Thorin spends the night in the dressing room, on the floor, his back pressed to the doorframe, so that he can from time to time throw a glance on two sleeping forms on his bed. By dawn he feels his mind has come to a balance, he has arrived to certain decisions and feels he knows how to act.

He comes up to Wren and gently touches her shoulder. He regrets robbing her of sleep, but some measures are to be taken. She silently opens her eyes and is looking at him calmly. He points at her feet, they are cut, blood has dried on the soles, there are stains of the sheets, and he gestures to her inviting her to climb onto his arms. He can see the internal struggle in her but then she nods. He leans in and picks her up. Her body jolts from the contact, and he wonders whether it is any man she feels repulsed by or it is just him.

He seats her on the bench in the bath chamber and starts tending to her feet. There are shards of glass buried deep in her skin, he wipes the blood and removes them. Some of the cuts start bleeding again, he applies balm and wraps them in clean strips of linen he makes out of bath sheets. The whole time he does not lift his face, he does not know what expression her face bears, but he can see her tight fists on the bench.

Suddenly a narrow cool hand cups his jaw, and she lifts his face. Tears are running down her face, and have been for a while. The collar of her nightdress is wet, some stains from the content of the jars and bottles Frerin broke yesterday have splashed on the fabric, there are smears of blood, and Thorin closes eyes in shame. Her fingers are stroking his jaw, and then the second hand joins. The fingertips, and Thorin is suddenly reminded of the feeling of the first drops of rain on one's skin, run on his face and he understands she is tracing the scratches she left last night. He opens his eyes and meets hers.

The moment is piercing and pure, the moment of understanding between two people who are scared and alone, and regretful of their actions, and she gives him a shaky smile, while another pair of tears is drawing streaks on her pale cheeks. He decides that hiding his would be dishonourable, and he feels the salty taste on his lips.

And then she hastily wipes hers, and her usual composure is back. He goes back to tending to her feet. Soon she returns to the bed chambers, and after a few instants he hears the demanding whimpers from her child.


Thorin leaves the chambers and goes to his brother. Frerin is bent over a sink in his bath chambers, the content of his stomach pouring into it, his body convulsing. Thorin sits in a chair in Frerin's parlour, waiting for his brother. The rooms are unkempt, and then Thorin realises that there is a surprising amount of Wren's belongings scattered around it. There are books, a corner of a shawl is peeking from a trunk, there are her drawings scattered on Frerin's table. Thorin knows she draws, he never cared, but he remembers Dis praise Wren's skill.

"Is she unscathed?" Frerin's voice is coarse, he is standing in the doorframe, barechested, water running down his hair and neck. Thorin assumes Frerin has just poured a bucket of cold water over himself.

"She is. And the babe as well. She cut her feet on glass, but otherwise she is." Frerin is studying the scratches on Thorin's face.

"And those?"

"She needed to cry. She was too calm." Frerin frowns.

"What did you do?"

"I threatened her, it did not take much. She was terrified." Frerin rubs his face with the towel hanging around his neck.

"I do not remember much… What are these from?" He points at his own face. All right side is covered in angry red scratches.

"You bashed your face to the floor. After I knocked you out." Frerin nods and sits on a bench in front of his brother. They are quiet, none wants to start the conversation, and either hardly knows what is to be said.

"She is not to live with me, Frerin." Thorin makes the first step. He knows he has to, and he knows Frerin never will. "It is just to stop the rumours. She asked me herself, and I allowed. Dis needs to be protected." Frerin is looking at his hands, his fingers intertwined, elbows on his knees.

"She did not come to me..."

"She didn't," Thorin gives a little nod, though Frerin is not looking at him. "She just wants the rumours to stop. Nothing else. She is doing it for Dis."

"I just want her back," Frerin's sudden words are hanging above them like a ring of pipeweed smoke. "She loved me then… At the beginning… I want her back..." Frerin sounds like the child Thorin remembers.

"She is not the same, Frerin. The woman you brought to Erebor is gone." The thought feels like a lightning in Thorin's mind, suddenly bringing clarity. Frerin still sees the same girl, and he, Thorin, has he ever had a good look?

He remembers the conversation with Dis while Wren was expecting and he was still demanding his sister to let him see Wren. You do not even know anything about her to claim to want to help her! Do you know what she loves, what she values, what she is afraid of?

Now Thorin knows what Wren values, it is only her son, nothing else seems to matter to her. He remembers slender arms wrapped around the babe, blue veins under pale skin, a frail exhausted body and an unbreakable will. And he knows her fears now. She is afraid of men around her, of him and his brother, of their masculinity and their force, of their desires, of their greed and their hunger. And he does not know the answer to the third question Dis asked him then. Is there love in Wren's heart towards anything but her son?

"We are at fault here, Frerin, you and I." Thorin knows Frerin will never see it that way but Thorin needs to say it. Frerin will never be able to see beyond his desires, not many Dwarves can. The Khazad know what is right, what is honourable, what they desire and what they will do. Neither of them can imagine or accept that the path of others, if it differs from their ways, can be understood and respected. But Thorin is old, and Thorin has seen life, and death, and loss, and grief. And Thorin loves.

