#teacup Ori

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Cup of love

This Mini-Story is dedicated to @lordoftherazzles's lovely fic Dragonhearted!

Words: 1.6k

Characters: Interviewer, W, Teacup-Ori

Prompt: Soulmates

The woman who wants to remain anonymous and to whom I’ll refer forthwith as “W” sits down in the comfortable armchair provided for that express purpose and looks at me from steady, dark eyes that seem to hold an expression of slight challenge.

After the initial, customary exchange of insipid greetings and void niceties, I encourage her to describe – in her own words – how she’s found herself in such a peculiar situation as to be convinced that her soulmate is in fact a teacup.

Here is what she’s confided to this eminent paper:

I was walking in the woods that lead nowhere in particular, which, in and of itself, is strange because you’d think that a forest like that would surround some stately manor or at least separate two villages. ‘Tis not so in this case; whoever enters this densely overgrown patch of land will invariably find themselves turned around and disoriented.

One has to admit that this peculiar effect has been a source of amusement and merriment amongst the people of my village for many years and so, it has become a habit I cherish greatly.

So, there I was, courageously defying the magic of the dark trees by padding noiselessly through their shadows, not expecting anything untoward or unusual to occur.

Suddenly, something thoroughly unanticipated made me freeze where I stood though. In front of me, not five steps away, lay an abandoned teacup in the snow.

To my surprise, it seemed hale enough! Believing that no wild beast would have any real use for such fine porcelain, I picked it up gingerly.

“Hello,” the cup spoke and I almost dropped it then and there, which – I can only surmise – might have been severely detrimental to its health, as far as one may use such terms for what still seemed to me to be but a piece of expertly fashioned ceramic tableware. “I am Ori.”

Stunned, I stammered out my own name with much less poise and gentility as was warranted by a formal introduction, but the spirit inhabiting the teacup is as gracious as it is kind and so no hard feelings remain from that unsuccessful first meeting.

“Your hands are warm,” he – for it was a male teacup – praised and nuzzled his handle firmly into my palm.

Of course, I asked him all the questions that rose to the forefront of my mind haphazardly. Who was he? What was he? Why could he speak? Where did he come from? Was he magical?

Unfortunately, Ori – the little cup man – was rather cagey about the specifics of his circumstances and merely provided evasive replies such as “My name is Ori, I am evidently a teacup, I was taught to speak by my family as were you, I suspect.”

Alas, he would not divulge how he had come to meet me on my stroll or where he’d return to once our meeting had drawn to an end; moreover, he was rather tight-lipped about the undeniable flavour of a seemingly rather whimsical supernatural power of which the whole thing smacked.

“That sounds fantastical,” I cry out, my eyes bulging out of my head as I stare at the mousy, little woman still sitting in front of me.

“Ha! That is exactly what I said,” W grins and takes a sip of the tea I have supplied; she makes a face on account of the bitterness of the lukewarm beverage, but – loony as she might be – she’s too polite to put her distaste into cutting words.

“And what did he say?” I prompt her, remembering that it is bad form to interrupt the eyewitness account. It has taken too much time to put her at ease to snap her out of her talkative mood by side-tracking her with inane interjections.

She leans back in her chair with an almost handsome smile that illuminates her rather stern mien.

“If you’d let me go on, you’d hear all about it,” she chides with the benevolent severity of a schoolteacher and then continues her account.

“I feel like I’ve fallen into a fairy tale,” I said to him, holding him up to my face and seeing my breath fog up his countenance.

“A retelling of one, more like it,” he quipped, visibly comfortable with being held and handled. “If it pleases you, we could meet again soon? It is time for me to hop back to the secret place I have escaped from for a breath of fresh air, but I’d much enjoy some outside company.”

Now, it is known that my people have always believed in the concept of soulmates. My grandmother – wise and toothless as she has been as long as I can recall – has ever told me that, when you meet the soul that will complete yours, you’ll just know.

There was no flash of lightning and no roll of thunder, but my heart clenched in terrible recognition of the one I was meant to find.

All of this, naturally, might sound rather fanciful to a serious investigator of the hard truths of life, but I am a simple woman who does not presume to doubt beliefs that have been upheld and nurtured by my people for countless centuries.

So, what then was I – lonely, poor, and wretched – to do other than to agree wholeheartedly to seeing Ori, a sentient piece of crockery, at his earliest convenience for another round of fruitless discussions?

“Yes,” I breathed and set him down as carefully as if he was made of glass. Come to think of it, that was not all that far from the truth, and I did well in handling him with the utmost care and respect.

I watched him go, listless, and my whole soul was quivering as a bowstring stretched too far by the reckless hand of an inexperienced archer.

Every day, I’d thus return to the forest in hopes of meeting the enchanted object – quite literally – of all my hopes and dreams once more.

A week after our initial meeting, I had almost convinced myself that there had been no such incident and that it had been but an absurdly detailed fever dream that haunted me now with the aftertaste of the devastating loss of something I had never even possessed to begin with.

Nonetheless, I returned to the woods one last time to mourn the demise of my sanity.

Just as I was about to turn homewards once more, a soft clinking sound resounded, and I spun around to find Ori sliding down the narrow forest path cautiously.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “there was a lot going on…in the secret place. I’ve brought you a drink though!”

I stared down at the pitiful remnant of brownish sludge that had survived his trek through the overgrown bushes and the dense, gnarled roots of the tree sentinels guarding his enigmatic home.

“Am I to lift you to my lips?” I asked, afraid of committing an unforgivable faux pas by simply grabbing a sentient being as if it was indeed but an inanimate kitchen utensil.

“If you want to,” Ori replied breathlessly, a pinkish hue tinging his impeccable glaze all of a sudden. “I fear that the quality of the tea must have suffered a little, but it should still be somewhat wholesome to drink.”

He was kind, you have to understand, and so terribly sweet in his courteous, shy demeanour. To be truthful, I cared very little about the rather subpar tea, containing the odd stray leaf, he offered me; it was of no consequence to me compared to the immense pleasure of holding him in my cupped hands again and lifting his slender, delicate, terrifyingly fragile beauty to my trembling lips and tilting him ever so warily to refresh myself.

Afterwards, I gave him a little bath in the nearby stream – the water was shockingly cold – and we sat and talked for a little while. He would still not tell me about where he had come from and what bound him to that place, but my absurd instinct that he was the One for me solidified, nonetheless.

As insane as that sounds, he seemed to understand me perfectly – humming at the right moments and uttering tinkling peals of laughter at others – and I felt comfortable and cherished in his presence. What does that say about me that it took a cursed item for me to get the sensation that I was being perceived favourably by another soul?

W looks up at me defiantly at this point of her narrative, blinking back tears she visibly refuses to spill in front of such an insensitive audience. “We met up several times after that, stolen moments in the woods far away from our usual cares and worries; it was precious, and I wonder what has kept him lately.”

I admit that I am taken aback by her vulnerability and her frankness, so I look for the right words to say to her; of course, I also wonder whether I should inform her of the ongoing climate of unrest and the riots that would probably break out before long.

“That’s all,” she concludes aggressively and wrings her small, pale hands in her lap. “I met a magical creature, and I might even have had a chance at love in the long run, but now, we might never know.” Just as I am about to give her some reassuring but empty words of polite solace, a great ruckus resounds outside, and she dives towards the window in a flash of flying hair and trembling limbs.

Flames in the night and an angry mob moving towards her beloved, enchanted forest; I stand transfixed and witness the choked cry of horror that seems to deflate the once proud woman who has just finished telling her story.

“Let’s go,” I say in a mournful voice, taking her by the hand. “Let’s see what all of this is about.”

So, my dear friend, I hope this made you smile!

@fellowshipofthefics I am still at it.

Lots of love

[likorys-shimenawa]

One of them will actually be happy I swear.

@flashfictionfridayofficial

“Give them back.” Bilbo wept after weeks of resisting, desperate yet unwilling to hope. “Give me back Thorin and Fili and Kili, then you may have me.” Ring hissed before offering mu different things, one after another, but Bilbo kept repeating his wish until the voice fell silent.

Lucky charm of Erebor, they call him. Bilbo doesn’t mind it, mostly, but then - he minds very little these days.

The ring’s whispers slither between his thoughts again and he sits down in a corner, closing his eyes.

Give them back. Give back what you took from me! GIVE THEM BACK TO ME OR SHUT UP!

After a while, the ring quiets down and Bilbo stands up. He takes a turn to get to kitchen, smiling bitterly at the sight of a small cupboard kept solely for him, filled with foods and what fresh fruit they managed to grow this first spring.

Ten little plates are set up, names carved on the edges. Bilbo strokes knitted wool on Ori’s plate and takes it along his dinner. By now, cooks know not to mind it as he opens the cupboard and lays out what herbs he found and gathered on the mountainside as he kept Oin safe as he fathered his own plants, stopping his hand from picking stray harmful ones.

He goes to the study to watch over Balin and investigate what Ori made him.

It’s a pair of socks, or rather vaguely sock-shaped strips of soft knit sown together, with strings to tie them in place. It takes Bilbo a moment to figure out how to put them on, toes and heel open, feet feeling warmer than be can remember.

He eats last piece of a sweet pie and holds his hands out, rubbing gloved fingers together. Dori’s stitching is as lovely as ever, lilies of the valley blooming on dark leather.

They demanded it. If he’s to keep the Ring on for their safety, they will gift him what they can to ease the pain of it.

It’s sweet and Bilbo wishes there was enough left of his heart to truly be thankful.

If only it didn’t lay broken to pieces in dusty tomb, cried out into dark hair, screamed at cold stones of the mountain. He reaches to stroke Arkenstone, kept safe and hidden in a pouch on his neck. It’s always heavy, but Bilbo carries the weight of Durin’s bloodline and legacy gladly.

He watches over Balin a while more, picking up a delivered teacup to sniff it before taking it away to drink himself, grimacing at bitterness of poisons while making him fresh pot. Then he goes out – Dain’s consort will come for a meeting soon and he doesn’t want to break down crying again.

He wanders along the housing district, where Bombur and Gloin both wait for their children to return from little makeshift school that recently opened. He pushes Gimli when his feet don’t find right step and catches a stone before it can fall on Anur’s head and split it open.

Erebor is still shedding years of destruction and Bilbo is always there to keep his family safe from it.

He goes to find Dwalin, smiling when he sees Ori with him. Hs unsheathes his sword and starts hitting a training dummy, letting himself giggles at their startled gasps.

It’s one of few things to still make him laugh, so they all indulge him.

He lets Dwalin grumble as he gets up from where he fell off the bench and then watches his moves carefully. He blocks his axe whenever the dummies seem to come alive, twisting or turning in just the way to send the blade to hurt it’s wielder. This is mostly why Bilbo trains here at all, so he can protect them from their own weapons and not be send flying from it.

Whenever someone schemes against his family, it’s all too easy to sneak behind them and let Sting dig into flesh until they’re no longer a threat. It’s because of assassins he started wearing the Ring, having to follow a good dozen Ironhill dwarves before finding which little lord was paying them.

He kept wearing it to listen into Ring’s twisted whispers and know what to expect.

He’s not sure if the Ring is causing it all. He tried running, at first, tried leaving and got all the way back to Shire. He didn’t even recover all his spoons from Lobelia before a missive came, Ori sick with something nobody can recognize.

It was mold in the library, from books flooded and infested, spores filling his lungs and stealing his breath. Bilbo recognized it easily and stayed, at first just to help with books.

It kept happening though. Accidents and coincidences, injuries and wounds, sicknesses and misfortunes. Bilbo first suspected a conspiracy, dwarves unhappy with the company being rewarded for their part in the quest or failing the line of Durin.

He quickly learned that while some were bold enough to try such schemes, most of it was just… bad luck.

Malicious, weaponized bad luck that he just barely managed to keep his family safe from, always hearing whatever Ring whispers about and learning who it’s targeting even as it tried to prevent him from it.

Ring, or whoever it whispers to. Sometimes it’s Bilbo, offers of riches and power, all his dreams come true.

What a pathetic little lie.

“Give them back.” Bilbo wept after weeks of resisting, desperate yet unwilling to hope. “Give me back Thorin and Fili and Kili, then you may have me.”

Ring hissed before offering mu different things, one after another, but Bilbo kept repeating his wish until the voice fell silent.

It still never fails to make it go silent, which proves two important things – it’s far from all-powerful and those already gone are safe in halls of Mahal.

All that is left then is protecting them her, for Bilbo to keep watch over them while they still live.

Until they all pass on, happy and old, surrounded by families.

Until then, he will stand vigil.

Until then, he will wait.

Until they, he will be the invisible guest to the place that will never again feel like home and protect what’s left of his broken family.

[mithrilhearts]

I'm not good at coming up with these kinds of things off the top of my head, but I did go to a sentence generator and this was too good to pass up!! 🤣🤣

"My first tutor was a dragon with a terrible sense of humor."

Do with that what you will...😏

Hey look I'm doing this 5039434 years too late! But I wasn't going to let it go unanswered. I'm giving you more than 5 sentences, but take that as an "I'm sorry this took so long" ahaha.

The ol "send me a fic starter sentence and I'll give you 5 sentences after" thingy, or whatever it is!

From the "Dragonhearted" universe! And I'm tagging @i-did-not-mean-to as I think this is something she would enjoy 💜

“My first tutor was a dragon with a terrible sense of humor,” Bilbo cackled, hearing the exasperated sigh of Thorin a few feet behind him while he sat at a desk with a teacup to work with him through some of Erebor’s history. The kingdom had been long forgotten by most, but that didn’t mean its history wasn’t important!

