An old hobbit was sat beneath a tree.
The fragrance of a fresh harvest was in the air. A gentle breeze blew through the leaves overhead. A young child saw this old man sitting bent amongst the grass. They would have thought nothing of it, except for the strange glittering material he held in his hands.
The child approached him, shielding their eyes against the red sunset blazing behind the figure. He raised his head at the sound of their approach and a weary smile spread across his face.
"Hello, young one. Are you lost?" The old hobbit's voice croaked.
The child shook their head and pointed at the strange white material the hobbit held.
"Oh! This old thing?" The hobbit looked down upon it with a fondness in his old eyes. He ran a finger across the many small rings. "This is Mithril, dear child. A precious gift bestowed to me by a precious friend."
The child sat in the long grass beside him, gazing at it in wonder. As the hobbit spoke, his eyes seem to shine bright and become distant. "It is the best armor." He spoke with an enthusiasm one would have while telling a story, holding up up the Mithril mail. "It may appear like just a strange metal shirt, but no blade can pierce it! It is made of a special ore found deep in the dark treacherous Mines of Moria. Dwarves used to live there. Have you ever seen a dwarf, youngling?"
The child shook their head and reached out to touch the shining mail shirt. It glittered as if magical in the red light, creating a tinkling sound as it moved. The leaves overhead fluttered.
"Ah..." The old hobbit laughed heartily. "They are truly an incredible people, dwarves. My friend, the one who gifted me this, was a dwarven king in fact! Dwarves may not have the best of table manners, mind you, but they are quite the fierce and loyal warriors." The hobbits words trailed off into thoughtful silence. He gazed down at the shirt in his hands.
"His name was Thorin Oakenshield. King under the Mountain..." An expression the child had never seen before passed over his face, and it made them feel an aching empathy for the hobbit. "He was a wonderful king. And an even better friend."
The child looked at the hobbit in confusion, and his shoulders shook with a weak laugh. "Oh, no. He's been gone a long while...many years. He rests within the Misty Mountains now, in his home." The old man gingerly touched a fallen leaf beside him. "This tree was from there, you know. I brought it back as just an acorn. Look how much it has grown!"
The child craned their neck to gaze up at the large, crooked tree. It looked strong and young, with many twisting branches and rustling foliage.
The old hobbit's voice dropped to a whisper of a sound, "I wish he could see it. I'm sure he would have been pleased."
They both sat for a long while in silence; the old hobbit's head was bowed, his fingers tenderly stroking the shirt. "Well," He finally breathed. "It should be getting dark soon enough. Best you be running along home, child." His face stretched in a small smile, but his eyes looked so tired. So old.
So sad.
The child stood up and smiled at the hobbit, waving as they walked away. As the young one looked back, they could see the man's silhouette lean against the trunk and close his eyes. Something sparkled in the sunset upon his face. Even as he began to smile, a tear trickled down his cheek.
An old hobbit was sat beneath a tree, wishing to see his best friend once more.
Help, I made myself sad :0
I'm still not over Thorin's death, and my horrible mind thought of this while driving home so... sigh. SO MUCH SADS
This is a first draft, I hope it's dece. It's just a short little drabble I wrote. I would say I hope you enjoyed reading but... so, thanks for reading!