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ironfoot-mothafocka · 2 years

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Dark and nameless things

3/4 for @mrkida-art

4k words

Grór and Ixil go exploring.

“Far, far below the deepest delving of the dwarves, the world is gnawed by nameless things. Even Sauron knows them not. They are older than he.”

See Notes at the end for Khuzdul/dwarf/Jew meta if interested!

Ixil stilled ahead of Grór, raising his finger for silence. She heard it, too: the far-away plink of a stone falling to the cave tunnel floor. Grór swung the lantern she was carrying out above both of their heads. It was frigid amid the dense stone, and their breaths misted in front of their faces as they held still. A dwarf’s hearing was intensified underground, but even they struggled to detect anything in these deep places.

“The stone is ancient here. I sense the heaviness of the Ages.” Ixil’s voice was low and reverent as he brushed his gloved fingertips over the wall. They traced the natural curve of the cave; no chisel marks had been struck into it, nothing to guide or set its way through the mountain. The floor underfoot was slightly damp, and Grór could tell from the look of the cavern sides that it had once been a water conduit — or maybe it still was when it rained, or when ice melted on the high passes. She peered at the map that archivist Barek had given her and Ixil to follow with the known systems laid out in red ink.

“The Grey Mountains connect to Gundabad, in the west,” Grór said lightly, refreshing her memory of the way they were going to take for the next day. If Grór closed her eyes and focused, steadying her breathing and reaching out with the stonesense innate in dwarves, she could almost see the pulsating soul of Gundabad far off in the distance. It was a shadow in the back of her mind, clinging to the edges of thought like a faint childhood memory, despite the young dwarf not having seen it in person. The clouded, snow-crusted peaks loomed large in her dreams, though; in the dreams of all Longbeards for generations before her. But, although she could tell there was a kernel of sacredness there still, buried like a seed deep inside the place where Durin slept, her ancestors’ halls were a mere nest of orc filth these days. She spat on the floor as she thought of the desecration.

The rock here was untouched by any goblin or orc hand: banded, tense granite pressed around her like the embrace of an overbearing elder. The stone’s distinct personality was evident. Slow, stuffy, dense, dark. It was as ancient as the very roots of the world, and it did not speak, unlike the stone around her father’s halls; but it held a still, secretive silence, bearing witness to their journey. “Then these mountains share in Gundabad’s khavnah — the same remnant of Amad Durin’s spirit dwells here, too,” Ixil replied. The lines of stone warped and striated across the tunnel like the brush-strokes of a painter, zig-zagged and dripping into melting patterns. Grór and Ixil marvelled together, and for a moment both dwarves were lost in their own minds.

Ixil touched Grór’s shoulder gently and she let go of her reverie. They needed both of their wits if they were going to find the fissure Barek had told them of. Their mission, sprung on them that week by the king, was to travel to the edge of the kingdom and to the site of a known split in the rockface which led to the outside. One of their drake-scouts had reported it from atop a far vantage point, seeing it widened significantly by a fresh landslide. In quieter times, this may not have been something of note, but with a recent uptick in goblin and orc activity, the hole into the mountain passageways could prove an entrance for any number of unwelcome guests. Barek, the hold’s chief archivist and historian, had fished out an old map from the days when this part of the Ered Mithrin had been first inhabited by dwarves, and worked with several of the scouts to plan a route to get there that wouldn’t take them across the open mountainside. Grór was confident enough to travel unaided with Ixil in the winding mountain paths, but it was safer to go underground, where the only trouble you would run into were the bats. She still hated the nasty, flying rats, though, and closed her eyes to slits whenever they had to pass underneath a hanging swarm of them. But now they were far away from any habitable parts — deep in the areas of caves that had been forgotten about for generations.

They walked on in silence, Grór occasionally checking the map and knowing just by the feel of the ground — the tiny indications in rock formation and slope gradient, which only a dwarf could internalise — that they were correctly headed. Ixil was unusually quiet, pausing like a hunter at every sound or to comment on the taste of the air on his tongue. Grór, on the other hand, had never felt more alive: close to the mountain’s inner parts, her body fizzed as she soaked up the energy of the abundant stone through the soles of her boots. Quartzite and granite intertwined, melded together like lovers; and as they descended into hidden pools, limestone figures reared grotesque heads and thickets of stalagmite spines marched down the sides of humongous caverns, which sparkled with cloudy crystals. Ixil stopped by the water in one of these and squatted down to study the refractions of Grór’s lantern off the surface. “Not good,” he muttered. “Not for drinking, then?” “No—” the Stiffbeard pointed to some of bulbous clusters of crystals which lingered underneath the surface of the water, some of which looked almost furry to the eye. “Those are not good rocks, they taint the water.” Grór sniffed — there was definitely a whiff of something unsavoury. Not enough to kill a dwarf, but a Man, with a Man’s constitution, would have probably died within a few minutes.

They continued on — Grór’s old leg injury was beginning to ache. The bone had healed well, but the tendons in her ankle and knee now protested even after eight hours of trekking, which she could have managed with ease before. Ixil slowed down and shot her a look of concern, but she shrugged. “I’m fine — let’s go on.” “Your foot hurts?” “Yes, but I can walk on for an hour more before we make camp. We should probably stop and eat soon anyway.” Ixil nodded in agreement and matched Grór’s pace, tightening the belt which secured his own pack. Grór straightened her tired shoulder and cast the lantern light about them as they descended into a path that dropped quicker than they were expecting. A reference to the map told them that this was indeed the way — but it felt that they should be going upwards at some point. The darkness was absolute here, cloying and crushing, and Grór’s heartbeat picked up the deeper they went. She reached out with her stonesense to soothe her, but got back a silence even more profound than that which she felt earlier.

She couldn’t even name these rocks.

This horrific realisation stopped her in her tracks and she almost ran into Ixil’s back. The other dwarf was gazing like a cat into the darkness, one hand flung out to his side. “Something’s there,” he breathed. Grór was about to ask what he meant by that, when she heard it, too.

The noise was carried on a draught of fetid air that wafted into their faces, which came from a medium-sized cavern before them; according to the map, straight ahead was a chamber with many exits branching from it like the fingers of a hand. At first, the sound was so faint that she thought it came from somewhere high above them, but the longer she listened, the clearer she could trace it to down one of these many tunnels: an unmistakable deep, growling hiss. Rising and lowering in pitch and intensity — sometimes as low as to be inaudible, yet Grór felt it vibrating, grating, against the stone.

Animal? she signed in iglishmêk. But what animal could possibly be living down here? Nothing larger than a bat could possibly survive, unless this was something from the outside that had got trapped somehow. Ixil didn’t reply. He jerked his head, wide eyed. Back. No — we need to go on — go down on the left route. You are insane. Grór rolled her eyes. Do you have a better idea? Return home? If it follows us, we will kill it. She pinpointed the sound to a crooked path on their right — hopefully, their way would take them far away from whatever was down there.

Ixil shrugged begrudgingly. They both crept forwards, and Grór extinguished her lantern as they rounded the corner, their iron-shod boots making no noise against the ground as they lightened their pace. Despite Grór’s bravado, she didn’t reach out with stonesense. She didn’t want to know. Let the nameless stones and nameless creatures be nameless, as far as she was concerned. She held her breath and took the lead, beckoning with one finger for Ixil to follow. It would only take a few, quick paces. Then it would be over.

—

The Stiffbeard hadn’t fully recovered. He sat hunched over with his back to the cavern wall, staring at the entrance of the small pit as though he were trying to bore his way through. The rest of their journey had been uneventful, and after descending for a hundred feet or more, the path had slowly risen again. Even Grór, accustomed to walking in the deep ways, was grateful at the pressure equalising, and here the air felt cleaner, younger. The vibrant stone hummed and mumbled around her, coloured in dusty rose-flushed hues and flecked with brown, sparkling deposits. Before fear had frozen him to his spot, Ixil had searched the walls for the trickle of fresh water that had snaked its way down to form a small stream, and after tasting it, decided that it was ‘good enough’. The lantern had been lit again after travelling for almost an hour without it, but even its reassuring light did nothing to force the other dwarf from his torpor. He didn’t want to speak. He didn’t want to eat. Grór waved a strip of rehydrated, salted meat in front of his face, but when Ixil simply pushed her hand away, something snapped. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, irked at his behaviour. “Is it the — noise?” Whatever it was, it was none of their business. They had left it well alone, and it had not followed. Ixil looked up at her with dark eyes. His skin still had the pale pallor of horror and he peered from her face to over her shoulder. “Why aren’t you scared?” he asked slowly, refusing to raise his voice above a guttural whisper.

Grór shrugged — she didn’t know why she wasn’t. She was concerned; intrigued, maybe. But it wasn’t an orc, she assumed that much — and there were two of them and one of it, and they were armed. Grór had with her an axe and a wide-bladed hunting knife slung about her waist, and Ixil had a mattock affixed to his back and a sharp Eastern falchion which was sheathed in a holster of mammoth tusk ivory and beaten silver. If it was about the size of an orc, they could kill it. They’d fought worse together with the Ered Mithrin scouting parties and survived — mountain goblins and orc warriors who were crossing to the Misty Mountains. If it was larger than an orc… well, they were miles from home and without help. What could they do? “I would be scared if I knew that it was something to be frightened of. We don’t even know what it is first. Could be nothing.” It probably wasn’t, but it was the best Grór could come up with to reassure Ixil.

Not for the first time, the Stiffbeard looked at her as though she were mad. “You mean… there are no nuruk, surgashi, or rukuz in these hills?” Ixil replied, half as though he was patronising her, and half as though he wanted to believe it. “The what, what, or what?” asked Grór. Ixil smiled and shook his head. “Sometimes, I forget how different the dwarves are, Clan to Clan.” He thumbed a pendant which he wore around his neck: the strap of leather held a small icon of some sort of three-headed animal wrought from iron. After a moment of consideration, he took it off and fastened it around Grór’s neck. She looked down at it, surprised at the gesture, but she was unable to tell even from up close what it was. “And — will this save me from the Eastern Death Weevil, or whatever it is you have in those parts?” she asked. The other dwarf rolled his eyes, but he didn’t look angry. “Far below our delvings, the world harbours many things that even the orcs and their masters do not know about. As old as the earth. We have stories about them — but they are real—” “Have you ever seen whatever beasties you mentioned just now?” Grór replied quickly, cutting Ixil off sharply. Ixil huffed under his breath and frowned. “Have you run into Durin’s Bane itself? And yet you know very well it existed. Our stories come from fact and the wisdom of our ancestors.” “Well, all dwarves know about Durin’s Bane,” Grór retorted, “but I have heard none of those names uttered by any dwarf before. They must just be in the East.” She dug out a whetstone from her pack and begin idly stroking the head of her hunting knife, not wanting to press the subject any further for fear of accidentally offending Ixil. But something about the oddness of those strange sounding words peaked her interest. “What are they?”

—

Ixil ate for the first time since they sat down, tearing chunks off the meat hungrily and washing it down with a swig from a canteen of water. The dwarf looked ruefully at the container, as though he would have liked it to be filled with something stronger. Grór grinned and pulled out a bottle she had stashed away in her pack. Taking any liquid that wasn’t water with them was not the smartest idea, but she had somehow known the time would come for drink. She handed it to Ixil — it was strong potato liqueur, and a little went a long way. She sipped, grimaced and threw the bottle across to the Stiffbeard. “A dwarrowdam after my own heart,” he said, taking in a large mouthful, as though the astringent alcohol was a nectar.

Something odd wriggled inside Grór’s stomach at those words, but she ignored it and grabbed the bottle back.

“Don’t drink too much, I only packed one. Or two. I’m not telling.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and scooted across the floor of the cave, settling next to Ixil by the greenish glow of luminescent ghaspar chunks that overhung them high up in the eaves of the cavern. “It is hard to explain the creatures to you, if you have never heard the old tales our grandparents tell over the fires at Bekshoz. That is when the evil that haunts the mountains is most prevalent — when the separation between living and dead is thinnest. And we have no fire here. I hope there are none that have found there way to the Grey Mountains.” Ixil shivered, casting a wary eye back up at the tunnel entrance. He then glanced down at Grór’s chest. “But you are protected.” “What is it?” Grór asked, fingering the iron trinket. Ixil touched it briefly, then pulled his hand back, quickly looking up into Grór’s face and then away again. She felt blood rush into her cheeks, and the ‘something odd’ she had felt before resurfaced. “It is a good-luck charm. A protection from nuruk,” Ixil said hurriedly, turning back to face the entrance and reaching for the alcohol bottle again. “The nuruk are spirits — dark ones that trick and harm people. We Stiffbeards believe that they come from deep places in the earth, and use the cavernways to travel to the lands of the living. That is why miners carry these amulets, or anyone who travels in untapped and wild passes beneath mountain halls. The nuruk are like water rising through the earth, slowly filtering through after thousands of years, and once they are in a hold, they can enter a home, or a dwarfling’s cot, or a well — and poison the whole thing!” “Huh,” Grór said, “but — what do they look like? Like this… thing?” She looked down at her chest, turning the iron ornament this way and that. Ixil laughed. “No — not like that. They are invisible, so we need priests to speak words of Mahal over a home to get a nuruk out, if they are suspected to be there. It is what makes them so dangerous. Some miners or tunnellers refuse to call each other by name when they are digging, as they fear that once a nuruk hears a dwarf’s name, it can latch onto the person and ride with them all the way up to the surface — or even turn them mad with fear, so that they never enter a mine again.” Grór stifled a snort, imagining a small, wizened beast clinging with spindly arms around the neck of a burly miner like a small child. Then, she remembered something she had seen in Ixil’s home when she had first visited his family on the lower levels of Thikil-gundu. She had asked Bivrik what it was, but she hadn’t really retained its exact use until this moment. “The bowl! The one that has the inscriptions on it — your ‘amad knocks it whenever someone enters the house, and she said it was to get the nuruk away!” Grór exclaimed. Ixil smiled broadly. “Aye, though — even some among Stiffbeards might say she’s of the superstitious sort.” “So,” Grór pulled at the leather thong around her neck, “what is this? The thing on it?” “That is the spirit-form of our Eternal Mother — Ugzhar.” Grór raised a bushy eyebrow. “I never knew your Founding Mother had three heads. Must be useful. You can drink, smoke, and eat at the same time.” “Aye,” Ixil replied, “though I don’t think she was doing that in this form. Tales passed on before we wrote in runes say that at the end of her cycle of rebirth, Ugzhar became so enamoured with the Stiffbeard nomads — who at that time began to ride the shaggy mumak across the ice plains — her spirit form became a mumak itself, roaming with the nomads on migrations each season and keeping close to them. When the lights in the winter sky form an arc over Ugzharak, her birthplace, they take the form of a three-headed animal, and so the omen-sayers tell that her mumak form has three heads: one to look into the past of dwarven history, one keeping an eye on our present queen, and one seeing far into the future.”

On the whole, this was a far more pleasant and wondrous image than that of a nuruk. Grór hummed thoughtfully as she remembered Ixil mentioning the winter lights: green-tinted lightning that whipped across the frozen night above the high northern mountains, like the hand of a giant playing with bands of fire. Ixil’s father had been one of the nomadic dwarves, and he traced his lineage back to the first dwarves to live within the snowy tundra. She wondered if her father would allow her to leave the hold and travel to see all of this with Ixil when his homeland was rebuilt. Maybe the lights would flow once more across the sky, and Queen Ugzhar would smile upon her kingdom again.

“And what are surgashi, and ruh- ruk—” “Surgashi are odd things. They live in abandoned cities and take over its ruins. In the dialect of the Stiffbeards, the kishki word ‘sur’ means little, and ‘gash’ is king. The king of the forgotten and tumbled-down places. All that their victims see are two yellow eyes before they attack, before their memories are wiped. Anyone stupid enough to explore without first checking for their presence wakes up miles away with their valuables stolen, and with no knowledge of how they got there.” Ixil suddenly became serious and the light dimmed behind his eyes. “I don’t talk about the rukuz,” he muttered and looked longingly at the pendant around Grór’s neck. “But they fear iron. They fear iron, at least.” “Rakhas — orcs, you mean?” asked Grór. Ixil exhaled sharply. “If only they were orcs. They are the worst kinds of… sometimes, when dwarves have been sent to find the bodies of those attacked by rukuz, they don’t… well…” Ixil stopped speaking and his eyes flicked back and forth, flashing in the low light of the cave. Grór decided that this one could wait until they were outside under a bright sun, rather than ensconced in the dark of stone.