Bilbo was just pulling at Thorin’s tail and nerves at this point, but truth be told, Ori was a far better scholar worthy of teaching these things.

The teacup on the table shuffled awkwardly, his eyes drifting from Thorin to Bilbo before clearing his throat. “Yes…I can see that–”

“Ori!” Thorin hissed, but it was drowned out by Bilbo’s laughter.

“Now if you’ll excuse us, Your Majesty! Mister Bilbo has asked so nicely to learn about the founding of Erebor, and I will teach him properly!”

Thorin stood there looking dumbfounded before the teacup gave a harsh scoot towards him…since he had no arms. ‘Now, go! You’re distracting!”

The dragon huffed, his wings drooping and making his way towards the exit of the library that he had gifted to Bilbo some time ago. “Told off by porcelain…what has my life become?” He lamented in good humor, hearing chuckles behind him in response.

He did have an answer for his humored question though: his life had become better, and he had Bilbo to thank.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

They are on redbubble!!!!

I've got them and they're super beautiful...just saying...❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Some doodles of a few dwarves on their furniture form 👀 Inspired by @lordoftherazzles's bagginshield Beauty and the Beast AU: Dragonhearted!

[samayla]

Hobbit New Year's Eve Headcanon

(Yes, it's a Reshirement AU. Of course.)

There's a party down at the Green Dragon.

In the dead of winter, everyone turns out in their nicest, brightest, most garish outfits to show their hope for a bright new year and coming spring. There is more food than drink (though not by much), everyone chipping in with that little something special they've squirrelled away in the back of their pantry for the occasion.

Thorin has baked a couple of fancy loaves of bread - the dough swirled and twisted before baking, now puffed up into intricate golden knots. Bilbo brings a few jars of jewel-bright preserves - the usual strawberry and peach, but also his famous spiced tomato jam, if there's any left by New Year's Eve (it's Thorin's favorite).

Thorin and Bilbo go down together through the snowy lanes lit by a plethora of lanterns and candles and simple rushlights propped in the snowbanks. Thorin leaves his boots outside the door. They'll be beyond cold when it's time to go home, and possibly full of snow, judging by the clouds that are moving in, but he figures that's better than stomping on everyone's toes inside. He does enough of that barefoot. He doesn't like to think of the damage he could do with his reinforced boots...

The common room is packed, everyone seeming to take up far more space than usual in their bright skirts or waistcoats, and the noise is unreal. There's music for dancing, but there isn't room enough until after midnight, when people begin drifting home and space slowly begins to open up.

Thorin and Bilbo make their rounds, greeting everyone and sampling the treats scattered around the room. Thorin keeps one hand on the belt at the back of Bilbo's waistcoat as they're pushed and jostled through the throng. They'd gotten separated their first year, and they'd ended up staying far longer than either of them had wanted to while they searched for one another.

They sneak away before midnight, both overwhelmed by the noise and heat of the inn, and they take their time wandering home in the cold, sharp air. They arrive back at Bag End, red-faced and chilled to the bone, and Bilbo immediately heads to the kitchen to put on a pot of cocoa, while Thorin goes to the den to stoke up the fire. They laze in their armchairs for that final hour or so, regaling one another with their favorite tales from the past year. The Gaffer's attempt at starting a rose garden - he really is best at vegetables. Lobelia's horror of a hat, ordered in specially from Bree. That beautiful new trellis Thorin had made for Bilbo's birthday - it's almost a shame the ivy likes it so well...

They read Ori's annual account of the company's doings, and laugh at the latest antics of Bombur's children, and wince at Kili's newest plot to help his brother Under the Mountain. Dori's tucked in a sachet of tea, a sweet, earthy blend of his own devising, and they brew this up once the cocoa is gone. They speculate on the likely outcomes of all Balin's grand plans, and whether Gloin's lad will ever grow out of this little berserker phase, and whether it would be better to invite them all to visit now, or wait until spring to send the message.

As conversation gives way to more than a few yawns, they look up to the window and realize the sun is starting to rise.

"Welcome to the new year, Ghivashel," Thorin rumbles, leaning down to collect Bilbo's teacup and planting a kiss on his upturned face.

[fairytalelover33]

Lotr and Hobbit incorrect quotes with y/n #1

(The company at a theme park)

Bombur:(Tries food from every vendor)

Bifur and Bofur: (goes to fair games section and violently plays wackamole for 3 hours)

Bilbo: (Always has a first aid kit on hand, along with sunscreen, trail mix, and a travel mug of strong coffee) “y/n put on your sunscreen for goodness sake!”

Ori : (gets forced onto crazy rides that Nori wants to go on)

Nori: “cMoN oRi”

Gandalf: (Goes on the craziest rides by himself all day, the only way you can find him is by searching for a long grey beard flying in the wind)

Dori, Balin, Dwalin and Thorin: (Calmly spinning in the Teacups, talking about Erebor)

Fili, Kili, and Y/n: (Violently running into each other in bumper cars at full speed while screaming)

message me with any requests for scenarios in the incorrect quotes, or any other fandoms you would like to see :)

[jjamjamm]

Road Trips

Masterlist | Domestic Oneshots Masterlist

Wordcount: 633

Summary: Ori takes you to the Shire to drop in on your mutual friend.

You had left the mountain with Ori, the both of you sporting your packs as you started for Bag End. It was the first trip you’d gotten to escape on alone together, and you were giddy with excitement.

The trip wound up being mainly uneventful, as the two of you recapped the original quest whenever you neared a landmark.

“I think we should probably not drop in on Beorn.” Ori suggested, “Perhaps just wave from afar.”

You had to agree, after the first unannounced visit, you had had your fill of catching him off guard, “Let’s avoid the giant spiders and the goblins too.”

“I like the sound of that.” Ori agreed, “When we get to Bree, should we spend the night?”

“It depends on what time we actually get there.” You pointed out, “If we can, why not?”

He made a note of that and tucked the map away for a while. Without needing to meet an urgent deadline, you could stop and enjoy yourselves just a bit, and even got him to go skinny dipping in the river one night.

“Come on, nobody’s around for miles.” You reassured him as he tugged his shirt over his head. You were already up to your shoulders in the water, and dunked your head before returning to the surface.

He rushed into the water, gasping at the initial chill until he was to his stomach, “Aren’t you freezing?”

“A little.” You admitted, wading back to shallow waters. As the water level dropped and covered less and less, he looked around for any travelers.

“Should we get out?” He asked, wrapping his arms around you to shield you from any peeping eyes, “And dressed?”

He won out there, the water was much too cold to stay in anyways, so he pulled his pants back on and started a fire, while you wrapped yourself up to dry.

As you snuggled against his side, watching the fire crack and pop, you realized that the little moments of the trip were your favorite. Sure, you were thrilled to see your friend, but you loved just being with your husband and enjoying his company.

From there you continued through, eventually spending the night in Bree like Ori had suggested. Getting to rest in a real bed was a huge relief to your back, and you almost didn’t want to leave.

“He doesn’t even know we’re coming.” You pointed out as Ori started to pack the bags up, “Can’t we just stay another night?”

You got up for breakfast and soon enough, found yourself back on the road.

As the Shire came into view, you found yourself overcome with nostalgia. Life before the quest had been so much simpler, and the Shire seemed to capture all that you had lost- and remind you of what you had gained all at the same time.

Ori was a few steps behind you, and gestured in the direction of Bilbo’s home, “Nearly there, do you think he’ll be excited?”

“I’m sure he’ll love that we dropped by.” You said, following the winding paths with your husband, “I almost wish we could move out here. Do you think Dori would send search parties if we stayed?”

He laughed at that, “I’m sure he’d be leading them.”

You knocked on Bilbo’s door, tracing your fingers over the carved wood before it was tugged open.

“I told you Lobelia-” He started, pausing as he noticed you weren’t who he had expected, “It’s so good to see you both! Come in, come in.”

He let you both inside and shut the door. You set your packs down at his instruction and were both pulled into hugs.

He invited you to sit and join him as he readied teacups, “You know, I told you not to bother knocking.”

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Today I fucked up by gushing in the same way I always do and ruining my anonymity by it 😂😂😂

@lordoftherazzles look at my fall from grace. Star the super-sleuth. Detective Star-kachu. 👀🚨

I am obsessed with your art. You draw so beautifully and because this is supposed to be anonymous, I'll stop right there before I go gushing about specific paintings and betray myself 🙈

Aaaaaa thank you so much 🥺🥺🥺🥺 hearing (or reading lol) things like this is so uplifting!! Happy holidays to you ❤️

[i-did-not-mean-to]

February 2023 Bingo

💖Sweet💖

Stargazing (Varda/Manwë)

Cup of love (Teacup-Ori)

Doom and Lattes (Beleg (/Mablung?) (/Túrin? You decide)

Candles of Candour (Beleg/Mablung) for @lycheesodas

Apple of my eye (Ori x reader) for @sorisooyaa

Tripping (Barduil) for @lordoftherazzles

Cupcake (Angbang)

Crime of passion (Angbang)

🔥Spicy🔥

Splash (Modern!AU Russingon)

Retrospect (Modern!AU Farawyn)

Leap (Trans!Ori x OC) -> Sequel to Daydream

A taste of heaven (Trans!Ori x OC)

Dance (Fingolfin doing a striptease)

Poultice of passion (Angbang)

[isauntervaguelydownwards]

beneath a mountain (pillows stained with tears)

Dale also meant that she wouldn’t have to leave the Company behind entirely – she’d miss them all too much to ever do that, one of the primary reasons she hadn’t gone back to the Shire. The other reason had been him, of course, but that one she had very carefully kept to herself.

Belba headed to bed, a bed that was, as it most often was, empty. She had hoped, after the Quest and the battles were over with, that he would perhaps consider settling down, but then she’d heard about the dwarven Ones, and she’d quickly realised that her hopes were quashed before they’d even properly taken root.

cw: pregnancy, unrequited love, fem!bilbo

pairing: fem!bilbo/nori

fill for @febuwhump day 14: can't go home

fill for @badthingshappenbingo my square O1: crying themselves to sleep

The healer Belba had visited – stealing away like a thief in the night because she knew that if she went during the day word would spread like wildfire across the mountain – had confirmed what she pretty much already knew. She was a hobbit, and there weren’t many things of this type that went hobbits by.

She wasn’t quite certain how to solve the issue, however, and things didn’t get much clearer while she walked back to her rooms. She was as always accompanied by a guard, something Thorin had insisted on for every member of the company. In the end, only Ori and Belba had actually been saddled with one, Ori mostly because Dori hadn’t let him protest. Belba hadn’t even tried.

The guard had remained silent as he followed her to the healing halls and back to her own, private rooms, but she could almost feel his worry as a palpable thing. She gave him as reassuring a smile as she could, knowing full well it was shaky at best, before slipping in through the heavy door to her rooms.

Belba considered her options as she brewed herself a cup of tea. It was past midnight, of that there was no doubt, but she had always solved problems easier when sitting with a cup of tea in her hands. If nothing else, she thought, tea wouldn’t make anything worse.

Once she’d sat down in her little armchair, the cup of steaming tea set down on the table next to it, she stared out into nothingness for a while, trying to accept the truth that she knew even before she’d been told.

She was with child.

She would bear a child, a half-dwarven child at that, and it did pose some challenges. Belba wasn’t certain what the dwarven stand on bastards was, but she thought it couldn’t be too heavy-handed – the Ri brothers were all born of different fathers, after all.

Maybe she could move to Dale? That would give the fauntling the chance to learn his dwarven heritage, all while she didn’t have to stay in the mountain and play happy while ignoring pitying looks. She couldn’t go back to the Shire, obviously – as if running off with thirteen males hadn’t been bad enough, coming back unmarried and quickening? She’d be a pariah, and while her Baggins name would protect her from a stoning it wouldn’t keep her from being shunned.

Even if she didn’t much care for her reputation – or that of the rest of the Baggins family, at that point – she did care for the child she was carrying. Belba hadn’t meant to fall pregnant but she couldn’t bring herself to regret that she had. If she went back to the Shire, the child would have to weather abuse from almost everyone around, and she would not put her child through that.

Yes, Dale was probably the best idea, she nodded decisively to herself, setting the teacup down on the saucer to underline her own point. Bard would be happy to help her get settled, he’d nagged her about coming for a visit for quite some time – and if the visit happened to be permanent, well, he’d only have himself to blame, really.

Dale also meant that she wouldn’t have to leave the Company behind entirely – she’d miss them all too much to ever do that, one of the primary reasons she hadn’t gone back to the Shire. The other reason had been him, of course, but that one she had very carefully kept to herself.

Belba headed to bed, a bed that was, as it most often was, empty. She had hoped, after the Quest and the battles were over with, that he would perhaps consider settling down, but then she’d heard about the dwarven Ones, and she’d quickly realised that her hopes were quashed before they’d even properly taken root.

No dwarf had ever found his One outside the dwarven race, and why she’d thought she’d be the exception to the rule she didn’t know. She didn’t live in a fairytale, something her father had told her quite a few times during her whimsical youth; there was never an automatic happily ever after, people would lie, get sick and die, but somehow she had fallen into the trap of it anyway.

Nori hadn’t ever shown any inclination that he loved her, that she was his One, even though he had been more than happy to tumble her. She hadn’t minded it either, not at first – during the journey they were all too preoccupied with staying alive and reaffirming that they had managed to bother talking about anything as useless as feelings, and after… after, she had been informed of Ones, and knew what his lack of saying anything meant.

He was her cariad, her Heart’s Love, but that didn’t mean she was his. It happened, even back in the Shire, that cariads weren’t matched, but it was always a tragedy when it happened.

