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Thorin stared into the ornate elvish mirror on the wall as he meticulously rebraided his hair. Satisfied, he lifted the tiny mithril knife Thror had gifted him at his coming of age and lifted it to his beard, beginning the careful process of shaping it close to his chin and cheek. He had not had much opportunity to shave on this trip, and as long as he enjoyed the relative comfort of Rivendell, he would take advantage.
Behind him, he heard a soft sound as Bilbo shifted in the overlarge bed. Thorin moved his eyes slightly and could see the hobbit's reflection in the silvered glass. Bilbo was sitting up watching him, his chest bared, the thin sheet still covering his hips and legs. His curls glowed amber in the early dawn light. Thorin smiled gently. His hobbit was so lovely.
"Why do you do that?" Bilbo asked suddenly.
"Do what?" Thorin asked, returning to his shave.
"Shave your beard so close. The others all have such elaborate hair and beards...well, except Kili, but he's rather young, isn't he? But you only have those two braids and your beard is so short!" Bilbo explained.
Thorin said nothing, but his expression darkened.
"Err, not that I mind your short beard, that is!" Bilbo exclaimed hastily. "It, err, suits you well! I only...wondered...."
Thorin sighed. Of course the hobbit didn't know what he was asking. As far as Thorin had been able to tell, no one in the Shire could even grow a beard, let alone understand how dwarves viewed them.
He lifted one hand and stroked at the short hair on his chin reflectively. "I...I grew my beard longer once...before the dragon. I braided it, and even wore an ornament like these," he said, touching the metal caps at the ends of his braided hair.
"Then why...surely...but you are the king...why..." Bilbo trailed off, seemingly uncertain how to ask this next question.
"Bilbo," Thorin began. "You seem to have made the guess that braids and beards reflect status in dwarrow culture, and you are not wrong, but also not entirely right. A dwarf who feels himself accomplished, who is proud, will braid his hair ever more elaborately. But that is...a perception that comes from the self, from inside…not from the greater dwarrow community."
"But even little Ori wears more braids than you!" Bilbo cried out.
"Ori is a scholar, and an accomplished one," Thorin said wearily. "It is a path he chose very young, and has pursued diligently since. For all I know, he wears a braid for every language he has learned or every poem he has memorized. His accomplishments are not my own to judge."
"And Fili? Kili?" Bilbo asked, more quietly now. "They are both your heirs, are they not? But Fili wears so many more braids than his brother...."
"Fili is the heir to the throne of Durin after me, yes. He is also a warrior and has spent the years since his majority defending our settlements in Ered Luin from rogue orcs and other diverse dangers. He is...arrogant and proud, as indeed an heir of Durin should be," Thorin said, knowing his voice showed his own pride in his elder nephew.
"But Kili...Kili is young, and aimless in a way Ori is not. He does not yet know who he wishes to be. He is only second in line for the throne and unlikely to ever hold it. He is skilled with the sword, but not like his brother is. He hunts for our settlements...the furs we three wear are the product of his bow. But hunting is not a skill in which he finds true pride. He will find himself on this quest, perhaps, and grow his beard long in Erebor. Perhaps he will even braid in ornaments of mithril and onyx as my grandfather once did!" Thorin continued, trying to find a smile.
"But Thorin," said Bilbo quietly, tentatively. "You are the king. If your heirs deserves pride, why do not you?"
“I am a king with no kingdom,” Thorin said dismissively. “A king with no crown. I am a blacksmith, a brother and an uncle. I am…nobody, really.”
“I don’t believe you,” Bilbo said, his voice mild. “I’ve seen how the others look at you. I’ve heard the stories, how you rallied your people and led them to the Blue Mountains, how you built a life for them there. A good life. You are a king; you simply have a different kingdom now. No, I think you are not telling me all of the truth.”
Thorin whirled, facing Bilbo directly. "It is because I failed, Bilbo! Cannot you understand that?" he said, he voice breaking. "You speak of the people I led to safety! But what of those I lost? Thousands of my people died because I could not save them. Their home was brought to wrack and ruin, their children burned alive, their wealth and comfort and joy lost forever. I was the prince; I led our armies. And I could. Not. Save them!"
Bilbo was silent for a long, long moment. "And so you shaved your beard, left your hair in two simple braids. For what? To hurt yourself? So that every time you look in a mirror you can relive that day, over and over again?" The hobbit's voice was low, and not accusing, but Thorin was stung nevertheless.
"So that I can remember what was lost!" he burst. "So that I never forget, and I never forgive.”
“So that you can wallow in past misery,” Bilbo shot back. “So that you can find a twisted pride in what masquerades as humility! So that you can place blame where blame does not belong! You carry a heavy burden as the leader of your people, Thorin! Do not carry the weight of the dead as well! It will drag you to your doom if you let it.”
Thorin roared in wordless anger, turning to slam his fist against the mirror. It splintered under his blow, but the glass did not fall. A spiderweb of cracks radiated out from his fist, breaking his own reflection into shards. He stood still for a long moment, panting and staring at his shattered face in the glass.
“You overstep yourself, burglar,” he ground out finally, between clenched teeth. “A few weeks’ acquaintance and one night of love does not give you the right to say such things.”
“I find I rather disagree,” Bilbo said, his voice still calm but holding the hint of a quaver. He was frightened, but hiding it. Thorin felt his heart drop, certain he had lost whatever it was they might have built together. Damn his temper, anyway! “I think it gives me the perfect right. I am not your family, and I am not your subject. I can see you, Thorin Oakenshield, as someone closer could not. You must let this pain go, Thorin. It is a weakness, I fear. A flawed blade will not turn the enemy’s sword but will shatter under the first blow.”
“And do you think yourself a blacksmith, then? What do you know of swordcraft?” Thorin asked, striving to put his old contempt back into his voice and managing only a querulous hitch.
“Very little,” Bilbo admitted. “But I do understand people, Thorin.”
The bed gave the slightest of creaks as Bilbo hopped down. He padded nearly silently across the flagged floor and came up behind Thorin. One small hand stroked a long line down the very center of Thorin’s back, fingertips bouncing lightly over the ridge of his spine. Thorin felt his tension melt, very slightly, at the touch. Perhaps all was not lost, after all.
“Grow back your beard, my king,” Bilbo said quietly. Thorin turned to face him. Tentatively, he lifted both hands to the hobbit’s face. Bilbo did not flinch away in fear, and so Thorin cupped his soft cheeks in his own large, rough hands.
“When Erebor is reclaimed, Bilbo. I have made an oath,” he said, quietly.
“To whom?” Bilbo asked, with some aspersion.
“To myself. That is the most important oath of all, one made to one’s self,” Thorin said. “I cannot break it and remain true. But when I am once again King Under the Mountain, then I will ask you to braid my beard.”
Bilbo stretched up on his toes and pressed a single light kiss to Thorin’s dry lips, catching Thorin’s beard between his fingertips while he did so. He gave the beard a light tug and grinned. “I will hold you to that, my king. Though…you may need to teach me how!”