Thorin drove the hammer down onto the bright steel, focusing all his frustrations into the swing. A resounding clang rang through the forge. It was a satisfying noise, a familiar one. He drew back his arm once more, sweat stinging his eyes. Another strike and the steel sang. It was the song of his people, hammer against anvil, and despite his exhaustion he felt a swell of pride as he looked down at the dagger before him. He set the anvil aside, wiping his brow with the corner of his sleeve and brushed his thick hair over his shoulders. Reaching for the metal tongs, he carefully dipped the dagger into the basin of water. A thick cloud of steam rose up, briefly casting the forge in fog, but it dissipated only a few moments later.
He sighed, contented by the dagger's make as he set it aside to cool. Thorin blinked a few more beads of sweat out of his eyes, reaching for the wooden cup of water set aside. He resisted the urge to pour it over his head and gulped it down instead, leaning against the wall as he took his rest. He had been working urgently the past few days, churning out as many repairs and wares as Bill Cartwright asked of him. He was paid for each task he completed instead of a base fee, though what he received he felt was infuriatingly low. However, Thorin suspected that would soon change. The other blacksmiths apprenticed to Cartwright detested him, first and foremost because he was far better than they were or could ever hope to be when it came to their occupation, and secondly because he was a dwarf in a town of Men. Cartwright had grudgingly handed him over far more coin than he was willing to part with, having no doubt expected to be paying him far less as the rest of his workers could only complete a handful of their tasks daily. Thorin, in contrast, had completed 8 repairs, forged 2 daggers and wrought a small tool all before the evening.
Recognizing his body's need for rest, Thorin allowed himself a few minutes break before moving to the next task. He ignored the dark look one of Cartwright's apprentices cast him. Part of him desired to inform the boy that he was a prince, a rightful king, and heir of the greatest line of dwarves that ever was or ever would be, that this job was only taken out of necessity, a thousand things that his pride forced to the tip of his tongue, only for him to choke back. He had been working exceptionally hard this week. Traveling was expensive and he had needed to save in order to afford the trip to Ered Luin to see Dis and the boys. However, he was only a few coins away from having the means to return eastward, a day or two's work at most given the rate he had been going. A faint smile crossed his lips at the thought of Fili & Kili. They grew and grew, each time he saw them they seemed taller than the last.
His momentary peace was interrupted as he heard Cartwright addressing a customer. Glancing over his shoulder, Thorin braced himself as he spotted who the man was speaking to. He had little patience for Cartwright and his lecherous ways. Given a choice, he would have avoided the man altogether, but he was not afforded that luxury given circumstances and had instead had to endure the blacksmith's frequent crude jokes and general idiocy. He seemed to think himself a sort of ladies' man, if the definition meant more chasing than receiving, and he took it upon himself to flirt with the rare few women who approached the shop. More often than not, they were farmers' wives come into town to repair a broken tool and giggled at the insinuations Cartwright threw at them with all the subtlety of a troll. Most of blush and smirk, hiding their mouths behind their hands in such a display of lazy flirtation that caused Thorin to roll his eyes so far back into his head that they ached. The rare few would be offended, gasping and flushing with anger before stomping away. Even rarer were those who took him up on his offers, disappearing with him for a few minutes before he returned with a smug grin. As annoying as it was, it was unavoidable, and in turn Thorin had taken to watching each interaction from the corner of his eye as a bit of entertainment to pass the time.
As Cartwright propped an arm against the doorframe, smirking in her general direction, Thorin wondered how this woman would react. He brushed a few loose locks of dark hair away from his eyes, pretending to be interested in a small farm tool. The woman, dressed in remarkably dirty garb, reached into a pocket and withdrew a small chain. A tiny circle glittered at the end of it as she held it in her palm for the blacksmith to view. Cartwright nodded once, peering it over, then winked at her and offered a price.
Thorin stepped closer, the sounds of clanging steel drowning out their voices. The woman shook her head, lips twitching briefly in a sign of displeasure. Cartwright had asked too high a price, he guessed, and the blacksmith laughed when the woman responded with an offer of her own. She was visibly annoyed at this point and Thorin saw a vein in her neck twitch as she set her jaw. They argued for a few more moments, the woman repeatedly gesturing to the necklace in her hand. She held it delicately, as if were forged from rare gems as opposed to the common iron Thorin guessed it to be. Cartwright finally paused, running his hand over his stubbled chin, and then leaned in close to her. The woman flinched, clearly uncomfortable, and her eyes briefly flashed with fury as he murmured something to her. Thorin assumed he had made his true offer. He waited for her reaction. He doubted she would accept, judging by her clear frustration, and he anticipated a slap, hoped for one.
However, the woman did nothing. Her gaze grew fiercely icy and her features, quite pale compared to the sun-kissed complexions of the farmers and travelers of Bree-town, revealed nothing save pure contempt. It was unexpected enough that Cartwright himself stepped back. She slipped the necklace away into her pocket and turned, leaving without another word. Cartwright, clearly embarrassed, quickly glanced around to make sure no one had seen and Thorin pretended to be interested in a crude sword resting against the wall. Flushing furiously from his rebuke, the blacksmith mumbled something incoherently and stumbled into the back room, no doubt wanting to lick his wounds privately.
Thorin considered the woman briefly. She had been clearly urgent about repairing the necklace and had he been able to hear her voice, he would not have been surprised to hear near desperation. However, she had clearly been unwilling to offer Cartwright what he had asked instead of an outrageous fee. Her reaction had earned her a good bit of respect from him and upon seeing the other workers all focused on their tasks, Thorin carefully slipped out the door and into the streets of Bree.
