Hobbit 1. Chapter 1

_**Thorin the Wanderer **_

_Fan Fiction based on Peter Jacksons 2012 "The Hobbit" part I. _

_Sources and influences: The Prose & Poetic Eddas, "The Tolkien Reader", " Sir Gawain & the Green Knight, Pearl & Sir Orfeo" modern translations by J.R.R. Tolkien, "Smith of Wooton Major & Farmer Giles of Ham", "The Silmarilion" and "Unfinished Tales" by J.R.R. Tolkien . Also Peter Jackson's film interpretation of "The Hobbit"_

_I have no claim to the writings of J.R.R. Tolkien (although he possessed my most sublime devotion and respect) or to Jackson's film. __**This Son of Thrain**__ is not the character from Tolkien's wonderful children's tale; he's an entirely __adult__ character and I want to dedicate this little variation to my FF friends, Saraleee, Valeera, Caranaraf and Tristan's Lady Hawk for inspiring me. This tale is set prior to the start of The Hobbit. May the Valar forgive my dark and filthy mind - but this tale is rated M for a reason! _

_PS: I don't know any Dwarvish so be charitable to me!_

_Music: Str8voices interpretation of "Far Over the Misty Mountains Cold"_

Some folk we never forget/ Some kind we never forgive/ Haven't seen the end of it yet/ We'll fight as long as we live.

The rain had changed as he wandered in the wilderness. At first it was a soft fog-like mist - almost imperceptible- then a heavier drizzle, then a storm and now it was sheets of water, crashing down in the icy darkness. He'd once heard a mortal complain that rain and snow together were a bad omen, but the fears and notions of men meant little to him. He was of the house of Durin.

Lightning flashed and for a moment the light transformed the rain into a flowing curtain of silver white mithril in his eyes. He was back in Erebor in possession of his birthright, not wandering like a beggar in distant realms, disenfranchised and despairing. Thorin pulled his cloak more closely about him. The heavy snows glittered in the light of another flash of lightning, like mountains of diamonds & crystals from the treasure halls of his grandfather Thror. But Thorin wasn't in his grandfather's halls, he was wandering in the land known as Minhiriath east and south of Ered Luin, and the driving wind and rain had numbed his hands and feet, he knew that soon he'd have to find shelter. As a dwarf he had good night vision, and over the next rill, Thorin spied a large old stone structure. An ancient building - possibly once built by the Sea Faring men from the far west, or possibly by Elves - but it had been long abandoned and had been reclaimed for a more practical use. Light streamed out of the small arched windows, and the subtle shadow of smoke from a chimney brushed against the dark clouds. The storm had disoriented him and he'd need to get his bearings. He'd have to humiliate himself and beg a place by the fire, but at least he was alone – none of his people would have to witness his shame.

As he approached the structure he noticed runic script over the lintel of the door. "Observe the passage before passing through" inscribed in Westron, Sindarin, and to his surprise - in Khuzdul (Dwarvish). Thorin looked about and smiled inwardly as he approached the door – over the cry of the wind and the distant rumble of thunder Thorin called out the runic inscription in a deep resonant voice and pounded the door with his gloved fist. A few moments later he heard the door being unbolted. Light streamed out onto the snow and ice.

A small mortal woman scarcely as tall as Thorin stood at the door. She wore a simple linen smock and a dark green kirtle and her thick reddish brown hair was loosely braided down her back. Large dark green eyes set in an oval face, peered out at him. The Dwarf prince and the mortal stared at each other with some surprise but after a moment she remembered herself and greeted her unexpected guest.

"Well met traveler – be welcome in my poor house." she spoke quietly.

"Peace to the hall." Thorin replied, his voice sounding far louder and harsher than he'd intended, as he passed through the door. He looked about and saw a well-kept but simple room with a warm broad hearth. A large copper kettle was suspended over the fire and an iron cooking cauldron sat amongst the banked coals. A heavy table stood in the center of the room and a worn but carefully mended and comfortable chair had been pulled close to the fire. Against one wall he noted a cabinet with platters, bowls, jars and simple goblets. A loaf of bread and a bowl of apples sat on the sideboard next to a jug of mead.

Thorin had been too busy looking about to remember his manners "Call me Eikenskjaldi – I – I ask for shelter from the storm." He stuttered.

"Morwen Broddasdottir, widow of Gerion the smith, at your service, Oak wielder." She smiled as she moved to the hearth and carefully removed the kettle from the fire, poured hot water into a large bowl and collected a clean linen towel from the sideboard. Thorin removed his cloak and gloves, they was soaked through. Morwen took them and hung them to dry by the fire as Thorin washed his face and hands. The hot water was welcomed and he felt refreshed even though he was a bit embarrassed at the name he'd given to his hostess – but then again he hadn't expected her to understand it. Dwarves rarely blush but he could always blame the hot water. He bent to remove his boots and set them by the hearth.

"Khazaddi ei vinwyru se'du."

Thorin spun about in a state of some shock **"What did you say?"**

"_Lord, please sit by the fire_." Morwen appeared embarrassed. "I meant no offence… I learned a little of the language of Durin's folk. My late husband often traded with the Kh - with the Mountain people." Nervously, she arranged a sheepskin over the chair by the hearth.

"I - I don't often expect to hear my language spoken by... by strangers." Thorin retorted. He felt distraught; he knew he'd reacted badly to her courtesy. Sullenly, he took the seat and frowned into the fire as she poured mead into a goblet. Passing the cup to him without a word, she busied herself stirring a ladle in the cooking cauldron, her face tense and drawn in the firelight. He glanced at her as he sipped from the goblet – it was good mead, sweet and strong.

"Your voice was pitched too high." Thorin commented quietly after a few minutes, and Morwen glanced up from the fire – "To speak the noble tongue - your voice needs to be more sonorous – deeper."

"I'll remember that." She smiled at him. Thorin smiled back.

….

Morwyn offered 'Eikenskjaldi' some small sweet cakes and more mead as she warmed the stew in the cauldron. Thorin watched her, savouring the honey wine, he mentioned that he'd been traveling from the north, but the storm had surprised him. She nodded quietly as he spoke of the Sorrows of the Dwarfs of the Lonely Mountain and he noticed that she listened without either the condescension or the false pity that he'd seen in the faces of so many others. She listened and seemed genuinely grieved at what he'd said.

"As far as you know…" she asked "Thrane's Son - who guided the survivors out of Erebor - he fought at Azanulbizar? - And he is well?"

Thorin found it rather strange to hear himself mentioned in the third person like this, but he paused and nodded. "Many did not return from that place." She looked into the fire, contemplating this news. He was impressed that a mortal maid would know or even care about this. Thorin had grown bitter and cynical over such 'expressions of sympathy' but what he saw in the young widow's eyes struck him as genuine – there was unfeigned compassion there and it moved him.

Soon a plain meal of vegetable stew, brown bread with butter and honey, a little goat cheese and apples was set before the mysterious traveler who called himself Eikenskjaldi. Some might call it a common peasant's meal but Thorin knew it was the best she had. He had quite a reputation for pride but he knew he could never be offended by this offering. They spoke little as he ate. She saw he was hungry and didn't trouble him with questions and he was grateful for the moments of companionable stillness – occasionally commenting that the bread was good - and he would enjoy more cheese and apples. Later as he used a heel of bread to sop up the last bits of stew from his bowl, she quietly refilled the kettle, hung it over the fire and prepared some dry leaved in a small ceramic pot. Once the kettle was hot she lifted it from the hook and poured the water into the ceramic container, then covered it with a neatly fitted lid.

Warm and momentarily sated, he turned to look at her. "What are you making now, good hostess?" he asked, remembering his manners as he spoke.

She turned and smiled shyly at him. "My late husband was considered a fine blacksmith - for a mortal man - and his work was popular as far as Bree and Hollin to Fairborough in the south. He was often paid in trade rather than coin for his crafts. I grew to love this drink, it's popular with the Halflings - they called it 'tea'…would you like some?"

"No – I would be glad of any ale if you have it." Thorin was starting to feel the effect of the surprisingly potent mead – and the last thing that he wanted to be was a drunken Dwarf. Ale would affect him less, he imagined.

"I'll see if I have anything worthy…"

She reached past him to collect his plates – and as he put his goblet down his arm accidently brushed against her breast. For a moment he caught her scent - something akin to honey and musk - and he felt dizzy, hot and painfully distracted. He tried to compose himself as she - blushing - busied herself with the crockery, and tried not to contemplate the level of desperation that he was starting to feel. This was dangerous temptation.

Morwen hurried to the back room on the other side of the hearth, to the pantry and storerooms. She took great gulps of air to try to calm herself down as she opened a small tight window in the pantry and carefully placed the plates just outside in a pile of snow. In the morning they could be wiped clean. She had to find something for him to drink but she knew she'd need to stick with tea. She would have to try to control herself. This Dwarf was one of the most beautiful creatures she'd ever seen and although the legends said that it was the Elves that were fair to behold, she had to wonder if some storyteller had gotten it wrong. Still, it was true that she'd never seen an Elf. She glanced in the storeroom and saw that there was still some the dark rich malted ale that she hoped he'd like. The idea that she might be able to seduce him distracted her and she tried to cast it out of her mind, but it only lodged itself firmly in her imagination. She wanted to stroke his long soft hair and caress his beard, to feel herself wrapped in his strong arms. Surely it wasn't wrong – to imagine him touching her - kissing her? Morwen tried again to focus on proper and courteous behavior rather than her own hunger and her erotic fantasies, as she filled a large flagon of ale.

Thorin stared into the fire. The light reflected in his brilliant blue eyes, making them sparkle like the richest sapphires. He had a strong sharp face with a prominent, angular nose and an expressive sensual mouth - with just a hint of cruelty. His hair was long and deep brownish black - almost the color of jet, threaded with silver in places. Being a fairly young Dwarf, he had a short and subtle beard. He was a warrior prince and his body was well muscled, reflecting his skills and experiences. A hard life fighting and striving with Orcs, Wargs and even with the hated Wyrm, yet this paled when compared to the day to day horror of trying to survive utterly disenfranchised and abandoned - in a world with few allies, no rest or food and the constant battle with the great and terrible monster - Despair.

It was Despair that had sapped the will of so many of his people. It had scarred Thorin in ways he dared not consider, and now in the midst of this storm - a stranger - a mortal had welcomed him into her home. A mortal woman … oh Mahal save him! She'd greeted him with the free and open generosity of the Dwarf Lords out of legend. She had no treasure - no mounds of gems or gold - but she'd offered him food and shelter, made him welcome and safe with a warm place to rest. She demanded nothing from him, she gave him neither pompous pity nor cruel contempt. She'd welcomed him and now he was trying not to contemplate just how much he wanted her.

Perhaps because she'd asked so little of him –perhaps because she had tried to speak the noble tongue to address him, welcoming him when he'd feared that he'd have no welcome anywhere… He'd focused on being strong for the sake of his people, thinking of them first and foremost – he'd been brave and selfless for so many others and for so long - the thought of acting on his own desires - giving in to his own interests and needs made him feel both blissfully intoxicated and desperately hungry. He closed his eyes, imagining what it might feel like to not always have to be strong – to do just what _he _wanted - for once.

After a few minutes he heard a noise. Opening his eyes he looked around. Morwen was standing by the sideboard, her back to him, pouring ale from the flagon into a tankard. He wondered how long she'd been in the room.

"Thank you for the ale." Thorin said softly, watching her as she brought him the tankard. His eyes never left her as she moved about the room even as he swallowed the ale quickly - too quickly.

Morwen tried not to look at her guest until she felt in better control of her emotions. When she'd returned from the storeroom, her guest had his closed, his eyes and his face reflected an unguarded sense of rapture, his lips moving so slightly so sweetly that she found it hard to resist the desire to reach over and touch him - kiss his beautiful face…but she needed to control herself. She put the flagon of ale on the sideboard and poured herself some tea. She made an effort to stop her hands from shaking.

