Part 2: Chapter 5: The King of Friend and Kin has Need

The Thief will do what she will do. Thorin knew this, hence the rawness of his plea. Perhaps she perceived the vulnerable emotion of his request as demand, and that she would not tolerate.

He had been fairly forward with his feelings.

Dís would say he came over like some snarling Bear.

Indeed, he might have felt so angry, though he had no clue to the disposition of Bears. And it dissipated now, this hot bed of feeling, this thing that wedged between them, and he was left empty and sour as he headed a circular way back toward camp.

He needed her to understand. But even if she listened, she would not understand. Dwarves did not think like People of Men. Dam as well as Dwarrow were respected, a thing she never assumed but had no way to measure. It was not only that, in his mind he imagined how far away she hailed, so far there were no maps to encompass the distance between them. Mahal.

These thoughts did not ease his spirit, now sunk to his feet as he forced them on. His hand gripped the comb as though it could save him, as though it were some shield. He looked down at it and smirked, though the humor was rather biting; it was carved from Oak, Oakenshield.

He was the shield for his People. He needed to remember, He should consider his Quest. And here he was, distracted by his One, one who did not return Juzrazur.

Or did she? How else then Nai'adâl?

It was said to be a sacred, secret gift, Urrak mahd. These Dreams were shared! How was this a blessing, unless?

How then. Mahal knew.

Thorin was utterly lost.

Sona had stripped bare, in silence, granting him no further word.

He knew he should not take this to heart, she had not meant to hurt, though she had been finished with arguments. So be it. She was tired, and longed to wash away the blood from battle. And the wounds she sustained had to ache––

He ached heart and soul.

Ē'ze. Everything. He recalled her––her back, all bruised and cut.

She paid no mind to what he saw or didn't see. Apparently it hadn't mattered. He wondered briefly if she'd strip like that for the others, and then he stopped, his footsteps stopping with his mind. Was she so comfortable with him?

No. He could not afford such thinking. He shoved a low branch out of his path as he strode on, affirming with a forceful nod, she was comfortable with all of them.

As if she were Dwarrow.

And yet, she was so different. He had no idea what any of this meant.

And yet he cared.

And he could not cast her vision from his mind.

Ē'ze.

The Dreams meant nothing, or? He pondered whether he could be her One.

A dangerous pondering.

Suddenly he shivered, realizing something unsettling. He had not required his Choice––Mabujba––to meet the Thief in Dreams; even before he pledged himself, she had been with him. This shook his fragile hope; he had not thought possible to ache so low.

He must avoid these Dreams.

However, his stubborn mind clung to thoughts of her–– Had he seen inking there upon her skin? Some of the marks, black, deliberate, almost floral, and yet edged––these had not looked like marks from wounds, but from falltasâr. He frowned, trying to recall, now unable. And why did he think this way?

Quash it, this hope for far too much. It distracts.

Cursed, he must be cursed, that must be it.

Foulness took seat in his expression, and thus he returned, finding Dwalin at the edge of camp, on watch, with Balin at his side. Though he eased in their company, it was only in passing. All things weighed on him, yet he could not succumb to that weight. He stopped to stand with them a moment, observing his Company without seeing anything.

Azog was not far.

Thorin's spirit grew numb. With some difficulty, he worked to clear his mind of any thought, so that he could ponder their next step, planning ways to avoid ambush on their path east. The Company rested now, he saw, refreshed from the water, all with their combs out, preparing for grooming.

Balin observed with him, hands clasped to his back, now and then glancing at him, face masked with his diplomat smile, concern tucked deep in his eyes, he waited for some word, while Dwalin glanced between them as he kept watch on the parameters. When no word came Balin finally ventured the question. "How'd your conversation fare?"

"It ended."

"Hmmph," Dwalin growled, staring off, shaking his head, the matter of his unease ambiguous at best. Perhaps it was the matter of Juzrazur, but Thorin was in no condition to offer any guidance.

"So you left for privacy's sake?" Balin asked, eyes widening with hope.

It went beyond that.

"Zê'biniski'ul'ê," he told them matter-of-factly.

