Fanfiction: Sapphire, Lodestone, Emeralds 3/7 (The Hobbit - An Unexpected Journey)
Title: "Sapphire, Lodestone, Emeralds 3/7"
Status: WIP
Fandom: The Hobbit - An Unexpected Journey
Characters/Pairing: Balin, Thorin
Disclaimer: The Hobbit @ J. R. R. Tolkien and Peter Jackson. No copyright infringement intended.
Rating: K
Genre: character study, friendship, Alternative Universe - Canon Divergence, pre-canon
Warnings: none
Summary: Balin offers Thorin his advice...
AN: A semi-fill for this prompt on hobbit_kink.
Part One Part Two Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven
Interlude - Balin
The Lonely Mountain. Greatest of the Dwarven kingdoms, and pride of Aulë's children.
Thorin was well aware of his heritage, that Durin's blood flowed through his veins, but more than anything else, Erebor was home. Here thrived his people and lived his family.
The stone sang with the presence of his kin. It guided their skilled hands and touched their hearts, it tied their souls together to make them One, and Thorin was but a tiny part of that great treasure.
The walls that had echoed with his first scream would also catch the whisper of his last breath, on that day when the Halls of Mandos welcomed him, King Under the Mountain.
His path in life was certain, and Thorin content.
XXX
Balin had searched Erebor high and low, feeling rather flat-footed and a little disgruntled for it, and all thanks to a prince no one asked could account for since the first meal.
While he was used to young Frerin trying to escape his lessons in ever more creative ways, particularly those revolving around etiquette, dance and polite conversation, Thorin being anything but punctual was unusual.
Granted, the lad had been restless recently and prone to mood swings, bursting with energy and seeking solitude by turns. If Balin hadn't known that his prince was without the longing, he would have suspected that Mahal's blessing had touched Thorin, granting him his fateful meeting.
“Where to now?” Balin muttered, having run out of ideas.
The last place left to look, even though unlikely, was Thorin's chamber in the royal quarters. After that, Balin was duty-bound to assume a more serious cause for his disappearance and would need to alert the guards.
They had made enemies as of late, guilds and gentry discontent, and those with political foresight were right to fear that their numbers would grow in the future. Thrór had always been ambitious, and the discovery of the Arkenstone had only kindled that old spark.
He privately feared that there was more to it, yet without proof Thráin would not listen, and Thorin was but a child, loving his grandfather dearly. Ill-chosen words held the potential for disaster, thus Balin was reluctant to press a matter that might resolve itself, given time.
Stroking his beard in mild agitation, Balin's feet nearly carried him past his destination.
“Prince Thorin?” He knocked, three sharp raps. He waited and, looking up and down the deserted corridor, went so far as to put his ear against the oaken door. “I'm coming in,” he warned, despite having heard nothing.
The small reception room lay empty before him except for its furniture and a single, singed tapestry. Balin remembered that incident fondly, even though the Master of the Forge had not been too enthused when his equipment had gone missing, and later returned to him with stains of water and rust.
Balin chuckled and let himself into the bedroom. There, a mild breeze came in from the balcony, filling the curtains and rustling the sheets on the music stand, carrying the smell of summer.
A harp gleamed in all its golden beauty where it rested against an armchair, caught in the rays of the setting sun. Its strings had first drawn blood, then blisters, before producing the truest tones, running up and down the scale, accompanied by Thorin's deep voice.
The only sign of his wayward prince was a pile of clothes in front of the wardrobe and plentiful of books, strewn haphazardly over the carpet, as if pulled out in haste and then forgotten.
Balin hummed as he stepped closer, noticing parchments half visible in the gap between the back panel and the usually so neat row of reading material. A simple hiding place, but one that would serve its purpose well enough.
Before he could reach the end of his internal debate on whether to inspect them or not, Balin heard the scratch of quill on paper. It came from the little study he had all but forgotten about since it was so rarely put to good use.
Thorin fulfilled his duties with the grace and solemn decorum the line of Durin was known for amongst their kin, starting two years ago, when Thráin had taken him to attend his first council meeting. But he had always been a stormy child, loving to roam free and with a preference for weapons training and tournaments over intellectual pursuits. Much like Frerin, sans his younger brother's love of pranks.
And yet here Thorin sat at his desk, head bowed over a scroll that seemed ready to fall apart, one hand smoothing it out with great care, while the other held a magnifying glass. His lips moved as he struggled with the ancient script, one braid coming undone as he twirled it in frustration.
Thorin let go of his hair and looked up as the candles flickered in a sudden draft, and Balin was amused to see him freeze like a deer caught in the hunter's sight.
“Master Balin.” Thorin nodded by way of greeting, not making any effort to try and hide the scrolls that cluttered his desk, though the impulse seemed there. “Forgive me, I must have lost track of time. I had no intention to miss - ”
“Do not worry, my Prince,” Balin interrupted with good humor, too intrigued for a lecture. “I am overjoyed to see you study voluntarily, though the shock might send me to an early grave.”
Thorin set the magnifying glass aside and scowled. “You must confuse me with Frerin.”
