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Over Hill and Under Tree (Shiva x Traveler)

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If the beasts got to the home, all would be lost. Everything Orin had come to care for was within those walls. Every hope, every shared laugh and campfire song, every look of understanding, every quip and tease…everything. They could not be allowed to pass.

He saw the third gaurhoth notice him and charge, its foul maw opened, perhaps thinking he to be an easy kill because of his size in relation to the others. With a battle cry in response, Orin raced to meet the threat. He felt the claws pass over him as he rolled beneath their swipe, lunging upwards with his axe to cut its arm. The creature was quicker than he had anticipated, though, and switched its direction to block him from retreat. He circled the werewolf, focused on keeping its attention until it could be dispatched.

He felt the impossibility of it all; the creature stood easily seven or eight feet tall, and though it acted like a wolf, its upward stance made it eerily man-like. It didn’t have the intelligence he had seen in Hulgrim’s people in its eyes, and that, perhaps, is what saved the dwarf from feeling. ‘This is just a wolf,’ he told himself. A very tall, fast, and every evil wolf, but that was all. He could fight a standing wolf. It was like an orc, only smellier.

He traded blows with the creature. Its strength was great, though with Orin’s lower center of gravity, and the long reach of the axe, he had an advantage. A small one.

They were fighting to conquer, and he, to defend.

With the battle raging around them, and potentially more orcs waiting in the woods, the dwarf decided that if this would be his final battle he would take as many of these with him as he could. As he dodged to avoid another batting from the sturdy claws of the werewolf, Orin reached down to pick up a fistful of dirt. He staggered back, feigning a new injury, and waited for the creature to charge. The drool and blood dripping from its fangs soaked into the soil, as the creature turned, saw his target and charged again.

Orin gripped his axe with this strong hand, and when the creature lunged, threw the dirt in his hands at its face and then dove to the side, bringing both hands to bear on his axe to deal a blow across its ribs.

If this didn’t work, he only hoped he had another chance to take down the beast before his strength gave out.
 
As the initial shock at the werewolves' arrival began to wear off, the courage of Hulgrim's people began to rise yet again, but it wasn't enough. One of the monsters managed to smash through the outermost wall, sending two of the archers tumbling down into the splintery debris beside the hulking beast. A few of the axemen attempted to tackle the disoriented monster, but were sent flying back with one swat of its blood-covered claw. Hulgrim was managing to hold his own still, although he now had the help of his sister Gerthelda, also in bear form and currently attempting to rip the creature's spine out with her teeth. And now the orcs were starting to regroup, the six or seven survivors emerging from the woods with war cries and surging towards the broken gap in the outer wall.

On the roof, Carlin was down to her last arrows. She still had her scimitar of course, and she was sure she would be able to make it to the ground in one piece, but once there...well, she knew her strengths and her shortcomings. Thilion had been the one with all the sword skills, not her. Carlin was the sniper of the family, and when she could no longer shoot, that would be the end for her.

The noonday sun overhead was beginning to beat mercilessly on her neck, almost blinding the elf. It was only when a shadow passed before them briefly that she was able to select her final mark, and prepare to take her final shot.

Wait...shadow?

It must have been Valgrim, ready to make one final dive for one of the wolves. But then Carlin saw a second shadow, and a third. Winged, all of them, but two were much larger than the man-turned-hawk. And when she heard the shriek, she knew it was not the shriek of a hawk. No, this was the scream of something much larger.

"Eagles," she gasped, eyes widening as the titan birds swooped down, snatching the wolves clear off the ground and carrying them back into the sky. Carlin wasn't sure exactly where they dropped the bodies, but she saw more than two pieces tumbling into the treeline several mines to the south, from a height of at least two hundred feet. Not even the Necromancer's creations would be able to survive a fall from that height. Then they began to fly back towards the house, evoking a roar of cheers from the defenders and fresh panic from the orcs.

Meanwhile, Valgrim let out another piercing cry, both to signal the location of the last gaur and to warn his father and aunt to fall back. Hulgrim seemed to understand the sound and fell back, but Gerthelda wasn't nearly so quick. With one target now out of reach, the werewolf turned his claws on the she-bear, breaking through her ribcage with a single blow and feeling his claws piercing her heart just before the eagle's talons did the same to him. As the tall, hairy, bleeding corpse was carried away to join his brothers, the she-bear melted back into the shape of a strongly-built, gray-haired woman with empty eyes staring up at the sky, oblivious to the victory she had just missed.

*****
​
The screams of the eagles could easily have been drowned by the screams of the woman inside. Maerwyn could do nothing but hold Isvera's hands and bear the squeezes that could have easily broken another woman's fingers, while Harric looked around in a panic and Iorhild merely looked annoyed. Worst of all, they were all beginning to hear the cries and sobs of the frightened children in the cellar, and the helpless shushes and coaxings of their mothers.

"So much for keeping quiet," the midwife grumbled, ducking her head between Isvera's knees again. "Every orc east of the mountains probably knows where we are by now."

"How much longer is it?" Maerwyn asked, grunting as she felt her hands cracking again. This was becoming unbearable for the mercenary. She was used to death, and all its swiftness and suddenness. But it felt like hours that her sister-in-law had been pushing, with nothing to show for it besides a slight shift in her distended belly. For once, Maerwyn realized she was grateful for the life she had chosen. Even if she met her death at the end of a sword, that seemed less painful than what Isvera was going through now.

But Iorhild's expression had changed. "She's almost there. Isvera, darling, please," the healer said, jerking her head up. "Just a couple more pushes, and you'll have your baby, I promise."

There was a strange, false hope in both her tone and her eyes, and despite being almost as unfamiliar with the birthing process as Harric Maerwyn could tell something was wrong. She didn't dare speak it aloud, but she realized Iorhild's white hands had turned red, while Isvera's face was turning white.

"You can do it, Isvera," the mercenary whispered, clumsily maneuvering herself so that her sister-in-law's head was in her lap. "For Beorgrim. For Hulgrim. For all of them out there. Show them you're just as strong as any one of them. Show them you belong here."

Outside, the last of the orcs were meeting their ends. The eagles were retreating. Carlin was completely out of arrows now, and had leapt to the ground, racing towards the last spot she was sure she had seen Orin. Hulgrim was holding his sister's corpse in his arms, and inside Isvera let out another shriek, echoed by an even louder, higher-pitched wail.

"A girl," Iorhild gasped finally, handing the slippery little thing into a bewildered Maerwyn's arms. "Harric, get the water and help get her cleaned up. Isvera's still bleeding."

Bleeding, yes. Exhausted, undoubtedly. But the mother was alive, at least for now. Maerwyn could see her sister's wrists twitching for a moment as though she wanted to take her child in her arms herself, but then they fell back again. Her daughter was still shrieking though, and they could all at least take comfort in knowing the ruddy-faced little creature had strong lungs at least. Strong limbs too, from the way she was already flailing them.

"Quite the little fighter, aren't you?" the mercenary murmured as her fingers gently caressed the downy black hair on her niece's head. A strange, heavy feeling began to fill her heart as Harric brought over the water and they cleaned the child up, but it wasn't until they'd dried her off and wrapped her in an errant bit of hide that Maerwyn felt something break inside. The little girl opened her eyes and looked up at her aunt with a deep blue gaze, one somehow full of defiant courage and the gentlest love; a gaze the mercenary hadn't seen in years. She swallowed hard, then held the baby close to her mother's chest.

"She has Beorwyn's eyes," she whispered to Isvera. The new mother smiled weakly up at Maerwyn, then slipped into darkness.
 
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The axe head bounced off the werewolf’s ribcage as if he had been smashing mithril, and Orin felt the vibrations shooting up his arm. He rolled to the right, missing the feel of wolf teeth in his skull by the simple luck of being short. As he scrambled to his feet and swung again, a well-placed blow hamstrung the creature’s back leg, causing it to howl in agony and anger as it tried to swing about on three legs to attack its frustratingly persistent foe.

It turns out, werewolves are just as agile on three legs as they are on four. It whipped around and grabbed at the dwarf, who parried with a smack across the creature’s teeth, shattering several with the sheer strength of the blow. In doing so, the dwarf lost his balance and fell back upon the ground. The werewolf snarled, then slowly advanced, seeing that the axe had been dislodged from the warrior’s hand.

Orin backed away, reaching behind him, feeling for the blade, the handle, anything… and as the great, broken, bleeding maw of the snarling creature moved closer to his face, he knew that he was out of options. His axe had flown wide, and there were no chances in a hundred that he could reach it in time to save—

A shadow covered them both, and when it lifted with a mighty flap of wing, Orin was alone. He watched the werewolf being carried by eagles larger than a siege engine, towards the forests. As they flew, the mighty birds ripped pieces away from the lupine creatures, dropping bits and pieces of them across the landscape. After only a moment to watch in awe he remembered the battle and scrambled to recover his axe just in time to meet a small onslaught of orcs emerging from the forest.

Would it never end?

Then suddenly, it did. He stood near the bodies of the orcs he had met, and looked about for more foes, but he only saw the retreating family helping each other return home. As he trotted to join them, he took a moment to finish off any lingering orcs in his path, then joined the others in time to see the body of poor Gerthelda being carried into the gates. She looked so much like a dwarven woman, sans the beard, that his heart clenched even though he’d never met Hulgrim’s sister. The resemblance was unquestionable. She could have been Maerwyn if the guide had been slightly thicker in build and had a stronger jaw.

He stopped to help another member hobble in, before checking to see if anyone was getting set to gather in their own dead or dying. Although it was likely that the orcs would be gone for a while, the though that they might defile the bodies of Hulgrim’s dead repulsed him. He did not want to see the family dishonored so, nor did he relish the though of the loved ones who would not be greeting their brethren tonight.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought he heard another screeching of the great birds and turned to see if they were returning. Then the cry came again and drew Orin’s eyes to the grand hall. ‘That was a baby,’ he thought, not remembering a nursing babe among the group he’d met. Then he remembered; Isvera. She had been worried about the attack, and fearful for her husband. Isvera…Orin smiled. Perhaps there was more reason to smile tonight than to mourn.

Once he knew that his help was no longer needed, he hurried to the hall, and then to Maerwyn’s room, certain that she had stayed put as promised…but she was not there. Her weapons were gone as well. In the crowded hall, he saw nothing but tall, blood-covered warriors. He scanned the room, his eyes at their chests, and tried not to let his growing panic show. ‘Where is she?’
 
Maerwyn had almost managed to quiet the screaming baby when something heavy banged against the barricaded door. The three conscious adults all looked at each other, and Harric had just worked up the nerve to pick up the mercenary's other sword when suddenly a familiar voice roared through the barrier.

"Damn you Maerwyn, I know you're in there. Get one of the others to open the door if you can't get it yourself! We've got wounded men out here," Fulgrim hollered.

Immediate relief washed over them all, and Harric scrambled across the hall, shoving the table aside with all his might. A moment later Fulgrim stumbled inside, one of the wounded archers draped helplessly over his shoulder. Even from where she was posted near the fire, Maerwyn could see the woman's legs were completely shattered, although judging by the moans she was emitting it was clear the victim was alive at least.

Iorhild was still fully occupied with stopping her sister's hemorrhaging, but she did glance up long enough to quickly shake her head. "Set her near the wall, I'll get to her when I can. Call up the women from downstairs, they'll be able to help make up beds for the wounded. How many dead?"

Dead? Maerwyn felt a shiver run down her back, and all of a sudden she was desperate for any sight of Orin. Even if she could stand up, what in the world was she supposed to do with the baby? She could hardly go looking for her employer in either case, although her eyes remained fixed on the door until the gathering survivors blocked her view entirely. By then Iorhild had had enough with the crowding, and insisted those that were healthy enough either tend to the injured or leave. The children had already been ushered outside and been put to work recalling the herders from their sanctuary in the woods, and the wives were rapidly doing their best to clean up the least-hurt fighters.

