The healer is finishing up his work. The floor is covered with sheets, smeared with blood and balms, bowls of herbal essences and hot water, and used bandages. You are perched on a table in a corner, frowning and purposefully ignoring your very guilty looking king. He is trying to catch your eyes, simultaneously attempting to maintain royal dignity in front of his concerned warriors and servants hastily cleaning up the room. You are staring through a window into the yard, tapping your foot, your lips pressed, arms crossed in front of your chest. Your king is shifting on his seat uncomfortably, only partially because of bandages covering his whole right side, from shoulder to his waist. Two wide planks of wood are tied to his arm fixating his wrist, his elbow bent, supported by more bandages. "All is done, my lord", the healer bows and leaves the room dismissed with an absent-minded nod. Others scurry away from the chamber. The younger ones lower their heads, as if trying to escape a metaphorical storm gathering under the ceiling. The older ones hide smiles in their beards. They know the power of your displeasure and try to preserve their leader's pride pretending that he is not to be scolded as soon as the door closes behind them.

The room is empty and you hear a cautious cough behind you. Without turning around, you walk to the dinner table in the opposite corner and pour yourself a mug of mead. You hear rustling behind you and look around. Your king is struggling with his shirt, trying to put it on with only his left arm. He is rather pitiful, as you suspect at least partially on purpose. The sad look under his lashes that he gives you proves your suspicion. Oh, the nerve!.. You return to your initial position, taking sips from your mug. With a sign your king abandons his battle and gives you a mournful look. "Zundush...", the low drawl aimed to pacify you rumbles deep in his chest. You clench your jaw and lift a brow. "I'm listening", your tone is venomous. He drops his head. "You were right, I shouldn't have gone to the hunt..." You make a scornful noise. "Azyungel...", he gets up and slowly advances. You scoff and put the mug on the sill with a bang. He slows down and tries a different tactic. "I'm but scratched, my azyungel", he gives you an exaggerated cheerful smile. "Indeed you are, my lord", you snort sarcastically and then suddenly grab a pillow lying on the same sill and throw it at him. The pillow hits him to the face. The second before it he jerks his right arm without thinking and snarls. "You are in perfect health, my lord. And all for what?", you are getting angrier by the second now that you are finally talking. "For a promise of a blood shed! They promised you a rare beast and you have but run out of the gates". The king lowers his head and nods. But not even for a second do you believe in his humble demeanor. "You are only agreeing with me as you haven't returned with a bleeding gutted corpse of the beast", you make a disgusted face, "and managed to get injured at the same time. If you had succeeded, you'd be drinking with your warriors and then loudly demanding favours in the bedroom as...", you mockingly puff your chest and mimic his booming voice, overdoing his rolling consonants, "the glorious heir of Durin". He makes the mistake of twitching his lips in an attempt to hide a smile. You gasp in disdain and start marching to the door. "Then I hope this glorious heir of Durin will enjoy sleeping in his dining chambers tonight without..." You fail to finish when he grabs you with his left arm across your middle and presses your body into his. You yelp. "Careful, you brute! You'll hurt your shoulder more!" You anxiously try to move away from the injured side. He buries his face into your neck and mumbles what you suspect is an apology. You are still trying to free yourself but it is an increasingly insincere effort. Eventually you give up and sign. "I bet you do not even understand my anger", you say mournfully. He hugs you tighter and whispers in your ear, "You are angry because you disapprove of any killing and do not consider it worth spending a few days on a bog and getting injured over". You push his healthy shoulder, albeit very cautiously. "I am angry because you scared me to death, you half-witted oaf!", he chuckles into your neck and you push him again, "and I do know swearing is not my forte!". He actually has the nerve to guffaw. "Not your forte? A dwarven youngling can do better before they even dream of growing a beard!" "Don't change the subject!", you step back and shake your finger in front of his long nose, but then he tries to catch it with his mouth and you know that most likely you have lost this battle. "Thorin," as the last resort you switch to your serious tone and he stops and actually looks at you, "they carried your blooded body into the yard. You were pale and unmoving. Can you even imagine what seeing that did to me?! I have seen you injured in battles, I have wrapped your wounds with pieces torn from my tunic, knee-deep in swamp water, I have sat over your feverish thrashing body for three nights", you are being overdramatic but this is your only chance to bring your point across, "and I would do it all over again and would stroke down the first person who would say it was not worthy and justified, but, Thorin... Over blood thirst and barbaric amusement?! For a sake of slaying a helpless innocent living thing?!" "Helpless?! It slashed half my body!" "I thought you said it was just a scratch!", you see him struggling to find a clever answer but you do not let him get distracted. "My urzud", the familiar intimate appellation stops him in his tracks, "I'll follow you in any battle and support you in any war but I'll stop at nothing to prevent you from endangering your life for something such trivial as pursuing a being that cannot even be used for food, clothing or medicine!" You hold your breath and look into his eyes. The long dark lashes flutter and he looks down. You have won. He offers you his left hand and you gladly take it.

