Thorin enters the crowded room, lowering his head but keeping his eye vigilant. He knows well how to act in the inns of Men, even ones that proclaimed to be as friendly to Little Folk as The Prancing Pony.

"'Ello there, lil' Master! Butterbur at yer service!"

"Thorin Oakenshield, at yours."

"Thorin Oakenshield, eh? Well, don't that seem familiar..."

"Gandalf the Grey was to send a note here for myself and a few of my kin."

"Gandalf! That's what it is!" Butterbur's round face splits into a grin, "Quite lucky yeh know what to ask after, I'd clean forgot. My memory's not quite what it once was, y'see." The innkeep putters behind the high counter, pushing and pulling things, making quite a racket, "Ah, here it is!"

Thorin quickly takes the note from Butterbur, and aye, there it is, "I have a secured a Burglar of high degree for your Quest. He expects you on the morrow." Beside the note is a list of names, all those of his company, checkmarks beside each one, other than his own.

"You have seen all of my kin?"

"Aye! Yeh got quite the family, there! The latest of 'em passed through jes' a few hours ago."

Thorin nods thoughtfully; he's just a bit ahead of schedule. He'll likely catch up to the tail end of dwarves, which is actually probably a good thing. Probably.

"I'd like to rent a room for the night, if one's available."

"Oh, 'course, 'course there is! We've got a room made special for yeh Lil' Folk, all aired and ready for yeh. My wife'll show yeh to it. Marla!" A woman, in the very center of the fray around the bar, turns at his call. She is enormously pregnant, her belly distended as far as Thorin's ever seen.

"Marla's a hard worker," Butterbur proclaims, puffing up his chest, "Oughta be givin birth any minute now but still insists on workin the floor. An' look at the size of my boy she's carryin' 'round! He'll be an innkeep, jes' like his Pa, an' he'll be a Butterbur, jes' like his Pa!"

Marla is as jovial as Butterbur, and chatters at Thorin about how hard a worker her husband is and how their boy'll take right up after him ("I can feel 'im kickin', y'see, and 'e's got strong legs, jes' like his Pa!"). Thorin inclines his head respectfully when they arrive outside the room, and shuts the door firmly upon entering it.

He avoids the tavern, experience and common sense outweighing the intense urge to drown himself in the swill they call mead here. Perhaps Butterbur II will be able to best his Pa in alcohol production.

He'll be seeing Bilbo tomorrow. A day from now, he'll stand on his beloved's doorstep.

Mahal help him.

And yet, it is not that exact thought that sends his hands to shaking.

Thorin snarls as his unreliable hands jostle the lantern once more; he wants to turn it off, damn it, not send it to the floor and send the inn up in flames.

The vehemence of his desire to brag about Bilbo shocks him and seems more than natural in turns.

His husband had tricked trolls; his husband had found his way theough the Goblin Kingdom on his own; his husband had faced off against Azog the Defiler; by all the Valar, his husband had riddled with a blasted dragon.

And these simple Men dared try to brag to him?

Thorin aches with his jealousy.

For these innkeepers do have something to brag about; they live in domestic bliss. Thorin and Bilbo never had such a chance, and even if they get married again (when, he must believe it an eventuality that Bilbo will fall for him again, or he is sure to fall), they will never be able to. Thorin will be King Under the Mountain, and Bilbo must rule by his side as Consort.

The idea of forgoing the quest and staying at Bag End with Bilbo is more tempting than he would have expected.

But no, his blood sings the name of Erebor, and he cannot abandon his duty.

Thorin takes a deep breath and gently extinguishes the lantern. He swings his feet into the bed and prays for sleep.