Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Thorin has heard stories about Hobbits. Not many, granted. They are a race nearly as secretive as his own. But as the King of a neighboring community, certainly he was aware of the bucolic farmland nation and it's strange little inhabitants.

He had heard about how they were soft, fat and harmless and yet, something didn't add up.

As far as Thorin knew, the Shire had never been invaded. Even when the past winter has been so harsh that the water froze and the air was so cold it burnt, nothing invaded the Shire, even as Thorin and his people had to fight tooth and nail to keep the orcs and wargs at bay.

In fact, it was only by the grace of their neighbours that the dwarves had even survived to the spring after. Only because their neighbours were apparently generous enough to share what little food they had. Even with such generosity, still the Hobbits did not look anywhere near as close to hunger as each and every dwarrow had.

And so Thorin found himself making his way toward the homes of his quaint neighbors, accompanied by a small company of fellow dwarves. Now, with the frost beginning to loosen its grip, Thorin had deemed it only right that they repay that kindness in turn.

Each dwarf carried something in their arms or strapped carefully to their backs, the weight of their gifts a quiet testament to their gratitude. With other races, such offerings might have taken the form of finely crafted weapons, sturdy armor, or other works of martial skill—items that Dwarves traditionally valued above all else. Yet Thorin knew well that their Hobbit neighbors had little use for such things, nor any particular fondness for them.

So instead, they had turned their craft toward more practical ends. In their forges, they had shaped and tempered tools meant not for war, but for the gentle rhythms of daily life. There were well-balanced hoes and sturdy shovels, their edges keen and built to last through seasons of toil. There were iron pots and polished pans, designed to sit comfortably over a hearth and endure years of cooking. Even the smallest items had been made with care, each piece bearing the quiet mark of Dwarven skill.

As they approached the Hobbit dwellings, Thorin felt a sense of satisfaction settle within him. These were not grand or ostentatious gifts, but they were thoughtful, useful, and given with genuine respect. For all their differences, it seemed only right that such kindness be answered in kind.

Thorin quickly found himself confused...he could have sworn he'd walked by that stump five minutes ago.

And that tree.

And either all their buildings were identical, or he was walking in circles.

The others seemed just as confused, and there was lots of muttering. He kept on walking straight ahead... and then stopped when he saw the same stump as earlier.

Dwalin, right next to him, snorted. "We're lost."

"No, we are not." Thorin denied. "I know perfectly well where we are."

And he did know...approximately.

It wasn't his fault that everything in the Shire looked the same to his eyes.

"We're lost." Dwalin muttered to his brother Balin, without troubling to lower his voice.

Next time, Thorin noted, he will travel with far more respectful company.

"Ho, Friends!" a cheerful voice called.

A well-dressed Hobbit was standing at a crossroad next to a tall stone carved with place names and arrows pointing in three directions. Thorin didn't know what a "Farthing" was, but it was the first sensible landmark he'd seen in this maze-like land, and this was the first Hobbit bold enough to approach their party. He assumed they were a male Hobbit, though he was still unclear if these Hobbits strictly dressed differently as Men did. They did not seem to have any indicators like beads or braids to mark gender or family.

"You look a bit lost. Where are you headed?" The hobbit had soft, curling hair that gleamed golden brown in the weak Spring sunlight, and matched the only slightly muddy curls on their large feet. They were bundled up in a bright green knitted scarf and a burgundy velvet coat, cheeks pinked from the brisk air. The cheerful scarf seemed to make their bright eyes glint like dark emeralds in the sun.

Thorin suddenly realised he'd been staring without replying when Dwalin coughed loudly next to him.

"Ahem, we, uh, we seek the Great Smials, home of the Thain," he answered brusquely.

"Well, you're a fair bit off yet, but I'm headed that way myself to visit my grandfather. I'd be happy to accompany you, if you'd like a guide."

"And when I say you are a fair bit off, I meant a lot, by the way," the hobbit said with a playful smile for the dwarrow before him.

"How far off?" a dwarf with a snow-white beard asked. His appearance instantly reminded Bilbo of the grandfather he was about to go and visit.

"Oh, about two hours past where you should have turned off the East Road, I'd say, assuming you are coming from the Blue Mountains," he smiled mischievously. "But no worries, no worries at all. It is a beautiful day, not too chilly, and a little walk never hurt anyone."

