Fic: “Dawn of A New Age,” (19/?) The Hobbit, Bilbo/Thorin, NC-17
Progress is made, and the plot thickens . . . and congeals :-)
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Dawn of a New Age (19/?)
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: The Hobbit (Movies AU)
Pairing: Bilbo/Thorin
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: Approx. 6400
Disclaimer: Me no steal. Me just borrow.
Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::
Summary: In which good things happen . . . and not-so-good things also happen.
Thorin drops into his chair like a stone into a well.
For long moments he does not even know what to ask. Then finally a question comes tumbling fom his numb lips: “When was this, Dwalin?”
The other dwarf's fierce brows draw together. “Some days ago, now, for she tracked the orcs from the tip of the Northeast bounds of Mirkwood, further South along those bounds. They were, indeed, lingering, she says, as if directionless or waiting for orders.”
“Orders from whom, if not Azog, I'd like to know,” Thorin murmurs grimly. “Their ranks were scattered and all but destroyed, as was their command structure. At this late date, I imagine they'd take orders from none but the strongest and most evil of their number.”
“Aye. And Azog is, indeed, still that,” Dwalin agrees dourly. “There's naught to contend with him for that title with the bulk of the orcs dead and in the Abyss. And few who'd care enough to bother about such folly as that.”
“Mm.” Thorin nods and settles back into his chair, his mind awhirl. Azog . . . found! “And they lingered near Mirkwood, she says? As if waiting?”
“That, they did. They covered little ground in the time she tracked them, neither raiding nor pillaging nor stepping foot into Mirkwood. And yet they did not, she says, seem to be hiding their presence.” Dwalin sighs unhappily. “They simply lingered and . . . waited, as if to be seen.”
“By what, I wonder.” Or whom. . . .
Dwalin's left eyebrow lifts. “I should think it'd be obvious, my king. You,” he adds when Thorin blinks in question. “Or one who would bring you such news. Clearly this is a trap!”
“Is it, do you think?” Thorin asks absently. Though he agrees completely and whole-heartedly with Dwalin's assessment, he doesn't especially care that the dwarf is right. He cannot even think beyond his own grim glee at finally having Azog the Defiler in his sights.
A trap? Truly. One that will turn on its maker.
“Do I think-I know, my king!” Dwalin is snorting. “This is a trap as sure as I'm born! After well over a year of seeing neither hide nor hair of the bastard, even with a ridiculously large bounty on his head, of a sudden, he turns up practically on our doorstep?” Snorting again, Dwalin leans forward, eyes on the dead hearth, now, as if there were indeed flames there to be glared into. “On our very doorstep and lingering there as if taunting us? For despite the days that have passed, I've no doubt that were we to take a party to where the elf lass saw them last, we'd find trouble not far off. We'd find double the number of orcs and wargs she spotted, for Azog has also . . . no doubt . . . called in all the warg-riders he can still summon so far from his former-stronghold at Khazad-dum, in anticipation of you walking into this trap either unaware, or uncaring.
“This is a trap, Thorin,” Dwalin reiterates softly, turning his now worried gaze on Thorin, who meets it with a stoic one of his own. “A trap to catch a king.”
“And it will. It is Azog, king of Mount Gundabad, who will be caught, and his head separated from his neck,” Thorin says calmly, with a surety, his mind already turning to other things, such as logistics. Azog has about twenty warg-riders? Perhaps as many as forty? Then I will take seventy dwarves of superlative fighting prowess with me on this hunt.
Though perhaps it might be wise to make it an even one hundred, for an orc on a warg is worse, even, than three orcs on foot. . . .
“I can see you're already on the hunt, in your mind, my king,” Dwalin says in that unhappy voice. Thorin barely notices the words or the tone. “But let me interject a little common sense into your plans: Azog has built a trap and has chosen a location in which to spring it. He has all the advantages, here! To simply follow him whither he leads, like a lamb follows a shepherd, would be the ultimate folly!”
“The folly is all Azog's. For attempting to end the line of Durin. For regicide. For the occupation of Khazad-dum. For pitting his will against that of Durin's Folk. For touching what is mine.” Thorin grits out this last, hands balled into tight fists, his vision suddenly tinged red with long-repressed rage. He glares over at Dwalin, who looks away, shaking his head.
“Killing Azog will not undo the crimes he committed, Thorin. Nor will it ease your pain or the pain of those who share it. King Thror will still be dead . . . and Master Baggins-”
“Do not finish that sentence,” Thorin warns quietly, and Dwalin subsides with another sigh.
“As you will, your majesty. But I still say to go chasing after Azog, straight into his trap, is sheer madness. As mad as storming Mount Gundabad by yourself, armed with naught but a kitchen knife.”
“Then what would you have me do? Let him taunt me from the edges of Thranduil's realm? Let his crimes go unpunished?” Thorin demands, more loudly than he means to. Then he lowers his voice with a glance at the door to Bilbo's bedchamber. “Should I let him escape justice, yet again?”
“And is it justice you would see done upon him? Or vengeance?” Dwalin asks queitly-so quietly, Thorin can only just make out what he says. But make it out, he does, and it enrages him further.
“Do you say, then, that Azog does not deserve to die for his crimes? That justice and my vengeance do not, at least in this case, coincide perfectly?”
“I'm saying,” Dwalin begins levelly, meeting Thorin's eyes again, his own miserable, but unafraid. “That the last time you went after Azog with naught but vengeance in your heart, you were nearly killed, but for Master Baggins.”
And then Master Baggins was violated, when he came to your defense, goes unspoken, but hangs heavily in the air between them.
Thorin sits back, stung, and looks away, tears in his eyes. Eyes that he closes, and on the backs of which, he can once more see what Azog had done to Bilbo as clearly as if it was happening again. . . .
Dwalin is right. I cannot run off, half-mad, only to get myself injured or worse at Azog's hands. My actions have consequences-even more so than once they did. . . .
Heart hurting, Thorin hangs his head, visions of presenting Azog's head on a silver tray to his love-on the night of his triumphant return, the night that, he has often imagined it, he and Bilbo would also marry-fading like morning mist in the silver sun. “What would you have me do, then?” he asks again, that sustaining rage once more tamped-down and under control. But its loss leves Thorin feeling empty and captainless.
“My king, I would have you go into this not rash and hot-headed, but calculating and cold-hearted. Smart. I would have you come back from this battle alive and whole, with Azog's head on a pike. I would have you alive to gloat over the besting of the feared King of Gundabad, then go on to rule Erebor for many years in wisdom, and peace and plenty.” Dwalin's hand settles on Thorin's shoulder and Thorin looks up. He hadn't even heard the other dwarf stand and move closer. Dwalin's eyes are still grim, but leavened with humor, now, as well. “For I fear what Master Baggins would do to me with that letter-opener of his should I return from such a chase without his sledding partner.”
Thorin finds himself almost smiling despite the lingering pain in his heart. “Well, we've seen what he can do to a warg with it-and an orc. I wouldn't be too eager to get on his bad side, either.” That almost smile becomes a full, if a sad one. Would that he didn't know how well Master Baggins could handle himself with that small sword. Would that Master Baggins had never had to come to Thorin's aide with it. Would that-
Would that a great many things hadn't happened.
“So. Tell me. What is your plan for handling this trap of Azog's? For I assume you have one,” Thorin asks humbly, and Dwalin smirks approvingly.
“Oh, aye. I have a little something in mind. Simple, but probably more effective than walking into the bloody trap and having our heads handed to us.”
“Yes, yes, I take your point, Dwalin.” Thorin rolls his eyes. “Now, tell me about this plan of yours so that we may start implementing it. Hopefully as soon as the morning.”
Dwalin bows his head briefly. “As you wish, my king.” he says, squeezing Thorin's shoulder and beginning to outline his plan.
*
It is nearly six in the evening before Thorin lets himself back into Bilbo's bedchamber.
The hobbit is still asleep, thankfully. Still soundly so, having slept through over two hours of Thorin and Dwalin hashing out plans for flanking-and hopefully routing-Azog and his warg-riders.
