Chapter Text
It was almost impossible to get good quality leeks in Erebor.
Whatever Longbeards had against vegetables was beyond Hrera, but she would be damned if she would make her special soup without leeks. The other Broadbeams in the city might do without leeks in their soup, but being royalty had some prerogatives. Hrera had sent for leek seeds from the Greenwood, and had gotten her favorite purveyor of vegetables to grow them. Now she could make the soup.
Hrera had not had the chance to make her special dumpling soup for Thrór in the entire first year-and-a-bit of their marriage or in the courtship leading up to it. This was an oversight that must now be resolved. Not least of which because it meant that Hrera could use the soup as an excuse to spend some more private time with her husband, a commodity always in short supply.
Tossing another handful of chopped leeks into the pot simmering on the hearth, Hrera heard the door to the kitchen in the royal apartments open. She turned towards the doorway to see her husband, eyebrows raised, mouth partway open. One of the papers in the sheaf in the crook of his arm quietly fell to the floor while she watched.
Hrera’s own eyebrows may have finally attempted to reach her hairline.
“Yes, husband?”
“You cook?” Hrera made a mental note to see how often she could bring back that look of totally gobsmacked amazement; it was a very unusual (though not displeasing) sight on her usually perpetually-calm spouse.
“Of course I cook. This is hardly the first time you’ve seen me in here, Thrór.”
“But that was just to make a cup of tea or some porridge. Not this sort of … major culinary endeavor.”
Hrera wrinkled her nose. “Which is exactly why I decided to pursue such an endeavor. I’ve missed cooking. And I have yet to serve you my specialty soup.”
Thrór eyed the pot and the countertop. “Is that by any chance dumpling soup?”
Hrera smiled. “Yes it is. Now tie your hair back and put an apron on. You can help me chop the onions.”
Thrór did as he was bid with only a modicum of grumbling after placing his folder (including the fallen sheet) on an out-of-the way counter. “I can’t believe that you managed to cancel my late-afternoon appointments to make soup. What under earth did you tell Nár? They were positively chortling as they sent me up here.”
A shrug. “I merely intimated something to effect that heirs aren’t going to make themselves. Nár was very obliging and cancelled all your appointments for the rest of the day.”
Thrór stopped chopping to stare at his wife. “You didn’t. Durin’s beard, I’ll be hearing about this for weeks.” Turning back to the onions, he muttered, “And I won’t even get to enjoy my time off properly.”
Hrera gave her husband a serene look. “Do calm yourself. I didn’t lie to Nár” – Thrór’s suddenly hopeful look was quelled by a raised eyebrow – “but there’s soup to make before other entertainments present themselves. Hurry up with the onions.”
The royal couple continued to work. Vegetables were chopped, beef was diced fine and mixed with herbs and then rolled into dough. Eventually, ingredients were finally all in the pot, a tray of quick-rising rolls were sitting by the vent waiting to go into the oven, and the dishes were done. Hrera pushed her husband back towards their bedroom as he muttered direly about shriveled fingers.
Thrór went to what he called his “thinking chair” (which Hrera privately thought was a horrifically ugly behemoth of purple corduroy, but it pleased Thrór and no one else had to look at it) and sat. Tarâk jumped into his lap almost immediately, and began mewing insistently for the affection that he felt was his due. Thrór obliged, petting the orange cat’s stomach until the cat fell into a doze. Hrera, who had been giving the cat a stare which normally caused the recipient to hurriedly leave her presence, picked up the feline and carried him to his bed in the living room, dropping him there with perhaps a bit more gusto than usual given the cat’s protests. Upon her return to the bedroom, Hrera took off her slippers and plopped herself down on her husband’s lap.
A very enjoyable period of leisurely kisses followed. Hrera had almost managed to get Thrór’s shirt off when a bubbling sound from the kitchen made her raise her head from her husband’s chest.
Hrera was most of the way towards the kitchen before Thrór realized that his lap was empty. Buttoning his shirt and pulling on his over-tunic, he followed, finding Hrera muttering to herself balefully as she stirred. Thrór didn’t know why she bothered – inanimate objects couldn’t react to her tongue-lashings or her stares the way people did, no matter how hard she tried.
“Put the rolls in the oven, will you, dearest. Nirdal, though – if they go too far in the oventhey’ll burn.”
“Yes, dear.” Thrór removed the cloth covering the rolls and, opening the oven door, carefully placed the tray inside.
Given that the meal was almost prepared, the couple did not bother resuming their prior activities. Hrera directed her husband to set the table while she fetched the various oddments required for the meal from the cold room.
Soon enough, they were seated at the rectangular table, each with a large bowl of soup and a pair of warm rolls in front of them. Thrór took a spoonful of stew with the look of a dwarrow fully prepared to appreciate food no matter its taste. He inserted the spoon into his mouth.
“Karzith! Th-”
Hrera coughed delicately.
Thrór swallowed his words and then his mouthful of soup.
“This is delicious, dear. Thank you for preparing it for me.”
Hrera inclined her head graciously. “You are very welcome. Now eat up. And don’t chew with your mouth open.”
“Of course, idùzhib.”
Soup and rolls were eaten with gusto, though the cleaning-up was done with less enthusiasm.
The royal couple were heading towards their bedroom to continue unfinished bedroom when Nár poked their head through the mostly-closed door to the kitchen.
“Did I miss the soup?” they asked.
Hrera nodded. “There’s a bit left, but it’s not hot. Are you hungry, or can it wait until after?”
Nár considered.
“After is definitely good.”
Hrera had always liked Nár’s sense of prioritization.
******
“Why do I put up with you two?”
Hrera’s hair was mussed, her jewelry was strewn around the room (her necklace had disappeared beyond obvious recovery, and one of her earrings was jabbing her in the thigh), and Nár was eating in bed. Which was as rude as it was unhygienic.
Nár looked up from their bowl. “I came with this one.” Their spoon pointed at Thrór. “And you said you liked my bottom and my sense of humor, O Queen under the Mountain.”
Hrera sniffed. “Don’t drip soup on the bedding. And your bottom is only marginally above average.”
Thrór shrugged. “I honestly have no idea why you married me. Or why I keep spending time with this one.” He poked Nár with his elbow, to a protest.
Hrera hauled herself out of bed. “Come on, you two. Baths and then sleep. We’ll have to be up early tomorrow to catch up on all the work we didn’t do today.”
“Can I bring my soup?”
“No. Soup doesn’t agree with bathtime.”
As she sauntered towards the bathing room, Hrera wondered if her current arrangements were the result of some chance, or intended by some greater plan. She decided that it didn’t really matter – she was happy.