Thorin the Wanderer
Fan Fiction based on Peter Jacksons 2012 "The Hobbit" part I.
Sources and influences: The Prose & Poetic Eddas, "The Tolkien Reader", " Sir Gawain & the Green Knight, Pearl & Sir Orfeo" modern translations by J.R.R. Tolkien, "Smith of Wooton Major & Farmer Giles of Ham", "The Silmarilion" and "Unfinished Tales" by J.R.R. Tolkien . Also Peter Jackson's film interpretation of "The Hobbit"
I have no claim to the writings of J.R.R. Tolkien (although he possessed my most sublime devotion and respect) or to Jackson's film. This Son of Thrain is not the character from Tolkien's wonderful children's tale; he's an entirely adult character and I want to dedicate this little variation to my FF friends, Saraleee, Valeera, Caranaraf and Tristan's Lady Hawk for inspiring me. This tale is set prior to the start of The Hobbit. May the Valar forgive my dark and filthy mind - but this tale is rated M for a reason!
PS: I don't know any Dwarvish so be charitable to me!
Music: Str8voices interpretation of "Far Over the Misty Mountains Cold"
Some folk we never forget/ Some kind we never forgive/ Haven't seen the end of it yet/ We'll fight as long as we live.
The rain had changed as he wandered in the wilderness. At first it was a soft fog-like mist - almost imperceptible- then a heavier drizzle, then a storm and now it was sheets of water, crashing down in the icy darkness. He'd once heard a mortal complain that rain and snow together were a bad omen, but the fears and notions of men meant little to him. He was of the house of Durin.
Lightning flashed and for a moment the light transformed the rain into a flowing curtain of silver white mithril in his eyes. He was back in Erebor in possession of his birthright, not wandering like a beggar in distant realms, disenfranchised and despairing. Thorin pulled his cloak more closely about him. The heavy snows glittered in the light of another flash of lightning, like mountains of diamonds & crystals from the treasure halls of his grandfather Thror. But Thorin wasn't in his grandfather's halls, he was wandering in the land known as Minhiriath east and south of Ered Luin, and the driving wind and rain had numbed his hands and feet, he knew that soon he'd have to find shelter. As a dwarf he had good night vision, and over the next rill, Thorin spied a large old stone structure. An ancient building - possibly once built by the Sea Faring men from the far west, or possibly by Elves - but it had been long abandoned and had been reclaimed for a more practical use. Light streamed out of the small arched windows, and the subtle shadow of smoke from a chimney brushed against the dark clouds. The storm had disoriented him and he'd need to get his bearings. He'd have to humiliate himself and beg a place by the fire, but at least he was alone – none of his people would have to witness his shame.
As he approached the structure he noticed runic script over the lintel of the door. "Observe the passage before passing through" inscribed in Westron, Sindarin, and to his surprise - in Khuzdul (Dwarvish). Thorin looked about and smiled inwardly as he approached the door – over the cry of the wind and the distant rumble of thunder Thorin called out the runic inscription in a deep resonant voice and pounded the door with his gloved fist. A few moments later he heard the door being unbolted. Light streamed out onto the snow and ice.
A small mortal woman scarcely as tall as Thorin stood at the door. She wore a simple linen smock and a dark green kirtle and her thick reddish brown hair was loosely braided down her back. Large dark green eyes set in an oval face, peered out at him. The Dwarf prince and the mortal stared at each other with some surprise but after a moment she remembered herself and greeted her unexpected guest.
"Well met traveler – be welcome in my poor house." she spoke quietly.
"Peace to the hall." Thorin replied, his voice sounding far louder and harsher than he'd intended, as he passed through the door. He looked about and saw a well-kept but simple room with a warm broad hearth. A large copper kettle was suspended over the fire and an iron cooking cauldron sat amongst the banked coals. A heavy table stood in the center of the room and a worn but carefully mended and comfortable chair had been pulled close to the fire. Against one wall he noted a cabinet with platters, bowls, jars and simple goblets. A loaf of bread and a bowl of apples sat on the sideboard next to a jug of mead.
Thorin had been too busy looking about to remember his manners "Call me Eikenskjaldi – I – I ask for shelter from the storm." He stuttered.
"Morwen Broddasdottir, widow of Gerion the smith, at your service, Oak wielder." She smiled as she moved to the hearth and carefully removed the kettle from the fire, poured hot water into a large bowl and collected a clean linen towel from the sideboard. Thorin removed his cloak and gloves, they was soaked through. Morwen took them and hung them to dry by the fire as Thorin washed his face and hands. The hot water was welcomed and he felt refreshed even though he was a bit embarrassed at the name he'd given to his hostess – but then again he hadn't expected her to understand it. Dwarves rarely blush but he could always blame the hot water. He bent to remove his boots and set them by the hearth.