Isvera still wasn't regaining consciousness though. With the help of some of the men, the healers managed to get her into a proper bed, and once she was settled a shy-looking girl a few years younger than Maerwyn approached the mercenary and the baby.

"Can I take her for you, cousin?" the girl murmured, turning around slightly to reveal her own baby sleeping peacefully in a cradleboard on her back. "I had a little one myself in the spring, and I've plenty of milk yet. She must be hungry..."

Sighing gratefully, the mercenary handed over Isvera's daughter, though she felt a bizarre sense of loss as she did so. "Thank you, cousin...?"

"Windis," the girl smiled, settling into a corner to nurse the baby. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Yes, it has," Maerwyn said slowly, trying to be attentive but still listening for any mention of Orin. If it weren't for the others in the room much worse off than her, someone might have tried to stop her from standing up, but Windis was too timid to argue, and only watched with trepidation as her cousin braced herself on the edge of a table and pulled herself upright.

Her strength only lasted a moment, but that was enough. Moving among the taller figures, she could see a shorter, dark-haired figure frantically looking down at the wounded in their makeshift beds. "Orin!" Maerwyn calld out, raising one hand to him before her leg gave out yet again. This time at least though, she managed to fall onto the long bench beside the table, knocking over a few forgotten plates in the process but managing to stay more or less upright. If that clatter wasn't enough to attract his attention, surely her bloodstained shift and the desperate note in her voice as she repeated his name was enough to make her stand out.
 
She wasn’t in her room, she wasn’t in the hall, where was she? All about were giants, and as he moved through the throng, he felt a pang of guilt at the amount of good people who had been injured. The salt-tang of blood and sweat was everywhere, as was the hushed voices of those concerned for the wounded, and the cries and gasps of pain as Hulgrim’s clan tried to contain their anguish and focus on being alive.

"Orin!" His head whipped around at the sound of his name in time to see her hand reach up, then vanish in the crowd.

“Maerwyn!” He wove his way as peaceably as he could until he saw her, and when the bloodstained shift came into view he feared, unreasonably, that she had been slain. A moment later he realized that the blood was not hers, but Isvera’s, and the worry resurfaced. Still, he hurried to her side as quickly as the crowd would allow. “Are you hurt?” he asked, looking down at her where she was seated.

His head gleamed dark red where a blow had cut his scalp, and scratches and scraped riddled his arms. His clothing was covered in grim, blood, and worse, and he was certain that young Katwinne would tell him that he smelled even worse than last night, but he could not be happier. “You left your room,” he softly accused, shaking his head. But he reached down as he did and smiled as he took her hand. “I may have to dock your pay if you keep refusing the healer’s direction.”

They were asked to make room for the injured. Orin offered her himself as a brace to help her to her room. As they did, he noted all the broken and injured around them, but also how everyone came together to help. The children, even, were sent to fetch cloth for bandages and fresh water. And when evening came, he offered to help keep watch but was told to rest instead. So after a bath (Katwinne had pinched her nose at him and giggled), he returned to Maerwyn’s room with stew for them both. The house was quiet and still, though Windis was still nursing Isvera’s child as she healed, and occasionally the sounds of cooing babies carried through the great house.

“Here,” he said, handing her a plate, and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Now tell me all about the baby’s birth, and the part you played in it.”
 
He was alive. Bad leg or no, Maerwyn was half sure she could have thrown herself at him if there wasn't an unreasonably long table in the way. Looking more closely at the dwarf, she could see he was a bit banged up around the edges, but still walking and speaking as normal. Once Orin was beside her, the mercenary brushed his hair back slightly to take a closer look at cut on his head. It'd leave a scar no doubt, but it probably looked worse than it was. The same went for the cuts on his arms, and while she was worried for a moment that he might have been struck by the same cursed weapon that had nearly taken her out, he wasn't showing any sign of illness or chill in his skin.

Indeed, Orin seemed more concerned about his guide than he was for himself, and Maerwyn couldn't help but raise an eyebrow when he asked if she was hurt. "I'm not quite so injured that a newborn babe can cause me any real harm," she stated flatly, glancing down the at the blood on her shift and realizing his worry. "It's not mine. Isvera went into labor shortly after the fighting started. Her little one's well enough I think--" She pointed one white hand toward Windis, who was finishing up feeding the little girl and was now gently cooing to her along with a few other young woman. "But Iorhild's with her now. There...there was a lot of blood."

Usually gore didn't bother the mercenary in the least, but there was something different in cutting open a man's flesh and watching a woman giving up her life in what was supposed to be a natural part of life. She could only pray Iorhild had the power to save her. Maerwyn had heard Beorgrim survived the fight, and that was good at least, but those skinchangers that could were still busy making sure there were no lingering enemies in the wood, waiting until all had retreated into the house before making another devastating attack.

Despite all of this, and the wounded men in the hall, and the women moving frantically as they tried to gather weapons, hand out food, and account for their husbands and children, Maerwyn couldn't help but laugh a little when Orin scolded her for leaving the room. "First of all, Master Dwarf, had I stayed in the room, and the filth managed to break into the house, do you truly think they would have failed to find me? Orcs may be rather stupid as a whole, but I do believe they understand how doors work. But still, dock me if you must. It's enough--" to know you're safe, she wanted to finish, but her face suddenly felt hot and the words seemed to choke in her throat.

Good news came a few moments later. Iorhild emerged from the back room, stating proudly that Isvera had regained consciousness, and wanted to see her child. Even better, Beorgrim had managed to walk into the hall at that exact moment, and was subject to a roar of cheers from his siblings and cousins before Windis placed his daughter in his arms and guided him back to where his wife was waiting. Strange tears began to prick at Maerwyn's eyes as she watched the scene. "Now even Beorgrim is a father," she murmured, leaning slightly against the dwarf. "He used to pull my braid all the time, you know, when we were children. I hope that little girl of his tries to rip his beard out every day in return."

After that, it was generally agreed that Maerwyn was more of a liability in the room than an asset, and while Iorhild was quick to shuffle the mercenary into her own room immediately, she refused to move until she'd been given a small amount of warm water and bandages, fully intending to tend to Orin's injuries herself. It took a bit of awkward placing, but eventually the pair managed to get cleaned up and stay out of everyone's way until suppertime.

By then, the dead had been counted fully: three. Gerthelda, her son Dagard, and one of the brothers of Fulgrim's wife. With the exception of Carlin, who had reappeared around dusk with fresh healing herbs and a straggling goat everyone had given up as lost, all of the fighters had taken at least some small injury, though as far as the healers could tell none of the offending weapons had been the cursed kind that had nearly killed Maerwyn. Indeed, of all of them Isvera had come the closest to death, and for decades to come the Vales of the Anduin would echo with stories of Iorhild and her almost supernatural healing abilities (though the woman modestly claimed she'd saved her sister through pure stubbornness alone).

Maerwyn too was modest about her role she'd played in the birth, although Orin and her brothers were the only ones who bothered to ask her about it. "All I did was hold her hands, then hold the baby," the mercenary had insisted, though when she was out of earshot Harric was quick to praise his cousin's steely resolve and encouraging words to her sister-in-law. Of course, that immediately set about rumors that the young healer had quite the interest in the older, rougher woman, but the oldest women of the house (who were sadly aimless now with Gerthelda in her grave) were quick to dash his hopes.

"It's the dwarf she wants," they all agreed, and set about arguing with one another whether such a match was appropriate. On the one hand, there wasn't a man, woman, or child who didn't think Orin an almost legendary fighter, and when Maerwyn would suffer herself to be separated from him the dwarf never had to worry about finding other company to take her place. Hulgrim himself at one point pulled his daughter's employer aside to thank him for all he'd done, saying that Orin had just as much right to stand in the House of Hulgrim as any one of his other sons. Still though, the old women whispered, he was a dwarf, and no matter how grand his underground mansion might be (it was generally accepted among the family at this point that Orin was obviously a prince or nobleman in disguise) it was no place for a respectable Anduin girl.

"Maerwyn's not that respectable though," one of the younger girls had then pointed out, which of course started the arguments all over again.

Maerwyn herself pretended not to notice the gossip going on behind her back, and instead focused on doing what she could to help the injured, or just to aid the running of the house in general. The day after the battle she found she could stand for short periods, and the day after that she could even stand for an hour at a time if she had one of her father's heavily-carved sticks handy. She primarily busied herself with cooking, but didn't mind tending to the goats or chickens when asked, and at one point she even dared to go out and collect honey from Hulgrim's hives, though she managed to get a sting or two in the process. Every day her leg was easier to move, and she was beginning to think they might be able to leave the house before the Midsummer celebration, which would surely see even more visitors gathering at the hall, with plenty of questions to go with them of course.

There was only one problem. Once she was able to move a little more freely, Maerwyn had gotten in the habit of getting up before dawn, taking up her swords, and going out into the main courtyard to practice her movements. They weren't as swift or fluid as they should have been, which was unsurprising given the lingering stiffness in her leg, but she couldn't afford to take Orin away from the house until she was sure she'd be back in her regular condition. He'd come far too close to losing his life since leaving his mother's house, and whether they followed the river or decided to cross the mountains after all, the mercenary needed to feel sure that she could protect him. At the same time though, she couldn't waste any more of his time--and therefore his money--by dawdling around her father's hall. Her employer had been more than patient with her, and she was beginning to suspect that he was almost as ready to move on as she was.

"Do you think you'd be ready to leave tomorrow?" Maerwyn finally asked Orin the day before the festivities were to begin. The men had finally finished repairing the gap in the outer wall of the compound, and were using the remnant wood to build the giant bonfire that would be lit tomorrow evening to celebrate the longest day of the year. "I was thinking we could slip away at dawn, if that suits you. We've got fresh clothes and plenty of rations ready, and my swords have been sharpened--did you ask Valrand to take a look at your axe, by the way?--but I was thinking it might be best if we left before things got too busy."

Though she had to admit, part of her would be sad to miss the fire, and the music, and the unmarried girls with flowers in their hair teasing the unmarried boys with their crowns of oak leaves while they galavanted about in the woods. Most of all, considering they would most likely be tightening their belts once they were out in the wilderlands again, Maerwyn was sure she would miss the food. Already more neighbors had arrived from farther up the river (if homsteaders from almost a hundred miles away could be considered "neighbors") bringing fish, deer, pigs, and sheep for roasting. For the past day the ovens of the outdoor kitchen had been fired nonstop, baking pies, loaves of brown bread, and the sweet honey cakes Hulgrim's house was known for. All in all, while the crowds did make her uncomfortable, it had been more than ten years since Maerwyn had spent Midsummer among her own people, and she was a little nostalgic for the celebration.

But the job came first, and that meant the decision was in Orin's hands. "What do you think?" she pressed, half hoping he would agree to the early departure, and half hoping he would insist on staying.
 
‘…just as much right to stand in the House of Hulgrim as any one of my other sons…’

Orin’s eyes opened in the dark. He could hear Maerwyn sleeping beside him, and the gentle sounds of the household. Some still tended to the wounded, or to children, and others guarded the grounds. He had been dreaming about the battle; the shapeshifting family and their powerful forms, the faces of the dead, both human and orc, and the snarling werewolf that would have ended him if not for the eagles who had come to their rescue.

And then the quiet conversation with the Woodsman, and those words – ‘…just as much right…as any of my other sons…’ Other sons. Not ‘as any of my sons, but… my other sons’. He sighed and rolled over, wrapping an arm around his sleep mate. Perhaps he was putting too much on a single word, though the feeling that he had when Hulgrim looked him in the eye had felt like he’d been inducted into the Clan. He was welcome here, possibly more welcome in this wood and stone cottage than he had felt in all his years in the mountain.

When his father used those same words, it was always in the context of ‘My daughter Margo and my son Holt. Oh, yes, and my other son, Orin’.

