I never thought I'd be back here, but then I woke up this morning and realised how much I miss Thorin, and Wren, and my fandom self! I don't know if anyone still reads Hobbit FF these days, but the joy I'm getting out of writing it might be just worth it, even if no one reads it.

If you're one of my former readers, this is going to be the CLASSIC Thowren story, with giggles, and guffaws, and fluff - because it's 2021 and we all need it!

Wren put the last bowl onto the cloth near the sink and wiped her hands on her apron. She dried up the soap, and was rinsing the brush, when a loud knock came to her front door. She threw a quick look towards the bedchamber, but no noise came from there. Hopefully, Mira wouldn't wake up. Wren quickly came up to the door, picking up a small hatchet from near the wood burner.

"Who is it?" she asked without touching the door.

"Honourable healer, this is Bert, Bert Dogwood, from the town. Please, open."

The Man was familiar, Wren had treated his wife and children. Still, she passed the hatchet into her left hand, no less deft than her right one, and opened the door a crack. The Man wasn't alone. Supported under his right arm, a Dwarf half hung in his grasp.

"He's wounded!" the Man said, and Wren jerked the door open. The Man stepped inside, dragging the Dwarf after him. "We were ambushed on the road."

"Bring him to the table," Wren ordered, rushing to the stove to start boiling water. She could see blood dripping on the floor from the Dwarf's left arm. "Not the tall one," she barked to the man over her shoulder. "The one by the wall."

She opened the cupboard, pulled out the tools, and threw them into the pot, quickly warming up on the stove. The Dwarf rasped something, while being hoisted onto the table.

"Take off his cloak and the mail," Wren continued ordering, while scrubbing her hands.

"We were travelling, and then some bandits jumped out of the bushes," the Man continued muttering. "He killed them all, but–"

Wren finally had a good look at her patient. He was indeed a Dwarf, not old, but not a youngling either. He had long dark hair, with braids and beads in it, just as all of his race. His beard was surprisingly short and unadorned. Wren wondered distractedly, while her hands worked on the clasps of his garments and examined his body, whether it meant that he was of a low stature, since his whole appearance seemed rather unembellished, although the velvet of his doublet, and his boots were clearly of an excellent quality.

The Dwarf groaned, and his eyes opened slowly. They were of the most stunning blue colour. Wren had expected them to be brown to match the colouring of his heavy waves.

"Where– where am I?" His voice was thick.

"I brought you to a healer, Master Dwarf," the Man answered. Wren glanced at him and saw him backing up to the door. "I'll go… I'm tardy already, the wife's waiting, and–"

"Where's– my sword?" the Dwarf asked, and it looked as if he was intending to rise.

"Stay!" Wren pressed her hand into his healthy right shoulder.

His gaze shifted onto her.

"It's– here. I picked up your weapons," the Man muttered and pointed at a wide Dwarven sword and a walking axe on the floor by the door. "I'll go– He'll pay you," he said to Wren. "He has silver, so don't hesitate to charge him," he added, in a sudden bout of concern for her, and Wren snorted.

"I won't, Master Dogwood, worry not," she said, and her eyes met the Dwarf's. "I'll poke him with a blade if he doesn't pay up."

The Dwarf raised one eyebrow, and Wren couldn't help but notice that he could hardly be considered unappealing in the eyes of any race.

"I won't," she whispered to him in a feigned conspiratory tone. "I've given the healers' oath."

"That's reassuring," he murmured.

Now that he regained control of his voice, a low velvet baritone replaced his previously scratchy rasp. The door banged behind the Man, and Wren shook her head.

"You'd expect less squeamishness from a butcher," she muttered.

There was a deep, wide wound on the Dwarf's left shoulder and his right thigh, quickly reddening bruises bloomed all over his torso, but his brigandine seemed to have protected him from any other lacerations. Wren brought over her clean tools, balms, and gauzes, and started on his thigh. This cut concerned her more than his shoulder that she'd hastily secured with a temporary bandage. While she worked, she could feel him study her.

"What is your name, honourable healer?" he asked.

"Wren," she answered.

"Is it not customary for people of Bree to have a family name as well?" he asked.

"I'm not from around here," Wren answered grudgingly.

He seemed to have understood her reluctance and didn't press.

"Would you like to sit up?" she asked when it was time to treat his shoulder. "Most of my male patients do not quite enjoy being helplessly spread on my table."

He chuckled and nodded. She grabbed him under his healthy arm and helped him up. She saw him cringe.

"Does it hurt to breathe?" she asked, and he nodded again.

Wren appreciated that - unlike most Men - he didn't play down or hide his symptoms. That surely made her labours so much easier. His gaze felt on his trousers she'd cut to reach his leg.

"Would it be possible for me to borrow your husband's clobber?" he asked. "The man was right, I do have silver, and I'll pay double."

"I do not have a husband," she blurted out, and her hands froze on the hem of his tunic, the last layer of clothing left on his torso.

