She woke up in the middle of the night and insisted they halt for a bit. She promised to stay awake, so she would not fall prey to the cold. If need be, she‘d walk off the shivers, she‘d dress warmly; she promised everything she could think of to make him take a break. He looked haggard and tired, and it stung her deep within her heart to see him thus.

“Rest, Master Dwarf.” She begged him, laying out a layer of clothes on the ground. “I do not need to rest.” He wanted to protest, but he was weary indeed, potentially weakened by the wound from which still trickled blood unbeknownst to her, and she beckoned him to sit down by her. The night was mild enough and though her face was as iridescent as a rainbow with a bruise that had spread out hungrily, she seemed happy and rested.

“Thank you for taking such good care of me.” She said, swallowing other words that were much more personal and may not have been to his liking. His was the only face she had thought of, the only face she had seen, when her life was in peril and her blood was screaming in her veins.

She would be his devoted servant forevermore, she knew, for he had saved more than her life; he had preserved her dignity and that last gift she had to sacrifice to a world too cruel by far.

“You are hurt, I was to protect you and you’ve been hurt. I have failed you.” He murmured, his words sounding like he was chewing on gravel and granite. “I am intact, thanks to you.” She caressed her own cheek, relishing in the dull ache radiating from it. Such a tiny bump, such a small price to pay for her reckless words.

“They have insulted you, they have battered you…” He spat, angrier than he had any right to be.

“One man has lost his temper and you’ve smashed his hand. I am fine, Master Dwarf. I am wonderfully well. Now, rest.” She pushed him down onto the ground.

For a moment, he hesitated, but he was too tired and too worn out from worry and conflicting emotions he could not quite place; so, when she waved him down, he settled his head onto her lap gingerly, sighing with relief.

“You good, brave man.” She whispered, settling one hand carefully on his shoulder, unsure if she was allowed to touch any other part of him. His hand moved up carefully, his fingers intertwining with her own. “Don’t go away.” He said, and it sounded much more like a plea than like an order, so she didn’t move.

Far from being a warrior, she knew that if there was any danger lurking in the shadows, she would be unable to protect him by brute strength or violence. Time and a fragile human life were all she had to offer and she’d sacrifice them willingly to repay the debt; she would fend off any attacker as long as she could, hoping it would give Thorin the time to defend himself.

His hands were huge, she noticed, with thick, strong fingers curled around her own like iron vices, but his touch was gentle and tender and made her feel safe.

Having grown up in the shadow of trees, in a valley surrounded by the rocky crests of the hills, she had never laid eyes upon the cities of men with their houses rising like mountains into the sky. To her, nature had always been a presence and a friend, and she had never seen the dwellings hewn into the very heart of the stone, climbing up the rocks like ivy and grapevines.

There were so many things she did not know and yet, as she spent hours watching his noble countenance and the strong, bold, reassuring lines mellowing in the greyish light, she could believe in beauty and goodness, and she was eager to meet the world she was yet to discover.

Singing in a hushed voice to the grass and the trees surrounding her, she remembered old nan’s tales about the people living in the trees and the spirits in the wind, begging them to recognise a king amongst them and keep him safe while the night paled, blushing like a maiden on her wedding day. The sun was about to rise, and she watched the shadows pull back from his face like a veil, revealing a beauty she basked in while he could not chastise her for her staring.

As far as she knew, he was unmarried. No doubt, he would be promised to someone; a man like that must be bartered and traded by his family. Not only was he a king, he was also strong, kind and smart; he was the full package. A seasoned warrior, a wise dwarf, and a warm-hearted companion, he would be a blessing on any family and their daughter.

Her head was pounding, but she was unwilling to close her eyes even for a second; he was resting, and she’d stand watch over his still form until either he revived or the light of her own life petered out.

His hand tightened around hers and she shushed him under her breath. “Sleep, oh king of stone, oh king of ore, sleep and let the world fall away.” She breathed, astonished when he brought their intertwined hands to rest on his chest. His heart beat strong and true; it was the very pace of the stone breathing underneath her thighs and her own pulse slowed down and steadied.

Her mind rewrote every single fairy tale she had ever heard; every gallant prince, every righteous king, every dashing hero suddenly had his face, and, through that minor change, they all finally made sense.

He awoke with a start. She had been hurt, she had almost been lost, he had left her alone and she had been attacked. His precious travel companion, his friend. His mind was aflame with snippets of nightmares that dogged his thoughts into wakefulness.

“Good morning, Master Dwarf, have you slept well?” Her cool fingers brushed away a strand of his hair, carefully, casually. “Yes…How are you?” His eyes sought her face; it was pale and yet full of ugly shades of pain. She had not slept, and dark shadows were creeping up her cheeks again; it looked like the darkness had invaded her beautiful face and he could not bear seeing her light snuffed out by the violence that had been inflicted on her.

