A/N: So… I was going to 'squirrel' this one, and torture you, and maybe update some other story, but I love you all, my duckies, too much to do it to you, so here it is :)

Yours truly,

kkolmakov


Wren slept, and in her fever dreams came. She was terrified to once again inexplicably encounter the Dwarven King, but all she saw were seemingly mundane events of the past five moons, how she arrived to Martha's house, most of injuries already half healed, but her body weakened, how it took more than a moon for the villagers to accept her, and how she had won them one by one.

The pictures, the sensations returned to her, the first child she received in her arms, the blood of an injured huntsman colouring her hands, the sated sleepiness after the Spring festival feast when she had eaten too much and even indulged in a half a mug of cider...

She could not say the village had become her home, she had accepted by now that no place would, but she had built herself a stable calm life in here.

The fever raged through her body, it felt as if a great weight was pressing on her chest, and a small part of her mind that could still make professional judgement told her the lungs were probably flooded, and that she was burning, but she knew she was in no grave danger. Her joints ached but listened to her, and she felt almost like a loafer but she allowed her body the rest it needed. She just needed sleep, she thought... It was all those walks in the forest, and the water in her boots...

A cool cloth lay on her forehead, and she smiled with gratitude. It was just her delirium, there were no blue eyes roaming her face. The villagers had light brown, almost golden eyes, and such were the irises of the young girl who was helping Wren around the infirmary... Surely, it was her hand wiping Wren's forehead...

The soft worried voices came, Martha's and Beorn's, and several others, and Wren wanted to tell them that she just needed to sleep, and have no dreams, but the blackness had already pulled her in, and Wren was asleep.


Wren woke up with a sneeze. She felt confused, bright sunlight was flooding the room, and she wondered whether she had slept in. She always got up before dawn, oodles of matters awaiting her attention. And then she remembered that she was ill, and she did not need to rush down the stairs into her infirmary, and could stay in her bed for just a bit more. She squinted her eyes in pleasure and snuggled deeper in her covers. It was mid-May and rather hot, but Wren loved her down filled duvets, of which she had two. She hid her nose under them, feeling lazy and sleepy, and then met the eyes of the man sitting in the armchair near her bed.

Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror was studying her, emotions splashing in his eyes. Amusement, cautious curiosity, and tense anticipation, so much and so expressive, all his feelings were reflected in his bright blue irises, while the lips were pressed into a tense line, and the brows were slightly lifted.

Wren sat up jerkily, the room immediately swayed, she was weakened and trembling after the fever, and she pressed her head to her brow, instantly slightly irritated by her own overdramatic gesture.

"Oh no..." She breathed out.

Myriads of thoughts rushed through her mind. Was her room in the village the new home for her dreams? Was she sleeping? Unconscious? Dying? Or… dead?

"Am I dead?" She rasped out, sounding somewhat hopeful. It could seem rather absurd, but out of many variants this one could be the most favourable. Were she dead, it would mean she had done well, and he had passed on into the Halls of the Awaiting. More so, it would mean that Mahal the Father of Dwarves was benevolent and they were given a chance to meet beyond the veil. Alternatively, she was back at square one.

"You are not."

As soon as he spoke she knew it was no dream. Her hearing was assaulted by the low velvet of his voice, deep, smokey, so much more physical than his voice in her dreams.

And then she noticed other details. The heavy velvet attire, still dusty from travelling, boots and the hem of his doublet dirty, rings and earcuffs, beads and braids in his hair, the slightly unkempt lower line of his beard, and Wren yelped and pressed her hands over her mouth.

The King was silent, watching her carefully, and she suddenly realised that just like her he had no words. All had been clear in her dreams, nothing was now.

"How?.." The one word fell off her lips, almost inaudible, and she then jumped out of her bed, for the first time in her life unconcerned with decorum, caring not that she was only dressed into a nightdress, and rushed to him.

She stopped in front of him, her knees almost touching his, and he winced away from her, still sitting in the armchair, and by the small jerk of his body she understood he was going to get up, but she had no time. She lowered her hand on his shoulder, and her palm met velvet and brocade, and she gave the shoulder two firm pats for good measure.

"You are… You are… here..."

"I am here," he whispered back, and she patted him again. There was even a sound when her palm met the material, and she noticed the heat coming off his body, and she shied away from him.

"What?... How?.."

"I am alive." He pronounced slowly, watching her face intently as if trying to see if she were joyous to hear it, but somehow she just could not believe it, and she stepped closer again and stretched her hand to him again. It was shaking violently, and she made a choked sound.

Her fingers brushed to the hair, and then the tips bumped into his ear. The coarse beard scraped on the heel of her palm, the second hand cupped his face as well, and then his face wavered, something snapped in him, and he grabbed her around her hips and pressed his face into her middle.

She thrashed in his arms, gulping air in short breaths, and pushing him away, and he released her immediately.

"No… What?... How?..." She was taking steps back from him, and he got up, lifting his hand in warning, but it was only harder for her to breathe, her knees were shaking, and she grabbed the bedpost for support. "What was it then?.. Was it all a joke? The Arkenstone, the Elves… Dain Ironfoot with his axe!.." Her voice was hysterical, she was almost screaming.

"No, Wren, please, listen to me..." She shook her head jerkily, a hiccup mixed with a sob fell from her lips.

"What was it all?.. I have done so much… I have been humiliated, injured… And all for… Nothing?!.."

"Wren, listen to me," his voice grew firmer, and he reached her. His scorching palm brushed at her shoulder, charring through the fabric of her dress, and she made another choked sound.

"Wren, I was dead. I have returned. You brought me back. Wren, ushaktul..." And on that appellation she broke, and with a loud wail she sank on the floor.


He was standing above her, his eyes burning feverishly, lips slightly parted, spasmodic exhales leaving them, and she saw his hands fist tightly. He looked lost, and she suddenly realised what she was doing.

He was here!

He was alive!

And breathing! In flesh!

She jerked, still on her knees, and grabbed his belt, pulling him down to her. He made a surprised snort like sound, but manners and propriety were the last thing she could think about at the moment. He fell on his knees as well, and she threw her arms around his neck and pressed into him.

It was vehemently different, and endlessly familiar, and so very much better than it felt in her dreams. She caught the familiar fragrance of the skin, and some new smells, of the road, and mountain air, and smoke from a fire, and leather from his scabbard, and she grabbed handfuls of his hair, heavier, silkier than she remembered, and she clenched her teeth, because she was not under any circumstances intending to cry! There was nothing to lament. He was alive.

Thorin Oakenshield was alive! And breathing in shallow breaths in her arms, and his hands were splayed on her back, and he buried his nose in her hair, and she sobbed, because how could she even control her tears now?

"You are alive..."

"I am alive..."

"Maiar help me..." And then she moved away, her eyes searched his face, it was still strangely tense, and she smiled widely to him through tears, large and unrestricted, running down her cheeks, and she giggled. "I hate Elves."


My writing blog:

kolmakov dot ca

You can find information on my upcoming book

CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER

(a novel inspired by my story on fanfiction dot net,

summary in my profile)

Release date on Amazon:

July 15, 2015

Available for Kindle pre-order now!

Visit my blog after pre-order to submit a request for your exclusive 1000+ word story!

There will be giveaways on Goodreads and Amazon!

I'll keep you posted!


Me Without You will soon be turned into an independent novel, and it will be fun to create my own fantasy world.

Come on this journey with me on my blog!


Find and follow me on Twitter: katyakolmakov

Hashtag for "convince me the winter is over" is #convincemewinter

Let's make it happen, my duckies!