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She does not know where she is when she wakes up. She thinks that she should get up, out of the bed she’s in, because it’s not her bed and it’s all terribly improper, isn’t it? It’s not her bed, right? She thinks she’d know it if it was her bed… she’s so tired, she’s just going to close her eyes for a second…
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“I bear glad tidings, your majesty,” Óin says, stomping into the royal study. “Our hobbit’s waking up.”
“Is she awake?” Thorin’s head shoots up from where he had had it bent over a piece of paper on the desk. He readies himself to stand up, both hands planted on the desk, when Óin waves him off.
“Peace, lad, she won’t wake up properly for a while yet – but she’s starting to move, now, and that’s a wealth of good signs.” Thorin sinks back in his chair, running his fingers through his beard, and wonders what he should do to convince her he really wants her to stay in Erebor, wants her to stay with him.
He had banished her and would regret that forevermore, but he hoped against all hope that Mahal would bless him in this endeavour, and that she would stay with him so that he may make it up to her.
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The ceiling above her was not wood. She wasn’t sure it should be wood, but it definitely should not be… stone? Was it stone? It looked like stone. How in the Shire had someone managed to pave their ceiling? It was so high… where was she? What was she doing there? This wasn’t her home, she knew it wasn’t, and her parents – mum and dad, or was it only mum now? She wasn’t sure – must be dreadfully worried.
Does she have parents? She’s not even certain what her name was, and now she couldn’t tell anyone anything about… anything, really.
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Thorin sank down in the chair next to Bryony’s bed, eyes locked on her face, smooth and calm in sleep. He hesitated, but only for a moment, before reaching out to take her hand. It was surprisingly calloused, but it struck him then that she had had a large garden – and warfare and smithing weren’t the only things that caused callouses.
Her hands are small and dainty, more tanned than his, however. He thinks he must be careful with her, else he will crush her like eggshells in his grasp.
Her eyelids flutter and he holds his breath, hoping against hope that she will open her eyes and smile when she sees him. She twitches in her sleep, her eyelids flutter again, and then she settles – so does he, sinking back in the chair long since claimed as his, and resolves to not give up hope yet.
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Wherever it is she is, it’s the same place when she wakes up as it was when – when she fell asleep. It’s lighter, however, as if the sun had gone up outside a window facing into the room, and it was ever so tempting to find a warm, sunny spot to curl up in, let sleep claim her for just a small while more.
One of her hands is much warmer than it should be, she thinks, wonders why. Is the other one actually colder than one hotter? With great effort she peels both her eyes open, turning her gaze to whatever it was holding her left hand, warming it from the inside out.
“Who’re you?”
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“Who are you?” she asks, and Thorin thinks his cousin Dain could hear his heart breaking in two.