#the hobbit fantiction

[lathalea]

Thistle. A Midsummer Night's Dream

Happy Midsummer weekend to all who are celebrating! You know how on Midsummer you are supposed to gather seven different flowers or herbs and put them under your pillow to dream about the person you are going to spend your life with? I've been talking with @linasofia about how Midsummer would look in Erebor. I got a little bit inspired, and this is how this fic came to be. Thank you for the inspo and for your support 💙 Let me know how you like it. If this little story catches your interest, I may write more, so let me know if I should continue! Rating: G * * *

Thistle. A Midsummer Night's Dream

“Thorin, let’s go! Frerin is waiting for us! He has already left!” Dis tugged at Thorin’s sleeve.

“Patience, let us wait for a better moment,” he leaned towards her and whispered.

They were sitting at a large table in the Main Hall of Erebor, surrounded by song, dance, festive music, delicious food, and happy Dwarves. The whole Erebor was celebrating Midsummer. Everyone was there, even their Grandfather. King Thror had been lately avoiding the crowds and spending more and more time in the treasure chamber, which worried Thorin immensely. Now however, his long, elegantly coiffed silver beard glistened with beads and precious gems, and he seemed as cheerful as he used to when Thorin and his siblings were tiny pebbles sitting on his lap and playing with his crown. It warmed Thorin’s heart to see his Grandfather smiling once again, without that ominous dark frown on his face.

The King stood up and proposed a toast to the prosperity of the kingdom. Cheers and merriment followed, and in the commotion, Thorin and Dis managed to sneak out, leaving the sounds of the feast behind them.

“Do you think Frerin asked Dvala to join us?” Dis wondered as they were walking along one of the corridors leading out of the Mountain. Thorin frowned, “I thought we agreed on keeping this silly idea a secret.”

“Oh, come on, Brother, do not be so gloomy!” she nudged him with her elbow. “You can survive one evening of fun in a good company. Dvala is a sweet girl, I am quite fond of her!”

“Frerin should focus on his mining apprenticeship, not on girls.”

“Just like you are focusing on your dwarven law studies by training with Dwalin instead?”

They took a turn and walked down the staircase that led to the gates of Erebor. Frerin was supposed to meet them nearby. Thorin grunted, “Grandfather says he expects his heirs to be well-versed in many different…”

“You’re such a bore, Thorin! There’s more to life than duties and studying,” his sister insisted, making him groan inwardly. “You will see, one day you are going to meet a lovely girl who will steal your heart and show you that there are more things to life than musty old tomes and swords.”

“I doubt it. I do not wish to complicate my life with affairs of the heart. I am expected to wed someone chosen by Mother and Grandmother. My marriage has to benefit our kingdom. Now, we need strong allies more than ever,” a shadow passed Thorin’s face at the thought of the recent serious disagreement their grandfather had with his brother Gror, the lord of the Iron Hills, ceasing diplomatic relations between both dwarven strongholds. And then, there was that catastrophe of an audience when King Thror suddenly refused to hand over the necklace made of the Gems of Lasgalen to King Thranduil. As it turned out, the ruler of the Woodland Realm hadn’t planned to pay for the work of dwarven master jewelers in the first place, but Thorin had seen King Thror solving more delicate issues without any problems before. Now, whenever he looked into the eyes of his Grandfather, he saw only darkness and greed. But not tonight. Tonight they sparkled with joy, and that was a blessing from Mahal.

“Stop talking about politics, Brother!” Dis scolded him once again. “It’s Midsummer today, have you forgotten? We are going to sneak out of the Mountain, gather seven different flowers, make wreaths out of them, and then…”

“Only if you’re going to make the wreaths for us, Dis!” Frerin exclaimed, jumping from behind one of the green marble columns.

“Do you want everyone to hear us, you clot?!” she hissed, making Thorin smirk. Dis wasn’t of battle age yet, but she already started resembling their mother more and more, growing just as fearless and fierce. She rested her fists on her hips, stomped her foot, and declared, “You are going to make your midsummer wreaths yourselves! That’s what the tradition says!” “Remind me, brother, why are we doing this?” Frerin rolled his eyes and looked at Thorin helplessly.

“Dis bribed you shamelessly, and I... may have lost a bet,” Thorin admitted reluctantly. Indeed, he made a bet with his sweet, little, supposedly innocent sister. A simple bet, and a very stupid one. He still couldn’t believe he let himself be tricked so easily. Dis was supposed to challenge Dwalin to an arm-wrestling match. If she were to win, Thorin would fulfill her wish. Just one simple wish. But if she were to lose, she would write a two-scroll essay on the history of settlement in the Blue Mountains for him, a week’s worth of work. He hated history, but his tutor was very exigent. Besides, since Dwalin was a formidable arm-wrestler, Thorin was sure his best friend would win. To his dismay, Dwalin didn’t, and Thorin still had trouble wrapping his mind around that fact. Dis. Won an arm-wrestling match. With Dwalin, one of the strongest Dwarves he knew. He still remembered how Dwalin grinned at him in triumph, pushing her arm down slowly, but then Dis gasped quietly. Dwalin looked at her as she said, or rather purred, “Oh, my, you are really strong!”, and then she batted her eyelashes. This was enough for the mighty Dwalin: distracted, he loosened his grip – and that was exactly what Dis was waiting for: she slammed his arm down in a blink of an eye.

And now Thorin had to fulfill his little sister’s wish and follow her out of the Mountain instead of drinking ale with Dwalin and discussing his latest axe design. Who would have thought that younger sisters were such a menace?

“You are doing this because you are my beloved brothers and care for me greatly,” Dis grinned and added with a wink. “We can’t win with her, Thorin, can we?” Frerin looked at him pleadingly.

“A warrior knows when a battle is lost. We must wait for a better opportunity to counterattack,” he offered, making an imitation of Lord Fundin and his lectures on war strategy, causing his brother to chuckle.

When all three of them finally found themselves on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain, the summer evening surrounded them with warmth. Scents of nature wafted into Thorin’s nose. It was long after sunset, but the surroundings were bathed in the silvery light of the moon. In the clear air, Thorin could see the silver ribbon of the River Running below and the distant lights of Dale. “Granny says it’s the perfect time for picking the midsummer flowers!” Dis announced behind him. Frerin groaned in despair and followed her, but Thorin didn’t move. Perhaps if he pretended he hadn’t heard her she would let him be, he thought. “Thorin! You lost the bet, remember?” his sister addressed him pointedly and he had to capitulate.

“I do. Something tells me that you will never let me forget about it for as long as we live,” Thorin offered, disheartened. It turned out that picking flowers was much easier than he thought. Besides, he wanted to be done with that silly flower business as soon as possible and return back to the Mountain.

“So, Frerin, why haven’t you invited Dvala tonight?” Dis asked in a light-hearted tone after they wreaked sufficient havoc on the meadow. She was busy weaving her wreath that consisted of lots of red, yellow, and blue flowers. Thorin hadn't the slightest idea what each of them was called nor did he care. After a pause, Frerin responded, sticking his tongue out as he tried to copy her movements, working on a bunch of pink flowers, “I did, but her aunt wouldn’t let her go.” “Oh, bother, that aunt of hers. Oh, I know!” Dis smiled mischievously, “I will talk with Mother, and she will invite them both for a picnic, so you and Dvala can…” Thorin’s sister’s voice drifted off into the air as he shook his head, focusing on his own cursed wreath. After having his fingers assaulted with thorns, he came to the conclusion that neither thistle nor blackthorn twigs were the best choices for this pointless task. “Great! Now, put your wreaths on your heads and show me how you look!” Dis ordered. Thorin raised an eyebrow, “Is this really necessary?” “Dwalin says that if you give me any problems, he will stop training with you!” she crossed her arms across her chest. “Traitor,” Thorin muttered. He expected many things but not his best friend taking his sister’s side.

“Are you surprised, Thorin?” Frerin chuckled, putting his pink wreath on his head and making a funny face. “You should have seen them both in the northern passage! Oh, Dwalin, those flowers are so pretty! – Not as pretty as ye are!” He imitated Dis’ and Dwalin’s voices and then proceeded to make kissing noises.

“Be quiet, Frerin, or I’ll tell Mother that I’ve found Principles of Love and Lust under your bed!” Dis furrowed her brow. It was interesting, Thorin observed, to see how Frerin’s face turned from pale to strawberry red. And as for Dis and the kissing noises, he decided to procure a cask of ale and visit Dwalin to assess the intentions that he might have towards his little sister. They will either drink the ale together or he would smash the wooden cask on his best friend’s stupid head. That thought put him in a somewhat better mood.

“Tell me, sister, how do I look?” Thorin put that misery of a wreath on his head. The things he has to endure for his siblings.

“Thorin!” she clasped her hands and beamed. Thorin tried to ignore Frerin’s chuckling from behind. “You look stunning! Like the Forest King in his flower crown!” “Are you telling me I look like the ruler of Mirkwood? Like an elf?” he huffed. “Not at all, silly! More like one of those fairy tale creatures, with horns, furry legs, and hooves. Like a grumpy satyr!” giggling, she closed the distance between them, stood on her tiptoes, and placed a wet, affectionate kiss on his cheek.

“Thank you,” she whispered into his ear.

���How long are we supposed to wear those wreaths?” Frerin said before Thorin could say anything.

“Until you go to bed tonight. Make sure to put them under your pillows and then each of you is going to dream about the love of your life. At least that is what Granny says!” Dis explained, putting her own wreath on her head.

“That means Thorin is going to dream of Deathless and his anvil!” Frerin sniggered.

***

Thorin hadn’t given much thought to his sister’s last words until he returned to his chambers. Getting ready to retire for the night, he removed the prickly wreath from his head with a grunt as it turned out to be entangled in his braids. It took him a while to separate his hair from the stems, twigs, and flowers and Thorin solemnly promised himself to comb and wash his hair properly first thing in the morning. Falling on his bed in exhaustion, he managed to put the mutilated plants under his pillow, just like he promised his sister. And in the morning, he would have a serious talk with Dwalin.

Sleep came to him quickly, mere moments after he closed his eyes.

He stood at the edge of a forest clearing, breathless. She was there, sitting with her back towards him, in the middle of a runestone circle. He could make out the shapes and Khuzdul runes carved into them, but he paid them no heed, his eyes drawn to her bright silhouette. Bathed in sunlight, she seemed like a glowing, luminous being and not a… dwarf maiden. Clad in a long white gown, with a flower wreath and a couple of simple braids adorning her flowing hair that made him think of pale marble with gold veins, she seemed like a benevolent spectre from another world, like a glittering pearl found at the bottom of the sea.

And then he realized she was singing. A soothing, soulful melody reached both his ears and his heart, and it was as if the day became even brighter, the air even clearer, and he felt a sweet taste in his mouth as if he had been drinking the sweetest mead.

Wanting to hear her voice better, Thorin took a step forward, but the song suddenly stopped.

“Who are you?” she turned towards him and asked in a gentle voice, a curious smile dancing on her lips.

“Thorin, son of Thrain, my lady,” he made a customary bow and approached the circle.

“A dwarf… here?” she tilted her head.

“You seem surprised, my lady,” he replied, trying not to think of how bright her eyes were and how pink and full her lips were against her sun-kissed cheeks. “Indeed I am. No one ever comes here, only me,” she said absentmindedly. “Then I am honored to be your first guest,” he added quickly. “Welcome to my meadow, Thorin, son of Thrain,” after a hesitant pause, the maiden stood up and curtsied elegantly, as if she was in Erebor’s throne room and not in the middle of an ancient forest.

