FIC: The Brittle Blade (Hobbit)
Title: The Brittle Blade
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: The Hobbit
Characters: Thorin, Bilbo, Kili
Rating: G
Wordcount: 700
Archive: AO3 and hobbitfilmfic.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: If there is one thing Thorin knows, it is how to judge a warrior's mettle, the temper of his steel.
Warning: Depiction is not endorsement.
Notes: Written after a repeat viewing of The Hobbit. Can be considered pre-slash, if you like. Also falls in line with both Challenge #1: Beginnings and Challenge #2: Dwarven Company at hobbitfilmfic.
The Brittle Blade
By Galadriel
The hobbit is so small, so still in his sleep, all his twitching and fussing soothed away with exhaustion. Thorin can do naught but marvel at Gandalf's choice; he is no burglar, and certainly no warrior, not an ounce of steel in his spine. It is simple to see -- as simple as a glitter of diamond underneath a film of coal -- that Bilbo's heart would not expand in the heat of battle. It is not shot through with iron, and cannot stand up to testing by the world's forge. Right at this moment, it is easy to see that his heart is most comfortable atop a soft mattress, hidden away in Bilbo's breast, cradled close under the welcoming earth. Bilbo's life is adorned with fripperies, edged with doilies, tucked neatly away beyond the reach of the tiny flickering candle at the corner of Thorin's vision, its weak light doing little to illuminate the lines and planes of Bilbo's face.
Thorin pauses in the curving doorway, the wood frame warming under his hand. Bilbo lives in a home made of matchsticks; easily splintered and broken, easily twisted and burned. Yet it is a home all the same, and in that, Thorin envies him.
There is no faulting such a small, brittle body for wishing to stay sheathed in safety. It is prudent and practical, and will save the company from carrying a blade that will break between hammer and anvil. It is best that they leave Gandalf's choice behind, for all he trusts the wizard; in this endeavour, he alone must bear the burden of responsibility, of choice. And Bilbo is too fragile a jewel. He may catch the wizard's eye, but set amongst the diamond-hard dwarves, he will shatter, breaking across each and every flaw.
A step and then another, and already Thorin has crossed the creaking floor. He stands before Bilbo, the little hobbit insensible to the long shadow his guest throws across his bed. Such sleep might as well mean death on the road, for Thorin could have slit his throat, cleaved his head from his shoulders and crushed his bones by now.
Soft, and weak, and utterly open. Thorin could reach out and run his fingers through Bilbo's curls, or grip them tight and tug to the point of pain before he woke. Or he could shake his shoulder -- as he had come into this room intending to do -- a final goodbye in the earliest hours of the morning, one last chance for Bilbo to repeat his "No" and set in stone the shape of Thorin's company. Thorin's fingertips itch as he flexes his hand, hovering a breath away from Bilbo's cheek: a seam of air and possibilities separating the sweetness of sleep from the quicksilver burn of the waking world.
"Uncle?" Kili's voice is pitched low, quiet in deference rather than any desire to honour the hobbit's sleep. He will have to remember to praise the boy later; his footfalls have become quieter over the past few months. Such practised stealth will prove an asset when they confront the fire drake.
Half-turning, Thorin nods. "Gather the company outside. We will take to the road as soon as the ponies are loaded." He smiles a little as the boy bows, but finds himself distracted once again by the sleeping hobbit. What is it about Bilbo that could so easily enchant Gandalf?
His fingertips touch, then brush slowly across the curve of Bilbo's jaw, eliciting nothing more than the softest of sighs.
"Kili?" Thorin does not need to look to know his nephew is still within earshot; Dís' boys display a curiosity that is every inch their mother's own.
"Yes, Uncle?"
Such a soft, weak hobbit; nothing like a blade at all. "Have Balin leave the contract out for Mister Baggins." If naught else, Bilbo could consider it a keepsake of his dwarven visitors, a tiny record of their quest tucked away in a safe haven, in the depths of a hobbit home.
Turning from Bilbo's bed, Thorin follows his nephew through to the door. There is no sense in removing a jewel from the setting that suits it, not when it so expertly hides its fatal flaws.
