Fanfiction Rec-List: The Hobbit (Bagginshield)
If a FF caught your interest and you follow the link, please heed the warnings/ratings to be found at the archive/authors site.
1. Smoke In the Night by authoressjean (AO3)
Excerpt:
During his long first life, Bilbo Baggins had often found himself tongue-tied, flustered, completely stymied. But never before had he felt so helpless and unsure of what he should do. Even in his first life, facing this exact same choice, he had never wavered as much as he did now.
From behind him, inside Bag-End, he could hear the raucous laughter of the dwarves, and he let out a sigh even as it felt as if his heart smiled.
In there were fourteen of the greatest friends he had ever known, and yes, he counted Gandalf. For it had been Gandalf who had been there, in the end, helping him onto the boat, kind and gracious Gandalf. But it wasn’t Gandalf who had him all tied up in knots.
Balin was in there, alive as ever, as were Oin and Ori. Frodo had told him of their demise, of their fate in Moria, and Bilbo had cursed the ill fortune that seemed to favor the dwarves. But they were inside, and with them were Kili and Fili. Their memory had never faded, not once. Not in all his long years.
And with them, the best and worst of them all, was Thorin.
2. By the fire by Comedia (AO3)
Excerpt:
Thorin had made a point of treating Bilbo more respectfully. He would not make comments that were uncalled for, nor would he consider the slightest mistake to be a sign of incompetence or weakness. He seemed to have understood that hobbits and dwarves are different in many ways, and that Bilbo constantly would go against many hobbit traditions and habits when helping the dwarves.
However, he wouldn't stay his tongue when he thought criticism was called for, but Bilbo didn't particularly mind that; with the prince being more impartial, he had started to feel like he belonged with the group.
This did not mean he was any less surprised when Thorin sat down next to him by the campfire one night. The dwarven prince acted as if his behavior was nothing out of the ordinary - his pipe between his lips while wearing the same stern look as always - and so Bilbo tried to treat the event as such. He kept himself occupied with his own pipe, letting the familiarity of smoking calm his nerves.
They remained silent, watching the fire and observing their companions. Thorin's pipe-weed had a thick, musky scent, and Bilbo had never encountered something quite like it. Old Toby seemed lightweight and mundane in comparison. On the other hand, it shouldn't surprise him; everything about the dwarves was a little bit more brutal and, well, dense.
3. Before I Stumble Homeward by lacking (AO3)
Excerpt:
As the party nears the halfway point, Bilbo slips. He makes not a sound but for a quick, tight gasp, his arms pin-wheeling outwards as he tries to retake his balance.
It’s Thorin who grabs him. He snags the back of Bilbo’s jacket and hauls him to his feet in one smooth, fluid motion, done so thoughtlessly and with such ease that Kili and Fili nearly start laughing at the sight of it.
Thorin doubts that Bilbo would have tumbled over the edge of the cliff, thinks it more likely he’d have only stumbled forward into Bofur’s back. But Bilbo still shudders, still winces when he peeks over the ridge of the rock at the ground and speckled trees below.
He turns to Thorin with a small, uneasy smile on his lips, both grateful and apologetic.
Thorin inclines his head, and the Company moves on.
There is a saying amongst men that to save a life is to become responsible for it. Twice, Thorin has rescued their burglar. He has dropped his sword at the feet of trolls to prevent him from being ripped in half and flung himself over the edge of a mountain in order to lift Bilbo back up to safety. And in return, Bilbo has bought them time by spinning lies for the trolls to scowl at and bicker over. He has tackled an orc to the ground and buried his sword into its chest, straight down to the hilt.
By all accounts, they should be even. Thorin knows this, but he looks at the back of Bilbo’s neck, the small square of his shoulders, his thin calves and his mud-spattered heels, and he feels as though a great debt still sits between them, an untied string, hanging loose and unravelling.
4. Skin-Gold by Tawabids (AO3)
Excerpt:
They will all die. There is no other fate now. Thorin shoves his shoulder into the gut of a tall orc, jams his sword into the creature’s foot and then wrenches the blade out and decapitates it, but its shield-partner cries out and launches itself on Thorin, swinging its mace down on him again and again. It has gone wild with blood, with grief. Like Kili, Thorin thinks as he struggles to turn the blows aside. Even among the foulest of enemies, nothing divides us from them once the battle begins. Only life and death.
And then the orc stops. Its mouth opens and black ichor pours out and it looks down at the torn wound in its chest. Its brows twist in confusion and it falls sideways, with the slick noise of a sword being pulled from its gut.