"Oak Wielder - would you like to play a game?" she asked "I know of no songs that might amuse you or tales that you have not heard before, but we may play a game of 'King in the Corner' if you wish?"

He laughed quietly "You know the game?" He'd played 'King in the Corner' on a board carved from alabaster with game pieces of emeralds and rubies when he was scarcely able to walk.

"I don't play it well - but I would be happy to learn from your skill…"

He nodded.

Eager as any child she went to fetch the game. From a small box she pulled out a flat cloth of checkered squares and the games pieces - eight small smooth white stones - the defenders, sisteen black or brown stones - the attackers and the tall King carved from a larger chunk of quartz. He moved from the chair and laid out the cloth on the table. She refilled his tankard as he sorted out the pieces.

"You shall be king." She spoke, pulling to stools closer to the table. They sat and he arranged the king and his crew in the center while she set the attackers in blocks of four on each side of the checkered cloth. Soon by the firelight the Dwarf Prince of Erebor and the young smith's widow played an ancient game. Thorin had the advantage at first, but she was a far cleverer player than he'd imagined. He took the first round and she the second. The third round was close fought…she starred at the board, trying to calculate the best moves, as he, trembling, watched her. When he moved to protected the king, she gazed at him, her lips slightly parted. Soon only a few pieces were left in play.

"What would you risk to save your king?" she asked him as she started to move her pieces closer.

"Anything." He murmured in an impossibly deep voice.

The last piece was set – "The king is forfeit" she whispered as she reached to take the quarz shape, but his hand was faster. He caught her hand in his. "No - **I** am forfeit."

Eikenskjaldi." She spoke her voice quiet low and he felt his pulse race when he heard her. He leaned forward and kissed her full on the mouth, his tongue tracing the edges of her lips.

To Be Continued ...


	2. Chapter 2

_**Thorin the Wanderer **_

_Fan Fiction based on Peter Jacksons 2012 "The Hobbit" part I. _

_Sources and influences: The Prose & Poetic Eddas, "The Tolkien Reader", " Sir Gawain & the Green Knight, Pearl & Sir Orfeo" modern translations by J.R.R. Tolkien, "Smith of Wooton Major & Farmer Giles of Ham", "The Silmarilion" and "Unfinished Tales" by J.R.R. Tolkien . Also Peter Jackson's film interpretation of "The Hobbit"_

_**I want to especially thank and dedicate this little variation to my FF friends, Saraleee, Valeera, Caranaraf and Tristan's Lady Hawk for inspiring me. May the Valar forgive my dark and filthy mind - but this tale is rated M for a reason! **_

Some folk we never forget/ Some kind we never forgive/ Haven't seen the end of it yet/ We'll fight as long as we live.

"What would you risk to save your king?" She asked him as she started to move her pieces closer.

"Anything." He murmured in an impossibly deep voice.

The last piece was set – "The king is forfeit" she whispered as she reached to take the quartz shape, but his hand was faster. He caught her hand in his. "No - **I** am forfeit."

"Eikenskjaldi." She spoke her voice quiet low and he felt his pulse race when he heard her. He leaned forward and kissed her full on the mouth, his tongue tracing the edges of her lips.

She slipped one hand up very gently to his shoulder and pulled him closer as she tilted her head slightly to deepen the kiss. He held her other hand in his and moved it slowly towards his beard. Her lips softly parted and he gently teased her as his tongue explored her mouth. She pressed close to him reveling in the feeling of her breasts pressed so close against him and in the sweet moist aching sensation growing between her thighs. Thorin felt her slender fingers start to caress his beard and it sent an electric pulse through his body, heightening his arousal - he moaned softly into her mouth and she began to shudder. His eyes were black with desire but he pulled away from her kiss for a moment even as he pulled her hips closer to him.

"Do you consent?" He half growled, half moaned starring into her eyes – his breath came hot and hungry, but it was a part of Khazad culture than no lover should ever feel forced into intimacy - that no matter ones state of desire - should the partner express any discomfort or doubt then the lover must control himself. Luckily Morwen had no doubts whatsoever.

"Gladly I consent…and I pray you continue."

While it might not sound terribly romantic, Morwen remembered when she had overheard this sort of wooing practiced by a loving dwarf couple - Lif and Gerda were their names. She remembered how kind Gerda had been to her, and how Lif would often gaze at his bride as if she was a magical living gem. Trade with the Dwarves of the more southern regions of the Misty Mountains was not uncommon then, and Gerion had made the dwarf traders welcome.

It was exactly what Eikenskjaldi needed to hear. He stared into her eyes and Morwen felt that she could drown in those deep blue - black pools. With a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan, he began to kiss her throat and the tender skin just under her ear. Eikenskjaldi could feel her heart beating and the blood racing in her veins and it excited him. She felt his erection close against her belly still trapped inside his trews as he kissed her and she ran her hand down his back, holding him firm against her. His hands make quick work of removing the broaches on her simple gown and she was soon standing, her kirtle pooled on the floor, in only her linen shift. Morwen struggled to untie his blue jerkin, but her fingers were trembling too much.

"Come to the bed…"

Over the hearth, Gerion had built a loft that was always warmed by the fire - a cozy place to sleep. A small ladder -only a few steps really- was jointed securely against the side of the hearth at a slight angle. They separated as Eikenskjaldi stripped his jerkin over his head and Morwen pulled her kirtle away from the fireplace. She gazed at his torso as she loosened her braid slightly - he was magnificently muscled. She noticed scars on him that she knew a blacksmith would not often incur. She thought again of the Sorrows of the Dwarves and her heart ached.

In the firelight Thorin saw through the thin shift, her firm ample breasts, trim waist and swelling hips. The ruddy curling hairs at the delta between her legs mesmerized him and he shook involuntarily, staring at her. She pulled his hand and led him to the loft. He held her face and kissed her hungrily before she raced up the ladder and he was only a step behind her. The bedroom consisted of a broad low bed piled with blankets, a knotted rag rug and two small chests. The bed was close to the wall of the hearth and was warm but Morwen still trembled as Eikenskjaldi approached her, gently slipping his hungry hands across her breasts. The linen of her shift was so thin and worn that he thought it might well melt under his touch. She slipped off her shift - her skin shivering with chill and hunger, and as she pulled it over her head her braid came undone. Eikenskjaldi was sweating profusely. He ran his hands over her body, her breasts, her belly, down to her hips and under her buttocks, drawing her close to him just before they fell onto the bed. His hands and mouth roved over her body, slowly… desperately. Hers eyes felt heavy with her hunger and her lips were swollen where she'd anxiously licked and bit them in erotic torment. Eikenskjaldi slipped his fingers between her thighs, stroking her quim - seeing her quiver with anticipation as his fingertips glided, only just touching her. She thought she couldn't bear the intense need that racked her. He knew better.

He was still half-dressed, his cock straining at his leggings in a wonderful throbbing agony. He _must_ have her - _must_ fuck her, must feel her impaled on him - her orgasm shuddering around him while he spent himself in her - he _must! _ He fumbled with his trews – pulled at the laces, and his cock was soon free. It was true what people said about dwarfs and their _powerful hammers_ –she was impressed. He groaned as he stroked his cock - sliding his thumb over the head - gritting his teeth. She arched her hips up to him and wrapped her legs around his, her heels digging into the back of his thighs, moving with him as he rammed into her passionately. She murmured as he caressed her body with his hands, kissing and sucking her breasts, the feel of his tongue on her nipples sending jolts of electricity to her groin. And as he moved slowly against her, each deep, long stroke caressing her -she stretched and arched her back, giving him absolute control of her body. He bent his dark head to her breast and sucked and tongued her nipple as he thrust deep and hard inside her. Her nerves were on fire. He gasped feeling every muscle within her contracted and pulsed around his cock, sucking him deep into her, caressing him. Feverishly he slid his hands down to her hips, his fingernails digging desperately into the soft flesh of her buttocks. She would not take much of this, he knew, and he did not hold back. Moving himself within her, he pulled back and thrust, savoring in a delicious animal way the sensation of his cock inside her, and he groaned again, tormented, as buried at his deepest, the muscle of his buttocks and belly working desperately. Erotic need overwhelmed her and her eyes closed - the effort to keep them open was too much. He rammed into her hard, trying to get ever closer into her until the intense sensation in his body became too much, the muscles of his ass contracted and on a wave of sheer ecstasy, he pumped his release deep and hard inside her, with a strangled moan that swelled and could not be contained, a wracking quake in her body that became a sublime convulsion around his cock, and their voices joined in cries and groans of perfect satisfaction.

Stunned and blissfully sated, Eikenskjaldi and the widow curled up under the heavy blankets to sleep. Outside the rain - having long since turned to a heavy wet snow – covered the land.

Thorin slept deeply. In reflection he wondered when he's slept so well, maybe not since his childhood in Erebor when he was a small child with neither worries nor responsibilities. Morwen was warm against him and the bed was comfortably low and broad. The warmth from the hearth gently heated the loft without making it feel stifling. He stirred and reveled in the unexpected sensation of a welcoming pliable female in his arms, then stretched and dozed again. Morwen rolled over, took Eikenskjaldi's hand from her hip, kissed it and slipped from the bed. He opened his eyes again and muttered "No… come back..." yawning.

"I need to light the fire." Wrapped loosely in an old bedrobe, she slipped down from the loft. Shortly she had a small but cheery fire in the hearth. She rinsed herself quickly with warm water from the kettle, then dried and scurried up to dress.

"What sort of a wicked hostess are you?" came a deep voice from the bed – and from under the piles of covers strong hand callused from years of smithcraft (and warfare) pulled her back to the bed…

She laughed.

"Now that's better …"


	3. Chapter 3

_**Thorin the Wanderer **_

"What sort of a wicked hostess are you?" came a deep voice from the bed – and from under the piles of covers strong hands callused from years of smith craft (and warfare) pulled her back to the bed…

She laughed.

"Now that's better …"

Morwen toasted bread by the fire as Eikenskjaldi dressed. They ate apples, toast and some cheese from the night before as well as warm cider and tea. Once breakfast was finished Morwen glanced out the window. A heavy snow had covered the area and the wind had made curious snowdrifts. The snow has stopped but the sky was still gray and menacing. She went to the door unbolted it and carefully opened it and half laughed to see the snow piled up about two feet against the door. Thorin stared at the drifting snow and walked past her as she grabbed a broom to knock the snow away from the passage. He was suddenly aware of how dangerous the weather had been the night before.

"Let me." He spoke, as took the broom and knocked the snow away - it was heavy and quite dense and he felt an additional thrill in reflecting on how 'pleasantly' he'd spent that evening. As he glanced out over the terrain that he'd traveled the day before he noted that there was no way of tracking his passage. He pulled the door closed and turned to Morwen, quietly stroked her cheek and smiled at her gently. Then he donned his boots, cloak and gloves. "I want to look about - but I'll return soon…" he assured her.

Thorin stepped out of the house and started working his way towards a small copse of trees near some wetlands. The snow was thick heavy and icy - but he was careful as he walked and he could move with some stealth when he chose. Amongst the willows, near a place where the river pooled into a marshy fen, he spotted something interesting - quite interesting…

Morwen smiled as Eikenskjaldi stepped out into the snow. Looking out at the sky she whispered a voiceless prayer to Aule -the Valar of Smiths, and Yavanna; Mahan, beloved deity of the Dwarves and his bride, the Lady of the Fruitful Earth. She was grateful for the unexpected joy that she felt at that moment, and she dreaded that it would not last very long.

"Better not to pray that sacrifice in excess … gifts often tend to return."

Morwen busied herself, straightening the blankets in the loft and tiding the dishes from the last meals. She'd dressed in a clean shift and a rust colored kirtle and ran a comb through her hair. She heated water in the kettle and saw that they had eaten the last of the stew from the cooking cauldron. She pulled it from the hearth and carried it to the door. Tossing on a long heavy coat and simple mittens, she took the cauldron outside and rubbed it with snow. Once it was clean she brought it back in.