“Not at all.” Balin reached for a parchment and gave it a gentle tug towards the circle of light. “May I see?”
“Nosy,” Thorin grumbled into his beard, but obediently lifted his elbow. “It is nothing. Idle curiosity.”
Balin was surprised to find the paper covered in the elegant loops and curls of Elvish. A quick glance at a stack of dusty tomes revealed them as dictionaries, and beside those lay freshly inked notes in Thorin's bold handwriting.
“'The War of Wrath.' What a curious choice of topic,” Balin commented. “Has your meeting with the Elvenking sparked this sudden interest in history?”
Thorin shifted in his seat, then stilled. “Hardly. It was a very formal affair. I barely spoke to him.”
“Have you taken offense at something King Thranduil said? He can be...,” Balin gestured distractedly, struggling to find a polite euphemism, “...difficult.”
Thorin huffed a laugh and Balin grimaced. Both knew very well that Thrór found far more colorful adjectives when it came to describing the Elvenking and his kin, even in these times of friendship.
“I did not,” Thorin answered, his features softening. “And I agree that he is proud to the point of arrogance, but then, all Elves are.”
Balin smiled, thinking that prejudices and pride were something Elves and Dwarves had very much in common, but refrained from sharing his observation. Thorin had grown up sheltered and should be allowed to draw his own conclusions.
“He also seemed very aloof, as if few things could hope to touch him or hold his attention.”
Balin nodded, wondering at the tone in Thorin's voice. It could have been pity or sadness just as well as bland curiosity.
“He is immortal, my Prince. Thranduil measures his time in centuries and millennia. I imagine joy and pain have left their mark on him.”
Thorin pondered that for a moment, his expression inscrutable. “So you say the First Born are set apart from us.”
“In a way, but not as much as they would wish for us to think.”
Balin nodded to himself, the memory clear: pouting Legolas, chased down by Dwarven guards and dragged back to his father's side, and the Elvenking himself, waxing poetic after too splendid a feast, with a drowsy Thrór sitting beside him, nodding along.
He was a bit bewildered by Thorin's sudden, crestfallen expression, but was quick to give him a hearty slap on the back that rattled bone and inkwell alike.
“Take heart, my Prince. Go ahead if you wish to strike up a friendship with one of the Elves. Different they may be, but it's nothing that can't be overcome with enough effort.”
Not the kind of advice Thrór would be pleased with, especially now that their relations had soured, but Balin saw no harm in it. Surely, he was simply worrying too much in the first place and if not, then such a bond could only serve Erebor well.
“Thank you, Balin.” Thorin smiled at him, sitting up straight in a way that spoke of new-found resolve. “I think I will do just that.”
The End
Status: WIP
Fandom: The Hobbit - An Unexpected Journey
Characters/Pairing: Balin, Thorin
Disclaimer: The Hobbit @ J. R. R. Tolkien and Peter Jackson. No copyright infringement intended.
Rating: K
Genre: character study, friendship, Alternative Universe - Canon Divergence, pre-canon
Warnings: none
Summary: Balin offers Thorin his advice...
AN: A semi-fill for this prompt on hobbit_kink.
Part One Part Two Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven
Interlude - Balin
The Lonely Mountain. Greatest of the Dwarven kingdoms, and pride of Aulë's children.
Thorin was well aware of his heritage, that Durin's blood flowed through his veins, but more than anything else, Erebor was home. Here thrived his people and lived his family.
The stone sang with the presence of his kin. It guided their skilled hands and touched their hearts, it tied their souls together to make them One, and Thorin was but a tiny part of that great treasure.
The walls that had echoed with his first scream would also catch the whisper of his last breath, on that day when the Halls of Mandos welcomed him, King Under the Mountain.
His path in life was certain, and Thorin content.
XXX
Balin had searched Erebor high and low, feeling rather flat-footed and a little disgruntled for it, and all thanks to a prince no one asked could account for since the first meal.
While he was used to young Frerin trying to escape his lessons in ever more creative ways, particularly those revolving around etiquette, dance and polite conversation, Thorin being anything but punctual was unusual.
Granted, the lad had been restless recently and prone to mood swings, bursting with energy and seeking solitude by turns. If Balin hadn't known that his prince was without the longing, he would have suspected that Mahal's blessing had touched Thorin, granting him his fateful meeting.
“Where to now?” Balin muttered, having run out of ideas.
The last place left to look, even though unlikely, was Thorin's chamber in the royal quarters. After that, Balin was duty-bound to assume a more serious cause for his disappearance and would need to alert the guards.
They had made enemies as of late, guilds and gentry discontent, and those with political foresight were right to fear that their numbers would grow in the future. Thrór had always been ambitious, and the discovery of the Arkenstone had only kindled that old spark.
He privately feared that there was more to it, yet without proof Thráin would not listen, and Thorin was but a child, loving his grandfather dearly. Ill-chosen words held the potential for disaster, thus Balin was reluctant to press a matter that might resolve itself, given time.
Stroking his beard in mild agitation, Balin's feet nearly carried him past his destination.
