For Samtyr (fic) Thranduil/ Elrond PG-13
Title: Start at the Beginning
Pair: Thranduil/ Elrond
Rating: PG-15
Warnings: Minor use of profanity allusion to adult themes
Notes: Written for Samtyr, who requested a hidden scroll being discovered in the library. I hope you like it!
Props: Thank you to my dear beta Artemis for listening to the wails
Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not now, nor have I ever had any claim over the characters mentioned within. Thranduil, Elrond, Bilbo, and the dwarves are the intellectual property of the Tolkien Estate. I make no money from this story.
*crash*
“SHHH!” Bilbo hissed at absolutely no one. Of course it was no one, Thranduil’s library was nearly abandoned this time of night. //Talking to the air now, are we, Bilbo? Yes, yes the dwarves have officially driven you mad. Soon you’ll be talking about your Precious and cursing splashes like that mad creature in the mountain.//
Though he knew the ring made him invisible, he crouched low and looked around, praying no one had been close enough to hear the vase fall. After a long, tense wait, he began to quietly pick up the shards of broken pottery, glad that at least it had not been filled with dirt. His hands brushed against something solid and leathery. //What could this be?//
He brushed the shards aside and picked up the leather bound book. //Curious place to hide a book.// Hearing footsteps approach, Bilbo tucked it into his vest and slipped out when the door opened.
**37 Ethuil, 1480
Adar wishes me to travel to far off Lindon and discuss trade with the Noldor. I cannot imagine they could have anything of use to Greenwood. They are bloodthirsty and savage, their coloring as black as their hearts.
Nothing good will come from this visit. At best, we may be able to trade a few baubles. But I suspect any kind of alliance would be one-sided. Greenwood will always come to the aid of her allies. The Noldor…well, they make war upon themselves, how can they be trusted to aid us? I am sure our cousins in Alqualonde and Doriath never saw the blade coming at their backs.
Greenwood will not be so naïve.**
Bilbo closed the book silently, feeling a little bit like a voyeur. He’d found someone’s private journal! He fidgeted with the ring on his finger, pondering the writer’s identity. This was clearly someone of rank. A diplomat, or at least the son of a diplomat. And likely an unsuccessful one, judging by the writer’s prejudice against the people he would be trying to woo. Bilbo thought back to his time in Rivendell. The elves of the Last Homely House had been nothing but kind to their party (despite the dwarves’ hostility), and none moreso than their wise lord Elrond. Bloodthirsty savages indeed!
Stifling a snort, he waited for the guard to pass, opened the journal, and settled into his corner for the night.
~~~
**14 Laer, 1480
The trip to Lindon was incredibly…dull. I know I should be happy about this, as it means the Enemy has buggered off somewhere, but weeks of mile after mile of flat land, the High Pass (a refreshing change of pace!), followed by even more flat land… My brain may have leaked out of my ear somewhere…
Sadly, Adar’s guards were of little help. They spoke only among themselves and quieted whenever I came near. I understand that there must be a distinction between royalty and everyone else, but what is a prince to do when, like an idiot, he forgets to bring someone to talk to?
Badger the guards until they were just as miserable as I, that is what.
Lindon itself is cramped, crowded, loud… not home. I miss the trees already, but…hm. Lindon is not home. I could be just another elf passing through. This could be interesting…**
Bilbo blinked, pondering the new development. The writer was a prince. Was this Legolas, perhaps? He’d seen Mirkwood’s prince roaming the halls, and had almost been caught by him twice. He seemed to be of a restless enough spirit to enjoy something like going around a strange town incognito.
He opened the book again. The next entry seemed to be from that same day.
**Well then! Lindon is not quite as bad as I first believed. Do not mistake me, it is still cramped, crowded and loud, but with the many races passing through, it is remarkably easy to go around and be just another face. I was not Thranduil, son of Oropher. I was Lhun, son of nobody’s business but my own as long as I had a purse full of coin and a willingness to spend it. Which I did. And I was.
