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Politeness and manners. If anyone ever wanted to describe the inner core of Hobbit nature, those would be the words.
There’s a legend, in Arda, that wants Hobbits created by Yavanna; and if anyone ever stuck to that belief, they could easily think that the Valië poured into her Creatures great amounts of those ingredients that her husband just lightly used for his Dwarves.
Politeness and manners are what the Shire is made of, are what respectable Hobbits are made of. Politeness and manners were also the reason why Bilbo was searching the market of Dale for a suitable gift.
***
Bilbo had been deeply astonished when he had first met him.
He was wandering around the market of Dale, looking for some flowers to decorate his rooms, when he caught glimpse of a familiar figure, something he was not accustomed to anymore. It was a wee silhouette, short and a little plump, not even remotely as sturdy as the Dwarves he was so used to lately. It was something he had seen every day for his entire life, until the day Gandalf had decided to throw an unexpected party right in the middle of his dining room and turn his whole existence upside down. It was something he had not seen any more since the day he left Hobbiton running through its fields and jumping fences, an incredibly long contract fluttering in his hand and his handkerchief forgotten in his closet. It was, above all, something he had never expected to see again there, in Dale, so far away from the enclosed, embracing peace of the Shire.
Right in front of him, merrily chatting with a merchant, there was a Hobbit.
Bilbo hesitated for a minute, uncertain, wondering what that creature could possibly ever be doing so far from home, unsure whether going to salute him or simply walk away. But so it was, politeness and manners; they always won.
Taking a deep breath, he approached the Hobbit and bowed courteously. On the other’s face, he was able to see, for a second, the exact embodiment of what had crossed his own mind just a moment before; but he could see politeness and manners take over as well, as the Hobbit bowed in response.
“Lotho Underhill, at your service!” he greeted. “It’s so strange to meet another Hobbit this far off from the Shire!”
"Bilbo Baggins at yours!” he answered and immediately a spark gleamed in Lotho’s eyes.
"Baggins! Bilbo Baggins!" he bounced. "So you're alive!"
Bilbo got completely befuddle at such a show of familiarity, cringing a little.
“I... erm, guess yes? Why should I not be?”
“You see, you’re quite a legend in the Shire, nowadays... they say they saw you run away from Bag End on a sunny morning and never come back. They assumed you were dead. I think someone even took advantage of the situation and just used your house as a sort of marketplace...”
It was so much information, all of a sudden, and not of the best kind anyway. Bilbo just stood silent for a bit, trying to process the deluge of words the other had just flooded him with. Probably his mouth went a tad ajar and his bewilderment showed on his face, because Lotho seemed to deflate slightly, make himself a bit more little, a bit more shy.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I think I spoke too much. But,” a smile bent his lips again, “you have to understand, I’m so excited to see you here, to see a Hobbit amongst all those Men and Dwarves...”
“No,” Bilbo began, as to apologise, “it’s just... they are really talking about me in the Shire?”
To be honest, Bilbo could easily believe so; but having the knowledge slammed so ungracefully right into his face was quite disturbing anyway.
“Yes... as it seems, running away yelling “Adventure!” isn’t something that goes unnoticed amongst Hobbits.”
Bilbo flushed a bit, smiling sheepishly.
“Right. And you? What are you doing here, if I may ask?”
“Me? Well, I think I’m quite the reckless kind myself.” He stated so with a sort of pride that had Bilbo raising a brow in faint amusement. “I was in Bree, when I met some merchants. They said they were headed for Dale, to the reborn city at the feet of the Mountain. They got me as they spoke of flowers, you see... I was so curious to find some new species! So, here I am,” he added with a shrug, the smug smile still playing on his lips. “And you?” he asked again, after a brief moment of silence. “Why did you run away like that?”
“A friend of mine. He convinced me to listen to my inner core. As it seems,” Bilbo sighed, and there was amusement mixed with resignation in his voice, “I’m not as respectable a Hobbit as they seem to believe. I went on an adventure and... well, I can’t say I regret it.”
“And now? Aren’t you going back to the Shire? Why are you still here?”
For the umpteenth time in the span of that brief conversation, Bilbo was taken aback.
