She dreams of Golden Hope

Reflections look the same to me

"Tomorrow we will only give them a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf which will fall on the earth like if it had been made by our lips like a kiss which falls from our invincible heights to show the fire and the tenderness of a true love."- And because Love battles, Pablo Neruda

Wearily and with low spirits, he put one foot in front of the other. His head felt as if it had been filled with cotton and through a haze he perceived the continuous moans and complaints of the company.

'I can't see the path before my eyes. This damned forest has turned me blind.' he heard one of the dwarves state from somewhere from his left. He normally would have looked in the direction or at least taken some efforts to discover who was complaining from temporary blindness, but he was too tired to do it.

'The path? Have we gone off the path?' He heard a frantic voice state and he vaguely recognized the pitch of it. He furrowed his brow in concentration, but any effort was wasted as he could not distinguish the voice in his head and with unfocused eyes he studied the dense forest growth above them. Studied the dark and indistinguishable leaves that formed an impenetrable dome above them, which prevented any escape and any outward intervention.

As a low moan was rising up in his throat, it was intercepted and interrupted by a low groan from his right. The pitch caused an instinctive response within him and he felt concern rise in his chest. Compelled by this penetrating feeling, when he had spent an indefinite amount of time in a numb haze, he looked towards the source of the sound and was met with the sight of his cousin.

Though his feelings for her had always been platonic in nature, Bilbo had always recognized the beauty of his cousin. It had caused a great impression in him when he had been a young fauntling and had first met her. He recalled that he had been startled and awed by the young red-haired girl that his mother had introduced to him as his cousin. Never had he seen such a vibrant shade of red as her hair and with the delicacy and etherealness of her features, Bilbo had not even thought her real but a blessed creation from his over-active mind. And as they had grown up together, he had always been keenly aware that his cousin grew lovelier by the day. Though he was sure that for as long as he lived, no matter how far he travelled and what he saw, he would find no other woman that was more beautiful in his regard than Laurel, he could not disregard her degeneration.

With a wide-eyed gaze he studied her, the red of her hair no longer shone in that vibrant red hue that had first intrigued him. It was washed-out and faded and as he looked into her blue eyes he feared that the colour of her hair was a reflection of her spirit. She looked weary and troubled and so, so tired. And she looked sad. It shouldn't have startled him for as long as he had known her, there had always been an undertone of melancholy in Laurel. But this... it was not the good kind of sadness, the sadness that had caused her to become the kind and remarkable woman Bilbo had been proud to call his best friend. It was a sort of destructive, jaded sadness. A sadness that caused the constant accompanying voice that he had experienced since his discovery in Gollum's cave to hiss out in distressed alarm and warn him of her, that cautioned him. And why should he doubt the voice, it had warned him of Laurel's change of nature, of her new wickedness and her calculating nature that he experienced. He knew she suspected him, suspected something. And with the allure of the ring and the changes in her due to her experiences, he did not doubt that she would eliminate him to get to the ring. And as the ring told him such things, he was more and more convinced. And more and more determined to prevent her.

He saw her eyelids flutter and her knees falter and he caught her as she stumbled on her next step. Her form felt cold and hard in his grasp and he vaguely recalled the times when he had held her during their sleep, as a little child who had come to him in fear of her nightly dreams, and he remembered that she had been warm and soft. He supported her as they reached a clearing and set her down on a fallen log they came across. He continued studying his cousin with dispassionate eyes, as he saw her bury her face in her hands and detected her sporadic breathing due to the unsteady rise and fall of her chest. With a sense of disconnect, he realized that the sickness that had infested Greenwood had transferred itself onto them. He should have felt more alarm, he had always been responsible and heeding of danger. Yet as his fingers ghosted over the cool metal in the pocket of his waistcoat, he could not bring himself to feel any alarm, any care other than for the object. He stood passively, as Thorin declared they would rest for a while.