A few days later healers deemed him strong enough to finally move him to Erebor. After his fall he had been kept in a healer's tent on the battlefield at the Erebor Gates, by the time they carried his stretcher out of it, there were no wounded and dead on the field, and Fili told him of the funeral and of those treated in the tents still surrounding the Ravenhill. Healers from Esgaroth and all over the Middle Earth had been arriving, so many among Dwarves, Men and Elves required treatment.

The Khazad kept a separate camp, heavily guarded, the relationships between the races still bordering enmity, while Dain and his people had been inside the Mountain, renovating and, as Thorin suspected, waiting for the outcome of his healing. No one would doubt Fili's right for the throne if Thorin had died, but the Arkenstone was still in the possession of Bard the Bowman, now the King of Dale, and no one was yet starting the negotiations since it was not clear whom they were to be held with.

Days rushed by, turning into weeks, and then moons. They were full of slow and unpleasant diplomacy, drafting and rejecting of treaties, each meeting leaving Thorin breathless and weak. He was recovering much more quickly than the healers predicted, but still he would often need Fili's support to leave the hall where meetings would be held, keeping his back straight and his head high, and once the doors would close behind him he would sag on the ground, blood from the wounded side once again colouring his attire.

Finally the Arkenstone was returned to him, Dain and those of his army who were not Erebor born and bred ventured back to the Iron Hills, Kili and Fili had recovered of their wounds, and Erebor was slowly starting to look like a place where one could have a decent life.

Thorin opened his eyes in the bed chambers that under the supervision of his sister were arranged for him, and looked through the stained glass window, the rays of the rising sun dancing on the sill in colourful shapes. He once again listened to the familiar ache in the side, the right shoulder and the left knee, the memorabilia of the battle, and he rose from his bed heavily. On the table by the window he habitually poured water in a goblet, and his eyes fell on a silver tray that Dis would bring in his room every night.

Neat little paper squares, the envelopes of herbal medicine left for him by the red haired healer, were aligned, and he brushed his fingers on the inscription. One sachet three times a day. To relieve pain. He tore the package and quickly swallowed the content following it with a big gulp of water. One time a day, in the morning, before meal. To help the healing of the bones. The second sachet followed. He kept on taking his herbs, mindlessly following the instructions, his thoughts wandering, when he realised there were too few of the little sachets. He specifically remembered taking much more of them the morning before.

Frowning he got dressed and slowly walked, leaning heavily on his cane, into the dining hall joining his kin for breakfast. There was the usual commotion around the table, conversations loud, food abundant, and he sat picking at a piece of bread, some sort of troubled unease tugging at his heart.

After meal he worked at his study, when after a soft knock Dis came in and sat in a chair in front of him. She studied his face for a bit, frowning and twitching her lips, and he was ready to ask her to speak up already, when she sighed and asked.

"What is it, uzbad-nadad?" Her tone was concerned, and he twirled a letter opener in his hands.

"Why was there less medicine on my table this morning? Has the supply been exhausted?" Dis' blue eyes were roaming his face, searching for the underlying meaning of his question.

"No, there is still plenty, I am just following the instructions from the… healer."

"She left the instructions," his tone was even, there was no question in it, though that was the first time he had heard of it. It made sense.

"Yes, and rather detailed ones," Dis suddenly gave out a small chuckle, "Sometimes I feel she considers us rather dim. Or inexperienced, as if we have never treated a wounded warrior before. The sun-lit room was a surprise though..."

"I was put in the Upper Halls by her command?" Thorin's brows twitched in surprise, and to his disbelief Dis laughed.

"She underlined the word 'sun-lit' three times, and even wrote 'though he is Khazad' afterwards." Dis shook her head in an amusement. "In the tent, after her departure, there was a crate of these little packages, and the instructions, and the medicine was given with excess, in case some were to be lost or damaged, I suppose. She indeed has thought of everything."

Thorin turned away from his sister and was staring at the window not seeing it.

"Fili and Kili told me of that story from many Springs ago," Dis breached the subject carefully, "How the three of you met her as a child." He nodded, without tearing his eyes off the window. Since he was placed in the Upper Halls for repose, he ordered his study to be located in an adjoint chamber. There was probably some medical reason behind the healer's instructions, but he could not help but approve of such arrangement. Years spent on the road made him crave sun and fresh air, unlike many of his kind.

"Thorin..." Dis started, her tone cautious, and he suddenly felt irritated. There was no need pussyfooting around this subject. The healer was a fortunate happenstance, she saved his life and left when she deemed necessary. The encounter with her fifteen years ago was nothing but an anecdote to entertain guests at a dinner table.

