WARNING: First section is a hunting scene with gratuitously graphic descriptions of field-dressing a stag. Skip ahead if sensitive.
THE LINDEN TREE
Chapter 52
Thorin took the King of the Mark hunting, largely for want of anything better to do; he could hardly take the poor man to visit mines every day. But King Brytta liked nothing better than a good hunt; and at least here, the game was unlikely to fling darts back at one. The woods were teeming with game; and as it was summer, it was agreed that they would hunt stag.
Now, the custom of the Rohirrim was to crash through the undergrowth with horns and horses and pack-hounds until the quarry all but died of fright. The Dwarves, on the other hand, stalked their quarry with bow and arrow, and with spears; and though it is true the Dwarves do not possess the woodcraft of Elves, or even of Halflings, still they are skilled hunters. That skill served them well during their years in the wild; though for Dwarves, as for Men, hunting was the sport of princes, and a game of war.
The hunters proceeded on foot, after the dwarven fashion, and followed the trail that their bloodhounds had picked up, intent and silent. For a while the hunt was fruitless, for the game perceived the Men with their clumsy footfall, and fled. But at last they espied a splendid hart through the trees; and King Brytta gestured to his men to hold back, not least because he was weary of prowling through the forest on foot, like a Wose. And so the Dwarves fanned out, bent low, and advanced cautiously, approaching the beast on three sides; and Thorin slowly nocked an arrow, and took aim. The stag browsed unsuspecting in the undergrowth; and when it raised its head at last, and twitched its ears, Thorin loosed. The arrow struck true, and the stag went down.
The hunters converged on where the stag lay, still breathing, the stout dwarven shaft protruding from its side. All offered their congratulations to Thorin for his fine aim, but he acknowledged the compliments with a grimace; for the image of his brother Frerin flashed before his mind's eye, as it always did in such circumstances. Frerin. They had hunted much together, during the days of their youth; but Frerin had always been the better marksman. Thorin went to the stricken stag, seized it by its magnificent antlers, and broke its neck.
"You wield a stout bow, Thorin Thráinsson!" exclaimed King Brytta appreciatively; "it looks as though it takes great strength to pull that!" Thorin handed his bow to the King with a faint smile, and watched as the Rohirrim took turns trying to pull it. They themselves had longbows, inasmuch as they had bows at all; but these were ill suited to hunting, and could not match the power of dwarven bows at short range. "But come, my lord," the King went on; "will you show us the dwarven way of unmaking a stag? For I am curious to see how that art is practiced among Durin's folk."
Art? In truth, Thorin doubted whether his slapdash butchering of a carcass deserved such a name. "I believe that in this regard, we have more to learn from the folk of the Mark than the folk of the Mark have to learn from us!" he said. "Nay, my lord King; since I already deprived you of the kill, I shall leave you the honour, if you so wish."
Thorin was unsure whether this was, in fact, an honour; but the King seemed delighted, and accepted graciously. He called to his daughter: "Come, my child, let us dress this handsome fellow, you and I! It has been too long since we hunted together."
Helmwyn stepped forward with a wry grin. "Aye, father, it has been too long! Gladly will I butcher the kill with you!" said she; though in truth she suspected that her father was more than glad to have her look after the fiddly bits. He had never been very good with the fiddly bits, and his fingers were becoming clumsy with age. But she did not mind; in fact, she rather enjoyed it, and it had been too long. And so she stepped towards the carcass, drew her knife, and set to work.
She made an incision at the base of the beast's throat, to allow it to bleed out; then she busied herself at the stag's rear end. The Dwarves looked on with horrified fascination. Dwalin paled as he saw her cut off the beast's pizzle. "Sweet Mahal," he whispered. "You said it," Thorin agreed. Helmwyn slit open the beast's throat, pulled out various tubes, tied knots in them, then proceeded to cut open the stag's belly. The insides spilled out almost of their own accord, with only the gentlest pull.
