How I Leave You

The Company We Keep

I will not tell Thorin until I have made up my mind about what I am going to do. For I know that, if I were to tell him now, his eyes would still harbor the question even if it never left his lips:

Is this how you leave me?

And the worst part...

The worst part would be that I would not know how to answer him, for I do not know what to do.

My people are out there. On the island where our kind was birthed, they have now made a home, and the only thing that remains to ask is whether mine is there with them.

I do not join Thorin in bed until late. Or, until early, technically, as the new winter sun will soon rise.

"Hm?" he mumbles, drunk on sleep and ale.

"It's just me, my love."

His eyes are closed, but he still holds out his arm for me to hold onto.

"Where were you?"

"With Gandalf."

I choose my words carefully.

"Mm," he murmurs. "Come here."

I let his body warm my own. Let myself remember the sensation of his hard muscles relaxing in my presence, his sleepy kisses against the back of my neck.

What does love feel like?

Love feels like holding hands beneath the longtable, even after all these years. Love feels like the softness of his hair beneath my fingers as I braid it after a bath.

What does love look like?

Love looks like watching our children make a home of the castle we built for them. Like watching them grow out of clothes I once swore would never fit them. Love looks like seeing his reflection in the mirror when he gets dressed in the morning, catching his eyes and holding his gaze just long enough to see the smile forming on his lips.

What does love smell like?

It smells like his scent on the sheets. Like cedar wood and salt, and a little sweet, like the aftertaste of elvish wine. Him. It smells like him.

No, I would not want to leave Thorin. Not in a thousand years.

But I might still have to.

*      *      *

I do not know whose idea this meeting was. Certainly not mine. And, by the looks on the faces of half the dwarven lords and ladies assembled here, it was not theirs, either.

We assemble in one of the mountain's more ancient rooms. On the walls, old runes and engravings are carved into the stone, next to which woven tapestries depict battles of long ago. At least I will have something worthwhile to look at as I endure the back-and-forth bickering of the dwarves.

Last time I attended a meeting such as this, Dain argued with another lord for hours about possibly renaming the twirly-whirlys. Thorin would not let me leave early, no matter how many evil glances I sent him. He made it up to me later, of course, but after today, I believe he might have to win my good-will all over again. Such a pity.

The soon-to-be-wedded prince has not graced us with his company today. They are preparing for the ceremony, which is to occur in the evening, on the last night of the celebrations. And what a celebration it will be indeed.

That is, if I make it out of this meeting alive.

When Thorin starts speaking, he does it in the voice of a king. Low and deep it rumbles, refuting any possible doubts of his claim to the throne. As he introduces the nobledwarves and dams, I listen with great care, for his presence demands attention, and preferably so in full.