“Oh, why did you do that? Why would you risk your own well-being?” He groaned, sitting up and stopping his own fingers a hair’s breadth away from her skin; his hands were too big, his digits too lumpen, and his skin too rough to touch her battered face.

“He had a knife.” She whimpered, closing her eyes to chase the memory. She had seemed so calm and collected when they had spoken about the injuries she had suffered, but the memory of a man attacking him with a mere hunting knife shook her to the core.

Sweet girl, he thought, if only you knew what I have faced and what losses I have suffered.

Not now though. “Let’s push on.” He said gruffly, too painfully aware that if she was to lean forward, or if he was to pull just the slightest bit on her hand still resting in his, her mouth could squarely land on his, erasing the pain of uncertainty that was far greater than the tiny cut in his side.

When he got up though, he winced and within a moment, she was upon him, pulling up his tunic without much ado and uttering a small, strangled shriek. “Thorin! Why wouldn’t you tell me?” Her eyes were ablaze with recrimination and the feeling of betrayal.

“It’s nothing. I had forgotten about it.” He rumbled, embarrassed by the honest tears in her eyes now. She was pushing him back down to the ground and started to spread salve onto the wound, pinching it together and letting go of it again.

“Will I live?” He joked, very aware that it was nothing at all and that Dwalin would have laughed until he almost peed himself if he had seen what a fuss she made about a mere graze.

“I really hope so.” She was focused on the cut, deeper than he wanted to admit but neither infected nor very extended. He would indeed live, and she gave thanks to every God above and beyond the fertile earth for it.

All her previous good principles applying to how one was not see dwarves undressed went right out of the window. She could not help noticing that this chest she had rested against looked chiselled but had nothing in common with cold, hard stone beyond that; it looked invitingly soft, and it felt enticingly warm under her probing fingers.

“Woman, I am alright. Let’s press on.” He tried to reason with her again. Her hands on his skin, how he had dreamt about that during their previous night, her eyes on his face…it was more than he could bear without giving in to the temptation of holding her close once again.

He would not force himself on her, not even when his intentions were as honourable as they could be; he would not frighten her, but he could not stay here and suffer the terrible tenderness with which she tended to him.

The hopelessness of his own impulses and wishes were torturous and the more she tried to balm this minor injury, the deeper she drove the invisible dagger of her magic into his heart, leaving wounds much more grievous and harder to mend.

Finally, she gave in, nodded and helped him to his feet. They fell into companionable silence once again as the miles melted between them and their destination.

After a few hours and a light lunch made up of berries and chewed herbs, she seemed to totter, and the pallor of her face rivalled the colourless sky above. He coaxed her back onto the cart, promising that he‘d wake her as soon as he felt even the slightest twinge of pain or fatigue.

Just before they reached Bree, a thunderstorm broke like the wrath of some vengeful god though, and he had to wake her up, because he had no intention of spreading a waterproof tarp over her sleeping form for fear that he’d end up suffocating her.

His name was the first word passing her lips as her lids fluttered and he gave her a warm smile. She would never grow tired of seeing him, she reflected, his smile was like the sun washing over the hills, making the landscape sparkle with delight, and his voice was as solid to her as his hand on her skin would have been.

„I am here. Let‘s cover the cart and…run.“ He helped her down and frowned when she ran across the flat expanse of land, lifting her arms over her head and laughing gleefully.

She had always liked thunderstorms. „Come back here this instant. You‘ll be drenched.“ He called out, hunched over the cart and trying to avoid as much of the battering rain as possible.

Angry gusts of wind drove sheets of water like ethereal walls along the way, clashing against the far away hills like waves crashing onto the rocky shore.

„Do not frown so, Master Thorin, isn‘t it lovely?“ She grinned up at him, her face a kaleidoscope of injuries. „Oh, the storm has your voice.“ She screamed over the mad rumble.

The rain was hammering down on them mercilessly, but she seemed unaffected, going as far as to turn up her face to expose it to the wrathful downpour.

„Woman, stop this.“ He let go of the cart and slung his arms around her, shielding her with his body. „You smell like rain and the rain smells like you.“ She sighed against his chest, closing her hands around his ribcage ever so gently and pressing her sore cheek against his warmth.

He was literally steaming. When she looked up, she had to admit that she had never seen anything quite as breathtakingly beautiful as his eyes, the exact colour to match the stormy afternoon sky and his lips quirking with a smile he was trying to suppress.

„You must have hit your head, woman.“ He grumbled, but there was warmth and a hint of embarrassment in his voice.

„You like storms, then?“ He asked, brushing away her wet hair, plastered to her face. „They are capable of great destruction and bringers of immeasurable treasures.“ She replied, pointing out how the drops of rain twinkled like diamonds on the blades of grass and described the contented sighing of the ground as it soaked up the life-bringing gift.

„Are you going to compare me to the storm now?“ He joked, only half-surprised by her earnest nod. „Both of you are beautiful and terrifying.“

„I do not seek to terrify you.“ He bristled. „Majestic, dangerous, and powerful. “ She corrected herself with a soft smile. „I am a creature of soil, a creature of mud, storms move us.“ She added.

