The day had been long, the weight of the journey pressing down on all three of you. The ground had been uneven, the air crisp with the scent of pine and earth, and the winding path had taken you through forests and hills, with nothing but the distant sound of wind to break the silence. The evening had come quickly, and now the three of you had set up camp for the night. A small fire flickered at the center of your little circle, casting warm orange light against the growing dusk.

You, Bilbo, and Thorin were sitting together in a moment of quiet solace. The crackling of the fire was the only sound that seemed to fill the space between the three of you. Thorin, ever the stoic leader, sat across from you, his broad shoulders tense from the day’s march, his eyes flicking toward the fire as he absently ran a hand through his long, dark hair.

You leaned back slightly, stretching your legs out in front of you, the fatigue settling deep into your bones. The journey was taking its toll, but you knew there was still so much more to come.

Bilbo, sitting next to you, was quietly peeling an apple, though his eyes kept glancing at you and Thorin. You noticed how his gaze lingered on his sister, an unreadable expression crossing his face for a brief moment, but he quickly masked it with a soft smile.

“How was your day, sister?” Bilbo asked, his voice light, though you could hear the subtle exhaustion in it.

“Long,” you sighed, your shoulders slumping. “But I think I’m getting used to it. The days seem to blend together when we’re on the road like this.”

Thorin, who had remained mostly silent, finally spoke. “Aye, the journey has been harder on some than others, but we shall make it through. You’re a strong one, and we’ve all seen that.” He looked at you then, his deep blue eyes locking onto yours for a moment before he returned to his task.

You furrowed your brow, confused, as Thorin began to braid your hair. The gesture was so unexpected that you didn’t immediately react, too weary to question it. But then you noticed Bilbo, who was watching the scene carefully, his eyebrows slightly raised. It was clear that he understood something you didn’t.

“Thorin,” you asked, a hint of suspicion in your voice. “What are you doing?”

Thorin, never one to be overly expressive, gave a low chuckle, a rare warmth creeping into his tone. “I’m braiding your hair. I’ve seen many a dwarf woman with intricate braids. It’s a sign of care, a sign of… respect, if you will.”