Author's Note: See what I did there? *points at chapter title* Muahaha. The alternative title would be "the return of the owl and the bacon". And I hope I got Fíli's age right, I'm terrible at math. Because of that I can give no guarantees, but I just finished writing chapter 14. I think this story will have 20 or less chapters. *shifty eyes* Or maybe a little bit more. Just so you don't expect 100 chapters, or just ten.

Translations from Khuzdul, as given in the dictionary by the Dwarrow Scholar:

irak'adad - uncle
iraknâtha - niece
irakdashat - nephew
baraf - family

Enjoy!

-:-

With Durin's day long past and only one more week remaining until the mannish and elvish New Year, the time had come to celebrate the 83rd birthday of Fíli Durin, son of Víli and Dís Durin. As he was the heir to the throne and the title as King Under the Mountain and First Lord of all seven dwarf clans, all of Durin's folk not only in Erebor celebrated with the royal family. Banners of brown and gold – Fíli's colours, which he had adapted from his father Víli's line of Firebeard dwarves – were hung out of windows and his personal crest got painted onto doors or sewn onto clothing. His signature braids were also woven into the hair of many young dwarves who admired the popular prince.

An uncountable number of dwarves had travelled far from Ered Luin or the Iron Hills to take part in the great gala Thorin held in his heir's honour, even though they had tried to keep the affair as humble as possible at Fíli's request. Still, many noble families of Durin's folk were vying for the crown prince's attention, wishing for him to marry or even recognise one of their daughters as his One. At the public event they hosted, Fíli danced with several of the lasses, but declined to accept any of the offers, explaining that he wanted to gain experience first and that he wished to learn from his uncle, the king, how to best help his people and future kingdom before he married.

It was a very diplomatic and unobjectionable answer that would have made Thorin proud, had it not the effect that those men who had offered their daughters to Fíli, and who almost all were of Thorin's age, now tried to convince Thorin of how sensible, noble and profitable a match between their lines would be. For Mahal's sake, every single girl they threw at him was young enough to be his daughter or even granddaughter! And it either almost broke his heart to tell them he was not interested when they started crying pitifully, asking whether they were not beautiful or intelligent enough, or it almost made him explode when their fathers remarked that it was a pity that there was no queen by his side.

"In all the points that matter my sister Dís is the queen," Thorin once grit out between clenched teeth, after which he had to hear barely concealed threats and slandering directed at his sister. If there was one thing he would never bear silently, it was people who disrespected his little sister. He did not regret his broken finger, and even less so Lord Angjer's broken nose, nor did the merchant's threat to take legal action worry him.

"Do as you will, Angjer," he growled, clutching his throbbing fist to his chest. "No one, and I repeat, no one talks about my sister like this without consequences."

"No king in his right mind would ever strike one of his subjects!" the merchant protested nasally, wiping at the blood running from his broken nose. Then he rose his voice until everyone was sure to hear him: "Are you certain- … Are your people certain their king is not still suffering from madness? He draws blood at the slightest trivialities; and look at this meagre feast he holds for his heir, his most beloved nephew. Does it compare to his own coronation feast? No, I say! No, it does not!" Then he leaned forward, a malicious glint in his beady eyes. "Have you counted your gold coins today already, Your Majesty?"

"Guards!" Thorin bellowed, trying hard to block out Angjer's words and their implications. "Guards, escort this man out of Erebor. And let it be known that he is no longer welcome here."

As the warriors led him away, he kept staring at Thorin and shouting about "dragonsickness", "madness" and "gold greed". It was only the touch of Fíli's strong hand on his shoulder that kept Thorin from running after the dwarf and breaking his jaw or neck just to shut him up.

"He is not worth it, irak'adad. Let him. We all know you are cured."

But was he really cured?

The look he received from Dís then projected all the strength, love and support he needed to get through the rest of the celebration without tearing out his beard in frustration and fear. Was he really cured? What if the goldsickness returned? Well, he had conquered it before, with the help of his friends and family. In case it ever returned they would still be here to help him. It was all the consolation he had, but he feared it was not enough. That he was not enough, for his family, for his subjects, his kingdom.

His.

As he sat at the dinner table, for once not at the head of it, the word echoed through his head.

His. Everything was his.

