Thorin lay there for a few moments in the soft, grey light, listening to the upbeat jingle that signalled the station’s transition to the weather report.
Richard Townsend had only just begun discussing the possibility of showers when Thorin reached out,
groping quite blindly at the bedside table until he found the button that returned the room to a comforting early morning silence: a silence which was broken only by the distant twittering
of the birds in the bushes of the courtyard.
Bilbo hadn’t stirred as Thorin rolled away from him and he was still lying on his side, back to him, facing towards the bedroom’s large, curtained window.
Neither Thorin nor Bilbo could cope with the shrill, urgent tones of a generic alarm and so, each morning,
they were woken instead by the broad Yorkshire vowels of BBC Radio Leeds’ presenters… or rather, Thorin was.
Since leaving the hospital, Bilbo’s sleeping habits had settled and he was finally able to sleep-in later than the crack of dawn.
His sleep had also become deeper and heavier as he willingly surrendered himself to dreams, which seemed, for the most part, to have lost their danger and their darkness.
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