DAIN, SON OF QUEEN FILEGETHIEL

Middle Earth, original Wren and Thorin, Timeline #1

The first time Elven maiden Meltoriel sees Dain, son of Thorin, second prince of Erebor, is when he is twenty, half adult age for a Dwarf. She hardly pays him any attention, stunned by the entrance of the small figure of Queen Filegethiel through the gates of the Elvenking's Halls. The guard of twenty Dwarves accompany her as she arrives for her visit to Mirkwood. She is fulfilling the promise she gave to Meltoriel's older sister, Dulindil, the midwife who assisted the Dwarven Queen in her expectancy, to come back and bring her second son when he reaches maturity.

The forest is agitated, and Meltoriel begins to think that some of the impossible rumours surrounding Queen Filegethiel's relationships with King Thranduil might contain a grain of truth. Each twig in the woods is fluttering, disturbed in its Winter sleep, anguished energy running through the veins in the trunks of the ancient trees.

The Queen steps ahead, her cloak's hood adorned with argent white fur. The top half of her face is concealed, and Meltoriel sees smiling lips, the bottom one plump and red, the top one unusually curved. Everything in the Queen is a contradiction. Her thin, almost fragile body, all bones and angles, obvious even under multiple layers of heavy Dwarven attire moves with a fluidity and grace, her head set proudly and regally, but the smile on the lips is soft and humble. Small hand slides out of a fur muff, and she throws the hood of her strange narrow face. The amber eyes are astonishing, slanted and brilliant, long black lashes flutter. With her Elven eyes, Meltoriel sees heavy white snowflakes fall on her face, on the bright freckles on the exquisite bridge of her nose and high cheekbones.

King Thranduil makes a step towards her and bestows her a low bow. Never has Meltoriel seen such reverence and tenderness on the face of the Elvenking. The Queen stretches her small hand, and it is enveloped into the long slender fingers of the King. A second of silent communication passes between them, and then Meltoriel hears the clear voice of Queen Filegethiel.

"My Lord, allow me to present my son, Dain, son of Thorin."

She steps aside and only then Meltoriel notices the young Dwarf behind the Queen. He is obviously the son of this mother. The same elegant contour of face, high cheekbones, narrow strong jawline, the same eyes, much brighter shade of green. He is clad in light Dwarven armour, and to her shock Meltoriel sees his father's renown sword clasped in the scabbard on his back. Orcrist, the Goblin Cleaver, the legendary Elven blade forged by Ecthelion, Lord of the Fountain Court, the weapon of the King Under the Mountain, sits on him with an easy familiarity. Dain gives the King a respectful graceful bow.

"It is an honour to be introduced to you, honourable King of the Greenwood the Great." His Sindarin is impeccable, just like his mother's. He receives a cordial nod from the King.

The second time they meet two days later, when she is hurrying through the Elvenking's Halls and sees him sitting on a window sill. There is an open book on his lap, but he is not reading. The look in his startling eyes is distant, and a large palm is stroking the gutter of the book. He notices her and gets up. He bestows her a bow and then his eyes scrutinize her face. He no doubt sees the resemblance. She steps closer.

"Welcome to Mirkwood, Aras Erebor," she is momentarily surprised at her desire to flaunt her knowledge of his personal history. She wonders, why would she want to impress a Dwarf? Half Dwarf she corrects herself, his mother is of Men.

He smiles, and she remembers what they say of his father. The King Under the Mountain is considered attractive even to females of other races. Dain apparently has his profile, the same sensual line of lips, and Meltoriel heard rumours that there are even Elven maidens mad enough to harbour an unrequited longing for King Thorin's blue eyes and strong wide build. Meltoriel finds it preposterous. Even more so, she does not approve of her predecessor's transgressions with the King's nephew. As the new Captain of the Border Guard Meltoriel feels Tauriel tarnished the honour of a proud Elven maiden and betrayed the path of an Elven warrior.

The slanted green eyes run her body, and she realizes that against her better judgement she is affected. By the heat coming from his body, by the serenity and mirth in his eyes, by the grace and lightness of his movements, when he closes his book and steps closer.

"I thank you for your hospitality, honourable Captain." She tenses. Apparently she is not the only one possessing knowledge of the other in this conversation. She also realizes one does not need to ask him questions, his mind swift and perceptive. "Your King was so kind as to allow me to observe the training of your guards, honourable Captain." She does not remember seeing him at the training clearing in the woods. "He also suggested I remained unnoticed." The noble face of the Dwarf is serene.

"And how have you achieved such feat, honourable prince?" He gives her a calm, almost absent-minded smile.

"I possess magic to conceal me in the forests. Also, Mirkwood seems to be favourable towards me," He looks at the dark trunks of the trees outside the window, "The woods have welcomed my return."