The days passed quickly. The visitors fell into a steady routine, of repairing the home and fences, patrolling the nearby areas, and readying for the Midsummer festivities. Every morning, Maerwyn left their bed early. And every night, they slept. There was no repeat of their activities in Havus’s home, though he wouldn’t have expected her to be so inclined, not with her injuries. And yet…the lack of any discussion about their one-night-uniting led him to believe that was all it was for her. One night. A pastime to ease the anguish of the discussion they had shared, and to let off the valve from the liquor they had drank. After a while, Orin convinced himself that it had been enough; he’d been with her once, which was more than he had thought he would, and it would suffice for the rest of their time together. After all, she was a mercenary and a guide. At times she was a thief. And though she had been called as much, he doubted she had ever truly been a whore. Even if she had, the past was a vapor; she was not a whore with him, and he would have respected her less if she had been.

He was busy putting on the finishing touches of another drawing for one of the children. After seeing the drawing that he had made for Tarrand (for he had promised him a picture if he stayed put during the battle), he was asked by the many other children, even the ones who arrived long after the battle, to draw pictures of them fighting the orcs. And winning, of course. The little ruby-cheeked child stood eagerly by, watching him put the finishing touches on the piece before he handed it off to her. She took a look, her eyes widening as she saw the fierce look in her avatar’s face, and then squealed. “I love it!” she quickly gave the startled dwarf a peck on the cheek before running off, waving her drawing in the air and calling for her mother to come see her picture.

When Mearwyn walked up to him he closed his book to look at her. She was healing well, and barely had a limp in her walk. He never realized how quickly humans healed. He’d always thought them weak beings, who would take several months to heal what a dwarf did in weeks. Orin was just about to ask her how she was feeling when she spoke up first.

"Do you think you'd be ready to leave tomorrow?" Maerwyn asked.

He looked at her, speechless.

"I was thinking we could slip away at dawn, if that suits you. We've got fresh clothes and plenty of rations ready, and my swords have been sharpened--did you ask Valrand to take a look at your axe, by the way?--but I was thinking it might be best if we left before things got too busy." She paused. "What do you think?"

Orin blinked. Was she really asking him if he wanted to leave right before the festival? Right before the bonfires and feasting, the music and the family? He blinked again and drew a breath. Then he rolled his jaw and looked away, thinking about the reasons she might want to go, and the reasons he might want to stay. Slowly he let his breath out. “No,” he finally said, shaking his head. “No, I don’t want to go tomorrow,” he confirmed, meeting her eyes with his own.

He set his journal aside and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “We should stay until after, then find out if your father wants to take the battle to the Necromancer instead of waiting around for the next attack. Your family won’t be safe until that threat is gone…” his voice softened, “and if we pass this way again, and there is nothing left but the burned out shells of the cabin, I’d never forgive myself.”

“Besides,” he said, picking up his journal and standing to meet her, “you still need to heal, I haven’t had a chance to hold the new baby, and Midsummer is my birthday. You do a fine job of cooking on the road, Maerwyn, but I’m dying to have some of the sweet honey cakes your cousins have baked, and they won’t let anyone near them until the bonfires are lit.”

“So…no. Not tomorrow.” He walked up to her and smiled. “I want to see you dancing ‘round the bonfire with flowers in your hair.”

Then he added, "And I can take care of my own axe. Just point me to the forge."
 
Although her expression remained casually blank, there was no hiding the released tension in Maerwyn's shoulders when Orin said he wanted to stay. "Suit yourself," she replied, watching one of the children flee in fear from a particularly grumpy chicken in the coop. "But when the wrong person gets a bit too much mead in their head and tries to drag you off into the woods to have their way with you, don't say I didn't warn you." A wry smile crossed her face as she glanced over at her companion; there was a reason the holiday was known for marriage proposals, after all.

At the mention of the Necromancer though, the mercenary's face immediately fell, and she shook her head violently. "Father would never go on the offensive against Dol Goldur. Even Thranduil hasn't managed to drive out the Necromancer, and he's got at least twenty times as many elves as we have men," she sighed, leaning heavily on the carved staff she had borrowed from her father. "The bastard--" She meant the Necromancer in this case case, not Hulgrim or Thranduil. "--has been holed up down in his fortress as long as I can remember, and well before that if I had to guess. Our people have always lived in fear of him, and it was only recently we began to fight back at all. I suppose I do need to credit the old man for that at least."

Her eyes wandered across the courtyard to where her father was currently leaning on his own stick, but still overseeing the construction of the bonfire with all his old authority. Hulgrim, like everyone else in the battle, had taken his own share of damage, and had suffered a particularly bad gash on his chest. He seemed to have a bit of trouble breathing still, and his posture was a bit more hunched than usual, but his blustering nature had only seemed to increase as he rushed to put the fight behind him, and move his family into the more joyous days ahead. Still, during her early morning sword practice Maerwyn had caught him standing quietly before his sister's grave, and for the first time ever he had truly appeared weak in her eyes.

"It was never like this when I was a child, you know," the mercenary continued, looking back at her companion. "Gerthelda would sometimes come for Yule or Midsummer, or maybe a few uncles and cousins here and there, but for the most part our family was incredibly isolated. We never used to gather in these kinds of numbers. I'm still not entirely certain I know who all these people are," she added with a chuckle before moving on. "The old house was farther down the river--closer to Dol Goldur--and even if we had lived on the western bank on the river we would still be subject to the occasional raid from the goblins. But Father was right to build his new hall here, and to make it big enough to welcome in the entire family. Now at least they'll have numbers on their side, along with the terrain."

Not to mention the enchantments of the skin-changers. Even though Maerwyn hadn't witnessed the phenomena in this particular fight, she had seen her father and brothers assume their other forms numerous times in the past. If the ability hadn't come at so dear a price, she might have even sought the power for herself, but remembering the sound of her mother's screams, how could she?

She shut her eyes a moment, willing those thoughts to still themselves. "By the way," Maerwyn said, just a shade too forcefully. "Have you decided where exactly it is you wish to go? If you're still headed for Mor--the Gladden River, I'm sure one of the guests can provide us a boat, or maybe a few ponies. Or if you haven't had your fill yet of the Woodmen, I suppose we could head northward with Valgrim when his family departs. But if you want to cross the Misty Mountains, we definitely need to leave as soon as possible. It's not unheard of to see snow in the High Pass even this time of year, and the longer we wait the worse the weather could get."

Although the mercenary had regained enough strength in her leg to walk and stand continuously for a full day, even she didn't want to risk trying to climb the rocky slopes with uncertain footing in a snow or rainstorm. Of course, her pride would never allow her to acknowledge that in words. "My leg is fine for walking," she insisted. "I just won't be running any races anytime soon. Should probably avoid jumping over the fire tomorrow as well, just to be safe, though you're welcome to give it a try." If Orin, like the rest of her kinsmen, enjoyed starting Midsummer by splitting a bottle of mead and continuing through the course of the day, she had no doubt he probably would risk setting his boots aflame, if not the rest of him.

"As for the baby, you're welcome to hold her whenever you like. I'm sure Isvera would appreciate the break; the babe never does seem to stop yelling. Of course, you'll need to fight through Windis and Beorgrim for the privilege. I wonder if they've chosen a name for her yet? She'll be a week old tomorrow, and that's usually when it's done." There had been a rumor circulating around that the child was going to be named Gerthelda, in honor of her deceased great-aunt, but the more superstitious members of the family warned against it, in case the baby might one day meet a similar fate to her namesake.

Maerwyn's musings were immediately disrupted though by Orin's revelation about his birthday. "Tomorrow?" she gasped, staring him dead in the face. "You never said a word to me about it before. Did you tell any of the others? A Midsummer birth is good luck, you know." Indeed, since the Woodmen tended to track the passage of time by holidays rather than weeks or months, most people couldn't name the exact day of their birth. Maerwyn, for example, knew her own birthday was some time after Beltide, but due to her rather transient lifestyle she hadn't celebrated it since she was a child. But anyone born on a day holiday could always know their birthday for certain, and revelries for those individuals tended to be lavish indeed.

She barely listened to the rest of what Orin had to say, her thoughts were too busy racing in her head. For days now she had wondered what in the world she could ever do to repay the great service he'd done for her and her family, and now it seemed there was finally an answer at hand. "The forge is at the back wall of the yard, near the summer kitchen. The girls will show you the way if you need help finding it. I ah...I have some other things to attend to," Maerwyn said quickly, ready to go seek out Windis (with whom she had rekindled something of a friendship) and ask for her aid.

Still, the mention of flowers and dancing did make her pause in her tracks. Turning around, she looked back at her employer and flashed him a warm smile. "I sing better than I dance, Master Dwarf, and I think you'll recall how well that turned out," she laughed. "And you'd best watch out that the young ones don't put a leaf crown on you as well. Otherwise your Lady Dís will probably die of jealousy when some drunken Anduin girl tries to trap you into marrying her." Maerwyn was fully aware at the irony of the statement, considering what she had done with Orin at his mother's house. She half-planned to do it again as soon as it could be managed without interruption, or at the very least before her prophecy could come true, and one of her cousins really did try to drag the dwarf into the seclusion of the woods.

In the meantime though, there was work to be done, and Maerwyn purposely avoided Orin until it was time for bed, where as usual she lay chastely beside him, letting her thoughts and plans weary her mind until sleep was inevitable.
 
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"Suit yourself," she replied. "But when the wrong person gets a bit too much mead in their head and tries to drag you off into the woods to have their way with you, don't say I didn't warn you."

Orin laughed, rolling his eyes in her direction. “What if the right person gets too much mead in their head?” He teased, then quickly changed the direction of their conversation towards the Necromancer. Maerwyn quickly dismissed the idea, and if he were being honest with himself, he was secretly grateful. He was a little surprised at her reference to ‘that bastard’, unsure whether she meant Thranduil, the Necromancer, or her father.

“Alright,” he agreed. “You know your father better than I.” And hopefully, she would have much more time with him to get to know him better. Orin looked over at Hulgrim as the man helped to stack the bonfire piles, carefully and slowly. He moved as if he was managing his pain, though he still postured and blustered as much as he had before the orcs attacked. It seemed he was keeping the mood jovial and full of hope for the entire family through his efforts. The man was indestructible.

“Your family is incredible,” he said to Maerwyn. “To think that all this was built in your lifetime, and so many people born…” he shook his head and smiled. “Your family is a legacy.” He gazed in the direction she said their old house was, and then looked across the open plaza between the house and the fence, trying to imagine what her childhood home had looked like before it was destroyed. He pictured a younger version of Maerwyn running around the fields with her brothers, her hair wild and tangled in the wind as she laughed freely. Before the attack, before the fires, before the elves…Maerwyn unchained to life’s disappointments. She was beautiful.

She was still beautiful. As she closed her eyes, he studied her face, wondering if she knew how much she had changed his world. Alone, he would have probably still been on the fool’s path; searching for an impossible treasure to give to a woman who wanted him dead. With Maerwyn his eyes had been opened.

He wondered about her family’s skin-changers. Being less inclined towards magical things, dwarves knew little of enchantments or abilities, though their weapons and armor were often described as ‘magical’, it was because of the skill put into their making. Not because of any true enchantment.

“You know,” Orin retrieved his book and opened it to where he had jotted down the places they had been. He began to write down the potential destinations she had listed. “One day I need to go to the place near the Gladden River – I do want to go home again, eventually.” He found her eyes with his own. “I’m not ready yet. I’m not…wise enough of the things of your world, I suppose. Skilled enough. But that can be a long time from now.” His gaze softened. “I’ll look at these places and consider our options. I’d like you to do the same,” he continued. “Where do you want to go, Maerwyn? We have a year – what’s to keep us from doing what you normally do. You know; show me what it’s like to be a mercenary or guide, or guard. Hell, if we get hired, they don’t even know that I’m a tourist who’s hired you!” He grinned at her, feeling free from obligations of the Lonely Mountain and the dwarven maiden within.

“I don’t think I’ll do much jumping tomorrow; we dwarves like to keep our feet firmly planted on solid ground. But I would like to see how other people celebrate… there are more things in common between peoples than differences.” At the revelation that Isvera would likely allow him to hold the little one his eyes widened slightly. Maybe he would draw Isvera a picture of her and her baby in return. Which reminded him; he needed to get another journal soon. All the pictures he had drawn for Maerwyn’s younger kin had diminished his supply of paper.

