Fic: "A Blue Mountains Welcome," (1/1) The Hobbit, Bilbo/Thorin, R
It's Spring Break! And I've spent it working and sleeping!
::sigh::
Anywho, for those of you with no clue as to what A/B/O is, here's a nifty, brief, fun, funny guide.
A Blue Mountains Welcome (1/1)
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey AU
Pairing: Bilbo/Thorin
Rating: R
Word Count: 3900
Disclaimer: This is all mine . . . or not.
Notes/Warnings: AU Set pre-The Hobbit. Bilbo is a mere thirty-three and his parents are dead earlier than in the book. Alpha/Omega. The previous two stories in this 'verse are here.
Summary: A continuation of this prompt from the
hobbit_kink:
Dwarves and Hobbits are cross fertile, though hobbits do not know that because they are a race of Omegas, with no Alphas or Betas. Since it is dwarven custom to keep Omegas deep within their mountains where it is safe few could escape past Smaug when the dragon came to Erebor. Thorin, thusly, never had much hope of mating. Then he stumbles across an early-thirties Bilbo Baggins on one of his wanderings up near Bree, across the Brandywine. Smelling a fertile Omega, he kidnaps Bilbo and takes him to the Blue Mountains. Give me some confused!Bilbo who doesn't understand why he's been kidnapped by a dwarf who is being growly but NICE about it, and has no idea of the reason why! And Thorin patiently waiting for Bilbo's heat to start in the mountains so he can claim him! +100 for Bilbo falling for Thorin and becoming a willing enough and happy houseguest with no idea sex is in the making until it happens and then, reluctantly, agreeing to it. +1000 For hobbits having a heat that leaves them uncomfortable and sensitive rather than desperate for sex. PLUS MY SOUL for knotting with Bilbo not knowing what it is that's going up his arse, but Thorin holding him still and reassuring him through his panic.
“It's so chilly!”
Bilbo shivers and pulls furs borrowed from the way-station closer about him. His breath plumes thick and white from nose and mouth as his pony, Alan, walks certainly, sedately on. He knows he's getting close to his home-to Bilbo's new home-something that fills Bilbo with equal parts trepidation and excitement.
Ahead of him, Thorin nods and glances back, smiling a little. “It always is, in the mountains. Even in the height of summer, there's a chill here, of an evening. But under the mountains, where we make our home, it's always warm and bright.”
Bilbo returns the smile and nudges Alan to walk a little faster, till he's apace with Thorin. The dwarf-king's eyes linger on him in such a way that Bilbo is almost immediately warmed by it, and by the memory of their days spent at the way-station.
“Will we get to the Door unto the Mountains tonight, do you think?”
“If we push hard and late, we should,” Thorin replies just as certain and sedate as Alan. “This path is a bit circuitous-I chose it for ease of riding, rather than speed-but we should reach the Door tonight. And you, my consort-to-be, will be welcomed and feted among my people. We will be married with as much haste as is seemly and as little pomp as we can get away with, and after that . . . silk sheets. . . .”
Reaching out to take Bilbo's hand, Thorin kisses it tenderly without breaking their gazes. Bilbo's pulse quickens and he blushes, swallowing. “That sounds wonderful, Thorin.”
Thorin's smile, small and amused, makes a reappearance.
They ride on, holding hands for as long as the path allows them to ride abreast.
*
Bilbo's first glimpse of another dwarf comes late in the afternoon, when the shadows have grown long and the air sharp.
The dwarf is striding down the path toward them, all beard and armor and humongous ax, singing in dwarvish. When within hailing distance, he does so bluffly, calling: “Your majesty!”
Thorin nods and raises his hand. “Lar,” he calls back, halting his pony as the dwarf draws even with them. Bilbo does the same. Lar bows to Thorin, then to Bilbo, his bright blue eyes ticking back and forth between them. Bilbo attempts a bow, nearly bonks his face on the back of Alan's head, then settles for a wave.
Thorin, observing this, smiles and gestures at Bilbo. “Lar, this is my consort-to-be, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. Bilbo, this Lar, one of the many guards that keep safe the Door Unto the Mountain.”
Nodding respectfully, Bilbo holds out his hand for shaking. It's shortly enveloped in a hand as rough as it is large.
“Very nice to meet you, Lar.”
“And it is my great good honor to meet you, your highness,” Lar says, his nostrils twitching as he stares at Bilbo curiously. Bilbo, remembering what Thorin had said about him having a scent that would announce him as a fertile-a notion Bilbo had utterly dismissed, though silently and to himself-to many male dwarves, turns red when Lar blinks, then looks him over more carefully.
But then Lar is letting go of his hand . . . yet still staring at him as if enrapt. “I've never seen a halfling before, your highness-you are a halfling, are you not?”
“I am. From Hobbiton, several days ride east of here.”
Lar smiles wistfully. “If I may ask . . . are there any more like you, in Hobbiton?”
“Oh, my, yes.” Bilbo laughs, thinking the question a tad strange. Why would there only be one hobbit? And in this part of the world? “And more in the whole of the Shire, besides.”
“Well. That's decided where I'm going on my next holiday.” Lar bows again, deeply, before turning to Thorin, who's been watching the exchange with thoughtful bemusement. “Shall I send an alert to the mountain that you've returned, my king?”
“That we've returned, and yes. And that a feast is to be prepared to welcome my consort-to-be. I have promised him much of Blue Mountains' hospitality.” Thorin reaches out and takes Bilbo's hand again, squeezing it. His eyes are dancing with excitement. “Our people will be overjoyed to meet you, my love . . . you will give them, just as you've given me, hope for the future.”
