AN: Reviews are highly appreciated!


Part II: Thorin (1)

Thorin has a lot of time to think during their trip to 'someone who might be a friend if I don't miss my guess's dwelling (Gandalf's words, of course, and the confusticated wizard had naturally refused to elaborate further), a fact he is swiftly coming to regret, mostly because his head is full of a hobbit who should not be in there in the first place. Now usually Thorin is not one for overthinking, especially not when it comes to the matters of emotions, yet, frustratingly, he cannot seem to be able to stop thinking about the infuriating hobbit who kept turning all of his expectations upside down without even trying to do so.

Bilbo Baggins. A constant source of surprise. Thorin is not fond of surprises at all, but, much to his consternation, this hobbit shaped one had wormed his way past his defences and into his heart, giving the dwarf an entirely new set of problems to deal with.

Before the near-disastrous confrontation with Azog Thorin had managed not to dwell on the hobbit too much by building a barrier of disdain and distancing himself (and he hahadhahahhad indeed thought the little creature mostly useless, more is the fool), but now he finds it maddeningly impossible. He cannot forget the bravery in defending someone with one's own life, cannot un-see the fierce glint of determination in Bilbo's eyes, the last thing he had glimpsed before blackness had taken him, cannot un-hear the sincere, if a little ill at ease, words about helping to reclaim their home, which had tugged at his heart strings in ways they had not been moved for a long time.

In short, Thorin cannot get Bilbo Baggins of the Shire out of his thoughts and for once he does not know what to do. Well, he knows what he should do. He should ban the entire matter from his mind and not pursue it further. He should leave Bilbo in peace without dragging him into this mess – this quest of dragons and gold and home

(the thought of Bilbo in his home of old sends shivers down his spine, both in longing and something far too close to dread. He loves Erebor fiercely, but he is a dwarf and dwarves are born with a love of stone that equals hobbits' love of food and nature, And while the surrounding country used to be green and fruitful, the dragon's coming had laid the land bare and it would be a long time till something would grow there again, if Smaug had not poisoned the land forever. The last thing he wants is to watch Bilbo whither, far from the green hills of his old dwelling, even if Thorin yearns for his company)

– any more than he already is (if by his own choice). He should not even be thinking about the hobbit's strange beauty, trusting and brave heart and sweet nature – it would only earn them both grief, as dwarves are a secretive people, naturally suspicious of outsiders.

So yes, he knows what he should do and yet his heart still cries out against rational thought. But never let it be said that Thorin Oakenshield lets his heart rule over his mind, however much it may pain him.

The resolution sours his already strained mood further. He glances back over the line of weary and hungry dwarves trudging along behind him and Gandalf, only to find the one his eye is still mostly searching for moving along with his nose stuck in the book that elf had given him, which stings for more than one reason. Thorin knows he is slowing down their walking speed with the pain his injuries afford his every breath, but knowing it and seeing Bilbo so unbothered he can read while trotting along, when he is usually one of the ones struggling the most, is something else entirely. Yet, every time he attempts to push his body to a faster gait either Balin or Dwalin throw him warning looks and he has even caught Bofur glancing at him in a downright reprimanding fashion once. Each time it happens he grits his teeth and moves along at the same speed. Stubborn he may be, but a fool he is not (at least not when it does not concern a certain hobbit burglar).

He trudges on.


It would be an understatement to say that Thorin is reluctant to let Bilbo out of his sight once having reached the outskirts of Gandalf's mysterious friend's dwelling, even it is the wizard who insists on going alone with the hobbit.

Too busy scowling after their retreating backs, he does not react to Balin coming up next to him, until the older dwarf comments, "Bilbo will be fine, Thorin. Gandalf is with him."

"That's what I'm concerned about," Thorin grumbles in reply, though he does not quite mean it. Gandalf has proven almost irritatingly useful so far, if sometimes a little late in his rescues.

Balin is silent for a moment, his contemplating face on. In his youth Thorin had feared that face, for a lecture would almost always follow.

"Are you planning on courting him then?" his oldest companion finally asks, unusually blunt for his usually more circumspect self, yet with his usual insight into Thorin (Balin has simply known him for too long, he sometimes thinks).

Thorin does not have to ask who 'he' is.

"No," he snaps shortly, keeping a tight lid on his own doubt and disappointment on the matter.

Balin's bushy white eyebrows twitch. "And pray tell why not? We've all found him to be a more than worthy companion, I dare say."

"It's not his worth that's in question," Thorin murmurs, barely keeping an instinctive bristle at the mere notion in check.

