On the Seventh Day of Christmas My Favorite Authors Gave to Me:

Seven Hobbit Holes!

Thorin didn't like surprises. Most of the shocks in his life had been bad ones. His grandfather's madness, the dragon, betrayal of ancient treaties, the War, the loss of his grandfather and father, his brother's body lost in the piles of dead, calling for aid from his people and finding only thirteen would answer him…

So many surprises in his life had been horrible scarring things, that Thorin did not like them nor did he usually handle them with any sort of grace. Oh, he managed well enough, and usually held a farce of calm and dignity around himself, but that meant nothing for what happened behind closed doors or in the training fields with Dwalin.

He had been entirely prepared to dislike the hobbit that Gandalf had chosen. He could admit that some of that anger stemmed from the fact that his own people would not answer their King, and yet this Shireling had. And what else could the Burglar-To-Be have answered it for other than greed? Thorin had seen it well enough, often enough to know that most times the motivator for seemingly mad choices was greed.

Walking into such a green and prosperous land had only made it worse. He looked at these soft, plump creatures with their thriving fields and food aplenty and he remembered his people. Remembered freezing nights, hungry days, giving up as much food as he could for his sister-sons while maintaining enough strength to work and bring in gold. He remembered being homeless and an entire people that looked to him to fix what had happened.

He'd not even been of age when he went to war with them, and was left standing as King. King to a homeless people, who had just lost so very much in a war they should not have had. He was not of age when he watched one of their allies turn on them, the Elven King staring down at a now homeless people, injured and most with nothing but the clothes on their backs, and then turning away. He remembered the deaths that year, some lost to their wounds, others to that winter, and more on the road.

So much could have been different if the Elven King had only helped.

And here he was now, in a land that knew nothing of the world, and he was supposed to ask one of these soft people to aid him with a dragon?

He didn't care what Gandalf had said about the Burglar to be, what sense it made to have someone Smaug would not recognize the scent of in their Company, Thorin very much doubted that anyone here would be of any sort of use except as dragon-food.

His scowl was thunderous as he marched towards the home Gandalf was leading him towards, finally finding it after losing his way on the twisting paths twice before the wizard had come to get him.

His first look at the Burglar had been a surprise. Thorin hadn't seen any hobbits out and about on his trip through the Shire, but he had been to Bree and he'd seen them there. Every one of them had been plump and untested by the world. He'd expected as much from the Hobbit that opened the door when Gandalf knocked.

It was not to be, as this hobbit was much thinner than his brethren, his manner more wary and aware, as well as the calluses on his hands hinting at a harder life than Thorin had expected. Still, Thorin would not just accept that this hobbit would fit into his company, and he opened his mouth to say something when the hobbit took the fire from his forges.

"You look like Frerin."

Nothing could have shocked him more, as air rushed from his lungs.

And as the hobbit- Master Baggins- lead him into his home and then pulled his brother's sketchbooks down and shared his beads- the one that marked him a Prince of Durin, and the clasp that Thorin himself had made as a birthday present-threaded over a ribbon in his Clan colors, Thorin found it very difficult to breathe.

He could not summon the dislike he had been so prepared to show, when this hobbit pulled a bead of mourning from his curls- much longer than his fellow hobbits- and offered it to him. Thorin's hands were steady as he reached out and examined the bead even though they wanted to shake. And he caught sight of the golden clasp still buried in his curls that marked him a Friend of his Clan.

It changed everything.

Master Baggins had known his brother. Mourned him even now, had a clasp to mark him 'Friend'. He was trusted by his people, trusted by Frerin. Frerin who Master Baggins informed him had been buried in stone. This hobbit's family had taken Frerin in when they thought him a simple dwarrow, taken care of him, and entombed him in dwarven ways when he passed.

Thorin set aside all his preconceived notions on this hobbit right then, and when he found the Longbeard Shield and the hobbit instantly offered it to his keeping…

It was the first time in Thorin's memory that anyone had heard the words 'belonged to the Clan of Longbeard' and not thought to hold onto whatever it was. Dwarven ways were guarded carefully, but that did not mean that the Longbeard Clan was not famous in its own right. Most of Arda knew Longbeard to be a Clan of prestige and famous for the quality of its work.

