Come to Morning Through The Shadows

Fall Apart

 "Home is behind, the world ahead, and there are many paths to tread

through shadows to the edge of night,

until the stars are all alight."-J.R.R. Tolkien

The elf king sighed and rubbed his slender fingers across his chin slowly.

"Thorin Oakenshield is a fool," He muttered lowly, knowing the others would hear his remarks regardless.

"You think he will not assist the Halfling?" Elrohir remarked softly, arms folded together, stance rigid as he watched Thranduil pace, "You think he will not aid her?"

"Half of nothing," The king murmured, "She is half of nothing."

And then he sighed again.

"I think," Thranduil remarked, "That Master Oakenshield cannot see beyond the affairs of the mountain. He cares for Lyla Baggins, that is certain, but something draws his attention away. Even from the ring of Durin. He cannot see the growing danger. He is...distracted." The Elf king turned towards the sons of Elrond and his own Legolas with a grim frown, "The enemy is far closer to us that we've realized.  Spies are among us. We must do something."

*****

"Hold still," Thorin's command was quiet, but firm as he brushed his thumb across Lyla's jaw line slowly.

"Thorin—"

The dwarf's eyes hardened as he gazed at the blossoming bruise, the tender flesh of her cheek. Lyla could see the fury burning brighter in his blue orbs.

"Hold still," he murmured again, fingers brushing the nape of her neck, feeling her scalp, searching for the cut that was hidden beneath frizzy, dirty curls.

"You'll have to talk to me at some point," she muttered softly, catching Thorin's gaze with a glare of her own, "You HAVE to talk to me. This is getting beyond ridiculous you know."

And it was.

Utterly ridiculous.

Thirty minutes they'd sat there in silence. Thirty blasted minutes, after being dragged upstairs by Thorin and Dwalin, into her room, where the king of Erebor began to assess the cut on her head and bruise on her cheek. But, in all that time he'd not said a word about what had happened. Not one ruddy word about the whole fiasco! He just fumed, muttering under his breath in khuzdul (as she finally learned their language was called) shooting the hobbit a wary look every few moments, as he rebound her swollen wrist, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he searched her face, before averting his gaze as the low growling mutters continued.

She suspected it was insulting remarks concerning a particular elf king and his cohorts. Cohorts that Thorin could not exact justice upon, no matter how angry he was.

 "There is nothing to discuss Master Baggins," Thorin's voice was low, clipped. Lyla could hear the anger.

And the indifference. He hadn't called her 'Master Baggins' for quite awhile now.

She didn't care.

Pulling back, Lyla stood, and regarded the king before her.

"Is that really all you care about?" She questioned, raising her brow, "Proving your indifference?"

Thorin's brows furrowed and he frowned at the hobbit, "My indifference? When have I been indifferent?"

Dwalin snorted and smirked at the two from his perch at the door.

"Or," Lyla continued folding her arms gingerly, ignoring the shooting pain from her wrist, "Do you take me for a simpleton?"

Thorin looked affronted by the accusation.