Fading. Inward. Outward. Pulsing.
His heartbeat.
His eyes open, lashes untangling.
And the sunlight, it brings back everything. The orcs, their invasion of Bard's house, his ill-fated attempt to ward them off.
Fuck, he's an idiot.
He swivels around his eyes to get his bearings.
Which is how he knows he's still dreaming.
Except he's not; this pain is far too intense for that. "You can't be be her..." he says to striking likeness. "She... She is far, far away from here..." Recalls his dream of her between the stars, the alternate universes imploding into him. "She walks in starlight in another world... It was just a dream..."
And to be sure that this truly is not his imagination again, he extends his hand, letting his fingers hold hers, exhaling in relief when she doesn't shatter, doesn't pierce his heart with glass again.
And her fingers squeeze around his. Reassuring him. But knows, prays it's not her. Wishes more than anything to keep her from experiencing this hell.
"Do you think," he whispers, "she could have loved me?"
And her eyes meet his, and are filled with an emotion he can place. Like a mix of curiosity and passion and a twinge of pity.
And they stay like that, for awhile.
"Are you hungry?" she asks.
"Yes."
And she leaves him alone. With his thoughts. That make him want to kill something.
She returns. A platter of vegetables.
He hates vegetables. This, if nothing else, should be proof she's the elven warrior. But he eats them (with a little bit of contempt, throwing her the occasional scowl) letting his body extract the energy from the food.
She watches him. Carefully, as if she studies his every move. He chews more slowly.
He smiles at her, a little half smirk that makes the tips of her cheeks turn pink. He laughs a little to himself; he didn't even mean for it to be sexy. He supposes he's just that awesome.
Or she's just that unsure how to act around him.
When he's finished, she stands, takes the tray, and glides from the room. But she looks back, as if to make sure he hasn't done anything stupid while her back was turned. He smirks again.
He reaches beneath the sheets, letting his finger ghost over the wound on his leg, bandaged tightly, but there's no pain now.
Testing himself, he stands, limping to the window, watching the sun trickle her fingers toward the expansive horizon.
And cresting over the canyons and down the banks of the winding river, it's not a bird, it's far too large to be an eagle. Or a kite, too graceful for an arbitrary wind.
No, this is hell approaching as fast as the tide on a summer's eve.
But the tide never spit fire. Never ignited it course, setting tress aflame, leaving behind him a wall of light that devoured everything it touched.
Never left in its wake the desolation of the magnificent dragon, Smaug.
Fin.