Part 1: Chapter 23: They Shaped and Wrought
Next evening the Thief called him over with a nod to her small finger, the one she had touched him with, the one with her gold ring, Sona––
––Gold Song.
She'd remembered something from the 'books.' Something about a Man or a Bear who turned into a Bear or a Man. A Skinchanger. Though Thorin had heard of their kind, he had never met one.
"Was he friend or foe?"
She shrugged that way she did, one shoulder up while she shook her head, a chagrined smirk on her face. "Again, I don't remember." And then she scrunched her nose some, like she just bit into a sour root. "Except I don't think he liked Dwarves much."
Thorin nearly smiled, most others didn't like Dwarves much, some with reason, others off rumors and reputation. But she was different, and he delighted in the fact she'd come to him once again, even if the details of her concerns remained spotty or vague. And at that he let the smile surface, his lips slightly turning up, just as he let himself enjoy her company, no matter what was said.
Time passed. Days on weeks. They'd wake, breakfast, spar, move, set camp. Wake, breakfast, spar, move, set camp… Day by day making ground upon the Misty Mountains.
Habits formed to include the Thief in the function of the Company.
Bifur would join her in the mornings, with her singular moves she called Yoga. The Toy-maker followed her moves in silence, and it helped calm him, and the two grew close without need of words. It cheered Thorin, catching glimpses now and then of one of the two effortlessly making the other feel welcomed.
Once on the road and hiking, Balin would take her aside and teach her more of their ways, history and origin, and some Khuzdûl to Thorin's pleasant surprise. It was as though his Advisor thought she would hold some prominent appointment, and needed to hold her own… Thorin wouldn't let his mind go to what that appointment might be. Best leave that dream unspoken. And Sona listened to Balin with great attention, avid interest even, and it appeared she felt the honor of what Balin chose to do, how he spent his time, and it was Balin who told her, "'Tis not our gold or the things we make into art that would be sold, and thus we have shared with the world; 'Tis our Society and Culture, our People, or True Names, our Way of Life, and our Language that we deem precious."
Thorin could not have said it better.
One day Balin made her laugh unexpectedly, some word about Dwarven sense of direction in the dark, specifically when they found themselves underground.
"Really." She said, low, disbelieving.
Thorin felt eyes on his back and refused to turn, sure Balin attempted to jest with him. Thorin had never been lost in the Mountain… and his Advisor knew it well––
But then she burst out laughing, and Thorin had to turn, to see her laugh so hard her cheeks turned dark red, and Balin couldn't help but stare. Then he glanced at Thorin, and winked.
The old Cod.
Finally, his Advisor chuckled slightly, and muttered, "Well, you know lass, there's something else many peoples find strange about our folk, and it's that our Dwarrow-dams, just like the Dwarrows, usually have beards."
This news delighted her and she beamed, her eyes glistening with excitement.
That was when Fíli piped in, "Seems ridiculous to me, that most people of Men find the hair of women … distasteful whenever it's found anywhere but on the top of their heads…"
Thorin listened, bemused by Fíli's diplomatic semantics.
"Unfortunately, yes," she assured them all. "Apparently body hair is thought of as masculine…"
Aye, strange people of Men.
"…so therefore cannot be feminine."
Rubbish and hogwash. A murmur ran through the Company, all of similar sentiment.
"And don't even get me started on how over the past eighty years or so the razor companies…"
Razor Companies? Was this a kind of guild in the world she came from?
"…have used that to basically shame women into thinking they can't have any body hair…
What? How shame, and why only women? There were many men among the people of Men who did away with their body hair. Thorin thought, perplexed, men of Men liked control, and perhaps it was their preference; but why did the women take part?
"…in order to sell more of their product…"
Aye, surely a guild… a powerful and greedy one, ill managed, irrational…
She looked peeved, her lips turned down, when suddenly she brightened. "But I haven't shaved for months at this point…"
Shaving… the thought sent a sick shudder through him. Months, she said. He frowned. Only months. How about never? He could practically feel the others cringe. But then another feeling settled in… and a grin stole upon his face. It was lovely to hear her say she didn't like to shave, that it was not her preference, because––
He stopped. He wasn't supposed to think this way, to give such feeling room to grow, or his mind an image where thoughts would lead–– her hair…
No. Never mind. She's Friend. Friend. Friend.
"… and it's awesome!"
May you never need to shave again.
And then something else occurred to him: she'd been in Middle-earth for months now… He'd been battling this Pull–– Juzrazur–– for months now. It was not getting easier.