In his heart lives love that is not of Khazad, it is not the fire and not the greed, he does not desire to possess, to protect, to hide from others. When small hands were grasping his tunic, delicate elegance shoulders were shaking before his eyes, his heart was bleeding of a thousand wounds. All Thorin wants is for those eyes to never shed tears again.

"What is our fault?" There is stubbornness in Frerin's voice, but he is trying to suppress it. Frerin regrets last night. But not the fear and pain he inflicted, Thorin understands, but the wrongness of his action. Frerin now knows he had no reason for jealousy, and he wants to ask for forgiveness. Thorin rises, he does not want to give his brother a chance to ask pardon.

Everything changed for Thorin last night, but he knows there is no way to explain it to Frerin. He finds it almost amusing, that was perhaps how Wren felt all through these years, that is if he now speaks a different language.

"You threated a woman who bore either your son, or your nephew, and you lost control over yourself. You indulged in ale and behaved like an Orc under their 'vitality drink'," Thorin pronounces slowly. "She will never forgive you. She will always be afraid of you. As for me, I am just her King. And your brother. And her son's kin." Thorin feels as if he is talking to a child or a foreigner, he is using the words he knows will be understood, while inside he knows how little of the meaning is passed over to the other. Frerin drops his head. For him the matter is closed and the decision is made. Thorin knows how little Frerin will ever be able to understand.


Thorin comes to Dis' chambers, her maid informs him the mistress is still ailing, but he still asks to see her. He is the King, and the maid rushes into the inside rooms.

Dis is lying on a low settee, furs and covers wrapped around her. Thorin sits at her feet, dropping his suddenly heavy head on his hands. There is only one light in the room, and in the dimness Throin feels his sister's astute eyes study his face.

"What did you do?" Dis' voice is full of disgust and cold hatred, and Thorin meets her eyes. "What did you do to her?"

"Nothing, namad. Nothing happened." Dis hisses an obscene swearing, and Thorin wonders whether she is pondering using the wide dagger she always has clasped to her belt. Thorin is giving his sister an open direct look. "Do the two of you love each other?" Dis drops her eyes, and then nods.

"It is good..." Thorin nods several times, and then he realises Dis is moving on the settee. He expected a dagger, but it is a fist. It meets his cheekbone, she lunges her whole weight at him, and he allows. Blows fall.

"Do not mock me, swine!" She is raging, he has had a sleepless night. He rolls away from her, she is too blind from fury to strategize her fight.

"I am not!" He lifts his hands to halt her. "I am not, namad. If it is what you two desire, I will help you. She asked to live in my rooms, and she can, but you know where the doors are." Dis stops in her tracks, and her eyes are roaming his face. "I did not take her from you, namad. She is not a thing to take. You live how you want. I am your brother, I will help you."

He is withstanding the inspection of Dis' dark eyes, and finally she lowers her lifted fist and heavily sits on the settee. She is shaking her head, stubbornly fighting her emotions, and Thorin stays on his spot, giving her time to take herself under control and protect her dignity.

"Frerin will stay away now too," Thorin adds in a soft tone.

"Frerin should marry," Dis' tone is sharp, and after a few seconds of considering this sudden idea Thorin understands she is right.

"He should." Thorin makes a few slow steps and sits near Dis. She is shaking, and then after giving him a look from the corner of her eyes she chuckles. It is joyless, almost bitter, but Thorin picks up her hand and pats her knuckles with his other palm. Skin is broken on them, and he notices the feeling of a warm trickle of blood going down his cheek. He will need to wash his face before leaving Dis' chambers.

"She is not mine," Dis speaks in Khuzdul. The statement is grave, so much more meaning is embedded in the throaty consonants of their native tongue. Thorin looks at her in astonishment. "Never was, never will be. She is the first woman who called to me that way, but… She did not answer. Her eyes are only for her babe." She pulls out her hand from Thorin's and wipes her palm on her skirts. It is not disgust, it was clammy. Thorin assumes it takes a lot of effort to keep herself under control at the moment.

"She is not mine either," Thorin gives his sister the peace of mind she needs. She is silent for a few moments, and then he sees her exhale slowly.

"If she wants you, she can have you. Or Frerin."

"But she does not. And nothing good would come from her returning to Frerin." Thorin is now pondering what his sister offered earlier. "He needs to wed."

"He does," Dis agrees. He chuckles. Their mother used to play the same trick on their father. He always thought the ideas and decisions were his. Thorin looks at his sister askew, she catches the teasing in his eyes, and she starts shaking her head. She does not wish to share his smile, but she cannot resist, and soon they are laughing quietly together.

"We are fighting over a woman," she sounds disbelieving, and he nods. They sit together for several long minutes. Then she gets up and claps her hands.

