#lordoferebor

“This isn’t a style hobbits normally wear, you know... Even the ladies don’t often wear braids.”

Bilbo commented casually. He didn’t think his hair had been long enough for it anyway, but it had been half a year, or a bit more really, since leaving the Shire. His hair had to have grown some, more than he’d noticed anyway. Enough for Thorin to have the idea to put a braid in it. He liked the idea in a way he didn’t know exactly how to express. It seemed... intimate. Terribly intimate. And though Bilbo wasn’t sure how Thorin might view such an act himself, to Bilbo is was borderline courting ritual in his opinion. Either that or something little girls did for each other because they were proud of the skill they’d picked up. But Bilbo didn’t think the King Under The Mountain would appreciate that comparison either.

So, with a bit of trepidation, Bilbo ventured forward with his curiosity...

Non-verbal Meme Prompts | accepting [  hold  ]  sender  holds  receiver’s  hand

         It was a surprise to feel the touch of his hand upon hers, unused to such forward contact. Her hand was ungloved, and the difference in their size was evident, his near swallowing hers. Another surprise, for she did not have dainty, silken hands. Nay--hers were the hands of a warrior; calloused and scarred and rough to the touch, dirt beneath nails shorn short.

        Yet his, too, were the same, that of a warrior, or at least of one who was familiar with hardship and toil of labor for many long hours. But it was warm, and comforting, soothing an otherwise sharp sting as he tilted her hand to inspect the gash upon it.

"What, you're tryna tell me you ain't?" A long, pointed silence fell as Minosh examined the other from the hair on his head all the way down to his mud-stained boots.

It had been several hours now. Thorin had not woken and despite Gandalf’s promise all would be well... with an obvious exception, it had not eased Bilbo’s heart. When Kili had woken, the poor lad had to be told of his brother’s death all over again, his memory had been hazy. Luckily the elf maid Tauriel was there to comfort him. She was brave, especially in the face of people who obviously discouraged their closeness, and did not leave the prince’s side, aiding his recovery with her own healing power as she had done before. 

Bilbo had scarcely left Thorin’s bedside. He had not even bothered with a wash, though his own wound from an orc’s club had been seen to and while it had bled, was not as bad as one might think. They were back under the mountain. Arguments abound over what was best for the ailing king. Balin’s tearful words had won out: “If he could not die on the battlefield then let him die in his home at last, if he is to leave us.” There was still much uncertainly whether Thorin would live or not. Even Gandalf’s gentle reassuring smile seemed to falter to Bilbo’s eyes. Bofur had come to make sure Bilbo had something to eat and sat with them a while, playing his flute. Nothing too cheerful, Bilbo had not been in the mood, and even had been ill humored enough to say so. He regretted the slightly hurt look on his friend’s face, but Bofur had been kind enough to comply. The plate of food the toymaker had brought was mostly untouched. Bilbo hardly had the stomach to eat. He’d had a bit of bread and tea, but his head was still aching and he still felt nauseous from the wound and from crying, thinking Thorin had indeed passed over on the frozen lake by his side.