“I have heard stories of those kinds of things in Khazad-dûm,” said Grór, to break the silence. “Things that we dare not name.” “What things?” asked Ixil urgently. Grór dragged up the hushed stories from her memories of youth. Thror used to love scaring her with them, but half the time she just thought he was deliberately making them up. “Thror used to say,” she began, “that there were things that gnawed at the bones of the earth, hollowing out great chambers underneath Durin’s Stair. Dwarves knocked into underground rooms which had already been worked away at and fashioned into roads under Khazad-dûm.” She tried to remember what had made her so frightened of the stories, enough to run yelling into her father’s bedroom from fear. “Thror told me one story…” she shuddered, swallowed hard, and then went on, “about a mithril prospector who got lost somehow. Got turned around in one of the unmapped places with a strange stonesense to it. When a rescue team found his body, it looked like his face had been sucked straight off, and it was nothing more than a mass of raw pink flesh.” Ixil made a disgusted face at her. “What could do such a thing?” he asked. Grór didn’t know if it was the proper name for them, but Thror had called them asmer — and his descriptions conjured up images of fat, sightless serpents, with the bodies of powerful worms and the heads of ghastly eels that contained rows upon rows of sharp teeth, and tentacles on their bellies that could turn a dwarf’s skin inside out. She told all of this to Ixil, who looked more and more nauseated. “And — they can squish down into the tightest hole, out of sight, and the only thing a dwarf would hear is a deep, low hiss, before it devoured them.” Grór’s eyes widened before she finished the sentence, and Ixil stopped, his hand half raised to his mouth, clutching the bottle. Their eyes met, and Grór knew he was thinking the same thing as her.

What had made those tunnels, that branched off into five, long, rounded passageways? What had they heard in the dark?

Before she could stop him, Ixil was shoving their belongings into bags with such frantic intensity that Grór had to grab his shoulders, though she herself was breathing hard. “Calm d—” “Let’s go,” Ixil whispered, “Grór, let’s just move on.” Grór’s eyes were drawn towards the darkness in front of them, and to the axe at her side, which next to the hulking worm in her mind was little more than a butterknife. Had her brother’s stories been based on some fact? She didn’t want to admit it, but now she couldn’t help but imagine that beast slithering out of its hole and sniffing them out, following its nose until it reached them, asleep by the stream, and devoured them. You’re being stupid, she chastised herself. However — better to be prudent than to wake up in the maws of some horrible monster. “Alright — the sooner we get a move on, the faster we return home,” she reasoned. The dwarves hoisted their packs and re-strapped their belts, fleeing down to the cave exit as swift and as quiet as their shadows flickering against the walls.

—

Somewhere, under miles and miles of twisting Grey Mountain caverns, the gargantuan outline of a beast rippled in the blackness. It lazily raised its head, the blind face moving this way and that. It thought it detected, for a moment or so, the whiff of a dwarf.

—

Notes:

Khavnah - spirit innate in all living things (including stone), taken from the Hebrew ‘kavanah’ - an intense spiritual focus and energy during prayer. Some dwarf clans believe that the Foremothers’ own spirits permeated the mountains upon their Awakening and lingers there still.

‘Amad Durin - Mother Durin. All of the Founders of the Dwarves were dwarrowdam/zhani (non-binary) dwarves in my headcanon.

Nuruk — spirits loosely inspired by dybbuk in Jewish folklore. Bivrik’s bowl is related to Jewish incantation/demon bowls found in early settlements, though these weren’t singing bowls, rather possessing scripture written on them to ward away influences of specific demons and the evil eye.

Surgashi — in Judaism, many shedim, or demons, tend to live in ruins and Prophet Elijah forbade Rav Yose to pray at a ruin (Berakhot 3b). It is interesting to think about ruins in conjunction with dwarven history. What demons might inhabit Khazad-dûm? Dwarves hold onto and venerate its sacredness in spite of the corruption of their ancestral home as we see in both The Hobbit and LOTR. Dwarf ruins are always haunted by something, be it a dragon or a Balrog… an interesting comparison to Jewish history.

Kishki — even though JRRT said there wasn’t dialectal changes in Khuzdul, I like to think so… Kishki is the northern dialect.

Iron — iron was used in Jewish rituals to ‘see’ demons. Metal and iron also have protective folklore in Jewish superstition: barzel, the Hebrew word for iron, is an acronym of the mothers of Israel (Bilhah, Zilphah, Rachel and Leah).

Rukuz — they attack prey with their bare hands, using long fingernails and crushing jaws to sever the necks of their victims.

#tolkien fanfiction #tolkien #the hobbit #The Lord of the Rings #lord of the rings fanfiction #dwarves #LOTR fandom #LOTR

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guardianofrivendell · 3 years

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When the Company doesn’t realize you understand Khuzdul

The Company & reader, Fíli & reader if you squint

Requested: nah, I just plucked this from my “ideas for new wips” list because I got frustrated with every existing wip I had and I wanted to work on something new - something silly like this, where I didn’t have to think too much, just write and post

Warnings: Dwarves with no filter, a few saucy comments at the end

A/N: somehow these headcanon posts (that aren’t actually headcanons, just me being lazy and not wanting to write full sentences and paragraphs) are my most popular posts. And I don’t get it, but since I’m a people pleaser, have another one :)

it started from the beginning really

when Gandalf had proposed the idea of you joining the quest for several reasons, some of the Dwarves bursted out in complaints

because how DARE he suggest they needed the help of a human

they didn’t say it so politely of course

makalfûna bintarg siginkann didn’t exactly mean ‘that lovely human over there’

but Gandalf always gets his way so off on the quest you went

the first couple of days most of the Dwarves kept muttering to themselves or each other about you

not necessarily all bad things, but there was a lot of complaining involved

it wasn’t your fault you��d never ridden a horse or pony before

shocking right, living in Middle Earth?

but you were trying

it just happened to be that you and your horse didn’t really got along

which resulted in a few situations you’d rather not find yourself in

at least not in front of a dozen judgemental Dwarves and one wizard who was enjoying this far too much

like your stubborn horse suddenly taking off

cue two or three Dwarves - usually Fíli, Kíli and Bofur - trying to chase you and calm your horse while the others were laughing their arse off

or you failing to properly mount your horse, falling off countless times

that’s when the Dwarves became bolder and amused themselves with saucy comments and jokes on your behalf

all in Khuzdul of course

because some of those comments were definitely not meant for your ears

h o w e v e r

you might have failed to mention that you understood Khuzdul just fine

one of the reasons Gandalf insisted on you joining btw

you spent most of your childhood around the Dwarves of Ered Mithrin (the Grey Mountains) who traded with your village and picked up the sacred language very easily

you always had a knack for learning new languages

at first it was rather difficult to ignore the jabs and insults, pretending you didn’t have a clue what they were saying

but over time you kind of got used to it and it became easier to just ignore them

you almost gave yourself away once when Kíli asked his brother to throw his water flask and Fíli answered that his was empty as well

and you automatically reached for your own flask to give the brothers

but then you realised they had been speaking Khuzdul

you stopped yourself just in time

close call

other times you had too much fun pretending you didn’t understand them

especially when Thorin divided the tasks when setting up camp and he spoke Khuzdul out of habit

“... and the rest of you go gather wood for the fire”

everyone went to go about their tasks and you would still stand in the middle, arms crossed, a smile on your face, waiting

after a few minutes Thorin would roll his eyes and repeat the order in Westron

“Now why didn’t you say so? I would already be done with it by now.”

you loved to get a rise out of the Dwarven king

you promised yourself you would never tell them you understood every word they said

because to be honest, you were rather enjoying yourself and you could only tell them once, right?

but then one night when you were all sitting around the campfire after dinner, you finally broke your promise

it started rather innocent with the usual comments about your terrible riding skills

in Khuzdul of course

cowards

Dwarves usually have not much of a filter to begin with

add some ale they picked up en route and there’s no stopping them

you tried to ignore it and kept your eyes on the campfire

counting to ten, then a hundred, two hundred, ...

biting your tongue to keep yourself quiet

but then Fíli - who had actually been rather nice to you - had to join in on the fun

“I bet I can teach her how to ride well”

wiggling eyebrows

cue boisterous laughter from most of the Dwarves

Thorin shaking his head in vicarious embarrassment

some of the others agreeing with Fíli

“I bet you could!”

that was the last drop for you

you could’ve accepted it from anyone but him

not Fíli

you looked him straight in the eye

and answered in fluent Khuzdul with a deadpan face

“I don’t know if you’re strong enough to handle me, son of Durin.”

deafening silence

Gandalf snickering in his beard and then choking on his pipe smoke because he tried to keep his laughter in and horribly failing

all the Dwarves looking at you with wide eyes

“You... You can understand what we’re saying? You speak Khuzdul?”

you made a face that basically said ‘what do you think?’

smiling to yourself when you saw the realisation on Thorin’s face that you had heard and understood everything they said about you

you bid them all a good night after that

the sound of Thorin smacking them on their head lulling you to sleep

PERMANENT TAGLIST

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#fili #fili x reader #the company of thorin oakenshield #the company x reader #the hobbit #the hobbit headcanons #the company headcanons #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit imagine #thorin #guardianofrivendell

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watcherofwilds · 4 years

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I’ve mentioned in his bio that Daerhovan has written books on stuff he’s passionate about, and then started to wonder what those book titles would actually be and what they’re about.

The Anduin. From Elderslade to Belfalas: A detailed guide of the Great River. Think of those books about national parks.

Wildlife of Middle-Earth series. Volumes are specific to each region (Eriador, Rhovanion, Gondor. The newest in the series about wildlife in Gorgoroth and Haradwaith)

A Study of Flora: Tome about the characteristics of plants in various regions. Which plants are dangerous, edible, or healing. Lists of which plants that are invasive to specific regions when taken out of their natural habitat with an admonishment to gardeners who seek such (His largest book prob. Gets a little to passionate about the invasive plants section.)

Land Restoration from Evil Forces: A guide and study on how to help lands like Angmar and Mordor recover their historic biodiversity. Musings on the effects such places have on the minds of those who are hyper sensitive to the natural world. (Started work on this one after the fall of Sauron. A work in progress from the time he left Mordor for the North and back again to Imlad Morgul. Would leave unfinished until he explores the eastern parts of Mordor.)

The Eotheod: A tome about the early history of the Rohirrim. From the time they called themselves the Ai-thuda, to when Eorl the Young of the Eotheod became the first king of Rohan. (Written after his adventures with a rohirric scholar in the Wells of Langflood.)

Ruins of Ered Mithrin: A study on the abandoned places of the dwarves in the grey Mountains.

#TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH--*#/writing #cross posted from my oc blog

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paperdoe · 4 years

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I’ve mentioned in his bio that Daerhovan has written books on stuff he’s passionate about, and then started to wonder what those book titles would actually be and what they’re about.

Natural World

The Anduin. From Reikfoss to Belfalas: A detailed guide of the Great River. Think of those books about national parks.

Wildlife of Middle-Earth series. Volumes are specific to each region (Eriador, Rhovanion, Gondor. The newest in the series about wildlife in Gorgoroth and Haradwaith)

History

Ruins of Ered Mithrin: A study on the abandoned places of the dwarves in the grey Mountains.

#daerhovan #daerhovan bio #lotr oc's

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unpeumacabre · 6 years

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love is blindness: chapter 1

There was a click as Bilbo thrust open his door and glared out on Dwalin’s grave face. “Did Thorin send you?” demanded Bilbo, too incensed to care about propriety. “He wants to see you,” rumbled Dwalin. “He’s sorry.” “I like that!” shouted Bilbo. “Oh, I like that, very much! Well, you can tell the king, he can bloody well come and tell me himself, if he can find the time out of his busy schedule, and if it so pleases him!” and he slammed the door in Dwalin’s face. * Things have changed ever since Thorin's gold-sickness, and Bilbo no longer knows what to think of his relationship with Thorin. When he becomes the object of affections from a new dwarf friend of his, Thorin's seemingly-easy acceptance of their relationship both infuriates and confuses him. or, the one where Bilbo is courted, and Thorin doesn't want to interfere, bc he is NOT a dark fuck prince, and he wants Bilbo to be happy most of all.

there will be an eventual bagginshield happy ending though, don’t worry :)

Rating: General Audiences

Relationships: Bilbo/Thorin, Dwalin/Ori very slightly, at the end

Read on AO3 (bc tumblr messes up the formatting)

Count: 15k

next chapter is already done and will be out next week!

this started out as one sentence in my notes: i must counter dfp thorin somehow

& over the course of conversations w aidan (mistergoblin on ao3, @daddysdevito on tumblr) where we both ranted about our mutual hate for common portrayals of thorin and bilbo in fics, somehow i came up with this monster. so thank you aidan for the beta and for our conversations :) guys check him out, he's amazing

It all started with the gifts.

Or rather, Bilbo supposed, it started with Thorin Bloody Oakenshield. Had started with that dinner to celebrate the reclamation of the mountain, with the Ered Nimrais, Ered Luin, Iron Hills, Ered Mithrin and even Orocarni royalty in residence, when Thorin had lifted Bilbo’s hand to his mouth, and named him Khuzdbâha, Dwarf-friend.

Some days Bilbo could still feel a ghostly imprint of Thorin’s lips against the back of his hand. He rather thought Thorin had been drunk at the time, because there hadn’t been any such incidents since then.

So, yes, Bilbo supposed the whole affair started with Thorin’s hand in his, and the warmth of his smile…

A pompous knock on the doors of Mr Bilbo Baggins, Ringwinner, Luckwearer, Barrel-rider and Khuzdbâha, woke the hobbit from his slumber one early morning in June. Bilbo looked at the clock on his wall and groaned. Half-past five - a full half hour before he usually rose and took breakfast. What could possibly be so urgent as to demand his attention at so early an hour?

Pulling his dressing-gown tightly around him, he stumped grumpily to the door and yanked it open.

A little beardling of roughly forty years stood before his door, a wilful smile on his face and his hands outstretched. On his palms was placed a large war-helm, intricately decorated with sharp geometric designs and a veritable excess of rubies and diamonds and other unnameable stones.

Bilbo just squinted at it, and thought it was rather too early in the morning to face this sort of nonsense.

When a few seconds had passed with no response forthcoming from Bilbo, the beardling’s mouth twisted into a petulant scowl.

“A delivery for Bilbo Baggins,” he said, shoving the helm at Bilbo insistently. “Are you Bilbo Baggins?”

“Yes, but I fail to see…”

“Then this is for you, Mister Baggins, isn’t it?” the beardling said, rather pointedly this time. Bilbo took the package.

He watched the little dwarrow trot down the hall and disappear somewhere into the gloom. Bilbo wondered if the gift was, perhaps, from one of the members of the Company. Or, dare he hope, from a certain dwarf king?

The thing was, Bilbo had seen neither hide nor hair of that particular dwarf since that dinner with the dwarrows of the other clans. When Thorin had given Bilbo rooms in the royal wing, Bilbo had rather thought it had meant Thorin would be popping around occasionally for a drink or two.

Well, Thorin was busy. It wasn’t an easy task being the ruler of a kingdom rich in coin, but not in resources or people - not yet, at least. And these days it seemed like Thorin was far too busy to afford attention even to his dear friends, the dwarrows of the Company, much less time to spare for an unimportant hobbit like himself.

So Bilbo shut the door behind him, and went to find Balin.

The king’s advisor was always up before the crack of dawn, as was his custom, and so Bilbo’s knock on his door was answered promptly. He looked at the helm in Bilbo’s hand, and his face changed.

“I think you’d best come in, Bilbo,” he said kindly, and relieved Bilbo of the helmet. He set it down on an adjacent table and gestured for Bilbo to sit.

“Did you receive this gift this morning?” Balin asked, sitting down and offering a chair to Bilbo. Bilbo nodded. “It was delivered by a little beardling,” he answered. “Do you have any idea as to its origins? I have to admit, I’m completely stumped as to why anyone would wish to gift me with such a… such a… such an extravagant present. Is it anyone’s birthday today, perhaps? Or,” he continued slowly, his brow furrowing, “a practical joke? I must say, I thought most dwarrows rather above immature tricks like this…”

“It’s no prank, laddie,” Balin said, shaking his head, “neither is it a birthday present. It’s a courting gift. These designs on the helm are of the Ironfists, an eminent clan from the Red Mountains, and this sigil,” here he lifted the headpiece and indicated a small insignia imprinted in the centre of the helmet’s visor, “’tis the sigil of the dwarven prince Zdenek.”

“A courting gift?” Bilbo exclaimed, his mouth falling open in disbelief. “But I hardly even know the dwarf! Why, all I remember of him is that he sat across from me during Thorin’s celebratory dinner, and that he had a rather excessively-flamboyant coat. I spoke barely two words to him the entire evening!”

Balin looked at him. It was a pitying gaze. “One thing you must understand, Bilbo,” he said kindly, “is that for Thorin to name you Khuzdbâha - it was no small feat. Few outside our people are granted this title, and Thorin is a king especially known for his reticence and slowness to trust. As the new leader of Erebor, a kingdom rich in gold, Thorin is vulnerable, and there are many who would seek to take advantage of the trust he gives so rarely.”