And still, Master Baggins had not hesitated to return the shield to Thorin. Had told him he would be glad to see something of his Clan return to the Mountain.

It was more than Thorin had been given in almost two centuries of life.

And all of this before he had seen the grave they laid his brother to rest in.

It was nothing to marvel over, nothing compared to Dwarven Stonework, and yet…

Thorin knew, if ever they moved Frerin into the Halls of Erebor, he would not change a thing of this grave.

It was...raw, in a way.

These hobbits had known nothing of dwarven ways, and still these people who had nothing but the barest of bones to work with had tried to honor Frerin in the ways of Mahal's children. This simple people had given his brother every honor they could, had blessed him in their own ways. It was nothing like that masterworks of his people, but it was a grave full of meaning, of feeling, all the same.

They had gone out of their way to honor a people they knew nothing about, with no motive beyond seeing a good dwarrow laid to rest. There had been no motive to gain favor with his Clan, no plot to hold Frerin over his family's head.

He had been prepared to dislike the hobbit Gandalf had chosen, but everything was different. He could not hate one that mourned his brother so, who bore a mark of that mourning in the way of his people. Could not hate one who held a clasp of Friendship in his hair, who had offered him closure he had not known to look for. The male who had given him Frerin's beads and brought him to his resting place without hesitation.

Thorin could not.

The hobbit that had been chosen for their burglar was different than Dwalin expected. He'd seen the scars on the lad's arms and hands, had recognized that worn look in his eyes. This one had seen battle of a sort, for all that Dwalin had not expected it.

Still, Dwalin was practiced in recognizing threats to his own, and this Master Baggins was not one.

Dwalin had decided to give the lad the benefit of the doubt. The wizard had sworn Bilbo Baggins would be good for the Company, would be their 'lucky number', and Dwalin wasn't sure about that, but they would see. It was why he had left his axes at the door.

Then came the shocking and painful revelation that the lad's family had found and entombed Frerin. His failure.

Dwalin had sworn he would never see another of the Line of Durin fall before he himself had drawn his last breath after that battle. It was his greatest failure, that Frerin had fallen on that battlefield. It didn't matter that Dwalin hadn't been near him at that time- it was worse, because Dwalin hadn't even been there. What if he could have saved Frerin? What if it would have been different?

What if he could have saved himself and Thorin and Dis those scars?

And Dwalin had not expected to find a balm for that aching wound, not ever, so seeing that tomb here-

The hand he'd pressed to Thorin's back in support had been just as much to ground himself. The tomb was so...alive. It was bright, with the stones laid around it, and the uncut gems worked into the stones, with the flowers both laid at the foot and carved into the stone.

Frerin would have loved it.

He'd enjoyed the meadow around the mountain when it was blooming the most. Knowing the meanings behind the flowers laid at his grave, and the ones they had chosen to carve into his tomb in exquisite detail… Dwalin appreciated it himself.

Loyalty. Honor. Strength… The hobbits may have struggled with making a stone tomb and caving Khuzdul into it, but they obviously had practice with flower carving.

Dwalin could agree with meanings like that, even if it was said in a way he had not known before Master Baggins explained it.

Dwalin's eyes fixed on the shining black of the onyx in the direct center of the stones around the tomb, right at the foot of it. It was the dwarrow gem used to show mourning due to the properties associated with it.

Much as hobbits apparently assigned meanings to flowers dwarrow had a 'gem' language of their own. Onyx represented building up strength after a great loss, releasing grief, protecting against negativity, and releasing sorrow. It was as much to help the dwarrow left behind focus on the meaning of the gem- what the one who passed would want for their family or friends- as it was a statement of what the one who passed would find in Mahal's Halls.

The quality and shine of the gem marking a tomb was very important, as it gave a statement about the level of care those who saw to the grave held about the one who passed. Frerin's gem shined like a patch of the night sky, deep and glistening, much as every stone Master Baggins' family had placed gleamed in the light.

Dwalin exhaled slowly and joined in the whisper soft reciting of prayers to Mahal, trying to breathe past the fist that had tightened over his chest.

He lifted his hand, pulling his knuckle dusters off and setting them to the side, as it was a sign of disrespect to touch a tomb holding a weapon of any sort in hand rather then it being sheathed in its holster, and pressed his palm to the onyx. He tried to pull on the meaning for the gem, to release his sorrow and guilt, his anger.

