#entangled

Thorin woke up with a gasp. That cursed dream again. Those eyes…

Once again, he tried to banish these images from existence for good, along with all the other memories that followed, and once again, he failed. Swiftly — too swiftly — he rose from his bed. His body protested, sending a sharp jab of pain through his left shoulder. Thorin groaned. It was an old injury, a memento of the Battle of Azanulbizar. A different time… He was not that young, idealistic princeling any longer, but the king of a great dwarven realm. Today, he had vastly different battles to face.

With the winter months almost upon the Lonely Mountain, countless issues demanded Thorin’s attention. Sturdy homes, more food, and resources had to be secured for all of his people, including the newcomers. And more of them were expected, if the reports from the southernmost spurs of the Misty Mountains were to be believed. The latest news about Orc attacks that came with Uzrak Hrothgar and his people did not bode well. The Kingdom needed more warriors to protect it, and they required weapons. In addition, the Stone Masters demanded more equipment, and then there were the mines to think of, and, after the previous day’s tremors, the reinforcement of the structural integrity of the Forges was a priority as well.

Thorin hissed, pulling on a fresh shirt. His shoulder again. He should train more often; it helped him in the past, he reminded himself, and returned to the matters at hand. All those tasks might sound quite mundane to some, but he most definitely preferred tackling such problems over fighting dragons or following a meddling wizard. As much as he felt pride at the fact that he and his Company managed to reclaim the Kingdom Under the Mountain, some feats were of the “one of a kind” variety, and Thorin would rather not repeat them. Besides, all those hardships (or, as his people insisted, “heroic deeds”), including the final Battle of the Five Armies, made him understand that he was not a young Dwarf any longer. His aching shoulder was a constant reminder of that. Of course, Thorin was not an aged greybeard either. On the contrary, he felt full of energy. Now, however, the wellbeing of his people and the prosperity of his kingdom were his main goals. As the wise Dagur Sture wrote in one of his treaties:

An epic victory is the mark of a valiant king, but the true greatness of a ruler is found where the people are happy, and their bellies are full. Somehow, this quote appeared in his mind, spoken in his Grandfather’s throaty voice many a year ago. Now, Thorin strived to be a good king, as close to Dagur Sture’s unapproachable ideal as he could, just like his Grandfather Thrór had endeavoured. There was only one difference — Thorin would not follow in his Grandfather’s footsteps until the very end. When Thorin’s great trial came, and the foul dragon magic cast a shadow on his mind, he had stumbled, yet he had never truly yielded. Those dark days that happened almost exactly a year ago lay heavy on his heart, but he found quiet pride in the fact that he prevailed and emerged victorious against all odds. 

After the Battle of the Five Armies, a new era for Durin’s Folk began. As the King Under the Mountain, Thorin was determined to rebuild the realm of his ancestors and leave a worthy legacy behind: a bright future for his kingdom. It also entailed securing the future of the direct line of Durin, as his advisors kept on reminding him ever so often — and so did the Mountain. She was growing increasingly capricious of late, and Thorin understood why. As he had told Lady Mista the day before, the Mountain longed for more dwarves living in her depths, as it had been before the vile Smaug came. That, however, was only a part of what he heard whenever he touched its ancient rock. The Mountain wanted a strong line of Durin — Thorin felt her restless thrumming, urging him for an heir. She waited for a child of his blood who would sit on the Throne Under the Mountain after him, and care for the Kingdom along with the next generation of his people, just like Thorin did, his Grandfather before him, and their countless ancestors before them.

A faint childhood memory surfaced in his mind. 

King Thrór sits on the monumental throne, the Arkenstone glowing above his head. The jewels in the King’s beard glint as he waves his hand. 

In response, Little Thorin stretches out his short arms towards him.

“Sig-ad-ad!” he gurgles happily.

His Grandfather chuckles.

Thorin hears Grandmother Urtha’s soft voice somewhere above his head, her strong arms holding him securely as he wiggles in excitement.

“He wanted to see you, Mugrelê,” she laughs.

Grandmother is the one who carries him along the walkway of the throne room and places her grandson in her husband’s lap.

“Thank you, ‘Arisê. This is my favourite audience of the day,” chuckles Thorin’s grandfather, gently wrapping his arm around the boy. 

Thorin giggles and claps his hands in clear approval. Then, he places one of his chubby little palms on the green-streaked stone armrest of the throne. His Grandfather hums in approval, and gently covers the pebble’s tiny hand with his large, weathered one.

“Say hello to the Mountain,” King Thrór whispers, his bushy moustache tickling Thorin’s ear.

“Hel-oo!” Little Thorin feels the pleasant tingling of stone against his skin and giggles, kicking his legs with joy.

The Mountain hums gladly all around him, and somehow within him too, and that makes Thorin even happier. His giggling echoes against the stone walls, reaching the darkest depths of the Mountain and staying there for a very long time.