"Khazaddi ei vinwyru se'du."
Thorin spun about in a state of some shock "What did you say?"
"Lord, please sit by the fire." Morwen appeared embarrassed. "I meant no offence… I learned a little of the language of Durin's folk. My late husband often traded with the Kh - with the Mountain people." Nervously, she arranged a sheepskin over the chair by the hearth.
"I - I don't often expect to hear my language spoken by... by strangers." Thorin retorted. He felt distraught; he knew he'd reacted badly to her courtesy. Sullenly, he took the seat and frowned into the fire as she poured mead into a goblet. Passing the cup to him without a word, she busied herself stirring a ladle in the cooking cauldron, her face tense and drawn in the firelight. He glanced at her as he sipped from the goblet – it was good mead, sweet and strong.
"Your voice was pitched too high." Thorin commented quietly after a few minutes, and Morwen glanced up from the fire – "To speak the noble tongue - your voice needs to be more sonorous – deeper."
"I'll remember that." She smiled at him. Thorin smiled back.
….
Morwyn offered 'Eikenskjaldi' some small sweet cakes and more mead as she warmed the stew in the cauldron. Thorin watched her, savouring the honey wine, he mentioned that he'd been traveling from the north, but the storm had surprised him. She nodded quietly as he spoke of the Sorrows of the Dwarfs of the Lonely Mountain and he noticed that she listened without either the condescension or the false pity that he'd seen in the faces of so many others. She listened and seemed genuinely grieved at what he'd said.
"As far as you know…" she asked "Thrane's Son - who guided the survivors out of Erebor - he fought at Azanulbizar? - And he is well?"
Thorin found it rather strange to hear himself mentioned in the third person like this, but he paused and nodded. "Many did not return from that place." She looked into the fire, contemplating this news. He was impressed that a mortal maid would know or even care about this. Thorin had grown bitter and cynical over such 'expressions of sympathy' but what he saw in the young widow's eyes struck him as genuine – there was unfeigned compassion there and it moved him.
Soon a plain meal of vegetable stew, brown bread with butter and honey, a little goat cheese and apples was set before the mysterious traveler who called himself Eikenskjaldi. Some might call it a common peasant's meal but Thorin knew it was the best she had. He had quite a reputation for pride but he knew he could never be offended by this offering. They spoke little as he ate. She saw he was hungry and didn't trouble him with questions and he was grateful for the moments of companionable stillness – occasionally commenting that the bread was good - and he would enjoy more cheese and apples. Later as he used a heel of bread to sop up the last bits of stew from his bowl, she quietly refilled the kettle, hung it over the fire and prepared some dry leaved in a small ceramic pot. Once the kettle was hot she lifted it from the hook and poured the water into the ceramic container, then covered it with a neatly fitted lid.
Warm and momentarily sated, he turned to look at her. "What are you making now, good hostess?" he asked, remembering his manners as he spoke.
She turned and smiled shyly at him. "My late husband was considered a fine blacksmith - for a mortal man - and his work was popular as far as Bree and Hollin to Fairborough in the south. He was often paid in trade rather than coin for his crafts. I grew to love this drink, it's popular with the Halflings - they called it 'tea'…would you like some?"
"No – I would be glad of any ale if you have it." Thorin was starting to feel the effect of the surprisingly potent mead – and the last thing that he wanted to be was a drunken Dwarf. Ale would affect him less, he imagined.
"I'll see if I have anything worthy…"
She reached past him to collect his plates – and as he put his goblet down his arm accidently brushed against her breast. For a moment he caught her scent - something akin to honey and musk - and he felt dizzy, hot and painfully distracted. He tried to compose himself as she - blushing - busied herself with the crockery, and tried not to contemplate the level of desperation that he was starting to feel. This was dangerous temptation.
Morwen hurried to the back room on the other side of the hearth, to the pantry and storerooms. She took great gulps of air to try to calm herself down as she opened a small tight window in the pantry and carefully placed the plates just outside in a pile of snow. In the morning they could be wiped clean. She had to find something for him to drink but she knew she'd need to stick with tea. She would have to try to control herself. This Dwarf was one of the most beautiful creatures she'd ever seen and although the legends said that it was the Elves that were fair to behold, she had to wonder if some storyteller had gotten it wrong. Still, it was true that she'd never seen an Elf. She glanced in the storeroom and saw that there was still some the dark rich malted ale that she hoped he'd like. The idea that she might be able to seduce him distracted her and she tried to cast it out of her mind, but it only lodged itself firmly in her imagination. She wanted to stroke his long soft hair and caress his beard, to feel herself wrapped in his strong arms. Surely it wasn't wrong – to imagine him touching her - kissing her? Morwen tried again to focus on proper and courteous behavior rather than her own hunger and her erotic fantasies, as she filled a large flagon of ale.
