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By the time he had taken off his boots and stretched his stiff muscles, Thorin noticed the letter written in haste that rested on the mantle. His beloved would not be returning until late. He had worked in his forge for many hours that day and anticipated an empty suite upon his return. By now, the sun had settled behind the horizon and there were still things to do. A bath was in order, and a hot meal to restore his strength. His measly bowl of porridge that morning was eaten quickly and had nothing else but water and bread as the day past by him. By now he felt quite famished, and the thought of food had his belly rumbling.
“Bath first,” he muttered. “Wait your turn.”
The hot spring had no other visitors at this time of night, allowing him to relax for an uninterrupted soak. When he finished, the pleasant scent of lavender soap and fresh birch branches had relieved his soreness further and dressed into comfortable clothes.
The dining hall, unlike the hot spring, was not without visitors. Many dwarves sat to a late supper, eating and drinking and chatting away. Dwalin was there, hunched over his plate, piled high with food. It wasn’t until Thorin sat in front of him did he look up from his small feast, his mouth full and beard spotted with previous courses.
“You’re here, for once,” he muffled out.
“And you’ve been here a while.”
“Don’t gimme that,” Dwalin said, voice echoing inside his tankard as he washed down his bite. “You coop up all day, I wonder how you’ve not wasted into nothing this these past few weeks. Eating nothing but baby food and meat scraps for supper.”
“My forge was needed. More trammel and chain to feed hungry mouths like yours,” Thorin said.
“Stint the remarks and lemme finish.” Dwalin drained the last of his beer before his tone grew serious. “Join me sooner, and not when I’m nearly finished. Everyone is tasked with something, but a meal is hardly enjoyed without a fellow or two to drink his troubles away. I hardly see you, Thorin.”
Thorin looked down with lament and decided to speak the truth. “It’s nearly here, Dwalin.”
Dwalin pushed his plate aside. “Aye. The week of absence before the marriage. Making you have second thoughts, or afraid she will?”
Thorin glared.
“I’m kidding. Dís keeps her occupied. She isn’t skilled like your sister in dressmaking, but she’s in good hands. Glóin still taking his sweet time on your rings?”
“Should be finished by the end of the week. I wouldn’t trust any other to cut and customize,” Thorin said, and stared down at his own worn silver rings. “He handles the gems for our ceremony, she sews her wedding dress, while I use my hand to temper iron posnets rather than diplomacy these days.”
“An essential service, nonetheless,” Dwalin said.
“Or put them to use for the wedding. A ring from a blacksmiths forge is hardly a beautiful thing. Even our rings are re-purposed.”
“Not that she would care much. That girl would be happy if you exchanged nuptials in a barn,” Dwalin jested with a barking laugh, and rapped his palm against the wooden table. He was quick to halt with the anecdotes when Thorin remained dour.
“Don’t get discouraged over something so small, is what I mean. You’re too apt to be, and she’s happy, isn’t she? Care about feeling useful when you’re actually actively useless, which I see no evidence of. Enough of this pity-party and have some patience.“
Thorin held back his remark of Dwalin, of all his kin, telling him to be patient, and felt his full meaning instead. Looking up with a small smile, he released his breath at last.
“Conscientious as always, bâheluh,” said Thorin.
“Aye, you’re welcome. Now-,” Dwalin reached over and grabbed a plate and cup from the long table behind him and set them in front of Thorin. “-eat and drink, already. I can’t stand to see you sit here in this hall with nothing edible in front of you.”
On that account, the delicious aroma of the laden feast, seasoned mutton, fresh pork pies, and smoked fish set before them reignited Thorin’s hunger, so did as he was told. His tankard overflowed with beer, the pale foam sliding over the lip, his first sip quenching his dry throat. He talked as he ate, noting how Dwalin was quick to refill his drink or fill any empty space on his plate with more food until he felt quite content. Thorin realized that Dwalin had been right. A meal eaten alone didn’t taste half as good without company.
But after Dwalin had gotten him a fourth drink (or fifth, he couldn’t remember), and his head had begun to swim, that he may have had an oversight on his part. Dwalin must have seen him come to that realization and pointed at Thorin like he had planned this all along.
“When’s the last time you’ve gotten drunk with me, huh?” he grinned, cheeks flushed. “I’m sure yer lass wouldn’t mind, lightweight that she is.”
“Indeed, she is,” Thorin said and blinked hard. “I can’t recall the last time I was drunk.“
“Because you were drunk! Distract yourself for tonight.” Dwalin then leaned over the table, a boyish glint in his eye. “Unless you’ve become a lightweight yourself.”
Thorin recognized that incentive of his cousins quite well. He could think better of it and refuse but the better part of his brain now muddled lit a spark of excitement. And Thorin Oakenshield never backed down from a fight. He lifted his tankard and knocked back his beer in a few short gulps, then let the hollow bottom clatter against the table. Wiping the foam from his moustache, he folded his arms and leaned back in his seat.
