Written by kkolmakov
Thorin pushed her into the closet and forcefully pulled the door closed behind him. There was enough room in it, and she stepped back, away from him. He let her, suddenly worried that she was overwhelmed. But her face was calm, elated, the slanted eyes he remembered so well were bright and smiling. She was surveying his face, then her stare slid on his shoulders and roamed all his body.
"Honourable healer..." His voice sounded suddenly uncertain even to him.
"Wren," she met his eyes again and smiled, "You should call me Wren." He smiled back, but then immediately frowned. He suddenly felt hurried, he needed her to understand, to know his thoughts and his feelings.
"I wish to marry you and make you my Queen. The Queen... Erebor is ours again..." He felt panicked. He realised he was mumbling. That was not how one proposed marriage. She had known him for two moons seven years ago, his mind was railing. He needed to be eloquent, convince her, charm her. He almost glared at her face trying to perceive her mind. One fevered thought was thrashing in his mind. What if she was married to some lousy baker or a cobbler? Damn Kili for planting this idea in his head. Not that he had not thought of it again and again himself. What if there were children? He felt even more of an imbecile catching himself staring at her stomach. What was he trying to see there?
She had run to him. She had almost kissed him. He immediately remembered her small strong hands pressed to his cheeks, and to his own surprise he felt his head swim. Surely she sensed it too. Certainty. The undoubtable definiteness. She belonged to him. And he to her. For the first time he felt no fear at a thought of something constricting him. It was an ultimate set of restraints, to love and to be loved, but he welcomed it.
He stared at her waiting for an answer. She seemed preoccupied with studying his attire. Her brows were hiked, her expression cheerful and curious.
"Honourable... Wren..." She tore her eyes from his buckle and looked at him. "Will you be my wife?" He was shocked by the ease with which the words slipped off his lips.
She grinned widely and stepped closer. "Of course I will," her tone was almost comforting. This is how one talks to a fretting child. She stretched her hand and tentatively touched the fur collar of his coat with the tips of her fingers.
Suddenly he laughed loudly. He felt vulnerable, helpless in front of her, hers to do whatever she felt like, break him, destroy and crush him at her whim, and she seemed shy even to touch him. And then he laughed again. Why was he not scared? He was defenceless in the hands of a small woman he knew so little about. Why would he feel exuberant and safe?
She smiled again joining his elation. He realized she was still standing too far, and he wrapped his arms around her waist decisively. She gasped, and the eyes flew wide. Her hands lay on his shoulders. He froze, he needed her to reciprocate. She had touched his face there, outside the closet, in front of everyone. Her cool strong fingers had cupped his face, and he did not know how to ask her to do it again. He exhaled and looked at the face that was finally so close to his.
Somehow the freckled nose caught his attention, and now he could not stop staring. The bright orange freckles peppering her pale skin were the most astonishing picture he had ever seen in his life.
And then she blushed. Right in front of his eyes soft pink flooded her porcelain skin, the cheekbones obviously burning up, and he saw the fluffy lashes flutter. She was so beautiful for him at that moment that he felt embarrassed. He was not forty, he was experienced, he knew women, he knew... What did he know? His head felt empty, he was suddenly hot under his collar, and his own hands on her tiny waist seemed heavy and clumsy.
And then her eyes grew suddenly impish. "Are you doubting your choice already, my lord?"
"What?! No," his voice broke, and he felt peevish. Just to prove her and even more so himself that he was no awkward youngling he pulled her to himself tighter, one of his hand sliding on her shoulder blades.
It made it worse. They were delicate, her back under the rough fabric warm and narrow, and the tips of his fingers brushed her soft skin above the collar of her robe. He gulped.
Suddenly she pushed her nose into his neck and sighed a long deep exhale. "You are here," her voice was soft, and her hands slid under his hair, onto the back of his neck. All of his rigidness and discomfort suddenly gone, he pressed his lips to her temple.
"I am here," there was something final and heart warming in this silly exchange, and he chuckled. And then she slightly moved away, and their eyes met.
The kiss was the perfection of equilibrium. They leaned in simultaneously, their breaths mixing an instant before they felt the touch, and then the taste, both of them closing their eyes, she inhaled in pleasure, he exhaled, and then their world tilted, he pressed on, she clenched her fists with handfuls of his strands, passion rising, flooding them, tenderness stepping back for some time, but never leaving them again. He felt the fabric of the robe grasped in his palm, she moaned into his mouth, and the soft tip of her tongue brushed his lips.
He felt her fingers finally cup his face, the digits curled, and she gently scraped his beard. Then her hands slid on his ears, stroked them, her thumbs ran along his cheekbones. His palm at the back of her neck, he seemed to be learning her, hearing her, her body, her breathing, her pulse evenly beating on the side of her throat.