“So what you mean by that…” Bilbo said slowly. “I am seen as a useful shortcut to influencing the throne of Erebor? But that’s ridiculous!” He found he suddenly had to sit down, and cover his face with his hands to hide his confusion. “I am hardly as dear a friend to Thorin as that,” he said, his voice forlorn. “There are others - you, Dwalin, the princes… even Óin and Glóin, as relatives to Thorin, would surely be seen as more suitable candidates through whom Thorin can be wooed.”

A hand rested gently on his back, and Bilbo looked up at Balin, whose eyes were as warm and understanding as ever. “I think you are underestimating the value Thorin places in you, Bilbo,” he murmured. “He values your friendship greatly. No less than before your giving of the Arkenstone to Thranduil and Bard.”

Privately Bilbo thought his words to be untrue. If his friendship were treasured by Thorin to such an extent, surely they would have seen more of each other in the past month, instead of the endless meetings and council sessions which had diverted Thorin’s attention. Surely the celebratory dinner would not have been the first time Thorin had gazed upon him with such warmth in his eyes (as it had been). Surely Thorin would have deigned to speak more than the word or two spoken in passing greeting to him over the past few months.

“Talk to him, laddie,” Balin advised. “Let him know of your troubles. For this will not be the last courting gift you receive unsolicited, and Thorin has the power to protect you from further propositions.”

Bilbo nodded, but in his heart he resolved to keep the matter to himself. Perhaps there would not be so many presents as all that. Surely Balin was exaggerating, the old pessimist that he was. And Bilbo felt sufficiently comfortable in the fact that, as a hobbit, his natural physical repugnance and oddities to the dwarrows who knew him not would outweigh any political capital gained with Thorin through his friendship. There would be no more gifts, he was sure.

There were more gifts. In copious amounts, and all in bad taste. It was absurdly clear, now that he knew what to look for, that none of these dwarrows sought to court him due to any interest in his personality, or who he was. Bilbo was gifted with necklaces dripping with precious stones that would have hung around his neck like millstones, bracers with intricate designs of which he understood little, and even a multitude of throwing daggers upon which he had almost cut himself. These were presents of an utterly unhobbitly nature, and as such he felt no qualms at all about very firmly telling the messengers who brought the gifts that they could take the presents and shove it right up the senders’ -

Unfortunately, the deluge of gifts did not slow, and in fact, seemed to grow larger by the day. Soon Bilbo began to recognise some of the repeat offenders by name. Prince Zdenek of the Orocarni was one, the dwarf who had sent the initial gift, and who was fond of gifting war implements Bilbo had absolutely no interest in using. Lady Ardris of the Iron Hills was another dwarrow who refused to take no for an answer, and sent increasingly-extravagant jewelleries on a daily basis. And then there was Lord Wili, a distant relative of Dain Ironfoot, who insisted on sending self-composed poems extolling the virtues of his dwarven axe and singing rhapsodies to Bilbo’s ‘jewel-laden caverns’.

At least the last poem had given Bilbo a bit of a laugh. Wili was, if anything, creative about the words he could get to rhyme with ‘mine-shaft’, and as a writer, Bilbo could admit to being entertained by bawdy word-play.

But enough was enough! It had gotten so bad that Bilbo had briefly considered raising the issue to Thorin because, as Balin had so kindly pointed out, if anyone could put a stop to it, Thorin could. When Bilbo and Ori had been discussing the restoration of the library one Tuesday afternoon, they had turned the corner and walked straight into Thorin and his retinue. Bilbo had opened his mouth to speak (because just that afternoon he had received a distinctly phallic-shaped gold fountain, and surely there was no going lower after that).

Then Thorin had noticed them and said, rather distractedly, “Ah - Ori and Master Baggins, good afternoon. Kolmar, if you have the estimates for the weaving guild, you can put those on my desk by tomorrow. And Tryggwi, gather the numbers for the mining expedition, you know how Bofur goes on if they’re not delivered on time - “

And Bilbo had promptly closed his mouth, his cheeks red, and scurried past the group of dwarrows.

Eventually, things came to the point that even Dwalin noticed, and came to speak to Bilbo about it.

“Laddie, ye’ve got to get Thorin to do something about this,” was the first thing he said. Bilbo glared at him.

“I’m not going to involve Thorin in this,” he declared. “I can handle it myself. It’s only a couple of dwarrows, after all.”

“What’re ye going to do?” asked Dwalin, and he sounded genuinely curious.

Bilbo huffed. “I’m going to… I’m going to give them a stern talking-to, that’s what I’ll do!” he exclaimed. “No hobbit should be disrespected like this. Why, if you could only see the awful THINGS people are giving me… oh, right, you tripped over one on your way in. That one’s from Wili. He’s fond of gifts with puerile, penile innuendoes. Perhaps it’s his name. Some sort of unconscious desire to prove himself worthy of such an epithet… but the point is, it’s not right, treating a good gentlemanly hobbit like this. I’m going to talk to them and… and… and tell them off!”

Dwalin nodded seriously. “Aye,” he said, “and when that fails, you’ll talk to Thorin?”

“I am not talking to Thorin Bloody Oakenshield!” fumed Bilbo.

“Why’re ye so opposed to asking Thorin to help ye out?” Dwalin asked. “Ye know he could solve this in a pinch. Be more than happy to, in my opinion.”

“Well, you have your opinion, and I have mine,” Bilbo sniffed. He abruptly wilted, and placed his hand on a nearby chair to steady himself. “And my opinion’s that I’ll not be bothering Thorin about this matter. Not when he’s so busy with the upcoming diplomatic expedition from the elves, and the three-month anniversary dinner for Erebor’s reclamation, and the million other things kings are responsible for. I’m not going to bother him about my problems, not when he has so much to do.”

“Laddie,” Dwalin rumbled, “ye know Thorin would drop everything at the drop of a dwarven war helm to help ye out. Especially if it concerns dwarrows courting ye against your will.”

“That’s not true,” said Bilbo, weakly. “If that were true, then why haven’t I seen - I thought, after the gold-sickness - no. He’s busy, Dwalin. I mustn’t bother him about these unimportant things.”

“He’s a fool,” said Dwalin sternly, disapprovingly.

“I refuse to talk about this anymore,” Bilbo said stubbornly, and stumped off to find elevenses. Honestly! Dwarrows! An empty-headed, dragon-licking, gravel-skinned bunch, the lot of them!

In the end Bilbo had no choice in the matter. He supposed it was a cruel twist of fate in recompense for the names he had called Dwalin in his head. Although he had felt rather sorry afterwards, and baked Dwalin a fresh batch of cookies as an apology.

The fact was, Bilbo had been happily going around his normal business, when he realised that his button had come off and fallen to the ground. Being fond of the golden buttons Dori had painstakingly sewn back onto his burgundy waistcoat, he had bent to retrieve the button, and in so doing, became privy to a conversation he would rather have avoided.

It seemed that dwarrows were, as with most other bigger races, not immune from the remarkable ability of hobbits to blend into the furniture. As Bilbo straightened up, he realised that firstly, he had stepped into a small, dark side alley sheltered from the main passageway. And secondly, that Prince Zdenek, of the Ironfist clan, had stopped just outside the entrance to the alley, and was in the middle of a very deep conversation with another dwarf.

“And he won’t accept any of your gifts? Disgraceful!” said the second dwarf, in a loud and rather scandalised voice.

“Yes, well, what can one do?” Zdenek said, with a magnanimous sigh. “It is difficult for a halfling to recognise the great honour heaped upon him when a dwarf of my eminence deigns to court him. Then again, it must be the prolonged exposure to those dwarrows of the house of Durin. A magnificent bloodline, that’s to be sure, but…” he leaned his head closer to the other dwarf’s, and, with a smug smile, made a circling motion with his finger round his head. “Recently a little touched in the head, no? Such a pity that so exalted a line should fall prey to the vagaries of illness.”

“They’ve always been a queer lot, the Longbeards,” said the other voice. Bilbo thought it rather a nasty voice, grasping and eager to please. “When they sought our help, I think you were right to turn them away. Your father was far too weak to do so. After all, what could they have offered us? They did not bring much of the mithril from Erebor with them, and even so, they are a jealous people. They would have kept the best of the lot, and saved us their meagre leftovers. Best that you sent them away before they could drag the rest of us down with them.”

Best that they left before they found themselves in a nest of vipers like yours! Bilbo snarled in his head. So Zdenek had been one of those responsible for refusing aid to the Ereborean refugees when they had been rendered homeless by Smaug. He was about to step out of the alley and challenge them to take their words back, when, suddenly, he felt a warm hand at his back.

Thorin stood behind him, accompanied by Dwalin and another guard, and dressed in his usual finery. His eyes were cold with fury, and his hand shook. Bilbo could feel the heat from his hand radiating through even the thick fabrics of his clothes, and he found that he could not move.

The conversation continued, Zdenek and his companion clearly unaware of the unseen listeners.

“But surely the gifts you gave the halfling were not crafted of your own hand?” asked the other unknown dwarf. “I do not recall seeing you in the forges of Erebor. Nor did you bring any of your crafts with you from Halrubínu.”

Zdenek scoffed, his tone derisive. “As if I would grace the palm of a queer-looking creature as that with the honoured works of my hands! What you speak of is errant foolishness, Stráhek. No, the halfling likely knows little of our most sacred customs, and will be happy enough with works bartered from other smiths.”

“Your marriage will bring great sadness to many of the dams and dwarrows who court you, my prince. And yet there are many also who strive to win the hand of the halfling. The gifts - ”

Zdenek waved his hand dismissively, and sneered down at Stráhek. “’Tis impossible for any dwarf to best Zdenek Keen-eye, prince of the Ironhills, slayer of the Orocarni. Once the halfling recognises my virtues he will all but grovel at my feet to earn my hand in marriage.” He sighed, and turned his attention to one of the many gemstone-encrusted rings that encircled his thick, stubby fingers. “The only thing I regret is that I should have to stoop to such heights to elevate the repute of our great house. To marry a halfling? And such odd, queer looking creatures they are too.”

Well, that was a little bit hurtful. Bilbo blinked, and unconsciously his hand clutched at his chest.

But the dwarf was not done with his tirade. “Those tales of the halfling’s bravery, and of how they earned him his place beside Thorin Oakenshield - I believe them not,” he scoffed. “It is plain he bought his way to eminence, not with gold, for he has none, but by the spreading of his loins. Why else would such an unworthy, unimportant, effably witless - “

Bilbo was bowled over. The hand burning a hole through his back abruptly disappeared, and Thorin swept past him in a flash of opulent purple robes. Zdenek was suddenly and quickly elevated above the ground, with Thorin holding his collar in a very firm, and unyielding, grasp. Stráhek let out a shriek and attempted to scuttle off, but was soon waylaid by Dwalin’s war-axes placed threateningly in his way.

“Lord Zdenek,” he said, and his eyes were as chips of ice. “I urge you to consider your next words very, very carefully. You speak of a hero of Erebor, one who carries the favour of the heirs of Durin, dwarrows who happen to be your liege.”

Zdenek spluttered. His face was turning a curious mottled colour, and his mouth moved shapelessly as if he were trying to form words. Heedless of his discomfort, Thorin yanked the dwarf closer, till they were nose to nose, and stared into his eyes.

“And what did you mean,” he said very softly, “when you said you were courting him?”

Bilbo stumbled to his feet and placed a hand on Thorin’s arm. Thorin started, abruptly, looking at Bilbo as if he had forgotten the hobbit was there, then almost unconsciously, his hand relaxed and Zdenek fell to the floor with an unceremonious thump. He coughed violently, clutching at his throat and staring with wide, fear-filled eyes at Thorin.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty!” he cried, scrambling hastily backwards on his bum as Thorin prowled towards him. “I - I knew not of which I spoke - I meant no disrespect to the halfling - “

“Dwalin,” Thorin said. There was a curious inflection in his voice that made Bilbo turn towards him, but Thorin was not looking at him. “Kindly return Lord Zdenek to his quarters. And please inform King Zdenka that the terms of our trade agreement may need to be renegotiated, and that I will meet him tomorrow in the council chamber to discuss our new terms.”

“But - you can’t do that!” screeched Zdenek. His gaudy robes had fallen off his shoulder in the scuffle. As a result he looked rather smaller, and strangely diminished, in Bilbo’s eyes, crouching ignobly at Thorin’s feet like a creeping loathsome worm. “The terms have already been negotiated! You cannot change your terms because - because of a halfling!” he spat.

“Your vitriol has no place in these halls, Master Dwarf,” Thorin said coldly. “I believe your father is the king, not you. I deal with dwarrows of calibre and nobility, Zdenek, qualities I am afraid you sorely lack, and I have not the time for spoiled princelings who seek to slander and defame one of my - one of this kingdom’s dearest friends. Dwalin?” he turned to the guard.

“With pleasure,” Dwalin growled. He gripped Zdenek’s shoulder, lifting him to his feet bodily and dragging him down the hall, along with a screeching and wailing Stráhek.

Only then did Thorin turn to Bilbo.

“You are unhurt?” he said, gently. Bilbo blinked, then looked down at himself in puzzlement.

“He did not touch me,” Bilbo answered, confused. Thorin let out a gravelly chuckle, tinged with surprise, as if the sudden moment of levity had startled even him.

“No, Master Baggins - I meant, did his words do you harm?”

“Oh! Well,” Bilbo paused and considered the question. The twinge that had appeared in his chest at Zdenek’s words had quite passed, soothed in the face of Thorin’s obvious ire on his behalf. He shook his head. “No, I’m quite alright. It would take rather more than Master Zdenek’s unkind words to irk me.”

“Good,” Thorin said quietly. “I am glad of that.”

There was a slow, sure warmth in Thorin’s eyes as he gazed upon Bilbo, a kind of curious tenderness which did funny things to Bilbo’s insides. It inspired some strange deep ache in Bilbo’s chest, for he had not seen that expression on Thorin’s face for quite some time, not since - not since -

It was quite a discomfiting feeling, so he cleared his throat and tried for a reassuring smile. “I assure you I’m quite alright. You don’t need to fuss over me so, Thor - Your Majesty.” He made the correction rather hastily, having always referred to Thorin by name in his head, but he suddenly thought the epithet more appropriate.

Immediately Bilbo regretted the change, for it was as if a wall had suddenly descended over Thorin’s eyes. Thorin stepped back, inclining his head formally, and Bilbo found himself fiercely missing the heat of his body.

There was a moment of awkward silence, as Thorin tried to recompose himself, and Bilbo called himself some rather rude names in his head.

“You did not tell me there were dwarrows courting you,” Thorin said at last. Bilbo started.

“Oh! Well - yes, I suppose I didn’t. To be honest, I thought I could manage the situation on my own, but just declining the gifts didn’t work. I don’t know why these confounded dwarrows insist on being so bloody stubborn - a no is a no, and repeatedly heaping me with gifts won’t change my answer! And to learn that dwarrows were courting me to earn favour with the throne of Erebor - why, it made me furious, it did, thinking that there were dwarrows out there trying to use you in such an underhanded way - well, Dwalin said - “ Bilbo realised he was wringing his hands in nervousness, and forced himself to tuck them back into the pockets of his waistcoat.

Thorin’s brows descended like a black cloud down upon his blue eyes. “Dwalin knew?” he growled, almost incredulously. “He did not tell me. Mahal, when I get my hands on that tree-humping, dung-eating - “

“Oh, no, no,” Bilbo was quick to reassure him, “it wasn’t Dwalin’s fault. I expressly forbade him from telling you.”

Thorin stopped moving, and just looked at him. It was a hurt expression, and Bilbo did not like the way it looked on Thorin’s face. He rushed to explain.

“I didn’t want to bother you - ” He stumbled over his words. “You were so busy and everything - with the elvish expedition, and the upcoming celebration, and what seemed like a thousand different things - you know, I barely even see you anymore! Well, that’s not your fault, I suppose. You’re off doing kinging things. I understand. I didn’t want to bother you with my tiny problem. I thought I’d be able to resolve it on my own, you see. Except, well, I couldn’t.” Bilbo thought it rather for the best that he left out of the explanation the awful feeling which had swept over him when Thorin had so casually brushed past he and Ori in the halls. After all, on later reflection, he had decided that the feeling was likely guilt at even having thought of bothering Thorin at this inconvenient time, and had dismissed the thought accordingly.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said softly, “I will always have time for you. I am truly sorry that I gave you cause to doubt this.” He looked rather forlorn and tragically regal at the same time, with his great shoulders drooping and his mouth twisted angrily.

Bilbo forced a smile, and patted his shoulder where he could reach. “It’s not your fault, Thorin,” he said, deciding it would be best to address Thorin as such before it resulted in more incidents of the sulking nature. “Now cheer up! This matter’s come to an end now, and we’ll not see any more of these rascally suitors, I hope. I do appreciate your help, Thorin,” he said earnestly, slipping his hand back into Thorin’s, and trying to ignore how right the sensation felt. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the incidents before.”

Thorin was looking down at their hands clasped together. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet Bilbo’s, and this time they were hard and unyielding as rock.

“No,” he promised, “they will certainly not bother you again.”

