A/N: This week, boys and girls, Helmwyn makes a stand against sexist fashions, Thorin has a heart-to-heart with his teenage sister, and the smut has more footnotes than ever before. Enjoy!

THE LINDEN TREE

Chapter 54

The time had come for the lady Helmwyn to renew her wardrobe. This was partly because she felt it would be politically expedient to dress in a more dwarven manner; but partly also because the garments she had brought from the Mark were simply not warm enough. There were hearths in the mountain halls, but they did little to dispel the chill in Helmwyn's bones. She was beginning to think that Dwarves really did not feel the cold as humans did.

Two dwarven dressmakers, apparently the best, had come to her sunlit chamber; they were called Valdur and Vardur, though Helmwyn could not remember which was which. They were brothers, presumably; though why they all had to have those stupid alliterative names was quite beyond her. One of them allegedly specialised in dressing ladies' hair. Helmwyn would never have thought that this could be a trade in its own right; but having seen how Dwarf women wore their hair, she could now readily believe it.

The dressmakers had brought a few young dwarven ladies to show off the finest examples of their craft. They launched into florid descriptions of their creations as each model paraded her attire in front of Helmwyn, whose frown deepened with every new gown. In the end, she bade the voluble brothers be silent, and addressed the young ladies instead.

She took a closer look at a low-cut red velvet number that one of them was wearing. "Are those stays?" she asked. "Can you breathe at all? Oh, good. And how many petticoats are you wearing? Really. And what might these be? Oh, hoops. I must say, those sleeves really are voluminous. Extraordinary. And what is that on your shoes? Bells. I see. How charming."

She peered at another's elaborate hairstyle. "How long does it take to…? That long, really. Oh, horsehair extensions? You don't say. And how is it all…held together? Oh. And tallow, you say? Remarkable. Thank you, ladies. You may leave us now."

Helmwyn smiled politely until the models had left the room; then she turned on the two unfortunate Dwarves.

"NO."

"But my lady-"

"You want to be first? Very well." The hairdresser bore the brunt of her wrath. "I intend to lead a full and busy life, Master; and that begins with NOT spending two hours every morning having my hair put up, and another hour in the evening taking it down again."

"I am sure the lord Thorin would be delighted if you were to-"

"The lord Thorin knows exactly whom he has wed, Master. I think he would be glad to recognise me still when you are done with me. Besides," she added, "I am already tall and ungainly. Would you have me tower two feet above the lord Thorin? Come now."

"But my lady-"

"Enough! I shall wear my hair as I have always worn it: away from my face, and with as little fuss as possible. You may braid it a little more elaborately on formal occasions. BUT – and I wish to make this very clear – if I hear any suggestion of tallow, I will demonstrate to you one of the advantages of a plain hairstyle: it enables one to SWING A SWORD UNHINDERED."

The hairdresser paled and shrank; and Helmwyn rounded on the dressmaker.

"Why?" she asked, though in truth she did not care to hear their reasons. "Why must you attire your women thus? After all, your menfolk dress sensibly. Do you fear someone might try to stab your women? Is that why you make them wear those stiff bodices? If so, you would be better advised to protect their vital organs as well. And their bosoms. What is the sense in displaying their bosoms thus? Take it from me, Master: a breastplate three inches wide will achieve nothing, except to hinder their breathing. And if your women are attacked, how do you expect them to run away with all those skirts? Or to defend themselves with those sleeves? Have I escaped the wretched sleeves of the Mark only to face this?"

"You are pleased to jest, my lady-"

"I am not jesting, and I am most certainly not pleased. However, since it seems I cannot dispense with your services, Master, I shall make a few things plain to you too. I will NOT wear stays, NOR starched petticoats, NOR cumbersome sleeves. I WILL, however, wear my waistline where it belongs, which is on my waist. How should I be expected to draw my sword if the hilt is hidden under my armpit?"

"Do you intend always to carry a sword, my lady? Even here?"

"I want to know I would be able to, should I so wish."

Valdur, if it was he, floundered, casting around for ideas. If one ruled out stays and petticoats and tallow, the result was bound to be… "So," he stammered, "…you want something a little more…masculine?"