Surprised and a little wary, Bilbo blinks. “Hope? Me? How so?”
But Thorin merely kisses his hand again. “You and what you represent are nothing less than a gift from Durin.”
Blushing, Bilbo cups Thorin's face in his hand, his thumb brushing one high cheekbone fondly. “And you, my love are extremely cryptic. What's all this about me representing hope and gifts from Durin?”
Thorin smiles and sidles his pony closer, his free hand going to Bilbo's stomach. “This child will be the first of a new generation of dwarves. A generation we'd long given up hope of ever seeing.”
Bilbo shakes his head, but sadly, and in sudden understanding. “Thorin, love-I know you think you've somehow got me pregnant, but you must realize that I am male, and thus unable to conceive or bear children!“
“Yes, so you've said.” Thorin leans in closer for a kiss that quite literally leaves Bilbo breathless. “But soon enough, you'll see that you are able.”
Sighing, Bilbo gazes into Thorin's dark blue eyes and shakes his head. “I don't wish to disappoint you, love, but I fear I must.”
“You won't. You never could.”
And there seems to be nothing to say to that-nothing that hasn't already been said in the past five days in their many talks about this subject. Bilbo has only just started to believe that it is, or was once possible for male dwarves to become pregnant. But a male hobbit? He can't quite wrap his mind around such a possibility. Especially when he's the hobbit in question.
So he merely stares besottedly into Thorin's eyes and acknowledges to himself the very real eventuality that he will in fact, disappoint his love, as the months tick by and no sign of pregnancy makes itself known.
And it is impossible for male hobbits to become pregnant, isn't it? Or he'd have heard otherwise . . . wouldn't he?
Finally, he looks away from the hope and love in Thorin's eyes. At Lar, who's considerately not staring at them as if they're a two-person show. He is, in fact, staring back the way he'd come.
“Night's fast coming on. I suppose I'd best be off, you majesty, your highness,” he says suddenly, turning and bowing to them both. His blue eyes twinkle from a face that's all wind-burned skin and reddish-brown beard and hair. “You'll arrive to a feast that'll beggar the imagination.”
And with that, Lar is striding off north. Bilbo and Thorin stare after him till he's lost to their sight by a sharp turn on the path.
“How will he make it to the Door much sooner than we will?” Bilbo asks, and Thorin chuckles.
“He won't. But his messenger birds will.”
*
By the time the sky starts truly darkening, Bilbo's nodding in the saddle. So much so that when Thorin catches him at it, he halts the ponies and dismounts. Before Bilbo can rouse himself enough to ask what's going on, Thorin's climbed on behind him, arms sliding past Bilbo's waist to take the reins.
“I'll not have you falling and breaking your neck tonight, Master Baggins,” Thorin murmurs in Bilbo's ear, nuzzling his hair. His body, hard and familiar, now, presses against Bilbo's back rather enticingly. Once Alan starts walking again, Thorin lets one hand settle on Bilbo's abdomen . . . though it's not long before that hand is drifting lower. Bilbo groans under his breath.
“Well . . . I'm certainly not sleepy, anymore,” he breathes, clearing his throat and squirming back against all that lovely hardness and familiarity. Thorin chuckles and kisses Bilbo's neck, his hand sliding back up to encircle Bilbo's waist and squeeze him tight.
“Don't let me keep you awake if you need to rest, my love.” Thorin's chuckle stirs Bilbo's hair. “It's been a long week, and you're going to need all the rest you can get. Not that I'll let you get much.”
Bilbo grins at the rough, hungry promise in Thorin's low voice and places his hands over Thorin's. Leans his head back on his lover's shoulder and gazing up into eyes that are very nearly burning with want. He shivers pleasantly. “Never have I been so looking forward to sleep deprivation.”
Thorin kisses him, teasingly at first, then with less control and more ardor as Alan walks on, and around them, darkness begins to settle in for the night.
*
The moon has risen to light the way by the time Bilbo and Thorin reach the Door Unto the Mountains, though its light is rivaled by the pitch torches that have sprung up along the path.
Dwarves start to merge into their way from other directions as the path branches out. First they come in ones and two, then in trickles, then gaggles, then throngs. Some of them are riding ponies, though most are not. All of them seem to recognize Thorin by sight, hailing him respectfully, and even occasionally familiarly. Some of them even have a word for Bilbo, whom they call your highness, though mostly the dwarves they come across don't seem to have got the message that there's a new consort in town.
They do seem to have heard there's going to be a rather sudden celebration in honor of King Thorin's return and they're quite excited about it.
These dwarves are, for the most part, covered in dust and sediment, which suggests that they're miners, at least to Bilbo. Many of them have beards of epic proportions, though there seem to be some who keep their beards shorter, like Thorin. They uniformly have dark hair and eyes, but for a few blonds here and there. Almost all of them have prominent noses and brows. They-
“So you'd be the prince-consort-to-be, then?”
Bilbo finds himself gazing down into light brown eyes, the deepest dimples he's ever seen, and a smile that could light up a barrow. The dwarf attached to them is, like most of the others, covered in dust. His nose is rather small, however, though that's more than made up for by his mustaches, which curl rather ridiculously up in front of his mirth-reddened cheeks.
Said mustaches are more than matched, by the equally ridiculous hat pulled firmly down on his head. From under the hat, braids that are mismatched in length and width straggle to broad shoulders.
“Er,” Bilbo says, but the dwarf is holding up his hand amiably and keeping pace with Alan.