She gestured at him to enter the stone circle and asked him to sit down beside her, just before she lowered herself gracefully on the grass. His heart was beating fast, but he moved slowly, carefully, not wanting to startle her, as if he was on a hunt and she was a prized doe.

“Tell me where you come from, Thorin, son of Thrain. Tell me of your homeland,” she whispered, and he noticed a faint blush appearing on her cheeks. It was at that moment that he realized that her eyes were green as priceless emeralds, like the soft grass beneath them, and he drowned in the boundless sea of her gaze completely.

He spoke of the kingdom of Erebor, of its beauty and wealth, of the skilled miners, jewelers, and stonemasons. He spoke of the wonders hidden deep inside of the Mountain and of the breathtaking view from its top. And she listened and listened like no one ever before has listened to him, and she asked insightful questions, and wanted to know more and more. “It seems like a wondrous place to live at,” she confessed, bringing a delicate white flower to her nose and smelling it with her eyes closed, a soft smile tugging at the corner of her lips. He wanted to smell it together with her. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. And he forgot that he was supposed to dislike flowers. “If you ever happen to travel to Rhovanion, it will be my pleasure to show you the beauty of Erebor,” he offered with an encouraging smile. The thought of walking beside her through the endless passages of the Mountain and having her smile back at him just the way she was smiling now was making him almost dizzy with inexplicable joy. This is what he wanted more than anything else.

She nodded in reply, and the blush on her lovely cheeks deepened, and his heart skipped a beat.

“May I ask you something, Master Thorin?” her sweet voice reached his ears. Hearing her speak his name, as she wrapped her shapely mouth around it, made his breath hitch. He didn’t even notice that she hadn’t called him ‘my lord’, as it was customary since he was a prince. He didn’t care. She simply glanced at him shyly from under her eyelids and it was everything he needed, and more. “Do all the dwarves of Erebor have as unruly hair as you do?” her question rang in the air, her eyes glittering with mischief. Trying to mask his surprise, he ran his hand through his hair, realizing that he had his wreath on his head only when his fingers bumped against its prickly surface. His hair underneath seemed indeed tousled and unkempt. Thorin grunted, feeling warmth spilling on his cheeks. That was not the first impression he was hoping for.

“Forgive me, my lady, I must look like a wild beast to you.” “You are too well-mannered to be a beast, Master Thorin,” she giggled. “But wild, yes, I have to agree with you.” That will teach me not to pick thistle for my midsummer wreath. A truly useless plant,” he shook his head and chuckled.

“I was rather happy to see your head adorned with these flowers. As you can see,” she pointed at her own wreath,” I too chose thistle. My hosts say that it is prickly and unpleasant to touch, but it symbolizes bravery, strength, and determination. A thistle wreath becomes you.” Thorin had to stop himself from puffing up his chest proudly, trying to convince himself it was simply courteous flattery, nothing more. “I thank you for your kind words, my lady. May I ask who your hosts are? Does this forest,” he gestured around them, “not belong to you?” “Not at all, Master Thorin,” she shook her head, pale golden locks spilling down her shoulders, making him want to run his fingers through the soft sea of her hair. “We are in an elven realm called… In Khuzdul, we would say ‘The Flower of Dreams’. We are dreaming, so it sounds very fitting, do you not think?” “Yes… it does. We are indeed dreaming, are we not?” he spoke slowly as the realization washed over him. This was indeed a dream, he remembered clearly the moment when he fell asleep in his bed in Erebor. What was surprising, this dream felt more coherent, more vivid than any other dream he had before. He smelled the sweet scent of flowers in the air, he touched the soft grass, he heard the birds chirping, and he saw a lovely maiden’s face in front of him, so real that he had to ignore the sudden urge to kiss her soft lips. Yes, this dream was different. “It is the Midsummer Night, the night of wonders and magic,” she nodded. “You said this place lies in an elven realm. Is it elven magic that brought me here?” Thorin frowned. He knew the history of his people, he read of the great friendship between the great artisan of Durin’s folk, Narvi, and the elven prince Celebrimor, of the creation of the Doors of Durin. His Grandfather’s dealings with the king of the Woodland Realm, however, taught him to be suspicious of elven intentions. Silvery laughter rang in the air. “Neither of us has pointy ears, Master Thorin. I have never heard of dwarves dabbling in elven magic. Or are you an elven wizard in disguise?” Thorin chuckled, “Not that I know of.” “Then it very well may be dwarven magic, the magic of Mahal and Kaminzabdûna bequeathed upon us on this very night. Or perhaps it is just an exceptionally vivid dream, nothing more,” she offered, looking away, her small hands resting in her lap idly, the flower forgotten between them. “No, my lady, you are not a dream, you cannot be merely a figment of my imagination!” he protested vehemently and, on the spur of the moment, he took her hand into his. Her skin was cool under his touch, but as soon as their fingers met, a tingling sensation rushed through his body.

She gasped, “Have you felt it too…?” Thorin looked into her widened eyes, her lips parted in astonishment, her hair glowing like a halo around her head. “As well as if I were wide awake, my--” he interrupted, bringing her delicate hand to his lips and kissed it gently, reverently.

“May I know what I shall call you, my lady?” Her melodic voice reached his ears in a whisper as if she was entrusting him with her greatest secret, “My name is Saga.”

Thorin opened his eyes. His chest heaved. He took a deep breath. It was dark, except for the faint light of a forgotten candle. Instantly he knew where he was. His bedchamber in Erebor. He closed his eyes again, hoping to return to that meadow, to her. To no avail. Sleep wouldn’t come. He felt hot. Something prickled against the skin of his palm. Thorin brought his closed hand to his eyes, but before he opened it, he knew what he was about to see.

A thistle flower.

* * *

Read it? Like it? Spread love and reblog it! Feel like reading more of my stories? Check out my masterlist. Taglist : @fizzyxcustard @shrimpsthings​ @dark-angel-is-back @sherala007 @amelia307 @anyaspidergirl-blog @jotink78 @rachel1959 @saltwater-in-the-afternoon @linasofia @justfollowtheroad @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @legolasbadass @yourqueenunderthemountain @reblogunderthemountain @guardianofrivendell @elrawienthewhite @xmly-xo @tschrist1 @nelleedraws @beenovel

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[ladylannister95]

I was tagged by @lionessonthethrone​. Thank you, dear! These are my fave tag games concerning writing and this is a very nice variation.

(Hope your ankle’s ok now?)

Rules : list the first lines of the last ten published stories. Look to see if there is only patterns that you notice yourself, and see if anyone else notices any! Tag up to 10 friends.

Okay, I’m not sure how to understand “first lines” either so I’m gonna copy Lioness idea for that :)

So here they are:

From Conquest:  “Not as high as Cheyenne, features more sharp than those of a Crow. Lakota,” judged colonel in a sure tone of an expert, looking straight into the hateful gaze of the captured Indian. The wildling kept trashing into the firm grip of colonel’s men, uncaring of the futility of any resistance in a closed fort. “Tie him to a pole.”

From Mój sokole: “Położył ją na łóżko delikatnie niczym porcelanową lalkę. Helena natychmiast podniosła się i odsunęła jak najdalej od niego, aż do wezgłowia, podciągając kolana pod brodę. Patrzyła na niego z przestrachem, serce łomotało jej w piersi jak szalone.”  (Bonus translation for you international English speakers: “He laid her onto the bed carefully like a porcelain doll. Helen promptly rose and withdrew as far away from him as possible, up to the headboard, pulling her knees under her chin. She looked at him with fear, her heart bit madly inside of her breast.”)

From Kryptonim Silva: “Elros zbliżał się bezszelestnie do swej ofiary, strzałę na cięciwę założył już przed przekroczeniem progu, żeby nie zdradził go nawet najdrobniejszy szmer pióra. Elfka stała tyłem do niego, zapatrzona w okno, rude włosy spływały jej na plecy miękką kaskadą.” (Bonus translation: “Elros approached his prey soundlessly, the arrow he had put to the string yet before crossing the threshold, to not let even the tiniest whisper of a feather betray him. The elf maid stood with her back to him, looking through the window, red hair flew down her back in soft waterfall.”)

From Necromonger way:  “ „You missed a spot here,” said the new Lord Marshall, pointing at the stain left on his armor, the dried blood of the previous Lord Marshall.”

From Haunted: “They were invisible to mere mortals’ eyes, only some of the most powerful ancient beings could distinguish them from surrounding shadows. They saw each other, though, due to the Nine Rings. Through the sorcerous connection they constantly sensed each other’s presence, every night, every hour.”

From Intrigue: “Lydia rushed into the royal chamber of the future Derzhi emperor, not unlike a Derzhi warrior charging at the enemy. Despite wearing a fine silk dress rather than breeches and a saber, she cut no less fearsome figure with her red hair flying and anger burning eyes.”

From A recipe for happiness: “Not only Barcelona won, but he got a card to that, thankfully just yellow. As ever nobody was willing to listen to his explanations, just seeing him and Messi on the turf resulted in showing him the condemning carton, as was a widely accepted rule in the world of football by now. Someone tripped over one’s legs while running next to him – a card for Sergio, someone grabbed one’s ankle with a theatrically screwed up face in a farce of pain grimace – a card for Sergio.”

From Knights and renegades:  “Caspian rushed thorough the corridors of the castle with only one purpose – kill Miraz. He knew he should go open the gates but first he must brought his father’s killer to justice. Everything else could wait. King Peter could wait, battle could wait, the whole Narnia could wait till he’d plunged the blade into Miraz’ heart.”

From Lords of the Rings: “Hemp rope dangled dolefully, swaying in the wind. Upon it the corpse hung. Even though the last posthumous convulsions were gone and the body was stilled now, calmed by the embrace of death, the rope creaked again and again, like a reprobate’s call of anguish. On the wooden bar a crebain has sat, waiting for the hangman to be cut off the rope, the bag slid off his head, so the bird could peck his eyes.”

From Eternal game:  “He hadn’t seen so perfect human body for ages. The tall lean figure, the broad shoulders, the handsome face, pale, framed by dark hair.”

That’s it. I posted with links, so take a look if you want to, just proceed with caution, read the tags carefully. While there are a few silly crack stories on the list above, most of them is dark and violent.

I tag: @awesome-bluehair-universe, @clementine-starling, @astargatelover, @gaolcrowofmandos, @eveningalchemist, @sidomira and everyone who wants to join is welcome to :)

[nightshade-blues-journal]

Full Circle Status Report

After a two months long leave of absence — or whatever it’s called when you suddenly disappear off the face of the Internet with no warning for a couple of months — I finished the first read through/round of editing of Chapter 8. Hopefully, I’ll finish it in — let’s be realistic — a week and post it on my B-day. Yay, progress, right?

[lathalea]

Springtime at the Lonely Mountain, ch. 53

Summary: A story about young-and-not-yet-brooding (well, not much, at least) prince Thorin and his beloved dwarf maiden, Ása. It is set sometime before Smaug’s attack. Have you ever wondered what could have happened if Thorin met the love of his life before succumbing to the Dragon Sickness? Well, then you’re in the right place!

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Original Female Character

Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, baby bump cuteness, Thorin in love You can read the whole story on AO3 (link in my bio + masterlist). ---

Springtime at the Lonely Mountain, chapter 53 On Black Wings

The last wisps of a shapeless dream unhurriedly left Ása’s mind. She blinked and took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh smell of sun-dried bedlinen. First rays of morning sun seeped in through the window, filling the room with a soft glow. Having her mind set on burying herself deeper in the warm quilt and returning to sleep, she glanced to the side and encountered a pair of bright cerulean eyes meeting her gaze.

