The Dwarf scrunched himself tighter into a ball, his arms wrapped tightly around his wild tangled head with its wild tangled thoughts. 

“Mrow?”

The stone was black, he told himself, his breathing whistling hard through his nose. It was black it was black it was black

“Mrrrrow mrrr… meow? Mrraow?”

where you were born, the place where she pounced and purred

He could hear the clack of claws on rock (grey rock, not black, not black, the stone was black), nearly feel the whisper of fur across his bare forearms. The wind, he gibbered, it is the wind, just the wind and the stone was black

where she gnawed on your knuckles in kittenish play

“Meow! Mrrrr, mrrrow, roww?”

don’t look don’t look

His hands fisted, his uncut and filthy nails settling into the furrows that had been dug into his palms over long, long years

not real

That was a soft paw touching his knee, a small sweet furry face pushing against his elbow, it wasn’t, but she was but she was but she was

dead

“Miaaaaaaaouw!” 

Oh the cries were growing frantic and pitiful. The unnamed-undone-unravelled-unreal Dwarf’s heart yammered and howled in his chest: she’s hurt!

“Miaowwww, mrowww…!” 

the stone was black, in Erebor, where she lived

don’t look

Her cries rose and rose, turning into whimpers. Her velvet paws patted at his elbow, pleading pleading pleading…

no, no – don’t – !

He looked. 

(and began to scream)