The line of dwarves treaded across the narrow bridge into Rivendell with less consternation than ever such a company of dwarves had in this stronghold of Elven-kind.
Situated amid foothills and drab moorlands browning in the dry heat, it appeared where the Loudwater broke, and very suddenly, if the reactions of the dwarves, tired from trekking through the craggy landscape, were any indication.
"I'll give the elves their due credit. Mighty lovely a place to look upon, this "homely" house," remarked Freyda, eyes drawn up at the towering waterfalls and sun-kissed walls of rock that backed and framed the Elven dominion. Meisar squinted upward toward the elegant edifices high above them, with their pointed roofs and many pale stone arches and walkways, a tranquil community there upon the gorge's edge.
She had dressed that morning with unusual care, in a traveling dress of forest green broadcloth and the tan-and-green patterned half-cape she had only ever donned for Bofur and Brynja's wedding. They were the only two articles of better clothing she owned, and the dress was still so long it dragged on the ground. She pinned it at the hems with bent needles she had begged off the other dwarrowdams, so that the bottom of the skirt circled her feet in elegant, if uneven, little scallops. It hid the ragged boots which could not be replaced in any case.
The elf Lindir floated down the steep staircase in front of them, in blue robes that trailed behind him like water. He was a stunningly beautiful creature, in an Elvish way, his darkish hair like a sheet of silk trailing down his back, eyes as blue as Thorin's, though his were tranquil pools rather than angry winter seas. "Lord Elrond awaits you. We have prepared an elk in anticipation of your arrival," Lindir's nose twitched with subtle disapproval.
"Your animals are welcome to refresh themselves at our stables," continued Lindir, wagging a discreet finger at the four lowlier elven stewards at attention just behind him. "Oats, hay and plenty of water are to be made available." His barely painted on smile did little to conceal how nervously the corners of his lips were twitching. The stewards yelped and drew back from the Ibexes who were having none of their hospitality, until Eda stepped in to lead them on herself.
"A homely house is most hospitable," said Meisar with a placid expression, capaciously practiced. Lindir squinted at Thorin, silent and holding back with the congregation of dwarves, some loathsomely familiar, many others less so.
"It is the dwarves of Erebor come at last. I bid you welcome, into our Homely House." Another elf emerged from the high stairs and came down to them. Tall and elegant, he was outfitted in a shimmering robe of embroidered bronze silk and a silver circlet about his head.
Thorin wrinkled his nose grouchily at Elrond and jerked his head for Meisar to handle the salutations. She came before Elrond and bowed with uncanny grace before the elf. "Your hospitality is most welcome, and much appreciated, my lord."
Lord Elrond studied the little redheaded woman standing at the king's side. She was so small he was tempted to stoop just to get a look at her, but realized quickly that stooping to a dwarf would certainly offer insult. "Messengers bring me word of the shepherdess on the road, a woman who leads her people home with great courage and resolve. I am pleased to see it is you, my lady Meisar. I bid you gladdest welcome back." He touched his forehead and put out his hand toward her as a gesture of some understanding.
"Milord," Meisar muttered quietly and ducked her head to Elrond.
"Since when did you keep company with the High Elves?" whispered Thorin.
"There is much about me you do not know, my liege."
"And welcome Thorin Oakenshield again. It pleases me to see that you live."
"Lord Elrond," Thorin ducked his head with minimal courtesy, remaining close to the lady's side. Lord Elrond made a small knowing nod out of Thorin's view. The dwarf king seemed rather... protective of this tiny lady, in the way that dwarves were around things that belonged to them.
"To accept hospitality is not to offer trust, my lady. Remember that," he whispered gravely to Meisar.
She sighed. "He is not that flaxen-haired fop in Mirkwood." Thorin grumbled resignedly to himself. It was true. Lord Elrond had never shown him anything less of the respect due him as king, even if Thorin had been less accommodating.
The dwarves huffed and puffed as they climbed what seemed like endless sets of stairs, each one steeper than the last, when dinner was offered them. On the portico they plunked down around the low tables, cushions as their seats. Elrond had two high seats brought to his own table, for the king and for the shepherdess. Thorin wasted no time moving the chairs so that his and Meisar's were abreast and Elrond was no longer seated between them. Elrond's brows had gone up out of their view. There had been talk, amongst the courtiers and especially the stewards that kept the rookery. News from the roads he had dismissed as gossip, a way of wringing the extraordinary a bit more. He had disappeared once under the guise of death, to dwell in the Shire of all places. That much was true. The rest couldn't be.
Elrond summoned the steward to pour another glass of wine for each.
"My lady, tell me of the road since Ered Luin."
Meisar looked toward Thorin in search of permission, which his eyes granted her. "We have been beset by orcs twice over. I am pleased to say the road has been safe for many days since then, but we have not yet reached the Mountains, and it does cause me some concern."
"You are a citizen of the land." He smiled at her with a certain admiration which he could see clearly enough was making Thorin shift restlessly in his seat, closing what little space there had been between himself and the little orange-haired dwarrowdam.
"I am a citizen of the dwarvish race, wherever it is we lay our heads at night," Meisar replied resolutely.
"The dwarvish kind but also the wilds. Most uncommon indeed, and bitten by a mountain troll," reminded Elrond furtively. "A small one if the size of the wound was any indication."
"She was a baby," Meisar murmured unhappily.
"Our healing powers are not confined to the treatment of our own," said the elf, veering away from what seemed a strangely sensitive subject. "For what it is worth, I am pleased to have been of aid to you."
Under the table, out of the eyes of elf or dwarf, Thorin folded his hand into hers.