Thorin knew he should introduce himself to the pretty little hobbit, but for all his years of training in elocution and diplomacy, he found himself all but tongue-tied and allowed Balin to take the reins of conversation, considering he still hadn't managed to say much of anything yet.

When Balin turned back around to gauge his King's reaction, Thorin signed a word in Iglishmek, the dwarven miners' sign language. Just one word, NAME?

Balin raised an eyebrow at Thorin’s subtle signal, but he only shrugged before turning back to the hobbit.

“And what is your name, laddie?” he asked.

“Oh, my apologies. I am Bilbo Baggins of Bag End. The Thain is my grandfather on my mother’s side. And you are?” the hobbit replied, his tone polite, though there was a flicker of nervous curiosity in his bright eyes.

“I am Balin, son of Fundin,” Balin said, inclining his head. “And this is Thorin, son of Thráin, our esteemed leader.”

He gestured toward Thorin, who, Balin noticed, suddenly straightened just a fraction. It was subtle, so slight that most might have missed it, but Balin had known him long enough to see the shift: the squaring of his shoulders, the lift of his chin, as though he meant to present himself in the best possible light before this unexpected guest.

Dwalin noticed it too. Standing nearby, he arched a brow, his sharp gaze flicking between Thorin and the hobbit. The corner of his mouth twitched, though whether in amusement or disbelief was hard to tell.

Luckily (or perhaps unluckily?) Bilbo didn't notice the exchange.

The only thing Bilbo seemed to care about was, in fact, reaching the Thain's house.

"Why are you going to grandfather's house?" Bilbo asked, tilting his head. "We're not used to receiving guests from the outside."

Balin was sure the hobbit had muttered Unfortunately, but since it didn't make sense to him, he ignored the mutter and gave his King the chance to answer the question instead.

Thorin was contemplating exactly what color he'd assign to the hobbit's changeable eyes when his advisor replied, “A fair question, Master Baggins,” and turned to Thorin with a subtle wink. He clearly felt Thorin needed a nudge to address the hobbit who had so piqued his interest. Indeed, it might well be prudent to travel with company that had a bit more of a healthy fear of him in the future.

Thorin cleared his throat, hastening his pace to position himself nearer to the enigmatic creature who had held him so enthralled. His advisor did have a point, this was the Thain’s grandson, after all; it would be wise to make a good impression. As a king, Thorin was well-versed in flattery, though he had been known to prolong his speeches beyond necessity at times–his sister had often accused him of enjoying the sound of his own voice. Yet, in this moment, the only word that escaped his lips was a single, strained utterance:

“Gifts.” It sounded more like a grunt than an actual word, even to Thorin's ears.

Simultaneously, he heard Balin murmur a prayer to their maker and Dwalin suppress a chuckle. The hobbit glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched and a playful curve to his pink lips. The look alone nearly halted Thorin’s stride. Those elusive eyes, sparkling with amusement and mischief, captured his thoughts entirely. This peculiar sensation of being so unsettled by an encounter left Thorin uncertain whether it was a feeling he should shun or embrace.

At this rate, the hobbit might think he had a poor grasp of Westron or that he had rocks for brains. As he tried to come up with something, anything else to say, Master Baggins gallantly rescued his efforts by speaking instead.

“Oh? I did notice you have quite the haul. I thought perhaps you had come to sell your wares. Is it your birthday then, Mr. Thorin? Have you come to celebrate in our humble hills?” His gentle teasing was not helping Thorin's focus at all.

"For you..." he tried again, "for your people. In thanks." He took a deep breath and fell back into the familiar cadence of formal speech that came to him so instinctively...especially when he was uncomfortable, it seemed.

Gazing off at the rich black earth of the fields that lined the narrow road they traveled, he spoke in measured tones. "The harsh winds of winter bit deep in our halls these many months. My people, suffering already from disdain in the towns of Men and Elves, were braced to suffer more so when the snows came so early and so deep. With grim hearts we feared to watch our children cry and our elders fade as our stores dwindled, but this dire fate which seemed so certain was allayed from a most unexpected quarter." He glanced back to see the Hobbit staring at him, wide-eyed and transfixed. The look filled him with a heady boldness that spurred him on as they walked.

