Warrior's Heart

Chapter Nine

The skies opened as they moved away from the rocks, rain teeming with such force, it came at them sideways. Arielle swore to herself as she tried in vain to keep the wet strings of her hair out of her eyes, coming close to taking her dirk to the tresses and hacking them off. Finally, she managed to, as they continued walking, create two braids of the worst offenders and tie them back.

It was only too bad she couldn't do the same about her wet clothes. Rainwater leaked from her boots, dripped from her sleeves, soaked into her tunic. And when she squinted through the droplets at Thorin, he looked no happier than she felt. Rain dripped from his hair, from his beard, from the end of his nose.

Having told him her deep, dark confession—as he liked to call it—made her wonder why she'd protected it so greatly. Perhaps she was afraid that he would agree with Thranduíl that she was flighty, foolish, far too lost in the clouds to be trusted to make a sound judgement or decision.

But he apparently thought nothing of the sort and for some reason, that made her happy. Of course, there was also the thought that, once he accomplished what he need do, there might be a future for them.

What sort of future, though? That he never said, and she hadn't decided if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She hated when things were open-ended. Even if the result was less than desirable, she would much rather have a finite end, no matter how much it might hurt.

He gave a mighty shake of his head, much like a dog after emerging from a swim, and she tried not to notice as the droplets he cast off pelted her alongside the downpour. Instead, she drew her wet sleeve across her face (for all the good it did) and trudged on. She was tired of walking. Tired of sleeping on the hard, cold ground. Although she didn't know what to expect at the Blue Mountains, there was no way possible it could be any worse than this.

At least, she hoped not. All she knew of dwarves came at the knee of her father and Thranduíl's stories were not at all pleasant. To hear him tell, they drank, they fought each other to the death, and they thought nothing of toppling any woman who caught their fancy, whether she was willing or not.

But that didn't align with the dwarves she had come to know, no matter how briefly. Balin was kindly even if he looked as though he didn't quite trust her. He hardly knew her and she didn't know what dwarves had been taught about Wood-Elves. Kili was a flirt. Óin and Glóin were good with fires. Dori was strong, although not as strong as Thorin, she'd wager. And Thorin—

Thorin.

He was the antithesis of everything her father taught. He was a fighter, but not a brawler from what she could tell. He was fierce, but protective of those he cared for, and she never felt for a moment her life might be in any danger. As for forcing himself on a woman... well, she would have to laugh right in her father's face at that. She knew for a fact Thorin wanted her, and yet, he'd done no more than she wanted him to do. In fact, she wouldn't have minded if once, just once, they were not interrupted when—

She smiled through the rain again. From what she'd seen, he could be as tender and loving as he was fierce and violent. He could touch to harm, but also to love. And although she had nothing with which to compare, she thought he would bring that into his bed as well, that he would be playful and generous, not focused only on himself.

Or so she hoped. She would so hate to be wrong about that.

She only hoped she would one day find out.

"You are very quiet, princess." He peered at her over his left shoulder. "Does your leg pain you?"

"What?" She shook her head. "No. It feels almost healed, actually. I apologize, I was letting my mind wander."