"These dark forces come ever closer to our home," Lord Elrond mused, concernedly. "A dwarf you may be, exile or no exile, but you did not stay in the wilds. That I know for certain. What reason did you return to the dwarven lands in Ered Luin?" He tapped the scabbard-clad Orcrist upon the table. Thorin should know, he thought, agonized. A sword that from the deep was drawn by forces too dark to reckon with. Was it this, drawing out these toxins from their holes in the Middle-Earth? Perhaps this woman could say.
"I was called home, by my conscience," Meisar answered again, her vagueness chafing at the elf lord. She could read it even in that controlled, dignified face, a face he wore like a mask, covering something darker, more ominous.
"Your conscience guided you well then. The land has become dangerous. There were rumblings before the… the… battle at the gates of Erebor."
Thorin gripped her hand a bit harder beneath the table.
"…And those rumblings have not entirely ceased. There is something stirring within the earth itself. What think you of that, my lady?"
"It is known. I have known it myself to be true. It is a shadow. I know not its nature."
"Nor do I… yet." The corners of Elrond's mouth began to smile in a subtle, troubled way before he turned to Thorin and his expression again was like stone. "Do not go underground into the Misty Mountains for any circumstance," he advised Thorin gravely.
"You tell a dwarf not to go into a mountain?" Thorin bit back sarcastically.
"I tell a dwarf to spare his own life long enough to reclaim his kingdom." Elrond eyed Meisar with trepidation. He could not imagine Thorin Oakenshield in… (No, it could not be so). But the curiosity was too strong even for a disciplined kind like himself to leave be. "And the lady?" he asked Thorin, with firm direction.
"What of her?"
"The leadership of you both has been to the great advantage of your companies. I can see it most plainly."
A prickle in Thorin's spine urged him to rise, to give an elf no place in such matters. But he kept himself seated, holding back a hiss that was on the tip of his tongue. Finally he lowered his brows and looked Elrond in the eyes stoutly. "The lady will lead us home safely."
Elrond's eyes prodded him stubbornly, and turned then to Meisar, taking the lady in carefully, admiringly, as Meisar's eyes shifted discomforted away from Elrond's examining gaze. Thorin's brows knitted at him deeper. After a tense moment he then took Meisar's hand and kissed it firmly, as the Elf-Lord gave him an amused look of defeat.
"She has done quite honorably at this task already," Thorin assured Elrond.
The Elf-Lord's brows shifted knowingly. "So I see."
.
"You are strangely quiet, brother." Balin sat himself next to his brother on the dais overlooking the gorge below.
"Where is Thorin?" Dwalin asked tensely.
"There at the higher table with Elrond and the Lady Meisar. Official business to be discussed no doubt."
"Indeed," stewed Dwalin, something more worrisome beginning to ferment. Balin could always feel it, like the burn of Moria moonshine in his own gut. "Is his courtship now such a bane to you, brother?"
Dwalin didn't answer.
"Perchance it is the reason he has come back to us. Did you consider that?"
Dwalin scowled. "For love? Love? One of them romance tales. A waste of breath."
"Would the Creator have spared him but for the cause of it?"
"I question not the Creator or his doings."
"Perhaps you should speak to him of it yourself, brother. Lass or no lass, you are closer to him than any."
"Talk to him? Of romance and such like we're a gaggle of lasses? Ye daft?"
"It was only a suggestion."
"What do you think then? Tell me something I don't know brother."
"I have not seen him in such company with a woman before. But he takes comfort in her. There is a tenderness, if not a deep and true affection that kindles."
"He seeks that comfort in the arms of a woman? And not ourselves?"
"I think it not his grief that guides him in this matter. Truly, none save for Bilbo Baggins may ever know the nature of his struggles in the early days of his grief. I fear it is not for us to ask."
"But for her to?" Dwalin scowled.
"A jealousy rises in you for that?"
"Nay. I feel not envy for the shepherdess."
"Speaking of a lass…" Balin grinned and made a subtle nod of his head toward Freyda. She looked up and looked away again, never really achieving the subtlety she desired.
Dwalin only made a vague grunt toward his brother in return.
"In that case," Balin said, sighing in defeat, "dinner is served. Come, there is meat this time."
.
Lindir was keeping a keen eye on the dwarves. When he ducked out for this or that, the potatoes and greens were airborne, the wine sloshed about and the better tableware stored in Nori's coat pockets and Siv's bodice. Donbur had broken enough wind on his end of the terrace to shut down the dinner musicians and send them slinking away in their staid, impossibly elegant Elvish way before the meat had even been served.
Thorin had gone and so had Lord Elrond and the orange-haired lady so curiously near to him, by the time the ruckus got underway. Lindir looked about desperately for any of them. So when a head of hair brushed his fingertips and Meisar strode past, he at first jumped back in surprise but was then inevitably relieved. She ate with a fork after all. He had been watching.
"My lady, may I?" Lindir awkwardly offered.
The tiny woman squeaked when Lindir lifted her under her arms and placed her on the table where several other dwarves were seated. She felt like a doll. Fortunately Lindir had no interest in playing with her. He rubbed hands against his robe to scrub off the touch of dwarf. At least he knew she was a dwarf, Meisar thought.
"If Thorin saw that, the small-clothes wouldn't be the only things hanging out to dry," Nori remarked slyly. His eyes pressed at Meisar with a hint of teasing in them. He winked at Lindir and the elf wrinkled his nose.
"Then I trust the women did the laundering by the falls and not the sacred fount."
"Theirs maybe. I've no plans to be walking all that way to the falls for the sake o' dank stockings. Wash me undies in the baths I say. Two squirrels with one stone."
"That would be birds, you lout," scoffed Dori.
"Birds or squirrels, I very much wish to walk the gardens before dark. I just came to tell you, erm, if anyone is looking for me… tell them I went to lay down for a rest."
Her oddly serene smile had Nori cackling.
