Part 2: Chapter 6: Now Call We Over Mountains Cold

Thorin couldn't turn back, cock hard as the blasted trunk he slumped against.

He panted, catching breath, bracing this pain, one he had never imagined. Yet his ears tugged relentlessly, latched upon the sounds of camp, that spot where Sona had left him, his hair duly braided as she'd seen fit.

No.

In the woods. Go away. Clear your head. Calm this–– unwelcome wakening.

Thorin looked deeper into the woods.

I have no say in this, nor time to grieve. I will keep to my task, and bring us home. And the Thief will do what she will.

Including grooming my hair.

How was he to tell her it would be best she kept her hands off?

He was hard, and he was punch hungry. And there was nothing for it.

She will do what she will.

He tried to curb the growl within, well knowing she had no idea.

Had she liked how it felt? His hair, in her hands?

At the thought his body tightened, the pain of this deepest arousal too hard to bear.

Blast me in the mines, Mahal, laden with heavy stone.

What would she think if she knew what she did to him?

Would it repulse her? Turn her skin dark in embarrassment?

Or would she get that look, like mischief on the wind?

She wanted a friend, not––

He smashed a knuckled fist into the tree supporting him. The Pine needles showered him as he used the press of his fist to move on, somehow hoping movement would help ease this pain.

His body took the brunt of the force with a sharpness he readily embraced. He took the moment to recall where he was and let his eyes clear as he felt his heart beating, ache echoing the beats like pulsing glass in his knuckles. No good getting lost or walking into his enemies' path while he thought himself up trees.

Up trees.

Azog.

His cock eased some as his eyes roved the distances through the branches for movements, aware there would be Orcs in search. No matter his state of mind, he must be on guard.

But she put her hands in his hair!

Tightness gripped once more: he had to tell her. He couldn't tell her.

His Company knew he could not.

Dís would have his beard and then some, that he hadn't stopped the Thief before she began. And why hadn't he? Because he wanted her touch that way.

Even before he knew what it meant.

His body was worn over. From the bashing, Azog and his Warg. And from her deft fingers, callused tips over his scalp––

Stop! Such thought only made it harder, with no easing.

He was worse than reckless.

He struck another passing tree. The edge remained, and the tree shook, birds swooshing up from the branches. More needles fell over his head.

Tell her? Aye, he should.

He centered on the jarring pain his punches caused, knowing there was no possible way he could ever get the words out.

Would one of the Company take on this task?

Perhaps they were explaining Khazâd custom even now, as he roamed the woods bent in his frustration. Who? And what would they say? Just how would they explain?

A new and nagging curiosity took seed. He let his weight sink into hard steps through the trees, wondering. Balin was too out of his depth in knowledge to broach the subject. Dwalin, too confused by his own new found awareness of Juzrazur. Bifur, he would tell her, he was close to the Thief, except for the language barrier.

Now, as he began to turn over rational thoughts, his body followed, softening, a welcome blunting. Thorin sighed, letting his mind wonder over possibilities.

Perhaps someone with a One would explain. Of those, Fíli was the most likely.

Thorin swallowed, peeved that his Sister's Son would have no qualms. At least he would be good with words.

He would ask Fíli on his return.

For now, he was far away from returning. Though his body was finally beginning to ease, he had too much to ponder. How was he to look at her and move on?

Should he look as if nothing happened?

Something certainly happened.

Mahal, he couldn't even think about her clever fingers in his hair without fighting arousal. How was he to live like this? How, with this, even to look at her?

No matter. He must move. That was the task before him.

And so he struck another tree, all the aches in his body objecting.

More needles fell. "Life is full of needles," he grumbled, glaring up at the tree.

The trees remained unscathed apart from this shedding, as though his fist were a mere gnat that had flown against them.

No. He must fight this feeling of futility, for his Company as well as his People depended upon him, on his success. He must think of them, and move.

He headed back to the river. Though he felt soiled, convinced he should not have let her, aghast by what his omission brought on––and for a Friend! Still, he did not get back in the water.

Nor did he drink from it.

