Chapter Text
Hrera woke in a barely-familiar room with warm arms around her. Her hair was an ungodly mess, and she was sweat-sticky to a degree definitely incongruent with the chill in the room.
Married.
Right.
Hrera began an attempt to wriggle out of her new husband’s embrace – she needed to find a toilet rather urgently, and to ice the cake, she hadn’t managed to ask where the washroom was in Thrór’s quarters was last night.
Since getting out by herself seemed out of the question, Hrera successfully turned around, to see her new husband’s heavily-lidded eyes peering at out at her from a tangled mass of hair.
“G’morning,” he slurred, reaching out to trace her cheek with a finger.
That … should not be as endearing as it was.
“Can you let me up?” Hrera asked. “I need to use the facilities.”
Hrera’s words seemed to shake off the worst of Thrór’s sleepiness, and he withdrew his arms. Hrera scooted to the edge of the bed (though she would deny ever doing something so undignified), and began to fish for the slippers that should be – ah, there they were. Inserting her feet and standing, Hrera turned back to her husband and won the wager she had mentally made with herself. In the moment since she had left his arms, Thrór had … begun snuggling her pillow, his nose buried deep in the dimple where her head had rested.
Telphor’s hammer, she had married a cuddler. Hrera rolled her eyes and coughed delicately. Thrór looked up from her pillow, eyes still a little unfocused.
“Yes, dear?”
“Where are the facilities in your apartment, kereb'uznat?” Hrera asked, peering at the several doors leading from the large bedchamber. She recognized the door they had entered from the day before by the golden sun inlays. The other three doors were a mystery, though one of them had to be the washroom.
Thrór heaved himself off of the bed, pointing to the door on the left. Hrera headed in that direction, reaching for the robe which had been thoughtfully left for her on the chair of the vanity. She didn’t get a good look at the room’s contents until after she had closed the door to the washroom firmly behind her – while she believed that married couples should share a great deal, toilet use was not one of them.
Hands on her hips, Hrera took a deep breath and a good look. It almost made her forget about the rather urgent need to void her bladder.
Whoever had designed this was definitely a worthy craftperson. One of the baths was large and deep, perfect for soaking. The other was smaller, shallower, perfect for bathing a child or a quick wash for oneself. The room was lined with shelves, and had several sinks, with the piping cleverly hidden. Hrera headed for the toilet niche.
Business done, Hrera investigated the soaker tub in greater detail, sitting with her legs over the edge near the taps. Turning on the hot water, she began opening as smelling the variety of small bottles of product in baskets near the edges of the tub. A discreet knock on the door turned Hrera’s attention away from a very nice amber-scented shampoo.
“Are you decent, my lady?”
Hrera frowned. So formal, even after the night they had shared. Well, that wouldn’t do. She purposely lowered the (already-low) neckline of her robe before asking her husband to enter. Patting the side of the bathtub next to her, she invited Thrór to sit. Eyeing the water level in the tub, Hrera poured in a measure of the lavender mixture she had set aside earlier.
“May I ask why there are enough bath products set aside here for a patrol?” Hrera asked mildly.
Thrór blushed. “I … was unsure what you might like, and so asked for a selection to be brought up.”
Hrera sighed. “You never thought to ask me? Or at least my maid, if you wanted it to be a surprise?”
Thrór hunched his shoulders a little, seeming awfully like Hrera’s oldest nibling. “It didn’t occur to me.”
Hrera absolutely, unquestionably, most definitely did not giggle. Princesses – she corrected herself, Queens – did not giggle. It simply was not done.
“It was rather sweet of you to think of it, though. Dear.”
The blush was back. Hrera bumped Thrór’s shoulder with her own, and he leaned into the touch. They stayed like that for several minutes, watching the tub fill in contented silence. Once Hrera judged the water level sufficient to her goals, she turned the water off (thanking Mahal for indoor plumbing, she had had enough of the lack on her trip to Erebor), and pulled her husband after her in the direction of the steps into the bathtub. She pulled on her best poker-face.
“Now, off with the robe and into the water.”
Thrór sputtered, Hrera doing her best to not roll her eyes or giggle again.
“Do hurry up, or the water will start getting cold. Come on, don’t be shy, it’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”
For someone who could command so well, Thrór did blush a lot. Hrera said as much.
Thrór shrugged. “Work is work. Most people expect to see a king, anyway. Except for you.”
Hrera smiled, and, dropping her robe, waded into the tub. “I still see the king, umral. Just not only the king.”
Any protests were drowned under an insistent kiss.
****
As Hrera scrubbed at her husband’s hair, she felt relieved that she had managed to wake at a decent hour. It simply would not do to be late to the celebratory lunch for their first day as a wedded couple.
“How under earth did you get your hair in such a mess?”
There was the stare she remembered from over-long Court sessions. “You were there. You tell me.”
“Too much sleep, not enough exercise. Now dunk your head.”
Soon enough they were both clean, and had left the bath, though rather wrinkled. Dwarves were not meant for extended exposure to water.
Having grabbed a (pleasantly fluffy, another plus) towel Hrera began aggressively toweling her hair, before having the towel gently removed from her hands. She gave Thrór her best glare.
“What?”
He didn’t look sheepish in the slightest. She must be losing her edge.
“May I help you, dear?”
Hrera sniffed. Because appearances must be maintained.
“If you wish.”
Thrór’s hands were gentle as he carefully used the dryer portions of the towel on her hair and beard, before switching it for a new one, repeating the procedure until her hair was merely damp. Hrera turned her head towards her husband as his motions slowed. She quirked an eyebrow.