Now, with Dwalin off to begin implementation of these plans-and such implementation will indeed, take time and care, if it's to be done right-Thorin undresses, and crawls back into bed and pulls his sleeping hobbit close, kissing his hair and his shoulder. Bilbo begins to stir.
“Thorin?” he sighs sleepily, snuggling back against Thorin with a small, contented sound. Thorin kisses his way up to Bilbo's pointed ear and gently bites the lobe, which occasions a sleepy, but interested chuckle. Bilbo reaches back and caresses Thorin's cheek with warm, gentle fingers that Thorin cannot help but kiss, as well.
“I did not mean to wake you,” he admits quietly. “I simply could not resist touching you, as ever.”
“You won't hear me complaining about being woken up this way,” Bilbo murmurs, wriggling against the prick which rests at the small of his back, and which is also showing definite signs of interest, in spite of the past few hours of grim planning and discussion.
Indeed, Thorin moans as he slides against smooth, warm skin, and holds his hobbit tighter. “We probably shouldn't . . . we've dinner with Lord Elrond in but an hour.”
“Do you really think either of us will last that long, my king?” Bilbo breathes, laughing and sliding his hand down Thorin's arm as Thorin takes him in hand and starts stroking. And it doesn't take much stroking before Bilbo is hard and breathing that way, his entire body flushed and hot in Thorin's arms. Thorin's teeth gain gentle purchase in Bilbo's shoulder and Bilbo cries out, pushing back against Thorin desperately
“I don't believe that we will,” Thorin finally replies, sucking a love-mark onto Bilbo's fair skin. Then, with one final, wistful thrust of his prick along Bilbo's warm back, Thorin rolls the hobbit over, and gazes down into his lovely, trusting eyes.
I will see you at last avenged, he thinks, leaning down to kiss the center of Bilbo's chest, and his nipples, before laving the right one with his tognue and biting it with careful, focused intensity. You and my fathers before me shall at last be able to find peace with Azog's miserable life ended on the edge of my blade.
“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo groans, thrashing a little as Thorin's bites and licks travel to his other nipple, there to focus with equal, if not greater intensity, before Thorin turns his attentions south.
When he takes Bilbo into his mouth, the hobbit cries out again, his prick surging partway down Thorin's throat as his hips buck involuntarily. Thorin hums and places his arm across Bilbo's wayward hips, pinning the hobbit to his bed.
“Please . . . please. . . .” Bilbo begins to beg shortly, trying to spread his legs wider, and Thorin knows what Bilbo wants. Knows, and despite a moment of hesitation-should he not wait, now, with Azog's capture at last on the horizon? Would this not make him, at last, worthy?-pulls off the hobbit's prick with torturous slowness that has Bilbo moaning and tossing his head about his pillow, still murmuring pleas, and Thorin's name.
And: Your finger . . . again, please, my lord. . . ?
It is not so much, after all . . . a finger, Thorin reminds himself, and the voice of his conscience, which is-bafflingly-not nearly as strident as it had been earlier. A finger is not a prick. And even if it was, I will either return with Azog's head, in which case I will be worthy of having Bilbo in any way we desire . . . or I won't return at all, and I'll at least have the memory of being inside him to take with me to the Halls of Waiting. . . .
“More than just the tip of my finger is . . . more than we've ever done. You must tell me if you change your mind, or if I . . . hurt you, in any way,” Thorin reminds Bilbo as he pushes shapely, willing legs wider. Bilbo opens his shining eyes to blink at Thorin fondly.
“Yes. But you must fear not that you'll hurt me. Or that I'll wish for you to stop. Because I won't,” he replies solemnly, and Thorin . . . nods, after a few moments of searching Bilbo's calm, certain eyes.
Then Bilbo's pulling his right leg up to his chest, baring for Thorin's eyes the sight of that which haunts his dreams and his every waking fantasy.
Sucking on his index finger to wet it thoroughly, Thorin pushes Bilbo's leg higher and wider, then traces around the edges of his greatest temptation.
Bilbo shivers and groans, and Thorin circles and circles before, finally, feinting inward with a gentle press of his finger. Bilbo hisses yes and rocks his hips up toward Thorin. Thorin's finger slips in . . . then a little deeper . . . then deeper still-slowly-till Bilbo's breathing has turned into panting and his heat has enveloped most of Thorin's thick finger.
Though he wants to, at this moment, Thorin dares not take himself in hand, for fear that he will reach his climax before he's had a chance to truly pleasure his lover. And that simply would not do.
Bilbo's wide eyes are watching Thorin with anticipation and awe, his lips parted and nostrils flaring as his breath gusts in and out them. Thorin can feel the elevated beat of Bilbo's heart around his finger, and even that accelerates the rush of his own blood-hardens his own prick as quickly as anything ever has. He briefly supposes he could come without laying a hand on himself. . . .
But even so, he remembers his priorities. His responsibilities.
“Are you frightened? Am I . . . hurting you, my love?” he asks, his voice choked with strain from controlling himself. He twists his finger gently, and Bilbo shakes his head once, smiling, though he must surely be experiencing some discomfort.
“Never,” he says, and Thorin, for once, chooses to take him at his word. Dares, at last, to gaze upon his finger as it slides into, pulls slightly out of, then slides just a little bit deeper into Bilbo's accepting-even eager-body. The sight is . . . affecting-not unexpectedly-to say the least, and his breath catches.
He is-at least in some way, however less than ideal-inside Bilbo Bagins.
Groaning and closing his eyes-for fear that he will come, untouched-Thorin pushes his finger forward, slowly deeper, till it can go no further, and Bilbo is clenching and twitching and fluttering around him in tiny, tempting spasms. Till Bilbo's breathing carries moans on its back, as well as whispers of wanton, decidedly licentious affection.
When he opens his eyes once more, Thorin is torn between staring at the place where their bodies are joined, and gazing upon Bilbo's face in these moments of semi-ravishment. For never has Bilbo seemed more lovely. In this moment of helpless abandon and need, never has he felt more like Thorin's hobbit.
“My love,” Thorin murmurs, and: “Mine.”
“Yours,” Bilbo agrees instantly, throwing his head back into the pillows as Thorin twists and crooks his finger once more, searching, searching, searching. . . .
When he finds what he's looking for, Bilbo lets out a long, wavering cry and practically levitates off the bed in surprise and pleasure. What feels like every muscle in Bilbo's small body is brought to bear on Thorin's finger, and he grunts, forcing away his own fevered imaginings of his prick being engulfed in such tight, hot, clenching flesh. As ever, it is his wish-his determination-to watch his lover come before he, himself, does.
“Oh, THORIN!” Bilbo cries out, now pulling his other leg up to his chest as well, as if to give Thorin more and better access, though Thorin needs neither to once again find and put pressure on that slightly protruding spot inside Bilbo . . . the one that will, it seems, make him scream every time it's pressed.
And indeed, Bilbo's prick has gone beyond hard, flushed, and rosy, to angry-red and as stiff as a flagpole in winter.
Thorin leans down to kiss the base of Bilbo's prick and the bollocks that lay heavily below them, all the while stroking that spot until Bilbo is begging Thorin with more barely-articulate pleas . . . though for what, the hobbit clearly doesn't know.
So Thorin decides for him. He pulls Bilbo's leaking length down from where it cleaves closely to the hobbit's abdomen, and into his mouth, taking Bilbo deep, before sliding up on the hard flesh till only the tip of Bilbo's prick remains in his mouth. Simultaneously, he sucks and strokes Bilbo . . . then once more puts increasing pressure on the tiny spot under his now ruthless finger.
Soon, with another strangled cry, Bilbo floods Thorin's mouth with bittersweet heat-so much so that Thorin spills as much as he swallows.
When at last Bilbo's body has stilled, and lays limp amongst the scattered pillows and covers, Thorin eases off Bilbo's slowly softening prick and wipes his mouth before crawling up the bed to kiss Bilbo thoroughly.
