Daydream, come share a dream amid the flowers
Thorin and his caravan barely manage to make it to the outskirts of The Shire before the cloud breaks and the rain begins to fall. It only darkens his already solemn mood.
Once they said farewell to the dwarven cousins Bimor and Bromor, the King Under The Mountain packed up the camp and bid his small group of companions to head straight to Bree. It was a delay he was eager to avoid, but he knew some of the group would not desire to head into The Shire. So it was there, two days later, that he, Fíli and Balin parted ways with the others and headed straight for Hobbiton. His companions remain silent on the road as they push forward; Balin is concerned about his single-minded determination to reach the settlement of halflings, no doubt reading it as the start of a descent into the same madness that once claimed his kin. Thorin knows this is far from gold-sickness. If his Hobbit is real, then the dreams that have plagued him for the last half-decade must be too: the harsh winter that prompted him to reclaim Erebor, the truth of his father's death, the Quest, the fire on the lake, the battle.
Dwalin will be annoyed when he sees that he has shed his guards in favour of reaching the village faster, but he cannot find it within himself to care. All he can think about is that his Hobbit is potentially within reach.
Every night the dreams come, every night he thinks it will be different, every night it ends in that winter sun rising on his death, red on the white-capped peaks of the Lonely Mountain, like blood upon the snow. He sleeps for no longer than a few hours each night, he cannot face the devastation on the Hobbit's face as he lays dying.
The rain slows by the time they reach the narrow paths of the Hobbit settlement. He is cautious about appearing amidst the small creatures, but they pay them less heed than he expected, other than to exchange a nod and a smile with the strangers. Thorin tries to not think too hard on it, instead, focusing on the instructions Bimor imparted.
Fíli's eyes are everywhere, lingering on the small houses with large round doors that Bimor said were called smials, the fields that stretched for miles even in the dark, the warm lights that hang outside each home. His sister-son is practically vibrating with excitement, the stress in his face lifting in favour of curiosity. It sparks a brief joy in Thorin, who has not seen the young dwarf this lively in so long. He forgets how the role of heir weighs so heavily on his shoulders.
Trade with a settlement so bountiful in harvest is a boon Thorin, and eventually Fíli, would treasure - before the world hardens under the harsh winter wind. They lost too many dwarves last year, it is not an agony he wishes to put his people through again.
Although if his dreams are true, there are much harsher winters yet to come.
They follow the narrow paths through Hobbiton, towards the rough hew strewn road named Bagshot Row.
"Thorin!"
The group turns just in time to see Dwalin appear on the road behind them. The dwarf looks taciturn but Thorin can see the twinkle of happiness in his eyes. A warmth spreads through his chest, and he moves to embrace his friend.
"You're early," Dwalin says gruffly.
"We decided against lingering in Bree," Thorin says simply.
Dwalin nods, "Good choice." The taller dwarf embraces his brother briefly, before clapping Fíli's shoulder.
"Your note mentioned lodgings in the place known as Bag End."
"Aye," he says. "I think our host is in the pub with that sister-son of yers. Might be best to head straight there. This way."
"A pub?" Fíli pipes up hopefully.
"Don't be gettin' any ideas," Dwalin says firmly to the younger dwarf. "Ye've nae chance of keeping up with the Hobbits, young prince."
The solemn words only seem to excite Fíli more and Thorin mentally groans. This will be a long night.
Dwalin turns on his heel and starts to lead the slightly damp group back towards the village. Thorin tries to ignore the thumping of his heart as they meander, his friend exchanging a greeting with a Hobbit here and there.
"Did ye not warn our host ahead of time?" Balin asks.
"I did, and she left the door unlocked for ye," Dwalin sighs. "I'm no comfortable taking ye in though without her there. Doesn't seem to matter how many times I tell the lassie she should lock it, it's always open. Apparently it's a Hobbit thing." The dwarf scoffs and shakes his head, "Seems daft to me."
Thorin can't help but agree. Females are to be protected, for one to be leaving themselves so open to attack - well, it would not do.
Dwalin leads them out of the village and towards an old moss-stained bridge, illuminated by scare lanterns. In the middle, a young portly Hobbit is perched on the old stone wall, smoking from his pipe. His face is friendly enough, with round rosy apple cheeks that give him a jolly look - but Thorin would be a fool to dismiss the sharpness of his bright gaze as he watches them approach.