„I am pretty sure that I do not deserve the admiration you seem to have for me.“ He chuckled.

„And I know that you do, Master Dwarf.“ She contradicted him categorically, pointing to the smoke in the distance. „Is that our destination? The rain is letting up. We should find some shelter before night falls.“

„I need a room. For her.“ Thorin did not ask, he commanded. „One?“ The innkeeper asked, apparently completely used to seeing people of different races come in at nightfall and demand to be given a room.

„Don‘t leave me.“ She gasped under her breath, swallowing hard around the lump of fear in her throat until he pressed her hand reassuringly, hidden by the front desk.

„Yes. One. Bring warm water for a bath.“ He petitioned and the landlord was only too willing to comply. Thorin‘s orders would deplete almost all the meagre headway they had made financially during that one, misbegotten day.

Staying back when he went to retrieve their most valuable belongings from the cart, she shoved a few of her own coins over the counter and asked, politely, for needle and thread, hot water and clean bandages. „Did he do that?“ The innkeeper pointed to his own face as a reference to her battered appearance.

She must have looked like a rat thrown into a pond after the cat was done toying with it, she thought, but she shook her head immediately in defence of her companion‘s honour. „He saved me.“ She admitted fervently. „People say he‘s the king of the Longbeards.“ The innkeeper confided.

„His beard is rather short, but…okay?“ She was confused. Thorin meanwhile, stood in the doorway and watched the common room, he had hoped that there would be some strange and queer creatures around for her to discover.

They were close enough to where those funny small men with the big feet lived for one or two to make their way to Bree and entertain the other patrons with stories of fireworks and pastries.

„What is a Longbeard?“ She asked as he pulled her away from the innkeeper who was already looking at her with too much interest, as were some of the other patrons; he would definitely sit outside her door like a boulder. If anyone tried to bother her tonight, they‘d have to go through him first.

„Durin‘s folk.“ – „Who is Durin?“

„My ancestor.“ He chuckled; she was collecting new tales already. Would that Ori were here…or Balin, they could tell stories so much better than him. He could not even do his own history and lineage justice. „Was he really handsome?“

What an incongruous question…“He was very strong and brave.“ Thorin replied, cursing himself for being so taciturn, but the words would simply not come to him.

They arrived at the door of her room at the same time as a serving wench carrying two pitchers of hot water; her face was flushed, probably, this had not been her first roundtrip to the room.

Thorin stopped in front of the heavy door and motioned to the two women to step in; the servant did so quickly and disinterestedly enough, but the woman he had shared the road with stopped in the doorframe.

„Are you coming?“ She asked, cocking her head impatiently.

„I…No…you need your privacy and a real bed.“ He stammered, questioning his noble intentions when her face fell. “Your water’s getting cold.” The servant girl griped and Thorin was quick to say: “You go and have your bath. I’ll go organise food for us and then I’ll be right outside of the door. Don’t worry…but lock the door. Do not open unless you hear my voice.”

He made no sense to her, she thought, but she could imagine that he’d be glad to be rid of her for a moment or two; no doubt, her endless chattering was getting on his nerves, especially as he seemed to be rather inclined to spend his time in dignified silence.

There was a massive door between her and everyone else, so there was no reason for him to stay around and watch her with that worried gaze he usually exhibited when she caught his eye.

He’d need a bath too, she knew, so she only poured half of the water into the tub, placing the rest close to the hearth to keep it warm and pouring various herbs into the shallow pool in the bath. Moreover, her poverty allowed for neither coyness nor vanity when it came to dress; she washed her own clothes and hung them off the back of a chair, hoping that at least her chemise would be dry enough to wear by the time he came back.

Thanks to a quick glance into the hazy metal plate that served as a mirror, she discovered that she barely looked human anymore: fatigue and swelling had turned her, naturally plain, face into some grotesque mask right out of a nightmare. For the first time in her life, she felt genuinely ashamed for the way she looked.

After having spent so many years alone, she had never had any cause to be vain, but in this very second, she wished her hair was anything but this matted nest of tangles and her skin was milky white and soft to the touch rather than scraped raw by hard labour and tinged blue and green by battery. Not that it would have made any difference to someone as regal and haughty as her master, her friend, her fiercest and only protector in this world, but she couldn’t help it.

For a few painful moments, while she stood naked in the middle of the room, she let herself remember the sight of his chest, blood trickling down his side, and the tender words he had spoken to her upon discovering that she had been injured. Her body, this remnant of a promising future interred alongside her own kin, prickled with the remembrance of the solidity of his during that cruel, cold night in the cave. He would be back soon; she had no time to fan the embers of her lonely pleasure into flames that would burn the pain out of her bones.

It was torture that she had never felt so much need and yet had so little time or privacy to investigate those sensations.