That was something he was not able to reply to. In all honesty, he had never questioned himself, never really thought why, after the quest and the dragon, after the war had been over and Thorin had gotten back his crown and his kingdom, he had not simply walked away, said goodbye to everything and everyone and set off to go back home, to return to the cosiness of his beloved Bag End. Or, maybe, he had questioned himself, but the thought had soon escaped him and he had just forgotten to ask again.
But now, now that the problem was there, out loud in the air, his own self looked at him for an answer, expectantly. Why was he still in Erebor? Was he really waiting for an oblivious king to acknowledge his own feelings? Was he really waiting for something that maybe wasn’t even really there?
“I...” he exhaled loudly. “I think I’ll be back, sooner or later. I just have to... fix something, here.” Oh, it sounded so simple, put that way! “And, anyway, don’t think some more time away could make my situation any worse or send my reputation any lower,” he laughed, but felt a strange weight pressing right at his throat.
The other replied with a chuckle on his own.
“Right. And, after all, this is a beautiful place.” His tone gained a soft, dreamy streak, as he looked around, as for the first time. “Maybe not as beautiful as the Shire,” he grinned, “but one can easily get charmed.”
Silence fell for a moment between them, as they both seemed to sink into reflection. It was Lotho who broke it first.
“I was thinking...” he trailed off, hands wriggling slightly, as if he was chasing for suitable words. “I don’t think I’ll be back any time soon either. So, while we are here, what would you think if we spent some time together? Don’t get me wrong,” he added hastily, hands rising in front of him, “I know I came here on my own will and I’m not complaining. It’s just... sometimes I feel a little homesick, that’s all,” he shrugged. “But, maybe, if we talked a bit, it could ease the sensation.”
Bilbo smiled and he was nodding even before thinking. After all, he felt some homesickness too.
***
He saw Bilbo leaving early that afternoon, as he had been doing during the whole past week, and a sting of something he could - would - not put a name to prodded him right in the guts. He knew Bilbo was going again to Dale, meeting with that Hobbit he had bumped into some days earlier.
Finding out that another Hobbit, besides his- no, besides Bilbo, was in town had been a great surprise to Thorin, who had grown the certainty that one of their kin would never let himself get involved in something like a journey unless they had been dragged out of their home, figuratively or otherwise.
All why’s and how’s aside, however, now the creature was in Dale and, more important, he was seeing Bilbo almost on a daily basis, sharing what he had been told was the typical afternoon tea Hobbit usually had, back in their homeland.
The first time Thorin had known where Bilbo was going, all he had felt had been astonishment.
The second one, it had been curiosity.
The third time, a pang of something right at the mouth of his stomach.
Had Thorin not been Thorin, he could have simply admitted that that was nothing more and nothing less than jealousy. He could have admitted that Bilbo had somehow reached some dark, hidden spot in him, climbing from a grocer to a burglar and from a burglar to a friend and to something more, perhaps.
Especially, had Thorin not been Thorin, he would have also accepted that it was a majestically dumb emotion, one that had absolutely no right to exist at all; simply because Bilbo was not his, period. Oh, right, maybe he could have been, if only he had asked him. But that not being the case, Bilbo was nothing but the burglar of his quest – could he feel something writhe inside him, right? – one of the loyal Companions who had helped him getting back Erebor and, above all, someone perfectly allowed to do whatever he pleased with his own free time, someone perfectly allowed to see anyone he wanted, no matter what Thorin and his churning guts may think. Actually, he probably had just to thank the Maker for Bilbo still being around, for him to not have simply packed everything up and been gone as soon as the quest had reached its end.
But Thorin was Thorin and he had never been good with directions; to his detriment, wandering the convoluted tracks of his own feelings made no difference at all.
So he had just begun to act strange around the Hobbit: harsher, meaner, more distant and all, as if he had just started to thoroughly stride backwards along the path of their relationship, aiming straight towards their rough, awkward first encounter.
One day, he was passing by the main gate when Bilbo showed up, headed for the city. That day, his mouth acted way quicker than his brains.
“Bilbo,” he called out, without the slightest idea of what he was going to say next.
“Thorin,” he greeted, approaching him. “Need something?”
“I'm sorry” would have made a great start. “I've been an idiot” an even better continuation. “I like you” would have been the icing on the cake, but one could not ask too much too soon.It would have not been the first time, after all - I've never been so wrong in all my life - he had already admitted once he had judged wrong and too fast; he could definitely do it again.But the gold-sickness – no matter he had gone through it and won the war and taken back what was rightfully his– seemed to have left a shade on him, something darker and more sombre, like a cloud that wouldn’t simply clear away.