She then went out to examine the bathhouse. Gerion had constructed it once he'd discovered the hot springs – he'd imagined that whoever had originally built the hall must have known about it. but time and neglect had obscured the original spring. He's made a small dome shaped structure over the spring. Morwen peered in, and waves of heavy steam poured out of the small neatly sealed door. She remembered how often Gerion would rest here after hours working at the forge. Morwen smiled sadly, thinking about Gerion, he'd been a good man. She'd mourned his loss and still often thought of him wistfully.

The pale cool morning gradually turned to a deep chill and by the afternoon the grey skies began to snow - not a heavy snow, but a cold and bitter, wind filled storm. Morwen hoped against hope that the Oak wielder would stay her guest for a little longer. Since her husband's death she grown used to a solitary life, but the company of the beautiful dwarf was an unexpected delight to her.

Thorin carefully crept near the marshes. Amongst the trees he found the signs of wild pheasants. He'd recognized evidence of their nests amongst the undergrowth and bracken beneath the trees. He'd learned to hunt in his youth - before the coming of the Wyrm. _Then_ hunting was a sport - only later had it become a matter of survival. Quietly, he pulled out his slingshot. He found himself pondering many things as he waited carefully at the edges of the fens…

Of the survivors of Erebor – many had settled in Ered Luin, or had gone to live in the Iron Mountains with D'ain Ironfoot. So many had suffered and died on the 'Tearful March' the long terrible trek from the halls of his ancestors, past the Misty Mountains on into Eriador. And even more had perished at Azanulbizar - Thorin had seen his brother and his sister's spouse cut down by the Orc hoards. It had been the bitterest of victories - tears beyond the count of grief ….

The Royal house of Durin had 'returned to the Anvil' rather than beg their bread in the halls of lesser princes or potentates and the other survivors of the Lonely Mountain had done likewise. Balin, Thorin's most faithful and closest advisor - had told him many times that he'd helped to make a good life for his people – and that this life was worth more than all the stolen treasures of the Lonely Mountain. Thorin had his doubts – at times he felt something inside him growing bitter and twisted as he thought of the loss of Erebor. Not just the treasures, but the loss of life, the humiliation and the suffering of generations of his people gnawed at his pride. Yet at other times he felt nothing but a longing to be free of the crushing responsibilities that he owed to his family and to his folk. He was the heir of Durin, but sometimes he wondered if there was _anything_ to inherit. What was expected, demanded, required of a prince without a kingdom?

Once he'd gotten closer to the nesting flock, he'd flushed out the pheasants, and carefully pulled the cord of his slingshot taunt and released the small sharp stones. Six pheasants flew up but only two managed to pass beyond the tree tops. The wind started to rise and Thorin felt a chill as small icy snow flakes stung his cheeks. After he'd collected his catch – the Oak wielder started back to the widow's house.

Morwen heard a fist pounding on the door. She opened it to see Eikenskjaldi brandishing four plump pheasants - and he laughed at her surprised face.

She smiled, "I'll make a feast tonight for the multi skilled Oak wielder - a feast worthy of a king!"


	4. Chapter 4

_**Thorin the Wanderer **_

Morwen heard a fist pounding on the door. She opened it to see Eikenskjaldi brandishing four plump pheasants - and he laughed at her surprised face.

She smiled, "I'll make a feast tonight for the multi skilled Oak wielder - a feast worthy of a king!"

A shadow seemed to pass over Thorin's face. Morwen didn't comment at first - she collected the pheasants, laid them on the table, then she offered her guest a tankard of ale and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. She paused and considered what she'd said, and then commented quietly as he took the ale from her - "Hail to Thror – may he sit in high honor in the great halls of Mahal." Thorin bowed his head gently at her statement – he found that he no longer felt odd when she spoke occasionally in Khuzdul. Her Khuzdul was becoming quite comforting and familiar to him.

"Did you ever visit Erebor… or see Thror? Or Thrain? " he asked.

"No… no… Mortals lives are as brief as candles in comparison to some in Middle Earth. The sufferings of the folk of the Lonely Mountain – that was all before I was born. I've never seen any of Thror's kin, but I have heard stories. Did you ever see them?"

"Yes - at a distance…" It wasn't _really_ a lie, Thorin thought.

Morwen smiled at him. "I want to show you something - Come with me…" she pulled on her coat and took Thorin to see the bathhouse. "It's a natural hot spring…You can relax while I prepare the pheasants - then after we eat, maybe you could tell me about Erebor – if it's not too painful for you." Morwen watched her guest's reaction to the simple bathhouse – he seemed to be pleased, but in fact Thorin was completely surprised and delighted.

They both scurried back to the house. She began to skin one of the birds as Eikenskjaldi stripped off his clothes in the loft. She put down her knife and he, laughing, tossed his damp clothes to her, and she set them by the fire. Clad only in his boots and a heavy hooded coat Thorin grabbed a linen towel and ran to the bathhouse. The very thought of a long Yzbah (hot steam bath) made him feel giddy and strangely nostalgic. Dwarven culture celebrated bathing as a deeply social and very sacred event. There had been steam chambers and elaborate saunas and hot springs honeycombing the palace at Erebor, the walls of those bathing chambers were often magnificent caverns with elaborately luminously veined rock walls sparkling with quarts fissures. While the remnants of the folk of the Lonely Mountain who had now settled in Ered Luin had naturally established multiple springs, wells and baths in their new home – but it seemed to him to have never been quite the same.

Inside the plain low domed stone structure was a central depression where the hot steamy spring water splashed into a carefully smoothed rock pool. One might bathe in the pool or rest on the two long wooden benches on either side of the room. The roof was set with a number of heavy partially translucent quartz panels. Once the bathhouse door was closed, the room was dim - but not completely dark. Thorin pulled the door to, and dragged off his boots and stripped off the heavy coat. He noticed a jug, a small container and a comb on a shelf. As he relaxed on the bench enjoying the heavy steam, he slipped the metallic beads from his braids and deposited them on the shelf, ran his fingers through his hair then gently worked the comb through his thick locks. In the heavy steamy atmosphere Thorin's mind wandered…he reflected on his grandfather's pride, remembering how Thror had worn a rope of mithril beads set with moonstones, labradorite and opals braided into his broad silver white beard. He sighed and shrugged, quietly trying to remember his grandfather in the splendor of his court rather that the grotesque desecrated head befouled by Azog. He knew that his grandfather really wore those gems to mock and provoke Thranduil, the Elven lord of Mirkwood. It was well understood that the vain Elf king loved the iridescent shimmer of opals above all other jewels and their ever changing colors were reminiscent of the light of the magnificent Arkenstone – a carbuncle so stunningly brilliant and remarkable that it seemed to flash gold/blue/green/lavender and snow white all at once. The Arkenstone - _the Heart of the Mountain_ - was suspended in a luminous frame over the Dwarf kings throne. It was far more perfect than any crown; proof of the sacred right of his family to rule - but on another level it spoke of the rights of all the Dwarves to demand respect and honor for their skills and labors. The Elves had failed to show proper respect and had failed to assist his people in the terrible aftermath of the coming of Smaug. To Thorin the Dwarves were proud and wealthy and the Elves were proud and faithless - -"Pride" he realized could be as comforting as a warm bath, or as dangerous as a knife's edge.

He stepped into the hot bubbling water and sighed with satisfaction.

Over an hour later, Thorin left the bathhouse, having steamed and bathed himself until his skin was a rosy pink hue and he'd washed and oiled his long dark hair. The wind was starting to blow the icy flakes about wildly. He knocked on the door then entered the hall. The rich fragrant odor of pheasants baking in honey filled the room and his clothes were dry and folded away. He glanced up to see Morwen looking very lovely in a simple but elegant dark green gown. She smiled at him and her smile was somehow terrible and beautiful and shattering - a smile that expected nothing, demanded nothing and offered everything. As he looked at her, something in his chest began to ache…it wasn't love or even lust really, he later thought, it was something both spiritual and primal and heartbreaking all at once.

"I have mulled wine for you, dear Eikenskjaldi." She said, offering him a heavy pewter goblet.

And for that moment, he was no longer Thorin, The Heir of Durin, an Exiled Prince under the Mountain, burdened with responsibilities and duties to his people and to his forefathers. He was no longer tortured with guilt and rage at the falseness of allies and the furious desire to get revenge on the Wyrm.

At that moment he was simply Eikenskjaldi, a wanderer who had sought shelter from the storm and discovered the most dangerous thing he could have ever imagined - but had never faced in his life…

_Peace. _


	5. Chapter 5

**Authors note: **

**I wish to express my sincere thanks for all the kind and gracious comments that so many people have offered me over this little story. I have realized to my chagrin, that I had not mentioned the Voluspa or the Dvergatal in my list of influences for this tale, and I must correct that now. I also wish to apologize about not updating this as regularly as I ought to, but mundane life can get in the way sometimes…**

**Thanks to everyone especially to my FF chums Caranaraf and Tristan's Lady Hawk who must be blamed for first introducing me to a certain painfully beautiful actor named Richard. I must also offer praise to the inspirational prose of Cellotlix and her epic tale "The Toymaker and the Widow".**

_**YORK FOREVER!**_

_**Loyaulte me lie.**_

_**EoC**_

_**Thorin the Wanderer **_

And for that moment, he was no longer Thorin, The Heir of Durin, an Exiled Prince under the Mountain, burdened with responsibilities and duties to his people and to his forefathers. He was no longer tortured with guilt and rage at the falseness of allies and the furious desire to get revenge on the Wyrm.

At that moment he was simply Eikenskjaldi, a wanderer who had sought shelter from the storm and discovered the most dangerous thing he could have ever imagined - but had never faced in his life…

_Peace. _

Eikenskjaldi leaned over and gave Morwen a sweet and sloppy kiss, took the goblet from her, took a sip, and passed it back. He rushed up to the loft, stripped off the coat and tossed on a loose long tunic robe. He came back down and sat on the chair by the hearth, stretching his legs out towards the fire.

"Your late husband made that bathhouse?" he asked.

"He rediscovered the hot springs and cleaned it out - he knew that Khazad travelers would appreciate it. Gerion loved to trade with the merchants and he wanted to keep them happy."

"Was he Khazad?" He asked quietly. This sort of thing sometimes happened - a Dwarf might occasionally take a mortal woman as a mate - but it rarely ended well, as mortals lived such brief lives.

Morwen sighed and half laughed at the curious suggestion "No. Gerion was quite tall - at least as tall as the Seafaring men from the West - he towered over me. People used to laugh sometimes to see us together. We went to Bree once and a friend made a drawing of the two of us as a gift… I'll show you." She went to the sideboard and found a small shallow jointed wooden box. She offered it to her guest, as she poured more warm wine into his cup.

Inside the frame box was a sketch on smooth velum of a very tall, well-muscled man with an open, friendly, beardless face. He was standing, his arm affectionately wrapped around a small woman whose hair was loose about her shoulders, she wore a wreath of posies like a mayday crown. It was clearly a good rendition of Morwen, he could easily recognize her face and her quiet gentle smile. Eikenskjaldi could also guess at what Gerion must have looked like, the man's dark hair was cut very short and his nose looked slightly bent - as if he'd once broken it. They both looked happy - but terribly mismatched he thought.

"Was he kind to you?"

"Yes - he was very sweet to me, and I hope I made him happy. He was attacked by thieves somewhere on the Old South road from Fairborough - about eight months ago."

There was a brief pause while she examined the baked pheasants. The food was ready and she began to prepare the items on a large platter. Eikenskjaldi brooded, sipping the warm wine as he continued to look at the image. Morwen sorted out plates, bowls, platters, cutlery and goblets and arranged the meal. Baked pheasant with potatoes, mushrooms turnips & carrots, a bowl of dried fruits nuts and raisins, and bread with raspberry jam, butter and honey filled the table, and wine, mead and sweet cider were set on the sideboard.

