This, O Best Beloved, is a simple story about a blacksmith, his sister son the bowman, and the gladiatrix who counts them chief among her lovers. A rather ordinary tale about an unsentimental woman with a romantic boy on one hand and a hard man on the other. And a pet he-Elf she meets in Bree, every once in awhile, on the sly. But it is also a story about the true nature of life and death, of love and lust, freedom and slavery, friendship and brotherhood, A tale regarding the malleability of destiny, and the nature of second chances. Yes, it is the story of Thorin Oakenshield and the second chance his gods gave him, but it is also the story of a woman, Brimi, daughter of Dwalin.
I awoke, early, bathed in the basin I had left out the night before, put on my square-necked tunic and belt, and my boots, and went out to the barracks, to greet each of the eighty souls in the Brotherhood of Gladiators.
We all are together, in the barracks, and then I held a meeting as to our strategy in the usual Saturday double games, along with Ragnar of Rogan, who would be my successor.
Then, I dressed for battle.
At the early games, which we only have on Saturdays, I lost no souls to violence, not even a finger or a limb, and I killed 25 orcs.
After, I had to put ten men with minor wounds out of the evening games, and I went with Ragnar, to the village, to have our weapons sharpened.
Right before the evening games, Hranmi, the Master Trainer, who is also a dwarf, came and told me that Thorin Oakenshield was in the Coliseum, that he had come to see the evening show.
The news hit me like a spear in the guts, tipped with Morgul poison.
I was so deeply stricken, down to the very moorings of my identity that when I heard that Thorin Oakenshield would be in the Coliseum, that night, attending the spectacle, the Saturday night show, the biggest of the week, too, the only thing I could think of was that he, like quite a few powerful men before him, had come to buy a night with me.
For old times sake
The years fell away, and the armor I had built was pierced, and I was 16, again, lying in Thorin’s beefy arms, against his burly, hairy barrel chest, and he was telling me that he knew he had no right, as a man, to lie with me, so he had decided, as a king, he would take it.
I never forgot that.
How many times, in the Arena, with blood in me hair and dust in me mouth had I shouted to my gladiators that as a woman and a slave, these many years I had no right to live, but as Master Gladiator, I would take it, and that now that they were gladiators to, it was for them to take the right to live?
Ahora mismo hay un post de una chica con un "meme" con la tipica frase " is brimi, timinsili cin himir" insultando a Cristina y no ve a NADIE del fandom Wigetta diciendole que eso está mal, que no publique sobre Cristina y que por favor ponga momentos Wigetta ¡NO! Les vale que eso esté allí pero no fuera una publicación donde se hable bien de la relación Willytina porque si hacen post larguísimos. Hipócritas.
Imagine Thorin first realizing he loves you, as you rip the head off an orc.
BLOOD, SWEAT, IRON, AND LUST: A LOVE STORY
Chapter One: Gladiator
Thorin did not often travel so far as the Great Eastern Market, just over the border of Gondor, in Harad, on the Bay of Belefalas
The Easterling lands were a wild place, Thorin didn’t speak their language, and the bay was often full of corsair ships.
That, and the Great Market was also the home of the Slave Market, and slavery was something that Thorin despised.
But a good Dwarrow smith and metalworker could make a pretty penny, especially in springtime, so, whenever Thorin’s work took him to Gondor, he would always travel south to the Great Market, before turning to go home.
His wagon was unladen of most of his goods, and full of his purchases and his hard-earned money when he and a dead man saw each other, from across the market.
The older dwarf fairly ran to Thorin, and they embraced like old friends.
“Thorin, son of Thrain son of Thror! Am i so old that even you have silver in your hair, now?”
“Master Hranmi, I’m glad to see that we are both still alive, at all! And you don’t look a day over 200!”
“I will be two hundred and forty, this year. And I am not your master now, Lord Thorin of New Belegost.”
“The man who trained me to fight will always be my your Drill Master.”
“Thorin, my lad, as your father and your grandfather once trusted me, will you?”
“Of course. What troubles you, Hranmi?“
“I have become the Master Trainer at the Circus Mortis. And I want you to buy our Master Gladiator’s freedom, and take her back to the Blue Mountains with you.”
“The Master Gladiator of the Circus Moris is a Dwarf and a woman?”
“A young woman. Very young. The same age as your sister sons I hear tell of, sometimes, in the Market. Her name is Brimi. Her father was a Dwarf and her mother was Idunni, of the Dokkalfari. Her mother abandoned her, at birth and she was stolen from her home by orc slavers. Brimi was sold into slavery when she was 15. She has been a gladiator for thirty years and the Master Gladiator for twenty. She’s earned her freedom, but she will not go. She says she has nothing to go to, and she’s right. Please, Thorin. Give her the home she has never had. Take her to your halls, in the Blue Mountains.”
“You have told me her mothers’ name. What about her father’s?”
“She has vowed to never say her father’s name until she is free. Brimi says its a disgrace to her family that she was taken as a slave, and tahts hew ould bring shame on her father’s name, to have it connected with a slave.”
“Well, she may not be a silly one, but Hranmi, the last thing I need is another silly girl on me hands! To me face I may be called Thorin Oakenshield, but behind me back they call me Thorin Whoremaster, and for good reason. When you knew me i was a romantic young man with a lovely young wife; a star-crossed lover and his Elvin Lady Fair. Well, when Anorloth died, that fool boy died with her, and a miserable old bastard of a whoremaster has taken his place. I’ve had a thousand women if I’ve had one, of all the races, and I’ve not taken over the responsibility for any of them. Nor do I feckin want to! Besides, It doesn’t sound like the girl wants to go.”