He's among the miscast–– Bondless Ones, not being One to their One. This was rare, yet it happened, still happens, case in point.

Balin leaned back with his brows scrunched, a quick shake of the head was his dismissal of this idea, and then he stared off, concerned, but having no immediate answer. He knew nothing beyond what he'd learned from books.

Dwalin scowled even more than his usual, brooding quietly in the direction of the Company. Avoiding eye contact, his glance rested briefly on the Thief's bag before he shook himself, and scoured the woodlands around them, focused on the watch.

Neither of them wished to accept Thorin's word.

Thorin saw it as truth and he was tired. This made him angry.

He had no time for tiredness.

"You cannot know it," Balin argued, his whole face and form full of protest.

Thorin held his hand up, stopping him. "It is not returned, and I must think of our Quest, my purpose."

"Thorin." It was Dwalin. "The Whatsafist threw herself upon you to save your head, so––"

"As she would have done for any one of us."

They stared at him, jaws slacked, but with recognition.

"She said so," he pressed, and yet he remembered, after she said him–– Thorin. How she looked in his eyes––

"Aye," Dwalin muttered, looking away, into the woods again, doing his duty on watch, angry as a prickled boar.

She meant nothing beyond aide, Thorin repeated to his soul. Stop.

The others, at camp, assembled in amongst their closest, the task of hair care at hand, combs ready. Thorin gripped his comb–– His shield.

The Ur brothers sat together, a circle of hands to hair.

Glóin fussed with Óin's braids while Óin brushed his beard.

The Ri brothers sat nearest the Thief's bag, and Nori eyed it for what it held, as though it carried one of the fallen.

It did––

It carried her guitar.

Would she think he was worth it?

"It saved her. It saved them both," Ori told Nori, nudging his brother as he made ready to assist re-forming Nori's hair star, unaware Thorin had returned.

"And then Sasha," Fíli added, louder, his eyes fixed on Thorin, having sometime discovered him standing there. The Dog was curled comfortably at his feet, watching him.

Aye, the Dog––

––Sona. Her Guitar. Sasha. Tharkûn. A Moth. The Eagles. His Company. He owed the gamut his gratitude.

Thorin avoided Fíli's steady staring a moment longer, encompassing the rest.

Then, gripping his comb for grounding, he nodded to Dwalin and Balin as he took a step toward camp. He looked back at Fíli, to find Kíli watching him as well, both having spotted him now.

His youngest wore a silly grin while Fíli waved him over, but Thorin declined with a slight tilt of his head. He often groomed with his Sister's Sons, but today he did not want help with his own.

He sought no comfort, nor could he offer any.

He proceeded on, feeling the need for private space to relax his face. He grabbed his pack and heading to a far log, where he sat with his back to them all and let go, as far as he could, being still except for his hands in his hair. He hoped he could release the tension still racing through him.

Thoughts of them all, his Sister's Sons. Sona.

Their idiot Company Leader had best be less of an idiot next time.

He kept his face toward the woods.

Because next time would come. It always came.

Sitting on the log, he dragged his pack around painfully and reached for the herbed oils in his pack. Then he began releasing the warrior braid on his right temple.

He remembered Azog's face, those pale blue eyes leering at him from beyond the flame, he would have them all, and Thorin blinked, his thoughts going back to the Thief.

Mahal, kuf Ze'binishki?

He noticed the forest edges, wavering greens, and he blinked again, keeping watch for movement as the colors blurred.

Once the warrior braid on his left temple was free, he worked the oils into his hair as best he could, bringing his head into his hands, fingers burrowing the oils into his scalp.

"Mahal, kuf Ze'binishki?" he asked aloud this time.

A fine mess it was, Mahal–– Mahd'asti. I do not like your favor.

No matter. I will be her friend. She needs my assistance––

What good had he been so far?

His hands reached behind to grab one of his back braids, and he hissed, discovering to his dismay that he could not reach it. There was some residual tear of muscle deep inside his chest, front and backside, hampering his movement. Sitting alone today had been another mistake, he quickly realized as pain doubled up through his ribs.

Still he tried.

