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Dwalin slipped down corridor after identical corridor, doing his best to avoid being seen. Which was really not that easy, given how well-lit the damned things were. He scowled. And wasn’t that utterly ridiculous? The blasted elves had night vision like forest cats, and any dwarf worth his beard could see perfectly well in the depths of even their deepest mines.
Clearly the additional lighting was meant to keep them from nosing about. As if that would actually stop him. These pointy-eared twits were fooling themselves if they thought a little light would keep him from completing his mission.
Not that he was entirely sure why he’d been chosen for this particular task. Skulking about and stealth scouting was far more suited to Nori’s skills. He would certainly know what to look for and how to get the answers he needed. Dwalin was more likely to brass off every elf in the place than find out anything useful. But Thorin had set him to this task, so here he was, gathering intelligence on their host and trying to discover their Wizard’s true motives.
Excellent. And while they were at it, perhaps they should let Thorin negotiate trade agreements with Thranduil. Both were equally insane, and equally likely to fail spectacularly. But mad or not, he had a task to perform, and perform it he would; just as soon as the two dallying lovebirds blocking the corridor moved along! Though that did not seem likely to happen any time soon. They seemed in no hurry to part company or take their flirtation elsewhere. In fact, he was fairly certain they were staying put on purpose to stall him! Especially with the way the lass had glanced back toward his hiding place with her strange smile.
Dwalin remembered her. She was fair for an elf, he supposed. And important. She had been seated at the head table with the Lord and their Wizard, and the servants had seemed to defer to her. One of the Lord’s advisors, perhaps? Or his kinswoman?
Oh, now there was a thought. Her companion was handsome enough. Certainly more to Dwalin’s taste than she was. But by the look of him, there was clearly a vast difference in their stations. Enough, perhaps, to cause the Lord some consternation were he to learn of it. Dwalin could tuck that away for rainy day blackmail. Nori certainly would have.
But for now, he would settle for just having the pair shove off. He had business to attend to, and these two were holding him up!
As if they had felt his frustration, the male (a very young Man, he could now see, which he supposed explained the lighting) held the lady’s hands to his forehead for a moment as if in worship. He whispered something to her in elvish that made her blush faintly, then moved on down the hall. After a moment, the lady turned and headed in Dwalin’s direction, a distant and thoughtful expression on her pretty face. “I wonder if my father is still hiding from Lindir in the kitchens?” She passed his hiding spot and continued around the corner.
Dwalin recalled Lindir as being the snotty elf waiting in the courtyard when the Company had first arrived. And the one who had immediately attached himself to Lord Elrond, following the elf lord closer than his own shadow. If anyone would feel the need to hide in the kitchens from that elf, it would be their host.
If not, at least he’d find where the blasted tree shaggers were hiding the meat!
~`~`~`~
The kitchens proved easier to find than he had expected. Dwalin only needed to follow his nose, the air growing thicker with the smell of spices and the yeasty warmth of bread dough and… ale? Not something he expected to find in an elven kitchen.
He pressed the swinging door open silently and peeked inside. The kitchens were dark, the moonlight from the windows reflecting off the metal cooking surfaces and utensils casting queer shadows. There was no elf lord lurking about in here.
As he turned away, a faint warm light in the corner of his eye caught his attention. It held the orange glow of firelight. Perhaps it was where the ovens were kept. Surely a large Home such as this required separate rooms for their many cooking fires. Clearly in this case, some fool of a kitchen servant had forgotten to put out the flame before retiring.
Dwalin sighed and began weaving his way through the too tall cooking stations, intent on dousing the fire before it could grow out of control. Not that he particularly cared if elves were humbled and made homeless by fire. His own people had survived it and been made stronger. But these particular elves had done him no ill, and he would not go to his Father’s Halls with their deaths on his conscience if the place burned down around them.
Not to mention his own Company needed the rest after running across half of Eriador. Balin was beginning to look a bit ragged, and Dwalin pitied the fool who would be forced to wake him too early. His brother had a vicious tongue and a nasty hook when overtired.
Dwalin stepped through the entrance to the room, and then quickly backed out, pressing his back against the wall. Damned sneaky elves! But at least he had found his target.
