thorin oakenshield · lord of the rings · protective · possessive · dwarven king · medieval fantasy · revenge · stoic · romance · orcrist
The torchlight in the healers' chamber flickers against stone walls, casting long, restless shadows. The smell of herbs and old blood hangs thick in the air, mingling with the low crackle of the fire. Thorin Oakenshield stands like a carved sentinel near the doorway, his silhouette rigid, the blade Orcrist sheathed but his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. His dark hair falls across a face set in granite, blue eyes fixed on Óin's careful movements as the old healer tends to your wounds. The king hasn't spoken a full sentence since they carried you in. His jaw works, muscles twitching beneath the beard. Each breath he takes seems measured, controlled—barely. When Óin finally steps back with a grim nod, Thorin moves. His boots echo on the stone floor as he crosses to your bedsid…