I'M BACK! No, I swear, I am :D After a long crisis and a proper decluttering a la Marie Kondo style (both in my house and my creative process) I've arrived at the understanding that I still want to write Thorin fanfiction! My other pursuits (novels on Amazon, fanart, acrylic painting etc) will need a serious rebranding, but I'm definitely continuing my FF endeavours! I know that the fandom has shrunk, and that I might have lost plenty of readers by being away for so long; but as Marie Kondo says, "Keep only what brings you joy!" And Thorin does! :D
So, if you're still in the mood for kkolmakov style Thorin, stay tuned for my new story Lies That Wear the Crown.
Here's the last chapter of Light Room. I think it's a sufficiently sweet ending for this story. (Watch out for those nasty cavities ;) )
Also I have a QUESTION to you, my dear readers: in the new story would you like to see Wren as the female protagonist, or are we in the mood for someone completely new?
Thank you for reading! I hope to see you in the next story!
The Grand Hall of Erebor rung, sang, and sparked. Fire roared in the giant fireplace. Voices echoed, laughter bounced between torch lit walls. Twelve large tables, almost creaking under the weight of delicacies and drinks, were occupied by celebrating Dwarves. Half of the Hall was left empty for dancing, which would start soon, after another dozen of barrels of mead were opened and consumed.
The aroma of roasted meat, spices, honey, and evergreens decorating the walls floated in the warm air. Thorin glanced to his right, at the flushed rosy cheeks of his wife, who was amicably chatting with Gloin. The blush powdered her marble skin, along the graceful neck and down into the low cut of her dark red velvet dress. Thorin licked his lips shortly revelling in the anticipating thought of the night ahead of them, when they would return to their chambers; but then Bofur called his name and Thorin turned to the Dwarf. A toast was raised for the 'old times,' and Thorin joined the cheer.
In the past moon Thorin seemed to have been regaining some of his memories, mostly to do with the Quest for Erebor. First, they came in the shape of nightmares, when he'd wake up screaming and thrashing. The fire of the Dragon, and the Battle of the Five Armies would flash before his eyes. But every time his wife would be near him in the bed, and she consoled, and comforted; and soon he stopped hiding the tears on his cheeks and the sweat on his brow. He'd press his face into her, and her long fingers gently ran his hair; and sleep would overcome him. And then the bad dreams were gone, and the flashes would come in his awake state. They were some small, seemingly unimportant details from the Quest, or from his youth: a taste of some dish, a smell, something his sister-sons had done as bairns. These brought no pain, no terror. The memories seemed faded, like old tapestries. They were more entertaining than anything. They hardly bothered him but neither did he crave any. Life was good.
He was absorbed in a conversation with a few older Dwarves when someone touched his shoulder.
"Will you dance, adad?" Unna asked, and Thorin smiled at his daughter.
"Wouldn't Gunni prefer your first dance?" he whispered conspiratorially, and the girl schooled her face into a confused expression.
"Why would he?"
Thorin raised one eyebrow and then glanced behind him, at Bofur's son who couldn't tear his eyes off the girl. The boy first shrank under Thorin's gaze; but some sort of good humour came over Thorin, and he gave the youngling a wink. Gunni jumped to his feet and started marching across the Hall towards Thorin and Unna.
"I'm afraid, batith, you might have no choice but to dance with the lad. That is unless you want to hurt his pride with a refusal. The choice is of course yours, as always," Thorin said; and Unna whipped her head.
Gunni gave her a bow and stretched his hand in an invitation. He opened his mouth, closed it, and awkwardly cleared his throat. Unna as much as rolled her eyes, but rose and allowed the boy to lead her to join the dancers.
"Matchmaking, are we?" his wife's soft whisper came into his ear; and he chuckled.
He slowly turned and met her eyes. Her face was very close; he hadn't heard her approach, given the noise in the Hall had been growing over the hours of the festivities. She stood, leaning to him, her arms behind her back - and he moved swiftly and caught her mouth in a quick but firm kiss. Her red lips tasted of wine, and joy bubbled in his blood. Lust was there too, and love, and some sort of mischief.
"I just wanted this dance to be yours," he said; and she giggled.
"Well, lead on then, my lord."
She wiggled the fingers of her outstretched hand; and he grabbed it, and pulled her to where other couples spun, and stomped, and clapped.
Dancing with his wife was a pleasure he hadn't known he would even consider - and yet after the first time, at a small feast a few moons ago, he had been looking forward to every chance to hold her supple body in his arms, to measure his step to hers, to pick her up and swirl her around. She knew all the traditional dances and moved with assurance and grace. A radiant smile bloomed on her face, and he cherished the open joy he could see in her features.
They were dancing another of the farnul dehar, when a courtier entered the Hall and loudly announced that midnight was approaching. The dancers stopped and went to fill up their goblets.
The day of Winter Solstice was over; and as the sweet and intoxicating liquit ran down Thorin's throat he closed his eyes and thanked Mahal the Maker for the gift and the blessing his life was, full and peaceful.
After that some went back to eating and talking, and some pushed the goblets onto the tables and rushed back to the dancing floor, while the musicians hastily wiped their beards and picked up their instruments.
"Should we go back to the table?" Wren asked.
Thorin wrapped his arm around her and pulled her in.
"I have a much better idea," he murmured and pecked her lips.
"Oh I know what it is!" she said and giggled. "Are we going to be opening presents?"
"Aye. We're going to unwrap our presents and savour them," he whispered to her ear pointedly; and she laughed throatily.
"You seem confident I'll like your taste… in gifts," she whispered back, and it was his turn to guffaw.
"There is only one way to find out," he said and started marching out of the Hall pulling her after him.