He took a moment to examine the elven lord seated on the floor in nothing but a tunic and leggings, his robes of state nowhere to be found. Dwalin knew from his schooling that Elrond had been a king’s Herald and commander of legions during the accurately named Last Alliance, so he was thousands of years old. But unlike the willowy, fresh-faced elves Dwalin had encountered in the past, this one wore his age like a badge of honor, his experiences etched into his skin by the laugh lines twisting the corner of his eye and the sorrow furrowing deep grooves into his brow as it seemed to be doing now. Dwalin turned away. Perhaps this particular moment was not the best time to disturb his host. Besides, he had only come this far to ensure any unattended flames were extinguished. Clearly he was not needed here.
“No need to rush off, Master Dwarf,” Elrond’s voice called to him, soft and warm. “I would hate for you to go back to your companions empty handed.”
Dwalin thought fast. “I would not wish to disturb your thoughts, my lord. I simply saw the firelight and wanted to make sure it had not been left burning by accident.” There, see? Not badly done, if he did say so himself. And not even a lie, technically.
“And here I had heard the elder brother had inherited Fundin’s quick tongue.” Elrond gestured to him. “Come join me, Dwalin, son of Fundin.”
Against his better judgment, Dwalin complied, settling himself just outside of what would have been considered a respectful distance.
Elrond quirked an eyebrow, then smiled and raised his mug in salute before draining it. “Care for a drink?”
Dwalin shook his head. “I don’t care for wine.”
Elrond snorted. “Good, because there is not much left after your compatriots drank most of it with dinner. Besides, I am not drinking wine. I just tapped a cask of Shire ale. It is sweeter and not quite as robust as a good dwarven brew, but it does have some interesting apple notes.” The ever so faint fuzziness in his voice indicated that this was far from the first glass he’d had tonight.
Dwalin smirked, watching the elf lord get to his feet and pad barefoot back into the kitchen. There would be no end to Thorin’s glee once he learned they had driven their host to drinking himself stupid on his own kitchen floor.
He accepted the cold mug and muttered a quiet thanks when Elrond returned. The ale did indeed smell fruity, much like what he’d drunk at their Hobbit’s table. After a brief salute, he sipped. “I must admit, if someone had told me even a week ago that I would be sitting on a kitchen floor drinking with an elf lord, much less drinking ale with him, I would have thought them mad.”
“Mm. These are indeed unusual times.” Elrond smiled and took a drink. “My wife always said it was my Mannish side that had me favoring ale over sensible wine.”
“Mannish side?”
His host nodded. “I am half elven. Well, more like sixty-five percent elven, but that really is a bit ridiculous to say. So yes, she blamed my Man blood as the reason I favor ale during times of stress. But actually, I have always preferred it. My brother and I grew up in war camps during the First Age, and much as Uncle Maglor would have preferred it otherwise, wine was not in abundance.”
Dwalin blinked. Now THAT was a name he knew! Maglor had been one of the elves hunting the Silmarils that led to the entire line of Firebeards being slaughtered. Those elves had been depicted as merciless monsters, and this elf called one of them Uncle?
He took a longer drink. “Suppose I can understand that. Was born on the road m’self, after the dragon forced us from our home. Ale was easier to come by and cheaper to trade for than elvish wine.”
“I imagine so.” He fell quiet, staring off into the fire for so long that Dwalin wondered if the elf lord had forgotten about him. He started when Elrond spoke again. “I apologize if you and your companions found the hospitality of my Home somewhat lacking when you arrived.”
“Sorry, what?” Dwalin frowned, puzzled.
“The lack of meat with your dinner. As is often the case when one deals with Wizards, we were not expecting you, and were unprepared to accommodate. Our kitchens have not readily served meat since the Lady of the House sailed some four hundred years ago.”
The guardsman blinked. Was that what the elf had been brooding about? That he’d not had meat to serve a group of unexpected visitors? Surely not. He finished off his pint and wiggled the mug suggestively. “Suppose I could be convinced to be forgiving of such a grievous offense…this time.”
Elrond shot him an amused look, but took the glass from him. “Is that so? If I had known ale was all it took to gain a dwarf’s forgiveness, I would have spread that word centuries ago…” He retreated to the kitchen.
Dwalin huffed a laugh. This elf was proving to be more interesting than most, especially now that privacy and drink had loosened his tongue a bit and pulled the stick free from his backside.
He accepted the new glass and waited for his host to seat himself before taking a drink. “So, my Lord, what made your household swear off meat?”
Elrond downed what must have been nearly half his mug. “The smell of it, particularly when it is raw. My children developed an aversion to it around the time their mother sailed West."
