A/N: This is the final chapter, my darlings.
He wakes up alone, and the day starts. He comes to Thror's rooms and finds Dis instead of Wren. He can feel his sister's studying look, Wren's absence is indeed an unusual circumstance.
He does not see her for two days. She is not in Thror's rooms when he visits, neither does she come to his bed chambers, she is not in the kitchen at night, and he grits his teeth and continues his mundane affairs. If not for her absence he would have just taken that night as a rough beginning of something different, he woke up rather hopeful in the morning, but her behaviour tells him she sees it differently. He is concerned for her but barging into her rooms demanding explanation is the last thing he knows he should do.
She comes to see him in his study in the evening of the third day. He has returned here after dinner, there are some urgent letters he needs to respond to, and she comes in without a knock. He lifts his face to ask her to come back to his rooms later, and then he sees what she looks like.
Her fiery hair is scattered on her shoulders, she is dressed in a nightdress and a robe, and the belt is untied, he can see the outline of her breasts, and she decisively approaches his desk and then walks around it. Her eyes are shining feverishly, and her lips are the brightest red he has seen them.
She picks up the skirt of her nightdress, hikes it up and suddenly climbs on his lap straddling him. Her hands go on his cheeks, she scrapes her short nails on his beard, and then she lowers her face and places a long languished kiss on his lips.
"I have had half a glass of wine..." She cannot have any, he knows that about her, and he is looking at the bright red spots on her cheekbones. "I am not muddled, but I think my body will be more relaxed this way. The inner muscles…" She pauses, as if deeming this topic less important than the next one. "The decision is sober, I do not have any doubts." Her tone is firm, and she pushes her fingers into his hair at the back of the head. "I am tired of..." She does not finish her phrase, she shakes her head and kisses him again. The tip of her tongue tickles the corner of his lips, and he opens his mouth for her. His hands lie on her ribs, and she is not startled. She shimmies her shoulders shaking the robe off. His hands are roaming her torso, and she arches pushing her breasts into his palms.
"Door..." He rasps out, he is bunching her nightdress now.
"I locked it behind me." He picks her up under her arms and seats her on the desk. She pushes parchments and ink bottles off the desk in a brash gesture, it is so unlike her that he pauses, but she falls back, stretching on the table and her legs go around his hips.
"I am not befuddled," she smiles to him, and then he sees that old fire, it has been years but he recognises the desire in her. He lunges ahead, his hands are on the buckle of his belt, he pushes the legwear down, breeches together with the trousers, her legs are wide open, and he grabs her hips and jerks her towards him. She stretches her hands to him, and her lips are twisted in some hungry feral smirk. He pushes inside her, and she arches on the table with a loud coarse moan. He can hear his own teeth screech, the sensations are so harsh, that he needs a moment of lapse, and her back falls on the table, and she opens her eyes. Her lips are slightly parted, and then the pink tongue darts out, wetting the plump bottom one. It spurs him, and he thrusts forcefully into her. She cries out and squeezes him with her thighs. Unlike her apparently, he feels inebriated, he is trying to remind himself that it was just three days ago that she was crying in his arms, her body rigid and incapable of accepting him, but suddenly her narrow strong hands grab her breasts through the gauze of the dress, and he growls.
For an instant he worries he will not last long, he has desired her for a long time, his head is spinning, and she has always been an exceptionally gratifying lover for him. She is moaning loudly, her hands fly up to her hair, and suddenly she shifts, disrupting his rhythm. She is flailing her arms, and he starts laughing. She looks like a cat trying to catch a piece of parchment hanging on a yarn. He does not understand what she wants.
"Hands!.. Give me your hands!" It is a whine, but there is a demanding note to it.
He grabs the long cool fingers, pulls her towards him, the copper curls swoosh, and her arms wrap around his neck tightly. Her shining eyes are in front of him, and he catches her mouth. The height of the desk is wrong, she is too high, he steps back, she is hanging on him, and she is so light that he just turns, his hip painfully meets the armrest of his chair, he pushes it away, the thud of it on the floor is loud, she throatily laughs and drops her head back. He places greedy open mouth on the pale skin of her throat, she gasps, and he thrusts up into her. His hands on her backside, her arms on his shoulders, they set a vigorous rhythm, her body flies up and plummets down, each of the movements is accompanied with a loud, obviously pleased scream from her.