“Are you looking for your father?” The old man asked as Thorin waited for the food to arrive. He didn’t like leaving her door unguarded, especially as she was naked and defenceless.

What followed was a confused and confusing conversation about things that may or may not come to pass. He knew not what had happened to his father, but he still hoped that he might be found, hale and healthy. His kin had been summoned and all the signs pointed to a new beginning of very old stories; again, his travel companion, this herb witch, this human fairy, had been right.

Thorin grew impatient with the old man’s ramblings; he had no time for riddles now. She was alone and she was hurt. Either way, he had the bad feeling that he would see the old wizard before long. Just let me get her to the Blue Mountains, Thorin prayed, let me give her a new home before I start the long and potentially lethal quest of reconquering my own. He owed her that much.

Grabbing his food and another bowl for her, he took careful steps back to the room, finding himself faced with the unique challenge of knocking on the door without spilling the stew.

It was rude, but he had no choice, so he kicked softly against the wood, making it groan and shiver under the onslaught. “Coming.” Her voice resounded, but the bolt did not move back.

“What is a Longbeard?” Her soft voice came through the door and he chuckled. “It’s dwarves, small, stout men and women you’ll meet very soon.” At least, he hoped she would.

“Do the women also have beards?” Her voice came back, interested and not as suspicious as it should have been by far. “Yes, woman, they do. This very Longbeard here has a steaming bowl of stew for you, so if you would please open the door?” He couldn’t suppress a short burst of laughter as the door swung open immediately.

He froze. She was in her chemise, clinging wetly to her naked body underneath, and her face looked swollen and exceedingly painful still. “Come in, Master Dwarf.” She smiled, coaxing him into the room and locking the door behind him.

“I…what? No.” He stammered when she took the bowls from him and put them on the low table next to the single bed standing in the room. Kneeling on it now, she dipped one of the spoons in and tried to manoeuvre it between her broken lips.

“Sit down, I beg of you, I’ll be quiet. Just…take off your boots. I’ve left half of the water for you. I’ll be good.” She whispered, turning her head to the wall and closing her eyes.

“What are you doing, woman?” He asked, thunderstruck.

“You are hurt, you are tired, I talk too much, I know; I can understand that you’re fed up with my endless questions and stories. I’ll be quiet. Have a bath and a meal.”

He had secured this room for her, for her safety, for her comfort…and she thought that he wanted to be rid of her; she actually thought that he’d sleep leaning against her door because he preferred his own company to hers. Clearly, there were a good many things she did not know.

The mere fantasy of having a warm bath after the running and the fear that had turned his muscles into stone sounded almost unbearably alluring, but he could not just…

She was still facing away, quietly eating her stew with painstaking slowness on account of her injuries, not once turning around to look at him. He knew her to be curious and caring, so maybe the idea of seeing him undressed was abhorrent to her?

He had seen her naked legs, he had glimpsed flashes of her flesh under white mousseline, so he knew that she was as hairless as a babe; what if the dense, coarse hair covering his chest was horrendous to her to a point where she would not risk seeing any more of his body?

“I cannot accept this. I have taken this room for you.” He said, and when her shoulders twitched almost unnoticeably, he quickly added: “Not because I want to be rid of you, but because I am worried about your well-being. You are fragile and you’ve been hurt. I want you to feel safe.”

“I never feel safer than when you’re around.” She replied with that calm certainty he so admired.

“I…want things to stay that way. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He remembered the shock and the shame in her eyes upon waking up and realising that she had spent the night in his arms.

“Have a bath, Master Thorin, let me look at that cut again. I’ll be good.” He was sick and tired of her saying that, as if she was an unruly child that had discontented its teacher. “You are beyond good.” He barked. You are perfect, but that, he didn’t say aloud.

Shrugging out of his clothes, he gave in to the pleasure of sinking into the warm water she had left behind. “There’s fresh water by the hearth.” She informed him without turning around.

She had bathed in a few inches of water to leave most of it to him, he realised with a pang of guilt; she had to stop this, he didn’t deserve that level of devotion from someone he had led into peril’s and harm’s way.

“I am by the way, not like a mermaid. I have two legs.” He informed her, missing her words and her voice, contrary to what she seemed to believe.

“I know…” She giggled. She had seen those legs work tirelessly, pushing on while the cart rumpled steadily along the rocky path. “I wish I could show you all the people living in my part of the world. You’d like them, even those I despise, you’d like.” He went on, surprised to find himself filling the silence with what sounded like desperate, inane babbling to him when she wouldn’t engage.

“Tell me about the mermaids then.” He asked gently and with a sigh, she complied: “They’re people living in the open sea, far beneath the ships; they’re beautiful and dangerous for they lure vessels onto the rocks with their beauty and their voices. Some say, they are vengeful spirits and some say they are the angels of the upside-down world beneath the waves. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never been to the sea.”

