Chapter Text
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Thorin is exhausted.
He’d always heard “heavy is the head that wears the crown,” but he’d never understood the true meaning of its weight till it was placed on his brow.
Having just spend an entire day in open court, hearing grievance after grievance from the new citizens of Erebor (most of which are petty and could have been resolved without the aid of the King), he is ready to drop. Were he not obligated by the crown on his head, he would have left the squabbles to Balin, who now presides as his head advisor.
The walk to his rooms has always been a long trek, but it feels impossible when open court has been in session. His boots feel heavier, his back aches terribly, and there is a pounding ache developing behind his eyes. The closer he gets to his rooms, to his bed, the more he lets his exhaustion show, so by the time he makes it to his door, his shoulders are slumped and he has to take a moment to rest his head against the door before dredging up the energy to push the heavy obstacle open.
His sigh echoes into the room, and to his dying day he will deny with every bit of his being that he did not- as it would later be described to the amusement of his Company (and his sister, oh gods, his sister)- squeak like frightened rabbit and clutch at his heart when a familiar voice sounds out of nowhere, “That is a woeful sound if ever I’ve heard one.”
When he is done Not Squeaking, he spins to face the door to his private kitchen, where a sweetly grinning lady Hobbit is leaning against the jamb.
He tries to gain back his “kingly mien” (his Burglar’s words, not his own) but as is frequently the case when in the presence of Willow “Will” Baggins, he fails. Utterly.
“I…” He clears his throat, briefly. “I am not ‘woeful’, my dear Burglar. I am… ‘concerned.’”
A tinkling laugh is her response and he rolls his eyes as he walks deeper into the room.
“Pull the other one, Thorin. You look absolutely knackered and downtrodden.”
He glares at her. “Thank you for that. It does me well to know I can count on you to always point out that I look like I’ve been beset by Trolls.”
“Your words, not mine.” She giggles and disappears back into his kitchen.
A reluctant smile tugs at his lips and he follows her in.
He finds Will puttering around in his kitchen, and the smell of fresh-baked bread finally hits him. He feels completely incompetent by this point; how had he not noticed that smell? Was he that unobservant? He would almost bet all the gold in Erebor an assassin could have picked him off in the halls and he wouldn’t have noticed till he was waking up in Mahal’s Forge.
He takes a seat at the small table and contents himself with watching her move around his kitchen like she owns the place. Only Will would be so presumptuous as to enter unbidden into the King’s chambers while he wasn’t there, just to be kind enough to cook him a meal. He is pretty sure he has guards somewhere that are supposed to prevent folk that aren’t royalty from entering. Then again, he’s pretty sure they wouldn’t stand a chance against the Hobbit. She’s wily and unpredictable, and his shins are testament to the hardness of her feet.
Still, he can’t complain. The sweet Hobbit, who has become his dearest friend, is making him food.
His friendship with her has been slow in the making. It started on the Carrock, so long ago, and was almost stopped before it started because of his foolishness, but it is real. It is real, and he will do everything in his power to keep it going.
After the Battle, where he’d come so close to dying, where he’d almost lost his nephews, he awoke to find that Will was nowhere to be found. Nor was the Wizard. He’d dispatched every able-bodied Dwarf to search for her, and while they did not find her alive, they also did not find a body, which gave him hope.
Finally, help came in the form of a familiar redheaded she-elf, who informed him she had “seen his small friend in the company of the Wizard and the Skinchanger, heading West.” Presumably toward the Shire.
Unable to leave after her himself—though he wanted to, oh how he wanted to—he’d asked for volunteers from the Company to fetch her back.
Dwalin was the first to step forward. Though, he’d been quite blunt about it.
“If she doesn’t want to come back, I’ll not force her, Thorin,” he snarls out.
“I wouldn’t ask you to, friend. Just… Just ask if she will consider it.” The words form a lump in his throat, and he wishes he could get up from this Valar-forsaken cot to reassure his old friend that he means every word, that he will not question Willow Baggins’s decision to stay far away from him, if that is what she chooses.
Somehow, Dwalin must guess his thoughts, because his fierce glare softens, just a bit.
“I’ll ask, then.”
It is nearly six months before he gets his answer. It is in the form of a pony, hitched up with a cart, upon which sits a large, grumbly warrior of a Dwarf, and a small, familiar form that even from the top of the gate he can recognize.
Now, nearly two years on, he still cannot quite believe his luck.
Something of his mood must show on his face, because there is a tsking noise and she is suddenly thumping him on the nose with one delicate finger.
“None of that majestic brooding now!” she says smartly, spinning around before he can swat ineffectively at her hand.
“’Majestic brooding?’” he stammers out on a startled laugh.
“Oh, I’m sorry. ‘Kingly pouting’ might be more apt.” Will winks cheekily.
“I do not ‘pout’,” he says coolly, though he fights to keep back his smile.
“Sure,” Will replies. “Now, a little bird (he bets it was Balin, it’s always Balin) told me you haven’t eaten since well before mid-morning.” She sets a large, steaming bowl of stew in front of him, along with a fragrant loaf of bread. His barely contains his drool. “Now eat up before you waste away like a delicate flower.”
“I’m not a delicate flower,” he mumbles into a hunk of bread, though it comes out sounding more like “Mmmmaah illit ferll.”
She just raises an eyebrow and smirks at him before tucking into her own stew.
For an evening of Will’s company, he would gladly face Open Court for a lifetime.