Never have his hobbit's lips been sweeter.
“Thorin . . . oh, Thorin. . . .” Bilbo breathes between kisses, moaning softly and wrapping his arms and legs around Thorin's neck and hips, respectively. “That was . . . I don't even have the words for what that was. . . .”
“That was but a taste of what awaits us in the very near future, my love.” Thorin gently, unhurriedly thrusts his prick against Bilbo's somewhat softened one, gazing down into Bilbo's bright, still slightly-dazed eyes. “A mere taste.”
“Well. Let's have another taste, then,” Bilbo murmurs, grinning rather wickedly and drawing his legs up again, so high that they bracket Thorin's ribs.
So high that Thorin's prick, on more thrusts than it doesn't, slides past his bollocks, to tease wetly against the patch of tender skin behind it, causing Bilbo to groan, low and loud. Blunt nails scrape their way up Thorin's shoulder and back, the pain of the welted-and occasionally broken-skin somehow adding sharp notes of pleasure to the amorphous cloud of heady bliss rapidly invading his body.
Thorin shivers and practically bends Bilbo in half in his need to once more feel the heat and flutter of that tiny pucker against the tip of his cock. He thrusts more forcefully, grunting as he slides to that pucker and past it, and Bilbo clenches the muscles of his backside fast about Thorin's prick.
As Bilbo had predicted, it isn't long before this hint of Promised Land has dragged Thorin's body to the edge, beyond grunts and groans, to stifled cries and bitten-lipped concentration as he chases a climax that threatens to undo him completely.
Bilbo's lips and tongue and teeth tease Thorin's mouth, murmuring encouragement all the while as Thorin's prick slides between his cheeks, occasionally glancing off the place he desires to be more than he'd ever desired to be back at Erebor, in all his long years of exile. . . .
“You are magnificent, my lord,” Bilbo whispers, his eyes a mere sparkle when they're this close to Thorin's. “You make me ever more desperate to have you in me . . . and yet I would wait for-ever to have you so. And still consider it an honor to be yours in any capacity.”
“Bilbo-” Thorin manages to groan once more, loud and almost pained by his impending release. “Marry me-marry me-rule Erebor beside me-” he gasps, before briefly smothering what would be Bilbo's answer in a yearning, uncoordinated kiss.
“Will-will you make l-love to me on our w-wedding night?” Bilbo asks hopefully, almost shyly, when Thorin releases his lips to look into his eyes. Bilbo's are sparkling with unshed tears, and Thorin kisses those damp, anxious eyes and the tip of Bilbo's nose.
“Yes . . . I will have you on our wedding night, Bilbo Baggins-and every night thereafter . . . this I swear,” Thorin promises, hanging on to the last of his coherent thoughts so as to hear whatever answer he receives. “Please, my love, say yes. . . .”
Bilbo goes utterly still for several moments, the tears spilling from his eyes as he now searches Thorin's. . . .
Then he relaxes, laughing delightedly and clutching Thorin to him with a desperate strength that belies the light-hearted laughter. “Of course, Thorin. Yes, I'll marry you, my lord, my beloved . . . my silly king. Now come, before we're made even late-er for dinner.” With the anxiety and shyness gone, Bilbo's eyes are dancing and lovely . . . and so very loving.
Thorin is quite taken aback by the love he sees therein.
Bilbo kises him again, very softly, stroking Thorin's hair. “Let go, my love. It's alright.”
And despite the distraction of Bilbo's love worn so plainly in his eyes, Thorin is helpless to do other than obey his hobbit in this, as with many other things. He buries his face in Bilbo's shoulder and, with more stifled cries, lets himself go. . . .
*
They are only half an hour late for dinner with Lord Elrond, who does not seem to mind.
Dinner itself is a light-hearted affair, with Master Baggins as the sparkling heart of it, his conversation bright and amusing, charming and witty. Both Lord Elrond and Thorin spend a goodly portion of dinner chuckling and outright laughing at some jest of his. And Thorin, for his part, cannot take his eyes from his affianced, so lovely and shining is he. So seemingly in his element.
And Bilbo also steals many glances at Thorin, his grins turning besotted and a bit silly when he does.
Lord Elrond, if he notices the electric current and almost fraught interplay between them-and how could someone so perceptive not notice?-does not mention or call attention to it. Not even with one of his discreetly amused smiles.
When dinner ends, Lord Elrond walks them out of his chambers, and smiles at them both, saying only: “You are both so merry of heart tonight, which gladdens me. I quite enjoyed your company, even more so than usual, and am only sorry that dinner could not last longer.”
Bilbo snorts, but his smile is touched. “I'll wager you're sick of hearing me run my mouth, my lord. But I thank you for your kind words, and only hope I haven't bored you too terribly.” He bows deeply and Lord Elrond bows back.
“You certainly have not, Master Baggins. I bid a good night. And you, King Thorin, I also wish a good night.
“Thank you. And I wish you the same, Lord Elrond,” Thorin bows and receives one in return.
Then he and Bilbo are turning to make their way to the royal wing, their hands automatically linking together when the door to Lord Elrond's chambers quietly shuts behind them.
Once in the royal wing, without discussion, they take the turn-off to Thorin's chambers, walking slowly and sneaking shy, but eager smiles at each other.
“What are you thinking, my love?” Thorin asks as they meander to his chambers. Bilbo smiles and hmms.
“Just thinking that everything seems to be . . . coming together quite nicely. As if things are finally starting to go our way.” Bilbo leans on Thorin's arm and gazes up at him happily. “I feel as if . . . we're invincible. As if nothing can touch us or harm us.”
Thorin smiles and would agree, but then he remembers . . . Azog, and the hunt for him in which Thorin will very soon be engaged. That he must, indeed, tell Master Baggins about that hunt.
And he senses that Bilbo will be less than thrilled with the notion. And less than pleased with Thorin. . . .
Perhaps I should find some way to embark on this hunt without telling him-but without lying to him outright . . . though how I should manage such a thing is beyond my limited skill as a dissembler. Thorin glances away from Bilbo's wide smile and clears his throat.
“Perhaps you are right, Master Baggins,” Thorin temporizes. And nothing more is said until they're within viewing distance of Thorin's chambers, outside of which are three figures: the two night guards, standing stolidly to either side of the doors, and a pacing, very agitated-looking Kili, whose hair is unbraided and wild, and whose clothing is quite askew.
As they get closer, Kili spots them and ceases his pacing to instead approach them, already wound up, and, oh . . . Thorin knows what his nephew-tactless and lacking in discretion when upset-is here to speak to him about.
“Kili,” he begins, holding out his hands and attempting to head off his nephew before he can speak. It's no good.
“You can't be serious about asking Tauriel come with you to hunt down that monster!” Kili bursts out as he draws near Thorin and Bilbo, who looks confused, and turns that confused gaze on Thorin. Thorin does not dare meet it for long, and looks away. Turns a stern look on his nephew.
“Kili, now is not the time. We will speak of this lat-”
“She told me herself, Uncle! That she's likely to be asked to come with you as a scout and guide, since she was the one who spotted Azog, and-”
“Azog,” Bilbo breathes, the color draining from his face so rapidly and markedly, Thorin can see it even from the corner of his eye. Can feel the almost instanteous chill of Bilbo's hand before it drops away from his own.
Restraining his temper and stepping close to Kili, wearing his coldest, most quelling face and using his most commanding voice-not that either of those things ever has much of an effect on Kili-Thorin puts a heavy hand on his nephew's shoulder. “That's enough, Kili. I said we will discuss this later. Perhap during the morning meeting.”
Kili frowns, shrugging off Thorin's hand and looking as if he would continue to force the matter . . . then his eyes dart over Thorin's shoulder, in Bilbo's direction, and the color drains from his own face, rather alarmingly.