Eikenskjaldi moved from the hearth and went to the table, looked at the widow and raised his goblet – "To Gerion the Smith - friend to the dwarves - peace, and to Morwen the Fair - his widow - a long and happy life." He emptied the cup as she bowed. She raised her goblet of mead and returned the toast, "Peace to the shade of my husband. Joy and justice to the proud Khazad, and may Eikenskjaldi always be welcome in my house."

They ate. The pheasants that he'd caught were not ideally plump but still good, and the preserved oranges, pears and raisins were refreshing and sweet. After a while she prepared more of the hobbit drink "tea" and it dawned on him that he''d enjoy a pipe, so as she took the plates away he went up to the loft where he'd stored his pack. He pulled out a simple pipe carved from polished oak and bone and a small bag of pipeweed.

He sat in the old chair by the fire and lit his pipe as she poured tea for herself and filled a tankard of ale for him. She perched on one of the smaller stools and he spoke to her of Erebor. "The halls of the Kings chamber were massive walls of solid, brilliant Apatite, Celestine and Agua Aura with seams of Blue topaz and Sodalite. To my eyes it was more beautiful than I could possibly describe. The light of the blue stones shone pure and perfect - more brilliant than a clear sky on midsummer's day. The carved images of Durin the Deathless and the first Seven fathers of the Dwarf lords gazed out from the walls in pride and dignity The tall pathways approaching the king's seat were of highly polished green stone - malachite and moldavite. Great Thror sat on his throne with the Heart of the Mountain over his head - as luminous as any star –and who could deny the honor of the house of Durin - _**the honor of the Khazad -**_ in that hall?"

He looked at her and he saw her eyes conjuring images of the shear walls of shining blue faultless stone from tip to top, end to end - and the glassy smooth walkways of dark green crystals.

"You see, the king - for all his pride - loved and cared for the glory of his people and the Arkenstone was a sign, of not only the power of Durin's kin - but for the respect owed to all the Dwarves… This my grandfather knew - and this I know for a fact." He continued.

"Did your grandfather know the Great Thror?" she said, quietly sipping her tea, her eyes downcast.

In his rapture he'd almost slipped - but he caught himself … "He was in the royal guard." _Once again it was not really a lie._

'Yes, I can well see that."

He went on about the beauty of the Mountain, the many halls, the caverns sparkling with light, of the pride and the skill of the Dwarves - their love of beauty in the earth, a love and appreciation that only they really understood. "It wasn't just about gold and gems and wealth. It was about respect – about faith and honor and loyalty- about keeping true to your word when it was given. You don't betray your oath and expect us to ignore it. You don't steal from us - from our labors and our lives. We will be avenged."

'Durin's Kin will be avenged." He heard her say quietly and deeply in her throat. For a moment he forgot where he was and to whom he was relaying this tale. He looked at her and saw her eyes full of tears and that her knuckles had whitened over her small tea cup. And he seemed to hear a voice from far away whispering –"This mortal has a dwarven soul."

Later that night as he rested in the bed they shared, his mind moved from sleep to wakefulness – he found himself touching her dreamily, and reflecting on the last few hours they had spent in each others arms in the dark. When she'd caressed him, all he could think about was how completely he wanted her, in spite of their passionate coupling the night before. This was a fever that didn't cool - it only grew hotter, a hunger that only became more ravenous once it was fed. He'd sought her mouth, growling with desire as his hands slid around her body, caressing her hips and breasts. He'd heard her moan, felt her body tremble at his touch and it had excited him. He'd felt her fingers trace his scars. He'd been shocked at how aroused this made him and how he wanted to cause her as much desire, as much hunger, and as much need as he felt at that moment. He'd slipped his hand to cup her breasts and gently fondle her nipples, while he heard her gasp between his hungry kisses. His own voice groaned with need, he felt her arch against his body and heard her breath grow more and more ragged. His cock had never felt so hard and the very thought of sliding into her made him feel feverish. She'd slipped her hands around his shaft and stroked him causing him to ache even more deeply. She sighed and opened her legs to him and he buried himself between her pale sweet thighs. She'd locked her legs around him and drew his buttocks to her trying to draw him even deeper. He'd trembled, feeling the furnace of her body, her muscles gripping him like a vice as he thrust with greater and greater urgency until he could endure no more and came inside her, crying out in his pleasure in Khuzdul.

Eikenskjaldi dozily reflected on all this while she lay sweet and prone in his arms – he felt her stir in her sleep - and his hunger roused him yet again.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Thorin the Wanderer **_

_**Please forgive my recent delay in updating this story. I hope to have more time to work on future sections very soon. **_

Eikenskjaldi woke the next morning, sleepily noticing that Morwen was still next to him, he was not alone in the bed. It was remarkably pleasant to feel her warmth. She rolled over, yawned and blinked at him. "I've overslept. I'd best get the fire started…"

"Don't go yet" he purred and drew her close. "I was wondering about your late husband's furnace …"

Morwen smirked. "My late husband's furnace - eh?" she rubbed her eyes. "The smithy should still be in good order - did you need to repair something? I'll unlock everything after breakfast."

"Are there any other iron smiths about - did Gerion take an apprentice?"

"No apprentice - he was talking to a farrier near Chetwood about the possibility of one of his sons coming to help out here - but that was before - before..." Morwen signed. "There's a smith in Great Wooton - but he's often traveling and some folks consider him _unreliable -_ he's a bit of a dreamer, but he's young, and I think he may come to something."

She stretched and curled up for a moment under the covers, then she willed herself out of the warm bed and shivering grabbed at her loose bed robe. "Rest while I light the fire – dear and welcome guest!"

The sun was shining brilliantly in the bright cold blue sky but the air was still bitterly chilly. Taking an iron ring of keys from a hook, Morwen and Eikenskjaldi walked out behind the hall. Beyond the bathhouse was a large grey stone structure, with a heavy locked door. The interior was blackened, but the forge - while cold, appeared to be in working order, the bellows was in good shape and the anvil was heavy broad and strong. Morwen unlocked various cabinets holding clean and carefully oiled and stored tools. The dwarf thought the layout to be fairly well maintained and practical - considering that it was set up for a mortal. There was a good supply of charcoal as well as copper and iron ore. He could get started.

She went back to the house and reviewed her supplies of foodstuffs. Dwarves have substantial appetites, and while there was enough barley to make pottage, she'd need to see the village miller about getting more flour ground. Eikenskjaldi's gift of the four pheasants had certainly helped out, but she would but she'd still need to manage carefully until the weather was better. There was still cider ale and mead, preserved fruits and vegetables, dried beef, salted fish and one last pheasant, but Morwen would need to look for eggs, oil, salt, cheese and milk soon. She brought up more wood from the storeroom and she straightened up, washing the plates and cups from the previous day and examining the leftover food. Once she'd finished, Morwen started the pottage - a mix of barley with the last of the vegetables and meat from the previous night's meal - cooking in a lidded clay pot amongst the embers. Then she decided that it was time to visit the bathhouse while Eikenskjaldi was still occupied at the furnace.

Thorin's long hair was pulled back and tied with a thick length of supple leather. The heat from the forge bathed his sweaty skin in a brilliant reddish golden glow. He'd stripped to a thin linen shirt under the solid leather apron; and he'd rolled his sleeves well up over his elbows. Muscles in his arms and torso bunched and pulsed with a vital - almost erotic - energy. He seemed truly in his natural element here, amongst the force and the fire. He pumped the bellows and stoked the furnace. Having vigorously brought the flames to a roar he put a length of iron into the heat. Then at the right time, almost instinctively he pulled it out and placing it on the anvil he pounded it rhythmically with his hammer. It felt good to abandon himself in the repetitive manual labor at the anvil. As almost all Dwarves had received some knowledge of smith craft as wee Dwarrowlings – such work could prove remarkably soothing.

Morwen had intended to ask Eikenskjaldi if he was satisfied with the smithy but she found herself staring at him stunned by his powerful grace at the anvil. His painful beauty made her heart hurt and erotic heat coil in her belly. This wanderer was too beautiful - and even with her delight from the past two nights - she blushed at her own thoughts as she gazed at him – without a word she turned and headed to the bathhouse. She didn't want to disturb him.

She entered the humid chamber, stripped off her coat, and sat on the bench until she was used to the heat - then after a few minutes she splashed into the hot water.

Some hours later Eikenskjaldi had finished at the forge. He dampened the fire in the furnace but made certain that it would take less time to prepare and heat when he wanted to use it again. His brow was dark with soot but he scooped snow onto his face and hands, feeling the heat of the furnace on his skin calmed suddenly by a refreshingly icy sharp sting. The force and the effort of the labor had calmed him and gave him a sense of stillness. For years he'd traveled from place to place, taking work wherever he could, avoiding the temptation of staying in any one location too long – tortured by the guilt and shame he felt for the loss of Erebor. While his sister Dis and her sons - his nephews - the last of his immediate family- were safe in the Dwarves colonies in the Blue Mountains, he felt he had to keep on the move. His frustration and fury had followed him from city to town and sometimes his rage would strengthening his arm - but almost as often he'd feel weighed down with dread and despair. Here he felt strangely quiet. He found this 'quiet' to be oddly liberating.

He walked to the house, opened the door and saw Morwen sitting by the fire, lost in thought and combing her long damp auburn hair. She wore a long loose gown and initially didn't react to his entrance as she was staring into the flames. His first thought on seeing her was that she ought to wear her hair in many long elegant braids as the Dwarf women did – it seemed to him to be a perfect choice for her. She glanced up, noticing him and smiled "I was dreaming - forgive me… Would you like Ale or Cider?"

"Cider." he smiled and she filled a goblet.

As she approached him she gently touched his ruddy damp cheek "How cold you are - shall I heat water?"

"No – you're wrong - I'm perfectly fine." He took the cup from her and steered her back to the fire. "I want to talk to you - will you let me comb your hair?"

She was a bit surprised at this charming request but was happy to agree. Relaxing on a sheepskin rug near the fire he sat behind her and gently ran the bone comb through her soft thick hair until it shone with the warmth of copper. He divided her hair into seven smaller sections and gently braided each section as he spoke.

"I'm a traveler - a wanderer - taking work where I can." He said and she gently nodded. "Wandering from place to place…But _if_ I were to wish to stay in this place - for a time - as an itinerant smith…" he paused "Might I stay here with you and use the forge? I promise that I'll compensate you…"

She listened carefully and paused before answering him. Her experiences with the Khazad merchants had taught her that Dwarves have no respect for rashness. Even though her answer to his request was crystal clear in her mind she waited to give weight to her words.

"You're free to stop and to stay here in your journeys… You may call yourself a wanderer but I know you, Eikenskjaldi. You'll return to your home - never despair - you're like a compass and you'll always be drawn back to the Lonely Mountain- I can hear it in your voice. While this hall is my home, you are always welcome here… I intend to go to the market in Thandlon if the weather is good tomorrow, as I'll need some supplies - you ought to come along and see what smith craft is wanted."

She turned to look at him, and the weight of the seven narrower braids rather than one long thick braid made her feel slightly light headed.

He looked at her. "You look…civilized now." He smirked, showing her a small silver mirror. "Be careful - I haven't bound them yet. You should use silver beads to clasp them - or carved gemstone beads."

She glanced into the mirror and laughed with embarrassment and delight. "I have no gems or silver beads… This style is too fair for a poor widow – but it is very fair indeed."

"Of course it is…It's civilized – it suits you."


	7. Chapter 7

_**Thorin the Wanderer**_

The next morning was cold but the day promised to be clear and bright. Eikenskjaldi and Morwen started off towards the closest village. The itinerant smith had dressed simply in his patched but warm cloak and he carried his hammer with him as evidence of his status, and Morwen wore a heavy coat with a hood and long knitted gloves. She'd tied off her new braids with scraps of thread and Eikenskjaldi was secretly thrilled that she was so delighted in the braids and that she was happy to still wear them, he just wished that she had some bright beads to complete the look. He imagined patterned copper beads cut as eight pointed stars, or small round silver bells that would softly chime as she moved or perhaps green amber or moss agate beads - as they would match her eyes. He had to admit that she truly looked - in his opinion - quite 'civilized' with her hair braided like this. With her rosy completion and thick ruddy hair he could almost see her as a Dwarf maiden; strong, stoic, brave and elegant.