“Good morning, Yûsthelê,” Thorin murmured, placing a sloppy kiss on the cool skin of her uncovered shoulder.

“Morning, husband mine,” she gave him a shy smile and brushed her lips against the tip of his nose. Waking up with Thorin beside her still felt like a beautiful dream, and she savored every single moment of it.

“Have you slept well?” he murmured in that low voice of his she never had enough of.

She nodded in confirmation. A wave of tenderness swept over her as she noticed the warmth in his gaze.

“And… the babe?” he glanced down towards her belly that has been growing steadily during these past months. It was now covered with the quilt, shaped like a small mound, and Thorin’s hand moved towards it hastily only for his fingers to retreat suddenly.

“The babe slept well too,” she replied, searching his face. “Do you want to say good morning?”

Thorin’s eyes moved back to her, filled with some new, soft expression she has never seen before.

“Can I…?” the words were barely audible, hesitant.

These two words made Ása’s heart beat faster. Both of them were careful, so very careful these days, enjoying their reclaimed closeness, taking small, measured steps forward, carefully closing the chasm that had opened between them on that fateful day in Beorn’s barn. She pushed away the thoughts of the events that came after and focused on the dwarf who was reclining beside her. Thorin. Her husband. Her One. And yet, since they reunited, they were still finding their way back to each other. There were still some things that waited for them in future, waited for the right moment to happen. In a heartbeat, Ása realized that the right moment for one of those new shared experiences had come. She moved the quilt aside, took Thorin’s hand, and placed it gently on the roundness of her belly covered only by her nightgown. Thorin’s throat bobbed and his mouth opened slightly, an expression of utter astonishment on his face. She could feel how warm his hand was through the sheer fabric as he slowly caressed her baby bump, following its curve.

He moved over her belly and whispered, “Good morning, Musmasum.”

Something fluttered inside her and Ása swallowed, trying to chase away the sudden mawkishness that overcame her, her hand reaching out and delving into his hair, his dark, soft strands seeping through her fingers. That was when Thorin’s lips hovered over her belly and then kissed it lightly.

“She says ‘good morning, daddy’,” Ása whispered in a trembling voice, blinking away the tears of joy from her eyes. They were together, the three of them, she, her One, and that new, precious spark of life their love created. They were once again whole, and it felt right, and wonderful.

“She?” Thorin lifted his head and met her gaze, but his hand still rested on her roundness, and she wanted it to stay there for as long as possible. He cocked his brow and something sparkled in his eyes, “So it is not a boy...?”

“It is a daughter, I can feel it,” she admitted, echoing something that surfaced in her mind, a silver, elusive flicker of a wishful thought or perhaps hopeful premonition.

“A daughter...,” he repeated with a hint of surprise in his voice, but she understood that completely. The odds of bringing a girl into the world were not as high as she’d like to since dwarven families of Erebor and Iron Hills were usually blessed with sons. She could only hope her hunch would turn out true.

“Hello, daughter,” Thorin turned his attention to Ása’s belly with a mischievous spark in his eyes. “Do make sure that Amad rests a lot today. Adad will be away, hunting for meat, and when he returns, Amad will eat plenty for both of you!”

With these words, he pecked her roundness once again.

Ása giggled, with a warm lump of happiness in her heart, “I’m sure she will appreciate the eating part. We both will!” She pulled him towards her and their lips met in an affectionate kiss, sweet and zesty like wild blackberries, sending a tingling sensation throughout her body. Ása missed those kisses along the affectionate gestures they had previously shared, and now she reveled in their returned closeness, taking in all his intimate caresses as if she was a scorched land and his touch was a long-awaited rain.

“Thank you,” Thorin rested on his elbow beside her as their lips parted, clearly mindful of not pressing his body against her belly. She still felt the warmth of his lips, his beard brushing softly against her skin, the slight lightheadedness that came together with his proximity.

“For what?” Ása gave him an uncertain smile.

“For this…” Thorin waved his hand at her and their surroundings. “For being here, for enduring it all; for the babe…”

She chuckled, a blush appearing on her cheeks, “You will thank me when she comes to the world. Although then, I imagine we will both be too exhausted to do anything other than sleep.”

“When will this happen? How soon?” his impatient fingers played with her marriage braid, moving over the beads.

“Sometime in autumn next year. We have plenty of time to prepare,” Ása replied almost immediately. Keeping track of the months was easy; what worried her was the fact that her knowledge about pregnancy was limited and the joy of becoming a mother was often tainted with the fear of giving birth somewhere in the wilderness, without a midwife, not mentioning the insistent thoughts about what could go wrong before and after that event. She knew that Thorin as well as Bombur and his kin would help her as much as they could, drawing on their limited experience with newborn dwarflings, but childbirth wasn’t something any of them had first-hand experience with, including her.

“I will find a home for us, a safe place for the babe to grow,” Thorin assured her in a calming voice, as if he sensed her concerns, as if the time apart made them tuned even more to each other’s moods. “We can still make it to the dwarven settlements in Misty Mountains before the winter snows come.”

Ása sighed, “Beorn will be relieved to see us go.”

“He would have us stay with him throughout the winter. If not for the egg...” his voice trailed off.

“I know. I am prepared to leave. Master Bear offered to provide us with everything we would need, but I feel we have already trespassed on his hospitality,” she replied. It was difficult to think of leaving both their generous host she developed a great fondness for and the comforts of Beorn's home on the verge of winter, but Ása understood there was no other way. They couldn’t impose on him any longer, they brought too much unrest under his roof. She stole a worried glance at the chest that hid the dragon egg.

“Do not fret, my sweet, all will be well. We shall find a proper place for us and the babe,” Thorin’s voice reverberated in his chest as he kissed her forehead, and she caught herself wondering whether she spoke her recent thoughts aloud.

“We will live like the dwarves of old, settling in a secluded mountain cave, not leaving it until spring, burrowed in furs, listening to the howling wind outside,” she giggled, taking Thorin’s hand and intertwining her fingers with his.

“It is clear that you already have given it a thought or two,” he chuckled in amusement.

“Of course! I am going to bake nut and seed cakes every day and you will chop wood to keep the fire going. The cave has to be close to the river so there is always plenty of water and fish, and it has to be on a sunny slope, and…” she cast him a curious glance. “And you? What kind of a home would you like, Yâsûnê?”

His eyes rested on her, filling with sudden warmth, and then he enveloped her in a warm embrace, “I have everything I need in my arms. You are my home, Amrâlimê.”

***

After breakfast, Beorn disappeared somewhere on his regular forest business, while Thorin, Bofur and Bifur went hunting. The day passed quickly, filled with chores and preparations for the winter, and before dinner Ása found herself in Bombur’s kitchen. She was slicing the apples that came from the bear-man’s orchard, while her copper-bearded companion was busy preparing a stew. Her plan for the evening was to dry as many of the fruit slices as they could. Dried apples was one of the traditional treats eaten on Durin’s Day that was coming soon, and one of Ása’s favorite winter snacks.

“Have you seen Fang recently?” she asked her companion, munching on a piece of fruit.

“He is still gone, probably chasing after that raven,” Bombur chuckled, shaking his head. “What a rascal!”

“I just hope he will stay away from that bird’s beak! Have you seen how huge it was?” Ása took another apple from the bowl and started slicing it in even pieces.

“Aye, I’ve never seen a raven that big before. There are great falcons in Ered Luin, but ravens are a rare sight,” he stirred the contents of a large pot and added some seasoning, humming to himself.

“They are great hunters, aren’t they? Falcons, I mean. I think I remember my Grandmother telling me about how she hunted with them in her youth…” her voice trailed off while Ása’s knife worked its way through a large, red apple.

“This is something we still do in Ered Luin. One of my cousins is a falconer, by the way. And Bifur enjoys it greatly, or rather, enjoyed,” Bombur paused, clearing his throat. “He even had his own falcon. Brave. And what a clever girl she was.”

“He did? And what--”

Ása’s words were interrupted by a sudden commotion coming from outside. She exchanged a glance with Bombur, quickly approached the door, and opened it. With a gasp, she saw Bifur’s face contorted in a grimace in front of her eyes. He rested on his spear, filling her whole field of vision. Behind him, there were some stomping sounds, some shouts, and very familiar incessant barking.

“What is happening?” she frowned. “Is anyone wounded?”

Bifur grunted in clear displeasure and rolled his eyes, his unruly dark hair following the movement of his head like a dark cloud. He rested his spear against the wall and started gesticulating quickly. A pang of fear pierced Ása’s heart.

“Is Thorin well? I shall fetch some bandages…” she started, but the dwarf shook his head and started signing once again.

“Please, Bifur, you’re so fast, I can’t understand...” she pleaded, cursing her inability to decipher his iglishmêk quickly enough. “What? Everyone is well, except… Fang did what? What black menace?”

“He says that they found Fang in the forest on their way here,” she heard Bombur’s voice behind her. “And he has been in a fight.”

As if to confirm his words, a few loud barks filled the air.

“Hurry up, Thorin, I’m not sure how much longer I can hold this beast!” Bofur’s words followed.

As Bifur moved to the side, she finally saw the source of the commotion. Bofur was holding a piece of rope with all his strength, with Fang attached to it. The wolfdog, his fur dirty and tousled, kept on pulling the rope and barking at… Thorin. Or rather, at a large bird that perched on his outstretched arm.

Ignoring Fang’s outburst, Thorin quickly approached Beorn’s house, but, as opposed to Bifur, there was a wide smile on his face.

“Thorin, what is it?” Ása shot a puzzled glance at him.

“Ása, allow me to introduce Rarca, daughter of Carc,” Thorin pointed at the massive raven sitting on his forearm. Her eyes were drawn to an ornamented silver clasp around the bird’s ankle. The raven’s blue-black feathers glistened in the setting sun as Rarca tilted her head, opening and closing her beak once, and emitting a short croaking sound. Ása felt the bird’s scrutinizing gaze on her, her black beady eyes showing endless depths of intelligence.

“Isn’t it the same bird that Fang chased after the other day?” Bombur mused.

“It is. She is greeting you,” Thorin confirmed and turned to the raven. “Rarca, this is my wife, Ása.”

The bird clapped her beak twice.

“Welcome, Mistress Raven, it is an honor to meet you,” she spoke to the raven, wondering how much she understood. Judging by the way she looked, by her name, and by the runes on the silver clasp, she realized where Rarca must have come from. Ása heard various rumors about that noble breed of Ravens of Erebor, she saw them on several occasions, but she never had a chance to interact with any of them directly. Urged by Thorin, they entered the kitchen and closed the door behind them, Fang’s angry barking ringing in their ears.

Bifur groaned and pointed at his ears.

“Let’s hope Fang calms down now,” Bombur said. “Mistress Rarca here was too great of an opponent to our wolfdog, I gather?”

“We were lucky enough to separate them in time,” Thorin walked towards the table. “But Fang’s ear bears the mark of their battle.”

“Oh, no!” Ása exclaimed. “Is it a deep wound?”

“Nothing Bofur can not take care of. He will be as right as rain soon.”

“And probably begging for meat scraps on account of his injured pride!” Bombur chuckled.

Thorin stretched out his arm and allowed the proud raven to gracefully jump onto the kitchen table with a flutter of her wings. Ása noticed that the bird missed one or two feathers from her tail. So Fang wasn’t the only one who suffered losses. She only hoped that Rarca would still be able to fly without any problems.

