Fanfiction: Spring Break (The Hobbit - An Unexpected Journey)
Title: "Spring Break"
Status: Complete
Fandom: The Hobbit/Lord of the Rings
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Thorin, Thranduil, Legolas, Tauriel
Disclaimer: The Hobbit J. R. R. Tolkien and Peter Jackson. No copyright infringement intended.
Rating: PG
Genre: AU, pre-canon, friendship, humor, gen/pre-slash
Warnings: bad (stealth) flirting
Summary: The ceremony of Spring Break was sacred, an age-old tradition, religiously upheld and adhered to, but truth told: everyone is just there for the wine. Except for Thorin...
AN: Written for Ardor in August 2014, as a gift for ladymirfain.
Spring Break
Greenwood sheltered the Elves that lived within like no other forest could have.
False whispers and illusions led their enemies astray, confusing the senses and using fears that held a primal sway over mortals. Fruits and game were plentiful, as was beauty, providing them with all the nourishment they needed, both body and soul.
It was a place for family and friends to gather, of comfort and safety. It was home.
Thus the ceremony of Spring Break was sacred, an age-old tradition, religiously upheld and adhered to, that renewed their bond with nature beyond the daily customs of their lives.
And yet, quite frankly, after hundreds and thousands of years of participating, the whole affair became bothersome. Really, who didn't attend only because of the after-party?
XXX
Legolas leaned against the warm bark of a mighty oak with every intention of fading into the background.
Beyond the gathered spectators, a sea of festive garments and solemn faces, the offerings were brought forth, accompanied by a hymn of prayer that echoed under the canopy. Legolas had helped gather and prepare most of them, thus his nails were tinted green, smelling faintly of herbs and sap.
The flames of auburn hair in the corner of his eye made him smile, but Legolas knew it would take hours before Tauriel's lovely features would show anything other than a stoic mask to fit the occasion. - Of course that had not stopped her from pinching his ear earlier, but sadly, that had more to do with him filching honey cakes from the kitchen than any flirtation on her part.
They had grown up as siblings might, the difference in years and status between them negligible, but Legolas was keenly aware that his feelings had changed, away from friendly pranks and competition, to something more tender in nature.
Sadly, determining whether or not his feelings were reciprocated seemed to necessitate making a fool of himself more often than not.
“Tauriel.” He acknowledged her presence with a smile. “Jonquils suit you.”
“I think not.” She reached up quickly to stop her flower crown from sliding down, adding with a teasing edge, “But they look very sweet on you, my Prince.”
Legolas clutched his chest in mock offense, delighted to see amusement darken her sea green eyes. “You wound me.”
“Hush.”
He sketched a little bow, complying readily enough. They stood and watched in companionable silence as incense and herbs were burned, symbols for manifold virtues and wishes.
It was Galion's duty to sprinkle them into the flames, his nose twitching dangerously as he did so. While he had to endure the full force of the bitter-sweet aroma, it was the revered Eldest Lalvel who startled everyone by blowing her nose none too delicately.
Merriment rippled through the crowd, a peal of laughter here, a chuckle there, but all were quelled immediately by the Elvenking's stern look.
His father's voice droned on, but Legolas found no reason to pay the proceedings further heed. And he was not the only one who gazed with longing towards the food-laden tables, the wild boar roasting to perfection on a spit and the music instruments - or (mainly) the wine barrels.
“I wish something were to happen.”
No answer came forth from Tauriel, and nothing else did for hours yet. That was, until a Dwarf crashed headfirst through the underbrush.
XXX
“Halt, you infernal creature! You shall not pass!”
The cornered beast reared back, its visage a sneering mask of utter contempt for the Dwarven Prince brave enough to try and best it, fur bristling and teeth snapping.
“Hold still, you - !”
Thorin, weighed down by the saddle he carried, just barely managed to jump aside, avoiding the hooves that would have trampled him. Dust stirred up in a cloud as he hit the ground, air whooshing from his lungs.
Dwalin roared with laughter, the only witness to the event daring to do so, while the pony cantered to the far side of the paddock, tossing its head in victory. The braids of its mane went flying with the motion, beads clicking together. Quite the majestic creature to look at, wherein lay an uncanny resemblance to its new owner one better not thought about.