"Ze'biniski, Mahal," he whispered yet again, underscoring truth by hearing it spoken.

"Here, let me."

Sona! Thorin pulled back, flinching, to find her reaching for his comb––where––? "What are you––"

"Stop being such a stubborn ass, and let someone help you for once!"

Help with my hair?

But that––

––That was her hand on his shoulder as she reached over him, her whole body leaned against his back––

He stopped breathing.

As the flesh of his back felt the full form of her body against him, her soft breasts, firm lines, lavender enveloped him along with the feel of her, how well she fit, pressed there so tight. There was barely any cloth between them, just their shirts, a flimsy barrier, and how well he could feel her. He wanted more, ignoring the pain she caused by this contact in favor of the fire she lit through his body, clear to his core.

She took the comb.

Why was she taking his comb? Would she do that?

He wished this moment would end.

Except she felt so good.

She drew back, and he sucked in air, still trying his best not to move, to regain composure. Yet still he could feel her there, still so close to him, a mere hand-span between them, he could feel the air shift between them from her presence there.

"Goodness, would it kill you to ask for help?"

How does this go with taking my comb? Thorin stared straight into the woods, too stunned to say anything aloud. He could have sat with his Sister's Sons. That would have spared him… this.

Her railing.

His humiliation. His comb.

This lovely feeling of her so close against him––

He had offered it to her once, that one time. But now she would snatch it? Why? He could not even move, much less ask.

––Maybe, just maybe, he was not miscast. Maybe, just maybe, she did have feelings for him, feelings beyond friendship.

Stop. Just stop.

The Company's eyes were upon him, boring through him, but he would not turn, too raw, too exposed, why? I was just trying to comb my hair.

"You're clearly still injured and going to hurt yourself if you keep at it."

And what would you do about it? Her blatant thievery set him on fire. She was a Thief after all.

She would be mortified if she knew.

So be still.

Say nothing. She wouldn't actually do it, after all. Despite their differing cultures, surely she knew well enough by now not to touch a Dwarf's––

And then her hands were in his hair.

Oh Mahal, no.

And it was all he could do not to shift 'round and kiss her.

He wanted to kiss her senseless, and never let go, her lips claiming his own, to feel her want him.

He held his body rigid as she sank her fingers into the depths of it, undoing his ties, pulling apart his braids, tearing at his soul––she didn't mean it that way, she didn't know–– but her hands, and she tugged, and he could feel every shift of hair as if––

Did she want him?

Why these thought?

He remained frozen, wishing he could shut off all feeling.

Wishing he could never stop feeling it.

He had often thought it would be nice to feel her hands in his hair, but this!

––Imhêd'ul Mahal–– he was not prepared for this–– his body was waking hard!

No. All she wished was to help him, and his raw, sensuous need to hold and be held, that he could not have. Ze'binishki. And yet her hands were in his hair!

He resisted the urge, this constant urge, to press back into her hands.

It was useless, he couldn't stop feeling. Or hearing. The Company had gone still in the clearing behind them, no doubt watching this–– whatever this was–– unfolding.

Binumrâl. He had not asked–– he had no idea!

No one to blame, so why did he feel it? This was beyond his control––

He could just––stay––

––Still––

––Binibritami.

If he moved or refused, she would surely rail into him once again for things beyond his understanding.

Ohhhh, those hands, her fingers coursing through the strands of his hair. He clenched his teeth to keep his breathing even, his mouth shut. She meant nothing more than to help him. He repeated this over and over as his body grew thoroughly ravenous.

Stone. Stone mask. Keep it fixed. Your Company is watching.

Never had he felt so exposed… good thing only the woods faced him––

She slowed her hands and his heart nearly climbed out of his chest, feeling her fingertips on his scalp. Soft, hard, firm, moving. Callused fingertips from music playing––

Asti––Biriz Akmâth.

How he wished to lie back into her, cushioned against her bosom. Just be still.

Why was she doing this? Is this what friends do where she comes from?

Someone should tell her to stop.

Yet he said nothing. No one else dared.

"I can show you the world, shinning, shimmering, splendid…"

What? She would sing now? Why? Was this for him?