"What then? It can hardly be yours."

Thorin shifts, his great fur coat rustling quietly as his gaze skims over the meadow in front of them, searching for any kind of activity to use as an excuse to abandon this conversation. No such luck.

"Regardless of my own worth, which some might hotly debate upon, do you truly think he deserves this? Being kept away from his home, life, and family for the sake of a dwarf who has shown him nothing but disdain for so long?"

Balin possesses the dubious talent of being able to emanate disapproval without actually saying anything – Thorin has been on the receiving end of that trick too often to still be affected by it, but Balin never fails to make his opinion known regardless.

"And what of Bilbo?" Balin continues mercilessly. "Does he get no say in this? For he has come to love you dearly and loyally, no matter your behaviour towards him."

Thorin almost winces at the undeniable truth of those words.

"I've already dragged him into enough danger as it is, Balin," he admits quietly. "His home in the Shire is the safer place for him, even if we do reclaim Erebor."

"So you're doing this to protect him?"

Thorin barks out a bitter laugh. "Nothing so noble, my dear friend. Rather I'm far too selfish. I could not bear to see him dead because of me."

"Ahh," Balin hums, a new weight of understanding colouring his tone. "So you will deny yourself – and him – happiness for the fear of something that might happen regardless? Do you truly believe his death would pain you less, were you not officially involved with him?"

His expression must have given him away, for Balin shakes his head with a long sigh. "You're deluding yourself, laddie. Your heart is already lost to him."

Before Thorin can muster a reply, a shrill whistle sounds.

"It seems our five minutes are up," Balin comments brightly, as if the preceding conversation had never happened, and starts walking. "Look sharp laddie, a good night's rest and a meal wouldn't go amiss for any of us."

Thorin is almost not surprised by the huge man waiting for them on the front porch of a fairly impressive house (for wood anyway). Many strange things have happened during their journey and a human, or at least partly human, male with odd manners living alone in the middle of nowhere, is new, but not as extraordinary as stone giants or giant eagles coming to their rescue. He only gives the man a quick once over, making sure he is not an immediate threat, before his gaze finds Bilbo, looking especially small and vulnerable standing next to their bulky new acquaintance.

His face must convey his urgent question of 'are you unharmed?' for Bilbo gives him a nod and a small if a little tremulous smile. It is obvious he is not quite comfortable in his position, but there is nothing Thorin can do about it at the moment, safe for refusing to let the instinctive growl at the sight escape. They are not here to challenge their possible host after all, no matter his aggravating physical closeness to their burglar

For once Thorin is content to let Gandalf do all the talking, for diplomacy would surely desert him and the wizard's scheme to introduce them all one by one is rather ingenious – so ingenious indeed that it works, and they are all situated surprisingly comfortably in the great wooden hall before dusk.

Sitting a little apart of the main company, his bruised ribs having forced him to sit somewhere more comfortable than the stools Beorn had provided all around the table, Thorin watches the merry gathering of dwarves, a wizard, and a hobbit stuff their faces amongst much conversation and laughter. It could almost remind one of a similar party in a surprised hobbit's warm hole, not so long ago, if not for a few subtle, yet also glaring, to the right eye, differences. There is a gauntness and guardedness about all their faces, where sometimes it had not been there before. It hurts his heart especially to see how Fíli and Kíli, his sister-sons, had been forced to grow up on their journey, knowing that it is his fault that their joyful spark, though not extinguished, is a little dimmed, may indeed never return to its former innocence. They are all paying the price of their quest and they have not even reached the mountain– and Smaug.

Yet it also does his mood well to see the merry-making around the table, often so absent during long days of riding and walking – that is, if it were not for the small spark of jealousy at the ease with which Bilbo laughs and jokes alongside the rest of the dwarves, how at home he looks in their midst. He knows he is being ridiculous, Bilbo has every right to get along well with the other eleven dwarves in their company, should even get along with them and Thorin has no business begrudging anyone their ease of interaction because he has managed to bugger it up spectacularly.

Balin is the only one of his companions Thorin is aware knows for sure, except for Gandalf, whose uncanny knowledge of everything unfortunately does not stop at the dwarf king. Dwalin very probably knows too, having known Thorin almost as long as Balin, and, fellow of few words that he is, he would not have mentioned it. And then there are Fíli and Kíli, who have been unusually quiet on any matter regarding him or Bilbo, which is enough to make anyone who has spent their whole lives watching over them and getting them out of the mischief they frequently had managed to get into, suspicious – especially since, even though they sometimes do not seem like the brightest dwarves of the bunch, both of them are far from stupid and quite canny when it comes to social interaction (something Thorin has always been rather bad at).

