Hobbit 1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Are you ready, my lovelies, for a new turbulent adventure? :) Then hold on tight, and here we go! Allons-y! :)**

PROLOGUE

The small time crook, known to most simply as Vole, is having a very bad day. He just returned to his inn with bread and wine his mates sent him for only to find the room they were occupying together empty. Not only they took the chest that contained all their latest loot, they also took his cloak and the spare pair of boots. What kind of filth takes his mate's boots? Vole sits on a chair and takes a big swig from the wine skin. He does not blame them. Given a chance he would have done the same. The problem is that the buyers will be in the inn within an hour, and Vole has a choice. He can either flee now, or face them without the jewellery they are coming here to purchase.

Vole pushes his hand into the pocket and pulls out a hair pin. While his mates were not looking, he pilfered it from the trunk. It just looked so beautiful, he could not help it. Never in his life had he seen anything like it, and that is given the last few years Vole has started finally running around with the big fish. Last year he even got his share of smuggling Elven swords, and these days this is as high as a thief can climb. But something about this pin made him put it in his pocket and constantly pat it to make sure it was not lost.

It is heavy, the prongs long, made for a woman with a great deal of hair, and Vole slides his finger along the silver plate decorated with the most intricate handiwork. When pushed in a do the pin would look like an opulent wreath of oak branches, with succulent acorns adorning it, each made of a single astonishing gem, green or brown, Vole cannot tell, the stones seem to be as if liquid, changing colours depending on the light or the way he twists the jewellery in his hands, unable to tear his eyes off it. He is no sentimental dimwit, but he cannot help by gently stroke the curves of the exquisite ornament.

He decides that there is no harm in trying to swindle his customers. He will go down and chat with them, perhaps he can convince them he still has the trunk and shake them down a bit. He stuffs the pin in his dirty waistcoat and goes down to the common room.

The patrons of the inn are rather muddled by now, there are loud conversations, and a fiddler in the corner is torturing his instrument. Vole winces irritated, he has an ear for music. The musician is all thumbs. Vole orders a mug of beer and waits for his clients. They are easy to descry as soon as they enter.

First Vole is certain they are Dwarves, the cloaks are definitely made by mountain dwellers but then he realizes they both are too narrow to be of the Stunted Ones. They are of the same height, one definitely male, with a scabbard on his back, heavier, still too slender for a Dwarf, and it becomes clear rather quickly that the other one is a lass. Vole chose a table in a corner, in a shade, and they sit in front of him.

They push the hoods back, off their faces, and it becomes evident that they are siblings. That is Vole's first and at the same time last thought. Any other vacate his head a soon as his eyes fall on the face of the maiden sitting in front of him. She sat her back to the common room, and now Vole understands why. That was the only way to avoid all inn staring at her. Striking, giant blue eyes, facial features fine, elegant, breath taking, and Vole clumsily puts his mug down, spilling his ale, and loudly gulps. His eyes are glued to her lips, full and pink. She smiles, and her companion chuckles.

"Namadel, you should have kept your face hidden. With his weak heart inherited from his father and excessive ale consumption he might not make it." As overwhelmed as Vole is by the beauty of the young woman sitting in front of him, he cannot help but notice the strange ambience around the male. Vole shifts his eyes and stares at the man. He has the same high cheekbones, narrow chin, but his eyes are strange, slanted, of the brightest green, one would not expect eyes to bear such colour at all, like grass or tree leaves, noble, proud profile, long bony nose. His eyes are distant, as if looking through Vole, and the crook shifts on his chair uncomfortably. The woman laughs, making Vole's whole body jolt, and answers something in an unfamiliar throaty language. The man smiles in return and focuses his mesmerizing eyes on Vole.

"Dain, son of Thorin, at your service, kindest sir." Vole has not seen such good manners for a longest time. He feels even more uncomfortable, he can hardly remember his real name, it has been so long.

"Vole, everyone calls me Vole..." The Dwarf, or still a man, Vole cannot decide, smiles absent-mindedly.

"A pleasure to meet you, kindest sir. This is my sister, Mira, daughter of Thorin." Vole swallows with difficulty and lifts his eyes at the woman. She has the same slightly aloof air around her but at least she does not seem to look at the wall behind him.

"My pleasure, my lady," Vole chokes on his words.

"We were under the impression," the male continues, "That a certain trunk has come into your possession. We were interested in purchasing it. I believe our previous negotiations were conducted with your partner, but the price he has declared is acceptable. We are prepared to pay you at the spot."

Vole did not know his mates have discussed the price with these two already. Again, he does not blame them, dealing with Dwarves is a condemned affair, especially when it comes to smuggling their goods. Anything that came from under a hammer of a Dwarf, in the mind of a mountain dweller, belongs to Dwarves. And Vole thinks about the scabbard at the back of the man sitting in front of him. Vole is decent with a blade but something tells him he does not stand a chance. Probably, once his mates realized that the customers coming for the trunk are of the Dwarves they fled, leaving Vole to take the fall.

