Loving Gin

Age equivalent - 16 human years.



Thorin was growing to be a handsome, strapping dwarf.

And all the young female dwarves - and truth be told, the older ones as well - knew it. It didn't matter that he was the Prince, the eventual heir, third direct in line to the throne. They didn't care. Regardless of his status, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, was going to be some lucky dwarf-girl's dream catch and everyone knew it.

Except Gin.

Which infuriated Thorin to no end, as she was the one he set his eyes on the most. When there was a gathering, he looked for her, sought her out.

She barely acknowledged him. She liked to dance and spar and debate with Balin, stodgy and old before his time, but beloved to his brother and Thorin himself, to be quite honest.

She arm-wrestled with Dwalin, who claimed he simply liked her cookies and other baked goods and there was nothing more to it.

Dwalin had a sweet-tooth. And she was not his type.

But who or what was Dwalin's type was anyone's guess, including Thorin, who had yet to figure it out.

There was a harvest carnival coming up, in the city of Dale. As with all of the festivals, the dwarves were invited, welcomed, encouraged to attend, join in, and be a part of the festivities. It was a well known fact that dwarves liked to party, and they partied hard. No one could best them for their singing and playing of instruments. Out-drinking them could not be done and woe be to the man who tried. It was something all looked forward to.

Thorin and Dwalin were especially looking forward to it. For the first time, they would be allowed, even encouraged, to take a date, to find a young dwarf maiden to accompany them.

In Thorin's case, his father all but ordered him to find a girl, a nice dwarf girl, from a nice dwarf family and not some ...painted human... from the tavern!

Dwalin found that amusing. But Dwalin found most things amusing these days. He was smiling a lot. Thorin thought it was because he was looking forward to his first Orc Raid, something Thorin himself was looking forward to.

The two of them were wrestling in the upper caverns, along with several other younger dwarves; Reka and his brothers, Steinn and Ljósta . Much to Thorin's disgust, a large group of females were on the side, supposedly to judge the stronger males, but in actuality, they were openly oogling the sweaty, hard bodies of the young combatants. All save Gin, who sat in a corner, watching the bats hanging in the top of the cavern.

Thorin tackled Dwalin. "So, have you asked someone to the Harvest Festival?"

"Aye." Dwalin flipped his friend, almost pinning him in the process.

"Who?" The Prince slipped free from his friend's meaty grasp and reversed their positions, much to the vocal appreciation of the female populace.

There was grunting, before Thorin realized his friend was laughing - an evil sound, to be sure. Thorin found their positions reversed, as Dwalin pinned his arms behind his back.

Again, Thorin sprang free from the hold. His grandfather taught him that for every hold, there is a counter-hold. It was a well-known fact that the older the dwarf, the more tenacious and tougher a warrior he became. Age was a strengthening factor for a dwarf, not a slowing down, as with the humans. The older a dwarf became, the more battle-hardened, stronger, dangerous he became. The greatest warriors in Erebor had steel-gray hair and beards that tucked into their belts. Mahal created them that way because Melkor still walked the earth that was not part of Aman when their Fathers first drew breath.

Small wonder the Elves thought that Dwarves turned to stone upon their deaths.

Thorin shook his hair back, something he knew impressed the females. Dwalin was bent over, catching his breath, thinking Thorin was backing down for a moment. With a stealthy gleam, Thorin caught him off-guard, knocking him over and pinning him to the mat for the designated count.

"Not fair!" Dwalin rolled over, wheezing. "You caught me off guard!"

Thorin held out a hand. "Orcs don't fight fair, my friend!" He pulled his friend up. "Who are you taking to the faire?"

"A date," Dwalin responded cagily. "Who are you taking?"

Thorin stretched and scratched the part of his back he could reach. "I'm thinking of asking Gin."

"Thinking?" Dwalin turned him around and scratched the part his friend was trying to get to. "You haven't asked yet?"

"No. Should I be in a hurry?"

Dwalin was staring at him in astonishment. "The faire is in three days. All the girls have dates already."