He keeps watching them far into the night, until Balin, who has apparently been unanimously appointed his unofficial keeper, as usual, takes a seat next to him, the pipe he had borrowed from Beorn stuck firmly between his teeth. For a moment they sit side by side in silent companionship.

The firelight sends glimmers of light flickering over his silver beard, when Balin finally says, a hint of admonishment that Thorin had not managed to think of that himself colouring his otherwise placid voice, "You should go sleep."

Thorin sighs in reply – he has never liked being fussed over much and Balin seems to be doing a fair amount of that lately. "Balin – "

"No, Thorin, no objections! In this we're all of one mind."

Correspondingly, a great uproarious cheer rises from the table, though Thorin rather thinks that has more to do with Nori juggling pots of honey than their conversation.

When he still makes no move to relocate to a room featuring a bed, Balin switches tactics.

"Remember the last time you ignored your injuries to the point of complete exhaustion?"

"How could I not? I doubt Dís is ever going to let me forget."

He still winces at the memory. Suffice to say that some of his choices while drunk on exhaustion had been a little unwise – fortunately Fíli and Kíli had not been old enough to be aware of the entire embarrassing episode.

Bilbo's clear, bright laughter wafts through the room, tempting and warming. Thorin has rarely heard the joyful sound before and immediately longs to hear it again, in fact he finds himself wishing to never stop hearing it. Maybe he should listen to Balin when his thoughts are already wandering into such a dangerous direction.

"Point taken," he rumbles, if still a little reluctant from leftover stubbornness.

His choice proves to be correct when the act of standing up turns out to be more difficult than it should by rights have been.

Thorin falls asleep to the dimmed sounds of contentment reverberating through the wall.


The whole company takes the chance to sleep in the next morning and still Thorin is, much to his chagrin, apparently the last one to rise. The great hall lies deserted, though there is an assortment of breakfast foods still on the table, obviously waiting for him. In the eerie silence sounds of joy and merriment seem to echo in his head – sounds of Bilbo's laughter most of all. Thorin quietly groans into his breakfast. Confounding hobbit. Never in his long life has he felt a pull such as this and it almost shames him that he has so little resistance to it.

He stands so suddenly his stool tips backwards with a loud clang. His half-eaten meal lies forgotten as he goes in search of Bilbo. Perhaps some answers would soothe his mind, or even resolve this whole issue, if Hobbit culture proves to be much different from his own dwarven one.

Thorin finds Bilbo sitting on a bench in the sunlight, short legs swinging to and fro a few inches above the ground lazily as he puffs on a pipe that looks suspiciously like Bofur's. Bilbo's eyes are closed and Thorin finds himself simply watching him for a few content moments, until the rather idyllic picture is disturbed by two laughing figures streaking by. There is no need for him to hear Kíli's higher giggles and Fíli's more settled gusts of laughter to know who has just passed them. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he calls out of sheer habit, "Behave nephews! We're guests here."

"Don't worry, Uncle Thorin!" Kíli's cheerful voice wafts back. Not exactly reassuring, but it brings a smile on his face nonetheless. If there is one thing that always lifts up his mood it is his sister-sons being merry.

Even if they are now kissing rather noisily behind a row of bushes.

His gaze returns to Bilbo, whose eyes must have opened at the commotion and who is looking a little bit red in the face as he studiously avoids looking in the direction of the offending bush row.

Striding nearer and settling himself down next to the hobbit, Thorin raises an amused eyebrow. "You must have noticed how close Fíli and Kíli are, Master Baggins."

"Well, yes, of course, but I didn't want to assume…" Bilbo stammers, the tips of his ears reddening. He coughs lightly. "It's not unheard of in the Shire, after all we're pretty much all related anyway, but I didn't know about dwarves doing anything similar."

"So two males lying with each other is normal among hobbits?" Thorin asks curiously, glad that he would apparently not need to prod Bilbo as much as he had feared to find out what he wishes to know.

Bilbo shrugs, seeming a little more at ease with the conversation than before. "It's certainly nothing new to me. I did have a slightly more adventurous youth than you might imagine, Thorin Oakenshield."

Thorin inclines his head in acknowledgment at the slight barb – he deserves nothing less.

The hobbit's next words, however, catch him a little of guard in their frankness. "What about you then? Do you have a female dwarf waiting for you to return somewhere?"