“Are you going to see him again?” he blurted, saying roughly would be making Thorin a great favour.
Bilbo cocked a brow, but Thorin could swear he saw a faint smile flee across his lips.
"Yes.”
"Is it really necessary?"
Something in the back of his head sprung awake and started shouting at him, informing him that he was being a complete dick, did he totally lose his mind?But he simply tuned it out with a shrug.
He could distinctly see Bilbo inhale a little bit more sharply, his back setting a little bit stiffer, his head rising a little bit higher, and his jaw clench a little bit harder.
"Does it bother you?" he inquired, his manners coated in a thick layer of annoyance.
"Why should it bother me?" Thorin countered, the tiny voice in his head shouting like mad, unheeded.
"Right," Bilbo nodded, displeasure mixed with something else on his features. "See you later, then."
And away he went, leaving Thorin with his voices, his burning and his churning.
***
As he walked along the pathway that led to Dale, Bilbo could not help but smile.
As childish as it was, Thorin’s reaction could be read as a first, tiny improvement. Right, no doubt one could just file it under harsh prick behaviour, but Bilbo knew better. If anything, he could observe, and at this point he could claim quite a good knowledge of Thorin. No one could say for sure he wasn’t fooling himself, but some inner sense told him that that could be the right way to finally reach confirmation that his staying in Erebor was not a complete waste of time.
That being said, it didn’t change the fact that Thorin was actually acting like a harsh prick and Bilbo had no intention of letting him get away with it or make any of this any simpler. If Thorin needed to tell him something, he’d be more than keen to listen, but he was not about to spoon-feed him, thank you very much. Thorin needed to go through his feelings and find a way out on his own.
Moreover, he was pretty sure that even if Thorin asked him to quit his tea with Lotho, he wouldn’t. He knew painfully well what it meant, being alone amongst stranger folks and in a place so different and far from the Shire. True, he had adjusted to the Company and he had ended loving them all dearly (and Thorin somewhat more), but this didn’t mean it had been easy. He knew the distress the Hobbit was experiencing and was resolute to do anything was in his power to make him feel better. He was a Baggins of Bag End and was not to leave one of his kin in trouble, Thorin and his bad temper could be damned. It was just tea, after all. It was not like they were going to be wed.
***
Famous last words.
They used to meet at the place Lotho lived in, that was the upper floor of a three-storey building – home to one of the merchants and his family, who occupied the first two levels, as Bilbo had been informed. It was a nice place, with wooden floor and walls, cute curtains and lacy tablecloths, covering windows and furniture a bit too large for the pair of them.
On his arrival, Bilbo was welcomed by a slightly strangely-behaving Hobbit. He sighed, nibbled restlessly at his lip, fidgeted on his chair and when he poured them tea his hands were shaking so much he spilled half on the table. Their conversation didn't flow as smooth as usual: Lotho looked a bit more bashful, a bit more awkward, and a bit more distant, as if he was contemplating something in his mind while trying to speak.
"Is everything all right?" Bilbo asked when the other let his spoon fall for the third time.
"I-I..." he stammered, a heavy flush creeping up his neck and cheeks. "I-I was... I'd like..." he trailed off and jumped to his feet, so abruptly that Bilbo started. He reached for the sideboard and rummaged clumsily into a drawer, before coming back to the table holding a little packet in his hands. Under Bilbo's bemused eyes, he placed the package on the surface and slid it for Bilbo to take it.
As soon as he unwrapped it, Bilbo felt as though a lighting had struck him right on the spot: shiny in the sunlight coming from the tall window, a golden ring dangled from his slightly shaking fingers, hanging from a thin chain. It was a tiny thing, a nicely carved round of gold which held in its middle a polished green gem. The runes on its rim indicated it as a fine piece of dwarven jewellery.
Bilbo's mouth was hanging open, but nothing, aside from a sucked-in breath, went past his lips. Gifted jewels, in Hobbit traditions, meant a proposal.
"I-" Lotho began, and Bilbo didn't interrupt him, because he really was too dumbstruck to formulate a coherent thought, let alone put it in into words. "I know it's quite a sudden thing, but... but you've been so kind to me and, yes, I-I think I fell in love with you. We're here alone, it's just the two of us and I was wondering..." he stopped and took a deep breath.
