A/N: Third day, third prompt, third chapter - you know the drill

The story had been graciously beta-read by absolutely awesomesauce whilewewereyetsinners.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the cup of fruit tea.

Injury

Dwalin knew he tended to act quicker than his brain could catch up, but somehow he didn't expect it to backfire quite so spectacularly.

Their company had arrived at the elven city of Rivendell two weeks ago, mostly because the King Under the Mountain had ordered them to play nice with the tree-sh- elves. The first - and only - time he used the word when referring to the elves, both hobbits gave him such shocked and even disgusted looks that he later ordered his men not to use the word, like, ever. Especially within the earshot of the Shirefolk.

Viola and Bilbo, on the other hand, had been absolutely enchanted by the city; spending long hours by walking around, talking to the elves, even being sought by them in return. And Dwalin felt jealous, so jealous, when he saw his wife interact with one of the sons of their host, Elrohir, and dancing with him, when the blasted elf asked whether he could have a dance with the lady. And the lady seemed to have loads of fun, eagerly taking in whatever the elves offered to teach her, from the rarely sang songs to the elven dances. In return, she and Bilbo offered to teach the elves the hobbit dances, making the elves laugh merrily as they had them play a swift polka, dragging the Tall folk to join them in dancing.

Of course, that had Dwalin stewing in his own juices. His wife was supposed to be interested in learning dwarven dances, and dwarven songs, not the customs of those pansies! And he promptly told her so, when she joined him in their room. Looking back, he sure as heck could at least have worded it better, and not so rudely, as his wife first just gaped at him with her mouth open and her eyes wide, only to have the light blush of her cheeks change into angry crimson as she snapped at him.

They had their very first argument, and she stormed out of the room, hissing, "Well, if you spent less time being a hateful prick" (yes, she really did say the word, surprising him quite a bit), "I sure would be willing to learn the customs of your people - but unlike the elves, you answer nearly every of my questions with 'it's considered a secret'! So excuse me for being rather discouraged by being refused every single time!"

The door slammed after her, leaving him in their room with his heart hammering painfully in his chest as he dropped to sit on their bed. He slept alone for the first time since their wedding, because when the sleep finally took its hold of him, his wife had yet to return to their room. She didn't avoid him completely in the following days, since that would be improper, but she definitely didn't seek out his company as she had before, and Bilbo took to glaring at him with quite a fire in his eyes; the look clearly promising him terrible torture, which made it quite plain where his wife had gone after their fight.

He desperately wanted to make things right between them, but every time he wanted to talk to her he would see some elf around her and he felt his blood boiling in his veins again, the will to make peace disappearing into nearly overwhelming displeasure.

And it didn't get any better when they continued on their way to Erebor. Sure, there were no elves around anymore (the only elf that was supposed to guide them into one of the safe passes took his leave of them the day before today) but the gnawing guilt at allowing himself to explode over something which he knew was half his own fault wouldn't let him talk to her. So instead of talking about things and trying to find a compromise, they would spend the days in cold silence, and the nights with Viola's back turned to him, as she curled into a tight ball next to him (but a hair out of his reach) and went to sleep.

Then the ambush happened.

He would have thought that nothing would truly surprise him in the Misty Mountains, but it proved to be untrue. One night, they went to sleep and the next moment they were being surrounded by goblins; the ugly things appearing almost out of nowhere. They fought their way out of the murderous circle, but the dark ones followed after them, chasing them up to a cliff where the goblins finally caught up with them.

Dwalin was knocked down, blood pouring over his eyes, half-blinding him as he staggered to stand up again. Another hit knocked off his helmet and one of the goblins successfully landed a hit on his unprotected head, and that was when he heard unfamiliar screaming. The darkness of unconsciousness was unwelcome, since the last thing he saw was his wife standing above him, wildly waving a frying pan, of all possible things, screaming bloody murder and attacking the biggest goblin he ever saw.

All he could think was that he should be the one to keep her safe, not to chase her into danger after danger, and then the darkness claimed him completely.