"Walk the gardens she says. Well I know one rose that'll be fairly plucked." He leaned over and nudged Ori. "He'll be up her jacksie tonight," he told Ori, Siv biting her lip excitedly beside him. "She won't the only thing in the room harder than stone."
"You have to treat a lady kinder than that. You put an arrow up a dragon's jacksie, and something else, you know… with a lady," protested Ori.
"There are all kinds of arrows in this world, Ori. And a lady's got more than one jacksie, don't you know?"
Ori looked at him confusedly.
Nori sucked his teeth after her. "He'll be lucky if his dwarfish iron don't get bitten off. There's no telling where else she has teeth…"
.
Meisar was pulled away not a moment too soon by the soothing scents of jasmine and lavender in the gardens below. She walked barefoot over the cool stones along the path. Black shadows of the Misty Mountains, darker still than the sky itself, loomed there just beyond. She raised her head and listened, shutting out the camaraderie of the dwarves still guzzling their hosts' wine on the portico above. A light mist from the many falls that churned down into the gorge nearby cooled her faces. Elves floated about, clad in silks of shimmering grey, indigo and rust. She straightened up as she saw Elrond coming down the path toward her. "Ah, Meisar," Lord Elrond offered her a courtly bow. "Would you walk with me, my lady?"
"Of course, my lord Elrond."
"How find you Rivendell? And your company?"
"It is lovely, truly. My company has been pleased with their respite." Her face twisted a bit. "My lord, I shall see to it that the mischief is kept to a minimum." They both turned at the sound of another burst of dwarven fracas. "I can only do so much, milord."
"Worry not for it. We have survived worse than dwarves," he smiled at her in a tranquil, reassuring way. From ahead, a young boy came hurtling down the garden-path. Dark-headed and dark-eyed with a little cleft in his chin, the boy looked up at Elrond and smiled broadly.
"Ah, Estel!" The elf-lord ruffled the boy's hair, pride in his eyes. "Where are you going in such a hurry?"
The boy smiled broadly. "To see the dwarves! I want to see the bearded ladies!"
"Remember your manners now," reminded Elrond, gently.
The boy put out his lip. "But dwarves haven't got any! They burp at the table and use their forks as catapults. I saw a potato fly clean across the balcony! And the fat one caught the whole thing in his mouth!"
"His name is Donbur and I would not go near him, unless you wish your nose hairs singed and your eyes to water," Meisar advised. The child could not have been more than eight years old but already stood higher than her. "Are you a dwarf?" he asked, brightly.
"I am a dwarf."
"Where is your beard?"
"I don't have one."
Estel scrunched up his shoulders in confusion and mild disappointment.
"To your books, Estel. You may see the dwarves later," said Elrond. Estel shrugged and tarried on. "Wait!" he cried, whirling back around. "Are you in love with the king under the mountain?"
"To your studies, Estel," Elrond chided a bit more firmly. He gave Meisar an apologetic glance.
The boy alas continued, determinedly. "That's what I heard them say. They said the king is in love with a lady who has no beard."
"The king has shown me great kindness."
"So you are in love?"
She ducked her head, the blush betraying her again, praying he was too young to understand the language of her ruddiness. "I think that is a question you will understand far better when you are older." She put her hands on Estel's shoulders and gave him a hug far more maternal than she was used to doling out. At the moment, it felt unusually necessary.
"Perhaps so," the boy sighed, defeated. An elven steward in sepia silk and light velvet swooped in gently to proffer a hand for the boy to hold, and the two of them went off together toward the great house.
Meisar smiled when they were gone from sight. "That boy is not your son. He is of the race of men."
"No, he is not my son. But I have raised him here at Rivendell as surely as my own."
"Is he an orphan?"
The elf lord sighed contemplatively and a bit darkly. "Or very close to it."
Elrond curved his stride to step about her and sit then on the stone bench, Meisar standing before him. His eyes met hers easily but with some force about his gaze. "I would encourage you to kindle this... affection. But do so with your eyes open, my lady."
"You presume to pry, my lord Elrond?"
He thought, perhaps hesitated, before speaking. "Children are the most honest of all creatures, I think. They understand how to get the heart of things, without ever realizing it. They are able to ask the questions that matter most."
"My Lord Elrond, I… have no answer for that. Not yet."
.
Siv made her way stiffly across the portico when the stewards went to fetch more wine. Salt and pepper shakers clacked as they met one leg to another, tied in with her stockings as they were. A silk table runner wrapped 'round her midsection tight, over the line of knives and dainty dinner forks pressed up tight at her belly. A candelabra there too was set, beneath her bosom, which served to press it upward and savagely so. Nori slipped a final bundle of spoons into the well between them, pushing down further and further to conceal the booty until Eda marched over and yanked his hand out of her cousin's bodice, giving it a good twist and slap. Thorin had returned, alone, to the portico, in time to catch that particular exchange, both Eda and Nori's hands still stuck down Siv's bodice. He looked away, quickly, as Balin made him a comfortable nest of cushions beside him at the low table.
"The elf knows?" asked Balin.
"As well he should," Thorin grumbled, his arms again wrapped over his sword. He sighed then though, apologetically, toward Balin. "A morsel of your wisdom, my friend, if you would." He smiled at Balin the way he did in Bag End, speaking of this group of 13 ragtag warriors, their purpose dismissed by all except their own. It was the last time he had seen Thorin's face with such humble hope in it.
"In what matter?"
He acknowledged Dwalin out of the corner of his eye, with some trepidation. "Elrond is not the only one who doubts what good will come of this."
"I desire your contentment just as you do," Dwalin said, his voice half a growl. "You'll forgive me if I'm not used to the idea yet."
"You know how dwarves are my king, especially when it comes to new ideas," Balin patted Dwalin's shoulder and he winced away; his hand traveled then to Thorin's shoulder. "I think between the two of you there is enough loneliness to crush a thousand souls."