On his side, Bilbo didn't move, just kept staring at the little jewel in his hand as if it was about to gain life and swallow him whole. Lotho, however, absorbed in his pursuit for words, didn't seem to acknowledge Bilbo's distress.
"I was wondering..." he resumed, "we could make it through together. I don't know when we will get back to the Shire, but we could help each other as long as we're here and then, one day, we could go back home together, and..." he trailed off again, as if chasing after some distant thought that just popped in his mind. Suddenly, he was on his feet and then on his knees, just at Bilbo's side.
"Bilbo Baggins," he uttered, a peculiar solemnity to his voice, "would you like to marry me?"
Bilbo, at last, forcibly averted his gaze from the ring in his hands to set it on the Hobbit kneeling at his feet.
"I..."
Lotho seemed to finally take in Bilbo's discomfort.
"I know it's quite abrupt..." he apologised, "but, you know, you don't have to answer me now. Take your time, I'll be waiting". And this said, he scrambled again to his feet and helped Bilbo stand too. "I'll be away for some days," he informed. "You'll have time to think," he smiled, accompanying Bilbo to the door.
Stepping down the stairs, Bilbo could feel a heavy weight pulling him down: it didn’t take him long to identify it as guilt. Guilt toward Lotho, because he already know he was about to destroy his hopes; but also – and that was the curious part – guilt toward Thorin, as though he had betrayed him somehow.
***
He didn't know exactly what had possessed him in the first place, when he came searching for Bilbo.
He had seen him coming back from his meeting and practically run to his rooms. He didn't know why, but he had felt the need to go after him, to be sure that everything was alright. To apologise, maybe, even if he’d never admit it, not even to himself.
He knocked briefly on Bilbo’s door and, noticing that it was not locked, he just pushed it open.
"Bilbo, I..."
To his great confusion, Bilbo just started, jumping and gasping, slamming closed the drawer he’d been rummaging in, hiding his hands behind his back, hands in which a glimpse of gold flashed.
"What's that?" Thorin inquired, nor sure about the real nature of his sudden curiosity; or of his sudden anxiety.
"It's a gift," Bilbo replied automatically, even before realising he had actually spoken. He retreated immediately. "That's not your business".
"From the Hobbit?" Thorin pushed, unable to stop himself. The contraction in Bilbo’s jaw, the look in his eyes sent an icy grip clawing at his throat. It was so clear that Bilbo was hiding something from him.
"Not your business," the Hobbit repeated, and the grip tightened. Not again, Thorin thought, somewhat desperately, suddenly feeling in need for air. Not again, not like when Bilbo had stolen the Arkenstone.
He fought back.
"Alright then," he grumbled and just stormed out of the room, trying to convey in that action, in his stance, in his bearing, all the imperiousness and regality he could muster, so to make look like a proud exit what was actually a flight; a flight from something that was actually not worth fleeing from, since it was deeply stuck in his own head.
***
Bilbo felt like an idiot; a complete, gigantic, colossal idiot. And a jerk too.
No matter how long he wondered, how painstakingly he searched the depths of his mind, he wasn't able to come up with an explanation for his behaviour towards Thorin. He can pretty clearly say that he felt ashamed, even guilty; there was no doubt on that. What he could not, for the life of him, pinpoint was why he felt that way in the first place.
He hadn’t done anything wrong, nor was planning to. It was not him who had asked to be given that ring and, anyway, he was going to refuse.
And then, again, wrong in what perspective? Thorin and he were not a couple. They probably were the farthest thing from a couple it could ever exist. For as much as Bilbo knew, the fact that Thorin was somehow interested in him could be nothing but a fancy of his own mind, which tried to read the king’s odd behaviour in a light that could possibly make him look less like a desperate, pathetic sod, who was stuck in a foreign land hoping for some miracle to happen.
Nonetheless, he could not help but feel bad about his own reaction. He wanted to go to Thorin and... apologise? Sure, but mostly he wanted to explain himself, wanted him to understand. Wanted him to understand. And, if he was given the chance, he wanted to catch on something on his own too.
***
Thorin turned around and Bilbo was there.
