Something in the Night

Chapter Fifteen

"Are ye certain ye dinna want to discuss it?"

Thorin rolled his eyes as they boarded the barge that would sail them past the skeletal frames of Esgaroth to the city of Dale on the opposite side of the Long Lake. "How many times must I say it? No. I dinna want to discuss it."

"All right the. Have it your way, then. There's no need to get pissy."

He glared at Dwalin, who leaned against the side of the barge, arms folded, heavy iron-gray brows pulled low. "I'm not pissy, thank you very much. I am angry and there is a difference."

"Are ye still thinking about her? Even after what happened with her? That's madness, Thorin. She deserves not a single moment of thought and yer wasting yer time broodin' over her."

The bargeman barely bit back a smile as he guided them along the lake's calm waters. Somewhere in the depths, lay what remained of Smaug the Terrible, and Thorin tried not to think about that as Esgaroth loomed before them. The last time they'd seen the city on the lake, it had been mostly engulfed in orange flames that seemed to reach the midnight black winter sky.

Now, the charred remains had been torn down and fresh wood frameworks had been erected on the floating walkways that connected the city and formed what would be canals once construction was complete.

When they had set out for Rivendell, the first buildings had just been framed out. Now, they were just about finished with the majority of them. Little by little, the town was being reborn and as they glided past it, Thorin tried to shove down the regret surging forward at the memory of the last time he'd passed through. Driven by the need to reach the Lonely Mountain before the last light of Durin's Day, Thorin had let his desire to reclaim the treasure, the Arkenstone, and his throne blind him to everything else around him. The need to possess that treasure grew stronger until he could no longer ignore it. Dragon sickness would follow, and that was what led him to look the other way while Smaug incinerated Esgaroth, what led him to turn his back on the people whose lives he'd upended, what led him to choose war over anything else.

And eventually, what led Nina to seek revenge.

He winced, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't want to think about her now. Her betrayal was too fresh, too raw, and his heart felt as if it had been raked over with razor-sharp claws, leaving it shredded and dripping both blood and regret. He felt sick, his gut roiling like the Long Lake during a storm, and a sour taste flooded his mouth, one that he fought back. He didn't want to be sick, didn't want to give Nina that power over him. She was nothing to him. As low as Azog had been. Perhaps lower.

At least, that was what he told himself.

Either way, he had no desire to discuss it with Dwalin, to look at the smug expression Dwalin was certain to give him to go along with his I told you so.

"I've no wish to speak of it," he replied slowly. "And I am not brooding over her."

"Thorin, you were staring off into the dark forever." Nina affixed him with a long look. "That's brooding."

"I was thinking."

"You were brooding. It's all right. You can admit it."

He didn't want to think about Nina. In fact, he wished he could forget ever crossing paths with her.

Some of the irritation left Dwalin's normally cold eyes. With a low sigh, he crossed over to sink onto the bench alongside him. "I'm sorry, laddie. I had the feeling she was trouble and I tried to tell ye."

"Aye, she was." Thorin couldn't keep the sigh from his voice. "And I should have listened to you."

"It matters not now," Dwalin told him. "It is all water under the bridge."