Thorin closes his eyes, his cheek pressed to the soft skin of the healer, his body tired and sated. He is listening to her strong beating heart, the smell of her skin and some flowery fragrance mix and cloud his mind. Her breathing is light, and the sleep takes him.

There are no dreams, no nightmares. For the first time in his life his mind is in accordance, he feels whole and content. She is his, she has submitted to him, her body supple and tender. His competitiveness and possessiveness are mollified, he is mostly worried how he performed, but he is ecstatic, she obviously enjoyed him. She is so small and fragile, but also strong and responsive. He has seen how she looks at him, and he hopes it is azyungel, and for him it is all or nothing, black and white, the world is simple, and she is his.

And he will wake up in the morning, and she will be in his hands, and she will smile to him, and damn traditions, and he is taking her to Erebor, and will marry her, and even if there are no children, he feels whole for the first time in his life.

Something warm and loving strokes his face, tickles his nose, and he smiles in his sleep. He found his azyungel, his love, his heart, his yasith. She will be his, and he will be hers. Thorin sleeps, arms wrapped around the small body of his red haired healer, after the first of many nights, and his heart is at ease.