Fic: "Half-Breed," (1/1) The Hobbit, Bilbo/Thorin, R, MPREG
More MPreg. I'm in a mood.
Half-Breed
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey AU
Pairing: Bilbo/Thorin, mentions of Bofur/Kili
Rating: R
Word Count: Approx. 3800
Disclaimer: Sure. I own everything. Including the Taj Mahal. Not the structure, the band.
Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post the successful retaking of Erebor by four years. A sequel to Frerin's Lullaby. MPREG.
Summary: Written for the
hobbit_kink meme prompt: Thorin and Bilbo living in Erebor and have a young child. Bilbo is rather happy with the life. Of course there is always that person/people that have prejudice and they make some rather rude comments about the royal consort and the half-breed child. What they don't know is that Bilbo one days over hears the comments and is rather upset and angry about it. Bonus Bilbo is pregnant again and he's concerned that this child will deal with the same prejudice his first child does. (He loves his children and he doesn't want them to deal with hateful words.) Double Bonus Bilbo confronts the person making comments and Thorin hears about it later (except he doesn't hear why Bilbo was yelling just that he got angry for no reason). Thorin questions his husband later on and Bilbo tells him what happened. It makes Thorin angry because he is king and how dare someone insult his family. TL;DR- There is prejudice over Thorin's and Bilbo's hybrid child.
Bilbo walks down the corridor from the royal wing, to the the throne room, where morning Court is being held. One hand is on the just-beginning-to-show swell of his abdomen, the other is holding the hand of his and Thorin's oldest child, Frerin, who skips along at his Da's side talking brightly of-who knows? At two and one half years old, most of his speech is still baby-gabble, the rest of it a mix of Khuzdul and common speech-bare feet slapping against the stone floors (he has Thorin's feet, not Bilbo's, but he nonetheless puts up such a fight when it comes to wearing his boots that most of the time, Bilbo just doesn't have the energy to fight him on it).
Sometimes, Thorin's really the only one who can get the boy to do anything, so strong-willed is he, even at this young age. But he simply adores his Adad and looks up to him, and wants, it's obvious, nothing more than to be just like him. So if Frerin sees Thorin wearing boots, for a few hours, anyway, he, too, will wear boots. Will practically beg to wear them.
Bilbo rubs his abdomen and wonders if their second child, little Thrain-the-third-or-Malonna will be as headstrong and intractable as his or her older brother.
“Da?”
Bilbo looks down at Frerin and smiles. It's like looking at Thorin's face in miniature, except for the pointed ears poking out from the sable curls that run riot over Frerin's head. And the blue of his eyes may be a half-shade lighter than Thorin's. “Yes, love? What is it?”
Frerin holds his arms up and out and pouts. The pout, Bilbo has been told, by none other than Thorin, is all his Da's.
“Ah, so, you want to be carried, is that it?”
Frerin nods solemnly. “Court is far away,” he says glumly, in his oddly formal Khuzdul, which is far better than his grasp common speech, and certainly better than the scraps of elvish he's picked up from Bilbo's studies or from when the elves make state visits (the elves have a tendency to spoil the young prince rotten with gifts when they visit . . . and Lord Elrond, especially, seems fond of Frerin, and vice versa).
“Yes, love, Court is a bit of a walk . . . but I can't carry you there. It's not good for your little brother or sister for Da to be lifting you up anymore,” Bilbo says apologetically, wondering how much of that Frerin understands. But he needn't have worried, because Frerin glowers at Bilbo's barely-showing stomach and says: “Bad baby!”
Bilbo bursts out laughing, and goes laboriously down to one knee to look Frerin in the eye. His son is glaring self-righteously at him with Thorin's eyes and that adorable glower. “Oh, you,” Bilbo pulls the boy to him for a hug and a kiss. “Just because I can't pick you up, anymore, doesn't mean I love you any less. It just means you're getting to be a big boy, now. You're not a baby, anymore,” he adds in his own halting Khuzdul, which, officially, he doesn't know how to speak, read, or write.
Unofficially . . . he knows enough to get by in Erebor and New Dale without depending on his friends and his husband to translate for him. Thorin has seen to that.
Frerin's wiry little arms wrap around Bilbo's neck and Frerin sniffs, his face buried in Bilbo's neck. “Am, too,” he asserts, his small hands clenching in Bilbo's curls. “I'm the baby.”
“No, now, you're the big brother. You're the one who's job it will be to guide and protect this little one. To make sure he or she is safe, and that they know all the fun games to play.” Bilbo frees Frerin's little arms and hands-strong, they are, even at this age, even despite the deceptive slightness of his frame-from his hair and around his neck, and leans back so he can place the boy's hands on his abdomen. Fortuitously, at that moment, a flurry of kicks starts up under Frerin's and Bilbo's hands.
“WOW!” Frerin says loudly, laughing, moving his hands around to follow the trajectory of motion across Bilbo's stomach. “That's the baby?”