Quickly she moved the cutting board and a few kitchen utensils aside, making space on the table for their guest. The massive bird turned her head and blinked a few times curiously at Ása, and then Rarca’s eye set on the sliced apples in a bowl.

“Please, help yourself, Mistress Rarca,” Ása offered, pushing the bowl towards her.

“My thanks,” the raven croaked in return, made a small nod, and caught a piece of apple with her beak. So it was true, the Ravens of Erebor could indeed speak! And then it finally hit her. A Raven of Erebor. Here, in Beorn’s house. Her stomach churned. Somehow the sweet smell of apples made her nauseous.

Her widened eyes met Thorin’s as he approached her, and squeezed her hand reassuringly. A frown deepened on his forehead. “Rarca brings news from Erebor.”

“News...?” she swallowed, trying to calm herself down.

“From Dwalin,” Thorin lowered his voice, looking down at their joined hands. “There has been a coup in Erebor. My Father took over the throne.”

“By Mahal…” Bombur’s hand flew to his mouth.

Rarca cawed in confirmation, “King Thrór was imprisoned,” she turned the side of her head up, towards Thorin. “We, the Ravens of Erebor, do not approve. He is the rightful ruler. This is not the way of things. It is not his son’s time yet.”

“What more can you tell me?” Ása heard solemn notes in Thorin’s voice. Perhaps he lost his title as the heir to the throne, but she clearly saw his concern not only for his grandfather, but for his homeland as well. This was the Prince of Erebor speaking.

“It happened at night. Warriors came. Not Mahal’s Hammer, others. The Raven Masters were agitated. Told us the news. The gates to Erebor were shut. Master Dwalin came to Ravenhill. I agreed to search for you, Prince. I am here now,” Rarca spoke in a raspy voice and added after a pause, shooting a glance towards the closed door, her feathers fluttering, “I do not like the dog.”

“We will keep him away from you, Rarca,” Thorin promised, and then his voice softened. “Were there any wounded? Is my family... well?”

“I do not know. I was not told,” the raven shook her head in a surprisingly dwarflike manner and reached for another slice of apple.

Thorin’s throat bobbed visibly. His worry was almost palpable. Ása’s heart clenched and it was now her turn to give him a reassuring squeeze with her hand. The thought of any harm coming to Lady Sigrun, little Dís or even Lady Barba and her husband, strong supporters of King Thrór, made her tremble. But now it was not the time to worry; she had to be strong.

“I see,” Thorin nodded, his voice devoid of emotion, his real feelings hidden behind a mask of indifference. “What more did Dwalin say?”

“Nothing. I will lead you to him. He wants to meet. Urgently.” Rarca cawed and attacked another slice of fruit with gusto.

***

“May I ask something, Mistress Rarca?” Ása approached the raven perched on Coal’s saddle. Thorin’s pony whinnied and she patted his nose affectionately. For the third, or maybe fourth time this morning her fingers ran over the leather straps, checking whether the saddlebags were properly attached, whether the stirrups were even, and then, whether the saddlecloth was not wrinkled. She hated the thought of having to say her farewells to Thorin so soon after he returned; so soon after their closeness bloomed again. She tried to ignore the worry that filled her heart when she imagined him riding off into the wilderness once more, even though it meant him seeing Dwalin again, and hearing news from Erebor. There were wild animals, dangerous creatures, perhaps even orcs lurking in the darkness. Somehow, it didn’t matter that Thorin was a skilled warrior, that Beorn would be accompanying him. They would be apart again, and she worried, and no amount of Thorin’s embraces or reassurances he had whispered into her ear in the night would stop those thoughts.

The raven croaked at her and spoke, tilting her head, “You may ask, Lady Ása.”

“How… how did you find Thorin?” she whispered, suddenly intimidated by the large bird’s inquisitive stare.

“Raven Magic. He is of the line of Durin. I am the daughter of Carc. We find the way. Even if the trail is hidden.”

Ása heard and read too many old stories and legends not to recognize what Rarca was speaking of. The ancient blood magic that somehow bound the Ravens of Erebor and the heirs of Durin through ages. She heard of a similar bond between the rulers of the Iron Hills and their war boars.

“Are you saying that Thorin’s trail was difficult to find?” her fingers played with the pony’s mane, but her attention was focused on the raven in front of her.

“Difficult,” Rarca agreed, jumping closer towards Ása across the saddle. “It took time. There is another magic around. Keeps things hidden. But I was fortunate. The more descendants of Durin in one place, the easier to find them.”

“How do you…” Ása frowned. Something fluttered in her lower belly and she gasped. “You mean… you felt my child?”

“Child…” Rarca opened her beak and closed it with a clack. “The magic is strong, but the pull of the line of Durin is stronger.”

Ása’s hand wandered to her belly, and she felt the warmth inside her. But a sudden realization filled her mind. The line of Durin. With all the recent events happening, she never gave it a thought. Her child is a descendant of the Kings of Erebor. Kings of the Longbeards. A potential heir to the throne. A potential danger to the enemies of Erebor. To…

“There you are, my sweet,” Thorin’s velvety voice reached her ears. She turned back and saw him leaving Beorn’s house, his sheathed sword in his hand, with Beorn following him. Ása swallowed as her heart clenched. It was time for them to leave.

“Thorin!” she hurried towards him and soon his strong arms were around her, and her palm cupped his bearded cheek, the scabbard of his sword pressing against her back. “Take care. Be safe, Mizim.”

His brilliant blue eyes roamed her face and he pressed his forehead against hers. “Rarca is convinced that it should not take longer than two weeks. I will return before you begin to miss me.”

“I miss you already,” she whispered, clinging to him even closer, breathing in the scent of pines, tobacco smoke, and sage soap. So uniquely his.

“I will miss you too. Both of you,” one of his arms moved and his hand slid over the side of the small bump of her belly, radiating impossible warmth that spilled throughout her body. Her Thorin. The father of their child. Her One.

“Return to us swiftly,” she mumbled, and she wanted to add something more, to say how much she loved him, how happy she was to be with him, to carry their unborn babe, but before she could say anything, their lips met in a tender kiss. Thorin’s lips brushed against hers, a feather-like caress, his beard softly brushed against her skin, while his thumb slowly traced circles on her belly, and something inside her fluttered again.

“Let us not waste daylight,” Beorn’s words reached her from afar.

This is when she pressed her lips against Thorin’s one more time, and he responded in turn, drinking from her like a parched traveler in the middle of the desert.

“May Mahal watch over you, Yasithê,” his low murmur seeped into her ear, and then, in a blink of an eye, his lips retreated, his arms moved away, taking his warmth with him. She shuddered, feeling the cold gusts of wind, and wrapped her shawl tightly around her. The winter was almost upon the land.

--- The Tiny Khuzdul Dictionary:

Yûsthelê - my spouse of all spouses Musmasum - tiny jewel Yâsûnê - my husband Yasithê - my wife Amrâlimê - my love Amad - mother Adad - father Iglishmêk – the dwarven sign language Read it? Like it? Reblog it!

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[lathalea]

for the get to know the author questions: 2, 8, 16, 24~!

Thank you for the ask @missiemoosie! 💙💙💙 Those are great questions :) 2) what work of yours, if any, are you the most embarrassed about existing? I'm extremely embarrassed to think of it even. I'd rather skip this question.

8) favorite genre to write Romance (surprise, surprise!). Romantic smut, specifically, but everyone probably knows it by now lol. 16) are there any characters who haunt you? Yes, Zohur, a very evil dwarf from "Springtime at the Lonely Mountain". I felt dirty imagining him and his actions. I'm glad I don't need to write him any more. *shudders* 24) have you ever become an expert on something you previously knew nothing about, in order to better a scene or a story? Yes, A while ago, I knew A LOT about how to shoe a horse. I read quite a few of online resources and watched tons of YouTube videos to the point of noticing some tiny errors one horseshoing apprentice did in a video. Then I realized I went too far lol ;) In real, I'd be probably scared to do it on my own, I'm definitely too weak to hold a horse like that and work its hooves. I'll leave it to the experts.

[lathalea]

Heart of Stone, ch 5

Heart of Stone, Chapter 5: The Battle

Summary: A bloodthirsty lord has imprisoned you on his desolate island, but there may still be hope for you. One summer evening, the most dashing corsair of the Seven Seas of Arda, Captain Thorin of The Willing Heart, makes his appearance. How is this night going to end? You tell me. An interactive story where you get to make the decisions. Let’s have some fun! :)

You can read it on AO3 here.

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x You

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6

* * *

You run up to the main deck as fast as you can. It’s swarming with sailors busying themselves, clearly preparing for a battle, but you quickly spot their captain among them. Apparently, he doesn’t shy away from a seaman’s work. And then he notices you. His dark mane of hair is tied in a ponytail down his powerful back and as he turns to face you... Oh, my! His mostly bare, impressively broad chest is heaving. You can’t help but admire the sheen on his evenly tanned skin, the firmness of his pectoral muscles dusted with dark hair, the rippling tautness of his abdomen partially covered by a wide leather belt of his trousers. Dark blue tattoos adorn his masterfully sculpted body, attesting to his life on the high seas. The dressing that covers his right shoulder and runs across his chest doesn’t do much to cover his body from your widened eyes. On the contrary, it somehow amplifies the impression of raw male power. This is the body of a warrior, one who knows battle very well. Oh, my, indeed.

“My lady, it is not safe here. You need to return below deck, Lord Smaug’s ships are almost upon us,” he says in a low voice. “Midshipman Baggins?”

“Captain?” the nimble hobbit appears beside you, seemingly out of nowhere.

“We need to flee as fast as we can, captain!” you interrupt before Thorin speaks.

“The Willing Heart does not flee from battle, my lady,” he growls. His countenance darkens as he rests his stormy eyes upon you.

“We might not stand a chance against Smaug’s forces!” you oppose him.

“Only two ships are after us. I have fought with worse odds,” the corsair captain glares at you.

“Three,” you correct him, feeling Midshipman Baggins’ puzzled gaze travelling between you and his captain.

“I beg your pardon?” the corsair frowns, his lips form a thin line in the thicket of his dark beard.

“Three ships are pursuing us,” you say, but he doesn’t seem to understand you. It doesn't surprise you. No one would unless they knew what to search for, and where. “May I borrow a spyglass?”

[Artist: Blake Rottinger]

A sharp order falls from the captain’s lips and you are soon offered Bosun Gloin’s brass spyglass. This is when you notice that the bosun has an impressive metal hook instead of his left hand. You blush in embarrassment when he notices your gaze.

“A shark, m’lady,” Bosun Gloin smiles broadly, clearly used to this kind of attention. “He found me inedible,” he winks.

“But we found him very much edible!” Mr. Nori shouts from behind him.

“Aye, our cook, Mr. Bombur, makes a mean shark stew!” Bosun Gloin confirms and you can’t help but giggle.

Your good humour disappears quickly after approaching the ship’s starboard. You quickly locate the unsettling shape in the sky. You pass the instrument to Captain Thorin, pointing him in the right direction and trying to summon all your willpower at the same time in order to ignore the impossible heat of his not-quite-fully-clad body (oh, my!) as he stands very, very close beside you.

“What is it that I am looking at?” he asks. His arm brushes against yours. A shiver ripples over your skin. You take a deep breath and somehow convince your knees not to melt under you. 