They arrived in the main market square well before midday, and in spite of the heavy snow and cold the village was bustling. Thandlon was a small but fairly prosperous walled town located near the angle where the Hoarwell and the Loudwater Rivers ran to join the Greyflood. It boasted three taverns, a buttery, a large bake house and brewery, various shops, a mill and a hostel house for travelers. The open market thrived even in the late fall and winter. In this region men followed a tradition of gift giving at the equinoxes and solstices, and there were booths of toys, trinkets, baubles, ribbons, sweets and sundry small gifts and tokens. The Dwarf and the widow agreed to meet two hours after the noonday bells tolled in the central square.

Morwen went to visit a few shops, weaving her way through the winding cobblestone streets. She stopped first at the baker, then to a local cheese maker who specialized in a goat cheese that was especially loved by Dwarves, as well as some sweet and spicy yogurts. She glanced in a perfumery and inquired over soaps and scented oils - eventually she chose a small hard soap scented with sandalwood, and a small bottle of Bergamot oil. Then she headed to the miller. Bruel, a kindly older man with silver blond hair and pale but cheery eyes saw her as she approached the mill. "Well met Miller Bruel." She addressed him.

"Greetings widow - I wondered how you have managed during in the storm. Are you alright?"

"I'm well enough, but in need of ground oats and barley flour." As she spoke, she pulled her hood back from her head and her warm auburn braids spilled around her shoulders and down her back. They discussed her request, as a young man entered quietly from another room. He was fairly tall with dark curly hair, a gentle oval face and large luminous light green eyes. He paused staring at her and she glanced up at him.

"Wait - is that little Morwen?"

"Crispin?" she hadn't seen Bruel's younger brother for quite some time - he'd left to travel with merchants over on the eastern side of the Misty mountains long before she'd married Gerion – and she scarcely recognized him now.

Bruel interrupted her as he turn to his younger brother. "The smith's widow walked to town in the snow to get flour ground before the holiday…Brother - be kind enough to take her supplies to her house - the old hall by the spring…Its about half way before the Swanfleet meets the Greyflood. We'll send you the bags of barley and oats tomorrow."

Eikenskjaldi made a few inquiries and soon the itinerate smith had received various requests for horse shoes, bridle bits, door hinges, knives, nails, hooks, pots, kettles, scissors, needles, and scythes. He made a list of who had requested what item, and when they expected it, and all of his customers had all paid something in advance. He looked about and saw, to his satisfaction, that this village was populated predominately by the children of Men. Men were generally unobservant of the Khazad - amongst them one dwarf was much the same as another. While most Dwarves were happy to interact with mortals; they preferred to live amongst themselves. In his travels Thorin had met up with small communities of Khazad within the largest cities - but in general there were very few colonies in small towns and villages. He noticed a few adventuresome hobbits wandering about the stalls but he saw no Elves - thank Mahal! Thorin had learned many things in his travels, but his contempt and distrust of the Elves had only grown and become more deeply embedded in his heart and the less interaction that he would need to have with these faithless creatures - the happier he would remain. The Khazad had suffered more than even the Elves could express. Sometimes only the company of dwarves could ever be comforting to other dwarves - some suffering could never be expressed only_ endured_ . The most genuinely empathic mortal he'd encountered was Morwen. While many folk had expressed sympathy at his people's grief; it was always at best sporadic expressions of pity.

Thorin reckoned that he could manage well here for a time, but he didn't want to attract too much attention to himself. Painful experiences traveling through Gondor had taught him to keep his identity to himself. He'd heard the cruel whispers about that _dwarf blacksmith beggar prince from the Lonely Mountain laboring at a common forge because his palace was now the home of a Fire Drake. _Some lesser noblemen had made a great show of concern with his state, but Thorin quickly learned that there was nothing behind their promises of help except their foul breath, and nothing behind their words of sympathy but smug contempt. When he was an unidentified tinker or a traveling laborer he wasn't patronized or mocked, pitied or stared at as if he was some sort of freak.

At midday Thorin paused at a tavern and treated himself to a meat pie, a bit of cheese and some stout. Then he wandered through the open market, all the time keeping an eye out for Morwen. Stopping at a booth with various holiday trinkets he found himself wondering what she might like … a bracelet…bonbons…silken ribbons. He stopped for a long time perusing the items at a stall selling colorful clay beads and brass & copper trinkets. Then he looked up and saw her green hooded coat across the market square. Morwen was working her way carefully through the stalls and booths edging past children, elders and merchants all the time carefully cradling her cloth bag of food supplies. He also noticed a man walking behind her – not directly behind her but it was clear to Eikenskjaldi that this fellow was making an attempt to follow her from a distance. A man with curly black hair and a slight salt & pepper stubble, probably about 6 foot tall, wearing a very plain and threadbare light bluish tunic and dark leggings was watching her - and while she paused to glance at the booths or speak to the vendors; he stayed focused on her – making no attempt to disguise his actions. Thorin watched him from under his brows wondering if he was a thief or a threat. The man called out and caught her attention, and Morwen turned and greeted him. They spoke for a few moments then she continued on through the crowd, not yet having seen Eikenskjaldi. But it was the man who eyed him from across the market square - his heavily lidded peridot colored eyes caught Thorin's eyes for a moment - a moment too long, and the dwarf prince bristled. Morwen had not witnessed this posturing - she'd stopped to talk to a vender. Thorin watched the man walk away, noting his movements and the direction he went. He moved out at an obtuse angle and approached her. She was collecting some small bundles from a booth, but she heard him and turned.

"Dear Master Dwarf – Did you have any luck finding commissions? Have you eaten?"

He nodded to her even as he scanned the area, keeping his eyes moving about the crowd. "Have you gotten what you needed?" he replied glancing quickly at her bundle - there seemed to be little in the bag… "This winter festival – I don't recognize it..."

It's more of a local tradition…the notion of transformation through the solstices and equinoxes - autumn to winter to spring - with bonfire celebrations on the longest night - Small tokens and gifts are exchanged to express joy and hope for the future. Would you like some sort of gift?"

Eikenskjaldi nodded absentmindedly as he kept his eyes roving as they wandered through the stalls …

"Are you looking for someone …A kinsmen maybe? There are…"

"Who was that dark haired man?" Straight to the point, Eikenskjaldi interrupted her. Frowning, he felt restless and strangely disturbed but he couldn't really say just what had caused this stress.

She paused, trying to understand his question. "Crispin? He's the miller's brother – Bruel the millers agreed to grind oats and barley for me and he promised to bring the heavy bags to the house tomorrow along with some of the other foodstuffs. Crispin's come to help his older brother recently. He just asked me about the best way to the house from the river road - do you know him?" She half turned to see if he was still in the crowd, but the miller's brother had left.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Thorin the Wanderer **_

_**Friends please forgive me for taking so long to post this one!**_

"Who was that dark haired man?" Straight to the point, Eikenskjaldi interrupted her. Frowning, he felt restless and strangely disturbed but he couldn't really say just what had caused this stress.

She paused, trying to understand his question. "Crispin? He's the miller's brother – Bruel the miller agreed to grind oats and barley for me and he promised to bring the heavy bags to the house tomorrow along with some of the other foodstuffs. Crispin's come to help his older brother recently. He just asked me about the best way to the house from the river road - do you know him?" She half turned to see if he was still in the crowd, but the miller's brother had left.

"He was following you…"

"What? You mean just now? Crispin wanted to confirm the best way to the hall - so that he could deliver the supplies tomorrow."

Eikenskjaldi grimaced. He was behaving badly and on some level he knew it – nevertheless, that man's presence had troubled him – had he seen him before?

Morwen looked at him, wondering what was passing through his mind. Has Crispin and Eikenskjaldi met before? Perhaps in his travels, the smith might have met the trader - or perhaps it was simply a mistake, no doubt all mortals might well look alike to Dwarves. Uncertain of the implications of Eikenskjaldi's questions and concerns, she attempted to change the subject. "Would you like to return to the hall or shall we wander a little longer?"

It dawned on him that Morwen might enjoy some time at the market. He guessed that because she was a widow that she'd been in seclusion for some time. He relented and smiled gently at her– "Let's look around here for a while…"

They browsed through the stalls and she explained some the local traditions and holiday specialities. They stopped by a small booth selling small sweet buns shaped like suns and moons, and little honey covered almonds, and warm chestnuts. They were offered samples - as he'd never tried such delicacies - but Morwen was delighted to see how much he relished the chestnuts and especially the candied almonds. She treated him to a small pouch of sweets to nibble on as they wandered once she saw how much he enjoyed them. They looked at small round bright cheesecloth bundles full of little paper toys & trinkets for children to play with, as well other small gifts and parcels. Morwen watched as Eikenskjaldi eagerly crammed the last of the candies and nuts into his mouth and smacked his lips. He was now quite thirsty and motioned to a small stall selling sweet warm cider in clay cups.

"A loving cup for Morwen the Fair and me." he called out at they got near the booth. A plump rosy cheeked hobbit managing the stall laughed and poured out the drinks. Morwen blushed at his comment – he didn't understand the implications of that phrase when used in public. He toasted her and quickly drained his cup. Eventually the two of them left the town and they returned to the hall before the sun set. Morwen asked him to light the fire while she put the foodstuffs away. That way she was also able to hide the small trinkets that she'd purchased for him in the pantry.

Thorin was glad to be back at the hall – he was happy to have commissions, and the town seemed fairly welcoming, but that fellow Crispin troubled him. He felt safe in this place, in a way he hadn't felt safe in years, and he felt very peaceful in Morwen's company. Once the fire was set he collected a goblet from the sideboard and started to wander back to the area behind the hearth – he bumped into her as she came up the handful of steps from the pantry. As it was clear to her that Eikenskjaldi was going to stay at least for a few weeks, she showed him the still room and the pantry, the containers of dried beef, fish and preserved fruits and vegetables, as well as the caskets of ale, cider and the bottles of mead. "As you'll be here for a wee bit, you might as well know where things are kept. We'll get supplies of flour, milk & eggs tomorrow."

He poured some cider and helped himself to a little salted beef. When he returned to the fire he saw her darning a tear in one of her linen shifts. "If you have any clothes that want mending or washing please give them to me, as I'll be doing laundry tomorrow." She said, threading a needle in the half light.

He nodded, and as he watched her patch her poor linen shift something tore at his heart…He suddenly wanted to dress her in gowns of silk and satin and never see her patch or mend or darn again – not because he loved her or even just desired her - but because she was kind and gentle and good. _She deserved love and joy, not this sad lonely desperate half-life_. He felt a lump in his throat and struggled to swallow his cider. It seemed that a mist clouded his eyes and he sighed, his heart felt suddenly leaden. Morwen glanced up at him, her eyes wide –"I hope you haven't taken a chill - Let me make you some warm honey water…" He ran up to the loft as she heated the kettle and pulled out some clothes for laundry - found some frayed leggings and a shirt with a damaged sleeve, and brought them to her. Settled in the chair by the hearth Eikenskjaldi took the warm honey drink and Morwen tucked a blanket around him. She sat on a stool and continued to stitch the torn clothes while he told her about the wealth of Erebor and Dale. It seemed strange to talk about such vast riches in a house where a poor widow struggled to patch worn & damaged clothes – but she seemed quite happy to listen to him and his tales.

The next morning they enjoyed toast and some of the special goat cheese that she'd purchased especially for Eikenskjaldi. He smiled wistfully – remembering his youth, the hunting trips in midsummer and the taste of this cheese spread over bread as he lay in the warm sun outside the Lonely Mountain. He told her a story about one of Great Thror's celebrations in the Feasting Hall of Erebor - an incident involving Thror's royal judgment - a darkly funny tale about a trick played on a particularly gluttonous, greedy and selfish courtier involving a pastry filled with blueberries carved from sapphires and amethysts. As they ate, she suggested that he try some tea with honey, as she still feared that he had caught a cold the day before. He drank some to please her and found - to his surprise - that it wasn't that bad.

