Thorin the Wanderer
"What sort of a wicked hostess are you?" came a deep voice from the bed – and from under the piles of covers strong hands callused from years of smith craft (and warfare) pulled her back to the bed…
She laughed.
"Now that's better …"
Morwen toasted bread by the fire as Eikenskjaldi dressed. They ate apples, toast and some cheese from the night before as well as warm cider and tea. Once breakfast was finished Morwen glanced out the window. A heavy snow had covered the area and the wind had made curious snowdrifts. The snow has stopped but the sky was still gray and menacing. She went to the door unbolted it and carefully opened it and half laughed to see the snow piled up about two feet against the door. Thorin stared at the drifting snow and walked past her as she grabbed a broom to knock the snow away from the passage. He was suddenly aware of how dangerous the weather had been the night before.
"Let me." He spoke, as took the broom and knocked the snow away - it was heavy and quite dense and he felt an additional thrill in reflecting on how 'pleasantly' he'd spent that evening. As he glanced out over the terrain that he'd traveled the day before he noted that there was no way of tracking his passage. He pulled the door closed and turned to Morwen, quietly stroked her cheek and smiled at her gently. Then he donned his boots, cloak and gloves. "I want to look about - but I'll return soon…" he assured her.
Thorin stepped out of the house and started working his way towards a small copse of trees near some wetlands. The snow was thick heavy and icy - but he was careful as he walked and he could move with some stealth when he chose. Amongst the willows, near a place where the river pooled into a marshy fen, he spotted something interesting - quite interesting…
Morwen smiled as Eikenskjaldi stepped out into the snow. Looking out at the sky she whispered a voiceless prayer to Aule -the Valar of Smiths, and Yavanna; Mahan, beloved deity of the Dwarves and his bride, the Lady of the Fruitful Earth. She was grateful for the unexpected joy that she felt at that moment, and she dreaded that it would not last very long.
"Better not to pray that sacrifice in excess … gifts often tend to return."
Morwen busied herself, straightening the blankets in the loft and tiding the dishes from the last meals. She'd dressed in a clean shift and a rust colored kirtle and ran a comb through her hair. She heated water in the kettle and saw that they had eaten the last of the stew from the cooking cauldron. She pulled it from the hearth and carried it to the door. Tossing on a long heavy coat and simple mittens, she took the cauldron outside and rubbed it with snow. Once it was clean she brought it back in.
She then went out to examine the bathhouse. Gerion had constructed it once he'd discovered the hot springs – he'd imagined that whoever had originally built the hall must have known about it. but time and neglect had obscured the original spring. He's made a small dome shaped structure over the spring. Morwen peered in, and waves of heavy steam poured out of the small neatly sealed door. She remembered how often Gerion would rest here after hours working at the forge. Morwen smiled sadly, thinking about Gerion, he'd been a good man. She'd mourned his loss and still often thought of him wistfully.
The pale cool morning gradually turned to a deep chill and by the afternoon the grey skies began to snow - not a heavy snow, but a cold and bitter, wind filled storm. Morwen hoped against hope that the Oak wielder would stay her guest for a little longer. Since her husband's death she grown used to a solitary life, but the company of the beautiful dwarf was an unexpected delight to her.
Thorin carefully crept near the marshes. Amongst the trees he found the signs of wild pheasants. He'd recognized evidence of their nests amongst the undergrowth and bracken beneath the trees. He'd learned to hunt in his youth - before the coming of the Wyrm. Then hunting was a sport - only later had it become a matter of survival. Quietly, he pulled out his slingshot. He found himself pondering many things as he waited carefully at the edges of the fens…
Of the survivors of Erebor – many had settled in Ered Luin, or had gone to live in the Iron Mountains with D'ain Ironfoot. So many had suffered and died on the 'Tearful March' the long terrible trek from the halls of his ancestors, past the Misty Mountains on into Eriador. And even more had perished at Azanulbizar - Thorin had seen his brother and his sister's spouse cut down by the Orc hoards. It had been the bitterest of victories - tears beyond the count of grief ….
The Royal house of Durin had 'returned to the Anvil' rather than beg their bread in the halls of lesser princes or potentates and the other survivors of the Lonely Mountain had done likewise. Balin, Thorin's most faithful and closest advisor - had told him many times that he'd helped to make a good life for his people – and that this life was worth more than all the stolen treasures of the Lonely Mountain. Thorin had his doubts – at times he felt something inside him growing bitter and twisted as he thought of the loss of Erebor. Not just the treasures, but the loss of life, the humiliation and the suffering of generations of his people gnawed at his pride. Yet at other times he felt nothing but a longing to be free of the crushing responsibilities that he owed to his family and to his folk. He was the heir of Durin, but sometimes he wondered if there was anything to inherit. What was expected, demanded, required of a prince without a kingdom?
Once he'd gotten closer to the nesting flock, he'd flushed out the pheasants, and carefully pulled the cord of his slingshot taunt and released the small sharp stones. Six pheasants flew up but only two managed to pass beyond the tree tops. The wind started to rise and Thorin felt a chill as small icy snow flakes stung his cheeks. After he'd collected his catch – the Oak wielder started back to the widow's house.
Morwen heard a fist pounding on the door. She opened it to see Eikenskjaldi brandishing four plump pheasants - and he laughed at her surprised face.
She smiled, "I'll make a feast tonight for the multi skilled Oak wielder - a feast worthy of a king!"