Wake up. Someone needs to see you better. And it's not me or Elyse.

I groaned, feeling the pain that shot up through me as I slowly gained conscious. I was treading between the dream world and the real one; in the dream one, I was back on Earth, painting a huge picture of -strangely enough- the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. The real one consisted of a flurry of movement, probably because I had made some noise. Someone grabbed my hand, their calloused fingers gripping mine so tightly that I felt my fingers go numb, and then lips were pressed against my knuckles, which were probably the only things left not bandaged on my arms. They moved and I had regained just enough conscious to understand them, though I couldn't hear their voice.

"Thank Mahal."

Wake up.

Another wave of pain made me jerk and I gulped at the air greedily. Shit. It just hurts so bad. I had always considered myself as a person with a high pain tolerance; some nights, after a field hockey game, I would find bruises the size of my hands where the ball had struck me and I hadn't even noticed it. But this was so much different than that. The Warg had done sufficient damage to my leg and the skin along my arms had been ripped off when it had dragged me. Everywhere burned as if someone was taking a torch and brushing the flame along me. My leg itself felt strange, like someone had took a knife and was stabbing it along where I could assume that the Warg's teeth had sank into me.

The movement around me increased and I was just aware of a few shadows leaning over me, speaking gibberish as they passed about something between them. The hand that was holding mine tightened and the owner barked out a few words. More words were exchanged between the person holding my hand and the shadows that were over me, though there was another voice in the background speaking as well. They were arguing.

Someone needs to see you better.

A gasp escaped me as rag was pressed to my leg, soaked with some liquid. I hissed as I arched, squeezing the hand that was holding mine to try and relieve some of my pain. I was more than surprised when they squeezed back and moved closer to whisper in my ear. Their words were clipped but I caught fragments. "Winifred, everything.... It's alright, I.... Shh. I am here." And more surprising was that I knew their voice, but couldn't place it through all the pain.

"My Queen," someone else said and I struggled to focus upon their blurry face. "You must drink this. It shall help you feel better."

Somehow I managed to drink the stuff. It was absolutely disgusting and I had to resist the urge to puke the entire four seconds that I was drinking it. In a way, the concoction reminded me of liquid, expired, and moldy cheese; not saying that I've ever drank anything like that, but it tasted so much like cheese. And I love cheese. I just don't like moldy cheese. By the time that they were pulling the drink away, I was coughing, struggling to keep it down. A wooziness swept over me and I leaned back onto the pillow that was behind me for some reason.

And it's not me or Elyse.

The next thing I remember is opening my eyes. There was no only any pain, thank goodness, and what was there was a small numbness that I could easily forget about. Groggily I sat up and blinked a free times, stretching as I looked about the room I was in. It was simple but contained beauty with a large, elegant wooden mantle and fireplace that was resting on one of the walls. Stones, colored in different shades of gray, fitted like puzzle pieces into a wall that was comforting and eased me slightly. A mirror was hung in the far corner of the room. The only picture in the room appeared to be the one of the gorgeous oil painting of a white flower. The bed that I was in was possibly the most richest one that I had ever seen. The pillows behind me were soft, definitely the softest that I had ever lain against, and the covers over my felt like silk underneath my fingers. With a smile, I ran my hand over it, marveling at how it felt, and almost jumped out of my skin when I touched something that was not soft.

Mumbling a soft curse, I scrambled away from the thing, just managing to stifle my scream as half of my body almost fell off the other side of the bed. Panting, I leaned up to see who was laying on my bed.

At first, all I could focus on was black hair. Curls fanned out across the covers and I realized that was what I had felt; the hair had been coarse, thick. Streaks of gray ran through it and I recognized who it was. Again, I found myself smiling as I slowly and carefully leant forward, moving a few strands of long hair to reveal his face.

When he was sleeping and all the stress wasn't affecting him, Thorin Oakenshield looked several years younger than what he normally did. He seemed peaceful and relaxed. Like his entire race wasn't relying upon him to regain their homeland. Like he wasn't being pressured. Like he could actually live a normal life in Middle-Earth that didn't have orcs, Wargs, trolls, or anything else that could harm him. Like he wasn't the King of Erebor. Rather cute, small snores were escaping through him and it caused a small smile to grow across my face.

I sighed softly as I brushed the last of his bangs away from his face as I began to shuffle out of the bed myself. I ignored the pain that was jolting up through my leg as I moved and the stinging that rested in my arms where they had been bandaged. Once I had gotten to my feet, limping, I stood in front of the mirror in the room. In surprise, I leaned forward, running my hand over my grimy cheeks. They were paler than I usually was and my eyes seemed to have lost the little sparkle that they always had. Even my hair seemed to look dirty and glossy, something that wasn't normally noticeable with my black hair. The blue dress I still had on was ripped along the arms and half the skirt was torn. I couldn't help but to giggle, looking down at my bare feet and wiggling my toes tiredly.