“Thorin - “
“I think I'm rather done for today, Dwalin.”
Thorin picked himself up, decidedly not sulking, and stormed away in a fit of temper, but later that night he snuck back out to the stables. This time he came prepared, with sugar cubes, apples and carrots, stooping not only to bribery but also a bit of cajoling and groveling.
Of course this method of negotiating a truce via advance (and after) payment for services rendered was not fail-safe. All it took were the pinions of a bird, startled into flight by loud calls and chatter, to set off a mad chase...
XXX
Swallowing curses as he thundered on, his guards left behind in the dust and already well out of earshot, Thorin finally saw a light at the end of the tunnel that was the impenetrable thicket of Greenwood.
His relief, however, was short-lived as he felt the muscles of his mount tensing, only a second before it came to an abrupt halt. Like a vision of the inevitable future he saw himself sailing through the air, ending up a twisted lump of broken bones and clothing on the ground.
Miraculously, due to sheer stubbornness and the strong grip of his thighs, Thorin managed to stay in the saddle. Even better, he did so without ending up clinging to the pony’s long neck like an overgrown barnacle.
“Praise Mahal,” Thorin muttered, heart hammering in his throat.
He slid down towards the safe ground, not even bothering to try and keep a hold on the reins as his horse escaped, taking in deep gulping breaths instead to get his bearing.
The path he stood upon opened towards a great clearing, a very common sight, even to an underground preferring Dwarf. Yet this was Greenwood, the realm of the Elvenking, friend and ally to Erebor for many centuries, and thus it felt more like being in the hall of a castle, one adorned with living jewels of birds and flowers.
The air should have been fresh, sweet on the inhale, empathizing - judging by past visits at his grandfather's side - a serene calm.
Instead there was the smell of meat roasting, the sounds of laughter and cheering, and Elves dancing. The far from raucous music drifting towards him indicated an overly complicated and formal kind of quadrille to set their pace, but what Thorin stared at far more resembled the tumbling of butterflies drunk on nectar.
“Maybe this is where Radagast picks his mushrooms...,” Thorin mused with a boyish grin.
He moved closer without conscious intent, fascinated by this complete lack of dignified conduct the oh-so-mighty First Born displayed, eyes a little overwhelmed by the sheer amount of floral decorations - and the number of long emptied wine barrels someone had disposed of close to where he emerged.
Thorin stared, craning his neck to try and see how high the neat stack reached, and very impressed when even rising on tip toes failed him. “Well, that explains a lot.”
“Prince Thorin. What an unexpected surprise.”
Thorin turned around, paling to see Elvenking Thranduil himself walking towards him, one hand leading his pony, which of course acted now as meek as a lamb. Traitor. - Which wasn't the problem at all, rather it lay in kind sapphire eyes.
“Forgive me, my Lord,” Thorin said with a deep bow, showing his empty hands that hid no weapons, falling back on manners Balin had instilled in him with saintly patience and an iron fist. “I had no intention to intrude.”
Thranduil eyed the vaguely horse-and-rider shaped hole in the underbrush, cracked and bent twigs still raining leaves onto the mossy ground. Then Thorin, standing there with scratched cheeks, a torn cape and the fading paleness that came with a scare.
“True spoken, no doubt.” Thranduil hid his amusement by raising a delicate brow. “Are you well?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Thorin took the offered reins, relinquished with no further comment in regards to the nature of his stormy and uninvited arrival. The Elvenking's silence seemed to speak volumes about Thorin's welcome, making the youth feel awkward and keen to escape.
“I ah, should take my leave.”
“Truly? It would seem a waste, now that you're here. May I offer you -”
“Wine,” a cheerful voice cut in, swaying in volume as much as its owner, a young Elf clad in a guards armor that seemed shabby in contrast to his king's silver robe. “Here.”
Thorin reared back as a cup was thrust right under his nose, grimacing as one braid got drenched in the cherry-dark liquid. Fumbling with a handkerchief to dry his hair, he snapped: “No, thank you.”
“Lasdir,” Thranduil interjected, voice tight with disapproval, “I think you have had enough.”
