Saving Durin {Hobbit/Thorin}

Chapter 6: Cheater-cheater, pumpkin-eater

Chapter 6:

Cheater-cheater, pumpkin-eater

My peaceful sleep is interrupted by the gentle shaking of my shoulder. Although I despise the interruption, I am grateful not to be kicked awake by the dwarf king.

Peeking out from under my eyelids, my grey eyes withhold his blue. It feels right to be awoken to the same image I fell asleep to, and that notion scares me.

"Erudian, it is time to awaken," Thorin whispers in a way that seems foreign to him. I nod my head at his words, shifting into a sitting position.

"Alright. Thank you, my king," I reply. I gleefully jump out of my temporary bed once I fully come to my senses. My first priority is to change into my travel wear, so I run into Bilbo's bath before any dwarf can claim it.

I change into a maroon tunic with grey, tight leather trousers. My black riding boots go on next as my hair forms itself into a high pony.

I exit the room, glad to be in new clothes, and skip into the kitchen where the dwarves sit, eating breakfast. I take a seat near Thorin, subconsciously, grabbing some toasted bread and an apple. It is a meager helping of food compared to the dwarves, but I am not very hungry in the mornings. I smile happily at the company as they sit grumbling.

"Someone's a morning person," Gloin coughs out as I sit to his left.

"Yes. There's something to that saying where the early bird catches the worm," I reply.

"Says the Phoenix," he says. I frown at his words.

"Hey! I am half dwarf as well and you don't see me grouching around."

"Who was your dwarven parent, if you do not mind me asking?" Balin pipes up for the first time this morning. If anything, he looks the jolliest of the company, but that is not saying much.

"Nira. She was the daughter of one of the dwarven guards of Erebor actually. I never understood how my father found that beard of hers to be attractive. I thank the Valar everyday that I did not get that gene," I reply, rubbing my chin to ensure that I have no stubble. Honestly, even at 150 years old, I am concerned that one day I will awaken to chin hair. The dwarves laugh at my words. Even Thorin laughs. I take that as a personal victory.

"Did you ever visit Erebor?" Thorin asks me.

"I lived there actually, though only as a young child. I have faint memories of the thick mountain walls and high-reaching arches. It was a beautiful place, to be sure. However, I left for Avon before I could fully recognize its majesty," I reflect as images flash through my mind.

"What is this 'Avon' place. I have never heard of it," asks the curious dwarf, also known as Kili.

"It was on the border of Rohan. Truly a-" I start, only to be interrupted by Kili.

"Was?" He asks. I shake my head as I realize the mistake in my words: I said "was" not "is."

I stay silent as I cannot suffer through verbalizing my peoples' misfortunes. The horrors flash under my eyelids as I clench my eyes closed. My breathing becomes heavier, adrenaline rushing precipitously through my veins. It was as if the whole company suddenly vanishes and I am back on that horrendous night.

Thorin, seeing my pained expression, orders the company out of the hobbit hole. He follows them, leaving me to my thoughts. It only takes a few minutes to regain my composure, but my good attitude has quickly diminished. I make my way after the dwarves to see them packing up their belongings onto ponies.