[ Bilbo has nothing to say. All he has is the hammering of his heart and a ringing in his ears, those heated words swirling slowly, round and round in steady repetition. He fell. He fell. He fell.
He swallows, shoulders hunching in. The mugs are still impractically large in his opinion but not quite expansive enough to hide behind, nonetheless, that almost seems to be what he's doing. Chin tucked and body drawing in, he doesn't dare meet the gaze across the table. He's suffered Thorin's ire at just about every opportunity imaginable on the quest but this is, this is different. Something aches terribly and feels on the verge of breaking; not his pride, not his sense of self...
Hope? Is that what big, clunky, abruptly rude and and tactless dwarven feet just stomped all over?
Thorin said they succeeded. That they won back the mountain. Well. It doesn't feel very much like winning when one of them dies. The thought drags out a grimace, his eyes reflexively snapping up and--… hm, that's true. He barely takes in pulled away chain-mail and marred skin, instead looking back to the table. The table that is, indeed, in a dingy tavern in the middle of nowhere. A tavern that Thorin is obviously – safely – in. And it makes him think.
Perhaps not all hope is lost. Surely there's a reason for such turn of events. ] … There must be something that can be done. [ Things can be changed; Bilbo's future, Thorin's past? Even so, the words are worn and a touch tired, the hobbit a little too rattled to manage any much needed optimism. ]
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He swallows, shoulders hunching in. The mugs are still impractically large in his opinion but not quite expansive enough to hide behind, nonetheless, that almost seems to be what he's doing. Chin tucked and body drawing in, he doesn't dare meet the gaze across the table. He's suffered Thorin's ire at just about every opportunity imaginable on the quest but this is, this is different. Something aches terribly and feels on the verge of breaking; not his pride, not his sense of self...
Hope? Is that what big, clunky, abruptly rude and and tactless dwarven feet just stomped all over?
Thorin said they succeeded. That they won back the mountain. Well. It doesn't feel very much like winning when one of them dies. The thought drags out a grimace, his eyes reflexively snapping up and--… hm, that's true. He barely takes in pulled away chain-mail and marred skin, instead looking back to the table. The table that is, indeed, in a dingy tavern in the middle of nowhere. A tavern that Thorin is obviously – safely – in. And it makes him think.
Perhaps not all hope is lost. Surely there's a reason for such turn of events. ] … There must be something that can be done. [ Things can be changed; Bilbo's future, Thorin's past? Even so, the words are worn and a touch tired, the hobbit a little too rattled to manage any much needed optimism. ]