Humor/Crack - Falsch abgebogen
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120_minutenChallenge: Humor/Crack – Falsch abgebogen (fürs Team)
Fandom: Hobbit
Charaktere: Thorin
Sprache: Englisch
Wörter: 674
Kommentar: Eine leicht cracky Idee, die mich nicht losgelassen hat
Thorin must have taken a wrong turn at some point. He’d just wanted to avoid his family for a while, to avoid another round of them trying to placate him. He had failed his people, his family. He had fallen to goldsickness, he’d got his nephews killed. He’d attacked his One. There was no excusing that. So he was avoiding them.
But somehow he’d overdone it. He had not seen or heard any other dwarrow in some time. Not that he was surprised to not find any dwarrow in that forest room he’d stumbled across. He’d never even heard that there was a room in Mahal’s Halls looking like a forest.
He perked up when he heard the regular beating of metal on metal of smithing. He made his way in that direction.
The forge he found was small, just enough for one person and for smaller projects. A tall person, at least as tall as Thârkun, with short, red hair, was working at the anvil. There were strange contraptions build around it that Thorin had never seen before. He could guess at their purpose, though, when he stepped closer and saw that the smith was missing his right hand.
He must have made some sound, because the smith was suddenly looking at him. At first he seemed annoyed, likely at being disturbed, but then it shifted to surprise. “How did you come here, Master Dwarf?” he asked.
“Am I not allowed here?” Had he stumbled across the forges of Mahal’s servants, perhaps? Was this one of the maia in his service?
The smith frowned. “I’m... not sure. It has not come up before.”
That suggested he would not be found by his family any time soon. “Then may I stay, for now?”
“If you wish.” He returned to his work. “Though I’m surprised to find a single dwarf here, as far from his people.”
“I can’t face them,” Thorin found himself admitting, “not with how I failed them.”
“Oh?”
“I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror.”
The smith showed no recognition to that name. Thorin found himself a bit miffed. He’d have thought Mahal’s people to be more interested in Durin’s Line, in the ones to lose both Erebor, fail to reclaim Khazad-Dum, and barely manage to regain Erebor.
“How did you fail your people then, Thorin Oakenshield?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” And yet he found himself telling the smith about their Quest.
The smith just listened as he worked, only asking a few clarifying questions, not offering any excuses or judgement.
It was strangely cathartic.
When he’d finished, the smith turned to face him again. “You did fall to your family’s curse and lead some of them on a quest that led to their death, but you also overcame the goldsickness and you managed to reclaim a home for your people.”
Thorin found it harder to argue with this stranger.
“I will walk you back to the dwarrow’s halls.” The smith started packing up.
They walked in companionable silence until they reached a rough stone wall with a door in it. The smith pounded on it, then stepped back to wait.
Mahal himself opened the door, then just stared at them. Thorin could not read the expression on his face.
The smith bowed. “My Lord Aulë, I return Thorin Oakenshield to you and your Halls.”
Mahal wordlessly stared down at Thorin for a seemingly endless moment, then said: “of all my dwarrow to find a way to the real of the elves of Valinor, I did not expect it to be you.”
Thorin whirled around to stare at the smith. “You’re an elf? But you have short hair!”
“And you have but a short beard.”
Thorin was about to take offense, but then he saw the expression in the elf’s eyes. He knew what his short beard meant and was using it as comparison.
“Thank you for leading him back, Maedhros Feanorion,” Mahal said.
Thorin’s eyes widened.
Maedhros bowed. “My Lord.” He nodded to Thorin, then turned and walked away.
Fandom: Hobbit
Charaktere: Thorin
Sprache: Englisch
Wörter: 674
Kommentar: Eine leicht cracky Idee, die mich nicht losgelassen hat
Thorin must have taken a wrong turn at some point. He’d just wanted to avoid his family for a while, to avoid another round of them trying to placate him. He had failed his people, his family. He had fallen to goldsickness, he’d got his nephews killed. He’d attacked his One. There was no excusing that. So he was avoiding them.
But somehow he’d overdone it. He had not seen or heard any other dwarrow in some time. Not that he was surprised to not find any dwarrow in that forest room he’d stumbled across. He’d never even heard that there was a room in Mahal’s Halls looking like a forest.
He perked up when he heard the regular beating of metal on metal of smithing. He made his way in that direction.
The forge he found was small, just enough for one person and for smaller projects. A tall person, at least as tall as Thârkun, with short, red hair, was working at the anvil. There were strange contraptions build around it that Thorin had never seen before. He could guess at their purpose, though, when he stepped closer and saw that the smith was missing his right hand.
He must have made some sound, because the smith was suddenly looking at him. At first he seemed annoyed, likely at being disturbed, but then it shifted to surprise. “How did you come here, Master Dwarf?” he asked.
“Am I not allowed here?” Had he stumbled across the forges of Mahal’s servants, perhaps? Was this one of the maia in his service?
The smith frowned. “I’m... not sure. It has not come up before.”
That suggested he would not be found by his family any time soon. “Then may I stay, for now?”
“If you wish.” He returned to his work. “Though I’m surprised to find a single dwarf here, as far from his people.”
“I can’t face them,” Thorin found himself admitting, “not with how I failed them.”
“Oh?”
“I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror.”
The smith showed no recognition to that name. Thorin found himself a bit miffed. He’d have thought Mahal’s people to be more interested in Durin’s Line, in the ones to lose both Erebor, fail to reclaim Khazad-Dum, and barely manage to regain Erebor.
“How did you fail your people then, Thorin Oakenshield?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” And yet he found himself telling the smith about their Quest.
The smith just listened as he worked, only asking a few clarifying questions, not offering any excuses or judgement.
It was strangely cathartic.
When he’d finished, the smith turned to face him again. “You did fall to your family’s curse and lead some of them on a quest that led to their death, but you also overcame the goldsickness and you managed to reclaim a home for your people.”
Thorin found it harder to argue with this stranger.
“I will walk you back to the dwarrow’s halls.” The smith started packing up.
They walked in companionable silence until they reached a rough stone wall with a door in it. The smith pounded on it, then stepped back to wait.
Mahal himself opened the door, then just stared at them. Thorin could not read the expression on his face.
The smith bowed. “My Lord Aulë, I return Thorin Oakenshield to you and your Halls.”
Mahal wordlessly stared down at Thorin for a seemingly endless moment, then said: “of all my dwarrow to find a way to the real of the elves of Valinor, I did not expect it to be you.”
Thorin whirled around to stare at the smith. “You’re an elf? But you have short hair!”
“And you have but a short beard.”
Thorin was about to take offense, but then he saw the expression in the elf’s eyes. He knew what his short beard meant and was using it as comparison.
“Thank you for leading him back, Maedhros Feanorion,” Mahal said.
Thorin’s eyes widened.
Maedhros bowed. “My Lord.” He nodded to Thorin, then turned and walked away.
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