“Yup. And once, you were like that, in my tummy, kicking up a storm, not letting me sleep.” Bilbo kisses the tip of Frerin's freckled nose-another thing he gets from his Da . . . more specifically from the Took side of Bilbo's family. “But that was a long time ago. Now, you're a big, strong, smart boy, and you'll be the best brother in the world to your little brother or sister, right?”
Frerin nods, his hand still moving across Bilbo's abdomen. Not that there's much abdomen to move across, as yet. He's only twenty-one weeks along, and this babe is, according to the healers last assessment, going to be smaller than Frerin had been. Though likely no less healthy.
At least, that had been their most educated guess as of . . . nearly a month ago. Bilbo hasn't been terribly diligent about going to the healers, of late. He's afraid, he supposes, of getting bad news, when everything in his life is going so right. . . .
Bilbo forces such thoughts away, unwilling to taint his time with Frerin with grim what-ifs. He grins, and he and Frerin stay like that until the kicking stops a few minutes later.
*
They arrive at Court just as it's ending, Thorin delivering his ruling in the case of a miner against his mining company. Apparently, there'd been a cave-in in which the miner had lost his brother, and now, he was suing for losses and damages.
Bilbo and Frerin wait at the back of the crowd for the verdict, and for the people to disperse. When the crowd does start to break up after the verdict-Thorin looks so kingly when he does decides a case, and Bilbo is always rather . . . aroused seeing him this way, rendered breathless and wide-eyed-dwarves milling and turning around when Thorin dismisses the mining company's countersuit for negligence.
The guard is at the edges of the crowd, leading everyone out. As the dwarves pass Bilbo and Frerin, some smile and nod, others frown and look away. Bilbo's got quite used to either reaction, though the latter one still makes him wish he could spend all his time in their rooms, seeing no one but family and friends.
But Frerin deserves as much of the world as his Da can give him. If that means weathering slights and disapproval, so be it.
The group of dwarves representing the mining company are the last to pass Bilbo and Frerin, their leader taking the time out of his grumbling about the outcome of the case to sneer-actually sneer at Bilbo, and mutter in Khuzdul about the halfling and its half-breed spawn.
“And I hear tell it's pregnant again,” the dwarf sniffs, eyeing Bilbo's midsection. And the hand not holding Frerin's immediately goes to his stomach as a wave of pure rage takes him. It's not the first time he's overheard such insults, but for some reason, this time, it makes Bilbo angrier than he's ever been. For Frerin's sake, and the sake of the babe Bilbo now carries.
“I beg your pardon,” he says in crisp Khuzdul, the words he wants coming steadily and more quickly than he's used to. “But would you mind repeating what you just said? My Khuzdul is lamentably poor, but it sounds like you just insulted my son.”
The leader's eyes widen and he glances at his cohorts, who avoid his gaze and hurry on with slight bows to Bilbo, who barely notices. Though he does notice, out of the corner of his eye, Thorin standing up in concern, and approaching them.
“I-I meant no insult . . . your highness.” The leader says, his face turning red-less with embarrassment, Bilbo senses, than with repressed anger.
“You owe my son an apology, sir.” Bilbo says quietly, still in Khuzdul. “My son and me.”
The leader looks incredulous, then scoffs. “Just because you're warming the king's bed, you little foreign catamite, doesn't make you one of us. The same goes for this abomination you and everyone else has the nerve to call a prince of Erebor-“
The sudden crack of Bilbo's hand across the dwarf's face surprises everyone present, and it echoes quite loudly, even in the cavernous throne room. “How dare you!” Bilbo seethes coldly, though quietly enough that it doesn't carry. Thorin is now half-way to them, frowning as he stalks along, majestic in his crown and robe. But the guards are closer, and one of them comes up to the leader and puts a hand on his arm. However he addresses himself to Bilbo when he speaks.
“Shall I put him out, your highness?”
Bilbo tilts his chin up, and glares at the leader, who's paled, but for the red palm-print of Bilbo's hand on his cheek. “Yes. That's what we do with trash, isn't it, Osin?”
And with that, Bilbo spins on his heel and marches out of the throne room first, Frerin hurrying along on his little legs, trying to keep up.
*
Thorin finds them, not too much later, in the their bedchamber. Bilbo is curled up in bed around a sleeping Frerin, stroking the boy's soft curls and watching him sleep.
Bilbo can feel his husband watching them thoughtfully from the doorway, and doesn't say anything for several minutes. Thorin is the one to break this silence.
“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” he asks finally, entering the bedroom proper and closing the door behind him. Bilbo sighs and closes his eyes.
“I . . . lost my temper. I won't let it happen again,” Bilbo says, the backs of his eyes stinging with tears of frustration and helplessness at the unfairness of what Frerin and this as yet unborn child will find themselves facing as they grow older. “I'm sorry.”
The bed dips as Thorin sits behind Bilbo. “Duly noted. But that doesn't tell me why you felt the need to slap the chief of one of the royal mining companies in the face.”
