A/N: Here we go! And the story begins.

There are couple other stories you can refer to when reading this one but it is not necessary. Wren (Filegethiel in Elvish, Zundushinh in Khuzdul), the healer from Dale, and in this story already the Queen of Erebor and Thorin Oakenshield are the protagonists in all my stories, so that is easy. If you are new, grab any and enjoy :) "Thorin's Timeline" is an overview of all my stories about Wren and Thorin, use it as a guide; "Thorin's Word A Day" #7 is a sort of prequel to this story, and if you are one of those people who look at the end of the book to find out how the story concludes "Thorin's Word A Day"#20 can be considered an epilogue to this story.

I hope, my lovelies, the story will bring you at least a shard of the joy and fun I feel writing it! :)

You open your eyes and look at the ceiling, a tall dome of branches above you, intertwined, dark bark rough and rugous. Cold light of the autumn sun falls through tall elongated windows, intricate lacy sashes throwing beautiful shadows on the walls around you, and you understand you are in Mirkwood. You turn your head and see the Elvenking Thranduil sitting in a tall chair near your bed.

Your hands fly to your middle. "Your child is save, Lady Filegethiel," The Elvenking's voice is soft and melodic. "Can you not hear the heart?" He rises and walks up to you slowly. You feel tears running down your face. "No, I cannot. Not this time…" You stroke the firmness of your stomach with your palms. "I cannot hear anything this time…" The first violent sobs start shaking your body, and suddenly he sits on the edge of your bed. A long elegant palm lies on your shoulders, and you are shaking harder.

You are trying to reign the tremors, but you are cold, so cold. The shock of the ordeal you have just gone through, having been kidnapped by a band of rogue delinquents on your way to Rivendell, your companions slayed, as well as the constant anguish you have been fighting since you found out of your pregnancy overwhelm you, and you cover your mouth with your palms, attempting to silence the cries.

The strong hands of the Elvenking wrap around your shoulders, and he pulls you into him. Your face is pressed into the silver silk of his robe, his heart beating evenly under your ear. You feel virile, strong body under your cheek, muscles hard and tense, and he stretches a hand and pulls covers to envelop your shoulders.

"It is the child's own magic that does not allow you to hear him as you did with the previous ones, Lady Filegethiel. Your son possesses an astonishing gift." You close your eyes in overpowering relief. "A son..." "Yet another in the line of Durin," you hear a note of mocking in his tone, "King Thorin Oakenshield, I am certain, will be overjoyed."

Your heart clenches when you hear your husband's name. You have not told him, this pregnancy so different from the two joyous ones before. Then, you could feel your children from the earliest days of your parturiency, your magic, though so weak normally, growing and intensifying in those jubilant months. Even when injured in a fight with an Orc pack when expecting Unna, you felt strong, powerful, fearless.

Your third child left your weak, your magic completely dormant. You move away from the Elvenking's embrace and look at your palms. You flex your fingers but the familiar golden spark does not come. There are soft bandages around your wrists covering the cuts and bruises from the shackles they put on you in Framsburg. You gasp, dull ache pulling at your tendons when you move your hands.

Thranduil's cold long fingers gently encircle your wrists, and you feel the pain in them fade. You lift your eyes at him and give him a shaky smile. "Has a message been sent to Erebor about my rescue?" He lets go of your hands and reaches for a goblet on the table near the bed. You take it gratefully.

"I have sent a messenger to Erebor, the news will reach the King Under the Mountain in five days." You nod and sip the fragrant tonic from your goblet.

The tangy taste of elderberry leaves essence and royal fern bite your tongue. Another flavour mixed in it is unfamiliar but you have read enough herbal books to make an assumption. "Lasbelin leaf, my lord?" He hikes up his stunning black eyebrows and smiles. "You do not seize to amaze me, Lady Filegethiel. Is there a limit to your knowledge and curiosity?" You smile back and for the first time in months you feel tension leaving your body.

He tilts his head and his eyes slide from your face to your shoulders covered in luscious silks from your bed. "If you require more warmth I can ask for a wood stove to be brought to your chambers." "I am grateful, my Lord," you remember the demands of decorum, "And forgive me. I have not yet thanked you for my rescue and your hospitality."

"I have to admit, hiril vuin, finding you in that filthy burrow was terrifying if not for the spectacle that opened to my eyes when I stepped in that room," you are surprised to hear that his mesmerizing voice is laced with impish smile. "With a bloodied blade, locks flaming, you looked rather dashing. I almost felt my interference was unnecessary." You look at his astounded. Can the Elvenking be jesting? His face as if carved out of cold marble seems softer in its stunning lines, the corners of the striking curved lips curl up.

"And your blade, hiril vuin," you finally notice the moniker. Beloved lady… When has he started calling you this? He gets up and walks to the window. Your possessions are carefully displayed on a tall table. You hand flies to your neck. Nyrnala, the Jewel of Khazad-dum is gone from your collar bones. The Elvenking picks up the dagger you had had hidden in your sleeve. "Forged in Gondolin, I would assume. The kin to King Thorin's sword, Orcrist. It is always a surprise to notice how many treasures of my people have passed into the possession of the Dwarves." His tone is suddenly cold. You diplomatically keep quiet.

His slender fingers slide along the cold argent blade, and the expression on his face is almost tender. He lowers the blade and picks up another object. You gasp. The opals of your necklace gleam in his hands. "That, on the other hand, is definitely Dwarven work." "Nyrnala, the Jewel of Khazad-dum," you pronounce the name reverently. "The symbol of your betrothal, I presume." You nod. "I find the traditions of my people to exchange rings to be less oppressive and demanding," he lifts the opulent necklace in his hands, and you shiver. "Such a weight! You should perhaps refrain from wearing it for a while. Your body needs time to recover from your torment and support your child in his growth."

You feel cold shiver running down your spine. Your hands once again lie down on your stomach. "May I ask my Lord to send a healer and a midwife to see me if any are available?" He gives you a slow nod. "Of course, hiril vuin, but I assure you, your son is healthy and striving." He approaches your bed again. He tilts his head, and his eyes are on your stomach. "May I?.." His voice is reverent, and you do not hesitate. "Of course, my Lord."

A narrow cold palm lies on your stomach and his remarkable eyes widen. "Fascinating…" His look is distant, as if he is listening to a whisper that you cannot hear. "Such an extraordinary gift, such a beautiful child." A bright smile blooms on his stunning face, and he turns his shining eyes to you. "He is a genuine son of Filegethiel, the Gem of Erebor." You smile back, reveling in his warmth and admiration for your unborn son, relieved that your babe is safe and you can finally communicate with him through the blazing icy eyes of the Elvenking Thranduil.