Thorin almost chokes at the notion. Of course Bilbo would not know, but he cannot keep his amusement out of his voice regardless when he says, "No, nothing like that for me. My tastes have always run in a different direction." At Bilbo's frown he adds, "It's an accepted way to live in our culture. Females have always been rare, too rare for every male dwarf to find a partner. So we adapted."

Bilbo is still frowning. "But that means, if Fíli and Kíli are… like that, that means that the line of Durin will end with you."

"All things have to end, Master Baggins," Thorin says after a short pause, gentling his voice. "Our line has endured long, very long. But there will be no marriage of convenience simply to keep alive what has naturally reached its end– that would not be accepted in our culture, even if I personally chose to do so. Dwarves love once in their lives, once and with a passion unequalled, unbroken even in death. No dwarf, male or female would willingly enter a union with one they do not love."

Looking thoughtful, Bilbo puffs on his pipe a little in contemplation. Finally he quietly says, "I quite like that. The thought of one person…" His voice tapers off into nothingness. "You dwarves continually amaze me, Thorin."

Before he can reply to that, loud shouts of 'Thorin' and all kinds of variations of Bilbo's name, including the newest addition 'bunny', which makes Bilbo grimace in distaste, can be heard from the house.

Having got what he came for, yet loathe to disturb their quiet moment, Thorin stands up with a sigh.

"Come, lunch is waiting for us."

Bilbo smiles at him, a gesture so bright Thorin can only return it. "You mean lunch is served. I doubt it will wait for us if we don't arrive soon, considering how many dwarves are already at the table."

In unison, their steps quicken.


They are preparing for departure when Beorn suddenly pulls Thorin aside.

"In the animal kingdom, most species' males vie for the attention of potential mates. If one chooses not to, it's all but guaranteed he will not find a mate, for there are many others who will do so instead."

Thorin almost chokes on his surprised cough. Beorn pats him on the back with what Thorin considers to be little too much force for a friendly pat.

"I can smell it on you," Beorn answers his unvoiced question serenely.

Silence. Thorin coughs again, fiercely thankful for his disposition to never blush under any circumstances. "I shall keep that in mind, Master Beorn."

Beorn only nods at him amicably and moves away whilst Thorin valiantly tries to refocus his attention on the waiting company of dwarves gathered in front of him (if he also hastens their departure along just a little bit, no one will ever know).

None of the dwarves look too happy to be on the road again (well, Dwalin and Bifur look the same as ever, but the point still stands, since it is not remotely unusual for them to have a grumpy air about them), but the grumbling is kept to a minimum – possibly partly because Thorin has been snappy all morning, courtesy of Beorn and Balin respectively, and too many matters weighing on his mind in general, and partly because at least they are not on foot anymore. Beorn has been truly generous in loaning them ponies.

Strangely, Bilbo seems to be the only one with something approaching a good mood, humming along to the steps of his dark-spotted mount. To say that Thorin is not curious as to the reason for this unusual behaviour for a first day on the road again would be an outright lie, but he would still rather not ask and embarrass himself all the same.

The journey to the edge of Mirkwood proceeds uneventfully, the landscape as tame as the weather.

Arriving at the looming woods, however, is a much different matter, as they now have to take leave of the ponies and Gandalf, whose threat of leaving them with only a few obscure warnings about the road ahead no one had really taken seriously afore.

Thorin is busy relieving his own pony of its load, mostly consisting of food supplies as their previous baggage has been lost under the mountains (and he is nearly grateful for that too, as they now have to carry what they have on their backs and if there is one thing dwarves will not complain about carrying – safe for assorted weaponries of course – it is food), when he notices Bilbo talking to Gandalf at the edge of the group, the hobbit's animated and increasingly desperate gestures immediately arousing Thorin's curiosity. He notes that Gandalf's expression does not change from its usual calm and vaguely amused state. Unable to help himself this time, Thorin is just starting to make his way over to the two, when Gandalf extricates himself from the conversation, heading over to his horse, presumably in preparation for departure.

Some steps away, Thorin catches a few of the words Bilbo mumbles to himself in a rather irate fashion.

" – find my own way, hah! It's not as if he's the one – "

With a start the hobbit notices Thorin encroaching on his space and immediately stops talking, a somewhat embarrassed blush staining his cheeks.

"Is everything well, Master Hobbit?" Thorin asks politely, aware that Bilbo does not seem quite comfortable with him possibly having overheard some of his ramblings.