He reached for Lasdir who raised his hand to shield his drink, turned and beat a hasty retreat. Seeing him grin, one might think him victorious. But a mere six steps later, now closer to the fringe of whirling and sweeping dancers, as the Elf tried to take another deep swig, his lips only touched empty air.
“Admirable reflexes,” Thorin couldn't help but comment, amused by the indignant glare the drunk sent his king. “And here I thought Elves were above such human failings.”
Thranduil upended the crystal cup, allowing the wine to seep into the rich soil. “Hardly.”
“As I said, I should take my leave. My guards will already be searching for me, and I wouldn't want them to stray from the road.”
“The decisions is yours. But tell me - do I see Lord Elrond's seal on that pouch you carry? Another quest to acquire seeds?”
He sounded amused, and rightly so. It was a ready (and well-known by all involved) excuse for many a young Dwarrow to leave the Lonely Mountain, if only for a few months. While it was true that Erebor was dependent on Dale for most of their food, its soil not fertile enough for cultivation, no one saw any true need to do anything about it but rely on their trade agreements.
“Aye. But he did not fail to point out that trying the same thing again and again while expecting different results is a sign of madness,” Thorin replied dryly. “Also, he thought it a shame, friends relying on subterfuge to come visit.”
“That sounds like him.” Thranduil reached into a hidden pocket and offered a small leather pouch of his own. “Allow me to contribute as well.”
“Thank you.” Thorin took the offered item, loosened the string and peered inside, seeing something vaguely kidney shaped. “Beans?”
“Yes. Next time I visit, I shall help you plant them.”
Thorin felt a flush creep over his cheeks, not allowing himself for a moment to imagine that scene. Time spent alone with the Elvenking was far too rare, his delegation or subjects never far behind. He would need to prepare...
“I'll be looking forward to it.”
XXX
“Talk about pretexts,” Legolas muttered, watching the young Dwarrow ride away to find his guards. “Gardening. Really, Father?”
“Did I see Tauriel pinch your ear this morning? Should I mark that as progress and call the banns?”
Legolas winced, far too sober still to take such a blow without cringing. “Forget I said anything.”
“That's what I thought.”
The End
Status: Complete
Fandom: The Hobbit/Lord of the Rings
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Thorin, Thranduil, Legolas, Tauriel
Disclaimer: The Hobbit J. R. R. Tolkien and Peter Jackson. No copyright infringement intended.
Rating: PG
Genre: AU, pre-canon, friendship, humor, gen/pre-slash
Warnings: bad (stealth) flirting
Summary: The ceremony of Spring Break was sacred, an age-old tradition, religiously upheld and adhered to, but truth told: everyone is just there for the wine. Except for Thorin...
AN: Written for Ardor in August 2014, as a gift for ladymirfain.
Spring Break
Greenwood sheltered the Elves that lived within like no other forest could have.
False whispers and illusions led their enemies astray, confusing the senses and using fears that held a primal sway over mortals. Fruits and game were plentiful, as was beauty, providing them with all the nourishment they needed, both body and soul.
It was a place for family and friends to gather, of comfort and safety. It was home.
Thus the ceremony of Spring Break was sacred, an age-old tradition, religiously upheld and adhered to, that renewed their bond with nature beyond the daily customs of their lives.
And yet, quite frankly, after hundreds and thousands of years of participating, the whole affair became bothersome. Really, who didn't attend only because of the after-party?
XXX
Legolas leaned against the warm bark of a mighty oak with every intention of fading into the background.
Beyond the gathered spectators, a sea of festive garments and solemn faces, the offerings were brought forth, accompanied by a hymn of prayer that echoed under the canopy. Legolas had helped gather and prepare most of them, thus his nails were tinted green, smelling faintly of herbs and sap.
The flames of auburn hair in the corner of his eye made him smile, but Legolas knew it would take hours before Tauriel's lovely features would show anything other than a stoic mask to fit the occasion. - Of course that had not stopped her from pinching his ear earlier, but sadly, that had more to do with him filching honey cakes from the kitchen than any flirtation on her part.
They had grown up as siblings might, the difference in years and status between them negligible, but Legolas was keenly aware that his feelings had changed, away from friendly pranks and competition, to something more tender in nature.