He is approaching his climax, and she sinks her nails into his shoulders and whines loudly. He is too focused on his sensations to tell her he will do his best. The only solution he can come up is to kneel in front of a settee by the wall, he almost topples over, his trousers are around his ankles, he has to make several small steps. He thinks she has snorted mockingly, he will address this impudence later, and his knees meet the hard wood of the floor. He hisses and deposits her backside on the velvet seat, he is far from delicate, but she does not seem to mind.
Some vague memories from all those years before tell him she just needs to be given freedom, and he is right, she leans back, presses the hands of straight arms into the settee behind her and grinds her hips into him. There is a twist in her movement, the world sways, from the pressure on his member, it feels as if she is wrenching it, and she starts moving, in forceful demanding jerks, her heels pressed to his buttocks, and then she comes with a triumphant lustful scream.
He starts pumping into her, the spasms on her quim are thrilling, he is snarling through his teeth, she is wailing, and he releases, the last few plunges are violent, her body is jolting back and forth on the settee, and he falls down, probably crushing her, his breath erupts in raspy groans out of him, his forehead sweaty, and after a few moment of shuddering and trying to determine whether he is still alive he scoops her, peppering kisses on her face.
The storm is ebbing, they both slow down, she was clawing at his shoulders, now the hands are smoothing his hair. He is tenderly kissing the translucent eyelids and the delicate bridge of the nose.
They move to his bedchamber and continue coupling all through the night. They climax, sometimes together, sometimes one arrives there faster, and after a few instants of rest one of them already starts reaching for the other. Sometimes it is simple, he is thrusting into her, their gaze locked, her legs around his hips, sometimes slowly and sensually, sometimes he plunges into her, her back scraping at the wall, sometimes she is clawing at him, sometimes her lips explore every inch of his skin. Sometimes an inventive mood strikes, mostly her, and they end up in the most unusual positions. They hardly talk through the night, but words of love are whispered, in Common Speech and in Khuzdul. He calls her 'hurseluh' my flame of all flames, she whispers 'kuyleluh' my life in return.
He wakes up, and for an instant he thinks his bed is empty again, but then she rolls on her side and a slender arm goes across his stomach. She mumbles something in a sleepy grouchy voice, and he is watching her nuzzle him and fall into deeper slumber again.
He is lying in his bed, some lazy half formed thoughts slowly float in his mind, and then the familiar pain blooms behind his ribs, it shoots towards his sternum, and he takes a spasmodic gulp of air in. His forehead is suddenly clammy with nasty cold sweat, and he squeezes his eyes.
"Thorin?" Her voice is as if heard through a mist, and he feels her roll off the bed. He clenches his right hand over his chest. There is a pitter patter of bare feet, he is trying to take deeper breaths but it feels like a battle ram is sitting on his chest, and she is back. "Thorin, nod if your left arm is numb." He nods, it feels as if he cannot move either of his extremities, and a cup with some drink is pressed to his lips. He tries to swallow, it is bitter, he splatters, she is murmuring something comforting, and he is taking small sips, cringing.
He falls back into the pillows, behind his lids some unpleasant white sparks are dancing, and he feels her hand run through his hair.
"What was it?.." His voice is nothing but a rasp.
"Your heart is worn out, I have suspected it for years, and I suppose last night was a bit too exuberant for it," her tone is calm, and his eyes fly open.
"Are you saying?.." His tone is indignant, and she smiles to him, although her eyes are still worried. She is also bare. She has just run through his halls to her study wearing nothing but a modest necklace of granate beads she has had on since yesterday evening. Suddenly he starts laughing, it is choked but a merry laughter nonetheless. She is watching him with a concerned frown, which only makes him droll more.
"I could have died… In bed with a mistress… A young mistress for that matter!" He guffaws, "An old goat, did not survive depraved exuberant fornication..." His shoulders are shaking, and she tilts her head.
"I do not see anything funny in this prospect, my lord," her tone is strict, and he beckons her with his hand. She presses her lips stubbornly, "Thorin, measures have to be taken to..."
"Yes, yes, I will let you dose and medicate me to your satisfaction later, but you should come here now..." She carefully lies near him but he shifts, he is glad to notice sensation is coming back to his left arm, and he picks her up under her arms and pulls her on top of him.
"Thorin, you have just had..." She starts protesting, trying to move off him, but he grabs the back of her head and pulls her to his lips. She jerks couple more time and then gives in.
