lizajay12, this one's for you. :-)
THE LINDEN TREE
Chapter 53
It would be pleasant to report that Helmwyn's presence brightened the settlement in the Blue Mountains, and that she was loved by all; but the truth is somewhat different.
The underground chambers weighed on her mood, and she was always cold. There was a perpetual chill under the mountains; and it crept into her bones, and could not be dispelled. She missed being out of doors, and shivered in the stone halls, though Thorin clad her in furs. She spent much time in her bright chambers with the windows on the mountainside, learning Khuzdul and poring over accounts, and taking in as much daylight as she could; and she thanked her stars daily for Thorin's loving foresight. But neither did she wish to hide herself away in her bower altogether; and she made a point of walking through the halls and the settlement every day, and talking to Dwarves, and concerning herself with their day-to-day business.
She explored the halls, stooping to avoid bumping her head on the ceiling of the corridors; and she cursed, and asked herself why the Dwarves built their halls so lofty and their galleries so low. But the great halls had been for show, while much of the settlement was still work in progress. She had resented Thorin for making her wait; but now she began to realise what a huge undertaking these halls had been. The Dwarves were forever carving out new chambers and new galleries, honeycombing the mountain to such an extent that she wondered how the whole thing did not collapse. And she saw how most of them lived, in windowless stone chambers with little comfort, that put her in mind of cells, or of tombs. The Dwarves did not actually seem to mind, and called them 'cosy', and worked contentedly, slowly excavating and adding new chambers as they went. But Helmwyn now understood why Thorin had wanted to spare her this. For one used to the wide plains of the Mark, it would have felt like being buried alive.
Even at this early stage, the halls felt like a maze; new galleries were ever being dug, and staircases appeared from one week to the next. Helmwyn never went anywhere without an entourage of guards of both races, and secretaries, and ladies-in-waiting; that way she was sure not to get lost. But she reflected sourly that even when she knew these halls like the back of her hand, she would still need an escort. She perceived the need for it; but she chafed at it, feeling almost as unfree as Dís.
For if the halls were cold and complex, the same was true of the Dwarves.
No-one was openly discourteous to her, yet she could sometimes sense mistrust, or even outright hostility. No-one dared grumble though, not even in Khuzdul, since Gróa was now by her side. She surrounded herself with Dwarves who loved Thorin, and were willing to help her for his sake; and her greatest help in those days was Balin, who treated her with the kindness of a shrewd and benevolent uncle.
In truth, she was far from being wholly alone. She had Amleth & Gerhild, her guards and her women; she had Balin and Dwalin, and most importantly she had Thorin. His love was light and warmth, and her cares vanished when she was in his arms. But every day she felt a little more defensive, and isolated, and unwelcome. She felt insecure, and that was a novel feeling for Helmwyn; and it began to eat away at her like a canker. She feared she might actually be making Thorin's life more difficult, and undermining his rule.
The elders shook their heads in dismay, and thought that this match was an abomination, and that it could only happen because the King was mad, the Heir was young and reckless, and the law scrolls had been lost. They muttered about the decadence of the line of Durin, and gave up hope of ever returning to Khazad-Dûm, or to the Mountain. But in truth, though the elders and some of the highborn dwarves were hostile, most of the common folk did not seem to care. Thorin had given them a home, and peace, and the promise of prosperity; and they cared little about the purity of the bloodline.
Thráin was difficult, though. Helmwyn really wanted to love the old warrior. But though he had been cheerful enough during the wedding celebrations (if somewhat bewildered), she now saw the dark moods that took him; and she felt sorrow on account of Thorin.
All were relieved if Thráin merely sat brooding like a sullen thundercloud. But he was prone to outbursts, and spoke his mind all too plainly. He had become upset at attempts to chaperone Dís too closely. And since she was the only one who could soothe Thráin when he had a tantrum, and since her presence kept him happy, the measures to isolate her were not as strict as they would otherwise have been. So it was not impossible that she were still speaking ill of Thorin's bride into the King's ear; but perhaps Thráin had no need of any such prompting.
Mealtimes were especially trying. "Well, son?" he greeted Thorin one morning; "I hear you are enjoying that skinny piece of human arse? Everybody else heard it, too. So tell us! Was it worth it, selling out the line of Durin for that?"
Balin hid his face in his hands. Helmwyn stared at her oatmeal, willing her features into steely composure. Thorin did not credit his father with a reply, but a vein bulged angrily on his temple; and Helmwyn saw that he all but crushed the silver goblet he was holding.
Dís said nothing either, but she sat next to her father, and held her head as proudly as a queen.
Thorin called Gróa into his study, and explained to her exactly what her service to the lady Helmwyn would entail.
"…I fear I must ask you to carry a weapon at all times," he said. "You must be ever on your guard."
