In his dreams, there is a child.
Even when Thorin was but a babe himself, not even thirty, his dreams showed a baby boy with unruly, dark, hair with one braid dangling against his cheek and eyes as green as the forests of Greenwood.
This child's name is never clear to him, always covered and muffled as if the speaker were underwater, but he recognizes his own voice calling for the boy. The child turns, confusion across his face before his plump cheeks redden and his lips turn up into a smile, the title of father falling from his tongue. He runs to Thorin, his curiously bare feet patting on the stone floors of his rooms before he stops at his father's feet and clings to the fabric of Thorin's trousers.
Thorin is much older in his dreams.
His hair is long, peppered with gray streaks that put him past the one-hundred fifty year mark, but not yet past two hundred. His hands have become gnarled by work at a forge and handling a great many weapons, both in craft and battle. From his point of view as his dream-self leans down to scoop up the boy, he can see pale scars along his forearms. The thought makes him proud. In his dreams, he is a protector and bares the marks to prove it.
When Thorin reaches adulthood, a girl joins the boy.
Her hair flows long past her shoulders and to her feet, uncovered in her infancy as her brother's were. The thick blonde locks atop her head are braided twice, once for the majority of her hair and again across the crown of her head. Her eyes shine as his do, bright and blue with wisdom behind each orb. Her lips are soft and pink and curl into a smile when her brother reaches out and clasps his hands in hers.
Thorin thinks she is the most beautiful girl in the world, especially when she happily cries "father".