there's an inn, there's an inn, there's a merry old inn beneath an old gray hill
She was drawn to the sound of music, much too hard and much too loud to be beautiful, knowing she would not like what she found. She had seen Gandalf, had heard the muted whispers of the dwarves that were being housed. But she was a moth flying toward the flame, yearning for the light it could just barely see, knowing she would burn in the end.
The years had weathered him, speckled gray in his dark hair, carved lines in his once smooth face. A small smile curled his mouth as the dwarves sang, his feet tapping to the song. Oh how she had longed for him, oh how she felt every year creep slowly by without his touch. No relief was found in seeing him, only pain. Two centuries of an ache buried deep in her chest, that no matter how she clawed at her heart her fingers could not reach it. No, there was no relief to be found.
While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon: "It's after three!" he said.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of dark hair, of a pale face that had not once ceased to haunt his dreams. All mirth fell from his face when he turned to her, as though he had wiped it away with a rag. She was as he remembered her, hardly a day older; nothing to show for the years that had passed. Never again would he look upon a woman's face and think her lovely, never again would a woman other than this one make his heart quicken with a single glance.
Darkness clouded in his eyes, churning as a storm would on a gray sky. There was no love in his look, no fondness in his face; a searing hatred settled in his features, his gaze heavy and burning on her face. He watched as she stepped back, a shadow settling over her until she disappeared beneath it.
"It is beautiful, don't you think?" she asked softly staring into the great hall that led to Thror's throne. It were as though a green light had been captured behind the stone, gleaming splendidly like fireflies.
"I suppose," Legolas said turning her head with his disdainful tone, "if you enjoy living in the ground." His eyes softened in regret when he looked down to see her dismayed face, realizing she truly thought it lovely rather than being courteous.
She saw his smile, and she accepted his apology by giving him her own. "We will be here a fortnight," she told him, "you should try to find a way to enjoy it."
He nodded, looking to see that the dwarf prince and his friend were whispering as they watched them. "It is more enjoyable with you here," he said thinking it would have been unbearable without her.
Thorin stood waiting for his grandfather and the elvenking to finish exchanging false courtesy before they feasted, watching the two elves standing behind their king. "What do you think they are talking about?" he asked Balin.
Balin stood beside his prince, his closest friend. "Elvish things," he muttered, the word elvish falling from his mouth as though the taste of it disgusted him.
Thorin smirked at that though his eyes clung to her face, wondering who she was and who the elf prince was to her. He had never seen an elf, neither had Balin for they were both still young and elves were not common guests in the house of dwarves; but neither could deny their beauty. They were as different from dwarves as the day was to night, and Thorin sighed dazedly when she smiled.
The sound of Thror's laughter brought him back to the surface of what might have been a wondrous dream, and Thorin blinked and tore his eyes from the she-elf's face.
Thranduil stood looking down at the dwarf king feigning politeness, though his eyes gave away his unhappiness. "My son, Legolas," he said, and the elf prince stepped forward and bowed his head to Thror. "My daughter, Eliniel."
Thorin watched as she stepped forward, bowing her head as well, a small smile on her sweet face. "From where does she get such dark hair?" Thror asked, having bowed his own head only slightly.
Thranduil tried to smile, though Thorin thought it looked more a grimace. "Her mother," was his curt answer. Thorin saw the sadness on her face, her brother brushing his fingers against her own as a means of comfort, and he was struck with the urge to hear her speak to him in a tongue he understood, to make her smile, to clear the sadness from her eyes. He wanted to know her.
I've been craving writing another Thorin story so I'm trying my hand at writing him in love with an elf - I suppose they will be like a Tolkien(esque) version of Romeo and Juliet, which I'm actually kind of loving the thought of. Please let me know whether or not you're intersted, that way I know how often to update. Thank you very much for reading.
