Author's Note:

I'm back, my darlings! To be precise, my right hand is back to work - after a month of severe pain, tremors, and intensive physical therapy. Yay for the combination of the carpal tunnel syndrome, tendonitis, anaemia, and several other, ED induced conditions *facepalm* Anyway, I'm somewhat better, and we're back in Middle Earth, Toto!

Just a note: I created an AO3 account and posted "Thorin's Missed Dinner" (the M rated - though, vanilla AF - companion piece to this story) there. My user name on AO3 is, as always, kkolmakov. So, if you feel like rereading it, or didn't get a chance to read it before it was taken down thanks to the user catspats31 reporting it (for being too explicit, apparently *confused woke shrug*) - come to play with me there! 3

If you have a moment, let me know in your reviews whether you normally read fanfiction on both sites. Only here? Would you prefer to move there completely? I'm somewhat annoyed by what happened, but not as ANNOYED as I am by the ads popping up on my phone after each bloody paragraph when I try to read stories on this site! *angry noises* Should we all just migrate there, and enjoy some fluffy smut in peace?

Anyway, enjoy the new chapter! We're starting part 3 of this story, and I have some twisty plot twists prepared for you, my lambkins!

Love,

Katya xx

Part 3

Four moons later…

"I'm certain it's bigger," the King said, his scorching palm drawing one gentle circle after another on Wren's stomach.

"It's not," she answered with a chuckle. "What you're feeling isn't the babe. It's venison stew."

"But it's round. And protruding," he grumbled.

"Still, just the venison stew," Wren laughed. "It might be different this time, but when I was expecting Mira, I didn't show any signs till I was seven months along."

The King emitted an exasperated huff and pulled her nightshift down. He lay down, his head next to hers on the pillow.

"You're being charmingly impatient." Wren stroked his jaw with her hand. "But there's nothing even you can do about the natural order of things, my dearest King Under the Mountain."

"Dwarven babes are large," he said stubbornly. "My sister was the size of an ale tun three moons in."

"Maybe this one is a tiny ginger like me," Wren teased. "Wouldn't that be horrible?"

The King wrapped his left arm around her and pulled her in.

"He or she won't be. The Dwarven blood is strong."

Wren poked his side with her index finger, in the strategic location between his ribs, and he jolted and moved his lower half away from her on the sheets, still embracing her around her shoulder.

"You're supposed to say you wish our child was my spitting image," she exclaimed.

"Only if it's a daughter," he said. "If it's a boy, it's best if he looks like me."

Wren opened her mouth to jest about his conceit regarding his looks, but a shadow ran over his features, and Wren tensed.

"What is it, Thorin?"

He shook off his momentary sombre mood, met her eyes, and smiled tenderly.

"It's nothing," he said lightly. "We should sleep."

"I thought we'd agreed to tell everything to each other openly," Wren reminded him. "Has something happened? Does it have to do with the marriage contract?"

He glanced at her in surprise.

"I know you were to have a meeting regarding the Indenture with Lord Balin today," Wren explained. "And I saw Lord Oddur yesterday, he stopped by the infirmary. He said you were still missing the signet of one emissary from the Iron Hills." She saw the King's jaw set obstinately. "Lord Oddur wouldn't explain anything openly, of course," Wren continued, "but do I understand correctly that it's your cousin's underhanded way to delay or even suspend our marriage?" Muscles rolled under his beard in knots, and Wren sighed. "Thorin?"

She could understand why he resisted talking about the matter. As she was starting to realise as she was settling into her life in Erebor - and into her service in the infirmary - Dwarves were fast and eager to express any fond feeling they had for their relations and comrades, but never any bitterness or suspicion. She had never met Dain Ironfoot, he had returned to his halls before Wren had arrived, but she'd heard of the Dwarf's temperament and his skill in battle. Apparently, he had been the first to provide his signature out of the twelve highest Dwarven lords who were to officially ratify the marriage contract for a King. He had signed his formal Letter of Marriage Endorsement as soon as the King had requested it - and yet there hadn't been any news from the Iron Hill noble who was the last one left to confirm the legitimacy of their bond. After the Letters were gathered, the only thing left was the ceremony - and, according to Svava, an at least month-long feast.

"I don't believe that Dain would–" the King started, and then gritted his teeth and exhaled noisily. "I don't want to believe that Dain would stoop that low. It's not like him to be duplicitous."

"Perhaps, he was joyous to hear you wanted to marry and he signed the Letter on the spot, but then when the truth became known to him, he changed his mind," Wren said quietly. "I know you two care about each other. It was also right after a battle, and both of you were wounded. I'm sure emotions ran high then. And then he had time to think and decided he needed to protect you from unwise choices. If you look at it from his point of view, you'll–"

"I am looking at it from– the Dwarven point of view, my heart." The King's tone was soft but pointed. "The Khazad do not renege. And Dain has always been much less diplomatic than any other Khuzd would be with their kin. I had told him what you call 'the truth,' meaning of your circumstances, from the start. He knew you were of Men and of no noble blood. He signed the Letter. That is that."