Only after returning to the Mountain did Thorin feel the same kind of joy again; the good old reassuring song of stone echoed in his mind once again. It hummed inside him every day, but recently it had taken on more insistent tones. It should not have been a surprise to Thorin; he was now almost the same age as King Thrór was when Thorin, his grandson, was born. But the similarities ended there. Thorin did not even have a son yet. After helping Dís raise her sons, he was not opposed to becoming a father himself. Deep down, he often wondered how it would have been to have a child of his own; to see them grow. If only the woman he had once hoped to become the mother of his children was not lost to him for good…

Leaving his chambers, Thorin glanced at the adjacent door that led directly to the Queen’s bedchamber. Lady Mista. When he saw her for the first time following her arrival at the Lonely Mountain, one word came to his mind. Plain. Far from the statuesque figure of a queen one might imagine. There was no studied grace in her movements, and her bearing proved to be humble rather than regal.  Thorin had to admit that he had yet to find a memorable trait about his lady wife. Her face would easily blend into a crowd on a market day. Her hair was soft brown and long, a far cry from the glowing cascades of gold from his dreams. Her eyes did not resemble the cobalt waters of faraway mountain lakes — to be honest, Thorin could not quite recall their colour. The only thing he remembered about her eyes was how expressive they were, and how vulnerable Mista looked with her oval-shaped glasses set on top of her button nose. It gave her the demeanour of a young, innocent lass, and not of a grown woman, half a century older than Fili.

Besides, Mista was not her.

How many years had passed since he glanced upon the breathtaking countenance of — he almost said her name, the name he strived to forget — the Gem of Gabilgathol for the very last time? As always, Thorin forbade himself to count, but deep down he knew it to be far too long for any Dwarf to dwell upon such memories, to dream of her voice saying his name in those precious secret moments they shared away from the prying eyes of the world, of her fingers playfully braiding his hair under the stars, of the taste of her lips… and of her tears.

Sitting down behind the desk in his study, he scolded himself inwardly for this embarrassing bout of mawkishness. He was far too old for such pointless musings, and yet he could not stop himself. That chapter of his life — a bright spark of hope in those dark years — had ended far too long ago. Yet, ever since he had left Gabilgathol behind, he found himself unable to move forward and bury the past at the bottom of his heart. Some noble ladies expressed their interest in him at one time or another, and there were those who caught his eye during the years that followed as well. But… none of them could compare to her. None of them made his heart sing like she did.

While living in the Blue Mountains, Thorin had often thought that fate parted them, perhaps, for the best. Without a kingdom, he was not pressured to marry. Until two years ago, it seemed that Thorin’s future was settled. He had thought that when the time would come for him to join Mahal’s guard, hopefully of old age, the new halls of the Longbeards in the Blue Mountains would be ruled by Dís and her sons — and then their children. He did not feel compelled to prolong his line. Instead, for years, Thorin had focused on his duties as a leader of his people and on his craft. He had buried his feelings and bittersweet memories deep in his mind, vowing to forget them once and for all.

After that, life felt enough. Almost. When love bloomed between Dís and Vili, he was truly glad for them. And yet, he found himself turning his gaze away from their affectionate gestures, and wondering whether his union with her would have been as happy as theirs. When Fili and then Kili appeared in the world, and later, when Mahal called Vili to his side, Thorin gained a taste of what fatherhood would have been like had he married and sired progeny. For far too long, he had been convinced that this path had closed for him years ago. There was no kingdom to rule, no throne to sit on, and no heirs to think of. No legacy. 

And then his path crossed with the wizard, Tharkûn, in Bree on that fateful day.

When Thorin came to in a field tent after the Battle of the Five Armies, a realisation came upon him. He became the King in truth, not only in name. Apart from other honours and duties, countless riches were at his disposal. If only that wealth had been within his grasp sooner… but time was an unrelenting master. As the King Under the Mountain, Thorin found himself able to obtain nearly every single thing in the world, except for the one he had truly yearned for so many years before. And so the half-forgotten dreams returned to torment him, sowing seeds of reluctance every time his advisors raised the issue of his royal marriage and the urgent need for an heir to the throne. Thorin was painfully aware that his actions were those of a fool who hoped for the impossible to happen. His folly endangered the future of the Kingdom he reclaimed for his people.

The path that lay before him was clear: Thorin had to conquer this embarrassing weakness. The first step on that path was taking a spouse able to bear children. He left the choice of the most suitable candidate to Dís and Balin. Now, he had a lady wife, and his people had a queen. That left him with only one duty to fulfil.

Begetting an heir.

Bedding the lady he married and not…

Mahal, his thoughts were running in circles.

Thorin had barely noticed when the door to his study creaked open, and Ranul approached his desk with a breakfast tray. The smell of food made his stomach growl. As soon as he thanked his manservant, Thorin began eating, barely noticing when the Dwarf left the chamber. He commenced the frontal attack on his third egg and then sank his teeth into the second freshly baked bread roll with fervour when a familiar rapping sounded against his door.

