Of Dragons, Dwobbits and Dwarves

Chapter Seven

Bilba had seen someone torn in half, more than once.

The clearest memory was the first one.

It had been during her early days in the Arena, when Azog still saw her as a novelty rather than an asset.

He'd thrown her and another female dwobbit in with an entire orc pack, complete with their wargs.

She couldn't dredge up the other girl's name, if she'd ever known it, but she remembered the girl's fear. It had been so overwhelming the girl had been paralyzed, barely able to function.

Bilba had ended up saving them both. She'd been terrified herself but, in the end, she'd had one thing the other girl did not.

Hatred.

Her mother had only been dead a short time and Bilba had been overflowing with hate, rage and grief. It had drowned out the fear until it was a bare murmur, allowing her to act in spite of it.

No one had expected her to live.

But there she'd been, standing in a sea of blood and gore with nothing alive but the other dwobbit cowering at her feet.

The orcs watching had been dumbstruck.

Azog had smiled.

And ordered her to kill the girl.

Bilba refused.

So Azog did it for her.

She could still hear the sound his sword made carving through flesh and bone.

She could still see the look on the other girl's face.

She'd wondered, at the time, what it felt like.

Now, staring at her father standing over her, she imagined she had a pretty good idea.

One part of her soul howled at her to draw her sword and run him through for his treachery.

His cowardice.

The other half begged her to stop.

That half was her mother, whose final words had been of love and forgiveness toward her missing husband. She'd wanted Bilba to go find him if she ever escaped. Belladonna's concern as she died had been for her daughter and her absent husband.

She hadn't spared even an instant for herself.

Bilba felt like she was being ripped apart, her soul at war with itself. Her body nearly vibrated with energy; her muscles tight with the split desire to leap for his throat and hold herself back.

Her indecision had already cost her the element of surprise. Dwalin had already moved on. After making introductions he'd dismissed her, unsurprisingly, and was speaking to one of the other dwarves.

He'd said he wanted to help her.

The thought made her want to burst into hysterical laughter and scream in rage.

He was decades too late to help her.

Syrath shifted slightly behind her. He'd fallen asleep almost immediately after they'd landed. Without a bond he couldn't tell the depths of her feelings but he could sense them to a limited extent through their surface link, particularly given the fact they were in physical contact.

She tightened her shields, building them up until he settled again. Her gaze went to some of the other dragons and her gut clenched at their size in comparison to Syrath. She knew, logically, he was young. She'd been there for his birth after all; she knew how old he was.