By now, Dwalin was uncertain if he truly wanted to continue with the line of questioning, since it was clearly an upsetting topic for his companion. But the lord seemed willing to explain it, and perhaps Dwalin could use the information to silence the younger members of their company, who had been whining about their meatless meal since they’d left the tables. “Why did her leaving cause them to reject it?”
“It didn’t. What led up to her decision to leave caused it.” He took another drink from his glass. “My lady had kin on the other side of the mountains in the Golden Wood. She was traveling there when her caravan was waylaid by orcs in the Redhorn Pass and she was taken captive.”
Dwalin was now positive he did not want to know more. He’d seen his fair share of what happened to those poor souls unfortunate enough to be taken captive by orcs and goblins. A few of them still haunted his nightmares on occasion, and now likely would tonight.
He had a feeling he wouldn’t be the only one.
“My sons found her and brought her home. Between the time they spent traveling with her and my daughter’s insistence on helping me tend to her festering injuries, they became unable to tolerate the sight or smell of raw meat, and barely able to tolerate the sight of it cooked.”
“But not you?” Dwalin asked.
Elrond shook his head. “Only on particularly difficult days. But as I mentioned before, I grew up in war camps during the wars with Morgoth, and I was a healer long before I was a Lord, or even a soldier. So as terrible as her injuries were, I had seen far worse coming from the bowels of Angband.” He downed the rest of his drink and gestured to Dwalin’s mug. “More?”
Dwalin shrugged and polished off his drink before handing it over. “Why not?”
Elrond smiled. “Good. I like a man - or dwarf - who can hold his ale.”
Dwalin snorted and watched him head back into the kitchen, the ale he’d drunk relaxing him just enough to allow him to appreciate the view. And it was a nice view. He was honest enough with himself to admit that. He’d never much cared about the race of his bed partners, but his eye had very rarely been drawn to elves. While he knew they were stronger and more durable than they appeared, elves always looked too fragile. Like a firm touch or too enthusiastic thrust might shatter them.
Not this one, though. The blood of those ancient Men had granted him a sturdy, broad shouldered form and a nicely shaped arse worth a ballad or two. Definitely a handful, and solid enough to bounce…
Nope. His purpose here was strictly business, and there simply wasn’t time for pleasure. Which was a pity. If he’d had more time (and fewer bossy relatives breathing down his neck), he wouldn’t have minded spending a few hours between those long thighs, seeing if they gripped him as tightly as they had gripped his horse earlier. He’d bet his favorite axe the elf was a screamer. The quiet ones always were.
Gah, stop it! Bad Dwalin.
He looked away from that fine warrior body and stared into the fire. Clearly the last two months of running from one threat or another had addled his mind enough that a few mugs of Hobbit ale were all it took to take his focus off the important things: namely, guarding his brother’s back and putting Thorin on Erebor’s throne, where he belonged.
Yes, he definitely needed to nurse this next mug of ale before he did something stupid, like drag his host to the nearest comfortable surface and pound him through it. Tempting as the idea was, Thorin would kill him, and Balin would stand aside and offer suggestions on where to place the blades.
When Elrond returned with more ale, their conversation wandered from topic to topic. By some unspoken agreement, they avoided anything having to do with the quest or the strife between their races. By the time they ran out of topics and the fire had burned down, they had gone through three more mugs of ale and were leaning against each other comfortably.
Dwalin was never quite sure who actually made the first move, nor did he particularly care. There were soft lips pressed against his own, tasting faintly of apple and the sweet pastry served with dinner. He pressed Elrond down onto his back and deepened the kiss, chasing down the last hints of sweetness.
Things got a little carried away after that. Dwalin finally resurfaced to the firm tugs of fingers in his beard and his own fingers twisted up in thick elvish hair. He took a moment to savor pretty flushed cheeks and catch his breath, grinding himself against Elrond’s stomach. “This was a bad idea.”
The elf lord hummed and let his head fall back, his eyes closed. “Spectacularly so, more’s the pity.”
“Indeed. There’s not nearly enough time to do everything I’d like.”
Mithril eyes now watched him lazily. “Oh? And what would you like to do, Master Dwarf?”
Dwalin leaned in to nip at the tip of his ear, then explained in graphic detail.
Elrond laughed in delight and arched beneath him. “Well, that does indeed sound lovely. Another time, perhaps.” He sat up when Dwalin finally moved off of him. “You are always welcome in my Home, Dwalin, son of Fundin.”