"Fine, everything is fine!" Bilbo replies, voice noticeable higher than usual. "Just Gandalf being his usual unhelpful self."

Thorin raises a brow. "Did you entreat the wizard to stay with us then?"

"No, I just," Bilbo's eyes stay trained to the ground in front of him as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world, "… asked him for some personal advice, is all."

It would be clear to the most unobservant of dwarfs that the hobbit would rather not talk about the topic further, so Thorin swallows his curiosity and just says, "You should start unpacking your pony. We will enter the forest soon."

Next to him Bilbo shivers, gaze trained on the dark, looming wall of forbidding trees in front of them.

"Well at least dwarves are used to the dark," he comments, voice falsely bright.

Thorin snorts. "The darkness of stone, yes, but a forest? I rather do not think so."

Bilbo glares at him. "I was trying to find something positive about this whole affair, Master Oakenshield."

"My apologies." Thorin gives him a mock bow. "I will endeavour not to worry you further."

His gaze follows the hobbit, who stomps of with a frankly endearing miniature scowl on his face, with a small smile, which only widens when he hears the other mutter "Dwarves. No help at all the lot of them" in such a frustrated voice one might think someone had stolen his dinner.

Giving the forest a last dubious look, Thorin goes back to readying his own pack.


After near two weeks of toiling through the constant gloom of the forest, even the most steadfast dwarf can despair a little. Thorin himself has never been fond of dense woods, especially since the fall of Erebor and Thranduil's betrayal, so he trudges along silently most of the time, concentrating on trying to leave this cursed place as soon as possible. Only Bofur seems to remain in somewhat merry spirits, as he finds many usable pieces of wood during the days to whittle at night – even if all he does is leave them at the wayside once the figurines are done, since he cannot burden himself with any baggage devoid of practical value. Thorin notices Bilbo seeking out the cheerful dwarf's company more and more with increasing grumpiness, though understandable the act is. It is obvious the hobbit is a creature of harmony, and Thorin knows that he is not good company most of the time – a fact born by loss and loneliness and heartbreak, but a fact nonetheless. Having no one but himself to blame in this does not improve his mood.

When they make camp that night (if one can call it night – the light looks nearly the same as it does during the day), a modest fire crackling subdued in the middle of the path they had dutifully not left in compliance with Gandalf's parting words, and eat their meagre rations of the day, it is no different.

Thorin averts his gaze from the cosy picture Bilbo and Bofur are making, the former avidly watching the pony taking shape in the toymaker's skilled hands, and pretends not to hear Bilbo's soft exclamation of "Oh, it looks just like Myrtle!" and Bofur's answering "Aye, that it does".

Thorin's focus is on the sword in his lap – he does not need to check the edges every night, as swords of elven make never lose their sharpness, but the ritual calms him nonetheless.

The gently curved hilt comes to rest in his hands mere seconds after lout shouts disturb the otherwise quiet night. One glance reveals a panicked Bilbo bending over Bofur, who is writhing on the ground in obvious pain, the carved pony lying discarded and forgotten on the ground. Dwalin's axe thuds into the ground before Thorin has done more than find the threat – the now neatly-decapitated poisonous green snake.

Spotting no further hint of danger, he pushes Orcrist back into its sheath, and hurries over to the prone dwarf, firmly pushing Bilbo aside. The writhing having abated, Bofur is lying on the ground, pale and alternating between terrifying stillness and muscle spasms that shake his whole frame. Thorin has seen similar symptoms before, always in dwarves who have been poisoned. His heart sinks – they are not equipped for anything like this and though Óin is a fine healer he too is powerless in the face of an unknown, quick-acting poison.

There is fear in Bofur's eyes, a terror that has nothing to do with Thorin leaning over him, but rather with a body refusing the mind's commands as poison spreads through his veins. Behind him, Thorin can practically feel Bombur's worried hovering and somewhere Bifur is making so much concerned noise that by his standards he might as well be shouting. Thorin pushes the distractions from his mind, his concentration entirely on the dwarf – one of his dwarves – in front of him.

"Bofur," he says, voice low and urgent, and gently grasps the other dwarf's face to turn it towards his gaze, "look at me. Look at me!"

Though Bofur's eyes are now directed at him, there is no focus in their brown depths. Running out of other options, Thorin sharpens his voice into a tone of command. "As your king I demand your attention!"

Finally Bofur shows a reaction, his eyes losing some of their glazed quality. "Well, if His Majesty commands it," he mumbles hoarsely.

