Guests in Rivendell stayed in the western wing of the palace and the Blue Room was at the easternmost end of the western wing. Amara stood at the door, her mouth dry, her heart pounding a hole in her ribs, and her hand refused to rap on said door. What if he didn't want to see her? What if he'd decided to leave Rivendell altogether?
"There is only one way to find out, you ninny."
She knocked.
She waited.
And waited.
And knocked again.
And waited.
And waited.
Her heart sank. Perhaps he had left. There was no way for her to know until the morning, when she went to breakfast, and somehow, she had the feeling she wouldn't sleep much tonight as a result.
"Serves me right," she muttered, turning around to go back to her own chambers. Hopefully, Kenia had gone to bed for the night, since the infirmary was empty. The last thing Amara wanted, or really needed, was to have to face Kenia now and admit how she'd mucked things up so badly, that Thorin had already taken his leave of Rivendell.
A floorboard creaked then, and the door behind her opened, and she paused as Thorin said, "Amara?" in a sleepy voice.
She turned to see him peering out the door, dressed only in the small clothes that he claimed to dislike so much, his hair a tangled black and silver mess about his face, his eyes mere slits. "I'm sorry, I didn't meant to wake you. I'll just... you can go back to bed."
"No, wait," he reached for her, his fingers closing about her wrist, and tugged gently. "Come in."
She let him pull her into his chambers, and waited for him to close the door. He did, and when he turned, he looked a bit more awake as he scooped a handful of hair to toss out of his face. "What brings you here in the middle of the night?"
"I wanted to apologize. For what I said in the courtyard. I was being an ass, really. And I am sorry. And, honestly? If you still wished to have me, I'd love to go to Erebor."
"If I still wished to have you." He leaned back against the door, arms folded over his chest as he just stared at her for a long moment.
She pressed her lips together as her gaze fell upon the two horizontal scars across his lower belly. Like the one on Fili's back, these were healed, but raised and pink still. They stood out even against the firm definition of his stomach muscles, and since the only hair on his stomach was the swath down the middle reaching his navel, there was nothing to hide them from view. Until they faded white, they would be a constant reminder of how fragile life could be and how closed he'd come to falling victim to that fragility. And if she were to remain with him, they would always serve as a reminder to her to never take a single moment of any given day for granted.
If he still wished to have her, of course. He still hadn't answered.
She swallowed hard, lifting her gaze to meet his, only to find him unreadable. His eyes showed no fire, no anger or passion, and there was nothing in his face to suggest either forgiveness or fury. He just stared.
"I was a fool, Thorin. And I don't blame you for being angry. I just... I didn't take your explanation of this—" she held out the braid—"seriously. I was acting every bit the arrogant elf and I am sorry."
As she spoke, she moved to untie the leather strip. "If you wish this back, I understand."
Now his eyes flashed and he reached out to grab her wrist before she could untie it. "What are you doing? Do you want me to take it back?"
"No. I don't, actually." She let her fingers move along the braid before his right ear. "In fact, I would very much like to braid something into your hair as well, so the world knows you belong to me. That is," she hesitated, "if you do still wish to belong to me. You've not answered me on either, you know."
He caught her by the elbows, his thumbs warm as they skimmed along her biceps. "I have no choice in the matter, Amara," he said, his voice low. "I am yours and have been since I kissed you on that bench in the courtyard when we were talking about the fireflies. Maralmizi, givashel."
"I am so sorry," she whispered as he caught her face in his hands, his fingers stretching into her hair. Her eyes slid shut as he tilted her face to his and captured her lips in a slow, soft, deep kiss.
Her lips parted of their own at the first brush of his tongue against them, and as he caressed her tongue with his, her fingers tightened about his thick wrists. She felt his kiss to the center of her being, and without thinking, she released his wrists to slide her arms about his neck, to arch against him to press her breasts firmly against his chest.
Thorin crouched ever so slightly and caught her behind the knees with one arm and around the waist with the other and swept her from her feet to spirit her to his rumpled bed. He pressed her into the featherbed, and she pulled him flush against her, her head falling back as he kissed his way down along her throat, down across her collarbone. The back of her gown fell open and he offered up a seductive smile as he tugged the bodice down to let it fall about her hips.
"It's a pretty dress," he growled, rocking back from her to grasp said dress by its flowing skirt, "but it's in my way."