"I do not have it," Vole gives in and decides to choose the path of cowardice. After all, only because he so often does, he is still alive. "My mates took it, I do not have it anymore."

The siblings exchange looks, silent conversation quite obviously happening between them, and the woman rises. The man immediately jumps up, and for the first time in his life Vole cannot sit in the presence of a standing woman, he gets up clumsily as well and suddenly feels sad. The woman is not looking at him anymore, he stopped existing for her as soon as he mentioned that the trunk is elsewhere. She quietly says something to her companion, and he comfortingly pats her shoulder. She pulls the hood over her head, and the man throws a few coins on the table.

"For your troubles, kindest sir," his voice is still warm and friendly, and to his endless shock Vole hears his own voice.

"I can help you find it! I can..." The woman turns to him again, he can only the lower half of her face.

"We do not need the trunk, Vole," her lips wrap around his appellation, "We are looking for a single object."

Honestly speaking, Vole is not very smart, he knows it himself, and he is still alive hardly due to acute intuition or quick wit, perhaps just thanks to caution and loose morals, but suddenly he understands with a newly acquired astuteness that the object the two strangers are looking for is in Vole's waistcoat pocket. For an instant, he feels strange possessiveness and considers hiding it from them and keeping it to himself, and then he realizes the absurdness of it. It is just a jewel, like any other, and they are obviously prepared to pay generously for it.

"What object?" He decides that he seems to have advantage in this situation and sits back on his chair. The man looks at his sister and at the corner of his eye Vole catches the view of the man's right hand move in a complicated gesture. It is the silent language of the Dwarves, Iglishmek, and Vole feels suddenly uneasy. The beauty in front of him, with her slender body and luscious copper curls styled in an intricate do is no Dwarf. The man with auburn hair and green eyes could possibly considered a Dwarf but never has Vole seen such strange detached attitude in Dwarves. It is more characteristic for Elves with their odd obsession with stars and tree loving. The two strangers in front of Vole are a contradiction, and he is very, very worried. But the call of greed is louder.

"The object we are looking for is the silver hairpin of Queen Ugguninh, wife of Thorin II Oakenshield, Queen of Erebor," the woman voice is silver and honey, and it tickles Vole's spine, and he is once again overwhelmed with an absurd desire, this time to hand the jewel over to her without demanding remuneration. He gulps and tries to look indifferent.

"And what price are you prepared to pay for it? The same as for the trunk, I suppose, since the pin is the only object in it that interests you..."

At that moment some noise can be heard outside the entrance to the common room, and then the doors open. To be more precise, they burst open by the weight of two bodies flung through them. The two men hit the floor with loud thumps, and splayed on the floor they are whining, and Vole recognises his treacherous mates. He lifts his eyes from their scared faces and sees a Dwarf sauntering in. The common room is silent, and everyone is staring at the dark haired mountain dweller, in a light mithril chainmail, glowing in the candlelight, two battle axes clasped onto his back, his sleeves rolled up, and in Vole's opinion that is the scariest part, with an exuberant wide grin on his bearded face. This one is definitely a Dwarf, heavy and broad shouldered.

"Othin is hardly subtle," the woman called Mira chuckles, and her brother rolls his eyes.

"When is he ever?" The one called Dain shakes his head. "And he is smiling, that is never a good sign when he is smiling."

"He always does," she answers warmly.

"Yes, but if you can see his molars, there will be bloodshed." The male turns to the newcomer and calls him, "Nadad, we are in the middle of negotiations!" There is slight exasperation in his tone but there is hidden affection in it as well.

"These two kumun had the trunk and sold it!" The dark haired Dwarf walks towards their table, and Vole presses his back into the wall. The warrior approaching them is terrifying, ebony strands, thick braids on the sides of his face, black beard, and shiny icy blue eyes. There is immense grace in the movements of his massive body. He is shorter than the two copper haired siblings, but he is tall for his people. On his way he slightly kicks one of the crooks on the floor and barks, "Stay!" They whimper quite obviously agreeing, and he comes up to the siblings.

"Did they say whom they sold it to?" The auburn haired man asks softly, studying Vole's mates on the floor, his head slightly tilted.

"They were hazy on the details, I might have overdid it with the impressive entering," the dark haired Dwarf guffaws and waves to a barmaid asking for ale. The people in the room stir out of stupour and go back to their affairs. No one seems to be willing to address the question of two men still on the floor. "I am starving, can we have dinner?"

"Othin, we still need to find out whom they sold the trunk to," the woman softly reminds, but the one called Othin already picks up three mugs from the tray of a barmaid rushing by. He takes a big sip and licks his black whiskers.