She internally cursed her innate inability to keep her mouth shut. There was a pause, she didn't dare to lift her eyes and pulled at the shirt. It was off, and she started to clean his wound.

"I just presumed there would be a man," he said, "since there's a child."

Wren whipped her face up and met his eyes. He smirked and pointed to the left with his eyes. On the window sill, Mira's doll and a wooden toy horse were hiding among the pots of her medicinal herbs. Wren dropped her eyes.

"I'm a widow," she gave him her habitual lie.

He made a low noise in his throat, and Wren peeked. There was humour dancing in his eyes, and suddenly Wren's cheeks flushed with blush.

"I am! He was a merchant in Enedwaith, and there was an altercation with the Wildmen, and–" She trailed away.

"Ah, Enedwaith," he drew out. "I was wondering about your timbre."

"Aye," she answered. "I do have a lover, though," she added hastily. "He's in town, drinking in an inn." She aimed for an irritated tone, which she presumed women had when speaking of a disagreeable paramour. "He'll be back soon."

She didn't get a chance to see if the Dwarf believed her clumsy attempt to appear taken and protected.

"Mother!" Mira's voice came from the room. "Mother?"

Wren's hands twitched on the Dwarf's skin.

"I'm with a patient!" she shouted towards the bedchamber. The girl knew she was to stay there on such an occasion. "I can mend your trousers and your tunic," she then said to the Dwarf. "It'll cost you more, obviously."

"That's quite alright," he answered, a tinge of amusement colouring his tone. "Would it be possible for me to stay here for the night?" he asked. "Or several."

Wren could hold back a startle only because she was holding a surgical needle in her hand.

"Why?" she asked. "There's an excellent inn in the town. The Prancing Pony."

"The one where your lover is currently wetting his whistle?"

Wren considered jabbing the needle into his prominent shoulder muscle with just a bit less finesse than her skill allowed, but reminded herself of the oath. She gave him an exasperated look, and saw him press the corners of his lips, hiding a smirk.

"Aye, exactly that inn," she grumbled.

"I'd rather let myself heal here," he answered.

"Who are you hiding from?" she asked nonchalantly.

It was his turn to twitch - although perhaps, it was her repeatedly running a thick needle and a silk thread through his flesh that made him jump up a tad. Altogether, Wren noticed with unprofessional appreciation, he withstood her efforts most valiantly. She was used to dealing with men whinging about the smallest of ailments, or mumbling in embarrassment about a lover's disease or two that they'd picked up in a local brothel. Patching up a man who was clearly a warrior in his prime, easy on the eyes, and not without certain charm, was a novelty.

"I'd rather not tell," he said, while she was tying a knot at the end of the thread. "In case you think the price on my head is sweeter than the silver in my pouch."

Wren stepped back from him and looked him over sarcastically.

"I could just bleed you out or poison you with my draughts, and then I can have both," she said and walked to the shelf with jars of medicine. She picked up a parchment envelope with the willow bark, cat's claw, and curcumin powder. "Here."

He tilted his head and smirked lop-sidedly.

"Didn't you just threaten me with poison?" he said, took the envelope, and emptied it in his mouth.

Wren handed him a mug of water, which he drank greedily.

"You can stay for a few days," she said with a sigh. "I have no stables, and there's only one bedchamber, but I can arrange a bed for you here."

She gestured over the low, wide bench that served her as a surgical table. It would be too short for a Man, but would suffice for him. She refrained from mentioning it, though, unsure whether his kind had any sort of negative feelings towards their height. She herself was unusually short for a Rohirrim, never reaching the size beyond that of a thirteen year old, and found it most inconvenient.

"I do have some male clothes here," she added. "I'll bring them to you, and will wash and mend yours. But again, you'll have to be generous."

She wiped her hands and stretched her open right palm to him. A coin bag was sewn to the inside of the waist of his trousers, and he placed several pieces of silver into her hand. Wren exhaled in relief. He was being generous - and she was in dire need of it.

A shirt and a pair of trousers that she'd so cunningly placed on a hook near the door travelled into his arms.

"So, your lover is half Elf," he said, lifting the trousers in the air, in all their enormous length. "And half child," he added and shook the shirt in the air.

Wren huffed in irritation. She'd picked up the garments on a peddler's cart without much consideration.

She jerked the shirt out of his hand, and said, "You'll have to just put on your doublet for now, I suppose. And roll up the trousers," she added venomously.

His left eyebrow jumped up sardonically. Wren turned around sharply and marched to the basin to wash her hands.

"My name is Thorin, son of Thrain," he said behind her.

"Honour to meet you," Wren answered and turned to him. "Let's find you an eiderdown, Thorin, son of Thrain."

He gave her a soft smile, and Wren shook her head. In any other circumstances, she wouldn't risk allowing a man into her home, but she hardly had much choice these days. She needed his silver. She also tended to be a good judge of character, and he seemed to be a person of honour. There was a chance her aggressors would be back before she was packed and ready to leave. Perhaps, the presence of an intimidating Dwarf would deter them, at least for a bit.