Sadly, determining whether or not his feelings were reciprocated seemed to necessitate making a fool of himself more often than not.
“Tauriel.” He acknowledged her presence with a smile. “Jonquils suit you.”
“I think not.” She reached up quickly to stop her flower crown from sliding down, adding with a teasing edge, “But they look very sweet on you, my Prince.”
Legolas clutched his chest in mock offense, delighted to see amusement darken her sea green eyes. “You wound me.”
“Hush.”
He sketched a little bow, complying readily enough. They stood and watched in companionable silence as incense and herbs were burned, symbols for manifold virtues and wishes.
It was Galion's duty to sprinkle them into the flames, his nose twitching dangerously as he did so. While he had to endure the full force of the bitter-sweet aroma, it was the revered Eldest Lalvel who startled everyone by blowing her nose none too delicately.
Merriment rippled through the crowd, a peal of laughter here, a chuckle there, but all were quelled immediately by the Elvenking's stern look.
His father's voice droned on, but Legolas found no reason to pay the proceedings further heed. And he was not the only one who gazed with longing towards the food-laden tables, the wild boar roasting to perfection on a spit and the music instruments - or (mainly) the wine barrels.
“I wish something were to happen.”
No answer came forth from Tauriel, and nothing else did for hours yet. That was, until a Dwarf crashed headfirst through the underbrush.
XXX
“Halt, you infernal creature! You shall not pass!”
The cornered beast reared back, its visage a sneering mask of utter contempt for the Dwarven Prince brave enough to try and best it, fur bristling and teeth snapping.
“Hold still, you - !”
Thorin, weighed down by the saddle he carried, just barely managed to jump aside, avoiding the hooves that would have trampled him. Dust stirred up in a cloud as he hit the ground, air whooshing from his lungs.
Dwalin roared with laughter, the only witness to the event daring to do so, while the pony cantered to the far side of the paddock, tossing its head in victory. The braids of its mane went flying with the motion, beads clicking together. Quite the majestic creature to look at, wherein lay an uncanny resemblance to its new owner one better not thought about.
“Thorin - “
“I think I'm rather done for today, Dwalin.”
Thorin picked himself up, decidedly not sulking, and stormed away in a fit of temper, but later that night he snuck back out to the stables. This time he came prepared, with sugar cubes, apples and carrots, stooping not only to bribery but also a bit of cajoling and groveling.
Of course this method of negotiating a truce via advance (and after) payment for services rendered was not fail-safe. All it took were the pinions of a bird, startled into flight by loud calls and chatter, to set off a mad chase...
XXX
Swallowing curses as he thundered on, his guards left behind in the dust and already well out of earshot, Thorin finally saw a light at the end of the tunnel that was the impenetrable thicket of Greenwood.
His relief, however, was short-lived as he felt the muscles of his mount tensing, only a second before it came to an abrupt halt. Like a vision of the inevitable future he saw himself sailing through the air, ending up a twisted lump of broken bones and clothing on the ground.
Miraculously, due to sheer stubbornness and the strong grip of his thighs, Thorin managed to stay in the saddle. Even better, he did so without ending up clinging to the pony’s long neck like an overgrown barnacle.
“Praise Mahal,” Thorin muttered, heart hammering in his throat.
He slid down towards the safe ground, not even bothering to try and keep a hold on the reins as his horse escaped, taking in deep gulping breaths instead to get his bearing.
The path he stood upon opened towards a great clearing, a very common sight, even to an underground preferring Dwarf. Yet this was Greenwood, the realm of the Elvenking, friend and ally to Erebor for many centuries, and thus it felt more like being in the hall of a castle, one adorned with living jewels of birds and flowers.
The air should have been fresh, sweet on the inhale, empathizing - judging by past visits at his grandfather's side - a serene calm.
Instead there was the smell of meat roasting, the sounds of laughter and cheering, and Elves dancing. The far from raucous music drifting towards him indicated an overly complicated and formal kind of quadrille to set their pace, but what Thorin stared at far more resembled the tumbling of butterflies drunk on nectar.
“Maybe this is where Radagast picks his mushrooms...,” Thorin mused with a boyish grin.
