IN THE MORNING
Middle Earth, original Wren and Thorin, Timeline#1
Wren's POV
Thror is a true replica of his father. Stocky, wide shouldered, with large, immensely strong arms. Blue eyes are gleaming with ardour, dark wavy hair to his shoulders. Black thick beard is adorning his face. He is crabby, even more so in the mornings, stubborn, and vain. You adore him with all your heart, furthermore so for the resemblance to his father, but at the moment you consider smacking him at the back of the head. Which no Dwarven mother would do to a youngling half battle age, but you might conveniently remember that you are no Dwarf.
They are both sitting at the table and are having breakfast. Peevish faces, drawn brows, noble curved lips pressed together in a pique, and they grumble. For the last half an hour you have been watching two identical jaw lines moving and listening to an endless list of complains that these two Dwarves have about everything that is wrong with this world. Which is literally everything that there is in this world.
The water in the morning was too cold, the sun rose too early, what is indeed wrong with the spring this year, and obviously the swords haven't been sharpened properly. They simultaneously take decorous yet masculine sips from their mugs, and nod solemnly to each other.
"Have you finished your sword training with Kili yesterday, Thror?" The prince makes an irritated face.
"He was coddling me again. At least Master Dwalin doesn't. Last week he smashed the hammer into my breastplate so hard that I flew all the way through the training yard." You choke on your seedcake. Thorin gives you a sideglance.
"Do not worry your mother, Thror."
"There is nothing to worry about, amad. That is how it should go. I need to learn to take a blow." Would a smack at the back of your head be a good practice? You stuff another piece of cake into your mouth to silence yourself.
You watch your older son meticulously chew a piece of cheese. Thorin picks up another one from a platter for himself. They both share an immense fondness for it. Like two giant black mice, they devour it before you can say 'two cantankerous Dwarves.'
"Oh, I forgot," the prince's face lights up gleefully, and you brace yourself. "Uncle Fili promised to gift me with that pair of hunting knives!" He is exuberant. "He said my hands are deft enough for them already! We are to practice with the throwing axe today as well!"
You get up, slam your hands into the surface of the table, and two pairs of cerulean eyes are on you. You take a long breath, and without a word you leave the room. Almost running, you are striding to the nursery. Daughter, you have a daughter. In her chambers you will find sanctuary.
The princess jumps out of her closet. She is clad in her father's shirt that is without doubt to represent a brigandine, and with a deafening battle cry "Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-menu!" she runs by you shaking a wooden sword in her hand in a pursuit of an imaginary foe. You sit on her bed and groan.
Marry a Dwarf and forever live on a battlefield.