“Thorin!” comes a voice from the empty air. “Thorin, get up!”
He hadn’t realised until this moment that he was on one knee, his shield missing and his free hand clutched to the wound on his hip. He finds his voice and manages to croak out one dull word.
“Halfling?”
“Yes, you lump, get up! I can’t fight them all!”
Thorin hauls himself to his feet. He feels a small hand press at the armour over his ribs, but he isn’t sure if it’s for comfort or support. It tells him this is real, the hobbit is really here beside him. Bilbo’s invisible weight shifts, smearing footprints in the blood and mud, until they are back-to-back, and then there are more goblins coming and Thorin must stop thinking about the unreality of it and fight.
He swings his sword one, twice, three times, and hears Bilbo swear. “You almost took my head off!”
“I can’t see you, you stupid troll-blight,” Thorin roars back, and ends the life of the wounded goblin at his feet. “Take off your ring!”
“You think I forgot I was wearing it, O king of the mulish?” Bilbo’s voice replies. “It’s the only thing that kept me alive long enough to find you.”
“Take it off or get out of my way!” Thorin kicks an oncoming orc in its nethers and guts it when it crumples. Green-grey intestines pour over his feet and he staggers back. “Bilbo?”
5. Discovering Mr Baggins by Eareniel (AO3)
Note: The best Bagginshield FF out there, imho! Each chapter is told in the POV of one of the Dwarrow's.
Excerpt:
“Must you take both my sons with you?” A hint of pleading entered her voice and Balin couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her. The young princes had been excited about the adventure for weeks now, prancing around the palace, completely oblivious to the worry their participation in the quest was causing to their mother. “Why are you willing to risk both your heirs on this fool’s errand?”
“Fíli and Kíli both want to go with me,” was Thorin’s answer.
“Of course they want to go with you,” she said, exasperated. “They both adore you. They would follow you into the very fires of Mordor, if you asked them. That does not mean you have to take them both with you.”
“Both of them are of age,” Thorin pointed out.
“Barely,” Dís said. “They are far too young for something like this.”
“I was younger than they are when I fought Azog at the gates of Khazad-dûm.”
“You might have been, but that still doesn’t make this right. The road is dangerous and there is no guarantee they will come back. Do you want them to end up like Frérin? Slain before they celebrate their first hundred years?” Her voice was rising, the urgency in it now unmistakeable. “I have already lost my grandfather, my father, a brother and my husband. Do you want me to lose my sons, too?”
Balin closed his eyes. Dís must have been running out of arguments to be willing to bring up Frérin. Their long-lost brother had always been a sore point for the siblings - even more so for Thorin, who had been the one to watch him die before the gates of Khazad- dûm.
Thorin’s response was too low to hear, but the voice of his sister was clear enough.
“If either of them dies, I will never forgive you.”
Balin barely had time to step away from the door before it flew open and Dís stormed out. Before the door slammed shut behind her, Balin got a glimpse of Thorin standing by the window, his back-ramrod straight with tension. When she spotted Balin, Dís stopped mid-stride, faltering. She looked away and took a few seconds to visibly compose herself and rein in her temper before she turned to him. Her attempt was mostly successful, because when she spoke, her tone was almost civil.
“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” she told Balin.
“It is me who should apologise for spying on you,” Balin said. “I happened to pass by and your raised voices drew my attention. It was not my intention to eavesdrop.”
She waved away his apology with a careless hand.
“You’ve been forced to listen to our arguments for more than a hundred and fifty years now, Balin. This one is no different.”
Balin glanced at the door. “I see that Thorin remains as stubborn as ever about the quest.”
Dís sighed.
“I have tried to make him see reason, but he is blinded by visions of gold and glory and refuses to listen.” She turned pleading eyes on him. “Is there any chance you could convince him to turn back?”
“No, I am afraid not,” Balin replied. “I have talked to him several times, but his mind is set. He is determined to reclaim Erebor and nothing I or anyone else says can sway him.
Dís gave him a weary look.
“I suppose that I can’t talk you out of joining them, either.”
Balin shook his head with a rueful smile.
“Someone sensible should go with them, to help keep those crazy dwarves in line. I am afraid Thorin won’t be of much use in that department and my brother has always been quick to support Thorin in endeavours like this, so I won’t get much help from him, either.”
Dís stepped closer, lowering her voice.
“Will you look after Fíli and Kíli for me?”