“The name's Bofur. Didn't catch yours, yet.”
“Oh, er-Bilbo. Baggins. Bilbo Baggins. Of the Shire.” Taking Bofur's hand, Bilbo has his own damn near wagged off his wrist.
“A genuine pleasure to meet you, Master Baggins.”
Bilbo finds himself smiling back at last, pleased, himself, to hear himself referred to by his name by someone who isn't Thorin. “Likewise, Master Bofur.”
Now, Bofur's eyes tick to Thorin, sitting behind Bilbo, and the arm curved around Bilbo's waist tightens just a little. “Your majesty,” Bofur says jauntily, sweeping off his hat and bowing-then nearly tripping, turned as he is toward Bilbo and Thorin. But he rights himself easily enough and keeps backing in the direction of the Door, which looms ahead in the darkness as distant shine of polished stone and moon-washed sigils.
“Bofur,” Thorin says rather dourly. Bofur's eyebrows drift up playfully, before he laughs and shrugs.
“And on that friendly note, I'll take meself off before I can talk up some new trouble for meself. Farewell, your majesty . . . and you, as well, your beautiful highness. My sincerest congratulations on your upcoming nuptials-“ he glances at Bilbo's midsection, where Thorin's arm is still curled protectively, possessively “-as well as my brightest hopes for our wee princeling.”
With another bow, he turns to face the same way as everyone else. Soon, he's swallowed by the throngs, just another be-hatted dwarf with ax and/or shovel, leaving a blushing, startled Bilbo and a muttering Thorin in his wake.
“Tell me, Thorin, am I the only one who doesn't think I'm pregnant with your son?” Bilbo asks, torn equally between amusement, irritation, and his own sense of disappointment.
“Possibly,” Thorin admits, though reluctantly. “It's in your scent, now-pregnancy has changed it in a way you don't recognize, but that any male dwarf will. Your scent says you're claimed and unavailable for . . . the attentions of other males.”
“Indeed?” Bilbo snorts. “Well, I still think you're all mistaken. But, as you say, time will tell.” He squeezes Thorin's hand, where it rests on his waist. “Now, tell me more about this Bofur of yours.”
Now, Thorin's the one to snort. “He's none of mine! He's . . . widely-known among the dwarves of the Blue Mountains for that mouth of his. He's something of a story-teller and bard. A skill which is much-prized in these latter days.” Thorin makes a grudging sound. “Bofur knows all the old stories, songs, and histories, and tells them very well. And for no more price than a hot meal or cold ale. Often for less than that.”
Thorin sighs, kissing the top of Bilbo's head. “He is a good person . . . but he talks too much. He knows nothing of discretion or of tact.”
Another way of saying he's too honest, Bilbo thinks wryly, but snugs back into Thorin's embrace. Thorin sighs again and holds him a little tighter, sharing warmth and so much more.
“You ward off the chill of these nights, my love,” Bilbo says softly, and Thorin leans down to whisper in his ear:
“You warm me from my skin, to the marrow of my bones, Bilbo Baggins. And you shine a light into the very coldest, darkest reaches of my heart.”
Bilbo leans his head back on Thorin's shoulder, turning his face up to meet a soft kiss that carries on for longer than either of them plans, and carries them, quite without noticing, through the Door Unto the Mountains.
*
The sudden loud, reverberating cheer that goes up once they pass under the portcullis of the Door breaks their kiss.
Bilbo finds himself gazing around a huge main hall-larger than any structure he's ever seen or been in-filled seemingly to the rafters with dwarves, clapping, stamping, and hollering. The only thing separating him and Thorin from that crowd is a small compliment of guards facing outward, at the crowd.
Blushing, Bilbo glances back at Thorin, who smiles and mouths, our people.
Then he's dismounting from Alan quickly, and clasping hands with a few of the nearest well-wishers over a guard's shoulder, before turning to lift Bilbo off the stolid, unfazed pony quite, without Bilbo's own assistance.
Bilbo holds on tight to Thorin for a few moments, his legs shaky from a day spent in the saddle. He glances up into Thorin's eyes and catches a look of pride and concern that makes him smile and lean in to steal a kiss. Thorin, for his part, steals several very thorough ones back, to more cheers from the madding crowd of dwarves.
Then the guard is moving forward through the crowd, sweeping Bilbo and Thorin along with them.
“The royal wing is not far!” Thorin mouths against Bilbo's ear, sliding an arm around Bilbo's waist and drawing him close. “We can rest for a little, until the feast is set out, then rejoin the people.”
Bilbo turns a bright, sparkling gaze on Thorin. “Silk sheets?”
Thorin's eyes run over Bilbo's comparably slight frame and he smiles promisingly. “Not then, I'm afraid. For once I have you in my bed, I won't let you out for a day and a night.”
Shivering, Bilbo nods. “I'll hold you to that, love.”
“I think you'll find that I'm a dwarf of my word.”
*
It is rather far to the royal wing. If only because there's such a crowd of dwarves-Bilbo even spots a few female dwarves, rosy and pretty, if a bit furry-between it and them.
But once they reach the entryway into the royal wing-which starts just past the impressive throne room-the crowd is immediately a thing of the past. Two steps, a few steps, them a corner and a flight of steps beyond them.
Bilbo and Thorin both let out sighs of relief and smile at each other, the former daringly swinging the latter's hand as they walk along.
They walk down well-lit corridors with smooth, polished walls and floors of dark stone that feels chilly under Bilbo's bare feet. And here, just as with the main hall, he can't stop goggling at the hugeness, the carved and cunning beauty of this strange home.