“You’ve dared the wrong dwarf, my friend. You’ll eat those words.”
“Then let the game begin. A toast to the alewives and to future wives.”
With a refill and another toast, they began.
—
It was late when you arrived back to your home and poked your head through the door as it opened with a gentle creak. Your progress on your wedding dress was coming along better than you expected, so your spirits were high, despite the heavy weight of fatigue settling in your bones. Dis had been a most gracious host, taking you under her wing in the art of Dwarven tailoring. Her small guild of dressmakers and beadworkers had built slow and steady since her arrival in Erebor and was determined with her guiding hand to see you, in her words; “the most beautiful wedding gown fit for a future consort!” Her kind words reassured you, as she subtly corrected your threads and approved your choice of bangles that made the sweetest sound.
Despite his working boots resting next to the bed, there was no sign of Thorin. You had already bathed, and he was not there in the hot spring, so figured he had gone for supper. Dis had sent for supper earlier, and a break for a tea, courtesy of Dori, so you decided to climb into bed and hope Thorin would be back before you drifted off to sleep. It was before you could pull the covers over yourself, did you hear a loud, erratic knock at the door. And off-key singing. When you opened the door, it was a very interesting sight.
Two stumbling dwarves were behind it, one holding up the other while they attempted to carry a tune, and both reeked of alcohol. Thorin’s arm was swung over Dwalin’s shoulders and could barely hold himself straight, cheeks ruddy, disheveled, and eyes bright when they laid upon you. While Dwalin leaned from foot to foot, he kept his grip sturdy around Thorin’s waist.
“Hope ya don’t mind, but we had a drink or two,” Dwalin explained, and Thorin snorted.
“Two,” he snickered, then belched, and the two dissolved into loud, inebriated laughter.
“I can see that,” you said, thoroughly surprised. You had never seen Thorin so drunk before, so utterly unrefined. “Who won?”
“Ah, you should have seen him try and keep up with me! But this good stock of Durin had… I forgot to keep count, but he had at least ten-“
“More than that!” Thorin burst out, his words slurred and jumbled. “How dare you make me look a fool in front of my future wife. Don’t listen to this oaf.”
“Who’s the oaf, flailing like a limp di-” Dwalin barked, before Thorin delivered a tiny smack to his cheek. A small back and forth started with light shoves until Dwalin set Thorin in a headlock.
“You fight like an old goat!” Dwalin teased.
“Did your senses get lost along with your hair?” Thorin shot back, voice muffled under Dwalin’s arm. “I drank twenty, you ten-”
“A bold claim, indeed! I clearly won-!”
“Well, it sounds like a debate for another time, boys, preferably when you're both sober,” you interrupted quickly.
The roughhousing didn’t cease until Thorin attempted to swing his knuckles into Dwalin’s groin and you slammed your hand against the door frame with an annoyed “enough!” No doubt they would soon start wrestling on the floor if you didn’t. Thorin hung his head, his energy spent as Dwalin released him. It was much too late to for this.
“I can take it from here, Dwalin,” you said. “Hand him over to me.”
“Nooo no no,” he babbled, and walked right past you, despite your arms open to receive Thorin, and dumped him unceremoniously on the bed. Thorin grunted and uttered something under his breath, an insult no doubt, but didn’t move from his spot, sprawled on the bed face-down. You nearly laughed but bit your tongue.
“All he needed was a belly full of food and a barrel of drink. Always been the best remedy for an anxious bridegroom,” Dwalin said to you at the doorway and crossed his burly arms. “He had a lot on his mind. So, I decided to distract him for a night. You can look after him from here on out?”
In Dwalin’s voice, you felt there was more to that question than simply tending to a drunk dwarf. His stare bore into yours, but you straightened your neck and didn’t bristle underneath it.
“Yes. I’ll make sure he’s alright.” You looked back at Thorin. “Don’t know about tossing him on the bed like that, though.”
“As I said, a descendant of Durin. He’ll be just fine.” He clapped your shoulder warmly and smiled. “Good luck.”
You returned it. “Thanks, Dwalin. You can make it back alright?”
But he was already walking away, hand raised in a small wave. And with that, you closed the door and turned to tend to Thorin. You expected him to be passed out as you unbuckled his boots, but he raised his head with a short inhale and leaned up on his elbow, his dark locks hanging over his face as he looked back down at you.
“Amrâlimê,” he slurred dreamily, and rested his head in his hand. You glanced up at him and reveled in that honeyed word, despite his drunken state.
“Hello, there. Have a drinking contest, did you?”