Balin laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently once before letting go.
“To the best of my ability. They can be a handful even on their good days.”
That drew a small smile from her.
“Yes, they are a pair of rascals. I have no idea who they get it from.”
“Don’t you?” Balin raised an eyebrow. By mutual silent agreement they started walking down the hall, leaving Thorin to his brooding. “I distinctly remember a young dwarven princess who liked to spend her days running away from her caretakers to join her brothers at the archery range. She refused to wear dresses and insisted on carrying a sword and always threw a tantrum when her brothers got to ride out on a patrol while she was forced to stay in the hall and study poetry.”
She snorted.
“I have always hated poetry. Besides, my dear brothers always used the patrols as an opportunity to catch wild mice and spiders and smuggle them into my room, just to hear me scream when those critters jumped at me in the dark.”
“Need I remind you of the time you hid a frog in Thorin’s bed?” Balin asked.
“That was only once!” Dís informed him, her smile growing wider at the memory. “But the month of lessons on manners had been completely worth it to hear Thorin scream like a little girl.”
6. hands too small to hold it by sparklyslug (AO3)
Excerpt:
Thorin doesn’t knock. But then, he never does.
“Have you seen the wizard?”
Bilbo is rummaging around in his box of maps, and doesn’t look up. Probably more research for that book of his, the one he’s been ‘nearly done’ with for almost twenty years. “Yes, I’ve seen him.”
“And sent him on his way, I hope,” Thorin circles the desk to stand behind Bilbo, one hand coming up to touch his shoulder, then fold over the back of his neck. It’s a hesitant, careful touch- sixty years can go by, and he can still touch Bilbo like this, like he’s afraid of even wanting to, afraid of what might happen if he does.
“Bilbo?”
Bilbo looks up, and smiles. “Yes. Yes, he’s gone.”
Thorin gives his neck a brief squeeze, and lets him go. “Good. We’ll have some peace, then. Not that he’ll leave us alone for long.”
“We might be without him for some time,” Bilbo says vaguely, turning back to his box. “Who knows when this business of Elrond’s will be finished.”
Thorin snorts, but doesn’t say anything. Typical behavior, to send out a mysterious call for a ‘very important meeting,’ ‘secrecy required,’ ‘come at once,’ when of course anyone could tell what the matter was. When the dwarves of Erebor had known that dark trouble was in the air, before the first black-robed messenger from the South had even dared come near.
7. but oh, my heart was flawed by lacking (AO3)
Excerpt:
Thorin learns of gold from his mother, sitting on her lap as a child and reaching for the burnished beads the handmaidens have braided into her hair. Her earrings are long and studded with opals and chime like bells when she moves, and her beard has been knitted around her throat so it falls like a necklace, weaved through with shining thread that glitters with the shards of sapphires.
“Your father made it for me,” she tells him when Thorin finds the bracelet on her wrist. It’s not bright yellow like the jewellery in her hair but silver, interlaced with white, round gems that gleam blue or violet in the light.
When Thorin is taught the value of stone he asks his mother why Father hadn’t crafted something finer for her. Moonstones are beautiful but commonly found in the depths of the mountain, and even common dwarves would hesitate in offering them as a gift to show affection.
It’s an innocent question and Mother receives it as such, laughing as she strokes her hands through his hair. She says it’s because it was a very long time ago, because Thrain loved her before she loved him and he knew they were her favourite. She says she’s fond of the bracelet despite its value, that she’s not ashamed to wear it even if others believe it too cheap. She says that one day when Thorin is grown he will perhaps find someone that will help him understand in a way that she cannot, tweaking his nose when Thorin frowns at her in confusion.
8. you lick your lips (you taste like years of being alone) by perkynurples (AO3)
Excerpt:
His brother's death tastes of smoke. Thick, heavy, carrying the coppery hint of blood, the early-autumn air entirely too warm for the fumes rising over the battlefield to be anything but poisonous. That's all Thorin remembers - allows himself to remember. His knees already scraped, hurting when he lands beside Frerin's body, limp as he scoops him up in his arms, his young, young face almost unrecognizable what with all the bruising and blood. It takes him a second too long to realize that he will not get to say his goodbyes, that his brother is already gone - he chokes on his sobs, chokes on the smoke, smells the smoke when he buries his face in Frerin's hair, remembers how he would spend hours upon hours at the forge, his cheeks red when he'd emerge at last, eyes glinting, a new ring or a bead or a necklace for their mother in his hands, increasingly more elaborate as his craftsmanship bettered...