Thorin looked back in horror. "All of them?" Not his Gin. Please, Mahal, not his Gin. Everyone knew he was sweet on her. Every one except her, that is.

"Aye. You might want to ask her now."

But when Thorin looked up to the spot where he last saw Gin sitting, she was gone.



Thorin wiped down quickly, taking a good deal of the sweat from him. He threw on his tunic and rushed from the arena, looking for her.

"She went that-a-way." Dwalin, still sweaty and shirtless, was leaning against the cavern wall. He pointed towards the gem cutters, where her father worked, in charge of deciding what crafted gems to keep for Erebor and what to sell or give away as gifts. Most men could not tell a true jewel from a simple, but flawed, sparkly.

Rumor had it Thrór was becoming stingy in his elder years.

Thorin knew it was no rumor.

"Her father?"

"That way," Dwalin reiterated, his finger curving to the right, past the gem cutters' cavern and onwards towards the Gate. "Outside."

Of course, outside. In the gardens. Gin was the strangest lady - well almost lady - dwarf Thorin had ever known. Dwarves liked their caves and caverns, were comfortable and at home in those dark and dank places. Orcs and other foul creatures knew not to follow them into such, because to fight a dwarf in his element was to invite death.

Fighting a dwarf out of his element was to court death as well, but within a dwarven grotto, death was almost certain.

Gin bloomed in a garden, in the sunshine. Springtime was her element, her time and she glowed during the harvest.

And the mountain wild field was where Thorin found her. It was the spot where he and his grandfather came when he was young, to watch the clouds, mock the Elves - that is before his grandfather found more important things to do.

Like counting and running his fingers through his gold, mithril and precious gems...

So Thorin found her, plucking weeds and dead things from the ground in that space she deemed hers. He stood watching her; surely she knew he was there, his shadow cast over her. She continued, not noticing or ignoring him, the sound of her scissors clipping and snapping in the breeze.

Probably ignoring him. Of all the dwarf-girls, this one pretended he did not exist and of course, she was the one he wanted.

She probably still blamed him for trying to wring her doll's neck, when he was simply trying to squeeze the water out of her.

He cleared his throat.

Twice.

Finally she looked up, shading her eyes. "Thorin?"

All of a sudden, after rehearsing this conversation, practicing in the looking glass, and even on his pet mús, Grarm, much to the amusement of his younger brother and the curled-lipped disgust of his sister, who promptly went and tattled on him (and who got her arse swotted for being a tattle-tale!) his mouth went dry and all words left him.

"Hi, Gin." He lifted a hand and wiggled his fingers, feeling very, very, very...

...stupid.

She returned to her weeding and beheading dead flowers. "What brings you outside?" She plucked the dried head from flower rather harshly, causing Thorin to squirm. Thorin could see she was watching him from the side of her face.

"You." He plopped down next to her.

Gin never stopped. "I figured you would still be showing off in front of the other dwarrows."

"Keep a secret?" He thought he saw her shrug and took that as an 'aye'. "They're boring."

Gin's eyes slid sideways for a moment. Was that shock? "That's not very nice."

Now it was Thorin's turn to shrug. "It's true." Gin returned to her weeding and Thorin felt oddly dismissed. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

Ignore me?

The truth was difficult, so he stated the obvious. "Tend to the wildflowers?"

"I planted these!" She flung her scissors to the ground and sat back on her knees, hands at her waist. "I planted them!" She slung her hands out and began to name them, the flowers, the bushes, the vines, rattled them off as easily as his father and grandfather named gems and stones and metals. As Thorin lay back and stretched out to watch her, he realized she took as much joy in her planted things as the rest of the dwarves took pleasure in mining. He found it...

"Odd."

"What?" He didn't see it, but she smiled to herself.

"That you like to grow things."

"I like to dig in the dirt. You like to dig in the rock. Not really much difference." Gin scooped up a handful of rich soil and showed it to him. "This came from the rock, the trees, the plants. It washed down from the top of the mountain, ash spewed from the Mountain's Deepest Forge."

