Chapter Text
The onset of autumn brought forth a refreshing breeze that swept through the forge. As the relatively new blacksmith in the quaint village of Hobbiton, he found solace in the gentle touch of the wind against his perspiring skin, providing a welcome relief from the intense heat radiating from his forge. Pausing briefly, his hammer suspended mid-swing, Thorin took a moment to close his eyes and inhale the delicate fragrance of autumn blossoms. The fact that the Shire consistently exuded such a floral aroma, day and night, never ceased to astound him. During daylight hours, the air carried the essence of blooms, while the nighttime atmosphere mixed with the delicious scent of sugary confections and pastries being baked in Hobbit holes. Or Smials as Thorin had learned to call them. It was a sweet and endearing characteristic of this land, The Shire.
Thorin, a dwarf of substantial stature and proud lineage, harbored no inclination to pass judgment on the quaintness of the Shire, nor its inhabitants. In truth, he appreciated the distinctiveness of this sweet and unconventional place. Despite the hobbits' diminutive physical stature, their hearts were as steadfast as any dwarf's, imbued with an undeniable spirit and determination. As a dwarf who had witnessed the rise and fall of kingdoms, the forging of alliances, and the clashing of mighty armies, Thorin now understood that strength could be manifested in many forms. The hobbits might lack the brawn of warriors or the grandeur of fortresses, but they were fine and gentle folk, with pristine manners, a bit fussy and noses metaphorically as big as their feet–for how much they gossiped.
Doubts had once clouded Thorin's mind as he contemplated the prospect of establishing his life amidst the green hills of the Shire. He held reservations, fearing that his blacksmithing trade might prove insufficient to sustain his family and companions within this tranquil landscape. After all, hobbits were renowned for their gentle nature, void of any King or organized military force. What possible role could a blacksmith fulfill in such an unassuming place?
However, a mere two months had transpired since their settlement on the outskirts of the village, and a remarkable turn of events had unfurled. Hobbits, drawn to them like a tide, had besieged their camp with fervent appeals for aid. Their pleas spanned an array of requests – repairs to plumbing, abodes, garden enclosures, greenhouses, farming implements, and even mundane items like pots and pans. The demand for Thorin's blacksmithing prowess had been unprecedented, eclipsing any business he had conducted in the bustling towns of both men and dwarves. It was a revelation that upended his previous assumptions.
Thorin and his nephews toiled tirelessly within the heart of the forge, laboring over metal and flame. Meanwhile, his companions seized upon opportunities to diversify their contributions, engaging in woodworking crafts, brewing ale, and crafting pottery, each trade contributing to the collective welfare. Furthermore, some members of his company had found employment as hired hands upon the fertile fields of the hobbits, just as the harvest season approached its zenith. They weren’t rolling in gold, far from it, but they always had full bellies and were able to send coin back to the Blue Mountains. The Shire's embrace of their skills had proved invaluable, sustaining their newfound way of life.
It was such a departure from his previous encounters that left Thorin grappling with a sense of cultural bewilderment for some time. The unwavering kindness and generosity exhibited by the hobbits stood in stark contrast to his prior experiences. Each passing day ushered in fresh insights, as Thorin witnessed firsthand the depth of their character and the extent of their unexpected kindness. The hobbits, in their unassuming stature, continually defied expectations, proving Thorin's previous assumptions wrong time and time again.
A smile gently tugged at Thorin's lips as he contemplated the enigmatic nature of hobbits. Raising his hammer with practiced precision, he allowed his thoughts to linger momentarily on their peculiar ways. Just as his arm began its downward arc, he swiftly opened his eyes. A wave of panic washed over him, for that timely instinct had spared an unimaginable tragedy. His hammer, had he remained oblivious, would have struck down upon a fragile Hobbit-child with wide hazel eyes locked in a state of paralyzed shock. The gravity of the near-miss seemed to reverberate between them.
"Mahal!" Thorin let out a string of curses in Khuzdul, his hammer relinquished to the ground with a thud. Before him stood the tiniest being he had ever laid eyes upon. Sunlight danced upon hair as bright as copper, casting a radiant gleam. The child remained frozen in place, their mouth agape and a trace of moisture glistening upon their nose, an endearing hallmark of youth. Thorin's heart softened as he took in the sight before him.
He quickly assumed the child’s lack of skirts and ribbons meant he was male by Hobbit standards. The child's unblinking gaze, unwavering and penetrating, seemed to pierce through Thorin's very soul. A sudden flutter within his chest prompted Thorin to take a step back, a hand instinctively pressed against his heart.