Thorin felt eyes upon him, and turned to see glances from Fíli and Kíli, Dwalin and Bofur, and Glóin and Bombur… The others were eyeing each other or the Thief, nearly all of them shaking their heads.
She looked over them all, assessing her, and she smirked. "By your standards, I must be quite unattractive…"
No. no. You…
Silence filled the space among them, several of them wide-eyed: the Company gawked at her like she'd fully lost her mind… Fíli stole another glance Thorin's way, followed quickly by Kíli… He set his stone face, averse to showing any reaction.
"I don't even have the beginnings of sideburns like my cousin, Tali does." Her hand was over her cheeks, showing where. He could trace the spot with his fingers… But no. He could not.
Everyone laughed, and Bofur nodded, the first to recover. "Oh, aye, lass, I'm certain most Dwarves would find you pretty enough without a beard," and then he winked, exaggerating the motion with his usual flair, not without glancing at Thorin on the way, his eyes twinkling under his boisterous hat.
Thorin glowered at the Miner, but, lucky for them both, the innuendo had escaped the Thief.
As time passed, The Thief's Dog spent more time with Fíli, even more so than with the Thief. Early on his oldest Sister's Son began training her to fight with him during his sparing practices. She was agile and a worthy partner. Thorin found the exercise fascinating, and often watched on when not participating.
Kíli once muttered his frustrations, something about advantages and fairness, as Dwalin oversaw their training. Dwalin gave Kíli an unlooked-for shoving to the backside, and the lad tripped up, landing on his back in the dirt between Fíli and the Dog. Fíli tapped her collar so she heeled.
"Learn early, lad," Dwalin scolded. "Nothin's fair in battle."
Soon after Kíli went off sulking, looking for Sona. Thorin suspected he'd ask her for a song. He chuckled, knowing well this would become a habit of his youngest Sister's Son, to seek her out prior to dinner.
As time passed, Thorin wondered at Tharkûn's absence… It had been some weeks since they left the Elven City… But he did not mention this, nor did anyone else. Thus they kept worry silent as they made more ground day by day.
Each evening, with their area surveyed, the Company would gather and dine near the fire, with their eyes divided to watch for intrusions from any viable paths of approach. During dinner, the shadow of dusk would fall upon them, then the ordinary shadow of dark before dawn, varied by stars and moon, and night clouds, and known too well by Dwarves spending time in the open… They could see far in it, and so they knew when it was safe to sing… Those times, at dinner and after, the Thief, as Minstrel in Waiting, would play for them, or tell stories, and soon it was each Company member had their own favorites they would request, and many would join along in the songs, pulling out their pipes and hand drums.
One of Dwalin's favorites was from her softer, lyrical ballads, a Bob Dylan song, she'd called it, after singing it on one of their first nights and moving the Warrior deeply behind his stone mask.
"Hey! Mister Tambourine Man, play a song for me, I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to…"
Oh, Dwalin was gone, leaning toward her, taking in every word…
"Hey! Mister Tambourine Man, play a song for me, in the jingle jangle morning I'll come following you."
Dwalin caught his eye, and his grin was large, and Thorin saw the spark, and his heart swelled at the loyalty reflected there.
She sang of lost kingdoms vanished in sand…
Aye, that's how it was…
A flux of feeling reflected from the Warrior's eyes. Sona leaned close to him as the song wove on, smiling affectionately as he took in the highs and lows, melancholy with a hint of hope… he hung on the words for that hope.
She sang of streets too dead for dreaming…
'Then we shall wake it,' he signed fast and hard, his fierce desire formed into a fist over the fire.
She sang of stripping, or weakening, and yet the will to never give in.
'Aye, never.' And surely his fist tightened, though it was hard to tell through the knuckle duster over it. And Thorin felt the steadfast grip of his Friend's bond over the fire.
But it was the passion she woke…
'I will not heed naysayers.' Dwalin's gaze was on Thorin, his jaw set to bar any argument. 'Be there a blade in my foot, I step anyway…' His hand went to his heart, his fingers opening to point at Thorin. 'Fight when need calls. Wander on…'
Sona's eyes reflecting firelight, her voice melodic and full of sunlight in the darkness…
The world is wide… Full of night shadows–– Thorin scoured the periphery, as did Dwalin and the others, just as they had through the evening, guarding the shadow of dark before dawn.