"One can get used to being lonely," said Dwalin. "Nothing too dangerous about it."
"…Thus I say, you will either build upon each other something new and better, or you will compress each other, down into nothing. And grief, my king, will be that weight. Be careful where you apply it."
Thorin's lip trembled and then they pressed together sharply. "Alas she is a good woman, and you a dwarf of good heart. That is what matters."
"Have you seen her since dinner ended? I have not." Thorin glanced back at the dwarves, imbibing the wine with far greater vigor than the solid grapes served after the elk steaks. For the time, they were content, and as tame as they were going to get. He was not in the mood to bear camaraderie at the moment.
"Last I saw her she went to take the air in the gardens. A bit of jasmine to soothe your senses might not be such a bad idea yourself… my king." Balin winked, but as Thorin had figured out over the long years by his side, it was not a billet-doux but a command.
.
They had walked for some time before she realized they were no longer in the gardens but having climbed a set of stairs and traversed the length of a raised loggia, were on a terrace that faced the mountains now. Meisar climbed to see over the rail. "I forget how beautiful this place is," she said quietly without looking at Elrond.
"There is a change in you," Elrond observed quietly, looking into the mountains. Meisar smiled politely. "You have met me but once before, with no great familiarity."
"I have found dwarves to be, frustratingly at times, alike in their character, stubbornly so. All the same, I have learned most uncanny individuals are to be found among dwarves. You were a dwarf and a dwarf woman, alone in the wilds. Understand that I was intrigued to say the least. And now, again, I am intrigued."
"It is an uncanny time for dwarves."
"Will you go to Erebor by Thorin Oakenshield's side?" he asked suddenly.
"I have not made considerations that far into the future."
"Well you should, my lady, urgently so. If I am to understand dwarf custom correctly, your people only court each other so as to remain at each other's side for all your lives. Will you do so for him?"
"You would be correct then, my lord, of our customary ways. But he is a king as well as a dwarf. Things may be done slightly differently, especially now."
Elrond smiled placidly and sighed. "You have an understanding of the natural world and its rhythms that I have not found to be particularly strong in dwarves. It should serve you well to pay attention to it."
"Why so?"
"I sense Thorin Oakenshield may be in need of you for matters broader than his affection for you. Do not let his amours guide you exclusively. He is prone to look at things with blinders."
"I go forth with my eyes open, my lord. On all sides."
"My lord," the steward Lindir bustled in. "I require you but for a moment." Elrond patted Meisar's hand and excused himself. He and Lindir shunted off together. She was left alone on the balcony, to gaze into the night and ponder too many things at once.
"My father was right. You are not like some dwarves," a woman's voice came gentle behind her. She turned to face a slender raven-headed elf with skin of a porcelain quality. Full lipped and delicate, there a softness, a kindness to her that felt almost unnerving.
"I beg your pardon my lady?"
The elf stepped toward her unthreateningly. The folds of ochre silk in her gown moved like water with her. "I noticed you at dinner, seated with my father and your king. They say you are lady to him."
"I am."
"Lord Elrond is my father. I am Arwen, and I shall be glad offer my friendship to you so long as you remain here in Rivendell."
"I thank you, and offer my own in return. As for our time here, I pray for your sake it will not be long." She eyed the Elven stewards pattering past "Your father is wise."
"Wise, but deeply cautious. Too cautious at times."
"He is not the only one who questions my judgement, and Thorin's."
"It is my understanding that he has lost those dearest to him, and in the not so distant past."
"Yes, and much more than than that," Meisar answered grimly.
Arwen came down to her level. "Grief is a powerful burden. It can last a lifetime. We elves know better than any that time does little to heal, when we lose those we love."
"What do I do about that? I have no power to heal anyone's pain."
She took the little dwarf woman's hands in both of hers. "Your heart has but one lifetime and it is finite. Use it well in the time that you have. It is there to be trusted."
"Arwen?"
The elf turned back with a gentle smile.
"What if my head and my heart say different?"
"Trust your heart always. It is there to give hope where there is none otherwise. To yourself and to the one you are with. It is all the difference in the world."
She saw Thorin staring down at him from the balcony above and behind them. "I leave you thus, my lady," said Arwen.
"Since when do you commiserate with elves?" Thorin grumbled when he had finally descended to the stairs to reach her, and Arwen had floated off like a ghost into the night. Her eyes sparkled with a peculiar defiance at Thorin.
"I commiserate with whom I wish."
Thorin's set gaze was unconvinced. "Specifically, I commiserate with those whose healing skills can mend a troll bite, which I confess is beyond my ability. Repaying the kindness of the Lady Arwen, Lord Elrond's daughter, is not beyond my ability however."
"Come with me," he murmured. He took her hand and led her up a broad staircase into the guest quarters.
"I see Lord Elrond has provided you a chamber of your own," she observed shyly as they ascended.
He took her hands in his again, quietly. "Would you stay with me this night?"
"And share your bed?"
"With all honor I owe you, my lady. I shall respect your integrity in all manner, if that is what you wish."
She had not expected this, a promise of chastity or not. Trepidation pooled in her belly, tightening her body. But against what she thought, trying to reason with herself.
An elven maidservant showed them to an airy, well-furnished room. "My lady, a bath is ready if you'd like one," the elf-maiden said. Meisar squiggled in her sweat-stiff, earth-stained clothes, nodded in thanks to the elf-maiden, who left them then, alone together in the guest chamber.
When Thorin crossed the room, she did not follow. Her heart tightened in her chest. He immediately noticed the nervous tinge overtaking her complexion, awash in a shade of white. "You're un-eased about something." He took a step closer to her. "Do you fear being with me?"
She held herself back from shivering when he touched her. She traced shy hands up his forearms, amazed by their size in comparison to her own.