Morwen straitened the sheets and finished cleaning up the breakfast plates while Eikenskjaldi went to the furnace. He needed to feed the forge and to pound out his frustrations – he felt fury that morning not only at his situation, his poverty and despair but at Morwen's circumstances. She'd never lost a realm, treasures status title or position -she was a poor, simple, gentle woman who was kind and unassuming, who labored so hard to survive, and she deserved better than this. It broke his heart to see her struggle. It broke his heart to know there was nothing he could do to help her.

Morwen sorted out the clothes to be washed and warmed water in the kettle. She donned a coat and moved the wooden wash tub outside. Scooping some clean snow into the tub she added the clothes and then poured in hot water. Steam rose as she agitated the water with her washing bat and a few flakes of dried Soapgrass root. After a while she lifted the warm cloth with her bat and carefully examined it to see how soiled they still were. Once most of the dirt was loosened, she drew the clothes out, poured out the soiled water into a snow bank, and added more clean water. After about an hour she'd rinsed out the clothes, carefully twisting the last of the moisture out. She brought the items inside and hung her shift and kirtle, Eikenskjaldi's mended clothes and a few towels over the hinged clothes horse by the fire. Her braids had gotten disheveled so she loosened them and ran a comb through her hair. She set a small screen in front of the clothes horse by the fireplace so that the laundry could continue to dry.

Morwen overheard bells jingling in the distance and went out to see Crispin in the distance. He approached on the sledge he'd acquired from the wintry lands beyond Ered Mithrin. It glided over the snows easily and the little bells on the bridles made a cheery sound as the two strong horses pulled it along the trackless territory. She found the sleigh charming, but she wondered how he could have possibly managed to get it across the Misty Mountains in one piece.

Crispin unloaded the heavy bags of barley and oats as well as a fragile container of eggs and tubs of milk. He was happy to stop for a cup of tea with Morwen. Like her he had grown to appreciate the warm sweet drink from the Shire. They chatted for a while trying to catch up on the many years that had passed since they last saw each other. Crispin told her about his time traveling on the eastern side of the Misty Mountains. In Rhovannion he'd traded amongst the Dunlendings, seen the lands of the Horse Lords and spent time with the many merchants who came to the edges of the Greenwood. He told her about the endless plains of lush seas of grass in the realms of the Eorlingas, and the unbelievable, incomprehensible vastness of the great forbidding forest of the mysterious Silvan elves. His golden green eyes sparkled as he described his experiences traveling with the merchants, of the strange sights and the delightful and curious peoples he'd encountered. Morwen was charmed by his stories, especially the tales he told about the land of the White Horse. Crispin tried to tell her about the terror and power of the realm of Mirkwood and of the Elven court of Lord Thranduil. The pale elf lord was truly mesmerizing and few could resist his charismatic glamour. He describes the Elven King's unearthly beauty and height, his pale skin and shimmering silver white hair his magnificent presence - but he knew that his descriptions failed to capture the power of the event. Laughing he looked at Morwen as she listened as it dawned on him that she was the exact opposite of Thranduil - small and rosy cheeked with thick wavy auburn hair.

"Little Morwen, you never grew at all …still such a tiny bird – you're scarcely as big as a Halfling!" Crispin added

"Not true" she smirked "I was only eight when you last saw me. I'm almost certain that I'm a little taller."

"Are you very lonely without Gerion?" Crispin felt awkward asking, but he was surprised that those two had ever gotten married.

"In three more months, my year of morning will be officially over …I still miss him - but it's not as painful as it once was. Tell me - did you take a mate in your travels? " She imagined a blonde beauty from the horse realms for him - or maybe an olive skinned Easterling with long soft hair and musical bangles on her slim wrists and ankles. Perhaps Crispin had taken a lover from amongst the eldritch court of Mirkwood.

He didn't answer her question and she understood his discomfort as he replied "What'll you do - you can't stay here forever you know…"

"I hope to lease the smithy to a Dwarf family - if any will have it. This place could make a good home for a family – there's room for wee dwarrows… Khazadhi would prosper here …" she gestured about the room - imagining Lif and Gerda seated at the table – or maybe Gerda's kinsfolk, Nyr and Skaldi …

"What about that Naug tinker out at the forge? Is he here to _test your furnace_?"

There was a long and very awkward pause. Crispin winced - he'd spoken without thinking - Bruel was right, he did that far too often, but her affection for the dwarves had never made any sense to him. Even as a child she'd been drawn to things small and stunted - like Hobbits and Dwarves. Crispin imagined it was because she herself was so small.

Morwen sat very still, looking at the tea cup in her hand. "Crispin - the laws of hospitality may be different in the eastern lands that you've visited. But even as I've welcomed you here, and I am happy to see you again - I implore you to be civil. I know the meaning of that word and I don't care for it…"

"So you know better than the Eldar? They possess great wisdom." he snapped back. Crispin understood that he ought to apologize - he was only making it worse, _digging himself in deeper, _yet he felt suddenly proud of his few encounters with Thranduil and his courtiers.

"I'll not presume to guess at the thoughts of the Elves. I know what I know. Nevertheless, that word is not honorable." Morwen replied. In his travels Crispin has changed, he'd grown in patience and strength in many ways, but he was still prone to blurting out thoughtless and often cruel comments, just as he'd done as a child.

Crispin sighed "I'm sorry – I misspoke … Bruel says that I need to talk less and listen more."

Morwen shrugged her shoulders … "Not to worry - it's over. Do you think that you will eventually return to the East? I gather you enjoyed it there."

"I'm here to help my brother… who knows what the future holds."

After a few more minutes Crispin stood "I ought to go."

"The next time we meet - maybe you can tell me more of your adventures?"

Morwen walked out with Crispin to his sledge. He smiled at her and waved as he turned the sledge in a circle and wend back in the direction he'd come from. Thorin stepped out of the smithy - his face blacked with soot and he glowered as he watched the mortal ride off in his loud showing noisy contraption. The smiths massive arms were crossed over his torso and his stance radiated a certain possessiveness and threat that he wasn't even entirely aware of at that moment.


	9. Chapter 9

_I want to apologize to all my ever patient readers for so cruelly abusing them by taking so terribly long to post this chapter – life has been a wee bit mad but I sincerely hope to post more chapters on a far more regular basis from now on. _

_**Thorin the Wanderer **_

Morwen walked out with Crispin to his sledge. He smiled at her and waved as he turned the sledge in a circle and wend back in the direction he'd come from. Thorin stepped out of the smithy - his face blacked with soot and he glowered as he watched the mortal ride off in his loud showing noisy contraption. The smith's massive arms were crossed over his torso and his stance radiated a certain possessiveness and threat that he wasn't even entirely aware of at that moment.

As he came level with the Dwarf smith, Crispin paused and the sleigh slowed to a crawl. He stared blatantly at him; as if daring him to react.

Meanwhile Morwen had changed out of her clothes and donned her long coat and boots. She wanted to use the bathhouse. With a lidded tankard of ale for Eikenskjaldi, a towel and a few other items she approached the smithy and noticed the two figures confronting each other - she dreaded that Crispin would do something to provoke her guest. She approached the two quietly and glancing at them both, she simply caught Crispin's eye as she gave Eikenskjaldi the ale. The smith smiled at her and bowed his head as if the dark haired man in his sledge wasn't even there.

"How long are you here - Tinker?" Crispin's voice was a wee bit too loud to be conversational – but was it meant to be threatening? Thorin wasn't impressed.

"While there's work for me here - why?" his voice was deep as any growl, subtly powerful and utterly intimidating. Morgan had to admit to herself that that tone could certainly make her feel a deep erotic thrill. Crispin looked at them both - then pointedly ignoring the Naug smith he addressed Morwen – "Keep your eyes open and… stay safe." Snapping the reins, the sleigh rushed off in a blast of slush and ice. The sound of snorting horses and jarring bells hung in the air as Crispin awkwardly departed. The two watched him as he disappeared over the distant hills. She glanced at Eikenskjaldi and sighed quietly. He kept his eyes on the distant hill that Crispin had passed over, as if expecting his to pop back up, while she pivoted towards the bathhouse.

Naked in the steamy chamber she released a half swallowed grown. Things were only going to get more difficult from here on out. "Better not to pray…" she muttered bitterly as she slipped into the hot bubbling water. The presence of her Dwarf guest had been a wonderful distraction, but she had to face her future. She was a widow with a small inheritance - but without any interested, unwed blacksmiths in the neighborhood her possessions were of limited value. Her dream of a Khazad family taking over the forge and the hall was still an option – she'd decided to ask Eikenskjaldi if he knew of anyone who might be interested. A good Dwarf farrier or a smith and his kin would provide quality skills to the community. But then what would _she_ do. She could always marry someone, maybe a widower - but marrying for the sake of survival saddened her, although many others had done it and she should be grateful that she and Gerion had gotten on so well. Their marriage hadn't been a love match but at least they'd started out as friends, and many marriages never even had that. There were few options – she might be able to work in a tavern, or assist in a shop. Still it could be worse. She was still enjoying the affectionate companionship of Eikenskjaldi - enjoying it perhaps a little **too** much. After all he was a traveler and this pleasant interlude would soon be over… She felt in that moment a profound loneliness –but she did her best to brush this melancholy aside.

She rinsed her hair and let the heavy steam envelope her. After a while she applied the honey rub and let it soak into her pores then she flicked herself with the birch branch whisk. Bracing herself she raced out and threw herself into the snow - it felt wonderful! The rhythmic sounds of hammer on anvil assured her that her guest was still occupied with his tasks. She rushed back into the bathhouse, her skin feeling rosy, fresh and alive, and lingered luxuriating in the heat. She slipped back into the hot water. Perhaps 15 minutes later the bathhouse door opened gently – pivoting to look, she saw to her delight Eikenskjaldi's shadow.

"I hope you don't mind …" He stripped in a very matter of fact manner and smiled quietly to himself as she replied "You're more than welcome." Thorin was pleased that Morwen neither tried to hide herself as he entered the bath or to posture or pose for him – she just continued to bathe although she did move in the pool to make room for him. He'd left his leather apron and shirt in the smithy and only needed to remove his leggings and boots. There was plenty of room in the water so he slid in facing Morwen. He tickled her foot with his and she startled reached down and grasped his heal and for a time they laughed and splashed in the hot water like two children. He stepped out of the hot bath and stretched out on the bench.

"I have some honey rub and birch whisks - should you wish them." Morwen mentioned to him gesturing to the items on floor near the other bench as she loitered in the water. He smirked at her from the bench and she passed him the pot. He rubbed the mix into his shoulders, belly and legs. She offered to help and he growled under her hands as she worked the rub into the muscles of his back and ass she then gently flicked his skin with the whisk - he rested on his stomach for a while then he rolled onto his back. Morwen couldn't help but think of a cat as she admired him unselfconsciously moving about. She commented casually. " I see you brought your hammer into the bathhouse…"

"I take it everywhere I go."

They laughed and teased each other for a bit, then she excused herself from the bathhouse – she needed to see about getting the evening meal prepared.

Thorin relaxed in the steam. Since the coming of the Wyrm, he'd suffered many indignities and losses but he found that the comfort and sense of peace that came from a good Yzbah was vital to his health. He imagined that it must be so for all Dwarves - be they miners, merchants, toymakers, warriors or princes. His thoughts wandered and he considered his hostess. He realized that he quite liked Morwen. She was unlike almost all the mortal women he'd met -most of them either treated the Khazad as if they were all children or strange inanimate objects. Morwen was respectful and curious without being cloying, intelligent and honest. She possessed a healthy sexual stamina in his opinion, as so many mortal women complained of exhaustion after only three or four trysts per night.

He was fond of her.

She was good and kind and she deserved happiness – she deserved love.

It was really rather sad.