“It was nothing. A misunderstanding, that's all,” Bilbo lies, and Thorin sighs, kissing his shoulder and curling up behind him, the bigger spoon to Bilbo and Frerin's smaller spoons.
“I've never once seen you lose your temper so, Bilbo Baggins. And certainly not over a misunderstanding. Tell me what was said.” Thorin kisses the tip of Bilbo's pointed ear, his hand sliding over Bilbo's hip, to his abdomen. “Tell me.”
Bilbo blinks as tears roll down his cheek and nose. “He called our son an abomination.”
Behind him, Thorin stiffens. “He what?”
Bilbo laughs bitterly. “You heard me, Thorin. He called our son an abomination-never mind what he called me. I can take whatever they dish out, but Frerin . . . he's just a boy. Just a baby. My baby, and he doesn't deserve to be called the things people like that call him.”
Thorin is silent behind him for most of a minute. “People like that,” he rumbles flatly, without inflection. “Which implies that there have been others who've spoken ill of you and our son.”
Bilbo sighs once more. “Would it surprise you if I said yes? That there have been more slights and insults than you can imagine-almost always said just within earshot, or in Khuzdul simple enough for me to understand? And for Frerin to someday understand, when he's older?”
Glancing over his shoulder, he catches a look of pure rage, of the kind he'd felt earlier, on Thorin's face.
“How long has this been going on?” Thorin demands, and Bilbo sighs again.
“Since the beginning, Thorin. But what did you expect, making a hobbit your consort, then letting him bear your children?” Bilbo looks back at Frerin, their beautiful, wonderful, miracle of a son. “There are those who aren't happy with your decision to elevate me to the rank of consort. And those who will never accept a half-blood dwarf as their prince. They've never exactly hidden their feelings-at least not from Frerin and I-and today was just another example of that, only . . . I just couldn't take it anymore. Just couldn't take the thought of my babies growing up being despised for who their Da is.”
And with that, Bilbo hugs Frerin closer, more hot, scalding tears rolling down his face. In his arms, Frerin stirs a little, then slips back into a deeper sleep.
Thorin's arm hesitantly comes around Bilbo, as if he's afraid Bilbo will reject him. But when Bilbo doesn't, Thorin pulls his consort and children closer, offering silent comfort and support. He doesn't promise to put an end to the intolerance and cruel words. Doesn't promise to open the eyes of every idiot who can't see their little family for what it is.
Doesn't promise things he can't possibly deliver.
Bilbo is grateful for that and, for some reason, comforted.
*
Drained, Bilbo spends the rest of the day in bed, even after Frerin wakes up. Thorin takes Frerin to visit his Uncles Kili and Bofur, and their new babe, Micla. Then he returns to their chambers and lies in bed with Bilbo till he falls asleep.
When Bilbo awakens, it's late, nearly six in the evening, by the clock. Thorin is gone and the child has started kicking again. Hard.
Groggy and disoriented, Bilbo eases himself out of bed, and before he can get to his feet properly, he's hit by a wave of stomach cramps and a dizzy spell. He immediately starts feeling faint and the cold wash of panic that sends through him rouses him somewhat.
The last time he'd felt like this he'd been ordered on bed-rest for the last four months of his first pregnancy. And during that four months, he'd had to take every disgusting herbal potion and tonic known to dwarves, not to mention wear all sorts of poultices just to keep Frerin, who was, even before his birth, an excitable child, calm and still.
And in the end, the birth had still been . . . rocky. Both he and Frerin had nearly died. Bilbo, at the end of his strength and in intense pain, had begged the healers to save the baby. Thorin, who'd been by his side the whole time, had held his hand and, tears rolling down his gaunt, tired face, had urged Bilbo to remember his promise to always be there. To be strong and to fight. . . .
Tears springing to his eyes now, Bilbo puts a hand on his stomach, rubbing soothingly, frowning when the child within doesn't so much as slow down its movements.
As a matter of fact, the child has been highly motive since . . . since Court, that morning.
It's time, Bilbo Baggins, he tells himself sternly, kicking himself for not accepting it sooner. Time to see the healers and get put on bed-rest, or whatever they prescribe. You're not doing as well as you were when you were carrying Frerin. And whatever's wrong, it's starting a month earlier. . . .
Bilbo pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the cramps and the dizziness, and shuffles out into their morning room, and to the door. It takes a short eternity to do so, but do it he does, leaning against the door for a few moments before he opens it.
“Could one of you please get the healers?” he asks of Drur and Grur, the brothers who most often draw night sentry duty for his and Thorin's quarters.
They both look at him, their eyes widening. Bilbo knows he must look a sight, for the way Drur takes off, and Grur's stolid face suddenly looks . . . worried.
Then the worst cramp of all hits and he's falling forward, the world greying out. He knows Grur catches him and lifts him up, but that's all he knows for a while afterwards.
*
When next Bilbo opens his eyes, it's to Thorin leaning over him looking concerned and grim.