“I…don’t know about good luck and birthdays. It didn’t seem like the right thing to tell anyone, especially after all the losses we’ve suffered. And you know, it’s my fifty-first, so it’s not a big milestone, or anything. Usually we only mark the decades.” If Maerwyn had been a dwarf they would have celebrated her three times only; on the first anniversary of her birth and then at her tenth and twentieth years. The in-between years were just that; in-between. Noted, but not celebrated.

At her light-hearted mention of Dís potentially being jealous of him in the arms of another, a sharp gentle pain pierced his chest. He had already abandoned that fantasy, but the pledge remained. He did not hate the maiden for her disdain. In fact, he should have been thankful for her honesty. He had just not been of a mind to hear her when she told him that she didn’t want what he wanted. If nothing else, he needed to return her someday and apologize for his insistent attentions. It was a wonder Dís never put the end of her dagger in his heart herself, too annoyed to take his press of affections any longer.

Maerwyn left him of an image of what was to come as well as directions to the forge, and after securing permission to use its contents he spent a good deal of time refining the edge of his war axe and making adjustments to a few other things.

That evening he sought out the new mother and her child. He found her in the company of Iorhild, the two women speaking quietly as the babe fussed quietly in her mother’s arms. Orin knocked quietly on the doorframe. “I’m sorry to impose,” he said, seeing them stop midstream of their discussion to look at him. “I…dwarves don’t often have children.” His eyes moved from Isvelda’s face to the tiny bundle in her arms and back. “Would it…could I…hold her?”

“You want to hold my baby?” The new mother felt a pull of protection around her child, though Maerwyn’s dwarf (as some came to call him) had been nothing but good to the family, he was still a stranger to their clan.

Iorhild placed a hand on her cousin’s arm. “I’ll show him how to hold her,” she teased lightly, “you needn’t worry.” She eased the fussing child from Isvelda’s weary arms and then helped Orin arrange his own to hold the child. “Do you like children, Master Dwarf?”

He started down at the tiny mewling face. Every detail was a perfect, miniscule version of a real person. His fingers pulled back the blanket enough to peer at her and wonder at this little spark that was born in the midst of a battle. “She’s beautiful,” he answered. He blinked away the blurriness in his eyes and found that his throat had thickened to make speaking difficult. His dream of marrying Dís and one day having a little one of his own was gone; forever dashed against the rocks of the mountain. He would never hold a child of his own or hear its first words. He’d never hear his children laugh or call him their Da. Never rock his child to sleep. Teach his son or daughter a craft at his side, tell them that their eyes look like their mother’s. That dream died before it was even conceived.

Realizing he was dripping tears on the baby’s blanket, Orin drew in a small breath of surprise and handed the infant back to the women. He gave them an apologetic smile before thanking them and leaving, brushing at his eyes with the sides of his hands. Isvelda looked to the healer with wide, concerned eyes as she nestled the child back to her breast. “That is a strange man,” she observed.

He had been so overwhelmed with emotion that he had neglected to ask if she would like a drawing. As the evening finally drew to a close, he was still trying to figure out his strange reaction to Isvelda and Beorgrim’s child. And when he fell asleep beside Maerwyn, he wondered if she would visit him the way she visited Aevar. It was unlikely Orin would want to wander forever, as the mercenary claimed she did. He could see himself settled in a town, perhaps even River Dale – forever banned from the Lonely Mountain, but eternally connected. And every year she would come by, perhaps with another client, or group she was guiding, and just as quickly she would be gone.

Perhaps, forever.

~ * ~​

Early the next morning he sought out Hulgrim. Orin found him standing quietly by his sister’s grave, his head bent and his voice silent. It seemed a sacred moment; one that the dwarf was reluctant to interrupt. He stood by and quietly waited until the large man was done, and as Maerwyn’s father began to take his leave of the gravesite, Orin asked if he had a moment to talk.

“I care about Maerwyn,” he started. “I’ll probably be traveling with her for a time. I was hoping that would be okay with you,” he wouldn’t call what he felt for Maerwyn ‘love’. That word had been tainted by his last two decades of mis-labeling that feeling. “And also…if you don’t mind – could you share with me your side of the story about what happened when…” he felt awkward asking. It showed in the uncertainty in his eyes and the hesitation between phrases. “What happened when her mother died?”
 
On Midsummer morning, almost all of the female inhabitants were up well before dawn. The unmarried girls were quick to head off into the woods to find fern blossoms, while the older women were busy beginning the endless food preparation and guiding the small children who'd awoken too early in making the festive crowns they would hand out later in the day. Maerwyn, knowing she wouldn't find any place to practice her swordplay in solitude, allowed herself to sleep in as late as the men, never noticing when Orin had slipped away to speak with her father.

Hulgrim himself was surprised to see the dwarf awake so early, but didn't seem displeased to see him. Gesturing for Orin to follow him, he settled down on a carved tree stump near the foot of the great stairs leading up to the hall. Reaching for his belt, the old man raised a small flask not dissimilar to Maerwyn's to his lips, then offered the dwarf a drink. "Fond of the lass, are you? Well, you're not the first," Hulgrim remarked after taking back the vessel. "Not my business either way what the two of you decide to do. I lost any claim I had on her years ago, slight as it was. Her mother was the only one who really knew how to handle her. But Beorwyn always had a way with wild creatures."

A soft smile showed through the bushy gray beard. "If you want to know the story in it's shortest form, I imagine Maerwyn has already told you the truth of it. Beorgrim and I were away, visiting the old Wizard of the Wood. The older lads were already gone and married, and I left my wife and daughter behind me, just as I had countless times before. But this time...this one time...it was a mistake." The smile was gone now, and Hulgrim's eyes had filled with shadows. "When I came back, I found our beasts stolen or killed, our house burned to the ground. My wife--" Even now, fifteen years later, something caught in his throat as the old man relived the memory. "My wife's bones were chained to the hitching post. They raped her, then they burned her, most likely while she was still alive. I feared they'd done the same to Maerwyn, but we never found her body. For a year or more, I was sure she was either dead or had been carried either into the Black Pit or the Haunted Fortress, and I wasn't sure which was worse."

The patriarch had to pause a moment to collect himself. "Then a year later, three elves came to this place, where we'd started rebuilding. Maerwyn was with them, safe and whole, or so I thought. She said very little those first few days, but when she finally did, she had nothing but rage and hatred inside her." He sighed. "How such a small child could look upon anything with eyes like that...but she did. She looked at me. Claimed my selfishness was what had gotten her mother killed and driven her into the woods, and swore she'd never spend another night under my roof. I tried to make her stay, tried to make her understand, but...you must know how she is when she gets in a temper. She went off with the elves, and I didn't see her for five years."

Hulgrim shrugged. "I suppose she's forgiven me enough to sit at my table once in a while, sleep in my beds, feed her beasts when she has one. I'm surprised she's stayed this long, to speak the truth. Don't suppose you would have anything to do with that?" He raised a bushy brow towards the dwarf. "She wants to leave, I can see it in her eyes. I don't blame her for that. This has never really been her home, any more than anywhere else in the world. But I hope she finds where she belongs eventually. Perhaps she just needs a guide."

His gaze lingered heavily on Orin's face, pondering him without speaking for several moments. Then he went on. "As for why all of this started, I suppose like with everything else, we can blame that bastard down in Dol Goldur. Our people have lived along the Anduin as far as the ancient days, before there were orcs and goblins in the mountains. But not before the dwarves," Hulgrim added with a slight note of humor in his voice. "Until the shadow fell over the wood, axes and bows were enough to hold back our enemies and let us live more or less in peace. But with every generation, it just gets worse. My own father was killed by goblins when I was just a lad. That was when I decided our people would get stronger, by any means necessary."

"I began to call on Radagast, the Wizard of the Wood. He knows all there is to know about the beasts and birds of the world, and if they could manage to survive The Necromancer, I thought perhaps I might learn how. It was Radagast that taught me about the enchantments that allow a man to change his shape and wear the skin of a beast, though he warned me that learning the art would be a long and dangerous road. He did not warn me that by following it I would pay a toll consisting of my wife's life and my daughter's love, but I don't think he knew it himself. Not a bad chap in the least, Radagast," Hulgrim added, crossing his arms on his broad chest. "It was a heavy price, but if you asked me if it was worth it...yes. You must have seen that yourself after that last battle. You must see it right now."

He pointed at the small gaggle of children that had assembled near the goat pen, petting the shaggy creatures and feeding them bits of grass. "It pains me every day that Beorwyn isn't here to see how our family has grown, and to know Maerwyn may never forgive me. But I would not give up the lives of the rest of my clan to get them back. I would not give up their futures. All I can do is keep the door open for my daughter, and wait for my own death to be reunited with my wife." And although Hulgrim didn't speak it aloud, it was sure that the day wasn't far off. Though he did his best to hide it, the wounds he'd sustained during the fight still pained him and weren't nearly as quick to heal as they should have been. Iorhild and Harric suspected of course, but he'd sworn them to secrecy at least until the festivities were over.

And these were only beginning. The children, having lost interest in the goats, suddenly seemed to notice Orin's presence and raced towards him like a stampede of wild horses, shouting cries of "Happy Midsummer!" and "Happy Birthday!" as they threw themselves at their hero. One placed a clumsily made circlet of oak leaves on his head, while the other presented gifts of nuts and berries collected from the surrounding trees.

Of course, these were only the beginning of the gifts. At breakfast, the women presented the dwarf with a set of clothing in the northern style, not brand new but excellently tailored to fit his short, brawny form. All throughout the day, men were generous with their drinks, each insisting on filling Orin's cup the instant it was less than three-quarters full. Maerwyn's brothers in particular had commissioned Cousin Valrand, the family smith, to make him one of the light, easily-thrown handaxes that was a northman's weapon of choice, and spent several hours each trying to outdo each other in a throwing competition against the back wall of the forge. Even Carlin, who seemed determined to remain at the hall until the dwarf and the mercenary departed, presented the former with a small collection of medicinal herbs gathered from the woods, mumbling some vague well wishes under her breath.

Maerwyn herself hadn't presented her employer with anything so far, besides the occasional mischievous grin whenever she saw him receiving another gift. Dressed in one of Isvera's old gowns and with her brown hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders (and yes, crowned with wildflowers against her own protests), the mercenary looked astonishingly pretty, and several of the young men had been quick to ask who the last-minute arrival at the hall was. Although she was still leaning on a walking stick and was drinking a little less heavily than usual, her spirits did seem lighter and she even returned a few of the flirtatious glances, although she was never far from Orin's side.

At dark, the massive bonfire in front of the hall was lit, and the revelers began to take out a variety of handcrafted instruments: fiddles, lutes, flutes and drums. Many of the songs were in such an ancient dialect that the meanings were utterly forgotten, although the melodies seemed ingrained in each of the singers' heads. Most surprisingly the sweetest voice of all was that of Young Harric, who could have easily made a greater fortune as a bard in the south than as a healer in the north. He would find no shortage of dance partners after that, although his gaze was always fixed wistfully on Maerwyn, sitting back in the shadows and chatting with Windis and Isevera, rocking baby Iorwyn gently in her arms as she glanced in Orin's direction every now and then.
 
Hulgrim shared a drink with him, with in the mountain meant acceptance. That was the start of one of the most important conversations in the young dwarf’s life. He imagined that the words her father shared were the secret key to unlocking her, though he had no idea what he would find once that door was opened.

There was the Wizard of the Wood – and the truth of the matter. Hulgrim had been gone, perhaps learning from this wizard how to further protect his family, but in doing so, he lost what he was trying to protect. The irony was astounding, and Orim felt a stabbing pain as he imagined how he would have felt had it been Maerwyn who had died. He stared ahead, seeing the scene in his mind. His heart pounded at the thought of seeing her charred bones chained to a hitching post. He weaved slightly as they stood together, caught up in the emotion that he felt emanating from the man.