In a daze, his vision blurred and cheeks burning from the tears, Thorin searches for it frantically, his hands shaking, and barks out a pained laugh when he finds it tucked away in Frerin's undershirt, close to his heart - the small pouch is soaked in blood so much he almost throws it away in disgust, the rune their mother embroidered in it once now almost destroyed, the silver thread without its gleam, torn and fraying. He loosens the string, but dares not take the contents out, simply sits there, his brother's head a dead, horrible, painful weight on his thigh, his hand closing around the gift pouch gingerly, his thumb brushing wet strands of Frerin's hair away from his forehead as he bows to join with him brow to brow one last time. He cannot resist kissing his forehead, cannot resist crying out loud, a dry, hoarse sound that turns the heads of the other soldiers scouring the battlefield nearby - he cares not.
He has never been too good at resisting, he realizes, were it pain or pleasure, but he knows all that will change now.
“Not long now,” Frerin would say more eagerly with each passing day “we shall meet very soon, I can feel it.”
Thorin would laugh and pat his shoulder and let him spin theories about how his One would look, but he felt a tinge of envy. Frerin had felt the longing from the moment he was born, or so it seemed, and he was happier for it.
9. Clarity of Vision by mithen (AO3)
Note: WIP, but almost finished.
Excerpt:
At least he had had the foresight to bring his umbrella, he consoled himself as he pulled it out of his backpack, looking out the window at the rain that was streaking down the glass. Technically his mother's umbrella--high-quality oiled paper was hard to come by, so it was a family heirloom. As he stepped outside he opened it, enjoying the way the cheerful daisy patterns bloomed above his head.
In his second-best plum-colored waistcoat and velveteen trousers, brandishing his daisy-patterned umbrella, Bilbo Baggins began to make his way to the Prancing Pony.
The umbrella blocked his vision, making it difficult to dodge puddles, and soon his feet were soaked and muddy. Grimacing, he jumped nimbly over a large, dirty puddle--
--And collided in midair with an immovable object that sent him tumbling backwards into the middle of the water. He heard a snap and had time to hope it wasn't his ribs before landing with an extremely undignified sploosh.
Sitting in the mud, he shook his head, feeling dazed. Why was there a wall in the middle of the street? As he scrambled to his feet, though, he realized he had not collided with a wall at all.
Before him stood a person taller and broader than a hobbit, yet shorter than a man, glowering down on him from under a midnight-blue hood that was dripping with rain. Beneath the hood was a bearded face and two keen eyes that were currently snapping with impatience.
"Fornost," growled the dwarf--for dwarf it must be, although Bilbo had never met one. "How do we get there?"
Bilbo gaped at the dwarf before gathering his wits. "Well, I like that!" he huffed. "The least you could do is say 'excuse me' or 'pardon me' when you run straight into a hobbit that's just minding his business, knocking him into the mud and--oh dear," he added, looking up, "breaking his umbrella!" For indeed, his mother's umbrella hung limply on one side, one of its stretchers broken in the collision. "Oh dear, oh dear." He closed the umbrella, heedless of the rain that soaked him--how much wetter could he get?--and looked at it in dismay. "I must say," he said, rounding on his assailant again, "That you could take some lessons in manners!"
The dwarf glared down at him. "You ran into me, not--"
"--For mercy's sake, Thorin, this is neither the time nor place," said a new voice. Bilbo realized that there were two other dwarves behind the rude one: the one who had just spoken had a pure white beard that forked at the bottom, and the other's bald head was covered with tattoos. "You've startled the lad and broken his umbrella, there's no need to bark at him as well."
The rude dwarf--Thorin, apparently--made an exasperated noise and turned to stride away through the rain.
"Don't mind him," said the white-bearded dwarf, looking after him with a sigh.
"Aye, he's always that way," agreed the bald dwarf, his voice a rumble.
"But where are my manners!" exclaimed the first dwarf. "I am Balin, at your service," he said with a polite bow.
"Dwalin, at your service," the other dwarf said, also bowing.
Bilbo squeezed rain out of his dripping hair and blinked dubiously at the two of them. "Bilbo Baggins...um, at yours," he said. He started to step around them. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm on my way to the Prancing Pony--"
Balin and Dwalin fell into step on either side of him; Balin extracted the broken umbrella from his grip. "Why, that's where we are staying as well! Let us treat you to a drink in order to apologize for Thorin's rudeness," he said, and Bilbo found himself marched inexorably to the inn, cheerfully escorted by the two dwarves.
