By the end of the first day they hadn't reached the edge of the woods, and it was decided they would set camp in a small grove of pines and ash trees. They started fire, and one of the guards began cooking their dinner.
Eorwyn rose from her seat on her tied up bedroll, and picked up her bag of soaps and cloths from her saddle sack. They'd crossed a small stream when entering the grove.
"You shouldn't go alone," the King said from his spot on a fallen tree. "Let me join you."
She saw Mistress Algun jerk her chin in obvious irritation. Eorwyn quickly looked at Ein. He was leaning on the nearest pine, his eyes closed. She saw his lips twitch in a smile, and she sighed.
The King rose, and the two of them silently walked away from the camp. The night was cold, the Autumn was stepping up, eating away the light and the warmth of each day more and more.
When they couldn't see the light of their fire anymore, he suddenly grabbed her wrist and sharply drew her to him. She gasped, and he dove and caught her mouth. As sweet as his busses were to her, she couldn't find much fervour in herself at the moment.
He then moved away and studied her face.
"What's the matter, my little hen?" he asked. "You seem in such low spirits today. And look at this frown!" He shook his head. "It seems my kisses aren't welcome."
"Thorin," Eorwyn said with a soft reproach. "Surely, even you can see why I'm in such a state."
He tilted his head. His face grew darker.
"Even I? And no, my heart, I don't see why you'd be cold and prickly with me, and quiet, and... displeased."
"I'm not displeased!" Eorwyn exclaimed. "I'm… uneasy. And ashamed."
"For Mahal's sake, is this again this hogwash regarding Mistress Algun?" He drew his brows together. "We resolved this issue this morning, did we not?"
Earlier that day…
Eorwyn woke up from the already familiar feeling of the King's hands roaming her body. She smiled without opening her eyes - and then the memories of the previous evening rushed into her mind. She caught his fingers and slowly turned to him, without leaving the warm circle of his arms.
"Thorin, last night something–" she started, while he spoke at the same time.
"We don't have much time, my heart, but how are you feeling today?"
There was a suggestive note in his voice, and Eorwyn sighed.
"Thorin, Mistress Algun knows of us," she said quietly.
He said nothing and watched her face.
"Last night she came to my room with the paperwork for the women, and she found your clasp in my bed. It was a sheer accident, and–"
"She would find out soon enough," he said with a shrug. "But since we will announce our betrothal when we're back, I can't see any aggravation in it."
"Thorin, how is this possible?" Eorwyn frowned. "Don't you see? Firstly, she is your former beloved, and secondly–"
"She was never my beloved, my little hen. We were betrothed. It was quite a different arrangement from what you and I have," he interrupted her, and then suddenly his face lit up with a mischievous smirk. "Is this jealousy I detect in your tone?"
"What?! Of course not!" Eorwyn's eyes boggled. "Thorin, honestly– How can you hear my words and arrive at such bizarre conclusions? I'm not jealous! I'm embarrassed!"
"Of what?" he asked, and then without waiting for her response at all, he grabbed her around her waist and jerked her into him flush. "She'd find out during our journey. I'm not intending to make a secret out of it, now that I don't have to."
"But, Thorin, this surely–" Eorwyn once again tried to reason with the man, but he suddenly moved away and rolled off the bed.
"I have a gift for you, my heart," he said. "I'd had them fashioned a few moons ago. I'm joyous they don't have to wait for you anymore."
He walked to his desk and pulled a small chest from one of the drawers. He returned on the bed, and Eorwyn sat up.
"These are the traditional–" he started, but Eorwyn still hoped to make him understand.
She softly put her hand on the lid of the chest.
"Thorin, please, hear me out," she started, but he leaned in and quickly kissed her lips.
"My heart, we truly have no time. You'll need to return to your rooms for your luggage. Nyr will send a squire with you. And this," he patted the back of her hand with his scorching palm. "This is important."
Eorwyn simply didn't know what to do with this man! Spurred by her momentary silence, he picked up her hand, kissed it, and opened the chest.
Inside, it was divided into two halves. The left one was lined with velvet and contained the necklace that she'd commissioned for him during the Zann Galikh. It contained a lock of her hair, encased into a crystal cabochon. It was a simple oval pendant, unadorned, on a silver chain. She'd had a choice then between choosing something modest and austere, but tasteful, or ending up with a crude and inelegant bauble. She simply couldn't afford anything better. Eorwyn had gone with the former. The King had accepted it with gratitude and seemed sincerely touched. Eorwyn hadn't been fully satisfied with it. The gift was traditional and thus was appropriate, but it lacked the personal touch in her opinion, especially in comparison with the abacus and the chicken cloak she'd received from him.
Eorwyn looked at the right compartment of the box, and saw six little hooks with beads safely clasped on them. She realised they were Dwarven hair beads. They were of a silver tone; three of them were shiny and glossy; another three were brushed, their surface more textured.