It was midday and in turn, the narrow streets were filled with people. He sighed, struggling to make out the woman as a crowd swarmed around him. Finally, he caught a glimpse of dark hair and paused, his voice faltering as he struggled to think of how to call to her. "Lass!" Thorin determined, raising his deep voice above the din. He heard a giggle aside him as he made his way through the crowd, rolling his eyes as a girl blushed and winked at him. "Not you," He muttered, all but shoving her aside as he quickened his pace to catch up to the woman. "Lass!," He attempted again, this time succeeding in drawing her attention.
The woman stopped, her brow furrowing as she glanced over her shoulder in confusion. She blinked as he approached, making no attempt to hide the confusion on her face. It was clear, now that Thorin was able to get a good look at her, that she was not from Bree. Her clothes were stained with travel and appeared well used. Her hair was near black and messy, her pale features smudged with dirt and grime where the Bree-folk were nearly all tanned by the sun, their hair fair or lightly dark.
"Yes?" The woman questioned bluntly, a dark brow rising slightly.
"Do you need that necklace repaired?"
The other brow raised and she cast him a wary glance, her fingers moving to her pocket as she questioned lightly. "Why is it you ask, dwarf?"
"I can fix it for you," Thorin stated, nodding once.
"I fear I cannot afford whatever price you will ask of me. I have little coin or no desire to offer any sort of other offer in service," She replied, watching him carefully.
Thorin shook his head, "Cartwright's a fool. I would not ask the same of you, lass."
A faint smile twitched onto her face and her sharp gaze softened with something like amusement. "And what is it you would ask, then?"
"Nothing." She snorted and turned to leave, but Thorin continued. His voice was powerful enough that she paused, "I can fix it for you if you like. Give me a few hours and I'll repair it. On my ancestors, I will return it to you once it is completed."
The woman turned slowly, glancing him up and down before asking quietly, "Why this kindness, master dwarf?"
"I loathe the blacksmith who no doubt propositioned you, as he does any woman who enters his shop." Thorin replied honestly, voice deep and unamused.
The woman grinned. She reached into her pocket and slowly withdrew the necklace, cradling it softly in her palm before handing it to him. "The chain break a fortnight ago and I have not had the chance to have it repaired. It means a good deal to me and I would be indebted if you could try and fix it."
Thorin examined it closely. It was a simple thing, an iron chain clasped to a small iron circle inlaid with delicate, curved designs. It looked like the sort of thing a child might wear. "It appears easy enough," He looked back up with a firm nod, slipping it into his pocket. "I can have it ready for you this evening."
"Where would be best for me to meet you, then?"
He considered the question. "The Prancing Pony, if you know of it."
Her eyes flickered with some private amusement. "I do."
"The Pony it shall be then," Thorin said, "And have you a name?"
"Rosie," She replied with a flat smile, offering no surname.
The name did not fit her. Nothing about the woman offered comparison to the delicate, shy beauty associated with roses. She was grimy and filthy. He resisted the urge to mention this to her. "Tonight then, at the Pony." Thorin nodded with finality, turning and leaving without another word.
He slipped back into the shop unnoticed, grateful that no one had discovered his brief absence. Securing the necklace deep in his pocket, he returned to work. The next few hours passed by quickly enough as he readily completed each task, his hammer striking the anvil with renewed purpose. Just another day or so, Thorin reminded himself as he felt the muscles in her shoulders begin to ache, and he could return to Ered Luin. Finally, as the shop began to clear out and the sun set over Bree, painting the thatch houses and cobbled streets in an array of flaming colors, Thorin withdrew the necklace.
He heated up the broken chain, careful to make sure no one was watching him craft something of his own instead of working, and found the tool necessary to reshape the iron. It was a quick job, the sort of thing even the youngest dwarf could forge with ease, and he gently dipped into the basin of water to cool it off once it was completed. He slipped it back into his pocket quickly and cleaned up his tools from the day's work. He gratefully left the shop, eager to be free of the place and the people inhabiting it, and made his way to the Pony.
Luckily, he had had enough funds to procure himself a room there for a long-term stay, as opposed to having to rent a room from one of the townfolk. Thorin had no desire to mingle with the Bree-folk. He found the bulk of them crude and while he knew his pride was in part to blame, all the same he thought himself far above their common ways. These people knew nothing of the world outside their farms and homesteads, of history and science and true craft aside from their farming and gardening. No, he wished to be free of Bree and its inhabitants as quickly as he could.
He drew himself a quick bath and cleansed himself of the sweat and smoke that stuck to his skin. As much as he enjoying working a forge, all the same he enjoyed this part of the day practically above all others. The tavern below had not yet filled with customers and his room was quiet, allowing him the peace to think and reflect as he washed his thick hair and tired form. When he was finished, Thorin carefully braided several parts of his hair. He always wore at least one braid in his hair and cherished the simple act. Even here, in this filthy town of Men, it made him feel connected to his people, his kin and his ancestors. His heart ached briefly as he paused, calloused fingers brushing slowly over the braid, and thought of the first time he had learned how to create a braid. His father had taught him, long ago, in Erebor, when he had been but a child. It had been a happier time, a time of peace. How long ago that had been.
Shaking his head, he cast the memories aside and dressed himself. By the time he made his way into the tavern below, the room was filled with smoke and the faint stench of sweat as the Bree-folk began to fill the room. Thorin bought himself a tankard and situated himself in the corner of the room, having no desire to strike up conversation with any present. Not wishing to miss the woman should she arrive as agreed upon, Thorin began to watch the door carefully, fingers drumming absently against the stained table before him. No, he would not miss the woman, Rosie her name had been. He would give her the necklace and enjoy a quiet evening by himself before retiring to bed for the night. It would be a good day, all things considered.
However, though he could not have guessed it, or even guessed at it as he nearly blanched at the poor quality of the ale in his tankard, Thorin was to have a decidedly stressful evening.