“Oh . . . er. Right,” he says, taking a step back and shooting Thorin an apologetic look. Then a worried one at Bilbo . . . though he can't seem to manage to hold it for very long, at this particular moment. So devastated and devastating must Bilbo's gaze be, Kili's eyes almost immediately tick back to Thorin's. “At the morning meeting, that's-yes, thank you, Uncle. I'll see you then. Er. Good night. And to you, too, Master Boggins!”
And with that, Kili's gone, as if he'd never been . . . except for the piercing, intent gaze Thorin can feel directed at him fom Bilbo's vicinity.
“What was Kili on about, Thorin . . . Tauriel spotting Azog?” he asks quietly, in a voice so even, that that in itself is disturbing. “Is this . . . true? When did it happen? Where? And why did you not tell me?”
There's a world of hurt in that last question, and Thorin winces, extending his hand to Bilbo, momentarily afraid when Bilbo does not take it . . . but take it, he eventually does, and Thorin squeezes it, pulling the hobbit even with him. Yet he still does not meet Bilbo's questioning gaze.
“This is not the place for such a discussion, my love. Come,” he says, kissing Bilbo's chilly hand and drawing him hence. The guards open the doors for them and Thorin takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the second toughest discussion he's ever had in his life.
But it still looks to be a damned sight better than the toughest.
*
When Thorin has built up the fire in the main room, and Bilbo has been sitting in front of it for several minutes, shivering-as hard as if he'd been outside all evening-Thorin begins to speak.
He tells Bilbo of his own quadrupling of the bounty on Azog's head, and still receiving no results, not even a hint of Azog's whereabouts. He tells of finally deciding, several weeks ago-just after the commissioning of Bilbo's sled-to hunt Azog with his own resources. Resources that had turned up the same amount of information and leads the bounty had, which is to say: none.
Then Thorin speaks of the events of earlier this day . . . of Dwalin coming to him in Bilbo's chambers with the news of the elven maid Tauriel's discovery . . . and of his and Dwalin's plan to track and destroy the pack of warg-riders.
Azog included.
When the telling is done, Thorin sighs and sits back in his chair. “And that is . . . everything.”
Bilbo, hunched forward, arms wrapped around himself, still shivering, stares into the fire with an unblinking gaze.
“And if Kili hadn't let the cat out of the bag, would you ever have told me?” Bilbo turns that unblinking gaze on Thorin, who flinches back from the near-lifeless quality of it. “Would you have told me before you went off, possibly to die in the wild, far from me, what it was you sought? Or would you have lied? Would you have simply let me think what I wanted to think without correcting my assumptions? Would you have mentioned at all that it was Azog you were hunting?”
“My love-”
“Tell me, Thorin!”
Sighing, Thorin covers his face with his hands for a few moments. “I would have,” he says at last, “though I considered doing those very things you mentioned. But in the end, I really only wanted a proper time and way to tell you, for I knew you would take this news . . . hard.”
“I see.” Bilbo doesn't sound as if he truly does, but Thorin does not mention this aloud. “And . . . would you have married me before or after you ran off to get yourself killed at Azog's hands?”
Bilbo's voice shakes as he asks, and Thorin has to look away from that steady, naked gaze once more.
“I . . . would have liked to present his head to you as a wedding present,” he mumbles, realizing, in the saying, just how . . . grisly and morbid such a macabre present would be on such a happy day as the day they were at last joined in the eyes of Mahal, and Thorin's forebears.
“So you . . . you proposed to me, knowing full well that there's a chance you may not come back from such an adventure, and that your proposal could very well be a promise that is never fulfilled,” Bilbo says angrily, but tears are now spilling down his still-pale cheeks. Thorin shakes his head quickly. “That I could wind up a widower before I'm even married-”
“No, my love, for I mean to have his head this time, no matter what.” Holding out his hand to Bilbo once more, Thorin is nonetheless not surprised when this time, Bilbo does not take it. “And there is more to us, to you and I, than some damned ceremony! What matters is us. In our hearts, we are already married, are we not? Bilbo?” Thorin is extremely concerned when Bilbo doesn't answer for more than a minute, his gaze once more turned to the fire. The hobbit shrugs almost indifferently.
“If that were so, my king, then I would mean more to you than your quest for vengeance, and you would let Azog rot in whatever cave he's hiding in, and stay here, with me.”
“Bilbo, I cannot simply leave him out there to wreak havoc-”
“But neither must you be the one to personally see him dead. You have guards and warriors for that. And yet I see that that did not even occur to you.” Bilbo snorts miserably. “I can see that the idea of letting your guard handle him without you is as foreign an idea to you as growing an elvish guarden in the Great Hall!”
Thorin takes a deep breath yet again, though it does not help-does not calm the turmoil, the roiling mix of anger, sadness, fear, and anxiety that unsettles his mind and his heart. “Bilbo . . . after everything he's done to my fathers and my people-to you-I cannot let him be stopped by anyone else! His doom must come at my hands!”
Bilbo shakes his head, wiping at his eyes and his cheeks impatiently. “And it . . . means so much to you, this vengeance? More to you than being here, with me? Safe?”
“It's not a-a matter of either/or, Bilbo Baggins!” Thorin says defensively, and Bilbo snorts again.
“What if I'm making it a matter of either/or?” Off Thorin's confused silence, Bilbo looks up again, his eyes red with more than reflected firelight. “What if I'm asking you to choose between your love for me . . . and your revenge upon Azog?”
Thorin goes cold. Opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. Finally, after several minutes of repeating these actions, sounds come out. Sounds that he does not mean to say, and certainly does not want Bilbo to hear, but sounds that he cannot stop. “How can you bear to make me choose, Bilbo?”
And Thorin does not miss the flicker in Bilbo's eyes, a subtle change no more drastic than the sudden breaking of his love's tender heart.
“How can you bear forcing me to ask in the first place, Thorin?” Bilbo whispers, more tears running down his face as he looks away and stands up slowly, as if pained. Thorin stands with him, not knowing what he means to do, or say, but knowing he must do or say something. . . .
But Bilbo is hurrying unsteadily past him, toward the antechamber between the main room and the doors to the hall. When Thorin catches up to him and puts a hand on his tense shoulder to stop him from going, Bilbo shrugs it off, but turns to face him, expectantly.
“My love,” Thorin begins softly, and Bilbo glares at him.
“You've made your choice. You have no right to call me that, anymore.”
“I have the only right.” Thorin gazes stonily back, aware that he's only making matters worse, but unable to help himself. “And it is my mountain, do not forget, Master Baggins. I can do whatever I wish.”
“And you are, aren't you, King Thorin?” Bilbo smiles coldly, but shakily. And there are tears in his eyes once more. “You'll just have to do it without me.”
“Save me from hard-headed, stubborn hobbits-I'm doing this for you!” Thorin declares, half-heartedly reaching out to pull Bilbo closer for an embrace or a kiss-for when have either of them ever been able to stand against the other's touch?-but Bilbo jerks away hard, making for the door again. Quickly. “I'm doing this so that you will at last feel completely safe!”
Bilbo barks a short, startled laugh before flinging the left door open. “Don't fool yourself, King Thorin. The only person you're doing this for is you!”
And with that, the door is slamming shut behind Bilbo. So hard, that both doors rock in their sturdy frames.
Thorin is left standing in his antechamber quite alone, the echoes of their first argument-and what feels, alarmingly, like their last-echoing in the air around him.
Torn between the bone-deep need to go after Bilbo, to simply be wherever his angry, but no doubt hurting hobbit is, and the need to maintain what little of his pride remains-the King Under the Mountain does not go grovelling after anyone . . . even a hobit that he loves more than life itself-Thorin eventually turns back into his chambers, convinced that Bilbo will come back to him-will see reason . . . and come back to him. . . .
He is absolutely convinced . . . or so he tells himself, staring at the door and more that stands between himself and his precious burglar.
Eventually he storms back into his chambers-kicks his own chair into the huge main fireplace, not lingering to watch it burn-to his bedroom, where he tears off his clothes and throws himself into bed, muttering and glaring at no one and nothing but his own ceiling.
