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The second time it happened, Thorin knew he would not get off so lightly. Growling, Amad dragged him straight back to the bathing pool though it was almost nightfall already, refusing to join him in the water that was bone-chilling cold. She threw the cake of soap at her eldest son’s head and stood, hands on hips, watching him with eyes sharp as a raven’s as he scrubbed.
“If there is one burr left upon you, Thorin, even but one single burr, you will sleep out here. Think you I have no better things to do than wash errant kids?”
“I did not mean for it to happen!” he protested, scraping the thin suds angrily through his ears. A few burrs dropped into the water and floated away, several carrying long strands of hair with them. “There were...” and his voice dropped to a mumble, realising his mistake.
It was too late. “There were what?” asked Amad, leaning forward.
“Wargs,” said Thorin miserably, closing his eyes. “Not real ones. Dogs. The farmer had dogs, and Bilbo said we must escape them by crawling through the tunnels of the dungeon.”
“A dungeon?” asked his Amad, faint amusement colouring her tone now.
Thorin sighed. “Hedgerows. And then the dogs caught up with us anyway, and licked Bilbo’s face a great deal, and Farmer Maggot told us to stop scrambling through his crops or he’d give us a licking himself.” He frowned, and squinted up at his Amad through the soap. “Did he mean that?”
Amad now held a hand over her mouth, as if stifling a cough. “In a way, my darling. I do not think you would have found it agreeable, however.”
That was reasonable. The dogs had not been very agreeable either, sniffing at Thorin most inquisitively, and one had cautiously closed its jaws around his leg, as if pondering whether he was mutton. It had let go and slunk back whining when Bilbo shook his fist at it, however, and Thorin had sneaked in a swift kick to its backside for good measure.
Thorin was shivering now, and his Amad sighed, glancing up to where stars were beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky. “Out you come,” she said. “Shake off.”
Obediently Thorin scrambled back out onto the bank, steadying his hands against a boulder and thoroughly shook first his ears, then his hair, then both of his legs, one at a time, and last of all his tail. The water spun away from his fur in a spray of silver drops, enough to leave a puddle beneath his hooves. He was still damp when he was done, but the chill was off, and he raced his Amad home to dry the last of himself. Back in their caves there would be fires, and hot soup, and deerskins to wrap up warm in.
And next time he went playing with Bilbo, he vowed, he would not go near any stickyweed.
--
Thorin leapt, pinning the Orc beneath him with a cry of triumph. The beast snarled and wriggled in his grip, turning around to beat upon his chest with hard little fists. Then suddenly, mid-blow, it stopped.
“Oh, dear,” said his captive, clearly Bilbo once more. “Oh, Thorin, look at you!”
Thorin sat back, confused, and looked down upon the fur of his haunches to find them almost more green than brown, spotted and dotted all over with treacherous little burrs. Pulling his hair to one side he could see there were more threaded all through his locks, and could do no more than bleat softly in wordless horror.
Amad was going to be furious.
They had been playing Rangers and Orcs, in a glade thick with bracken, taking turns to ambush one another. Under the trees the light was dim and patchy, and it seemed the stickyweed had been largely concealed in the bracken’s fronds. Bilbo was very sneaky, and it had taken Thorin some time to track him down and pounce. He had not noticed the wicked burrs latching onto him until it was too late.
Bilbo himself, of course, had scarcely more than half a dozen sprinkled through his hair. It was exactly the sort of unfair trick the Universe liked to pull that they should suit him beautifully, setting off the coppery shade of his curls like tiny green beads.
Thorin rolled off his friend and onto his back, crushing the prickly bracken beneath him. He pulled his be-burred ears across his face and groaned.
“She will flay my hide and use it for a doormat,” he said mournfully.
“Nonsense!” said Bilbo, though he sounded far from sure. “We can fix this. We can, I’m sure. Come on, Thorin, do get up.”
Rising to his feet with a groan, Thorin regarded the hobbit dolefully. Bilbo had that look of determination on his face that rarely stood to be thwarted, and it gave the satyr a little hope. He trotted behind his friend as the hobbit stomped away, only somewhat perturbed that their route seemed to be leading them back towards the caves.