"Well, go and ask them. They will tell you anything you want. Dain can go with you, they seem to be afraid of me for some reason," he shrugs and smiles widely to her. She tut-tuts and then to Voles' shock grabs his ears and kisses his cheek.

"Mim nadad," her tone is loving, and he pushes his head to her like cats do when they want to have their heads scratched. She softly laughs and pats his shoulder. "I know you are bored, Othin, but perhaps we do need to act subtly..." The one called Dain sighs theatrically.

"We have agreed we would do all talking, Othin, and now we have two crooks that are scared out of their mind and probably can not remember their own names now, to say nothing of the amad's pin." The dark haired Dwarf has finished the second mug already and makes an irritated noise.

"I still think your talking will do no good, Dain, and it also takes long, Thror gave us a moon for this vacation, we are expected back to Erebor by Friday." He topples the third mug in his mouth, and Vole watches in astonishment how ale disappears in the Dwarf's throat.

"Othin," the taller man's tone is slightly colder, "We promised Mira to find the pin, we need to try." The dark haired one throws a glance at the woman, and she nods softly. The Dwarf sighs and lowers his head.

"Forgive me, namad, it is just… Subtlety is never my strong point. Ask me to rough someone up, and I am here for you..." Suddenly he looks at Vole, and the latter feels very uncomfortable. "What about this one? Is he in cahoots with them?" Seemingly without his will, Vole's eyes fall on the Dwarf's massive fists.

At that moment one of Vole's mates, and Vole has always thought that some cogs were missing in the Gondorian's head, decides to dash to the doors. He jumps on his feet but after making only one step falls on the floor cut under his feet by a swift movement of the leg of the one called Dain. The red haired man is standing over Vole's mate pressing a wide Elven blade to his throat. Vole is no expert, but he can swear no one has seen a finer blade with the exception of those wielded for Elven royalty.

"Kindest sir, I would hate to soil my father's renown blade with your blood. Could you please remain where you are? Also, my brother has an unfortunate tendency to hurl his throwing axes first and ask question after, and as you can see yourself it is rather counterproductive and unpleasant for both sides. There will be splashes..." The woman wrinkles her delicate nose, and the one called Othin guffaws and bites into a lamb leg that has appeared in his hand at some point as if by magic.

That is when Vole decides the time of bravery has passed. He pulls the pin out of his waistcoat and stretches his hand towards the woman. "Here, take it, I do not need it, just leave me alone!"

Dain starts laughing warmly, Mira takes the pin in her hands, her eyes brilliant and face reverent, and Othin is already heading to the bar counter loudly ordering dinner. And ale for everyone because, as he vociferously announces, he is in an exceptionally good mood and is hoping his brother will pull a stick out of his arse at least for one evening.

And then Vole remembers something and asks the one called Dain in a shaky voice, "What do you mean I have inherited a weak heart from my father?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: If you are new to this madness, firstly, hello :) *pronounce in your head with the Eleventh Doctor's intonation***

**Secondly, this story can be read independently, but if you want the backstory then read "Thorin's Spring" (chapter 4-5 specifically,) "Thorin's Defeat" (chapter 1-9) and of course the direct prequel to this story "The Life That Never Was" :) That should keep you occupied for a month or so :)**

_Fifty six years earlier_

You wake up from insistent nuzzling of your nape, a pair of hot palms sliding around your middle, and you feigh grouchiness, "Please, Thorin, none of that, I have another hour of sleep. Just leave me in peace..." Your resistance does not deceive anyone, considering you slightly push your hips back to press your backside into the hot length, already strained behind you. He is stroking your ribs and waist, grazing the sides of your breasts, his lips caressing the neck under the hairline. Gentle nipping of teeth is added, and you cannot pretend anymore. You swiftly roll between the sheets and catch his mouth. The large calloused hands immediately lie on your buttocks, and the King Under the Mountain chuckles warmly.

"And I thought you wanted to sleep, usafat..." You peek from under half closed lids and meet his merry sparkling eyes.

"I can be convinced to reconsider," you purr and throw one leg over him. His lips slide on your jaw while the fingers brush your inner thigh, feathery touches of the tips dance on your skin, and then his thumb gently strokes your folds. You gasp and drop your head back. He is murmuring words of love in Khuzdul into your neck, his palm cups your buttocks, and he leads your pelvis onto his length. His member slides into you, and you cannot contain a throaty moan. He starts moving softly and slowly, it is indeed an early morning, and you wrap your arms around his neck. Your foreheads press to each other, and you see him close his eyes, savouring the sensations. His movement are tender, deliberate, he is enjoying the connection and the sweetness, and rocking his hips supporting your leg under the knee he languishly brings you over the edge of pleasure. You climax, with a soft moan, and hide your face into his neck. He is still, allowing you relish the soft waves of pleasure, and then he rolls you over, looming over you but never suffocating you. You smile to him, and he starts moving, conscious of your sensitivity. He soon reaches his peak and with a low groan falls on you, taking short deep breaths, and you gently stroke his nape.