And when the clock in the main room has chimed six in the morning, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, heir of Durin, and King Under the Mountain is still laying abed: angry, awake . . . and quite alone.
Click here for previous parts!
Dawn of a New Age (19/?)
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: The Hobbit (Movies AU)
Pairing: Bilbo/Thorin
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: Approx. 6400
Disclaimer: Me no steal. Me just borrow.
Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::
Summary: In which good things happen . . . and not-so-good things also happen.
Thorin drops into his chair like a stone into a well.
For long moments he does not even know what to ask. Then finally a question comes tumbling fom his numb lips: “When was this, Dwalin?”
The other dwarf's fierce brows draw together. “Some days ago, now, for she tracked the orcs from the tip of the Northeast bounds of Mirkwood, further South along those bounds. They were, indeed, lingering, she says, as if directionless or waiting for orders.”
“Orders from whom, if not Azog, I'd like to know,” Thorin murmurs grimly. “Their ranks were scattered and all but destroyed, as was their command structure. At this late date, I imagine they'd take orders from none but the strongest and most evil of their number.”
“Aye. And Azog is, indeed, still that,” Dwalin agrees dourly. “There's naught to contend with him for that title with the bulk of the orcs dead and in the Abyss. And few who'd care enough to bother about such folly as that.”
“Mm.” Thorin nods and settles back into his chair, his mind awhirl. Azog . . . found! “And they lingered near Mirkwood, she says? As if waiting?”
“That, they did. They covered little ground in the time she tracked them, neither raiding nor pillaging nor stepping foot into Mirkwood. And yet they did not, she says, seem to be hiding their presence.” Dwalin sighs unhappily. “They simply lingered and . . . waited, as if to be seen.”
“By what, I wonder.” Or whom. . . .
Dwalin's left eyebrow lifts. “I should think it'd be obvious, my king. You,” he adds when Thorin blinks in question. “Or one who would bring you such news. Clearly this is a trap!”
“Is it, do you think?” Thorin asks absently. Though he agrees completely and whole-heartedly with Dwalin's assessment, he doesn't especially care that the dwarf is right. He cannot even think beyond his own grim glee at finally having Azog the Defiler in his sights.
A trap? Truly. One that will turn on its maker.
“Do I think-I know, my king!” Dwalin is snorting. “This is a trap as sure as I'm born! After well over a year of seeing neither hide nor hair of the bastard, even with a ridiculously large bounty on his head, of a sudden, he turns up practically on our doorstep?” Snorting again, Dwalin leans forward, eyes on the dead hearth, now, as if there were indeed flames there to be glared into. “On our very doorstep and lingering there as if taunting us? For despite the days that have passed, I've no doubt that were we to take a party to where the elf lass saw them last, we'd find trouble not far off. We'd find double the number of orcs and wargs she spotted, for Azog has also . . . no doubt . . . called in all the warg-riders he can still summon so far from his former-stronghold at Khazad-dum, in anticipation of you walking into this trap either unaware, or uncaring.
“This is a trap, Thorin,” Dwalin reiterates softly, turning his now worried gaze on Thorin, who meets it with a stoic one of his own. “A trap to catch a king.”
“And it will. It is Azog, king of Mount Gundabad, who will be caught, and his head separated from his neck,” Thorin says calmly, with a surety, his mind already turning to other things, such as logistics. Azog has about twenty warg-riders? Perhaps as many as forty? Then I will take seventy dwarves of superlative fighting prowess with me on this hunt.
Though perhaps it might be wise to make it an even one hundred, for an orc on a warg is worse, even, than three orcs on foot. . . .
“I can see you're already on the hunt, in your mind, my king,” Dwalin says in that unhappy voice. Thorin barely notices the words or the tone. “But let me interject a little common sense into your plans: Azog has built a trap and has chosen a location in which to spring it. He has all the advantages, here! To simply follow him whither he leads, like a lamb follows a shepherd, would be the ultimate folly!”
“The folly is all Azog's. For attempting to end the line of Durin. For regicide. For the occupation of Khazad-dum. For pitting his will against that of Durin's Folk. For touching what is mine.” Thorin grits out this last, hands balled into tight fists, his vision suddenly tinged red with long-repressed rage. He glares over at Dwalin, who looks away, shaking his head.
“Killing Azog will not undo the crimes he committed, Thorin. Nor will it ease your pain or the pain of those who share it. King Thror will still be dead . . . and Master Baggins-”
“Do not finish that sentence,” Thorin warns quietly, and Dwalin subsides with another sigh.
“As you will, your majesty. But I still say to go chasing after Azog, straight into his trap, is sheer madness. As mad as storming Mount Gundabad by yourself, armed with naught but a kitchen knife.”
“Then what would you have me do? Let him taunt me from the edges of Thranduil's realm? Let his crimes go unpunished?” Thorin demands, more loudly than he means to. Then he lowers his voice with a glance at the door to Bilbo's bedchamber. “Should I let him escape justice, yet again?”
“And is it justice you would see done upon him? Or vengeance?” Dwalin asks queitly-so quietly, Thorin can only just make out what he says. But make it out, he does, and it enrages him further.
“Do you say, then, that Azog does not deserve to die for his crimes? That justice and my vengeance do not, at least in this case, coincide perfectly?”
“I'm saying,” Dwalin begins levelly, meeting Thorin's eyes again, his own miserable, but unafraid. “That the last time you went after Azog with naught but vengeance in your heart, you were nearly killed, but for Master Baggins.”
And then Master Baggins was violated, when he came to your defense, goes unspoken, but hangs heavily in the air between them.
Thorin sits back, stung, and looks away, tears in his eyes. Eyes that he closes, and on the backs of which, he can once more see what Azog had done to Bilbo as clearly as if it was happening again. . . .
Dwalin is right. I cannot run off, half-mad, only to get myself injured or worse at Azog's hands. My actions have consequences-even more so than once they did. . . .
Heart hurting, Thorin hangs his head, visions of presenting Azog's head on a silver tray to his love-on the night of his triumphant return, the night that, he has often imagined it, he and Bilbo would also marry-fading like morning mist in the silver sun. “What would you have me do, then?” he asks again, that sustaining rage once more tamped-down and under control. But its loss leves Thorin feeling empty and captainless.
“My king, I would have you go into this not rash and hot-headed, but calculating and cold-hearted. Smart. I would have you come back from this battle alive and whole, with Azog's head on a pike. I would have you alive to gloat over the besting of the feared King of Gundabad, then go on to rule Erebor for many years in wisdom, and peace and plenty.” Dwalin's hand settles on Thorin's shoulder and Thorin looks up. He hadn't even heard the other dwarf stand and move closer. Dwalin's eyes are still grim, but leavened with humor, now, as well. “For I fear what Master Baggins would do to me with that letter-opener of his should I return from such a chase without his sledding partner.”
Thorin finds himself almost smiling despite the lingering pain in his heart. “Well, we've seen what he can do to a warg with it-and an orc. I wouldn't be too eager to get on his bad side, either.” That almost smile becomes a full, if a sad one. Would that he didn't know how well Master Baggins could handle himself with that small sword. Would that Master Baggins had never had to come to Thorin's aide with it. Would that-
Would that a great many things hadn't happened.
“So. Tell me. What is your plan for handling this trap of Azog's? For I assume you have one,” Thorin asks humbly, and Dwalin smirks approvingly.
“Oh, aye. I have a little something in mind. Simple, but probably more effective than walking into the bloody trap and having our heads handed to us.”
“Yes, yes, I take your point, Dwalin.” Thorin rolls his eyes. “Now, tell me about this plan of yours so that we may start implementing it. Hopefully as soon as the morning.”
Dwalin bows his head briefly. “As you wish, my king.” he says, squeezing Thorin's shoulder and beginning to outline his plan.
*
It is nearly six in the evening before Thorin lets himself back into Bilbo's bedchamber.
The hobbit is still asleep, thankfully. Still soundly so, having slept through over two hours of Thorin and Dwalin hashing out plans for flanking-and hopefully routing-Azog and his warg-riders.
