ahiddenkitty:

Fictober Day 4

“Will that be all?”

Balin peers over the stack of paperwork in his arms, all now given the royal signature, but the humour does not seem to have been intended.  Thorin looks worn.  His desk is no less busy than it was three hours before, for all the myriad documents Balin will now carry away.

“Aye, your Majesty, that’ll do for now.  Consider yourself dismissed,” says Balin cheerfully.

Thorin shoots him a sharp look that softens almost at once.  He chuckles, low and rueful, and reaches again for the crown (of his own forging, silver and steel) that rests beside the inkwell, weighing it in his hands.  “I am awaited by the Baker’s Guild,” he says, half to himself, and lifts it to his head.

Gently, Balin reaches out a hand to stop him, laying it against the broad shoulder.  “Thorin,” he says.  “You serve your people, but you are their King, not at their beck and call.  I can deal with the Bakers.”  

Reluctantly, it seems, Thorin looks up to meet his oldest advisor’s gaze.  “I should…” he begins.

“The Prince Consort informed me this morning that he would be in his gardens all afternoon, and was not to be disturbed with matters of state,” continues Balin, as if his King had not spoken.  “He said a sunny day so late in the year was not to be missed.  I imagine he could fancy a hand with all that… whatever it is he does there.”

It’s the only ploy that always works, and Balin will forever use it shamelessly.  It’s worth the expression on Thorin’s face, of a deep, sincere happiness that Balin remembers well enough from when his own husband still lived.  It takes years off, and Thorin rises from his seat as if he does not know he is doing it.  “I will… yes.  Very well.  Thank you, Balin,” he says, walking away at a pace just a little too fast to be wholly dignified.

Hiding a smile in his beard, Balin heads out of the chamber, down the wide steps of the Royal Quarters towards the Guild Halls.  He is thinking of hot sausage-meat pastries, and perhaps a few sugared cinnamon buns.  Dealing with the Bakers Guild has its own perks, after all.

–

Fictober: A Month of Prompts

Day 1: “Can you feel this?”
Day 2: “People like you have no imagination.”
Day 3: “How can I trust you?”

forhobbitreasons:

“I don’t remember ever doing this,” Thorin says quietly, his voice strange and maybe wistful as the afternoon breeze carries it away. “Just taking a minute to do nothing. I can’t remember if we ever had moments like these, before the dragon.” 

Bilbo hums, reaching for Thorin’s hand to squeeze a reassurance into it, though he doesn’t turn to look – he’ll allow Thorin that small privacy at least. That’s what they come up here for, after all: the privacy and the solitude, the quiet moments that these days can only be found by secreting themselves out of the mountain through a once-hidden door. 

Erebor is growing every day, and their duties and obligations with it. 

“I think we must’ve done,” Thorin goes on. “We must have had the quiet moments, along with everything else. But I don’t remember it anymore.”

He stares into the distance and sighs, a shade of melancholy coming over his eyes. His grip on Bilbo’s hand lessens as the nostalgia threatens to carry him away, back into the memories of all that has been lost.

Bilbo would rather keep him here: the grief and the mourning has already held onto Thorin too long. 

“You’re just getting old,” he says flatly, a chuckle sliding into the back of his throat at the look Thorin shoots him, but it’s fine: there’s a smile starting at the corner of his glare. “Don’t worry, love. You’ve a hobbit now, and we specialise in things such as this. I’ll show you the way in no time.”

“What, to sneaking away? Aye, that I can imagine. You’re always gone somewhere when there’s a trade negotiation underway.” 

“Your mountain, your problems,” Bilbo waves away offhandedly. “I’m only here for the food.” 

Thorin laughs at such a blatant untruth – Bilbo had been wringing himself nearly dry with the preparations for the diplomatic envoys coming to the mountain for the Durin’s Day celebrations. He works as hard as any dwarrow, and harder than some of them too. “To the quietness, then?”

“Of course not. We hobbits are experts at laughter, after all, and I think our drinking songs are as carousing as any of yours.”

“What, then? To sitting on ledges? Avoiding duties?” Thorin leans in a little closer for the next, just to be sure his voice doesn’t carry as he says, rather more as a suggestion than an observable guess, “To stealing a moment of pleasure with your lover?”

“No, no, and no,” Bilbo says, elbowing him back from an advance that clearly intends to nibble on his ear; Thorin takes it good-naturedly though, settling instead for pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Though we are good at all those things. But that’s not what I mean.”

“Things hobbits specialise in,” Thorin repeats slowly, musing, pretending to think on it even as he nuzzles a bit closer, his cold nose sneaking into the curve of Bilbo’s neck. “In laziness?”

Bilbo laughs and shakes his head, and finally turns and gives Thorin the kiss he’s clearly angling for, sweet and slow and warm in the afternoon light. 

“In happiness,” he says finally.

Thorin studies him for a moment, then he dips in for another kiss. “Aye, all right,” he agrees. “You’ve lead me right this far, Bilbo Baggins. I think I can follow you a bit further.”