"I fear none." He traced a callused thumb over her bottom lip, pausing over the light tremble in it, as if she were afraid to speak another word. "But you fear something," he pressed.
She shook her head no, avoided his eyes, though they were surprisingly warm toward her. He cupped her face again and nuzzled her, the heat of his breath skimming over her parted lips. "Do not be afraid," he whispered.
Thorin evaluated himself in the long mirror near side the bed. "Would you un-braid my hair for me, Meisar?"
She decided not to distract herself in guessing Thorin's intentions at the moment. Instead she crossed the room after him, taking in the surroundings as if she were in the wilds again. It was an airy room, Elvish knotwork carved about the archways of every door and column, tall candelabras shaped like the branches of trees placed in the four corners of the room and two more beside the bed. The bed itself was large and inviting, sheets and plump pillows of pearl-white with a heavy top-cover of pale saffron threaded lightly with silver. The carved visage of an elf-maid with her arms open in offering loomed over the head, serene but ever-watchful. She stood beside Thorin and took up his comb, and he spread his mane of hair behind him, cascading over broad shoulders. As he sat on the edge of the bed she removed the beads from his plaits. She unbraided them with quick, careful fingers and combed through the knots, tending to his long dark hair from the bottom up. She brushed it with his own hairbrush that was made from some kind of fine horsehair, and it left his locks shiny as night.
The elves had already prepared a bath in the adjacent sauna. The steam carried, scented in lavender, jasmine and sandalwood. She ran a final stroke through his hair. "I think it well detangled," she murmured, shyly. Thorin turned and kissed her forehead. "Thank you," he said quietly and earnestly.
"You should have your bath now, my lord. Mahal knows when you will have the chance for another."
"Come back here when you're finished," he said, and feeling the heat in his words unnerved her slightly, just as they provoked a searing tingle deep inside of her.
"Yes, my king… Thorin."
She went down the airy corridor to the marble bath. The elven maidservant brought her towels and clothes for the night. "Will you need a room for the night, my lady? I can arrange one easily."
Meisar shook her head. "No," she answered, quite assuredly now. "I don't think that will be necessary."
Meisar stripped out of her clothes and let the maidservants take them for washing. The elf-maiden sat her down upon the dais beside the steaming water and ran her hair through with hot combs. She sat stodgily with the elf, arms crossed about her heavy breasts. The elf-maiden had a kind and delicate face and long auburn hair. She was so willowy Meisar wondered how she didn't blow away with a strong wind. What must she think of me, fat little dwarf-maid?
"Such lovely hair," the elf sighed admiringly. Meisar's hair was thick and crinkled from her plaits. "I'm sorry. I know I'm not supposed to be doing this." "Doing what?"
"Your hair. I heard that dwarves only allow for family or… sweethearts… to comb or braid your hair."
Meisar shrugged in a way that seemed to put the elf-maid at ease. "It is customary but it is not set in stone," she lied gently.
"Don't worry; I will say nothing to the king," she assured.
"I do not-"
"You are lovers?"
"I am his… valet," Meisar told the elf-maiden firmly.
"But you share his bed tonight?"
"It is not uncommon among dwarves. Our quarters are tight, and there are few of us women." She felt herself itching defensively. "It was not my idea."
"I will bring you something pretty to wear tonight," the elf-maiden winked. Meisar could not quite bring herself to smile back. "It is not necessary."
The elf-maid left with a serene, knowing smile on her face. Meisar sunk into the hot water of the bath. The scent of sandalwood and jasmine carried on the steam. She washed thoroughly everywhere, taking her time in the bath. The hot water was relaxing, and engulfing, so peaceful. It was like returning to her mother's womb. She washed and let her hand creep down over her belly to that spot between her legs. It was such an enigmatic and sensitive thing, that little nub. She could never quite touch it for long without convulsing and thrashing about like a fish out of water the sensation was so powerful. While she let her fingers do a nervous dance about it, she imagined rougher fingers exploring it, exploring her, inside and out. With that, she stood up from the heat of the water and reached briskly for the towel.
.
The dwarrowdams all spilled into the healer's chamber, which had been hastily appropriated as a guest quarter for them. The male dwarves had their own guest lodgings across the terrace.
Elven maidservants set out provisions for them and made pleasantries with them. Little Anbur and Yrsa were delighted at their beautiful silk gowns and smooth pale faces devoid of beards. They knelt so that the girls could touch their soft hairless cheeks, and they cried out with delight when the elves rubbed their little beards in return, to Urdlaug's seething distaste. Fluffy white beds with elegant head and foot boards carved like the canopies of trees enticed the dwarrowdams and they paired up into bed letting out groans of relief at the softness beneath them. "By the lady shepherdess's orders," grumbled Freyda, squinting out over the terrace. "Ladies in one guest room, men in the other." The sound of the men making merry and raucously so carried on the calm, perfumed air. The wind rippled through the drying undergarments and woolen socks that they had hung over the balcony in a line of inelegant flags. "Got to mind our manners. Don't need no dwarves lying together gettin' warm the bodily way. Make a bad impression on these elves, dirtying their pretty silken sheets." She nudged Siv boisterously.
"They already think us impotent and loveless."
"That and lacking their fine graces," said Freyda derisively, preening. The dwarrowdams giggled amusedly as she demonstrated a graceful stride across the chamber. "No fun at meals, no fun in the bedchamber either, methinks."
"Elves don't lay together, not 'less they've a spouse. They're very adamant about that," explained Gyda in a precocious tone.
"Never thought I'd be agreeing with the elves on any matter but there you have some truth. Either way, a good dwarrowdam waits for marriage," decreed Emli, crossing her arms.
"Well then, reckon the lot of us will be waiting forever," harrumphed Freyda, setting down her pillow and fluffing it up.