Bilbo groans as the room begins to spin and he feels a powerful nausea like he hasn't for nearly two months.
But at least the cramps are gone.
The cramps are-
“Is the baby alright?” Bilbo asks frantically, pushing back the covers. He's naked, in their bed, and there's a large poultice over his stomach that smells strongly of fresh earth, licorice, and some kind of mint.
“Yes, though it was a close call,” Thorin says softly, putting his hand over the poultice lightly, before pulling the covers back up. “Are you alright?”
Bilbo looks around the spinning room. Both of the healers, whom he hasn't seen since the weeks just after he'd found out he was pregnant again, are there, at the foot of the bed.
“I think that's a question for them, not me.” Bilbo sighs, closing his eyes. “The room is spinning and I feel as if I'm about to vomit, but the cramping has stopped.”
The female healer nods. “The poultice has worked. It will calm the children and keep them from doing more internal damage than this pregnancy has already caused.”
“Internal damage?” Thorin says, frowning.
“Children?” Bilbo demands, eyes wide with disbelief.
The male healer nods. “There's precious little space in there for one motile child, let alone two. The cramping you were experiencing came about as a result of the children moving around, and while doing so jostling and bruising your other organs.”
“They are small, but healthy, active babes,” the female healer adds with a small smile on her creased, wrinkled face. "The poultices, however, will render them . . . calmer, and less likely to move about so much. But bed-rest is required of you, for the poultices and potions to work. You must remain at rest so the children remain at rest.”
“How did I know that was coming?” Bilbo snorts, closing his eyes. “So . . . I'm having twins?”
“Yes,” both healers says, and Thorin takes Bilbo's hand, squeezing it before kissing it tenderly.
“My love,” he murmurs softly, and Bilbo opens his eyes, smiling wanly.
“Well. I always wanted a large family,” he says wryly, and Thorin grins, kissing him. “Speaking of, where's Frerin?”
“He's spending the night with Uncle Kili, Uncle Bofur, and Cousin Micla,” Thorin replies with a brief laugh. “Between getting Micla down for the night and just keeping up with Frerin's demands for more stories . . . they've got their work cut out for them.”
Bilbo chuckles, his tired gaze shifting to the healers. “So, I suppose there's a list as long as Thorin's arm of things I'm supposed to eat and drink and have put on my stomach, right?”
The male healer produces just such a list from the depths of his robe, a trick worthy of Gandalf. Bilbo sighs again as Thorin reaches out and takes it, and begins reading it to himself, lips moving slightly.
“We will take our leave of you, now. But we will be back to see you tomorrow morning,” the male healer says like a threat. Or a maybe just a promise. Bilbo nods.
“Tomorrow,” he says wearily. “I'll be here with bells on.”
*
Thorin brings him dinner in bed-of course, that's how all dinners will be taken, for the next five months, Bilbo realizes with a sigh-and watches him pick at his food and shove it around the plate. And Bilbo tries to eat, for the sake of the child-the children, even though he has no appetite.
Finally, he pushes the tray away, and Thorin takes it without speaking into the morning room. When he comes back into the bedchamber, it's to lay down next to Bilbo, and pull him gently, carefully into his arms.
“You are beautiful, Bilbo Baggins,” he says quietly. “And so are our children. They will grow up with parents and a family who love and cherish them.”
Bilbo looks up at Thorin, who's watching him attentively. “But we can't shelter them from the awful things some of the people say. Not forever. One day, they're going to come to us with questions, possibly in tears, and what will we tell them, then, Thorin?”
Thorin squeezes him, but not too tightly. “We tell them the truth: that their Da and Adad loved each other so much, that they wanted to share that love with children. And that they've never regretted sharing that love for one single moment. That no matter what, they will always be proud of the children that they love so much, and that nothing anyone else says will be able to change that.”
Bilbo blinks back tears and turns his face against Thorin's neck.
“When you put it that way . . . the truth sounds pretty good,” he says around his heart, which has taken up temporary residence in his throat.
“That truth will make a good, strong shield to protect them,” Thorin says, then sighs, himself. “No doubt, they will have to grow thicker skins than most children, but the truth of who they are, that they were created in love and the fact that every day of their lives will be spent in the arms of those whom they love and who love them back, will do more to inform who they become, than the natterings of their detractors.”
“I hope so.” Bilbo says, clinging to his husband. Thorin kisses his forehead.
“You'll see, my love. They'll be healthy, happy, and strong.”
“Mm . . . tell me more about our lives,” Bilbo says sleepily, yawning. “Tell me a story about you and me, and Frerin, Thrain, and Malonna. . . .”
Thorin chuckles, his hand going to Bilbo's stomach again, resting lightly over the poultice and sheet. “Well, of course, this story starts with a hole in the ground,” he says quietly, and Bilbo closes his eyes again, picturing what Thorin's describing: “Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat, but a door unto the Mountain, and that means, above all things, safety and comfort. . . .”