"We are staying in bed today..." He mumbles into the pillow, and you laugh.

"We have been in it for the last three days, it is all we do. Eat, play with the children, and..." You stumble over your words, and he slightly rises to give you a teasing look from under a cocked brow. "And love each other," you find an adequate description.

He smirks and purrs, "That we do..." His member is still in you, and he starts kissing your neck again. You know where such actions lead, and you gently press your palms into his shoulders.

"Thorin…" He hums, and his lips slip on your clavicles. He is also softly rocking his hips into you, spurring his renewing arousal. "Thorin, we have another half an hour before it is time to nurse your son, we need to talk..."

"But we are..." His member is swelling in you, and his scorching palm covers your breast. He is gentle, he knows they are sensitive from nursing Thror, and he runs the pulp of his thumb around your teat. He has been thorough in his inquisitiveness through these three days, having discovered all the ploys that bring you most pleasure. Your thoughts jumble, and you think that talking can wait. Half an hour later the maid knocks at the door, and you sit up on him.

"Maiar, I knew it would happen..." You try to scamper off him, and he is laughing loudly. You shush at him and press your palm over his mouth. "Thorin, we need to rise… Maiar, put something on, we are bare..." He bites into your palm, and you give him a stern glare. He wiggles his brows, and you move off his body splayed on the floor. You cannot remember how you two came to be crammed between the bed and the wall. You are frantically searching for your robe, and he is chuckling.

"Are you abandoning me in my agitated state, usafat?" His voice is mischievous. You turn around, hurriedly fastening your robe, and blush when your eyes fall on his bare body. His member is erect, you have jumped off him in the middle of your coupling, but you can hear Thror's demanding whines behind the door, and your milk rises. The King is stretched on the floor, his massive arms under his head, and there is a small smile dancing in the corners of his lips. You puff air out and rush out of the bedchambers. You can hear his snortling behind.

He finds you an hour later in Thror's room, he is clad in a proper attire, including a fully buttoned up doublet, and is endlessly decorous. You immediately feel acutely embarrassed. You are hardly dressed, your hair tousled, and you suspect there are marks on your neck and shoulders that the maids surely have noticed. Once you are done, you pass the already asleep child to the maid, jump of the settee and rush out of the room, dragging the chuckling King by a hand after yourself.

"Where did all this fervour come from, usafat?" His tone is mischievous, and you push him into his bedchamber. "Just an hour ago you abandoned me in the middle of our love..."

"I did not bring you here for that, Thorin. We need to talk," your voice is sincerely stern, and his smile drops. But then he makes the last attempt to change the tone of the conversation.

"Then you perhaps should change, my heart," he steps closer and runs the tips of his fingers on your clavicles. The sides of your robe are rather widely open, and he strokes your sternum between your breasts. You step back and point at the armchair by the wall.

"Would you, please, sit over there? I will be back in an instant," you rush to the wardrobe and hastily dress. He moved your belongings into his rooms three days ago, and you pull on your modest dress. When you come back he is indeed sitting in the armchair like you have asked and smiles to you. You move another chair to sit in front of him but outside the reach of his hands. He smirks knowingly and gives you a sceptical look.

"What would you like to discuss, Filegethiel?"

"Everything," you blurt out, and he chuckles. You give him a strict glare. "Thorin, we have reconciled, we have decided to wed, but in the last three days we have not said a word to each other that would involve any sort of planning. We just..." You vaguely wave your hands, and he mockingly follows the movement of your splayed fingers in the air.

"Love each other?" He asks teasingly, and you snort.

"Please, be serious. We need to set some rules." He lifts one brow and leans back in his armchair.

"Knowing you, my heart, you have already created a list in your head. And had you not been confined to my bed in the last three days, I am certain, you would have written it down and presented it to me on a parchment." You consider sticking your tongue at him, but remind yourself you are to be a Queen. That would be indecorous.

"Thorin, we have a son and you offered to accept my daughter as yours, it has to be formally put into effect." He nods and finally you see his official self to replace the playful, libidinous Dwarf you have dealt with for the last three days. Not that you have minded it in any way.

"We should wed as soon as possible, the shortest time is in six moons. There are six moons of betrothal that a couple is to..." He pauses and smirks impishly, "Endure." You questioningly look at him. "The bride and the groom are not to see each other in those six moons. Although I hardly consider this rule applies to us, since we have a three months old son, and all your belongings are in my bedchambers. As for Mira," his voice warms up when talking about your daughter, "I shall talk to her about it. She is to decide herself whether to accept me as her father." You nod and fidget with your belt. He is patiently waiting for you to talk.