Thorin swallowed nervously. His throat suddenly felt very dry. For some reason, the sight of his lady in her riding-leathers, crouching beside a dead stag and up to her elbows in entrails, was irresistibly seductive. He watched as she rummaged around inside the beast's abdominal cavity, yanking out various organs, and examining them for parasites. "I think I just fell in love all over again," he told a stunned Dwalin, who nodded in sympathy. (1)
The stag was a large one, and thus it was decided that they would skin and dress the carcass there and then; for there would be much less weight to carry back. "There!" called Helmwyn to her father. "He is all yours!" And as King Brytta began to pull the skin off the stag's hindquarters, Helmwyn went and parted the head from the body, and brought it to Thorin. "And this is yours, my lord!" she said with a smile, as Thorin awkwardly took from her the heavy head with its great antlers. "The brain is for the hounds," she whispered into his ear, then went back to help her father, grinning. Thorin stared at the head, with its round eyes and its lolling tongue. He could see that this was going to be problematic.
The hide peeled off easily, and soon the King and his daughter were separating the shoulder joints and cutting out the loins, one side and then the other; and they laid the meat on the skin to keep it clean. They worked well together, and they worked in gladness; and indeed hunting with her father was among Helmwyn's most treasured girlhood memories, and she was glad that they could do this again – one last time. (2)
It was plain that the Rohirrim knew what they were doing, cutting off the haunches, loosening the great muscles with their fingers, parting the meat from the bone with precise, practised cuts. Thorin and Dwalin had tried to work out the best method for dealing with the head, and given up. "I am envious of your skill with a knife, my lady," Thorin conceded gallantly.
Helmwyn laughed. "Well, my lord, it is the only thing to do with food that I am remotely good at! But come, claim your cut! The steaks are yours – unless you would prefer the loin?"
At last the cuts of meat were neatly laid out on the skin, together with the heart, liver and kidneys; all the rest was given to the hounds as a well-earned reward. The hunters sat together in fellowship, and shared a light meal. The forest air was cool and fragrant, and warm shafts of sunlight dappled the forest floor. The red hounds, having had their treat, fawned on the King, who delighted in rolling around on the ground with them, scratching their wrinkly jowls. Helmwyn looked on her father, and smiled. And she looked on Thorin, and Dwalin, and on the hunters of both kindreds, all brought together; and she treasured that happy moment.
"My lord," Amleth said to Thorin, "there is something I would ask you. What became of that foul tempered black stallion you brought back from the Mark? I have looked in the stables for that beast, but I have not seen him anywhere."
"Oh? You mean Endwerc?" said Thorin innocently, and the Rohirrim laughed merrily at the name.
"Aye, the very one!" said Amleth. "Did you make stew of him after all?"
Thorin smiled, and told them how he had sold the bloody-minded beast to an Elf for twice its worth. "Do you know, whenever I visit the Havens, I ask myself how the vicious brute and his new owner are getting on. Sadly, I have not seen either of them since."
"Perhaps the horse threw the Elf and bolted!" called a Rider.
"Perhaps the Elf stewed him!" called another.
"I wonder," mused Thorin. "Elves profess to be respectful of living creatures; but here even their fondness for beasts may have been stretched to breaking point!"
There was much laughter; and Helmwyn beamed to see Thorin so easy-going around her people. She would have kissed him, were it not that they were not alone; instead she leaned closer to him, and asked: "Will you take me to see these Havens, my lord? For is that not the seaport whence dwarven goods are shipped even as far as Gondor?"
Thorin gave her a long look; and it seemed to her that a cloud passed over his brow. "Aye, my lady," he said at last, "I shall take you to see the Elves, if you wish it." He thought about it for a while, then added: "I confess, I do not like the place; and I only go when I must. But perhaps you will have more patience with the Elves that I have."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps I shall break someone's nose," she teased him.
"That would not be so good for trade," he grinned.
They spoke no more of it. But Helmwyn watched Thorin, as he talked amicably with the other hunters, Dwarves and Men both; and she wondered what exactly it was that he had against Elves.
"Ouch," Thorin winced, slowly recovering his wits.
Helmwyn regretfully stopped nibbling on his earlobe. "We must go hunting again, my love," she panted into his ear.