“Come in,” he muttered between the bites. Those bread rolls with crunchy seeds were almost to die for.

“Mmmm, breakfast?” A Dwarf-woman appeared by the door, her dark hair gathered in a thick braid around her head.

“Good morning to you too, Nan’ith!” Thorin took a sip of water as she entered.

“It smells delicious! Can I have a bite of that egg?” Dís peeked at his plate hopefully.

“No.”

“What about that ham?”

Surrender was not an option. Not when it came to those perfectly fried, mouthwatering slices of ham.

“Shall I ring for a breakfast tray for you?” he grunted.

Dís chuckled, “I have already eaten, but just looking at your food makes me hungry again!”

She reached out, most probably in an attempt to snatch a piece of creamy cheese, but Thorin, always vigilant, swatted her hand away.

“Shoo, you starveling! Find your own food!”

“Well, well, well, someone is very territorial about their breakfast!” Dís grinned. “It is worth it. Every bite of it,” Thorin admitted.

“Mista will be glad to hear it.”

“Mista?” he almost choked on a bite of honey-glazed carrot. To his surprise, Thorin recently discovered that he liked them.

“Yes, Mista. Who else?” Dís raised her eyebrow.

“What does she have to do with my breakfast?”

Dís sighed, “Who do you think prepares it for you?” “I thought perhaps that Bombur hired a new cook.”

“You thought? But never asked?”

“Why? The food is good.” Thorin shrugged and attacked the last egg on his plate. “It was not perfect in the beginning, but now… I told Ranul to send my compliments to the cook. Why are you rolling your eyes, Dís?”

“It is interesting how that new cook just happened to appear exactly after you got married, and happened to know that your favourite breakfast was six eggs and ham right away, just the way you like it…” she mused, as if to herself.

“Lady Mista could have learned of it and told the cooks what to prepare.”

“For almost two months she has been cooking your breakfasts, you cave mole!”

Thorin stared at his sister.

“Why would she do that? Is she not busy with the newcomers and—leave that cheese alone, Dís!—was she not opening the new infirmary? At the last council meeting, she could hardly keep her eyes open.”

“Waking up much too early to prepare breakfast for your husband will do that to you,” Dís groaned.

“Has Lady Mista truly…” Thorin began.

“Lady Mista? You have been married for, what, over two months now, and you are still calling her Lady Mista?” Dís rolled her eyes.

Thorin cleared his throat.

“It is a way of showing her due respect.”

“I know a way that is even more fitting. How about you spend some time with your lady wife?”

With a heavy sigh, Thorin put his empty plate aside.

“Why did you come here, Dís? To cause me indigestion?”

“Hardly. I wanted to share a rumour with you. The members of the royal staff are talking…”

“Let them talk. You know very well how much I care for rumours.”

“The word is that the royal marriage has not been consummated yet.”

Thorin found himself staring at his fisted hand, crumpled up pieces of parchment sticking out between his fingers.

“My marriage is not their business.”

“It is, if it becomes annulled,” Dís objected. “If the royal couple does not consummate their marriage on time, that means one of them deems their spouse unworthy. And if that spouse happens to be a lady of one of the most influential houses of the Broadbeam clan…”

“I am aware of the marriage contract I signed, and of its political repercussions,” Thorin grunted.

“Good, because I was beginning to worry that you had an early onset of senility and forgot.”

“How could I forget those endless meetings with you, Balin, and the Lineage Masters? The ones when I was being harassed about the importance of finding a well-born wife and siring an heir with her as swiftly as possible?” He raised his voice.

“Ah, yes, I still remember those tantrums of yours.” Dís pointed a finger at him. “Half of the Mountain heard how you refused to be a ‘studhorse’ and a ‘pawn’ with no possibility of having a private life. The other half probably still hears the echoes of your roars when you accused us of denying you a modicum of happiness. In case you wish to repeat it, let me remind you: you are not the only one whose marriage was arranged! I had to go through it, and I survived, so don’t you tell me that you are weaker than an average Dwarf-woman!”

Thorin sneered, clenching and unclenching his fists. He was very well aware of what Dís was doing; he refused to take this blatant bait.

“I can assure you, sister dear,” he poured venom into his words, “that I treat this marriage contract with utmost importance. And so does Lady Mista.”

“Does she now?” Dís cooed softly, but her brow was still furrowed.

“She does. We both have the same outlook on this… relationship. She is a tradeswoman and understands this marriage for what it truly is: a business transaction. A duty — first and foremost.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“For Mahal’s sake, Dís!” Thorin raised his voice again, tightening his parchment-wielding fist. “We are rebuilding the Kingdom, this is hardly the time for frivolities!”

“Is this what you are planning to tell the lords in two weeks when they convene to assess the fulfillment of your marriage contract, Nadad?”

