Author's Note:

Alright, these are the reasons in chronological order of why I haven't been updating until now:

- A tear in my ligament. Another one. The third one. Now, in my OTHER shoulder. I suppose, I might as well schedule both surgeries at once.

- I was looking, applying for, and interviewing for a new job. Since I now can't lift anything heavier than one of my cats (the other one is too hefty), I had to give up my career in childcare.

- I did find a new job. Quickly acquiring a bunch of skills in sales, logistics, and accounting after sixteen years of working in languages and education is one hell of a learning curve.

- My partner got COVID.

- The country that I was born in invaded the county where half of my extended family lives. Trying to stay in contact, transferring funds, and looking into immigration paths have been taking most of my free time.

- I got COVID. And whatever they say, it's NOT just your average flu.

- The province I live in got hit by the biggest blizzard in decades. And I mean, the BIGGEST. 80 km/h winds. 60 cm snow.

- I got promoted and moved offices.

If I could catch a break, it would be lovely, innit? Fingers crossed, it looks like there's some semblance of routine and stability ahead of me, so I'm back to writing. Oh how I missed it - and missed YOU, my darlings!

I hope some of you might still read this story, and hopefully get a bit of joy out of it.

Stay safe! Stay healthy!

Love,

Katya xx

Wren opened her eyes, suddenly fully awake, and stared at the canopy of the bed above her. It was hard to tell what time it was, after all they were underground, but judging by the crispy alertness and the slight hunger she felt, it must have been past four in the morning. She remembered that she hadn't eaten as much as usual the previous night, distracted by a slight headache - and now her stomach was emitting a quiet, yet demanding growling.

Wren looked to her right and smiled at the view of the King's sleeping face. He'd come to her bedchamber very late, having been preoccupied with trading negotiations. She half-remembered him sliding under the covers and wrapping around her. There hadn't been a night since she'd arrived at Erebor that he hadn't spent with her. Wren knew it was not done among the Dwarves, but she was endlessly grateful for such blatant lack of dogmatism from him. She could endure any sort of unease, hostility, and derision from those around her, as long as at the end of the day she could hide in the tight circle of his arms, as if protected by his love and his devotion, like by the best of Dwarven armour.

Wren rolled to her side and tucked her fist under her cheek. Her hunger was growing more and more insistent, and she had but a few moments when she could still concentrate on her mawkish ogling of the King as opposed to rushing in search of sustenance. Her feelings for him had grown thricefold - or perhaps simply solidified - since they'd confirmed the joyous news, but he, also, had been exceptionally amorous and attentive to her recently, not that anything ever had been lacking in his treatment of her.

What made her even more keen on him was how affectionate, generous, and patient he had been with Mira. She still hadn't been informed of the changes, but anyone would expect the King to cool down towards the girl, who was nothing but an odd sort of a stand-in for a child for him. And yet, he had once even had a conversation with Wren regarding when and how she wanted to break the news to Mira. Sibling jealousy, apparently, was rather prominent among the Khazad, and the King had approached the subject with care and tact. Wren hadn't had an answer for him at the time and promised to let him know when she did.

Despite the discomfort of starvation pangs in her belly and how hot she felt under the covers she shared with the Dwarf, Wren noticed the giddy tingling of arousal running down her spine - and she slipped from under the eiderdown. She needed to let the man rest - and she needed to eat. Her heavy velvet gown was folded neatly on the footboard of their bed. Wren dressed and quietly left the room. There was a tin of abra'khâgul, traditional Dwarven savoury biscuits, in her study.

Wren had discovered what a miracle these brittle, salty and aromatic treats were, soon after she'd realised that she was expecting. One evening the King showed up with a painted tin and handed it to her.

'What's that?' she asked curiously then and opened it.

The biscuits were of hexagon shape, rather dark, and had a sharp smell, mostly of the herbs mixed into the dough but also of the hard cheese, which all of the Dwarves, including the King, were rather fond of.

'Try them,' he grumbled and snatched one.

Despite the biscuit's rather generous size, the King tended to just pop the whole thing in his mouth and chew with relish.

Wren nibbled on one corner, and he asked, 'How is it?' feigning nonchalance.

