Authors Note: I am so very very greatful to all the patient people who have put up with me as I perpetually delayed posting chapter after chapter - you good people are far better than I deserve!

I will be referencing the Havamal in this section of the story, with a few nominal changes and any variations between other interpretation of this poem and mine are due to the faults in my personal translation – Alfather can surely split the difference. I'm attempting to weave a substrata of myths and legends in Middle Earth that would have influence to the various tribes of Mortal men who were not amongst the Edain- and had in later years not entirely embraced all the philosophies of the Numenoreans.

Thorin the Wanderer

"Stop it" Crispin snapped…

"Well someone has to think about these things." Bruel replied, smiling at his younger brother. He'd upset Crispin and that wasn't at all his intention, Bruel just wanted to see him happy, settled and secure.

"Did you tell her about your time in the east? Women love that sort of thing – adventures and all that…"

Crispin sighed "Let's just leave it for now."

Morwen had prepared a simple meal of fish soup along with the last of the cooked pheasant meat set cold on a platter as well as the wheat bread braided in the shape of a traditional harvest crown. Bowls of spicy yogurt and cheese, as well as fruit and nuts were also readied. This would be the first of the nights of the holiday celebration – tonight the spirits of the dead would be celebrated. The final harvest was associated with the Harvest King the Master of Field and Forest -an old deity that the Elves had discouraged open devotion to, but who was still popular amongst many mortals. This was a celebration of the last of the three harvests and the coming of the Winter Master. The Elves and the Sea Kings didn't understand or recognize these myths – but as Gerion had said before, that simple fact didn't make the old myths and stories evil.

The spirits of the dead were to be respected on this night by the living. And just as the seasons were changing from spring and summer to fall and winter, so the harvests had been made - sacrifices of fruit and grain and meat - from live to death to life anew. There were cedar wood chips to put on the fire and beeswax candles to be lit for the spirits of the dead. Morwen was certain to set out the special black bowl with a small jug of cream, bread and salt on the sideboard for any hungry ghosts. She doubted that her guest would know or celebrate this holiday, but she would lay out the offerings as Gerion would have wanted her to. Once she checked on the soup she put on her most formal gown - one she rarely wore. Still it was expected that one be dressed to honor the spirits this night. It was a long loose robe made from panels of dark green and dark blue silk scraps carefully collected and painstakingly sewn together. Once clothed, she combed her hair and left it loose over her shoulders and back . According to tradition her hair must be unbound that night.

She prepared the oil lamp to set in the window, knowing that in many other windows both in town and throughout the land - folk would soon set out "the candle for the ghosts" as it was sometimes called. She didn't condemn the Elves for their distaste for this celebration. Elves didn't die of natural causes so she reckoned that the significance of the rite would have no meaning for them. She'd never heard of any Elves farming or harvesting, and she'd knew that they disdained meat, so she sometimes imagined that they required no food, but like trees, thrived on air sunshine and water. Her house guest had less than charitable opinions of the Elves and her mind wandered to Crispin - it was clear that he was enchanted by the Elves - no doubt he would have been happy to take a lover from amongst the willowy pale Elves of Mirkwood – poor man.

Eikenskjaldi came in from the bathhouse clad only in his boots; having used his leggings as a makeshift towel. She couldn't help but smile when she saw him – he'd become very dear to her since the night of the storm – not only as a bedmate but also as a friend. She hoped that no matter what happened in the future; they could remain close. He looked about at the food, the soon to be lit candles and then at her – and he felt something twist in his heart as he saw her for the first time in a long loose silk gown the sort of robe he imagined her in. To him she looked both tragic and lovely.

"Tonight is a celebration - here the living honor the dead at the end of the harvest … As mortals our lives are short and perhaps that's why we ache so painfully for those we've lost. I do not know if the Khazad have a similar remembrance rite… Will you join me?"

He nodded and darted to the loft. There he located a pair of soft clean black leggings and a faded linen & silken embroidered tunic with a simple but elegant geometric pattern. Initially it had been a very dark blue but the years had softened the color.

Dressed as well as he could, he came down and helped set the simple table. She lit the lamp and set it by the window.

Quietly she spoke "We invite our beloved dead to hear and remember us as we remember them this night. They are always with us in our hearts but we pray they reverence our offerings to them."

Cattle die and kinsmen die/

One day we all must die/

I know a thing that never dies/

The virtuous reputation.

Eikenskjaldi listened to her chant as she called out - explaining the relationship between mortals and their dead, and it seemed to him that he pitied mankind at that moment. The Khazad were Mahal's children and the Valar watched over and spoke to the Elves; but the children of Men lived so briefly and were so prone to illness and sorrow. They seemed to not know where they belonged in the circles of the world. Their sorrows were more poignant because of their uncertainty. As she lit the beeswax candles and names the names of the recent dead, her husband and his father, the miller's young son, the hunters lost to infection, elders who died in their sleep and babies lost before they were born. His mind turned back to the Lonely Mountain and the diaspora of his people. He felt his eyes burn as she moved slowly about the room. Morwen lit a large candle and whispered slow, quiet and low "For the desecration of Erebor – for the sufferings of the Khazad - for the heroes who fought at Azanulbizar - we remember you." Thorin felt his face grow wet he and he wondered for an instant if there might be a leak in the roof – until she turned to him and he saw her face streaked with tears.