“No,” Bilbo said firmly. “One dwarf is quite enough.”

Thorin glared at him from under stormy brows. “Master Baggins,” he growled, drawing himself up to his full height, and around Bilbo, the guards cowered back instinctively. Thorin made an impressive figure when angered and fully roused. “You do not know these dwarrows like I do. For them to have pressed their suit on you so insistently, and completely unsolicited - they are clearly careless of your feelings, and might potentially do you harm. Although we cannot detain them - “ (though we certainly tried, his tone implied) “we can try our best to stave off any attack they might make on your person.”

“With four dwarf guards I’ll certainly stave off most dwarrows!” spluttered Bilbo, refusing to be cowed. He drew himself to his full height also - though admittedly far less intimidating - and crossed his arms, forcing himself to stare straight into Thorin’s eyes. “I most certainly refuse to be saddled with four guards. Firstly, I hardly believe any dwarf, even the ones who have shown me such discourtesy, would resort to physical force to convince me to accept their suit. No, I am far from important enough to warrant such measures.” He held up a hand to silence Thorin as the king tried to interrupt, and Thorin shut his mouth with a mutinous expression. “Second, there are far better things for the guards to be doing - we’re shorthanded when it comes to repairs and restorations as it is already! And lastly,” he added pointedly, “I can take care of myself, Thorin. You of all people should know that.”

Thorin ran his hand through his hair in frustration, having evidently given up on intimidating Bilbo into submission. “I know that!” he snarled. His voice abruptly became softer, quieter, and he stopped pacing around the room, to look at Bilbo. “And well do I know that, Master Burglar. But I can assure you that, while giving you four guards may seem a tad excessive to you, it would certainly make me -” he caught himself, coughed - “make us feel better. The dwarrows of the Company, I meant. It would make us feel better, to know that you were adequately protected against any threats.”

“ One guard, Thorin,” Bilbo said sternly. “You may pick the guard, if you like. But know that if you try to have me subtly followed by more guards I will not have it, and I will tell Dís that you expressly and knowingly disobeyed my request.”

“Dís would take my side,” Thorin muttered petulantly, but it was a moot point - both of them knew Dís would likely side with Bilbo in any argument, largely because she felt he was the only one in Erebor with any semblance of good sense.

“Fine,” Thorin said at last. “One guard it is then.” He leveled Bilbo with a narrow glare that said he was far from satisfied with the conclusion of the argument. Bilbo ignored it. The exhilaration and adrenaline thrumming through his veins from his discourse with Thorin were, at the same time, both strange and painfully familiar. He had had many such arguments with Thorin on their journey, of course, petty tiffs over pipeweed and dinner and who was to have first watch, but these interactions had been distinctly lacking since Thorin had assumed the mantle of King Under The Mountain. It had not occurred to Bilbo until now how much he had severely missed these little seemingly-insignificant moments.

Bilbo met Thorin’s eyes. They looked at each other for a moment, and suddenly Bilbo felt an ache in chest. Where did we go wrong , he wanted to ask. When I stole the Arkenstone from you? When you held me over the ramparts and threatened my life? When I looked in your eyes and realised I didn’t recognise the dwarf I saw standing in front of me?

The gentle light in Thorin’s eyes from the dying embers of the fire flickered and danced, and for a moment Bilbo’s eyes went to Thorin’s lips - he thought, no, he so dearly wanted -

“Your Majesty,” coughed one of the guards, and Bilbo had never wanted to kill someone so dearly in his life.

Thorin withdrew abruptly and turned away. “Yes?” he said, sounding completely unaffected, and Bilbo quietly lifted a hand to his chest to still the thundering of his heart.

“Lady Dís is here,” said the offending guard. Bilbo had some rather uncharitable thoughts about, say, picking up the poker from the dying fire, and perhaps, thrusting it straight through the blasted dwarf’s heart. That would teach him to interrupt when Bilbo and Thorin were -

Were what? Having a moment?

Bilbo suddenly realised he was being rather silly. He and Thorin did not have moments, goodness no. Thorin was a lovely heroic king with a regal birthright stretching all the way back to the first dwarf sent by Mahal, and a most attractive mien, and Bilbo was…

Well, he was a foolish old hobbit, that was all, and foolish old hobbits did not have moments with tragically beautiful kings.

Besides, the look in Thorin’s eyes had likely been exasperation at his stubbornness. Oh dear, Bilbo fretted, he did so hope he hadn’t offended Thorin. He never knew what to say to Thorin nowadays, and sometimes he did let his temper get the better of him, forgetting that things were not as they once were.

While he had known of Thorin’s blue blood and his exalted status while on the journey, it had never really sunk in, and he had been as insolent as he wished with Thorin, with few consequences. Now the reality of Thorin’s birth was far clearer, with that awful crown and his awful kingly robes and how his attention was split between Bilbo and what seemed like every Yavanna-damned dwarf in Erebor!

But Bilbo was being selfish, he realised. He could not expect to have as much of Thorin’s attention as before. Thorin had a responsibility to his people - he had always had - and it was simply the responsibility of a king to treat all his subjects equally. Bilbo ignored the sharp pain in his heart at the thought. Yes, he would simply have to accept the fact that he was no longer as important to Thorin as he had been before.

Perhaps it was all for the best, he told himself, and tried to surreptitiously wipe at the edges of his eyes. His betrayal had rather shaken Thorin, had shaken him deeply, made him doubt who he could and couldn’t trust. It was one of the few things Bilbo had regretted about the whole affair - causing Thorin pain, that was. He remembered Thorin’s expression as he had held him off the ramparts all too clearly.

Perhaps he should really try to stop calling Thorin by his name and start addressing him by his proper epithet. He did not know why it irked Thorin so - perhaps some strange fancy of his - but it was the proper thing to do, after all. Yes, he would have to stop thinking of Thorin by his name in his head as well. It was only proper to start calling Thorin the King Under the Mountain. Only it was such an awfully long name…

Oh, bother! Bilbo had to wipe at his eyes again. Thorin’s - the king’s - rooms really were uncommonly dusty. He should have a word with the chambermaids, to tell them to dust more often - or rather, he should tell Balin to tell the chambermaids. It was not proper for one of his status to comment on the state of the royal rooms, not proper at all…

Oh, Bilbo thought furiously, how he absolutely despised that word!

Bilbo was having his breakfast in his rooms when there was a knock at the door. He opened the door to find a stranger on his doorstep.

“Hello!” said the stranger. He was a very funny-looking dwarf indeed. He had on the uniform of the palace guard, but he wore a large blue scarf that covered his neck and most of his chin. His hair was bright yellow, like flax fibre, and hung in an elegant halo around his head. His beard was one of the simplest Bilbo had ever seen - barring the king’s, of course - with the hairs of his beard gathered in a loose knot with an iron clasp and peeking out the bottom of his scarf. He had a fair face, for a dwarf, with ruddy cheeks, a clever mouth, and warm brown eyes.

He smiled at Bilbo. It was a merry smile, and Bilbo found himself inexplicably smiling in return.

A beat of silence passed, and Bilbo was suddenly aware that he was wearing only his dressing gown, having been unprepared for company. He hastily pulled close the edges of the gown, feeling an uncanny sense of déjà vu, and cleared his throat.

“And you are…?” he asked politely, when it seemed there would be no name forthcoming.

Immediately the dwarf swept down into a merry bow, revealing a large hefty mattock strapped to his back. He stood upright again with much jingling of his armour and scraping of his leather garb.

“Oddvar, son of Virdar, at your service!” he said smartly. “I am to be your new guard, Lord Baggins.”

“Goodness!” Bilbo said uncomfortably. “Lord Baggins? Why, I am not so esteemed as that. You must call me Bilbo, since it appears we will soon be spending much time together. I am afraid I am not dressed for company, but if you don’t mind my rudeness, you might want to come inside for a cup of tea?”

“Well, strictly speaking, Master Bilbo,” Oddvar said, a very stern expression on his face, “us guards aren’t allowed into the royal quarters. We’re supposed to stay outside and watch for intruders and ruffians and the like, you see. But,” he said, and his face suddenly split into another of those likeable grins as he leaned forward with a conspiratorial air, “I certainly won’t say no to a strong cup of tea. Only if it is to stay strictly between us, Master Baggins. I’m sure you won’t go telling on me now, would you?”

Bilbo’s eyebrows shot up. Then he burst out laughing.

“You insolent dwarf,” he said, unable to hide his smile, “I hardly know you, and yet you presume to put on airs? Well, I suppose you simply must come in now.” He opened the door a little wider and Oddvar strode in, ducking to avoid the ceiling, as he was rather a tall dwarf.

He sat down at the low table where Bilbo had been taking his meal. Bilbo prepared another plate heaped high with scones and slathered with fresh butter and jam from Dale.

Oddvar was an uncommonly polite dwarf, for he thanked Bilbo for the meal, and ate neatly with little mess. Bilbo squinted at him.

“Are you sure you’re a dwarf?” he said skeptically. “I have never met a dwarf who didn’t have half of his food in his beard by the time he finished his meal.”

“I am indeed an uncommonly unusual dwarf,” said Oddvar solemnly, as he carried his plate to the kitchen and washed it up. Bilbo poured them both a cup of tea, and they sat at the table again.

“You are from Ered Luin?” asked Bilbo, watching Oddvar over the rim of his cup, and observing the way he fiddled absently at the clasp at the end of his beard as he drank his tea.

“I was one of the refugees from Erebor who settled in Ered Luin, yes,” Oddvar replied. “I would have joined the Company on their journey, for I was eager to reclaim our home, but for my mother. She was sick with consumption when the king sought my help, and I could not in good conscience leave her sick and helpless while I went gallivanting halfway across Middle Earth.”

“How awful,” Bilbo said, feeling the statement rather inadequate. “How is your mother now? Did she travel here with you?”

“She passed two months ago,” Oddvar murmured quietly.

“Ah.”

They sat together in quiet silence for a few moments, then Oddvar made a visible effort to perk himself up.

“Well, Master Bilbo,” he said, with a smile, “what will your schedule be like today? I imagine an important personage like yourself would have many responsibilities in and around the mountain?”

Bilbo shook his head, suddenly feeling self-conscious, and wrapped his hands tightly around the cup I his hands. “I don’t have many responsibilities in Erebor. Just a few visits to friends today, I’m afraid. I’m not a very important person, you see.” Then, to stave off the platitudes which often followed such statements when he made them to his friends, he hurriedly added, “I suppose you know the reason why you’ve been employed as my guard?”

Oddvar nodded vigorously. “Overeager dwarrows hoping to cement their position and gather favour with our esteemed king through gaining your hand,” he growled. “You mustn’t fear, Master Bilbo. I will take good care to protect you from any unwanted solicitations.”

Bilbo waved his hands around in the air eloquently. “Nonsense!” he said, in a dismissive tone. “I’m quite sure it will amount to nothing, and that I’ll have wasted a large part of your time. Frankly, I find it hard to believe that any dwarrows would be driven to take action against me simply because I spurned their suit.”

“I think you quite underestimate your own attractiveness, Master Bilbo,” replied Oddvar, cocking his head and smiling. “We of Ered Luin have heard the tales of the role you played in the reclamation of Erebor, and many were present when King Thorin named you Khuzdbâha. ‘Tis a great honour none have been given since the time of Durin the Third, for we dwarrows are a fiercely private race who hold our secrets close within our kin and our peoples, and your title is surely an indication of the high esteem you are held in by our king.”

Bilbo felt rather pleased by the praise, although he rather thought Oddvar’s estimation of his importance in Thorin’s eyes rather exaggerated.

“Be that as it may,” he said primly, “most of my time is now spent in idleness.”

He averted his eyes and stared into the fire. “I wish I had my garden again. When first the dwarrows came to Bag End it was the height of spring, and the snapdragons were but freshly-bloomed. I wonder how my gardenias are doing,” he murmured, now mostly to himself. “Quite a fuss my mother made, when my father planted those fickle plants. Difficult to care for, and as capricious as the worst hobbit lass, and yet when they bloomed the fall my parents passed they were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.” His memories of that autumn were clear as crystal - the snowy blossoms of the gardenias blooming hesitantly from the thick green shrubs at the edge of his father’s plot, the cold crisp air of the nights, the tears he had shed sitting on the bench in front of Bag End and remembering the sound of Belladonna’s laughter.

He hadn’t thought about his parents for a while. Hadn’t thought about his garden and his father’s beautiful gardenias, hadn’t thought about his lovely empty smial all dusty and quiet without his care, hadn’t thought about his soft armchair and his plush carpets and the old musty map of Rivendell hanging in his father’s study.

Perhaps he ought to start a garden. Certainly Erebor needed more greenery and growing things. He was going to go mad one of these days, surrounded with nothing but cold, silent rock and the artificial bright light of the crystal lamps. He needed the sun, the birdsong, the feeling of soil sifting under his bare feet; for he was a hobbit, and hobbits were not made to spend their lives in mountains and under stone.

He would ask Thorin - no, no, he would ask Balin. He would not trouble the king with this. He already felt somewhat of a burden, what with the whole courting debacle, and was now rather furious at himself for making a fuss out of what would surely have tided over in a few weeks if he’d just kept a level head and not blurted everything out to the king the moment he’d been questioned on the matter -

“You have worked with plants?” Oddvar said, and Bilbo’s head snapped around. He had completely forgotten about the other dwarf’s existence, and the question startled him.

It took him a few seconds to compose himself, before he could answer.

“I had a garden back - back in Bag End. In Hobbiton,” Bilbo answered, politely.

Oddvar leaned forward with a quick movement, propping himself on his knees and with a sparkle in his brown eyes which, now that Bilbo thought about it, contained a hint of a very familiar mischief. “You don’t say!” he exclaimed. “Master Bilbo, I must admit, I accepted this post partly out of curiosity, for halflings are such strange creatures - never before have I met a halfling, and I dearly wish to know more about you and your curious folk. Would you tell me more about yourself? That is,” he added with a grin, “if I’m not being too insolent. I wouldn’t like to offend you, after all, Master Bilbo.”

His excitement was contagious, and Bilbo found his mood unexpectedly bolstered. He smiled, glad of the distraction from his strange maudlin mood, and the unexpected interest in his species, for not many dwarrows outside the Company had expressed such attentiveness to him, and even deigned to speak to him. So it was thus that he began his lecture.

“Well, Master Oddvar, for a start, we do not like being called halflings, for we are not half of anything, much less men, who coined the derogatory term. It is far more polite to refer to us Shire-folk as hobbits, supposedly from the old Westron word Holbytlan…”

Unexpectedly, the king sought Bilbo three days later, and invited him for a meal in his quarters.

“I feel that I have been remiss in my treatment of you,” Thorin told him, in a rather intense sort of way, having cornered him in his chambers as Bilbo prepared to set out to meet Balin for luncheon. “You are a friend of mine, and yet I have not spoken to you proper since - well, since - “

“Yes, quite,” said Bilbo hastily, as he sensed that Thorin was about to say something maudlin, involving a topic which both were quite determined to avoid. “Tomorrow? I will be there.”

“Tomorrow, yes,” agreed Thorin. “And perhaps we could make it a weekly feature?” he murmured quietly, almost shyly. Bilbo blinked in surprise at the unexpected invitation.

“Oh - well, of course,” he said, and ventured a smile at Thorin. “I would love to have dinner with you tonight, Your Majesty.”

Thorin returned his smile, but it looked brittle and strangely sad. “Good,” he said, and took an abortive step forward, as if he had wished to come closer, but had ultimately thought better of him. Bilbo hovered awkwardly at the door, unsure if Thorin had more to say to him, or if they were done.

“If that’s all - “

“Bilbo - “

They spoke at the same time, and cut off their sentences abruptly. Bilbo stared at Thorin, feeling sweat bead on his brow. Thorin made a strange gesture with his hand, somewhere between a gesture forward and an exasperated wave of his hands, and Bilbo took it as his cue to speak.

“Balin’s expecting me,” he said, feeling his fingers tighten where they held onto the edge of the door. “I’ll just - I mean, we’ll see each other tonight, won’t we?”

“Yes. Yes, we will,” Thorin said, his smile looking more like a grimace now. He stood and edged his way out past Bilbo, where Oddvar stood, looking curiously at the both of them. “Good morning, Master Baggins. I look forward to seeing you tonight.”

When he had shut the door behind Thorin, he suddenly turned to Oddvar, who had followed him back into his rooms.

“When I’ve finished luncheon with Balin,” he said, realising his tone was unusually brusque, and making an effort to soften its edge, “won’t you show me round Erebor? I haven’t actually seen most of it, you know. I’d like to see some of the rooms which have been restored.”

Oddvar’s raised eyebrows registered his surprise, although he nodded. “But, Master Bilbo…” he ventured. “There are far more qualified dwarrows to be your guide. Lord Balin, perhaps, or one of the dwarrows from the Company. Or King Thorin himself. For him to visit you personally and invite you to dinner…”

Bilbo frowned. “I know not why I received such an invite,” he admitted, “although I must say it is both welcome, and extremely confusing! Why, I haven’t received such overtures of friendship from the king since we had - since we had our argument.”