"Little Pebble," Thorin breathed, his voice a gentle rumble, "it is perilous for you to be in this place. Where is your mother?"
The Hobbit child remained in an eerie silence, seemingly carved like a statue. The child's height barely reached Thorin's knee, emphasizing his delicate size in contrast to the imposing figure of Thorin himself. With an amused shake of his head, Thorin attempted to dispel the child's stunned stillness by waving a hand before them, a gesture intended to break the spell of immobility. Thorin's lips curved into a gentle smile, sincere warmth shining through despite his imposing presence. The sight of the child, struck into silence before him, evoked a mixture of amusement and tenderness.
Suddenly, the turning of a few heads drew Thorin's attention, his nephews promptly rushing to his side with their characteristic energy. Fili and Kili, their curiosity piqued, flocked to the scene, their youthful enthusiasm immediately ignited.
"Oh, he's so cute!" Fili's declaration rang out, his voice filled with unabashed delight as he gazed upon the Hobbit-child.
Kili's reaction was no less intense, his emotions vividly expressed with flailing hands. "I'm going to die!" he exclaimed dramatically, his words punctuated by a heartfelt sob that carried with both amusement and endearment. "Can we keep him?!"
Indeed, Fili and Kili's sentiments were accurate. The Hobbit-child that stood before Thorin appeared to be the epitome of adorableness, surpassing even the endearing memory of cradling his nephews when they were infants in his strong arms. Thorin had held his infant nephews close, an overflow of affection and devotion coursing through his veins. But this Hobbit child seemed to possess an otherworldly charm, akin to a creature from a magical tale–with his big bare feet, pointed ears, and spun-gold curls.
The child's countenance spoke of unease, and Thorin was determined not to overwhelm the little one further. "Don't smother him," Thorin advised, his tone firm yet laced with concern. "He seems frightened enough as it is."
"Nah, I don't think so," Fili countered, his voice holding a note of contemplation. "I'd say he looks like he's... admiring you?"
Thorin snorted with a dismissive wave and redirected their attention. "Go, see if you can locate any hobbits who might be missing a child," he instructed, his voice more practical now. "They must be worried sick." The child's safety was of paramount concern, and Thorin was determined to ensure that the little one found his way back to his family.
The boys complied with matching pouts, swiftly carrying out Thorin's instructions. As they went on their way, Dwalin emerged by Thorin's side, his towering presence casting a shadow upon the scene. A deep frown etched across Dwalin's features, his gruff voice breaking the silence.
"Why is the bairn looking at ye like that?" Dwalin's question held an air of perplexity, his arm sweeping between Thorin and the Hobbit child in an attempt to gauge the nature of their interaction. The child's gaze, unwavering and unbroken, remained locked upon Thorin.
Thorin observed the child closely, his own intrigue mirrored by the steadfast interest the Hobbit held for him. Despite the absence of verbal discourse, the child's rhythmic breaths and flushed cheeks provided evidence of his living presence. It was a testament to the child's wonder that Thorin found himself equally captivated by this enigmatic encounter.
In a sudden twist, the child's small finger darted forth, pointing directly at Thorin's face. A brilliant smile unfurled across the little Hobbit's features, so intense that Thorin could have sworn it could blind him.
"Pwitty!" The exclamation burst forth from the Hobbit child's lips, his high-pitched voice resonating like a musical note that echoed through the forge. The child's excitement immediately drew the attention of those in their vicinity.
An expectant hush blanketed the scene.
Then, shattering the silence, a hearty slap to Dwalin’s knee cracked through the air. In its wake, a scream of laughter erupted from the bald warrior’s gaping mouth. Dwalin's mirthful guffaws reverberated, the sheer volume of his laughter nearly making Thorin go deaf.
The effect was immediate and startling. The Hobbit-child, caught off guard by the sudden burst of sound, leapt almost a foot into the air with a yelp. Seeking refuge and comfort, the child quickly sought sanctuary by enfolding his arms around Thorin's sturdy boot. Stunned into silence, Thorin’s gaze remained fixated upon the cascade of little copper curls that framed the Hobbit-child's head. A tender smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his heartstrings resonating with a chord of gentle affection.
As the Hobbit-child buried his face against his leg, his distress evident in the quiver of his shoulders and the first notes of a plaintive wail, Thorin's paternal or perhaps uncle-like instincts surged forth. Despite the passage of years, the echo of bygone days when he had cradled his nephews echoed within him.