They pressed their foreheads, catching their breath. He felt some giddy, strange tenderness and kissed the tip of her nose. She giggled and wrinkled it. And then she pounced ahead, pressing her mouth to his again, but this time hotly and greedily, taking him completely by surprise.
Passion erupted in him, his large palms groping her body, slender shoulders and tiny waist, grazed her ribs, and he pushed his fingers into her curls quickly escaping a braid. He tried to take control over the kiss, his hand sliding under her ear, his thumb pressed on her jawline, but she did not let him, attacking him with all possible fervour, clawing at him, moaning into his mouth. She was heating up in his hands, and it was as frightening as the dragon's fire. He felt her white even teeth dip into his bottom lip, and he growled, stepping ahead, pressing her into the wall. She moaned and arched into him. And just like seven years ago he felt her leg wrap around his.
His palms jumped onto her shoulders, and he placed some distance between their bodies. The look on her face almost made him lunge at her again. Eyes shining, feverish, copper hair in a halo around her burning face, lips red and swollen, the dazed look in her unfocused eyes and the knowledge that he put her into this state made him quickly consider how much noise would penetrate the flimsy walls of the closet if he took her right now against this wall. And then he clenched his teeth and renew his determination.
"Wren..." She blinked, and some sanity seemed to return into her amber eyes. She shook her head, and even brighter blush coloured her cheeks.
"I am sorry... That was so inappropriate... I do not know..." She pressed her narrow palms to her face. "I have dreamt of you so much, and I just..." She stumbled over her words, and then in a new gesture that made his heart clench she stepped forward and hid her face in his chest. "Forgive me, my lord… I have never in my life behaved so unseemly..."
Ridiculous elation filled his heart. "Do I gather you have been unattached through these seven years, my lady?" She snorted into his coat. And then she peeked at him with a hesitant flirtiness.
"Do I appear that starved, my lord? I have been unattached. I was waiting for you." Her arms gently wrapped around his waist, and then she giggled. "You are so very wide." His brows jumped up. She hid again and mumbled, "I always prattle when I am nervous..."
He embraced her in return and pressed his cheek to the the top of her head. "I welcome your fervour, my lady, but we will wait till the wedding night." She jumped away from him and stared at him with wide open eyes. He chuckled. He might have been wrong but he seemed to have caught a glimpse of disappointment in her eyes.
"I have a trunk packed," she suddenly laughed, and he joined her, not understanding but enjoying her sudden sunny smile. "I have been packing it for seven years, like a dimwit… I certainly have not thought I would need it." And then her face dropped, and she pressed her palm to her forehead. "Maiar, it is happening..." She grew suddenly pale, and he grasped her shoulder worried she would faint. She smiled to him weakly, and then she firmly pressed her palms to his face and peered into his eyes. "Are you playing with me, Thorin Oakenshield?" That was an interesting tone, he noticed with pleasure, assertive and decisive. He momentarily thanked Mahal again. That was the Queen worthy of Erebor. Or perhaps, Erebor was only just worthy of the woman standing in front of him, her face stern and proud.
He smiled into her burning, menacing eyes, and shook his head. "I am offering you my heart and my Kingdom, honourable healer. Will you accept?"
She surveyed his face for a few more instants and then solemnly nodded. "I will come to your inn in the morning with my trunk. Do I understand it correct that we are leaving first thing in the morning?" He nodded and smiled again.
They moved to each other, mouths meeting, arms caressing, and he doubted the soundness of his decision to wait till the wedding night. He felt the need to do it right. For once it was not about the carnal hunger. But her small strong hands, the way her body seemed to respond to the littlest of his movements, the intoxicating taste of her lips, the light floral smell of her skin and hair…
He pushed her away and decisively jerked the door open. "I will see you in the morning in the Prancing Pony, my lady." He leaned in quickly and pressed the last kiss in the corner of her lips.
He rushed out of the infirmary and gulped his lungs full of the crisp air of Bree. And then a nonsensical thought came to go back and enjoy his happiness just for a little more. He shook his head. He was no dimwit youngling in love.
He made the first heavy steps towards the road and chuckled. He realised he had forgotten about the limp. And then the doors behind him burst open, he swirled on the spot, and all he managed to see was a swoosh of her bright orange mop of hair. Her body slammed into him. Her arms thrown around his neck, she pressed her face to his neck, "I am so happy, I am so happy... You came!" He guffawed.
"I did."
"Maiar, you did." She happily looked into his eyes and laughed. She pecked his lips, let him go and ran back into the infirmary.
Thorin Oakenshield stood in the middle of the busy street in Bree, and his heart was beating painfully. He guessed the muscle had never been used to working so much in a course of one day. And then he took control over his emotions and started walking towards the Prancing Pony.