"Masculine? I want something that will keep me warm, and allow me to breathe and walk and ride and climb stairs. And swing a sword if I must. If that is masculine to you, then by all means."

The dressmaker pulled out pen and parchment, and started sketching nervously. "Let me see… something layered… a tunic base… would a fur-lined robe be acceptable?" Helmwyn nodded emphatically. Yes, she definitely wanted one of those. "What about hemlines?"

They worked out an overall look that seemed to satisfy the lady: floor-length robes, with a taper at the waist, and not so broad in the shoulder as what the menfolk wore, but otherwise very similar to male garb. The brothers were horrified, but it seemed they had no choice but to comply. They proceeded to show the lady samples of fabric and fur. Helmwyn looked on distractedly, and thought of Thorin's ceremonial dress, which included elements of scale armour, and vambraces, and mail.

"Actually," she said to the dressmakers, "those tunics…make them armoured." The brothers looked aghast, but Helmwyn ignored them, and smiled quietly to herself. She would draw the line at armoured boots, though.


Helmwyn had given up on trying to please everyone. If she could never make those Dwarves like her, she would at least see to it that they had a healthy respect for her.

Dwarf women flaunted their bosoms and their hips, and dressed in such a way as to show off everything they had. Helmwyn was aware that she could not compete with that; but neither did she particularly wish to. However much they disapproved of her sartorial choices, Valdur and Vardur outdid themselves. They created fitted tunics that were festooned with scale armour, or lined with mail; and they crafted bodices that felt like breastplates, and cuffs that looked like vambraces. Helmwyn was delighted. (1) She had also specifically requested that they use the same blues and blacks and silvers that Thorin liked to wear; and his crest was embroidered and emblazoned wherever space could be found. Helmwyn felt this would help get the point across.

She had always worn a blade or two about her person since her arrival in the Blue Mountains; but now she wore at least one blade openly. And whenever she left the stone halls, she wore her sword. There comes a point where one has to be oneself, she reflected; and she was going to show these folk exactly who they were dealing with.

She still went nowhere but escorted by Riders; but she whittled down her guard, as she was tired of living in fear. The lads had gone back to doing what they had done in the Mark: farming and breeding horses; for there was land aplenty around Thráin's halls, but the Dwarves did not till land, and raised but little livestock. Some of them became merchants, for perhaps the folk who lived at the foot of Ered Luin found them more congenial to trade with than the Dwarves. Some of them took a wife from mong the local women; for tall, strong, yellow-haired men such as they were seldom seen in those parts. All in all, life was good for them; indeed, it was better than it had been in the Mark, for there were no Orcs.

Helmwyn was glad for them; for after all, if her men could become part of local society, perhaps she could, too. But she did insist that they come in in turns, and train, and patrol, and guard, much as they had done in the Mark. She did not want them growing soft. She did not want herself going soft. And so she too began to train again.

As there were no Orcs, training now had little practical purpose, besides perhaps self-defence. But she sparred with her men, and she sparred with Dwalin; and she made sure that folk saw her at it. She went out onto those training-grounds daily, however foul the weather. It was hard and painful, for she was out of practice; but the training did her good, and allowed her to vent some aggression. And when she strode back to her apartments, soaked to the skin and clad in mud-bespattered fighting-gear, she saw the look on the Dwarves' faces, and felt a sense of grim satisfaction.

And in the evenings Thorin would gently rub her aching sinews, and he would smile to see her muscles harden little by little; and they would both reap the benefit of her training.

"I am glad to see that you are quite yourself again, my lady," he grinned, panting.

"My grumpy old self, you mean?" she teased him.

"I love your grumpy old self," he teased her back.

"And I love yours," she said, and kissed him. "I doubt it shall make me more popular with your kin," she added after a while.

"There is no pleasing some people," said Thorin sleepily.

"They shall have to get used to me. I will not let myself be cowed."

"That's my shieldmaiden," Thorin mumbled into her hair. He curled close to his wife, and fell asleep with his arm around her waist.

Her desperately thin waist, she thought fretfully. And her desperately flat, toned belly. Helmwyn lay awake for a long while, and wondered whether those three wasted years had not meant an even greater waste. After all, she was nearly thirty. She reflected, not for the first time, that after all the heartbreak and all the strife, she might in fact not be able to give Thorin an heir; and the thought filled her with dread.