With that, she fell into silence again. Oh yes, Ori would love her, Thorin thought, and she would love him. They would be great friends; she was kind and warm enough to dote on the young dwarf, which would please his overprotective brothers. A tinge of jealousy crept back into his mind; he didn’t like the idea of her being glued to the charmingly timid young one.

He was torn between his own sense of privacy and the absurd wish to be seen by her. The term “maiden” she had used casually haunted him day and night. “You have never seen the sea, you have never seen a mermaid, you have never seen a dwarf. Tell me, did you only see men?”

She laughed wryly, still turned away, ladling the stew into her swollen mouth while his was cooling off to the side. He should have thought of taking it with him; another factor in favour of making her turn around. No doubt, she couldn’t object to bringing his dinner to him.

“I have seen men and women, yes.” She seemed to smile to herself and he started to almost feel envious of the blank wall that got to witness the emotions flitting over her face when he could only guess, based on the ebb and flow of her voice.

“As a healer, you must have seen a good many of them.” He pressed on, unduly nosy about her level of knowledge on the subject. “I am not a healer though. I have seen the odd leg, the broken arms, some ulcers…” She replied, then fell silent and added, with a note of breathless honesty: “I have never seen anyone other than old nan naked. I have never even been in the same room than a completely undressed person.”

He gulped, maybe, it would be cold stew after all. “Are you not curious at all?” Again, he had spoken before he had been able to stop himself which was very uncharacteristic for him, to say the least, and it gave rise to a fair deal of discomfort in his hazy mind.

“Curious children end up dead.” She quoted, deadpan, which made him break out into booming laughter; he could imagine that her natural curiosity and her tendency to jump into things headfirst had given old nan many a headache. “Isn’t it a little late for that, woman?” He mocked.

“Are you trying to seduce me into doing something unseemly, Thorin Oakenshield, king of the Longbeards, future conqueror of Erebor and slayer of dragons and habitual furnace of maidens?” She uttered between gritted teeth. “I’m trying to get you to bring over my stew. You can close your eyes if you are too afraid to see what might well trouble your sleep.”

“Oh…” She murmured, leaving her own stew on the bedside table and nearly jumping to retrieve his as well as the spoon that she polished against her chemise, making it shift seductively against her bare chest.

Her eyes were firmly closed, and he had to lead her through the room; it was so much like the ridiculously innocent children’s play they used to indulge in when learning to see and feel their way in the dark tunnels under solid mountains where the sun didn’t penetrate.

Her foot banged into something hard, and she could feel his hands wrap around her own, taking the bowl from her gently. “Thank you.” His voice was as warm and as ethereal as the steam rising from the tub she was standing over. She would have exchanged everything she owned, with the exception of nan’s ring and her iron dwarf, to just have a peek at his naked form, but she knew that he’d see and she was afraid to embarrass the both of them.

“Am I really that frightfully repulsive that you wouldn’t even look upon my face now, woman?” There was a playful note in his voice, but she could also hear some genuine concern.

“You know that it is not that. You are king and I am…me.” She murmured, very quietly. “Do I know that?” He enquired, softly, his hand back on hers as it cramped around the edge of tub.

He had invited her, it would be alright, he had brought this upon herself, she thought…and opened her eyes. The light flooding in blinded her for a moment as she was facing the hearth.

The low slurping sound made her gaze turn upon him automatically.

His hair clung wetly to his flushed brow and his eyes flashed with the mischievous swirl of the secret caverns sucking in the waters of the rushing river; he ate his stew with such self-possession that he might as well have been sitting on his throne, surrounded by courtiers and advisors.

“I’ve met an old…acquaintance downstairs. We have to make haste to rejoin my kin, there are strange things going on and an air of change is about.” He spoke, waving his spoon and splattering stew into the bath water, which, in turn, made her look down.

She told herself that she was merely checking on the wound that looked much less grievous in the warm firelight than it had in the somber night, but her eyes lingered just a moment too long on the coarse hair covering his skin, following its path into the now opaque water swirling lazily around his solid form.

“See?” He lifted his feet out of the water and wriggled his toes. “Oh, king of kings, I’ve never said that you were literally a mermaid.” She groaned, mesmerised by the tiny span of his shins that was visible now.

She’d better not think about his toes too much, because his feet led to those sinful shins which, in turn, melted into sturdy thighs, and whatever lay beyond was out of her reach, in every sense possible and conceivable to her befuddled mind.

“We can leave whenever you want, Master Dwarf.” She muttered, forcing her mind back to his previous words. She could feel it too, a sense of urgency in the whispering of the wind and an impatient thrumming in the earth, all the spirits of the world were calling Thorin Durin’s descendant home.

She was no longer surprised at how clearly she could hear, feel and sense the world around her beyond the cocoon of her valley that was slowly melting away like winter’s last snow under the first spring sun.

Alive, she felt so much more alive, as if her whole life had been spent with silencers and cotton wool interposed between her and the truth; this man, this magical, mystical king, had become more real to her than most of the people she had known before that fateful afternoon.