"Speaking of, where is Meisar?" queried Gyda innocently enough.
"Ye know where she is, lovie," winked Siv. Gyda was confused.
"Like I said, a good dwarrowdam waits for marriage," Emli repeated.
"Oh Emli, you couldn't mean-"
Emli folded her arms about a plump silken pillow and twisted her mouth tersely. "Meisar is a good dwarrowdam. That is all I have to say."
.
Thorin turned around when the door opened, and quietly Meisar slipped in.
She wore a yellow Elvish tunic, that trailed and bunched at her feet. She had to lift the hems when she walked, though the garment was snug about her, the frames of elf and dwarf women being what they were. Her hair was braided and wet, coiled about her head. Where the silk was dampened from her wet hair, it clung to her ever more urgently.
"You might not believe me if I said so, but Elvish silk suits you."
"It's a wee tight across the chest," she murmured, whether with humor or not he was unsure. She looked around the airy room, open to the gardens far below at the back. "Mudmul charaf," Meisar clucked. Good lodgings.
He gestured for her to sit on the bed, holding out a fine-toothed comb to her. His damp hair spilled loose over his shoulders, tangled from the bath. "If you would be so kind once more, my lady."
"With gladness."
She was struck by the sight of him so under dressed. He was clad in just his breeches and tunic. His layers of clothing- from the furs to his overcoat and doublet, inner coat, boots, mail and heavy gauntlets, had so far been ever present, even for sleep. The layers of journey-wear were hardly compensatory. The slate-blue tunic lay snug over the thick-angled contours of his shoulders and his chest. Thorin Oakenshield was reserved, but seemed hardly keen to downplay his obvious strength of limb. Only his long dark hair veiled the broad, powerful arch of his shoulders, still wet from the bath. Meisar blushed at the subtle protuberance in his breeches. She averted her eyes from the bulge, being of considerable contour even when he was not… hard (yes that was the word Brynja had used, a man when he was… pleased).
She swallowed against her own nerves, discreetly. "Are you tender-headed my king?" she asked shyly, taking up the comb and starting on the ends. His hair was soft as silk when it was wet, but heavier, denser. Thorin's tresses were black with an arch of gray at the crown, and when damp, it tightened into the slightest of waves. She stood there, at his side while he sat patiently upon the edge of the bed, well aware her position. His damp hair was slightly curled from the bath and his chest was broad and sturdy and filled out the simple cambric tunic.
"Hardly," he answered at last.
"I will be gentle nonetheless." She grasped a portion of it that was set at the front part of his ear, divided it away from the rest so she could braid it. After a moment of inexplicable hesitancy, she began to plait his hair from the temples. The intimacy of the request at first startled her, but soon made her legs weak beneath her in a better sort of way. She concentrated quietly on his braids. Her fingers were thick like this, impossibly small though, little hands, even for a dwarf. They braided precisely, his scalp and the side of his face tingling where the plait was closely rooted. She had only just finished the plait and clasped its tip between thumb and forefinger tightly, reaching for the silver and sapphire bead to secure it, when she felt his hand come to rest, quietly, even furtively, on the back of her neck. She avoided his eyes and concentrated on his braids, no matter how hard his azure stare urged her to look directly into the magnificent, melancholy pools. With even gentler insistence, he drew her down to him. Before she could finish another thought, his mouth was on hers again. Keeping the plait clasped tight in her fingers, she kissed. His clean scent filled her nostrils, far too flowery a scent for him but pleasant. She lingered, with both her lips pressed tight about his upper lip, her nose resting against his so that their exhalations mingled. She could feel the heat of his breath lightly against her face, the faint aroma of wine on his lips. Her nose twitched at it. "How care you for Elvish wine?"
"I much prefer mead. And the nectar of my lady."
With a smile, she clasped the bead into the end of his braid. "You make me look ever a king, my lady." Thorin placed his hand lightly on the side of her bowed head, a thumb stroking a loose tendril of hair from her temple. He raised her head to look at her with tenderness, and found her heavy-lidded eyes yielding. There was a peculiar delicateness about her face, framed in the light of the candles and the end of the dying sun as it was.
"You are a king. Never forget that." She kissed him on the silver crown of his head, burying her face then into the scent and softness of his clean black hair. She pulled back and set the silver strands. "I think them handsome," she whispered. "Regal."
He nuzzled the tip of his nose into her sternum. "Your feet must be sore. Will you sit?"
She sat, and he embraced her again. The warm, sweet male scent of him, and the warmth emanating from his body, made the Elvish fabric feel suddenly porous, taking his heat to her. Meisar let her body succumb to the comfort of his closeness. She scooted back into the middle of the bed. The night air found its way beneath the Elvish silk along with his fingertips, circling her ankle.
"Lord Elrond treated you for some wound?"
"A baby troll."
"You commiserate with trolls as well as elves," he gave her a teasing smile.
Her lips trembled with sudden hurt. "I cared for her Thorin. It was early in my days in the wild. I did not realize how fast they grew. Even then she cleaved to my side and cried out for me in the night. I fed her and bathed her, played with her. She was bigger than I was by the time I tried to take the bones from dinner out from her plate one night, and she sunk her teeth into my leg. I put a dagger deep in her spine to make it quick."
She blinked back tears, scrunching the Elvish silk about her knee tight. With a sigh, she raised it over her calf. The puncture marks of teeth and torn flesh long whitened over. It was not particularly large or menacing to the sight but Thorin frowned deeply at it.
"I wandered in delirium down the Loudwater. Lord Elrond's own sons found me while riding, and brought me to Rivendell. Elvish medicine tamed the infection."