Just then she sang of disappearing, and ruins, and fogs ––The fogs–– Thorin trembled, his eyes panning over their surroundings, stunned by the deep fear suddenly sprung. He imagined her passing into those fogs ––away–– Through frozen leaves and haunted trees…
And though Dwalin scanned with the rest of them, his ears hung on every word Sona sang. She smiled at him and he smiled back, and then, in spite of fears, it felt to Thorin like everything fit, like every danger could be overcome.
These two had become friends; it was a lovely sight to see.
Watching the curve of her cheek as Sona finished, Thorin was shocked once again, and it eased the pain of fear from before, because he could see her. She was at home there, singing among them. So at home… you came to be with us.
"Enough with the dirges!" Óin spoke up in the following silence, his trumpet to his ear, waiting.
"Yeah, give us something loud and bang worthy!" Glóin agreed, grinning wide.
And a sly smile came over the Thief, and she set to make her guitar cry about a Highway to Hell, which they all thought sounded like the perfect party feast song after a well won victory… though they had no idea what Hell meant.
And, as if to make sure no remnant of melancholy remained among the Company, she sang one boisterous bar song they all loved instantly, "Raise Your Glass…"
They learned it quick, with laughter and cheer even if the ale was low to non-existent…
"So raise your glass if you are wrong, in all the right ways!"
So beloved was the song, that one or another of the Company would ask for it each night through the weeks that followed…
"All my underdogs! We will never be, never be…"
And joined her on the chorus…
"…Anything but loud…!"
To give the song whomp.
"… and nitty grity dirty little freaks…!"
Together they belonged. Few understood. He looked at Sona––
"…won't you come on and come on and raise your glass, just come on and come on and raise your glass…"
––Gold Song had a knack for cheering souls.
She also had a knack to get peeved if she felt that tasks were denied her irrationally, such as when Thorin designated the night watches, and he never called on her…
"Why am I never on watch?"
Thorin stared at her with his mouth ajar–– It had never occurred to him that he should even consider putting her on the watch–– Why wouldn't she already know that? What's bothering her?
"Is it because I'm a woman?"
Ohhhh no…
"I'm capable of doing my share here, folks, so… what's the deal?"
Thorin stalled, his eyes expanded nearly to his hairline, his surprise compounded…
"Wasn't sure before, lass," Balin stepped up, "you've gender concerns?"
"Should I?" she asked, not gracing the Advisor with a glance, keeping her gaze focused squarely on Thorin.
He breathed in, measuring words. "That's not why––"
She stared at him, waiting, eyes sparked.
He stared back with equal force, unsure what it was she needed to understand–– "The watch has nothing to do with being male or female, Thief." He tried to make his words gentle, feeling an upset rising within him, along with a dose of confusion and embarrassment at having missed this potential mine hole…
"Then what?" Her jaw was set and risen. "Because every single one of you has been on watch since I joined this Company… all but me."
"You're a Whatsafist," Dwalin butted in.
Âkmînruk zu, Bâha-amē.
"Pacifist," Sona corrected, the glare in her eyes easing.
"All the same," Dwalin nodded on. "We can't have you on watch when you might need to do violence to protect us all. It's against your calling, as you said yourself."
"I could wake you––"
Dwalin smirked, shaking his head 'no.' "Would you want to, if it meant we'd kill the problem at hand, even if they'd be Trolls?"
They stared at each other over a strong measure of silence.
And then her posture eased. "I guess not," she sighed, her eyes relieved yet still bearing disappointment.
Every evening after dinner, she would motion a signal and Thorin would take them just out of camp, where they would walk the periphery, and guided by her thoughts they would talk. Thorin always let her choose the subjects, not wishing to burden their moments with anything unwanted or unwelcome. In this way she grew more comfortable with him, and in turn he grew more at ease with her, sharing only so much as she was willing to hear. This worked well enough, he could readily admit. And, against what he'd first feared impossible odds, they were becoming friends. The only problem was he couldn't shut down his desires, nor the Pull of Juzrazur, so an ache took residence in his spirit, one he did his utmost to ignore.
After that she went to bed as soon as politeness allowed, and woke up each morning ready to go, cheerful, with nary complaint.
Invariably, sometime the next day Dwalin would be at his side. "What's with these night walks of yours, with the Whatsafist?"
––Pacifist––
Thorin would stifle the urge to say it wasn't his business, and try to share something. "We talk about… concerns she has."
"Concerns?" Dwalin's eyebrows reached skyward, probing. "You mean that big thing? Surely it's gone beyond that…"
"Well no, not only that…" that topic's barely touched upon, now... "…she's asks me questions…" Why––? "And so I've told her of Erebor. Of… life back then."