Two weeks. Those words hit him like an anvil. 

Only two weeks. He must have lost track of time. It was much too soon for Thorin’s taste.

“Pray, do not worry about it. The matter lies safely in my hands,” he stated firmly.

Dís sighed. “Thorin, would you like to know where I found Mista the other day?”

“I gather that I am expected to say ‘yes’?” Thorin made sure to imbue his words with derision.

Dís sighed again. “She was in the royal nursery. Alone. Crying.” 

The crumbled ball of parchment rolled down from the desk and fell onto the floor.

“What are you saying, Dís?”

“Only this, and nothing more, Thorin. Do what you will with that knowledge. Simply remember that…” she paused, and then added more softly, “she has feelings too, brother. I know you are capable of empathy.”

“And that is precisely why I do not wish to be yet another brute of a husband forcing himself upon a lady he barely knows.”

“Ah. So that’s where the shoe pinches,” His sister drummed her fingers against the desk.

“And what is that supposed to mean, sister dear?” Thorin retaliated, folding his arms on his chest.

“That you are still stuck in the past. Forgive me, Thorin, but how many years has it been…? Ninety? More?” Dís mirrored his gesture. “For all we know, lady…”

“Don’t,” he barked. “That has nothing to do with my marriage, Dís.”

His sister sighed.

“Is your overgrown sense of honour bothering you again?”

Thorin refused to grace her with a response. 

“If you are under the impression that you may be dishonoring your… past acquaintance,” she continued, “consider this: does clinging to old memories not dishonor your new wife?”

Thorin fumed.

“She… It was not an acquaintance and you know it very well!” He glared at Dís, her eyes narrowed. She was there when it all happened. She remembered.

“I also know that it ended.” Her words slashed him like daggers. “And how.”

“Enough!” Thorin slammed his fist against the table, the silverware clinking in protest. He was not certain what angered him the most: Dís for reopening the old wounds or the fact that she fenced with words better than a dwarf warrior with a sword. Either way, now she had him cornered. 

“Exactly, brother: enough!” Dís let her hand cut through the air like a steel blade. “You are not the only one who lost someone dear! But none of us has the luxury of grieving the past forever! Life goes on!”

Thorin could not believe his ears.

“At least you had the luxury of being married to that someone!” He rose from his chair, facing his sister, who mirrored his movements. Now, they glared at each other with the same fire in their eyes, none of them willing to budge.

“You have the luxury of being married to a smart, capable woman, and yet you ignore it!” Dís was the first to attack.

“I shall not repeat myself: I know full well what I am doing!” Thorin parried.

“Do you?!” She yelled.

“I do!” He roared.

“Then enlighten me, Thorin!” she demanded, her fists resting over her hips. “Do you wish to continue this marriage, or shall we ask the Law Masters to begin drafting an annulment?”

Thorin looked away, his gaze falling on his empty breakfast plate with a handful of breadcrumbs scattered across it in some undecipherable pattern. He felt his sister’s eyes piercing a hole in his head, just like her words did with his conscience. Deep down, through the haze of his flaring temper, he knew that Dís meant well. Her punches were brutal, exactly like the truth they uncovered.

“We both know an annulment is out of the question!” He raised his shield.

“Then what is stopping you?” she relented, searching for a crack in his armour. “Why are you jeopardizing both our relations with Tumunzahar and the relationship with your wife?”

In order to jeopardize a relationship, you first need to have one, Thorin wanted to say, but he thought better of it. That was exactly what Dís wanted to hear.

“I am not jeopardizing anything! I am giving her time.” Thorin hissed, trying to sound as if he believed in his words. 

His attempt did not fool Dís. She snorted.

“Be honest with me — and with yourself, Thorin. If you find Mista, well, unsatisfactory, there is no need to drag it out further. There will be a price to pay, but I’ll help you. Let us simply quickly finish this farce, for your and her sake!”

An image from the previous evening appeared in his mind. Lady Mista. Thorin had to admit that although she was not a great beauty, something within him stirred at the way she looked in that elegant green gown. He recalled the way her bespectacled eyes widened in fear as the first tremors came, and the way her plump lips quivered; and then she clung to him as if he were a raft on a great stormy sea and she — a castaway; and the way she felt in his arms, so soft and vulnerable, the way her silky braids felt under his fingertips, and that bright fruity scent which surrounded her… it all made him see her not only as a business partner, but as woman of flesh and blood. And he did not know what to think of it. To be honest, thinking about such things irritated him. He was a seasoned warrior, not an overly affectionate youth.

Then, he recalled the moment when both Mista’s and his palms were placed against the rock of the Mountain, and he heard her song, the Mountain’s powerful thrumming telling him to act, urging him to hew out an heir, then and there, and then to place the babe on the Throne, marking him as the future King, like the countless generations of his ancestors did before him. Thorin remembered the way he recoiled from the Mountain’s urge that, for a blink of an eye, overwhelmed his senses, like an avalanche. He recalled the surprise on Lady Mista’s face afterwards, the way she bit her lip, and that fading spark in her eyes that almost made him… made him…

“I do not find her unsatisfactory,” he heard himself say, his words almost a whisper, surprising both himself and his sister.

