Iron and Oak

Chapter Eleven

The glowing walls of their room calmed him, and he found himself wondering how he could have forgotten the beauty of firelight reflected in the quartz veins that webbed the evergreen colored stone of the mountain. Esja shifted in her sleep, pressing closer to him, her hand flexing at his cheek as she murmured, her body tensing. He looked down at the top of her head and smoothed her hair from her face, stroking her cheek. She sighed and relaxed against him again.  

This was how he had always thought it would be. Waking from his terrible dreams only to find himself safely home, his wife's body warm against his. Anchoring him. The simplicity of that dream had long tortured him—this reality, so much more reassuring than he had ever imagined. The years spent without this, this most basic of life's necessities, the touch, and trust of another, abruptly overwhelmed him. It was the futility of walking into the past that drove him from their bed.  

He dressed near the fire, wondering where Esja had managed to find him clean clothes. He quietly pulled on his boots and walked back to the bed where she still slept. He sat on the edge next to her, knowing she would wake when he slid the bolt at the door. He slowly drew the heavy fur blanket off her shoulder, gliding his fingers lightly across her warm skin. He tugged the blanket lower until the cool air roused her enough to seek the missing warmth and drag the blanket back to her shoulder. He eased it down again, this time to her waist.  

Her eyes still closed, her hand seeking the blanket again, she mumbled, "Go away." 

Thorin smiled and said, "You're sure you have nothing more to instruct me in this morning?" 

Rolling to her back and burrowing under the fur, Esja smiled sleepily and said, "I hope you've learned your lesson." 

"Which lesson would that be?" he asked. "There was one last night that deprived me of speech. Perhaps that's the lesson you're speaking of? I must admit some curiosity as to where, exactly, you learned to do that?" 

She had the grace to look a bit embarrassed, then said, "I wouldn't want to compare poorly to some other dwarven woman you've known." 

"That would not be possible," he said.  

Shifting to lay her head in his lap, she grumbled against his leg, "I'm sure." 

He brushed his hand through her hair, kneading her neck, "Perhaps an appropriate lesson for you would be learning when not to believe my nephews. I know they often feel the need to repeat...and embellish tales of our travels for your entertainment." 

She looked up at him, her brow wrinkling, "So, it's to be denial then? Is that what you're telling me? I suppose you will say there never was a barmaid?"  

He smoothed her brow with a finger, "I will say only this. There was a barmaid that evening in Bree at the Prancing Pony. And with every retelling of the tale, she gets younger and more... athletic." 

"You've heard them tell it?" she asked, astounded. 

"More than once," he replied. 

"You deny she came to your room?" she asked, sitting up and looking him in the eye. 

"No," he said, watching the confession narrow her eyes. "She did come to my room, but as soon as she had started the fire, she departed. And, though I remember her as fondly as any barmaid I've encountered, she had none of the appeals Kili has worked so hard to endow her with." 

"I see. And just how old was this 'endowed' barmaid?" she asked. 

Thorin thought for a moment, "She was a hundred if she was a day," he said.  

Her nose wrinkled at the thought of a youngish dwarven female serving him drinks and stoking his fire.  

He angled his head to kiss her, his lips landing somewhere above her ear as she looked away, "A hundred-year-old woman," he whispered, "with two teeth, and the girth of the Great Goblin himself." Esja turned her face to his in suspicion as he continued, "I promise to gladly put myself in your hands for however many more lessons you feel I need to wipe her completely from my memory. Then, I think it will be my turn to teach you something about underestimating me."