He ran his fingers over the scar, his palm coming to cover the skin and knead at it. He studied the shape of her legs, pressed tight together beneath the thin layer of her tunic. They were shapely in the dwarven way, strong and thick-set and compact, but utterly feminine in their gentle convex curves, strong calves from years of journeying and working giving way to softer, voluptuous thighs. "You are a strange and courageous woman," he breathed, drawing away with suddenness.
"And you a strange and courageous king."
He shifted to sit himself behind her and nuzzled the lobe of her ear and kissed the tight, delectable skin just beneath it where the base of her skull curved around. She felt that kiss in her bones, as his beard pushed into the crook of her neck and lingered at the juncture of neck and shoulder, breathing in the scent of her clean hair and her skin, soft from the bath, lightly fragrant with sandalwood soap.
She hid a look of uncertainty from Thorin as he nuzzled the nape of her neck and down to her shoulder, feeling how intent his eyes are on her without looking into them. His breath was hot and the sharp rasping of his beard on her skin only made that heat mercurial.
He pulled the silk of her tunic away gently and kissed her shoulder, felt her sharp intake of breath at the contact. She bent her head forward shyly, an invitation however subtle, that he seemed to understand, to his relief. That little sliver of skin, the shape of a shoulder well-formed by years of rough living, sprinkled in orange freckles like constellations on a pale map, a white sky. He rested his face there, learning every freckle. Every inch she would yield was more precious than gold. He whispered into her ear and against her neck, sweet nothings in a bitter tongue. His Khuzdul was so deep and low it bordered on darker intent. It made her shiver all over.
A fingertip tracing the shape of her bare shoulder became the whole roughness of his palm, grasping her there, turning her around to face him. His head bowed to kiss her just above her collarbone, a reverent, gentle way about his touch. Her lips snuggled against his temple at the side where it met his hair, her breath quavering against his skin. He turned and plumped the pillow and tugged the bed-covers loose, making some fumbling gesture toward her. She dipped her head and smiled her shy smile. She knew.
She lay back cautiously.
Thorin remained upright for a moment, a sweet hesitancy in the posture of his body, the downcast hold of his eyes. "You do not mind sharing a bed with a man?"
"Or several." He thought he saw a tiny, humored smile crease her lips, amused at his brief expression of disbelief at this revelation. "Dwarf woman, close quarters- you get used to it."
Finally, to her wanting, deep and inexplicable as it was, he reclined, and rested on his elbow beside her. The space between them felt paper-thin, absent their many layers of leather and fur, metal and calico. She tugged the comforter tighter over her, resisting the urge to scoot far to the other side of the wide bed. His hand moved from under him but stopped before he made contact with her. "Does it unnerve you, my king, to lay here with me?" she queried quietly.
"No." The hesitant hand reached and touched her gently down the side of her arm. Elvish silk and her body together, both soft and foreign to his fingers. He shivered and she smiled at his timidness. Battle was easy compared to this, she imagined. But this was a battle of its own.
He ran a thick, callused finger along the way-side of her jaw. Her skin was delectable to the touch, the soft cream of her cheek icy, like a pearl plucked from the sea in winter.
"Do you find my beardless face strange to touch?" Hurt flashed brief in her eyes. "Or do you find it amusing perhaps?"
"I find it slightly exotic," Thorin admitted wryly. "It is… quite soft."
Meisar guffawed, seeming to be neither amused nor offended. "Soft? I have not been called that in some time."
"Soft folk don't survive scraping out a living in exile, or in the wilds." He raised his hand to her cheek, with the callused pads of his fingers stroking her lightly about her face. "I am glad for it, that you have some softness still left in you."
"Are you?"
"Beardless or not," he murmured, as if it unnerved him to say it aloud. "I find you pleasing to look upon. Your countenance is thing of such beauty and strength I could not appropriately describe it to you. I would know not how."
"Nor would I. So we must learn then. Together."
The fingertip returned to run itself over her jawline, lingering, adoration written into the tip of that finger. "May I kiss?" he inquired with endearing shyness in his tone.
She nodded yes, with downcast eyes. The backs of his fingers touched her collarbone lightly and brushed their way up over the stout curve of her neck and to her chin. That stubborn little chin, so dwarvish in shape, and naked. Her eyes were closed when he looked down on her, and slowly, began to kiss. He made sparks in her belly when he touched her. She could not deny it. He placed chaste, closed-mouthed kisses slowly along her jawline, and then her cheeks. He tipped her head up and explored the underside of her chin and her throat with his mouth, savoring the softness, the bareness of her.
The way she breathed he could tell she never let anyone touch her like this.
He kissed his way from the smooth jaw to her chin and back again, with lips and the soft nuzzling tip of his nose, and then from jaw to ear. Finally he swooped down again to press a firm kiss to her lips. "I should like to kiss you everywhere, Meisar."
"Thorin…" she breathed into him, anxiously. He soothed, and reached for her hand, grasping it tightly. "Shh my lady. You have nothing to fear from me." He covered the slope of her neck in rough, desperate kisses. She whimpered lightly as his beard pushed up hard and macked deep against her skin.
"Why did you go into the wilds?"
"Because I could. The dwarves in Ered Luin would never know I was gone. You see, a woman who belongs nowhere is a free woman."
Her lower inner thigh where his fingers had brushed began to quiver. She froze. How had she dared come so far? To let him roam his fingers beneath her clothes as he did now?
"I belong nowhere my king!" she gasped suddenly and harshly.
"You belong with me!" His rough voice bespoke a deeper desire. She shivered, whether with need or apprehension he could not tell, and he grasped her whole body in his arms and kissed her any-way, relentlessly. He tasted smoky, a distinctly foreign pipe-weed, and sharp again like wine. He drew her yet closer with a strong hand finding its way to at the small of her back. Her arms, curled up at her chest, unfurled and gave his jawline a pensive caress. Her blush and her roaring heart betrayed her. He nuzzled his nose to hers, hair falling over her as he lay her back again. Her palm came and pressed gently up against his chest, wrist bending back against his weight.