Thorin was ushered into Dís' chamber. He found his sister sitting by the fire, embroidering an intricate design in silver thread with long, skilled fingers. She looked up from her needlework.

"Brother! To what do I owe the extraordinary honour of your visit?"

Thorin braced himself. This was going to be trying. "Do I need a reason to visit my beloved sister?" he said with forced cheerfulness, and dismissed the guards and the servants.

"I see that wife of yours is now parading around in your colours," Dís remarked, when they were alone at last.

"You liked her no better when she wore her own," answered Thorin; and he pulled up a chair, and sat opposite his sister by the hearth.

"Have you come to commission some embroidery?" asked Dís icily. "She shall want yards of trim with the markings of our house."

"I did not think you would stoop to embroidering anything for my wife," said Thorin.

"What else is there left for me to do, these days?" said Dís. "But have no fear, brother; I would leave some needles in the trim, just on the off-chance that she might prick herself." She looked at him sourly. "Is not that what you want me to say?"

Thorin held his sister's gaze, and sighed, remembering the purpose of his visit. "Sister. You cannot change what is done. Will you not cease nursing your spite, and look to the future? Shall we not have peace, you and I?"

"You said it yourself, brother," she answered. "You cannot change what is done." She looked as though she was about to say more, but she bit her tongue.

"Speak what is on your mind, sister," Thorin said. "I came here to talk."

Dís shot him a glance. "As if you did not already know what I have to say, brother. You have squandered your birthright, so that you might enjoy that southern horse-girl-"

"Enjoy?" Thorin interjected. How he hated that phrase. "You speak of her as though she were a meal, or a pipe!"

"- and you would bid me sit in the shadows, and hold my peace?" Dís went on. "But it is not your honour alone, brother; it is that of our house, my house, and of our people!"

"And what exactly is so dishonourable about my marriage?" Thorin snarled.

"It is dishonourable, brother, because you betrayed your duty to your line. Because you have scorned the blood your fathers. Because being the heir of Durin came second to your…your brutish lust," she spat. "But you do not need me to tell you this. Your own conscience would tell you that, were you but Dwarf enough to search it."

Thorin stared long at his sister. He was grieved to see that her bitterness had not abated; and he marvelled once again that her comely young frame could house such venom. "Very well," he said patiently, "I shall search my conscience, if that is what you wish."

His thoughts turned inward, and he asked himself candidly whether he had not deceived himself. Had marrying his lady truly been a betrayal of his duty, as his sister and his father and the elders would have him think? He had honestly not thought so at the time; and neither did he think so now. He honestly believed that his bride was worthy of the line of Durin. He had thought that even before he knew he loved her, for Mahal's sake.

True, she was no Dwarf; but he could not bring himself to think of that as a worse defect than, say, webbed toes, or mismatched eyes, or a slight lisp. It was nothing compared to her virtues. It was nothing compared to their love.

Thorin shook his head. "Honour, duty, custom, law, blood… listen to yourself, sister. Your words are as hard and cold as the blade of an axe." He looked upon his sister, and he realised that he pitied her. "How could you understand it, you cold maid? You have never known the sweetness of love's kiss, or the warmth of love's embrace."

Dís stared at him in disgust, looking as though she were determined never, ever to let a man do those unspeakable things to her.

"Sister," Thorin went on, "do you know why we do not arrange matches, nor force a spouse upon our children, not even those of the royal house, as other folk do?" He thought of Helmwyn's first husband for a brief moment, and shuddered. "Now do I fully understand what a blessing it is. To wed for anything else than love…I do not even want to think upon it."

"And were none of our dwarf-maids good enough for you?" Dís asked. "The daughters of Erebor who were thrown onto the roads with us, who toiled with us, who survived with us? Has exile made them too coarse for your taste? Did you have to shame them thus?"