Thorin spoke up as if speaking to a dwarfling. "If Mahal wanted us to dig in the dirt-"

"Mahal's wife digs in the dirt, Thorin." Gin focus returned to the plat in which she worked. "I suspect he understands, after all, he created us for this world; certainly not for the Elves." Her voice dropped. "Besides, I suspect she loves us too. I hear the elders tell that we get our stubbornness from him. I would think she loves his stubbornness, therefore, she loves ours."

"You make it sound as if we are her children as well."

Gin raised an eyebrow, smirked at him, and then returned to her gardening. "What do you want, Thorin?"

The princeling rolled over on his side, to face her, his arm cushioned under his head. "What makes you think I want something?"

"You forget," she whispered coquettishly, "we were cradle-mates."

"Aw, surely you do not believe that tale our mothers tell."

"Yes, I do and you do as well." She now shook her garden scissors at him. "I remember well the taste of your thumb!" She leaned to the side. "Bleh! Now, what do you want?"

"You know," Thorin was tracing his fingers in the dirt, "there is a faire in three days."

"Yes, I know. Who are you taking?"

A lock of Thorin's hair fell over his eyes. He shook it back over his shoulder. "I'm asking you."

Gin dropped her gardening tool into the dirt. "Thorin, Reka asked me some days past."

The prince shrugged. "Of course, you told him no."

"No, I didn't tell him no. I accepted his invitation."

Reka? Reka had a nasty, notorious reputation among the male dwarves his age. Many would prefer fight him rather than allow him near their sisters.

Thorin tried not to let his ire or his panic show. "You must tell him you've changed your mind."

"Why?" Gin sat up on her knees and thrust her hands on her hips. "Because you finally came down off your high and mighty throne to ask someone after everyone has been asked? I don't think so!"

Mahal! Must the girl be so stubborn?

"Gin, right now, I don't care if you go with me or not-"

"Well, I'm certainly not going with you!"

"-but Reka..."

"Reka what?"

"Reka brags about his... well... you know..."

"His conquests? It's rubbish and I know it for a fact. Pure rubbish and I can take care of myself." She jumped to her feet and grabbing her clippers, prepared to step around Thorin in a huff. Thorin was up as fast as she and he reached out and took ahold of her arm.

"Gin, please. Don't go with him."

"I will and you can't stop me." She jerked her arm from his grasp. "He's just a braggart!"

Thorin grabbed her again. "Then why did you agree to go with him if you know what he is?"

Gin's face screwed up into a livid mask. "Because you hadn't asked me!" With that admission, her face fell. "I waited. I waited and waited for you to ask me and you didn't. So I said yes to Reka." With this, she slugged him hard, angrily. "And to back out now would be rude!" With that she spun and ran down the hill, disappearing around the bend.

Thorin stood there in shock for the longest time. As he started down the same path, he looked down to find Gin's clippers. He picked them up and after weighing them in his hand, he clutched them to him and took the same path Gin had taken minutes before.


Both Dwalin and Balin met him inside the gate. The sun was going down and only the fact that Dwalin told the guard that the Prince was still out in the gardens, was the only reason it wasn't shut and barred for the evening.

"Lad, we saw Gin run through here." Balin was, even at a young age, old for his time, wise and insightful. And already a fierce warrior. He had been on two orc raids, distinguishing himself within the party. "The lass looked none too happy."

"Reka got to her first." Thorin growled. "She won't back out, despite his reputation." He paused for a moment, tapping his booted foot. "I'll just have to shadow her the entire faire."

"And do what?" Dwalin spoke up.

"Make sure he doesn't touch her." With that last bit spat, Thorin stalked into the mountain.

"Brother," Balin whispered, "you have a look in your eyes."

Dwalin grunted.

"A look I dinna like."

Dwalin's responding grin was slow. Low in his throat, he began to laugh, an wicked sound, before he followed his best friend down the corridor. Balin rubbed his eyes.

"That's what I was afraid of."

And then he too, followed his brother and his prince, deep into the Lonely Mountain.

tbc

grarm - fierce -

hrodi - snot (Old Norse)