There was no way that I was going to walk around dressed like this. I glanced around the room, wondering if there could possibly be anything that I could change into, and was somewhat surprised to see that there was. A fiery red dress, designed with orange swirls, laid across a dresser with a white bowl of water resting beside it. My black boots were right below, clearly worn through the slightly ripped material at the bottom.

I picked up the dress by the shoulders to hold it up after I had spent a little while washing my face off as silently as I could without waking Thorin. Red, frilly skirts fell with a small ruffling noise as gravity caught it. Another smile grew across my face. This was a dress fit for a Queen. Once again, the fabric was soft -definitely not ripped and torn beyond repair like the blue dress I was currently wore- and small swirls of orange ran up the sleeves of the dress that hung loosely. A thin orange belt was about the waist and the collar was like a rectangle, which would reveal all of my collarbone and probably some cleavage... but it was so pretty. I absolutely adored the skirt; it was long and the orange swirls there reminded me of fire almost. It would be such a shame not to wear it....

Pursing my lips, I looked over my shoulder to look at Thorin, who was still snoring softly on the bed. At one point he must have pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and had apparently fallen asleep while he watched over me or something. Which was slightly creepy, but sweet at the same time. Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, had been making sure that I was okay.

But I wasn't changing in front of him, even if he was asleep. Which was why I found myself in a small, empty and dark closest not even three minutes later.

It took me near thirty minutes to actually change into that dress; between technical difficulties of removing the first one without pulling away any bandages, pulling on the other one that was slightly tighter than I had first thought proved to be hard through the pain and numbness I was experiencing. A couple of times I found myself mumbling insults as I adjusted the red dress so I was more comfortable. It wasn't unbearably right, it was just not what I was used too after wearing loose fitting clothes for almost two months.

However, as I smoothed down the fabric that was bunched on my hips, I couldn't help but to feel... sexy. This new dress was snug and it wasn't like I didn't have anything to show off. I double checked what I could see and gathered my blue dress up in my arms before opening the door and peeking through.

Thorin still hadn't woken up, to my disbelief. He must be pretty wore out, I thought softly to myself as I folded my ruin dress to place it on the bed after I had made it up. I was still debating what to do with him -should I just leave him or wake him up- when I noticed what was lying beside his hand.

Instantly I recognized the book that Balin had given to me when I had asked about a sketchbook. It was a rather durable book and I had been very happy when I discovered that it seemed to survive through many different environments without messing up any of my works. Balin had enjoyed giving me things to express myself through, saying that everyone needed an outlet and that was perfectly fine with me taking one of his books, as long as I returned the favor by showing him what I did. Ori had figured out what I had in my book when I had been showing Balin one of the pages and the young dwarf had practically fainted when he found that I could draw. He, too, was a fellow artist; he had squealed when he had looked through my sketchbook. Ori was a good artist too, though he claimed that mine were so much better.

As quietly as I could I sat down beside Thorin, reaching out to gently pull my sketchbook away. His hand twitched slightly at the contact before he shifted a little and I froze, watching as he grunted and then just rolled over in his sleep. A smile pulled at my lips; he must be tired. As his adorable little snores continued, I began to flip through my sketchbook.

The book that Balin had given me was rather thick. The first few pages were what I considered as junk; it was me experimenting with the new utensil that I had gotten to draw with and were ridiculous sketches that were mostly smudged. After that, the real art began. These had been the pages that Ori had adored to no end. Most of them were just scenes that I had sketched out of the dwarves at camp, like Oin and Gloin crouched over the beginnings of a fire and Dwalin sharpening his weapons to perfection. There were a few action shots that I had drawn; what I had guess as a Warg that Gloin had described to me was running in one and, in another one, Bilbo was making faces as he pulled on Myrtle's reins. A few nature scenes randomly appeared as well, smeared to perfection.

There was only one picture that I couldn't remember drawing. I had done portraits of myself, but here, when I didn't have the technology to take pictures with, I had never ventured to doing so. But, at the very end, a crude sketch of me was there. My gaze flickered up to the dwarf King that was still sleeping on my bed and, even though I had never seen Thorin's writing before, I knew that the neat, practiced swirl at the bottom was his.

Again my eyes lifted to his sleeping face and a smile stretched across my lips. I found myself leaning down after a few seconds, placing a gentle kiss upon his forehead. My lips probably lingered longer than necessary which was most likely why he stirred just a little. His forehead crinkled and his brows knitted together, his nostrils flaring as his right hand clenched beside me, fisting with the blankets of the bed. He didn't even have to be awake and I found myself blushing furiously at being caught even though he wasn't even awake.