Why did she mourn for those she never knew?

Why did she care for the stranger at the door - offering hospitality to someone she didn't recognise?

Why was his heart pounding so very hard at that moment?

Something had broken inside him as the evening went on. Thorin sobbed for Erebor and Azanulbizar and the losses of his people in a way he'd never let himself mourn before. He spoke of the loss of his sister's newborn daughter as the Dwarves of Erebor had wandered in the wilderness, of the death of his grandfather at Azanulbizar and the loss of his brother and sisters husband at that bloody battle. He didn't mention the names of his family members, he wanted to remain the itinerant smith for a little while longer. She didn't question him. She simply listened to him, nodded and repeated the chant gently.

Cattle die and kinsmen die/

One day we all must die /

But the voice of honor never dies for those who have won fair fame.

They sat on the floor by the fire that night after supper, a mix of joy and sorrow in their hearts as they spoke of those they had both lost. Thorin somehow felt a weight pass from him that night. He turned to Morwen and called her "Fair" and she smiled and offered him a gentle kiss. He returned the kiss, and replied "my jewel" and slid his fingers across her cheek and jaw. He pulled her closer to him and kissed her eagerly.

He slowly deepened the kiss when she opened her mouth for him. He slid his hands from her shoulders down her arms and to her waist. He took his time in exploring the moist recesses of her mouth, until he felt her hands on his chest again, pulling him closer. He drew her robe down to bare more of her shoulders, and pressed his lips against the underside of her jaw. He broke their kiss to pull his tunic over his head, tossing them to the floor. Her eyes roamed over his chest, lingering on scars here and there. Carefully, she stretched out one hand and touched the most prominent one. He wrapped his fingers around the hand that was still touching his torso. His body reacted strongly when he saw her lips parting and he leaned over for another taste, pulling her closer to him. She responded eagerly to him, and slipped a hand around the back of his neck. He slid his hands down her back and cupped her backside, pushing her hips into his. She angled her head and weaved her fingers through his hair, seeking out his tongue. His breath left him forcefully through his nose and he pressed her more strongly against him, deepening the kiss she had initiated even further. He let his hands drift back up her body and hooked them in the loose neckline of her robe, pulling it down over her arms and hips. She didn't stop him and soon she was free of it.

He skimmed the underside of her breasts with his fingers, teasing the sensitive skin of her ribs, before moving back and letting his thumbs draw circles over her nipples. His ministrations kept her at a small distance and he took the opportunity to admire again the generous curve of her hips and the smooth, fair thighs beneath. Her breath hitched when he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger; her breasts were wonderfully sensitive. The pressure inside his trousers increased even further. Claiming her mouth once again, he pressed her back onto the sheepskin - covering her body with his. He pushed his knee between her thighs, keeping most of his weight on his elbow. Slowly he let his hand glide past her breasts, to her navel and over the slight curve of her belly. She held her breath, stiffening slightly, but not so much that he deemed it necessary to stop. He slipped his finger past her folds to find the little nub that promised so much pleasure.

He lowered his head and kissed her again. She sighed and slowly began to respond again, wrapping her arms around his neck. When his fingers began moving again, she gave a soft gasp, rolling her hips. He pressed his lips against her collarbone, before he took her nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hardened bud. A louder gasp was quickly swallowed halfway, before it could grow into a moan. He didn't quite understand why, but the thought came to him unbidden that he wanted to hear her moaning his name – his real name. Slowly he trailed his lips down to her navel, where he could feel her muscles quivering under her warm skin. When his breath ghosted over the juncture of her legs, she hissed sharply in surprise. Seeing the confusion and apprehension on her face made him even more determined to have his way. He slid his hand around her ankle and tugged her gently but firmly towards him. He pulled her knees apart and lay between them, leaning on his elbows to kiss her. He lifted his head, making sure to roll his hips into hers. He saw her pupils dilate before she closed her eyes. He slid down her body again, using his weight to keep her in place. Her words were lost in a choked moan when his mouth descended on her sensitive flesh. He explored her with his tongue and his lips, licking her most sensitive of flesh, plunging his tongue into her. "Oh yes…" he heard her whisper, her upper body pressing back onto the floor. Thorin closed his lips around the bundle of nerves and felt her thighs tremble around him in response. She writhed below him, and as he lapped at her slowly she felt an incredible heat, an incredible pressure building. The feeling ran through her from her toes, up the inside of her thighs and he had to place his underarm over her belly to keep her in place, as he tasted every part of her leisurely. He slid a finger into her, groaning with pleasure at the heat and the feel of her clenching around him. He continued to tease her with his fingers and tongue until there was nothing but sobs and moans leaving her lips. Her hips were writhing, desperate for release. He carefully brought her to completion.