"You'll get no argument from me," she whispered, lifting her hips so he could whisk the garment from her. As soon as it hit the floor, she reached for him. "You are too far away, Mr. Oakenshield."
"Worry not, amrâlimê," he growled as he came up over her once more, "because if you are up to it, I will be inside you before much longer and I cannot possibly get closer than that to you."
She shivered at the purring promise in his deep voice. "I like how that sounds. And I am very much up to it."
"Good." He seized her lips once more, arching against her as she parted her thighs for him to settle between. The small clothes were thin, although his arousal would have been evident even if they weren't. It felt so very nice when he thrust against her, his body meeting hers where she ached for him the most already. The knots were so quick to tighten, to twist and kink as heat swirled through her.
His kiss deepened, his tongue teasing hers as her head slowly began to spin. She tightened her hold on him, her fingernails biting into him even as she dragged them down along his back. To her delighted surprise, that made him growl low in his throat and thrust harder against her. She did it again, unable to hold back her soft laugh as he breathed, "Amrâlimê... you drive me mad when you do that..."
So, of course, she did it again.
He pulled back to smile down at her, his eyes smoky blue with desire. He held her gaze as he gave another, slow thrust against her, one that sent a ripple of heat through her. She loved the feel of him against her, loved the feel of him around her. There was something about him that made her feel safe and protected, and loved unlike anyone had ever made her feel before.
"You look so serious," he whispered, slowly coming back down against her, his lips just brushing hers as he added, "Is something wrong?"
"No. Everything is perfect," she replied, sliding her arms about his waist once more. "Maralmizi."
He smiled, shaking his head. "Maralmizu is what you'd say to me, givashel."
"I have much to learn from you," she whispered, trailing her fingernails along his back once more and smiling as he shivered again her.
His eyes closed as he sighed, "Amrâlimê, if you keep doing that, I will give you anything you ask for."
"I just want you."
"I am yours." He shifted his weight to his right arm and let his left hand just graze along the rise of her breast. His eyes remained locked with hers as he traced the tip of his forefinger about her nipple. She sucked in a sharp breath, caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and almost shivered as the gentle touch send tingles rushing through her. With each pass, her nipple tightened, grew far more sensitive, and his eyes darkened further.
Then he bent to swirl the tip of his tongue about it instead and this time, she did shiver against him, both from the sensations running rampant through her and from that smoky desire in his eyes.
His eyes closed then, his lashes thick black crescents against his cheeks, as he continued to sweetly torture her with those sensual swirls and teasing flicks. While he did that, he slid his hand along her waist, in between her thighs, and eased a finger inside her.
She couldn't hold back her breathless sigh of delight as the sensations met, fed off one another, to spread through her like smoke. Her thoughts fled, chased away by the sweet pleasure curling through her from each one of his tender strokes. That pleasure billowed outward, leaving her breathless and aching for him, her fingernails bit into his shoulders, her hips rocked to meet each slow thrust of his finger, the knots tightening and dropping lower toward her core. The delicious ache grew as with each stroke, each flick, he brought her closer to the edge. The fibers and sinews in her body tensed, her entire body hummed with the need for that release.
"Thorin..." His name was a misty whisper on her lips, her eyes closing. If he didn't shove her over that edge soon, she would surely go mad.
With one last swirl about her nipple, he pulled away to smoke a path of hot kisses down along her ribs—taking care to avoid the two healing arrow wounds—moved along her belly, and then...
"Thorin!" She couldn't hold back her cry as he parted her curls and with just the tip of his tongue, traced a teasing circle about that small nub. Fire filled her as he did it again, and again, and with each pass, did something magical with that finger. The knots burst, spilling white-hot delight through her entire body. She quivered around him, arcing to meet him, shoving one hand into his hair to twist and hold on as he drove her straight over the cliff into sensual madness.
He drew out her climax until she almost sobbed from the pleasure, until her entire body went limp against him, her fingers relaxed in his hair, her lungs threatened to seize as she fought to drag in breath. Nothing had ever felt as good as this, and as he came back up to capture her lips with his, she wrapped herself all around him, desperate to draw out that pleasure as long as she possibly could.
He caught her, wrapped his arms about her as he rolled to bring her astride him, and she was greedy in her need to devour him. She kissed her way down along his neck, through the scruff of his beard, into the softer scruff of his chest, down his belly. He tented the small clothes, which she wrestled from his body, then bent over to trace the very tip of her tongue along his length, swirled it about him, drew him deep and smiled at his husky, "Amara..."
