On our way to see the Mathom-house, we passed by the Town Hole and the Postmaster’s Office, as well as the headquaters of the Shirriffs of the Shire. Next to the Postmaster’s Office is the home of the Clerk of Michel Delving, who actually oversees most of the actual bureaucracy and logistics of running the Shire so that the Mayor gets to preside at banquets and approve paperwork.
I then told Thorin that, since we were already in town, we might as well start the applications for a marriage license in the Shire. He looked surprised, and I told him in no uncertain terms that I was not going to have a repeat of the sacking of Bag End if I could help it, and naming him as my next of kin by marriage as soon as possible would help deter Lobelia’s designs on my home.
“So you’re not going to marry me because you love me,” said Thorin, feigning hurt like the tosspot he was.
“You’re a right clod, you are,” I informed him. “I’m just thinking ahead for the two of us. They might not recognise a Dwarvish engagement, though, so we might need to do it again the Hobbit way in order for them to get the papers through, but --”
I then found myself cut off by this silly old Dwarf picking me up and spinning me around. “I would do anything you ask in order to prove to the entire world that you are my One,” he declared, and probably would have kissed me if I hadn’t insisted that he let me down before someone unpleasant saw us.
I wrinkled my nose at him once my feet were on solid ground. “I cannot believe you are capable of saying such wicked things,” I said. “Your tongue is nothing but silver and honey.”
“Would you like to make sure of that?” he asked.
I nearly threw my hands in the air. “Let’s go to the Mathom-house before they close.”
Before we leave, though, I must get the marriage license forms from the Clerk of Michel Delving.