He hadn't heard him come close. He never did. He was always so silent: what it took was just a moment of distraction and Bilbo was there, soft, no matter if it was a room or his own life... but Thorin stopped that train of thoughts before it could lead anywhere too deep or out of reach.
Bilbo shifted a bit on his feet, a bizarre battle clearly raging under the surface, as if the Hobbit was at the same time worried of bothering him and strangely single-minded.
“I’m sorry,” he coughed, straightening his back, lifting his chin a bit. Thorin found himself so oddly charmed by all those little movements that he almost missed Bilbo was actually talking. “Balin said me you were here, so...” the Hobbit trailed off, gesturing vaguely with his hand. All Thorin could command his body to accomplish was just a curt nod. Bilbo cleared his throat before he went on.
“I wanted to explain,” he murmured, and his gaze flew to his hands before he forcedly set it on Thorin’s again. “I wanted to explain my behaviour. I didn’t mean to be rude, you see, it’s just... well, it’s just I was a bit shocked – more than a bit, actually – ‘cause, you see, it’s not an everyday thing to be proposed to and-”
“You got a proposal?” Thorin heard himself growling, before he could ever think about keeping his mouth shut or at least before he could tone down the disbelief and the hurt and the rage that drenched his voice (or, at least, that’s how it sounded to his own ears). Bilbo, on his half, just looked a bit surprised at the interruption.
“Yeah,” he confirmed and scrunched his nose idly, as if the mere thought of it made something funny to his guts. “The Hobbit, this morning,” and he fished something out of his pocket, his palm up for Thorin to see. “He gave me this and now I need something to give him back because...”
But whatever Bilbo said after went totally lost to him.
All he could see was the little circlet of gold shining mischievous in his hand, silently shouting that it was that, he had lost him. He had lost him even before trying... he didn’t know exactly when that thought had finally become so clear and pounding in his mind, but now here it was, as plain as useless: before trying to have him.
He had made his mission to reclaim what was his by right: his homeland, his kingdom, and his treasures. He had almost given his own life trying and, in the end, he had succeeded. Yet, as soon as he had thought everything was going to eventually be right, someone just showed up and, again, took what was his. Only with the slight difference that, again, unlike his throne, the Hobbit was not his, not by right or by any other means.
Actually, he had never truly realised how much he wanted him – known for long, but never realised – until someone just decided to take their chance. And, if his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him, Bilbo was going to accept, what with all his babbling about a gift to return.
“Whatever is that you’re searching for, Master Baggins,” he suddenly broke in, voice so cold and distant it was nothing but a rumbling growl, “it’s sure you’re not likely to find it here”.
And that was all. It was a dismissal, a goodbye, an apology and an accusation. It was everything he had the force to say, before turning back and resuming his work. It was gone. It had actually never been – whatever it could have been, whatever he wanted or thought he wanted – yet, it was gone and lost to him; and sparing it another thought would just consume him whole.
He never heard Bilbo leaving the hall, but, for a brief, fleeting instant, he swore he could feel the void he left in his wake.
***
It had been three days since his last, unfortunate visit to Dale; three days since he went to try and make things clear to Thorin and just received the most astounding cold shoulder in the whole history of cold shoulders. Since that moment, Thorin had barely spoken to him.
Truth be told, since the Dwarves had reclaimed Erebor and, above all, since the “accident” with the Arkenstone, their relationship had not been the brightest. Thorin was grateful to him, no doubts there at all, and, as Bilbo’s convictions were concerned, he could have even been interested in Bilbo the way Bilbo was interested in him. Unfortunately, Thorin was also the most proud, stubborn thing he had ever been confronted with and it looked positively like he’d have been far more willing to personally devolve half his treasure to Thranduil than to speak his feelings freely.
However, as much as awkward and tense their rapport could be, they seemed to have settled on a pattern of fairly human interactions, something that had appeared to be steering toward even more friendly terms. At least, until the Hobbit had happened.
After that, Thorin had returned his old self and, three days before, things had just gone spiralling down with no restrains. A freezing barricade seemed to rise in front of the king anytime they were in close proximity and, when he had not been plainly looking away or just walking out, Thorin had never graced him with more than a brief nod or a single word; and those were coated in such a disdain, that Bilbo inevitably found himself hoping he’d been spared them too.
