A passion for Mushrooms

Daughter of Kings

Whether or not Fili’s silly little prank in his forge had helped improve the king’s mood, and Bilbo rather thought it had already been on the upswing that morning at breakfast, the hobbit couldn’t deny that Thorin did seem much happier in the following days. He didn’t go about whistling in the corridors, of course, but smiles and conversation magically reappeared at the breakfast table. Bilbo thought perhaps the king’s unhappiness might have been worry over the approaching Rohan delegation. In part because Thorin actually admitted to being worried about the visit.

“In my grandfather’s time, our trade caravans were allowed to pass through the Gap of Rohan without tariff. Even as refugees, we were treated fairly passing through. Exchanging labor for coin without paying a duty or toll for residing on their land as others forced us to do. It was not charity, but most who would die for the lack of that passed long before we reached Edoras. I shod more horses in that land than I had ever before seen in my life. Yet it was. Not a bad time for our people.”

“Then I am sure this meeting will go well,” Bilbo said. In truth he was already looking forward to meeting the famous Horse Lords, having heard tales of the wonderful beasts that so far surpassed any other steed.

“I would like it to.” Sighing, Thorin gazed off at empty space for a little time. Bilbo let him think, content to admire the king’s noble profile. “The lives of men are so short. The king who treated me well enough as a young prince was the great grandfather of the man who now sits on the throne in Edoras. It worries me.”

“Why?”

“They have forgotten the old friendship. They almost did not send an ambassador at all, and the one they send is a child. Theodwyn, daughter of the king, sister to the heir apparent. Well do I remember that they do not value their daughters as highly as their sons in Rohan, so perhaps they offer us insult. Yet I want to believe that they do not, and that might be more dangerous still.”

“Believing the best of a new friend isn’t dangerous, Thorin.”

“It is for a king.”

Placing a gentle hand on Thorin’s arm was a bold move, but not nearly as bold as what Bilbo said next. “Do you ever regret thinking so little of me when we first met?”

Thorin’s mouth fell open in shock for half a second. Twisting his face into a scowl, he said, “You know I do.”

“I don’t regret that you did,” Bilbo said cheerfully, surprising the grim look right off the king’s face.

“You don’t?” Thorin looked bemused, but he brought a hand up to cover Bilbo’s, keeping the hobbit close.

“Winning your approval, earning your good opinion, was—” Bilbo paused, suddenly aware that what he had been about to say would be appallingly rude by dwarven standards. Dwarrow did not speak of love until after a ring had been given and accepted. Yet words of love would spring to a hobbit’s mind over a leisurely breakfast, and there was nothing Bilbo could do about that except try to tamp them down. “Well, it made me feel very proud. Accomplished even. If you’ll take my advice, don’t worry so much about first impressions. She’s staying until the Durin’s Day celebrations, right?”

Thorin nodded soberly.

“Then you have nearly two months by the Shire reckoning to get to know one another. That is enough time for a misconception or two, a pipe or twenty, and a few nice dinners. Why if you aren’t fast friends at the end of it, then she isn’t someone you want to be friends with.”

Smiling gently Thorin said, “As easily as that?”

“My friend, whatever makes you doubt yourself so?”