“You mean, during his gold sickness, when he found out you gave the Arkenstone to King Bard?” asked Oddvar.

Bilbo looked sharply at him. “How did you know that?” he said, leveling him with a suspicious gaze. Surely there were few who knew of the events on the battlements that day. Where could Oddvar, a simple guard from Ered Luin, have heard about the incident?

“Oh - er, I’ve heard things here and there,” Oddvar said quickly, although he wasn’t quite quick enough to hide the startled flash in his eyes. Bilbo side-eyed him dubiously, but he met Bilbo’s gaze with an all-too-innocent smile.

“Hmm,” Bilbo said at last. He had too little time to ponder on this mystery, for Balin awaited him in his chambers, but he would certainly think on this further. What an interesting dwarf Oddvar, son of Vidar, was turning out to be…

Dinner with Thorin was a quiet and peaceful affair. Bombur, now the head chef of Erebor, served them dishes of dwarf-make but with hobbit-y touches, such as a delicious seed cake baked from Bilbo’s own recipe, and a lovely vegetable stew which Thorin made a valiant effort to get through. While their conversation had started out stilted and awkward, Bilbo was delighted that, over the course of the meal, their words flowed more easily, and a semblance of their past relationship began to return.

After the meal they retired to the armchairs by the fire. Bilbo began to stuff the barrel of his pipe and peeked at Thorin, sitting opposite him, from under his lashes. Thorin was puffing quietly at his pipe, his eyes closed, and humming in contentment.

“I hear you’ve spoken to Balin about setting up a garden in Erebor,” Thorin said, suddenly. Bilbo nodded.

“Yes, he said I could set it up on the eastern side of the mountain. There’s a little alcove there which isn’t being put to use, so he gave it to me. You… You don’t have any objections, do you?” Bilbo asked hesitantly.

Thorin shook his head and exhaled, the smoke pouring from his lips in a rather decadent fashion. Bilbo felt himself starting to sweat under his waistcoat. The fire was burning low, the flickering flames casting shadows along Thorin’s ruddy skin.

“It will be difficult to set up a garden in a mountain,” he said at length, “though it is not without precedent.”

“Yes, Balin told me,” Bilbo replied eagerly. He had been so enthused by the notion of his very own garden that he had practically bombarded Balin and Ori with questions as to how it might be arranged. “There was a garden in Moria, supplied with light by strategically placed mirrors and crystals, and rather elaborate, by all accounts. I thought I might take inspiration from there as to the finer logistics of the matter.”

Thorin nodded, his gaze fixed intently on the fire. “The gardens of Tharâkh Bazân, the jewel of Khazad-dûm,” he said, his voice quiet and far away. The Khuzdul words sent a shiver down Bilbo’s spine, said as they were in the deep guttural rumble of Thorin’s voice. “Though I know little of plants and trees, even I have heard of these gardens. ’Tis named Durin’s Garden in Westron, for Durin in his first incarnation built it deep within the passages of Durin’s Way. Although dwarrows may happily live their whole lives under the depths of a mountains, even the hardiest of us sometimes long for the touch of the sun on our faces, and the sight of the green things that grow on this earth. Thus Durin constructed this most magnificent of gardens, with help from the elves of Eregion - or Hollin, as it was then known.’

‘He filled it with the rarest and most exotic of trees and blossoms, and throughout all corners of the garden he installed great pools with water clear and cold, taken from the springs that feed naturally into the base of Zirakzigil. Over the years, the walls were etched with tales of the dwarven heroes who had made their mark in the battles of the Second and Third Ages against the Orcs of Gundabad and Angmar. In the centre of the garden was there placed the statue of my ancestor, the last king of Moria - Náin the First, who fell by the hand of the Balrog that slaughtered his father. Before we lost our kingdom, it was many a lore-master and academic who visited Khazad-dûm to look upon the many beautiful and rare plants that were so arranged in Tharâkh Bazân. It was the envy of many races, and one of the prides of our people - that, even deep underground, the masterful craftsmanship of the dwarrows could bring forth green things to grow, and that they could survive under our untutored hands.”

By this time, his eyes were half-closed, the tone of his voice dreamy and reverent. It was as if in his mind’s eye he saw the great halls of Moria once more before him, those soaring ceilings and the weathered carvings on the walls of his ancestral home, which he knew and loved purely from the stories of his scholars alone. As Thorin spoke, Bilbo had a sudden vision of this named underground garden.

Although he had never looked upon it in his life, and never would, he could picture its magnificence now, in his mind, and more. He could imagine the beautiful plants and flowers which had once blessed those hallowed grounds, and which had surely fallen into disrepair and neglect. But although the image was inspiring, he rather thought for his garden -

Thorin suddenly opened his eyes as if he had heard Bilbo’s thoughts, and his eyes were very blue indeed as they gazed intensely into Bilbo’s own.

“But of course,” he murmured, “your garden will be a hobbit garden. Simple, and useful, and beautiful in its simplicity. Without dwarven splendour and flamboyance. I think that is altogether a good thing.”

Bilbo cleared his throat. “Well, yes - of course, my own endeavour would not be so ambitious. I hardly see my little hobbit garden filled with statues of dwarven kings and heroes and all. Just a simple affair, as you said - some herbs, flowers if I can find any, plants I had in Bag End, that’s all.”

“The resources of Erebor are at your disposal,” Thorin said formally. “Gold will be no object. You have a hard-won obligation to our treasure, after all.”

“Yes, I had thought of asking Bard for some transplants from Dale, and perhaps even the elves. Say what you will about them, they do have a way with plants, and I do need all the help I can get. As for the irrigation and lighting and all, Balin has been more than helpful in offering the aid of Erebor’s architects and smiths.”

“Hmm,” Thorin said. It was a pleased hum that reverberated around the room. “You must show me the garden once it is complete. While I am no connoisseur of plants or other growing things, I would be honoured if you were to show me the fruits of your labours.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said, suddenly finding himself rather breathless.

“It is good that you are finding something to do,” Thorin said softly. His eyes glinted in the firelight. “I had worried that you would be bored in Erebor, for I know you find little interest in our dwarvish hobbies and ways.”

There wasn’t really anything Bilbo could say to that, so he hummed in reply and blew out a smoke ring of a diameter he was rather proud of.

“And how is Oddvar?” Thorin asked, tapping his pipe against the arm of his armchair to get rid of the ash.

The thought of that strange dwarf brought an involuntary smile to Bilbo’s face. “He really is a most curious dwarf indeed!” Bilbo exclaimed. “I asked him to guide me about Erebor this afternoon, after I took my luncheon with Balin, and he brought me to the auction halls, of all places. Although it is only half-restored, already it is bustling with merchants and vendors from the dwarf settlements. It was a pleasant change to see the halls so filled with life, when previously it was laid waste to by Smaug. He took me to the food stalls to sample dwarven cuisine. I did not know Erebor specialised in ham, although it was an enlightening experience to try ham cured in the halls of the Lonely Mountain, certainly one no other hobbit can boast! And there was a quite strange dish, I think brought from as far as Dorwinion - some sort of pickled bat organ - I shudder to think what it could have been, though Oddvar assured me it was an exotic delicacy craved by many.’

‘He really was awfully kind, you know. He gave me this - “ Bilbo took out a package from his pocket and unfolded it, revealing a brooch worked with intricate designs of a purple gardenia. “He says he was quite inspired by my speech the other day on the beauty of my father’s gardenias, and was moved to craft this brooch for me last night! Although how he found the time to craft it I will never guess. Look, isn’t it beautiful?” he said excitedly, brandishing the brooch towards Thorin.

Although Thorin had been regarding him with a rather indulgent smile up until this point, as Bilbo proffered the brooch towards him, the smile fell from his face and his eyes seemed to harden.

“A fine piece of work indeed,” he said, with a blank expression on his face, and made no move to take the brooch.

Bilbo frowned at him. “You don’t want to take a closer look?” he pressed. “Why, I met Dori on the way here and showed him it, and he said it was marvellous indeed - in fact, I could hardly get him to part with it and return it to me, so taken was he with its beautiful craftsmanship! I did not know Oddvar was such a masterful craftsman. Perhaps I should commission him to make a gardening pail for my new garden. Something not too ostentatious, something simple and robust, that I could use…”

“I will make the pail for you,” Thorin said firmly. He dropped his pipe carelessly onto the floor and leaned closer.

“Master Baggins,” he said earnestly, his hands closing over Bilbo’s and hiding the brooch from view, as if he could not bear to look upon it, “I beg you to remember, you must be careful. Remember that there are many dwarrows who seek to win your favour and take advantage of you.”

Bilbo blinked up at him, and decided the appropriate reaction would be to give a nervous laugh. “That’s absurd,” he said. “Oddvar’s not - he’s not like the other dwarrows. He’s not trying to gain my favour in an underhanded way. Although I’ve only known him for three days now, I consider myself a good judge of character, you know. He’s - I’m sure he’s just being friendly and trying to get me to feel comfortable here, that’s all.”

Yavanna knows he’s done more towards that quarter than some I might name , he thought, although he immediately regretted his spiteful thoughts.

Thorin’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t say anything in reply, and leaned back into his chair. Bilbo felt the mood rather spoiled by this, and he stared into the fire, the earlier ease of his words lost. There was a silence for a good long while after that, not the comfortable silences of dinner, but a heavy one, heavy with words unspoken and unwilling.

As a result, Bilbo excused himself rather earlier than he would have liked. As he rose to leave, and stood by the door to say goodnight, Thorin abruptly came round the table and laid a hand on his arm.

“I apologise, Master Baggins,” he rumbled, and Bilbo felt a little dizzy from his proximity. “I must admit, my concern for you sometimes manifests in unpleasant ways. I am sorry if I caused you any discomfort.”

He had a contrite expression on his face, and Bilbo found himself softening. He patted Thorin’s arm rather awkwardly. “Well, no harm done, I suppose,” he said, shaking his head. “Just, I think you’re completely wrong about Oddvar, you know. He’s a good dwarf. Or I assume you know so, seeing as you’re the one who employed him to guard me, after all.”

“Dís was the one who recommended him to me,” Thorin said, looking still unhappy about the whole affair. “If it were up to me…”

“Yes, yes, I know, if it were up to you I’d be surrounded by four dwarrows watching over my every movement, every hour of the day,” Bilbo replied, smiling and meaning it as a joke, but he sighed as Thorin’s expression became even more forlorn and crestfallen. Wishing to end their evening not on so dour a note, he patted Thorin’s arm again - a rather patronising gesture, he now thought - and gazed up at him.

“I’ll see you next week then, Thorin?” he said quietly, deciding that perhaps, just this once, he could ignore his inner resolution to refer to Thorin by his kingly epithet. True to form, as Thorin’s name left his lips, the eyes of the king in question became warm and liquid as he looked intently down upon Bilbo. Thorin opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then he seemed to think the better of it, and smiled at Bilbo again. It was one of his genuine smiles, Bilbo had learned. Thorin’s smiles were few and hard-won, and once - long ago - before the whole gold-sickness debacle - Bilbo had made it a secret project of his to chronicle all of Thorin’s smiles.

Not many people noticed, but Thorin had crow’s feet lining the edge of his eyes, despite his relatively younger age, but perhaps not so unexpected if one considered that he had been orphaned young and left to fend for his people with few of his family left beside him. When Thorin smiled, the lines by his eyes would crinkle, ever so slightly, so while his mouth barely moved, one could tell he was smiling, if one knew him well, just by looking at his eyes.

It kindled all sorts of funny feelings inside Bilbo, deeply-buried feelings he had no desire to explore, so he quickly dismissed them and left the rooms with a hurried goodnight to Thorin.

Oddvar was standing outside Thorin’s rooms, chatting amiably with another of the guards. They both snapped to attention and looked rather guilty as Bilbo opened the door and stepped out, but although Thorin looked rather severely at the two of them, Bilbo simply laughed and gestured to Oddvar to follow him. He had learnt by now that Oddvar had a cheerful and voluble personality which was difficult to extinguish.

As they walked slowly down the passageway towards Bilbo’s rooms, Bilbo turned his head slightly to look back, an almost unconscious motion. The last he saw of Thorin was that large, regal figure, standing outside the doors to his rooms, one hand braced on the door frame, and his eyes hooded as he stared after Bilbo’s retreating back.

He was lit from behind by the firelight, and Bilbo had to suppress an involuntary shiver. Perhaps those feelings he had spoken of before were not so deeply-buried, after all.

As Bilbo had told Thorin, the location where his garden would be was in a small unused room which had previously been used for storage, and as such was located near the edge of the mountain to keep the temperature of the room low. There was a window situated quite high up on the wall, but Balin had told him that with the right angling of mirrors and the like, the chamber would be sufficiently well-lit for plants to grow.

Right now, the room was empty of any sort of equipment needed to set up his garden. The floor was paved with stone, so when he had first inspected the room the day after his dinner with Thorin, he had decided that the first order of business would be to lay down a deep layer of soil after stripping away the stone. With some careful planning, he was sure that the room could be turned into a nice little hobbit garden indeed.

When the materials arrived from Dale and the Elvenking’s Halls, Bilbo set to work arranging the garden. Although he had insisted that the builders take Erebor’s reconstruction as their priority, Balin had told him in no uncertain terms that Thorin himself had ordered them to focus on fulfilling Bilbo’s demands. After all, Balin had said reasonably, there were plenty of other builders to work on the restoration, and a few bodies would hardly be missed.

Thus it was that the architects and workers had toiled hard the past few days to deliver on Bilbo’s vision, and as a result the previously-dark and dank room was now filled with a warm, soft light filtering in from the window up high and reflecting off mirrors placed strategically on the walls. A path had been clearly paved based on Bilbo’s blueprint, and was surrounded on all sides by a deep, thick layer of soil suitable even for planting trees.

Bilbo smiled a pleased smile as he felt the sensation of the cracks in the paving stones under his feet. It was a welcome feeling, reminiscent of his own garden. Although he had not yet been born when Bag End was being built, the house having been a gift from Bungo to Belladonna to mark their wedding, he did remember how the garden had evolved over time. He remembered how, with each birthday of Bilbo’s, Bungo had laid down new paving stones to newer areas of the garden, and encouraged Bilbo to arrange the new plot of land as suited his imagination and his whims.

A few days ago Bilbo had written to Hamfast and told him of his decision to stay at Erebor permanently, where he belonged. He had added that he was leaving Bag End to his cousins Drogo and Primula Baggins, who had been newlyweds ere his abrupt evacuation from the Shire, and that Belladonna’s set of silver spoons and china set were to be given to the Gamgees as thanks for their years of loyal service.

It had also given Bilbo great pleasure to write that he wished to, in all sincerity and with all his love, donate to his favourite cousin Lobelia Sackville-Baggins that lovely figurine of a female wolfhound which had sat atop his mantelpiece next to his silver spoons for twenty years ever since it had been given him for his thirty-first birthday by his grandmother Laura Baggins, as he had found the resemblance between dearest Lobelia and that majestic figurine most uncanny. She had been admiring it most assiduously, after all, the twenty times she had invited herself to his humble abode to gently remonstrate with him about his life choices and his besmirchment of the Baggins name, and he was sure that she would make far better use of it than he!

The one thing he would truly regret the most about not returning to Bag End was that he would never get to see Lobelia’s reaction. Oh, perhaps she would keel over in shock, and that would be one problem solved for the rest of the inhabitants of the Shire. Well, a hobbit could certainly dream, couldn’t he.

He had also written to Hamfast and asked for some seeds from his garden, specifically seeds from Bungo’s gardenias, the barberry bushes around the edge of his garden, and some from the artichokes which had won him the Hobbiton village prize three years in a row. The missive had been delivered by raven, a large black bird named Linouac, who had side-eyed him most alarmingly at first before bending her head and snatching the message from him with her large claws. Bilbo hoped she wouldn’t give Hamfast too severe a shock when she delivered his letter, and hopefully he would receive his seeds from Hamfast in a month or so.

In the meantime, he had obtained several seeds from Bard and Thranduil. From Dale he had received simpler plants, broad beans and figs and sweet peas, which had been taken from Dale’s budding farmlands. Being the contrary arse that he was, Thranduil had sent simple herbs like parsley, sage and thyme, but coupled with exotic flowers completely unsuited to growing in limited sunlight. Bilbo sighed, and set those aside for a future project.

Oddvar had wandered into the garden after him, and was watching him curiously as he rooted around in the ground, placing the parsley seeds on top of the soil and sprinkling with a light dash of water from his pail. It was a beautiful shiny new watering pail, which had been delivered by Dwalin a day ago, and shaped, apparently, by Thorin. Although Bilbo feigned distress and concern that he had been an unnecessary diversion of Thorin’s valuable time, secretly he had felt rather happy at the gift. Evidently, when Thorin made a promise, he kept it, and Bilbo had carefully tucked the pail away in his closet for use when the seeds arrived.