Thorin didn't love her, he couldn't love her. It was impossible - he knew that for a certainty.

Once Crispin had returned to the village he confirmed that he'd dropped off the various supplies, and his brother ticked them all off the list. Bruel asked about Morwen and Crispin tried not to roll his eyes in his head at his older brother's sudden interest. "Is she well? Did she seem glad to see you? Did you _try _to be social? "

"She's got some itinerant dwarf ironmonger staying with her." Crispin muttered hoping to change to subject. He knew where this discussion was going, and he disliked it. His older brother was going to start pressuring now.

"Aye," Bruel replied, "But he'll be gone soon - he's just passing through. She's sweet and lonely. Yes - she might not be much to look at – but she's not too altogether painful on the eyes and in three months she'll be free to be courted. Now think about this - when she sells that place she could make a good profit…A lonely rich widow…And you all alone since your return from the east – it's a good prospect don't you think? I know she's not your type at all - but all women are the same in the dark. I mean, you certainly didn't bring back a bride from amongst the Dunlendings…"

"Stop it." Crispin snapped.


	10. Chapter 10

_Authors Note: I am so very very greatful to all the patient people who have put up with me as I perpetually delayed posting chapter after chapter - you good people are far better than I deserve! _

_I will be referencing the Havamal in this section of the story, with a few nominal changes and any variations between other interpretation of this poem and mine are due to the faults in my personal translation – Alfather can surely split the difference. I'm attempting to weave a substrata of myths and legends in Middle Earth that would have influence to the various tribes of Mortal men who were not amongst the Edain- and had in later years not entirely embraced all the philosophies of the Numenoreans. _

* * *

_**Thorin the Wanderer **_

* * *

"Stop it" Crispin snapped…

"Well someone has to think about these things." Bruel replied, smiling at his younger brother. He'd upset Crispin and that wasn't at all his intention, Bruel just wanted to see him happy, settled and secure.

"Did you tell her about your time in the east? Women love that sort of thing – adventures and all that…"

Crispin sighed "Let's just leave it for now."

* * *

Morwen had prepared a simple meal of fish soup along with the last of the cooked pheasant meat set cold on a platter as well as the wheat bread braided in the shape of a traditional harvest crown. Bowls of spicy yogurt and cheese, as well as fruit and nuts were also readied. This would be the first of the nights of the holiday celebration – tonight the spirits of the dead would be celebrated. The final harvest was associated with the Harvest King the Master of Field and Forest -an old deity that the Elves had discouraged open devotion to, but who was still popular amongst many mortals. This was a celebration of the last of the three harvests and the coming of the Winter Master. The Elves and the Sea Kings didn't understand or recognize these myths – but as Gerion had said before, _that simple fact didn't make the old myths and stories evil._

The spirits of the dead were to be respected on this night by the living. And just as the seasons were changing from spring and summer to fall and winter, so the harvests had been made - sacrifices of fruit and grain and meat - from live to death to life anew. There were cedar wood chips to put on the fire and beeswax candles to be lit for the spirits of the dead. Morwen was certain to set out the special black bowl with a small jug of cream, bread and salt on the sideboard for any hungry ghosts. She doubted that her guest would know or celebrate this holiday, but she would lay out the offerings as Gerion would have wanted her to. Once she checked on the soup she put on her most formal gown - one she rarely wore. Still it was expected that one be dressed to honor the spirits this night. It was a long loose robe made from panels of dark green and dark blue silk scraps carefully collected and painstakingly sewn together. Once clothed, she combed her hair and left it loose over her shoulders and back . According to tradition her hair must be unbound that night.

She prepared the oil lamp to set in the window, knowing that in many other windows both in town and throughout the land - folk would soon set out "the candle for the ghosts" as it was sometimes called. She didn't condemn the Elves for their distaste for this celebration. Elves didn't die of natural causes so she reckoned that the significance of the rite would have no meaning for them. She'd never heard of any Elves farming or harvesting, and she'd knew that they disdained meat, so she sometimes imagined that they required no food, but like trees, thrived on air sunshine and water. Her house guest had less than charitable opinions of the Elves and her mind wandered to Crispin - it was clear that he was enchanted by the Elves - no doubt he would have been happy to take a lover from amongst the willowy pale Elves of Mirkwood – poor man.

Eikenskjaldi came in from the bathhouse clad only in his boots; having used his leggings as a makeshift towel. She couldn't help but smile when she saw him – he'd become very dear to her since the night of the storm – not only as a bedmate but also as a friend. She hoped that no matter what happened in the future; they could remain close. He looked about at the food, the soon to be lit candles and then at her – and he felt something twist in his heart as he saw her for the first time in a long loose silk gown the sort of robe he imagined her in. To him she looked both tragic and lovely.

"Tonight is a celebration - here the living honor the dead at the end of the harvest … As mortals our lives are short and perhaps that's why we ache so painfully for those we've lost. I do not know if the Khazad have a similar remembrance rite… Will you join me?"

He nodded and darted to the loft. There he located a pair of soft clean black leggings and a faded linen & silken embroidered tunic with a simple but elegant geometric pattern. Initially it had been a very dark blue but the years had softened the color.

Dressed as well as he could, he came down and helped set the simple table. She lit the lamp and set it by the window.

Quietly she spoke "We invite our beloved dead to hear and remember us as we remember them this night. They are always with us in our hearts but we pray they reverence our offerings to them."

Cattle die and kinsmen die/

One day we all must die/

I know a thing that never dies/

The virtuous reputation.

Eikenskjaldi listened to her chant as she called out - explaining the relationship between mortals and their dead, and it seemed to him that he pitied mankind at that moment. The Khazad were Mahal's children and the Valar watched over and spoke to the Elves; but the children of Men lived so briefly and were so prone to illness and sorrow. They seemed to not know where they belonged in the circles of the world. Their sorrows were more poignant because of their uncertainty. As she lit the beeswax candles and names the names of the recent dead, her husband and his father, the miller's young son, the hunters lost to infection, elders who died in their sleep and babies lost before they were born. His mind turned back to the Lonely Mountain and the diaspora of his people. He felt his eyes burn as she moved slowly about the room. Morwen lit a large candle and whispered slow, quiet and low "For the desecration of Erebor – for the sufferings of the Khazad - for the heroes who fought at Azanulbizar - we remember you." Thorin felt his face grow wet he and he wondered for an instant if there might be a leak in the roof – until she turned to him and he saw her face streaked with tears.

Why did she mourn for those she never knew?

Why did she care for the stranger at the door - offering hospitality to someone she didn't recognise?

Why was his heart pounding so very hard at that moment?

Something had broken inside him as the evening went on. Thorin sobbed for Erebor and Azanulbizar and the losses of his people in a way he'd never let himself mourn before. He spoke of the loss of his sister's newborn daughter as the Dwarves of Erebor had wandered in the wilderness, of the death of his grandfather at Azanulbizar and the loss of his brother and sisters husband at that bloody battle. He didn't mention the names of his family members, he wanted to remain the itinerant smith for a little while longer. She didn't question him. She simply listened to him, nodded and repeated the chant gently.

Cattle die and kinsmen die/

One day we all must die /

But the voice of honor never dies for those who have won fair fame.

They sat on the floor by the fire that night after supper, a mix of joy and sorrow in their hearts as they spoke of those they had both lost. Thorin somehow felt a weight pass from him that night. He turned to Morwen and called her "Fair" and she smiled and offered him a gentle kiss. He returned the kiss, and replied "my jewel" and slid his fingers across her cheek and jaw. He pulled her closer to him and kissed her eagerly.

He slowly deepened the kiss when she opened her mouth for him. He slid his hands from her shoulders down her arms and to her waist. He took his time in exploring the moist recesses of her mouth, until he felt her hands on his chest again, pulling him closer. He drew her robe down to bare more of her shoulders, and pressed his lips against the underside of her jaw. He broke their kiss to pull his tunic over his head, tossing them to the floor. Her eyes roamed over his chest, lingering on scars here and there. Carefully, she stretched out one hand and touched the most prominent one. He wrapped his fingers around the hand that was still touching his torso. His body reacted strongly when he saw her lips parting and he leaned over for another taste, pulling her closer to him. She responded eagerly to him, and slipped a hand around the back of his neck. He slid his hands down her back and cupped her backside, pushing her hips into his. She angled her head and weaved her fingers through his hair, seeking out his tongue. His breath left him forcefully through his nose and he pressed her more strongly against him, deepening the kiss she had initiated even further. He let his hands drift back up her body and hooked them in the loose neckline of her robe, pulling it down over her arms and hips. She didn't stop him and soon she was free of it.

He skimmed the underside of her breasts with his fingers, teasing the sensitive skin of her ribs, before moving back and letting his thumbs draw circles over her nipples. His ministrations kept her at a small distance and he took the opportunity to admire again the generous curve of her hips and the smooth, fair thighs beneath. Her breath hitched when he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger; her breasts were wonderfully sensitive. The pressure inside his trousers increased even further. Claiming her mouth once again, he pressed her back onto the sheepskin - covering her body with his. He pushed his knee between her thighs, keeping most of his weight on his elbow. Slowly he let his hand glide past her breasts, to her navel and over the slight curve of her belly. She held her breath, stiffening slightly, but not so much that he deemed it necessary to stop. He slipped his finger past her folds to find the little nub that promised so much pleasure.

He lowered his head and kissed her again. She sighed and slowly began to respond again, wrapping her arms around his neck. When his fingers began moving again, she gave a soft gasp, rolling her hips. He pressed his lips against her collarbone, before he took her nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hardened bud. A louder gasp was quickly swallowed halfway, before it could grow into a moan. He didn't quite understand why, but the thought came to him unbidden that he wanted to hear her moaning his name – _his real name._ Slowly he trailed his lips down to her navel, where he could feel her muscles quivering under her warm skin. When his breath ghosted over the juncture of her legs, she hissed sharply in surprise. Seeing the confusion and apprehension on her face made him even more determined to have his way. He slid his hand around her ankle and tugged her gently but firmly towards him. He pulled her knees apart and lay between them, leaning on his elbows to kiss her. He lifted his head, making sure to roll his hips into hers. He saw her pupils dilate before she closed her eyes. He slid down her body again, using his weight to keep her in place. Her words were lost in a choked moan when his mouth descended on her sensitive flesh. He explored her with his tongue and his lips, licking her most sensitive of flesh, plunging his tongue into her. "Oh yes…" he heard her whisper, her upper body pressing back onto the floor. Thorin closed his lips around the bundle of nerves and felt her thighs tremble around him in response. She writhed below him, and as he lapped at her slowly she felt an incredible heat, an incredible pressure building. The feeling ran through her from her toes, up the inside of her thighs and he had to place his underarm over her belly to keep her in place, as he tasted every part of her leisurely. He slid a finger into her, groaning with pleasure at the heat and the feel of her clenching around him. He continued to tease her with his fingers and tongue until there was nothing but sobs and moans leaving her lips. Her hips were writhing, desperate for release. He carefully brought her to completion.

He felt her muscles tense as her release crashed over her. Slowly she relaxed again, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He slipped off the sheepskin while he watched her. Her eyes were closed as she tried to regain her breath, and he stepped out of his trousers; relieving the aching pressure on his groin. He felt a renewed spike of lust run through his body, and he slid his hands up the insides of her legs to accommodate him. Pulling her hips closer to him he leaned over her burying himself inside her slick warmth with one thrust. She groaned, her eyes flying wide open. He pressed his lips against her neck, trying to breathe steadily, but his control slipped when she gasped into his ear. He pulled back and with a growl slammed his hips back into her. She moaned and held on to his shoulders. He complied with unspoken bodily request, settling into a powerful rhythm. Her hands glided down his back to his backside, taking a firm hold. Those hands urging him on, her gasping breath on his neck, her hips rising upwards to welcome him each time, sending a fiery trail down his spine, and he sped up, working towards his own much-needed release. He felt her tighten around him, and knowing she was not far behind him, he brought a hand down between their bodies to stroke her. Her body bucked into him in response and the sound of her voice crying out before she came, her inner muscles squeezing him, sent him over the edge as well. Her body felt so sensitive to his touch, alive and burning… like a furnace. She moaned uncontrollably, digging her fingers into him arching up against him. She wanted to speak, wanted to tell him what he was doing to her, but she was unable.

