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They are not so young when they meet for the first time. They have both seen much, and endured much. One has already taken on the burden of ruling, and the other—the other has not yet received the silly hat which will become the most recognizable part of his silhouette.
The first time they meet, they haggle for a bit over a pair of carved wooden ducklings. Haggling is an unseemly activity for a would-be king to participate in, but here in the crowded marketplace, Thorin is not lord of the Blue Mountains, but a common blacksmith. Without the kingdom that is his birthright, he is no king. And so, against the wishes of his closest advisors, Thorin will remain a commoner when he is not ruling from his halls in Ered Luin. For he is noble, and bull-headed in his own way, reluctant to languish upon a dias while others pile their honest earnings at his feet. No longer clad in his royal garb, unfettered by court etiquette; he has been both liberated from the duties of his station and thrown into a world where there is less finery to be found, and more frivolity.
He wanders the cities of men as a blacksmith and on occasion, as a warrior for hire. Despite how his paths often take him far from home, he is determined to remain tethered to his family. It is this that has brought him from the smithy where he is currently employed, right into the heart of the marketplace—in search of a suitable gift for his nephews back in Ered Luin. Dwarven births are rare, and these days, smiles even rarer. A gift, no matter how small, would mean a chance to induce smiles around his sister’s household. The challenge is to find something which will entertain little Fíli and Kíli without displeasing their mother. A sister’s ire is no jesting matter, and Dís has made it clear that her sons are far too young to be handling replicas of weapons. Thorin still has the words of her last tirade ringing in his ears.
A pair of simple wooden ducklings would do.
“So, what’ll it be for this fine sample of me brother’s craftsmanship? Can’t decide if we’ve decided to come to a decision, lad?”
Thorin glowers at the trio of dwarves standing before him. The one doing all the talking has enough energy for three. In fact, he seems to be drawing energy from the rather one-sided banter, all toothy smile and cheeks like apples and—even the fang dangling from his left ear appears to be dancing about his hair with glee.
“Lad?” Thorin repeats, cocking an eyebrow. “You look to be of an age with myself. I fail to see how you have gained the privilege of patronizing me.”
“Oh he means no harm, sir,” pipes up the rotund one in a ponderous but friendly rumble. “Bofur likes to make play at being the charming merchant. He gets carried away.” This one has sparse, carrot-coloured whiskers and a thin braid of the same colouring hanging around his neck. (Thorin will not admit how distracted he is, that he cannot figure out how this young dwarf’s hair even works.)
“Aye, that’s right,” says Bofur with a twinkle. “And to tell you the truth, I near mistook you for a bonnie lass when you approached. We’ve been dealing with men so long, I’d almost forgotten that with our race, it’s hard to tell the menfolk from the women. A good thing it did not miss me eyes that your apron is stained with soot rather than stew.”
“He would’ve smothered you with his charm, had you been a lady dwarf.” His ginger-haired companion played along. “We don’t even remember when we last saw one.”
Thorin shoves his hands into the pockets of his smithing apron. His shoulders are squared, though with each passing second it seems more and more ridiculous that he should attempt to look intimidating. “Clearly you lot aren’t from around here,” he states, ignoring the relentless patter.
“We aren’t!” And Bofur seems far too cheerful about it. “Our home is on the road as we’ve been displaced, see. Had work once, a long time ago, in the lovely mines of Erebor. But now it’s sittin’ under a dragon’s arse, and there’s not much can be done about it.”
He’d struck a nerve. “Erebor shall be reclaimed,” answers Thorin. “Portents. Signs. There are those who watch, waiting for when the time is right. And when the time comes, we will set out.”
“Well.” Bofur looks genuinely confused now. “I wish you luck with that. Fancy trying to persuade a creature like that to leave its hoard. That great big lump, it’s practically a furnace —”
“— with wings,” the last of the trio completes in a deadpan voice. He says it unsmilingly, but there is a spark of mischief in those hooded eyes.
Bofur groans. “Robbed me of the best line again, cousin!”
The portly one lets out a bellowing laugh. “Serves you right for wearing it thin, brother!”
“I know, I know. A quip’s no longer a quip when it’s suffered repetitions. And ‘at’s me for you,” Bofur acquiesces with a bow. “Finds it hard to let go of a good thing when I’ve gotten me head—or hands on it.”