Dwalin straightened himself up, then helped Elrond smooth down his hair. “Well, once the quest is complete and the Mountain is ours again, I’ll no doubt be escorting the Hobbit back to his Shire and leading Lady Dis and our people home…”
He backed away as the elf lord’s eyes darkened with something that looked an awful lot like grief. “Don’t.”
Elrond sighed. “Dwalin…”
“I said don’t!” he growled. “Don’t. Not tonight. Tomorrow you can go back to being the disapproving elf lord doing his best to turn us from our path. But tonight, can you not just be tempting Elrond with the soft lips and gorgeous arse?”
“Of course. My apologies for ruining the moment.” Elrond looked away for a moment. “My offer still stands, however. You are always welcome in my Home, regardless of the reason for your visit.” He gathered their empty ale mugs and stood, carrying them into the kitchen to be washed in the morning.
When he returned, whatever melancholy mood that had overtaken the elf lord was now firmly locked away. “For what it is worth, my handsome friend, I truly do hope your journey ends the way you wish it to.”
“Does this mean you’ll help?” Dwalin asked, feeling faint stirrings of hope. Surely, if the elf was wishing him well, he could not be completely blind to the rightness of their quest.
Elrond shook his head. “Please understand that I wish no ill will to you and your companions, Dwalin, but there is a very much alive dragon waiting at the end of your path. Even small ones like Smaug are notoriously difficult to flush out, nor are they forgiving of those they feel have stolen their prize.” He sighed. “Much as I would like to send every warrior at my disposal to aid you in securing the North, there is a storm coming, and I cannot risk drawing attention here before it breaks.”
Dwalin grunted and crossed his arms. “Figures.” He titled his head. “Wait… secure the North against what, exactly?”
“That is a conversation for another time, as you requested. But suffice it to say, much is coming to light that was once hidden.”
Dwalin snorted. “Bah! You elves and your vague non-answers! I knew better.”
Elrond smiled and did not bother denying it. “That being said, what aid I can offer you will be yours. We have a forge and armory at your disposal if you need them, as are the healing halls. I have already sent runners out to find suitable mounts, and your supplies will be replenished before you leave.”
“Just not the meat, right?”
“I make no promises, Master Dwarf.” He chuckled, resting his hand on Dwalin’s shoulder. “And now I really must retire. I am sure your journey has left you quite in need of a good rest.”
Dwalin found it pointless to argue around a jaw-cracking yawn. “Suppose so. And Balin’ll be wondering if I’ve gotten lost.”
“Did you?”
Dwalin glared and then finally huffed.
Elrond smiled and guided him to the kitchen’s entrance. “Follow this corridor and take the third left. You should be able to hear your companions from there.”
“You must be joking!” He shook his head and turned to look up at his host. “Good ni- mph?!” Dwalin found himself pressed against the doorway and kissed to within an inch of his life.
When Elrond pulled back, they were both breathless. He stroked a thumb across Dwalin’s lower lip carefully. “Good night, Dwalin, son of Fundin. And thank you for your company. You made an otherwise unpleasant evening quite… enjoyable.” With that, he retreated down the corridor, every bit the Lord of the House in bare feet.
Dwalin admired the view for a moment, headed in the other direction, Nori joining him at the first corridor he passed.
“Interesting negotiation tactic,” the other dwarf said. “Didn’t expect it of ya.”
“Shut it, or I’ll beat you and toss your body off a waterfall,” Dwalin growled.
“Don’t be so touchy! I was just teasin’ ya!” Nori held his hands up, his grin completely unrepentant. “You can’t blame me, though!”
Dwalin could already feel his pleasant buzz beginning to fade. “I said shut it.”
Nori wisely complied, walking beside him silently.
Mercifully, only Bombur was awake when they slipped into the main gathering room. Dwalin thanked whoever was listening that he didn’t have to deal with his nosy older brother or his paranoid king. Tired and distracted as he was, he might accidentally tell them the truth of how he spent his evening.
Huh. Maybe that was the storm Elrond mentioned earlier.
Smiling faintly, he gathered his gear and headed for the room assigned to him across the hall. He was soon settled in the bed, grateful not to have to share the room with anyone else for once. Much as he loved his brother and liked knowing he was close and safe, he had too much on his mind, and wasn’t about to explain the dreams he’d likely have tonight.
And how very pleasant they were going to be.