A/N: This fic is a companion piece to glorious Wynni's All's Faire in Love and War. Check out her story to better understand what's happening here! Her OC, Bri is a wonderful creation and a perfect match for a certain blonde heir of Durin :D
So, no throwing vegetables at me for Thorin suddenly having a wee bit of competition :P Totally Wynni's idea! :D It was her praising of a certain Scot in her side of this story that spurred this fic and Tender Wound for that matter.
A/N#2: As in all the latest creations of mine Frerin, Thorin's younger brother, following Tumblr tradition, is to look like Gerard Butler from Beowulf & Grendel. Is it hot here or you are feeling it too? ;)
Wren is cheerfully skipping after Bri and Reese. She is properly enjoying this new brill idea of Bri's! Wren might have grown up in Wakefield, where "real" Robin Hood "really" lived, but she has never been to anything remotely medieval oriented. And now a Renaissance Faire! With an 'e' at the end!
It is ace, and she is giggling to herself thinking of Jensen Ackles in a blonde wig. Septic peeps are bonkers, but they know how to throw a do! And my oh my, how she approves of bulging muscles, large swords and that bloke over there who has a falcon on his arm! Blimey, Wren is rather certain that all those chicks flocking around him are hardly aspiring ornithologists. One of them asks something about the little cute hat that the bird is wearing, but Wren can wager her best bagua cane all those chicks are there for his upper arms. Wren has broken up with her boyfriend six months ago, she is in dire need for some of that very… ornithology.
She was initially mildly terrified by Bri's enthusiasm over faux medieval set-up, but now Wren is wearing a Robin Hood clobber and a bloke just passed her on stilts. She is twirling on her heels and her head might screw off her neck since she is properly trying not to miss owt. She is also chewing on a candied apple, and even her healthy lifestyle promoting part is at peace. Oh, Wren hasn't had that much fun in donkey's years.
Bri is gesturing and pointing and explaining, and Wren catches up with her not a miss a thing. And then they walk over a hill, and here is the Mountain Thunder Armoury. Wren stuffs the last piece of her apple into her mouth, quickly shakes off the crumbs from the mince pie she gobbled up before it off her chest and fixes the Robin Hood hat on her curls. Show time!
OK, it seems to require a bit of clarification. The Mountain Thunder Armoury is a large wooden frame tent and is supposedly occupied by the members of the band they have seen earlier on the stage. Wren is so tone deaf it could have been samba for all she cares, but… Four men are not supposed to be allowed to look that fit at the same time. It is much easier to digest if only the front man is a hottie. Or the drummer. Well, there is no drummer in this band, but you get the picture. There are four of them, two uncles and new nephews, and Wren has daddy issues, which means she disregards nephews from the start and concentrates on the older blokes. But there are two of them! And they are brothers! And there is some magic in this gene pool!
Wren has a problem. And it is of amore nature. It has little to do with her heart of course, more with the fanny regions, but what a palava it is! While everyone was dancing earlier near the stage, she got a whole bunch of winks from the younger uncle, and no, she is not dischuffed about it. He is tall, glorious thenar muscles, a soft shirt was hugging external oblique, and his exceptionally well formed biceps femoris. What? Oh, Wren is a zumba instructor, she knows muscles. But basically the arse is to die for, and he has very toned stomach. And she suspects chest hair, his sternum was peeking in the collar of the shirt. The long wavy hair is golden brown and the eyes are green, and green eyed blokes are Wren's bane. Yum. While the members of the audience were dragged into what Bri called a tangle brawl, meaning they were all holding hands, and dancing and tangling, and one of the nephews led all this madness, she would pass the stage and the golden haired uncle would make some vague gestures most likely meaning 'come find me' and 'give me your number.' Aye, with your tekul bahooky, nice tae meit ye! Yuck, she is a worse faux Highlander than Chris Lambert. Never saying this again.
The palava is caused by the fact that the older uncle is "stoats right in through the front door, gallus as anythin." Bugger, she has just decided to stop impersonating Craig Ferguson. But the view of the dark haired hardchaw makes her want to quote all bad parodies on Scottish accent at the same time. He has a dark mane of waves, with silver hiding in them, and for her fanny a silver fox is like a Guinness storehouse for a drunkard. He is taller than his brother, and Wren never believed her Mum who would say "sometimes less is better." He is also a bit of a grouch, and that is like a red cloth for a bull for any chick. Everyone wants to bite into a custard tart and even though the exterior is all dry and hard, everyone wants to find the sweet, soft filling inside. And he is watching her. Wren might be disgustingly skinny, but she knows what to do with the chicken thighs she was given. Thank you, St. Brigid, and yes, it is sarcasm! Wren is certain that these were not the hips her fierce ancestors gave birth with to all those warriors. At least the bum is decent, and Wren makes full use of it. The older uncle, and Wren might be willing to convert from her green eye obsession, keeps his icy blue eyes on her, stoically keeping them above her neck. Mostly. He gets additional points for trying really, really hard.
Unlike his brother's open ogling, who is sunny and flirty, and such cheekiness is often forgiven, the Dark and Brooding is intense. By the way, for an Irish person, which Wren partially is, well, her Maimeo is, brooding means he is about to lay an egg. Wren giggles and follows Bri into the tent. They both will be there, and the thought tickles Wren's nerves.