“This is an odd-looking garden indeed,” Oddvar said mildly, after watching Bilbo trundle happily around his garden for a while.

“Odd-looking in what way?” Bilbo asked, making a mark on his blueprint where he intended to set up a crystal light.

Oddvar looked around with a faintly puzzled look on his face. “Well… It is not a dwarven garden, that is all. Nor is it an elven one, or a garden after the fashion of men. In our travels here from Ered Luin we saw many gardens along the way, many decorated with statues of stone and elaborate fountains, and in the case of men, strange deformed carvings which were intended to resemble goblins - or g-nomes, as they were called. Although you have had dwarven builders working on this day and night for the past few days, I see that you do not intend to place any of such decorations in your garden.”

“Well, Master Oddvar,” Bilbo said merrily, “this is a hobbit garden, might I remind you, not a dwarf garden, or an elf garden, or indeed one built by men. We hobbits are simple folk, and we see no need to augment the natural beauty brought by our fruits and vegetables and flowers, with artificial ornaments. No, keep it plain and keep it simple, is what my father always told me, and I intend to follow his advice.”

Oddvar still seemed ill at ease with the garden, and poked suspiciously at one of the plain walls. “Are you sure you would not like a carving done into the walls?” he pressed. “Perhaps one telling of your riddles with Smaug, or your forays against the spiders of the Mirkwood, or your prowess upon the battlefield of Erebor? You know I am a smith myself, and I am myself loath to leave so bare and valuable a canvas empty.”

“Well, my garden won’t appeal to many a dwarf, I’ll wager,” said Bilbo loftily, “but all the same I think I’ll keep it as it is. There were no gaudy stone statues or self-aggrandising carvings in my garden in Bag End, and I rather think I’ll keep it that way.”

Oddvar shrugged, and leant against the wall next to the entranceway. “It is your garden, after all, Master Bilbo,” he said, smiling, “and while I confess I do not understand the charm an unadorned chamber holds, if it holds value to you, then it is yours to do with as you please. Only - do not expect many a dwarf to seek this garden out at their leisure, is all.”

“You might be surprised,” Bilbo sniffed, and turned back to planting his begonias. Privately he agreed with Oddvar as to his last point - many of the dwarrows he had spoken to regarding his project had been skeptical, and often over-solicitous, regarding his decision to keep his garden to more of a hobbit style. Even Ori had tried to subtly suggest placing a small effigy of himself or his parents on a pedestal in his garden, an alarming notion Bilbo had immediately dismissed.

Well, many of the dwarrows, except for Thorin. Thorin’s easy acceptance of his decision, and indeed his broaching of the subject, had surprised Bilbo greatly. He had not expected Thorin to take his side in the matter, and it had been a pleasant surprise when he had done so.

Bilbo frowned to himself. It was a mystery, that was for sure, and one he found difficult to penetrate.

Oh, well. There was work to do on his garden, and Thorin was a mysterious, implacable, absolutely frustrating creature, as he always had been. Bilbo resolved to turn his attention to other matters, and indeed spent the rest of his afternoon quietly and happily tending to his burgeoning garden.

The next time Oddvar joined Bilbo in his garden, he had a gift for Bilbo.

“Oh, Oddvar! This is absolutely lovely!” Bilbo exclaimed, holding up the bracelet to the light. Privately he thought it a tad cumbersome and heavy to wear, but the roses carved out of amethyst on its clasp were truly a thing of wonder. He squinted at the intricate designs on the bracelet, which was fashioned after a twisting vine with red blossoms of roses and other fanciful, imagined plants (Oddvar was clearly no connoisseur of growing things). Then he realised that, like the brooch of gardenias, there were the cirth runes for ‘o’ and ‘w’ carved minutely into the gold.

“Oddvar,” he said sternly, “how have you had time to make yet another present for me? You barely leave my sight! Have you been shirking your duties? Or, perhaps, exerting yourself while you were supposed to be asleep? I cannot decide which is the lesser sin.” For Oddvar only left Bilbo’s side with another silent, sombre guard in his place during the night and early hours of the morning.

The dwarf shuffled his feet awkwardly, suddenly refusing to make eye contact with him. His normally ruddy cheeks flushed even further, and he tightened his jaw, as if unwilling to speak.

“It was no great trouble,” he said at last, through gritted teeth. “I… I already had the mould for the bracelet ready. It was a simple matter to pour the gold into the mould and add the roses. I hope you like it.” He glared fiercely at the ground, and suddenly Bilbo was reminded of Kíli when he had been caught trying to sneak his ‘pets’ into Bilbo’s room for safekeeping. He could not help but laugh at the image.

“I forgive you, Oddvar, though there was no great offence to forgive,” he said playfully, and dared to rest his hand on Oddvar’s arm. “’Tis a beautiful and fine piece of work. I appreciate it very much. Thank you.” To show just how much he appreciated it, he lifted his hand and slipped the bracelet over his fingers and onto his wrist, where the metal lay cool against his skin.

Oddvar looked up sharply. Bilbo started, wondering if something was wrong, but suddenly Oddvar’s face smoothed over, a mischievous smile formed on his face.

“Don’t I get a reward, then?” he asked cheekily. “For my hard work?”

The twinkle in his eye was so reminiscent of Bofur’s that Bilbo had to stifle another laugh. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly and shook his head with a smile.

“Alright then, you insolent dwarf,” he said, “I wonder what reward you demand?”

“A hug,” Oddvar replied, after a short deliberation. “I have heard from those in the know that your hugs are a great treasure, given few and far between, and I would consider it a fine payment for my hard work indeed!”

Bilbo raised his eyebrows at the audacious request. A hug? Why, the gall of this dwarf, to ask for such intimacies! But, then again, it was such a beautiful piece of work, and he did very much like Oddvar and his cheer and the idiosyncrasies of his odd personality… Surely a hug would be no great imposition. A hug between friends, that was all, nothing harmless at all.

“Alright,” he said, with a put-upon sigh. “Come here, you big lummock.” He lifted his arms and wrapped them around Oddvar, who smelled, oddly enough, of smoked ham and a little bit of camembert cheese.

There was a sudden thud from behind him, and Bilbo startled, but Oddvar’s grasp was tight around him.

“What was that?” he said sharply, when he had successfully wriggled out from Oddvar��s hold. “Did you hear that? It sounded like someone - ” He turned around, fully intent on marching into the corridor, where the sound had originated.

“MUSHROOMS!”

Bilbo jumped about a foot in the air, and spun around to face Oddvar again, who had uttered the proclamation. He had a slightly panicked look on his face.

“What?” Bilbo exclaimed.

Appearing to compose himself, Oddvar offered him a quick smile. “Mushrooms,” he said in a more reasonable tone. “I was craving mushrooms. Shall we stop by the marketplace and see if Fathi is selling those marvellous mushrooms we sampled the other day?”

Bilbo frowned, and moved towards the corridor. “Just a moment,” he said, “I thought I heard - “

“No!” Oddvar shouted, grabbing his shoulder and stopping him where he stood. “I - I want mushrooms now. I am urgently craving Fathi’s mushrooms. Please, Master Bilbo, I am almost fainting from hunger. Shall we go to the marketplace? It might have just been a cave crawler, or one of those awful gredbyg, after all.”

Bilbo looked at him dubiously. Perhaps he was a trifle daft, a few peas short of a pod - or perhaps he did simply have a sudden craving for mushrooms. Bilbo himself did occasionally experience sudden desires for food, especially when the dish was as good as Fathi’s Fried Frostcaps…

“Very well,” Bilbo said at last, although he cast one last suspicious look at the corridor. The journey with the Company had taught him to ever be on his guard, and to always trust his instincts, but he supposed that if Oddvar, a trained guard of Erebor, hand-selected by Dís and Thorin to guard him, had dismissed any danger from that quarter… He might be making a mountain out of a molehill if he insisted on finding danger where there was none. It was probably some beastly denizen of the mountain, as Oddvar had mentioned, against which the dwarrows had been fighting a desperate battle recently.

Well, now he was craving mushrooms. Oh dear, he hoped there was still time for a visit to the marketplace before he was due at Thorin’s for their dinner that night…

“Ereborean smoked ham, as requested!” Bombur exclaimed with a flourish, setting the silver-plated dish down onto Thorin’s table.

“However did you manage to find smoked ham, Bombur?” Bilbo said, with a delighted smile. “Bofur was complaining earlier that there was none to be found in the marketplace earlier!”

Bombur laughed, a deep, booming sound which send tremors through the table. “I’m afraid that was all me, Bilbo,” he admitted merrily. “I bought the last of the smoked hams this morning - the lady Dís was craving sandwiches of ham and cheese for breakfast, and would not be put off by the knowledge that she would be depriving the rest of the citizens of such a necessity for the rest of the day! Besides,” he added with a wink, “I have heard from a funny little dwarf of your propensity for our hams. I thought it would be a nice treat for you, Bilbo.”

“Yes, Dís often has these strange whims and fancies of her. A mighty troublesome thing they are sometimes, too,” grumbled Thorin, as he poked half-heartedly on the salad Bilbo had pointedly piled on his plate.

“Don’t think I don’t see you trying to shove the cucumbers into your pockets, Your Majesty,” Bilbo said sternly, pointing at Thorin with an accusatory fork. Thorin looked up guiltily, and slid the cucumbers back onto his plate, frowning unhappily at having been thwarted. He had been grumpy ever since he had opened the door to admit Bilbo. However, he had gently rebuffed any attempts on Bilbo’s part to inquire as to the cause of his chagrin, and had also made a clear effort to pull himself out of his black mood. Bilbo decided it must have been a difficult day on the throne tending to the requests of the people - a malady which could only be cured by good food and good company, both of which Bilbo was determined he would provide this evening.

As Bombur bustled off to the kitchen to fetch the last dish, Bilbo assiduously shovelled more of Thorin’s favourite foods onto his plate and made sure to include plenty of mutton to make up for the salad Thorin had finally consented to eating. The affectionate smile granted him by Thorin in return more than made up for his bad mood earlier, although he still seemed perturbed, a frown creasing his thick brows and casting a shadow over his eyes.

“How is your work on the garden proceeding, Master Baggins?” Thorin said, and Bilbo swallowed to dismiss the twinge in his chest at being addressed in so formal a manner. He supposed it was only right, since he was now referring to Thorin by his kingly title, that Thorin utilise a more distant manner of naming him. But just because he knew it to be right hardly made it feel right to him, if he was being completely honest with himself…

And now Thorin was staring at him in confusion, having received no answer to his question while Bilbo had been brooding on inconsequential matters. Yavanna, Bilbo really was going senile, and at the tender age of sixty-two-or-something years.

“Things proceed apace,” he answered quickly. “Your dwarven builders are certainly efficient - we had the lighting system up and the soil laid down in a matter of days! I was really quite impressed with your workers’ productivity. I have begun work on the planting. Did you know Thranduil sent me orchids? Orchids, I ask you! What a ridiculous notion!”

At Thorin’s blank look of incomprehension, Bilbo sighed exasperatedly and clucked his tongue. “Orchids,” he explained patiently, “are most pernickety and finicky plants when grown outside their natural habitat. They require much careful adjustment of their surroundings, and I have little expertise in the growing of orchids, so the seeds were practically useless to me! … Sit down, Your Highness, this is not a matter meriting your intervention, although I know you’re practically raring for an excuse to tussle with Thranduil,” Bilbo said peevishly, interrupting Thorin’s attempt to stand and leave the table.

Thorin growled and seized his fork and knife. He carved brutally into the mutton steak on his plate, as if imagining the cut of meat to be Thranduil’s thin, beautiful, vicious face, and chomped ferociously on a piece of the mutton he brought to his mouth. Bilbo winced.

“That blasted elf,” he grumbled, once he had satisfied his need for catharsis. “He probably intended insult through it. You know he never does anything without considering the consequences and every inference that can possibly be drawn from his actions.”

Bilbo sighed to hide his grin at having successfully diverted Thorin’s attention from whatever had been troubling him that day - Thranduil was always a safe target to divert Thorin’s anger onto, since it was a visceral, satisfying hatred the dwarven king had for him.

“Well, you know what he’s like,” Bilbo remarked casually in reply. “Once I have settled the main part of my garden, I will plant his orchids in the centre and perhaps invite him to my garden to see for himself precisely how they are flourishing. I think I will write to Elrond to ask if he has lore-masters familiar in the art of orchid-growing whose expertise he is willing to lend to me…”

At that moment, Bombur trotted back into the room.

“And Fathi’s Fried Frostcaps, as requested,” he declared with a triumphant smile, placing the plate of the most exquisite mushrooms Bilbo had ever seen in front of him. Bilbo hurriedly placed his hand over his mouth to keep himself from drooling, although it was a very near thing.

“Bombur!” he cried, in awe. “You are a magician. How did you possibly know that I was craving Fathi’s mushrooms?”

Bombur winked mischievously at him. “No magic, I’m afraid,” he said, “just a very well-informed little spy.”

Thorin smiled obligingly. “Then we must know the name of this spy, so we know who to thank for satisfying Master Bagginses’ palate this evening,” he said, laying his hand on Bombur’s arm. “Or is that to stay a secret?”

“No secret, Your Majesty,” said Bombur, with a twinkle. “Oddvar, son of Vidar, is his name - he has been most diligently giving his attention to Bilbo’s needs, and indeed it was he who informed me that, due to an excess of time spent in his garden this afternoon, he and Bilbo were unfortunately unable to procure some of Fathi’s famed mushrooms for their consumption before Bilbo was due here for dinner. In fact,” he remarked, whipping out another plate from behind him, “I am to take this plate of mushrooms to him as well, to thank him for his information. Enjoy your meal, Bilbo, Your Majesty.” With that, he swept off with the same unnatural speed and litheness which had so surprised Bilbo upon initial acquaintance with the rotund cook.

“Oddvar,” Thorin muttered, and Bilbo was surprised to see that the dispirited frown had returned to his face.

Then Bilbo remembered that Thorin had been suspicious of Oddvar their previous dinner - inordinately suspicious, in Bilbo’s opinion - and he sought to hastily divert Thorin’s attention, to avoid further distress on Thorin’s part.

“Won’t you try a mushroom?” he said quickly, and scooped up a large spoonful of the aforementioned fungi, gesturing in a rather frantic way towards Thorin’s mouth. “They’re really quite good! I spoke to Fathi yesterday evening, and he said he was doing a roaring business. He picked up the technique in the Shire, you see, and actually, now that I come to think of it, I remember old Bodo Proudfoot’s family recipe for fried mushrooms being rather the same sort of thing - “

A swift touch to his wrist stayed his movement suddenly, and stopped him in his ramble. Bilbo looked at the thick hand on his wrist with a growing sense of foreboding, and indeed Thorin’s hand lay on the bracelet forged by Oddvar that now ringed his wrist.

“How came you by this?” Thorin said, and his voice was curiously soft, devoid of emotion. Bilbo looked warily at him.

“A gift from a friend,” he hedged. “Look, Thorin - “

“The maker’s mark is unfamiliar to me,” Thorin continued, his hand on Bilbo’s wrist gentle, but stern, “but I recognise the runes. This is another gift from Oddvar, is it not?”

“Well, yes,” Bilbo admitted, seeing that the cat was out of the hobbit hole. “He gave it to me earlier this afternoon.”

“I see.”

Thorin’s expression was blank, and he removed his hand from Bilbo’s wrist. The motion left Bilbo feeling strangely bereft.

There was a silence for a few moments, another of those tense silences that seemed to punctuate all of their recent interactions. Thorin ate quietly, keeping his eyes on his plate, the clinking of his cutlery inordinately loud in the quiet of the room.

At last he spoke, and he seemed to find the words difficult to shape. “Master Baggins,” he said, his tone steady and very, very calm, “Oddvar is a good dwarf, as far as Dís and Dwalin were aware. But I must warn you still to be careful. There might be others you know not of - some other plot - “ He seemed to lose his eloquence and his courage then, and his mouth set in an unhappy line.

Bilbo tried a carefree laugh, although it came out sounding twisted and odd. “You need not worry,” he said, and his voice was strangely brittle. “As you said, Oddvar is a good dwarf. He means me no harm - why, he is just a friend to me! He is not cut from the same cloth as Zdenka, or Ardris, or Wili. Why are you so concerned, Your Majesty? Are you worried he is trying to court me? What an absurd idea!” he added, meaning it as a joke to defuse the tension.

A heavy silence, and Thorin averted his eyes.

Bilbo laughed again, but this time it was a shrill laugh. “You cannot mean that!” he said incredulously. He stood from the table and put his hands on his hips, suddenly feeling unaccountably angry with Thorin, this contrary, insufferable king who saw enemies at every corner and sought to warn him off one of the few friends he had in Erebor - no, Bilbo would not have it, no he would most certainly not!