Gróa was a tough, capable dwarrowdam with a loud voice and arms like hams. These she now crossed under her ample bosom, and gave her Prince a sceptical look. "Thorin…don't you think you're overdoing it a little?"
"Come, my cousin. You know well enough that there are some, among our people, who are less than thrilled that I should have chosen to wed a daughter of Men."
"Doubtless there are some", answered Gróa, who had thought it…an eccentric choice, certainly. "But be that as it may; surely you do not seriously expect that anyone should try to harm her?"
Thorin looked pointedly at Gróa.
"They did?"
He told her of the attempt to assassinate his bride. He did not mention that Dís had been involved, for he did not want that to become widely known; in any case, Gróa had already noticed that there was little love between the two women, for that much was plain. Perhaps she would guess eventually. And people talked. It was bound to be noticed that the lady Dís was under constant guard. "So," Thorin said, "should you hear rumours…for instance, about a certain Dwarf whose hands were mutilated and who was sent into exile… I wanted you to know the truth."
Gróa took it all in very earnestly. "And you believe that there might be another attempt?"
Thorin sighed, and rubbed his eyes. "In truth, I do not know. It seems we caught the conspirators. But there may be others. They were unable to prevent the wedding; but should my lady conceive- I mean, when she conceives… there might be some who do not wish to see the Heir of Durin born of a human mother."
Gróa looked long and hard at Thorin. "Listen, kinsman. You and I both know that this marriage of yours was a breach of custom – yes, you knew it. You knew it was bound to upset people. BUT" – she raised a hand to silence Thorin's protests – "an assassination – sweet Mahal. When it comes to marriage, every Dwarf should be free to make his or her own choices – even a Prince." It was plain from the way Gróa spoke that she felt strongly about this matter. Thorin gave her a searching look, and wondered why she had never married. Whatever her reason, be it loss or disappointment or deliberate choice, she kept it to herself.
"I am aware that I am asking you put yourself in harm's way, cousin," he said.
"I can look after myself," she answered. That she certainly could. To have survived during the years of exile, she had to. "But so can that skinny bride of yours, from what I hear. With all those soldiers always trailing us, I daresay we'll manage."
"Thank you, cousin," said Thorin, relieved. "And should you hear anything…"
"You shall know of it," Gróa said.
Peace and prosperity had led to a sudden surge of births among the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains; and Thorin was pleased that his people were increasing once more. In fact, Thorin would have been content in his rule, were it not for the constant nagging of the elders. Months had passed, and the Prince's ridiculous human bride had still not conceived (not for want of trying, as rumour would have it); and the elders did not tire from pointing this out, as they looked for every opportunity to have the marriage annulled – even if it meant twisting the law a little. After all, they considered the law had already been bent; they might as well go all the way.
Thorin regularly lost his patience with them. "And why on earth should I heed your counsel?" he snapped at them. "Humans have been known to mate with Elves – though I cannot for the life of me imagine why they should want to do such a thing – and if such an unnatural pairing can produce offspring, I am quite confident that the lady Helmwyn and I shall manage too, thank you very much." He only just refrained from calling them names, and wished they would not stick their grubby noses into his marriage-bed; but the private business of the Heir of Durin was not his alone, however much he might wish it.
After the great hall, one of the first large-scale building projects that the Dwarves were bent on completing was the bath-house. Few would guess it; but the Dwarves enjoyed a sophisticated bathing culture; and they liked nothing better than to take steam baths, or to luxuriate in warm water. Not only did it cleanse the pores and unwind the muscles; it was also an important form of socialisation. They used these occasions to talk, and to do business; and in the baths, all were equal, for Dwarves of all stations visited them.
The system of pipes had been devised by Snorri the engineer; and it was his pride and joy. The steaming water was brought from hot springs further away; and no sooner were the baths finished than he began to think of ways this water could be used for heating. The water was sulphurous, and smelled faintly of foul eggs; but Dwarves did not mind that sort of thing. On the contrary, they were convinced that the minerals in the water had all manner of curative properties: they said it soothed the skin, eased the joints, strengthened the bones, and fortified the liver.
And perhaps it really had beneficial effects on the health of Dwarves, thought Helmwyn, wrinkling her nose at the smell. After all, legend had it that they had been fashioned of stone by Aulë the maker – or Mahal, as she now began to think of him.
Times were set aside for men and for women to use the baths; and Gróa had insisted that Helmwyn, Gerhild, and the few other women of the Mark accompany her. When they had stripped, and first entered the bathing-hall, the women were stunned; for these baths were fairer than most dwellings of Men.