“You have overcome your fear.” He commented when he saw her flushed face, her eyes riveted on his feet with a blank expression. “I have, Master Dwarf.” She nodded slowly.

“What do you think of my wound then?” He sat up a little straighter and she swallowed hard when rivulets of water ran down the broad expanse of his chest in a tantalising race towards the unfathomable depths of the tub and the secrets hidden within.

“I might have exaggerated. It looks minor enough to me.” She had to admit, “But I’ll put some more salve on it later, if you permit.”

“I shall permit it; I shall welcome it.” He smiled up at her and she had to bite her lip to suppress the tiny sound of desperate longing that wanted to break its way out between her clenched teeth.

She had not forgotten a single story anyone had ever told her and yet, she was sure that nobody had warned her of the way a dwarf could smile. Nan had told her of devious spirits and seductive wood sprites that would seek to turn away young girls from the right path, but she had never mentioned that dwarves, those creatures of stone and steel, had a wicked sense of humour and a smile that could coax a furnace into flames.

“Will you stay with me? Until we get to my kin? I have told myself that I would let you go if you chose to turn around, but I cannot bear the thought of having you walk away. I need to hurry to get back to my people, but I want you to accompany me.” He looked away; she could see the fire reflected in the deep azure and swirling smoke of his eyes and it had the strangest effect on her insides that writhed and slithered frantically within her abdomen.

“Will YOU stay with ME?” She shot back, nodding at the single bed standing in the room.

“If it makes you feel safer, sure.” He conceded and she felt like finding out if one could dent a copper tub by ramming a stone head into it several times, for he had nodded at the door. Did he really plan to stay pressed against the closed wooden panel?

The bowls were empty, and she put them outside the door, shoving the bolt home again with determination before a naked dwarf could slip out of the tiny slit she had allowed. Maybe, he could transform into a pile of rolling pebbles; clearly, her knowledge of dwarf lore was less than exhaustive and she was not about to take any risks.

She felt exhausted; the food had warmed her and made her feel sluggish. Sighing, she folded back the heavy, slightly rough blanket and slipped under it. After this many days, she was used to the sound of Thorin living, but tonight, all of the scuffing and scraping seemed muted by the absence of his clothes and boots.

As from far, far away, she heard the sloshing of water and then the unfolding of the rough towel she had left for him, warmed by the fire’s ambient rays. At her side, there was thread and needle, but she did not believe now, that he needed to be sewn shut.

“Are you asleep, sweetling?” He asked in a low voice; she smiled to herself. “No, I am waiting for you to be decent so I can look at your wound.”

Sitting up, she patted the strip of mattress next to her invitingly, shaking the clay pot that she had already put within arm’s reach. He moved towards her, stopping short in front of the bed though and looking down on her with apprehension and a hint of insecurity.

Crawling to the edge, she opened her pot and started to apply her salve with calm, circular motions. Don’t betray me now, Thorin begged his own body, this towel and the span of a sigh were all that stood between her and an awful truth she was not prepared to face.

It was really not that serious, she thought as her fingers slid again and again over the same puckered wound. She had to stop; she might well be hurting him by her inability to retract her treacherous digits from his warm, still slightly damp skin.

She was blissfully unaware of what she looked like, kneeling on the bed bent over his ribs, from above. Hitherto, she had never had any cause to question the way she interacted with other people as she had not seen many of them in the years since the plague.

Vestiges of her childhood still clung to her every word as well and she felt painfully overwhelmed by the expectations and hidden rules of courtesy to be observed in the dealings with men such as Thorin Oakenshield.

It was with pangs of a sensation so akin to pain and yet so sweet that she took in all the tiny details that unfurled under her questing senses: the warmth of his skin and the smell emanating from the lingering dampness; she could see the very structure of his skin, slashed by the blade and her mind wandered along the upthrust rim of the wound.

He was, much to her astonishment, made of flesh and blood indeed. There were hairs sprouting from his skin, like the resilient ferns pushing through the sandy banks along the river, and she longed to brush her fingers over them, for they were nothing like the flowing majesty of the mane pouring down his back like a cascade of tangible smoke.

“Thank you.” He said and her head snapped up in a single, terribly reckless movement; she heeded the authority in his voice with thoughtless, mindless eagerness and found herself staring up, through dense lashes and the swirling remnants of steam, into his smiling face.

Few were the people who could say that they had had a dwarf that imperious and grim towering over them and lived to tell the tale, she mused, and she was one of those blessed souls.

Once again, she could not help reminiscing; he was everything she had been led to believe and so much more yet: she had seen him smash a man’s hand like an earthen pot, but as his own hand settled on her shoulder now, his touch was as gentle and careful as a mother’s.

“I am cared for, woman, I thank you. You have done right by me, now lay your head down and sleep. Rest. I shall stoke the fire.” He murmured in a low voice.