Thorin saw that there were tears in her proud eyes. He saw her sorrow, and he understood her loss; and he understood what she wanted. She wanted a home. She wanted family. She wanted the Mountain. She had tried so hard to hold the tattered remains of the line of Durin together - not unlike what he had tried to do. And now his marriage to a daughter of Men had made it unbearably plain to her that Erebor was lost for good. He saw her as the frightened little girl she still was, and smiled sadly.

"Why the smirk, brother?" spat Dís.

Thorin had remembered that he loved his sister, in spite of everything. "You are a defender, little gem; and a fierce one. And so is my lady – a defender of her land, and a leader of her people. I so wished that you two would become friends. I wish it still. Our folk have need of you, sister. I have need of you."

Dís looked into her brother's eyes as though the words he had just spoken were the ones she had longed to hear, and for a moment Thorin thought that he had reached through the walls of her pride. But the moment passed, and she looked down at her embroidery again. "You made your choice, brother," she said.

"You speak of choices," he said quietly, "but there was no choice; not for me. I could no more have walked away from my love than I could have torn my own heart from my breast."

Much to Thorin's surprise, Dís laughed. His cheeks burned as though she had just struck him.

"Capital!" said Dís merrily. "You had no choice in the matter! It was fated, no doubt. Then surely it is also fated that the heir of Durin shall be weak and short-lived? and that he shall have long ungainly limbs and a sparse beard? Do you know, brother, I almost look forward to seeing what offspring you produce."

"Come now; don't be disingenuous," Thorin growled, irritated by his sister's snide mockery. "The horse-people are strong, and they even have decent beards. So our children shall be tall and golden-haired. What of it? And in any case," he added, "whatever human traits our children inherit, I daresay they will have faded from the bloodline within a couple of generations. So do not worry yourself about that."

Dís smiled. "Tell me," she asked sweetly, "have you never considered that you may not actually be able to breed with that filly of yours? Or did love cloud your judgment to such an extent that the thought never occurred to you?"

The thought had occurred to him of late, with ever-increasing frequency; but he would not give his sister the satisfaction of being right. "I ask you again, sister. Shall we not have peace?"

There was silence, save for the crackling of the fire.

"You are the one who came suing for peace, brother," said Dís at last. "I ask for no such thing."

Thorin looked at his sister, and saw how aloof and cool she contrived to appear. He perceived the hurt under her aloofness, but he did not know how to reach out to her. He had tried. Perhaps he ought to have come sooner. Perhaps he ought to have taken her in his arms, that night in the cellars, and told her that he forgave her. But perhaps he was too late; or perhaps no reconciliation was possible.

And he seriously began to think that if Dís were to wed, any sons of hers might challenge the rule of his own heir – should he ever succeed in begetting one. And if he did, Thorin reflected that he would have to prevent his sister from marrying.

So much for his fine words about the freedom to wed according to one's wishes, he thought bitterly.


Thorin showed his wife unflagging support. Whenever he went to see craftsmen in their workshops and tradesmen in their warehouses, or when he inspected mineshafts and foundries, she walked beside him. Whenever he sat in council, and when he received petitions and gave audiences and resolved disputes, she sat beside him. And she watched, and listened, and learned; and she began to think that together, with his support and her hard work, they could actually achieve some degree of acceptance for her.

And in the evenings, Helmwyn would sit at her table in her chamber, and try to learn Khuzdul.

She knew she would not be taken altogether seriously until she could get by in Khuzdul. Of course, the elders would be dismayed that a human should sully their sacred language; but since she was technically a Dwarf, she was determined to master the wretched tongue, even if it took her years. At this rate, it would take her years, she thought darkly. Her ambition was to have enough Khuzdul for stinging put-downs; though for now, her more modest aim was to understand enough to know when Dwarves spoke ill of her. She applied herself to it with the same bloody-mindedness as when she had tried to unravel the Mark's finances; but what little progress she made seemed woefully slow.

There were few enough scrolls that had survived the sack of Erebor, and such documents as were now generated in the settlement tended to be in the common speech, and of a dry commercial nature at that. But as the Dwarves settled down in peace and began to prosper once more, some had begun to write down such songs and lore as they remembered. Balin had filched what he could, saying it was for his own purposes; for doubtless the elders would have frowned, had they known that their writings would be shown to the Prince's human wife. But Balin gave the written pages to Helmwyn; and he did more. He had jotted down a few grammatical rules for her, telling her "You'll see, lass, it's easier than it sounds;" (2) and he advised her to take it slowly, one step at a time, and gave her little assignments.