What a frightful notion. How dangerous a thought. He remembered thinking it over and over again during those days he spent hungering, searching for the Arkenstone, digging through gold and jewels. He shuddered at the echo of pain that seared through him at the memory of the moment when he realised

No. All the gold he needed was in Fíli's hair. The only sapphires he loved lay in Dís' eyes. The only rubies he wanted flowed through his family's veins. The only silver he wished for would grow in all of their beards – in some sooner than in others – when they would live to see old age, happy and safe.

He realised that he had been staring at his untouched plate for some while, and his family looked at him with concern. He gave them a soft, slow smile and extended his arms to embrace Fíli and Kíli to his right and left.

"Irak'adad?" Tauriel asked gently. "Are you well?"

"I love you. All of you. So much." Thorin said, meeting his sister's eyes. "I thank you for giving me these wonderful nephews, Dís. And Kíli I thank for bringing Tauriel into our family, you are a true blessing, iraknâtha. And to you, Fíli," he whispered, framing his nephew's face with his hands and touching their foreheads together, "to you I wish a happy birthday. I am proud of you."

When he clutched his older nephew to his shoulder, he felt the sobs wracking his body and it took all of his willpower not to dissolve into relieved tears as well.

"I love you too, irak'adad," Fíli choked out.

"Me too," Thorin heard Kíli cry, before strong arms wrapped around his neck from behind.

"Oh my boys …"

Thorin gave a choked laugh when he felt Dís' head settle on the crook of Kíli's elbow, right by his and Fíli's ears. Her soft beard tickled his skin and he felt like a young dwarrow lad again, cradling his baby sister after they had both cried due to some trivial dispute over a toy or maybe the right to sit in their mother's lap. Of course it would be Frerin who solved everything by hugging them both to his chubby tummy, and there they were, his tears flowed over his cheeks.

"Do you know what I wish for my birthday?" Fíli whispered into his cloak. "That we stay a family, like this, forever. That we will always be together."

"I will do what I can, irakdashat. We will all try," Thorin replied hoarsely and pressed a kiss to his nephew's golden hair.

And just for a few moments everything was alright and well in the world, and his mind was at peace.

-:-

Thorin did not like to keep the accounts. He did not like having to inspect the treasury, make an inventory of the things added to it and those they sold or traded for goods. Balin and Dís had noticed of course, and Fíli and Kíli suspected something, but the truth was that he was still afraid. He could not help but remember the horrible things he had done when he had been obsessed with Erebor's treasure. By finding a new purpose for the Arkenstone, by tying his promise of peace to it he had hoped to lessen its terrifying influence on him, but every time he was forced to look upon its ethereal radiance he remembered holding Bilbo in a chokehold. No, the Arkenstone was where it belonged, and that was a deep, deep trunk held closed by a lock, whose only keys he had distributed among the Company, including Gandalf and Bilbo, and of course Dís.

Still, this worry that the goldsickness might return was always somewhere in the back of his head. As he and Thranduil had started writing more personal letters again, one day he decided to address his doubts to the one who might actually know more about it than most.

Dear Thranduil,

My last letter has probably only just now reached you since you did not send my owl friend, but there is an issue that has been bothering me for a long time now, and I simply need to speak to someone who will not say something really meaningless, look at me pitifully or try to hug me. I don't think you would do any of those, so I come to you with this.

I am haunted by the things that happened when I was in the grip of dragonsickness. The things I said and did. The lives lost due to my greed and stubbornness. Now all is well and forgiven, as everyone assures me, but I still dream of oceans of gold swallowing me whole, drowning me until I try to take a breath and it is not gold but blood instead, and I choke on it. The blood of those I, inadvertently, killed. The blood of innocents.

Everyone tells me that I am healed. That it is a miracle. But I don't believe that. I am afraid of entering a room full of treasure. I refuse to keep the accounts myself. I wait for the moment the only thought in my head will be "mine" or "more". I don't believe them that I am well now. I don't want to hurt my family, friends and subjects like this ever again.

Please tell me I am cured, and maybe I will believe you. I must believe you.

Thorin

He quickly sealed and sent the letter, not rewriting or rereading it despite the smudged ink that made the words almost illegible in some spots. With trembling hands he watched the candle on his office desk burn down, waiting, hoping for a reply. Of course it was irrational to think a letter from Thranduil would reach him before morning. The messenger would take longer than that to even deliver it. Still he waited, unable to sleep, until morning found him resting uneasily in his office chair, slumped over his desk and slobbering onto some report.