Thorin nearly applauds out of politeness at the conclusion of this brief pantomime. But the sacking of Erebor is still fresh in his mind, like a searing wound that will never heal as long as Smaug lives. “A pleasure to be of your acquaintance,” he says stiffly.
“And ours to be of yours,” replies Bofur on behalf of all three. He gestures to the largest one with a flourish. “Bombur, my brother—he’s the one who makes the animals, and,” now with a nod towards the sullen-looking one, “Bifur, our cousin, a gentle soul despite his grim countenance. His toys’re the ones that you can take apart and piece together in curious ways. About as much of a riddle as he is, but such intricate details he’s able to work into them.” Then his face lights up again, adding, as though it were mere afterthought: “And meself. As you’ve probably caught on by now—I’m Bofur. Toymaking was never my trade before Smaug sat over my livelihood, but it is now.”
“Thorin,” the king-in-exile introduced himself curtly.
There was a silence so palpable, so thick that one could cut through it with a blade. “You don’t by any chance mean,” says Bofur quietly, “Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, do you?” There wasn’t a dwarf who’d dwelt in Erebor or the surrounding lands who would not find the names of Durin’s descendants unfamiliar. The same, however, could not be said of their faces. Aside from King Thrór himself who made frequent appearances before his subjects during the times of peace, royalty was recognized only by the names they bore. There had been no need for them to mingle with commoners nor venture down into the mines.
Son of Thráin, son of Thrór. “That would be me,” Thorin confirms with a nod.
“My most sincere apologies, my king. I did not know.” Bofur sounds so dismayed that Thorin feels a little sorry for him. “I meant no disrespect to you, nor did I mean that your losses are to be taken lightly.” He bows low, and Bifur and Bombur too (although with Bombur it is only a slight bending at the waist, as far as he can go without causing the buttons on his tunic to fly off).
Thorin shakes his head, his dark, unbound locks swinging about his face like a mane. “A king in exile is no king. I take work where it is to be found, and my concerns are with making an honest living. My father, while he still lived, pursued many a futile endeavour to find us a home elsewhere, as you may have heard. Such campaigns were a drain on what little resources we had managed to amass. I intend to lead no such battles for the time being, as my people are scattered. I will provide for what remains of the line of Durin and hope that they see better days before a single hair grows on their chins.” There is a note of bitterness in his voice, and anger towards the creature responsible for putting it there. But Durin’s Folk have always been proud, and it is also Thorin’s pride that holds any acerbity in check.
Bofur lowers his head, for once having nothing to say in reply. He was given to light-hearted talk, ill-befitting the circumstances that Thorin had just described. Though Bifur and Bombur and himself had similarly been wanderers for just over a century, they had few responsibilities and rarely, if ever, returned to the town in which they’d been born. They were all the family they had and they traveled together in search of work or places to hawk their carved creations. They shared rooms in inns when enough sales had been made, and straw in stables upon which they placed their bedrolls when times were bad. When a city, or a town, or a village had gotten tired of the novelty of their presence, they would move on. On the whole, they’d been content with their carefree, nomadic life. Oh, how different it must be to be on the road far from one’s family. Bofur could not imagine, for he took his family with him.
Thorin did not speak again, and eventually Bofur took it upon himself to break the silence. “Please accept these as a gift,” he murmured, gesturing to the wooden ducklings that Thorin had been about to purchase. Bombur took his cue and started to wrap the toys up, hiding the gaily painted yellow and green behind plain brown paper.
“I cannot,” Thorin insisted. “Though it is a kind gesture, it would be more heartening and appropriate to reward hard work with coin, as I myself have been rewarded for mine.” He shook out a handful of silver and counted out the right amount in his palm. “Do not say that this is more than what the workmanship is worth.”
Bofur took the coins, biting on his lower lip in an effort not to say something stupid. What Thorin had given them was nearly twice as much as the price Bofur had initially placed on the items himself. Bombur, his face beet red from Thorin’s indirect praise, elbowed his brother sharply in the side, to warn Bofur against responding with a cheerful, well-meaning counter-reproach. To Bombur’s surprise, he saw Bofur’s fingers curl round the payment and drop it into the pouch hanging from his belt.
“Thank you—sir,” said Bofur, smiling hesitantly as he handed the package to Thorin. “You’ll have to pardon me, though, for I will count this as a favour.”
Thorin finds himself close to amusement. “As you wish.”