With swift determination, Thorin extricated the child from the embrace of his leg, a task that proved surprisingly challenging given the child's tenacious grip. The little Hobbit’s weight, or rather the lack thereof, was almost shocking. The child's initial shock at being lifted by the formidable figure before him melted into an almost immediate tranquility–his gaze meeting Thorin's with a newfound calm. Even amidst the peaceful moment, Dwalin's hearty laughter continued to punctuate the air, his cackles and coughs breaking through the atmosphere.
It bothered them not.
"There, there now, little Pebble," Thorin murmured as he distanced himself from the chorus of snickers and giggles that emanated from his boisterous company. He sought to create a cocoon of calm around the child, a sanctuary away from the distractions. "Peace. Where is your mother, hm? What is your name?"
The child's response was swift, a testament to his readiness to engage in conversation. "Biwbo," came the immediate reply, spoken with an endearing lilt.
"Bilbo?" Thorin repeated, a hint of uncertainty coloring his query.
A vigorous nod followed, accompanied by a radiant smile that was so infectious that Thorin couldn't help but return the gesture. His heart warmed to the child's open and unfiltered enthusiasm. "You are a wee thing but quite smart, aren't you?" Thorin commended, his voice infused with a blend of admiration and gentle humor.
The babe's grin widened, his curiosity piqued as he reached out with both tiny hands. Delicate fingers wrapped around Thorin's braids, one plait secured in each fist, the child's delight ringing out in an unrestrained squeal.
"Is that what you found pretty? My braids?" Thorin queried, intrigued by the child's preference as he attempted to decipher the inscrutable utterances.
A torrent of incoherent babble followed, the child's tone laden with seriousness as he bestowed his earnest opinion upon the matter. The fleeting hold on Thorin's braids relinquished its grasp, only to be supplanted by an exploration of the blacksmith's beard. Another peal of delighted laughter bubbled forth from Bilbo, its sheer exuberance almost enough to send Thorin to an early grave.
"Pwitty..." The word resurfaced once more. Then he smacked Thorin in the eye. “Bwue pwitty!” came the child's gleeful declaration again.
Thorin's reaction was instantaneous, a reflexive wince accompanying the minor impact. "Ouch," he voiced, a mix of discomfort and amusement lacing his tone. His features contorted into a squinted scowl, a mockingly stern gaze directed at the young Hobbit.
In response, a cascade of unintelligible babble flowed forth from Bilbo’s tiny lips. The child's countenance shifted into a frown, revealing a palpable sense of remorse. With a delicate touch, the child's hand extended to pet Thorin's face, a clear gesture of apology and conciliation. Simultaneously, a series of soft coos emanated from the child, their irresistible charm instantly melting Thorin's resolve. The blacksmith's initial sense of admonishment was swiftly overshadowed by a surge of affection.
“Alright, I suppose I forgive you,” Thorin declared with a smile.
The babe's cherubic face beamed with an infectious joy, a radiant smile that seemed to light up the very air around them. In a surge of unbridled affection, he lurched forward, his tiny arms wrapping around Thorin's neck in an embrace that held the weight of stone giants yet felt as light as a wisp of air. One-hundred and forty-five years of existence seemed to condense into this singular moment, a sublime instance that eclipsed the entirety of Thorin's lifetime.
In the midst of the embrace, a profound tranquility settled upon Thorin's soul, a sensation akin to the stillness beneath the surface of a flat pond. The clamor of the world dimmed to a gentle murmur, muffled as if he were submerged underwater. He basked in an encompassing warmth, akin to the embrace of high-noon sun rays on a cool day. A subtle prickling sensation grazed his eyes, the residue of emotions that danced on the precipice of his consciousness, yet remained untethered.
His heart, normally an unwavering fortress, now felt stripped of its defenses.
Strangely detached, Thorin wondered if these feelings were truly his own or if they belonged to the innocent being nestled in his arms. Love , untainted and boundless, unfurled like the petals of a blossoming flower. And that was an odd analogy to have for a dwarf. A thought sparked in his mind only for it to fade just as quickly as it had come. He tried his best to recall it, for it felt like vital knowledge slipping like sand through a clenched fist. Thorin wondered if… the thought disappeared again before it could form.
How odd–
"Bilbo!" A feminine voice pierced the air, carrying a mixture of urgency and relief. Running in tandem with Thorin's nephews was a disheveled Hobbit-lass, her breath coming in short gasps as she closed the distance. "There you are, sweetling," she panted, her voice a tender melody that contrasted with her obvious exertion. A genuine smile graced her features, eyes alight with the unmistakable relief of a mother reuniting with her child. Eagerly, she extended her arms in an unspoken invitation.