"Wagons bearing stacks of dry goods, barrels of salted meats, herbs for healing, and many, many crates of all manner of vegetables and squash arrived during a brief respite in the snowfall, driven by Rangers of the North who affirmed only that the stores were 'a gift from the Shire'. I admit there was much that our cooks were unfamiliar with how to prepare, but we did not let a single morsel go to waste, giving over to our herds that which we were unable to eat ourselves. It was aid unasked for, but bitterly needed, and most ardently appreciated.

"We still do not know what prompted the gifts, but they most surely saved hundreds of my people this winter. As one, my people unanimously turned our craft and skill towards assembling an offering that could only pale in comparison to the gift of life that had been so freely given. We bear only the first offerings of our forges and workshops, with a promise for more in the coming years, and a hope for a long-lasting friendship between our people."

He risked another glance over at the uncharacteristically quiet Hobbit walking beside him and startled to see that the fellow's eyes were damp, and he was looking at Thorin with such an expression...it seemed pleased, perhaps proud?

"I knew it was the right thing," Bilbo responded finally, his voice tight with emotion. Thorin wondered at what that could mean, but before he could ask, Bilbo frowned and turned to him, placing a hand over Thorin's vambrace. "But wait, you say there were things you were unable to eat?"

"Yes, there were many types of winter berries and mushrooms we were unable to digest ourselves, but the Rangers who accompanied the wagons let us know that our goats and pigs would be able to stomach them. They however, were not something a Dwarf could or should eat," Thorin explained.

"You couldn't eat the berries?" Bilbo asked, looking up at Thorin in confusion. "We only sent the best you know," he said hotly. He hoped that this dwarf wasn't being insulting on purpose, but to say they had given inedible food was the height of insult to a Hobbit.

"I have offended you ..." Thorin looked down at the vision of unhappy perfection beside him, distressed that he might have given offense.

"Well, yes. I am a Hobbit—we are Hobbits. We don't gift unconsumable food. What an insult that would be! If I know anything about Dwarves, I imagine it would be like forging someone a blunt weapon or something akin to that," Bilbo answered, crossing his arms with a huff. To think his people had tried to help, and now they were being accused of sending food that couldn't be eaten. What a disgrace!

"I did not believe it an insult to say some of the food so generously provided was..." Thorin trailed off, weighing every word so he didn't accidentally offer insult again.

"Look, we sent holly berries, spindle berries and winter berries." Bilbo counted off on his fingers agitatedly. "Winter berries are bloody hard to grow, you know. And we sent you a full crate!" he added hotly.

“Do Hobbits have a way of eating those poisonous berries?” Óin called suddenly from the back of the group.

Thorin whirled around, his eyes wide with surprise and shock. Only moments before, he had been apologizing, explaining that they could not partake in 'holly berries, spindle berries, and winter berries', or whatever they were called. And now here was Óin, blunt as ever, outright calling them poison.

At that, Bilbo Baggins froze. A flush crept rapidly up his neck and settled into his cheeks, turning them a brilliant shade of red. He fidgeted with his hands, clearly caught off guard.

“Oh—um… yes, we do. Oh—um—right, I…” he stammered, his voice trailing off as he tried to gather his thoughts.

Thorin found himself again unexpectedly distracted by the color blooming across Bilbo’s cheeks. It was… striking. He had not thought Hobbits capable of such displays, made all the more vivid on his charmingly beardless face.

Bilbo cleared his throat and straightened slightly, though the redness lingered. “My apologies. I forgot that… um… other races find some of our food to be… ahem, poisonous.” He glanced between the dwarves guiltily, still visibly flustered. “We Hobbits can easily eat anything you see, including what others might consider unsafe.”

There was a brief pause where a few of the dwarves exchanged looks, some amused, others skeptical.

Óin gave a low grunt from the back. “Curious folk, Hobbits,” he muttered.

Thorin turned back toward the path ahead, though his thoughts still lingering longer than he cared to admit on how adorable the hobbit looked.

They walked on for many more miles in silence.

Finally, Bilbo smiled as they saw a little crowd.

"The faunts are very fast," Bilbo chuckled. "Apparently, King Thorin, my grandfather has been informed of your arrival."

Balin muttered. "I didn't expect children to be used as messengers."

