A/N: This one is pure angst. I was sad. No humour or glee here at all. Make an informed choice whether to read it.

Thorin does not have dreams. He has nightmares. They come rarely, when he is overtired or apprehensive, and then the old battles replay in his mind. The Battle of Azanulbizar, his brother's and grandfather's deaths, the fight with the Pale Orc, the Battle of Five Armies, and multitude of others, hundreds of scars covering his body, they return and, ever changing, they torment him in endless repetitions, their resolutions always different and elusive. Sometimes he seems to save Frerin, sometime Thror, but he always ends up with a blooded corpse in his hands. There is always a funeral pyre. Sometimes Fili and Kili are on it. His dreams are short, more flashes than actual occurrences, but he wakes up, cold sweat on his forehead, fists clenched, palms clammy. He lies and stares at the ceiling, willing his breathing to slow down.

The first dream he has that does not make him wake up with a jerk grasping for his dagger under the pillow happens when he is awaiting the memorable autumnal equinox in Erebor. He returns to his chambers after a long day of coordinating renovations, reviewing treaties, overseeing the construction of a new passage, and he falls in his bed, so exhausted that a thought of getting up and undressing is inconceivable. He falls into deep slumber before he can feel his breath bounce off the pillow, and that is the night when it comes.

The red haired healer is sprawled on a field with some purple flowers bobbing their heads in a soft summer breeze. The unruly curls are splayed among the flowers. She turns her smiling face to him, and he wakes up. There is no spasmodic movement, he just opens his eyes and sees the blackness around him. It is probably just after midnight. For a second he does not understand, and then he quickly closes his eyes again, hoping she will come back.

She does not, and he forgets about it, Erebor busily hustling around him. He barks orders, argues with Balin, encourages and teaches Fili and Kili, and orders chambers to be prepared for her. No one questions his command, and he even feels that Dwalin and Balin approve of the upcoming changes. He chooses chambers in the same passage as his, contemptuously daring any Dwarf to challenge him. No one does.

The next dream comes when he falls asleep in his study, having dropped his head on his arms, his plate with unfinished dinner propped on a pile of papers covering his table. The healer is moving in front of him, they are in the Northern passages of Erebor, and she is laughing. He stretches his palm towards her, but she turns around yet another corner, every time her skirts and strands just an inch away from his greedy hand. And then he presses her body into the wall, and wakes up. Again, he just opens his eyes and stares at the wall of his study.

The feeling of her body locked between him and the cold stone is so vivid that it feels he can clench his hand and his palm will meet her warm skin. He sits up, closes his eyes and tries to bring the feeling back. Then he shakes his head, feeling like a fool. He blows out the candle and goes to bed. He buries his face in the pillow and stubbornly does not hope for another dream.

It comes, hot and lustful, her burning body writhing underneath him, her nails clawing at his shoulders, loud moans and wide open eyes with immense black pupils. He wakes up with a groan and an arduous erection. Almost against his will his hand moves to his shaft, and when his hand encircles it he closes his eyes in shame. He feels that she probably would not enjoy being a crude fantasy for such crass act of self-gratification. But his hand starts moving and in second a violent release shakes his body, never before his hand bringing him so much pleasure. He is gasping for air and the muscles in his abdomen are trembling. He cleans up and decides to never think of it again.

The next night she is straddling him, her firm little buttocks fitting in his palms perfectly, and he stares at her throat, her head dropped back. It is just a flash, her pale delicate throat, and he wakes up and comes within seconds.

After that he gives up his attempts to abandon the repugnant addiction, and welcomes the dreams. As little practical experience as he has, that one night gave him enough material, his imagination filling in the gaps. He learns that imagining her mouth on his cock will leave him more satisfied, while thinking of taking her roughly from behind will bring the release faster.

Sometimes he wonders what she does to relieve the fever, and whether she even feels the same torturous hunger. She had lovers before, she told him while her deft fingers were working on the small buttons on the collar of his tunic. She screamed into his face that there was only one when he accused her of wantonness. Does she think about him when she needs to alleviate the craving? He has nothing but her body to think of, and sometimes he feels like crushing and breaking everything in his chambers from the ache and the starvation he feels. Does she alternate between her memories of him and the other when her fingers are stroking her hot folds?

Sometimes he hates her. Her smiling eyes, soft lips, the small hands with surprisingly strong fingers. He feels trapped, crippled, helpless. He can make her stay with him, he already convinced her, she promised. He somehow does not doubt her word, almost not believing his own trust in her himself. He just needs to wait till the equinox, and he will go and take her.

She will be in those chambers, and he can go and see her any time he wants. Touch her, press her into sheets, seize her, feel powerful again. Sometimes he just wants to scream and smash every dish into a wall.

Sometimes the dreams are light, sunny, she is sitting on a bench, and her delicate fingers are braiding flowers into her plait. He saw her doing it when she was attending to his warriors. He was leaving the infirmary and ran into her, the brown eyes flew wide and she gave him a nervous smile. Her fingers were fluttering through the flaming curls, and with a sudden clarity he saw a pulse frantically beating on the side of her neck.

He was pressing his mouth to that spot again and again that night, his hands grabbing her shoulders. Was he hurting her then? Probably. The next morning he saw angry bruises all over her body. The teeth marks, the prints of his fingers on her smooth skin, the purple and red on her white. He felt a scorching wave of shame licking the back of his neck, but she smiled into his eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck. How can she be so trusting and forgiving?

He hates that he does not understand her. In his mind people are simple, good or evil, honourable or vile, cowards or warriors. She is like water you try to scoop from a river. The blush on her cheeks he saw when she would walk into a room and did not expect to see him there, the lustful screams and arched back when he was thrusting into her, her lips pressed in indignation when he was unfair to a warrior in front of her, the same lips wrapped around his cock, big brown eyes closed from, Mohal forgive, pleasure of sucking on him… The picture is etched in his brain of her long black lashes lying under her eyes in thick soft shadows, while her lips are moving, soft moans in her throat sending waves of almost painful pleasure through his shaft, and then the brown eyes fly open and staring at him she sneaks out her pink tongue out of those lips and it swirls around his head.

He grasps his cock and silences his doubts, his fears, his insecurity. He imagines her warm arms around his neck, her strong limber legs hugging his waist, her eyes guileless and ardent and his name on her lips. There are fourteen days left till the autumnal equinox.