A Single Dream is More Powerful Than a Thousand Realities

Fevered Thoughts

Dinner seemed to stretch on forever.

Or, at least for Lyla, it did.

Most of the dwarves (barring Thorin) appeared to enjoy the festivities, food, and drink. Their spirits rose ever higher (and their voices louder) as the night wore on and the ale flowed freely.

She caught snatches of Bofur recounting their adventures in getting to Laketown to some rather anxious children who sat in rapt attention, their eyes as wide as saucers. Other dwarves, like Gloin, were expounding upon the utmost importance of their quest because of the stability and comfort it would bring their families back in the Blue Mountains.

And then there were the dwarves like Fili and Kili and Nori and Oin who were starting a boisterous round of singing, their voices raised in a raucous drunk chorus of laughter and verse.

It was heartwarming for Lyla to hear.

All the merry making and music didn't stop the dwarves, however, from giving Lyla worried looks every few minutes. Though every time they tried to rise to approach the hobbit, they were surrounded by a myriad of curious townsfolk, filled to the brim questions or expulsions of gratitude and admiration.

So they remained down the table from her, as Lyla sat in blessed silence next to Legolas, neither one of them bothered by an inhabitant of Laketown, more than likely due to the fact that they weren't dwarves.

And that suited Lyla just fine. She didn't seek nor invited attention of any sort.

Her head pounded, her throat felt tight.

And she most certainly could not stop the sneezes from coming.

All she wanted was to sit in silence, blessed, calm silence. And Legolas didn't seem to mind the lack of conversation. He sat straight, like a sentinel of calm.

But Lyla was so bone-achingly tired that eventually her head found purchase against Legolas' arm (at his insistence of course) and she drifted to the point between wakefulness and sleep.

Eventually though, as all things do, the dinner (for her at least) finally came to an end and someone was shaking her.

"Alright then, up you get, your companions are getting ready to depart. It wouldn't do for you to be left behind," Legolas' light, soothing timbre was near her ear as he helped her into a standing position, his arm firmly wrapped around her shoulders as she stumbled forward and towards the door.

She hazarded a glance around to the table and noted that many of her companions weren't faring much better than she, though for an entirely different reason. They too stumbled slightly-the result of too much ale-as they followed Thorin and a guide from the large hall, towards (what she hoped) as a place where they could rest.

Colors blended and the dull roar of voices washed in her ears. The walls vibrated around her.

She felt, very much, as though she were walking in the midst of a dreamscape.

'One foot in front of the other Lyla. Just keep moving. You're fine.'

Part of her knew she was lying to herself. Her aching muscles and growing fatigue felt remarkably similar to the time when she'd fallen asleep on her favorite bench and woken up drenched in the surprise spring rain shower that had descended upon the Shire. She'd been abed and miserable for nearly a week as a result. And right now, she was certain that a cold was coming. Coupled with the bruises she could feel forming on her stomach from Azog's hit, and she was right certain she wanted nothing more than to crawl into a nice cool, comforting bed and forget the world.

She was tired. Remarkably, thoroughly tired.

But, a larger part of her fought the drowsiness. For some inexplicable reason she felt the necessity to walk of her own volition from the building.