The reluctant transfer required him to lean forward, ceding the child to his rightful caretaker. Yet, Bilbo clung steadfastly, his tiny fingers gripping Thorin's braids with unexpected determination. "Mine!" The word erupted from the child's lips, a proclamation with such possessiveness that it was strikingly at odds with his diminutive form. Bilbo's resolve was unwavering as he nearly crawled onto Thorin's shoulders
The residual echoes of Dwalin's suppressed laughter and the subtle strain of his nephews' attempts to suppress their smiles painted a backdrop of mirth. Thorin, however, remained a bastion of solemnity–secretly smug that Bilbo preferred him over his mother at the moment.
The Hobbit-lass, her eyes widening in incredulous astonishment, let out a disbelieving chuckle that held a tinge of surprise. "Bless my tomatoes!" Her laughter was incredulous, a reaction to an unexpected display before her. "Come here, love," she cajoled, reaching for Bilbo's waist with gentle intent.
Yet, Bilbo's response was immediate, his body stiffening in protest as a high-pitched screech of "MINE!" filled the air. The sound was as jarring as it was resolute, a declaration that reverberated.
Thorin became quite certain he’d lost his hearing in his left ear permanently.
Amidst the tussle, Thorin could feel the child's tension radiating through his own frame, his ear continuing to bear the brunt of Bilbo's lungful protests.
In the midst of this interplay, the Hobbit-lass's exasperation mingled with a blend of bemusement and apology. "Bilbo Baggins!" Her chiding tone held a note of both reprimand and bewilderment, as though the child's current conduct had never been witnessed before. She regarded Thorin with an apologetic smile, her gesture extending an olive branch of understanding. "He's not usually like this, I swear."
Thorin's wry thoughts echoed within, a bemused recollection of his own nephews' tempestuous episodes. With a subtle lean backward, Thorin prompted Bilbo to break their physical embrace and meet his gaze. "Now, little one," he began, his tone gentle yet firmly resolved, "that is no way to treat your mother. It's clear she loves you deeply and was greatly concerned about your well-being. Can you find it in your heart to be kinder to her?"
A pause hung in the air, laden with uncertainty. Thorin's comprehension of Bilbo's capacity for understanding was, at best, limited. Yet, a subtle shift in the child's countenance showed he’d understood, as moistness pooled in Bilbo's eyes. Those expressive orbs shifted between Thorin and his mother, a momentary conflict etched within their depths. Bilbo's response, though gibberish and incomprehensible to Thorin's ears, seemed to resonate with the Hobbit-lass.
"Thank you, my sweet," she murmured, her voice a tender reassurance. "Time to let Mister...?" she prompted, her gaze shifting to Thorin in an inquisitive gesture.
"Thorin Oakenshield," he offered, a nod accompanying the introduction. "At your service."
Her cheeks flushed, a blush that crept upwards as her laughter bubbled forth. "Belladonna Baggins, at your service and your family!" She executed a playful curtsy.
"Forin" A tug on Thorin's braid and a cascade of incomprehensible babble followed, leaving Thorin bemused and uncertain.
Belladonna's laughter rang out like tinkling bells. "Oh dear, he's inviting you to join us. But Mister Oakenshield," she continued, her voice conveying gentle amusement, "is occupied with his work. He can't accompany us on our errand, darling."
Bilbo, not one to surrender easily, crossed his arms and huffed, the trembling of his lower lip indicative of his frustration. Suddenly, the child's squirming and restlessness compelled Thorin to lower Bilbo to the ground. As his bare toes touched the earth, Bilbo spun around and pointed a finger at Thorin. “Stay!” Then he dashed away, his departure as swift as the breeze that followed him.
Thorin nearly gave chase, a notion that fizzled as Bilbo abruptly came to a halt not far away. The Hobbit-child's small form crouched, intent upon a cluster of flowers that had captured his interest. A pang of petulant disappointment coursed through Thorin as he realized the ease with which he had been supplanted, his presence traded for the allure of nature's blooms. It was nice while it had lasted, he supposed. His gaze shifted to Missus Baggins, seeking a semblance of shared understanding, only to find her shaking her head in a state of bewilderment.
"May the Garden Mother preserve me," she breathed, her astonishment mingling with a touch of amusement. "I think he's picking flowers for you!"