1. Smoke In the Night by authoressjean (AO3)
Excerpt:
During his long first life, Bilbo Baggins had often found himself tongue-tied, flustered, completely stymied. But never before had he felt so helpless and unsure of what he should do. Even in his first life, facing this exact same choice, he had never wavered as much as he did now.
From behind him, inside Bag-End, he could hear the raucous laughter of the dwarves, and he let out a sigh even as it felt as if his heart smiled.
In there were fourteen of the greatest friends he had ever known, and yes, he counted Gandalf. For it had been Gandalf who had been there, in the end, helping him onto the boat, kind and gracious Gandalf. But it wasn’t Gandalf who had him all tied up in knots.
Balin was in there, alive as ever, as were Oin and Ori. Frodo had told him of their demise, of their fate in Moria, and Bilbo had cursed the ill fortune that seemed to favor the dwarves. But they were inside, and with them were Kili and Fili. Their memory had never faded, not once. Not in all his long years.
And with them, the best and worst of them all, was Thorin.
2. By the fire by Comedia (AO3)
Excerpt:
Thorin had made a point of treating Bilbo more respectfully. He would not make comments that were uncalled for, nor would he consider the slightest mistake to be a sign of incompetence or weakness. He seemed to have understood that hobbits and dwarves are different in many ways, and that Bilbo constantly would go against many hobbit traditions and habits when helping the dwarves.
However, he wouldn't stay his tongue when he thought criticism was called for, but Bilbo didn't particularly mind that; with the prince being more impartial, he had started to feel like he belonged with the group.
This did not mean he was any less surprised when Thorin sat down next to him by the campfire one night. The dwarven prince acted as if his behavior was nothing out of the ordinary - his pipe between his lips while wearing the same stern look as always - and so Bilbo tried to treat the event as such. He kept himself occupied with his own pipe, letting the familiarity of smoking calm his nerves.
They remained silent, watching the fire and observing their companions. Thorin's pipe-weed had a thick, musky scent, and Bilbo had never encountered something quite like it. Old Toby seemed lightweight and mundane in comparison. On the other hand, it shouldn't surprise him; everything about the dwarves was a little bit more brutal and, well, dense.
3. Before I Stumble Homeward by lacking (AO3)
Excerpt:
As the party nears the halfway point, Bilbo slips. He makes not a sound but for a quick, tight gasp, his arms pin-wheeling outwards as he tries to retake his balance.
It’s Thorin who grabs him. He snags the back of Bilbo’s jacket and hauls him to his feet in one smooth, fluid motion, done so thoughtlessly and with such ease that Kili and Fili nearly start laughing at the sight of it.
Thorin doubts that Bilbo would have tumbled over the edge of the cliff, thinks it more likely he’d have only stumbled forward into Bofur’s back. But Bilbo still shudders, still winces when he peeks over the ridge of the rock at the ground and speckled trees below.
He turns to Thorin with a small, uneasy smile on his lips, both grateful and apologetic.
Thorin inclines his head, and the Company moves on.
There is a saying amongst men that to save a life is to become responsible for it. Twice, Thorin has rescued their burglar. He has dropped his sword at the feet of trolls to prevent him from being ripped in half and flung himself over the edge of a mountain in order to lift Bilbo back up to safety. And in return, Bilbo has bought them time by spinning lies for the trolls to scowl at and bicker over. He has tackled an orc to the ground and buried his sword into its chest, straight down to the hilt.
By all accounts, they should be even. Thorin knows this, but he looks at the back of Bilbo’s neck, the small square of his shoulders, his thin calves and his mud-spattered heels, and he feels as though a great debt still sits between them, an untied string, hanging loose and unravelling.
4. Skin-Gold by Tawabids (AO3)
Excerpt:
They will all die. There is no other fate now. Thorin shoves his shoulder into the gut of a tall orc, jams his sword into the creature’s foot and then wrenches the blade out and decapitates it, but its shield-partner cries out and launches itself on Thorin, swinging its mace down on him again and again. It has gone wild with blood, with grief. Like Kili, Thorin thinks as he struggles to turn the blows aside. Even among the foulest of enemies, nothing divides us from them once the battle begins. Only life and death.
And then the orc stops. Its mouth opens and black ichor pours out and it looks down at the torn wound in its chest. Its brows twist in confusion and it falls sideways, with the slick noise of a sword being pulled from its gut.