Inside the tent is ace. There are shelves and tables with their merchandise, and deeper inside there is a forge, and that is a bloody giant hammer! And by hammer Wren means… a hammer. The older Uncle, and Wren hasn't quite sussed their names when they were introduced on the stage, is pulling tools out of a basket. Wren really wants to look at the rings and bracelets on the nearest stands, but the view of his muscular back is dragging her inside as if on a rope. Considering she is staring at his latissimus dorsi, deltoid and trapezius. His back, his wide, perfect, bare back! And a giant black tattoo on the left shoulder. Some round thingie, that looks like a Viking shield, and yes, Wren watched that show on History Channel, with a tree in the center. He has just dragged off his white pirate shirt he had on during the performance and is pulling on a worn out dark blue one, and she is close to conking out. He is putting on a leather apron, Wren bakes, she'd protect herself from heat and fire as well, and then he turns and their eyes meet. Bugger. She makes a random spasmodic step aside and drops her eyes down at the first table that is under her nose.
She is staring at some knifey things, daggers perhaps, with unseeing eyes when the honey like voice of the younger uncle pours into her ear.
"Now there's a lass after me own heart." There is a bit of rasp, there is the brogue, and a lot of shag mixed into this voice, and it is always easier to flirt with wolves because you know they are not serious. Wren throws him a side glance, she knows she has decent lashes, and he is already staring at her lips.
"Am I now?" He is smiling to her widely, and oh my… Those are very, very sexy lips. Wren isn't much into them actually, hardly notices them, but he has a very masculine bottom lip, and the beard looks deliciously soft! Such a vibrant brown colour too, like buckwheat honey or a nice pint of Kilkenny.
"Most lasses that come in here don't make it past the pretty gewgaws on the front tables, but you three walked right past them for the sharp and pointies over here." Wren gives him a smug smile, deciding to pass the mentioning of how much she wants to look at every single ring in there. And bracelets. Wren loves silver jewellery, she has a large chest of it, brought from all her travels, several Afghan necklaces, Celtic rings from visiting family, whole bunch of stuff from India, cuffs and anklets, and anything and everything. She is not wearing anything today, she had a class in the morning, before she got accosted by Bri and turned into a Robin Hoodette in Bri's words. So, one can say she is projecting a distorted image of herself at the mo. So maybe he thinks she is 'a lass after his own heart,' but alas, my kilted hottie, you are in for a disappointment.
Suddenly he makes a low graceful bow, and seriously, the way his scapulas move makes her slightly disoriented. And then he presents her with a purple flower. She benevolently picks it up and sticks it in her hair above her ear. He picks up her hand and presses it to his lips. And then slowly lifts his eyes, his warm breath still tickling her knuckles, and damn his eyes, such a colour! And the lashes, fluffy and thick, most chicks would die of envy! There are lovely crinkles in the corners of his eyes, and she smiles to him. They both understand they are playing the game, and it's so much fun that she makes a silly curtsey. It is probably done somehow differently, but he doesn't seem to mind.
"Frerin Durinson, nice tae meit ye!" His Scottish accent is suddenly exaggerated, and she cocks one eyebrow sarcastically.
"Wren Leary, at your service," she might be rolling her Irish r's now, and he chuckles. To finish him up she adds, "Tá áthas orm buaileadh leat."
"Should have guessed, with this bonny hair," he is smiling, and then licks his bottom lip. Oh jaysus. "So, you are not a Tolkien fan I reckon?" She looks at him in confusion. She saw posters around cinemas, but the connection escapes her. He is chuckling.
"You are wearing a proper professionally tailored clobber, it has been worn, and the boots are real leather, so you are not a noob, but I expected a gibe on the name." Oh right, Frerin… And indeed, what in the name of Rassilon is it even?
"The clothes are my friend's, Bri," Wren points behind her with her eyes, and he quickly looks at Bri. There is a spark of very male approval in the green irises, Wren agrees with him, Bri is a fine thing. "That's my first faire. I am a faire virgin." There is one rule for cheesy remarks. Deliver them with confidence. Wren curls one corner of her lips, and his eyes sparkle. Whack to ye, Wrennie, my girl! He walks around her, obviously checking out the arse, and she throws him a look from under the lashes and sideways. "So what is it about the name?"
"All my kin have old Norse names, from Völuspá, an Icelandic poem of the Poetic Edda, and that's where Tolkien took all his names, so aye, we are taken a lot of piss out." Oh, that Wren can relate to.
"I was named after a bird," she offers as a consolation.
"You were named after the bird that the Druids considered a bird of prophecy and, thanks to an early fable, it has also been known as King of the Birds, an elected ruler of aviary world. There is an opinion that 'wren' is of the same root as the Norse word for 'ruler.'" Wren feels a dire need to pick up her jaw from the floor. What?! He is in front of her again and leans in closer to her face. There is faint smell of myrtle coming from his skin, and her eyes widen. "Could I have your number, fair maiden?" And a pun based on her earlier daft line on her 'faire virginity,' and his eyes are green, oh sod it!
"Give me yours, I'll text you." He nods and grins from ear to ear. "You can just tell it to me, I'll remember." She has a photographic memory, but his face drops. Oh, he thinks she is gently flipping him off. But wolf or not, he is considerate, so he gives her the digits, but his tone is flat. She will not be able to forget them even if she tried, sodding memory, but she is not his Mum to reassure him. She will text, because seriously, wow! And the noggin isn't empty! And the trapezius muscles!
He sees his nephews on the lawn behind the tent and excuses himself. He rushes out, yelling something, they are probably trying to end each other in there, or chipping their blades, or whatever other crime there is there against swording laws, and Wren is left alone in the tent. Well, not exactly alone. There is measured banging of a large tool at the background. All puns intended, and gosh, those are magnificent biceps!