After they collapsed in ecstasy Eikenskjaldi drew her as close to him as possible - not wanting to withdraw from her. Delightfully exhausted she opened her eyes as he pulled her even closer into his arms and their eyes locked as they had earlier. His heart was pounding too hard -_he knew that-_ and his eyes were huge. He was desperately scanning her face. She smiled, sighed and dreamily whispered "Melhek Khozoh" even as he muttered "Ar Zharait…" Morwen didn't consciously know what she'd said….It came from her lips like a gentle moan, or like a half remembered phrase from a dream or an ancient story.

But he knew _**exactly**_ what they'd both said – and even in his joy he felt a shadow on his soul. He called her his lover and she'd accepted it. He dreaded that this would not end well.

* * *

Better not to pray than to sacrifice in excess/Gifts often tend to return/

Better send naught than to send too much/Thus spoke Durin for the passing of years/The time he awoke and the time he stirs again

Eikenskjaldi remained with Morwen for another week, completing the work he'd been commissioned and collecting his payments from the townsfolk. In truth the work had been finished earlier but he hadn't wanted to depart yet – they both knew that their relationship had started to change but neither one of them knew how to express it. They walked quietly together to the outskirts of Thandlon – from there he'd agreed to travel with a group of merchants north to the Last Bridge, then he planned to go west to Bree. From there he should have no trouble returning to the colony at Ered Luin. He didn't want her to know about his plan to go there. He wanted to keep his life in Ered Luin a secret – for the moment he treasured being simply 'Eikensjaldi' to her. He wanted her to care for the wandering tinker rather than the Dwarf Prince. For now they wanted a few moments of privacy together outside the village.

"Keep me in your thoughts." He said as quietly as he could, his forehead pressed against hers.

His great broad fingers touched her hand and again he was momentarily shocked at how long and thin her fingers were. He eyed the small lock of hair by her left ear that he'd braided and capped with a small copper orb. Inside the shimmering red orb he'd fixed a tiny bell that chimed quietly when she moved her head. Such an item wasn't exactly a courting gift - it was more of a 'request to court' offering amongst the Dwarves - but she didn't know that and he wasn't certain how to tell her what he felt. He'd cut a lock of his hair off and threaded it into the braid he'd made her. When he'd asked for a lock of her hair she happily agreed - it was secure in a small pouch that he carried around his neck. He also had her gift of fragrant soap and he'd used some of the bergamot oil in his hair the night before. He'd left most of it behind in the bathhouse but had kept a small vial with him. It reminded him of his youth when he was truly a prince. He wondered what he was now.

"You're always in my thoughts – but I must beg a boon of you…" She replied haltingly

"Anything."

"When you are amongst the victors and help to reclaim Erebor - will you show me the glittering halls? I so ache to see them."

"I…"

"You'll succeed - never doubt it - I know this for a fact …I don't know when Thrain's son will act – but sooner or later - he will. You'll be there. I only hope that you won't be too ashamed to guide a witless old woman through the shining passageways…Mortals lives are brief –yet I should still long to see the lights shimmering through the translucent walls… the epic statues of the Seven Forefathers…"

"I'll take my greatest joy in showing you Erebor - but you'll be no crone there –never doubt it."

"I think you may be right…"

"I'll be back soon. I promise."

"Melhek - ar baraz" (My love - be safe) she whispered.

Better not to pray than to sacrifice in excess/Gifts often tend to return/

Better send naught than to send too much/Thus spoke Durin for the passing of years/The time he awoke and the time he stirs again


	11. Chapter 11

_**Thank you to the patience of all my dear friends. I have not abandoned this story, but I've been a wee bit busy. Please forgive me for these delays! **_

_**Thorin the Wanderer **_

"I'll be back soon. I promise."

"Melhek - ar baruck" (My love - be safe.) she whispered.

Better not to pray than to sacrifice in excess/Gifts often tend to return/

Better send naught than to send too much/Thus spoke Durin for the passing of years/The time he awoke and the time he stirs again

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO 

Balin smiled quietly into his beard, reflecting on Thorin's recent curious behavior. Like any courtier worth his salt, he'd made inquiries about the prince's misadventure in the snows once he'd returned. After all he'd been _lost _for some time and the folk around him had begun to worry. The sudden storm he's been caught in had also affected much of the Shire as well as the Colony in the Blue Mountains. Yet the heir of Durin had returned from the 'wilds' clean, rested and quite well fed, his clothes mended, washed and neatly folded away in his pack, his hair had been carefully washed and oiled with fragrant bergamot, his traveling supplies had been a few bundles of cram when he departed initially from Ered Luin, but were now dried beef, bread, salted fish, potatoes, onions, turnips, apples and a nice rich spicy goat cheese. Of his experiences in the blizzard he was surprisingly quiet. Any other traveler might have enjoyed discussing their personal travails – how through shear will they had survived the terrible cold and dreadful dangers – yet not him. Back from being 'lost in the wilderness' Thorin had returned to the colony from Bree, with a strange look in his eye and a desire to leave almost immediately._ Bree _was the town he'd come back from, but Balin knew all the Dwarves in that area – had Thrain's son taken shelter in any of those halls it would have been gossip soon enough… but there was no word from anyone. The prince was up to something - even if he wasn't aware of his intentions himself.

Dis glanced up at her brother. She sat at a simple table strewn with delicate tools and small hammered lengths of silver, copper, gold and brass. Her huge bright grey eyes were cool and calm in her elegantly severe face they reflected light like glacial mountain lakes. But for all their bright beauty her emotions were rarely visible in them. Dis wasn't cruel or remote, but suffering had come to haunt her life when she was far too young – for survival sake she'd learned to keep herself a slight distance from many; but not from all. As usual, she was clad in shades of silver, dark grey and midnight blue, her hair, the color of smoke and distant storm clouds on the horizon, was piled up loosely behind a simple band and a few small braids fell in front of her ears. The braids along with the downy soft slightly curly hair on her cheeks gave her the impression of almost having a beard. Sadly, Dis suffered from having less facial hair than was considered 'attractive' amongst Dwarves.

"Dis." He greeted her, quietly bowing as he entered the room. "Thank you for agreeing to see me. I wanted to make sure that my sister and her sons were well..."

"Sit brother - we need to talk." She gestured to a nearby chair, watching him. He seems unusually edgy and distracted as he fidgeted with a pouch under his shirt. "It seems that you were waylaid by the snowstorm in your travels … So what happened?"

"I'm back and I'm fine… I managed - I found shelter. _I'm fine_ - I just don't wish to discuss this any further…." Thorin glowered, "'Schist – no one seems to trust me. Balin hovers around me like some great grandmother – clucking like a broody hen and eying me as if I was a dwarrowling and had stolen a handful of honey cakes …And now you! Well, I'd rather expected that my sister would show me some respect."

"You're so transparent. You went out into the wilds and were caught in an unexpected storm. You return some weeks later, your clothes clean and mended, you pack full of apples bread and cheese, your hair combed and fragrantly scented – if all storms were so kind - we would all love winter best. Did you fall through the snow into a hot springs, one cleverly stocked with scented oils and good food? Did your tunics magically repair themselves? You found some refuge; it was clearly not a cave or some rustic abandoned hunter's cottage – it was somewhere civilized; some remote Khazad colony, perhaps? Balin is simply curious as to what handsome young dwarrow had the pleasure of amusing and hosting the Heir of Durin in his travels… or was it a maiden? What Khazad family - what house? He just - well - **we both **just want to see you happy."

Thorin made no comment – his eyes wandered to the small fireplace in the room. Dis knew the signs, he was withdrawing from the discussion; shutting himself off. She'd seen him do this before. In the past it had taken weeks of cajoling to open him up again and there wasn't time to wait. Thorin wanted to be away before Durin's day.

"I – I know that you imagine that you are somehow responsible for Erebor; which is not rational or logical. You … you want to deprive yourself of comforts until the lonely mountain is restored to us and our losses avenged…But it is possible to lose a treasure and still find peace - maybe even to discover another jewel along the way. You know that I loved Vili dearly, I'll never forget him, and I'll always love him. But it… it is possible to find joy again… it's no betrayal of one to find another."

Dis had risen from her chair and paced to the small window as she struggled to find the words to say to her brother, words to persuade him to listen, so that he could trust her again. She glanced out of the thick bubbled pane of glass hoping for inspiration, although once she'd heard herself mention her late spouse's name she realized that her own secret desires and her own heart was taking over this conversation. Vili her beautiful lost husband still haunted her.

Vili had been a remarkable dwarf; strong and skilled, but with a romantic heart and a feel for poetry in both his craft and in his words. With his long blond braids and his honey golden eyes their marriage had been seen as a summer storm he was a sun and she was a cloud- but for all their differences they had loved each other and been happy together. Fili took after him in so many ways, yet Kili - although he resembled herself and her elder brother - was truly his fathers son with his infectious laughter and his quicksilver nature. This was a living legacy from his father to the House of Durin.

But Vili the beloved was gone, and after some time Dis had started to yearn for the loving arms of another. She swallowed, searching for something to say. Dis saw Dwalin passing outside in the courtyard. He glanced as usual up at the windows of her small suite and their eyes locked. Dis had started to depend on Dwallin in the fifteen years after Vilis death, but she hadn't realized how deeply her feelings for the tattooed warrior had changed until relatively recently. They'd both struggled for some time to keep their attraction in check when near each other; but it could be so hard not to respond. His eyes shone and she felt her lips betray her so sweetly with the faintest of half smiles. Dwallin was unlike Vili in so many ways … but to Dis he was the most vital strong and beautiful warrior of all.

She turned and saw that Thorin was already moving towards the door … "I have things to attend to, sister – perhaps we can talk later."

000000000000000

A few hours later Dwallin found Thorin at his forge. He'd been casting some pendants and a few pieces of jewelry. As soon as Thorin acknowledged Dwallin he glanced at the various trinkets that he's set aside. Dwallin was one of his dearest comrades. Unlike his elder brother Balin, Dwallin had neither questioned him when he'd returned from the storm or hovered over him. Thorin wiped his brow and stepped away to chat with the hulking war chief. They stood companionably together as Thorin lifted one of the silver stylized pendants shaped like a hammer and started to examine it critically. "So you'll be leaving before Durins day?" Dwallin stated simply. Thorin nodded quietly and continued to review the piece of jewelry. As he looked for flaws in his work Dwallin eyed the stones he'd set in the center…" Amber?" he asked

"No, it's citrine – amber's too fragile for this sort of setting." After a while Thorin spoke again, "Kinsman, I have a favor to ask of you – not an order - a request. It's about Dis."

From the corner of his eye Thorin watched Dwallins face and he marveled to see the way that for a moment Dwallin's eyes dilated and his cheeks seemed almost pink - and then in a split second he made an effort to compose his demeanor.. It could simply have been the heat of the forge and Thorin wondered if he was not just imagining things after all. "I don't expect anything to come of this… but if I should go traveling and not return…well as you know - her sons are my heirs …the Heirs of Durin. Well –please I'm asking you to do your best for Dis – she's strong but she'll need someone to turn to… her life ought to have been better, calmer, gentler - but please …take care of her."

Part of Dwallin wanted to grab Thorin and hug him, and ask him how long he'd known about the two of them. But another part of him dreaded the implications of Thorins remark. Had he forseen a terrible fate awaiting him in the wilderness?

"You're not going anywhere." He said simply – I'll see you at the pub – it's your turn to pay y'know."

Thorin smiled "Aye…Now if you see Kili or Fili send then to me. I'll be here another hour I reckon."

"Have they gotten up to some trouble?"

"Nay – I have a small job for them… that's all. "


End file.