"Hm, I don't even need any presents now," she said, and he rolled on his side to look into her face.
She lay on the floor, her eyes closed, a small smile on her lips.
"Do you now?" he asked with a laugh and kissed her bare shoulder.
"Uh-huh," she said. "I only have one wish. I'd like to go under the covers. My bottom is cold on the floor."
"Well, we can't have that," he said. "Not the bottom! It is one of the treasures of Erebor!"
She snorted and opened her eyes. He grinned at her.
"But the bed is so far," she drew out.
Indeed they lay, on a heap of their clothes, right near the door, which he had hurriedly closed and locked behind them when they had stumbled into the bed chamber.
Thorin gave it a thought, picked her up under her arms, making her squeak, and put her on top of him.
"Oh that's perfect!" she announced gleefully. "You're like a furnace! And a fur sheet as well!" She placed a small bite onto his chest.
Thorin laughed and wrapped his arms around her small frame. They lay in silence for a few moments. Normally, their carnal pleasures would exhaust him and made him sleepy, but this time desire still coursed his blood, for a few more bouts; and mead made him inventive; and whatever she said, he wanted to exchange gifts.
She shifted on him, wiggling the said bottom in the air; and he wondered if she was titillating him, when he realised that she was rummaging through the dress he'd torn off her when they'd come to the room and which now was crumpled under him.
"Ah, here it is," she said and sat up on him. His eyes fell on her breasts. "Thorin!" she called for him with a chuckle.
He tore his gaze off the mouth-watering peaks and saw a small velvet pouch in her hand.
"Blessed Winter Solstice!" she announced and handed him the gift.
Thorin sat up, settling her on his lap, her legs on his two sides - and opened the pouch.
A mithril band, a simple rune ring lay on his palm. Thorin turned it and followed the inscription on it with his eyes. Gagin ra jalaimhili. 'Again and always' it said, and Thorin lifted his eyes at his wife.
"I'll always choose you," she said. "Even if I have to choose again and again. Every time. Every day, if I have to."
Thorin quickly pushed the ring on his finger, cupped the back of her head, and pulled her into a deep ardent kiss. No words came, his heart full, and his eyes misted - but no words were needed.
"Wren?" he called; and she gave out a sleepy hum.
"Don't you want to see your gift?" he asked; and she hummed again, probably without hearing him, and nuzzled his shoulder.
"Could we talk… tomorrow?" she muttered, and he kissed her temple and pulled the covers over her.
This time they had made it to the bed.
Thorin closed his eyes and then laughed. He had spent three days in the negotiations with the preposterous Elvenking, bargaining in gold and diamonds, to obtain the gift for his wife - one small sapling of the famed rowan tree of Mirkwood. Eventually, after the deal had been struck, Thorin had to travel to Mirkwood, under some pretence, and then to transport the package with the cursed twig to Erebor. The plant had to be hidden; and Thorin had to acquire a few accomplices among the healers in the infirmary to look after the green nuisance and to make sure the Queen hadn't accidentally discovered it. He had grovelled and flattered, paid generously, fretted, and worried - and the woman was peacefully sleeping in his arms, seemingly satisfied by simple carnal pleasures and not at all interested in his gifts.
Thorin moved his fingers feeling the new ring. Perhaps, he should find something else to add to the ridiculous twig, he wondered. He was no expert in romance and sentiment; but his eyes prickled at the thought of the message behind her simple gift - and he craved to match the value of it. Everything in the Mountain was hers as it was his, though. What could he possibly offer her?
"Do you wish you had your memories back?"
Her quiet voice made him as much as jump up on the bed.
"I thought you slept," he said.
"You're thinking too loudly." She yawned and stretched. "And I remembered that I wanted to talk to you. So, do you?"
"Not much," he said.
"But if you could repeat some experiences, would you?"
"Perhaps," he answered uncertainly. "What are you about, ghivashel?"
They lay on their sides now, facing each other. She smiled at him tenderly and started stroking his face with the tips of her fingers. He loved these caresses of hers.
"It would be pleasant to remember how we regained Erebor. And the death of Azog would make a good memory too," he mused; and she suddenly snorted.
"But of course. What was I thinking? It's battles and fallen foes you'd like to remember." She scrunched her nose and snickered.
"What would you hate to forget?" he asked confused; and she laughed harder.
"The battles and fallen foes as well, I assume," she answered. "I have never lost my memory, so I can't say. But what I was leading to - so clumsily - was… babies."
"Babies?" His eyebrows jumped up. "But we have our 'babies.' They aren't babies anymore, though."
"No, they aren't," she said pointedly; and he felt even more confused. "But the next one would be."
"What next one—" he started, and then choked on his words. "Are you—?!"
"No, no, I'm not," she rushed. "But… well, I could be. I'm still capable, and healthy, and—"
Thorin didn't let her finish.
"Aye! Aye, Wren! Could we—?" Hope and excitement bloomed in his chest, and his breathing hitched.
She laughed and cupped his face.
"That was what I wanted to talk about. You have never been an expecting father, and never held your babe in your arms. And them I started thinking, we could... try. It's not certain of course, but—"
She was once again interrupted. He scooped her in his arms and was kissing her.
"It won't happen tonight!" she laughed and started wiggling in his arms. "I have to stop taking my herbs, and there have to be the right days, and—"
"No matter! It will just be a bit of practice!" he said and rolled over her.
She gleefully agreed and wrapped her legs around his waist.
The practice paid off; and sixteen moons later Thorin held in his arms his newborn second daughter Hildur, daughter of Thorin.
And all was well in Erebor - and in the mind and the heart of its King.