Work Text:
From all the wizard’s talk about the Shire with its hobbits and greenery, Thorin expects it to be a far less dreary place than it is when he arrives. The sky is a cool gray with not a patch of blue to be seen, and the drizzle is just heavy enough to cause those without umbrellas to hurry for cover. The few hobbits he sees in the village are scampering from one shop to another, or back down the road toward home.
Thorin, however, has no such shelter to run to, nor an umbrella. He turns his head toward some laughter near an inn, and the wind dies down for a moment, only to start blowing again. His hair flies back into his face, frizzy black curls blocking his view.
He grunts and pushes his hair to either side, but the wind keeps blasting it into his eyes, preventing his view of the entire street. He continues walking, but suddenly runs into something, his hair being pulled sharply.
“Oh—oh, dear,” a voice says, and Thorin stops, trying to pull his hair back out of whatever it’s tangled itself around. Of course, the wind stops then, and he realizes that a lock of hair on the left side of his head has become knotted around one of the tips of an umbrella. Thorn mutters an apology and tries to yank his hair away.
“No, don’t do that; you’ll only pull your hair more,” the hobbit says as Thorin continues trying to detach himself from the umbrella. “Here, let me.”
Small, warm hands cover his own, gently moving them away before getting to work on untangling his hair. Thorin can feel a rush of air as someone walks by, giggling. He turns to glare at them, but ends up pulling his hair sharply on the umbrella, making him yelp.
The hobbit bites back a laugh, Thorin can tell, but he doesn’t dare make the same mistake twice and risk more pain to his scalp.
“What brings you to the Shire, Mister Dwarf?” the hobbit asks, and Thorin bristles.
“Business,” he says gruffly.
“Really? Dwarves don’t come to the Shire very often, you see, even for business.” The hobbit’s tone is light, unsuspicious—very unlike that of the other hobbits Thorin has spoken with.
“Yet here I am,” Thorin grumbles. He can feel that the hobbit has untangled most of his hair; only a few strands are left, and they hurt a bit more than the others had.
“There! You’re free.”
Thorin pushes his hair back. The hobbit before him is smiling, one corner of his mouth higher than the other. His clothes are nice and dry, unlike Thorin’s own, and only the very ends of his curly hair look damp. There is a bundle under one of his arms, and he shifts it to get a better grip. Nothing strikes Thorin as unusual about him; he looks just the same as all the other hobbits Thorin has encountered. And yet…
“Thank you,” Thorin says, albeit reluctantly. He starts to leave, hesitates, and then, before allowing himself to think about it further, turns back, but the hobbit is already hurrying off in the opposite direction, the road only making his bare feet muddier.