“Do you see something that looks like a dark cloud among the white ones?” you clumsily try to describe the yet unseen threat.

“I do,” Thorin replies in his deep voice, turning his face towards you, piercing you with his sapphire eyes.

“Smaug’s airship is hiding among these clouds!” you say with conviction.

“His… what?” the captain looks at you as if you have just lost your mind. 

“He has a ship that travels in the sky. It has directional sails, but it is propelled by an engine. The dark cloud we’re seeing is made of fumes that this contraption gives out!” you speak again, hoping that he will believe you.

“An airship. With an engine,” he repeats after you, raising his eyebrow.

“Think furnace with wings!” you exclaim in desperation.

Thorin’s expression is unreadable.

“A… a what now?” Midshipman Baggins’ voice wavers as he holds on to the ship's railing, his face turning paler and paler by the moment.

“Come now, laddie,” Bosun Gloin gives him a hearty slap on his back, making the hobbit wobble. “Whatever it is, at least it doesn’t have tentacles!” the copper-haired bosun and several sailors burst out in laughter at some private joke. You might be imagining this, but the poor hobbit’s countenance turns somewhat green.

“Are you sure about this, my lady?” the corsair captain’s turbulent gaze rests on you, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, as if you were the center of his world at that very moment. It is a peculiar feeling, but one that you deem quite flattering.

“I told you that I would reveal Smaug’s secrets to you as a part of our agreement, did I not?” you ask.

“Indeed, you did. Pray, continue, my lady.”

“This airship is one of them. I never knew it could travel that far from his fortress, but apparently, it can,” you admit. Lord Smaug has made an error. In his cruelty, he was vain enough to make a spectacular demonstration. You and your close ones paid a high price for the knowledge of the airship’s abilities.

“What more do you know of it?” Thorin’s voice is even deeper than before. 

“It has tremendous firepower and carries some kind of incendiary projectiles on board, among other things. No sailing ship can resist its attack! I saw it with my own eyes,” you shiver at the painful memory that still haunts your dreams. A few gasps and whispers from the sailors who gathered around you reach your ears.

The captain nods and quickly turns towards the deck. “Mr. Dwalin, give me full speed ahead! Let us reach the rendezvous point as soon as possible.”

“Aye aye, sir!” the warrior shouts from the other side of the main deck and starts ordering the crew. “Full speed ahead!”

“Full speed ahead!” several voices repeat the order and sailors return to their work.

Captain Thorin gives you a small nod and reaches for a shirt that lies on a barrel nearby along with other pieces of his clothing. 

Lord Smaug’s warships are steadily following The Willing Heart, you can already see their red sails. You observe the sky for a few moments, but then you hear an echo of a thundering rumble from afar and cast a terrified gaze at the corsair. He stops buttoning up his doublet and curses under his breath. You realize it is too late.

“Mr. Dwalin, belay that order, bring her about! I want her battle-ready in no time!” Thorin shouts.

“Aye aye, sir! Those bastards will not know what hit ‘em!” responds his officer with a fierce smile.

Cannonballs from the enemy warships wheeze through the air only to drown in the water with a series of loud, hissing splashes. None of them reaches the hull of The Willing Heart. You sigh in relief.

“Good,” a satisfied smirk appears on Captain Thorin’s lips. “We are not within their firing range yet. Alas, luck is not on their side today. Our firing range is greater,” he flashes his white teeth at you and there is a predatory glint in his eyes. “Mr. Bifur, fire at will. Two volleys!”

A Dwarf with a ruffled salt-and-pepper tangle of hair, a magnificent beard, and a pear-shaped nose produces a series of sounds from his whistle and disappears below the deck after receiving a short nod from his captain. 

“He doesn’t speak,” Thorin explains. “An old injury. But he is the best Master Gunner I have ever had under my command,” you can hear the pride ringing in his voice. 

The hurling noise from the gun deck reaches your ears for the second time today, followed by a series of whistles and orders shouted from several throats.

“My lady, now it is the high time for you to return--” the captain starts only to be interrupted by the cannon fire from the starboard. You cover your ears and close your eyes as the powder smoke fills the air. 

At that very moment, you hear the roar of an engine above and the hell breaks loose. Fire rains from the sky, something explodes nearby, there are howls of pain, the deck is shaking, something falls next to you with a loud thud but you can’t see a thing in the thick, black smoke that suddenly gathers around you. You can barely see the wooden planks under your bare feet. You cough and glance up. Smaug’s cursed contraption hovers above The Willing Heart. Among the clouds of smoke, you can see its long hull, the red sails on its sides that remind you of wings of a monster and the angry red fire that burns in its bowels. The airship’s figurehead is a roaring dragon. This is The Air Serpent, Lord Smaug’s newest deadly toy.

[Artist: Su Jian]

You realize that Captain Thorin’s frigate will be defenseless against an aerial attack. It will drown just like… A flood of vivid images fills your mind, full of fire and destruction. Full of death. You freeze in terror. A round of cannon fire interrupts your thoughts. Mr. Bifur doesn’t like to waste time, it seems. You hear another series of cannon shots, this time from the enemy ships. Something whizzes past your head. A familiar, strong arm wraps around your waist and pulls you down towards the deck.

“Stay here, my lady,” you hear Thorin’s hoarse whisper in your ear, his hot breath against your skin, and then he’s gone. You look out from behind a large barrel, but can barely see anything through the thick curtain of smoke. 

“Captain Thorin!” an unnaturally loud, booming voice fills the air. You recognize it at once. Oh, no. Not him. “Return both my jewel and my betrothed to me and I will let you and your crew free!” Lord Smaug demands from above. His tone makes you shiver with terror. Hiding behind the barrel, you carefully raise your head once again, but can only see the glowing eyes of the dragon figurehead, dark smoke coming from its nostrils.

“Never!” the corsair roars defiantly into the air, his hair rippling in the wind. He aims his sword at the airship above in a challenging stance. “The stone belongs to me by birthright, you thief!”

“Then your grandfather should have protected it better, along with his kingdom,” Lord Smaug responds with a burst of unpleasant laughter, his voice magnified by some other contraption of his. “Give me back what is mine and I promise you a merciful death.”

“There is nothing on this ship that belongs to you!” you stand up and shout at the fuming dragon above you, its toothy maw frozen in a predatory grimace. “I’d rather die than return to your lair, you filth!”

A moment of silence.

“As you wish, Silver Sorceress,” Smaug hisses from above. His voice makes your skin crawl as he speaks your name. “Such talent will be wasted, buried at the bottom of the sea. What a shame. But so be it.”

Your eyes meet Thorin’s impenetrable gaze for an instant and then the fire starts raining from the sky with doubled intensity. 

“Fire charges!” the captain of The Willing Heart shouts a warning and his crew moves to action. Some of the charges disappear among the waves, but there are more, igniting the sails, falling on the deck, with fire trailing behind them. One of them passes you by, but you duck behind your barrel at the last possible moment. When you look out again, the captain has already disappeared somewhere among the sailors.

“Put out the fires, lads!” Bosun Gloin shouts, grabbing one of the charges with his gloved hands and throwing it overboard. You see that one of the sails is on fire now and there is a smell of smoldering wood in the air. The starboard cannons roar, there is even more smoke, more shouts, and yells.

“We hit’em good, sir!” someone reports and several sailors give out triumphant shouts. You cast a quick look above the starboard. One of Lord Smaug’s warships is damaged, its main mast broken, its red sails shattered. A moment later another cloud of smoke obscures your view.

“The bastard’s approaching on the leeward side!” you hear a shout and you hear cannon fire over the port side. It is coming from far away. These cannons don’t belong to The Willing Heart. 

“Brace for impact!” Captain Thorin shouts. You hide behind your barrel, covering your head. The ship’s hull shudders. The sound of breaking wood is more terrifying than you thought. There are yelps of pain. And fire. Something falls behind you, most probably on the aft deck. Someone cries for help.

Several loud thuds reverberate through the deck’s wooden planks. And you hear heavy thumping. And then metal clanks against metal. Blade against a blade.

[Artist: Philipp Scherer]

“Enemy aboard! To arms!” you hear Captain Thorin’s shout and only then you notice several ropes dangling in the air. Several large silhouettes slide down along them to the frigate’s deck ahead of you among the thickening smoke, joining their companions, but the brave crew of The Willing Heart attacks them fiercely. Among them, you see the young brothers, Fili and Kili, work side by side to get rid of the enemies as soon as possible, their weapons swiftly moving through the air. You scan the area, wondering where Thorin disappeared, but you can’t see him anywhere.

Instead, you notice Master Dwalin fighting three Orcs at once, his twin axes cutting mercilessly through the air and flesh alike. He stands back to back with another Dwarf with a two-pronged white beard. His companion wears a burgundy tunic and fights with a flat-bladed mace. Even though he is noticeably older than Mr. Dwalin, he moves like an experienced warrior in his prime. The way their attacks complement each other tells you that this is most definitely not their first fight together.

“Now!” someone shouts from above and you recognize his voice at once. You yank your head up and see Captain Thorin balancing on the highest spar of the main mast together with two sailors, all of them cutting the ropes hanging from Lord Smaug’s ship. You squint your eyes and recognize the young red-haired seaman called Ori who gives out a shout of triumph after a rope together with a nasty Sea Orc falls on the deck below. You don’t recognize the other sailor. He wears a funny floppy-eared hat and pierces through an Orc with his cutlass, making the foul creature fall into the sea with a scream. 

And then you see Thorin grabbing one of the ropes, flying through the air and descending quickly towards the deck. It’s swarming with Orcs by now, but he lands on top of two of the enemies, overturning them in the process. While his loyal crew finishes them, the corsair captain unsheathes his legendary sword and starts his dance with Smaug’s minions, lunging, turning, dodging, delivering a decisive blow of his blade and then rushing towards the next enemy, and then the next, defeating the Sea Orcs one by one in a series of well-trained movements. You admire the efficiency of his attacks and the grace he moves with, reminding you of an underwater predator, when something grabs you by your neck and lifts you into the air.

“Ssssilver Ssssorceresss,” a repulsive Sea Orc stares at you with his one large eye. A dirty eye patch covers his other eye socket. His greenish face is contorted in an ugly smile and there is a spiked club in his left, meaty paw.

“Put me down at once,” you demand, trying to wiggle out of his painful grasp. 

“Massster wantsss you home,” he shakes his head and spits, demonstrating as many as three teeth in his mouth, all of them rotten. His pointy ears are pierced in a few places by animal bones and he gives out a smell of decaying seaweed and rotting fish.

“I’m not going anywhere!” you protest.

You don’t know what exactly the future holds for you, but there is one thing you are certain of. You are definitely not returning to Lord Smaug’s fortress. He’s not going to lay his filthy clutches on you. You take a swing with your leg and kick the Orc with all your strength, hitting his knee. He howls in pain, releases his grasp on you, and stumbles. Ah, well. You aimed at a much more vulnerable part of his disgusting body, but you’re not that picky. You’re free now, after all. And you don’t have a moment to lose. A quick look around is all you need. There it is! A boat hook lies nearby, its tip as sharp as Bosun Gloin’s hook. You lunge towards this weapon and grab its long shaft.

The green-skinned Sea Orc straightens up and growls at you, clearly dissatisfied. He raises his club and swings at you, but you’re faster than him. You dodge his attack and retreat, putting some space between you. The Orc starts running towards you but this time you face him and throw the boat hook at him as if you were throwing a fishing spear back home. Your weapon hits the Orc straight in his chest and he falls on the deck with his arms thrown to the sides.

