Chapter Text
“Iora,” Ulvhild said, feeling that the atmosphere had suddenly shifted. She cursed herself for using her sister as a shield and a cheap deflection, but she wasn’t ready to confront the oddly intense gleam in Thorin’s beautiful eyes. “Let me see that cane, too, please.”
As soon as it was handed to her, she turned on her heels to leave the room.
“Hild,” Thorin called after her, baffled by her reaction.
“I’ll be back with designs and ideas very soon—I just need to check on the girl,” Ulvhild stammered hastily and all but ran down the corridor in search of Óin’s domain.
“She’s gone,” Kíli informed her sourly as soon as Ulvhild stumbled into the surprisingly bright, comfortable room. “Ori has managed to make her flee again. What a pleasure to see you, though, Hild. How have you been?”
Unable to withstand, Ulvhild reached out and pulled him into a tight embrace, breathing in his fresh, clean smell greedily.
“I’m all right. Do you know where she went?” she then asked.
“She muttered something about some flower and the face of the mountain; beats me,” Kíli grinned, inherently convinced still that Iora would manage to succeed in whatever hare-brained plan she’d concocted.
“Hild,” Ori greeted from behind a half-drawn curtain. “Are you also angry at me?”
“A little,” Ulvhild confessed earnestly. “What did you do now?”
Miffed, he repeated his conversation with Iora verbatim for her, which made her hum pensively.
“Yes, I guess that’s true,” Ulvhild murmured under her breath. “After all, she’s known you a long time.”
“Yeah, I’m like that crooked chair you used to have in your kitchen,” he replied dejectedly.
“Don’t be silly; you’re nothing like that chair,” Ulvhild interrupted impatiently. “So, you didn’t make peace?”
“I can’t shake the feeling that I ought to apologise, even though it was she who laughed at me.”
“She laughed at you? When?” Ulvhild questioned, dumbfounded by the incongruous affirmation of Iora’s guilt.
“After she kissed me, she laughed as if she’d made a wonderful joke.”
Remembering how vexed her sister had been at Ori’s decreasing presence during their outings, Ulvhild felt her face soften in pity.
“I don’t think that she laughed at you, Ori,” she then said carefully. “Did you stop coming to the river because you didn’t want to be perceived?”
Fiddling with his blanket, he nodded miserably. Then, his head shot up. “Now that I’m better, she mustn’t mess around with my legs no more!” he called desperately. “Please, Hild, you have to stop her.”
“Why?” Eyes narrowing, Ulvhild stiffened.
“We were children no longer; we certainly aren’t pebbles now. And—I can’t have her hands on my skin like that. Something terrible will happen, and she’ll probably geld me right there and then, and—“
Overcome with a myriad of contradictory emotions, Ulvhild broke into hysterical, sobbing laughter, leaning her forehead against the wall beside her for support.
All the misery she’d endured, and this was the reason? Nascent arousal? Nothing more?
Ori stared at Ulvhild in utter confusion.
“Hild, are you laughing or crying? What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded to know, his injured pride crumbling under her mirthless cackling.
“I’m sorry, my boy,” the dam finally wheezed. “But I’m afraid that you’ll have to tell Iora yourself that you don’t want to be touched by her.”
He felt treacherous, angry heat mounting into his cheeks at this wilful misrepresentation of the convoluted facts.
“Oh, you thrice accursed stonehead,” Ulvhild groaned, visibly exasperated. “She liked you, and when you stopped coming completely, it broke her heart. Believe me, my first instinct was to pour a flood of words so scalding and vulgar over your woolly head that your ears would have burned, but this shall do.”
Without further comment, she nodded at the princes, snatched up the cane she’d brought in and took her leave with the icy composure of a queen.
“Well, she’d let you have it,” Kíli hooted, and Ori thought he’d end up positively apoplectic if he didn’t manage to make sense of all the things he’d learned and discovered since setting out from the Mountain for his scouting mission.
“That was Uncle’s cane,” Fíli then commented softly. “Do you think they’ll manage to make him better?”
Turning his back on them, Ori found that he had no inclination to muse about Thorin’s lame leg or aching back at the present moment; his mind was consumed by the memory of Hild’s grotesque laughter upon learning that he’d merely tried to protect his honour and dignity.
A new fear arose in his mind. What if Hild had thought that he’d accused her sister of being a despicable tease? That, of course, had not been his intention, and he’d be devastated if he’d caused offence to one so gentle and generous.
Why could he never find the right words? Why did everything come out wrong?
“We should be on our best behaviour forthwith,” Kíli declared wisely. “I still feel bad about all the romantic moments we’ve ruined.”
In their innocent youth, they’d found Thorin’s clumsy flirting hilarious, and they’d delighted in sabotaging him whenever they could. It had been in good fun, but they hadn’t known that he would only get so many chances before the world turned upside down on them all.
“Do you even know if she still likes him in that way?” Ori asked morosely, biting his lip; he was usually never the person to put another down or discourage someone’s dreams, but his heart was heavy with agony.
“Those things don’t change that easily,” Kíli said, utterly convinced of himself. “Also, he’s the King now. All things considered, he’s not a bad match.”
“We’re all too damaged to deserve that kind of affection,” Fíli interjected darkly.
Even though that had exactly been also his thinking, Ori was disheartened by hearing his intimate misgivings spoken aloud with such steely assurance.
