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A low guttural cry resonated through the room, punctuated by the sound of glass shattering. He stared at his hand, the one that held the bottle but a moment ago. Rich amber liquid trailed down his forearm, soaking the sleeve of his tunic and burning his palm where a glass shard had embedded itself into the skin, fresh blood trickling from the wound. A hiss escaped his lips despite the fact that he welcomed the pain. He deserved no less.
Red and gold now stained the right cuff of his best garment. Unbidden, a strange analogy came to mind - that of poison and wine. And he thought of him. The King-in-Exile's nephew who knew so little about him yet perceived so much. The young dwarf who both feared and revered him but stuck by him despite everything. The prince who's very mouth was like a sweet wine to be savored by way of thorough tasting; however, those same lips could just as easily spew poison at him, reminding him of his true nature.
He stared at his hand still, as the pain slowly ebbed away. His hands could bruise. His hands had bruised - killed even. But he knew that they could also heal. If only ...
"On to the bitter stuff, I see," an all-too-familiar voice remarked from the doorway. "Or what's left of it." The Durin's advisor stepped further into the room, clucking his tongue in disapproval at the mess on the floor. "What has Thorin done now, brother?"
Dwalin scowled and pointedly ignored the question. The fact that Balin knew with such certainty the cause for his ire only served to further stoke the fire of resentment within him.
But then, Balin was his kin. And he was Thorin's counselor. Long has he stood witness to the friendship between the two veteran fighters.
Of course he knew.
"This is about the lad, is it not?"
The dour dwarf ran a hand over his bald scalp, fingers digging as he grasped at nothing but inked skin. Then his fist made contact with the wall and once more, he embraced the dull throb, refusing to face his sibling.
"He fancies you." It was a simple observation though he imagined he could hear a hint of scorn in its proclamation. Self-contempt plaguing his imagination, no doubt. After all, Balin had never used mockery against him.
Hold me. The request had come unexpected. He remembered the uncertainty shadowing that otherwise calm regard. The glimmer of hope. But especially, he remembered the need found in the young warrior's eyes.
"Do not sell yourself short. You are his mentor. Perhaps it is only natural that things progress into something more ..." Balin paused, clearing his throat.
Dwalin leaned his forehead against his fist, the injured hand hanging loosely at his side, and slowly shook his head. He did not want to listen to this.
"Intimate," the white-bearded dwarf finished, almost choking on the word.
Touch me. It had been delivered as a command, instead of a request. Impertinent little thing. He had smiled then. What else was a teacher to do in the face of such unruliness?
"Or perhaps it is more serious?" As if the encroachment on matters of his privacy was only now seeing the light of day, the elder dwarf lowered his tone to a near whisper. "Has it happened, then? Is your heart engaged?"
It matters little. The less you are willing to give, the more I wish to offer you. He had tried to reason with Thorin's nephew. He was a soldier. An old one, at that. Unlike his brother, the more respectable son of Fundin, he was in no way refined or even remotely pleasant as an individual. The prince could do so much better.
He is heir to the line of Durin, along with his brother. As such, you would do well to remember your proper place as his mentor, lest you forget the deep friendship that you and I have nurtured throughout the years. Thorin's words had brooked no argument. His decision, which had already been made on his own before the veiled threat was delivered by his liege on this day, was as good as cast in stone.
When he finally turned to meet his brother's gaze, Balin all but reeled back. "Dwalin! What has that obstinate dwarf said to you?! You cannot let this go. Not now. Not like this. Surely you know there is always a choice ..." But he was cut-off.
"No. There is no choice for me." Shattered dreams, shattered heart. What did it matter? A few more scars to add to his collection. None would notice the difference, whether the scarring was visible to the naked eye or not. His loyalty to Thorin would not be supplanted by sentimentalities.
He didn't have a choice.
Yet, deep down, he knew that he would always choose him.