Now, with Dwalin off to begin implementation of these plans-and such implementation will indeed, take time and care, if it's to be done right-Thorin undresses, and crawls back into bed and pulls his sleeping hobbit close, kissing his hair and his shoulder. Bilbo begins to stir.
“Thorin?” he sighs sleepily, snuggling back against Thorin with a small, contented sound. Thorin kisses his way up to Bilbo's pointed ear and gently bites the lobe, which occasions a sleepy, but interested chuckle. Bilbo reaches back and caresses Thorin's cheek with warm, gentle fingers that Thorin cannot help but kiss, as well.
“I did not mean to wake you,” he admits quietly. “I simply could not resist touching you, as ever.”
“You won't hear me complaining about being woken up this way,” Bilbo murmurs, wriggling against the prick which rests at the small of his back, and which is also showing definite signs of interest, in spite of the past few hours of grim planning and discussion.
Indeed, Thorin moans as he slides against smooth, warm skin, and holds his hobbit tighter. “We probably shouldn't . . . we've dinner with Lord Elrond in but an hour.”
“Do you really think either of us will last that long, my king?” Bilbo breathes, laughing and sliding his hand down Thorin's arm as Thorin takes him in hand and starts stroking. And it doesn't take much stroking before Bilbo is hard and breathing that way, his entire body flushed and hot in Thorin's arms. Thorin's teeth gain gentle purchase in Bilbo's shoulder and Bilbo cries out, pushing back against Thorin desperately
“I don't believe that we will,” Thorin finally replies, sucking a love-mark onto Bilbo's fair skin. Then, with one final, wistful thrust of his prick along Bilbo's warm back, Thorin rolls the hobbit over, and gazes down into his lovely, trusting eyes.
I will see you at last avenged, he thinks, leaning down to kiss the center of Bilbo's chest, and his nipples, before laving the right one with his tognue and biting it with careful, focused intensity. You and my fathers before me shall at last be able to find peace with Azog's miserable life ended on the edge of my blade.
“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo groans, thrashing a little as Thorin's bites and licks travel to his other nipple, there to focus with equal, if not greater intensity, before Thorin turns his attentions south.
When he takes Bilbo into his mouth, the hobbit cries out again, his prick surging partway down Thorin's throat as his hips buck involuntarily. Thorin hums and places his arm across Bilbo's wayward hips, pinning the hobbit to his bed.
“Please . . . please. . . .” Bilbo begins to beg shortly, trying to spread his legs wider, and Thorin knows what Bilbo wants. Knows, and despite a moment of hesitation-should he not wait, now, with Azog's capture at last on the horizon? Would this not make him, at last, worthy?-pulls off the hobbit's prick with torturous slowness that has Bilbo moaning and tossing his head about his pillow, still murmuring pleas, and Thorin's name.
And: Your finger . . . again, please, my lord. . . ?
It is not so much, after all . . . a finger, Thorin reminds himself, and the voice of his conscience, which is-bafflingly-not nearly as strident as it had been earlier. A finger is not a prick. And even if it was, I will either return with Azog's head, in which case I will be worthy of having Bilbo in any way we desire . . . or I won't return at all, and I'll at least have the memory of being inside him to take with me to the Halls of Waiting. . . .
“More than just the tip of my finger is . . . more than we've ever done. You must tell me if you change your mind, or if I . . . hurt you, in any way,” Thorin reminds Bilbo as he pushes shapely, willing legs wider. Bilbo opens his shining eyes to blink at Thorin fondly.
“Yes. But you must fear not that you'll hurt me. Or that I'll wish for you to stop. Because I won't,” he replies solemnly, and Thorin . . . nods, after a few moments of searching Bilbo's calm, certain eyes.
Then Bilbo's pulling his right leg up to his chest, baring for Thorin's eyes the sight of that which haunts his dreams and his every waking fantasy.
Sucking on his index finger to wet it thoroughly, Thorin pushes Bilbo's leg higher and wider, then traces around the edges of his greatest temptation.
Bilbo shivers and groans, and Thorin circles and circles before, finally, feinting inward with a gentle press of his finger. Bilbo hisses yes and rocks his hips up toward Thorin. Thorin's finger slips in . . . then a little deeper . . . then deeper still-slowly-till Bilbo's breathing has turned into panting and his heat has enveloped most of Thorin's thick finger.
Though he wants to, at this moment, Thorin dares not take himself in hand, for fear that he will reach his climax before he's had a chance to truly pleasure his lover. And that simply would not do.
Bilbo's wide eyes are watching Thorin with anticipation and awe, his lips parted and nostrils flaring as his breath gusts in and out them. Thorin can feel the elevated beat of Bilbo's heart around his finger, and even that accelerates the rush of his own blood-hardens his own prick as quickly as anything ever has. He briefly supposes he could come without laying a hand on himself. . . .
But even so, he remembers his priorities. His responsibilities.
“Are you frightened? Am I . . . hurting you, my love?” he asks, his voice choked with strain from controlling himself. He twists his finger gently, and Bilbo shakes his head once, smiling, though he must surely be experiencing some discomfort.
“Never,” he says, and Thorin, for once, chooses to take him at his word. Dares, at last, to gaze upon his finger as it slides into, pulls slightly out of, then slides just a little bit deeper into Bilbo's accepting-even eager-body. The sight is . . . affecting-not unexpectedly-to say the least, and his breath catches.
He is-at least in some way, however less than ideal-inside Bilbo Bagins.
Groaning and closing his eyes-for fear that he will come, untouched-Thorin pushes his finger forward, slowly deeper, till it can go no further, and Bilbo is clenching and twitching and fluttering around him in tiny, tempting spasms. Till Bilbo's breathing carries moans on its back, as well as whispers of wanton, decidedly licentious affection.
When he opens his eyes once more, Thorin is torn between staring at the place where their bodies are joined, and gazing upon Bilbo's face in these moments of semi-ravishment. For never has Bilbo seemed more lovely. In this moment of helpless abandon and need, never has he felt more like Thorin's hobbit.
“My love,” Thorin murmurs, and: “Mine.”
“Yours,” Bilbo agrees instantly, throwing his head back into the pillows as Thorin twists and crooks his finger once more, searching, searching, searching. . . .
When he finds what he's looking for, Bilbo lets out a long, wavering cry and practically levitates off the bed in surprise and pleasure. What feels like every muscle in Bilbo's small body is brought to bear on Thorin's finger, and he grunts, forcing away his own fevered imaginings of his prick being engulfed in such tight, hot, clenching flesh. As ever, it is his wish-his determination-to watch his lover come before he, himself, does.
“Oh, THORIN!” Bilbo cries out, now pulling his other leg up to his chest as well, as if to give Thorin more and better access, though Thorin needs neither to once again find and put pressure on that slightly protruding spot inside Bilbo . . . the one that will, it seems, make him scream every time it's pressed.
And indeed, Bilbo's prick has gone beyond hard, flushed, and rosy, to angry-red and as stiff as a flagpole in winter.
Thorin leans down to kiss the base of Bilbo's prick and the bollocks that lay heavily below them, all the while stroking that spot until Bilbo is begging Thorin with more barely-articulate pleas . . . though for what, the hobbit clearly doesn't know.
So Thorin decides for him. He pulls Bilbo's leaking length down from where it cleaves closely to the hobbit's abdomen, and into his mouth, taking Bilbo deep, before sliding up on the hard flesh till only the tip of Bilbo's prick remains in his mouth. Simultaneously, he sucks and strokes Bilbo . . . then once more puts increasing pressure on the tiny spot under his now ruthless finger.
Soon, with another strangled cry, Bilbo floods Thorin's mouth with bittersweet heat-so much so that Thorin spills as much as he swallows.
When at last Bilbo's body has stilled, and lays limp amongst the scattered pillows and covers, Thorin eases off Bilbo's slowly softening prick and wipes his mouth before crawling up the bed to kiss Bilbo thoroughly.
Never have his hobbit's lips been sweeter.