Nothing really changes in Erebor Halls, Wren continues her service in the infirmary, her association with the King has been speculated before, but her mad dash through his halls has become a simple and decisive indication. There is certain relief among the inhabitants of Royal Halls, everything is now clear and understandable. After the first morning Wren does not see Dis for a few days, she was aware of Dis' feelings but did not expect them to be that deep, but then the Princess returns to her duties and her behaviour seems just the same.
Wren still takes her meals in her son's rooms, but with time Thorin tends to prefer having dinners in his rooms, where he can enjoy her weight on his lap, and she can criticize his diet and pull ale mugs and wine goblets out of his hand. He does not actually want the brew, he just likes her pouts and indignant huffing.
Thorin spends the same three evenings a week in Thror's rooms, Wren loves watching them talk. Identical brows frown over a discussion of a battle of old times, and Dis who also comes sometimes chuckles behind her book. Recently Dis' cheeks seem rather rosy in the morning, some sort of sensual softness appears in her features, and Wren feels relieved happiness for her friend. She never asks, but suspects which of the ladies in waiting spends her nights in Dis' rooms. After everything that has transpired the Princess and the healer finally settle into the genuine loyal friendship.
A year later Freda is with child again, but four moons into parturiency healers are called into her rooms. She is given abortive herbs, her life is in danger, and although it is rarely done, Frerin insists on her taking them. Several moons later he brings a mistress into his chambers, and they say she was chosen by Fredna herself. She is a stabilizing influence on Frerin, he drinks less, previously only his daughter stopping him from excessive ale consumption for weeks in a row.
Wren is being very careful, she is still taking herbs but she also keeps track of days in her calendar, and the King grumbles that if she could she would avoid intimacy with him for twenty seven days in a moon. She laughs and asks what exactly he is complaining about, the skill of her mouth or other acts they partake when she is being cautious. He says he has no complains and topples her into the sheets.
One night they are lying in bed, their lips and hands are caressing each other, they have satisfied the hunger but there is some strange yearning in both of them, they cannot seem to get close enough, and the tone of their movements changes, and soon she is sobbing, asking for something she has no name for, and he is crushing her into him.
"I want to bear another son for you, my King..." She is pleading, and tears spill out of her eyes.
"Please, please, hurseluh, nothing would make me happier..." He pleads in return.
They conceive their second child the next moon, the King is laughing that it was the last flash of the dying out fireworks, she puffs air and gives him a glare. Her second parturiency is as easy as the first one, and sixteen moons later Unna, daughter of Thorin is born. She is written into the register as the daughter of the King, the scribes and loremasters are not invited to the King's bedroom for that, he just sends a courtier to them as soon as the girl is born. She is a strong infant, dark haired, with russet brown eyes. She is constantly surrounded by her brother, her father and her aunt, and Wren recovers from her delivery surprisingly quickly.
Her third pregnancy is a shocking surprise, she seats the King on their bed, and wriggling her fingers she announces the news. He has the prepostrity to joke that at least this time he does not need to beat other potential fathers to pulp although the situation seems to him eerily familiar. She does not speak to him for a week. Dain, son of Thorin is born two moons too early, but the birth goes without complications.
Fili marries, she is young and exceptionally alluring, from an old family, she is enamoured with him to no end, but he takes his time making the decision. Their firstborn, Nari, son of Fili is what they call 'a child of the first night.' Were he born a week earlier, he could have been considered illegitimate. No one doubts the rectitude of this marriage though, Fili just receives approving claps to the shoulder from older Dwarves.
The King's last child is born because Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror has a tendency to lose control over his desires when his consort is nursing his children. For once her bodice is full, she will go back to her twig like constitution once the milk is gone, he grabs her around her middle in a passage and carries her to the bedchambers, thoroughly enjoying her feigned squeals of indignation. They spend a day in bed. She is laughing, kicking him, yelling that if she were an old Dwarf with a weak heart she'd be more demure in her dalliances, and he gives out an exaggerated growl, and they end up coupling against a wardrobe in the chambers they have been sharing for years. Othin, son of Thorin is born so soon after his brother Dain that they are treated as twins, a miracle among Dwarves. Othin is a replica of his oldest brother and his father.
When Wren's firstborn son reaches his battle age, for the first time in history of Erebor changes are made in the lore register, and he finally carries the right name of his father. With years to come he becomes the closest and most loyal of his cousin Nari's lieutenants, his support and counsel in many years of rule. Other children of Thorin Oakenshield find peace and happiness in their own way, just like their parents did before them.