AN: Juicy new developments in the Iron Hills? Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about Nori and Fili and the rest of our dear Durin folks under the Lonely Mountain!

Chapter 36

Oin was in heaven. There was no work, no medicines to make, no patients to attend, no nobles demanding his attention, no babies to deliver. His life was quiet. Silent.

Perfect.

He was now soaked completely in the natural, hot, Iron Springs (Was everything named Iron here?) There were actually stone baths deep underground in the heart of the Iron Hills. One could near nothing but waves and the bubbling of water. One could simply sit and luxuriate with one's eyes closed.

But Oin's eyes weren't closed. He was restless, and he hated himself for it.

Oin had hand-selected the ten healers to be sent to Erebor; he knew they were settling in well. But Oin was... bored. Inactivity, something he had always sought, now did not satisfy him as he ought. He had a healer's mind and healer's body. He slept lightly and was easily awakened.

He was resting his hands underwater, in the near-boiling thermal pool, soaking it. At the present, the ache and stiffness of his joints could not be felt, but Oin could not resist lifting his left hand out of the water and having a close look at it.

No, no better. He could not bend his thumb and the joints were swollen and rigid on every finger.

Sighing, Oin plunged them into the crystal clear water once again for a thorough soak.

Several hours of bathing left Oin with wrinkled and water-logged skin, and his body was reddened from the heat it had endured. Nevertheless, it was not a long walk, wrapped in a bathrobe, back to his secluded but luxurious guest chambers, where a warm dinner, hearty ale, and roaring hearth awaited him. The only thing missing? Company.

Oin didn't want to go the large and boisterous dining halls, not tonight, but he wanted to have a quiet dinner and a nice conversation. Knowing that Dain, no matter how generous and hospitable, could only fulfil so many of Oin's wishes, he shrugged.

Perhaps a nice, well-worn book would be pleasant company enough, after that, sleep.

A knock sounded at Oin's door promptly after he had settled down in a warm, Shire-made bathrobe to read a book sent by Bilbo accompanied by a warm letter of recommendation from Primula. It described the herbal lore of the halflings. Oin could smell the longbottom leaf between the pages as he sniffed it with satisfaction and lighted his own pipe of the same stuff. Mahal (or Yavanna, perhaps...) forbid that he should any inferior pipeweed whilst reading such a tome.

Oin did not hear the knock at his door, or indeed the shy knocking that went on for several minutes. By all accounts, having forgotten his ear trumpet down at the baths, he would have completely missed this urgent visitor. He would have most likely ignored it, even, as Oin would not be moved from the resplendent daybed for anything less than a disastrous emergency, and perhaps not even then.

But, at fate would have it, the knocker kept on knocking, and something in Oin's subconscious mind told him, despite all his reasoning and in spite of the fact he had dismissed all of the attendants sent to ensure his absolute and limitless comfort, that he ought to go and check the door.

As if by clockwork, with a weary sigh, Oin pushed himself off the divan and walked to the door. Opening, he caught the retreating visitor just as she was leaving.

"Were you seeking me, madam? Oin, son Groin, at your service."

By the dim light of the dwarven corridor, he took the sight of this figure.

"My lord," she began, and if Oin could have heard it, he would have shivered at its resonant huskiness, cracked with age and sorrow yet beautifully noble and poised, like an aged and battered viol with a soulful, sweet melody.

Oin only stared blankly. He had seen many women, inside and out, and yet he had never seen one quite like her. She appeared to be wanting something, but Oin knew not what. He watched her lips moved, as if he was charmed, and when she paused, he recklessly announced, quite loudly,

"Yes of course, madam. Please come in."

He did not catch her name, only the lilting bow that she gave when presumably offering her service, a bow that caused the veil wrapped around her shoulders to drop and reveal the soft wrinkles of the tantalizing neck. She entered the door he graciously held open. She sat down on an offered chair. She accepted a glass of red wine and began to speak. She gestured, timidly and hesitantly but with an effortless grace.