"Would that be all?" He interrupted his sister and finally looked at her, his stare heavy and irked. She pursed her lips, but after a few moments of tense silence she shook her head and left without a single word.

Thorin considered the question resolved, and clenching his jaw he reached for the first of numerous parchments awaiting his attention.

The Spring came, and then another, and then an unusual hot Summer, and then finally, as a long awaited repose after the smoldering heat, the soft and golden Autumn. Thorin was overseeing the reconstruction in the Lower Halls when a courtier arrived to inform him that Gandalf the Grey was at the Gates of Erebor, asking for an audience with him.

They sat in Thorin's study and drank wine, and the more was drunk, the less old grievances and disagreements mattered. With each passing hour they laughed more, memories recollected became of fonder nature, and the Quest was discussed, and the adventures they had shared seemed merrier.

Thorin was half lying on a settee by the wall, a half empty goblet in his hand, guffawing and splashing the best Mirkwood red on the floor. The wizard for some inconceivable reason was sitting on the floor, shaking his staff, his pointy grey hat wobbling on its tip, and his grey eyes uncharacteristically foggy.

"And then I said to the skinchanger, it's just a couple Dwarves," he roared with laughter, and Thorin joined him, pressing a hand to his stomach. His side ached dully, but by then he had been accustomed to it.

"And then you said Bombur had to come out alone, since he counted as two," Thorin was starting to lose his breath, from laughter and from the spinning of his head, and the wizard hiccuped.

They went on through the night, and in the morning Thorin woke up on his bed, fully clothed, he could vaguely remember Kili and couple courtiers dragging him to his room, and he rolled on his back and groaned from the pain smashing into his temples like two giant trip hammers.

Nature called, and he dragged himself out of the bed. When he returned to the bedroom he found on the side table a glass of water that he immediately drank greedily, a jug, also full of water, a sachet of herbs against hangover, and he could just imagine Dis' disapproving look at his spread body when she was placing the items, and then he noticed a small envelope peeking from under his doublet he had thrown on the floor last night. He picked it up, his head spun like the blades of a windmill, and he sat on the bed fighting nausea.

The wizard had been sitting on the floor, slumping on the side, and then he made some sort of a half hiccup, half yelping sound, smacked himself to the forehead and pulled the envelope out of his grey robe.

"The letter… I am delivering a letter..." Thorin nodded and poured more wine in the old man's goblet, spilling twice more than ended up in the cup. "To you… I met her on the road, she asked to bring it..."

He waved the envelope in front of Thorin's nose who was grabbing air trying to catch the white square.

"Well, give it to me, you lulkh," he gave the wizard a good-natured shove to the shoulder, and the latter ended on the floor in an ungraceful heap of extremities, grey clothes and white beard.

"Dollophead," the old man announced, but lifted his straight arm, and Thorin crawled up to him and plucked the envelope from his bony fingers. He looked at the inscription and groaned. It was the same handwriting he saw on his herbal sachets three times a day.

"She wrote me a letter..." His tone was tragic, he suddenly felt very sorry for himself. The wizard was busy trying to drink from a cup without lifting his head from the floor, sticking out his tongue and skewing his eyes. He was not succeeding. Thorin was still staring at the envelope.

"What is she saying?" Gandalf finally gave up and was currently trying to sit up, waving his arms in jerky movements.

"I am not opening it. What good can it do?" Thorin felt very stroppy and pushed the letter away from himself on the floor. "It is probably all decorous, and she is wishing me quick recovery, and it is all very..." He waved his hand in the air in a vague gesture and toppled more wine in his throat. The wizard had finally achieved a more vertical position and was studying Thorin's face, which irritated the latter even more. "And no need to give that look!" Thorin growled, "It is not like she was anything but a healer. She saved my life, and such was her vocation..." Gandalf was still silent, and Thorin continued rambling like a dimwit, "I am sure she is asking for remuneration… That is what it is… Or perhaps she sends more instructions, she likes giving instructions..." Instead of criticism his voice was laced with wistfulness, and he swore dirtily in Khuzdul.

"Why don't you just open it?" The wizard asked, and Thorin jumped on his feet, planning to yell in indignation and tell the old man to mind his own business, only to clumsily flop on back his jacksie. He winced, the pain in the tailbone echoed in his wounds, but the wine was after all a wonderful numbing medicine.

