garden flourished. She was responsible for nearly all the healing herbs being grown for the population of Erebor and Dale. During the day she wandered through the streets of Dale, aiding those that were sick or had been injured in the continuous efforts to see the city rebuilt to what it once was before the wrath of Smaug. She always had a tale for the children, a song to sing at feasts, and a smile that could keep the coldest of winters at bay.

All loved the fairy. Even the dwarves who were extraordinarily suspicious of outsiders, especially outsiders with pointy ears. Thorin had made her his queen, not through marriage or ceremony, but by choice alone and none dared to challenge his rule for they knew she was already the queen of a race that had all but disappeared.

While she was amongst the people it was easy to forget her noble title and birth.

The realm prospered and the alliance with Thranduil steadily grew stronger. Elves from Mirkwood were ever present within the mountain, whether it be for trade, diplomatic affairs, or to partake in a seasonal feast and celebratory occasion. The Elvenking himself made an appearance upon receiving a raven detailing that there was going to be a feast thrown in honor of Erebor's queen.

She often wrote to Bilbo, yet for all her letters she only received a handful in response. He was busy writing a book about the details of his unexpected adventure and for that, she could not hold be mad. Books were a precious thing that should be cherished for ages. In fact, she could not wait until she received a letter saying it was finished, he had promised she would be the first to read it.

Another year passed and then another until slowly the years melded together into something uninterrupted. "Durin's Day is to be upon us once more." Arethusa turned back to look at Thorin, she pressed her hand against his cheek and smiled with only her eyes. Twenty Durin's Days had passed since Erebor had been retaken and the years were beginning to appear on Thorin's features. His hair that had once been black as a starless night had streaks of silvery grey running through it and his beard as well and the skin around his eyes had begun to show deep set wrinkles that she liked to believe were caused by smiling so much.

She, however, looked no different from the day they had first met at Bag End with the exception of her hair. What had once been ashen brown was now snow white. Her death in the Battle of Five Armies had been a rebirth, Ilúvatar had sent her back at a price. Gandalf had told her that she was mortal now, yet she would retain the lifespan of a Númenórean which was still abnormally long in comparison to a dwarf's or even a hobbit's. The moment she realized Thorin had taken her heart was the moment she also knew that she would see him die like so many others had, and she would fade, slowly throughout the remaining years, she had been granted.

The King under the Mountain woke to an empty bed and instantly sensed his queen's troublesome thoughts. It was late, the fire in the hearth had died down tremendously but she had tired the embers and added two more logs. She was sitting in front of the hearth, a pelt of fur wrapped around her shoulders and nothing else. The jeweled and silver beads in her hair reflected the fire's warm light as it kissed and licked at her bare skin. "Arethusa, come back to bed." She stood and glided across the cool stone floor to rejoin Thorin.

Arethusa had gone to the ramparts. She frequented that part of the mountain often, looking out over the lake and Dale to the world beyond. It always saddened Thorin as he watched her stare longingly for what lay pass the mountain halls. He had lost count of the offers he had made of traveling. Duty overruled her sense of self-preservation and soon it became apparent to those who had known her longest that her hair did not shine the same, nor did her eyes gleam, warmth had all but left her touch. She was beginning to fade away into the depths of a mountain kingdom of which she did not belong. "I need to see the world again."

Thorin slipped his fingers through hers on the stone railing and pressed her forehead into her shoulder, "I understand," he breathed, he had long told her that they would fly to wherever she wished, whenever she wished it. She was his kingdom and he would not lose her.

"Thorin, you do not have to accompany me," Arethusa turned but remained trapped between his arms, her fingertips combed through the silvery beard that even now was kept short, "The kingdom needs you. I'll be safe," she said.

"I know, but I will follow you, ghivashel." The endearment still brought color to her cheeks, "Fili has been prepared to ascend to the throne ever since I fell sick that winter. I shall pass my crown to him and we may fly."

"Name where you wish to go and we'll see it done," Thorin held her face in his hands. Home, she wanted to say, I want to go home, though she couldn't be sure where that was anymore. Maybe it wasn't a place, maybe it was a person, yet still, she longed for her brothers and her mother. The King under the Mountain kissed her fairy's forehead and took her back to their chambers. It would be a busy time until they could leave. The announcement had been simple and the preparations minimal. Fili would ascend to the throne in a fortnight and during the feast, the old king and his queen would be on their way to see the world under the cloak of night.

They had gone as far as Rivendell where Elrond opened his home and hearth to the dwarf king and fairy queen. The stay had been short, but a true reprieve, his fairy blossomed into herself again surrounded by the flowers and wilderness of Elrond's domain. On starless nights, Thorin would play the harp, and on more than one occasion he had drawn an audience. Arwen, Elladan, Elrohir, and even Elrond were surprised by the graceful talent that came from a race so commonly thought to be brutish.