"Used?" Bilbo looked amused. "Good luck in using a Hobbit, and especially a little one, as anything!" Bilbo shook his head. "No, like I said, we're not used to guests. They are just very curious about your arrival."

If Thorin had found Master Baggins adorable, he was utterly endeared by the freckled, rosy-cheeked tiny children who suddenly surrounded them, squealing with delight at their arrival. They darted and weaved among the dwarves, their faces alight with brilliant grins, eyes sparkling with excitement.

Some wore skirts, others the peculiar half-trousers that Master Baggins himself wore. Their clothes, though well made, were mussed and dirty from vigorous outdoor play. Each child had small flowers tucked into buttonholes and crowns of fresh blooms on their heads and in their tiny fists. Even their muddy bare feet, disproportionately large compared to their small bodies, added to their insuperable charm.

All of the dwarves were besieged by chubby little hands tugging at their clothes and offering braided chains of flowers to any dwarf within reach. The high-pitched voices only children could manage, a chorus of delight, clamored over each other for attention.

“Cousin Bilbo called this one a king!” One pebble exclaimed suddenly, pointing an accusing little finger directly at Thorin.

Truly, even a warrior as battle-tested as he stood no chance.

Thorin knelt before the wide-eyed child, who sported stalks of purple-blue blooms peeking out like little jewels between the yellow strands of her braided pigtails. "And are you a Queen, muzmazum(dear little jewel)?" He asked with mock solemnity. "You are adorned as such."

"I'm just Hyacinth," she giggled, ruffling the waxy, bell-shaped flowers. "Are you a real king, Mister Dwarf?"

"I am," he nodded, "though a poor king with only pots and pans, and no beautiful nanâg(flowers) to mark my braids."

"You can have mine!" A little boy held up a crown of little blue star-like flowers streaked with white at their center. Thorin bowed his head so the child could stretch up on his significant tip-toes to place the crown on his head, weaving it into his hair with careful little fingers. It felt as significant as any crown he'd been graced with.

When he stood, he looked back over his Company to find that a prodigious number of the little Hobbit children had come out from ...somewhere to swarm his dwarves with their attentions. They were all being blessed with similar adornments, though Dwalin had dropped his pack and his weapons, Thorin noted fondly, and was stomping about with a tiny Hobbit hanging from each arm, and another wrapped around each leg, all squealing with delight. His coarse beard was speckled with the same star-like flowers in Thorin's gift.

• Hyacinth flowers primarily symbolize sincerity, constancy, and loyalty. In the Victorian language of flowers, hyacinths represent "sportiveness" or play, related to their athletic origins in Greek mythology. In various cultures, they signify deep devotion and have even been used in royal wedding bouquets to represent the constancy of love. Blue hyacinths symbolize constancy, sincerity, and deep care.
• Scilla flowers, often known as squill or star hyacinth, primarily symbolize hope, renewal, and new beginnings due to their early spring blooming. They represent resilience because of their ability to thrive in harsh conditions, alongside themes of loyalty, fidelity, and constancy.

Bilbo didn't even try to stop his smile as he reached over into little Hyacinth's hair and snagged one of the pins that were hanging on precariously. He moved closer to the king— and what a thought that was, he supposed— ignoring the way his cheeks warmed as he got close enough to the dwarf to have to crane his neck upward to look into his more than beautiful face.

"You will lose your crown shortly," Bilbo murmured, ignoring the bustle around them, everyone busy with Bilbo's numerous young Took cousins.

"Pardon ...?" Thorin mumbled, ignoring the way the words clicked in his throat. His mouth went dry when this perfect specimen of divine beauty was standing so close that Thorin could reach down and wrap his large arms around his ample waist.

"I said, you need a bigger crown, your majesty," Bilbo replied, ignoring the smouldering heat between their gazes as he leaned up on his tiptoes to arrange the crown that little Sigismond had gifted the king. "Maybe ..."

"Maybe?" Thorin repeated, his intense blue gaze boring into Bilbo's very soul.

"Maybe, after you have concluded your business with my grandfather, I could make you one that fits?" Bilbo forged ahead, ignoring the scandalised gasps from the older faunts who understood Bilbo's social faux pas, even if the dwarf before him did not.

He refused to back down from his offer. Because no, one did not offer to make a flower crown for a beau on a first meeting, and technically no, this king, this dwarf was not his beau, but in this very moment Bilbo did not care, regardless of what any other hobbit would think.