"Would he have told you that you were making a mistake if he thought so then?" Wren asked.

"Dain would have." The King chuckled warmly. "Any other would've avoided the topic perhaps, or would've made ambiguous statements, but not Dain. If he'd objected to it, he would've thumped me to the head and told me I'd lost my mind to be swooning over a pair of pretty– eyes."

"You were going to say legs, weren't you?" Wren said in a feigned reproachful tone.

"Definitely not." The King's lips twitched, suppressing a smile. "Those were definitely your intelligent and soulful eyes that had captured me, my love."

"Uh-huh. And not my pert backside sticking out of the cellar," Wren muttered - and just as she hoped, he patted her buttock affectionately. "So, what do you think is happening? Why hasn't the Letter been signed and sent back to you then?"

"I do not know," the King drew out. He fixed his gaze on the wall above Wren's shoulder. "But something is happening."

Wren shifted on the bed and pressed into him.

"Tell me there's nothing to worry about," she whispered. "Tell me, and I will believe you."

"You have nothing to worry about, Wren," he said firmly.

She lay on his right arm, and he bent it, closing the circle of his embrace around her. She felt his fingers slowly move through her hair above the loose braid she tied before bed, and habitually she noted the progress in his recovery of the movement in his right hand, which she was quite proud of her contribution to, if she were honest. He rubbed her back comfortingly with his other hand, and she clutched fistfuls of his soft night tunic.

"The influence of the Iron Hills' zabbad is limited to their halls, and those who'd been exiled in the Blue Mountains support me no matter what," he added reassuringly. "Even if I'd decided to marry a pony, or even an Elf."

Wren snorted. "I suppose, compared to a pony and especially to an Elf, I'm not that unfitting after all."

"You are fitting," he said. "You fit perfectly." His hand was back on her backside, and a hearty squeeze followed.

"Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do, my lord," Wren scoffed in mock sarcasm. "You're once again using your body to distract me from important preoccupations."

His rough palm travelled higher, burning even through the fabric of her shift, onto her waist, and then onto her side, and he opened his large hand. His thumb lay on her sternum, between her breasts, while his fingers pressed over her ribs.

"Is it working?" he murmured.

"Just as always, without fail," Wren answered - and he moved in and caught her mouth.

Their hands wandered, and she was burning in lust and adoration - when he suddenly halted his demanding caresses. She leaned back and saw his widened eyes, and then a beaming grin spread on his face.

"They're bigger!" he announced, with what couldn't be called anything but triumph, laced in his voice.

"You've only just noticed?" Wren was almost peeved - mostly due to a pause in their loving. "Svava has adjusted my bodice twice by now."

"But it's obvious now," he murmured, and his fingers twitched on this particular part of Wren's anatomy.

"Well, aye, and also my hips are getting wider, not that it's as obvious because I've always been too–" Wren stopped in the middle of her somewhat disgruntled explanation, struck by a realisation. "My growing bosom is the only sign of my pregnancy you can truly observe and recognise, isn't it?"

He nodded, and Wren smiled at him with ardent appreciation. To think of it, neither the lack of her courses, nor her aversion to certain smells and tastes, as well as the occasional nausea, which she wouldn't be able to confuse with anything rather than part of her expecting state, could serve as an evidence to him of the small life growing in her.

"I've also gained an additional nazg of hair in the past moon," she said, referring to the density of her mane these days, measured by special rings among the Khazad. "It's also getting darker, but it'll return to its normal shade after birth. Here, I'll show you."

Wren sat up, pushed her hands into her braid, and loosened it. She picked up half of her hair, gathered it on top of her head, and turned her back to the King.

"Do you see? There are strands hiding underneath that are brown," she said. "It's like your colouring has been mixed into my blood," Wren joked. "It's never going to be as dark as yours, but closer to the time of birth, there will be more and more of the brown strands, and they will be noticeable even when my hair is braided."

She felt his fingers gently touch her curls.

"I can see them," he whispered.

There was reverence in his voice. He threaded both his hands into her hair, and she released the part she'd held, letting him play with it.

"Anything else?" he asked, and she could hear hope and greedy curiosity in his inquiry.

"My freckles will get darker, the ones on my shoulders," she recalled. "The ones on my face require sunlight, and I see less of it now, living underground. But the ones on the shoulders draw their colour from my body, and they will be more prominent."

He hooked a finger to the collar of her chemise and pulled it off her right shoulder. Wren once again rejoiced to note which hand he'd used. Also, she never fastened her shift on her neck these days, to avoid asking Svava to sew the buttons back on, again and again.

"These ones?" he asked and kissed her shoulder.

"They're still the same for now, but you should have a good look so you can see the difference later," Wren sing-songed.

He placed a row of small kisses, on her shoulder and then the side of her neck, and then returned to the freckles in question.

"We need to take off your tunic," he said in a pretend practical tone. "I need to make sure the stock is properly registered in the ledger."

He tapped the tip of his fingers on several freckles - and Wren giggled.

"That's very prudent, my lord," she said and picked up the hem of her shift. "We wouldn't want any discrepancies in the books, after all."