"There are things, beside the official side of our marriage that I would like to discuss with you..." You squirm on the chair, only partially because of the soreness inside, but also from the acute feeling of unease. "There are rather foolish, almost childish..."

"You can discuss anything with me, usafat." You lift your eyes and meet his. They are warm, loving, and suddenly you cannot remember why you felt embarrassed or anxious. You jump off the chair and rush to sit on his lap. He guffaws when you drop your backside on his knees and readily wraps his arms around you. You press your forehead to his temple and sigh.

"I would like to preserve my old self when I am your Queen. I am worried I am not to be a proper Queen of Khazad, but I also think I should not strive to fully be one. I am no Dwarf." He is silent, and you once again note how much these years and hardships have changed him. No rash answers, no rage, he is listening and waiting for you to finish your thought. "I would like to continue my work in the library and my diplomacy with Mirkwood, but I hardly think I am fitting for making any decisions regarding the life in Erebor. Except perhaps I would like to return to some of my duties in the infirmary. And I would like to spend most of my time with the children." You lift your eyes and look at him. He is listening attentively and favourably. "And I do not wish any gifts." His eyebrows jump up, and he smiles to you.

"You do not wish any gifts," he repeats slowly.

"No, no ostentatious jewellery, no rings, no dresses, no gifts," you speak softly but firmly. "All those years ago when I first came to Erebor you showered me with gifts, and I can already see the same inclination in your eyes. To say nothing of the pouch that is in your pocket at the moment." You shift on his lap, some sort of jewellery stabbing your buttock through the fabrique of his pocket and your dress, and he guffaws.

"Oh my smart little bird," he cups the back of your head and pulls you into a passionate kiss. In seconds you are dazed and your head is spinning, and you push him away. You tap the tip of his nose with your index finger.

"No ostentatious gifts."

"You cannot prohibit it, I am a Dwarf, we express our admiration through gems and gold." He is chuckling and kisses you below your ear. He knows your weaknesses.

"I do not need any… I will wear what is appropriate for festive occasions, but do not expect me..." You cannot finish your thought, he catched your lobe with his warm lips, and you tingle head to toe.

"You have to allow me something..." He murmurs into your ear, in that very velvet voice you can never say no to, and places a few soft kisses on your neck.

"I will not wear any opulent Dwarven attires, no velvet, no brocade, do not make me..."

"Filegethiel," he straightens up and looks into your eyes, suddenly serious, "You can wear whatever you want, but please remember you are to be my Queen. The three simple dresses of Gondorian cut will not do." You understand his meaning, and he is right. You also realise he is reigning his jealousy, and you are grateful for his reserve. You are not a ranger's wife any more, you are to be the wife of the King Under the Mountain.

"I will find a seamstress. I will think of something. But no jewellery beyond necessary, I am begging you." You quickly kiss his cheek. "Please?" You place another kiss, closer to his lips. "Be as kind as you always are to me, Thorin." This time you press your lips to the corner of his mouth, and he shifts to catch your lips. For a few minutes you are intertwined in passionate embrace, and he releases you with a defeated sigh.

"Allow me one thing," his tone is pleading, and you remember that marriage is compromise. And that he is a Dwarf, and it does matter for them. You give it a thought and smile.

"Hairpins. You can gift me with the most preposterous, the most expensive, the most intricate hairpins you can find or commission." He looks at you surprised. "I will grow my hair for you, and you can adorn it as much as you want. And thusly my hands will be free for work of a midwife and my neck will not be suffocated, and you can brand me as much as you want." He chuckles, and after a thoughtful pause he nods. You kiss his lips quickly and laugh. "And you can give me whatever it is you are hiding in your pocket, you impossible Dwarf. I will accept it with pleasure and gratitude." He looks very pleased and slightly shifting your weight he pushes his hand into his pocket.

It is a silver ring, wide and intricately decorated with engraved pattern. You look closer and realise that the pattern on it is formed by intertwined runes for "th" and "o," and you look at him questioningly.

"It is mine, the ring I gave you all those years ago, I had it remade." You remember his ring bearing the two initial runes of his name. Many years ago he gave it to you and you wore it on your neck on a string. You kept it hidden through the years of your marriage to Amrod, and started wearing it again when you returned to Erebor. They took it off you when your labour started in concern that the string might strangle you. You thought it was still in a box on your vanity. He puts the ring on your open palm and strokes your hand with the tips of his fingers. "Mira was my accomplice in this loot." You bite your lip and hand the ring back to him. He looks at you in confusion, and you can see he is taken aback.

"Would you please put it on me?" You blush, and he softly laughs. He pushes it on the middle finger of your right hand, and you both laugh together this time. It is too big. You are thinned.

