Of Dragons, Dwobbits and Dwarves

Chapter Twenty-One

Bilba studied the ceiling.

It was strange, she thought idly, how people rarely, if ever, looked up.

Probably because it was profoundly boring.

She scowled and gingerly rolled onto her side before awkwardly getting up into a seated position. A dull pain, deep enough to make her nauseous, rolled through her and she grimaced, squeezing her eyes shut as her body helpfully reminded her of the injuries she'd taken in Dale and the fields beyond. She pressed her hands into the cold stone of the floor, clenched her teeth in anticipation, and scooted back until her body was supported by the wall behind her. Her ribs did not appreciate the movement, or any movement for that matter, and she held still until the pain passed. By the time it did she was sweating, trembling and breathing through her nose to avoid throwing up.

Are you alright?

Fine, she returned sharply, pain making her short tempered. It's my own fault. I let everything lock up and get stiff.

You should be in bed, Fili answered. Not sitting in random hallways.

Bilba rolled her eyes. I'm not in a random hallway. I'm in the same one I've been in.

Are you at least taking the powder Oin gave you for the pain? Fili asked.

Bilba ignored him. She could feel irritation matching her own coming from him. He'd been hurt far worse than he let on. He'd fallen from Syrath after all, jumped off actually, and while the snow might have cushioned his fall he'd still hit hard. After that had come the attack, nearly being murdered by Bolg and then the battle after where he'd racked up his fair share of cuts, injuries and at least two cracked ribs. She knew he took the powder Oin had given them to help sleep at night but avoided it during the day, claiming it left him unable to focus. He was in a council meeting at the moment, one of a number since the attack, and it, and the pain he was in, were making him as annoyed as she was. If they continued talking they'd undoubtedly end up fighting, not from any real anger at each other so much as from exhaustion, pain and general misery.

It was best to just not talk at all, at least until their tempers improved...and Syrath healed enough that they could both stop taking on his pain as well. He was on drugs as well but they were often inadequate or wore off sooner than expected, leaving him hurting until more could be administered. She would feel his pain flare through her at unexpected moments, a liquid line of fire burning through her veins.

In short, their lives all generally sucked at the moment, and she only had herself to blame.

At least in part.

She glanced down to the greave strapped to her leg. She was wearing her armor and had her recovered dagger strapped to her thigh once again. Her sword was braced against the wall next to her. Fili had claimed he couldn't find any of her other knives, broken or otherwise, and had gleefully loaned her some of his own while he made her a brand new set that matched her sword and dagger. She'd taken the borrowed ones, and a few extra he'd happily tossed in, and had all of them on her.

She'd allowed herself to go soft, been caught off guard at the worst possible moment and, as a result, had nearly lost both of them.

It wouldn't happen again.

She sighed and dropped her head against the wall with a light thunk.

Every time she thought she was getting to a point where she was finally strong enough to protect those she loved...it had worked out this time, yes, but not without a lot of help and no thanks to her own ineptitude at letting a bunch of orcs catch her off guard.