“Prince Thorin?” He knocked, three sharp raps. He waited and, looking up and down the deserted corridor, went so far as to put his ear against the oaken door. “I'm coming in,” he warned, despite having heard nothing.
The small reception room lay empty before him except for its furniture and a single, singed tapestry. Balin remembered that incident fondly, even though the Master of the Forge had not been too enthused when his equipment had gone missing, and later returned to him with stains of water and rust.
Balin chuckled and let himself into the bedroom. There, a mild breeze came in from the balcony, filling the curtains and rustling the sheets on the music stand, carrying the smell of summer.
A harp gleamed in all its golden beauty where it rested against an armchair, caught in the rays of the setting sun. Its strings had first drawn blood, then blisters, before producing the truest tones, running up and down the scale, accompanied by Thorin's deep voice.
The only sign of his wayward prince was a pile of clothes in front of the wardrobe and plentiful of books, strewn haphazardly over the carpet, as if pulled out in haste and then forgotten.
Balin hummed as he stepped closer, noticing parchments half visible in the gap between the back panel and the usually so neat row of reading material. A simple hiding place, but one that would serve its purpose well enough.
Before he could reach the end of his internal debate on whether to inspect them or not, Balin heard the scratch of quill on paper. It came from the little study he had all but forgotten about since it was so rarely put to good use.
Thorin fulfilled his duties with the grace and solemn decorum the line of Durin was known for amongst their kin, starting two years ago, when Thráin had taken him to attend his first council meeting. But he had always been a stormy child, loving to roam free and with a preference for weapons training and tournaments over intellectual pursuits. Much like Frerin, sans his younger brother's love of pranks.
And yet here Thorin sat at his desk, head bowed over a scroll that seemed ready to fall apart, one hand smoothing it out with great care, while the other held a magnifying glass. His lips moved as he struggled with the ancient script, one braid coming undone as he twirled it in frustration.
Thorin let go of his hair and looked up as the candles flickered in a sudden draft, and Balin was amused to see him freeze like a deer caught in the hunter's sight.
“Master Balin.” Thorin nodded by way of greeting, not making any effort to try and hide the scrolls that cluttered his desk, though the impulse seemed there. “Forgive me, I must have lost track of time. I had no intention to miss - ”
“Do not worry, my Prince,” Balin interrupted with good humor, too intrigued for a lecture. “I am overjoyed to see you study voluntarily, though the shock might send me to an early grave.”
Thorin set the magnifying glass aside and scowled. “You must confuse me with Frerin.”
“Not at all.” Balin reached for a parchment and gave it a gentle tug towards the circle of light. “May I see?”
“Nosy,” Thorin grumbled into his beard, but obediently lifted his elbow. “It is nothing. Idle curiosity.”
Balin was surprised to find the paper covered in the elegant loops and curls of Elvish. A quick glance at a stack of dusty tomes revealed them as dictionaries, and beside those lay freshly inked notes in Thorin's bold handwriting.
“'The War of Wrath.' What a curious choice of topic,” Balin commented. “Has your meeting with the Elvenking sparked this sudden interest in history?”
Thorin shifted in his seat, then stilled. “Hardly. It was a very formal affair. I barely spoke to him.”
“Have you taken offense at something King Thranduil said? He can be...,” Balin gestured distractedly, struggling to find a polite euphemism, “...difficult.”
Thorin huffed a laugh and Balin grimaced. Both knew very well that Thrór found far more colorful adjectives when it came to describing the Elvenking and his kin, even in these times of friendship.
“I did not,” Thorin answered, his features softening. “And I agree that he is proud to the point of arrogance, but then, all Elves are.”
Balin smiled, thinking that prejudices and pride were something Elves and Dwarves had very much in common, but refrained from sharing his observation. Thorin had grown up sheltered and should be allowed to draw his own conclusions.
“He also seemed very aloof, as if few things could hope to touch him or hold his attention.”
Balin nodded, wondering at the tone in Thorin's voice. It could have been pity or sadness just as well as bland curiosity.
“He is immortal, my Prince. Thranduil measures his time in centuries and millennia. I imagine joy and pain have left their mark on him.”
Thorin pondered that for a moment, his expression inscrutable. “So you say the First Born are set apart from us.”
“In a way, but not as much as they would wish for us to think.”
Balin nodded to himself, the memory clear: pouting Legolas, chased down by Dwarven guards and dragged back to his father's side, and the Elvenking himself, waxing poetic after too splendid a feast, with a drowsy Thrór sitting beside him, nodding along.
He was a bit bewildered by Thorin's sudden, crestfallen expression, but was quick to give him a hearty slap on the back that rattled bone and inkwell alike.
“Take heart, my Prince. Go ahead if you wish to strike up a friendship with one of the Elves. Different they may be, but it's nothing that can't be overcome with enough effort.”
Not the kind of advice Thrór would be pleased with, especially now that their relations had soured, but Balin saw no harm in it. Surely, he was simply worrying too much in the first place and if not, then such a bond could only serve Erebor well.
“Thank you, Balin.” Thorin smiled at him, sitting up straight in a way that spoke of new-found resolve. “I think I will do just that.”
The End