"You are an even smaller bird these days, Filegethiel."

"It is all your enormous son and his magnificent appetite." He hums and places the ring on your index finger this time. It fits, and he kisses your knuckles.

You find a seamstress two days later and start working on your wardrobe. Six moons of your official betrothal start, and you think you have never been happier in your life. Both your children are healthy and merry, you spend your days in the library or your study, as well as assisting midwives in the Erebor infirmary. You have many friends among the Dwarven ladies and at least twice a month you and Mira go to Dale to visit your closest friend Thea, if she happens to be in town between her trips as a winegirl. You and the King seem to be endlessly in love, and at your wedding you do not have a chance to try the famous wine of the Elvenking Thranduil. By then you are expecting your second daughter, Unna, daughter of Thorin. Eight years pass in the blissful happiness until the events that take place the year 2961, the year your second son, Dain, son of Thorin, is born.


	3. Chapter 3

_Year 2961_

The King is pacing the room, from one wall to another, in exactly thirteen wide steps each way, and you are stubbornly pretending to read your book. He is also mumbling something under his breath, his arms locked behind his back, and it is never a good sign. You flip a page, and the soft rustle of the parchment finally makes him grumble.

"She is supposed to be home already," he turns to you and no doubt is trying to attract your attention with a glare. You do not lift your head, your face calm, and pick up a cup with tea placed on the table near your book. You take a sip, your eyes still on the page. "You are blatantly ignoring me, my heart." The King's tone is grumpy, and you sigh.

"I have nothing new to say to you, Thorin. Exactly like two minutes ago when you made exactly the same comment and I told you you cannot be sure Mira is to be back before dinner. I can only repeat the same words to you, but I doubt they could pacify you. So yes, I am blatantly ignoring your fussing."

"Fussing?!" His tone is full of indignation. "Your sixteen year old daughter has not been home for the last moon and a half, visiting the pointy eared wimps, and I remind you, without proper supervision, and you are not at all concerned! Considering..." You finally lift your eyes at him, and he stumbles over his words.

"Considering you suspect that she is having an affair with Prince Legolas," you deadpan, and the King's nostrils flare.

"I did not claim that, but he does look at her..." You give him an exaggeratedly attentive look, as if he is going to enlighten you on some endlessly important subject, and he vaguely waves his hand in the air. Over the years the two of you have exchanged numerous habits, and that swirl of a wrist in the air when he cannot put his thoughts into words the King has definitely picked up from you.

"How exactly does he look at her?" Your tone is mocking. "Thorin, we have had this conversation many times before. He is an Elf, he cannot possibly be interested in an ordinary girl of Men."

"Ordinary girl of Men?" He raises his voice and looks at you aghast. "Are we talking about the same person, Filegethiel? Our daughter is anything but ordinary!" He looks almost insulted, and you laugh.

"I know you think our daughter is an unimaginable marvel, but she is still of Men. And young. And she is your daughter. No one in their sane mind would consider even looking at her in any way but with respect and reverence. No one would want your Elven blade buried deeply in their skull. To say nothing of the fact that Prince Legolas is an epitome of dignity and purity."

The King puffs out air in disdain and heavily falls in his favourite armchair in front of fireplace. You suppress the smile and go back to your book. Soon enough he gets up and starts pacing the room again. At some point he stops in front of your table and stands there silently. It is one of his best ploys, the tense silent presence. He is an intimidating force to be counted with, and very few can withstand his attention being focused entirely on them. Except you have been married to him for the last eight years, and even before that you had not been daunted by him. You take another nonchalant sip from your cup, and he growls. You smile into the rim, and predictably he grasps the cup out of your hands, puts it on the table and picks you up under your arms.

"I will not be ignored," he is rumbling, and you laugh loudly. He pulls you to his lips and starts waking you backwards towards a sofa. You are letting him, well aware that carnal dalliances are his preferred way to distract himself from any frustration, and you cannot say you disapprove of it.

He topples you on the sofa, and his hot lips are pressed to your neck below your ear. His deft fingers start quickly working on the little buttons on your collar, and he catches your lobe between his teeth playfully.

"I should be irritated by these minuscule buttons you always have on your dresses, usafat," he is murmuring into your ear, "But I have to admit I find all these demure stern attires of yours endlessly arousing. Since I know what you are hiding underneath them."

Many years ago when you realized you needed to obtain a wardrobe worthy of the Queen, you found a seamstress that helped you to choose the attires that served your purpose. Dark solid colours, no brocade or lace like Dwarven women tend to wear, but the most unique cuts. Wide heavy skirts, standing collars, and a row or two of tiny buttons going up to the very top from your waist. Sometimes she would make you a skirt and a small separate jacket, with the same tiny buttons. If not for the expensive fabrics and intricate embroidery of the same colour such attires would look almost dull, but she always manages to delegate a certain charm with them. Combined with the ostentatious, most expensive hairpins you wear you think your look reflects who you are. The Queen of Erebor, not a Dwarf, but still a woman who understands her position and the power she possesses. Your undergarments, on the other hand, since they are destined to be seen only by the King, are quite a different matter.