The words held an enigmatic significance that eluded Thorin's grasp. A sense of curiosity compelled him to seek clarification. "Isn't that a normal Hobbit tradition?" he inquired.
A melodic laugh escaped Missus Baggins, her delicate hand rising to veil her smile. "Indeed, it is!" Her mirth danced in the air. "However, Bilbo is quite the individualist. He takes after me, you see, and doesn't always adhere to tradition. Picking flowers for others isn't a common practice for him . He reserves such gestures for only his father and me." A twinkle of fondness emanated from her eyes, her voice imbued with a maternal warmth. "He's rather taken with you."
The disclosure struck Thorin with an unexpected intensity, and a wave of warmth surged from his chest to his cheeks, a vibrant blush settling upon his skin. His attention flitted momentarily to Dwalin, who had transformed into a vivid shade of purple as he valiantly struggled to contain yet another bout of unbridled cackles. The warrior's countenance contorted, pursed lips releasing intermittent bursts of spittle in his ardent attempt to suppress an imminent burst of laughter.
Thorin's glare, equal parts exasperation and warning, was sent briefly at his friend, a nonverbal reprimand for the lack of discretion. Thorin was still a prince, damn it all–Crown Prince to a lost kingdom, but still a prince! As Dwalin's efforts appeared increasingly futile, Fili and Kili dragged him away by the elbows before he could implode.
A growing spectacle had been unwittingly orchestrated, drawing the curious gazes of onlookers. Thorin's bemusement surged as he pondered what was so odd about Bilbo partaking in the simple act of flower-picking. Every passerby seemed to pause at least momentarily, their attention captured by the sight of the child engrossed in weaving together a messy crown of blossoms. Bilbo's miniature figure was hunched in concentration, a quiet determination guiding his efforts.
Thorin grappled with a sense of uncertainty, momentarily suspended between his blacksmith's duty and the peculiar scenario that had enveloped the forge. It struck him as impolite to steadfastly continue his labor while an intrigued audience had assembled. He glanced around, his scrutiny capturing the varied expressions of those who had momentarily forsaken their tasks to witness the unfolding spectacle of tiny Bilbo engaged in an unexpected pursuit. Then his Company gained more interest as they too looked on with confusion.
Among the gathering crowd, other children emerged, their inquisitiveness evident as they maintained a respectful distance from Bilbo. Undeterred by the growing attention, Bilbo hummed a soft, contented melody while clumsy fingers wove together a messy tapestry of petals and stems.
Finally, after meticulous effort, Bilbo deemed his floral creation complete. Rising from his crouched stance, he pivoted with grace, cradling the flower crown in open palms that seemed to revere the delicate masterpiece. An air of reverence infused the atmosphere, as if Bilbo had conjured an artifact from a bygone era, a relic transcending time itself. In the glow of his achievement, Bilbo radiated an aura of innocent pride as he walked right up to Thorin, tilting his head back comically far to keep eye contact and presented the blacksmith with the crown.
Bilbo trilled, a buoyant bounce accompanying his words. "Bwue, eyes bwue," he pointed at Thorin's face then pointed at a blue flower. Thorin caught only a few more words but couldn't comprehend most of what was explained as Bilbo patiently pointed at each blossom. "Mean luf. An dis... Biwbo an Forin fo-evah."
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, an audible expression of awe and delight as they found themselves swept up in the young Hobbit's infectious enthusiasm. Murmurs of excitement swirled like a gentle breeze, mingling with coos and chuckles at the heartwarming spectacle. Amidst the throng, Thorin scanned the faces, a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment still lingering in his gaze. His understanding of the unfolding scene remained elusive, his connection to whatever ritual or tradition Bilbo was enacting slipping through the gaps of his comprehension.
The crowd's response painted a picture of significance, as if Bilbo's actions held a weighty importance beyond their immediate context. Seeking clarity, Thorin's gaze naturally found its way to the child's mother, who was radiant with pride, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. A glance exchanged between them spoke volumes, communicating an unspoken narrative that Thorin had yet to fully decipher.
Internally sighing at the potential implications of the situation, Thorin braced himself for the role fate had thrust upon him. Adhering to the adage that discretion was the better part of valor, he resigned himself to the prospect of embracing this unexpected turn of events and potentially embarrassing himself. He saw Balin shake his head in preemptive dismay, a silent plea that bore witness to his apprehension, as if he could already foresee the potential for Thorin to inadvertently jeopardize their hard-earned reputation, mere months after their settlement. The expectant gazes of the onlookers, fixated upon him with an intense scrutiny, reinforced the gravity of the moment.