It did not fix what he felt, but the very fact that Frerin was in stone at all, that he had been seen to, that someone had laid him to rest and he had not been lost amongst the dead…

That soothed him, was a balm against a throbbing scar he had never thought he'd find.

His eyes drifted to his King, to Thorin who sat with his forehead pressed into the stone like it could hold him up. He wondered what this meant to Thorin, if he was so relieved to see Frerin in stone.

Dwalin closed his eyes and tipped his head down to face the earth and stone as he murmured prayers for the lost alongside Balin and the others.

Nori noticed how many more hobbits they had seen on the way to Master Baggins' Grandfather's home. It was...strange. He'd barely seen any on his way to Master Baggins the night before, and now…

Well that pricked at his instincts, especially when he took in the layout of this place, and remembered exactly how many places he had seen that would allow him to hide. The Shire was a thief paradise, with all the foliage to fade into shadows with.

Still... every hobbit he saw was a plump and joyous thing, innocent to the darker parts of Arda as far as he could see. Every one of them...except Master Baggins. He wondered absently, again, at why that was. His eyes scanned over the hobbits they passed, taking in the way they greeted Master Baggins.

Something...something was strange.

Not...wrong exactly, but off.

The way they greeted him, the way they looked at him...Something was familiar about it. Like Nori had seen it somewhere before, but he couldn't place it. His eyes scanned the area again, as he slid from the back of the pony Master Baggins had arranged.

This...smial, as Master Baggins had called it, was a rather large and beautiful thing to behold. Quality everywhere Nori looked. Nori's hands itched, but he refrained from touching or taking anything. He had standards, and for a family that had entombed one of his Princes without motive Nori would not steal from them.

When he saw the tomb itself, and watched Master Baggins as he knelt at the foot and pressed his forehead to the stone, in the way of Nori's people he found himself relaxing just a bit. That was a genuine grief, a true show of emotion, and it was soothing to his paranoia that he could see such emotion in the hobbit's eyes.

Nori found himself soothed further as he listened to the customs the hobbits has used to see Frerin off to The Halls. They were not dwarven in nature, but Nori appreciated the meaning and thought that went into them all the same.

And then Snapdragon interrupted the gathering, a rush of words, a holler for Thain Took, and Nori understood in a rush.

The looks that had seemed so familiar to him- they looked at Master Baggins like royalty. He was a beloved Prince, respected and admired, who knew their people. They looked at him like the Company looked at Thorin.

It was familiar because he had seen those looks given to Thorin.

And he felt himself straighten up as Master Baggins begins to snap questions, and stride towards the door. Nori feels himself straightening further at the twisted distasteful and scornful look that flashes over the lad's face as Snapdragon mentions an 'incident' and three men.

Nori is an excellent judge of character as it helps him settle on his marks. He cannot steal properly if he hasn't judged his mark and what they're carrying properly. If he hasn't chosen properly who he could take from. He may not have been sure about Master Baggins, but he is certain the lad is a calm sort. So what had these men done to rouse his ire?

Hawthorn didn't so much walk towards the market as she glided, smooth and learned over the Quest. Learned in battle, and a need to be better, to be aware of her body and movements. She could see the three men from Bree strutting drunkenly around the marketplace- old beer indeed- and sneering at any of the ladies they walked by.

They were a despicable sort, one that Hawthorn wouldn't mind seeing taken care of in one way or another.

Her eyes easily found the Bounders hiding throughout the market, all within easy interfering range of the men. They all appeared angry, but they had made no move forward. Snapdragon must of told them where she was going, for them to allow the men even this amount of leeway.

Hobbits had no King, but their Thain had much authority all the same, having to be the one that took care of them, and interacted with outsiders for trade and export and such.

She nodded subtly and watched as the entire group of Bounders seemed to ripple throughout the crowd, all of them shifting their positions in a way that seemed entirely natural, and drew no extra attention.

"I believe I told the three of you that you were not welcomed here."

Hawthorn's voice was hard, and firm, as she pulled the men's attention to herself and away from her people. Their gazes skipped from Nori and Dwalin, the only two that had immediately followed her, before she stepped directly in front of them.