Well, my girl, her father had told her, having her sit on his lap. The ending worth having is worth fighting for, but remember; three things you cannot influence, and those are Fate, Faith and Love. Trust in them, and things will turn out for the best.

She had trusted in them, but she couldn’t help but feel that this was all punishment for running out her door after thirteen male dwarrow – despite that, despite that adventure being the ruination of everything she had worked for since her parents died and left the Baggins estate to her, she couldn’t regret a single thing. Belba had, for the first time in many years, done something for herself, and she had had rather good fun while doing it.

She hadn’t counted on falling pregnant, of course, but sometimes fate intervenes and you have to trust faith.

She’d been lucky, really, luckier than other unpaired cariads – she’d known his touch, had known what it was to share a bed with someone she loved more than life itself, even if she didn’t know the feeling of sharing it with someone who loved her back.

In a way, she was desperately happy to be carrying Nori’s child – this way she’d always have a bit of him with her, a tangible proof that they had shared something, even if it had meant more to her than it did to him.

She couldn’t stay in the mountain, however – she couldn’t put herself through the heartache of seeing him ever so often, but always at a distance, having to explain to her child – their child – why she was always so sad after seeing Uncle Dori’s brother.

She fell asleep after what felt like hours of thinking, and if her pillow was damp and her cheeks were tearstained, there was no one there to see it.

[beenovel]

Thorin and Bilbo: *spinning calmly, enjoying their ride in peace*

Fíli and Kíli: *flying past them, spinning as fast as they can, screaming while Ori looks like he's about to pass out and Dori yells at them from another teacup*

[mithrilhearts]

Howdy! 37, 41 and 42 for your fic writers ask please!

Howdy partner! 🤠Thanks for the ask!!

37. How do you choose where to end a chapter?

When I feel that the arc for that chapter has come to a close (unless it's a cliffhanger). I try to map out my chapters with this in mind to see where the break feel okay. I look at it kind of like television episodes. Did I accomplish telling the story of this chapter? If it's a cliffhanger, is there enough content for the next chapter to wrap up that arc? Etc.

41. Do you tend to reread fics or are you a one-and-done kind of person?

I love rereading fics. If they're favorites of mine, they'll definitely be reread, it's a comfort thing for me.

42. What’s the last fic you read? Do you recommend it?

Okay, so not a non-posted-wip, the last fic I read was... "Cup of Love" by @i-did-not-mean-to for the Sweet & Spicy bingo prompts. I really enjoyed it, and it was a nice headnod to my fic Dragonhearted, featuring teacup Ori. It's very sweet, and honestly, IDNMT is just a fantastic writer. Definitely giving it a rec!

Get to know your fic writer!

[avaria-revallier]

A dragons wish - Chapter 5

Kindly read on AO3

Dwalin watched as his best friend awkwardly let go of their host. What was he witnessing here? First Thorin had held her longer than necessary as she was clearly able to look after herself and now the king looked lost.

Ruby turned around, looking up into Thorin's eyes. It was as if she was not completely sure how to react in this kind of situation. It was obvious that their host knew her way around the mountain and also knew how to survive, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to live so long here all alone.

An awkward silence filled the air while Ruby stared up at Thorin, and Thorin, to Dwalins surprise, avoided her eyes, scratching his neck.

“You didn’t have to, but thank you though,” she grinned and hugged the startled king, rubbing her cheek over the fur of his coat.

For a moment all dwarrows froze in their movement. Dori was the first to react by snatching Ruby by her shoulders and dragging her away from Thorin and further down the hall. Dwalin shook his head to come back to his senses. Was Thorin’s hand following the small red-head just now? And did the ever frowning, grim expression of the king just turn into a fond absentminded smile?!

One after another they broke free from their frozen state, following Dori inside like little ducklings would their mother. The eldest of the Ri brothers gently guided their host by the shoulders back inside, sending deadly glares at the king and his brother. After a final look out into the dark night Dwalin turned around to follow the others. A warm presence on his left made him turn his head.

The young scribe had found his way right next to him in the very back. Without the never ending fussing of his oldest brother and the silent threatening glares of his second brother, Ori had grasped the chance and separated himself from them.

Warm fingers brushed lightly over the back of Dwalin's hand. He nearly flinched away, but his brain reminded him just in time, that he probably would never have a similar chance ever again. If Dori knew, they wouldn’t even have this chance at all. His fingers fidgeted, while his other hand fiddled with the edge of his shirt. Dwalin would have liked nothing better than to grab the young dwarrows hand, but he decided not to. There was already enough going on as is, he could wait.

Abrupt the warriors head flings to the side. Ori had grabbed his hand all on his own and gave it a light squeeze, as if to test out Dwalin’s reaction. His head spun back to stare blankly forward as he lightly squeezed back, but even the dimly lit hallway couldn’t hide the crimson blush down to Dwalin’s neck.

~

A loud gasp from Gloin made Dwalin and Ori instinctively jump away from each other, awkwardly coughing. The remark wasn’t for them, but rather what lay before them. The great forges of Erebor lit the hall and warmed the air, drawing strange shadows onto the walls. No, not shadows. There were actual paintings on the walls of tall buildings, strange looking skylines and unfamiliar sights.

Like most of the company Dwalin stared at the new sights those paintings were showing him. Ori on the other hand had made his way to the front where Dori and Ruby stood. At the base of the largest fire pit was something which looked like a castle of cushions, blankets and books, towers of books wherever one looked.

Ruby stopped in front of one of the book-towers and confidently grabbed one of the large leather bound books. It looked a bit worn out and the lather was bruised on the edges. Multiple bookmarks stook out of the tattered pages, marking the beginning of each new year. Their host wiped off some of the dust that had gathered on the golden ornaments on the back of the book.

“Here,” she handed it over to a surprised Balin, “these are all items in the treasury as well as the expenses I made over the years. Most of which was trade, but some of the gold I had to use as well. It should be alright though, cause some of the gold in the treasury was taken from Dale when the dragon came, so it is only right to give it back, don’t you think so?” she smiled up at him.

“Miss Ruby?” her attention as well as Dwalins shifted from the astonished king’s aide to the scribe of their group, “what exactly is all this? I have never seen anything similar in the slightest!”

Ori’s eyes beamed at her filled with curiosity for the unknown things he had just discovered. He had removed his shoes and was sitting on one of the cushions spread over the blankets on the floor. In his lap he held a book that had prior lay open on the small desk in the far back.

“That is my diary, master Ori,” she grinned down at him, before sitting in the place next to him.

The young dwarf blushed furiously, muttering something indistinguishable before closing the book and desperately searching for something else to talk about. His gaze stopped at Gloin, who was still admiring the large paintings of buildings on the walls.

“What are those then?” he asked, pointing at the painting on the wall nearest to them.

“That was my home.”

A heavy silence filled the halls, only interrupted by the crackling of the fires. Dwalin could see the longing and the sadness in her eyes.So she as well had lost her home and made a new home here in the mountain.

“I will tell you about it someday,” Ruby looked up, a sad smile on her lips.

Dwalin nearly moved towards her, to hug her and tell her she would be fine, that she no longer was alone any more, but something bumped against his shoulder, bringing him back to reality.

Looking to the side he could witness something rather unusual. Thorin Oakenshield, his friend and king showed open concern and worry. Thinking back Thorin had acted quite strangely ever since they had reached the mountain, somewhat out of character. He had been more open and not as on edge as he had been throughout the whole journey. His king was also more considerate towards their host than Dwalin would have ever considered possible.

Ruby was no dwarf, just a child with unknown background, living in their home as it seemed to be. Still, there was some strange aura around her which made it impossible to grasp the whole situation, or rather her whole being. There was definitely more to her than she would let on. He shouldn’t have let his guard down in the first place, only because she looked like a child and they were in the safety of their home.

A loud crashing sound made him shift his attention back onto the situation. Once again the forges were wrapped in a dead silence. On the ground next to Thorin he could spot a pile of books and in between those, small shards of what looked like some kind of teacup.

Even though it was shattered, Dwalin could see that it was rather poorly made, most likely by a child or a very untalented potter. The sharp inhale of air made him look in Ruby’s direction. The attention of the whole company lay on her. Thorin even slightly flinched back, a guilty grimace on his face.

Her eyes lit up like a golden flare, shining from the inside out. A slim line of smoke crept out of her mouth as she began to speak, her voice deep and menacing, “You! You come here, into my mountain. Eating my food, drinking my ale and enjoying the warmth~” she nearly hissed the last part, letting the sound slowly die out.

The sound, her flashing eyes and mannerism as well as the fact that there was literal smoke coming out of her mouth and nostrils made Dwalin shiver. The chill crept right through his flesh and into his bones. His hands automatically flinched to grab his weapons. The realisation hit his mind like fire. He, as well as the other dwarrows had left their weapons in the dining room.

In the meantime Ruby had started to circle around Thorin. Her presence had become dangerous, almost even more terrifying than the dragon that might still be somewhere in the mountain. What in Mahal's name was she?

“Thorin Oakenshield,” her hissing voice cut through the air like a sharp knife, “There is no King under the Mountain, just a fool!” tears welled up in her eyes as she stood in front of him, trembling terribly.

“I gave it to you, I gave it all to you! The Arkenstone, the gold… I thought about not giving it to you at all, to hide it where you may never find it, so I didn’t have to see you going mad like your grandfather did,” her last words were no more than a whisper.

With that she slipped away, leaving the dwarrows standing still as if they had been struck by lightning. Ruby hurried through the hallways. Now they felt cold and empty, almost hostile towards her. She needed to get out. She needed air, silence and some time to stretch her wings.

The dragon rampaged in her chest, desperately trying to get out once more, to get to the surface and burn whatever had hurt her. But that was no option, she would never be able again to sleep soundly if there were any harm coming to her dwarrows. No, she would need to vent her anger elsewhere.

Maybe she would even be able to kill two birds with one stone. To prevent any further harm coming to her drarrows she would just have to get rid of a small obstacle, and said obstacle would be a perfect target for her to vent her anger without further consequences.

Azog would die tonight. As if to agree her dragon roared as she changed forms, her clothes secure in her right claw.

She didn’t notice the hobbit, running out of the mountain shortly after she had shifted into Smaug, watching her as she glided through the air and into the dark. Neither did she see the horror on the small creature's face as he spotted the familiar clothings in the dragon's claw. Even to hear the shocked “What have we done?” whispered by Bilbo, she was already too far away.

@jumpingmanatee @tschrist1 @savvy-the-human @ayamenimthiriel @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms @animestuff123 @blankethalfling @all-seeing-storm @nightmarewalker @lunasnow20 @coolleviauchihadreamerlove @chocolateintolerant @givashel @shrimpsthings @swagbearfishturkey @angelic-kisses13 @nickangel13

[theincaprincess]

Shelter at my future *part 3*

Here is part 3 for you my darlings 

Forever tag list @amyf20 @blankdblank @moonfaery @deepestfirefun @catthefearless @meyoko10 @tolkienprincess @starlightintherain89  @southsidesarcasticwriter  @fuer-immer-jetzt  

Ori tag list @bettythedwarfqueen @tolkien-fantasy @thesmellofasinnamonroll

Catch up here 

Part 1 Part 2

Word count 1,170

Locking up your shop you returned to the back and collected your used teacups for washing, going through the door at the back you climbed the stairs and entered the kitchen, placing the teacups in the sink you picked up the kettle and filled it, bending down you placed it over the fire, leaving it to boil the water and heat your home, as the weather had turned cold and you were sure it would start to snow soon, going to your personal bookcase you collected the book you were currently reading and returned to the seat in front of the fire and settled down to read it. 

Hearing the kettle whistle you placed your book down and took it from the fire pouring yourself a hot cup of tea seeing the first snow falling outside, returning to your book hearing a loud banging at your door, "who could that be" you thought to yourself placing your teacup down on the table you picked up your keys and went downstairs.

Seeing Ori outside you rushed to the door as you unlocked it you pulled Ori inside. 

"What are you doing here Ori, it's freezing outside and where is your cloak!?" You said in shock as you wrapped your hands around his being to rubbed them together trying to get heat back into them.

"I need to tell you something (y/n) and it just couldn't wait" Ori spoke.

"Well, what is it, Ori?" You asked with a smile on face still trying to warm his hands up. 

Moving his hands around yours and holding them Ori looked deeply into your eyes "(y/n), you're my one." 

Tilting your head to the side you had a confused look on your face clearing his throat again Ori continued "dwarfs have a one, someone they would do anything for and you are mine, I, I, I love you." 

Hearing the last words coming from Ori's mouth you blinked a few times and in your shock, at his confession, you stepped back from him a motion Ori took the wrong way. 

"I'm sorry (y/n)" he muttered and turned to leave the shop rushing back to Erebor feeling his heart beaking. 

Coming to your senes you rushed out calling for Ori, but couldn't see him, and the snow was coming down heavier running back you collected your cloak and locked up your shop making your way up to Erebor to tell Ori you felt the same way about him. 

Coming to the bridge you were frozen but you needed to make things right with Ori, the friendship you had with him had grown into a crush but the month you hadn't seen him you felt lost, and Ori was all you could think of that's when you knew in your heart you loved that shy dwarf who hid in your shop over a year ago. 

Walking to the gate you saw the two guards watching you closely as you approached, trying to remember some of the dwarves names that Ori had told you about as you slowly walked towards the guards, standing in front of them the only name that came to you was Balin. 

Wetting your lips you looked at them "I'm here to speak to Balin" you spoke proudly like you were old friends but inside you were shaking at the sight of the swords and spears, seeing one of the guards nod and entered the mountain you stood there wrapping you cloak tightly around yourself to vend of the cold.