Your husband quickly reaches the lowest button and opens up the black bodice. He sees an enticing peach coloured undertunic, exquisite Dale lace, nicely contrasting with your pale skin, hardly hiding anything, and he presses his hot open mouth over your already pebbled peak. You moan and arch into his caress. The eight years of marriage and bearing two of his children have not dwindle your hunger for him. He pushes one hand under your skirts, up your leg, brushes under your knee, and splays his scorching palm on your thigh.

At that moment someone knocks on the door of the parlour, and you remember yourself. You giggle, the two of you could be caught dandling like a pair of concupiscent younglings in your parlour. The King does not seem to hear anything, his heavy body slides on the floor near the sofa he put you on, and he presses his lips to your knee. He bunched up your skirts, and his greedy mouth is moving up the inner side of your thigh.

"Thorin, have you not heard the knock?" He hums into your skin, obviously blind and deaf to anything by his purposeful caresses, and spreads your knees with his hands. "The door, Thorin!" You chuckle. "It is Mira. She has returned." He lifts his face to you, and you giggle at his dazed expression.

"Are you certain? How can you know?"

"I always know," you smile to him, and he suddenly realizes the position you two are in. Your dress is open, skirts lifted, he is on the floor, his face as much as pressed between your legs, and there is an obviously bulge in his crotch. He is so stunned that he does not seem to understand anything.

"What are we to do?" He looks at you befuddled, and you giggle again. He makes you so happy!

"Mira, we will see you at dinner in two hours!" You raise your voice and hear your daughter's laughter from behind the door.

"Alright, amad," she answers clearly, "Enjoy your evening!" You shake your head, sometimes it feels she is just a child in her sixteen. Sometimes, like today, you wonder how much she guesses about what is happening around her. She is an odd creature, her gift of magic and strange temper making her elusive, hard to understand, but only ever more dear to you. The King drops his head on your knee, and you think you see his ears burning.

"Does she indeed know what we are busy with?" His voice is muffled by your petticoat. You push your fingers into his hair and scrape the back of his head comfortingly.

"She knows we are enjoying each other company and want to stay alone for a while. I think she understands what transpires in people's bedrooms, but I doubt she is interested in details." He lifts his face, and you see he is frowning.

"Is it not the age when girls usually marry among Men?" You look at him with interest. This is the first time you two are having such conversation.

"Yes, it is, my heart, but we are talking about Mira. You are well aware how little social interaction she craves, besides us and the children, and her friends in Mirkwood. If you are worried that some dashing young man will come and charm his way into her heart, I assure you it will not happen. I doubt she will ever be interested in love." The King sits up straighter on the floor, his previous intentions forgotten. You sigh a bit, you have been in the mood. But he is a father and a Dwarf, all else for him is secondary.

"You mean she would never marry?" You smile as you can hear a tinge of hopeful relief in his tone. He would never confess and even more so would never act upon it but he is endlessly possessive of her. You understand his feelings, she is above all one of his closest friends. Funnily enough, he seems to be comfortable with the thought that your younger daughter, Unna is to leave your home some day when married into some noble Dwarven family. You know that discussions are led already, many families sending parchments with their family trees to the King, while Unna is only six years old, almost an infant from a Dwarven point of view.

"I doubt Mira requires such association, Thorin. Besides her unusual personality she is also my daughter. Herbs and medicine are more exciting for her than men. I distinctly remember thinking I did not require a male presence to have a fulfilled life." The King cocks one brow. "A thought of a man would not come to my head for years. I was too busy exploring the world and studying. Mira besides that is rather reclusive. And odd." You decide to be direct with him, and you see a concerned wrinkle lie between his brows.

"Filegethiel..."

"Are you to argue with me on that, Thorin? She is, is she not? You know how much I love her and how close we are, but even you cannot deny that she is not like other children. It comes with her intelligence and her gift, I do not see any flaw in her unique nature but I do not think it is fair to try to hide it or never speak of it." He is giving it a thought, his fingers absentmindedly playing with a hem of your skirt.

"Would she still be happy and fulfilled if she is alone?" You hear sincere concern in his voice, and once again you feel fierce gratitude to your destiny for bringing this man into your life. You could not wish better father for your children.

"I am certain Mira will find her own path. Like we all. Mine led me here, and although I thought myself cold and frigid, I now find myself married to a libidinous Dwarf." He meets your eyes and chuckles.

