Oak and Ash and Thorin
The afternoon sun was blazing and both Thorin and his pony were hot and tired. He had finished all of the smithing to be done in the settlement of Man and had decided that he had best move on to the next town. It was times like this when he missed his family the most. He had chosen to strike out on his own when there were simply too many smiths for the amount of work in the Blue Mountains. It was only right that the work go to the folk who had lived there all their lives. They were kind and generous allowing Thror’s band of followers to move in after the fall of Erebor, but when push came to shove something had to give and what gave were the newcomers.
Thorin had saved enough for a portable forge and a pony. He was still young and idealistic enough to think that he could take on the world and win if only he put in enough effort…and dragons stayed away. When they were making the pilgrimage from the ruins of Erebor to the Blue Mountains he’d noted that there were few smiths of quality. Surely there were men who pounded on iron to mend and craft but their skills were poor compared to his. So far he’d managed to do reasonably well. He’d been worried about angering what passed as a smith in the towns he’d gone to, but the work he offered was different enough so that even those with forges came to him for repairs.
He’d seen the lake from the road shimmering azure in the sun. He turned his pony toward it, his stride lengthening at the promise of a cool bath. The pony followed obediently dragging the cart with the forge, stopping every few yards to snatch a mouthful of the lush grass.
“Come on Mizimul,” he urged tugging the shaggy pony. She looked the farthest thing from a jewel, but she was gentle and did anything he asked of her and so earned her name. He unharnessed her, scratching behind her ears and across her withers where the strap of the harness had matted her hair with sweat. He tied her in the shade with a line long enough to both graze and drink. Pulling his bedroll from cart he dropped it under a large oak tree and opened it, spreading it and pulling out necessities and the small luxury of a new comb and two bars of sweet-smelling soap.
Thorin kicked off his boots and stripped quickly, dropping his dusty clothes into a heap under the oak. He strode to the lake looking for a spot to enter that looked less mucky. A strip of sand caught his eye and he waded in, enjoying the sting of the coolness against his hot skin. When he was thigh deep he dove gracefully and swam for several yards under water, reveling in the coolness of it against his bare skin. His hair floated out making him look for all the world like one of the merfolk come to life. He surfaced, took a breath and submerged again. He was a powerful swimmer and was able to swim half the length of the lake before surfacing.
He swam back, got out of the water, picked up one of the bars of soap and waded out thigh deep. There he proceeded to bathe every inch of his skin. He slid the bar along his arms enjoying the roughness of the bar and then the slick foam of the lather. He rubbed it in, massaging tired muscles with strong fingers, raising his arms to work the lather into his pits and then sliding his hand down across his massive chest. He was bigger than most Dwarves; taller and broader chested, an inheritance from the Line of Durin. Pectoral muscles flexed as he scrubbed, working the suds into a lather that lifted his chest hair up in curls. The soap covered the intricate tattoos that decorated his pecs. They were part of the passage into manhood, painful at the time but a source of pride now.
Thorin slid his hands lower across his abdomen, massaging the tight muscles and then lower to lift and clean his manhood. Its length and breadth were another inheritance from his forefathers, one that had always been a considerable source of pride and pleasure. He smoothed back his foreskin, washing the delicate head. The cool slickness of the lather caused him to lengthen and extend. It had been a very long time since this weapon had been used in battle. Being an impoverished exile was not conducive to finding a partner even for one night. He squeezed himself with the promise of relief later and continued to bathe until he felt clean.