He rather stared at the water as it moved, listening to the threads of stream sliding past rocks and shore, recalling the words spoken here, looking where the grasses on the edges were pressed from the Company's recent bathing. They'd left a telling trail––

––Bruises down her back––

––They would be easy to find, should anyone be searching.

Azog.

His remaining ardor cooled to memory.

They should have set off hours ago, instead of leisurely grooming hair. And here he stood, staring at water, the hair she had newly groomed now riddled with pine needles. And his body ached. Oh, how it ached. He focused on the aches caused by Azog's mace and the Warg's teeth, as well as his knuckles. That hard, unwelcome ache was gone, and he filled with emptiness and chill.

He couldn't hang on, even if he wanted.

Lost.

He sat, taking his fingers to his hair––hair that she'd touched–– and began pulling out the needles wedged in there from the Pines he had struck. He took a bit of time, careful not to undo her handiwork as he freed the errant needles. The action reminded him why he'd needed her in the first place, as pain pulled through his chest and back as he reached behind his head to fish out the shaken greenery.

Sona.

Biriz Akmâth.

Had someone done her hair in his turn? Such was the usual Khazâd custom. Custom––

––his hands in her hair––

He could only dream–– Dream? No. No dreams!

He laughed, bitter and dry, but he laughed. His eyes coursed over the opposite bank, watching for signs of any unwelcome newcomers.

She stole a right to his hair–– She hadn't asked: she had taken, like the Thief she was––

His Thief. Thorin laughed once more. Ē'ze.

––Had she not observed their customs?

Thorin stilled, just now realizing she had never seen the Dwarves tending hair. All of the Company, himself included, had kept these actions private, without thought, so ingrained was the Khazâd way of hair.

And now? They knew she was his One.

So–– His mind raced ahead with nagging curiosity. Had anyone offered? It should have been him, but he couldn't, and he would not dare.

But who could offer? Not his Sister's Sons. This would imply familial bond, near as if he had done it himself: this would be Durinul barafi, claiming Sona kin. Same with Dwalin or Balin. Or Glóin or Óin. Or Dori, Nori or Ori. Which left Bombur, Bifur or Bofur––

Hammer to cold stone, this pondering irritated him tenfold.

He wanted what he could never hope to have, the love of his Thief, his One, his hands in her hair. How would it feel? He'd felt it briefly when he held her in the Warg attack. His hand went to his chest, over the inner-pocket where he kept her strands from when he had loaned his comb–– he had a good notion how it would feel. It would be heavy and silky and different from Dwarf hair as it slid through his fingers like water––

Stop. Stop stop stop. He pressed his eyes shut briefly before continuing to survey the opposite shore.

The water burbled and sloshed its continuum past, ever changing, still seeming the same. They were past the Misty Mountains now, all that much closer to Erebor where the Fire Drake waited, should they outrun his pursuers.

Outrun them they must. He had his Kin and Company. He had his One. One who he could not be with, or without. Safe he would keep them. His fingers tightened, pressing his father's bead into the deepness of his palm. He looked down, startled once more by her handiwork in his hair.

How would he bring himself to undo them?

He choked on a laugh, bitterness swelling. He was come to this?

He would tend his own hair next time, and no pining. For the good of them all he must move.

He finished up removing the needles from his left warrior braid. He was ready.

And there he froze, beholding it––her braid, sweet work of her hands.

Her twists were not like his or those of his kin, her weaves less perfect. He smiled just as his eyes burned deeper, realizing the uneven turns made her braids that much more dear to him.

Dear. His fingers turned over the bead, forged by his Adad from before they lost Erebor. His eyes cleared as a different pain surged. Anrân––

Adad'ē––

––Where are you? Thorin's chill deepened as the river ran on. He realized his father had not been named in the foul bounty note. Dwalin and Balin would suggest this is proof, should he speak of it. Would Dís?

No––

––I should still be searching.

But with no idea where… how then?

Follow Tharkûn's advice? Such was their course.

Is it all in vain?

