Sansûkh (Bagginshield & Gigolas)

Chapter Sixteen

Thorin didn't bother with eating the next morning. He threw on a tunic, belted it, pulled his hair back into a rough queue (he couldn't remember the last time he had brushed and oiled it) and shoved his feet into his boots without lacing them. It was only as he was striding towards his chamber door that he realized he had forgotten to put on some trousers.

His attire sorted out, he made his way directly for Gimlîn-zâram and ignored the calls of his name that floated towards him through the sweet ringing rock of Mahal's Halls. One of the voices sounded rather like his grandfather, but he carried on regardless. Yesterday's news from Erebor would keep for a few more hours.

His head felt light and free-floating. Evidently, he had not managed sufficient sleep once again. He ignored it and sat at his customary bench, his left hand settling beside his leg as always. His fingers had worn grooves in the soft smooth sandstone.

With the sound of Gimli's hand landing in the Elf's palm ringing in his ears, he dived into the pool and emerged, shaking and blinking, in Rivendell.

Elrond's home always made Thorin feel resentful. He knew he had not behaved in an exemplary fashion (and neither had any of his people, with the possible exception of Ori), and the reminder made him seethe rather than fill him with guilt. Elrond himself had been of help to his Company, grudging though it was. Thorin should have been more gracious.

But the damned Elf was just so superior!

Bilbo understood Elves. Bilbo would help Thorin understand. Bilbo. Where was Bilbo?

He squinted into the rays of soft, honey-colored light that spilled into the graceful walkways of the Last Homely House. Bilbo was nowhere to be seen, but a tall and slender Elf-maid was moving swiftly between the lacy, fanciful domes. Her blue dress billowed out behind her, and her long dark hair was loose. Her face was heart-stoppingly lovely, even beardless as she was, and her eyes were nearly the equal of Mizim's. A covered dish rested in her hands.

"Master Bilbo?" she said softly, stopping at a door and knocking.

"A... blast! Oh dear, just... wait a moment, will you?" came the cracked and querulous voice of his very Own.

Eventually the door opened, and the white head peered out. Bilbo was clutching a stick, and his hair had thinned even more since Thorin's last visit. "Oh, Lady Arwen," he said, and his face creased into a smile, the wrinkles gathering around his eyes and lips. "Do come in! Awfully sorry for the wait: knees aren't what they were, you understand."

The Elf-woman smiled back, and Thorin was startled to see a genuine fondness in her face. "There is no need to apologize," she said in a low, smooth voice. "Here, I have brought the cakes you wished to try. I do not believe they are my finest effort."

"I'll be the judge of that, thank you very much!" Bilbo said, giving her a meaningful look. "After all, who is the Hobbit here?"

"I would never argue with you when it came to food, my idùzhib," Thorin murmured. Then he glanced back at the Elf and wondered if she would leave. "Bilbo, ghivashel, you understand these damned Elves. You must help me, with your clever mind and your clever words. Gimli begins this folly, and I must learn to understand them all too late."

The old Hobbit tottered to a small bench and sat down, pulling a blanket over his knees and looking up at the Elf expectantly. "Well? I don't have forever, you know! Let's taste them!"

"Patience, Master Bilbo!" she said, smiling. "Would you like tea?"

"Oh certainly, certainly," he said, folding his hands together on his lap. "Only I hope you're not expecting me to get up again."