"You are anything but cold or frigid, my little queen," he once again places his hands on your knees, and you understand his mind is back onto the previous subject. That suits you well. You push your knees apart, in an indubitable invitation, and he rumbles. He moves closer to you, on his knees on the floor, and shoves your skirts up. He pulls you into a kiss, cupping the back of your head, while his second hand is hastily unbuckling his belt. You quickly work on the buttons of his doublet and push it off his shoulders. His trousers fall on the floor, he quickly pushes your drawers down, and you wrap your legs around his waist. The height of the sofa is perfect, and you are embarrassed to admit you are already aware of it. This is not your first transgression on it. To think of it, in the Royal Halls there is hardly a single piece of furniture that has not been a witness to your love.

The King moves in deep hard thrusts, purposeful and almost rough, and you arch, supporting your body on your hands placed behind you. Both of you breathe heavily, in short exhales, and you are painfully biting into your bottom lip. You tend to be loud in your love, but while the bedchambers are surrounded by thick walls and other rooms, there is but one door between the parlour and the passage. Given servants have no matters to attend in this passage at the moment, but you still need caution. The King pushes harder and harder into you, one of his arms lies around your middle. With each thrust he jerks your whole body towards him, to reach even deeper into your inner walls, and you push away from him and fall back on the velvet of sofa. It allows you to open up for him wider, and your back arches to the point of pain. You two are destroying your do, the hairpin painfully jabbing your skull, and you jerk it out of your curls. The King grabs the edge of the back of the sofa, to gain even more momentum, and the legs of the furniture piece start skidding on the floor, scraping the floorboards, and you sit up and catch his mouth to drown your scream into him. You climax, your body shuddering, your fingers digging into his shoulders, and he lets you go, you fall back, waves of pleasure quaking your body. He slightly rises, rocks his hips into you harder, and you cry out. He quickly presses his palm over your mouth, and in a few harsh thrusts he reaches his peak. His seed hits your inner walls, and that is your most favourite part of your coupling. You moan, and gently rock your hips, spurring his release, prolonging the sweet sensation, and he groans, his eyes closed, completely lost in his rapture.

For a few instants the two of you are silent and immobile, and then you gently bite into his palm. He opens his eyes and looks at you in surprise. He certainly has not realized where his hand went. He releases you, and you smile to him. He moves away from you with a groan and sits on his knees. You sit up, and your hands fly to your hair. It is a mad disarray of curls, and you laugh. He chuckles as well and shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts.

You go down to dinner two hours later, after a shared bath, and find Mira sitting at the table, a customary book open in front of her. She lifts her eyes, and upon seeing the King she jumps up on her feet and rushes to him.

"Adad, I brought you a gift!" He opens his arms, and she embraces him warmly. She is not fond of physical contact except from you and Thorin, and her siblings. But you can see her arms wrap around his neck, and he gently pats her back with his large hand. She picks up a small parcel from the table and hands it to him. He smiles to her and unwraps it. It is a bead, intricately carved and decorated with Khuzdul runes. "I have befriended a smith in Mirkwood, he helped me to make it. I created the pattern and he agreed to carve it, though reluctantly." She laughs softly, and Thorin chuckles. You shake your head in exasperation from these two. With all her seemingly aloofness and withdrawnness Mira is well aware of the power over men she possesses.

The dinner passes in amicable conversation, Mira tells about her visit to Mirkwood and inquires after the life in Erebor during her absence. She obviously has missed Thror and Unna, and cannot wait to see them in the morning. When the food is almost finished, Mira clears her throat and catches your eyes. You two have a quick silent conversation, and you brace yourself. She is about to breach some unpleasant subject.

"Adad, there is another visit that I have to make in the nearest future, as soon as possible, to be honest."

"You have just returned!" The King's eyes fly to her face, and he frowns. She is watching him calmly, and he exhales loudly. "Is it Mirkwood again? Filegethiel," he turns to you, "Are you not going to participate in this conversation?"

You carefully stir your tea. "It is not yet a conversation, Thorin. We do not know yet what she is about to say." He turns to your daughter again and lifts his brows in exaggerated attentive look.

"You are going with me this time, amad," Mira says to you, and you look at her in confusion. "We are going to visit Grandmother Miriel. Her health is weak, and her departure is close. If we leave in a few days, we have time to go to Ithilien in time. I believe you will receive a letter soon."

"Have you received a letter from..." You stumble over your words and gulp in acute unease, "Your father? Has he informed you of this?"

Mira shakes her head and calmly sips her tea. You look at the King. He is silent, and his eyes are lowered. You expect you will have to use all your skill to persuade him that the two of you should go. Miriel is the aunt of Amrod, Mira's father, and you owe a great deal to that woman. You need to go.

All three of you are silent, and then the King sighs and looks at you. His face is unreadable, but then he smirks joylessly, "Well, at least it is not Mirkwood this time."


End file.