“I’ll prove you wrong,” Kíli exclaimed petulantly. “All of you, and I’ll start with needling Uncle!”
Robbed of his cane and Hild’s soothing presence, Thorin could do little more than sit around and muse.
He was aware that others might have given his present state of mind less flattering descriptions, but—as he was utterly alone—he could indulge in the self-serving illusion that he was merely overtired and resentful of being cooped up in his room.
After a long spell of switching between sitting by the window and staring into the fire moodily, he finally decided to check on his nephews.
No matter what this day would bring, it would be preferable to be close to the hubbub rather than staying locked away in his room.
Surely, Hild would need a guide to the forges, and they were all waiting for news from Dwalin.
Yes, it was his solemn duty to join his people.
For a moment, he wished that Hild and Iora needed introductions, for he’d have loved to supply those to the two charming dams. Alas, he had no doubt that everyone would be fawning over the charming additions to their rather drab settlement.
That thought finally pushed him over the edge and, in a flight of megalomaniac folly, he strode out of his chambers resolutely.
By the time he made it to the Healing Halls, he was half-convinced that Óin would simply keep him there, for his hands were shaking, and his tunic clung uncomfortably to his aching back.
“Ah, there he is now,” Kíli chirped as if he’d expected his uncle to arrive. “If you’re looking for your lady-guests, I’m sorry to say that both took a swing at Ori and vanished.”
Thorin gave him a severe look. “My what now?” he echoed in a cool, forbidding tone. “You’re not to harass them in any way. Or upset them. Or be otherwise disagreeable.”
Eyebrows quirking with suppressed laughter, Kíli met his stern stare with undaunted cheer.
“Do you say that because we’ve ruined your chances with Hild in the past by being our charming, mischievous selves?” he purred provocatively.
“No,” Thorin barked, rubbing his tired, burning eyes slowly. “I’m not sure there ever was much of a chance.”
Pushed to the brink of exhaustion, he sank into a comfortable armchair in which Óin had fallen asleep countless times while minding his charges.
“Why didn’t you try to win her?” Fíli asked curiously, certain that—if he’d ever have the chance to woo a beautiful dam—he wouldn’t hesitate.
“I…had you lot to mind; she had little Iora clinging to her apron strings. One doesn’t court strong, independent, wicked smart ladies with promises,” Thorin sighed, wondering whether it was wise to share such thoughts with his nephews at this time.
“So you waited for a moment that never came?” Kíli sounded amazed by the ludicrous statement.
“It did come—it’s now,” Thorin expostulated. “Alas, she seems to take offence to the throne, the crown, and everything else I once dreamed of laying down at her feet.”
“Seize the moment anyway,” Kíli grinned.
After clambering along narrow ledges and across hidden platforms, Iora sat down on what felt like the edge of the world, buried her head in her hands, and gave a frustrated groan.
“Don’t perceive me,” she grumbled in a mocking singsong voice. “Blushing ninny! If you don’t want to be looked at, you should take more decisive steps to disguise or mar your beauty. As if that silly haircut would dissuade any hot-blooded Khuzd. I swear!”
The hardy, blueish blossoms in her lap didn’t react to her passionate outburst, though, and Iora soon felt foolish screaming at herself.
Gingerly gathering the precious supplies she’d secured, she took a deep breath and smoothed her dirty, crumpled clothes as well as she could.
No doubt, Óin would let her use his laboratory, which meant that she’d gained another few hours of peace in which she didn’t have to think of Ori’s firm, milky thighs or avoid her sister’s all-seeing gaze.
The thought soothed her sufficiently to attempt the descent, and—by the time she strode back into the realm of ointments and tinctures—she was in perfect control of herself again.
“Lady Meliora,” Thorin greeted her, visibly startled by her appearance.
“Your Majesty,” she replied and bowed while crabwalking towards the small side door. “I wish you a pleasant day—I have work to do.”
“Will you sing to your herbs?” Kíli jeered.
“I…will try, yes,” Iora coughed. She’d almost forgotten how well the princes remembered everything they were told, and it warmed her heart that they took a genuine interest in her occupations.
“Kid, would you prefer to be housed closer to this rotten room?” Thorin asked gently.
“Oh yes, if possible,” she at once agreed. “But please, feel free to put Ulvhild into the most lavish, luxurious chamber you have. She deserves a bit of pampering.”
“She’d dislike being parted from you,” Thorin commented.
“Then you’d better keep her too busy to notice,” Iora shot back and walked away before she could be cross-examined by yet another unduly nosy semi-parental figure.
Singing melting love songs, imbued with anger and heartbreak, to the concoction of distilled spirit and flowers, she lost herself in her labours until Óin called for her.
“Your opinion, lass,” the old dwarf muttered. “Do you think we can close the wound?”
Iora swallowed heavily as her eyes fell on Ori’s thin, translucent tunic and bare legs.
He was sitting, propped up by pillows, in his bed like a ghost, stubbornly avoiding her eminently objective gaze.
“Let me see,” Iora muttered, pulling up a chair and sitting down beside him to squeeze his leg.
When he flinched, she apologised perfunctorily, trying desperately to focus on nought but the healthy flesh and clean blood beneath her fingers.
“We can try, yes,” she finally gave her verdict.
“Do you want to sew or hold him down?” Óin asked innocently.
Iora’s breath stuttered. “Can’t we medicate him?” she asked feebly.
“He’s refused,” the healer shrugged. “So, he’ll have to endure it.”