What did she want?

Oin cupped his hands about his ears and vaguely heard several words.

"Erebor?"

"Aye..." she stopped, gazing at him with mild annoyance, and saw sarcastically, in such a dry voice even Oin had to hear it, "Trouble hearing me?"

"Double what?" Oin leaned forward, embarassed and frustrated with himself, "I can't hear well, I'm sorry. Battle injury."

She stopped, slightly abashed.

Oin smiled forgivingly, and grasped about for his ear trumpet about his person.

"Let me find my ear trumpet..." he felt about his person.

Embarassing silence followed, until the lady had enough of Oin pulling about his clothes for a missing ear trumpet.

"I HAVE CAME TO INQUIRE ABOUT EREBOR, SEEING IT WAS FROM THERE YOU CAME, MY LORD," she shouted.

"My name?"

"YOU CAME... FROM EREBOR..."

"Erebor? Yes. Lovely place it is too."

"I LEAVE WITH THE NEXT CARAVAN," she continued, and then sighed, for Oin looked completely befuddled as he strained to catch her words, lingering water in his ears compounding his difficulty.

Catching hold of himself, Oin used his eyes even if his ears were not particularly helpful.

He ignored what she said, and instead leaned forward on the chair across on her, his knees (or rather pants) inches away from her worn velvet skirts, and touched her hand.

It was dark with old bruises. They were old, Oin noted, and he lifted the hand, letting the bell of the sleeve drop. It looked at if someone had grabbed her wrist and twisted it some months ago.

She was startled, and instinctively shrank back.

"I am a healer, madam, if you would let me..."

With wide eyes, Oin caressed the bruise on the thin, wrinkled hand,

"It can go away," he said, "With yellow salve, from burdock root... and murdlebrock oil."

He lifted the hand to his face, and she frowned. Oin desperately wanted to kiss it, sweet and beautiful as if was to him, but he was sniffing. He could not hear her; his ears were ringing anyway, but he could smell her heavenly scent.

"No, no," he sniffed, he nose barely grazing the skin, "Leave off the witch hazel, you've have enough of that. It's no good now...let me give you a salve."

She nodded thanks,

"Before you leave for Erebor, I will give it to you," he added, "Perhaps tomorrow morning, madam? Over breakfast in Dain's Halls? I assure you I shall have my hearing remedied by then."

She nodded, and made a gesture of thanks and a bow, since nothing more could be said. Oin noticed faint marks of her neck, and thought there would be more.

"Your husband should take better care of you," Oin motioned at her hair beads that he only just noticed, with regret. His eyes had been drawn like a magnet to her heavy purple irises and high, noble brow.

"My husband is dead," she signaled, apparently remembering that she could used Iglishmek, having used not it in a great many years.

Oin was genuinely surprised.

"My sincere apologies," he replied in the same manner, "Is that the reason for your leaving?"

"Aye," she signed, "I wish to make a new life."

"I wish you the very best. Anything I can do to help you madam... I will sent an introduction to the ladies of Erebor perhaps. The princess is my distant cousin. I would advise taking residence in the North Wing, and to avoid the South West entirely as the fire vents are all but useless, despite what the realtors say..."

He was rambling, and she could not get a word in edgewise. Nevertheless she interrupted him by grasping both of his rapidly gesticulating hands.

"Thank you, Master Oin," she smiled and signed, "Let us speak tomorrow. I... am long unpracticed in Iglishmek."

It was sincere, heartfelt almost. Something about her, perhaps the mysterious air of tragedy and frailty, touch a nerve. Only when the door closed and she was gone did Oin realize he had not learned her name.

The book was forgotten, but the pipeweed was not. That night, Oin dreamed of deep purple eyes and witch hazel. He was smitten.

Oin considered cutting short his holiday. She needed a friend in Erebor, and perhaps he was the right dwarf for that role.