On days they were not out riding or enjoying the river and falls, Arethusa still tried to teach Thorin elvish. It was a hopeless task, though, he could repeat the phrases perfectly then no remember what they meant an hour later. The only two phrase he was certain of the meaning was nalyë melmenya, which Arethusa had told him meant 'you are my love,' the other was áni mahta ve mahtat macil, the meaning of which still made him flush.

Under Balin's tutelage, she had become fluent in the sacred dwarvish language, something Thorin still admired. He recalled when she was first learning, once she had called him a chicken, another time she had called him a lover before the attendants of an autumn feast. She had blushed so prettily but it was no secret, everyone laughed at her blunder and she had to laugh as well.

It was their last morning in Rivendell, by noon they were meant to depart with a host of elves that would see them to the border of Mirkwood. He woke before Arethusa, which was not uncommon, though she stirred when the warm weight of his arm disappeared. The fairy sat up, clutching the bedsheet to her chest as she watched Thorin ready for the day. Despite age, he still retained the corded muscles in his back and arms, evidence from long years wielding box hammer and sword.

Arethusa slipped silently from the bed and slipped her arms around Thorin, she nuzzled her cheek into his back and he held her hands against his torso. The mirror's reflection showed them both smiling, unabashedly. As they always were and as they always should be.

⌘⌘⌘

The winter had been exceptionally harsh, snow blanketed the mountain and threatened to bury them within, but winter had faded into another spring and with it came more sickness than she had ever witnessed. Her trips to Dale to pass out tonics and brews had become a daily occurrence but ceased altogether when Thorin fell sick. The winter fever from decades earlier had been just that, a fever, but this, this was the work of all the dark things in the land. It was the beginning of the end.

Arethusa instructed her novice healers to continue treating those in Dale and the sick within the mountain but she would not leave Thorin's side, day or night she was with him. His cough was speckled with blood, it pained him to eat or drink, now it was only a matter of time. On one eve he tried to give her back the silver necklace that bore the third silmarils, but she would not take it. Arethusa had curled his hand around the white gem and said it analogous to her heart. It belonged to him, just as the key to the mountain belonged to her.

On the eighth night, he slipped off the ring that Arethusa often wore on two fingers and held it in her hand to take. She took the ring from his hand and tied it on the leather thong around her neck that bore the key of Erebor. He knew just as well as she did that the end was drawing near. The fairy kissed him over and over and it would never be enough, but she wouldn't let him see her tears.

"Fly, ghivashel, fly as you were meant to do." I can't fly you foolish dwarf, I let them take my wings so I could have you, she wanted to tell him that yet she didn't have the heart to remind him of her sacrifice. "Thorin," she croaked while laying her hands upon his scarred chest, she called upon the energy within her, the same power that she had saved him once with but he pushed her hands away. He had done so over and over again when she tried to heal him over the past week. She had saved him from death once, she hadn't a doubt in her mind that she could do it again and then a hundred more times if it meant she got to keep him with her for another year.

"I am old now, for two-hundred-and-forty-seven years I have walked this earth. I have suffered. I have lost. I have gained. I have laughed and sang and I have loved. I could ask for nothing more." And I have known more than five thousand years and have known you for less than a hundred. He placed his hand on her cheek, running his thumb over the silver scar that remained from battles long past, "Please, Thorin," she pressed her face under his chin and gripped onto his woolen tunic, "please don't leave me. Don't leave me in this world alone."

He couldn't bear the thought of making her a promise he couldn't keep. Tiredly, he ran his fingers through her silver-white hair and twisted the braid and bead that symbolized their marriage around his forefinger. "Do not linger here and let your spirit fade. Fly my fairy. Fly ghivashel," he meant for her to leave, to be the wanderess he had first met at Bag End. "Nalyë melmenya," Thorin whispered.

"Amralizi," she replied.

Arethusa laid at his side for the night, listening to the slow and forced beat of his heart, but was still there, still with her. She was terrified to sleep for when she awoke he could be lost to her, yet the week of endless care had left her exhausted. Thorin smiled against her lips when she kissed him and held her as close as his strength would allow. The fairy didn't want to sleep, she fought the urge and need, but her will was not enough. Come morning light, when Arethusa Orendottir woke, her king had passed on. The entire mountain echoed with her wailing grief.

áni mahta ve mahtat macil (Quenya): Wield me as you do your sword.

Nalyë melmenya (Quenya): You are my love.

Amralizi (Khuzdul): I love you.