Year 2961

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you certain? How can you know?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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