“Thorin . . . oh, Thorin. . . .” Bilbo breathes between kisses, moaning softly and wrapping his arms and legs around Thorin's neck and hips, respectively. “That was . . . I don't even have the words for what that was. . . .”
“That was but a taste of what awaits us in the very near future, my love.” Thorin gently, unhurriedly thrusts his prick against Bilbo's somewhat softened one, gazing down into Bilbo's bright, still slightly-dazed eyes. “A mere taste.”
“Well. Let's have another taste, then,” Bilbo murmurs, grinning rather wickedly and drawing his legs up again, so high that they bracket Thorin's ribs.
So high that Thorin's prick, on more thrusts than it doesn't, slides past his bollocks, to tease wetly against the patch of tender skin behind it, causing Bilbo to groan, low and loud. Blunt nails scrape their way up Thorin's shoulder and back, the pain of the welted-and occasionally broken-skin somehow adding sharp notes of pleasure to the amorphous cloud of heady bliss rapidly invading his body.
Thorin shivers and practically bends Bilbo in half in his need to once more feel the heat and flutter of that tiny pucker against the tip of his cock. He thrusts more forcefully, grunting as he slides to that pucker and past it, and Bilbo clenches the muscles of his backside fast about Thorin's prick.
As Bilbo had predicted, it isn't long before this hint of Promised Land has dragged Thorin's body to the edge, beyond grunts and groans, to stifled cries and bitten-lipped concentration as he chases a climax that threatens to undo him completely.
Bilbo's lips and tongue and teeth tease Thorin's mouth, murmuring encouragement all the while as Thorin's prick slides between his cheeks, occasionally glancing off the place he desires to be more than he'd ever desired to be back at Erebor, in all his long years of exile. . . .
“You are magnificent, my lord,” Bilbo whispers, his eyes a mere sparkle when they're this close to Thorin's. “You make me ever more desperate to have you in me . . . and yet I would wait for-ever to have you so. And still consider it an honor to be yours in any capacity.”
“Bilbo-” Thorin manages to groan once more, loud and almost pained by his impending release. “Marry me-marry me-rule Erebor beside me-” he gasps, before briefly smothering what would be Bilbo's answer in a yearning, uncoordinated kiss.
“Will-will you make l-love to me on our w-wedding night?” Bilbo asks hopefully, almost shyly, when Thorin releases his lips to look into his eyes. Bilbo's are sparkling with unshed tears, and Thorin kisses those damp, anxious eyes and the tip of Bilbo's nose.
“Yes . . . I will have you on our wedding night, Bilbo Baggins-and every night thereafter . . . this I swear,” Thorin promises, hanging on to the last of his coherent thoughts so as to hear whatever answer he receives. “Please, my love, say yes. . . .”
Bilbo goes utterly still for several moments, the tears spilling from his eyes as he now searches Thorin's. . . .
Then he relaxes, laughing delightedly and clutching Thorin to him with a desperate strength that belies the light-hearted laughter. “Of course, Thorin. Yes, I'll marry you, my lord, my beloved . . . my silly king. Now come, before we're made even late-er for dinner.” With the anxiety and shyness gone, Bilbo's eyes are dancing and lovely . . . and so very loving.
Thorin is quite taken aback by the love he sees therein.
Bilbo kises him again, very softly, stroking Thorin's hair. “Let go, my love. It's alright.”
And despite the distraction of Bilbo's love worn so plainly in his eyes, Thorin is helpless to do other than obey his hobbit in this, as with many other things. He buries his face in Bilbo's shoulder and, with more stifled cries, lets himself go. . . .
*
They are only half an hour late for dinner with Lord Elrond, who does not seem to mind.
Dinner itself is a light-hearted affair, with Master Baggins as the sparkling heart of it, his conversation bright and amusing, charming and witty. Both Lord Elrond and Thorin spend a goodly portion of dinner chuckling and outright laughing at some jest of his. And Thorin, for his part, cannot take his eyes from his affianced, so lovely and shining is he. So seemingly in his element.
And Bilbo also steals many glances at Thorin, his grins turning besotted and a bit silly when he does.
Lord Elrond, if he notices the electric current and almost fraught interplay between them-and how could someone so perceptive not notice?-does not mention or call attention to it. Not even with one of his discreetly amused smiles.
When dinner ends, Lord Elrond walks them out of his chambers, and smiles at them both, saying only: “You are both so merry of heart tonight, which gladdens me. I quite enjoyed your company, even more so than usual, and am only sorry that dinner could not last longer.”
Bilbo snorts, but his smile is touched. “I'll wager you're sick of hearing me run my mouth, my lord. But I thank you for your kind words, and only hope I haven't bored you too terribly.” He bows deeply and Lord Elrond bows back.
“You certainly have not, Master Baggins. I bid a good night. And you, King Thorin, I also wish a good night.
“Thank you. And I wish you the same, Lord Elrond,” Thorin bows and receives one in return.
Then he and Bilbo are turning to make their way to the royal wing, their hands automatically linking together when the door to Lord Elrond's chambers quietly shuts behind them.
Once in the royal wing, without discussion, they take the turn-off to Thorin's chambers, walking slowly and sneaking shy, but eager smiles at each other.
“What are you thinking, my love?” Thorin asks as they meander to his chambers. Bilbo smiles and hmms.
“Just thinking that everything seems to be . . . coming together quite nicely. As if things are finally starting to go our way.” Bilbo leans on Thorin's arm and gazes up at him happily. “I feel as if . . . we're invincible. As if nothing can touch us or harm us.”
Thorin smiles and would agree, but then he remembers . . . Azog, and the hunt for him in which Thorin will very soon be engaged. That he must, indeed, tell Master Baggins about that hunt.
And he senses that Bilbo will be less than thrilled with the notion. And less than pleased with Thorin. . . .
Perhaps I should find some way to embark on this hunt without telling him-but without lying to him outright . . . though how I should manage such a thing is beyond my limited skill as a dissembler. Thorin glances away from Bilbo's wide smile and clears his throat.
“Perhaps you are right, Master Baggins,” Thorin temporizes. And nothing more is said until they're within viewing distance of Thorin's chambers, outside of which are three figures: the two night guards, standing stolidly to either side of the doors, and a pacing, very agitated-looking Kili, whose hair is unbraided and wild, and whose clothing is quite askew.
As they get closer, Kili spots them and ceases his pacing to instead approach them, already wound up, and, oh . . . Thorin knows what his nephew-tactless and lacking in discretion when upset-is here to speak to him about.
“Kili,” he begins, holding out his hands and attempting to head off his nephew before he can speak. It's no good.
“You can't be serious about asking Tauriel come with you to hunt down that monster!” Kili bursts out as he draws near Thorin and Bilbo, who looks confused, and turns that confused gaze on Thorin. Thorin does not dare meet it for long, and looks away. Turns a stern look on his nephew.
“Kili, now is not the time. We will speak of this lat-”
“She told me herself, Uncle! That she's likely to be asked to come with you as a scout and guide, since she was the one who spotted Azog, and-”
“Azog,” Bilbo breathes, the color draining from his face so rapidly and markedly, Thorin can see it even from the corner of his eye. Can feel the almost instanteous chill of Bilbo's hand before it drops away from his own.
Restraining his temper and stepping close to Kili, wearing his coldest, most quelling face and using his most commanding voice-not that either of those things ever has much of an effect on Kili-Thorin puts a heavy hand on his nephew's shoulder. “That's enough, Kili. I said we will discuss this later. Perhap during the morning meeting.”
Kili frowns, shrugging off Thorin's hand and looking as if he would continue to force the matter . . . then his eyes dart over Thorin's shoulder, in Bilbo's direction, and the color drains from his own face, rather alarmingly.
“Oh . . . er. Right,” he says, taking a step back and shooting Thorin an apologetic look. Then a worried one at Bilbo . . . though he can't seem to manage to hold it for very long, at this particular moment. So devastated and devastating must Bilbo's gaze be, Kili's eyes almost immediately tick back to Thorin's. “At the morning meeting, that's-yes, thank you, Uncle. I'll see you then. Er. Good night. And to you, too, Master Boggins!”