He received concerned looks from Balin because of the rumpled state of his clothes and his unkempt hair. His beard, which had grown quite a bit since they had retaken Erebor, looked like some dead animal as well, except maybe for the thin braid he wore as his signature. The thought of cutting his beard crossed his mind, since it felt like too much of a bother to brush and oil its length after such a long time of wearing a short beard, but that was a bit harsh, so he simply tamed it with a plain steel clasp.

He somehow managed to get through the day without greatly alarming or worrying anyone, so he counted that as a success. After dinner he retreated to his office, hoping to find a reply from Thranduil there, but it was too early yet of course, so he dove into an ocean of paperwork. The last night had taken its toll however, so he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep once he had dragged himself to his bed.

The next morning, when he found a certain owl sitting on the back of his office chair with a parchment roll attached to its foot … Well, he felt very relieved.

Dear Thorin,

I was very alarmed by your letter, and I have wasted no time in drafting this reply. I also sent your dear owl friend again, in order to deliver this letter as fast as possible, and hopefully also to provide you some comfort.

As far as I know there have been no reports of other dwarves (or other beings in general) that suffered from goldsickness and who got healed. However, and I must emphasise this, it does not mean that curing this sickness of the mind is impossible. It simply has never been accomplished before. You would have to ask someone more skilled and experienced in the art of healing than me – perhaps Lord Elrond could help you ease your mind.

Personally, I think your concerns are unfounded. The very fact that you worry so much is proof to me that you no longer suffer from dragonsickness. It means that you value the lives of those close to your heart far higher than gold or gems – which is the exact opposite of the effects of dragonsickness.

I don't know what to tell you to make you believe. Surround yourself with your loved ones. They have helped you once before, and they will do so again.

Please tell me you feel better. I fear that this letter will not do much to help you, but I do not know what else to say, except to be brave and have faith. This sounds so asinine, since I already told you that I do not pray. The last time I did I was probably a youth, and that was a very long time ago. But I pray for you, Thorin. May your heart be at rest.

Thranduil

The owl hooted and stretched out its leg, as if it knew that an answer was required. Thorin smiled involuntarily at the bird's antics and stroked its feathers gently.

"Patience, my friend," he whispered, pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and opened his inkwell.

Thranduil,

I thank you, and assure you that I will be well. You need not worry yourself about me, please. Let us just hope your prayers are heard.

The reason this fear has returned were the accusations of a merchant who slandered me in public. The thought has not left me ever since. Writing to you about this helped though, since I think you understand the distress of someone who is close to one suffering from this sickness. I simply do not want to burden my family with this any more than I have to. They already suspect that something is going on, and it pains me.

I apologise that I burden you instead. I am sure you have enough worries of your own. I heard that some Gundabad orcs bypassed our patrols and attacked your warriors. Is everyone well?

Thorin

He bound the letter to the owl's leg and let the bird fly. The next time it returned, he had only just finished his breakfast, but there was some bacon left. He had hoped the owl would come back in time.

Thorin

Nobody died, thank Elbereth, and only one was injured. Enough have died recently, and my people are still recovering from the great losses we have suffered. I do not know how this will go on. I sometimes wonder how Lothlórien or Imladris fare, but they have always been a different matter altogether – for reasons I should not talk to you about and I technically should not know myself either.

Now you stop worrying about the affairs of my kingdom, and I continue worrying about your mental health, what do you say? My advisors scowl at me for writing during breakfast, and I should stop.

Thranduil

PS: Don't feed the owl, your greasy bacon is not beneficial to its health.

PPS: His name is Iûl.

Grumbling Thorin still held out his bacon to the owl, and Iûl ate it with relish.

"Yes, you do like your bacon, don't you?" he cooed and stroked its feathers. "Yes, you do. But don't tell Thranduil, he's a spoilsport."

Iûl was a diplomat through and through apparently, since he only chirped and flew off into the morning. Thorin was almost disappointed that he had not been able to send a reply, but Thranduil's reply to his more business-related letter was pending anyway, so their conversation by correspondence was not interrupted indefinitely. This thought was somehow comforting, though he dared not question why.


Author's Note: Tell me what you think! :)