“Do you plan to fall upon my mother’s mercy?” asked Thorin. “I am not certain it will work.”
“No, I should think not indeed,” agreed Bilbo. He paused, and looked about them. They were no more than a few minutes’ walk from the caves mouth by now, with the more overgrown woods behind them. The trees here were almost all beeches, with a few slim birch maidens dotted amongst, and little could grow beneath their shade, so that the ground underfoot was mostly dry earth and stone.
“This spot ought to do,” Bilbo announced, and plonked himself down, cross-legged, with his back against one of the broader beeches that surrounded them. He indicated for Thorin to sit before him.
“Like this?” asked Thorin, instinctively facing him. The hobbit shook his head irritably.
“No no no, you turn about. There, like that, and shuffle up closer. Now, you shall pick the burrs from your haunches and I shall do your hair and ears.”
Thorin grimaced. “But that will take hours!”
“Then we had best begin!” said Bilbo firmly, and with a sigh, Thorin could not help but concur.
Before long they fell into a rhythm of it. It was comfortable enough to sit within the bracket of his friend’s thighs, and there was a satisfaction to seeing the growing piles of green burrs at either side of them. The fiddly work became almost pleasant, and a sort of contentment settled in Thorin’s tummy. As he worked his way up from his hooves to his knees, he could feel the tugging of Bilbo’s deft little fingers in his hair, combing through it far more gently than Amad did. It was soothing, and Thorin found his own hands slowing. Before bed, sometimes his mother would stroke his hair as she sang, and the sensation was not dissimilar. He leaned back a little, letting his eyes fall closed for a moment.
“Hobbits have a song about stickyweed,” said Bilbo, sounding a little sleepy himself. “The proper name is goosegrass, I don’t know why.”
“Will you sing it?” asked Thorin.
Bilbo hummed, considering the idea as he teased more sticky burrs from Thorin’s ears with delicate care. “All right,” he agreed. “I can’t sing as nicely as you, so be kind.”
It was in Thorin’s mind to protest such words, but then Bilbo began singing and it was so hushed he dared not interrupt, quieting even his breathing to catch every word.
“I’ll call for my Lover as sweet birds do sing,” began Bilbo.
For seeds of Love we’re sowing,
And walk close beside him as goosegrass doth cling,
For Love is green and growing.I’ll weave him a crown of fair flowers in Spring,
For seeds of Love we’re sowing,
And walk close beside him as goosegrass doth cling
For Love is green and growing.When we two are married the glad bells shall ring
For seeds of Love we’re sowing,
And we’ll cleave together as goosegrass doth cling,
For Love is green and growing.
By the end of the song, Bilbo’s hands had finished their plucking and were simply stroking over Thorin’s head. “I can’t get it as silky as your Amad did. It’s still nice though.”
“It needs oiling for that,” explained Thorin, turning a little to his side. Bilbo was soft, and made a good pillow. He heard his friend huff a small laugh, and felt the hobbit’s hands drop to curl about Thorin’s shoulders.
“You’re heavy,” he said, and before Thorin could move, tightened his grip. “I don’t mind,” he added hastily.
At that, Thorin grunted happily. It was very comfortable to lie so, and there could be little harm in taking a small rest before they continued their work. Thorin flipped a lazy ear at the buzz of some insect that came to investigate them. The glade was warm, the air still, and the day yet stretched before them to do with as they wished. Bilbo was still humming the song’s tune, his cheek resting atop Thorin’s head, holding him in protective arms.
Small wonder that Thorin should fall asleep, deep enough to dream. Of what he dreamed, exactly, it is not necessary to explain here, but there were flower crowns, certainly, and plenty of glad bells ringing. It was a good dream.
--
Thus Balin found them, an hour or so later, and called Lady Frís to look upon the sight. Bilbo had slid sideways from the tree that had propped them up, and the two lay curled up against one another like kittens. The burrs were mostly gone, to their credit, although Thorin’s rump and tail were still in need of some attention.
“Look at these foolish babes,” said Lady Frís, though her voice was warm and low. “What shall become of them?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” chuckled Balin. “They suit each other well enough though, eh?”
“They do,” said Lady Frís, and smiled. “They do.”