“Think of it as the first of my apologies for sending you inedible food when you needed it most,” Bilbo replied, his fingers fidgeting faintly at his sides.

“The first?” Thorin asked, brows knitting together in confusion as he studied the hobbit.

Bilbo drew in a small breath, as though steadying himself. “As a Hobbit, it is a dire mistake to send someone food they cannot eat. I should, in fact, apologize to your entire kingdom, but alas, they are not here. You, as their representative, will have to accept my apologies on their behalf.” He paused, glancing briefly at the ground before meeting Thorin’s gaze again, determination flickering in his eyes. “It was a grave mistake, and I shall do my duty and apologize to you properly. I will begin by weaving you a flower crown… and perhaps find other ways of your choosing, should I fail to think of enough myself.”

Thorin swallowed hard.

The image rose unbidden in his mind, Bilbo seated close beside him, nimble fingers threading soft stems and blossoms together, perhaps brushing against his hair as he settled the crown in place. The thought alone was dangerously enticing. Yet it was the rest of Bilbo’s words that struck him more forcefully, sending heat rushing to his face until he felt certain his cheeks must be as red as a forge.

“Other ways,” Thorin repeated, his voice lower now, rougher, as though the words themselves weighed something more than they should.

Bilbo tilted his head slightly, either oblivious or pretending to be, though there was the faintest hint of mischief in his eyes. “Well, yes. Proper apologies should be thorough, should they not?”

Thorin cleared his throat, attempting to gather what remained of his composure. “You… need not trouble yourself overmuch, Master Baggins.”

“Oh, but I must,” Bilbo insisted, a small, stubborn smile tugging at his lips. “It would be quite improper otherwise.”

Thorin found he had no ready answer to that. Instead, he exhaled slowly, trying, and failing, to ignore the way his pulse had quickened, or how the idea of those apologies lingered far longer in his thoughts than it ought to.

The children were watching all of this with wide eyes, and even wider mouths. What was wrong with him, young Lobelia Bracegirdle couldn't help but wonder.

Did he... like a dwarf?

... that was almost as absurd as the claim going around that she liked that pig, Otho Sackville-Baggins. Bilbo was too smart to fall for a Dwarf. Right?

Thorin was still looking at Bilbo when Dwalin coughed loudly.

Thorin startled, looking around, blushing around his ears.

"Thain?" He blurted, making Bilbo raise his eyebrows.

"My grandfather's home is right ahead of us, yes." Bilbo nodded. "I'll accompany you there, since I have to talk with him as well."

Thorin nodded, but didn't say anything. He had already made fool enough of himself.

The children each chose a dwarf to their liking and clung to them as Master Baggins summoned them to follow once more. Thorin paused, reflecting on the exchange between himself and the handsome hobbit. Master Baggins had spoken as if he were the very reason for their unexpected aid. If so, then apologies were not only unnecessary but Thorin should be the one offering his thanks—properly and thoroughly.

A gentle tug on his sleeve drew his attention downward. Hyacinth looked up at him with a mischievous, knowing gleam in her eyes. “Can I ride on your shoulders, Mister King?”

A rare, warm smile played at the corners of Thorin’s mouth. “Climb aboard, little one.” He stooped low, easily grasping the child by the waist and lifting her to perch comfortably on his left shoulder.

Once settled, she leaned down and whispered into his ear. “I think Bilbo likes you,” she said, her laughter like tinkling chimes on the wind.

Thorin couldn’t help but release a soft chuckle in response, choosing to remain silent on the matter. It was reassuring to know he wasn’t imagining the intense connection between them, that even a child could sense it. Not that Thorin was oblivious to such signs. It was just that no one had ever shown him genuine interest beyond his title, perhaps nothing more than a conquest. A king who could barely provide for his people was hardly an ideal match, and he was nothing much to look at.

But as he glanced up and saw Master Baggins gazing back at him from the front of the group, a tender smile on his face and a fetching rosy tint on his bare cheeks, Thorin felt his collar grow warm once more. He returned a shy yet broad grin, matching Bilbo’s steady pace toward the Thain’s home.

Bilbo Baggins approached a grand, circular door set into one of the largest hills Thorin had seen since entering the Shire. He opened the door as if it were his own, inviting them all inside.