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There was something wrong with the hobbit.
Thorin was not wholly unfamiliar with the people of the shire – a dwarf took work where he could when times were lean, and farmers were always keen to buy sturdy dwarven tools – but no halfling he’d ever met had had him quite so on edge, waiting for the other axe to drop.
Whatever it was that was making his hindbrain scream danger wasn’t ringing alarm bells in his kinfolk. Dwalin had looked at Thorin like he was insane when he’d asked why he’d left his back open to what was obviously a dangerous predator. He’d also told Oin, which had resulted in the healer frantically checking Thorin over for a non-existent head wound whilst pouring a calming tea down his throat.
By all accounts, the hobbit was an affable little fellow, fussily dressed with ruddy cheeks and curly hair. The most dangerous thing Thorin had witnessed him do so far was talk the ear off Ori about his sprawling family tree “the Baggins, the Tooks, the Proudfeet, the Addams, the Bracegirdles and the Brandybucks - though those are more distantly related, my boy”
He acted harmless.
He wasn’t even armed.
He should have been harmless.
Then the incident with the trolls occurred.
Fili and Kili had come stumbling back to camp, bleached-bone white and wild eyed, hysterically babbling about bilbo, horses and trolls. Grim-faced and determined, the company had set off to retrieve what remained of their burglar.
They had arrived at the site of a massacre, blood squelching beneath their boots, the scent of viscera heavy in the air.
And stopped, dumfounded at the sight of the hobbit, humming contentedly, and dabbing gently at his mouth with a handkerchief that Thorin was fairly certain had once been the pocket of Bofur’s coat. He was perched on top of what, perhaps, once upon a time, had been three cave trolls, but now resembled a mound of freshly picked clean bones.
They watched on in horror as a gob of what was most definitely troll-flesh slid down the side of the hobbit’s face and he swiped at it with his finger, studied it and popped it into his mouth with a happy little moan.
Behind him, Thorin heard someone retch. Gloin, he thought absently.
The sound made the hobbit start, and sheepishly turn to face the company
“My dear fellows” he cried, “please forgive my rudeness! I know it was terribly impolite of me to start without you, but I haven’t had troll since I was a fauntling and I just couldn’t resist”
“There is something wrong with that hobbit” Dwalin hissed.
Thorin had never felt more vindicated in his life.