My home, now, he thinks, suddenly missing Bag End with a sharp pang. But despite the pang, he knows, he'd rather be where Thorin is any day of the week-even if it was the ends of the Earth-than alone at Bag End, as he has been since his parents died. . . .
Whatever else, I'm not alone, anymore. Bilbo smiles to himself and looks down from the flying buttresses and at his lover. Thorin's watching him curiously.
“What are you thinking about, my love?” he asks.
Bilbo moves closer to Thorin who happily puts an arm around him and holds him close. “Just thinking that I'd rather be here or anywhere with you, than anyplace else in the entire world. That when I'm with you, I don't feel alone anymore.”
“That's because you're not alone, anymore. You have me . . . and our child, whether you believe he exists or not,” Thorin adds wryly. “You have the people of the Blue Mountains. You are one of us, now, and nothing will ever change that.”
The backs of his eyes stinging, Bilbo stops, and bobs up on his toes to kiss Thorin, who cups Bilbo's face in his hand tenderly. Around them, unnoticed, the guard stops.
“I love you,” Bilbo whispers softly, urgently. Thorin's thumb brushes his lower lip reverently.
“And I, you, Bilbo. And I, you.” Thorin frowns a little. “I will do my best to make these drafty old mountains feel like home. To make certain you never . . . regret giving yourself to me.”
Bilbo kisses the tip of Thorin's thumb. “I will never regret that, Thorin. I can only do my best to make certain you feel the same.”
Shaking his head, Thorin's frown lightens into an almost-smile. “You are my match, Bilbo Baggins. Mate of my body and my heart. I can only thank Durin that he saw fit to put you in my road.” He shudders. “But for a simple twist of fate, we might never have met at all.”
“You mean but for a simple twist of ankle?” Bilbo chuckles and Thorin joins him, holding him close and kissing him again. Bilbo's arms wind around Thorin's neck and he gasps into the kiss when Thorin sweeps him up in his arms and carries him hence.
Around them the guard moves silently, as one, and from behind them come the echoes of the still-cheering crowd of dwarves.
Ahead of them-not so far ahead, afer all-lay the royal chambers, where, at last, the guard departs back the way they came, except for two, who take up posts by the doors. The one on the right opens the doors for Thorin and his consort-to-be.
Once inside, with the door shut behind them, Bilbo and Thorin kiss again, Thorin moving them deeper into chambers of which Bilbo only gets the barest impression-high ceiling; rug-covered, polished floors; tapestry-covered walls; sofas and chairs and tables-until he stops, breaking their kiss to look around. Bilbo takes the opportunity to do the same.
“It's-“ he begins, taking in the austere bed chamber, of which only the bed seems to be inviting (the sheets do, indeed, seem to be made of silk, and turned down welcomingly) “-so spacious!”
Thorin grins and kisses Bilbo's cheek. “Is that your kind way of saying unfurnished?”
“Well. . . .” Bilbo sniffs when Thorin laughs at his chagrin. “It could do with a bit of cozying up.”
“You have free reign, of course, to decorate as you see fit,” Thorin says, still laughing a little. “I've never had an eye for that sort of thing-never spent much time in here for it to really feel like home. But now, I'm thinking that will all change.”
Looking into Thorin's suddenly serious eyes, Bilbo nods. “I want every time you walk in here to feel like coming home.”
“It will, with you here.”
Bilbo looks pointedly to the bed, then back at Thorin, one eyebrow raised questioningly.
“A day and a night. I promised you nothing less, and I mean to keep that promise. In the meantime, we have a feast to attend and a wedding to participate in-“
“So soon? But we haven't even begun to plan!” Bilbo exclaims, startled and feeling quite overwhelmed. Thorin grins.
“There's very little ceremony to dwarf weddings. We simply declare our vows and sign a contract in front of witnesses, and the thing is done. No doubt Balin, my right hand, will have a contract already drawn up. Probably will have had one drawn up for longer than you've been alive.” Thorin snorts. “But once the wedding is done, the feast can commence. And after a seemly amount of time spent shaking hands and greeting people, we can sneak off to our chambers and disappear for the next day and night.”
Somewhat relieved, Bilbo heaves a sigh. “Well, I suppose that's not so bad.”
“No, not so bad, at all,” Thorin agrees, taking Bilbo's lips in another lingering kiss before putting him down. “I suppose I should leave you to rest a little and wash up before the ceremony and feast . . . before I . . . start our personal festivities rather earlier than planned.”
With that, Thorin clears his throat, bows, and makes his exit, closing the doors behind him. Leaving Bilbo alone in a huge, austere bedroom that, despite the cheery fire going in the massive hearth, is still chilly.
Turning 'round in a circle, arms wrapped around himself, Bilbo finally pads toward the bed-large enough to comfortably sleep eight, it seems-and sits gingerly on the edge, running his hands over the sheets.
It's the first time he's ever touched silk sheets-even Baggins money can't afford such largess-and they feel wonderfully cool and softer than he imagines clouds to feel.
And of course, one imagining leads to another: he finds himself picturing Thorin tumbling him on these pristine white sheets . . . being pinned to unbelievable softness by Thorin's delightful hardness. . . .
Suddenly the room is a good deal warmer than it had been.
This is my life, now, Bilbo thinks wonderingly, swinging his feet up onto the bed hesitantly, then letting himself fall back into the bed's softness, arms and legs splayed out. This is my life!
And, caught between the wonder of his new circumstances and thoughts of what Thorin will be doing to him in this bed, it's some time before Bilbo can bring himself to get up, wash up, and get ready for his wedding, the feast thereafter-
-and the day and night after that.