“You may as well keep going.”
Hands swiftly bound her hair up in a towel, and a new one ventured towards her shoulders and back.
Deft fingers touched the tattoo on the back of her neck.
“I’ve seen tattoos in the style before, but haven’t been able to ask what they mean. Care to explain?”
A very useful discussion on Broadbeam tattoo work followed, accompanied by the judicious application of toweling. By the time Hrera was dry, and her hair and beard in simple braids pending proper styling, Thrór had been at least introduced to the major areas of this important cultural aspect, from the color (typically blue, a result of the different regional dyes), styling (circular patterns were common, with the silversmith’s decreased focus on the painfully sharp lines so favored by the Longbeards), and a short discussion of the meanings of those tattoos currently adorning Hrera’s own self (notably her status as second-born in a royal house, her craft mastery, and her newest large work, her marriage-tattoo, which got a soft kiss).
This led to a reciprocal toweling and explanation of Thrór’s major instances of body art. Hrera had seen many of them before their wedding – a result of a few judicious trips to the training grounds for something was most definitely not ogling – but the explanations were appreciated. The pair of mourning-marks on his back, to remember father and brother killed by a cold-drake, were especially noted.
Eventually, they were both dry, and had moved to their bedroom, Thrór leading his wife to one of the unknown doors – this time, an impressive closet. Hrera noted that all of her clothes were here, including those which she had brought from her former home (that thought, of her childhood home as former, felt right and wrong in equal measure), and those which had been made up for her here in Erebor.
A short spell of choosing of clothes (in which Hrera discussed the merits of coordination, both for oneself and between spouses), and another of dressing, and both Hrera and Thrór were presentable – nearly. Hrera still had her hair in a towel, and her beard (along with Thrór’s beard and hair) were tied back in simple braids.
“Hrera dear, would you be kind enough to tend my hair?” asked Thrór gently.
“Of course, husband,” Hrera replied, equally gently.
Leading Hrera out of the closet, Thrór led her to his dressing table, and sat.
“Wait a moment, ghivasha?”
Thrór nodded, and Hrera went to her own vanity table, and fished out a small, carved box, tied with a jaunty ribbon, from her jewelry box. Bringing it back, she gave it to her husband with a slight smile – not at all nervous, why would she be nervous?
“It is traditional among my people to give a gift to one’s spouse the morning after the wedding,” Hrera explained, definitely without any trace of a stutter and thankfully with her eyes on her beloved’s. “This is mine, for you. It is typically something of a personal nature.”
Thrór opened the box to see a lovely set of beard clasps, of kyanite set in silver, obviously made to be a match to the hair-clasps currently on Thrór’s table. Thrór picked one up to examine it, and, replacing it gently in its box, kissed Hrera’s knuckles.
“They are almost as lovely as you are,idùzhib.” Reaching out, he put the boxes of both the beard- hair-clasps within Hrera’s easy reach. “Put them in for me?”
“Of course. Do you want me to do anything particular with your hair?”
“Whatever you wish, dearest, since you’ve already made your opinion on my current styling methods clear.”
Hrera took her husband’s hair and beard out of the braids and began methodically brushing them out with a comb. They talked quietly of inane things as she worked, of the weather outside the mountain, of their various niblings, the food at the feast the night before, Hrera asking or reaching for the occasional item from the table – hair oil, a hair tie, a clasp. Hrera was relieved that Thrór found obvious pleasure in the feel of her hands in his hair. Finally, Hrera put the last comb down.
“And there you go! Fit for polite company again.”
The corners of Thrór’s eyes crinkled.
“Does that mean that you don’t consider yourself polite company, wife?”
Hrera picked up the brush within easiest reach to gently tap her husband on the nose.
“I am impeccable company. Now, will you fix my hair or will I have to it myself?”
Taking the brush from Hrera’s hand, Thrór smiled.
“I’d be happy to, umral.”
Hrera caught the empty hand reaching for her hair and brought it to her cheek.
*****
The day at Court had been long, for all that they had not joined it until mid-morning. There had been a steady stream of congratulatory people, and Hrera had had to spend a good portion of time fending off unwanted questions about her husband’s abilities. Some people really had no sense of appropriate behavior.
They had managed to escape back to their rooms after the formal supper. It was quite late, and they were both quite tired.
“Will you help me with my buttons?” Hrera asked. The ones in the back were fiddly, and she hated to ask her maid when Thrór was right there.
“Of course, dear.”
Supple fingers made short work of the delicate buttons, and Hrera felt hands move the hair from her neck before soft lips were softly pressed to the back of her neck. Thror must have felt some of the stiffness that had overcome her, because his expression was concerned as he moved to stand in front of her.
“What is it, my ghivashel?”
The words did not seem to want to come out, then came in a rush, like molten metal that had finally reached melting point. She could not seem to look Thrór in the eyes, instead looking at her hands where they rested on his chest.
“I …. would share my kherumel with you, husband.”
The concern in Thrór’s eyes was gone, replaced by tenderness.
“And I with you, wife.”
Hrera took a deep breath, her outtake forming a quiet,“Ulnasuabkâ.”
Thrór touched his forehead to hers. “Umùhud-zaharâl.”
They stood like that for several minutes, breathing in each other’s air. Hrera broke the moment by reaching up for a kiss.
As she fell asleep that night, hair tousled and red-lipped, Hrera knew that she was where she was meant to be.