"Of Erebor?" Dwalin stifled a laugh. "And you, keeping yourself from feeling. How's that working?"
Thorin shoved him, but he couldn't help it: after a moment he answered, "not so well, but well enough."
And sometimes in the early mornings, before breakfast, Fíli would join him for a smoke. "You walk with her every night, N'adad."
Thorin nodded, sagely, looking out toward the mountains. "Observant, Inûdoy."
"Have you chosen yet?"
"Of course not. Quit asking."
Fíli laughed, not about to change tactics.
"So then, what do you talk about?"
Thorin couldn't help the smile edging his lips. "We just talk about… things she wants to talk about."
Fíli's eyes widened expectantly. "Such as?"
Thorin kept his mouth shut.
This had no effect. Fíli went on, "If it's not about choosing, it can't be too 'private' for you to say…"
Thorin glared over his grin. "Aye, she's told me of her family."
"Ahhh," Fíli nodded, his eyes warm and full of dancing. "And you told her of yours?"
"Some," Thorin answered, and they both went silent, quietly smoking as they surveyed the Mountains ahead. They were closer now… close to the steps…
Balin would find him up front on the hike, prompted by the same curiosity. "You're gone each night a long time with our newest Company member. Care to share your thoughts, laddie?"
"No."
Balin just nodded, smiling, before he was off to find Glóin.
This did not stop Thorin from thinking of all that they shared…
She shared many things of the world from where she hailed. Her parents came of two distinct cultures, bonded by a strong love. She explained her 'Adad naturally had fairer skin than she did, though it was deeply tanned from hours of time spent on the sea, while her 'Amad had a darker complexion––gifting Sona her lovely brown skin that always looked sunkissed––
––Biriz'ul––
––And that he was Christian while she was Hindi: this had to do with Faith, Sona explained, something Thorin found hard to follow. But it meant there were disagreements. Many people did not favor the union. At times they soaked in waves of cultural misunderstanding, but still they thrived; her 'Adad, a 'surfer' she called him, "appreciated waves…so much in fact, he rode upon them."
Thorin could not help a chuckle.
And he found it thought provoking: Dwarves were many colors, some light, some red and some brown and some dark, with hair of every different kind of shade… They were all Dwarves. They all looked to Mahal their Maker, and the ONE who allowed them, not with Faith, but with Knowing.
How did people of Men from her world live without feeling lost?
Sona seemed to do fine.
She glanced up, smiling. "They are happy, in spite of the odds."
Odds.
Thorin wondered if there was a meaning beneath that, but she looked away after she spoke. And then he thought, odds––Her parents also had the 'Bi-polar' concerns–– Sona missed them, and he shushed his contemplations, reminding himself as he did too regularly, she wanted a friend, an ear for her cares…
And he would be her friend.
She spoke of her sister, Priya, and her Sister's Daughter and Son, and she asked of his siblings––
––Of Frerin. And Dís. So he told her, holding to facts, suppressing feeling.
She did not ask for that.
Or well, maybe she did. Maybe it was he who did not wish to be exposed. He had his reasons, and for the time being he preferred to keep them from his mind, being confused by the intimacy of her questions, cautious with offering unwanted conversation, never quite knowing when he might step into something unpleasant. In all honesty, he would have preferred not talking. But with her questions, well. More than fearing he shared too much, he feared losing their talks. He had not chosen for her––he could not––but he reveled in their walks. He craved her company–– he craved her–– Yet their closeness grew as Friends. He could almost believe it was enough.
So he told of times before the Dragon came, when his Family was together, dwelling under the Lonely Mountain, as his Sigil'adad, King Thrór, grew more and more distant. But they were together, and those were times where he'd felt whole.
He told of when his 'Adad had first taken him and Frerin to visit the Ravens just before Dís was born…
He told of when Thrór came to their rooms at Dís's birth; the King almost left right away, but on the way out Thorin asked him to stay. He hadn't known it, but that was the last time his Sigil'adad would visit their private chambers… He left with a smile Thorin would never forget. Full of love, lost in longing and promise, not the eyes Thorin came to know later.
Skirting too close to unwelcome feeling, Thorin changed the topic.
