a chapter in which things change and I completely disregard the geography of Middle Earth.
Thorin's eyes ache.
Everything aches, really, but it's his eyes that are really getting to him. There's nothing that can distract him from it; even closing them doesn't offer an escape.
He wants so desperately to sleep. Every night, he tries, and every night, he is sharply reminded of another failure, another wound, and jolted fully awake.
Spending long hours with eyes bouncing between garishly-clad dignitaries is really not helping with his bone-deep fatigue.
Aren't they embarrassed to wear such dandied clothing? They claim that the colors remind them of the lost hoard of Erebor, but Thorin is well-acquainted with the scent of horse shit.
If anything, they look rather like hobbits.
Thorin fights a wry smile; these Iron Hill dwarves will surely take offense if he were to start smiling in the middle of their discussions, even if they hold absolutely no relation to his purpose.
Always with the hobbits.
It is normal, he supposes, for the mind to focus on one's new spouse; technically, he's in the honeymoon stage.
A honeymoon without a husband.
Or rather, a husband leagues away, in both distance and mind.
"My cousin's face grows morose, and I rather feel the same way myself!" Dain's booming voice cuts sharply into Thorin's retrospection, "Come, my wise dwarves, let us break from this endless debate and give our esteemed guest what he arrived for!"
Thorin straightens his back immediately, preparing to run the gauntlet of stares and snide remarks; he squashes the small confusion insisting that Dain had not opened the matter of his quest in such a way before.
"The finest feast the Iron Hills can provide!" The dignitaries, and those few in the gallery above, roar in approval.
Oh.
That didn't happen last time, either.
Ridiculous, Thorin immediately responds (to himself, a mildly concerning condition he'll think on later), he cannot possibly remember every detail of the first meet, it was over a year ago!
Although it had been quite mortifying.
Dain calls him forward and they move into the dining hall together. And what a sight it makes, truly; filled with tables and lamplight and dwarves, air heavy with aroma of platters upon platters of food, barrels upon barrles of mead and the population of the Iron Hills.
Thorin takes a seat alongside Dain's chair, their table raised on a dais above the rest. Dain gives a simple toast, the crowd a rambunctious hurrah, and they set to.
At first, the hall is rather quiet, its occupants absorbed in the extensive spread. Soon, however, the mead kicks in, and the buzz of conversation fills every corner.
The dwarf nearest Thorin seems strangely far away; he attempts to start a conversation, but Thorin can't hear a single word he says, and so they shrug their shoulders in mutual exasperation. The dwarf turns to his closer neighbor, and Thorin stares blankly at his plate for a moment.
"I put distance between us and the others for a purpose," Dain says, throwing a stripped bone onto his plate before placing a greasy hand on Thorin's shoulder, "For what I have to say will be hard for you to take without others eavesdropping."
Thorin doesn't speak, cocking an eyebrow instead.
"Cousin," Dain sighs, "You will not be recieving aid from us in this mad venture."
Well.
Definitely different than last.
"My advisors stand firm on this, and I'll admit, it didn't take much convincing for me. Don't linger to argue. They've been decided since we first heard the whispers, and no argument you make could ever budge them," Dain takes a large swig of ale, "I was tempted to at least allow you time on the floor, but seeing you today changed that."
Thorin grips the table, knuckles white with force. The edge begins to splinter.
"You already carry such a burden over this quest... I can see it in the stoop of your shoulders. It is not too late to turn aside, you know, and no one would think you the worse for it. In fact, there are those who would think you the better for it."
Thorin is still silent. His minds whirls.
This is different.
Dain heaves a great sigh, lokking out over the great hall, "I say this now to spare you the mortification that awaits you on the floor. I do not wish communications between us to break down. We value the dwarves of Ered Luin here."
"We are the dwarves of Erebor."
Dain is silent.
differentdifferentdifferentdifferentdifferent
"It is madness, Thorin."
And then Thorin shoots to his feet. He needs to go somewhere to thinks, aches for it. This new rejection, though freshly humiliating, is not something he wasn't expecting, so he's not concerned with it.
He cannot resist a parting jab, however.
"I will not linger to argue."
When Thorin reaches his quarters, he lowers himself, shaking, to the floor, and presses his face into the bed.
Things can change.
He can fix this.
A thought not entirely his own echoes, but it relieves some small corner of him, and so he does not question.
Finally.
four for you, Thorin. you go, Thorin.