He smiled at the patriarch as he mentioned that Maerwyn had finally come around to visiting on occasion, then glanced down when he was asked if he had anything to do with her extended stay. “A little, yes,” he admitted. And then he wondered if a person’s home could be more than a place. He wondered if it could be a person. Perhaps, as Hulgrim suggested, she did just need a guide, though Orin felt like it would be the blind leading the misguided. He didn’t know what love really was, but he knew he cared a great deal more for Maerwyn than just being her employer would suggest.

When he heard the name Radagast again, he felt like he had stepped across the invisible line of destiny. Not his own, but the world’s. He mirrored Hulgrim unconsciously, crossing his own stout arms across his chest. The price was heavy; it had cost Hulgrim his wife, and perhaps in some ways, his daughter, but there was no doubt that it had paid that back in the lives saved in yesterday’s battle. Perhaps, far into the future, it would save even more from the darkness that seemed to be creeping across the land. Orin nodded, silently agreeing with the Woodman’s assessment. He thought he could understand the need to protect his people that had driven Hulgrim to do what he did. Surely, if he had not been in the forest that day with his sons, they would have all died as well.

When the large man spoke of his wife and reuniting with her again Orin thought he heard a soft yearning in his voice. “I believe your wife would have been proud of all you’ve done,” he voiced, his eyes following Hulgrim’s hand to look at all the children who were alive today because of it. He had come to enjoy the company of the children, finding their brutal honesty refreshingly sweet. He knew each of their faces and was beginning to learn the personalities attached to them.

Then, like a posse of wild animals, the children raced at them. Orin thought they might have been coming to Hulgrim and was doubly surprised to find that they were running to him and wishing him a happy birthday. “Why, how did you – Maerwyn told you!” He laughed in astonished glee at their gifts, declaring each nut or berry the best he’d ever seen. When one set of small hands crowned him with oak leaves he asked if Maerwyn had put them up to it, to which they ran off giggling to seek out an unguarded pastry or candy in the kitchens.

A long paused filled the space between them once the jovial laughter of the little ones faded. “We will probably leave sometime after the festivities are over,” Orin said, meeting Hulgrim’s gaze. “Knowing Maerwyn she’ll most likely want to sneak away; not make a big fuss over it.” When Orin left the Lonely Mountain he and his father had barely said two words between them. It felt like just walking to town; nothing special. Nothing to be sad about. Today, though, knowing that he might not see these people again, he felt like a part of him was going to be ripped away once they left, and felt a sense of nostalgia for something that had not yet happened. “I am really glad I got to meet you…” he realized he did not know the man’s last name. Did woodsmen have last names? A strong clasping of arms at the elbows ended their conversation, and he left feeling like at least, he had Hulgrim’s blessing in whatever travels he would take with the skinchanger’s daughter.

It didn’t stop. All day, Maerwyn’s family made him feel like one of their own. The gifts came unexpectedly, clothes from the women who had feed him so well during their visit, and whom he thanked with hugs as was the dwarven way, too much to drink, and then a fine axe, that he enjoyed throwing with the cousins who were more brotherly to him that Holt had ever been. Even the elf whom he had hated had become something of a friend. She didn’t let him hug her, but he thanked her just the same, wondering at whether her heart had been broken or freed from this stayover in the woodsman’s home.

And though he was finding it difficult to get alone with Maerwyn, he caught her grin on occasion and shook his head at her whilst smiling. She had done this – made his day more special than it had ever been. She looked beautiful. A beard would have had him asking her to marry him that night, with as much mead as he had drunk so far. But no amount of mead, axe throwing, or conversation with her kin could keep him from glancing over and seeing her with the women, the little babe in her arms. She looked so content in that moment that he thought of leaving her here. She could marry Harric, whose affections for her were noted by many, and she could have a normal life surrounded by people who loved her. They would keep her safe. She wouldn’t have to wander any longer, and she wouldn’t have to worry if her next hire would be her last.

As the fire-jumping began to slow, and people tucked themselves in or wandered into secluded corners with each other (for the forest was no longer safe for such rendezvous), Orin wandered to where Maerwyn was seated and claimed the spot next to her. He took a drink from his flask and then offered it to her, now that her hands were free and the baby had been passed to another admirer. He had drunk too much, he knew, and would likely pay for the mix of mead, wine, ale and spirits in the morning, despite his dwarven constitution.

“You looked happy holding the babe,” he observed, smiling at her as another singer began to perform. Orin had changed into the clothes her family had given her, and now looked like a shorter variant of her clan. He thought about the dangers on the road, and their near misses; the brigands in Esgaroth, the spiders and Easterlings, and the orcs that nearly killed her. There were far more dangers on the road than here, in the company of her skinchanging kin.

His hand found hers. “It’s not too late to stay, Maerwyn. You said you left your home to find a husband.” He glanced across the fires where Harric stood with a few others, toasting to the coming year and wearing a crown of oaken leaves. “Your family loves you.” He looked back to her, seeking out her gaze. “You could have a normal life. Children of your own…” He felt his heart clench. “You could be happy here. And safe. I would miss you…but I wouldn’t hold it against you if you stayed.” Selfishly, he wanted both – for her to remain and live under the sanctuary of her father’s protection, and for her to go with him and explore the world. He feared she would feel obligated to go, though Orin’s talk with her father had revealed to him that no one expected Maerwyn to stay longer than she had to.
 
The festivities were finally beginning to die down. Most of the children had been carried into the loft to sleep off the abundance of dancing and sweets, and the younger people had all mostly paired off and gone to celebrate the rest of the holiday privately. A few of the older men and women--mostly those that had lost a husband or wife--were still seated around the fire, drinking mead and talking about old times, while the music dwindled down to the husky voice of old Aunt Rhonfast, singing softly to herself more than anyone else. Maerwyn was mostly forgotten in her shadowy corner near the woodpile, wrapped in an old shawl and staring thoughtfully into the fire, but she didn't seem surprised when Orin finally joined her side.

“You looked happy holding the babe,” he observed.

"Of course I did. She finally went to sleep," the mercenary remarked, accepting the flask and taking a quick nip. Her head was still mostly clear, not wanting to suffer the traditional post-Midsummer headache in the morning when they would undoubtedly depart. "Beorgrim is going to have his hands full with that little girl of his, but I think Isvera will be able to manage her well enough. She's a sweet woman...he chose his bride well." There was a small note of sadness in Maerwyn's voice, a tiny regret that she hadn't been there when they'd wed, or indeed even when they'd met. What else would she miss when she left yet again?

Orin seemed to sense her hesitance, and a moment later her scarred hand was firmly caught in his strong one. Glancing over in his direction, the woman couldn't help but smile at him. "If you mean to get out of paying me the year's wages you owe, Master Dwarf, you are sorely mistaken," she teased, raising his hand to her lips and kissing his knuckles a moment. Patting his hand, she held it in her lap and looked back towards the fire. "This might have been my home if things had been different. I think I could have been happy here. But it's too late now." She sighed, then leaned back slightly against the wall of the house.

"Those who knew me when I was a child love me, I think. Some still scorn me for turning my back on the clan, and I don't expect they'll forgive me any time soon. I'm quite the scandal, if you hadn't noticed." The firelight twinkled mischieviously in the corner of her eye. "The rest tolerate me...mostly for your sake, if I'm being honest. You know Orin, you seem to fit in better with my family than I do. Perhaps you ought to be the one to stay behind," she chuckled, though there was a tint to it that wasn't entirely joking. "A few of the younger girls wouldn't mind a husband shorter than them if he could fight the way you do. Of course, they haven't seen you hunt..."

The mention of hunting suddenly reminded her about the gift she'd meant to give him earlier, but never had the chance. Rising to her feet, Maerwyn pulled the dwarf after her. "Come with me a moment, I have something for you," she said, leading him back into the house and into their room. Already she'd laid out their gear for the morning; a fresh shirt and trousers for herself folded neatly on the chest at the foot of the bed, with her polished armor and weapons nearby. She'd inherited a new, larger pack that would hold winter gear for crossing the mountains, and her stock of arrows had been refreshed from Valgrim's stock.

Hidden away in the quiver, away from prying eyes, the woman pulled out a small knife that was almost identical to her own utilitarian blade. In fact, if her own knife wasn't still hanging off her belt, the one she presented to Orin could have easily been mistaken for it. "No man of the north would be caught dead without a proper hunting knife," she explained, handing it to the dwarf hilt-first. "I thought you ought to have one. In case of spiders, you know. Or if you fancy a bit of whittling. Stick to wood though, even our knives in the hand of a dwarf can't carve stone."

Smiling, she reached down and began to untie her belt, laying it aside and out of the way before she paused. "There's...something else I'd give you, if you want it," Maerwyn continued slowly, reaching for the lacings of the gown. "But before I do, you need to know something." Taking a deep breath, she laid both hands on his shoulders and forced herself to look in his eyes. "Orin...you are not just a job to me. Not anymore. You deserve to hear that before I undo another knot."

Standing up straight, her fingers played over the leather thongs hesitantly. "I'll understand if that complicates things, and if you'd prefer that I go I will. But it is Midsummer," Maerwyn's shy posture seemed to solidify a bit as she raised her head proudly. "And if you don't intend to fuck me properly, Orin Indrafangin, I'll find a man who will and embarrass us both by shouting your name right in the middle loud enough for the entire valley to hear." A wicked grin crossed her face as she took a step towards him.

"So what say you, Master Dwarf?"
 
Such a tender gesture, her lips on his hand, and as they sat and watched the fire, he felt he was seeing parts of Maerwyn she’d never revealed before. Not to him, certainly not to anyone else. He chuckled at the notion that her family tolerated her for the sake of him, but as she began to speak of him fitting in, and being the one who stayed behind, he softly shook his head. He would love to stay, but only if it was to be with her. And then she made him laugh with the mention of his hunting. It was hard to sneak around when you’re a dwarf, and every step seemed to shake much more of the earth than his size would warrant.

“No,” he protested quietly, “unless they’re this Anduin girl,” he squeezed her hand briefly, “there’d be no reason for me to stay.” There was a promise in that – a pledge that hinted at something beyond the year ahead. Perhaps if he had not drunk so much his words might have been better chosen, but the sentiment had come from his heart.

He followed her, though he had little choice in the matter. Her firm grip on his hand ensured he would not be lost between their seats and wherever it was she was taking him. She had obviously been busy, if the newly packed bag and her folded clothes were any indication. As she moved towards her quiver he started to wonder why. He didn’t shoot a bow; he had no desire to, despite its advantage in dealing with the spiders. When she pulled out a blade, identical to her own, his throat clenched at her gifting. Not only a man of the North, according to her, but he was invited to whittle, as long as it wasn’t stone. He chuckled, his eyes watering from the sentiment. “Thank you,” he whispered, looking over the fine blade, and rejoicing that they now carried something like the other did. As if they belonged together. A matching set.

Ass eh began to undress (for bed, he thought), he tested the sharpened edge. He then drew its tip across the heel of his palm, bleeding the weapon for good luck. The thin line of blood matched an identical one running parallel; a memory of his new axe. “That shall be the only time this blade will draw my blood,” he pledged, and nodded. “It’s a fine gift, Maerwyn. I’ll use it well –“ As he looked up she mentioned something else she had for him.

He sobered, watching as her dexterous fingers worked at the lacings on the gown. He wanted what he thought she was offering. He wanted it badly. Her hands on his shoulders told him she was serious about what she was going to say, and as she told him what she needed to say, he drew in a breath, unsure what to answer. Not necessarily what, but how. How could he answer, when his throat had seized up in the realization that she was sober, and she wanted him.

Him. Orin. He groaned lightly, tilting his head as he breathed out through his mouth to resist the urge to rip her dress off her right then. “No, don’t go,” he said, “I like complicated.” And then she remembered his name and promised to do the most heinous thing, to use another to declare her passion, and he thought of Harric, and how devastating such a situation would be to the young man.

"So what say you, Master Dwarf?"