End
::sigh::
Anywho, for those of you with no clue as to what A/B/O is, here's a nifty, brief, fun, funny guide.
A Blue Mountains Welcome (1/1)
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey AU
Pairing: Bilbo/Thorin
Rating: R
Word Count: 3900
Disclaimer: This is all mine . . . or not.
Notes/Warnings: AU Set pre-The Hobbit. Bilbo is a mere thirty-three and his parents are dead earlier than in the book. Alpha/Omega. The previous two stories in this 'verse are here.
Summary: A continuation of this prompt from the
hobbit_kink:
Dwarves and Hobbits are cross fertile, though hobbits do not know that because they are a race of Omegas, with no Alphas or Betas. Since it is dwarven custom to keep Omegas deep within their mountains where it is safe few could escape past Smaug when the dragon came to Erebor. Thorin, thusly, never had much hope of mating. Then he stumbles across an early-thirties Bilbo Baggins on one of his wanderings up near Bree, across the Brandywine. Smelling a fertile Omega, he kidnaps Bilbo and takes him to the Blue Mountains. Give me some confused!Bilbo who doesn't understand why he's been kidnapped by a dwarf who is being growly but NICE about it, and has no idea of the reason why! And Thorin patiently waiting for Bilbo's heat to start in the mountains so he can claim him! +100 for Bilbo falling for Thorin and becoming a willing enough and happy houseguest with no idea sex is in the making until it happens and then, reluctantly, agreeing to it. +1000 For hobbits having a heat that leaves them uncomfortable and sensitive rather than desperate for sex. PLUS MY SOUL for knotting with Bilbo not knowing what it is that's going up his arse, but Thorin holding him still and reassuring him through his panic.
“It's so chilly!”
Bilbo shivers and pulls furs borrowed from the way-station closer about him. His breath plumes thick and white from nose and mouth as his pony, Alan, walks certainly, sedately on. He knows he's getting close to his home-to Bilbo's new home-something that fills Bilbo with equal parts trepidation and excitement.
Ahead of him, Thorin nods and glances back, smiling a little. “It always is, in the mountains. Even in the height of summer, there's a chill here, of an evening. But under the mountains, where we make our home, it's always warm and bright.”
Bilbo returns the smile and nudges Alan to walk a little faster, till he's apace with Thorin. The dwarf-king's eyes linger on him in such a way that Bilbo is almost immediately warmed by it, and by the memory of their days spent at the way-station.
“Will we get to the Door unto the Mountains tonight, do you think?”
“If we push hard and late, we should,” Thorin replies just as certain and sedate as Alan. “This path is a bit circuitous-I chose it for ease of riding, rather than speed-but we should reach the Door tonight. And you, my consort-to-be, will be welcomed and feted among my people. We will be married with as much haste as is seemly and as little pomp as we can get away with, and after that . . . silk sheets. . . .”
Reaching out to take Bilbo's hand, Thorin kisses it tenderly without breaking their gazes. Bilbo's pulse quickens and he blushes, swallowing. “That sounds wonderful, Thorin.”
Thorin's smile, small and amused, makes a reappearance.
They ride on, holding hands for as long as the path allows them to ride abreast.
*
Bilbo's first glimpse of another dwarf comes late in the afternoon, when the shadows have grown long and the air sharp.
The dwarf is striding down the path toward them, all beard and armor and humongous ax, singing in dwarvish. When within hailing distance, he does so bluffly, calling: “Your majesty!”
Thorin nods and raises his hand. “Lar,” he calls back, halting his pony as the dwarf draws even with them. Bilbo does the same. Lar bows to Thorin, then to Bilbo, his bright blue eyes ticking back and forth between them. Bilbo attempts a bow, nearly bonks his face on the back of Alan's head, then settles for a wave.
Thorin, observing this, smiles and gestures at Bilbo. “Lar, this is my consort-to-be, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. Bilbo, this Lar, one of the many guards that keep safe the Door Unto the Mountain.”
Nodding respectfully, Bilbo holds out his hand for shaking. It's shortly enveloped in a hand as rough as it is large.
“Very nice to meet you, Lar.”
“And it is my great good honor to meet you, your highness,” Lar says, his nostrils twitching as he stares at Bilbo curiously. Bilbo, remembering what Thorin had said about him having a scent that would announce him as a fertile-a notion Bilbo had utterly dismissed, though silently and to himself-to many male dwarves, turns red when Lar blinks, then looks him over more carefully.
But then Lar is letting go of his hand . . . yet still staring at him as if enrapt. “I've never seen a halfling before, your highness-you are a halfling, are you not?”
“I am. From Hobbiton, several days ride east of here.”
Lar smiles wistfully. “If I may ask . . . are there any more like you, in Hobbiton?”
“Oh, my, yes.” Bilbo laughs, thinking the question a tad strange. Why would there only be one hobbit? And in this part of the world? “And more in the whole of the Shire, besides.”
“Well. That's decided where I'm going on my next holiday.” Lar bows again, deeply, before turning to Thorin, who's been watching the exchange with thoughtful bemusement. “Shall I send an alert to the mountain that you've returned, my king?”
“That we've returned, and yes. And that a feast is to be prepared to welcome my consort-to-be. I have promised him much of Blue Mountains' hospitality.” Thorin reaches out and takes Bilbo's hand again, squeezing it. His eyes are dancing with excitement. “Our people will be overjoyed to meet you, my love . . . you will give them, just as you've given me, hope for the future.”