Making his way to his chamber Balin was passed by Ori "laddie?" Balin called out to him and saw as Ori turned around with reddish eyes "laddie what happened?" He asked.

"I told her, and she stepped away from me" was the last thing Balin heard before Ori turned and ran towards his chamber little out a sigh Balin shook his head and the young dwarf. 

Turning around Balin saw the guard "Balin, there is a human girl at the front gate, she is wanting to see you." 

"Right then you better take me to her" Balin said and followed the guard. 

After waiting a while you watched as the guard was returning with a white-haired dwarf walking behind him, "well let the lass in from the cold" the old dwarf said stepping aside you walked into Erebor and up to the old dwarf "Balin" you mouthed watching the old dwarf nod. 

"Let's get you warmed up lass" Balin said and walked you towards the kitchens, telling the guard in Khuzdul to bring Ori to the kitchens.

Taking your cloak off you placed it on the back of your chair before taking your seat as the old dwarf poured you some tea, "you must be (y/n), Ori speaks a lot about you" Balin spoke as he was pouring out the drink. 

"That is why I am here, I think I upset him and you were the only one I could think off, plus Ori speaks a lot about you, you are like a grandfather to him" you replied watching Balin smile. 

"Aye lass, I'm old enough to be his grandfather" bring over your tea he placed it in front of you and you wrapped your hand around it for the warmth, "Ori also told me you helped him with the library" Balin said with a soft smile.

Letting out a small laugh you nodded "he snuck me in here to do it a few times, and we were almost caught and I had to hide under one of the tables." 

Watching the old dwarf laugh you couldn't help but join in, just behind you Balin noticed Ori entering the kitchen, making a hand gesture to be quiet, Ori nodded, turn his eyes back to while you stopped laughing and took a sip of your tea he asked you "so how have you upset the laddie?"  

Playing with your teacup you let out a little sigh before speaking again, "He told me I was his one, which I was confused about until he explained and said he loved me, and in my shock, I stepped away from him and that's when he left." 

"So you don't feel the same for him?" Balin asked taking a seat, feeling sorry for Ori who looked devastated.

Sipping your tea again you returned it to the table letting out a long sigh you looked back up at Balin kind eyes, taking a deep breath you spoke "I love him too Balin, but I've messed it up." 

"No you haven't (y/n)" hearing Ori's voice you turned and saw him standing by the door twisting his fingers in his hands with the shy smile you loved about him, getting up from your seat you ran to him and wrapped your arms around him and he did the same to you, placing his hands on your face Ori pulled you in for a kiss, standing up Balin clapped his hands and smiled at the two of you. 

*Part 4 coming soon*

[unpeumacabre]

love is blindness: chapter 2

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) and read the first chapter on tumblr here

Count: 12k

thanks again to aidan (mistergoblin on ao3, @daddysdevito on tumblr) for the beta, and all my lovely readers. seriously, i shed a tear whenever i think of you :”) here’s the next part as promised.

*

Bilbo did not think Thorin would apologise to him, so he should have known, conversely, to expect an apology. Thorin seemed to be fond, whether intentionally or not, of surprising him and upturning Bilbo’s expectations of him, both in a good or a bad way.

It was not that Bilbo thought Thorin prideful, or arrogant. It was just that Bilbo had not expected Thorin to consider their argument significant enough to warrant an apology.

This made the warm feeling in his chest swell even further when he opened his door that morning to a very solemn-faced Thorin, who had actually rung his bell - rung his bell, imagine that! - for the very first time. Bilbo still remembered their first meeting when Thorin had so rudely banged on the door to Bag End to demand entry, although he had to admit that the memory brought more fondness than irritation now.

Still he effected a stern demeanour. He felt quite aggrieved, in fact, and believed that he was wholly innocent of any wrongdoing. It was Thorin, after all, who had blown up over nothing - nothing but the sordid speculations of his own mind.

“Yes?” he said, severely. Thorin had his hands behind his back, and was looking quite sheepish.

“Master Baggins…” he began, then sighed. It was not a put-upon sigh, but rather an unhappy sigh, and it was the only reason why Bilbo relented, and gestured for Thorin to enter his rooms with an impatient roll of his eyes.

“Come in then,” he snapped peevishly, marching over to his armchair and settling himself down with a loud whump. “I would not be so remiss in my manners as to demand that the monarch of this mountain remain outside when there is a perfectly good breakfast to be had in my quarters. Even if he has made me very, very angry.”

Thorin walked in, his gait hesitant and yet slow and sure as it always had been. Quietly he brought the tray from the breakfast table to the low table in front of the fireplace where Bilbo was seated. The teapot was dwarfed in his large, broad hands as he lifted it and elegantly poured a cup of tea into one of Bilbo’s precious porcelain teacups.

Bilbo took the proffered peace offering with a haughty sniff, secretly pleased at Thorin’s obeisance, but outwardly deciding not to appear so easily bought. He still hadn’t heard hide nor hair of an apology, after all, and he did rather think he deserved one.

It seemed to take a long time for Thorin to start speaking again, but once he did, the words came with a solemn surety that lent a sense of gravity to the proceedings.

“Master Baggins,” he said, very formally indeed, “I beg you to accept my apologies for the incidents that transpired last night in my quarters. I have grievously offended you in my insinuations upon your character, and as such I offer you a favour to be owed to my person, and any punishment you seek to enforce upon me, I will humbly accept.” Having thus finished his apology, he bowed his head and waited patiently for a reply.

Bilbo lasted for only a few moments before he finally broke.

“Oh, you silly dwarf!” he cried, quite exasperated with the whole blasted business. “Just say sorry, why don’t you, and dispense with the formalities already!”

Thorin turned his head slightly off to the side, as if he could not bear to look Bilbo in the eyes. “I feel that I have wronged you greatly,” he said softly, “and I wished to make it up to you.”

Bilbo sighed, and shook his head. “Well, you did enrage me quite a lot last night,” he said reasonably, “and I do believe it was the first time I’d been quite so angry as all that. But,” and here he held up a finger, to stave off any interruptions from Thorin, “I forgive you, and accept your apology, although we had best consider the favours and punishments and whatnot moot. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to offer someone a hold over your royal head so easily, you know. I… I do consider you a friend of mine, you know, and friends forgive each other,” he added, almost inaudibly, and he wondered if his words would be well-received.

He needn’t have worried, he realised, for at his words Thorin’s eyes crinkled and he lapsed into one of his almost-smiles. Turning his head back to look into Bilbo’s eyes once more, he left his seat and knelt down in front of Bilbo, who quickly put his teacup down and wiped his sweaty hands on his dressing robe. Thorin took Bilbo’s hands in his and held them, very gently, in Bilbo’s lap.

“I was wrong to speak to you in such an overbearing manner,” he murmured gravely, his voice husky from sleep. “I was wrong to think that I could dictate your relationships and the company you keep, for I have no right to do so, even as the ruler of this kingdom. Master Baggins, can you ever forgive me?”

“Mmm,” Bilbo said eloquently, being rather distracted by Thorin’s thumb stroking over the skin of his hand in a very disarming manner. “Well - I already said I’d forgive you, so forgive you I will, and let us not speak of this again.”

“Good,” Thorin said softly. His breath whispered across the back of Bilbo’s hands, and Bilbo started sweating. “I would hate to think that I had lost your favour through my own idiocy.”

“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo said, with a weak smile, “You - “ could never lose my favour, you have my heart, and all that I am I will give to you, if you’ll only have me - “ needn’t worry, truly. I know you spoke impulsively, and that you won’t give Oddvar any trouble, won’t you?”

Thorin shook his head adamantly, resembling nothing less than a large puppy, and Bilbo had to restrain a laugh. It seemed as if he had thought on this long and hard the previous night, for his answer came readily enough.

“He is your choice, and so I will abide by your wishes,” Thorin said solemnly. Bilbo thought it was a rather odd way of putting the friendship between him and Oddvar. “Your happiness is all that matters to me, after all.”

And how could Bilbo’s heart not melt after that sincere proclamation?

Bilbo rewarded him with another shaky smile. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he murmured, quietly, and squeezed Thorin’s hands briefly. They remained there for a few moments - Bilbo could swear his heart was beating at a thousand miles an hour, and his face was curiously flushed - while Thorin just gazed at him with his hooded eyes and that same unhappy twist to his mouth.

Then the morning gong chimed for eight o’clock, and the moment was broken. Thorin lifted himself to his feet and bowed formally.

“I am afraid I must take my leave of you, Master Baggins,” he said, “although it is my hope that we will see each other again soon.”

“Oh! Well, quite,” Bilbo said hurriedly, leaping up to stand and usher Thorin out of the door. “I agree. We will have our dinner together again next week, at the same time, will we not?” And he turned his face upwards towards Thorin with a hopeful smile.

Thorin nodded, his hand lingering on the door frame as if he could not bear to go. “We will meet again then, Master Baggins,” he murmured, and gripped Bilbo’s shoulder briefly, before turning and shutting the door behind him.

Bilbo walked back to his armchair and collapsed into it in rather a daze.

It was not long after that that another knock came at his door, and Bilbo, feeling thoroughly boneless and unwilling to rise, called out “Enter” and the door opened. Oddvar trotted in, another of his amused grins on his face.

“I say, Master Baggins,” he remarked jovially, helping himself to scones from the table - he really was turning out to be a rather insolent dwarf, for his station at least - and plonking himself down onto the chair opposite Bilbo. “You seem to have rather a hold on our majestic King’s heart, if I may say so myself.”

Bilbo frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

Oddvar shrugged, causing a cascade of crumbs to shower from his mouth and cover his jerkin and armour. “Nothing. Just some words he had with me outside, after he had finished his business with you…” then he smirked, and covered his mouth with his hand. “Oh, but I wasn’t supposed to tell you! Forget I ever said that.”

Bilbo sprang from his chair, eyes wide. “What do you mean - words?” he cried, fuming. “You mean to say - you mean to say His Majesty reprimanded you when he went outside after our conversation? Oh, and after he’d just apologised to me, and all! The cheek of that dwarf! Why, I must speak to him immediately - “

“No, nothing of the sort!” Oddvar said, laughing merrily as he popped the last of his scones into his mouth. “Although I must say it flatters me that you leap so quickly to my defence. No, our conversation was quite cordial. He gave me his blessing, and - well, I ought not to say. Things are moving apace, yes indeed they are!” and he chuckled to himself.

Bilbo sighed, partly in relief, partly in exasperation. “Alright, keep your secrets if you wish,” he grumbled. “Though why dwarrows have to keep their secrets so close to their hearts, I’ll never understand! As long as he was perfectly civil and nice to you, that’s all.”

Oddvar grinned, and handed him a piece of paper. “A message from Lord Balin, I think,” he said.

It was indeed a message from Balin, asking Bilbo to meet him for luncheon, to discuss some matters regarding the architecture of the garden. Bilbo sighed - it was likely another veiled attempt to persuade him to put another of those blasted dwarf statues in his garden again, and by Yavanna, when would these stubborn dwarrows understand the meaning of the word ‘no’?

Although it had been rather a long time since he had seen Balin, aside from the advisor’s occasional visits to look in on the garden and drop a kindly word of encouragement. Bilbo realised he had been rather neglecting his friendships in the course of his new obsession with his garden. It seemed a long time indeed since he had last seen Bofur, or Ori, or any of the other dwarrows, since they were often kept busy with their own obligations and sometimes forgot to call on him.

Well, even if Balin took the visit as an excuse to needle him on the matter of decorations for his hobbit-garden, Bilbo decided it would be good for him to go.

So it was that Bilbo went to Balin’s quarters for luncheon. They were served by one of Bombur’s multiple underlings who had been deemed fit enough to serve royalty - Galti, if Bilbo’s memory served him well, and he politely enquired as to the state of Galti’s little beardling. Galti startled at the sudden question, and would have dropped the entire tray of potatoes if not for Bilbo’s quick reflexes.

“Quite - Quite well, Master Baggins, sir!” Galti stammered, blushing as red as a tomato, when he had sufficiently recovered his sense. “Geifrig is eleven this year, sir - still a babe in arms, and my Alma is diligently nursing him daily. He has just grown his first wisp of beard, sir!”

“Indeed?” Bilbo said generously. “What a strapping little beardling he must be! Give my regards to your dear wife and your darling little boy.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir!” Galti said, bowing frantically and shuffling out of the room as fast as he could. Bilbo returned his attention to the meal, only to find Balin smiling at him in rather a facetious way, Bilbo thought.

“ What?” he snapped, peevishly.

“Oh, nothing,” Balin said airily, tearing into the hunk of beef on his plate. “You have quite a way with dwarrows, don’t you?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Bilbo said, feeling altogether uncomfortable at the clear untruth. “How can I have a way with dwarrows? I’m a hobbit, after all. Entirely different species, I can assure you.” He tucked the napkin into his collar primly - even though he ate with barbarians, it didn’t mean he had to completely forget his manners, after all.

“It’s got nothing to do with that, laddie,” Balin said in reply. “You have a way with people, no question about it, Bilbo - you’re a very special hobbit, after all. I don’t think there’s any one of our company who’s quite forgotten that.”

Balin’s words gave Bilbo a little warm feeling in his chest. It was nice to be appreciated, when one received so little appreciation nowadays. He harrumphed and tried not to let his blush show.

“Anyway,” Balin continued, oblivious to Bilbo’s inner turmoil, “I hear the garden’s coming along splendidly.”