No. His body answered loudly with the beats of his heart, each press of blood waking pain–– He lived. As did Thráin. Perchance the Pale Orc's master held him caged. But where? Or maybe he wandered, lost and mad. Again, but where? As for death––No. That was not it. The bead holding Sona's braid flashed silver from sunlight reflecting off the bouncing waters. Thorin would know.

"He still lives. I am sure of it."

On that merry note Thorin angrily forced his mind away from thoughts that brought no ready answer.

He rose and headed down the path and up, to scout the distances, shaking out the excess needles from his clothes. He climbed a ridge facing the Great East Road, wondering about what happened now, back at camp.

Surely they packed. And then he cursed once more, aware packing was but another source of woe. Sona would find her guitar smashed to ruin.

Birashigami, Biriz Akmâth'ame E'zê.

She would grieve.

Surely she grieved now while he wandered out here, a hopeless fool brooding up rain clouds, Dís would say. His hand wrapped around that last warrior braid, the last braid she touched. He would apologize once they found a moment to themselves. Someday, somehow, he would make amends.

But how would he handle a moment alone?

Stop, just. No.

He would wait, and he would listen, and he would be her friend.

He wanted that, and it warmed him slowly as he rose the banks, passing Pines as he sought high ground and a good vantage.

They would move when he returned. But where? By his own reckless disregard, he needed time to heal, and a place for it.

As well as Sona.

Yet he knew of no safe place between here and the border of the Mirkwood, and that forest was not what he'd call an improvement.

And it was still some days away from their location.

Did Tharkûn have a plan?

Nearing the peak of the ridge, Thorin's body tensed as all the birds about him grew suddenly silent. He peered over a rock ledge, cloaked by his coat.

His chest closed, remembering fear: there in the distance, on the closest ridge, ran packs of Orcs on Wargs, many of them. They trailed up and down the switchback, looking for their prey.

Thorin opened his mouth to take in air only to taste their foul stench on the breeze. The Orcs were downwind, to Thorin and Company's good fortune. His eyes gripped the Pale One, on the highest part of the ridge, who suddenly reared up on his white Warg, as if he could see Thorin watching from the shadows.

And perhaps he did, squinting as though he looked right though him.

But then a horrific roar echoed through the valley from somewhere between them, and the Pale Orc's eyes seemed to follow that cry.

Thorin shivered, looking down the ride west from where he watched.

There–– there below was the largest Bear Thorin had ever seen, snarling and growling at at the packs of Wargs and approaching Orcs.

Was that––? The Thief had mentioned a Bear Man.

Thorin wasted no time wondering as he took off toward camp.

Once there, he slowed his pace, as unwelcome awkwardness took hold.

No time. No time for this. No.

He crashed through the trees into the presence of his Company, his eyes falling upon one after another of them, each and every one of them ready to go, including the Dog, who stood with her tail pointed the opposite direction of the Orcs, the direction they would run. "Good, you are packed," he muttered, not quite breathless. The Thief knew of it then, her guitar. He glanced over the camp, the fire was cracking, the pieces losing shape. She had seen to it, and though he felt her eyes upon him, he couldn't look back. Not yet.

Instead his glance rested briefly on Fíli, and signed, 'Did you explain Khazâd custom on hair?'

Fíli's piercing eyes betrayed nothing for a moment, but then a smile, like a crack in the clouds, lit his Sister's Son's face. He gestured toward Bofur, who nodded, hat flaps bobbing up, a sad grin across his features.

'Bifur would've, so I did,' the Miner signed before looking to the ground. 'She found her guitar.'

Thorin swallowed past the lump. "The Orcs have found our trail, and…" He forced himself to look at her then, and she looked back to him, eyes wide and wondering, still with a spark to them, as though she was angry at him. He wondered what reason now––

––No time. No time for any of this. "Closer still, there is a rather large Bear."

His Company hefted their gear. Sona took on her own, but Thorin and Dwalin had already confirmed with glances, and Dwalin would take over her pack soon enough. Glóin glanced between them, closest to the Thief. 'I will keep her with us, you lead the way away.'

Moments later they were all running again.

/T\oSo/T\oDo/T\

Khuzdûl:

Barafi – of the family