“Thorin!” comes a voice from the empty air. “Thorin, get up!”
He hadn’t realised until this moment that he was on one knee, his shield missing and his free hand clutched to the wound on his hip. He finds his voice and manages to croak out one dull word.
“Halfling?”
“Yes, you lump, get up! I can’t fight them all!”
Thorin hauls himself to his feet. He feels a small hand press at the armour over his ribs, but he isn’t sure if it’s for comfort or support. It tells him this is real, the hobbit is really here beside him. Bilbo’s invisible weight shifts, smearing footprints in the blood and mud, until they are back-to-back, and then there are more goblins coming and Thorin must stop thinking about the unreality of it and fight.
He swings his sword one, twice, three times, and hears Bilbo swear. “You almost took my head off!”
“I can’t see you, you stupid troll-blight,” Thorin roars back, and ends the life of the wounded goblin at his feet. “Take off your ring!”
“You think I forgot I was wearing it, O king of the mulish?” Bilbo’s voice replies. “It’s the only thing that kept me alive long enough to find you.”
“Take it off or get out of my way!” Thorin kicks an oncoming orc in its nethers and guts it when it crumples. Green-grey intestines pour over his feet and he staggers back. “Bilbo?”
5. Discovering Mr Baggins by Eareniel (AO3)
Note: The best Bagginshield FF out there, imho! Each chapter is told in the POV of one of the Dwarrow's.
Excerpt:
“Must you take both my sons with you?” A hint of pleading entered her voice and Balin couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her. The young princes had been excited about the adventure for weeks now, prancing around the palace, completely oblivious to the worry their participation in the quest was causing to their mother. “Why are you willing to risk both your heirs on this fool’s errand?”
“Fíli and Kíli both want to go with me,” was Thorin’s answer.
“Of course they want to go with you,” she said, exasperated. “They both adore you. They would follow you into the very fires of Mordor, if you asked them. That does not mean you have to take them both with you.”
“Both of them are of age,” Thorin pointed out.
“Barely,” Dís said. “They are far too young for something like this.”
“I was younger than they are when I fought Azog at the gates of Khazad-dûm.”
“You might have been, but that still doesn’t make this right. The road is dangerous and there is no guarantee they will come back. Do you want them to end up like Frérin? Slain before they celebrate their first hundred years?” Her voice was rising, the urgency in it now unmistakeable. “I have already lost my grandfather, my father, a brother and my husband. Do you want me to lose my sons, too?”
Balin closed his eyes. Dís must have been running out of arguments to be willing to bring up Frérin. Their long-lost brother had always been a sore point for the siblings - even more so for Thorin, who had been the one to watch him die before the gates of Khazad- dûm.
Thorin’s response was too low to hear, but the voice of his sister was clear enough.
“If either of them dies, I will never forgive you.”
Balin barely had time to step away from the door before it flew open and Dís stormed out. Before the door slammed shut behind her, Balin got a glimpse of Thorin standing by the window, his back-ramrod straight with tension. When she spotted Balin, Dís stopped mid-stride, faltering. She looked away and took a few seconds to visibly compose herself and rein in her temper before she turned to him. Her attempt was mostly successful, because when she spoke, her tone was almost civil.
“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” she told Balin.
“It is me who should apologise for spying on you,” Balin said. “I happened to pass by and your raised voices drew my attention. It was not my intention to eavesdrop.”
She waved away his apology with a careless hand.
“You’ve been forced to listen to our arguments for more than a hundred and fifty years now, Balin. This one is no different.”
Balin glanced at the door. “I see that Thorin remains as stubborn as ever about the quest.”
Dís sighed.
“I have tried to make him see reason, but he is blinded by visions of gold and glory and refuses to listen.” She turned pleading eyes on him. “Is there any chance you could convince him to turn back?”
“No, I am afraid not,” Balin replied. “I have talked to him several times, but his mind is set. He is determined to reclaim Erebor and nothing I or anyone else says can sway him.
Dís gave him a weary look.
“I suppose that I can’t talk you out of joining them, either.”
Balin shook his head with a rueful smile.
“Someone sensible should go with them, to help keep those crazy dwarves in line. I am afraid Thorin won’t be of much use in that department and my brother has always been quick to support Thorin in endeavours like this, so I won’t get much help from him, either.”
Dís stepped closer, lowering her voice.
“Will you look after Fíli and Kíli for me?”
Balin laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently once before letting go.
“To the best of my ability. They can be a handful even on their good days.”