The dwarven runes had taken some getting used to; but Helmwyn was able to decipher a document if given enough time, doggedly referring to the glossaries she had drawn up (and was constantly adding to), page upon page of them. But when it came to composing sentences, she was still on simple phrases like Where is the raven? The raven is on the tree; and even that was giving her trouble.

Thorin came in to see how she was faring; and she told him her frustration concerning imperfect verbal forms. "Forgive me, my lord," said she with a resigned sigh, "but I honestly doubt whether I shall ever be able to master this, even a little!" Thorin smiled to see the stubborn little frown on her brow; and he walked over to where she sat, and leaned over her shoulder to look at her scattered notes and papers. He thought about what he could do to help her. Then on a sudden impulse, he leaned closer, and spoke into her ear.

"Melhek tanakai ni emûzêlhu; ra lai! yom Âzyungelhu." (3)

He spoke in the dwarven tongue. A shiver ran down Helmwyn's spine. Thorin's voice was dark, darker still than when he spoke in the common speech; and, as ever when he spoke in that ancient tongue, he appeared to her strange, and terrible, and kingly.

"Ezûhyeshzu ni ghelekhzu, nathith akhâmul!" (4)

She only understood very little of what he was saying. It seemed to be love-talk, but there was something ancient and solemn about it, something stern and angular as the language itself. "Abbadizu tharkûl lavam 'abanul balhadizd khiduzul baluhul." (5) Thorin's lips and his beard brushed against her throat, and Helmwyn felt weak with desire.

He pulled her to her feet, and drew her close; and his hands wandered over her body. "Nâm agulhazizu ughûregul," he purred against her lips, tantalizingly denying her the kiss she craved. (6) He took her by the waist, and sat her upon the table, and pulled up her gown - "Ghelekh bashkizu, toruvaiul torvunelul," said he (7) - and he parted her legs, and ran his hands up her thighs, and made sure of her readiness. Helmwyn gasped.

"Ghelekhzu agûtholul murkhûr" Thorin breathed, slowly stroking her. (8) Helmwyn hungrily reached for the laces of his breeches; but Thorin stopped her, and took care of that himself, and gently pushed her down onto the table.

Helmwyn lay back upon the parchments, and surrendered to her lord and husband. Thorin held his lady's hips - "Melhek ganagai ni emûzel ghivashul," he said, and Helmwyn moaned; "mahkajimaidhi Âzyungelhu muzûm kamînul." (9) She wrapped her legs around him, and crumpled the parchments in her balled fists, and knocked over the inkwell; and Thorin made love to his wife on the few scraps of dwarven lore that remained west of the Mountains.

"Ku zu," he panted, as Helmwyn threw back her head and cried out, "ghelekh khiduzul, lukhud sanzigillu, sudur vabundhurul azâghul?" (10)


After that, Helmwyn applied herself to her study of Khuzdul with renewed determination.


(1) Power-dressing: the continuation of warfare by other means.

(2) People whose native language is really difficult always say that.

(3) "The King hath come into his chambers; and behold! his Beloved awaits him."

(4) "Thou art tall, yet comely, o daughter of Men!"

(5) "Thy body is as a pillar of alabaster bound with golden bands."

(6) "The kisses of thy mouth are as mead."

(7) "Fair are thy limbs, as though wrought by the finest craftsman."

(8) "Thou art fair as a citadel whose walls are hung with shields."

(9) "The King hath gone into the treasure-chamber; he hath adorned his Beloved with the gems of the earth."

(10) "Who art thou, who art fair as gold, bright as mithril, terrible as a host ready for war?"


A/N: My thanks to The Dwarrow Scholar dot net. If he knew what his dictionaries are being used for...

And my sincerest apologies to any Dwarves out there for my rather slapdash approach to Khuzdul grammar. Corrections welcome!

And yes, in case you were wondering, that was the unholy offspring of A fish called Wanda and the Song of Songs. Who said Khuzdul wasn't sexy?

*hides behind sofa*