“She will, when she gets a load of you, Master Blacksmith! Some men need a good woman. What you need, Thorin, is a bad one. And Brimi is about as bad as they come. At least come to the Circus with me, and meet with her. Watch her in the arena. She’s no silly girl, and i say that as King Thror’s Drill Master.”
“You have sworn that all the sons and daughters of Erebor have a home in New Belegost, in the Blue Mountains. Will you break your word, now, to your Drill Master? And leave a fatherless girl not even sixty years old, to die in the arena a slave?”
Master Hranmi had him there.
“I’ll go with you, Hranmi, like a damn fool, to feckin’ Mordor, no less! Modi and Magni were my father’s and my grandfather’s Berserks, after all. They died in fire for my kin. This is the least I owe theirs.“
Hranmi put his arm around Thorin’s shoulders.
"Bring your wagon to my ship, young Thorin. I promise you, lad, you’ll not regret this,”
Thrima had given it a lot of thought, about what she would do, when she got to civilization, in the Blue Mountains.
Thrima had gotten a little civilized, from her mother, but that was so long ago, she couldn’t remember much more than how to eat with a knife and how to read and write her name, count, and do simple sums.
And didn’t bother to tell anybody that the clothes that Fili had given her were the first real clothes she had worn for as long as she could remember.
Now, dishes, forks, knives, spoons, and bowls were all things from her childhood that she had some memory of.
Thrima, herself, had a knife and a large wooden dish that was something between a plate and a bowl.
On the road, though, she could get away with using that, and just eating with a knife.
Thrima told Thorin had she couldn’t read, or write, but she decided to keep the rest to herself, watch what Fili did, and try to follow it.
The first time that she sat down for a meal at Thorin’s table, it was confounding.
There was a cup to drink from, and a round dish, with sides, and a flat dish, and those two other utensils beside a knife, and all the food was on lots of other kinds of dishes.
Thrima watched the plates passed, but then, even more confounding, you had to use a big utensil on the big plate to put the food on your plate.
And you could just pick it up with your hands, or drink the soup from the round dish with sides, you had to use those other utensils.
She just didn’t understand; it was so feckin’ complicated!
The Battle of the Five Armies had ended, in victory and tragedy.
A victory that seemed like a defeat to the women of the House of Durin.
They had lost all that mattered to them, and gained little to show for it.
Still stained with mud and blood from the battlefield, the two young Dwarrow warrior women stood close together.
They were both women of great bravery and great strength; Raven Oakenshield, daughter of Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, had given an eye and survived the Rite of Odin, was an apprentice wizard and one of the bravest and shrewdest fighters of her generation.
And Brimi Wargiver, daughter of Dwalin, had survived being kidnapped by orcs when she was 20, and sold to the Ringmaster of the Circus Mortis.
She rose to become Master Gladiator, and after her thirty years of service to the Ringmaster were complete, she returned home a woman her father could be proud of.
But, Raven was truly her father’s daughter; she was devoted to him, and she had been raised with her cousins Fili and Kili as if they were her brothers.
They had been inseperable.
That, and to Raven, Fili was her beloved shield-brother, her best friend and her One, if not her Only.
And Thorin had been the one to discover Brimi in the Circus Mortis; he bought her freedom and convinced her to come back to the Blue Mountains with him, where he made her his personal Bodyguard, the King’s Berserk.
It was widely known that she was also his mistress, formost among his mistresses.
Thorin always told Brimi that he was not her Master, and she was a free woman, but in her heart, Brimi still looked upon him as if he was.
And Kili had been special to Brimi; he was the brave young warrior she’d never have to watch die in the Arena; Kili was her second chance at something like love.
Like Raven, she had grown up with Fili and Kili; Raven and Fili and Kili were her shield brothers and sister; her nearest and closest friend.
The two women, who had long ago forbade themselves to cry, stood together, clinging to one another, stupefied with their grief.
Even Dwalin’s mighty heart was shattered, and he had seriously thought of suicide.
But Brimi was his daughter, and now Raven was fatherless.
They were very young, still only girls, and even though Raven was Queen Under the Mountain, now, they both needed him.
“Come on, my lasses. I have two arms to hold you with. Turn your faces to my shoulders and cry if you must. Even my eyes are wet with tears.”
The girls went to Dwalin.
But, even then?
They were up to something.
The two young women spoke in the Dokkalfari language of their mothers. Dwalin, however, spoke Dokkalfari.
He only heard whispered snatches of their conversation, madness about Fili and Kili not being dead, and Thorin not as dead as he seemed.
“They are dead, my lasses. You can’t fight death.” Dwalin told Raven.
“I know that, Dwalin. I didn’t give my eye in the Rite of Odin or spend ten odd years apprenticed to a wizard, and not learn that. But I Iearned something else, along the way. You can’t fight death, but sometimes? You can cheat it.”
Raven Oakenshield, also called Raven the Green got a little vial out of her pocket, and winked at Dwalin.
“Dry your tears, Uncle Dwalin. I am Raven the Green, and Queen Under the Mountain. All my cards are not yet played. Nor have all my threats been made. Should I do it, Brimi?”