Here we go, Bilbo thought. “Yes, coming along quite fine, actually,” he said out loud, trying to head Balin off the topic of decor. “I’ve just put in some of the flowers from Dale and I’ve left some space for the seeds from my garden.” And the acorn from Beorn’s house, he thought, and he wondered at how he found it difficult to divulge to Balin the fact that he had planted the acorn in his garden. It rather felt like something private - to be kept secret, to be kept safe, to be kept his alone, so that if the tree ever grew, he would be able to stand under its shade and know that he alone would gaze upon it while knowing the significance of the tree.

“I see you’re making good use of Thorin’s gift then,” Balin said, smiling a knowing smile.

Bilbo frowned, confused. “A... gift?” he said. Oh! Balin must have meant the pail. His lovely golden pail, unadorned but with a simple rose trellis forming the handle, the one that had been carved by Thorin’s hand -

Balin interrupted his train of thought. “He hasn’t given it to you?” he asked blankly. “But I could have sworn - the big funny bird from Lórien - I thought I saw, yesterday at the gardens - “

“What is it, Balin?” Bilbo said impatiently. “You’re not making any sense.”

The old dwarf stared at him with what seemed like an incredulous look on his face, before finally he looked away disgustedly. “That foolish dwarf!” he barked. He turned his face back to Bilbo with an apologetic look on his face.

“I beg your pardon, Bilbo,” he said kindly. “I did not mean to speak so angrily. It is only - some dwarrows absolutely vex me, sometimes!”

“I know what you mean,” commiserated Bilbo, very resolutely not thinking of Thorin. “Or - rather, I don’t know what you mean. What’s all this about a gift? Do you mean the pail Thor - the king gave me? If so, then yes, I have been using it rather assiduously. It has been very useful in my gardening.”

Balin shook his head. “‘Tis nothing, laddie - I often confuse myself in my old age, now,” he murmured. “I meant the pail. Yes, I am glad to hear you are making good use of it. Thorin did spend quite a lot of time designing it and forging it, you know.”

Bilbo smiled, a wistful smile. “Then I am glad to have such a worthy gift, crafted by His Majesty’s hand.”

Balin peered at him for a few moments, and Bilbo met his gaze with a puzzled stare of his own. After a few moments, Balin sat back and sighed. It was a long, gusty sigh.

“I see now what she meant,” he mumbled. “Well, I suppose that explains the drastic measures she’s taken…”

“I beg your pardon?” Bilbo said, rather irritated by now. Confound and confusticate these dwarrows! He was beginning to think all of them had at least a few screws loose. After all, there was precious little else to explain the strange way Oddvar, and now Balin, were acting, other than some great racial fault in their mental faculties.

“Never you mind now, Bilbo,” Balin said. “Now, shall we talk about the empty spaces in your garden? Quite a blasphemy to leave them empty Bilbo, I must say - can I not convince you to place a nice bust of Thorin on a pedestal in one of those spots? Or perhaps Fíli or Kíli, since I know you are fond of them?”

“Not this again!” Bilbo groaned. “I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, Balin, mine is to be a hobbit garden, and us hobbits don’t hold with big gaudy stone statues in our garden. I won’t have it, I tell you, not in my garden…”

*

A few days later Bilbo was in his garden again. He was alone, Oddvar having stationed himself outside the door to the room, and was happily weeding his plots. His flowers and herbs were coming along nicely, the soil being of good quality, and also because of his daily ministrations.

When he was done watering his plants and rooting around in the soil for more pesky weeds, he straightened and absently wiped his hands on his overalls. He glanced around the room, looking for any imperfections or undone chores, when almost inadvertently, his eyes alighted on the bare plot of land where he had planted his acorn.

His feet carried him over to the little patch of soil, and he stood looking down at the ground. Although he did not know much about growing oaks, he had spoken to several lore-masters and gardeners in Dale, and they had given his acorn about four days before it would start to germinate. Shorter than the usual germination time of an acorn, since it had been taken from a Beorning’s garden, which usually had nature magic infused into its plants and animals.

And yet it had shown no signs at all of growth. It had been six days since he planted it - almost a week, and yet nothing visible had changed. Bilbo knew he was fretting, likely needlessly, but somehow somewhere along the way this little acorn had become of inconceivable importance to him.

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” he muttered to himself, bustling to fetch his pail from its treasured place in the storeroom located in an alcove of his garden. “You’re fretting unnecessarily, Bilbo Baggins; you know nothing about oak trees, after all, and less about nature magic, so you’re just being a worrywart, plain and simple. There’s nothing that says that the acorn won’t grow, and all you can do is give it the love and attention it deserves…” He trailed off as he returned to his garden and saw Thorin standing just in front of the doors to the garden, having evidently just entered.

Thorin looked quizzically to Bilbo as he abruptly cut off his speech.

“Trouble, Master Baggins?” he queried. He was wearing his courtly robes, and Bilbo hazarded a quick guess at the time - perhaps sometime in the late afternoon, when Thorin usually finished holding court.

Thorin looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, and the crow’s feet by his eyes even more pronounced. But as he spoke to Bilbo, the lines on his forehead smoothened out, and something about the stern cast of his face relaxed.

“It’s nothing,” Bilbo said. “I’m just - putting your gift to good use?” He held out the pail in his hands, suddenly feeling the need to show to Thorin that his gift was appreciated, and well-used. Thorin smiled, and inclined his head.

“I am glad you find it useful,” he murmured. “I have just finished holding court, and I was wondering if I could take a look around your garden. It seems to be coming along quite beautifully, in fact.”

A sudden rush of courage filled Bilbo’s veins, and he thrust the pail towards Thorin in a daring fashion. Some of the water spilled out of the pail, almost wetting Thorin’s coat, but he seemed hardly to notice as he glanced down at the pail and then back up at Bilbo in a quizzical manner.

“Won’t you help me tend my garden?” Bilbo blurted out. Then he winced. What was he thinking - to order the King Under the Mountain around in so casual a manner was surely a grave offence. It was likely Thorin would not wish to sully his hands tending to a simple hobbit garden, after all, and to command the King so unceremoniously -

Bilbo was hastily retracting his offer, and his hand, when Thorin touched him, his fingers curling over Bilbo’s. It was a gentle touch, and somehow it stayed Bilbo’s hand.

“It - It would please me greatly to have your trust in this matter,” Thorin said quietly, and there was a sudden tenderness in his voice which made Bilbo’s heart constrict painfully.

He shook his head to bring himself back to the moment. “Well - Well then, that’s settled. I mean, I’ll show you around the garden. Most of the plants are coming along nicely, well, the less demanding ones, at least, and you’ll just need to give them a little sprinkle…”

Thorin was content to follow him about the garden, obediently trotting behind Bilbo as Bilbo pointed out the various buds and herbs in his garden and directed him to spray some plots of land with the water from his pail. Twice they had to refill his pail from the tap near the front of the garden. Thorin was surprisingly docile and the conversation flowed easily, Bilbo nattering on animatedly and Thorin interjecting with occasional questions as to some of the more exotic-looking plants.

“ - just a little on the begonias, here, yes they just need their soil slightly moist so make sure not to sprinkle too much water on. Yes, that’s right, just right. And over here - “ Bilbo stopped abruptly as he realised they had reached the centrepiece of the room.

After a few moments of silence, Thorin spoke up, his voice puzzled. “Master Baggins?” he asked. The pail he held lightly in his hands, as if it weighed no more than a feather.

“Right - well. Harrumph.” Bilbo cleared his throat. “This is - you know, where the orchids are planted,” he lied. “Going to be planted. Thranduil’s orchids, you know. They’ll take pride of place, just like I told you, so if he ever visits he’ll know hobbits aren’t to be cowed even by finicky fickle plants like these. Give them more water, yes, a little more… yes, that’s good. It’s fine. Haven’t - haven’t seen any signs of growth, but I do hope it’ll - they’ll grow soon.” He realised he was worrying at the hem of his sweater, and hastily stuffed his hands in his pocket.

“Is that all?” Thorin said. Although the question could possibly have been construed as derisive, Thorin said it in a rather neutral sort of way, and Bilbo decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, especially with the way he’d been openly admiring and smelling some of the plants he’d recognised earlier. Bilbo nodded, and took the pail from Thorin.

“I must say, you have done a fine job with the garden,” Thorin said, and this time his voice was approving. He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. “It’s well designed, and the plants seem to be growing well.”

“You must give your compliments to Balin then, for he directed the workers and the building efforts.”

Thorin looked down at Bilbo. “You are too humble, Master Baggins. I believe most of the credit must go to you, for you are the reason why this garden came into existence at all,” he said softly, and something about his eyes and the intimate rumble of his voice made Bilbo stop breathing. Thorin had always had a rather intense way of looking at you, as if you were the only person in existence at that moment in time. Bilbo still remembered the first time they’d met - when Thorin had turned his gaze upon him, filled with derision and disdain at that time, and Bilbo had felt pinned to the ground.

Now it was an intensity of a different sort, the kind that made Bilbo felt all hot under the collar and, alternately, as if he was physically melting where he stood.

Before the whole debacle with the dragon and all, Bilbo would have responded with a warm smile and a heated look of his own. Now - now he hardly knew what to think. Was he mistaking their friendship for something more? Was he incorrect in taking the simple gentleness and kindness of Thorin’s manner as an indicator of deeper intentions? It was difficult for him to read Thorin well, nowadays. It was as if they were looking at each other, from across a great chasm, too much and yet too little holding them together.

Thorin kept looking at him. He lifted one of his broad hands and placed it on Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo looked at his hand, how it engulfed the entire join of the upper part of his arm, and felt the warmth of it burning through his clothes.

Bilbo did not know what to say.

“Your Majesty - “ he said, haltingly, seeking for something, anything to break this awful tension between them. But it seemed like the wrong thing to say. Thorin drew himself up, and the line of his mouth twisted.

“Why must you call me that, Bilbo?” he whispered. His voice was raw with pain and anger. “Do I mean so little to you, that you address me as your king, and not your friend?”

“Of course not!” Bilbo said indignantly, then his voice wavered. “It’s just - it’s just not proper, that’s all. A silly little hobbit, calling the king by name? That’s just not done.”

“You are far from a silly little hobbit to me ,” Thorin said unhappily, but he withdrew his hand. Bilbo realised that even though his grip on Bilbo’s shoulder had tightened almost to the point of pain, he had not hurt Bilbo.

Even in his anger Thorin would not hurt him - at least, not when he was in his right mind, Bilbo thought bitterly.

Thorin was still watching him. His eyes were hooded, although they burned bright with passion and a thousand different emotions. Some dwarrows thought Thorin aloof, and arrogant, and cold, Bilbo remembered, and he scoffed inwardly. No, it was not that Thorin was remote or emotionless in any way - rather, it was that he felt too deeply, and so felt the need to lock his emotions away. That part of Thorin, at least, Bilbo still knew, and understood.

Suddenly, Thorin moved towards him. He grasped Bilbo’s hands and looked earnestly into his eyes.

“Bilbo,” he began, “you must know how I feel for you. How I - I hurt you badly, I know that much, but surely you must know how I wish to  - “

“Is everything alright?” called Oddvar, and Bilbo startled to realise he was coming up the garden path. He had his hand on the sword strapped to his waist, but as he came in view of them and caught sight of Thorin he relaxed and smiled. “I heard a disturbance,” he explained. “I thought something might have happened to you.”

Thorin dropped Bilbo’s hands like hot coals.

“Forgive me, Master Baggins,” he said, to Bilbo, and his voice shook slightly, before he mastered himself. “I have overstepped my boundaries.”

“Nonsense,” Bilbo said quickly. He very much wanted to hear what Thorin had been about to say. Irritated, he turned to Oddvar and said, “Do you mind - ?”

“It is of no matter,” Thorin interrupted, and Bilbo turned incredulously back to him. Now Thorin stood, curiously shrunken, and looking very old and very tired. He could not quite look Bilbo in the eye.

“I will see you tomorrow night for our dinner,” he murmured, and without waiting for a reply, he walked off, stopping only to bow to Oddvar.

“Wait! What were you going to - “ exclaimed Bilbo desperately, but it was too late. Thorin had left the garden with surprising speed, for his bulk.

A moment passed in which Bilbo was too stunned to react, then he whirled around and laid into Oddvar.

“You terrible dwarf!” he cried. “What awful timing you have! Why, just a few more seconds and I would have - I would have heard - “ Abruptly his anger deserted him and he turned away from Oddvar, hiding his face in shame.

“No - it is not your fault,” he murmured, “not your fault at all. It is only - this whole, confounded business - “

Oddvar touched his shoulder gently, and Bilbo turned slowly around to face him again. There was an understanding look on Oddvar’s simple face, and he smiled in a rather nice, quiet, compassionate way.

Suddenly Bilbo wanted very badly to talk to him, to tell him of his troubles.

“May I confess something to you?” Bilbo asked, the calm of his voice frightening even himself. “I - I have never felt so lost, and confused, in my life.”

Oddvar took his hand, and led him to the bench in the centre of the garden. Bilbo looked at the plot of land beside the bench, in which he had planted his acorn, and the urge to cry came suddenly upon him. He had never been especially prone to waterworks - in fact, he could count the number of times he had cried in his life on one hand, his parents’ funeral being one of those occasions - so the feeling took him by surprise, and he was glad there was a bench onto which he could conveniently collapse.

“We are always only hurting each other,” he whispered, clenching his jaw to hold back his tears, “always only lying and apologising to each other. I’ve forgotten how to speak to him, how to read him, and yet - and yet - oh, how he confuses me, and yet he brings me so much joy. I didn’t realise I’d forgotten how to live before - before the journey, and, I know, it wasn’t just him, it was the whole damn company, and the whole damn adventure, but now I feel like there’s a great wall between us and somehow I can’t find a way over. To him. Oh, damn it all!” He beat his fists angrily on the bench, now quite aroused with anger.