That drew a small smile from her.
“Yes, they are a pair of rascals. I have no idea who they get it from.”
“Don’t you?” Balin raised an eyebrow. By mutual silent agreement they started walking down the hall, leaving Thorin to his brooding. “I distinctly remember a young dwarven princess who liked to spend her days running away from her caretakers to join her brothers at the archery range. She refused to wear dresses and insisted on carrying a sword and always threw a tantrum when her brothers got to ride out on a patrol while she was forced to stay in the hall and study poetry.”
She snorted.
“I have always hated poetry. Besides, my dear brothers always used the patrols as an opportunity to catch wild mice and spiders and smuggle them into my room, just to hear me scream when those critters jumped at me in the dark.”
“Need I remind you of the time you hid a frog in Thorin’s bed?” Balin asked.
“That was only once!” Dís informed him, her smile growing wider at the memory. “But the month of lessons on manners had been completely worth it to hear Thorin scream like a little girl.”
6. hands too small to hold it by sparklyslug (AO3)
Excerpt:
Thorin doesn’t knock. But then, he never does.
“Have you seen the wizard?”
Bilbo is rummaging around in his box of maps, and doesn’t look up. Probably more research for that book of his, the one he’s been ‘nearly done’ with for almost twenty years. “Yes, I’ve seen him.”
“And sent him on his way, I hope,” Thorin circles the desk to stand behind Bilbo, one hand coming up to touch his shoulder, then fold over the back of his neck. It’s a hesitant, careful touch- sixty years can go by, and he can still touch Bilbo like this, like he’s afraid of even wanting to, afraid of what might happen if he does.
“Bilbo?”
Bilbo looks up, and smiles. “Yes. Yes, he’s gone.”
Thorin gives his neck a brief squeeze, and lets him go. “Good. We’ll have some peace, then. Not that he’ll leave us alone for long.”
“We might be without him for some time,” Bilbo says vaguely, turning back to his box. “Who knows when this business of Elrond’s will be finished.”
Thorin snorts, but doesn’t say anything. Typical behavior, to send out a mysterious call for a ‘very important meeting,’ ‘secrecy required,’ ‘come at once,’ when of course anyone could tell what the matter was. When the dwarves of Erebor had known that dark trouble was in the air, before the first black-robed messenger from the South had even dared come near.
7. but oh, my heart was flawed by lacking (AO3)
Excerpt:
Thorin learns of gold from his mother, sitting on her lap as a child and reaching for the burnished beads the handmaidens have braided into her hair. Her earrings are long and studded with opals and chime like bells when she moves, and her beard has been knitted around her throat so it falls like a necklace, weaved through with shining thread that glitters with the shards of sapphires.
“Your father made it for me,” she tells him when Thorin finds the bracelet on her wrist. It’s not bright yellow like the jewellery in her hair but silver, interlaced with white, round gems that gleam blue or violet in the light.
When Thorin is taught the value of stone he asks his mother why Father hadn’t crafted something finer for her. Moonstones are beautiful but commonly found in the depths of the mountain, and even common dwarves would hesitate in offering them as a gift to show affection.
It’s an innocent question and Mother receives it as such, laughing as she strokes her hands through his hair. She says it’s because it was a very long time ago, because Thrain loved her before she loved him and he knew they were her favourite. She says she’s fond of the bracelet despite its value, that she’s not ashamed to wear it even if others believe it too cheap. She says that one day when Thorin is grown he will perhaps find someone that will help him understand in a way that she cannot, tweaking his nose when Thorin frowns at her in confusion.
8. you lick your lips (you taste like years of being alone) by perkynurples (AO3)
Excerpt:
His brother's death tastes of smoke. Thick, heavy, carrying the coppery hint of blood, the early-autumn air entirely too warm for the fumes rising over the battlefield to be anything but poisonous. That's all Thorin remembers - allows himself to remember. His knees already scraped, hurting when he lands beside Frerin's body, limp as he scoops him up in his arms, his young, young face almost unrecognizable what with all the bruising and blood. It takes him a second too long to realize that he will not get to say his goodbyes, that his brother is already gone - he chokes on his sobs, chokes on the smoke, smells the smoke when he buries his face in Frerin's hair, remembers how he would spend hours upon hours at the forge, his cheeks red when he'd emerge at last, eyes glinting, a new ring or a bead or a necklace for their mother in his hands, increasingly more elaborate as his craftsmanship bettered...