The ‘scenery’ was…enlightening. I shared a table with delightful young ellon called Elladan. He was fun! Witty, droll…and quite lovely. He is dark, like so many of his Noldorin kinsmen, but his eyes are the color of storm clouds and spark with far more sass than any healer has a right to possess. It was only the fact that he had me in stitches of laughter that kept me from being hard as mithril. I will admit, I was surprised, as he is certainly not what would normally draw my eye. But his eyes…ah, my lovely Elladan.I would not turn down a roll or ten.
Not that I COULD indulge in a romp, what with Adar’s guards dogging my every step. I am fairly certain one of them has even bedded down in front of my door! It was only by sheer luck that I managed to escape through my window. Honestly, the things a prince must do to get privacy!
Ahh well, time for bed, I suppose. I need to be well rested if I am to keep the ‘High King’ from fleecing us.**
Bilbo closed the book. Thranduil’s journal. He was reading the KING’S journal. Well...a prince at the time, but a king now! This must have been written centuries ago! He took a moment to be giddy at holding something so old in his hand.
He pressed tightly to the bars of Kili and Fili’s cell as Thranduil’s guards passed them, clearly drunk as skunks, the smell of wine hanging on them heavily. Once they were out of sight - and hopefully out of hearing or too drunk to notice - he leaned in. “Psst.”
The two young princes looked up, confused.
“Pssst,” he tried again. “Boys!”
“Mister Boggins?”
“Yes, Kili, now hurry. I have a plan.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A shivering Bilbo sat close to the fire in his room, pulling the quilt tighter around himself. The people of Laketown had been generous to the 14 wet, bedraggled strangers stumbling into their midst. They were given shelter, food, and dry clothes. Once the town elders had learned of Thorin’s identity, he had been offered his own private room in the mayor’s home. Much to Bilbo’s surprise, the dwarven king had offered the room to him, choosing instead to spend the evening in the company of his nephews. Not that Bilbo could blame him. Thorin, Fili, and Kili seemed to be very close, and being separated from them during his imprisonment must have been terrible.
If he were honest with himself, Bilbo envied the close relationships the dwarves seemed to have with their families. They worried for each other, stood united against enemies… Bilbo’s own family had been distant a best. Belladonna Baggins had tried her best, but she had chafed at the restrictions caring for a child placed on her, and Bungo had been more interested in his books than listening to his son natter on about this insect and that tree he’d SWORN he’d seen an elf hiding in...
But Thorin’s need to see to his nephews had provided Bilbo with the perfect chance to get a little privacy. He unwrapped his book, relieved to find it dry despite his journey down the river. He pulled the blanket close and opened to the next entry.
**15 Laer, 1480
That lying…deceitful…NOLDOR! Elladan the Healer turned out to be Elrond, the King’s blasted Herald! And before you say anything (not that you can, because you are a piece of parchment), I am well aware of how hypocritical it is to be angry with him for doing the exact same thing I did. But this…this RUINS it! How can I possibly sit across from him and negotiate trade deals when I would rather bend him over the table? But I cannot do that with Elrond the Herald. The next few weeks will be a nightmare.
Why could he not have just been Elladan, my wonderfully wicked Healer?**
Bilbo winced in sympathy. He had never quite considered how difficult it would be for royalty to meet people, make friends, take a lover or two. As a Baggins, he carried enough wealth that he’d had his fair share of suitors, but he could still go about his business without tripping over guards or being a target for the politically ambitious.
He bundled up tighter in the blanket and read on.
**21 Laer 1480
I was right. The past week has been the most frustratingly useless six days of my life. Every negotiation has descended into childish name calling. And loathe as I am to admit it, it has been primarily my doing. I can handle Elrond the Herald. He is as stuffy and self-important as any of Adar’s advisors. But just when I am working my way to finally WINNING one of these discussions, the sneaky son of a flea infested warg says or does something to remind me that he is my sassy healer too, and I am distracted. I suspect he does it on purpose because I am getting NOTHING accomplished, and he seems to delight in getting me flustered.