A swift decision took root within Thorin's mind, guided by a mixture of gallant resolve and reluctant compliance. He realized that, for better or worse, this was a crossroads where his next deeds would solidify their welcome in The Shire. With kingly flair he descended to one knee, a display that bore a shade more theatrics than strictly necessary. Fingers pressed thoughtfully against his chin, his gaze assumed an exaggeratedly discerning squint as he contemplated the floral offering.
A playful glimmer danced within his eyes as they shifted toward Bilbo, a wink conveying a silent understanding of the young Hobbit's playful intent. “I accept your gift, little Bilbo,” he said with a deep and regal seriousness. Thorin's subsequent action was accompanied by a dramatic bow with a ridiculous flourish that accentuated his submission to the unfolding whimsy. He lowered himself, his posture an eloquent homage to the mock seriousness of the moment.
Laughter rippled through the gathering. And wasn’t that a drastic departure from the norm for the somber King in Exile? To find himself assuming the role of a clown, not only in the presence of his loyal company but also before the watchful eyes of an entire assembly of Hobbits, was a striking shift in demeanor. A twinkle of amusement danced in Thorin's eyes as he navigated the unfamiliar territory of humor and lightheartedness, casting aside the gravitas that typically enveloped him. For a moment, Thorin wondered whether the Hobbit-child possessed a magical influence that had coaxed him into this unexpected transformation. He chuckled aloud at the notion.
Bilbo's uncontainable excitement manifested in swift motions, as the child placed the carefully crafted flower crown upon Thorin's head. The tiny hands displayed a determined eagerness, accompanied by a couple of endearing but quite hard pats to Thorin’s head to ensure the crown's secure placement. The impact of those energetic smacks drew another chuckle from Thorin. “Thank you, Bilbo,” he said with a fond grin as he stood.
“Y’welcome, Forin.”
“Aw,” cooed the crowd.
Bilbo yelped suddenly and sought refuge behind the protective barrier of his mother's skirts, retreating from the spotlight he inadvertently attracted.
"Mister Oakenshield," the child's mother chimed, her laughter infused with breathless amusement as she wiped at a tearful eye. Her words, tinged with an air of playfulness but profound happiness, reverberated through the atmosphere. "Bilbo has just declared his intention to marry you someday!”
Smile still fixed on his face, Thorin's expression froze before it registered a fleeting combination of astonishment and embarrassment. He blinked twice before he opened his mouth and pointed to his head with a defeated sigh. “And I just accepted, didn’t I?”
Dwalin’s threadbare restraint shattered like glass on stone. His piercing scream erupted, reminiscent of a startled hog being skewered as he fell to the ground in such a fit that even Balin was astounded to see. His nephews were nowhere to be seen but he could hear them laughing. The contagious wave of amusement spread through the gathering like wildfire, drawing in more and more curious Hobbits who couldn't resist the allure of the spectacle.
Thorin's laughter broke free, an unexpected departure from his usual stern demeanor. He let out a soft chuckle and felt a warm flush creep onto his cheeks. It dawned on him that he had unwittingly become the center of this cheerful spectacle, a realization that both amused and touched him. The jest was all in good fun, a playful jest at his own expense, and surprisingly, it didn't dent his pride; instead, it fostered a sense of camaraderie and belonging.
In the midst of it all, Thorin felt a rare embrace of acceptance, a stark contrast to the skepticism and scrutiny that had followed him for much of his difficult life.
"I can't believe you allowed that to happen, Thorin," Balin hissed at him later, his tone a mix of disbelief and disapproval. "Your hair, adorned in public like that!" The older dwarf's expression was a picture of incredulity.
Thorin offered a wry smile and waved off Balin's concern. "Calm yourself, my friend. Hobbits have a different perspective on such matters."
Balin's disapproval remained firm. "It seems they understand more than you think, Thorin, considering you're now supposedly engaged!"
A chuckle escaped Thorin, a genuine reaction he couldn't suppress. He found himself oddly flattered by the whole affair, even if it revolved around a child's innocent gesture. After all, it wasn't a common occurrence for someone to find him visually appealing, given he was quite plain by dwarrow standards. He conceded that gaining favor in the eyes of a child might not be the most grandiose victory, but he welcomed it nonetheless.
"It was all in good fun," Thorin reiterated, his voice tinged with amusement. "The lad is nothing more than a child, by Durin's beard. No one is truly taking it seriously."
Little did Thorin realize just how mistaken he’d been.