She is staring at him, her chest heaving with agitated breaths. She tries to remind herself he is a Dwarf, a creature of lifeless stone, fire and ax, brutal and barbaric, greedy for cold dead gold. He cannot understand the woods and feel the life force of Mirkwood. But she cannot seem to tear her eyes from an elegant jawline, delicate cheekbones and long black lashes, his eyes fixed on the dim shadows of the forest.

"I envy you, honorable Captain. When I was a child my mother used to take me and my brother to spend nights in the woods around Erebor. My brother hated it," Dain chuckles, "He is all about metal and fire, and preferably combined in a forge and eventually shaped in a weapon of sorts. So we would go just the two of us. We would wander for hours, and then spend nights in the tent. Sometimes we would not return home for weeks."

"And what did your father think about it?" She does not know why she is asking and why she is stepping closer. He turns to her, and she sees mischievous glint in his eyes. She just saw the same slightly sarcastic amusement in the eyes of The Queen of Erebor during the celebratory dinner.

"You have met my mother, honourable Captain, no one contradicts her."

"Queen Filegethiel is a persuasive diplomat," Meltoriel remembers the clear and calm manners of the Queen. The regal tone makes a person listen, the wise words make them obey.

"She is also more stubborn than any Dwarf," the prince suddenly laughs, and her eyes widen in disbelief. "I think after all these years no one doubts that she will get what she wants. Father stopped resisting long ago and just follows her will."

Meltoriel cannot believe such insolence. Speaking of one's parents in such words! And then she hears a soft rustle of the fabric behind her. She turns around and sees the Queen. In a heavy white velvet dress, decorated with river pearls and onyxes, low cut showing a heavy opal necklace, she is a harmonious and notable presence.

"Do not scare our gracious host, Dain," she is laughing, "I am as timid as a rabbit." She comes to her son and ruffles his hair. There is a braid hidden in his mane, and the colour of the strands is indeed remarkable. Dulindil predicted it, coining his moniker Aras Erebor, the Stag of Erebor. She has a gift of seeing the outline of all of a babe's life while they are still in their mother's womb. She also predicted his preeminent gift and his wisdom. Meltoriel can see now why her sister was so fascinated by him. She also sees that he will grow into a very beautiful man, and she recoils from her own thoughts. A Dwarven prince is of no interest for her, an Elven warrior and the Captain of the Guard of Mirkwood.

Mother and son are looking into each other eyes, and the Queen smirks. She turns to the Meltoriel.

"Has he been telling you what a terrible tyrant I am and how everyone is afraid of my disapproval? Because that would be a shameless and utter lie. Never have I managed to persuade any King of anything." Meltoriel does not miss the plural mentioning of Kings. There is a story somewhere there, with King Thranduil's name mentioned in it, but she does not know if she is willing to hear it. He is her sovereign, and something tells her that the fact that the small redhaired woman is wearing the heavy opal necklace and not his ring on her finger means that he has not triumphed at least in one battle in his life.

"Allow me a bold request, honourable Captain," the Queen's tone is polite. It also does not leave any room for refusal. Meltoriel nods, "My son would like to join you in your patrol tomorrow. I assure you he will not be a burden. Although as you can understand, a mother is never impartial," her slender hand lies on her son's shoulder, and he suddenly presses his cheek into it. The gesture, though it could understood as almost childish and showing vulnerability, shows warmth and openness between the two and makes him look only more mature.

"I might be too slow for our friends, amad," His eyes are laughing, "A Dwarf stomping through Mirkwood, what a ridicule!" The Queen laughs and strokes his thick chestnut beard.

"I am sure our hosts will be forgiving. Will you, my friend?" She looks into Meltoriel's eyes and lifts a brow. Meltoriel remembers what Dulindil told her about the Dwarven Queen. She remembers her sister's admiration for the Queen's ability to gently impose her will, among other things her talent to conceal a command in a form of a question.

"My guard would be honoured, my lady." Meltoriel bows to the small woman and receives a radiant smile in return.

"Well, with this settled, I will go and convince honourable healer Lumorn to gift me with a collection of his draughts that he did not know he wanted to share with me," her eyes are laughing. Then she turns to her son, and he gives her a lopsided grin. She tut-tuts and shakes her head, "You look so much like your father," she cups his face and rubs her thumb to his temple, in an apparently customary caress, "Do not follow his example, ghivasha, be careful on the patrol."

He nods, "I promise, amad."

When the Queen leaves, graciously bidding goodbye, Meltoriel turns to the prince.

"If you do not mind me asking, what does "ghivasha" mean?" She cannot pronounce the throaty consonants of the word, as she presumes, in Khuzdul, but he understands.

"My amad is unreasonably kind to me and calls me her treasure," He smiles with warmth, "I do not deserve her love, as no one is worthy of the love of the Queen of Erebor, but luckily for me, a mother's love is unconditional."

Meltoriel's heart flutters, and she thinks that perhaps the Queen is right and he is indeed the most precious treasure of Erebor.