It was shameful and wrong, but she slid under the covers without turning around, pretending to have just remained in the spot where she had been kneeling for the last minutes, too tired to crawl back to the other side of the bed or turn from the room. Closing her eyes for a long, sleepy blink, she sighed.

Hence how she came to watch him crouch down in front of the hearth which unsettled the towel slung around his hips; her battered cheek resting in her open palm was at once engulfed by a secret, hitherto unknown, savage, inner fire that dried out her throat and throttled every rational thought.

Though her eyes had been heavy-lidded and half-closed while he had made his way through the room, they were wide-open now, growing to an impossible expression of wordless wonder.

She was a woman grown; she knew about the differences between men and women, but seeing his naked form, outlined by the leaping and dancing flames, defied every belief or fancy she had ever entertained in the lonely hours of her isolation.

His back was turned to her as he crouched, his knees pointing outwards, too close to the hearth to be safe from erring sparks that might set his beautiful hair aflame if he wasn’t careful. It amused her greatly, to her own shame, to find out that the king of the Longbeards had a nice, plump behind such as she would have expected to see on a young child rather than on a warrior of his strength and renown. He had seemed made up of hard planes and sharp edges, but his secret curves, and what bodacious curves they were, were uncovered at last.

She tried not to pay any mind to that other part of his anatomy, swinging prominently between his spread legs and thankfully only visible as a dark, ominous shadow against the bright fire, as she was convinced that he would not have her look at that.

When he had walked away from the bed, her eyes had been closed; what if he thought that she was still dutifully keeping them shut as she had done before he had almost made her look at him? Was he aware that she was unabashedly staring at his rear side?

The part that attracted and astonished her most though was neither the size nor the shape of his backside either – for he was thicker and wider in almost every aspect, having hands that looked positively bee-stung and swollen – no, it was the apparent softness that kept her eyes glued to his body. The tantalising contradiction between the unyielding strength of his hands and arms, the anchoring solidity of his midriff and the flowing, enticing softness of his hair or skin made him a riddle in his own right. One she would have loved to solve if she could be given a pencil and a piece of something to scribble on…and a few hours, days or weeks to be thorough about it.

When he was finally satisfied with the fire, after having thoroughly stoked, poked, and fed it, he sat back on his haunches and grabbed one of the tunics he had brought up.

She had to bite back a sigh of disappointment when she saw his broad back disappear in a ripple of muscles tensing as the garment was pulled down, covering him to his mid-thighs.

In all of the stories old nan had told her, no part had ever alluded to or instructed her on the proper reaction to seeing a man naked. Were there rules to observe? Did she have to exclaim a specific expression of astonishment and congratulation, like people called “Well met” whenever they came across someone, they had not expected but were not disheartened to stumble upon?

He looked so imposing, she thought, flames casting shadows and highlights over his immobile form. Of course, he would withstand the searing heat, for metal merely shifted and stone retained the warmth, but she felt herself hardening to the point of cracking, unable to evacuate the pressure that was building inside her guts and mind.

“Will you come to bed, Master Dwarf?”

He spun around, his hair whipping in a jingling of beads, spearing her with an insistent glare.

“Why are you not asleep woman?” – “I am waiting for you.”

She barely recognised her own voice, low and almost sultry, it sounded much more inviting than anything she had ever spoken before in her life; he really made her discover parts of the world and of herself that she had not even expected.

“I…” He started, slowly moving towards the bed, then, remembering that the tunic was the only thing he was wearing, he returned to the pile of clothes on a chair at the far-end of the room, and slipped into a pair of breeches.

“Why can’t you just go to sleep and recover?” He asked, his voice mellow and only the slightest bit reprimanding. She looked so lost in that bed though; he had seen her sleep in his arms and wedged between their belongings, but in the empty bed, she looked like a child startled from a nightmare.

Kneeling on the edge of the bed, he waited for what she would do. When she lifted the blanket and scooted over, he shimmied in next to her and smiled as she drew closer again.

“It is warm enough?” He enquired, still haunted by the memory of her half-frozen body.

“Yes, it is nice.” She nodded, allowing herself to sink into the gentle drowsiness that wanted to swallow her up. With him beside her, solid, strong, she felt like she could close her eyes and rest. She had been alone and safe for the longest time and then, she had been with him; he had become her shelter on the road and even now, she was unwilling to be deprived of his presence.

It gave her solace to feel his warmth, to breathe in the earthy, warm smell emanating from his body and to hear his voice just beside her.

“Then, why do you need me?” He asked, gravel tumbling down a ledge, curiosity tinged with insecurity. “You deserve a bed as well, Master Thorin.” She mumbled, sleepy, and extended her hand. And if you think that my need is based on your body temperature, you’re sorely mistaken.

He took it gingerly, intertwining his fingers with her own and placing the knot of thick, stumpy digits and short, frail ones over his beating heart. It had become a kind of tradition and when her breathing slowed, he allowed himself to feel weirdly touched by her willingness to share her comfort with him.

