Atlas, At Last

4. Counting Blessings

"I don't quite understand, Master Bombur," Althea sighed, cradling her forehead in confusion. She had volunteered to help with washing some of the dishes, in spite of the furious objections from their gracious elven hosts. Though, she didn't exactly take up this chore entirely out of kindness- Althea secretly hoped to gain some sort of praise for her unselfishness.

However, it turned out that one of the dwarves deserved the praise more. According to Lindir, from the first day they arrived, this particular dwarf insisted on happily assisting the elves to clean up. He was a gruff one, with shaggy gray hair and had a savage look in his eyes. A piece of an orc axe was lodged in his forehead, rendering him somewhat inarticulate in common language. To communicate, he would grunt and use violent hand gestures.

"Master Bombur-" Althea started, but was interrupted by the dwarf shaking his head, grunting impatiently, and holding her hands down to silence her. He had done this every time she addressed him, and it was beginning to annoy her.

"You are humbly mistaken, he is not Mister Bombur, but Mister Bifur," said a voice behind them in a tone so soothing and calm, it relieved her of annoyance.

Althea turned around to see the same blue eyes that greeted her at dinner. He was a blond dwarf possessing a self assured expression, confident in every stride he took. Righteous though not smug in demeanor, the dwarf leaned against a wooden pillar in amusement, never intending to break away from their locked gazes first.

And oh, he was not too much shorter than she.
But wait.. What did he just say?..

And then came the third wave of embarrassment. Her necked whipped to her side and saw Master Bifur, arms crossed and nodding furiously in agreement.

"I-I'm so sorry Master Bifur! I didn't, I just," Althea stammered frantically and grabbed Bifur's hands in apology, cursing the culture of dwarves to bear such similar names to each other. Bifur grunted an equivalent of a sigh and nodded slower, accepting her bumbling mishap. Why couldn't everyone just understand him the first time around? The world would be so much easier. He smiled and patted Althea's hands forgivingly, taking the washcloth away from her palms and motioned her to leave. She wasn't too exceptional at drying anyway, and it slowed him down.

Althea laughed sheepishly and turned around to face the younger dwarf. He kept the same complacent smile, and tilted his head in curiosity.

"My name is Althea," She said.
"Fili," He said, bringing himself to stop leaning, "At your service."

He bowed to her, and she politely returned in lowering her head.

"Thank you for correcting me, Fili," Althea said, ashamed of her mix-up, "I believe that Master Bifur and I would not have been on good terms after drying all the plates."

"Well, then you understand why I could not have allowed that to happen to you," He chuckled.

He said this was such a twinkle in his eye, it made her wonder why it wasn't enough to bring comfort to all those who grieve in this world.

"Thorin, you cannot do this," Ravion shook his head furiously, and paced around the stone ledge. His heart jumped quicker, rushing along with the sound of the waterfall behind them. He glanced at the map Elrond held in his hands and grimaced.

"I thought you, of all people, would understand," Thorin muttered, though a bit pained he did sound.

"So this truly is your purpose, to enter the mountain?" Elrond breathed in pure vexation, imagining all the toil and anguish the dwarves would bring by reclaiming Erebor- by disturbing Smaug. He cocked his head towards Thorin and hissed under his breath, "There are some who would not deem it wise."

Gandalf shuffled quietly, his eyes avoiding to meet confrontation with anyone at all.

"I see those adversaries among me," Thorin replied bitterly, snatching his map back. There was no reason to hold his tongue against Lord Elrond, for he was considered no friend of dwarves.. But Ravion, how could Ravion go against his wishes? Ravion knew better. Ravion knew the struggle of his people. He knows the burden of being homeless.

"I thought you would side with me," Thorin said loudly, his words intending to smite, "It was wrong to think so highly of you."

Ravion only shook his head regretfully, and turned to leave. Thorin remained unmoving, and gripped the map in severe resentment.

"You mislead my people to find you a friend-"

"And you lead your people to find death!" Ravion whirled back, retaliating to the dwarf's ungratefulness. He grabbed Thorin by the collar and lifted him to meet his eyes, much to everyone's surprise. What Thorin saw in the man was a burning fire, and old wounds still left open, still trodden on after all these years, "What right have you?"

"I have the only right," Thorin said firmly.

They saw the rights and faults in each other's insistence. They acknowledged the risks and the prize. But neither would move.

"Thorin Oakenshield, you are king under the mountain whether you have Erebor or not," it pained Ravion to think his friends gone, incinerated to nothing more than soot to step on.

"There is no choice for me," Thorin said, the hate in his voice had withered, "But I can give it to my people."

In the silence, Ravion understood. He brought Thorin to the ground, and knew he didn't even need to apologize. They nodded, and Ravion turned to take leave for his chambers.

For although they did not agree with each other, Thorin and Ravion held each other to the highest regards. They did not need to come to a mutual understanding.

Their friendship was worth far greater.