“Are you certain, Nadad?” she tilted her head. “Because if you…”

“Dís. I. Am. Certain.” He uttered after a brief pause, raising his gaze to meet hers. “I know what to do. And now, you must forgive me, I have matters to attend to.” He gestured at a pile of parchments on his desk.

His sister snorted.

“Oh no, you will not dismiss me with that ancient trick! Not when the future of the Kingdom and our line is at stake!”

“Do you think I do not know that?! It is on my mind every waking hour!” “Then stop hiding in the Forges and act!”

Thorin groaned inwardly. So she knew. Of course, she would. Since he was a smooth-cheeked blacksmith’s apprentice, the Forges was the place he would go to whenever his burdens felt too heavy; where the metal sang its clear, sharp song, and where the Mountain hummed in the background like a sated bear at the threshold of winter.

Thorin glared at Dís with one of his intimidating stares, folding his arms over his chest. She pushed her chair back with a screech, clearly immune to his ploy. He expected her to march out of his study, slamming the door behind her. Instead, she stretched out her arm towards him. Her hand covered his forearm and squeezed it gently.

“Thorin…” she spoke more softly this time.

He patted her hand. 

A truce.

“Worry not, Dís,” he offered. “I shall do my best.”

She leaned towards him and pecked his cheek.

“I know, nungbâha. You always do.”

***

Thorin’s stubborn shoulder still refused to cooperate, reminding him of its presence with a lingering ache whenever he moved it. Hoping for a short warmup session before the King’s Council meeting, Thorin turned his steps to the training grounds, expecting to see Dwalin, Dori, or any other of his old Company members there, but none of them was present.

Irritated, he wandered aimlessly through the corridors of the Mountain, the recent verbal sparring with Dís still fresh in his mind. Even though he had his course of action staked out even before they had this discussion, something still stopped him from fully committing to his duty, nagging at him like a stone in a boot on the last day of a long journey.

When the bell struck a full hour, it was time for the King Council’s meeting. Thorin’s mood still hung over him like an autumn raincloud, low and heavy. He barely spoke, his thoughts storming his mind in torrents, gnawing at him. As the lords busied themselves discussing various topics, he found himself stealing glimpses of Lady Mista from time to time, as if it could somehow guide him towards a resolution. Thorin took care to avert his gaze when she glanced in his direction. The last thing he wished for was Lady Mista noticing his glances and becoming flustered, as she often did in his presence.

At that moment, his lady wife seemed to be listening intently to the council. Her hair was gathered on the top of her head in a crown of several thick braids, framing her round face. Thorin’s eyes travelled from her thick, dark eyebrows down to her subtly curved lips, now pressed into a thin line as she scribbled something down.

Thorin knew how soft those lips were. He frowned at this uninvited recollection of their wedding day kiss. Even though it had lasted barely a few heartbeats and was intended only for their subjects, that moment apparently still lingered in his mind.

Lady Mista was his wife, yet besides the softness of her lips, he knew barely a handful of facts about her. She appeared to have an affinity for reading ancient tomes, made delicious breakfasts, smelled like an apple orchard in spring… and seemed to be terrified of her own husband. To make matters worse, it was all his doing. Thorin was painfully aware of how he purposefully drowned himself in work since Lady Mista had moved into the Queen’s apartments. Apart from spending barely any time with her, it was difficult to forget that only yesterday, he had let his temper loose at least twice in her presence — first in the Forges, then during their dinner. If his advisors, revered, elderly lords, cowered when he loudly showed his displeasure, it was far from surprising that Lady Mista would react in the same manner. Taking a sip from his goblet, Thorin admonished himself; he ought to be gentler with her. As a delicate lady who had lived her whole life in great luxury, surrounded by sophisticated, courteous lords, Lady Mista probably already saw him as a moody brute. It was most definitely not a fortunate beginning of a marriage — a relationship that was supposed to last for the rest of their lives. Thorin had to admit it: since the moment he braided her hair on the day of their wedding, there was no turning back. He had consciously agreed to take a wife for the sake of his kingdom. His heart was not in it, but when it came to fulfilling one’s duty as a king, the matters of the heart were irrelevant. It could not be any simpler. Now, it was only a matter of acting upon his reasoning. Simple — except for that annoying little stone in a boot.

Deep in his thoughts, Thorin saw Lady Mista leaning towards Dís, who sat beside her, and whispering something. His sister nodded, giving a discreet sign in Iglishmêk to Balin.

“Now.”

Balin cleared his throat.

“The next matter on our agenda shall be presented by Her Majesty the Queen.”