“I fear he will never recover from my betrayal,” he cried. “I fear I will never forgive him for his betrayal - no, that’s a lie, it’s a damn lie. I’ve already forgiven him. I never even really blamed him in the first place.” His voice was now very small.

Although he stiffened as Oddvar put one tentative arm around him, he quickly relaxed and leaned into the embrace. It was rather a nice feeling, he decided blearily, to be coddled and fussed over like so, when one was in a temper. And Oddvar was so very good at the whole patting-the-top-of-his-head thing.

After a few more moments of silence Oddvar finally spoke.

“I understand fully, Bilbo,” he said, and Bilbo was surprised to hear that his voice was taut with anger. “The king is a fool, to not see what is in front of his very nose.”

He looked at Bilbo and smiled wearily. “I consider you a friend, Bilbo, and it angers me to see you hurt so,” he said. “She was right. Mahtakdazi.”

Bilbo looked at him in confusion, not recognising the Khuzdul word, but Oddvar patted him reassuringly on the shoulder and gave no explanation. He looked back down at his lap and fiddled with the hem of his waistcoat.

“Oh, I’m so dreadfully unhappy, Oddvar,” he mumbled. “If I didn’t have my garden - why, I think I’d go mad.”

“Be assured,” Oddvar replied, cryptically. “All will be well. I will swear that to you on my mother’s grave.”

*

“Be assured,” Oddvar said, again, from where he stood in front of Bilbo’s breakfast table.  “My intentions are pure.”

Bilbo dropped his scone and did not bother to pick it up.

“You - You’re - what did you just say?” he spluttered, wondering if perhaps he’d finally gone mad at last. Because there was simply no other conceivable notion to explain why he’d - why -

“I wish to court you, Master Bilbo,” Oddvar repeated, patiently. He flashed his most rakish smile, and whipped something out of the many pockets in his coat. “For you,” he said - and it was a lovely, lovely bouquet of flowers carved from precious twinkling gems and set in settings of silver and gold. Bilbo touched the petal of one of the tulips bursting from the bouquet, awestruck by its beauty - it seemed so real, as if he could but lean forward and the fragrance of the flowers would infuse his senses - but no, as his fingers touched the tulip, he realised it was cold to the touch, and the feeling was jarring.

“It’s - it’s truly stunning, Oddvar,” he whispered, then abruptly he recalled the circumstances in which the gift was being presented. “But - a courtship ? Oddvar, we hardly know each other! I - I don’t even know your favourite food, your favourite colour - why, we have only known each other for a few weeks now, and how can you have come to care for me in that time?” His voice came out squeaky and incredulous, for truly he was flabbergasted by the sudden proposal.

Oddvar bowed, still holding the bouquet out in his hands. “You are a very special hobbit, Master Bilbo,” he said gently, although the words carried clearly to Bilbo’s ears. “Even before meeting you, I was awed by your bravery and determination, in helping us reclaim our home from the dragon. And when I met you - I was charmed by your wit, and erudition, and your devotion to your odd little garden.” Suddenly he straightened, and pinned Bilbo with a piercing gaze. “Is it so difficult to believe that someone could have fallen for a hobbit of your calibre in so short a time? I fear you underestimate your charisma, Master Bilbo.”

“This is - this is far too sudden,” Bilbo managed, collapsing back into his chair. “Although I am very fond of you, Oddvar, and I find you a pleasant companion - more than pleasant, in fact! - I have to say it is far too soon for any respectable hobbit to enter a courtship, in such circumstances!”

“There is, perhaps, someone else you have in mind?” Oddvar inquired, his voice deceptively soft. “Someone else whose courtship you desire? Someone, perhaps, who has not spoken, who has not laid claim on you, someone whose affections give you reason to deny me my suit?”

Something flashed through Bilbo’s mind at Oddvar’s words. There was, perhaps, just one dwarf…

But no, that was lost to him now.

“No,” Bilbo said, but he stumbled on the word. “No, I do not,” he said again, and this time his voice came stronger, more confident. “It is only the sudden nature of your suit - it is just not done, among hobbitkind, to pursue a courtship not based on mutual love.”

“If you are sure that there is no one who occupies your fancy - “ here Oddvar paused meaningfully, but Bilbo could not make meaning of his hesitance - “will you not give me a chance? I promise you, I would make you a good husband, if you would but give me an opportunity to show you.”

Bilbo had to admit, to himself, that it was largely the thought of Thorin which kept him aloof from Oddvar’s intentions. But he was quite sure that there would not be - could not be - further advances in that arena.

If such was the case, why should he pine for someone who did not return his affections?

Bilbo looked at Oddvar’s open, earnest face, turned towards him with a spark of hope in his lively eyes, and he recalled their conversations of the past two weeks of their acquaintance. It was true that the two of them had struck up a friendship of sorts, and Oddvar was a fine dwarf indeed, not just comely in stature, but also surprisingly understanding and considerate of his alien status among the secretive and suspicious dwarrows.

“...I will think on it,” Bilbo said finally, and he realised his hand had closed so tightly around the armrest of his chair that the wood was digging painfully into his palm.

Oddvar’s face lit up with a smile, and he swiftly tucked the bouquet of flowers back into his pocket.

“Then I will speak no more of this to you, unless you indicate otherwise,” he said. “Now, I believe you had an errand to run at the library with Master Ri - ?”

“Oh! Oh, yes, thank you for reminding me, Oddvar,” Bilbo said, hastily seizing his waistcoat from where it had been hung in his closet, and putting it on. Ori had requested his help with some Westron-Sindarin translations from the small trove of Elvish books in the Erebor library, and he was going to be late.

“Well, come along now,” he said mildly to Oddvar. But as he walked past him to pass through the doors, suddenly and with a movement out of his control he flinched away from Oddvar’s hand coming to rest on the small of his back. Oddvar raised a questioning brow at him, and Bilbo flushed guiltily in response.

“Give me - give me some time to get used to it,” he managed.

Oddvar inclined his head, a strangely regal motion that reminded Bilbo of - of someone, and stepped back to allow Bilbo to pass impeded. But as Bilbo walked out of the doors, he said softly, “I did not wish to upset you, Master Bilbo. Think no more of my proposal, if you must, and if it brings you more comfort. I can assure you that neither I nor my friendship would be lost to you if you were to turn me down.”

Bilbo nodded, a jerky motion, and set off at a quick trot to the library.

Later, he was still thinking of it, as he sat at Thorin’s table poking morosely at Bombur’s mushroom stew.

“You are of ill appetite this evening, Master Baggins,” Thorin rumbled, a tinge of amusement in his voice. Bilbo thought sourly that at least he seemed to have forgotten their little fracas of the previous day quickly enough.

“I ate heavily at afternoon tea,” he replied softly, and reluctantly pressed a spoonful of the stew into his mouth to satisfy Thorin. But Thorin was not so easily diverted.

“Is the food not to your liking?” he said, and this time his voice was quieter, more unsure.

“Oh, it is, it is, Bombur’s cooking is excellent, as always. I told you, I had a little too much for tea, that’s all.”

They spent the next few minutes in silence, punctuated only by the sound of Thorin’s knife scraping across his plate as he cut his steak. Bilbo noted absently that Thorin was making a marked effort to be more polite in his eating, and by the way he handled the cutlery with confident ease, it was certainly difficult to tell that he much preferred the use of his fingers when eating.

“What ails you, Master Baggins?” was Thorin’s final attempt to draw Bilbo out of his shell, and Bilbo suddenly felt guilty for his reticence. He opened his mouth, perhaps to say something made up about the cave crawlers disturbing his garden, but he found that the words that spilled from his tongue came entirely unbidden.

“Oddvar proposed to court me, today,” he said, and the words were disproportionately loud in the still silence of the room.

Thorin didn’t say anything at first. He cut up the last piece of his steak, brought the two halves to his mouth and chewed, then he laid down his cutlery on his plate.

“And?” he said. His voice was neutral, with no inflection at all. “What did you say?”

Suddenly some demon seemed to come alive in Bilbo’s heart. He had not expected Thorin to take the news with such calmness, with such… such indifference, and it incensed him.

“What do you think I said?” he said recklessly, almost rebelliously, setting down his fork with a dissonant clank. The fire in the hearth flared with a sudden roar.

“Of course you accepted,” Thorin said, still in that insufferable, infuriatingly-impassive tone of voice. “Oddvar is a good dwarf. He will make you very happy. And of course we will ensure your wedding is suitably lavish and elaborate, as befits the wedding of a hero of Erebor. I am sure he will make you very happy.”

“Oh, you think so, do you?” Bilbo said. “So you approve of our courtship? You give us your blessing?”

“I give you my blessing,” Thorin said softly. “If he makes you happy.”

“Stop saying that!” Vaguely Bilbo was aware that he was now standing and yelling the words out into Thorin’s dispassionate face. “ If he makes me happy - how could anyone make me happy? How could anyone make me as happy as I am when - “ He cut himself off, and braced his hands on the table. He felt that if he did not do so, he would do something terribly stupid, like grab Thorin’s face and try to kiss him. Or, alternatively, wrap his fingers around Thorin’s neck and attempt to choke him to death.

“Oddvar is a good dwarf,” Thorin repeated. He seemed to be doing that a lot, repeating himself over and over again. “Dís sings his praises whenever I mention his name, and Dwalin approves of his skills, and even Fíli and Kíli enjoy being around him. He would - he would make you a good husband.”

“And what do you feel?” Bilbo asked, quietly. “What do you feel about this?”

Then Thorin’s self-possession seemed to break, all of a sudden. Abruptly he stood from the table and stalked over to the fireplace, where he lit his pipe with hands that seemed to be trembling.

“Do not ask me what I feel, Master Burglar,” he growled, and the smoke poured from his mouth like it had from Smaug’s great maw. “I feel nothing. Nothing at all.”

He made a strange figure indeed, standing with the light from the hearth casting his profile in veins of gold and flickering flame, and his regal shoulders hunched tragically. His face was terrible to look upon.

“Liar,” Bilbo said coldly, and it shocked him, the depth of anger and raw hurt he felt in his heart at that moment, yet his words came out steady and cool. “You awful, lying dwarf. You would lie to hurt yourself and to hurt me. So be it.”

He turned and left the room. The door slammed behind him with a frightfully loud thud.

“Do not follow me!” he said firmly to Oddvar, who was staring at him with a strange look on his face. When he sensed that Oddvar would not listen, impulsively, he yanked the ring from where it had been kept in his breast pocket, and slipped it over his finger. The startled cries of Oddvar and the other guards followed him as he ran through the corridor and to the one place which would bring him absolution.

As he crouched over his acorn, Bilbo wept bitterly. It had been a week already, and yet the tree had not grown. Perhaps it would never grow. Perhaps he had loved it too much, for it to grow. There were some things, he had learned, which would never come to you no matter how hard you prayed and wished and cried. Perhaps this, like his love for Thorin, was one of those things.

It would be best if he left for the Shire, he told himself. He felt that he would not be able to look upon Thorin the same way again. And it seemed that things in the Shire were simpler, less fraught with emotions and heartbreak and complicated things like that. He had few friends here, only among the company and Oddvar, and he knew little of dwarven habits and customs. He knew nothing of their language, since there were none who would teach him, not even Balin or Ori. Even his garden was an anomaly, something which dwarrows gossiped about and belittled when they thought him out of earshot.

Yes, perhaps his place was in the Shire, among hobbits, where he belonged.

But even as he wiped the tears from his face he knew he would not leave. Could not leave, in fact. He knew that he would miss the way the sun shone into his room from his little glass window - he had been given one of the few windowed rooms in Erebor, a favour he had greatly appreciated. He knew that he would miss Balin’s wise smile, and Bofur’s good cheer, and Fíli and Kíli’s mischief, and Óin and Dori’s fussy concern, and Ori’s excitement at a new book to read, and Dwalin’s gruff affection, and… and…

And he would miss Thorin. Oh, how dearly he would miss Thorin.

No, Bilbo thought resolutely. Erebor is my home, now. I’m not going to leave it just because of a stubborn dwarf king. I’m not a coward.

Suddenly he remembered the way Thorin had looked as he stood by the hearth, staring emptily at the burning coals of the fire, and he felt one last tear leak from the corner of his eye.

*

When Bilbo woke, he lay in his bed staring at the ceiling, wondering why his eyes ached and he felt so ill at ease. Then, all at once, the events of the previous day came rushing back to him - how Oddvar had proposed courtship to him, how he had spoken of it to Thorin, and how Thorin had - how he had -

To think of it brought a twinge to Bilbo’s heart, and unconsciously his hand flew up to his chest. He stayed in bed wallowing in his own sorrow and anger for a few more minutes, then he rolled off and began his morning ablutions.

After having paused three times while brushing his teeth to stare dully into the mirror, stubbed his toe twice on the bed post and put on his waistcoat backwards, he gave it all up as a bad job and stomped into his room half-dressed. His breakfast had already been served by one of Bombur’s silent apprentices, and usually the sight of fresh blueberry jam and pancakes would have cheered him up immensely, but now as he sat at the table and stared at the dishes he realised he had completely lost his appetite. But he knew that he would regret it if he did not take breakfast, and so he forced himself to take a few perfunctory bites of the pancakes. It tasted like ash in his mouth. The jam and honey he did not touch.

Suddenly there was a heavy knock at the door, and Bilbo dropped his knife.