Or perhaps his silence had made her squirm.

How come?

Could some semblance of his feelings be returned? Or maybe even more than that? He crushed the urge to turn and look at her, to see this confirmed or denied–– surely he dreamed.

They both dreamed. Nai'adâl.

"Tell me, princess, now when did you last let your heart decide…"

Princess? Why would she hesitate with her heart's choice––? The Dam decides.

And suddenly he recalled his A'mad's hands––she always sang to him when she tended his hair––now unwarranted comfort.

He longed for the comfort of his One, and here she gave it––

He should have expected he would become aroused, should his One turn to grooming him, but he hadn't even thought––

"… on a magic carpet ride…"

A what?

"… no one to tell us no, or where to go, or say we're only dreaming…"

Nai'adâl. How was he to avoid that in their future? He must, however reluctantly. She did not know.

Her hands still worked his hair, and his body called for her and he grew hard and aching where he least expected it today. Her voice only made things worse as he listened, and Oh Mahal, he was listening, every pore could hear, and his skin stretched and cried with him.

"I'm like a shooting star, I've come so far…"

Asti––

"I can't go back to where I used to be…"

––but that is what you want; you have always said you want to go home––

His body would pay no heed to reason.

Do you want me? Could you, like I want you? Why did you have to help me this way?

He could not stop asking this question.

Maybe–– No. This was nonsense. She had been very clear.

She continued on grooming through numerous other songs. He tried to ignore the words after her first choice, along with everything else. He was hard pent, holding as still as some dusty dark statue, waiting for her to finish, the pain of his arousal requiring his utmost patience as it clouded out his other aches.

This want.

He eyed the woods as she let go of his left warrior braid, his eyes welling. He would head there soon, and Mahal willing, she would not notice his… condition.

"Um… I think I'm done." She leaned into his back again, offering his comb, her body once more pressed upon him. He was nearly undone there, so close, just the slightest provocation.

He took the comb warily, watching her hand, his head to the side to catch her arm's movement. He could not touch her hands and feed this torment, those cool delightful fingers against his own.

No. He would surely unravel.

He smelled her lavender mixed with the scent of his oils, this only made it worse. Still, he hung to the moment, feeling her living body against his. She's going now.

"I'm sorry it took so long… and doesn't look as nice––"

The subtlest shake of 'no' coursed through his core, to his head, but he doubted she could see it.

"It is fine." His voice felt rough and full of gravel. He missed the feel of her hands already.

She had meant nothing intimate.

Oh Mahal, it had felt good, and so, why? How could this be? Given that it seemed there could be nothing good to come from it. Yet clearly only Mahal could have allowed it.

Thorin began to understand how hard his day to day routine would become, and he shuddered internally, not wanting it.

There was ample burden before, too much already.

Mahal, what of Azog?

And you gift this–– this in addition.

Ze'binishki. You expect me to drown, surely.

"Kay… if you say so." She sighed, her words had softened. Only now he heard her doubt.

Why did she doubt?

He did not understand, but oh, how he wished to. He let his eyes shut as she moved away, emptiness returning like the cold winds. He allowed his face to relax once more, holding his chest tight, stilling the shakes that begged for release–– the need to hold and be held.

There would be no release.

Azog is behind, and chasing–– Look to your People. The Quest. Make them a way Home.

Thorin signed Dwalin without turning, unwilling to see their eyes, not caring who else saw his message: 'I head into the woods for a scout check. Alone.' He knew they would voice no argument for his need to privacy. 'Our enemy searches for me, for us.'

He would not be back soon, he knew, based on the firmness of his needs, as each jarring step hurt on the way into the woods.

/T\oSo/T\oDo/T\

Khuzdûl:

Nai'adâl – shared dreams

Mabujba – He has chosen.

Urrak mahd – sacred, secret blessing

Falltasâr – Tattoo, inking.

Zê'biniski'ul'ê – I'm of miscast Ones.

Kuf – why

Mahd'asti – your favor

Imhêd'ul Mahal – blessings of Mahal

Binibritami – stay with me