Surprised and a little wary, Bilbo blinks. “Hope? Me? How so?”
But Thorin merely kisses his hand again. “You and what you represent are nothing less than a gift from Durin.”
Blushing, Bilbo cups Thorin's face in his hand, his thumb brushing one high cheekbone fondly. “And you, my love are extremely cryptic. What's all this about me representing hope and gifts from Durin?”
Thorin smiles and sidles his pony closer, his free hand going to Bilbo's stomach. “This child will be the first of a new generation of dwarves. A generation we'd long given up hope of ever seeing.”
Bilbo shakes his head, but sadly, and in sudden understanding. “Thorin, love-I know you think you've somehow got me pregnant, but you must realize that I am male, and thus unable to conceive or bear children!“
“Yes, so you've said.” Thorin leans in closer for a kiss that quite literally leaves Bilbo breathless. “But soon enough, you'll see that you are able.”
Sighing, Bilbo gazes into Thorin's dark blue eyes and shakes his head. “I don't wish to disappoint you, love, but I fear I must.”
“You won't. You never could.”
And there seems to be nothing to say to that-nothing that hasn't already been said in the past five days in their many talks about this subject. Bilbo has only just started to believe that it is, or was once possible for male dwarves to become pregnant. But a male hobbit? He can't quite wrap his mind around such a possibility. Especially when he's the hobbit in question.
So he merely stares besottedly into Thorin's eyes and acknowledges to himself the very real eventuality that he will in fact, disappoint his love, as the months tick by and no sign of pregnancy makes itself known.
And it is impossible for male hobbits to become pregnant, isn't it? Or he'd have heard otherwise . . . wouldn't he?
Finally, he looks away from the hope and love in Thorin's eyes. At Lar, who's considerately not staring at them as if they're a two-person show. He is, in fact, staring back the way he'd come.
“Night's fast coming on. I suppose I'd best be off, you majesty, your highness,” he says suddenly, turning and bowing to them both. His blue eyes twinkle from a face that's all wind-burned skin and reddish-brown beard and hair. “You'll arrive to a feast that'll beggar the imagination.”
And with that, Lar is striding off north. Bilbo and Thorin stare after him till he's lost to their sight by a sharp turn on the path.
“How will he make it to the Door much sooner than we will?” Bilbo asks, and Thorin chuckles.
“He won't. But his messenger birds will.”
*
By the time the sky starts truly darkening, Bilbo's nodding in the saddle. So much so that when Thorin catches him at it, he halts the ponies and dismounts. Before Bilbo can rouse himself enough to ask what's going on, Thorin's climbed on behind him, arms sliding past Bilbo's waist to take the reins.
“I'll not have you falling and breaking your neck tonight, Master Baggins,” Thorin murmurs in Bilbo's ear, nuzzling his hair. His body, hard and familiar, now, presses against Bilbo's back rather enticingly. Once Alan starts walking again, Thorin lets one hand settle on Bilbo's abdomen . . . though it's not long before that hand is drifting lower. Bilbo groans under his breath.
“Well . . . I'm certainly not sleepy, anymore,” he breathes, clearing his throat and squirming back against all that lovely hardness and familiarity. Thorin chuckles and kisses Bilbo's neck, his hand sliding back up to encircle Bilbo's waist and squeeze him tight.
“Don't let me keep you awake if you need to rest, my love.” Thorin's chuckle stirs Bilbo's hair. “It's been a long week, and you're going to need all the rest you can get. Not that I'll let you get much.”
Bilbo grins at the rough, hungry promise in Thorin's low voice and places his hands over Thorin's. Leans his head back on his lover's shoulder and gazing up into eyes that are very nearly burning with want. He shivers pleasantly. “Never have I been so looking forward to sleep deprivation.”
Thorin kisses him, teasingly at first, then with less control and more ardor as Alan walks on, and around them, darkness begins to settle in for the night.
*
The moon has risen to light the way by the time Bilbo and Thorin reach the Door Unto the Mountains, though its light is rivaled by the pitch torches that have sprung up along the path.
Dwarves start to merge into their way from other directions as the path branches out. First they come in ones and two, then in trickles, then gaggles, then throngs. Some of them are riding ponies, though most are not. All of them seem to recognize Thorin by sight, hailing him respectfully, and even occasionally familiarly. Some of them even have a word for Bilbo, whom they call your highness, though mostly the dwarves they come across don't seem to have got the message that there's a new consort in town.
They do seem to have heard there's going to be a rather sudden celebration in honor of King Thorin's return and they're quite excited about it.
These dwarves are, for the most part, covered in dust and sediment, which suggests that they're miners, at least to Bilbo. Many of them have beards of epic proportions, though there seem to be some who keep their beards shorter, like Thorin. They uniformly have dark hair and eyes, but for a few blonds here and there. Almost all of them have prominent noses and brows. They-
“So you'd be the prince-consort-to-be, then?”
Bilbo finds himself gazing down into light brown eyes, the deepest dimples he's ever seen, and a smile that could light up a barrow. The dwarf attached to them is, like most of the others, covered in dust. His nose is rather small, however, though that's more than made up for by his mustaches, which curl rather ridiculously up in front of his mirth-reddened cheeks.
Said mustaches are more than matched, by the equally ridiculous hat pulled firmly down on his head. From under the hat, braids that are mismatched in length and width straggle to broad shoulders.
“Er,” Bilbo says, but the dwarf is holding up his hand amiably and keeping pace with Alan.
“The name's Bofur. Didn't catch yours, yet.”