Thorin traced his fingers around the neckline of her tunic, aching to explore within. He resisted his desire, fingertips lingering on her neck instead. Fingers curled, he caressed the length of her throat with the backs of his fingers. She was his and there she lay, trembling, wanting, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, Thorin looking down on her intensely.
He perched himself on his elbow to lay over her again. Eyes still closed she could feel his hair come to tickle her cheeks, sweep over her neck when he moved. He grazed her with fingertips, heavy as a fist they felt, from collarbone and down, her heart racing with every inch his touch descended.
"Shall I cease?"
"No…" she barely above a whisper. Her body had already betrayed her, and now she surrendered, as willingly as ever she had. "I desire… will you continue?"
Silk and the heat of her skin, the soft density of her heavy bosom through the layer of silk so precarious made his fingers alight and twitch, silk becoming lightning. A small peak pebbled beneath the silk. "Thorin," she gasped. His jaw went slack a bit and he exhaled a surprised, feral moan. Oh, she had been betrayed, by none but her own body.
He drew away, fumblingly. He scooted and sat on the edge of the bed with his head rested upon his hands.
So many people had told her what to think, how to judge, but there he was beside her, besotted and raw, touching her in places none had ever before. In true, there was nothing they could tell her that would have persuaded her away from him at that moment. Only her own conscience, for what it was worth.
She reached hesitantly to touch his back. How solid he felt, even to fingertips. The cambric of his tunic, the strength of his back laying just below, hard, unbowed. She wondered if his bare skin was as voltaic to touch.
"You did nothing wrong. Come lay with me, my king."
"Thorin," he reminded her in a fervid growl, returning to her side. He pressed his lips hard to hers. The kisses were so fierce now she cried out in ecstasy against his mouth, hands tangled into his hair. Meisar resisted the closeness until the well-muscled form beneath his tunic intrigued her too much, finding herself pleased to be enveloped in his strong arms. The tunic was open slightly at the top and she could see he had a fine, luxuriant pelt of hair at his chest, and wanted to slip her hands beneath it and touch, slip her hands beneath and touch-
She raised her fingers to roll tenderly across his throat and down its sinewy surface, coarse hair just under his chin tapering off just above the swell in the middle of it. The swell was quivering. Her fingers moved away from his neck and danced nervously on the edge of his tunic, its high collar undone, flanking his neck. The borders of it that met in a V at the peak of his chest could have well been razors against her fingers, the sensation too acute, too dangerous altogether, but she continued, caressing a curve down the shape of his neck again, making sharp turns of her fingertips around the edge of his tunic.
She wanted it off, but she could only fist it at the chest, helplessly, her lips open but no breath coming in, like a fish out of water. She knew. She knew. She knew. It could never go this far.
But he was her king. Her Arkenstone.
She felt her mouth move without her, leaning in for another kiss. A tender, indulgent kiss became fierce and demanding at once, tongue intruded past her pleading lips, and the weight of his body coming to rest upon her, like a boulder that threatened to crush the breath from her. She had gone to far. My king, my Arkenstone.
"Thorin… I am-"
He never stopped kissing her, his body moving slightly against her, but with such density she could not move.
"Thorin, I am… I have n-"
"I would have you now, I desire you so," he growled into her neck. Her cheek made a small 'thump' against the pillow as Thorin pressed her into the bed. She felt something thick and hard push against her bottom, and pulled away, hissing toward him.
"What do you take me for, Thorin son of Thrain? A common road whore?"
"I implied no such thing," Thorin shot back, prickling. He cooled a thousand degrees and ached in his breeches.
"I am the king's protector? His lady? Or his whore? Which is it, milord?"
"Your stubbornness is a bane, woman," he half-growled, looking suddenly dispirited. Meisar snapped her head at him in disbelief. "My stubbornness? To say nothing of your own! It is what you are famous for, Thorin Oakenshield, your stubbornness and your foul temperament."
"You have made my temperament so, this night."
"Relieve yourself with your own hand if you must. I have not spent this long exile bowing to the whims of lonely males."
Meisar left the chamber in a flurry, as Thorin flung himself against the bedclothes miserably. He would not surrender to the dramatic gestures of females, even her. He vowed give no indication just how he wanted her beside him.
.
Thorin found her the next morning curled on the lounger just outside the bedroom door. "The king's valet does not go storming off, no matter what the circumstance," Meisar muttered low and officiously. Her dark dress and cloak were clean and pressed, her hair braided again.
She had not taken out the courtship braid. It was plaited again framing her face, down her flank and past her waist, a seamless, perfect plait clasped in stone.
"I thought you did not mind sharing my bed," he muttered sarcastically. Meisar looked up at him, unimpressed with his brooding. His hair fell mussed about his face. Desire thumped at her. She pushed it down into her chest.
Meisar scowled at him. "Did Rhor ever tell you how he lost those fingers?"
"No."
Rhor was a foul old dwarf with a most indecent disposition, despised by all in Ered Luin. Twice had he been brought before Thorin in his halls in Ered Luin for his lewdness. He shuddered at the very thought of him.
"He tried to stick them in me one night."
Thorin grunted apologetically, unable to form the words on his tongue, uttered so rarely they were. Gazing down at Meisar an unfamiliar pang of regret bloomed in him. "Had I known," he muttered finally, "I would not have been so… forward."
The look in Meisar's eyes was not quite satisfied. The apologetic flush deepened, and Thorin rumbled to himself inside, disliking the sensation of it immensely. "Or best I would have refrained altogether."
Meisar cocked her head at him with palatable relief, even pleasant surprise. Remembering the hard heat of him pushed against her. How she could have devoured him with her own.