END
Continues in Big Brother
Half-Breed
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey AU
Pairing: Bilbo/Thorin, mentions of Bofur/Kili
Rating: R
Word Count: Approx. 3800
Disclaimer: Sure. I own everything. Including the Taj Mahal. Not the structure, the band.
Notes/Warnings: AU. Set post the successful retaking of Erebor by four years. A sequel to Frerin's Lullaby. MPREG.
Summary: Written for the
hobbit_kink meme prompt: Thorin and Bilbo living in Erebor and have a young child. Bilbo is rather happy with the life. Of course there is always that person/people that have prejudice and they make some rather rude comments about the royal consort and the half-breed child. What they don't know is that Bilbo one days over hears the comments and is rather upset and angry about it. Bonus Bilbo is pregnant again and he's concerned that this child will deal with the same prejudice his first child does. (He loves his children and he doesn't want them to deal with hateful words.) Double Bonus Bilbo confronts the person making comments and Thorin hears about it later (except he doesn't hear why Bilbo was yelling just that he got angry for no reason). Thorin questions his husband later on and Bilbo tells him what happened. It makes Thorin angry because he is king and how dare someone insult his family. TL;DR- There is prejudice over Thorin's and Bilbo's hybrid child.
Bilbo walks down the corridor from the royal wing, to the the throne room, where morning Court is being held. One hand is on the just-beginning-to-show swell of his abdomen, the other is holding the hand of his and Thorin's oldest child, Frerin, who skips along at his Da's side talking brightly of-who knows? At two and one half years old, most of his speech is still baby-gabble, the rest of it a mix of Khuzdul and common speech-bare feet slapping against the stone floors (he has Thorin's feet, not Bilbo's, but he nonetheless puts up such a fight when it comes to wearing his boots that most of the time, Bilbo just doesn't have the energy to fight him on it).
Sometimes, Thorin's really the only one who can get the boy to do anything, so strong-willed is he, even at this young age. But he simply adores his Adad and looks up to him, and wants, it's obvious, nothing more than to be just like him. So if Frerin sees Thorin wearing boots, for a few hours, anyway, he, too, will wear boots. Will practically beg to wear them.
Bilbo rubs his abdomen and wonders if their second child, little Thrain-the-third-or-Malonna will be as headstrong and intractable as his or her older brother.
“Da?”
Bilbo looks down at Frerin and smiles. It's like looking at Thorin's face in miniature, except for the pointed ears poking out from the sable curls that run riot over Frerin's head. And the blue of his eyes may be a half-shade lighter than Thorin's. “Yes, love? What is it?”
Frerin holds his arms up and out and pouts. The pout, Bilbo has been told, by none other than Thorin, is all his Da's.
“Ah, so, you want to be carried, is that it?”
Frerin nods solemnly. “Court is far away,” he says glumly, in his oddly formal Khuzdul, which is far better than his grasp common speech, and certainly better than the scraps of elvish he's picked up from Bilbo's studies or from when the elves make state visits (the elves have a tendency to spoil the young prince rotten with gifts when they visit . . . and Lord Elrond, especially, seems fond of Frerin, and vice versa).
“Yes, love, Court is a bit of a walk . . . but I can't carry you there. It's not good for your little brother or sister for Da to be lifting you up anymore,” Bilbo says apologetically, wondering how much of that Frerin understands. But he needn't have worried, because Frerin glowers at Bilbo's barely-showing stomach and says: “Bad baby!”
Bilbo bursts out laughing, and goes laboriously down to one knee to look Frerin in the eye. His son is glaring self-righteously at him with Thorin's eyes and that adorable glower. “Oh, you,” Bilbo pulls the boy to him for a hug and a kiss. “Just because I can't pick you up, anymore, doesn't mean I love you any less. It just means you're getting to be a big boy, now. You're not a baby, anymore,” he adds in his own halting Khuzdul, which, officially, he doesn't know how to speak, read, or write.
Unofficially . . . he knows enough to get by in Erebor and New Dale without depending on his friends and his husband to translate for him. Thorin has seen to that.
Frerin's wiry little arms wrap around Bilbo's neck and Frerin sniffs, his face buried in Bilbo's neck. “Am, too,” he asserts, his small hands clenching in Bilbo's curls. “I'm the baby.”
“No, now, you're the big brother. You're the one who's job it will be to guide and protect this little one. To make sure he or she is safe, and that they know all the fun games to play.” Bilbo frees Frerin's little arms and hands-strong, they are, even at this age, even despite the deceptive slightness of his frame-from his hair and around his neck, and leans back so he can place the boy's hands on his abdomen. Fortuitously, at that moment, a flurry of kicks starts up under Frerin's and Bilbo's hands.
“WOW!” Frerin says loudly, laughing, moving his hands around to follow the trajectory of motion across Bilbo's stomach. “That's the baby?”