He felt her muscles tense as her release crashed over her. Slowly she relaxed again, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He slipped off the sheepskin while he watched her. Her eyes were closed as she tried to regain her breath, and he stepped out of his trousers; relieving the aching pressure on his groin. He felt a renewed spike of lust run through his body, and he slid his hands up the insides of her legs to accommodate him. Pulling her hips closer to him he leaned over her burying himself inside her slick warmth with one thrust. She groaned, her eyes flying wide open. He pressed his lips against her neck, trying to breathe steadily, but his control slipped when she gasped into his ear. He pulled back and with a growl slammed his hips back into her. She moaned and held on to his shoulders. He complied with unspoken bodily request, settling into a powerful rhythm. Her hands glided down his back to his backside, taking a firm hold. Those hands urging him on, her gasping breath on his neck, her hips rising upwards to welcome him each time, sending a fiery trail down his spine, and he sped up, working towards his own much-needed release. He felt her tighten around him, and knowing she was not far behind him, he brought a hand down between their bodies to stroke her. Her body bucked into him in response and the sound of her voice crying out before she came, her inner muscles squeezing him, sent him over the edge as well. Her body felt so sensitive to his touch, alive and burning… like a furnace. She moaned uncontrollably, digging her fingers into him arching up against him. She wanted to speak, wanted to tell him what he was doing to her, but she was unable.

After they collapsed in ecstasy Eikenskjaldi drew her as close to him as possible - not wanting to withdraw from her. Delightfully exhausted she opened her eyes as he pulled her even closer into his arms and their eyes locked as they had earlier. His heart was pounding too hard -he knew that- and his eyes were huge. He was desperately scanning her face. She smiled, sighed and dreamily whispered "Melhek Khozoh" even as he muttered "Ar Zharait…" Morwen didn't consciously know what she'd said….It came from her lips like a gentle moan, or like a half remembered phrase from a dream or an ancient story.

But he knew exactly what they'd both said – and even in his joy he felt a shadow on his soul. He called her his lover and she'd accepted it. He dreaded that this would not end well.

Better not to pray than to sacrifice in excess/Gifts often tend to return/

Better send naught than to send too much/Thus spoke Durin for the passing of years/The time he awoke and the time he stirs again

Eikenskjaldi remained with Morwen for another week, completing the work he'd been commissioned and collecting his payments from the townsfolk. In truth the work had been finished earlier but he hadn't wanted to depart yet – they both knew that their relationship had started to change but neither one of them knew how to express it. They walked quietly together to the outskirts of Thandlon – from there he'd agreed to travel with a group of merchants north to the Last Bridge, then he planned to go west to Bree. From there he should have no trouble returning to the colony at Ered Luin. He didn't want her to know about his plan to go there. He wanted to keep his life in Ered Luin a secret – for the moment he treasured being simply 'Eikensjaldi' to her. He wanted her to care for the wandering tinker rather than the Dwarf Prince. For now they wanted a few moments of privacy together outside the village.

"Keep me in your thoughts." He said as quietly as he could, his forehead pressed against hers.

His great broad fingers touched her hand and again he was momentarily shocked at how long and thin her fingers were. He eyed the small lock of hair by her left ear that he'd braided and capped with a small copper orb. Inside the shimmering red orb he'd fixed a tiny bell that chimed quietly when she moved her head. Such an item wasn't exactly a courting gift - it was more of a 'request to court' offering amongst the Dwarves - but she didn't know that and he wasn't certain how to tell her what he felt. He'd cut a lock of his hair off and threaded it into the braid he'd made her. When he'd asked for a lock of her hair she happily agreed - it was secure in a small pouch that he carried around his neck. He also had her gift of fragrant soap and he'd used some of the bergamot oil in his hair the night before. He'd left most of it behind in the bathhouse but had kept a small vial with him. It reminded him of his youth when he was truly a prince. He wondered what he was now.

"You're always in my thoughts – but I must beg a boon of you…" She replied haltingly

"Anything."

"When you are amongst the victors and help to reclaim Erebor - will you show me the glittering halls? I so ache to see them."

"I…"

"You'll succeed - never doubt it - I know this for a fact …I don't know when Thrain's son will act – but sooner or later - he will. You'll be there. I only hope that you won't be too ashamed to guide a witless old woman through the shining passageways…Mortals lives are brief –yet I should still long to see the lights shimmering through the translucent walls… the epic statues of the Seven Forefathers…"

"I'll take my greatest joy in showing you Erebor - but you'll be no crone there –never doubt it."

"I think you may be right…"

"I'll be back soon. I promise."

"Melhek - ar baraz" (My love - be safe) she whispered.

Better not to pray than to sacrifice in excess/Gifts often tend to return/

Better send naught than to send too much/Thus spoke Durin for the passing of years/The time he awoke and the time he stirs again