Thankfully tomorrow we have a day of rest. I am looking forward to exploring the city.**
Bilbo shook his head. The Thranduil writing these entries was so much younger than the Thranduil who now ruled Mirkwood. And pitiful in his unrequited lust. Poor elf.
**22 Laer 1480
Note to self - The number of skilled elves in Lindon is evidently lacking. It turns out Elrond the Herald actually IS a healer.
Merion must not find out that I nearly cut my arm off while flipping my sword. He would never let me live it down. Ever. He always fusses when his students ‘disrespect the blade like silly traveling performers’.
First of all, I quite enjoy when traveling performers entertain the court, particularly the Grey company. They always have something new to show, and they are never stingy about showing others how they do what they do. I have spent quite a few hours in their tents, listening to stories.
But I digress. I was simply displaying my skill with a blade for an appreciative audience of elflings. I was certainly NOT doing anything I have not done perfectly hundreds of times before. But of course, this time…THIS TIME…I mucked it up and nearly cut off my wrist while trying to catch the pommel behind my back. I played it off, of course. Noldor or not, there is no need to frighten the elflings, but the moment they were called back to their classes, I took myself off to the healer.
And of course, because the valar hate me, Elrond was the healer on duty. To give him credit, he did not make any remarks about how I got the injury, nor did he lecture me like the healers at home are wont to do. I am thankful for that, at least. However, the moment we stopped being Healer and Patient, he was merciless in his teasing. Beautiful, wretched Half-Elf.
He did buy me a drink afterward. It was as though the moment he had to stop being official, he could be my cheeky drinking partner again.
Two things learned from this incident. First - do NOT use borrowed swords to perform tricks and show off for elflings (and ladies, because there were quite a few lovely ladies), and second, peredhil can tolerate a lot of alcohol (but still not as much as I can!), and Elrond is a frisky drunk. And one who comes up with the most absurd pet names. Maldulin, he calls me. Goldfinch. I told him I would knock his skull in if he called me that again. He laughed. I hope he wakes up in the morning with dwarves mining in his brain.
I look forward to torturing him. Perhaps I will feel the need to yell.**
Bilbo closed his book and sighed, banking the fire before climbing into bed. It was just as well that he’d managed to get his dwarves out of the Elf King’s clutches before he got it in his mind to get serious about his interrogating. Clearly, he had a sadistic streak behind all of that pretty elven hair.
~~~~
Bilbo collapsed into bed, every muscle he owned and a few he didn’t all in revolt. Hobbits were NOT made for running from dragons, nor were they designed to haul large chunks of charred marble from pathways. The days since their stay in Laketown had been exhausting. Between the march to the Lonely Mountain, his battle of wits with Smaug the Furnace with Wings and Sharp Bloody Teeth, followed by cleaning up piles of dragon shit and broken masonry, he was dead on his feet every night. He promised himself that he would re-examine Balin’s contract, because surely this was not in the agreement.
Despite his body’s exhaustion, Bilbo lay wide awake, his mind refusing to shut off. He tugged his book out of the bedroll and opened it the final entry, clearly years later.
**39 Firith 1698
I received a letter from Elrond today. He has settled in a vale along the Bruinen on the western side of the Misty Mountains. Imladris, he called it. He promised to invite me for a visit once construction of his sanctuary is complete. We’ll have lunch by the waterfalls, supposedly. Personally, I think he is more romantic than practical. A lunch by a waterfall ends up with everyone more than a little soggy and no one happy.
Silly, romantic half-elf. My silly, sweet, idiot of a half-elf. I will miss him.
Adar knows about our correspondence and demands I break it off. He found my last letter and questioned the guards who went with me to Lindon those many years ago. He lectured me for hours on my duty to my kingdom and to my family. Nothing can come of it, he says. I must take a wife from among our people and forget my ‘silly dalliance’.
