In Time

Chapter Three

Fiery pain jolted Thorin from a restless sleep plagued with strange and somewhat violent dreams. The fire in his belly reminded him of the glow in the belly of Smaug the Terrible as he drew in breath to unleash a fireball upon Erebor.

He emerged from the thick soup of lucid dreams and pain medicine slowly, blinking his way back into semi-consciousness. His entire body was one excruciating pain, fire and ice combining to make him numb, but still able to feel everything at the same time.

Nothing looked familiar. Night had fallen, but small torches in gold sconces flickered gently to cast a buttery warm light along the white walls around him. A light breeze sent long white draperies fluttering, and when it swept along his face, it was cool and almost comforting.

Had he died? Somehow, he thought he'd see his father. His grandfather. His younger brother. They should all be there, waiting for him. Fili should be there. Kili as well, perhaps. They were to greet him in the Halls of Mandos, where he would sit beside his father, but he saw no one around at all.

A hint of panic fluttered in his gut. Had he been denied access due to his cowardice at Erebor, when he refused to assist the Iron Hill dwarves in their fight? When he failed his own people by causing the battle to commence to begin with? His obsession with the Arkenstone nearly lead to the ruination of the Erebor dwarves who remained loyal to him, and he'd failed them as well.

He tried to stretch aching muscles, only to have fire erupt in his side. A cold sweat prickled all over his body. His gut roiled. He was going to—

Somehow, he gritted through the pain, through the fire, and managed to roll onto his side as he vomited. The splash against the floor brought up even more from his stomach, and he couldn't hold back his low moan of agony as he fought to remain conscious.

"Easy."

He couldn't see who'd spoken, but a gentle hand came to rest at the back of his head. That hand stroked his hair, as a mother might do for her sick child, and her voice was silver and quiet as she said, "Worry not. It is perfectly normal."

He coughed. He gagged. And when there was nothing left to come up, he sank back against the pillow, fighting to breathe and not wanting to at the same time. It simply hurt far too much. He swallowed hard, grimacing at the vile taste in his mouth. "Thirsty," was all he could whisper.

"Of course." The hand on his head vanished and the voice faded somewhat as she said, "Jassin, please clean up the mess."

"Of course, Amara."

Amara. Her name was Amara.

His head ached as if he'd been on a three-day bender and it hurt too much to try to focus on anything, so he let his eyes close. His side burned so fiercely, but when he tried to lift his arm to probe at the source of the burn, it trembled so badly, he couldn't hold it up. Instead, his arm flopped limply alongside his hip.

The hand was on his hair once more. The voice was as soothing as a balm. "Try not to sit up," she said, "and small sips only. You do not wish it to all come back up again."

He nodded slowly, and a drinking straw touched his bottom lip. Although he tried to adhere to small sips, he was beyond parched. He swallowed a large mouthful of something sweet, coughed, gagged, and a moment later, it all came rushing back up.

"Easy," Amara whispered, although he heard some exasperation in her voice. "Perhaps next time, you will listen."

"I—I beg your pardon," he managed to whisper. His throat was so sore, so painfully dry, and his chapped lips stung.

"There is no need for that." There came the soft swish of fabric and he wondered if she stepped aside for a servant to clean up the mess. The drinking straw touched his lips again and Amara cautioned, "Small sips."