“What a throw! Have I really seen what I think I’ve seen, brother? A warrior of a lady?” you hear Mr. Dwalin’s astonished voice behind you. You turn towards him and see his battle companion standing next to him as well.

“Ah, for Mahal’s sake, do I look like a helpless dandelion to you, Mr. Dwalin?” you retort and you are rewarded with a chuckle coming from his companion.

“Not any more, m’lady” Dwalin admits sheepishly.

“And here we were, running to your rescue, my lady Silver Sorceress,” the older Dwarf makes a deep bow. “Sailing Master Balin, the First Officer of this fine ship, at your service!”

“A pleasure to meet you, Master Balin,” you bow in turn.

And then an explosion rips apart everything around you. You fall to the ground. A wave of acrid smoke hits you, stinging your eyes and painfully scorching your throat. Your ears are ringing. You try to get up but you are too dizzy. You fall back on the wooden planks of the deck, splinters prickling your skin. You close your eyes.

You are lifted from the deck. Warmth surrounds you. Like a cocoon. It’s pleasant. He is so close to you now. You cling to his firm, familiar chest, breathing in the smell of juniper. This is how safety smells like.

“Kili, Midshipman Baggins, take her to my cabin and guard her with your life!” you hear Captain Thorin’s voice through the ringing in your ears. You can feel the comforting rumbling in his chest against your skin as he speaks. 

“Right away, Uncle!” someone says. Uncle? Who was that? Perhaps you heard wrong. Your hearing still suffers after the explosion. A pair of unknown arms supports you. You want to protest, but the reassuring warmth of Thorin’s body is already gone. There is darkness instead.

When you open your eyes again, you are on the bed in the captain’s quarters. Your body is shaking, you try to calm yourself down and fail. The hobbit ceaselessly paces through the cabin, back and forth, while the battle rages above you, deafening cannon shots are fired one by one, you hear yells and other terrifying noises coming from above, and the faint stench of smoke reaches you, and feel nauseated, and you bring your hand to your cheek, and there is blood on your fingers, and then the ship tilts on its starboard side, and you roll towards the edge of the bed. Something falls from the captain’s writing desk with a clank.

“Not good. Not good at all,” Midshipman Baggins jumps up, finding his balance, his button nose twitches, and you think it’s rather cute, and the whole hull seems to shake, and you hear more shouts and screams and cries and more thuds, and even more cannons are fired, and there is a moment of deadly silence. 

“Back in a jiffy,” the hobbit says, his face unnaturally pale, and he disappears. You are alone.

You look around the cabin. It looks like a mess, a chair on the floor, maps scattered everywhere, but there is no one else here. Wasn’t the warrior, Kili, with you as well? You haven’t seen him at all. He is gone too. Everyone is gone. You are alone.

Time passes, you try counting your terrified heartbeats but you can’t focus, the cannons are thundering again, more, much more of them, and the ship seems to tilt a bit more, and you look at your shaking hands, your broken nails, and there is blood and dirt underneath them, and you recall that Thorin is wounded, and you know what Smaug does to his defeated enemies, and the necklace is so cold against your skin. And you are still alone.

All of a sudden, the hobbit returns, his cheeks are pink, his eyes sparkle. Ori the sailor follows him, still holding his cutlass and whooping with joy.

“We are saved, my lady, do you hear me? We are saved!” the hobbit chants, making a small dance of victory in front of you together with the copper-haired sailor.

“What do you mean…?” your voice is raspy. Your throat hurts. Your eyes are wet. Your lips taste like salt. 

“The Mistress of the Night and Kraken’s Fury are here, m’lady!” Ori exclaims.

Midshipman Baggins notices your blank stare and says, “These are the frigates under the command of Captain Dis and Captain Frerin!”

“Captain Dis… Lady Dis?” you ask. Your voice trembles slightly. 

He nods. 

“Yes, Lady Dis! Captain Thorin’s sister, my lady. And Captain Frerin, his brother, is here too. 

“With their help, our Captain gave Smaug a taste of Dwarfish iron right up his jacksie!” adds Ori with a grin. They both laugh. More words spill out of their mouth, wide grins on their faces, but you don’t listen to any of them any longer. Thorin is alive. Smaug is gone. You take a deep breath. The fluttering in your chest intensifies. 

His sister, the hobbit said. His sister.

* * *

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6

A big thank you goes to @missiemoosie​ for helping me out with the ship’s name “Mistress of the Night”! Check out her art and fics when you have a spare moment :)

And a special thanks to @shrimpsthings​ for creating more wonderfult fanart for my ff! Do you want to see how the badass Silver Sorceress looks like in this chapter? HERE SHE IS!

Taglist: @tschrist1 @xmly-xo @shrimpsthings​

If you liked the story, don’t forget to like & reblog it so I know you’d like me to write more! Thanks! <3 

And don’t forget to tell me what you’d like to happen next :)

[lathalea]

3) what order do you write in? front of book to back? chronological? favorite scenes first? something else? 15) why did you start writing? 16) are there any characters who haunt you?

Hello, Anon, welcome to my ask box! 💙 3) what order do you write in? front of book to back? chronological? favorite scenes first? something else?

I guess I'm a boring writer - I write from beginning to the end and usually try to follow my story outline ("try to" because sometimes my characters won't cooperate). I try not to write my favorite scenes in advance because by the time they are needed, I have to readjust and edit them quite a bit so that they fit the recent events. They are my treats along the way :) 15) why did you start writing? Writing and coming up with story ideas has been my hobby for as long as I remember. This way I can have fun, explore some ideas and then share it all with my readers. These days, with the pandemic still going on, escaping to the wonderful world of Middle Earth from time to time is very much needed, wouldn't you say?

16) are there any characters who haunt you? I've just replied to this question in a previous ask - sorry for repeating myself. It is Zohur, one of the baddies from "Springtime at the Lonely Mountain", a nasty character. Ugh. I didn't enjoy writing him. Thank you for stopping by, and have a great weekend ahead! 💙

[lathalea]

Springtime at the Lonely Mountain, ch 44

Springtime at the Lonely Mountain, Chapter 44: Under the Mountain

Summary:  A story about young-and-not-yet-brooding (well, not much, at least) prince Thorin and his beloved dwarf maiden, Ása. It is set sometime before Smaug’s attack. Have you ever wondered what could have happened if Thorin met the love of his life before succumbing to the Dragon Sickness? Well, then you’re in the right place!

Warnings for this chapter: none

Rating for the whole story: Mature/Explicit

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x OC, Dwalin x OC (if you squint)

Read the whole story here on AO3.

* * *

Meanwhile in Erebor…

“Mommy, when is Thorri coming back?” Dís pouted. Lady Sigrun exchanged looks with Lady Barba across a small table filled with cookies.

“He is very busy now, Pumpkin, but he misses you greatly,” her mother explained, braiding her daughter’s shiny brown hair for the night in front of the fireplace, soft light dancing on the girl’s chubby-cheeked face. Lady Barba looked at them both with a small smile in the corner of her lips and took another sip of aromatic tea.

“Can you tell him that I miss him too?” the girl glanced at her hopefully. “This much!” she demonstrated with her tiny outstretched arms.

“I will, my darling, as soon as I can,” Lady Sigrun pecked her cheek and hugged her affectionately. “And now it is time for you to go to bed.” “I don’t want to!” the girl protested, shaking her curls. “Only babies go to sleep now!”

“But I am sure that Gromi is already asleep and he is older than you,” her mother explained patiently.

“He is?” Dís frowned, opening her mouth in surprise.

“Yes, he is. And tomorrow morning we are going to meet him and you can play with him again!” when the dwarfling heard her mother’s words, her countenance brightened at once.

“He told me we will play together every day now!” she said with confidence.

“Did he now?” Lady Sigrun asked with amusement in her voice. 

“He did! He says he likes me. And he’s staying here now. That is why Ása had to go. So he could be here and play with me and then he will braid my hair, and I will braid his hair! Just like Thorri and Ása did, but no kissing because kissing is yucky!” the girl made a disgusted face and then suddenly covered her mouth, her eyes widened. “But don’t tell anyone, mommy, it’s a secret!”

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise,” Lady Sigrun reassured her daughter. She looked at Lady Barba once again, worry splashing in her eyes.

“How about I tuck you in for the night and tell you the story of the little brave mountain goat and the big shy dragon?” she continued.

“The whole story?” the Dís grinned.

“Of course, Pumpkin!” Lady Sigrun replied.

Before the door closed behind them, Lady Barba heard a joyful squeal and chuckled. For as long as she could remember, the children of Erebor adored the old tale of a little goat who became friends with a flying serpent and they both had many adventures together.

When Lady Sigrun finally returned to her sitting room, Lady Barba raised her gaze from above a piece of parchment, flames from the fireplace reflecting in her bespectacled eyes, “Apparently congratulations are in order on the account of your daughter becoming engaged.” “It turns out that Lord Grohir and Lady Esta have ambitious plans not only for Ása but also for their son, Gromi,” Thráin’s wife mused calmly.

“I put my money on Lady Esta. The only things her husband is interested in planning are his trade deals.”

Lady Sigrun nodded in agreement without a word.

“Do you want me to start doing something about it, Sig?” Lady Barba rested her hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“We do not want them to become suspicious too soon. I will handle it for now,” Thorin’s mother responded.

Lady Barba nodded, “Has Dís already grown fond of the boy?”

“You know how children are this age. The last thing I want is for her to become hurt,” she sighed. “And the poor boy is as clueless as she is,” she shook her head as if trying to chase the worries away. “We will talk more of this later. Tell me, what have you brought with you today?” she turned to Lady Barba who passed her a thick roll of parchment.

“Here it is, Sig. The final report from our private investigation regarding the mines.” “So soon? How on earth have you managed it, Barb?”

“I did not manage anything. My little ‘cave bats’ did,” she winked mischievously. “A pouch of diamonds here, a few words of encouragement there… you know how it works. Besides, the engineers were most eager to perform a thorough examination after the mine collapse even without the additional encouragement,” the older lady spoke casually as if she was discussing the weather. Lady Sigrun looked at her friend questioningly, waiting for more information.

“How should I put it,” Lady Barba took a sip of her tea. “It turns out that after the cave-in in the mines, the usual procedures were not followed. The official investigation has not even started yet and, I quote, ‘it looks like someone on the very top is delaying it’.”

“You are not saying… that the Mining Master Brogi is involved?”

“On the contrary, Sig. He was the one who suggested that someone higher up in the hierarchy was responsible for this convenient delay,” Lady Barba put her teacup away, waiting for her friend to come to her own conclusions.

“No, that is not impossible. Are you suggesting someone from the King’s Council stood behind it? It was an accident! Those things are unfortunate, but they do happen!”

“Please, read the report first, Sig,” Lady Barba patted the parchment with a piece of a chocolate cookie. She observed her friend closely as she was going through the pages of the report.

“Stanchion material fatigue… Inadequate reparation after the previous event…” A crease appeared on Lady Sigrun’s forehead. “The previous event?”

“They refer to King Thrór’s last fateful excursion,” Barba explained, looking away. He was a great king, the symbol of Erebor’s prosperity. She clearly remembered the best years of his rule. Seeing him losing his touch recently, as when he did when he descended with his guards into the deep mines on a wild escapade in search of some mythical monsters, was painful and embarrassing to her. She could only imagine what Sigrun might be feeling at that very moment.