He knew perfectly that that entire charade had everything to do with Lotho’s proposal. But he could not, he really could not grasp what the problem was. He had made it clear he was not going to accept, what more? Asking Thorin, obviously, was out of the question; so, Bilbo was left there, torn between grief for feeling so clueless and a rampant, howling rage that grew fiercer as his patience ran thinner. Because, as guilty and sad as he could feel, he was every moment less willing to put up with such a gigantic crowned child.
And so here he was, seething with frustration, when a gentle knock on his door made him aware of his surroundings again. He went and opened, finding himself in front of nobody less than Dìs herself.
Surprised, he acted by instinct, clumsily fixing his dressing gown and bowing slightly, only to be reminded of another place in another time, with the littlest pang of sorrow; as he let her in, Bilbo chuckled softly because, really, they’d already gone well past that level of formality. He offered her his chair, while he went for his bed, sitting there in curious silence, waiting for the princess to spoke; he could distinctly notice a worried shade just beneath the sweet smile on her lips.
“So you’re going to be married,” she stated, not a question in the slightest, and Bilbo could not help but notice how subtlety was clearly not a family trait. This before the actual meaning of Dìs' words hit home and Bilbo could feel nothing but utterly aghast.
“S-sorry?” was all he could whisper because, really, the heck was happening?
“I noticed my brother was acting, well, stranger than usual,” she sighed, “and had a word with him.” She bit her lip pensively, clearly refraining a chuckle. “Actually, it took a great deal of patience and in the end I had to almost bodily force words out of his damn stubborn mouth, but eventually I was told that you just received a proposal.”
Bilbo nodded, trying to fathom where this was all headed for, but froze right then and there when she added “and you’re going to accept.”
“No!” he cried, jumping forward and waving his hands, not caring if this could be pointed as unbecoming behaviour in front of royalty.
Dìs looked uncertain.
“But you’ve been given a ring.”
“Yes,” Bilbo replied, slowly, as he was about to doubt his own certainties.
“And you’re going to give something back.”
“Yes, I got him a pendant, but–” he repeated, more and more at a loss.
“So, you’re accepting.”
The sure finality in Dìs' tone made something cling in Bilbo’s mind.
It had been clear and sound to him, right from the beginning, how Dwarves were totally different from Hobbits. Yet, after their adventure, after months and months of coexistence, Bilbo had slowly quit questioning their habits and uses, becoming acquainted to them and thinking that, by now, he knew them quite well. So, simply, he had forgotten to remind himself that what he knew was probably nothing more than the outer layer of a deeply ancient society.
And if that was valid for him, he realised, it was valid the other way round too.
So he did something he had not done yet: he asked.
***
So, that night, Bilbo and Dìs came to discover a part of the other’s culture they hadn’t known yet.
As it turned out, both Hobbits and Dwarves used to exchange gifts both for showing a romantic interest and for a proper, actual proposal. Similarities, however, ended there.
Hobbits completed the I love you part with flowers; when things got more serious, they switched to more consistent gifts, usually jewellery. Dwarves, on their part, preferred jewels in both cases; but, while a hand-made pendant would be sufficient for the first step, a ring would be required for the one further.
The way the two folks reacted to a courting gift was opposite too. If interested, a Dwarf would reciprocate with a matching item, while simply avoiding responding would be clear enough a rejection. Politeness and manners, on the contrary, ruled Hobbits’ lives, forcing them to reciprocate, no matter what, the response laying in the object that was given back: something of the same kind meant yes; something different meant no.
That made clear to Bilbo what Thorin had thought of his received ring. And made clear to Dìs what his responding pendant meant.
***
It was almost dark when Bilbo returned to his rooms.
The afternoon hadn’t been one of the lightest: as much as he was not interested, having to turn down Lotho hadn’t been simple and he had felt the need to indulge in a long walk afterward, to ease his mind from the deep hurt he had seen in the Hobbit’s eyes. Nevertheless, he felt as a weight had been lifted from him, even more after the night talk with Dìs. He knew it wouldn’t be effortless, but he needed to have a word with her brother too.
Bilbo shrugged off his coat and went to pick up a book, when he caught glimpse of something on his bed and stopped dead in his tracks. He didn’t even notice when his hands flew to cover his mouth, strangling a high-pitched noise in his throat: there, shining gently against the fabric of his pillow, lay a tiny pendant, Thorin’s crest carved in his centre.
– Fin –