'An acquired taste,' Wren answered with a laugh, and he pouted. 'Are they your favourite, my King? Are you sharing 'sweets' with me?'

'Halwâ du hulwulkasab,' he muttered, plucked another biscuit from the tin, kissed Wren's temple, and sauntered away.

Despite her initial mistrust, Wren had grown as much as dependent on abra'khâgul. They alleviated her light nausea in the early hours of morning and never caused aversion in her. The only drawback she'd been experiencing was the fact that her tin needed to be protected against the King's pillaging. She obviously had nothing against sharing them, but the man never bothered to refill her stock when he ate the last one in the tin!

This time, she knew, the tin would be full. She'd asked Svava to make sure of it just the day before. Leaving behind the small oil lamp she had burning in her bedroom, Wren made her way to her study. She could see very well in the dark, perhaps due to the light colour of her eyes. She pushed the door open, her thoughts lazily swirling, some sleepy considerations of the next day's errands filling her mind - and she saw a half-lit figure standing near her desk.

Her body reacted on its own. She winced back, her right hand pressed over her stomach - and then she saw that it was Svava. Since Wren was slow to open the door and quick to shy back, there was just a narrow crack, and Wren stood in it, while Svava held a candle in her hand. The maid wouldn't be able to see Wren even if she had turned around. The maid's name was ready to slip off them, but then she saw what Svava clutched in her hand. It was Wren's keyring, with all the important keys Wren handled every day - and locked in her little safe chest built into Wren's side table and secured for the night. The King had given the box to her. It had an intricate lock mechanism, with spinning wheels with runes on them to secure the lid and to open it when one needed to take an object out of it. Wren didn't know Svava knew the runes Wren had chosen as her watchword. It was zabalnanâg, the Dwarven name for lilac blossoms, Wren's favourite flowers. Wren had been tempted to use azghzars, 'oak tree,' or even Markhazghzarsul, the King's famous moniker, but she wasn't so naive as to believe that someone might doubt her idolatry towards the King. The obvious choices were best to be avoided. Her love for lilacs wasn't supposed to be known to many. She's always requested bramble scented soaps and oils, since it was the King's most favourite smell.

Svava picked a key from the bunch and unlocked Wren's escritoire. She took out some papers, throwing an alarmed glance over her shoulder, and then quickly turned the key in the drawer again. She stuffed the papers into the cut of her dress and turned around. Wren acted on impulse - and silently dashed back into her bedroom.

She climbed into the bed, threw her arm around the King's shoulder, and closed her eyes. Her heart was beating frantically in her chest, and even more so when she heard the hardly audible steps of her maid sneaking into the bedroom. The familiar clicking of the spinners in the safe box's lock almost made Wren jump up. The lid closed with a small soft thud - and Svava was gone. Wren lay in bed, her eyes still shut, drawing slow calming breaths in. Perhaps she'd been careless, she thought to herself. She'd been lured into the sense of safety and comfort by the King's warmth - but she'd forgotten that, in this world, danger always lurked around!

Wren didn't sleep the rest of the night - but in the morning she still had no firm conviction on how to proceed about this issue.

She must have nodded off at the end, because the King's kisses, fluttering on her shoulder, woke her up, making her jolt and gasp.

"Forgive me, my heart," he murmured with remorse. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"You're forgiven," she said, turned around in his embrace, and wrapped her arms around his neck. "But you can apologise again."

The King's eyebrow did that very small jump up that Wren found so very arousing.

"What could I possibly do to earn my forgiveness?" he rumbled and caught her mouth greedily.

Wren opened her knees, accommodating his wide, heavy body, inviting him in. He kissed her cheekbone, and then her temple, and then his mouth travelled onto her throat.

"Kalbûna," he whispered raspily, his hands roaming her body greedily.

He'd only recently started calling her 'an enchantress,' which probably had something to do with how much more excitable her body had grown with pregnancy - given, it was entirely possible that she was just showing the effect he had on her more openly now that they were in Erebor, and she knew he was hers, and she was his.

Wren slid her palm down his body, from his waist onto his right hip - and then her hand travelled left.

"I wonder, I wonder," she sing-songed - and he crushed his mouth into hers.

Her worries - about Svava, and the keys, and the safe box, and the unknown papers - would have to wait.