Somewhere behind them there is a commotion, Bilbo is saying something – it is the cautious hope and unusual urgency in the halfling's voice that makes him take note, though his main focus remains on Bofur.

"I need light!" he hears Bilbo say loudly and when there is no immediate effect among the rest of the dwarves, Thorin snaps, "Get him a torch!"

There is no time to question Bilbo, and truthfully the chances of making things worse for Bofur are slim anyway whatever the hobbit's plan may be.

On the ground Bofur is paling even further, sweat beading on his brow.

"Keep your eyes on me, Bofur," he instructs calmly, succeeding in keeping the strain he is feeling from showing in his tone. Any panic on his part would only endanger Bofur further. "Keep your eyes on me and keep breathing, slowly. Do not fall asleep."

Bofur nods weakly, one hand gripping Thorin's free hand tightly.

Thorin does not know how much time passes with him kneeling over Bofur, murmuring reassuringly and slowly but surely losing all feeling in the hand the other dwarf is clutching as if it is a lifeline (he does not mind, how could he, when it means that there is still life in the other?), before a slight tap on his shoulder brings him back to his surroundings.

A wad of dark green leaves is thrust under his nose. "He needs to eat these," Bilbo says so quickly his tongue stumbles over the words. "They will work as an anti-venom."

For a moment Thorin's surprise wins out and he simply stares at the greenery clutched so tightly in the hobbit's small hands. They are trembling ever so slightly and before he knows it Thorin has taken the leaves with a curt nod, manoeuvring them between Bofur's slightly parted lips one by one.

The measure of trust he has in Bilbo should have been shocking, he thinks, before Bofur suddenly takes a big, heaving gasp of air, some colour returning to his skin, as he begins to breathe easier.

Thorin all but slumps back in relief and lets himself be pushed out of the way by Bombur and Bifur, whose wish to check on their brother and reassure themselves of his good fortune is most understandable after all.

There is a dull pain thumping behind his temples which he had not even noticed while focused on Bofur, but might explain why he does not notice Bilbo settling down next to him until a hesitant hand lands on his arm and serious blue-grey eyes meet his gaze as its drawn downward.

"Thank you," Bilbo says quietly, his lips quirking in a tired but honest smile.

Thorin regards him with no small amount of curiosity. "What for? If anything I should be thanking you." Realizing how that must sound he quickly adds, "And I am. You saved Bofur's life; that's no small matter."

He lets his own smile come out. "So, thank you, Master Baggins. Again you've proven your worth."

Predictably Bilbo blushes again – or at least Thorin thinks he does, it is a little hard to tell in the gloom surrounding them. It does not escape his notice that when Bilbo speaks again, the topic of his own achievement is deliberately ignored. "I wanted to thank you for… well, for trusting me, I suppose. You didn't even ask what plant I gave you."

"That would be because I do trust you," Thorin immediately answers, his gaze burning into Bilbo's. "I didn't at first, as you well know, but now? How could I not? You have long since earned the title dwarf-friend, Bilbo Baggins."

At that the hobbit's blush only deepens and he seems unsure as to how to respond, so Thorin decides to rescue him. "I am curious, however. How did you know that those leaves would help?"

All of sudden Bilbo looks like he would rather be somewhere else (or anywhere else), fidgeting and shifting around on the ground. "Well," he finally mumbles, so quietly Thorin has to resist the urge to bend down a little to understand him better, "I read about it in the book when we were travelling to Beorn's house and I just remembered when I saw the snake. The chapter on Mirkwood's plants is very short, not many useful plants at all really and, and I'm rambling aren't I?"

Thorin does not say anything, at war with himself. Finally he meets Bilbo's worried gaze, remembering that day in Rivendell when a simple hobbit had stood up to him, even chastised him. Such fascinating fire in such a small being.

"You saved Bofur's life," he repeats. "We will speak no further of this."

Bilbo almost seems to deflate in relief, leaving Thorin unable but to darkly wonder if he is truly such a forbidding and uncompromising person that his companion would believe him capable of being angry at Bilbo for saving a dwarf's live, with elven help or not.

When he next looks up, Bilbo has moved away, joining the crowd around the recovering Bofur. Thorin's gaze catches on the carved pony lying in the dirt of the path next to him and he picks it up, turning the wooden figurine over and over in his hands, deep in thought as his eyes look unblinking into the darkness of Mirkwood forest. Even now, almost two weeks since they have entered this cursed place, he has not got used to the creeping feeling of it somehow watching back. He fears with a deep sense of foreboding that their road from here on will not be an easier one.