He listened, heart hammering, for the next knock, and when it came he swallowed his disappointment. He knew that knock, and it was Dwalin.

“I’m NOT at home,” he yelled angrily, and shovelled a few more bites of pancakes into his mouth.

“Bilbo, I know ye’re there,” came the patient reply. “Open the door.”

“Do you dwarrows not understand the meaning of the word ‘no’?” Bilbo retorted. “I said, I’m NOT at home!”

There was a pause, as if Dwalin was considering his next words carefully. Then a thud as he laid his head on the door.

“Ori began courtin’ me,” he began, “when the first stone was laid for the rebuilding of the library. Said it was the right time for new beginnings, and I was one of the new beginnings he wanted. I turned him down.”

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably in his chair, remembering this story, except it had been told to him from the perspective of a particularly irate Ori.

“Ye know why?” Dwalin asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “Thought I wasn’t good enough for him. Thought I didnae deserve a dwarf like Ori. He’s nice, kind, young and beautiful, a scholar, everythin’ I’m not. So I turned him down.”

What does that have to do with me, Bilbo wanted to ask nastily, but he realised he couldn’t do that to a friend. Couldn’t take out his anger on Dwalin, who was clearly trying his best to do who only knew what.

Another hesitation, and when the words came they sounded like they were coming through gritted teeth. Dwalin’s brogue had thickened. “We’re battle-hardened warriors, me an’ Thorin. Don’t think we deserve anythin’, fer the things we’ve done an’ the things we’ve seen. I thought Ori wasn’t mine to have, didnae think I deserved his love, and I didnae even threaten his life. Don’t know how to put it so ye’ll hear what I’m saying. That’s all I wanted to say.“

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.

The next moment there was another knock on the door, and Bilbo flung it open, fully intending to lay into Dwalin again, but the words dried up on his tongue as Thorin loomed suddenly in front of him.

There was a split-second as Bilbo’s mind went, what?

And he shook his head, said firmly “No”, and slammed the door shut.

Or tried to, at least. Thorin’s hand caught it as it swung shut, and he pressed himself into the gap left between the door and the door frame.

“Bilbo,” he said, a tinge of desperation in his voice. “I wish to speak to you. Please. You must listen to me.”

“I must?” Bilbo mocked. “Is that an order, o King?” He could hardly recognise himself, his voice twisted by bitterness and anger.

Thorin shut his eyes as if he were in pain, his lashes fanning against his flushed cheeks, and that, more than anything, caused Bilbo’s heart to soften suddenly. No, he would not do this, even in the depths of his fiercest anger - would not force Thorin, the King Under the Mountain, to conduct a domestic argument in the middle of the corridor, with many prying eyes and ears in close vicinity. Bilbo could not take his dignity away from him, even in spite.

“I didn’t think you knew the way here,” was his last barb. Silently he held open the door, making no other movement to indicate entry. Dwalin, the bastard, was nowhere to be found, as was his morning guard. They had evidently wisely made themselves scarce at the earliest opportunity. Thorin stepped into the room, and Bilbo realised he had a black eye.

The bruising stretched under his eyelid and turned his skin a mottled greyish-yellow. Momentarily Bilbo’s anger was overtaken by concern for Thorin’s wellbeing - it must have been a hefty punch which had caused such an injury indeed.

“What happened to your eye ?” he said.

Thorin flushed even further, and he dropped his head. “Dís,” he mumbled. “She - ah, she came to my quarters last night, and when she heard about our argument she… well, she has a strong right arm.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to speak, but he was forestalled by Thorin, who lifted a hand to stop him.

“Bilbo,” he said quietly. “I apologise if I hurt you last night. I was not completely honest with you, I must admit, although I did so because I had thought that my sentiments would not be well received. I thought that you were better off with Oddvar. I thought that you had already made up your mind to accept his courtship, and I did not want to be an obstacle in the path of your relationship. I was ready to respect your choice, and step aside gracefully for Oddvar. But… But I have come to realise that I wish not to let you leave me without expressing my… my regard for you.”

From behind his back he drew out a tiny wooden box which was smaller than the breadth of his palm. It was decorated with ornate carvings of flowers embedded with precious gemstones. Bilbo took the box with shaking fingers, and realised with a start that the flowers were niphredil and elanor, the treasured blossoms of Cerin Amroth, the great hill of Lothlórien. As he opened the box a sweet smell emanated from the contents, a scent that reminded him of springtime in the Shire.

The box was filled with grey earth, so fine as to resemble dust and ash, and instinctively Bilbo knew that if he scattered this earth in his garden, his flowers and herbs and shrubs would grow as strong and splendid and of as exceptional quality as the famed mallorns of the Golden Wood.

“Thorin,” he breathed, awe-struck. “How - how did you - “

“When first you spoke of a garden,” Thorin said softly, “I sent to the Golden Wood and Rivendell for earth from the elven gardens to speed your blossoms on their way. I had thought to present it to you the morning of last week’s dinner, but I thought - I saw Oddvar’s gift to you, and I saw the affection on his face, and I knew it would not be long before he declared his intentions for you. I did not wish to interfere in your courtship, and yet - and yet I am weak. I thought still that I could dine with you and speak with you and be able to hide my feelings for you. I was wrong. I am not as strong as - as that.” His voice broke on the last few words, and they were lost in the thickness of his voice.

Bilbo could not speak. He cradled the box in the palm of his hand, running his fingers over the intricacies of the delicate carvings, a thousand sentences and confessions and emotions thrumming through his mind, but still he could not find the words to speak.

Thorin was watching him. Bilbo could tell. He could always tell whenever Thorin was watching him.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin said at last, forlornly. “‘Tis not a gift of my own hand. ‘Tis not even a proper courting gift. There is no obligation on you to accept it - in fact, I do not expect you to want it, not when you have the suit of a far more deserving dwarf. I was not going to gift it to you, but last night… Dís spoke to me, and I thought… I thought that even if it were hopeless, perhaps you might take it as a gift from a - from a friend. I thought that - perhaps I might try anyway.” He shrugged helplessly.

“Oh, you - !” Bilbo could not find anything to say for a moment, so enraged was he at Thorin’s utter thickheaded-ness. Why, the gall of this dwarf - to assume that Bilbo felt nothing for him, and had instead turned his attentions to Oddvar -

But then he realised that he himself was guilty of false assumptions. He himself had thought Thorin cold to his affections, had thought of Thorin’s regard for him as that afforded for nothing more than a little hobbit friend - and not so great a friend as all that, he had thought.

He lifted his hand, to do he knew not what - perhaps to punch Thorin in the stomach, or grab him by his collar and attempt to shake him about, but instead he found his fingers fisting in the warm furs that covered Thorin’s arms and pulling him closer.

“Thorin,” he sighed, “you awful, awful dwarf!” and then he lifted his head and pressed a quick, absent kiss to the side of Thorin’s very dear and very confused face. The hairs of Thorin’s beard scratched against his skin, and unconsciously he nuzzled against Thorin’s cheek for a few more moments, savouring the sensation, before withdrawing.

When he drew back and looked into Thorin’s eyes, he was met with a look of utter puzzlement. Bilbo realised Thorin’s hands were held at waist level, hovering somewhere in the vicinity of Bilbo’s waist, as if he were unsure whether to touch Bilbo or not. Bilbo hesitated but for a moment, and decided to solve that problem by placing the box on the nearby table, then stepping closer and drawing Thorin’s arms around him in a tentative embrace.

“Does that mean you want to court me?” he murmured, and turned his face upwards to peer earnestly into Thorin’s eyes.

Thorin exhaled, a gusty sigh, and his eyes drifted half-shut, a movement that did not diminish the intensity of his gaze.

“If - If you will have me,” he rumbled, and Bilbo could feel the reverberation of his deep voice through Bilbo’s skin, now that they were pressed close together. It broke his heart to hear the uncertainty in Thorin’s voice - in Thorin, who had always approached every decision with a surety that inspired confidence and, yes, love. Instinctively he curled the fingers of his other hand into the tunic that peeked out from Thorin’s furs at the nape of his neck, and the warmth of Thorin’s skin against his fingertips calmed him.

“We have much to discuss then,” Bilbo said softly. “I… I fear we have only been hurting each other in our recent interactions. I did not know what you wanted from me, and I made assumptions about your feelings for me, and for that I apologise as well. But, Thorin - “ and now he drew back slightly and stared resolutely up at Thorin, “ - I’ll say it once, now, and you had better listen to me - I have no romantic feelings for Oddvar, and I’d only considered accepting his suit because I’d thought you unavailable to me. Because I thought you would spurn my - my affections, my love for you. And that’s - that’s all I have to say,” he added, lamely, almost as an afterthought.

At his words Thorin clutched him tight to his chest and buried his face in Bilbo’s neck. His breath came harshly, fanning across Bilbo’s skin, as if he had run a mile, and his voice was muffled when next he spoke, rasping and hoarse from his throat.

“Thank Mahal,” he whispered, a fervent prayer. “Dís was right - oh, she was right, Bilbo. I had not dared to hope that you would care for me - that you could even forgive me for what I did to you. Even though I know it cannot hope to make up for how I have erred, I give you now my sincerest apologies for what I did when under the spell of the dragon-hoard. I was not myself, but I know that it is no excuse, and I can only apologise for what I did to you and hope that in time, you will forgive me.”

“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo said, and he could not quite keep the raw fondness out of his voice. “I’d already forgiven you, a long time ago. I know that, were you of your right mind, you wouldn’t have done that to me, and I know you never intended to cause me harm. Besides,” he added, sudden uncertainty rising up in his throat, “I’m the one who should apologise. I betrayed your trust. I took the heirloom of your people to your greatest enemies. I thought you drew away from me because you no longer trusted me, and could not find it in yourself to forgive me.” He pressed his face into the collar of Thorin's coat, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. “Won’t you forgive me, now?”

Thorin pulled away from him with an incredulous look writ across his face. “Me, forgive you?” he spluttered. “There is nothing to forgive. You did it for my sake, and for the sake of the company. I’ll not accept any apologies you can give. I can only curse myself for being the stubborn fool that I was, to have forced you into so drastic an action. Bilbo,” he said, more quietly this time, linking his fingers with Bilbo’s and drawing them up close to his chest between their bodies, “please understand. I was wholly in the wrong, and you mustn't blame yourself for any of your actions then. You did what was right, and I did not see it then, but I see it now. There is nothing to forgive.’

‘Also,” he cleared his throat, and looked, if possible, even more pained. “I fear I was neglecting you, in the early days after Erebor’s reclamation. I was amiss in not seeing that you were being harassed by unwanted attentions.”

“It’s alright. You were busy. I understand,” Bilbo muttered, looking down at their linked hands.

“I used my work as an excuse,” Thorin admitted, and his fingers clutched like a vise around Bilbo’s. “I did not know how to face you, how to apologise to you for my actions against you which were heinous beyond measure. I feared you would not forgive me, and so I sought to distance myself from you, to give you time to recover.”

“You hurt me,” Bilbo whispered, and the sound of his voice was harsh and dissonant in the cold clean morning air streaming in from his window. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore, not even as a friend.”

“Oh, Bilbo,” Thorin said, and he pulled Bilbo close again. This time he pressed kisses to the side of Bilbo’s neck, his lips dragging in desperate movements against Bilbo’s skin. “I could never not want you. Could never leave you. It was my fault for pushing you away.”

Bilbo breathed out, the edge of his breath hitching up in a moan as Thorin’s beard scraped roughly against his skin. His fingers tightened where they had been fisted in Thorin’s tunic, and he felt himself tremble. His voice was querulous when next he spoke.

“We must put all of this behind us, Thorin,” he murmured, “if we are to build a lasting relationship. I love you, and you love me, and we must promise to be clearer in our communication with each other, if we are to be - to be lovers.” He relished the feel of the word on his tongue.

“Yes. Yes, we must,” Thorin mumbled, his words muffled by his ardent lovemaking. Bilbo stifled a laugh and pushed gently at him.

“Get off,” he said, no longer disguising the fond exasperation in his voice. “It’s well past eight o’ clock, and I have no doubt that if you take any longer, that’ll be Balin at the door asking for you in that snippy fashion of his. Get on with your important kinging business, why don’t you. No use neglecting your people just for the sake of a silly old hobbit.”

Thorin detached himself from Bilbo’s embrace with marked reluctance, and stood only staring at Bilbo with a slow, sure affection in his gaze. It was one of his melting-into-the-ground stares, and Bilbo told himself that he was going to have to get used to receiving a lot more of these stares now that he and Thorin were going to be involved.

“Well?” he said peevishly, when Thorin had held him and gazed upon him for a few minutes without a word. “Aren’t you going to get going? I don’t fancy having my door banged on by another angry dwarf, you know. Balin’s a lot stronger than he looks, especially when he gets angry.”

“I will see you again tonight, Master Burglar,” said Thorin, and the return to formality would have been disconcerting, were it not for the tinge of amusement that edged his tone. “By the way,” he added, all too casually, “you might like to know - Oddvar used to be Dís’ personal guard, you know. And I have it on very good authority - from my good sister, in fact, straight from the horse's mouth - that the two of them have been colluding to push us together.”

“You mean - “ Bilbo gasped.

Thorin smiled and raised his hands in a placating fashion. “I am as innocent a party in this as you, Bilbo,” he said. “But I thought you might want to know. You know, in preparation for when Oddvar returns in a few minutes as your guard.”

“Oh, that - that mud-eating, goat-licking - that kakhuf inbarathrag !” Bilbo cursed, and then realised he didn’t actually know the meaning of the dwarven curse when Thorin reared back and stared at him disbelievingly. Then Thorin threw back his head, and laughed - a full on, bellowing, raucous laugh that shook him all the way down to his toes.