Mista stood up, clutching a piece of parchment in her hand. He noticed the paleness on her face, the stiffness of her posture, but a silent kind of resolve emanated from her stance.

“Thank you, Lord Balin.” She turned to Thorin and then to the whole chamber, “Your Majesty, honourable Lords of the King’s Council. As a solution to some of our most pressing issues that have been mentioned today, I would like to propose a new, highly profitable treaty with the Woodland Realm.”

Thorin felt a few surprised glances cast in his direction; he schooled his face into his usual inscrutable expression and nodded slightly. If certain lords counted on him to demonstrate his very well-known disdain towards certain crown-bearing Elves, and therefore, to this idea, they would be gravely disappointed. After the discussion with Lady Mista on the previous day, Thorin had to admit that, objectively speaking, the proposal made sense. Remembering how his conversation with his lady wife ended, Thorin expected Lady Mista to be hesitant about bringing up her bold idea during this meeting without a solution. For some reason, she had decided otherwise, and that intrigued him. 

Several whispers were heard around the council chamber, but no one, not even Lord Galar, voiced their protest aloud. As for Dís… she had a wide smile on her face and a special glint in her eye, like a war ram readying for a battle. Thorin’s eyebrow rose.

“Let us hear it, Your Majesty,” he addressed his lady wife, his curiosity sparked.

Lady Mista began presenting her idea, mentioning the same arguments he had heard on the previous day. Now, however, she seemed much calmer and more eloquent, confidently replying to the various questions, both obvious and cunning, from around the table. She even managed to throw a little joke at Lord Njall and his great love of coin that, surprisingly, was met with a sincere burst of laughter from his side. Thorin, too, found himself unable to stifle a chuckle. 

“Allow me to admit, Your Majesty,” the chancellor, Lord Bori, said, “that I find this idea quite interesting. May I ask who would be conducting the negotiations with the Woodland Realm on our behalf?”

Thorin made a conscious effort not to grunt irritably. Of course, all of the council members knew his sentiment towards Thranduil, or rather, lack thereof. It was hardly surprising that the decorous Lord Bori worried that the negotiations would be broken off at the very first meeting with Thranduil due to Thorin’s temper. Judging from the look on Balin’s face, the chancellor was not the only one to have such thoughts. Thorin decided not to ruin the surprise.

“As His Majesty’s schedule will not allow him to participate personally, Princess Dís has kindly offered to join me at the negotiation table,” Lady Mista’s voice wavered almost imperceptibly, and Thorin caught her casting an uncertain glance at him. He nodded approvingly, as a demonstration to the council members. Unwilling to show his bafflement, he schooled his face into an expressionless mask yet again. Quite a few years have passed since Dís dabbled in politics. Such a declaration from her was far from unwelcome, but Thorin had reservations about its manner. He had agreed to Lady Mista’s idea under one condition: Lady Mista’s safety. If Dís thought that he would agree to both his wife and his sister travelling into the dangers of Mirkwood, the latter was gravely mistaken.

Another wave of whispers rippled through the chamber, and Lord Bori asked a subsequent question, but deep in his thoughts, Thorin did not care to listen. Lady Mista’s reply, however, instantly brought him out of his musings.

“On the contrary. As King Thranduil is to visit King Bard in Dale quite soon,” she began, “we shall use this opportunity to conduct the negotiations there. In case His Majesty’s expertise is needed, we will be close enough to discuss any necessary issues that might arise.”

Check and mate.

Thorin shot a quick glance at Dís. She grinned triumphantly at him. Regardless of who had come up with this clever idea, Thorin was convinced that Dís put it in motion. She would not waste an opportunity to take the starch out of some of the more conservative lords of the council when it came to Dwarf-women. 

At that very moment, Lord Galar turned to Thorin.

“This is quite an unorthodox idea, I must say. Our Zabdûna and the Princess conducting the negotiations on their own? And outside of the Mountain? Does this idea truly have your approval, Your Majesty?”

There it was. Before Thorin could reply, Dís interjected.

“Are you implying, My Lord, that two highly experienced Dwarf-women are unable to perform such a feat? Or are you concerned that we might lose our way when traveling to the faraway city of Dale?” Among chuckles and whispers, she gave Lord Galar one of her charmingly predatory smiles. Even Lady Mista, usually composed, had problems maintaining a dignified facade behind her spectacles.

Thorin did his best to conceal his grin. He hadn’t seen this mischievous side of Dís since… for a very long time, and he had to admit to himself that he missed that side of hers. Now, with his sister in her element, this council meeting was becoming more and more amusing. Rising from his high chair, Thorin repressed a pained hiss when his shoulder protested at the sudden movement. Then, he eyed several furrowed brows, Lord Galar’s included. 

“Rest assured, Lord Galar, that this matter was discussed in detail between me and Her Majesty. It has my full support,” Thorin spoke in his gravest of tones, his eyes resting on each of the council members in turn. “Since some of you, my lords, may not be aware of the significant experience of my lady wife and my lady sister in such matters, let me reassure you. Both are more than capable of conducting the negotiations on behalf of ‘Urdêk. Any further questions?”

