This is a fic that Vampgurl402 requested, and I've been having trouble hashing it out, but now I know what I'm doing, I should update it fairly regularly, though not on any definite schedule, because I suck.
So anyway, this is for you doll!
Disclaimer: i don't own the Hobbit.
He lay gasping, face pressed into the dirt, and tried to ignore the pain in his side desperately.
A sword clanged next to his face and he rolled out of its path, reluctantly heaving himself upright and staggering away.
He hated being lost.
With no idea(nor indeed, care) of where he was going, he chose a random direction and wobbled as fast as he could in it, across fields and tiny, idyllic bridges, half unsure whether they would hold his weight in the slightest.
He ended up in a small hamlet, round doors interspersing the distance before him, in varying bright colours.
He chose the nearest door, a charming green one. With a beautifully tended garden and a small bench where Thorin envisioned himself smoking a pipe one day, it was easy to imagine he had come here for a holiday, rather than to scout the area.
And indeed, get lost not once, but twice, in the same stretch of land.
He was a king. Kings did not get lost.
Unless severely injured first, of course. Then it was excusable.
Shifting to lessen the weight on his injured leg, he leaned against the fence indecisively. He was a king, and kings were independent, proud creatures, but on the other hand, he did require aid rather badly.
So he made the decision, and unhooked the gate, swinging it open, and glanced behind him nervously for the enemy. The road behind him was vacant, though he imagined it would not stay that way for long.
Limping heavily down the path, he prepared himself to make his case, dizziness taking him and forcing him to stumble on a stone. He knocked on the beautiful door, wincing as a scrape on his knuckles made contact with the wood, and waited for it to swing open.
He heard irritated muttering in a higher pitched, clearly vexed voice, moving closer to the door. He had obviously irked the inhabitant, though he wished he had no cause to do so. But his leg was bleeding rather badly, and he could see bone when he examined the wound. Head spinning, he awaited the person's angry tirade.
The door swung open to reveal a small person, barely up to Thorin's shoulder, with curly hair and bare feet.
"Good evening." He managed to say, before keeling over at one Bilbo Baggins' rather large, hairy feet.