You Had Me at "Handkerchief" {Bilbo Baggins/LOTR}

Chapter II: Thorin "the Softy" Oakenshield

Chapter II:

Thorin "the Softy" Oakenshield

Arriving late to a first meeting is, in all cultures, rude and unrefined. It is a bad first impression to make upon new acquaintances, to be sure, and defamatory to an identity. Often-a-times, the late first meeting leads to a bad relationship of sorts, as in the case of my father and Bilbo Baggins. Maybe, if my king had been on time, he would not have spread nasty rumors about the hobbit. But, the past is the past, in exception of my mother's case, and I must move on from this pondering.

Tardiness is inexcusable in my book, and only heightened by Galadriel's constant downgrading of such postponements. But, as fault in my father's genes, I find myself blaming the Queen for such inborn personality traits: as a child, I was always late to meetings as my mother never truly got a handle on the hallways of Erebor. To this day, one of us has to lead her to and from meetings, that is, unless we want a wandering Phoenician.

All this passes through my memory as I pass over the border of the Shire, party preparations in full swing. Having come from Lothlorien, I am sure to be the late arrival of tonight's group, within the walls Bilbo Baggins' abode. The remainder of my family came by my father's leading, excluding my mother and brother who went on ahead at the wizard's bidding. Oh yes, I will be the only tardy member of my kin. This, as only natural, prompts a growl to erupt in my throat, scaring a hobbit to my right. Great first impressions, I know.

A green door is what I am in search of, and I am determined not to lose sight of my path like my father once did. Indeed, it is a story my mother tells on repeat: how the great Thorin Oakenshield spent two hours wandering in reticent circles and in search of a "Bilbo Baggins of Bag End." Thus, I refuse to be caught in a lost trance like my father. I will find this home myself, and as it turns out, the task is not all that demeaning.

This green door is one of the many green doors of the Shire, but only one house has the name "Baggins" painted on the mail. To think my father missed this is very comical, especially since the rune on the door's facade still glows bright in the sunset. Taking hold of myself, face shadowed by a cloak, I enter the gate of Bag End and approach the door of infamous dwarven lore. Part of me expects to hear a screaming hobbit on the other side, just like sixty years ago, but I hold the hope that he will be calmer in the presence of others.

My fingers graze the rough and painted wood of the cyclical door before setting a gentle knock on its exterior. This will be my first time, as a grown Phoenician, meeting Master Baggins as I have yet to see him since my young age of ten. In addition, this is my first visit to the Shire in all my life, which prompts an accelerated breathing pattern in the heart of my lungs. I am nervous, for the first time in decades.

"Bilbo Baggins, open this door right now!" I hear my mother, Queen Erudian Houdart of the Phoenix and Erebor, scream from the door's other side. A small chuckle escapes my lips at her typical commanding attitude, as I have dearly missed it during these past few months.

"I will have nothing to do with these meddlesome neighbors and party-crashers. No, no!" a voice speaks up, which I assume to be Bilbo Baggins. I laugh even louder at that, seeing as he must be highly irritated by the strange hobbits of the Shire. Indeed, I have grown wary in my travel here, seeing the gazes casted at me from afar and plenty wide.

"Master Baggins, it is highly likely that Pyrhhin stands outside this door, listening to your irrational talk of relatives. Let my daughter in this instant!" my father, King Thorin Oakenshield, commands in his typical gruff tone. I am little like my father, appearance wise, bearing the light blonde hair and pale skin of my mother. Indeed, the only attribute of his that I take to is my blue eyes, matching Frerin and Sidel. Thorin often remarks that I am a carbon copy of my mother, which prompts him to baby me more than my siblings. I am his "jewel," as he so often remarks. Attitude wise, I can be bossy and stubborn like my father, but more times than not, I am gentle and sassy like my mother. She is surely grateful for this.