“May we perhaps ponder the possibility of adding another negotiator?” One of the lords asked. “I would like to suggest Lord Glóin, the King’s Pursemaster!”

“Me? I respectfully decline,” Glóin shook his head vigorously. “I have too many matters to attend to as it is.”

Thorin noticed Dís rolling her eyes and whispering something to Lady Mista, who covered the lower part of her face with some parchments. Judging by the tiny wrinkles that bloomed in the corners of her eyes and her barely shaking shoulders, his lady wife was concealing a laugh. He wondered if her lips were now covered with her ringed hand behind those parchments, or would he see her smiling wide and freely if he peeked behind them?

And then their gazes met, and from behind her oval-shaped spectacles, Lady Mista looked straight into his eyes and gave him a small smile. This time, Thorin did not look away.

“What about Lord Hafnar?” A voice from across the table offered, making Thorin turn his attention back to the meeting.

“You must be jesting!” Master Yagrun pulled at his wheat-coloured beard.

“Aye, Lord Bjarne would do a better job than that fancy-pants youngster!”

“Over my dead body! Master Mundr and no one else! That is my final word!”

Thorin groaned. 

“That will do, my lords.”

When the chamber was silent again, he continued. “Two negotiators will be sufficient. Especially since one of them has a rare skill: being fluent in spoken and written Sindarin. Is that correct, Your Majesty?”

Lady Mista blinked with a start, “Why, yes… Indeed, Your Majesty.”

“Splendid,” Thorin replied. “That, I believe, may be our key advantage: the ability to understand what Thranduil and his advisors speak of between themselves.”

It felt good to see Lady Mista’s features soften when he offered her an encouraging smile.

“Now, let us return to the matter at hand,” he continued, “and discuss the main matters to be included in the treaty. My Lady Mista?”

As Thorin addressed his lady wife, she rose again, thanked him, and began speaking, glancing into her notes from time to time, her voice decidedly bolder. While listening to her and observing the reactions around the council table, one thing occurred to him. Even if some of his advisors had had any doubts about Lady Mista’s competence, those would have been reduced by the end of the meeting, like wisps of smoke over a fading fire.

That was when Dís glanced towards him and winked. Almost imperceptibly, Thorin nodded back at her, their morning dispute forgotten for good. He had expected the matter of the trade negotiations to take a lion’s share of time during the meeting, and with a probable outcome of a lesser lord or two being sent to the Woodland Realm for lengthy and inconclusive talks. Now, as the discussions around the table continued, they made Thorin think of a battle. It became obvious that both Lady Mista and Dís managed to gather significant support for this idea. Knowing his sister, she would be ecstatic after cutting some of the traditionalist lords down to size on the account that they would rather suffer the end of the world than see dwarf-women handling high-prestige matters. He wondered how many lords would openly oppose the negotiations after the dust settled. Political charades and squabbles for influence did not amuse Thorin in the slightest, but if his sister and lady wife would continue on their course, he perceived a great deal of amusement for himself during the future council meetings. The moment when the lords understand how much they underestimated those two dwarf-women could not come soon enough. A quiet sense of pride filled him when he thought of them coming up with a solution that he had no other choice but to accept if he wanted to stay true to his word, and at its execution — even if his own pride was slightly bruised in the process. It was a small price to pay for not being forced to look at the pale countenance of that treacherous Mirkwood sprite.

The meeting was coming to an end when Lord Bori said, “Since there are less than three weeks until Durin’s Day, may I ask how the preparations are coming along?”

Thorin swallowed. Durin’s Day. The first Durin’s Day after the Lonely Mountain was reclaimed, and it had completely slipped his mind. He felt as if the ground gave way beneath his feet.

“Quite well, thank you, My Lord,” Lady Mista’s reply was like a gold vein in a forgotten mine shaft. “At this point, we are almost finished and Master Yagrun assures me that we have enough provisions and refreshments for a week of celebrations.”

“That’s correct, Your Majesty!” The Storemaster rose to his feet and offered a detailed account of the current stores.

While Glóin presented the list of planned events and their cost, relief washed over Thorin. He cast a hopeful glance at Lady Mista, but she was engrossed in discussing all the aspects of the upcoming celebrations. 

His sister’s words echoed in his mind.

You have the luxury of being married to a smart, capable woman…

Thorin hissed. His damned shoulder again.

Half a bell later, the heavy doors of the council chamber shut behind the last of the lords. Thorin rested his back against his chair, enjoying the silence, his eyes closed. He was about to rise and leave for the training grounds when a little voice reached him.

“Your Majesty?”

Thorin opened his eyes.