“Oddvar is my friend, and no more,” he said severely. “Any carnal aspect to our relationship is, I quite assure you, quite out of the question! And further to the point, Master Dwarf - “ here he quite expected guards to charge into the room and clap him in irons for his insolence, but when no such guards were forthcoming, he forged on: “ - you have no right to control who I can and cannot befriend! You may be King Under the Mountain, Thorin, but I can assure you, I am a grown hobbit and can choose my company as I please. Even if it be to eschew your company in favour of that of Oddvar, son of Vidar!”

Thorin stood, towering over Bilbo, his face now a mask of anger and wroth. “I can assure you, Master Hobbit,” he thundered, “that I have every right, as your king, and the leader of the Company with whom you travelled to Erebor, my kingdom!”

They stood, toe to toe, staring furiously into each others’ eyes, but Bilbo refused to submit, and suddenly it was as if something broke inside Thorin, for he turned and lifted one hand to cover his face. Bilbo could no longer see his eyes.

“If - If that’s who you want, what you want - I want the best for you,” he said, softly, forlornly. “I want you to be safe.”

And I want you to be mine, Bilbo thought, with a sudden, bitter, agonising passion, but we can’t all get what we want, can we?

Completely incensed, and utterly finished with Thorin, Bilbo stomped angrily from the room and slammed the door behind him.

“Dull-witted, brainless, fucking dwarrows!” he screamed, as soon as he had reached his quarters and shut the door firmly in a very bewildered Oddvar’s face. Futilely he slammed his fists against the wall of his chamber, but as they were made of solid rock, there was no satisfying feeling of the wall giving way under his fists afforded to him. When pounding against the wall brought him no comfort, he flopped down on his bed and tore at his sheets, almost crying in frustration.

Finally, when thrashing about and screaming his throat raw had exhausted him, he lay silently on his bed and thought. He thought, mainly of Thorin, and how Thorin’s hand had trembled as he had held it over his face.

What an unutterably complex, and completely frustrating dwarf! More intensely than ever Bilbo longed for a return to their relationship before it had been destroyed by the gold sickness. More deeply than ever Bilbo regretted his betrayal and his use of the Arkenstone, for it seemed to have formed some unassailable rift between the two of them. Bilbo did not know if Thorin could ever bring himself to trust Bilbo again.

Quietly, and almost unconsciously, his hand crept to his old robes, which he kept on his dresser beside his bed. The cold touch of metal on his fingers soothed him, and on a sudden impulse, he grasped the set of rags which had doubled as his clothes and wrested them to lay across his lap.

The little gold ring lay in the tangle of brown cloth between his legs. Suddenly he very much wished to put it on, to turn invisible and escape from Erebor, to escape from the net of anger and pain which had drawn itself close around Thorin and he. To leave for the green hills of the Shire where he belonged. Because, try as he might, he would never be a dwarf, and Thorin would never be a hobbit, and if he remained in Erebor, surely he would wither away. It would a simple matter indeed, to put on the ring and disappear - he could pack his things in a jiffy, they were laid out neatly in his room after all - put on his pack and run to Dale, where he could surely sneak onto one of the myriad boats sailing to the Brandywine -

It would be simpler even, to put on the ring and creep into Thorin’s chambers, where he surely was, still, to approach that broad, strong back and place his clever hobbit fingers around the hilt of Sting - one thrust, and he would be rid of the source of his unhappiness in one fell swoop -

Bilbo slammed his fist against his head, and tasted blood in his mouth. The copper tang helped him recover his senses, and remembering the thoughts that had been running through his head, he almost fell over himself scrambling backwards and away from - what? Himself? He knew not. How such vile thoughts had entered his head -

His hand closed unwittingly over a small, inconspicuous lump in the pile of brown rags, and he blinked.

Slowly, hesitantly, Bilbo drew the acorn out of the pocket of the robe, and stared at it.

Why, he remembered this well - an acorn from Beorn’s garden, was it not? Was it not the acorn he had presented to Thorin, in the midst of the king’s gold sickness - the acorn he had told Thorin would find its place in the garden of Bag End?

Slowly the fog of anger and confusion began to clear from his mind. His fingers gripped tightly around the small round seed in his hands, and suddenly it was clear to him what he must do.

Leaping out of bed, he went to the door and peered out. True to form, Oddvar had been replaced by Bilbo’s nighttime guard, a surly, unspeaking dwarf who had not deigned to give his name. This dwarf preferred to position himself facing the corridor that ran outside the royal rooms. As such, he did not notice as the door of Bilbo’s room swung slightly outwards, leaving a gap just big enough for a small-bodied hobbit, and then swung close silently.

Bilbo knew from experience how to avoid attention from others when sneaking around under the cloak of invisibility accorded him by his ring. Thus it was with little difficulty that he reached the small, inconspicuous door that marked the entrance to his hobbit garden.

Hurrying to the centre of the room, where the moonlight from the window reflected directly onto a large, deep plot of soil, Bilbo squatted and pulled the acorn from his pocket. Here was where he had intended for the orchids sent by Thranduil to grow, as the gaudy centrepiece of his garden, a sort of subtle triumphant ‘fuck you’ gesture to the Elvenking, but now he had a different plan.

With trembling fingers he laid the acorn in the ground and covered it with soil. Beside the plot of land was neatly placed his lovely little golden pail, carved by Thorin, and greatly treasured by him. In it still was water taken from the springs that fed into the depths of Erebor. Bilbo sprinkled the spot where the acorn had been planted with water from the pail, and smoothed his fingers gently over the soil.

There , he thought, feeling a lump form in his throat. At least I will have something of mine, and Thorin’s, to treasure. For the acorn had been as much a part of Thorin as it had been a part of Bilbo, a shared trinket that had represented their friendship and fondness for each other.

Bilbo slipped back into his bed that night, and dreamt of Thorin’s smile.

visit this on ao3 to see the author’s notes if you want, and to leave a comment or kudo (much appreciated) <3 and check out my other bagginshield work here

#upm works #upm #thilbo #bagginshield #thorin oakenshield #bilbo baggins #hobbit fanfiction #bagginshield fanfic #hobbit #lotr #bilbo #thorin

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mrkida-art · 1 year

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The tears of a king who was crowned far too soon

#the hobbit #my art #tolkien #lotr #dwarves #the lord of the rings #durin's folk #longbeards #thrór #thrór son of dáin #thorin's family #the line of durin #the royal line of durin #the war of dwarves and dragons #ered mithrin #the fall of ered mithrin #erebor #the king under the mountain

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thewarriorandtheking · 6 years

Text

Yuletide in Erebor

A story of The Warrior and The King

I am always forgetting that Thorin plays the harp. I decided to work it into my fanfiction and it came out as this little Christmas story. It has all the things that make up a winter holiday: snow, warm fires, mulled wine, family drama, songs and presents.

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It was a quiet midwinter night on the Lonely Mountain, snow was falling heavily outside the gates of Erebor. Thorin Oakenshield and his family were gathered in one of the private rooms enjoying the warmth of the fire burning brightly in the hearth, the logs crackling merrily. A pot of spiced wine was warming over the fire, the fragrance filling the room. It was one of those rare evenings when they found themselves together. Thorin was sitting at his harp, it had been a long time since he had played, he never seemed to have the time any more. His eldest son Thror was reading a book while his younger brother Durin poked at the fire. The Queen was seated across the room, working at her embroidery with two of her handmaidens while his daughter sat at his feet, entranced by the music. Thorin smiled at her as he played, thinking of all the things he had done in his life he was proudest of his children. Although he been hesitant at the time, he was glad he had been convinced to marry Shurri. He had three heirs to his line whose fitness for succession could not be questioned, now he would brave the scandal and release the Queen from her vows so he could marry the woman he loved. Kaylea Wolf was going to be his wife, she just did not know it yet. Idly he wondered where she was right now, it had been just over nine years since she last came to Erebor.

As his fingers played over the strings Thorin realized he had started to play the old song about the Misty Mountains. He had not thought about the tune in many years, softly he began to hum along with it and when he started to sing the words, Thror and Durin joined in with him.

As he was singing Thorin saw his daughter look out the doorway into the hall, her eyes suddenly going wide. Thorin continued to play as he followed her gaze, standing a short distance down the hall was Kaylea Wolf. She was leaning on the wall, scratching the ears of her dire wolf. It was evident she had just arrived as her coat was still wet and she had a soft bag slung over her shoulder. As Thorin came to the last verses of the song Kaylea joined in, her clear voice making a beautiful harmony with Thorin’s deep baritone. She slowly moved forward until the song ended just as she reached the door. Thorin got up to welcome her.

“My lady, what a welcome surprise it is to see you!”

Kaylea came into the room and kneeled before Thorin, bowing her head. “My king.”

He stepped forward, motioning for her to stand up. “You know you do not have to keep doing that,” he whispered softly. Kaylea looked up at him with a soft smile, Thorin offered her his hand and drew her to her feet. He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, chaste enough that the Queen could not object. Her black wolf trotted into the room and settled himself by the fire.

“Must you bring that filthy animal in here?” Queen Shurri abruptly stood up, gathering her work to leave. Kaylea turned to face her with a smile and bowed low.

“Good evening, your majesty,” she said. “ I did not see you there. You are looking well this evening.”

The Queen paused by the door. She held out her hand to her daughter, who was standing behind Thorin holding onto his clothes. “Come Freya,” she said. “This is no longer a place for a respectable girl.”

Kaylea’s eyes narrowed. “I assure you I am not contagious, your majesty,” she said evenly. “But I am curious, if you do not allow your daughter to be in scandalous company where does she stay when she visits the Ered Mithrin with you?”

Shurri gave the tall woman a look that would have burned grass. Thror and Durin glanced at each other; they knew their mother had a lover there, but nobody talked about it. Just as Kaylea was always referred to as a hero from the Battle of the Five Armies, not the King’s Woman. They had never heard anyone throw it in her face like that. Before the Queen could reply, Thorin spoke. “Freya is fine here with me,” he said, an edge to his voice. He scowled at his wife and put a hand on his daughter’s back.

Shurri gave him a withering look and strode out of the room, followed by her handmaidens. Kaylea watched her go thoughtfully. “I do not believe she likes me very much,” she said.

Thorin chuckled. “Do not feel bad, she does not like me very much either.” He looked down at his daughter smiling up at him.

The two princes came over and Kaylea bowed to them. “What did you bring us?” Durin asked, excitement in his voice.

Thorin frowned at him. “Where are your manners? Kaylea Wolf does not come here just to bring you presents.”

“No, she comes here to see you, father, ” Durin replied. “We get presents to keep quiet.”

The King gave his son a dark look but Kaylea laughed. “As it happens, in my country at this time of year it is traditional to give presents. I brought one for each of you,” she looked at the princess, still hiding behind her father. “Including the one I have not yet met.”

“This is princess Freya,” Thorin said, moving aside. His daughter had been born just after Kaylea had left Erebor the last time, she was almost nine years old now. Freya looked up at the tall woman, so beautiful and strong, the mithril beads in her golden hair shining in the lamplight. She was a little afraid, but did not want her father to know so she stepped forward boldly and nodded properly as Kaylea bowed low to her.

“A pleasure to meet you, your highness,” Kaylea said.

Freya’s eyes went from her to the wolf and back. She had never seen a wolf before, she had never imagined they were so large. She loved animals but her mother would not let her have a pet, she had to content herself with befriending the cats in the stables. “Can I pet your wolf?” She asked timidly.

“Of course,” Kaylea replied. She gestured to Hector who got up and approached the little girl. He lowered his nose so she could pet his head.

“He is so soft!” Freya exclaimed, running her hand down the wolf’s neck.

“He just had a bath,” Kaylea said, looking sideways at Thorin. “He is not a bit filthy.” She swung her bag around and reached into it, taking out two long parcels wrapped in leather. “These are for Thror and Durin,” she said.

Durin took his and Thror came forward, looking up at Kaylea shyly. He thought her so beautiful that he could never look at her long without feeling as though he was staring, which always made him blush. “Thank you, my lady,” he said, quickly turning away to hide his reddening face. Inside the parcels were long knives, black pointed blades with serrations on one side and beautiful polished black handles. Thorin wondered at the handle, he had never seen the like.

“Thank you, this is a fine blade. What are these made of?” Durin asked, also looking at the handle of his knife.

“Dragonbone,” Kaylea said. Thorin glanced quickly up at her then down to look at the knife Thror handed him. It was beautifully made, the blade sharper than a razor, the handle smooth and natural in the hand. Thorin handed it back as Kaylea was pulling a red leather wrapped bundle from her bag. She turned to Freya, who was still petting Hector. The wolf had a very long-suffering look on his face and happily went back to lay by the fireplace.

“This is for you, princess,” Kaylea handed her the bundle. Freya unwrapped it carefully, inside was a long pointed knife with a curved, ivory-colored handle. The little girl turned it over in her hands, marvelling at it. The blade was long and pointed and polished like a mirror, the handle cool in her small hand. Thorin drew a breath when he saw it, that blade was a work of art.

Kaylea knelt down so her head was closer to the girls. “This is a special knife. The handle is made from the tooth of a dragon, you must take very good care of it. You cannot allow the tooth to get too dry or it will crack. Carry it with you against your body, or keep the handle wrapped in a damp cloth.” She smiled at the princess. “The blade is a bit big for you now, but you will grow.”

The princess looked at her wide-eyed, then carefully rewrapped the knife and asked her father if she could take it to her room. Thorin nodded and watched her hurry off, a father’s love plain on his face. Daddy’s girl, Kaylea thought to herself. Pity the first man who wants to court her.

“That was well done,” Thorin said. “I wager she will carry that with her the rest of her life.” He did wonder if Kaylea was being serious, A dragon tooth? How did one come by such a thing? Although knowing Kaylea, she probably slayed dragons in her spare time.

“She will need it to fend off the suitors,” Kaylea replied with a smile. “When she is older I will give her some lessons in how to use it.” She looked over at the princes, inexpertly sparring with their new knives. Good thing those knives were indestructible.

Thorin stepped in close against her, sliding and arm around her waist. “So, when do I get my present?”

Kaylea slid her hand along his waist and into the back of his trousers, pulling him against her. “Later, my king,” she whispered. She looked around the room, warm and cozy after coming in from outside. “I am sorry if I interrupted your family evening.”

Thorin shrugged, he leaned forward inhaling the smell of her, sage and the shade of pines. He never remembered how much he missed it until she returned to him. “There is nowhere I would rather be than spending a quiet evening with my children and the woman I love.” He went back to sit behind his harp, his fingers playing over the strings. “Will you sing something for me?”

Kaylea laughed. “Singing is not one of my talents, my king. And I only know the sad songs of soldiers, of loss and leaving home.” She took off her coat and hung it over a chair with her bag, loosening the laces on her tunic. Thror brought her a mug of the warm spice wine they were drinking, handing it to her trying not to stare at the neckline of her tunic. .

“Your voice is as beautiful as that of any Elf,” Thorin said. “I have heard them, I know that of which I speak. You start and I will join in.”

Kaylea looked skeptical, but she always found it hard to deny Thorin. “Very well, you will have a sad song then,” she said, coming to stand beside him. “At least our songs are shorter than yours.”

And fare thee well to Gronland, The land my native home.It breaks my heart to see friends part,Then the teardrops fall.

On my way to Arrakeen, Will I ever see home once more? Leaving behind my one true love, Odin’s green sunwashed shore.

The ship she lies, loaded and tied, Standing by the cay. The moon is bright, shining down each night, As we sail out over the sea. Many ships have been lost, many lives the cost, On the journey that lies before.With a tear in my eye, I am bidding goodbye,

To Odin’s green sunwashed shore.So fare thee well, my own true love, I think of you night and day. A place in my mind, you surely will find, Although I am far away.

I be alone, far away from home, I think of the good times once more.‘Till the day I can make my way back, To Odin’s green sunwashed shore.

And now the ship is on the way, May Balder protect us all. With the wind in our sails, we surely cannot fail, On the journey to join the war. My parents and friends, they waved to the end, ‘Till I could see them no more. Then I took a chance, took one last glance, At Odin’s green sunwashed shore.

After she had sung a few lines, Thorin picked up the tune and began to play. The princes listened intently, never having heard Kaylea sing before. Freya came back in to take her seat at the feet of her father. She looked over at the wolf, he was curled into a ball with his tail over his nose, his yellow eyes watching his mistress.

Hearing the sound of Kaylea’s voice as she was passing brought Dis in to listen. When Kaylea finished she came forward to greet her. “You have a fine voice, lass. Why have we not heard it before? But surely this is a time for a less melancholy tune!”

She asked her brother for a song from the Blue Mountains, Thorin was happy to oblige. Kaylea often had to remind herself Dis and the King were near the same age, with his raven-black hair and unlined face Thorin looked younger than her son. He still had not started aging again since the shot of boosterspice she had given him so many years ago. Together they drank wine and sang songs of their old home, Kaylea joining in on the chorus when there was one. The time passed quickly and the hour grew late before they knew it. The princes had already turned in when Kaylea put a hand on Thorin’s shoulder nodding toward Freya, sleeping curled up against Hector.

