I know I said I wouldn't update...but I had to de-stress.
"Will you not tell her?"
Thorin looks up at Dwalin, seated on the floor across him, watching him.
"Tell who what?" he asks, his mind still on the approaching Durin's Day.
"Tell the lass that you love her," Dwalin says.
Thorin sits up, slightly. "What are you saying?"
Dwalin shakes his head, slightly, lights his pipe. "Tell Luna that you love her," he repeats. "It is obvious, Thorin, very obvious. Tell her."
"How can I?" Thorin turns his head away, looks out at the stars in the night sky. He knows it is useless to deny it; knows that Dwalin and Balin know him better than anyone, knows that what Dwalin is saying is the truth. Because of course he loves Luna Silverstone; how can he not?
How can he not love her?
He remembers that night that she first made her presence known in his life; how she had come by, brought him food without him even asking. He'd been upset that night, he remembers; he'd been thinking of Erebor, thinking of the Lonely Mountain, of whether a quest to reclaim it was truly the best idea.
And then she entered his life.
She makes him laugh easily, so easily; she is shy, and awkward, and prideful, and stubborn, and scared and brave and cautious and reckless and so full of contradictions. She makes him happy, happier than he has been for a long time; she reminds him of better days, of better times.
She is not pretty. She is not beautiful. Not by Dwarvish standards, nor Elvish, not even human standards.
But she is wonderful, she is lovely.
She is everything that he could ask for, and he would never ask for anything more.
"Of course you can," Dwalin tells him. "Just go up to her and tell her."
"It is much more complicated than that."
"How complicated do you want it to be?" asks Dwalin, sounding slightly exasperated. "You love her. She loves you. And if you don't say something soon, someone else will."
"Wait – what?"
It is not often that Thorin is struck speechless, but he is now, staring at Dwalin.
"You love her," Dwalin repeats, slowly. "She loves you."
"She does?"
He loves her, he knows he does. He is quite sure that she cares for him as well – but as a close friend, nothing more. Certainly she has not said anything to imply otherwise. Could she truly - ?
"Yes," Dwalin says. "She does. Balin sees it as well – and I have a suspicion that Fili does as well. She cares for you, Thorin. She loves you, even if she doesn't realise it herself."
To love someone, and not realise it.
Thorin can feel the faintest of smiles spreading across his face.
Yes, that does sound like Luna.
And then he remembers Dwalin's last sentence.
"What do you mean, if I don't say something soon, someone else will?"
Dwalin shrugs.
"Balin thinks Bofur may be growing to care for her," he says. "He is not sure – nothing is very sure, when it comes to Bofur – but there is the possibility."
Thorin thinks of Bofur, who can so easily make anyone laugh, who makes her smile and giggle, who carved something for her with his own hands with limited supplies and resources.
Bofur.
Why would anyone, much less Luna, prefer him over Bofur? He is dark, and moody, and short-tempered; and Bofur is happy, and cheerful, and Thorin has never yet once seen him angry. Why would Luna prefer him to Bofur?
She may have known him longer, but time, Thorin knows, makes little difference.
"Then she will be happy with Bofur," Thorin says, tiredly, wearily. "He will make her happy."
Dwalin gives him a disbelieving look.
"He makes her laugh," he corrects the King Under the Mountain. "You make her happy."
Bofur wonders if he is starting to care for this human girl – this strange, funny, awkward and reckless human girl, staring out over Rivendell, talking to Bilbo.
He prods at the fire they have made, glances up briefly to see her in her white dress, shining brightly in the darkness of the night.
She is strange, he thinks. Strange, but sweet, and he has never met anyone like her before.
He thinks he may just be starting to care for her.
But he knows that she does not care the same way for him.
Of course she doesn't.
It is obvious, so obvious, that her heart lies with Thorin.
The way she speaks to him, the way she seeks him out, the way she is affected by him as she is affected by no one else – Bofur is not a fool. He can see it, see it so clearly.
And he can see, just as well, that she does not realise it.
Thorin, he knows, cares for her – he does not know how much, but it clear that he does. It explains his overprotectiveness of her, his seeking her out.
Bofur also knows that he has the slightest possibility of getting her to care for him, the way Bofur himself cares for her. Especially, he thinks, because she does not even realise her own feelings for Thorin.
Would it be selfish?
Yes. Yes, it would be.
He makes her laugh, he knows. He makes her smile, and he makes her giggle, and he makes her laugh and whack him around the head and stick out her tongue at him.
But Thorin –
Thorin makes her happy. He makes her feel complete, and whole – Bofur can see it in her face.
And that is only what is right for Luna –
He has no right to take away that happiness, and completeness, from her.
Thorin, Fili can see, is acting strangely.
He notices it as they pack up quickly, silently, before the sun rises; as Bilbo goes into awaken Luna, who has discarded the beautiful white dress from the night before, hurrying out in her travelling clothes; as they hurry out of Rivendell, as quickly as they can.
And, he knows, this strangeness is because of Luna.
Luna, he thinks, is nice enough. She is special in her own way, of course, and he likes her very much. But not in the way that his uncle does – though Fili isn't very sure if that like has become something even more, in his uncle's case.
Fili sees her stumbling along the path leading away from Rivendell, sees her nearly trip and fall, exhausted. He feels slightly guilty – he remembers how furious she'd been last night, upset about how they'd been burning the elves' furniture, demanding how on earth they could repay such hospitality with such savagery.
They'd all felt guilty, then, as she'd whirled around, only to be followed by Bilbo, who'd been sitting uncomfortably in a corner.
That hadn't stopped them from continuing to burn the furniture, though. After all, they were elves.
He watches as Thorin's face suddenly takes on a determined look, watches as he steps forward to help Luna.
"I can get along fine by myself," he hears Luna say.
He hears Thorin chuckle: "Maybe, but I'd rather not risk the possibility of you falling down. You look exhausted."
Fili knows, without a doubt, that Luna is blushing, because that is what Luna does.
He holds back a smile, knowing that Kili has little idea of what is going on between Luna and Thorin, because Kili is clueless.
He wonders exactly to what extent Thorin cares for Luna.
"Dwalin told me that he spoke with you."
Balin settles down on his bedroll not far from Thorin, tries to make himself comfortable.
"He did," Thorin says.
"I assume you didn't heed his advice."
They both look up at Luna, curled up in her bedroll with Thorin's spare cloak about her, giggling at something Bilbo and Bofur are telling her.
"No," Thorin says, softly.
"Why not?"
It is at times like this, Thorin thinks, that he is grateful for Balin. Balin, who is wise, and patient, and a good listener. Dwalin he is always grateful for – they have too much in common for things to be any different – but Balin is different.
Now, he does not sound harsh, or exasperated, or accusing, as Dwalin would have sounded. No – Balin sounds patient, gentle, wondering.
"I am waiting," he says.
"For what?"
"The right moment."