“My Lady Mista!” He rose as the courtly manners dictated, looking down at his lady wife. There were few dwarf-women of similar stature in his surroundings, and he still marvelled at their height difference, wondering if she ever felt overwhelmed by the monumental size of his Kingdom’s doorways, staircases and chambers. Did she ever feel that way about him?

Lady Mista wore a modest dark brown gown of a sober, unfrivolous cut. In her hand, she clutched a bundle of parchments, and there was a charcoal writing stick tucked behind her ear. It made him think of a merchant’s daughter working behind a store counter rather than the Queen Under the Mountain. With a wavering smile, she adjusted her glasses, leaving a small dark smudge on her nose.

“Your Majesty, may I ask whether you are satisfied with my solution to the Mirkwood conundrum?” she said. “Lady Dís assured me that you would gladly approve of it, but it did not feel right to me to surprise you in such a way. I have simply… I could not find you before the council meeting… and I hope you don’t mind…”

“My Lady Mista,” he began softly, determined not to terrify her yet again. “There is no need to worry. I told you that I would support this idea if certain conditions were fulfilled, and they were. All I can say now is to congratulate you on your solution.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” Thorin could have sworn that her cheeks darkened with a blush. “To be honest, I did not expect for the notion to gain approval of the King’s Council.”

“It was not unanimous, but the lords can recognize a clever idea when they see one.” He offered Lady Mista an encouraging smile. 

She cleared her throat and shuffled her feet.

“It would not have been approved without your support, My Lord. And for that, I am thankful.”

“It is I who should thank you for coming up with it in the first place — and for handling the preparations for Durin's Day,” he paused and added, surprising himself, “to be honest, it completely slipped my mind.”

Lady Mista’s eyes widened, but she quickly composed herself.

“Well… It is not surprising, My Lord, you have a lot on your mind these days. That is why I took the liberty of handling it with the help of Dís — your lady sister — and she is not the only one. So many of your subjects wish for the first Durin’s Day in our reclaimed Kingdom to be a grand celebration!”

“I am very relieved to hear it, My Lady. May I…” he paused, “offer my assistance? On any of those matters…?”

“Thank you. In fact, when it comes to the negotiations with King Thranduil… May I ask… this treaty is such an important undertaking. Do you think, My Lord, that I could succeed?” Lady Mista stumbled over her words, clearly flustered. “I have never conducted this kind of negotiations on such a large scale. Are you not worried that I— that my lack of experience in political matters would influence their outcome?”

Thorin shook his head vehemently.

“Not at all, My Lady!” On an impulse, he took her hand into his and clasped it. “I saw the trade agreements we signed with Dale thanks to you, and your work so far has been truly admirable. And in case of any doubts, you will have my sister to assist you, as well as Balin.”

Lady Mista bit her lower lip, staring at their joined hands. Her delicate skin was pleasantly cool under his touch.

“My Lord… You are too kind. I am aware that I need to learn a lot in this matter. Perhaps, if you could find a moment of your time to discuss the treaty clauses with me… if you felt like it, that is, I would be more than grateful.”

“Consider it done, my lady,” Thorin patted her hand gently before letting it go. “Simply name the day and time and I will be there.” 

He heard her whisper, “thank you,” when he reached into the inner pocket of his tunic.

“Lady Mista…” he waited until she lifted her gaze towards him. “May I?”

A frown appeared on her face when she saw a linen handkerchief in his hand. As soon as she nodded, hesitantly, he brought it to her nose and wiped the charcoal smudge off her nose, as gently as he could. Lady Mista’s breath hitched. It was difficult not to notice the way she stiffened for an almost imperceptible moment, blinking nervously, only to relax slightly as he moved his hand away. Her hand reached out towards his, just to freeze halfway, her fingers speckled with charcoal dust. 

“Oh…” She blinked, gazing from her lithe hand to the dirty linen fabric.

To Thorin, there was something vaguely familiar about this moment — the handkerchief with his monogram, their hands, the way Lady Mista looked at him from behind her gold-rimmed spectacles — but the feeling disappeared as quickly as it surfaced.

“My apologies,” his voice sounded hoarse in his own ears. “I did not wish to startle you, My Lady. I do not imagine you would wish to appear with a charcoal-stained face before our subjects.”

His clumsy attempt at a jest was met with a little smile that went all the way to her eyes, brightening her gaze.

“You are correct, My Lord. That was… very thoughtful of you,” she lowered her head in appreciation. “Would you— Would you forgive me now? I left my secretary waiting; there is a matter… a meeting I need to attend.” 

“Of course. Until later, then,” he replied.

Lady Mista stumbled slightly, “Indeed, My Lord, until later.”

Hurriedly, clutching her parchments by her chest, his lady wife left the chamber — and him — behind. Thorin grunted, sitting back in his chair with resignation. He managed to scare her away yet again.

As he watched her disappear behind the massive door, countless thoughts raced through his mind, but only one surfaced: were Lady Mista’s eyes brown or amber?

💎 The Entangled Masterlist 💎

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