“Yup. And once, you were like that, in my tummy, kicking up a storm, not letting me sleep.” Bilbo kisses the tip of Frerin's freckled nose-another thing he gets from his Da . . . more specifically from the Took side of Bilbo's family. “But that was a long time ago. Now, you're a big, strong, smart boy, and you'll be the best brother in the world to your little brother or sister, right?”
Frerin nods, his hand still moving across Bilbo's abdomen. Not that there's much abdomen to move across, as yet. He's only twenty-one weeks along, and this babe is, according to the healers last assessment, going to be smaller than Frerin had been. Though likely no less healthy.
At least, that had been their most educated guess as of . . . nearly a month ago. Bilbo hasn't been terribly diligent about going to the healers, of late. He's afraid, he supposes, of getting bad news, when everything in his life is going so right. . . .
Bilbo forces such thoughts away, unwilling to taint his time with Frerin with grim what-ifs. He grins, and he and Frerin stay like that until the kicking stops a few minutes later.
*
They arrive at Court just as it's ending, Thorin delivering his ruling in the case of a miner against his mining company. Apparently, there'd been a cave-in in which the miner had lost his brother, and now, he was suing for losses and damages.
Bilbo and Frerin wait at the back of the crowd for the verdict, and for the people to disperse. When the crowd does start to break up after the verdict-Thorin looks so kingly when he does decides a case, and Bilbo is always rather . . . aroused seeing him this way, rendered breathless and wide-eyed-dwarves milling and turning around when Thorin dismisses the mining company's countersuit for negligence.
The guard is at the edges of the crowd, leading everyone out. As the dwarves pass Bilbo and Frerin, some smile and nod, others frown and look away. Bilbo's got quite used to either reaction, though the latter one still makes him wish he could spend all his time in their rooms, seeing no one but family and friends.
But Frerin deserves as much of the world as his Da can give him. If that means weathering slights and disapproval, so be it.
The group of dwarves representing the mining company are the last to pass Bilbo and Frerin, their leader taking the time out of his grumbling about the outcome of the case to sneer-actually sneer at Bilbo, and mutter in Khuzdul about the halfling and its half-breed spawn.
“And I hear tell it's pregnant again,” the dwarf sniffs, eyeing Bilbo's midsection. And the hand not holding Frerin's immediately goes to his stomach as a wave of pure rage takes him. It's not the first time he's overheard such insults, but for some reason, this time, it makes Bilbo angrier than he's ever been. For Frerin's sake, and the sake of the babe Bilbo now carries.
“I beg your pardon,” he says in crisp Khuzdul, the words he wants coming steadily and more quickly than he's used to. “But would you mind repeating what you just said? My Khuzdul is lamentably poor, but it sounds like you just insulted my son.”
The leader's eyes widen and he glances at his cohorts, who avoid his gaze and hurry on with slight bows to Bilbo, who barely notices. Though he does notice, out of the corner of his eye, Thorin standing up in concern, and approaching them.
“I-I meant no insult . . . your highness.” The leader says, his face turning red-less with embarrassment, Bilbo senses, than with repressed anger.
“You owe my son an apology, sir.” Bilbo says quietly, still in Khuzdul. “My son and me.”
The leader looks incredulous, then scoffs. “Just because you're warming the king's bed, you little foreign catamite, doesn't make you one of us. The same goes for this abomination you and everyone else has the nerve to call a prince of Erebor-“
The sudden crack of Bilbo's hand across the dwarf's face surprises everyone present, and it echoes quite loudly, even in the cavernous throne room. “How dare you!” Bilbo seethes coldly, though quietly enough that it doesn't carry. Thorin is now half-way to them, frowning as he stalks along, majestic in his crown and robe. But the guards are closer, and one of them comes up to the leader and puts a hand on his arm. However he addresses himself to Bilbo when he speaks.
“Shall I put him out, your highness?”
Bilbo tilts his chin up, and glares at the leader, who's paled, but for the red palm-print of Bilbo's hand on his cheek. “Yes. That's what we do with trash, isn't it, Osin?”
And with that, Bilbo spins on his heel and marches out of the throne room first, Frerin hurrying along on his little legs, trying to keep up.
*
Thorin finds them, not too much later, in the their bedchamber. Bilbo is curled up in bed around a sleeping Frerin, stroking the boy's soft curls and watching him sleep.
Bilbo can feel his husband watching them thoughtfully from the doorway, and doesn't say anything for several minutes. Thorin is the one to break this silence.
“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” he asks finally, entering the bedroom proper and closing the door behind him. Bilbo sighs and closes his eyes.
“I . . . lost my temper. I won't let it happen again,” Bilbo says, the backs of his eyes stinging with tears of frustration and helplessness at the unfairness of what Frerin and this as yet unborn child will find themselves facing as they grow older. “I'm sorry.”
The bed dips as Thorin sits behind Bilbo. “Duly noted. But that doesn't tell me why you felt the need to slap the chief of one of the royal mining companies in the face.”