"Aye, that we must," he agreed. The trek back had been excruciating; and they had all but torn the clothes off each other when they had reached their chambers at last.
Thorin lingered in his wife's embrace; and they shared a long, luxurious kiss. Thorin was most gratified to hear her moan softly, and to feel the press of her hips against his.
"Let me look at you," he said all of a sudden; and he sat up to gaze at her, reclining on the bed of furs, spent and languorous, her skin pale gold in the firelight. Thorin held her waist, and ran his hand down over the curve of her hip; and the thought that his seed would one day quicken inside her, and her belly swell with new life, was one he found extremely alluring. He saw that she too was gazing up at him, with the look of love in her eyes.
Helmwyn's fingertips gently trailed over his throat and chest, still beaded with sweat. "Husband," she whispered, reaching up to stroke his beard. They gazed at each other a moment longer; then Thorin lay down beside his bride again, and she rolled over into his welcoming arms.
In those days they learned the sweetness of sharing a bed; and that was not solely to do with lovemaking. They learned what it was to fall asleep in each other's arms, skin against skin and heart to heart; for that too was something they had never truly been able to do in the Mark. Thorin felt soothed by his lady's nakedness against his own, by her warmth, and touch, and tender little gestures. She would drowsily stroke his feet with hers, as she drifted off to sleep; and he delighted in that.
If they woke up during the night, and found they had moved apart, they would stir, and find each other, and snuggle close, and fall asleep again. Or sometimes Helmwyn would wake to find Thorin lying heavy on her breast; and she could not have budged him if she tried. But she was glad at least that he was not tormented by bad dreams, and so she let him be; and she stroked his back, letting her arm go numb, and listened to his gentle snoring.
Thorin had commissioned a great oaken bed; and he had ordered it to be made long enough for Helmwyn. But he must have misjudged the proportions somehow; for he found that she invariably ended up lying diagonally across the bed, to be able to stretch her limbs. But Thorin smiled at this, too; and he curled against his wife, purring happily like a large black cat. (3)
If their nights were spent in bliss, their days were busy. Thorin often took his wife around the settlement, and involved her in craft and trade, hoping that she would soon know enough to counsel and support and second him.
And so Helmwyn set about learning all there was to learn about the dwarven settlement in the Blue Mountains; and she set about it with great zeal. She wanted to visit everything, and learn everyone's name, and took an interest in everyone's affairs, as she had done in the Mark. And as there was so much to remember, and it would have been unseemly for the lady to go around taking notes, a dwarven lady-in-waiting-cum-secretary was found for her. (4)
Her name was Gróa, and she was kin to Thorin – a cousin several times removed, or something of the sort. Her family had been bankers in Erebor, and were now busy becoming bankers again. Her brother Gróin was beginning to do well, having made some shrewd investments; but it was whispered that his sister was the brains of the outfit. Thorin knew and trusted them, and Balin and Dwalin knew and trusted them; and that was good enough for Helmwyn.
In truth, she was a little daunted when they were first introduced, for Gróa had flaming red hair and a rather formidable look; and indeed Gróa had her doubts about this human girl from a tribe of uncouth horsemen. But halfway through a rather stilted conversation, Helmwyn happened to mention her admiration for double-entry book-keeping; and Gróa laughed heartily, and accepted the position.
King Brytta was loath to part from his daughter, but he also knew that he must return to the Mark; and however pleasant the hunting-parties and the rides through the woods and the merry talks by the hearth, he was becoming restless, for he was like his daughter in this, that he could not remain idle for long. Helmwyn was grieved at his departure, but she knew it could not be delayed.
The King of the Mark took his leave from his hosts, greeting Balin and Dwalin and King Thráin warmly; and last of all he clasped Thorin's arm. "Thorin Thráinsson," said the King. "I go now; and I leave my daughter in your care."
"You have given me the greatest treasure in your realm, my lord King," answered Thorin; "and I shall guard her well"
"Farewell, and may your folk grow strong again and prosper."
"Farewell, and may the Mark once again know peace!"
