfirin. When I want to, I will raise this subject. And you will swear to me you if ever you are to have another dream of the King Under the Mountain, you will forget it with the first ray of the sun." You feel tears running down your cheeks, and you nod. He is still not looking at you. "I do not know what I feel right now, Alfirin. I do not know whether I will be able to share my bed with you, or my house, or my life, but right now you can continue travelling with me." He lifts his brown eyes at you, and the amount of pain in them makes you gasp. His composure wavers, and he rasps out, "I did not expect you to… I never… How could you?.." He jumps on his feet and disappears in the bushes.
You hide your face in your palms and cry, silencing your sobs biting into the flesh of your hand, not to wake Mira up. He returns in the morning, looking so much older and endlessly tired, and the journey back to Ithilien starts.