END
(December 22, 2012)
Crossposted to hobbitfilmfic.
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: The Hobbit
Characters: Thorin, Bilbo, Kili
Rating: G
Wordcount: 700
Archive: AO3 and hobbitfilmfic.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: If there is one thing Thorin knows, it is how to judge a warrior's mettle, the temper of his steel.
Warning: Depiction is not endorsement.
Notes: Written after a repeat viewing of The Hobbit. Can be considered pre-slash, if you like. Also falls in line with both Challenge #1: Beginnings and Challenge #2: Dwarven Company at hobbitfilmfic.
The Brittle Blade
By Galadriel
The hobbit is so small, so still in his sleep, all his twitching and fussing soothed away with exhaustion. Thorin can do naught but marvel at Gandalf's choice; he is no burglar, and certainly no warrior, not an ounce of steel in his spine. It is simple to see -- as simple as a glitter of diamond underneath a film of coal -- that Bilbo's heart would not expand in the heat of battle. It is not shot through with iron, and cannot stand up to testing by the world's forge. Right at this moment, it is easy to see that his heart is most comfortable atop a soft mattress, hidden away in Bilbo's breast, cradled close under the welcoming earth. Bilbo's life is adorned with fripperies, edged with doilies, tucked neatly away beyond the reach of the tiny flickering candle at the corner of Thorin's vision, its weak light doing little to illuminate the lines and planes of Bilbo's face.
Thorin pauses in the curving doorway, the wood frame warming under his hand. Bilbo lives in a home made of matchsticks; easily splintered and broken, easily twisted and burned. Yet it is a home all the same, and in that, Thorin envies him.
There is no faulting such a small, brittle body for wishing to stay sheathed in safety. It is prudent and practical, and will save the company from carrying a blade that will break between hammer and anvil. It is best that they leave Gandalf's choice behind, for all he trusts the wizard; in this endeavour, he alone must bear the burden of responsibility, of choice. And Bilbo is too fragile a jewel. He may catch the wizard's eye, but set amongst the diamond-hard dwarves, he will shatter, breaking across each and every flaw.
A step and then another, and already Thorin has crossed the creaking floor. He stands before Bilbo, the little hobbit insensible to the long shadow his guest throws across his bed. Such sleep might as well mean death on the road, for Thorin could have slit his throat, cleaved his head from his shoulders and crushed his bones by now.
Soft, and weak, and utterly open. Thorin could reach out and run his fingers through Bilbo's curls, or grip them tight and tug to the point of pain before he woke. Or he could shake his shoulder -- as he had come into this room intending to do -- a final goodbye in the earliest hours of the morning, one last chance for Bilbo to repeat his "No" and set in stone the shape of Thorin's company. Thorin's fingertips itch as he flexes his hand, hovering a breath away from Bilbo's cheek: a seam of air and possibilities separating the sweetness of sleep from the quicksilver burn of the waking world.
"Uncle?" Kili's voice is pitched low, quiet in deference rather than any desire to honour the hobbit's sleep. He will have to remember to praise the boy later; his footfalls have become quieter over the past few months. Such practised stealth will prove an asset when they confront the fire drake.
Half-turning, Thorin nods. "Gather the company outside. We will take to the road as soon as the ponies are loaded." He smiles a little as the boy bows, but finds himself distracted once again by the sleeping hobbit. What is it about Bilbo that could so easily enchant Gandalf?
His fingertips touch, then brush slowly across the curve of Bilbo's jaw, eliciting nothing more than the softest of sighs.
"Kili?" Thorin does not need to look to know his nephew is still within earshot; Dís' boys display a curiosity that is every inch their mother's own.
"Yes, Uncle?"
Such a soft, weak hobbit; nothing like a blade at all. "Have Balin leave the contract out for Mister Baggins." If naught else, Bilbo could consider it a keepsake of his dwarven visitors, a tiny record of their quest tucked away in a safe haven, in the depths of a hobbit home.
Turning from Bilbo's bed, Thorin follows his nephew through to the door. There is no sense in removing a jewel from the setting that suits it, not when it so expertly hides its fatal flaws.
END
(December 22, 2012)
Crossposted to hobbitfilmfic.