Chapter Text
Leaving Erid Luin had been harder than Thorin thought it would be. He disliked that they called it Thorin’s halls. They should not be his, they should not even exist, but most of all they were not home .
Home was green rock carved into pillars and walkways overlooking the city and gold mines. It was the hum of metal on metal as the blacksmiths worked their craft. Yes the blue mountains had that sound. But to Thorin, it never sounded as sweet or quite right, except in his warm memory of their mountain home.
Leaving Thorin’s halls had still been hard. Leaving his sister and young nephews who had just come out of mourning. Thorin said just, because it felt as though he had just lost his brother-in-law, killed during an orc raid on a trade caravan, but in truth it had been almost a year since they had come out of official mourning, three years total since Víli had passed. And they desperately needed more coin.
In the years since his adad (father) had gone missing, Thorin had taken to leading a group of smiths and other craftsdwarrow to the towns of men and occasionally hobbits. It brought in extra coin for many in the mountain but now the royal family were some of those who were in need. So he left with a group bound for Bree.
Over the years they had discovered that the best way to deal with the halflings, unlike the men, was to only send one smith into the main village. Too many dwarrow and the halflings got overwhelmed and ignored them. Unfortunately it turned out that too many dwarrow was anything more than one. Thorin decided that he would be the one to venture to the village. If there was any work to be found he would send a raven to Bree and if there was none he would meet the other artisans three weeks later.
This was to be his first visit to Hobbiton and the Shire. Before, others like Bofur and Póri, who’s temperament was more suited to dealing with the suspicious but otherwise jovial halflings, had travelled to the green pastures of the Shire. Bofur had given him some advice about where to stay and which of the halflings he might need to speak to (and not to call them halflings to their face).
The Green dragon was the recommended inn and Thorin realised with a heavy heart that unless he got a well paying work or commission immediately he would not be able to afford a room. He did not have enough coin on him currently to afford room and food and any materials he might need. If he was lucky he might be able to convince the smith owner to sleep on the floor in the back of the forge. Or if he wasn’t, Thorin would need to sleep rough in the forest.
Looking over the coins, he realised that he might not be able to afford the rent to use the forge with what he had left of him. It was looking more and more as though he would be sleeping rough and foraging for food.
The land of the halflings was odd; all green and soft. There was nothing angular about the land, the people or their home. It was all very strange to Thorin who, himself, appreciated the fine angular work of the dwarven aesthetic.
Eventually he made it to the centre of the village. Apparently it was their market day as the streets were lined with stalls and the hobbits milling about. Some gawked at him and others ignored him. Bofur had described the village centre well and he almost immediately recognized where the forge was.
Unlike the other dwarrow’s description of the forge, this was not active anymore. The windows and door were boarded up and there was no smoke coming out of the flew. It was empty.
The wooden panels blocking the windows and doors looked old and worn down by weather. Bofur, the last to visit, had not been here in some years so it made sense to him. Perhaps the former master smith passed on and there had been no one there to continue the business.
That would make things easier for Thorin. No need to worry about renting space and he would certainly be allowed to stay in the forge. Luckily, there seemed to be no padlock keeping the door closed.