“It was nothing. A misunderstanding, that's all,” Bilbo lies, and Thorin sighs, kissing his shoulder and curling up behind him, the bigger spoon to Bilbo and Frerin's smaller spoons.
“I've never once seen you lose your temper so, Bilbo Baggins. And certainly not over a misunderstanding. Tell me what was said.” Thorin kisses the tip of Bilbo's pointed ear, his hand sliding over Bilbo's hip, to his abdomen. “Tell me.”
Bilbo blinks as tears roll down his cheek and nose. “He called our son an abomination.”
Behind him, Thorin stiffens. “He what?”
Bilbo laughs bitterly. “You heard me, Thorin. He called our son an abomination-never mind what he called me. I can take whatever they dish out, but Frerin . . . he's just a boy. Just a baby. My baby, and he doesn't deserve to be called the things people like that call him.”
Thorin is silent behind him for most of a minute. “People like that,” he rumbles flatly, without inflection. “Which implies that there have been others who've spoken ill of you and our son.”
Bilbo sighs once more. “Would it surprise you if I said yes? That there have been more slights and insults than you can imagine-almost always said just within earshot, or in Khuzdul simple enough for me to understand? And for Frerin to someday understand, when he's older?”
Glancing over his shoulder, he catches a look of pure rage, of the kind he'd felt earlier, on Thorin's face.
“How long has this been going on?” Thorin demands, and Bilbo sighs again.
“Since the beginning, Thorin. But what did you expect, making a hobbit your consort, then letting him bear your children?” Bilbo looks back at Frerin, their beautiful, wonderful, miracle of a son. “There are those who aren't happy with your decision to elevate me to the rank of consort. And those who will never accept a half-blood dwarf as their prince. They've never exactly hidden their feelings-at least not from Frerin and I-and today was just another example of that, only . . . I just couldn't take it anymore. Just couldn't take the thought of my babies growing up being despised for who their Da is.”
And with that, Bilbo hugs Frerin closer, more hot, scalding tears rolling down his face. In his arms, Frerin stirs a little, then slips back into a deeper sleep.
Thorin's arm hesitantly comes around Bilbo, as if he's afraid Bilbo will reject him. But when Bilbo doesn't, Thorin pulls his consort and children closer, offering silent comfort and support. He doesn't promise to put an end to the intolerance and cruel words. Doesn't promise to open the eyes of every idiot who can't see their little family for what it is.
Doesn't promise things he can't possibly deliver.
Bilbo is grateful for that and, for some reason, comforted.
*
Drained, Bilbo spends the rest of the day in bed, even after Frerin wakes up. Thorin takes Frerin to visit his Uncles Kili and Bofur, and their new babe, Micla. Then he returns to their chambers and lies in bed with Bilbo till he falls asleep.
When Bilbo awakens, it's late, nearly six in the evening, by the clock. Thorin is gone and the child has started kicking again. Hard.
Groggy and disoriented, Bilbo eases himself out of bed, and before he can get to his feet properly, he's hit by a wave of stomach cramps and a dizzy spell. He immediately starts feeling faint and the cold wash of panic that sends through him rouses him somewhat.
The last time he'd felt like this he'd been ordered on bed-rest for the last four months of his first pregnancy. And during that four months, he'd had to take every disgusting herbal potion and tonic known to dwarves, not to mention wear all sorts of poultices just to keep Frerin, who was, even before his birth, an excitable child, calm and still.
And in the end, the birth had still been . . . rocky. Both he and Frerin had nearly died. Bilbo, at the end of his strength and in intense pain, had begged the healers to save the baby. Thorin, who'd been by his side the whole time, had held his hand and, tears rolling down his gaunt, tired face, had urged Bilbo to remember his promise to always be there. To be strong and to fight. . . .
Tears springing to his eyes now, Bilbo puts a hand on his stomach, rubbing soothingly, frowning when the child within doesn't so much as slow down its movements.
As a matter of fact, the child has been highly motive since . . . since Court, that morning.
It's time, Bilbo Baggins, he tells himself sternly, kicking himself for not accepting it sooner. Time to see the healers and get put on bed-rest, or whatever they prescribe. You're not doing as well as you were when you were carrying Frerin. And whatever's wrong, it's starting a month earlier. . . .
Bilbo pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the cramps and the dizziness, and shuffles out into their morning room, and to the door. It takes a short eternity to do so, but do it he does, leaning against the door for a few moments before he opens it.
“Could one of you please get the healers?” he asks of Drur and Grur, the brothers who most often draw night sentry duty for his and Thorin's quarters.
They both look at him, their eyes widening. Bilbo knows he must look a sight, for the way Drur takes off, and Grur's stolid face suddenly looks . . . worried.
Then the worst cramp of all hits and he's falling forward, the world greying out. He knows Grur catches him and lifts him up, but that's all he knows for a while afterwards.
*
When next Bilbo opens his eyes, it's to Thorin leaning over him looking concerned and grim.