“Ah, and the rescue operation afterwards…” Thorin’s mother returned to reading, her features softening in the firelight. “Hmmm… Structural integrity compromised… not designed to withstand… the retrieval equipment… I see, Barb, some of the parts of the mine were already in bad shape when the tremors came.”

“If the mine had been secured properly after King Thrór’s expedition, the losses would have been much less significant. But again, Master Brogi reports that someone was purposefully slowing down the reparation work. I have seen the records and I have to agree with his assessment. Please, read on, Sig,” she encouraged her friend.

“What about the ‘proof of tampering with the mine stanchions’? Is that what you meant?” Lady Sigrun’s eyes widened.

“How often do you find support beams in a mine cut almost all the way through? They did not break. They were cut with a saw by a dwarven hand.” Barba nodded.

Lady Sigrun covered her mouth. “Are you suggesting we have saboteurs in Erebor?”

“And potential murderers. This tragedy happened at a very convenient time, didn’t it?”

“Who would have dared do such a thing?” Lady Sigrun exclaimed. Miners were regarded as one of the most honourable professions among dwarves, and the mines of Erebor were the main source of the kingdom’s wealth.

Lady Barba replied slowly, “We should be asking another question. Who would have gained the most by destroying the mines and killing your sons, the youngest heirs to the throne?”

***

His joints hurt, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. They usually would in the morning. His throat was parched. He couldn’t recall when was the last time he drank something or ate, for that matter. A goblet filled with cool, refreshing water taken straight from the mountain spring, that was everything he wished for. He lifted his heavy eyelids. It took a moment until his eyes accustomed themselves to the scantly lit surroundings. In the flickering candlelight, he recognized the meticulously embroidered canopy of his four-poster bed. How did he get there? He couldn’t remember anything. Anything except… His gaze slid along the patterns in the heavy fabric above him. The embroidered golden stars of Durin’s Crown shimmered at him. Gold. Treasures. A cold shiver ran down his spine.

And then he realized it. That incessant feeling, that pressure he constantly felt at the back of his head was... gone. So was the ever-present, relentless voice, that strange sensation that befuddled his mind every time it appeared, directing him, demanding, playing him like a puppet on a string. He took a measured, deep breath and waited. Still nothing. No demands, no urging, no all-consuming impulses to take heed to. Only emptiness. He prodded gently at his mind as if he was sliding his tongue along a still tender gap where a tooth used to be. Emptiness.

In his weakened state, it took all of his strength to raise his right arm and look at the back of his hand. It trembled slightly. He stared at the protruding blue veins that covered it, at the liver spots, at the white hair that grew on the back of his hand. He recognized the countless small wrinkles that cut through the expanse of his pale skin, at the uneven fingernails and his swollen joints. There was something wrong with his hand. Something missing. His ring. The King’s Ring, the most powerful of the seven Dwarf-rings wasn’t resting on his finger. Someone had taken it. As a wave of anger rose within him, his mind was flooded with a myriad of vivid images. 

A vast sea of gold coins. The weight of his armour and the thrill of anticipation as he was waiting for a battle together with his warriors. The warm feeling in his chest when he rocked little Dís on his lap. Hidden passages and stone walls. The sound of metal against metal. Thorin’s steady hand on his shoulder. The aroma of his favorite pipe tobacco. The indescribable beauty of the Arkenstone shimmering above his throne. His beloved Urtha’s smile as she danced with him, a wreath in her hair, her sparkling eyes, her pink lips. His warhammer shattering a skull of an orc, the creature’s thick, black blood staining the stones beneath him. The glow of his endless treasures. His wife in his arms, weeping, her tears soaking through his tunic as they said their farewells to Dáin and Dáina, their children, the twin souls that Mahal prematurely took into his Halls. The ruby-encrusted key. The feeling of Frerin’s dark, unruly curls slipping between his fingers as the boy was presenting his latest drawing to him. The pain of his wife’s passing, her eyes closed, her lifeless face white as marble. The treasure chest adorned with rubies. The pride he felt each time he looked at his oldest grandson, his heir. The chilling gusts of air in the treasure chamber. The ice-cold eyes of his only surviving son. Thráin. HIM! Now he remembered.

“My son,” he tried to speak but didn’t succeed. A strained, raspy sound escaped his throat instead, sounding almost like a raven’s croak.

Something rustled in the corner of his bedchamber.

“My lord! My lord!” a male voice exclaimed.

“Water…” the sound hung off his dry lips. The embroidered Seven Stars of Durin’s Crown danced in front of his eyes.

“Right away, my lord!” the voice promised.

Feet shuffling, door slamming, shouts from afar. The sound of shoes clanking against the stone floor. The smell of freshly baked buns. The softness of his bed mattress. So many familiar sensations.

“What is this ruckus about, do you not know your master needs his rest?” a female voice scolded the servant. He remembered the person who this voice belonged to, he was… yes, he was fond of her.

“But my Lady Sigrun, His Majesty King Thrór has finally awoken!”

***

Thráin, son of Thrór, son of Dáin, currently the self-proclaimed Royal Regent of Erebor, sat behind his favorite desk with a quill in his hand, writing a missive. Multiple bejeweled rings glistened on his fingers. Everything was proceeding as he had planned. His younger son turned out to be much more obedient and not as hot-tempered as his firstborn and the chances for securing the union with Ered Luin through Frerin’s marriage with princess Dallia were quite promising. Prince Thráin grinned to himself and took a sip of wine from a goblet that stood nearby. Dorwinion wine. Great vintage.

After relishing his drink for a few long moments, his thoughts returned to the task at hand. He expected to receive a new Orocarni delegation in a few months’ time, bringing words of appreciation and gratitude from King Durthun, hopefully with a proposal of yet another treaty. Prince Thráin wouldn’t mind laying his hands on the ore that was used to produce the sturdy Orocarni armors and weapons. 

He was sure that the dwarven king of the Red Mountains would enjoy his new bride quite well. Prince Thráin had to admit that Ása had a certain amount of charm, but he still couldn’t fathom why the Orocarni dwarves decided that she would be the best choice for King Durthun’s consort. She came from a very old and respectable family. Her ancestors weren’t especially wealthy nor influential, but there had to be a reason why Lord Randorm and his companions treated her like a gift from Mahal himself during their visit to Erebor. Prince Thráin shook his head. No matter. He was sure he would find an answer to this question in due time. Absentmindedly, he rolled his Ring around one of his fingers, feeling its cold surface against his skin. The King’s Ring. Finally his. His own. His…

Loud knocking on the door to his study brought him out of his reverie.

“My lord,” a nervous servant appeared in the door and bowed. “I have news.”

“I am listening,” Thráin responded impatiently.

“M-my lord, His Majesty King Thrór has awoken and demands…” the servant nervously cleared his throat, “He wishes to see you, my lord. At once.”

Prince Thráin mumbled a curse under his breath. He didn’t like surprises. His father was not supposed to wake up. At least not yet. This couldn’t happen, not when he was so close. His chest heaved. He touched the ice-cold Ring on his finger and sighed when tension escaped his body. The situation was under his control. He would simply have to set some plans in motion sooner than he’d thought. 

Thráin, son of Thrór, son of Dáin stepped out from behind his desk and glared at the petrified servant. 

“Inform the captain of my guard to take a dozen of his best men and meet me by the entrance to His Majesty’s rooms at once,” he ordered.

When the door closed behind the messenger, a menacing smile writhed its way across Prince Thráin’s face.

***

“Please explain it to me, because I don’t seem to understand anything,” Jutta said matter-of-factly. She was furiously pacing back and forth through the armory. Her joy of being able to walk again on her fully healed leg was unfortunately clouded by her latest discovery. Unfortunately for Dwalin’s sake. “Thorin asked you to stay in Erebor.”

“He did,” Dwalin nodded, looking at her sheepishly. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought he wanted you to protect Lady Sigrun, Dís and Frerin.”

“He did, but Jutti--” the huge warrior started, but she quickly cut in, resting her fists on her hips.

“Don’t you ‘Jutti’ me now, mister! Have you or have you not talked with Sergeant Breidr about him taking over your duties?” she hoped that he would clearly see the anger in her eyes. How could he do this to her?!

“Well…”

“And have you or have you not just spent half a day on sharpening Grasper and Keeper?” she raised her voice, pointing at the axes he held in his hands.

“Ye see…” the tattooed warrior, so deadly on the battlefield and fierce in the training grounds was now meekly lowering his head, scrutinizing the tips of his iron-reinforced boots with a newfound curiosity.

“No, I don’t see anything! What were you thinking?!” she exclaimed.

“Dearie, listen,” he finally raised his head and his steel gaze rested on her. “Thorin went after the Orocarni dwarves all by himself! How is he going to save Ása without any help? Breidr and his boys will do even a better job than me here. I need to find him! Ye know what is happening here! He needs to return to Erebor!” his voice was louder and louder and she could see the determination on his face. “I am going after him! Ye won’t say anything to change my mind!”

“If you’re thinking that I’m letting you go alone, you’re a goat’s ass!” she roared at him at the same time when he shouted his last sentence.

They stared at each other for a few heartbeats in silence.

“Jutti?” Dwalin started quietly, completely puzzled. “Weren’t ye trying to stop me from going after Thorin?”

“What? No. Why would I?” she huffed. What a silly dwarf he was. Silly, yes, and devilishly handsome. 

“And weren’t ye scolding me for abandoning my duties in Erebor?” he asked, looking at her intently. Jutta’s eyes strayed from his face to his muscular arms for a quick glance. He definitely needed to make better use of them than just holding his bloody sharpened axes.

“Why? You said yourself that Sergeant Breidr can handle it!” she threw her arms into the air. She was starting to lose her patience. Was he really so infuriatingly oblivious? She took a step towards him. He did the same, not interrupting their eye contact.

“Aye, I did, Jutti,” he spoke calmly, putting away his weapons and taking her hand. Her eyes fell on his strong, tattooed hands that now encircled her palm gently. She felt his coarse skin against hers. She swallowed.

“And you were sharpening your axes!” she accused him once again. Surely now he would finally understand!

“Jutti…” he murmured again with a small smirk, a sudden softness in his eyes, his sudden anger disappearing without a trace. “What is this about?”

“You haven’t sharpened my daggers! That’s what this is about!” she gritted her teeth. Why was he looking at her this way?

“You really want to spell it out for you, Dwalin?!” she fumed. Mahal, he was thick!

“Aye,” he nodded with a peculiar glint in his eyes. ��It looks like it.” 

“How am I supposed to ride out with you and help rescue Ása if my daggers aren’t sharp enough?!” she yelled at him one last time, her fists clenched.

“You... want to ride out… with me?” he blinked.

“And with whom else, you impossible, clueless oaf of a Dwarf?!” she had enough of all the waiting and, just like that, she pressed her mouth to his. He had it coming!

And finally, after all this shouting, Dwalin made good use of his strong arms, enveloping her in a proper, dwarven embrace and returning her kiss.

* * *

Read the whole story here on AO3.

Like it? Reblog it! Thanks! ☺️

[lathalea]

Day 3: Blame It on Cider, part 1

Here's today's fic for the Writer’s Month 2021 challenge (see @writersmonth for more info).

