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Glóin did not meet his brother’s One under the… best of circumstances. To be fair, it did not get much worse than the outskirts of Azanulbizar. The lass was plumper than he would have expected of Oin’s lifemate, and at first glance, he mistook her for a dwarfling. The lack of beard was more than slightly off-putting. Her claims of being ‘35, thank you very much,’ had rather the opposite effect than she probably intended. It was moderately funny to see ol’ Óin almost faint at that revelation, however. Belladonna Took was her name, and she was a
Halfling
Hobbit healer come to lend her services to a group so desperate that even a bootless, beardless child was better than nothing. No one believed that she would last a day. Perhaps it would have been better if those predictions and come to pass.
It didn’t matter what Glóin thought though. No, that privilege belonged to his hardheaded, stubborn older brother. And Oin? Óin was treading a river of denial to fierce Glóin felt sure he’d never find his way out.
According to Oin, he just appreciated her skills in healing. Apparently, her dainty hands were capable of feats of precision never before seen in the mortal realm, and the softness of her touch could help soothe the fiercest of wounds. Glóin could almost believe it was just professional courtesy, but his brother had never noted beauty marks on any of his other colleague’s hands. To hear Óin speak of it, that mole needed sonnets written about it.
And don’t get him started on her feet! Those feet had a tread that was near-indistinguishable from the wind and heels that could cause horrid damage to an enemy. And the soft, midnight-black tresses that covered them… Glóin had not needed to know that his brother had a thing for hairy feet. Nope. There wasn’t enough blood on the battlefield to wipe that nightmare-inducing realization away.
It didn’t seem to matter what body part was brought up. Gloin’s brother would have a perfectly rational and professional explanation for his admiration of it. He’d just then proceed to wax poetic about it for however long the two had around the campfire before the next emergency interrupted.
Glóin was no fool. He could see that Óin was in love; better yet, if his eyes didn’t deceive him, the feeling was completely mutual. More and more often, Belladonna would seek Óin out after a long shift in the healing tents. The two would go off to a little corner, not truly alone but where the shadows could grant them some privacy, and talk of better times and better places. By virtue of his brother, Glóin learned all about a green land called the Shire, a place so peaceful that the only metalwork to be done seemed to be for gardening tools rather than armour.
Sometimes--just sometimes, mind you-- Glóin would fantasize about following Óin and Belladonna to there once things were finished at Azanulbizar. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, and he wouldn’t mind becoming an uncle to a dwobbit or two.
Dreams do not belong on the battlefield any more than love does. And one day, six months after she first came to offer her services, they awoke to find Belladonna gone from their midst. She’d taken with her Oin’s heart, and neither brother came anywhere near the Shire for well over a hundred years. ‘Twas only due to the call of Thorin Oakenshield that they ever knocked on an emerald-green door…
“Beccabunga, daughter of Belladonna, at your... service,” said a face that could have been mistaken for her mother’s if it weren’t for the too-familiar nose...
Better yet, his niece knew her way around an axe!