He attempted to talk but hiccupped and lolled his head in his hands. “That lout said I drank ten. I can assure you, my dear, it was more than that.”
“I’ll believe it,” you replied, and chucked his boots off to the side. “I’ve never seen you this tanked.”
“Not that drunk,” he muttered. You poured him a glass of water from the water-jug as he stretched his legs and rolled onto his back. You try to hand him it, but he shook his head.
“You’ll thank me in the morning,” you said. “If you’ll even remember to thank me, that is.”
“One cup of water will not make a difference against…,” he trailed off, his lips pursed in thought, then nodded. “Twenty. Twenty beers.”
“Tea, then? I’d like something other than alcohol in your system before you sleep.”
“I couldn’t if I wanted,” he protested. He conceded to rinsing his mouth and spit it out into the glass, even as you gave a curt “no”.
“Twenty beers is impressive. It certainly looks like it,” you said, his stomach a bit pronounced under his tunic, but he thumped his hand against it with a triumphant grin.
“You believe me, of course, mizim.” Pride returning at your words, he lifted the same hand and gestured into the air. “Oh, Dwalin is a tough dwarf to drink under the table, to be sure, but he underestimated my… ough…”
He tried to stand up, but it proved difficult as he swayed and fumbled with his balance, eventually laying on his side with a drawn-out groan. Sitting beside him, he nuzzled his head against your leg as you rubbed his back, soaked a bit with sweat.
“You may have won, but you drank way too much,” you said, gentle but firm. “I’ll set a chamber pot on the floor for you, just in case.”
Thorin looked downright offended, and you bit your lip to keep from smiling.
“I will not be sick,” he grumbled. “Never have been after a few drinks. Not a dwarfling. Enough of your hovering.”
“Fine, fine,” you conceded. “No water, no back rubs, now I'll offer nothing. Now get undressed and climb into bed. Sleep it off.”
Despite your words, you offered to help him sit up, but he swatted you away and proceeded to undress half sitting-up, throwing his clothes on the floor in a haphazard pile. He still needed your help to walk to the toilet, though.
When you both finally made it to bed, you had just pulled your blanket over you when he flopped hard beside you, now bare except for a pair of breeches. He didn’t bother with a blanket, overheated as he was, and you stared briefly down at his body. Dwalin may have exaggerated when he said that Thorin had consumed a barrel, but the rosy splotch of his cheeks and body suggested it was an accurate assessment as he hid another drunken hiccup behind his hand. But you said nothing of it and hoped instead that his claim of never being sick held true. Not bothering to turn his head, he reached over to you, fingers fumbling and poking against your flesh as he groped and searched blindly. You nearly had the mind to shove him off the bed, until he found your hand and plopped it on top of his stomach.
“What’s this now?” you asked. “I thought you said stop hovering.”
His gaze was hazy as it turned to you, eyelids drooped, tired and serene. A far cry from earlier when he was all bullheadedness. “I’ve changed my mind.”
“But-“
“Too much,” Thorin groaned, and grimaced in pain, rubbing his palm against your hand. “Will you?”
It didn't take much to soften your resolve. Running your hand over the surface of his sore belly in gentle, languid circles, you felt him relax under your touch. His skin was warm, soft dark hair weaved through your fingers over the hills and valleys of his body. With a sigh, Thorin blinked slow and content like a sunbathing cat.
“Does that help?” you asked quietly.
He hummed in response. You expected him to close his eyes, but they stayed fixed. You tried to focus on your task, but it was proving difficult under that bleary, sweet scrutiny. Then, the tender brush of his fingers under your chin made you pause.
“I’m quite undone, my love,” he said, through the heavy exhaustion and slight slurring, his affection seeped through it all like a fine sieve and you felt a little arrow loose in your heart. “Please, don’t be angry.”
“You've calmed and so have I. We are getting married,” you said. Thorin’s face briefly lit up.
“Your dress…”. His breath grew deeper as he neared sleep. “Is it beautiful?”
“It’s very beautiful.”
He leaned over to kiss you, just a tiny peck, the bitter taste of beer still lingering on his lips.
“I want to see you wear it,” he said.
“You will soon, dearest.”
He hummed again, low and deep in his chest. His face grew slack and finally closed his eyes.
“I quite like when you call me that…,” he muttered one last time, voice light and barely audible, and began to snore.
You couldn’t help your smile, then yawned, your own fatigue now caught up to you. Your eyelids slipped further, and you eventually stopped your hand, letting it rest and curl up to his chest as you both drifted off, his breath in time with yours.
The next day, though Thorin’s head felt like an abused anvil, and you complained of his morning breath, he still had you there to care for him.
“You’ll have to return the favor the next time I drink,” you said.
“I already did,” he grumbled, and sipped some ginger tea. “Don’t you remember?”
You remained silent.
“Exactly.”