“Oh, er-Bilbo. Baggins. Bilbo Baggins. Of the Shire.” Taking Bofur's hand, Bilbo has his own damn near wagged off his wrist.
“A genuine pleasure to meet you, Master Baggins.”
Bilbo finds himself smiling back at last, pleased, himself, to hear himself referred to by his name by someone who isn't Thorin. “Likewise, Master Bofur.”
Now, Bofur's eyes tick to Thorin, sitting behind Bilbo, and the arm curved around Bilbo's waist tightens just a little. “Your majesty,” Bofur says jauntily, sweeping off his hat and bowing-then nearly tripping, turned as he is toward Bilbo and Thorin. But he rights himself easily enough and keeps backing in the direction of the Door, which looms ahead in the darkness as distant shine of polished stone and moon-washed sigils.
“Bofur,” Thorin says rather dourly. Bofur's eyebrows drift up playfully, before he laughs and shrugs.
“And on that friendly note, I'll take meself off before I can talk up some new trouble for meself. Farewell, your majesty . . . and you, as well, your beautiful highness. My sincerest congratulations on your upcoming nuptials-“ he glances at Bilbo's midsection, where Thorin's arm is still curled protectively, possessively “-as well as my brightest hopes for our wee princeling.”
With another bow, he turns to face the same way as everyone else. Soon, he's swallowed by the throngs, just another be-hatted dwarf with ax and/or shovel, leaving a blushing, startled Bilbo and a muttering Thorin in his wake.
“Tell me, Thorin, am I the only one who doesn't think I'm pregnant with your son?” Bilbo asks, torn equally between amusement, irritation, and his own sense of disappointment.
“Possibly,” Thorin admits, though reluctantly. “It's in your scent, now-pregnancy has changed it in a way you don't recognize, but that any male dwarf will. Your scent says you're claimed and unavailable for . . . the attentions of other males.”
“Indeed?” Bilbo snorts. “Well, I still think you're all mistaken. But, as you say, time will tell.” He squeezes Thorin's hand, where it rests on his waist. “Now, tell me more about this Bofur of yours.”
Now, Thorin's the one to snort. “He's none of mine! He's . . . widely-known among the dwarves of the Blue Mountains for that mouth of his. He's something of a story-teller and bard. A skill which is much-prized in these latter days.” Thorin makes a grudging sound. “Bofur knows all the old stories, songs, and histories, and tells them very well. And for no more price than a hot meal or cold ale. Often for less than that.”
Thorin sighs, kissing the top of Bilbo's head. “He is a good person . . . but he talks too much. He knows nothing of discretion or of tact.”
Another way of saying he's too honest, Bilbo thinks wryly, but snugs back into Thorin's embrace. Thorin sighs again and holds him a little tighter, sharing warmth and so much more.
“You ward off the chill of these nights, my love,” Bilbo says softly, and Thorin leans down to whisper in his ear:
“You warm me from my skin, to the marrow of my bones, Bilbo Baggins. And you shine a light into the very coldest, darkest reaches of my heart.”
Bilbo leans his head back on Thorin's shoulder, turning his face up to meet a soft kiss that carries on for longer than either of them plans, and carries them, quite without noticing, through the Door Unto the Mountains.
*
The sudden loud, reverberating cheer that goes up once they pass under the portcullis of the Door breaks their kiss.
Bilbo finds himself gazing around a huge main hall-larger than any structure he's ever seen or been in-filled seemingly to the rafters with dwarves, clapping, stamping, and hollering. The only thing separating him and Thorin from that crowd is a small compliment of guards facing outward, at the crowd.
Blushing, Bilbo glances back at Thorin, who smiles and mouths, our people.
Then he's dismounting from Alan quickly, and clasping hands with a few of the nearest well-wishers over a guard's shoulder, before turning to lift Bilbo off the stolid, unfazed pony quite, without Bilbo's own assistance.
Bilbo holds on tight to Thorin for a few moments, his legs shaky from a day spent in the saddle. He glances up into Thorin's eyes and catches a look of pride and concern that makes him smile and lean in to steal a kiss. Thorin, for his part, steals several very thorough ones back, to more cheers from the madding crowd of dwarves.
Then the guard is moving forward through the crowd, sweeping Bilbo and Thorin along with them.
“The royal wing is not far!” Thorin mouths against Bilbo's ear, sliding an arm around Bilbo's waist and drawing him close. “We can rest for a little, until the feast is set out, then rejoin the people.”
Bilbo turns a bright, sparkling gaze on Thorin. “Silk sheets?”
Thorin's eyes run over Bilbo's comparably slight frame and he smiles promisingly. “Not then, I'm afraid. For once I have you in my bed, I won't let you out for a day and a night.”
Shivering, Bilbo nods. “I'll hold you to that, love.”
“I think you'll find that I'm a dwarf of my word.”
*
It is rather far to the royal wing. If only because there's such a crowd of dwarves-Bilbo even spots a few female dwarves, rosy and pretty, if a bit furry-between it and them.
But once they reach the entryway into the royal wing-which starts just past the impressive throne room-the crowd is immediately a thing of the past. Two steps, a few steps, them a corner and a flight of steps beyond them.
Bilbo and Thorin both let out sighs of relief and smile at each other, the former daringly swinging the latter's hand as they walk along.
They walk down well-lit corridors with smooth, polished walls and floors of dark stone that feels chilly under Bilbo's bare feet. And here, just as with the main hall, he can't stop goggling at the hugeness, the carved and cunning beauty of this strange home.