When he had recovered he clapped his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and twinkled down at him.

“Oh, Bilbo,” he murmured, sweetly, “you never fail to surprise me. And I mean that in an altogether good way. Remember to give Oddvar a good tongue-lashing, for me as well, and Dís, if you’re so inclined in that direction. Although the latter will be a sight I will be sore to miss.”

*

“I can’t believe the two of you were conspiring against me and Thorin,” Bilbo said crankily, when later Oddvar and Dís turned up at Oddvar’s appointed time, both looking unsatisfactorily mischievous and unperturbed by Bilbo’s angry mien.

“You're both idiots,” Dís said frankly. “Well - you, to a lesser extent, Bilbo, but Thorin's just an altogether different story. Head as thick as a mule, that one has, and when he got it into his mind that somehow he didn't deserve you and didn't want to impose on you…” She shook her head exasperatedly. “It called for desperate measures.”

Something flashed into Bilbo's mind, something someone had said to him, not so long ago - and then he groaned and put his head in his hands.

“Balin was part of this too, wasn't he?” Bilbo grumbled. “That crafty old bugger. But I suppose I should thank you, Dís, for beating some sense into Thorin, at least. And you - !” He spun around and levelled an accusing finger at Oddvar. “You, with your proposal and your plotting and your planning - oh, by Yavanna! Mushrooms, my hairy foot! You saw Thorin in my garden that day, didn't you? And you didn't want me to see him. Oh bother, I suppose I must thank you as well,” he conceded reluctantly. “Your proposal was meant to spur Thorin on, was it not?”

Oddvar shrugged, and his casual unrepentance infuriated Bilbo slightly. “We thought such a drastic measure would push Thorin into finally acting. We hardly expected his self-effacement to be of such great extent.”

“Yes, I fear I let my temper get the better of me,” Djs admitted. She sighed, and shook her head, making the various jewelleries in her hair and on her ears jingle. “But when Oddvar came to fetch me last night and told me you'd stormed off in a huff - well, I know my brother well, and I know the extent to which his pig-headedness sometimes extends. Especially when it comes to seeking his own happiness. He has lived so long without taking care joy for his own, and giving himself wholeheartedly to our people, that he has forgotten that he deserves love as well. Bilbo,” she said passionately, taking Bilbo's hands in hers in a motion eerily similar to Thorin's, “you must take care of him. I will not do you an injustice by threatening you bodily harm if you hurt him, for I know that if that happens it is very likely that he invited your wrath onto himself with his foolishness. But all the same I implore you to care for him, and be patient with him, for he does love you, and I think you love him with equal magnitude. I think you will be happy with each other, although I am no seer or prophecy-monger - I only want you to be happy, and I think my brother can make you happy.”

Her fierce love for both him and Thorin touched Bilbo deeply, as did her trust in him. They had known each other only a month or so now, but already Bilbo felt her a sister like the sister he had never had. As for Oddvar, although Bilbo still felt mildly peeved at the way he and Dís had gone behind his and Thorin's back to plot and plan, he did consider Oddvar a cherished friend. It made him unmeasurably happy, it did, to know that he had gathered so dear a company of friends around him.

Balin… well, Balin was an old fox, but it was nothing Bilbo hadn't already known. Some of the things he'd said had been highly suspect, all right, and Bilbo wondered at how he hadn't guessed at the plot at first.

And speaking of Balin… Bilbo smiled. Perhaps he would take Balin up on one of his offers, in the end…

***

In the end Bilbo consented to having one statue built in his garden. Just the one.

He never did end up planting Thranduil's orchids in his garden, placing them instead in the communal park Thorin had commissioned him to build. Indeed, while his official title was now Consort Under the Mountain, he much preferred his humbler moniker, by which his closer friends addressed him - the Royal Garden-Keeper, for his efforts in the greening of the sterile stone halls of Erebor. One of his proudest days had been when he'd been in the park’s flower beds and a little beardling had squatted down next to him to press her stubby little fingers into the dirt. Reluctantly her parents had allowed her to coax them into bending and burying Bilbo's begonia seeds under the soil, and Bilbo was of the firm opinion that they had left with a much greater appreciation of ‘dirt and green things’, as Oddvar had so eloquently called his planting endeavours.

Oh - but back to his little garden! Bilbo did so love to digress.

He did not allow anyone but his dearest friends to enter his garden, and only strictly in his presence were they allowed in, for the bust he had placed in the pedestal under his oak tree was so intimate, so personal an effect of his, that he did not wish any but his loved ones to gaze upon it.

For it was a bust of Thorin - not clad in his royal robes, no, nor with the grave, regal expression which blessed many of the wall-carvings in the communal gardens and the corridors, but of the side of Thorin that only Bilbo saw. It was a carven image of Thorin in repose, the gaze of those bright eyes intense and somehow full of life despite being carved of lifeless stone, his beard full and threaded through with the beads of his marriage braids. It was Thorin bereft of his crown and other kingly trappings, clad in a simple robe, the side of Thorin Bilbo loved best.

The pedestal he had instructed Balin’s workers to place under the eaves of the oak tree. Something had changed in the central plot of land the moment Bilbo had carefully sprinkled some of the Lorien dirt onto the soil, and very quickly the acorn had sprouted and grown. Now it stretched tall towards the cavernous ceiling of the room, towards the light reflecting from the mirrors, a majestic centrepiece to his homely hobbit garden. Both Bilbo and Thorin loved the tree dearly, and it became a monthly ritual, for them to have a picnic on the bench under the tree and speak quietly and intimately without the worry of prying ears.

Sometimes when Thorin angered him Bilbo would retreat to his garden and sit beneath the shade of its branches. Somehow when he sat there and soaked in the warmth of the light streaming in from above, the rustling of grass under his bare feet, and when he gazed upon the peaceful stone face of Thorin at ease, he found he could not stay angry at the dwarven king for long.

Some years later, when Frodo was orphaned and came to live with Bilbo in the mountain, so very far away from the Shire, Bilbo would seat the little fauntling on his knee, and tell him stories under the great oak tree. Once, Frodo sat playing in the grass at the base of the tree, and he looked up with his beautiful blue eyes at Bilbo.

“Uncle Bilbo,” he said, his high, clear voice carrying far in the emptiness of the room, “How did you get married to Uncle Thorin? Uncle Balin always refuses to tell the story when I ask him, and Mister Ori always stops Fíli and Kíli whenever they try to tell me the story…”

Then Bilbo lifted Frodo onto his lap - Frodo was then still a small babe in arms, and light enough to be placed on Bilbo’s knee - and he smiled down at his beloved nephew.

“Well, my dear Frodo,” he began, and went on, as all great stories are bound to go on: “It started with a dwarf. Well, it started with two dwarrows - one, your lovely Aunt Dís, and the other, my dear friend, Uncle Oddvar. And, of course, the story would be nothing, without your esteemed Uncle Bilbo here, and that awful, ox-headed lummox you call your Uncle Thorin…”

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

i have big plans for my next fic, which i’ll be sharing on my tumblr, so stay tuned ;)

[thedargonden]

[8] THE TRUTH

October 23rd, XX19

3:00 PM

Tafla sits quietly on the sofa drinking a cup of tea. The look on the green dragon's face is distant and a bit sad.

As someone walks up to the hallway door to her right, she shakes her head and puts on a quick smile.

Orie emerges from the hallway with a face that shows she has something on her mind. When she looks up and sees Tafla, she smiles at her.

ORIE: "Oh, hi Tafla!"

TAFLA: "Orie! How are you?"

ORIE: "I'm alright. I was just going to play my game in here, but you probably aren't that interested in Celeste. I'll play it later."

TAFLA: "No, no, don't let me get in the way of your game. Come sit with me! Tell me all about... Celets?"

Tafla motions Orie over toward the empty sofa seat to her left.

ORIE: "It's Celeste, Tafla, haha."

Orie sits on the sofa with Tafla and starts to reach the controller with her left hand before quickly switching to her right.

ORIE: "It's about this girl who's trying to climb a mountain while also dealing with her own depression. She's a really cute, mostly positive person who tends to have trouble staying on top of her anxiety.

She tries helping everyone she can, maybe even to a fault, and after everything is still determined to climb the mountain."

Tafla takes a sip of her tea and shoots a smirk at Orie.

TAFLA: "Sounds a lot like you, Orie."

ORIE: "You know, I was thinking about that earlier and I kinda agree.

Oh, also a week ago when I played last, I was just getting to a climactic encounter with her 'other self' who is essentially a purple embodiment of her anxiety and depression given form, which honestly reminds me a lot of Phoenix, haha..."

Orie starts the game on her switch and puts the controller on the sofa right in front of her.

TAFLA: "Is this one of those hands free games where you don't even need to use the controller to play?"

ORIE: "What do you mean?"

TAFLA: "Your injury. How are you going to play it with that?"

All 4 of Orie's eyes widen as she realizes she can't play the game with this injury.

ORIE: "Noooooooo!

Whyyyyyyy!"

TAFLA: "Aw, Orie! I'm sorry! I can look into the game another time!"

Orie sets the controller down and turns the switch off.

ORIE: "No, it's okay. This injury is just so frustrating!"

TAFLA: "I bet..."

The room becomes quiet as the two dragons stare around the room. Tafla sips the rest of her tea, then sets the teacup and plate on the coffee table in front of them both and looks to the redwood floor.

Orie closes all four of her eyes and tilts her head up toward the white ceiling.

She taps the sofa with her right arm unconsciously and sighs.

ORIE: "Hey... Tafla...?"

Tafla quickly looks over to Orie with concern.

TAFLA: "Yes?"

ORIE: "I've been meaning to ask... you mentioned something to Phoenix about my biological hatchparent and guardparent..."

She opens her eyes and looks to Tafla.

ORIE: "What were they like...? What happened to them...? All you've ever told me about my hatchparent is that he's a healing sorcerer..."

Tafla is surprised by the question and her mind starts racing to figure out what to say.

TAFLA: "W- well... uhm... I certainly didn't expect this question to be asked right now...

H-hey... Orie, do you want some tea? I'm going to go make some tea for you. Give me one second."

Tafla gets up and brings her tea cup with her to the kitchen in the same room.

ORIE: "That's not really an answer..."

Tafla ignores Orie and continues getting a box of tea bags and sugar out of the cupboard.

ORIE: "Hey. Tafla..."

She proceeds to get out more tea cups and at the same time takes a couple tea bags out of the box. She lays the bags inside the tea pot. Orie gets up to move toward the kitchen

ORIE: "Tafla?"

She begins to pour the already hot water from the kettle into the teapot. Orie stops near the fridge.

ORIE: "Tafla! Please tell me!"

Tafla drops the kettle into the teapot, breaking it, and pouring hot water all over herself.

TAFLA: "Agh!"

Tafla turns around to face Orie.

TAFLA: "Look, I'm sorry... I just... I don't know what I can tell you... I'm afraid you'd be upset if you found out the truth."

ORIE: "I'm getting more upset not knowing, Tafla!"

Tears begin to form in Orie's bottom eyes and Tafla sighs.

TAFLA: "I know... and I'm sorry, but I can't tell you right now..."

ORIE: "Why not! It’s MY hatchparent!"

TAFLA: "..."

ORIE: "I deserve to know! You never have told me anything important about them! You always skirt around details and pretend like it’s fine! PLEASE TELL ME!"

TAFLA: “I... I don’t know what to say! You’re putting me on the spot here.”

ORIE: “UAHGH!”

Orie’s tears begin to trickle fast down her face.

ORIE: “Why don’t you trust me with any information about my family??”

As Tafla is at a loss for words, Orie steps toward the hallway.

TAFLA: "Orie!"

Orie runs into the hallway and down the basement stairs next to Phoenix's doorway with tears streaming from her face.

Tafla stands in the hot water from the spill, looking around for a towel to clean herself up.

She sighs and looks to the wet ground.

She sends a telepathic message to Orie,

TAFLA: ⦕Orie... I'll tell you soon... I promise... Just give me some time to clear my thoughts and mind...⦖

Tafla reaches for a small towel hanging on the fridge handle. and puts it on the floor to wipe the mess up.

Meanwhile, in Phoenix's room...

PHOENIX: "Hey, Arakados. Was that just Orie running by, crying?"

Arakados is completely entranced by Phoenix's computer. They look up at her and give her a confused look.

ARAKADOS: "Hrm?"

PHOENIX: "Orie was crying. I think you should go comfort her."

ARAKADOS: "Oh. Yea yea, gimme a seconderg."

PHOENIX: "She's... your girlfriend. What are you doing that's more important than your girlfriend?"

ARAKADOS: "I'm finishing up for now."

PHOENIX: "Whatever."

Arakados had looked through Phoenix's entire laptop by now. There's nothing left to see.

No secrets.

No nothing.

They check the desktop through the file explorer one more time, click the view tab and zoom out the file layout. They... see nothing new.

They sigh and start to get up....

Before something catches their eye.

Right in the file explorer view options, next to a check box, there's an option that reads 'Hidden items.'

Their eyes widen as they realize this wasn't checked.

They were sure they had clicked it before, but maybe it must have turned off after taking a break and they must have missed something big.

They check that box again for later, and close the laptop.

They get up and begin to move to the basement.

As soon as Arakados is gone, Phoenix quickly gets up and opens the laptop.

She unchecks the 'Hidden items' check box and clicks back to the Home tab of the file explorer, then quickly runs back to her bed.

PHOENIX: "No one can know the truth..."