The men- all drunk, all fools- flinched subtly before clumsily whipping around to face her. Or rather, stumbling back to stare blearily at her.

"W-We don-haf ta listen ta a halfling!"

Their words slurred, blending together, but still understood by those around them and Hawthorn frowned thunderously as she straighted her form and lifted her chin.

"We are half of nothing, and you would do well to leave the boundaries of the Shire before you are made to do so- be it under your own power or not."

The Bounders edged closer, all still hidden from sight, but ready to move on her command.

The ringleader of the drunks lunged clumsily forward, trying to punch her, and Hawthorn didn't think-

Instinct took over as she fluidly moved around the attack, stepped into his personal space, and latched to his extended wrist, twisted her body and hauled him over her shoulder to the ground. As soon as he hit it Hawthorn moved to pin him, using painful locking holds she had actually learned from Dwallin on her journey.

She lifted her free hand and made a beckoning motion, throwing in a distinctly challenging smirk.

The distinct scuffle of leather on gravel alerts her to the fact that Thorin and the rest of the Company have arrived. Still, Dwarrow are more intimidating than Hobbits so she appreciates the entirely unnecessary show of force. Regardless, she bares her teeth and whistles.

She took a large amount of pleasure from the way the drunk men left standing flinched back as the Bounders around them melded out of the shadows. (She also took a bit of amusement out of the surprise she could see in the subtle shift of her dwarrows.)

It was easy to hand the pinned drunk over to the Bounders and then turned her attention to the two left standing, frozen in surprise and wary of her next move, even through the alcoholic haze on their minds.

Hawthorn pulled on every memory she had, of Thorin's stuffy, kingly routine, as well as the haughtiness of Thranduil, and the steel spine of a hobbit that faced a dragon, and stole a stone that drove those she loved mad.

"You will leave my home, and you will not come back, you will never look to speak to a female the way you did the last time you stepped foot here again, and should you do so anyway, your body will be parted from your head, seeing as you fail to use it in any case. You will be banned from Bree, just as you have been banned from the Shire. Am. I. Understood?"

The two drunken men nod frantically.

"Excellent. You two may leave- you will be escorted out-" a hand motion had a team of Bounders surrounding the men, before Hawthorn continued, "while your companion is brought before my grandfather, for raising a hand to the family of the Thain."

She can see that the other two want to protest, and she narrows her eyes, letting the many battles she had faced harden them, and they fall silent in the face of it. It also helps that she suspects all of her dwarrow are furiously scowling at them behind her back. The rasp of metal leaving a sheath suggests that Dwalin's drawn his axes.

Their involvement would be unnecessary, even if it did come to a physical alteration. Just because Hobbits were a peaceful people, did not mean they would not fight, just that they prefer not to do so.

It seemed it was time to remind the Outsiders of that fact as well.

Peace restored, Hawthorn, nodded firmly and pivoted around, entirely ready to apologize for the disturbance and continue on with their journey, but...that way they're looking at her?

What- why is Nori looking like that?

Her brows furrowed in confusion, Hawthorn turns to Thorin, opening her mouth to ask but…

He's got on an expression that she can't read. Well, she can get the gist, but it's...surprise? And something like…'oh, I've got it now, yes this makes more sense,' which doesn't make any sense at all?

"Master Oakenshield…?"

Half a second later Thorin's face settles into familiar, solemn lines and he turns half way- away from her.

That stings, unexpectedly.

"Has all your business been taken care of, Master Baggins?"

Hawthorn blinks, pushing that aside.

Conversation change, but okay. This is normal, everything is fine. She smiles, walking up and give the Dwarven King a sharp nod.

"It is. We can depart at any moment."

Thorin doesn't verbally respond, just grunts and shoots Dwalin a look. Aforementioned dwarf steps up and begins a conversation on weapons and, bemused, Hawthorn lets him.

She can't help but sneak a look at Thorin, pulling his sister-sons in close and murmuring in their ears. She can feel her face softening and knows anyone looking at her can see it, but it doesn't matter. Her fondness will always be linked back to Frerin and thus some of her story will not be questioned with suspicion and wariness.

All this and she's given her dwarrows some closure.

Today was a good day.

And by tonight's end she will begin the steps towards changing everything she had lost.