"I am not an enamoured youngling to rush and swallow every word greedily… What are you?.. And it is just a letter..." He did not notice how he had picked the envelope up, and in shock he saw that he was twirling it in his fingers. There was some faint fragrance coming from it, and he threw a cautious look at the wizard. The old man wasn't watching, busy pouring more wine, and Thorin quickly pressed the white square to his nose. It was some sort of flower, somehow he thought of purple or white bevies, but he knew very little about flowers. And again it couldn't be from her, the letter had been in the wizard's possession for weeks. Thorin threw the man a suspicious look. Was the old wizard fond of floral oils?

"It is lilacs, it was on it from the start, and it doesn't fade," the wizard suddenly spoke, and Thorin jerked as if caught after something embarrassing. "Probably laced into the parchment. Or it's bespelled. Through that would be a silly waste of magic."

Lilacs, that was how they were called, those bushes by the road, with opulent branches, heavy with bunches of small flowers. He remembered the cool hand on his forehead, and this very aroma, only a tinge, and once the same faint fragrance on a soft curl that slid out of her do perhaps, and Thorin clenched his teeth and pushed the envelope into his doublet. He would think about it later.

Honourable King Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror,

I have encountered Mithrandir on the road, and while he is taking his supper, I am hastily writing. I doubt a letter from a mere healer of Men would have reached the King Under the Mountain, and in a spur of a moment I am taking advantage of the wizard's close familiarity with you and will ask him to pass this one to you.

Please, forgive me for this insolence, and especially for the rushed words and unformed thoughts, I do not wish to aggravate the wizard and keep him waiting, although it perhaps will make me speak out of terms to you. I am only hoping you will be forgiving and will understand that if given time I would have written more wisely and mindfully.

The main desire of my heart is to tell you that I am praying to Maiar that you are recovering and that your wounds worry you little. I expect your side, the knee and the shoulder to be your main aggravations, and I hope you do not overtire them. I trust the endless shrewdness of your sister, lady Dis, and I am certain you are being taken care the best way one can hope for.

The same can be said of my sentiment regarding your nephews, nothing but hopes for their recovery fill my heart. If it be your will, please relay them my warmest sentiment. I have grown to admire and cherish both of them in the time I spent at the Gates of Erebor, and as impudent as such hopes are, I wish they knew how dear they are to me.

My King, there is no way around it, I am writing to you mainly for the following reason. I am worried that you believe yourself in my debt. There is still a chance that it is my unjustified pride and self-assurance that push me to think thusly, but my heart tells me that a noble and a high-minded person such as yourself could develop a certain unreasonable gratitude for the treatment I have given you.

I am now worried that I am being preposterous and am currently insulting a King, but even as a child I seemed to be making all the wrong assumptions around you. Why start being wise now?

You owe me nothing. I have been simply applying my craft where it was needed, and I am so very grateful to Maiar for the fortunate happenstance that brought me to Esgaroth at the brink of the battle. Healers are to be where the wounded are, and I am only happy that I was there to aid you.

I am now rereading my letter and feel terrified that instead of expressing my respect and admiration for you I have just implied that you see me as more than just the healer who treated you, and…

Maiar help me, my thoughts jumble and words elude me. The wizard has finished his meal, and as you can see by my writing I am rushing through every line.

Forgive me and my insolence, and just know I feel honoured to have met you the second time in my life. I have thought of our first meeting so very often and would laugh about the naivety of that girl. She was so wrong! Unlike the wide-eyed girl, I have seen in you what she couldn't… a true king.

I am sealing this letter and will perhaps drink excessively tonight to avoid imagining how ridiculous, and conceited, and disrespectful I showed myself in it.

Eternally your humble servant,

Wren of Enedwaith

Thorin was sitting on his bed, the torn envelope carrying the aroma of lilacs in one hand, the letter opened in front of his eyes, and he realised the hand he was holding it in was shaking slightly. He could of course blame it on the crapulous tremours, but deceiving himself would be cowardly.

And then he dropped backwards on his bed, stretching his aching back, throwing the letter aside carelessly, and then he shook his head and chuckled. He knew her little, she had left before his mind was clear enough to form an opinion of her. And fifteen years ago he had spent but half a day in her company. And yet… The letter and those few half pronounced memories he had from the time she was treating him, as well as what he saw in a skinny girl of ten years, were painting a quite clear picture of Wren of Enedwaith, a red haired healer, the woman he saw in his dreams every night. Whatever he kept on telling himself, he had given her a promise then, and as childish and nonsensical it was, it was now a thread linking him to her, and somehow he was certain it was stronger than any mithril chain.

A/N:

Uzbad = (Khuzdul) royal, kingly

Nadad = (Khuzdul) brother

Lulkh = (Khuzdul) oaf