Bilbo groans as the room begins to spin and he feels a powerful nausea like he hasn't for nearly two months.
But at least the cramps are gone.
The cramps are-
“Is the baby alright?” Bilbo asks frantically, pushing back the covers. He's naked, in their bed, and there's a large poultice over his stomach that smells strongly of fresh earth, licorice, and some kind of mint.
“Yes, though it was a close call,” Thorin says softly, putting his hand over the poultice lightly, before pulling the covers back up. “Are you alright?”
Bilbo looks around the spinning room. Both of the healers, whom he hasn't seen since the weeks just after he'd found out he was pregnant again, are there, at the foot of the bed.
“I think that's a question for them, not me.” Bilbo sighs, closing his eyes. “The room is spinning and I feel as if I'm about to vomit, but the cramping has stopped.”
The female healer nods. “The poultice has worked. It will calm the children and keep them from doing more internal damage than this pregnancy has already caused.”
“Internal damage?” Thorin says, frowning.
“Children?” Bilbo demands, eyes wide with disbelief.
The male healer nods. “There's precious little space in there for one motile child, let alone two. The cramping you were experiencing came about as a result of the children moving around, and while doing so jostling and bruising your other organs.”
“They are small, but healthy, active babes,” the female healer adds with a small smile on her creased, wrinkled face. "The poultices, however, will render them . . . calmer, and less likely to move about so much. But bed-rest is required of you, for the poultices and potions to work. You must remain at rest so the children remain at rest.”
“How did I know that was coming?” Bilbo snorts, closing his eyes. “So . . . I'm having twins?”
“Yes,” both healers says, and Thorin takes Bilbo's hand, squeezing it before kissing it tenderly.
“My love,” he murmurs softly, and Bilbo opens his eyes, smiling wanly.
“Well. I always wanted a large family,” he says wryly, and Thorin grins, kissing him. “Speaking of, where's Frerin?”
“He's spending the night with Uncle Kili, Uncle Bofur, and Cousin Micla,” Thorin replies with a brief laugh. “Between getting Micla down for the night and just keeping up with Frerin's demands for more stories . . . they've got their work cut out for them.”
Bilbo chuckles, his tired gaze shifting to the healers. “So, I suppose there's a list as long as Thorin's arm of things I'm supposed to eat and drink and have put on my stomach, right?”
The male healer produces just such a list from the depths of his robe, a trick worthy of Gandalf. Bilbo sighs again as Thorin reaches out and takes it, and begins reading it to himself, lips moving slightly.
“We will take our leave of you, now. But we will be back to see you tomorrow morning,” the male healer says like a threat. Or a maybe just a promise. Bilbo nods.
“Tomorrow,” he says wearily. “I'll be here with bells on.”
*
Thorin brings him dinner in bed-of course, that's how all dinners will be taken, for the next five months, Bilbo realizes with a sigh-and watches him pick at his food and shove it around the plate. And Bilbo tries to eat, for the sake of the child-the children, even though he has no appetite.
Finally, he pushes the tray away, and Thorin takes it without speaking into the morning room. When he comes back into the bedchamber, it's to lay down next to Bilbo, and pull him gently, carefully into his arms.
“You are beautiful, Bilbo Baggins,” he says quietly. “And so are our children. They will grow up with parents and a family who love and cherish them.”
Bilbo looks up at Thorin, who's watching him attentively. “But we can't shelter them from the awful things some of the people say. Not forever. One day, they're going to come to us with questions, possibly in tears, and what will we tell them, then, Thorin?”
Thorin squeezes him, but not too tightly. “We tell them the truth: that their Da and Adad loved each other so much, that they wanted to share that love with children. And that they've never regretted sharing that love for one single moment. That no matter what, they will always be proud of the children that they love so much, and that nothing anyone else says will be able to change that.”
Bilbo blinks back tears and turns his face against Thorin's neck.
“When you put it that way . . . the truth sounds pretty good,” he says around his heart, which has taken up temporary residence in his throat.
“That truth will make a good, strong shield to protect them,” Thorin says, then sighs, himself. “No doubt, they will have to grow thicker skins than most children, but the truth of who they are, that they were created in love and the fact that every day of their lives will be spent in the arms of those whom they love and who love them back, will do more to inform who they become, than the natterings of their detractors.”
“I hope so.” Bilbo says, clinging to his husband. Thorin kisses his forehead.
“You'll see, my love. They'll be healthy, happy, and strong.”
“Mm . . . tell me more about our lives,” Bilbo says sleepily, yawning. “Tell me a story about you and me, and Frerin, Thrain, and Malonna. . . .”
Thorin chuckles, his hand going to Bilbo's stomach again, resting lightly over the poultice and sheet. “Well, of course, this story starts with a hole in the ground,” he says quietly, and Bilbo closes his eyes again, picturing what Thorin's describing: “Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat, but a door unto the Mountain, and that means, above all things, safety and comfort. . . .”
END
Continues in Big Brother