She continued teasing him, each moan, each lazy thrust her guide. His fingers twisted in her hair and twice, the ornament he'd braided into it smacked her along her jaw, but she ignored it. He tensed beneath her, his voice low and filled with longing as he breathed, "Kurdelê... oh yes... 'Atmelê... Givashel... I want you... "
Amara pulled away to whisper, "Are you certain?"
He lifted his head from the pillows, his eyes almost black with desire now as he nodded. "I am positive."
She couldn't help but smile at the pure lust etched into every plane, into every angle of his face. No one had ever looked at her with such unabashed desire as he did right then. This was a side she knew few would believe existed in him, that the gruff, terse, serious warrior could possess such a gentle, tender, loving side. Somehow, she thought very people were ever witness to this side of her fierce dwarf.
He sat up, moved to the edge of the bed, then caught her by the wrist to draw her astride him once more. A sinful smile lifted his lips as he positioned himself and she sheathed him in a slow, fluid motion that had them moaning as one.
His arms tightened about her waist as she rocked against him, his hands splayed across her back. He held her gaze, whispering, "Amrâlimê... marry me, Amara. I don't care if we stay here, or we live in Erebor, as long you say you will marry me."
"Of course you care," she whispered back with a smile. "And I will gladly live in Erebor the rest of my days, my love." Her breath hitched as he surged to meet her and sent ribbons of sinful heat through her. "And yes, I will marry you."
His arms tightened about her as she moved faster now. That fullness inside her demanded her attention, demanded she come down harder against him, that she send him deeper still, where it felt so bloody good she could cry from it. With a low growl, he caught her by the hips, rocking her harder and faster as fire swirled through her. Those knots were back, twisting and multiplying as her climax took root.
Her eyelids grew so heavy, but she refused to let them close. She wanted to savor the look of pure desire on Thorin's face, to watch how his pleasure played out across it, the way the muscle along his jaw bulged beneath his beard, the way his breath smoked about its edges as he gripped her tighter still. The fullness inside her grew fuller still, tension wound its way across his shoulders and down his arms. Her name bubbled to his lips as he gritted, "Amara—oh... yes... oh... Mahal... don't stop, givashel, don't stop..."
Then, he crushed her against him as he went over the edge, surging hard, his body throbbing into hers, his, "Amara!" rough and harsh and echoing about them as he found his pleasure and surrendered to it.
His release triggered hers and she melted around him, fingernails digging into his shoulders, her cry of delight little more than a breathless gasp as her head fell back and she gave herself up to the moment, to him.
Thorin cradled her against him as her head fell forward into the curve of his shoulder. She clung to him, fighting to breathe, wondering if he could feel how hard her heart raced as dizziness washed over her. "Oh... oh, my..." she whispered, turning her head just enough to brush the slope of his neck with a soft kiss.
He shivered, which made her laugh, and that, in turn, made him shiver again. "The mighty Thorin Oakenshield," she murmured, nuzzling him, smiling at the softly scratchy scrape of his beard against her, "shivering at having his neck kissed."
His arms tightened about her. "My entire body is humming with pleasure right now, and is very sensitive and I apologize for nothing."
"You needn't apologize. I like having this power over you."
He drew back, his eyes soft as his gaze caught hers. "You should only know what power you have over me, Amara. Know this, there is nothing I would not do for you and nothing I would not give you. You need only say the word and it is yours."
"Oh, now that's just the afterglow talking." She trailed her fingers through his hair, tucking it behind his left ear. The fullness inside her dissipated and she eased off him, smothering a laugh as he flopped onto his back with a low sigh.
Stretching out on her belly beside him, she said, "Was that proposal a proposal or was that just the pleasure talking?"
He turned his head toward her, opening one eye. "I suppose that depends on your answer."
"Thorin!"
He smiled and a low, rumbling laugh rolled toward her. "It was a proposal. If you wish, I will get down on one knee and ask you again."
"That won't be necessary." She went quiet against him, traced his beard downward from his jaw with one fingertip. Despite how scratchy-soft it felt against her skin, it wasn't nearly as coarse as she would have imagined. "Do dwarves ever shave off their beards?"
"Never, if they can help it."
"Then why is yours that much shorter than those of the other dwarves?"
"It used to be longer," he replied softly, his eyes closing again as she continued stroking him. "But, it was singed off when Smaug came, and I thought I'd keep it this length until such time when Erebor was ours again. A bit of a memorial for those who died there, I suppose."