“Oh,” he said, laying the fine knife aside, and then running his hands from brow to the back of his head and grasping his hair near the scalp. “I say that you need to take off that dress now,” he advised, “lest I rip it off.”

He lowered his hands and stalked towards her. A hand trailed along the side of her breast over her waist and rested on her hip. “So…is this ‘you are not just a job to me, you’re my friend and lover’, or is it more like ‘I think the name Maerwyn Indrafangin has a nice ring to it’?” His other hand moved to caress her cheek. “I’ll take either option – I just need to know.” If it was for a season, he could accept it and enjoy the time they had. But he did not want to think it was more than it was; he had already spent too many years misunderstanding women, and he didn’t want to do that with her.
 
“No, don’t go,” he said, “I like complicated.”

Maerwyn couldn't help but giggle a little at that. Pausing in her undressing, she leaned forward and kissed the dwarf lightly. "You are the most un-complicated person I know," she remarked as she pulled away and continued loosening the laces. "But I suppose that's part of the reason I like you." She let the dress pool at her feet, then raised the soft linen under-tunic over her head and tossed it aside, standing fully naked in front of him now, the light of the few small candles scattered around the room sending shadows chasing over her body. The mercenary seemed less shy about her scars this time, although the newest one still rose fresh and slightly purple across her thigh.

Without the support of a staff, her movements as she undressed had been a little clumsy as well, and she wasted no time sitting back on the bed, her legs spread slightly as she welcomed Orin's approach. Sighing gently at his touch, she laid back on the bed, feeling his hand moving from her breast to her hip before she reached out to bury her fingers in his dark hair. Maerwyn pulled him closer, silently urging him to rest his weight on top of her before his question made her pause.

"For someone who claims to like 'complicated,' you certainly are quick to want to define things," she mused, glancing up at him as her finger traced his beard. "After what you did for me and my family, how could I call you anything but my friend?" Her other hand reached for his hip, then began to drift forward. "As for being lovers, I suppose if you'd prefer that things like this--" Maerwyn's fingers teased over the front of his trousers, feeling the hardness there and giving him a firm squeeze. "--to become a regular occurence, that would be an appropriate term to use."

Grinning playfully, she wrapped both arms around his neck and pulled him close enough that her lips could easily brush the rim of his ear. "And what is your fascination with being married?" the mercenary whispered, raising her hips against his in invitation. "First to Dís, now you ask about me? You don't need to have a wife to get fucked regularly, you know. You only need to ask a willing party nicely enough and I'm sure they'll oblige." Maerwyn let out a shuddery little breath then fell back on the mattress, raising her arms languidly over her head and granting him full access to her exposed breasts and stomach.

"Besides," she continued in a voice that wasn't quite a moan. "Didn't you say something before about your people not marrying until you're a hundred, or something like that? If so, I'm afraid I could never be your wife. By the time you're of age I'll either be an old crone or dead in the ground." Rather a morbid thought for the middle of lovemaking, but it didn't seem to bother Maerwyn too much. Instead she raised her good leg until it was hooked around Orin's waist and pulling him close against her again.

"So you'd best put away any thoughts of that, with me at least," she smiled, although there was a strange shadow that passed briefly through her eyes as she spoke. "You're young and free, Orin Wolfsbane, so you might as well enjoy an uncomplicated relationship while you can, and seek your wife later on. Assuming you can even enjoy a dwarf maid after having a northern girl. Rather like drinking water after wine, isn't it?" Laughing, she captured his mouth in another kiss, then began to tug at whatever clothing he still had on.
 
Orin didn’t see scars or clumsiness when Maerwyn pulled off the final piece of clothing and stood before him, completely naked available for his eyes to roam across. No…he saw only her eager desire and the delight in her eyes, unmarred by the deep drink of courage. The sight of her moving to the bed, sitting back and spreading her legs slightly, made the corners of his vision darken by how suddenly the blood left his brain to answer the call of his arousal.

She pulled him closer, which reminded him that there was too much damned clothing between her body and himself. He began to undo his lacing as she trailed fingertips through his beard and murmured so near his face that the only reason he didn’t kiss her was because he wanted to hear the answer to his question. So…she was his friend, not just his employee, and…”Oh,” he gasped, her bold hand upon the length of his cock sending tingling sensations of ‘I don’t care if the world blows up’ to the back of his tingling brain. He let out his breath in a shudder, then nodded when she suggested that this could become a regular occurrence and that he could consider her his lover.

He decided he liked it when she whispered against his ear, bucked her hips against his body, and talked about getting fucked regularly. “For dwarves, you kind of have to have a wife,” he explained. “Unless you like other men…and I don’t.” He grinned at her as she fell back and exposed herself completely to him. He quickly stripped off his clothing and boots, forgetting to take them off until his pants had hit his ankles. Orin sat on the bed and pulled them off, letting them drop heavily to the floor.

He was so wrapped up in getting his pants off that he still had his shirt on when he turned back to her. The parted lacings revealed his heavily furred chest, trailing across his hard abdomen and along the midline of his belly until it disappeared in the thick tuft of hair surrounding his manhood.

The question she posed had a sobering effect to it. If he were to wait until he was of proper dwarven age to consider a marriage, she would be dead and gone before he hit his prime age to settle down. But when dwarves married it was for hundreds of years. Humans did not have hundreds of years to wait. If they wanted to have any kind of relationship, and definitely any regular fucking, it had to be now and without a marriage.

“I will,” he pledged. “No marriage…” he tilted his head slightly at her naming of him. Orin Wolfsbane…It sounded strong and brave. Almost heroic. He joined her in her kiss, clumsy in his more sober state than the first time, and helped her to remove his shirt. “Looks like someone has a high opinion of herself,” he teased, “and I would agree, though…I don’t have anyone to compare this northern girl to.” He let himself be captured by her as he pivoted his hips between her loving legs, feeling the heat of her desire burn against his lower belly.

He slid his hands along her body, up her rib cage, and cupped her breasts. Those delightful nipples were a source of fascination to him. He felt the pebbling across the rough palms of his hands, calling him to give them more attention. His bearded kissed ran down her neck until he could capture one of the dark, mesmerizing circlets in his lips and run his teeth lightly along its firmed edges, then smooth it over with a soft kiss and flicker of his tongue. “Mmm,” he murmured, “if I had known how accommodating human women were, I might have left the mountain earlier.” The moved to the other breast, unwilling to let one side feel more neglected than the other, and tugged at the pebble with the force of his kiss. The swirl of tongue around the hardened nipple was a sensation that fascinated him. How could women walk around with these joyful orbs all day and not constantly want to play with them?

Her body was too enticing to deny himself entry much longer, and soon he was sliding up her again, pinning her against the bed. He thought of her inured thigh and looked to the side, then helped her to bend her leg further so that he would not accidentally hurt her. “I hope you weren’t counting on getting any sleep tonight,” he panted as he nestled the end of his shaft against her succulent entry. He grinned down at her, then bent to kiss her as he thrust himself into her body.
 
"Oh really?" Maerwyn asked in a teasing tone when Orin insisted dwarves needed a wife if they wanted a regular lay. "I think there are a few whores in Dale who might be willing to argue with that. Besides, if your people have hardly any women, I imagine there must be quite a lot of your menfolk getting together, or menfolk taking care of themselves." Sitting up ever so slightly, she reached forward to help lift his tunic over his head, pausing to rub her cheek against the hair of his chest while her tongue shot out to graze his nipple. Once he was as naked as she was the mercenary laid back down, taking a generous amount of time to watch him in the candlelight.

"You're incredibly handsome, did you know that?" she asked finally, and this time there was nothing humorous in her voice; only a gentle sense of affection and even a little awe. "Sometimes when you look at me with those dark eyes, it feels like you can see right through my clothes, and you have no idea how wet you make me when you look at me like that. And your hair--" Her fingers wound in it and tugged ever so slightly. "I love it now, but I think if you end up going gray its going to be very striking. And I must say, Master Orin, you have the most perfect cock I have ever encountered." Grinning, she pressed her firm thighs together tightly, catching that beloved part of him between them.

"So don't say you'll never marry. I think your future wife--whoever she may be--deserves to have all those parts of you. But for now, Orin, let them be mine. Please!" Maerwyn's appeal was cut off in an impassioned gasp as she felt him taking her nipple in his mouth, and her hips jerked sharply against him in response. His hands, you forgot to tell him how much you love his hands she thought idly to herself as he squeezed the moans out of her, his weight pinning her fully to the bed as her growing need wrested the last of her control from her mind. As much as she might have wanted Orin for herself, even if only for a night, the mercenary couldn't deny that part of her was already his, whether he knew it or not.

“I hope you weren’t counting on getting any sleep tonight." Maerwyn could smell the sweetness of the mead on him, and the heat of his breath on her skin made her dig her nails into his back.

"Of course not," she murmured in reply, feeling him poised to enter and shutting her eyes in anticipation. "It's Midsummer, after all."

And then he was inside her, and the whole house would probably know it by the sound of the cry she let out. The only miracle was that everyone else was busy with their own trysts or so drunk they were practically dead to the world, and Maerwyn didn't bother trying to stifle herself as she hitched her legs over Orin's hips and begged him to go deeper. There was no fear of pregnancy on her mind tonight; she and most of the other women of the house had dipped into Iorhild's store of herbs to prevent any unwanted Midsummer offspring.

So it was perfectly fine to want to feel him filling her in that most primal way, and her walls began to squeeze him al the tighter in encouragement.
 
Midsummer was beginning to be his favorite part of year, if only because it would forever be the fondest memory he had of his early years with Maerwyn. Her eager body, her confidence-raising words when she told him how much she loved his body and how handsome he was, gave him the boost he needed to overcome the doubts and self-deprecating thoughts he had after growing up idolizing Dís, and being cast aside by the dwarven woman so consistently.

Maerwyn was not casting him aside, and she needed no promise of a ring to want to share her life and bed with him. In fact, she needed nothing but this moment together, and that felt wonderfully freeing.

She cried out in blissful pleasure as they merged. Her primal utterances made him grin wickedly as her legs wrapped around, pulled him in, and erased any thoughts that she might have been hesitant to welcome him inside. He groaned out his appreciation of her body’s greeting, shutting his eyes briefly to sink into the completeness of her warmth. He craved her; his body pressing deeper and harder with each stroke, feeling her slick, tight delight in him urging him to give her more. Each time she cried out he felt more aggressively aroused. Beautiful expressions of wanton lust flickered across her face; telling him that he was the one making her feel the pleasures she was experiencing. He felt powerful and desired.

Her words passed through his thoughts as he slammed himself against her body, shifting her hips with one hand so that he could press himself fully into her body. His other hand braced above her shoulder, forcing his hairy chest to rub against her breasts with each thrust.

…incredibly handsome…

...when you look at me with those dark eyes, it feels like you can see right through my clothes –

…and you have no idea how wet you make me…

…Master Orin, you have the most perfect cock I have ever encountered…

The woman beneath him - the slayer of Easterlings and spiders, the thief, the slut, the thoughtful healer…she was all of these things and more, and she wanted him. Orin Wolfsbane.

He was too close and he didn’t want it to end there. No, they had all night under a roof and in a real bed. It might be weeks before this opportunity arose again. He stilled himself until he could move slower, then lowered his lips to kiss her deeply, gently, his tongue tracing over the inner ridge of her soft lips. He panted softly against them, then whispered, “I want you on top, Maerwyn. I want to watch you.”

He kissed along the side of her neck, pulling at her flesh with his lips, and sliding his tongue across the soft give of her skin. He wanted to taste every bit of her body and feel her pulse beneath his lips.
 
With each thrust Orin seemed to grow more animalistic in his movements, his powerful body threatening to crush her into the mattress. Growling a little in response, she seized him by the hair and jerked his head back, fastening her lips at the base of his throat and sucking until a visible mark had been left behind. There were plenty of scratches on his back by now, but when she pulled back (or rather, fell back with her breasts jiggling sharply and crushing into the dark hair of his chest) that little symbol of her claim on him was enough to push her dangerously close to the edge.