"I think my ailment is over, nadad."

"I am glad to hear it, Dis. You were frightening your sons."

"Once they wed, they will understand," she snorts derisively, and he chuckles again.

"No Dwarf can understand a woman, namad."

"It is because they never ask for explanation." Dis is already moving around, lighting lamps, and her words have just stricken Thorin as a thunderbolt and made him come to halt in the middle of her rooms.


Scratches and cuts heal, and life returns to its usual ways. Wren and her son occupy the rooms in his halls, and the rumours stop. Thorin suspects that more respect is now shown to the woman of Men. The child is growing, and she returns to her responsibilities in the infirmary.

Thorin visits the nursery every second day but he never sees Frerin there. Wren is always in a chair in the corner reading a book. Sometimes Dis is there, she is playing with the child, her and Wren chat amicably but there is hidden melancholy in their voices. Thorin knows they share meals sometimes, and the infirmary takes a lot of their time.

Another year passes, and on a warm Spring day Frerin weds a daughter of an old family. The bride is a renowned beauty, the dowry is large, but she could choose a husband without it. Her temper is even, manners impeccable, she comes from Ered Luin with her household, and the family secrets in mead making. She takes the place to Frerin's right at all meals, and sometimes Thorin guesses their fingers are intertwine under the table. The last seat at the dinners, previously occupied by Wren is soon to be taken by Kili's new bride, and Erebor is buzzing in anticipation of the second wedding in the royal family.


More moons pass, it is an evening like any other. Thorin is slightly irritated, a light headache is dully nagging in his temples, it has been raining for the last few days. It is a day when he habitually would visit the nursery at the back of his halls, and he shortly wonders whether he should postpone it till the next day. But he completes the matters of the day, and he tells himself he has no excuse. He is walking through passages, some stray thoughts rushing through his mind, and pushes the door into the nursery. It is empty, and then he notices the maid on the floor. She is picking up the toys.

"They are in Lady Wren's parlour." Thorin nods and walks to the other room. He knocks and is invited in.

Wren is sitting on the carpet with the boy, who now waddles around. He grows faster than children of the Khazad but still much slower that his peers among Men. He is pronouncing the first words now, just one syllable, rarely two, and tends to hold on to walls, but he is sturdy and strong.

At the moment he is standing without holding to his mother's hands, her fingers still splayed in the air to catch him if he tumbles, and she is laughing. Heavy velvet skirts are scattered on the floor, her delicate ankles and feet in small leather slippers peeking from under them.

"Good evening, my lord," she greets him from the floor, and he suddenly cannot breathe. Sharp pain shoots under his sternum, and he takes a spasmodic breath in, with a loud gasp. The room swims before his eyes, and he is keeling. At the next moment a pair of strong hands is supporting him, and she is calling the maid.

He is seated on a divan, his back to the door, and she leaves for an instant to pass the child to the maid. He is shortly astonished by her even lively tone, and then he realises she is concealing his weakness from the maid. The door closes, and she is immediately in front of him. Her fingers deftly unbutton his collar, he is jerking it, and a glass of water is pressed to his lips. He is taking greedy gulps and feels her strong narrow palm to rub his back between shoulder blades. The pain has ebbed by then, and he closes his eyes taking the first unobstructed breaths in.

"Thorin?" Her voice is soft, and he wonders if she has ever before addressed him by name. He opens his eyes, her amber irises are in front of him, and cool fingers lie on his throat. She is checking his pulse.

"It has passed. I… feel better," he finishes the glass, she puts it on the table nearby and sits near him on the divan.

"Good. You are still pale though. Perhaps a few more minutes, my lord." She now picks up his wrist and is pressing her fingertips over the heartbeat there. She is counting, her lips are moving , but no sound comes out.

"Is it because I am old?" She lifts her eyes at him, and he notices laughter dancing in them.

"Perhaps. Or you have forgotten to eat. Or have not slept for a few nights properly." She curls a corner of her lips, and then adds, "My lord."

"I have eaten and slept quite well for the last few days," he is wondering if he just wants her to say he is an old Dwarf now. Perhaps he wants to know if she sees him as such. There is a lot of silver in his hair these days.

"Do you still train with your warriors, my lord?"

"Occasionally." He does, at least thrice a week. Old habits die slowly. He still sleeps with his dagger under his pillow, and even after all these years no one can wield Orcrist better than him.

"It is probably just weather, there has not been a single sunny day in the last fortnight," she lets go of his wrist and folds her hands on her lap. He is studying her face, she is not lowering her eyes.

"Are you content, Wren?" He does not know where the question comes from. But how does one understand if one does not ask for explanation?

"Quite so, my King," even in most innocent answers of hers he seems to hear hidden mockery. It is not venomous, just a slight jab of her sharp humour, and he sighs. His head has seemingly stopped spinning, and he has no reason to hold her near, but he just wants to sit this way for a bit longer. She does not seem to object. He wonders if he is imagining a shadow of a smile in the corners of her lips.