Your lover is a prideful warrior and an authoritative leader, and as much as he can pretend and play an obedient pup, admitting he was wrong is not an easy task for him. He pulls you into his embrace and you readily wrap your arms around his neck, mindful of the right side. He sighs and whispers, "Next time I'll be more careful", into your hair. That is all you are getting but nothing more is needed to be said. You feel his hot breath behind your ear and then his lips follow. Soon his healthy hand is roaming you back and bottom and he is slightly biting your neck. Since he is busy nibbling on your ear and shoulder, he fails to notice the wicked smile on your face. For his own sake you need to reinforce today's lesson.

You step away from him and walk towards your shared sleeping chambers. On your way you start shedding layers of clothing. Behind you, you hear a surprised chuckle and he follows. You approach the bed and stop. Recently you gave up the pretense of each having a separate room and now you both reside in your former bedroom. His was turned into yet another armory and a study, while dining chambers with a fire-pit were added to yours. You often share dinner in it, discussing everything and anything, often ending up on the fur rugs in front of fire, sometimes just sitting holding each other, sometimes in such a hurry to satisfy your thirst for each other that the next room seems miles away. A much larger bed was specifically made for your chambers, your king personally overlooking its carving out of a single stump of an ancient oak tree. The bedposts were cut out to imitate the roots and branches of the tree, luscious foliage crafted out of the wood and decorated with precious metals. You often lie on your back, looking on the exquisite canopy over your head, feeling secure, hidden from the rest of the world, enveloped in the warm circle of your king's embrace. Your lover tends to take up the middle of the bed, spreading his arms wide, though always still holding you close to him in his sleep.

He followed you to the bedroom and is standing, shamelessly ogling your body, now covered with only the thin layer of a sheer undertunic. It is hardly covering your buttocks. You turn around with an innocent smile. "My lord needs to lie down not to reopen the wounds", he readily follows your suggestion, walking around the other side of the bed. With his free hand he unbuckles his trousers and wriggles out of them. He hastily pulls covers over the lower half of his body and they tent over his raging erection. Having a row seems to always bring him on the brink of arousal exceptionally quickly. Especially if he happens to win an argument. Today though the heat of your fight, mixed with the excitement of the hunt, seem to intoxicate your king better than any cordial. His pupils are dilated, hiding the stormy blue of his irises, the broad chest with coarse hair that always drives you to sensual frenzy is heaving, his healthy hand clenching the sheets and covers. You lick you lips and start crawling towards him giving him an excellent view through the low collar of your garment. His gaze is like a scorching touch caressing your breasts, stomach and mound. You feel wet heat between your legs and an almost painful emptiness and hunger for his cock deep in your sex and up in your stomach. At the same time you remember his injury and your still remaining desire to teach him some caution. Several fevered scenarios bubble in your mind while you are also considering executing your punishment over him.