A Single Dream is More Powerful Than a Thousand Realities

Safe and Secure

Long after the sobs subsided and her tears were spent, Lyla sat curled into a warm embrace, staring idly at the scratchy fabric of a dark blue tunic. She noted flecks of yellow thread interspersed with the damp blue cloth. Tiny stitches that ran like seams of gold through an ocean created an intricate pattern that Lyla had never noticed before. It was all rather beautiful, in a subtle way.

It reminded her of the flowers along the pathway near her smial. They grew wild in the summertime and she always marveled at their simple, understated beauty.

It certainly was a peaceful thought at least.

And all the while, as she entertained thoughts of tunics and thread and flowers, shudders wracked her body and gooseflesh encased her arms.

But she didn't let her mind drift to anything other than studying the stitching of the fabric in her field of vision and listening to the slow rhythmic 'thump thump' reverberating in her ear.

No. She wouldn't dwell on it.

She forced the memory back down. Down into the depths of the deepest lake. Hidden in the far reaches of her mind.

She focused on the arms encircled about her shoulders, the fingers running gently through her hair. And the constant 'thump, thump, thump,' next to her ear.

It was soothing, calming.

It was just what she needed. ..

And she would enjoy it. She would revel in the sweet simplicity of feeling safe again.

Just for a moment.

She closed her eyes and focused on the beating of a heart and the soft, warm breath ghosting over her cheek.

And she did feel safe.

*****

Thorin sat quietly, cradling the quaking hobbit (whose shivers had yet to abate), his fingers running idly through thick blonde curls, soft as spider silk as he listened to Lyla's breathing slow, and even out, her hiccoughs and gasps subsiding into soft sighs and expulsions of air.

The little hobbit was contented and calm.

For now.

But even as he took comfort in the small creature nestled in his arms, reveling in the knowledge that he'd managed to assuage her tearful come apart (a sight that had sent his heart plummeting to the bottom of his soles), his heart still hammered furiously in his ears and a deep seeded regret anchored his heart downward.

He took note of the blood trickling from beneath her short hair, as well as the long gash that ran across her hand, dripping blood onto his tunic, staining it a deep, rich red.

But his heart nearly stopped as he looked once again to the delicate throat of the small hobbit, whose eyes were mercifully closed. He noted more dark angry bruises forming on pale skin.

Azog had tried to choke her again.

Again.

Curse that black-blooded, filthy-

He clenched his jaw and scowled.

Oh Mahal, how could have been so blind?

So stubborn?

So...

Wrong.

So utterly and completely wrong?

But then, as he gazed at the hobbit's thin, delicate throat, he spied something else. Something unusual. Thorin furrowed his brows in curiosity and turned his head a little peering at the oddly familiar object with confusion.