"These are the Afuh Bassul, the Bond Beads," he said vehemently. "One is given each moon of the traditional six-month betrothal. Three signify the days to spend together. Another three signify the nights." He brushed the tip of his finger to the satin finished beads. "The smooth ones are given at the beginning of the betrothal. They are the promise of the life the man and the wife will spend together. The other three," he said and gave her a lopsided smirk, "speak of the desire and the fruitful nights ahead of them. They also speak of the late years in life and what follows. This one carries the runes meaning the 'fall,' the 'decline.'" He touched the first bead in the second row, gleaming dully in the light of the candle. "It refers to the dotage the man and his wife will share in wealth and comfort. The second one speaks of Death - peaceful and met in the presence of one's children and the children of one's children. And the last one bonds the man and the wife in the Halls of Our Forefathers, so that even in death and the afterlife they are to stay forever together."
Eorwyn felt tears run down her cheeks, and she slowly lifted her gaze from the beads and met his brilliant blue eyes.
"They are yours, Eorwyn," he said.
Eorwyn lips parted, but no words came. What could she possibly say to let him know how full her heart felt, how happy she was, and how endlessly fortunate she considered herself?
She covered his right hand on the chest with her left one, and cupped his jaw with her right. She softly brushed her lips to his, unashamed of their quivering, and she felt his breath tremble.
"I'm honoured," she whispered. "May all these promises come true."
"They will," he said just as quietly.
She moved away and met his eyes. They shone, emotional and vulnerable, and she bestowed another kiss on his lips - as a sign of her gratitude and the most ardent of promises.
"How are they to be worn?" she asked, her voice breaking and raspy.
"They are added to the woman's hair each month, but you are my wife, Eorwyn. They are all yours. When we return from the journey, you will invite a braidmaster to plait your hair and arrange the beads."
Eorwyn nodded and gingerly stretched her hand. The tips of her fingers bumped into the coldness of one of the 'night' beads.
"They are so… beautiful," she whispered. "I wish I could wear them now."
He chuckled and tenderly kissed her cheek.
"I wouldn't be able to braid your hair properly, my heart," he said. "But I have thought of it." He laughed. "I was brought up to be a considerate lover."
"That you are," she said with a shy smile.
The King rose and took a small velvet bag out of the same drawer. It contained another bead. The King held it between his thumb and his index finger, inviting her to take it. It was exquisite! A geometric pattern adorned its ends, half of it was polished, another - brushed. Runes ran around it.
"Night and day, right?" she asked, and he nodded.
"Days and nights, my heart," he said. "Many, many… nights."
Eorwyn snorted.
"You seem to be preoccupied with only one subject, my lord," she said in tentative flirtation.
He shifted closer and whispered into her ear hotly, "I've been starved, my little hen." He then straightened up and laughed. "But I'm no lecher. The message is quite sentimental. Baktur harrun. It means 'belonging to you in truth.' We've been hiding our bond but it never was untrue."
"Oh Thorin," she exhaled, and they kissed.
A few minutes later he groaned and tore his mouth off hers.
"Even if you've recovered from your troubles, we have no time," he said in an irritated tone, and she stroked his cheek in a pacifying caress.
"I have not. And you're right. We are expected in the courtyard in less than an hour." And then she remembered. "Oh Thorin, we haven't discussed–"
"No time, my heart," he dismissed and rose again.
He walked to the vanity bench and picked up a brush.
"Will you allow me to put a braid in your hair, my heart?" His tone was once again reverent.
"Of course," she said, pushing her aggravation to the back of her mind.
She turned her back to him and felt the bed dip under his weight. His fingers ran her hair, and then she felt the smooth, long strokes of the brush.
"I'll put it behind your right ear. It's customary for a husband to place a braid there," he murmured, and a pleasant shiver ran through her body when he picked up a thick strand of her hair.
She could feel the swift nimble movements of his fingers.
"It's quite… defiant," he muttered.
"What is?"
Eorwyn suddenly lamented that she still had another day of bleeding to endure. There was so much intimacy and sensuality in sitting with him on the bed like this, his fingers buried in her hair, his warmth and his smell surrounding her!
"Your golden mane," he answered. "It's like honey, thick and smooth. But it… escapes." He tsk-tsked with feigned reproach.
"I washed it yesterday," Eorwyn said. "It's much better behaved these days. It used to be like a mop, all tangled and… deranged. I'm using the oils my beardmaster suggested."
"Good," he said distracted, and then she felt him clasp the bead on the end of the braid. "All done," he said.
Eorwyn stretched her hand and carefully touched the thick tight braid behind her ear. She then pulled at it to look at the bead on its end.
"It's beautiful, Thorin," she said. "Thank you."
He quickly kissed the muscle between her neck and her shoulder.
"And now it's time to get ready," he said with a disgruntled huff. "We will already be late. I still want to stop by the infirmary to leave a few last orders with Fili, and you need to go back to your rooms for the luggage."
Eorwyn nodded and climbed off the bed. Her hand would stray to the braid again and again until she stepped onto the cobblestone of the courtyard where the company of seven Dwarves was waiting for her.
