Sharp Swords and Bad Weather || Dwalin
Useless. That's what he was in the eyes of all the other company. Useless. He could see it in the way they'd look at him when he lost control of his pony, or how he didn't quite hold his sword right. Bilbo couldn't run very far or very fast and he often felt his wits leave him during battles. Thorin especially seemed to doubt the hobbit. Something inside Bilbo made him want to prove the dwarf wrong, to make him rescind all the harsh glares and knowing glances the soon-to-be-king threw his way, but it seemed whatever good he did ended up leading him to more blame.
The hobbit sighed, looking at the elvish blade he held in his hand. He didn't exactly know what to do with it, save that he needed to cut into... things. All the other dwarves, Ori included, seemed to be much more advanced with weapons. Kíli could shoot arrows, Fíli could use a sword. Glóin had his axe and Dwalin his hammer. And Bilbo had a knife he could not yet wield.
And so, after another long day of travels and biting remarks from Thorin, Bilbo decided something needed to be done about it. The rain had been pouring for days, now, and it seemed to only worsen the company's mood. No one spoke much, except to bark out commands, and Bilbo felt his heart sink down to his knees. As they settled into camp, Thorin casting Bilbo a final disapproving look, Bilbo fingered the scabbard at his side and turned away from the king's gaze, seeking out Dwalin. He wouldn't be able to stand Thorin's instruction, he knew, for the dwarf's stubbornness and lack of faith would prevent him from learning anything. Glóin would be far too enthusiastic, and he would be covered in bruises. Finally, Bilbo had decided thad Dwalin, indeed, would be his best bet if he wanted to learn anything about sword handling.
He walked up to the imposing dwarf, clearing his throat quietly. "Er, excuse me," he began, attempting to get Dwalin's attention. "May I speak with you for a moment?"