He said it so softly, but there was no mistaking the pain in his voice. Even after all those years, it still haunted him and might always do so. She moved her hand from his beard to his forehead, and let her fingers trail along his hair, spread out beneath him like a fan. "You had to have been so frightened when that happened. I cannot even imagine."
"I don't recall being frightened," came his sleepy reply. "Or, perhaps I was and I just ignored it because I had—because I had to do what I could to get my family out, my people out, as many as I could."
"It had to be strange when you and the others finally returned, after so many years and all that happened."
A rueful laugh rose to his lips. "It is a shambles now," he murmured. "A disgrace, really. It was a beautiful city, the most powerful kingdom of its day. And now? Now, it's a burned out shell of what it once—" his voice hitched, and when he drew in a breath, it was on the shaky side—"what it once was."
"Can it be rebuilt?"
Now he opened his eyes, turning toward her once more. "It can. It will take a while, but I think it can be, yes. But, that isn't the only hurdle in my path. I need to make peace with the people of Esgaroth. With Thranduíl of Mirkwood. I burned many bridges in my idiocy. A fairly pathetic King Under the Mountain, to be honest."
She stretched out, her cheek resting on her folded hands, amazed at how comfortable she was, lying there sprawled across his rumpled bed, naked with him. It wasn't something she ever saw herself doing and yet, it felt absolutely perfect. The only light came from the low fire still crackling on the hearth on the far side of the room. "It wasn't you, though, Thorin. Dragon sickness is very real and very powerful and you are one of the few who've been able to defeat it."
"I hurt a lot of people in the process, though."
"You did, but they've forgiven you. It's time you forgave yourself."
He shook his head. "I don't think I can."
"Is that so?" She leaned over and dipped to brush her lips with his. "Because you should try. I think you might be surprised by what happens when you do."
His hand came up to press against the back of her head, his fingers folding into her hair to keep her against him. His lips moved slowly against hers, the linens rustling softly as he came up to cover her, to pin her beneath him. She melted against him, smiling against his lips as he caught each of her hands in his and pinned them to the bed above her head, linking his fingers with hers.
No more words passed then, his kisses deeper with each pass. Her legs parted to accommodate his hips, he released one hand long enough to reach between them and with a gentle thrust, slid inside her once more. Then he laced his fingers with hers again and made love to her with no sense of urgency, just those slow, teasing thrusts, until neither one could stand the teasing any longer. And when the end bore down upon them, he squeezed her hands, gave a powerful thrust, and growled, "I love you," as the fiery glow of mutual climax consumed them both.
They lay together in the dark, beneath the soft linen sheets. The fire had gone out long ago, and Amara slept soundly in his arms, her back warm against his chest. But Thorin couldn't sleep. Her words kept bouncing about inside his head.
"You did, but they've forgiven you. It's time you forgave yourself."
How could he possibly forgive himself? He'd brought war to Erebor. And for what? Over greed for a necklace. Greed for gold. Greed for treasure. His greed. His greed nearly led to the deaths of the twelve dwarves who'd proven themselves beyond loyal to him, no matter how mad he'd gone.
Amara sighed in her sleep and snuggled closer to him, which made him smile as he tightened his arm about her waist. How not one of them wrote him off as a lost cause, how they all willingly followed him into battle that one, last time, he'd never understand. But they did. And he almost lost his nephews because of their stubborn loyalty.
Of course, he gazed down at the woman sleeping so peacefully beside him, without their loyalty, without their willingness to sacrifice themselves as well, he would not be where he was then. He'd never have met Amara, for the previous time they were in Erebor, he'd seen her, but only from a distance and paid little heed to her. He thought she was like all of the other elves with whom he'd had contact—beautiful, but aloof, arrogant, self-absorbed.
But he couldn't be more wrong. This elf, the one now snoring ever-so-softly, challenged him more than anyone ever had. She stood up to him. She actually bossed him about and without hesitation. And because of that, with the exception of two ugly scars, he was the same dwarf he'd been before coming face to face with Azog at Ravenhill.
Well, perhaps not exactly the same. A sense of peace wove through him now, one he hadn't felt since he was a young man, before Smaug. For the first time since that horrible day, he felt happy. He looked forward to returning to Erebor, to showing Amara his world. In fact, he looked forward to the future for the first time in a long time. And he had her to thank for it.