Maerwyn could remember the prior encounter in Havus' cave, but they'd been drinking so much that night she couldn't fully recall what her emotions had been at the time (well, besides the most obvious one). Had Orin smiled at her then like he was now? Had his kisses been this sweet? Stars, to have him as a partner in bed and on the battlefield, a lover and a travel companion...she was beginning to see the appeal of making such an arrangement permanent. Never mind they'd have no place to live, and there was a question of how they might make a living. None of those things seemed to matter when his manhood was driving directly against that most sensitive part deep inside her, making her scream his name as she'd promised when she finally reached her peak.

As the waves in her body began to subside, she noticed Orin had slowed his own movements as well, although from what she could tell he was far from finished. Smiling into his kiss, she made an amused sort of purr as he asked her to get on top. "So you know about that position, hm?" she teased, running her fingers through the hair on his chest before pushing him to the side. Despite her wounded leg, she had little trouble rolling him onto his back, taking care not to let him slip out of her in the process. "What else do you know about laying with a woman, Master Dwarf? If I recall, you weren't even sure how to avoid having children. Shall I show you that one as well?"

Biting her lip, she began to rotate her hips ever so slowly as she began to slide upward. Freed from its regular braid, her hair hung in loose waves that bounced lightly over her shoulders as she came down against him again, wincing a little as she felt him nudging at her womb. But that didn't stop her from riding him a little faster, picking up speed until she could see the pleasure growing on his face. Only then did the woman wickedly slow down, determined to keep her lover on edge as long as possible. Leaning forward a little, Maerwyn took each of Orin's hand in hers, kissing the rough palms briefly before placing them on her breasts, inviting him to squeeze and play as he wished.

That attended to, she rested one hand on his cheek and brushed her thumb over his lower lip, while her other hand dipped lower to work at her own little nub of pleasure, never once breaking eye contact with the dwarf as her own pleasure began to rise again.
 
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His ears still echoed the sound of her voice calling out his name. He never anticipated that being the source of a woman’s pleasure would in turn, give him pleasure. He laughed when she teased him about knowing that position. “You hear things when you live in a mountain’s caves,” he chuckled, “but hearing about things does not compare to doing them.” He canted his head slightly, wondering why anyone would want to avoid having children, but then nodded. “Teach me,” he agreed. “Teach me everything.”

And then she began to do just that, showing him how to roll them over without leaving her body. The small movements and the tenuous nature of what they were doing was arousing, as he became aware of every little squeeze and twitch of her sheath around his cock. “You…you’re…good at this,” Orin gasped once they completely rotated and she was on top.

She moved over him, expertly wringing his shaft from hilt to tip, her face an erotic array of emotions, as he slid his hands to her hips and felt her ministrations. Orin arced his head back, groaning in pleasure as the deep penetration she was forcing, and the feel of her cervix stopping him from going further. Battering the gates…that’s what some had called it, and as he felt her thrust herself down on him, and the pressure of her womb at his tip, he wanted to breech her and fill her. He could feel his scrotum tightening as her speed and cadence increased, and when she placed his hands upon her breasts he was once again taken by how smooth she was.

His hands moved over her breasts, cupping them and then palming her nipples, before taking them between his thumb and forefinger and rolling the tips softly, firmly, before running his palms over those delightful peaks once again in small circles. He slid his hands along her ribcage and down her sides, then slid one up her abdomen between her breasts. “You’re so smooth and beautiful,” he murmured.

Then she reached up and touched his cheek, drawing her thumb over his lower lip. He pulled her digit into his mouth and then moved to the palm of her hand, swirling his tongue across her hand and between her fingers, feeling like he could not get enough of her body touching his. He felt her squeezing him once again along his shaft, and as he met eye contact with her once again, all he felt was the powerful rush as his orgasm flooded through his body and shot into hers. His body convulsed, uncontrollably, and his eyes rolled back as he let out a sound halfway between a growl and a moan.

Collapsing, spent, he slowly blinked up at her. “I want to do that again,” he grinned. “And again…”

Their night passed in sensual revelry, as Orin explored this new canvas she had opened up to him. Just knowing that it wasn’t the drink or the arguing friends and family that thrust them to each other’s arms made the experience much more meaningful. He found his fixation for the craftsmanship of the forge doubled when it came to crafting a woman’s pleasure, and in doing so – his own. And with Maerwyn he thought he would never grow bored or discontented.

Several hours before sunrise he finally fell asleep, cradled with his head upon her breast (his new favorite pillow) and snoring softly in the dark.
 
Maerwyn couldn't help but burst out laughing at Orin's mention of the caves. Stars, when was the last time a man had made her laugh in bed? Still smiling, she leaned down to kiss him fiercely again, her hips resuming their seductive rhythm. After pulling away she stretched her torso as much as she could, reveling at the feeling of the dwarf's hands sliding over her skin as she began to ride him faster.

“You’re so smooth and beautiful,” he murmured, and the tone of his voice alone was almost enough to push her over the edge again. Instead her hands found his and she intertwined their fingers to give herself more strength to push off of.

"And you're so rough..." she gasped, feeling him going deeper than ever. "And hard!"

When he came, he dragged her over the edge with her, making her entire body shiver as she squeezed every last drop of his seed out of him. Maerwyn squeezed her eyes shut as her lips gasped helplessly like a fish on shore, and she squeezed his fingers so hard that if he had been a mortal man, no doubt she would have broken them. When the pleasure finally subsided, the woman lay forward, feeling the hair of his chest tickling at her belly and breasts, then lightly kissed his jaw.

"No one has ever made me cum more than once that quickly," she admitted, letting her fingers drift lightly over Orin's nipple. But in addition to having more strength and sturdiness than one of her own kind, it was quickly becoming clear that dwarves--or at least, this dwarf--had more stamina than a human man as well.

“I want to do that again,” he grinned. “And again…”

Maerwyn let out a little squeal of delight as she rolled off of him, then after catching her breath she set about teaching her next lesson.

*****
​
Everyone always slept late on the day after Midsummer. Maerwyn had hoped that would give her and Orin the opportunity to wake early and slip away from the hall unnoticed, but she hadn't expected the dwarf would keep her up until almost dawn with their lovemaking. Luckily the past couple weeks of indolence still wasn't enough to overcome her years of survival on only a few hours of sleep a night, and she awoke in late morning, warmed by the sun and the dwarf's soft breath on her chest.

The mercenary ran her fingers lightly through his hair, not wanting to wake him just yet. It was so strange; she had always been so quick to depart her father's house, and even leaving the Gilded Lantern and Havus' home they had made swift escapes, not daring to delay even an hour. But she had to admit, it was nice laying here like this, with him beside her. Once they were traveling again it would be back to sleeping in shifts, watching the darkness for danger instead of enjoying the other person's presence. And any kind of tryst would be impossible, at last until they were on the far side of the mountains. Assuming they would cross the mountains.

That was something Maerwyn supposed ought to be determined sooner rather than later. Sighing regretfully, she began to stroke Orin's cheek with her thumb, gently coaxing him into wakefulness. "Good morning," she murmured, once his eyes were open. "Sleep well? I don't suppose you managed to decide where we ought to go at any point, did you? Depending on where we're headed, we should probably consider getting up."

Still, she did wriggle against him a little; just a quick tease, in the hopes of rousing him more quickly.
 
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What a wonderful way to wake; Maerwyn’s soft skin next to his face moved and he felt her fingertips caressing his cheek. He loved those fingers and the things she did with them. “Mmm…I did,” he murmured back, his eyes fluttering open and focusing on hers. “I think…we should cross the mountains to Rivendell, but first…” he grinned, turning over and kneeling on the bed. “I want to practice that one position,” he rolled her over and pulled her hips towards him, then pressed her chest onto the bed as he flanked her calves with his knees, “one more time...”

~ * ~​

After cleaning up enough to be presentable to their family (and hoping that their morning revelry hadn’t been too loud), he packed the last of his things and fastened the dagger she had given him to his side. “I enjoyed meeting your family, but I suppose it’s time to go.” He looked around the small room, remembering it for days when he might need some warmth to remind him what it was like.

Their goodbyes were heart-felt. Orin found himself giving multiple hugs, especially to the little ones. He would miss their frank questions and their easy acceptance of him once he stopped being a ‘scary’ dwarf and became ‘their’ dwarf.

As they left the gates, he turned one last time to wave to those watching. Turning back to Maerwyn, he felt like they had just closed a chapter and were starting a new one in their journey. The air felt crisp and clean, the sunlight on their faces was gentle, and the soft breeze promised that no matter the heat of the day they would have relief. He hitched his pack higher upon his shoulders and met his pace to hers.

All talk of payment and hiring had seemed to drop away during their stay at the woodman’s home. And though he was still intent of paying for their things, it seemed their relationship had changed considerably; no longer employee and employer, but fellow travelers.

“You know…Carlin isn’t so bad once you get to know her. I like her sister better, even though she seemed a little oblivious to what was going on around her. Are all elves like that?” He mused aloud as a way to keep track of Maerwyn’s endurance. If she could still talk at their pace she was probably doing okay, but if she began to pant he would find a reason to slow their walk, sparing her pride as they traveled. His thoughts went to the goodies the ladies had packed for them and the long road ahead. When the sun hit its apex, his stomach rumbled its discontent, and he suggested they stop in the small bit of shade ahead and take a break. He privately wished to inquire about her injury; he didn’t think she would complain if it hurt.
 
The one good thing about their delayed departure was that with so many others leaving Hulgrim's hall to return to their own dwellings, Orin and Maerwyn might have been able to slip away in the throng and break away without being noticed. Might, of course, had the dwarf not found it necessary to say goodbye to each of the children still remaining at the house, who seemed to absolutely loathe their wicked aunt for taking away such a wonderful playmate. "How do you even remember all of their names?" she marveled to the dwarf as she readjusted to the new pack on her back, disliking the weight of it but knowing all the supplies it contained would be necessary to cross the mountains.

Her father too had found the opportunity to pull her aside while Orin was busy making the rounds. Hulgrim and Maerwyn didn't have much to say to each other, but when the former pulled the smooth, dark wooden ring from his finger and placed it in his daughter's hand, he had only this bit of foresight for her: "You may have a need for such a thing before the year is out. Besides, these two silly things belong together." The mercenary had assumed he meant the two rings that had symbolized his bond with Beorwyn, but as his eyes followed the woman and dwarf into the woods, she couldn't be too sure.

They'd had one other follower when they departed. Carlin too was taking her leave of the woodmen, although she had only intended to follow the travelers as far as the road. There her path would turn back east, while the other two would follow west to the Old Ford. At first the elf had considered following the pair all the way to the river, but when she saw the occasional winged shadow passing over the road, it seemed unnecessary. "The eagles will protect you more than I ever could," the redhead had murmured.

Turning to Orin, she had bowed to him with unexpected reverence and a promise to keep an eye on his mother for him, while her own gaze made a silent request to the dwarf: Look after Maerwyn. Don't let anything happen to her.

She didn't seem to have any particular words for the woman herself, just a warning to stay out of Thranduil's realm if she didn't want to end up in a dungeon. Again.

"I will, and I don't," Maerwyn had responded with a wry smile, and for just a brief moment her gaze softened. "If you see Thilion..." But Carlin's frozen posture was enough to tell the mercenary that line of questioning was completely unacceptable, and she swallowed the rest of her words. Instead, the woman and the elf clasped arms firmly, then almost in unison turned their backs on one another, neither sparing the other a further glance.

“You know…Carlin isn’t so bad once you get to know her. I like her sister better, even though she seemed a little oblivious to what was going on around her. Are all elves like that?” Orin asked.

By now they'd put enough ground between the elf and themselves that Maerwyn didn't seem to mind the subject. "I can't say what all elves are like, Master Dwarf. There's only three I know well--Carlin included--and a few more I share a passing acquaintance with that I don't particularly care for. That includes your stepfather, or whatever Lorryn is to you," she added with a chuckle.