The Dwarves had adorned their bath-house as though it were a shrine. Through the swathes of steam that drifted about the room, the women could see that the walls and the pillars and the domed ceiling glittered with small tiles of glass, glinting blue and gold in the dim lamplight. They sat in a tessellated alcove, talking quietly, while the hot, humid air slowly brought them to a sweat.
It should have been ghastly. I had sounded ghastly. It had sounded like a muggy day in august, when man and beast languished, waiting for a thunderstorm. But it was wonderful. Helmwyn felt her limbs grow heavy, and the tension in her shoulders release, and all the accumulated cares and vexations melt away.
When they felt they had perspired enough, and were beginning to feel a little light-headed, they padded over to the pool; but as Helmwyn was about to step into the water, she saw that a group of Dwarf women were already there; and among them was Dís. They had not seen each other, what with the steam and the gloom.
Helmwyn felt their eyes on her. Of all of the women, she was the thinnest, and the one with the least bosom. In truth, Helmwyn had never wanted to have full breasts – they only got in the way. She had always been content with her body. It had always done what she demanded of it; or perhaps she had learned to make the best of what she had. She was slender, and not very tall by the reckoning of her people; but years of training had made her lithe and fast and strong – though these past years of forced idleness had given her a softer, more womanly air.
But these Dwarf women were all breasts and hips and thighs. And by Mahal, did they flaunt it. They glanced at Helmwyn's body, and whispered to each other, too quietly for Gróa to hear; and they giggled.
Helmwyn assumed that the Dwarf-ladies who were with Dís were chaperones appointed by Dwalin; but perhaps they were friends of hers who used the baths to talk to her away from prying ears. But no, she reflected, they need not have been. They could be anyone. So that, they must have been thinking, is what Prince Thorin chose over us. That skinny piece of human arse. She would not have been surprised if every single Dwarf woman of marriageable age loathed her.
Helmwyn drew herself up proudly, and stepped slowly down into the pool, followed by her women. They congregated in a corner opposite the group of Dwarves, and did their best to ignore them. The dwarven ladies were chatting more loudly now, and in the common tongue; and they made sure that Helmwyn heard every word they said under the echoing dome.
"My husband loves my breasts," said one. "He can't get enough of them. 'Give me ripe apples,' he always says, 'not sour little gooseberries!'"
"My betrothed loves my hips," said another. "Beautiful, broad, childbearing hips, he calls them. He says he wants at least three children; but I've always wanted five."
"What do you think would be a good name for a little boy?" said yet another.
They went on like this, laughing, swapping bedroom tales and infant names, while Helmwyn flushed crimson; though that might have been from the heat. Dís spoke little, but she laughed at her companions' tales; and her eyes were ever on Helmwyn. The women of the Mark stood around nervously, and Helmwyn thought of the long pins that held up her braided hair. She would have used them in case of an attack; and she was seriously considering using them now.
Gróa decided it was time to act; and she elbowed Gerhild in the ribs. "You're married," she hissed between her teeth; "come up with something!"
"Oh," said a flustered Gerhild. "Er. I don't know about you girls," she said in a loud clear voice, "but this mountain air is making me frisky. Poor Amleth is utterly exhausted. After the fifth time, he is begging for mercy."
The penny dropped for the others; and another woman, Gisela, went on: "Yes, my husband too is exhausted," she claimed, although she was unmarried. "He says I am insatiable; but I think five times a night is the bare minimum."
"You are so lucky, Helmwyn," said a third, Brynja, catching on. "Is it true, what they say about the stamina of Dwarf men?"
Helmwyn had no desire to descend to that level; but she was also grateful for her women's support. "You would not believe it if I told you;" she grumbled through clenched teeth. But then she added: "But it isn't just the stamina, you know. It's the skill."
"And I guess it's a first-rate tool you have there, too," Gróa supplied; and the women of the Mark erupted into shrieks of laughter.
Helmwyn shot Dís a glance, and saw that she and the other Dwarf women looked rather sour. Right, she thought. You wanted war; you shall have war. Helmwyn launched into a tale of her nightly pleasures, keeping it allusive, yet scabrous enough that her companions regularly punctuated her account with appreciative gasps and squeals. "It is said that the skill of Dwarves lies rather in their hands than in their tongues," she said, her face impassive; "but that is not true of Thorin, son of Thráin. (1) In fact, I would be hard pressed to decide wherein his greater skill lies."
Helmwyn warmed to her tale, until at last the Dwarf ladies left the pool with a few murderous glances. When they had gone, Helmwyn sagged. "This will come back to haunt me, won't it," she said darkly.
"Better it is said that all is well in the princely bed than the opposite," said Gróa.
"Thank you, my friends," said Helmwyn afterwards, when they were drying themselves with linen towels. "And thank you, Gróa. It must not be easy for you, helping the flat-chested human who stole away your handsome Prince. I suppose any other Dwarf woman would just as soon push me down the stairs."