Once he had retrieved the riches of his family, he would cover her with gold and gemstones; she would want for nothing, she would live like a queen.

A queen.

The word resounded within the thick walls of his mind, barriers against undue outside influences and prison to the torturous obsessions that could periodically take a hold of him.

He let the term bounce around for a few minutes, wondering, questioning his own instincts until he fell asleep as well.

In the course of the night, the fire had unfortunately waned faster than the morning sun had waxed and the chill creeping through the softly rattling window drove her closer into his arms. Having the light sleep of a man running away from or straight at some unknown fate, he woke up almost immediately upon her body encroaching into his space. He was not going to complain though, wrapping his arm protectively around her frail body, even though he was also acutely aware of the dangers inherent to this kind of intimacy.

He might well be doomed, and she had never lain with a man; these things were easily forgotten when the cold outdoors and various emergencies, as they were common on the road, commanded common sense to take precedence over decency, but here, in this room, things looked and felt different indeed.

Of course, both of them were still mildly injured and there was a cool draught, but nothing warranted this homely, almost conjugal comfort of holding her in his arms, her hand clasped around his shoulder farthest from her, her arm resting weightless on his chest.

Most importantly, all of him, every single fibre, reacted to her. There was blind lust spurred on by the warm swell of her barely clothed chest against the side of his ribcage, but also a deeper sense of solace and affection that ran through him like gold through stone.

He knew well that those veins of precious metal did not budge even if the stone around them shook with tremors sufficiently violent to wake giants and gods.

The sun was now almost up, struggling against the last wisps of darkness clinging to the sky, and every single need a living body could know plagued him. They would be provided breakfast shortly and that other carnal urge was beneath his dignity and beyond her comfort, so he could only take care of the part that was much more mundane and much less palatable.

Picking up the chamber pot, he was confronted with the choice of relieving himself in the corridor not to wake her and be potentially seen by stragglers or early risers or risking rousing her and be caught in a most inappropriate and unflattering situation by a person he wanted to think well of him.

She took the decision from him by sitting up as soon as he shifted his weight, her eyes heavy with sleep still and her soft, inviting mouth stretching into a hearty yawn.

“You are awake. I…I’ll be back in a minute, lock the door after me.” He smiled, turning to the door. “Master Dwarf…You are not wearing small clothes and your tunic is gaping open. If you don’t want to give the wrong impression to the other patrons, I’d suggest you get fully dressed before going down.” She grinned with a nod at his scantily clothed form.

Looking down, he discovered that he really looked like a man who had spent the night in a woman’s bed; his clothes were rumpled, and his body betrayed all the desperate urges that were yet unfulfilled on this bleak morning.

“I am so sorry.” He mumbled, resisting the urge of covering himself with his broad palms.

“Don’t be. I cannot remember when I last slept so soundly.” She stretched and added: “Go get ready and then I’ll check on the wound again.”

He grabbed whatever he needed to put on before leaving the inn, deciding to not undress in front of her in her present state of acute awareness and his very visible condition of engorgement. May the trees look upon his shame and whisper dirty comments to the cursed Elves leaping around in them. He had no care for other’s opinions and their conjectures.

As soon as he had gone, leaving the chamber pot by the door, she jumped up and rushed through the various morning routines of her own.

By the time he returned, fully dressed but still exhibiting a slightly stilted, stiff gait, she had emptied both her bowels and the chamber pot, washed, and salved her bruised face and, at least, tried to comb her unruly hair.

He was holding two new bowls containing a mysterious, brownish mush. It was lukewarm and tasted of ground wood, she found, but she was hungry enough not to argue or object.

“Hmmm, whatever cereal was ruined to make this, I pity.” She mumbled under her breath, thinking of the flatbread her nan used to make. “Yes.” He nodded with a small chuckle.

She told him about the flatbread, and he replied that her cooking skills would win her another few friends once they got to his kin. “We are a hungry people.” He shrugged.

“No wonder, you have a lot of…mass to sustain.” She commented, poking the end of her spoon into his biceps. “I wish the tales were true and we would actually eat pebbles and rocks. There’s always plenty of that.” He murmured, thinking back on days and nights of hunger on the road.

“There is a lot you can eat if you prepare it correctly.” She prompted. “And if you know how to find it.” He opined with a gentle smile. She had been so alone in this world that she did not consider that her knowledge was not shared by everyone.

“I’ll show you, Master Dwarf.” She promised and he wondered what skill he possessed that he could offer her in return. “We shall be with my people very soon. I shall teach you how to defend yourself from men like the one who gave you this.” He pointed at her battered face.

Yes, he would find a dagger for her, and he’d teach her how to use it; the need to bestow gifts upon her that would serve and remind her of him was startling and slightly unsettling, but he couldn’t help or suppress it.

She might still choose to go her separate way and if she did, he wanted her to carry a part of him back to her dark forest. Never to be fully alone again, she should be able to recall their adventures fondly and know that she had at least one friend in this world yet.