"Evening, Dwalin," he says around his smoking pipe.
"Fortinbras," the dwarf inclines his head in acknowledgement. "What are ye doing out here?"
"Waiting for you. Noid said you were taking Prim home, thought I'd wait to catch you and let the young'uns get a pint in first," the Hobbit, Fortinbras, says. His gaze lingers on Thorin for a second too long, before settling on an excitable Fíli. "I see Kíli's family finally arrived. You must be Fíli, yes?"
The blond dwarf blinks, "Aye."
"Brilliant!" The Hobbit rubs his hands together gleefully to the bafflement of the dwarves. Dwalin, however, groans.
"Ye set another daft bet, didn't ye?"
"'Course! Any opportunity to prove Kíli wrong!" Fortinbras grins, jumping down from the wall to stand before the dwarves, "I'm assuming you're on your way to meet that cousin of mine?"
"Aye, she said she was heading to The Green Dragon."
"Her and the others tumbled in there not that long ago. Covered head to toe in mud. Master Gamgee wasn't best pleased."
"I imagine not."
"Well come along then," Fortinbras nods towards a small building in the distance, "It's just over yonder."
The dwarves fall in line behind the halfling, who immediately strikes up a conversation with the youngest dwarf. Balin eyes them carefully before turning to his brother and asking in khuzdul, "Are ye sure it's safe here?"
Dwalin snorts, "The wee things are harmless. As our host once told me, they have more care for food and cheer and song than anything else."
The familiar words startle Thorin, who almost stumbles. He catches himself at the last minute and tries to tuck away the hope that's rising within him.
The inn is a little bit further than the dwarves first think, but he can see why it's popular amongst the wee things as soon as he steps over the threshold. The pub is warm, and overflowing with Hobbits, some pressed as close to the fire as they dare, their tankards full of ale. The air is thick with chatter, and one group in the corner is singing loudly and off key. The patrons closest to the door barely spare them a glance before returning to their pints.
Abruptly, a laugh cuts through the chatter. Thorin's heart stops. He knows that laugh. His gaze surveys the room as Dwalin talks away to the others over the din of the pub.
"Kíli!" Fíli shouts, pulling his attention away from his search. At a table in the corner, a muddied dwarf looks up, joy stretching across their face. Thorin buries a sigh, of course it's Kíli.
Fíli surges forward, reaching out to grasp his brother in a tight hold. They have been apart for longer than they anticipated and the joy on their faces warms Thorin's heart - even if his youngest sister-son's face is coated an inch-thick in mud.
"Uncle!" He grins, reaching out to grab his forearm in greeting. "You're early!"
"The dwarves Bimor and Bromor were able to give us more detailed instructions to find ye, lad," Balin explains. "Thorin didn't want to delay."
His neck prickles under the weight of Balin's gaze, but he says nothing.
"I'm glad," Kíli beams. "I'd like you to meet my friends!"
He turns them to the group huddled around the table behind them; another muddied dwarf is wrapped around a small female Hobbit - the only clean one of the group. Their hands are clasped tightly together.
"Uncle, Fíli, Balin, this here's Noid, son of Thoid, and Mistress Maisy Boffin," Kíli introduces them. "Maisy makes the best apple crumbles in The Shire, but you'll have to fight Noid for one."
The dwarf scowls at them, pulling the Hobbit lass closer to him. She giggles, nodding at them in greeting and offering a pretty 'hello'. But the strange sight of the larger dwarf entwined with his Hobbit lass is not what draws Thorin's attention.
It is the Hobbit who sits behind Kíli.
They too are covered head to toe in mud, the familiar sandy curls stiff and coated in the thick muck. Thorin knows that without the dirt, the curls would shine like a vein of pure gold in Erebor in the sunlight. His face is rounder than he last saw it, gaunt and strained on that dream battlefield - and it almost throws the dwarf.
But there's no mistaking those eyes. A sea of green, flecked with tiny shards of gold. It is him.
The breath is knocked out of him. If he wasn't paying attention, he would not have noticed the Hobbit's eyes widen slightly at the sight of him and the flash of panic that slips across his face, before the expression shutters into something more stoic.
Thorin's heart sings with hope and-
"And this here's our host, Mistress Billa Baggins."
It sinks. Mistress? That cannot be right. His Hobbit, the one from his dreams, his Bilbo, he was male. Wasn't he?
