In Time

Chapter Thirty-One

The floor in the great room wasn't exactly the most comfortable place one could sleep, but Amara managed to do so, at least for a little bit. By now, she'd grown used to the odd sounds the dwarves made—even Bofur's singing, which was fascinating to be honest. How did one sing in his sleep? She had no idea, but Bofur's voice was quite lovely, so it was hard to mind it much.

Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed three times. Amara rolled over and reached for Thorin, who'd been right beside her when she'd fallen asleep.

But now, the space was empty.

She sat up, peering through the darkness at the bodies sprawled across the floor in various directions. Surprisingly, Bofur was silent, his head propped against Bombur's leg. Everyone else was still very much asleep.

With great care, she got to her feet and picked her way around them, out into the hallway, which was far darker than the great room since it had no hearth. All was quiet in the house. Quiet and dark.

So, where was Thorin?

Somehow, she knew. She drew on her boots, reached for her cloak, and stepped out into the frigid night. The wind whipped up beneath the cloak, sending a rush of icy air up beneath hit to make her gasp. It still snowed like mad, several inches of powder covered everything, which leant a magical sort of brightness to the city.

She gasped as another burst of wind tore along the streets, shivering as she made her way back toward the promontory where she saw a dark shape leaning against the low stone wall, staring out at Erebor.

"What are you doing out here at this hour?"

He slowly turned. "What are you doing out here? It's freezing and you should be inside."

She closed the space between them. Snow clung to Thorin's hair, his beard, his clothes. The ends of his hair and along the lower part of his beard actually looked frozen. "How long have you been out here?"

"I haven't the foggiest."

"Thorin," she reached up to brush snow from his shoulder, "what is going on? It's the middle of the night and you are half a mile from a warm, dry house. Why?"

"Go back to the house, Amara. I've told you, I often have trouble sleeping and when I do, I wander. I'm fine."

"You are not fine." She caught him by the chin, turning his face to hers. Even in the darkness, she could see the bruise-like smudges ringing under his eyes and his face was pale. Not quite as pale as it had been in those first days in Rivendell, but he didn't look well. "Please tell me what's going on with you?"

He jerked away from her. "There is nothing going on with me. I am merely anxious to return home."

"Thorin."

"What? I am, and I would appreciate it if you'd stop nagging me about it."

He shoved by her to stalk back toward the Provincial House. She stood there for a moment, just staring at his broad back, wondering if she risked the blowup by going after him and insisting he tell her what troubled him because she knew something did. He hadn't slept much since they left Rivendell—the one night at Mirkwood notwithstanding—and his temper had grown much shorter as a result.

Partway down the street, he stopped. He turned and crunched through the snow back to her. "I'm sorry," he said softly. He didn't reach for her, made no move to touch her, but clasped his hands in front of him. "I'm tired. It's been a long journey for me, beginning with Azog at Ravenhill and ending right here."

"I know it has and I'm worried for you." She brushed a wayward lock of dark hair away from his face. "What is it?"

His eyes closed briefly and he drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "The scars hurt. They hadn't been troubling me before, but now? Now they ache like mad."