Thorin stared into the fire. The light reflected in his brilliant blue eyes, making them sparkle like the richest sapphires. He had a strong sharp face with a prominent, angular nose and an expressive sensual mouth - with just a hint of cruelty. His hair was long and deep brownish black - almost the color of jet, threaded with silver in places. Being a fairly young Dwarf, he had a short and subtle beard. He was a warrior prince and his body was well muscled, reflecting his skills and experiences. A hard life fighting and striving with Orcs, Wargs and even with the hated Wyrm, yet this paled when compared to the day to day horror of trying to survive utterly disenfranchised and abandoned - in a world with few allies, no rest or food and the constant battle with the great and terrible monster - Despair.
It was Despair that had sapped the will of so many of his people. It had scarred Thorin in ways he dared not consider, and now in the midst of this storm - a stranger - a mortal had welcomed him into her home. A mortal woman … oh Mahal save him! She'd greeted him with the free and open generosity of the Dwarf Lords out of legend. She had no treasure - no mounds of gems or gold - but she'd offered him food and shelter, made him welcome and safe with a warm place to rest. She demanded nothing from him, she gave him neither pompous pity nor cruel contempt. She'd welcomed him and now he was trying not to contemplate just how much he wanted her.
Perhaps because she'd asked so little of him –perhaps because she had tried to speak the noble tongue to address him, welcoming him when he'd feared that he'd have no welcome anywhere… He'd focused on being strong for the sake of his people, thinking of them first and foremost – he'd been brave and selfless for so many others and for so long - the thought of acting on his own desires - giving in to his own interests and needs made him feel both blissfully intoxicated and desperately hungry. He closed his eyes, imagining what it might feel like to not always have to be strong – to do just what he wanted - for once.
After a few minutes he heard a noise. Opening his eyes he looked around. Morwen was standing by the sideboard, her back to him, pouring ale from the flagon into a tankard. He wondered how long she'd been in the room.
"Thank you for the ale." Thorin said softly, watching her as she brought him the tankard. His eyes never left her as she moved about the room even as he swallowed the ale quickly - too quickly.
Morwen tried not to look at her guest until she felt in better control of her emotions. When she'd returned from the storeroom, her guest had his closed, his eyes and his face reflected an unguarded sense of rapture, his lips moving so slightly so sweetly that she found it hard to resist the desire to reach over and touch him - kiss his beautiful face…but she needed to control herself. She put the flagon of ale on the sideboard and poured herself some tea. She made an effort to stop her hands from shaking.
"Oak Wielder - would you like to play a game?" she asked "I know of no songs that might amuse you or tales that you have not heard before, but we may play a game of 'King in the Corner' if you wish?"
He laughed quietly "You know the game?" He'd played 'King in the Corner' on a board carved from alabaster with game pieces of emeralds and rubies when he was scarcely able to walk.
"I don't play it well - but I would be happy to learn from your skill…"
He nodded.
Eager as any child she went to fetch the game. From a small box she pulled out a flat cloth of checkered squares and the games pieces - eight small smooth white stones - the defenders, sisteen black or brown stones - the attackers and the tall King carved from a larger chunk of quartz. He moved from the chair and laid out the cloth on the table. She refilled his tankard as he sorted out the pieces.
"You shall be king." She spoke, pulling to stools closer to the table. They sat and he arranged the king and his crew in the center while she set the attackers in blocks of four on each side of the checkered cloth. Soon by the firelight the Dwarf Prince of Erebor and the young smith's widow played an ancient game. Thorin had the advantage at first, but she was a far cleverer player than he'd imagined. He took the first round and she the second. The third round was close fought…she starred at the board, trying to calculate the best moves, as he, trembling, watched her. When he moved to protected the king, she gazed at him, her lips slightly parted. Soon only a few pieces were left in play.
"What would you risk to save your king?" she asked him as she started to move her pieces closer.
"Anything." He murmured in an impossibly deep voice.
The last piece was set – "The king is forfeit" she whispered as she reached to take the quarz shape, but his hand was faster. He caught her hand in his. "No - I am forfeit."
Eikenskjaldi." She spoke her voice quiet low and he felt his pulse race when he heard her. He leaned forward and kissed her full on the mouth, his tongue tracing the edges of her lips.
To Be Continued ...