And with that, Kili's gone, as if he'd never been . . . except for the piercing, intent gaze Thorin can feel directed at him fom Bilbo's vicinity.
“What was Kili on about, Thorin . . . Tauriel spotting Azog?” he asks quietly, in a voice so even, that that in itself is disturbing. “Is this . . . true? When did it happen? Where? And why did you not tell me?”
There's a world of hurt in that last question, and Thorin winces, extending his hand to Bilbo, momentarily afraid when Bilbo does not take it . . . but take it, he eventually does, and Thorin squeezes it, pulling the hobbit even with him. Yet he still does not meet Bilbo's questioning gaze.
“This is not the place for such a discussion, my love. Come,” he says, kissing Bilbo's chilly hand and drawing him hence. The guards open the doors for them and Thorin takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the second toughest discussion he's ever had in his life.
But it still looks to be a damned sight better than the toughest.
*
When Thorin has built up the fire in the main room, and Bilbo has been sitting in front of it for several minutes, shivering-as hard as if he'd been outside all evening-Thorin begins to speak.
He tells Bilbo of his own quadrupling of the bounty on Azog's head, and still receiving no results, not even a hint of Azog's whereabouts. He tells of finally deciding, several weeks ago-just after the commissioning of Bilbo's sled-to hunt Azog with his own resources. Resources that had turned up the same amount of information and leads the bounty had, which is to say: none.
Then Thorin speaks of the events of earlier this day . . . of Dwalin coming to him in Bilbo's chambers with the news of the elven maid Tauriel's discovery . . . and of his and Dwalin's plan to track and destroy the pack of warg-riders.
Azog included.
When the telling is done, Thorin sighs and sits back in his chair. “And that is . . . everything.”
Bilbo, hunched forward, arms wrapped around himself, still shivering, stares into the fire with an unblinking gaze.
“And if Kili hadn't let the cat out of the bag, would you ever have told me?” Bilbo turns that unblinking gaze on Thorin, who flinches back from the near-lifeless quality of it. “Would you have told me before you went off, possibly to die in the wild, far from me, what it was you sought? Or would you have lied? Would you have simply let me think what I wanted to think without correcting my assumptions? Would you have mentioned at all that it was Azog you were hunting?”
“My love-”
“Tell me, Thorin!”
Sighing, Thorin covers his face with his hands for a few moments. “I would have,” he says at last, “though I considered doing those very things you mentioned. But in the end, I really only wanted a proper time and way to tell you, for I knew you would take this news . . . hard.”
“I see.” Bilbo doesn't sound as if he truly does, but Thorin does not mention this aloud. “And . . . would you have married me before or after you ran off to get yourself killed at Azog's hands?”
Bilbo's voice shakes as he asks, and Thorin has to look away from that steady, naked gaze once more.
“I . . . would have liked to present his head to you as a wedding present,” he mumbles, realizing, in the saying, just how . . . grisly and morbid such a macabre present would be on such a happy day as the day they were at last joined in the eyes of Mahal, and Thorin's forebears.
“So you . . . you proposed to me, knowing full well that there's a chance you may not come back from such an adventure, and that your proposal could very well be a promise that is never fulfilled,” Bilbo says angrily, but tears are now spilling down his still-pale cheeks. Thorin shakes his head quickly. “That I could wind up a widower before I'm even married-”
“No, my love, for I mean to have his head this time, no matter what.” Holding out his hand to Bilbo once more, Thorin is nonetheless not surprised when this time, Bilbo does not take it. “And there is more to us, to you and I, than some damned ceremony! What matters is us. In our hearts, we are already married, are we not? Bilbo?” Thorin is extremely concerned when Bilbo doesn't answer for more than a minute, his gaze once more turned to the fire. The hobbit shrugs almost indifferently.
“If that were so, my king, then I would mean more to you than your quest for vengeance, and you would let Azog rot in whatever cave he's hiding in, and stay here, with me.”
“Bilbo, I cannot simply leave him out there to wreak havoc-”
“But neither must you be the one to personally see him dead. You have guards and warriors for that. And yet I see that that did not even occur to you.” Bilbo snorts miserably. “I can see that the idea of letting your guard handle him without you is as foreign an idea to you as growing an elvish guarden in the Great Hall!”
Thorin takes a deep breath yet again, though it does not help-does not calm the turmoil, the roiling mix of anger, sadness, fear, and anxiety that unsettles his mind and his heart. “Bilbo . . . after everything he's done to my fathers and my people-to you-I cannot let him be stopped by anyone else! His doom must come at my hands!”
Bilbo shakes his head, wiping at his eyes and his cheeks impatiently. “And it . . . means so much to you, this vengeance? More to you than being here, with me? Safe?”
“It's not a-a matter of either/or, Bilbo Baggins!” Thorin says defensively, and Bilbo snorts again.
“What if I'm making it a matter of either/or?” Off Thorin's confused silence, Bilbo looks up again, his eyes red with more than reflected firelight. “What if I'm asking you to choose between your love for me . . . and your revenge upon Azog?”
Thorin goes cold. Opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. Finally, after several minutes of repeating these actions, sounds come out. Sounds that he does not mean to say, and certainly does not want Bilbo to hear, but sounds that he cannot stop. “How can you bear to make me choose, Bilbo?”
And Thorin does not miss the flicker in Bilbo's eyes, a subtle change no more drastic than the sudden breaking of his love's tender heart.
“How can you bear forcing me to ask in the first place, Thorin?” Bilbo whispers, more tears running down his face as he looks away and stands up slowly, as if pained. Thorin stands with him, not knowing what he means to do, or say, but knowing he must do or say something. . . .
But Bilbo is hurrying unsteadily past him, toward the antechamber between the main room and the doors to the hall. When Thorin catches up to him and puts a hand on his tense shoulder to stop him from going, Bilbo shrugs it off, but turns to face him, expectantly.
“My love,” Thorin begins softly, and Bilbo glares at him.
“You've made your choice. You have no right to call me that, anymore.”
“I have the only right.” Thorin gazes stonily back, aware that he's only making matters worse, but unable to help himself. “And it is my mountain, do not forget, Master Baggins. I can do whatever I wish.”
“And you are, aren't you, King Thorin?” Bilbo smiles coldly, but shakily. And there are tears in his eyes once more. “You'll just have to do it without me.”
“Save me from hard-headed, stubborn hobbits-I'm doing this for you!” Thorin declares, half-heartedly reaching out to pull Bilbo closer for an embrace or a kiss-for when have either of them ever been able to stand against the other's touch?-but Bilbo jerks away hard, making for the door again. Quickly. “I'm doing this so that you will at last feel completely safe!”
Bilbo barks a short, startled laugh before flinging the left door open. “Don't fool yourself, King Thorin. The only person you're doing this for is you!”
And with that, the door is slamming shut behind Bilbo. So hard, that both doors rock in their sturdy frames.
Thorin is left standing in his antechamber quite alone, the echoes of their first argument-and what feels, alarmingly, like their last-echoing in the air around him.
Torn between the bone-deep need to go after Bilbo, to simply be wherever his angry, but no doubt hurting hobbit is, and the need to maintain what little of his pride remains-the King Under the Mountain does not go grovelling after anyone . . . even a hobit that he loves more than life itself-Thorin eventually turns back into his chambers, convinced that Bilbo will come back to him-will see reason . . . and come back to him. . . .
He is absolutely convinced . . . or so he tells himself, staring at the door and more that stands between himself and his precious burglar.
Eventually he storms back into his chambers-kicks his own chair into the huge main fireplace, not lingering to watch it burn-to his bedroom, where he tears off his clothes and throws himself into bed, muttering and glaring at no one and nothing but his own ceiling.
And when the clock in the main room has chimed six in the morning, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, heir of Durin, and King Under the Mountain is still laying abed: angry, awake . . . and quite alone.