He moved closer without conscious intent, fascinated by this complete lack of dignified conduct the oh-so-mighty First Born displayed, eyes a little overwhelmed by the sheer amount of floral decorations - and the number of long emptied wine barrels someone had disposed of close to where he emerged.
Thorin stared, craning his neck to try and see how high the neat stack reached, and very impressed when even rising on tip toes failed him. “Well, that explains a lot.”
“Prince Thorin. What an unexpected surprise.”
Thorin turned around, paling to see Elvenking Thranduil himself walking towards him, one hand leading his pony, which of course acted now as meek as a lamb. Traitor. - Which wasn't the problem at all, rather it lay in kind sapphire eyes.
“Forgive me, my Lord,” Thorin said with a deep bow, showing his empty hands that hid no weapons, falling back on manners Balin had instilled in him with saintly patience and an iron fist. “I had no intention to intrude.”
Thranduil eyed the vaguely horse-and-rider shaped hole in the underbrush, cracked and bent twigs still raining leaves onto the mossy ground. Then Thorin, standing there with scratched cheeks, a torn cape and the fading paleness that came with a scare.
“True spoken, no doubt.” Thranduil hid his amusement by raising a delicate brow. “Are you well?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Thorin took the offered reins, relinquished with no further comment in regards to the nature of his stormy and uninvited arrival. The Elvenking's silence seemed to speak volumes about Thorin's welcome, making the youth feel awkward and keen to escape.
“I ah, should take my leave.”
“Truly? It would seem a waste, now that you're here. May I offer you -”
“Wine,” a cheerful voice cut in, swaying in volume as much as its owner, a young Elf clad in a guards armor that seemed shabby in contrast to his king's silver robe. “Here.”
Thorin reared back as a cup was thrust right under his nose, grimacing as one braid got drenched in the cherry-dark liquid. Fumbling with a handkerchief to dry his hair, he snapped: “No, thank you.”
“Lasdir,” Thranduil interjected, voice tight with disapproval, “I think you have had enough.”
He reached for Lasdir who raised his hand to shield his drink, turned and beat a hasty retreat. Seeing him grin, one might think him victorious. But a mere six steps later, now closer to the fringe of whirling and sweeping dancers, as the Elf tried to take another deep swig, his lips only touched empty air.
“Admirable reflexes,” Thorin couldn't help but comment, amused by the indignant glare the drunk sent his king. “And here I thought Elves were above such human failings.”
Thranduil upended the crystal cup, allowing the wine to seep into the rich soil. “Hardly.”
“As I said, I should take my leave. My guards will already be searching for me, and I wouldn't want them to stray from the road.”
“The decisions is yours. But tell me - do I see Lord Elrond's seal on that pouch you carry? Another quest to acquire seeds?”
He sounded amused, and rightly so. It was a ready (and well-known by all involved) excuse for many a young Dwarrow to leave the Lonely Mountain, if only for a few months. While it was true that Erebor was dependent on Dale for most of their food, its soil not fertile enough for cultivation, no one saw any true need to do anything about it but rely on their trade agreements.
“Aye. But he did not fail to point out that trying the same thing again and again while expecting different results is a sign of madness,” Thorin replied dryly. “Also, he thought it a shame, friends relying on subterfuge to come visit.”
“That sounds like him.” Thranduil reached into a hidden pocket and offered a small leather pouch of his own. “Allow me to contribute as well.”
“Thank you.” Thorin took the offered item, loosened the string and peered inside, seeing something vaguely kidney shaped. “Beans?”
“Yes. Next time I visit, I shall help you plant them.”
Thorin felt a flush creep over his cheeks, not allowing himself for a moment to imagine that scene. Time spent alone with the Elvenking was far too rare, his delegation or subjects never far behind. He would need to prepare...
“I'll be looking forward to it.”
XXX
“Talk about pretexts,” Legolas muttered, watching the young Dwarrow ride away to find his guards. “Gardening. Really, Father?”
“Did I see Tauriel pinch your ear this morning? Should I mark that as progress and call the banns?”
Legolas winced, far too sober still to take such a blow without cringing. “Forget I said anything.”
“That's what I thought.”
The End