He told of spending time in his father's forge, hiding under the long side of his biggest anvil, calmed by the beats…
He told of going through the guild markets with his 'Amad Arís, how she'd hold Dís in one arm and Frerin in the other, and they would visit the textile halls to meet the weavers… She took them to the best in the business, Zafîr's 'Adad, and Thorin's eyes basked in the color, depth & detail in the tapestries…
He told of the time Frerin pulled a water lever, snuffing the coals to a half dozen of the main Forges; Thorin took the blame, losing the use of his Forge for a week and deprived of wood for his chamber hearth. His N'adad opened the back way to his chambers, warm and lit, sorry as could be, and Thorin slept in his wide-cushioned reading chair those nights, coddled and beloved.
He told of the lights hung on feast days… let no one say 'Urd'êk, the Mountain Hall, was dark… Such were the days before the Dragon came.
He told of getting lost in the woods when he snuck out with Dwalin and Frerin to 'camp' the first time.
Frerin. Thorin thought of him strongly after sharing so much. He missed his brother every day, though he did not say it.
"You lost him," she stated, drawing closer with concern, somehow sensing his grief.
Thorin knew who she meant. "At the Gates of Moria, in the first assault…" that was all he could say, though he felt the rest: I did not see him fall, we separated in the melee, he had followed 'Adad–– I found his broken body after, alone, 'Adad nowhere to be found.
After many weeks of evening walks, Thorin dared a question he'd harbored since they'd spoken that last night in the Elven City.
"What is bi-polar?" Glancing at her sidelong as they made their way, he noticed the question surprised her but did not offend. "How did it––" he stumbled for the words, uncertain. "May I ask––"
She nodded, urging him on; she had already told him things of this illness, of her Sister and Mother, on that night in Imladris; of counselling and medication, and patient understanding…
"––what has it done to them?"
And then she explained, when things were good, they were very good. There was nothing that couldn't be done. When they were bad, they were so bad, it could be impossible to get out of bed–– sometimes, in the extreme, they stopped caring if they lived, thinking it would be easier if they died, easier for themselves, easier for the ones who loved them–– Thorin swallowed on that, absorbing her meaning, violent wide mood swings, sheer Mountains and Valleys, no place in between to take hold, no grounding, nowhere, no way to live…
This was unlike the madness in the Durin line, which turned a mind on gold greed, sacrificing the bearer's true heart and with it all his cares… And yet it was close enough that she understood more than anyone he'd ever met. And, surprised at the fact, he did not feel embarrassed or shamed that she knew of what plagued his line, but rather comforted…
The next day she was picking and weaving daises as he explained the Durin family tree.
And that was when she lodged a more personal question. "So… with both your father and grandfather gone…"
Asti…
'Adad-ē…
"…that means you're the King?"
This was raw. "Aye," he groused, keeping his chin up, stone face set. No use arguing. "But a King uncrowned and with no Kingdom." He'd leave it at that, and snuck a glance at her, to find her with a thoughtful expression, brows creased, hands still at work with her daisy weaving. She meant no hurt. "So not really a King at all," he added, hoping that would finish it.
She looked toward camp, plucking another flower. "There are twelve Dwarves back there to whom you are a King and always will be."
Twelve stubbornly loyal Dwarves. Do you know how many I asked? These are the few who said 'Aye.' Yet Thorin couldn't subdue the smile forming at the edge of his lip.
She caught him smiling, and quickly smiled in return, causing him to blush.
Mahal's Hammers, he didn't want to blush.
"They will follow you anywhere and do anything you ask of them…"
Not quite, Asti. There are limits… things I would never ask.
But she went on. "You can't command that type of loyalty just because of who you are descended from."
All must follow willing, or not at all…
"That comes from love and respect for you."
I've lived to take the fore, to fulfill what I was born to be, to do… That, they respect. It is I who am honored by their trust…
But you?
She smiled partly; he hung on the upturn of those lips––
You hold me in high esteem, Thief… or? Do you like me?
As if to answer she nodded. "And I happen to know one human who thinks you're pretty great King material as well."
Wha–! He could not look at her but laughed inside, and he knew traces of his humor escaped as he felt the heat rise to his face.
He reminded himself, she referred to Kingship. Only that. Still, this did not stop the heat.
But she changed the topic again. "So you left the Lonely Mountain and led your people…?"
Oh aye. He breathed out. Back to history.
She truly wished to know. "We eventually settled in the Blue Mountains near the Shire." A time of hard adjustments… "Though we wandered for a long while. I found work where I could. I had to provide for my people."
"And that's what makes you a King," she quipped in response, jarring him out of his easy pace to look at her again, as she continued to pick and weave the daises. "Not a Kingdom or a crown."
