A Single Dream is More Powerful Than a Thousand Realities

Dreams and Reality

Thorin watched with rapt fascination and confusion as the two elves bowed their heads in respect to the dwarf king and then set to work.

A bowl

Cool water

Rags

Bandages

And athelas

They'd come prepared, Thorin acknowledged, as he watched each item brought forward.

The room was silent, almost reverently so, as Elrohir handed the small pouch to his companion who had crouched at the hobbit's bedside.

Thorin's gaze drifted towards Lyla, whose breathing was labored and shallow, her skin a sickening grey. A dark shadow had settled under her eyes, and the contours of her cheeks had deepened, making her face more angular, malnourished.

And then his eyes flicked back towards the elf, Elladan, who was carefully crushing some of the athelas between his palms, rubbing the delicate leaves and tiny white flowers together slowly.

'Something so small,' Thorin mused, staring at the tiny plant, 'bearing so much significance.'

The similarity between Lyla and this tiny flower was not lost on him.

A soft, earthy scent started to fill Thorin's nostrils and he leaned closer, ignoring the way his stitches protested the movement.

He wanted to be near her. To protect her however he could, to somehow try to make amends.

With precise movements, Elladan grabbed one of the rags and placed the crushed plant within its folds, wrapping the fabric around itself to seal the leaves and petals inside. Pulling the water skein towards himself, he then began to pour the water into the bowl that Elrohir had placed at the bedside.

The wrapped plant was dunked into the water, and then brought towards the hobbit's dried, cracked lips.

Thorin's fingers twitched agitatedly and he resisted the urge to reach for his hobbit as Elladan lifted her head into his arm and coaxed her lips to part.

And then the elf gently squeezed the water from the rag, the mixture of leaves and petals infusing with the liquid and trickling into Lyla's mouth like a cold tea.

He repeated this two more times, each time makings sure that the hobbit had swallowed the concoction before setting her back amongst the pillows.

Then, the elf unwound the damp rag and carefully swept the shriveled plant into the bowl of water. He then reached in and brought more athelas from the pouch, quickly ripping leaves and petals from their stem, breaking the veins and then dropping them into the water as well.

While he was doing this, Elrohir began to carefully tug on the shirtsleeve of Lyla's left arm, exposing the angry purple veins of poison coursing up her arm and to her shoulder, running up the base of her neck.

Thorin tried to repress a shudder as a horrible ache throbbed in his chest as he gazed at her small (too thin) arm and the damage the black breath had wrought upon the hobbit.

What made him truly ill at ease, what set his throat seizing in horrified guilt, though, were the angry welts still glaringly bright around her throat. The marks he had overlooked until now.

Those marks, that marred her delicate flesh, were his doing.

Mahal, how utterly stupid he had been.

He was not fit to be king.

He was not fit for her presence.

He was nothing.