Thorin the Wanderer
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!"
A shadow seemed to pass over Thorin's face. Morwen didn't comment at first - she collected the pheasants, laid them on the table, then she offered her guest a tankard of ale and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. She paused and considered what she'd said, and then commented quietly as he took the ale from her - "Hail to Thror – may he sit in high honor in the great halls of Mahal." Thorin bowed his head gently at her statement – he found that he no longer felt odd when she spoke occasionally in Khuzdul. Her Khuzdul was becoming quite comforting and familiar to him.
"Did you ever visit Erebor… or see Thror? Or Thrain? " he asked.
"No… no… Mortals lives are as brief as candles in comparison to some in Middle Earth. The sufferings of the folk of the Lonely Mountain – that was all before I was born. I've never seen any of Thror's kin, but I have heard stories. Did you ever see them?"
"Yes - at a distance…" It wasn't really a lie, Thorin thought.
Morwen smiled at him. "I want to show you something - Come with me…" she pulled on her coat and took Thorin to see the bathhouse. "It's a natural hot spring…You can relax while I prepare the pheasants - then after we eat, maybe you could tell me about Erebor – if it's not too painful for you." Morwen watched her guest's reaction to the simple bathhouse – he seemed to be pleased, but in fact Thorin was completely surprised and delighted.
They both scurried back to the house. She began to skin one of the birds as Eikenskjaldi stripped off his clothes in the loft. She put down her knife and he, laughing, tossed his damp clothes to her, and she set them by the fire. Clad only in his boots and a heavy hooded coat Thorin grabbed a linen towel and ran to the bathhouse. The very thought of a long Yzbah (hot steam bath) made him feel giddy and strangely nostalgic. Dwarven culture celebrated bathing as a deeply social and very sacred event. There had been steam chambers and elaborate saunas and hot springs honeycombing the palace at Erebor, the walls of those bathing chambers were often magnificent caverns with elaborately luminously veined rock walls sparkling with quarts fissures. While the remnants of the folk of the Lonely Mountain who had now settled in Ered Luin had naturally established multiple springs, wells and baths in their new home – but it seemed to him to have never been quite the same.
Inside the plain low domed stone structure was a central depression where the hot steamy spring water splashed into a carefully smoothed rock pool. One might bathe in the pool or rest on the two long wooden benches on either side of the room. The roof was set with a number of heavy partially translucent quartz panels. Once the bathhouse door was closed, the room was dim - but not completely dark. Thorin pulled the door to, and dragged off his boots and stripped off the heavy coat. He noticed a jug, a small container and a comb on a shelf. As he relaxed on the bench enjoying the heavy steam, he slipped the metallic beads from his braids and deposited them on the shelf, ran his fingers through his hair then gently worked the comb through his thick locks. In the heavy steamy atmosphere Thorin's mind wandered…he reflected on his grandfather's pride, remembering how Thror had worn a rope of mithril beads set with moonstones, labradorite and opals braided into his broad silver white beard. He sighed and shrugged, quietly trying to remember his grandfather in the splendor of his court rather that the grotesque desecrated head befouled by Azog. He knew that his grandfather really wore those gems to mock and provoke Thranduil, the Elven lord of Mirkwood. It was well understood that the vain Elf king loved the iridescent shimmer of opals above all other jewels and their ever changing colors were reminiscent of the light of the magnificent Arkenstone – a carbuncle so stunningly brilliant and remarkable that it seemed to flash gold/blue/green/lavender and snow white all at once. The Arkenstone - the Heart of the Mountain - was suspended in a luminous frame over the Dwarf kings throne. It was far more perfect than any crown; proof of the sacred right of his family to rule - but on another level it spoke of the rights of all the Dwarves to demand respect and honor for their skills and labors. The Elves had failed to show proper respect and had failed to assist his people in the terrible aftermath of the coming of Smaug. To Thorin the Dwarves were proud and wealthy and the Elves were proud and faithless - -"Pride" he realized could be as comforting as a warm bath, or as dangerous as a knife's edge.
He stepped into the hot bubbling water and sighed with satisfaction.
Over an hour later, Thorin left the bathhouse, having steamed and bathed himself until his skin was a rosy pink hue and he'd washed and oiled his long dark hair. The wind was starting to blow the icy flakes about wildly. He knocked on the door then entered the hall. The rich fragrant odor of pheasants baking in honey filled the room and his clothes were dry and folded away. He glanced up to see Morwen looking very lovely in a simple but elegant dark green gown. She smiled at him and her smile was somehow terrible and beautiful and shattering - a smile that expected nothing, demanded nothing and offered everything. As he looked at her, something in his chest began to ache…it wasn't love or even lust really, he later thought, it was something both spiritual and primal and heartbreaking all at once.
"I have mulled wine for you, dear Eikenskjaldi." She said, offering him a heavy pewter goblet.
And for that moment, he was no longer Thorin, The Heir of Durin, an Exiled Prince under the Mountain, burdened with responsibilities and duties to his people and to his forefathers. He was no longer tortured with guilt and rage at the falseness of allies and the furious desire to get revenge on the Wyrm.
At that moment he was simply Eikenskjaldi, a wanderer who had sought shelter from the storm and discovered the most dangerous thing he could have ever imagined - but had never faced in his life…
Peace.