Was she trying to make him blush?
Of course not. But he kept his eyes low just in case.
"So what kind of work did you do?" she asked, still interested in his personal details. Why, Thief?
At least this one was easy, or so he thought. He looked at the flowers she'd been weaving, wondering again, fleetingly, why? And then he looked to his hands, one firmly gripping the walking ax he kept on his open side opposite Sona. It was a fine work not of his own making, but a renowned ax maker of the Firebeards –– "Smithing mostly. Though anything to do with metal." From weapons to tools, swords and axes, to levers and pulley-joints, to geared clock bits, rivets, bolts, nuts and nails: he had made every kind of thing of use from metal.
She asked what some of these things were, and he went on for some time, listing the things he thought would be most interesting, feeling fully at a loss with the number of pure war blades on his roster, never mind that they were skillfully made; she was a Pacifist.
And she wanted to know how it was done; every kind of detail. So he explained as best he could without examples.
Somehow it escaped his attention that she'd managed to get him talking about himself through his interest in the craft he loved… You're good with people, Thief. Very good with people.
"It's art," she said when he went quiet.
What's art? Thorin looked at her.
"What you do with metal and fire and hammers and physical strength." She was still picking daises; her weave was thick with them now. "It's art, and in many ways sounds like a natural extension of making music…"
Indeed, there is rhythm… and meter… with the high pitched ringing sounds of metal being shaped –– becoming –– melody of the work.
Thorin thought of Dwalin's favored song… Tambourine Man…
Aye, he had thought up lyrics as he'd worked over the years, many of which had made their way to song. She did not know they would sing and chant while smithing––
Now she scrunched her nose up. "Never mind. Forget I said that." She thought what she said was nonsense… "I'm rambling. That was weird." Far be it!
And he couldn't help laughing. "No, I understand what you meant… it is like making music in many ways." He stole a glance at her. "Not many make that connection." Usually only those who made music and worked a beating trade––
"Artists," she shrugged her shoulder that way she did, just as her skin darkened shyly. If he weren't certain otherwise, he would almost think she flirted… "What are you gonna do?"
––What indeed, Gold Song?
"Maybe…" She bit her lip again, and he chewed the inside of his own in response, his teeth pulling the flesh in, feeling the pressure on his lips…
Oh Mahal. Stop with this…
"Maybe after Erebor… but before the artifact… you could show me your work space?" She spoke hurried, as if she expected refusal.
My Forge? Thorin looked at her, brows bent on the question.
"And what it is you do?"
Smithing?
"I promise I won't touch anything and I'll stay out of the way. I'll be quiet as a mouse and you won't even know I'm there…"
That's hardly possible, Thief.
She spoke hurried, as if she expected refusal.
As if he could refuse…
Her hands gentled and stopped over the weave of flowers within them.
"I would be honored," he answered, not sure when time or practicality would allow for such lessons, but looking forward to the days none the less.
She sighed, pleased with that answer, fiddling once more with the daisy weave in her hands, tying off the ends. She had made a ring of them, and she seemed utterly happy with it.
His smile grew along with hers, until they both were beaming at each other like two Dwarflings who just found the hidden sweets…
Then, as she grinned from ear to ear, she leaned over and dropped the ring of flowers on his head. "A King without a crown no more."
What––?
She didn't wait to see his gaping expression––Will there ever be a time when my heart doesn't go to my throat––? But turned and nearly danced off toward camp, leaving him stunned and alone once more, after gifting him with flowers yet again. She has no idea.
She had only meant to cheer him, surely. He knew she liked to see him laugh. He found he could not be angry or hurt, even if he wanted. He pulled the flowers from his head––Nor could he wear them–– and found himself smiling softly down at the work her hands had wrought over the past hour… for him.
Curse a dull blade, this was folly! What in Durin's Name was he to do?
He wished he had his Forge, to work on metal now, to hammer something hard that would endure
/T\oSo/T\oDo/T\
A/N: Updated notes in January 2019: Special call out to Jenny-Wren28 and the passage of time. Over Memorial Day Weekend in 2016, I got a text from Jenny-Wren28, expressing her desire to write a story with Thorin, and asking me to be her Beta. We have come far. I was a year in when this post went up. Time passed, Jenny-Wren28 completed "On The Road to Find Out." Thorin's part of the story, "Biriz Akmâth," remains a work in progress, dear to my heart. Thank you Jenny-Wren28 for taking these adventures with me.
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