My home, now, he thinks, suddenly missing Bag End with a sharp pang. But despite the pang, he knows, he'd rather be where Thorin is any day of the week-even if it was the ends of the Earth-than alone at Bag End, as he has been since his parents died. . . .
Whatever else, I'm not alone, anymore. Bilbo smiles to himself and looks down from the flying buttresses and at his lover. Thorin's watching him curiously.
“What are you thinking about, my love?” he asks.
Bilbo moves closer to Thorin who happily puts an arm around him and holds him close. “Just thinking that I'd rather be here or anywhere with you, than anyplace else in the entire world. That when I'm with you, I don't feel alone anymore.”
“That's because you're not alone, anymore. You have me . . . and our child, whether you believe he exists or not,” Thorin adds wryly. “You have the people of the Blue Mountains. You are one of us, now, and nothing will ever change that.”
The backs of his eyes stinging, Bilbo stops, and bobs up on his toes to kiss Thorin, who cups Bilbo's face in his hand tenderly. Around them, unnoticed, the guard stops.
“I love you,” Bilbo whispers softly, urgently. Thorin's thumb brushes his lower lip reverently.
“And I, you, Bilbo. And I, you.” Thorin frowns a little. “I will do my best to make these drafty old mountains feel like home. To make certain you never . . . regret giving yourself to me.”
Bilbo kisses the tip of Thorin's thumb. “I will never regret that, Thorin. I can only do my best to make certain you feel the same.”
Shaking his head, Thorin's frown lightens into an almost-smile. “You are my match, Bilbo Baggins. Mate of my body and my heart. I can only thank Durin that he saw fit to put you in my road.” He shudders. “But for a simple twist of fate, we might never have met at all.”
“You mean but for a simple twist of ankle?” Bilbo chuckles and Thorin joins him, holding him close and kissing him again. Bilbo's arms wind around Thorin's neck and he gasps into the kiss when Thorin sweeps him up in his arms and carries him hence.
Around them the guard moves silently, as one, and from behind them come the echoes of the still-cheering crowd of dwarves.
Ahead of them-not so far ahead, afer all-lay the royal chambers, where, at last, the guard departs back the way they came, except for two, who take up posts by the doors. The one on the right opens the doors for Thorin and his consort-to-be.
Once inside, with the door shut behind them, Bilbo and Thorin kiss again, Thorin moving them deeper into chambers of which Bilbo only gets the barest impression-high ceiling; rug-covered, polished floors; tapestry-covered walls; sofas and chairs and tables-until he stops, breaking their kiss to look around. Bilbo takes the opportunity to do the same.
“It's-“ he begins, taking in the austere bed chamber, of which only the bed seems to be inviting (the sheets do, indeed, seem to be made of silk, and turned down welcomingly) “-so spacious!”
Thorin grins and kisses Bilbo's cheek. “Is that your kind way of saying unfurnished?”
“Well. . . .” Bilbo sniffs when Thorin laughs at his chagrin. “It could do with a bit of cozying up.”
“You have free reign, of course, to decorate as you see fit,” Thorin says, still laughing a little. “I've never had an eye for that sort of thing-never spent much time in here for it to really feel like home. But now, I'm thinking that will all change.”
Looking into Thorin's suddenly serious eyes, Bilbo nods. “I want every time you walk in here to feel like coming home.”
“It will, with you here.”
Bilbo looks pointedly to the bed, then back at Thorin, one eyebrow raised questioningly.
“A day and a night. I promised you nothing less, and I mean to keep that promise. In the meantime, we have a feast to attend and a wedding to participate in-“
“So soon? But we haven't even begun to plan!” Bilbo exclaims, startled and feeling quite overwhelmed. Thorin grins.
“There's very little ceremony to dwarf weddings. We simply declare our vows and sign a contract in front of witnesses, and the thing is done. No doubt Balin, my right hand, will have a contract already drawn up. Probably will have had one drawn up for longer than you've been alive.” Thorin snorts. “But once the wedding is done, the feast can commence. And after a seemly amount of time spent shaking hands and greeting people, we can sneak off to our chambers and disappear for the next day and night.”
Somewhat relieved, Bilbo heaves a sigh. “Well, I suppose that's not so bad.”
“No, not so bad, at all,” Thorin agrees, taking Bilbo's lips in another lingering kiss before putting him down. “I suppose I should leave you to rest a little and wash up before the ceremony and feast . . . before I . . . start our personal festivities rather earlier than planned.”
With that, Thorin clears his throat, bows, and makes his exit, closing the doors behind him. Leaving Bilbo alone in a huge, austere bedroom that, despite the cheery fire going in the massive hearth, is still chilly.
Turning 'round in a circle, arms wrapped around himself, Bilbo finally pads toward the bed-large enough to comfortably sleep eight, it seems-and sits gingerly on the edge, running his hands over the sheets.
It's the first time he's ever touched silk sheets-even Baggins money can't afford such largess-and they feel wonderfully cool and softer than he imagines clouds to feel.
And of course, one imagining leads to another: he finds himself picturing Thorin tumbling him on these pristine white sheets . . . being pinned to unbelievable softness by Thorin's delightful hardness. . . .
Suddenly the room is a good deal warmer than it had been.
This is my life, now, Bilbo thinks wonderingly, swinging his feet up onto the bed hesitantly, then letting himself fall back into the bed's softness, arms and legs splayed out. This is my life!
And, caught between the wonder of his new circumstances and thoughts of what Thorin will be doing to him in this bed, it's some time before Bilbo can bring himself to get up, wash up, and get ready for his wedding, the feast thereafter-
-and the day and night after that.
End