Authors note:
I wish to express my sincere thanks for all the kind and gracious comments that so many people have offered me over this little story. I have realized to my chagrin, that I had not mentioned the Voluspa or the Dvergatal in my list of influences for this tale, and I must correct that now. I also wish to apologize about not updating this as regularly as I ought to, but mundane life can get in the way sometimes…
Thanks to everyone especially to my FF chums Caranaraf and Tristan's Lady Hawk who must be blamed for first introducing me to a certain painfully beautiful actor named Richard. I must also offer praise to the inspirational prose of Cellotlix and her epic tale "The Toymaker and the Widow".
YORK FOREVER!
Loyaulte me lie.
EoC
Thorin the Wanderer
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.
Eikenskjaldi leaned over and gave Morwen a sweet and sloppy kiss, took the goblet from her, took a sip, and passed it back. He rushed up to the loft, stripped off the coat and tossed on a loose long tunic robe. He came back down and sat on the chair by the hearth, stretching his legs out towards the fire.
"Your late husband made that bathhouse?" he asked.
"He rediscovered the hot springs and cleaned it out - he knew that Khazad travelers would appreciate it. Gerion loved to trade with the merchants and he wanted to keep them happy."
"Was he Khazad?" He asked quietly. This sort of thing sometimes happened - a Dwarf might occasionally take a mortal woman as a mate - but it rarely ended well, as mortals lived such brief lives.
Morwen sighed and half laughed at the curious suggestion "No. Gerion was quite tall - at least as tall as the Seafaring men from the West - he towered over me. People used to laugh sometimes to see us together. We went to Bree once and a friend made a drawing of the two of us as a gift… I'll show you." She went to the sideboard and found a small shallow jointed wooden box. She offered it to her guest, as she poured more warm wine into his cup.
Inside the frame box was a sketch on smooth velum of a very tall, well-muscled man with an open, friendly, beardless face. He was standing, his arm affectionately wrapped around a small woman whose hair was loose about her shoulders, she wore a wreath of posies like a mayday crown. It was clearly a good rendition of Morwen, he could easily recognize her face and her quiet gentle smile. Eikenskjaldi could also guess at what Gerion must have looked like, the man's dark hair was cut very short and his nose looked slightly bent - as if he'd once broken it. They both looked happy - but terribly mismatched he thought.
"Was he kind to you?"
"Yes - he was very sweet to me, and I hope I made him happy. He was attacked by thieves somewhere on the Old South road from Fairborough - about eight months ago."
There was a brief pause while she examined the baked pheasants. The food was ready and she began to prepare the items on a large platter. Eikenskjaldi brooded, sipping the warm wine as he continued to look at the image. Morwen sorted out plates, bowls, platters, cutlery and goblets and arranged the meal. Baked pheasant with potatoes, mushrooms turnips & carrots, a bowl of dried fruits nuts and raisins, and bread with raspberry jam, butter and honey filled the table, and wine, mead and sweet cider were set on the sideboard.
Eikenskjaldi moved from the hearth and went to the table, looked at the widow and raised his goblet – "To Gerion the Smith - friend to the dwarves - peace, and to Morwen the Fair - his widow - a long and happy life." He emptied the cup as she bowed. She raised her goblet of mead and returned the toast, "Peace to the shade of my husband. Joy and justice to the proud Khazad, and may Eikenskjaldi always be welcome in my house."
They ate. The pheasants that he'd caught were not ideally plump but still good, and the preserved oranges, pears and raisins were refreshing and sweet. After a while she prepared more of the hobbit drink "tea" and it dawned on him that he''d enjoy a pipe, so as she took the plates away he went up to the loft where he'd stored his pack. He pulled out a simple pipe carved from polished oak and bone and a small bag of pipeweed.
He sat in the old chair by the fire and lit his pipe as she poured tea for herself and filled a tankard of ale for him. She perched on one of the smaller stools and he spoke to her of Erebor. "The halls of the Kings chamber were massive walls of solid, brilliant Apatite, Celestine and Agua Aura with seams of Blue topaz and Sodalite. To my eyes it was more beautiful than I could possibly describe. The light of the blue stones shone pure and perfect - more brilliant than a clear sky on midsummer's day. The carved images of Durin the Deathless and the first Seven fathers of the Dwarf lords gazed out from the walls in pride and dignity The tall pathways approaching the king's seat were of highly polished green stone - malachite and moldavite. Great Thror sat on his throne with the Heart of the Mountain over his head - as luminous as any star –and who could deny the honor of the house of Durin - the honor of the Khazad - in that hall?"
He looked at her and he saw her eyes conjuring images of the shear walls of shining blue faultless stone from tip to top, end to end - and the glassy smooth walkways of dark green crystals.
"You see, the king - for all his pride - loved and cared for the glory of his people and the Arkenstone was a sign, of not only the power of Durin's kin - but for the respect owed to all the Dwarves… This my grandfather knew - and this I know for a fact." He continued.
"Did your grandfather know the Great Thror?" she said, quietly sipping her tea, her eyes downcast.
In his rapture he'd almost slipped - but he caught himself … "He was in the royal guard." Once again it was not really a lie.
'Yes, I can well see that."
He went on about the beauty of the Mountain, the many halls, the caverns sparkling with light, of the pride and the skill of the Dwarves - their love of beauty in the earth, a love and appreciation that only they really understood. "It wasn't just about gold and gems and wealth. It was about respect – about faith and honor and loyalty- about keeping true to your word when it was given. You don't betray your oath and expect us to ignore it. You don't steal from us - from our labors and our lives. We will be avenged."
'Durin's Kin will be avenged." He heard her say quietly and deeply in her throat. For a moment he forgot where he was and to whom he was relaying this tale. He looked at her and saw her eyes full of tears and that her knuckles had whitened over her small tea cup. And he seemed to hear a voice from far away whispering –"This mortal has a dwarven soul."
Later that night as he rested in the bed they shared, his mind moved from sleep to wakefulness – he found himself touching her dreamily, and reflecting on the last few hours they had spent in each others arms in the dark. When she'd caressed him, all he could think about was how completely he wanted her, in spite of their passionate coupling the night before. This was a fever that didn't cool - it only grew hotter, a hunger that only became more ravenous once it was fed. He'd sought her mouth, growling with desire as his hands slid around her body, caressing her hips and breasts. He'd heard her moan, felt her body tremble at his touch and it had excited him. He'd felt her fingers trace his scars. He'd been shocked at how aroused this made him and how he wanted to cause her as much desire, as much hunger, and as much need as he felt at that moment. He'd slipped his hand to cup her breasts and gently fondle her nipples, while he heard her gasp between his hungry kisses. His own voice groaned with need, he felt her arch against his body and heard her breath grow more and more ragged. His cock had never felt so hard and the very thought of sliding into her made him feel feverish. She'd slipped her hands around his shaft and stroked him causing him to ache even more deeply. She sighed and opened her legs to him and he buried himself between her pale sweet thighs. She'd locked her legs around him and drew his buttocks to her trying to draw him even deeper. He'd trembled, feeling the furnace of her body, her muscles gripping him like a vice as he thrust with greater and greater urgency until he could endure no more and came inside her, crying out in his pleasure in Khuzdul.
Eikenskjaldi dozily reflected on all this while she lay sweet and prone in his arms – he felt her stir in her sleep - and his hunger roused him yet again.