Helmwyn insisted on riding with her father part of the way, clad in raiment of war; and even as they rode under the glad sun, through the verdant woods of her new home, her heart tightened with grief at the imminent parting.
They came at last to the crest of a hill, and they reined in their horses; for Helmwyn could go no further if she wished to be back before sundown. Father and daughter dismounted, and embraced; and Helmwyn was weeping freely now, and cared not that the men saw her.
"Father," she said, and her voice was choked with tears. "I love you so much. So very much."
"And I love you, my daughter" said King Brytta; "aye, and I shall miss you sorely; but I take comfort in knowing that you shall dwell in happiness with that husband of yours."
"I fear I have been a bad daughter to you," Helmwyn sobbed. "I have been naught but impatient and ill-humoured over the years; and I pray that you can forgive me."
"Hush now," said the King, and smiled through his tears. "You are fearless and high-hearted, and you make me proud. And remember: I care not what it says on their piece of parchment. You shall always be my darling girl."
Helmwyn took her father's hand and squeezed it. "Dearest Father. Greet the Mark for me." She could say no more.
King Brytta kissed his daughter's brow for the last time. "Farewell, thou brave, wonderful child! Thou pride of my heart, fare thee well!" he said; and he mounted his tall grey steed, raised his hand in salute, and spurred his horse down the hill, southward.
Helmwyn watched as the glint of the sun on spear and helm passed among the trees; and the horns of the King's eóred sounded one last time in the valley below, and their call echoed off the mountains, and was lost.
"That was a bitter parting," said Helmwyn upon her return. "Now am I truly sundered from my kin, and from my land, and from all that I once held dear."
Thorin helped her out of her armour for the last time, and held her close; for he knew the life and the land she mourned, and understood her grief well enough. He gently drew her head down until her brow touched his. "I will not tell you: do not grieve," he said; "but this I will say to you: our old lives are behind us, but our new life lies before us."
"Aye," she said with a pale smile, and head-butted him gently; "that it does." Home was where Thorin was.
Helmwyn lay propped up on her elbow, and watched Thorin sleep. He was sleeping peacefully for once, and she watched as his broad chest rose and fell with his quiet breathing. She gazed long upon his serene features. He was very definitely a Dwarf; yet she marvelled at the beauty of him.
Here he was, her beloved lord, for whose sake she had given up everything she had loved, everything she had been; the one for whom she had hung up her sword, and left her home and her kin. But although these losses grieved her, she did not regret her choice. The only thing she did regret was waiting so long for this moment.
She laid a hand upon his heart. Thorin stirred, and turned his head; and his eyes fluttered open, and he smiled at her. "I did not mean to wake you," she whispered, and planted gentle kisses on his chest. But Thorin purred, and flung his arms around her, and crushed her to him. "This is bliss," he breathed; and Helmwyn felt his voice rumble deep inside his chest. "Waking up beside you; it is bliss."
Helmwyn buried her face in Thorin's chest hair; and she had to agree. It was bliss.
(1) The art of dressing a stag is an aristocratic accomplishment in medieval courtly literature. In Gottfried von Strassburg's narrative poem Tristan, for example, the hero spends an entire chapter dressing a stag; and all the onlookers agree that it is the Hottest. Thing. Ever.
(2) That was just the sort of father/daughter bonding that made Helmwyn's mother furious. ("You taught our daughter to do WHAT?" – "But my dear, we had such fun…")
(3) I thought I'd let Our Protagonists be as unabashedly fluffy and cute as a pair of puppies in a basket, because they've rather earned it. But besides being cute, all of this is also vitally important. If you discover too late that your partner has a tendency to elbow you in the soft bits, crush your vulnerables, or flail around with their arms and hit you while they are asleep, it can take its toll on even the most harmonious relationship. To say nothing of the snoring.
(4) Her human lady-in-waiting, Gerhild, Amleth's wife, had no letters, of course.
A/N: So, boys and girls! For a long while, we had Thorin as the stranger in a strange land; now it's Helmwyn's turn to be the odd one out. How is she going to adjust to being entirely surrounded by Dwarves? Stay tuned!