Dis smiled and gently picked the princess up, so as not to wake her. “It has been a long time since I thought of those old songs, I quite lost track of time. I will put her to bed,” she said. “Good night to you both.”

Thorin pulled the cover over his harp then looked at Kaylea with a mischievous grin. “May I escort you to your quarters, my lady?”

“Of course, my king,” Kaylea grabbed her coat and bag. “Let us walk out over the gate.”

“If it pleases you,” Thorin said, offering her his arm. They walked arm in arm through a series of corridors to the gate, it was late so they saw no one except a few guards. When they reached the top of the gate Kaylea paused to stand at the parapet. The snow was falling less heavily now and there were breaks in the clouds, allowing the moon to cast its pale light over the white landscape. The lights of Dale could be seen in the distance.

“I love the snow,” she said. “It makes travel more difficult but I love the quiet, the way it makes everything new and beautiful.”

“Yes, it does,” Thorin replied, he was not looking at the landscape but at the flakes of snow in Kaylea’s hair, catching the light of the braziers like tiny diamonds. He stepped behind her and put his arms around her lean body, interlacing his fingers over her stomach. Lightly he kissed her neck, then looked out over her shoulder. The land did look soft and clean, sleeping under its new blanket. Kaylea leaned back against him, putting her hands on his and relaxing into his arms. She turned her head to look at him, the King had snow in his hair.

“Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

“Enough to marry me, and live by my side?” Thorin asked hopefully.

Kaylea sighed. “Are you ever going to stop asking me that?”

“Just as soon as you say yes.” Thorin turned her in his arms and pulled her mouth down to his. They embraced each other for a long moment, the snow falling lightly around them. Thorin reached up and hooked his finger over the top two laces of her tunic, pulling them out one after the other. “Can I unwrap my present now?”

Kaylea laughed softly. “I thought you would never ask,” she took his hand and led the way back into Erebor.

*************************************

Read more about The Warrior and The King on AO3 & FanFiction, links on my homepage

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lostprincessfanfiction · 7 years

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The Lost Princess - Chapter 7

TITLE OF STORY: The Lost Princess CHAPTER NUMBER: Chapter 7 / ? AUTHOR: Alpanu BETA READER: azukiel PAIRING: Thranduil / Reader GENRE: Drama, Fantasy, Erotica (in later chapters) SUMMARY: Your life path had been difficult. You do not have a family nor a place you could call “home”. You consider yourself to be a wandering scum but there is something that burdens your mind. Who you really are? Why do you look like a human but do not age? Who were your parents? Why did they reject you as an infant? Will you ever find answers to all your questions? RATING: M for whole, G for this chapter

I will never recall the first week of this travel again, ever! You swore to yourself. Calling it a disaster would be simply insufficient. First of all, your non-existing skills with riding turned out to be a bigger problem than what Legolas and Tauriel had thought it to be. Your first almost-a-fall occurred a mere one hundred feet away from the gates of the underground palace. After the first day on the horse, you slumped onto the grass happily, not able to feel the lower part of your body anymore. Yet, before you had the chance to relax a bit, the horse raised its tail and, well… relieved itself right next to your head. The company was laughing for several hours and they gave you a nickname too, calling you ’Lucky pile’. The next day, you were too tired to stay awake and fell asleep, leaning comfortably on a certain prince. Needless to say, you almost fell again, several times even, and when the company finally stopped to build a camp for that night, you were the target again; they named you ’Sleeping beauty’.

The daily routine started at sunrise. You were woken up mercilessly by the prince himself. He insisted to practice with you every morning before your first meal, letting the company to feast without the two of you. It was not a bad decision after all; you were not the favourite one there and eating with the rest of the company could have had unpleasant consequences. You needed to get familiar with your new daggers too and the early morning helped you to return back to the alertness level that you had been before you were imprisoned. Your breakfast was usually small; smaller than your portions in prison; but considerably more nutritious. Legolas introduced you to the elven travelling diet, naming various plants and fruits it consisted of and occasionally even showed them to you, when you passed some certain bush. Lembas bread was a forbidden meal for now, it was saved for later travels or emergency uses. He taught you to prepare the simplest ointments for your numerous bruises too; he was a methodical teacher after all.

After the meal, you helped him to pack the rest of the camp, as the majority of the work was done by the company during your late breakfast. Back on the horse, Legolas used to silently tell you some stories of old; stories that had been ancient even before the Sun and the Moon were created. He had passed much of the elven wisdom onto you, trying to awake the curiosity within you – the one which was already wide awake.

Tauriel overheard his narrating once and soon after, she joined you. Within one week, there was no one that would not have listened to what Legolas was telling. Some of them, the oldest in your small company, had joined his narrations, taking their word when their leader was either thirsty so the words stuck to his tongue, or simply too tired to follow the story. Soon, you understood what importance such stories had within the elven nation. It was the wisdom passed from parents onto their children, from masters onto their apprentices, from elders onto younglings. It was a big part of their culture of a mutual respect; a culture that allowed them to live in close symbiosis with the nature surrounding them and concealing them under its green foliage, both literally and metaphorically. It was diametrically opposed view of what you had witnessed in the human villages. Elves were not simply living in such harmonious way with their surroundings; they were part of it just as a child belongs with its mother and a mother belongs with her child. One without another would wither in no time – and that was a message that resonated in many of the ancient tales.

It took you four weeks and four days to arrive at the foot of Mount Gundabad.

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Legolas ordered to make a camp on the clearing near a cold stream, right under the slope of the mountain range, partially hidden from the path by bushes and old trunks. It was not the ideal place to make a camp on, but the surroundings seemed to be vast. You have not heard any rustling of fallen leaves and twigs under the deer hooves since you left the deep forest of Mirkwood and, passing the flatlands of Langwell, spotting an animal – any animal – was getting harder and harder. By the time you reached the meeting point of two great mountain ranges; Hithaeglir to the west and Ered Mithrin to the north; the chirping of the birds silenced as well.

The silence of that place was unnatural and unnerving. All the Eldar around you strained their ears to catch the tiniest sound yet there was none; only their pointy earlobes reddened from the straining. Legolas even sent two patrols to search the surroundings, still not convinced that your company was alone at a place like this. The patrols returned with the same news; you indeed were alone there. That put the company slightly at ease, yet the traces of nervousness were still present in the camp, even after two nights of quiescence.

Two days and two nights after your arrival, there were regular patrols sent to find a path into the higher pass that lead to the stronghold. Two days and two nights you were forbidden to leave the camp. Legolas closed his ears to your pleas and demands and, instead of giving you a chance to prove yourself as an experienced tracker, he ordered you to guard the camp, feed the horses and wait patiently for their return. His sudden cold attitude towards you was teeth-screeching, yet what choices did you have? You obeyed.

On the third oncoming evening of your forced camping, the patrol returned with important news. It was quite clear that they had finally found the way to the stronghold. Feren, who was the leader of that patrol, furiously drew the map onto some parchment, explaining all the curves and signs of unstable ground, narrow passages, steep paths and, finally, guarding posts of the stronghold. He explained that they had not tried to search further, especially after they realised that the stronghold was not as abandoned as many Eldar, including the king, thought.

Legolas groaned. It was not a good groan. It was exasperated and frustrated groan that told the company a lot about his current mental state. He was not satisfied with the current news that confirmed his presumption about the renewed stronghold. From what Feren explained, there were still several groups of orcs and goblins, patrolling the whole area from dark hidden places where the sun could not reach them. That was the good news for the company; the creatures inside and around the stronghold were not physically able to resist the sun and its rays. It was for certain that Legolas will lead the attack during the day. Which day, that was not clear yet; the prince of the Woodland realm was cautious and demanded more information about the stronghold and its surroundings. Before he dismissed the patrol and the rest of the company, he named those who would accompany him the next day on his way up the higher pass. You were not amongst them.

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Later that day, after you all dined together and the tired elves receded into their tents, you sat at the fireplace with Legolas, Tauriel and two more ellyn. Silently you watched the burning coals that glowed in the darkening camp with bright orange light. The two ellyn were speaking silently to each other, Legolas remained buried deep within his thoughts and Tauriel was watching the stars. No one spoke for a very long time.

You had enough time to think about what had happened on your way to the stronghold and during the two days of your forced camping. You were not angry at a certain prince but you felt a bit down anyway. Legolas was an experienced leader and you trusted his judgement, there were no questions or doubts in your mind. He knew your fighting skills as well, he was the one who improved them and trained you in some new ones. He knew what you were capable of and he decided that you have to stay and you respected that decision. Besides, his eyes promised you that you will have your chance later. You were not that impatient to mindlessly rush into danger. Yet, for some reason, nothing of that calmed your nerves. The surroundings were not helping either, one could go mad from all that silence.

Tauriel suddenly stretched herself and stood up. “I shall retire as well. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

Two ellyn, apparently tonight’s night watch, murmured their goodnight wishes, otherwise they were not paying any attention to you or their prince. They continued in their silent chatter as soon as Tauriel left the enlightened ring around the fireplace.

You stretched yourself as well but you were not tired at all. There were plenty of thoughts troubling your mind anyway; you would not fall asleep even if you were lying in your cell and listening to the underground waterfall that unnerved you so. What you would have given to hear that annoying sound again in this unnatural silence…

Legolas stretched himself as well. “It is getting late already. We all should get some rest.”

One of the patrol ellyn glared at him. The other simply ignored him.

“[Boy name], will you walk with me?” Legolas asked you silently. You simply agreed.

Once out of the light circle, right under the silent stars, you could clearly see that the prince is troubled. He tried to hide it, but then and there, only with you as a witness, he broke his steel facade and let some of his true feelings appear on his pale face. “I am deeply concerned.” He started out of the blue and almost made you jump. You looked behind to see if any of the patrol boys noticed either his voice or your strange reaction. What a surprise, the guards were fully ignoring you.

“What about?” You asked.

“You.”

At least he was honest, you thought.

“I know it is not my place to know what my father asked of you on this mission, but I would really like to at least have a hint of it.” He looked at you, sighing heavily. “And I am sure,” he added, “that he forbade you to tell me. So I would like to guess at least.”

“I will not stop you from asking, but, as you correctly assumed, I am not allowed to talk about it. With anyone, for that matter,” you assured him. He was not alone in regards to who was to stay in blissful ignorance about the true goal of your adventure. The king wished it.

“The king sent you with me because you are good at some things.” Legolas mused. “You are a thief, you can hide well, go unnoticed… Did he send you to steal something from the mountain stronghold?”

As ordered by the king, you did not give Legolas any respond to his question. Not that he would have been awaiting some.

“I would say yes.” He continued. “Something that is valuable for him, but he does not want the company know that he is searching for it. More importantly, he does not want me to know that he is searching for it. But why would he do that?”

You shrugged, watching the grass under your feet. “I am not in the position to judge either of you.” You replied honestly. “He gave an order and I obeyed.”

“And what did he promise you?” He asked again, this time really hoping for some answer.

You stood dead in your tracks, thinking about the answer. The king forbade you to speak about your quest, but was this kind of information belonging into the quest category? You were not sure. But considering how nice Legolas was and how he approached you from the beginning, you owed him the truthful answer, and thus, you replied. “My freedom. The price was my freedom.”

Legolas whistled silently. The night watch, again, ignored that sound, only Legolas’ horse responded with couple of snorts.

“The value of that item you are supposed to get is much higher than I originally thought.” He admitted. Legolas, not the horse. He raised his moonlit face to the night sky and took in couple of deep breaths, clearly thinking about possibilities.

“Legolas.” You put your palm on his forearm. “There might be a reason why the king does not want you to know. Perhaps it would be wiser to let go.”

He looked back at you. “I know, mellon. Yet I am responsible for your safety. Without knowing your true goal, I can only guess and your life might be put in great danger. I cannot risk that, not yet. You might have been thinking why I plan to let you stay in the camp tomorrow.”

“You are indeed right, Legolas.” You replied honestly and let some of your emotions colour your voice. You were not angry, but you were also not prepared to let go of this topic that easily. “I thought that I have proven myself worthy already.”

He stood silent again, thinking about the answer.

“Have I not?” You pushed further.

“You have.” He admitted. “But still, I am responsible for you and I cannot let you come with us. Not yet. I only wish for one day, [name]. One day of exploration. Then you are free to go. Can we agree on that?”

You were surprised by his offer, but it sounded more than reasonable. He knew well that you will go into the stronghold with or without his consent – or knowledge – so he gave you a good reason to wait in camp as he originally planned. Precaution, one would say.

“Alright.” You accepted his offer. “One day. Then I will go into that stronghold.”

“I was not awaiting anything else.” Legolas replied plainly.

“I just want this to be over.” You told honestly. “This quest and my gained freedom. I cannot stay long in one place, and being imprisoned, I used all of my spared patience already.”

You neared Legolas’ tent.

“If everything goes well tomorrow, your wish will be fulfilled soon.” He reassured you. “Though I must admit, I will miss our trainings.”

“And the stories.” You smiled at the fond memory. “But we are not parting yet, my prince.” You teased him with this title.

Legolas scowled but smiled immediately after. “You are right, mellon nin. We do not know what our future holds.” Then, much to his embarrassment, he yawned.

You laughed heartily. “Yet your near future is quite clear. Prince Legolas, you should go to bed,” You lowered your voice in an attempt to imitate his very own imitation of his teachers.

He chuckled and shook his head. “Sleep well, Lucky pile.”

You made sure he saw your grimace before he disappeared inside his tent.

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Eventually, you retired for the night as well.

Lying on the thin mattress on the ground - just as you have preferred it - your mind was burdened with all of the possible outcomes of tomorrow’s inevitable clash between your elvish comrades and the foul creatures of the stronghold. You had witnessed the mastery of elven warriors and therefore you had no doubts that in open combat, the beasts will be utterly defeated. Yet there was still a possibility that the beasts would be smart enough to lure the elves into the stronghold’s deceitful passages.

You turned to your other side.

The Elvenking gave you the order of keeping his son safe. How could you manage to fulfil that order, when the very prince ordered you to stay safe in the camp? Would you risk the wrath of the king which might result in your further imprisonment, or would you rather risk losing your new friendship with the prince by betraying his trust? You could not tell anyone about what the king was asking without risking endangering Legolas’ leading position within the company.

You turned to your back. Staring at the ceiling of your small tent, the frustration was overwhelming you. The too-silent surroundings were not exactly helpful either. All you wished for was this insane quest to be finally over – with or without the gems you were supposed to find. You groaned. How could you forget about the gems? It was the necklace of pure starlight as the king had called it when he had ordered you to go with his son. True, you would have happily agreed to literally anything just to get out of the dungeons, but this time, it was possible and even probable that you overestimated your abilities.

You should have told Legolas. No matter what the king had ordered you to do, you should have told Legolas. He was your friend and he was certainly not a child anymore. Though you had an understanding that the topic of his dead mother could be still somewhat painful to him, he should be mature enough to withstand it. By Eru, he was at least two millennia old! And surely, there was no family in Arda that would not have had someone tragically die during the numerous wars and battles which occurred during its history. Sadly, death was a fact of life in Arda.

You turned to your stomach and focused on the thin mattress under you. It was worn by the years of usage but it was more comfortable than both the floor and the bed you were supposed to sleep on.

You had been a fool, you thought. Not only for not telling Legolas about your personal quest and for agreeing to take it, but for letting yourself get caught in the first place. You should have stayed far away from the Halls and from the king whose obsessed stare was haunting your dreams. You should have starved in the sickening forest or survive by moving to other parts of the world. What you had been thinking, that the thievery will go unpunished? But now you have had what you had asked for; an impossible quest – or rather two – and your thoughts which prevented you to sleep peacefully.

You should have told Legolas. You should have told him days ago; weeks ago. You definitely should have told him today before he retreated for his night rest.

You sighed. There will be some time tomorrow morning before the company leaves for the stronghold. You could tell him then. Or rather not, as it might burden his mind too heavily to stay focused on his task and thus endanger his safety. But tomorrow evening, after there will be some more progress of this quest, you will tell him.

This was the last thought before your sleep finally overwhelmed you.

Translations: Eldar - elves (the race) ellyn - elf males (pl. form of ellon) mellon (nin) - (my) friend

Names: Gundabad - a chief Orc mountain-stronghold at the northern end of the Misty Mountains and south-east of Angmar Langwell - one of the rivers in Rhovanion that flowed east from the Misty Mountains into the Anduin Hithaeglir - The Misty Mountains; a great mountain range between Eriador in the west and the Great River Anduin the east Ered Mithrin - The Grey Mountains; a large mountain range to the north of Rhovanion. Their western end connected to the Misty Mountains at the site of Mount Gundabad Eru (Ilúvatar) - the supreme deity of Arda, the single creator above the Valar Arda - the world

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