I am forbidden from further personal correspondence with him. Adar took him away from me. He thinks he has won, but he cannot make me forget how we met, how slowly we courted and how perfect it was when our bodies finally came together under the summer moon.
No matter what happens, I will always have that.**
Bilbo closed the book, tucking it safely in his pack. His eye caught the glimmer of a stone tucked inside. The Arkenstone. He’d quite literally tripped over it while running from Smaug’s rage. He’d meant to give it to Thorin once things had settled, but the time never seemed right, and now the new King Under the Mountain walked around with a queer, unhealthy look in his eye. Bilbo would wait for a better time.
A better time never came. Instead Elves and Men came with armies and demands for Dwarven Gold. All of which were met with rage and greed among the dwarves. Bilbo feared for them. The dwarves had become his friends. His family, if he were being perfectly honest with himself. Against the combined might of Laketown and Thranduil’s forces, 13 dwarves and 1 untrained hobbit stood no chance. Even if Dain’s warriors arrived from the Iron Hills in time, their survival was…unlikely.
Bilbo eyed the shining stone and sighed. There was only one thing to do, and even though it would no doubt earn him the hatred of his dwarves, he would rather they live long enough to hate him.
He grabbed his pack and walking stick.
~~~
“Alright, Halfling, you have us here, now what?” Thranduil smoothed the fabric of his cloak.
Bilbo eyed them, determined not to be intimidated by the tall bowman and the even taller elf. “I would like to discuss cessation of hostilities against Erebor.”
“Not until we are given what is owed to us,” Bard demanded.
“Fine,” Bilbo said. “You have a bargaining chip.”
“YOU?” he asked.
“This.” He pulled out a sack and dumped the stone out.
Thranduil’s eyes flared wide. “The King’s Stone.” He frowned. “What game are you playing, Master Hobbit?”
“No game, Sire.”
“They will hate you,” he prophesied.
“I know, but at least they will be alive to hate me.” He turned his attention back to Bard. “Use this for leverage. Ask for the Burglar’s share.”
“If I do this, they will know by what manner I came to possess it. Where will you go then?” Bard asked.
“That is my concern. Do we have a deal? Will Laketown withdraw its forces?”
Bard studied him. “We have a deal, Halfling.” He took the stone and stood, shaking his hand. “I pray you know what you are doing, Bilbo Baggins.” He slipped out of the tent.
“And what will you use to gain my cooperation, Master Hobbit?” asked the Elf King.
“Actually, Maldulin, I have something that belongs to you. I found it while we were guests in your home.” He pulled the wrapped book out of his pack.
Thranduil leaned in. “Where did you hear that name, Hobbit?”
Bilbo smiled. “Agree to pull your warriors away, Thranduil-king.”
“Tell me where you heard it!”
“Agree to my terms. Take your warriors back to your forest.”
Thranduil glared at him for a long moment. Finally, his shoulders dropped. “Fine.”
“Fine? Fine what?”
The noble elf sighed. “FINE, I will withdraw my claim to the treasures of the mountain.”
“And?”
“And I will pull my warriors back and return to my realm.”
“I want your word.”
“I give you my Oath. Greenwood will make no attempt to gain Erebor’s wealth by force.”
Bilbo sighed in relief. “Thank you. Really.” He handed the parcel over.
The king quickly unwrapped it. He hesitated, stroking the worn leather. “I have not seen this in years. I thought it lost for good.”
“It was in the bottom of a vase in the library. Sorry about that, by the way. I hope it wasn’t some priceless First Age relic.”
Thranduil’s smile was faint. “Not at all. I absolutely hated it, so you did me a favor.” He sighed. “You will have your armistice, Master Hobbit.”
“Thank you.” Bilbo stood to leave, pausing at the tent’s entrance. “Sire?”
“Yes, Master Baggins?” He sounded tired.
“If it helps…he still thinks of you. When he thinks he is alone, his eyes are always turned toward Greenwood.” He donned his ring and slipped out into the night.
Thranduil stared down at the book in his hand and opened to Page One.
~~'~{@