In a daze, his vision blurred and cheeks burning from the tears, Thorin searches for it frantically, his hands shaking, and barks out a pained laugh when he finds it tucked away in Frerin's undershirt, close to his heart - the small pouch is soaked in blood so much he almost throws it away in disgust, the rune their mother embroidered in it once now almost destroyed, the silver thread without its gleam, torn and fraying. He loosens the string, but dares not take the contents out, simply sits there, his brother's head a dead, horrible, painful weight on his thigh, his hand closing around the gift pouch gingerly, his thumb brushing wet strands of Frerin's hair away from his forehead as he bows to join with him brow to brow one last time. He cannot resist kissing his forehead, cannot resist crying out loud, a dry, hoarse sound that turns the heads of the other soldiers scouring the battlefield nearby - he cares not.
He has never been too good at resisting, he realizes, were it pain or pleasure, but he knows all that will change now.
“Not long now,” Frerin would say more eagerly with each passing day “we shall meet very soon, I can feel it.”
Thorin would laugh and pat his shoulder and let him spin theories about how his One would look, but he felt a tinge of envy. Frerin had felt the longing from the moment he was born, or so it seemed, and he was happier for it.
9. Clarity of Vision by mithen (AO3)
Note: WIP, but almost finished.
Excerpt:
At least he had had the foresight to bring his umbrella, he consoled himself as he pulled it out of his backpack, looking out the window at the rain that was streaking down the glass. Technically his mother's umbrella--high-quality oiled paper was hard to come by, so it was a family heirloom. As he stepped outside he opened it, enjoying the way the cheerful daisy patterns bloomed above his head.
In his second-best plum-colored waistcoat and velveteen trousers, brandishing his daisy-patterned umbrella, Bilbo Baggins began to make his way to the Prancing Pony.
The umbrella blocked his vision, making it difficult to dodge puddles, and soon his feet were soaked and muddy. Grimacing, he jumped nimbly over a large, dirty puddle--
--And collided in midair with an immovable object that sent him tumbling backwards into the middle of the water. He heard a snap and had time to hope it wasn't his ribs before landing with an extremely undignified sploosh.
Sitting in the mud, he shook his head, feeling dazed. Why was there a wall in the middle of the street? As he scrambled to his feet, though, he realized he had not collided with a wall at all.
Before him stood a person taller and broader than a hobbit, yet shorter than a man, glowering down on him from under a midnight-blue hood that was dripping with rain. Beneath the hood was a bearded face and two keen eyes that were currently snapping with impatience.
"Fornost," growled the dwarf--for dwarf it must be, although Bilbo had never met one. "How do we get there?"
Bilbo gaped at the dwarf before gathering his wits. "Well, I like that!" he huffed. "The least you could do is say 'excuse me' or 'pardon me' when you run straight into a hobbit that's just minding his business, knocking him into the mud and--oh dear," he added, looking up, "breaking his umbrella!" For indeed, his mother's umbrella hung limply on one side, one of its stretchers broken in the collision. "Oh dear, oh dear." He closed the umbrella, heedless of the rain that soaked him--how much wetter could he get?--and looked at it in dismay. "I must say," he said, rounding on his assailant again, "That you could take some lessons in manners!"
The dwarf glared down at him. "You ran into me, not--"
"--For mercy's sake, Thorin, this is neither the time nor place," said a new voice. Bilbo realized that there were two other dwarves behind the rude one: the one who had just spoken had a pure white beard that forked at the bottom, and the other's bald head was covered with tattoos. "You've startled the lad and broken his umbrella, there's no need to bark at him as well."
The rude dwarf--Thorin, apparently--made an exasperated noise and turned to stride away through the rain.
"Don't mind him," said the white-bearded dwarf, looking after him with a sigh.
"Aye, he's always that way," agreed the bald dwarf, his voice a rumble.
"But where are my manners!" exclaimed the first dwarf. "I am Balin, at your service," he said with a polite bow.
"Dwalin, at your service," the other dwarf said, also bowing.
Bilbo squeezed rain out of his dripping hair and blinked dubiously at the two of them. "Bilbo Baggins...um, at yours," he said. He started to step around them. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm on my way to the Prancing Pony--"
Balin and Dwalin fell into step on either side of him; Balin extracted the broken umbrella from his grip. "Why, that's where we are staying as well! Let us treat you to a drink in order to apologize for Thorin's rudeness," he said, and Bilbo found himself marched inexorably to the inn, cheerfully escorted by the two dwarves.