"Well," said Gróa, "most of the young girls coveted Thorin because he was the Prince; but beyond that…honestly, I would not worry overmuch about the grown women."
"Why is that?"
"Listen, my lady. Thorin is a fine upstanding lad, very serious, very grown-up for his age, but…well…he's still a bit green. What is he, about seventy? That is half my age!"
Helmwyn blinked. She kept forgetting how young Thorin was, for a Dwarf.
"Besides," Gróa went on, "he only has a short one."
Helmwyn nearly choked. "I beg your pardon?"
"I mean his beard, of course. Not much of a beard, poor lad; but he has his reasons for that. You'll have to ask him; that's not for me to say. But let me tell you, that is a big turn-off for any red-blooded Dwarf lass. Now, my brother on the other hand – do you know him? – he's a fine figure of a Dwarf. Not the sharpest axe in the rack, but a luxuriant beard. It's not easy, meeting someone on the road; but my brother managed. The ladies flocked to him."
Helmwyn pictured Gróin. So that was the epitome of dwarven handsomeness. Ye gods.
"Sorry, ladies," said Gróa to the giggling women; "he's already taken."
That evening in their chamber, Thorin amused himself by removing the pins from his wife's hair, and uncoiling her braids, and undoing them slowly, enjoying the feel of the thick golden strands between his fingers. Because of the steam, her hair had taken on the regular ripples of the braids; and Thorin smoothed it out, and laid it about her shoulders, and he pushed a strand aside to kiss her throat.
She turned to him, and laid her brow against his; and he perceived that whatever thoughtfulness or sadness hung over her that evening, he would need to do more to dispel it.
"Something troubles you, my lady; I can see it," he said gently. "Will you not tell me what is the matter?" He could guess well enough what it was; for he knew she greatly missed the Mark, and had trouble finding her place in the Blue Mountains.
Helmwyn sighed, and seemed reluctant to tell him what weighed on her mind; but at last she asked him: "My lord – do you think I have changed?"
"I do not understand, my lady," said he. To him, she was the same as ever. He did not know what she meant.
"Do you not think I have grown soft?"
Thorin considered that. "Perhaps you are softer than you were," he said truthfully; "but perhaps it merely seems that way, since you seldom wear your riding garments anymore, or bear weapons."
"And do you not think me less spirited that I was?"
"Aye, maybe less cheerful; but then," he added with a fond smile, "you always were grave - and you ever smile when we are together."
"I feel I have become brittle, and weak," she said. "I fear that you shall be disappointed in me."
Thorin was surprised. "How?"
"You fell in love with a shieldmaiden, my lord. But now that I no longer am what I was – I fear that you will love me less."
"I still do not understand," said Thorin, increasingly bewildered. "You say you have changed because you no longer fight. But I have not fought since that night in Helm's Deep. Does that make me any less of a warrior in your eyes?"
Helmwyn smiled. "Nay, my lord, to be sure." But she could see that Thorin was really disturbed by her questions.
"Then why should I think any less of you? Do Men believe one can change so easily?" he asked. "Do Men's affections change so easily?"
Helmwyn stroked his beard soothingly. "Do not be alarmed, my lord. Not all Men are as fickle in their affections as my brother Waldred! Nay. In truth, my fears have much to do with being a woman. It was hard for me to give up fighting, I will not deny it. The sword gave me strength and purpose. But being here…it is another kind of fight; and it requires another kind of strength." She doubted she made much sense. In truth, she hardly understood her own misgivings. "I would prove worthy of you, my lord," she said simply.
Thorin stroked her hair. "I love you," he said. "I loved you when you fought, and when you laughed, and when you wept, and when you cursed, and when you slept. You are my wife. I can say no more than that." He looked long into her eyes. "Did you ever love me less for my ill-humour, or for my fears, or for my stubbornness?"
"Of course not, my lord!"
"Well, then." And with that, he rested his brow against hers.
Later that evening, after they had made love, Thorin lay stroking his wife's skin in a leisurely way. "You have grown softer," he teased her.
Helmwyn grinned. "That is thanks to those splendid baths of yours," she said. "I don't suppose we could commandeer them one day? Just you and I?"
"I shall think on that," said Thorin sleepily.
Helmwyn let her thoughts wander for a while. "My lord?" she said at last.
"Hmm?"
"There is one thing I would ask of you: talk to your sister. She is angry, and she is hurt; and her bitterness is poisoning your house. Talk to her, lest she drive a wedge between us."
"She will not, that I promise," said Thorin, and kissed his wife's temple; "but I shall talk to her, if that is what you wish."
(1) Galadriel was to say the same of Gimli, son of Glóin some years later.