Today's prompt: word: outside | setting: wedding

Fandom: The Hobbit Relationships: Thorin x Yrsa (Dwarf Female OC) Warnings: cider, one grumpy blacksmith, one cheeky herbalist As usual, you can read this fic here and on AO3.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 * * *

Blame it on Cider, part 1

Yrsa was named after a bear, a sigil of her house, but the truth was different: she was as stubborn as a mule, and she always did things her way (she was a Firebeard, after all). Her grandfather would always say that no good would come out of it, but so far she managed to lead quite a rewarding life as a traveling herbalist, thank you very much. Besides, everything was better than staying at home in the Blue Mountains with her loving, but overbearing grandfather, her loving, but overprotective parents and her two older brothers who would never leave her out of their sight, because, guess what, they loved her so much. Yrsa definitely needed some breathing space. Wouldn’t you?

Anyway, living on the road and visiting her home once or twice a year offered her exactly that. Delivering babies, setting broken bones (and that included Dwarves, Men and goats in equal measure), along with treating persistent cough with her herbal remedies was a satisfying job, even though it didn’t fill her purse with as much coin as she would like to. She usually visited remote villages, mountain hamlets, lonely farms, and other places where healers were unheard of and medicines were scarce. Her arrival was usually met with joy, even though quite often the only payment the locals could offer was a roof over her head, food on the table and a pair of new boots, a good knife or a truckle of cheese (Yrsa was very partial to cheese). Now and then, it was a threescore of fresh eggs, too, but have you ever tried to walk the mountain trails carrying sixty eggs on your back? Exactly. Yrsa didn’t quite like the idea of opening her rucksack only to find scrambled eggs inside.

Sometimes, if she liked a place, or if it offered her more work than usual, she would stay there for a few weeks. This is why she spent last month in Ash Creek, a village named after a... creek. Apparently, the villagers, both Dwarves and Men, weren’t the most creative bunch, but they were very friendly and kind-hearted, and that’s what truly mattered to Yrsa.

***

August found her still in Ash Creek, and Yrsa blamed it on the delicious local cider. Yrsa had a special relationship with cider. Beer was usually not to her taste, but cider… That was a completely different story. The sweet and tangy taste on her tongue, the slight fizz tickling the inside of her mouth, the delicious apple aroma, the way it made her pleasantly dizzy and very, very happy… mmm… that was truly something.

But even the cider couldn’t keep her in one place. She began feeling restless, longing for the road. Besides, some of the locals were dropping hints at the fact that Birger, the butcher, was growing quite fond of her, and he was a well-off widower with two wee bairn who needed a mother, so surely she had to see that he was a good catch. Yes, it was definitely time for Yrsa to return to her travels. She decided to leave soon after an event the locals invited her to: a wedding.

***

The bride and groom were a lovely couple, and the wedding feast turned out to be a gleeful event: dozens of guests, including people from the nearby villages, and there was music, dancing, and lots of food and drink. And cider, of course.

Speaking of cider, Yrsa was having a good time and even acquainted herself with the first mug (alright, maybe the second… or the third, who’s counting anyway?) of last year’s cider (very well, maybe it was the fifth one, it was almost sunset, after all!). It was important to keep her throat wet while singing a very merry and very loud song with a group of Dwarves she sat with. She was sure of that, being a herbalist, she knew a thing or two about throat ailments, after all. So she kept her throat sufficiently wet. With cider.

Everyone was merry, and, in case anyone asked, the cider was truly delicious (who could have said no to a bit more of that sweetness?), but one thing bothered her. The grump. At the same table sat an unfamiliar Dwarf who didn’t sing, didn’t talk with anyone, and what’s worse, he had been frowning since the celebrations started. Somehow, it annoyed her greatly. And no, it had nothing to do with the fact that he was quite easy on the eyes.

“Are you always in a morbid mood during wedding feasts?” she shouted to him, trying to be heard in all the loud merriment.

“Only if it keeps me from my work,” the Dwarf glanced at her darkly, his frown deepening. His dark wavy hair that fell down his shoulders made her think of a stormcloud, while his bright blue eyes were like two lightnings, ready to strike her down.

“Do not mind him, love,” one of the local Dwarves said, leaning towards her and whispering conspiratorially, “That one’s a skilled blacksmith, visits our village every year, but he’s always as sullen as a caged beast!”

Yrsa chuckled and addressed the sullen caged beast, “Halfdan here says you don’t know how to party!”

The grump didn’t reply; instead he took a swig from his mug and put it back on the table with a loud clunk. Taking a better look at his face, Yrsa noticed a few interesting details (except for the fact that he might or might not be quite, well, handsome, but who cared, right? It’s not like Yrsa would be interested in a Dwarf only because of how he looked! Pff! Preposterous!).

First of all, when one ignored that scary frown accentuated by his wide eyebrows, the blacksmith had quite an interesting profile (interesting – not handsome! That’s a totally different word!). Also, his clothes were not of the best quality, but it was clear that he kept them in good shape. The local Dwarves wore a multitude of braids in their luscious beards and hair, but there were only two simple braids on both sides of the grumpy blacksmith’s face, while his beard was unusually short and well-kempt. He must have been in mourning for a while now, and yet there was no widower’s braid in his hair. Nor a marriage braid, for that matter. Not that Yrsa had been looking for it. She simply made an impartial observation. Yes, that was it.

“Isn’t it better to have fun outside, celebrating the happy couple with everyone else here, instead of being alone in a dark smithy?” she tried again, moving slightly towards him on the bench. Mourning or not, this grump was not going to ruin the atmosphere with his sour face. And no, she was not getting any silly ideas like trying to cheer him up for example. She wasn’t that drunk. Not yet, at least.

“Being alone in a dark smithy is what puts food on my table,” he grumbled, luckily for him unaware of her thoughts, and then he leaned backwards and folded his arms across his wide chest. Yes, with those muscles rippling under his tunic, he had to be an experienced blacksmith. Yet another impartial observation on Yrsa’s part. Nothing more.

“Being alone in a dark forest is what puts food on my table, and yet you don’t see me brooding nor wishing I was somewhere else,” she retorted.

“Are you a witch?” the grump smirked.

“What?!” she gasped.

“You claim that you spend your nights in a forest. You have to be a witch, then. Clearly, that is why everyone here is so amicable towards you. No one has told you to mind your own business yet, have they not? They are terrified of being turned into toads,” the blacksmith’s smirk widened. Several chuckles from other Dwarves followed. Grumble.

“I will have you know that I’m a herbalist!” Yrsa huffed and took a gulp of cider from her mug. “Do you not know that it is best to gather the most potent herbs at night? And even if I were a witch, I wouldn’t have to turn you into anything, you are already a toad!”

Their table companions chuckled again. One point for Yrsa!

The grump frowned even more (who would have thought it was possible?), and opened his mouth to say something very clever, Yrsa had no doubt about it, when the ring of a bell sounded in the air. The music stopped and the village leader bellowed: “Handfasting Dance!”

Everyone, even the eldest guests and mothers with babies in their arms, started rising to their feet and directing their steps towards the large empty area in the middle of the meadow. Everyone except the grump.

“Are you going to be sitting here all evening?” Yrsa stood up and rested her fists on her hips in irritation.

“Are you going to stop me?” the blacksmith raised his eyebrow, but didn’t make any other move.

“It is the Handfasting Dance! Have you not heard of this custom? Everyone must take part in it or the married couple will be cursed with seven years of misery!” she exclaimed.

The grump grunted in a very haughty manner, demonstrating how displeased he was, “It is simply an old superstition. I am sure Mahal will grace them with plenty of happiness without my participation in this merry event.”

“Superstition or not, you are a guest here as much as everyone else. It is the least you can do to honor the newlyweds,” Yrsa opposed him firmly, as if she was scolding a dwarfling and not a grown Dwarf in his prime (and boy, what a… be quiet, Yrsa’s mind, stick to the impartial observations!). Anyway, her great-grandmother would have been truly proud of her now. Who would have thought: merry Yrsa, the paragon of ancient traditions. Ha!

“Yrsa is right, y’know,” Halfdan got up from the bench and turned to the blacksmith with a wink. “Besides, she is a witch, remember? What if she turns you into something unnatural?”

Yrsa stifled a chuckle, casting a look at Halfdan who gave her a wave and went on his way to join the other guests.

The blacksmith frowned, of course, and then he grunted again. Yrsa wondered if his face was capable of any other expressions. Like smiling. A smile would suit his face for sure, making it even more… nevermind. Just an impartial observation. Moving on.

“Do not worry, I promise not to step on your feet!” Yrsa spoke to the grump in a light-hearted tone of voice, and then left for the dancing area, not looking back.

The huffing and puffing behind her told her everything she needed to know.

***

“What changed your mind?” she asked the slightly less frowning Dwarf who, somehow, found himself beside her, clapping his hands along with everybody else, while the newlywed couple twirled around the meadow, surrounded by the dancing circle of guests.

“I have come to a conclusion that a toad makes a lousy blacksmith,” he smirked and Yrsa couldn’t stop herself from giggling uncontrollably. Drat! She was in her cups! She shouldn't have drunk that sixth mug of cider, should she? Or was it the seventh one… Oh, an impartial observation coming right up: who would have thought that this grump can be both a hands--, ahem, an annoying Dwarf and have some sense of humour as well!

They haven’t exchanged many words after that; everyone joined the happy couple, and the blacksmith disappeared in the dancing crowd. Soon after, Yrsa danced with Halfdan, then avoided a close call with Birger by asking Old Gudi, the cobbler, to dance with her instead. From time to time she caught a glimpse of a familiar mane of dark hair or a blur of a dark blue tunic in the corner of her eye, and then she would turn to see him, and catch his gaze for a heartbeat, his eyes shining with the reflected light of the torches, and then she would turn again, and he would be gone again. Yrsa didn’t know how many times she danced with the villagers, but her feet never wanted to stop.

At one point, she found herself in the arms of a tall dwarf, and her hands rested on his shoulders covered with a dark blue tunic. Only then she did realize that those shoulders were pleasantly broad, just like the chest beneath them, and those arms gently rested on her waist, and that all those nice body parts belonged to… the blacksmith.

Her eyes widened, and then she chuckled as they started to move with the music, and, praise Mahal, a miracle happened, because the grumpy blacksmith chuckled back! Was it the cider? It had to be. The point was, he looked just as handsome as she hoped... Wait, she didn’t hope for anything of that sort, not for seeing him smile, and certainly not for dancing with him. It had to be the cider speaking, nothing else. It would explain so many things: why the ground seemed to sway beneath her feet, why everything seemed so much brighter, why she suddenly decided that the smell of pine needles, hot iron and wood smoke that filled her nostrils was alluring, and why she felt as if liquid joy rushed through her veins.

Surprisingly, the blacksmith turned out to be quite a decent dancer. The longer they danced, the more obvious it became to Yrsa that he knew all the right moves, the jig, the reel, even the square dance where you had to change partners – but at the end she would somehow find herself holding his hands again. And to think he was so reluctant to dance in the first place! It had to be the cider. Whenever he saw her miss a step or two (damned cider!), the blacksmith’s steady arms were there to support her. His motions were fluid, and it felt as if she floated through the air together with the smiling grump. Oh, and had she already mentioned that his eyes were now darker than his tunic, almost the color of the clear sky at dusk? What?! Durin’s Bane take all the impartial observations!

The cider hummed a pleasant tune in her head, and there was singing, and music, and everyone around them was merry, and she was dancing in the blacksmith’s strong arms, and then he gracefully twirled her around and pulled her closer against his firm body, and it was a late summer night, and she felt happy, and this handsome Dwarf was smiling back at her, his face so close to hers, a captivating softness in his gaze, and Yrsa knew she shouldn’t listen to her heart, but she was as stubborn as a mule, and she always did things her way.

And so she rose on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. To be continued...?

* * *

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

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