Maerwyn stretched her arms over her head, feeling new life seeping into her body now that they were in the quiet isolation of the river valley. The air was warm and fresh, and she could see the ford only a mile or two up ahead. Once they crossed it, they'd have a comfortable barrier between themselves and the dangers of Dol Goldur, although they'd be closer to the risks of the goblin bandits of the Misty Mountains. Carlin had been right though; the occasional sight of an eagle was reassuring, and the mercenary doubted they'd have much trouble this evening at least. That would come tomorrow, when they'd need to start on the long, treacherous ascent of the great wall of the mountains.

"On the subject of elves," the woman remarked, looking back down towards her companion. "Why of all the places in the world do you want to go to Rivendell? Silvan elves are annoying enough, but at least they know a thing or two about hunting, and woodcraft, and important things like that. From what I can understand, those high folk in Rivendell don't do anything but sing silly songs and revel in the mysteries of centuries past." She sniffed a little; Maerwyn, like all the northern folk placed little importance on academic interests.

"Besides, what makes you think they'll even allow the likes of you and me inside? We aren't exactly nobility. At least, I'm not. Can't say much for the Great Dwarven Lord and his Mighty Axe," she teased, recalling how many of the children of her father's house had viewed him.
 
Orin felt nothing but happiness that morning, as if his entire capacity for receiving love and acceptance had been filled to over flowing. Even the way Maerwyn had lumped Lorryn into the group of elves that she didn’t particularly care for barely touched his mood. “He did give you those fine arrows that set the trees on fire,” he reminded her. “Did you ever figure out what those notches meant?”

He felt the muscles in his torso ache happily from their evening activities and flexed them as he walked, stretching out muscles rarely used and feeling the warm strength that came from walking once again. He had gotten used to Maerwyn’s quick stride and had found his endurance much improved since he had left the mountain, though dwarves were known for their ability to maintain a steady output of energy over an extended amount of time. If anything, he felt like that had been accentuated by the open air and exposure to all the new sights that greeted them with each leg of their journey.

“And, you know, Emlin gave me this,” he said, pulling the small jasper amulet from his pocket and showing the red-veined wire-encircled gift. “She said that I could show the silvans of Mirkwood this if I ever needed help, and they would send word to her family.” He turned it in his fingertips. “It’s pretty, for an elven wrought piece of jewelry.” Then he smirked at her, as if he thought that dwarven work was superior.

The fjord ahead looked deep and treacherous, but the bridge across it was sturdy timbers and rope. It was strong enough, perhaps to carry a wagon fully laden. Above he glimpsed the silhouettes of the eagles, keeping watch over the large plain between the forest and the water. Though he did not know the area as well as Maerwyn, he had the feeling that they’d be putting one hazard behind them and facing another just as devastating in their path ahead.

For now, though, they had each other, a ‘win’ in their pocket, and Hulgrim’s blessing. Orin felt like the richest dwarf in the realm.

"On the subject of elves…Why of all the places in the world do you want to go to Rivendell?” Maerwyn went on to explain the reasons they shouldn’t expect a welcoming committee upon their arrival. He pressed his lips together, listening with interest at her observations and concerns.

“Ah, well.” He hiked the straps on his shoulders higher. “I am Orin Indrafangin, of the House of Durin, son of Thimli, son of Thraem, who helped forge the Doors of Durin, son of Morlig who fought in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. So…that makes me a nobledwarf. Though I am the youngest son and unlikely to inherit much, I have my bloodline. I can still claim it if it suits our cause with the Rivendell elves and Lord Elrond. Besides, it’s been called the refuge for the weary and oppressed, and we’ve been both of those things.

“But you have discovered my true purpose, Maer, and that is the libraries. If they’ll let me take a peek at their books or watch their forgemasters perhaps I could learn something of this mithril they make. It would be a great bit of craftsmanship to add to my art.” His eyes glistened. “Our armor is heavy and bulky, like we are. Could you imagine an army of dwarves in mithril? We’d be…unstoppable.” He saw it in his mind; a great field full of stout warriors unencumbered by heavy plate and chainmail, fighting tirelessly against the throngs of ogres, orcs, and other nasty beasts sent by the likes of Sauron to destroy the peaceful balance in Middle Earth.

“I’d be the greatest smith in all the realm, aside from, perhaps, Celebrimbor. He did have a couple of thousand years of practice on me.” He grinned. “But imagine if I were?”
 
8 - Misty Mountains
  • Index
    • Maerwyn's eyes widened in bewilderment at the mention of the arrows. "No, I'd completely forgotten about those. Maybe when we get to Rivendell all those wise folk can translate whatever those notches are supposed to signify," she added with a wry smile. "Until then, I'd rather keep to those made by people I understand. Last thing we need at this point is to blow off the side of a mountain and go falling to our deaths." Hunting was likely to be scarce once they reached the higher altitudes anyway. Luckily, the mercenary knew of some alpine plants that would supplement the rations her family had provided, and if worse came to worst they could always set snares overnight to try and catch some of the smaller creatures.

    She was a little surprised that Emlin had presented such a valuable gift to a dwarf, but knowing the elf's nature Maerwyn could understand the sentiments behind it. "That's reassuring," she remarked as the bridge came into view, pausing to examine its condition. "I think when we go back though, we ought to avoid the forest altogether. Depending on when we return, and If the weather is with us, we may be able to bypass it to the north. And who knows? We might even be able to find a company headed for the Lonely Mountain that would pay us for the journey."

    After judging the bridge to be sturdy enough, Maerwyn led her companion across the river, noting that even now the water level was drawing dangerously close to the wood. How the structure would survive the spring runoff that always swelled the banks of the Anduin she had no idea, but that too would be a problem for the return trip. In the meantime, they had reached the shady wooded foothills of the Misty Mountains, where the dirt track of the road continued westward between the ridges. The mercenary's posture tightened somewhat as her eyes scanned for any sign of enemies, but unless they intended to make war on deer and squirrels they were apparently safe for now. Still, they'd need to keep a watch in the night, and if it could be managed she might even suggest they try sleeping in the trees themselves.

    Assuming, of course, she could talk Orin into the idea.

    She had to admit, there was something amusing about Orin Indrafangin, of the House of Durin, son of Thimli, son of Thramli, son of whoever else trying to scale a tree. "I suppose I should have been calling you Lord Master Dwarf this whole time then?" Maerwyn teased, glancing over her shoulder at him. "I suspected you must come from money when we first met. You never seemed like most of the other dwarves I've worked for." It was meant as a compliment, but there was something in her tone that might have come off as a little better. "Durin...he was one of your kings, wasn't he? I've heard others mention him, but I'm a little unclear on dwarven lines of succession. Does that mean you're kin to King Thrór?"

    Pausing, Maerwyn turned around completely now and squinted at the dwarf. To her eyes he was still the handsome, strong, slightly naive wanderer who reminded her more of a Northman than a prince. But the names he'd spoken, though unfamiliar, seemed to carry a certain weight within them, and it made her uneasy. It reminded her too much of how things had been with Thilion, who had been so high above her that she felt like a fool for even daring to think about him returning her affections. Orin had seemed closer to her, if not her equal than at least someone who needed her. If he truly was of noble blood though, was it really all right to have a relationship like theirs?

    The mercenary tried to force the thoughts out of her mind. They were friends, sometimes lovers, potentially partners if they could find a company that would take them both. Anything beyond that was out of the question anyway, so why worry about his position? Still, she didn't like how small it made her feel, and she was quick to turn her back on him again.

    "What does Indrafangin mean, anyway?" Maerwyn continued, trying to keep her voice light. "Is it dwarvish for 'kills a lot of enemies with an axe' or just 'perfect cock?" she teased, diverting their track away from the road towards a small deer path through the brush. Her pace was as certain and steady as though she'd walked the scarcely-noticeable path a thousand times. Perhaps that was why she showed so little interest in the subject of the Rivendell library; she'd always been too busy traveling the world to trouble herself with records of it.

    She did know a thing or two about precious metals and gems though, particularly those that could fetch high prices to the right buyer. "Even if you knew what to do with mithril, where would you find any?" Maerwyn asked, leading him up a slope that seemed to run parallel to the mountains. "For that matter, how are you even going to read the books? Or scrolls, or whatever they have there. I'm sure everything's written in elvish...wait." The mercenary stopped again, fresh surprise blooming in her eyes. "Don't tell me you can read elvish?"

    Well, if he'd spent fifty years shut up in the Lonely Mountain, she supposed it would make sense that he had to fill his time somehow. Still, it was strange to try and view him as a nobleman and a scholar, and Maerwyn was quickly beginning to sense she didn't know a quarter of the dwarf at her side.

    "...It's just a little farther," she said quietly, turning around and leading him towards their campsite for the evening. Suddenly she no longer felt like speaking.
     
  • Index
    • He brightened at the idea of journeying to the Lonely Mountain. Maerwyn’s description of it from her childhood had captivated him, and though the dwarves had songs about the mighty range, it was her words that had made it magical for him. He wanted to see it, and he wanted to see it with her at his side. “Do you really think a group of travelers would hire us?” he asked, his eyes glistening with the prospect of being paid for doing something he was going to do anyway. It was like being paid to breathe.

    He eyed the bridge, walking up to stand beside Maerwyn, and decided it was sturdy enough. He leaned an elbow on the thick timber column and looked at her. “Paid mercenary slash guide. Who would have thought? What a pleasant way to earn a living.”

    He happily followed behind her across the planks, enjoying the view. It was certainly a beautiful day. As they walked across the water he peered over, thinking that rivers were much nicer when one wasn’t on a boat. How did fish exist in all that turmoil anyway? The rushing water, the stones, the bears trying to eat them… He would hate to be a fish.

    The forest ahead of them was a welcome sight. Even more welcome was the looming ridge behind it. He raised his eyes and gazed longingly at the Misty Mountains, an ache warming his chest. The mountains were beautiful. Spectacular. He wanted to crawl into them and curl into a warm, snuggly ball and hibernate. With Maerwyn, of course.

    Then she mentioned calling him ‘lord’, and he guffawed. “No, gods, no! ‘Lord’? Never, Maer. Not with you.” Her confession that she had thought he came from money when they first met was something new. It didn’t mean anything, did it? Since she was trying to find work, it made sense that she would want an employee who could pay the bills. A poor client did not make a good mark. So… it made sense. Wealthy-looking dwarf, naïve traveler, not very good at reading maps; yes, it made sense.

    His sturdy feet hit the solid soil again and he continued at her side. “No, I mean…cousins a dozen times removed? It doesn’t matter,” he dismissed the idea of he and Durin’s relation. It didn’t matter. So what if they were all related; a person was a person, wasn’t they?

    When she paused to look at him, he smiled and reached out for her hand. “This is nice,” he said, giving her a little squeeze before they continued on their way.

    He laughed. “No…no that’s not what Indrafangin means. It means ‘long beard’, if you can believe it.” He brought a hand to his own beard, drawing his fingers together as if there was more than there was. “One day,” he grinned. “And then I’ll have to learn to braid it. I suppose you could teach me a thing or two.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “You really think it’s perfect?”

    At the deer path he had to let go of her hand but again, the view – he doubted he would ever tire of it. Her…of her. He was so busy watching his feet that he almost bumped right into his guide. “What?” then he saw the look in her eyes and took a step back, rehearing her question about reading elvish. “No…of course not,” he said, shaking his head. “How would I learn to read elvish?” he chuckled, as if the idea was just absurd. It was – they guarded their language nearly as closely as the dwarves guarded theirs.

    The little campsite was ideal, and they had both fallen into their habitual routine. At least, Orin had. He began to gather deadfall for their fire and look around for signs of others. “So, when you crossed the mountains before, were you guiding a group of people that time too?” He set the stack in the clearing. “Is that how we’ll do this? Find a group of people going the way we want to go, then see if they’ll pay us to tag along and keep everyone safe? It sounds fun.” He set his pack down and rolled his shoulders, feeling his muscles loosen.
     
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