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“Well, I should have expected that,” Dwalin says under his breath as the stomping applause dies away. Balin gives him a curious look.
“Expected what, brother?”
“That he’d be as talented an orator as he is a scribe,” Dwalin says gruffly, nodding towards the very pink and very proud form of Ori up on the dais where he has just finished declaiming the Saga of the Company of Thorin son of Thrain, Called Oakenshield for His Deeds, Who Reclaimed the Lonely Mountain from the Dragon Smaug. “He was always so shy on the quest, I didn’t think he could do something like this.”
“The quest changed us all,” Balin points out, rubbing absently at the long scar down his arm that he gained in that dreadful final battle. “After facing an army of orcs, I can’t imagine a hall of eager listeners holds much terror for the lad.”
“Point,” Dwalin agrees, and watches in silence as the king and his family descend on Ori en masse to congratulate him.
“So, when are you going to say something to the lad?” Balin asks after a few minutes.
“Don’t know that I will,” Dwalin rumbles. “Look.” He gestures at the dais, where Ori is now surrounded by nearly a dozen young beauties of the court, of all genders and descriptions, all of them clearly flirting their hearts out. “He’s a polished diamond of the court now. What would he need with a grizzled old warrior like me?”
“Need, nothing,” Balin sighs. “He can hold his own in battle, as you very well know. But he might want a grizzled old warrior, brother. Not everyone’s taste runs to semiprecious stones like those,” he gestures dismissively at the court beauties, “and you’re something of a diamond yourself, if rather unpolished.”
“Hmmmmph,” Dwalin says. Balin sighs at him.
“Look, the rest of the Company is going up to congratulate him; we should at least do that much,” he says. “Come along, brother, and don’t look so gloomy - he’ll think you didn’t like it.”
Dwalin follows Balin up onto the dais, where the Ur brothers are cheerfully embracing Ori all at once - the poor lad looks rather smothered, actually, and Dwalin’s protective instincts kick in before he can think better of it. He plucks Bofur and Bombur away - gently, since they are also his comrades in arms - and taps Bifur on the shoulder. Bifur lets go of Ori with a gruff apology in Khuzdul, and Ori smoothes down his tunic and grins up at all of them.
“Did you like it?” he asks hopefully. Dwalin swallows.
“It was magnificent,” he admits. “You have a true gift.” Ori beams. Balin nudges Dwalin sharply, and Dwalin takes a deep breath. It’s traditional to offer to buy a story-singer a drink to soothe their dry throat after a particularly good performance; it’s a sign of appreciation and approval. But it’s also traditional for the story-singer to refuse if they’re not interested in spending time with the buyer. Dwalin’s pretty sure he heard at least a few of the court beauties offer to buy Ori drinks, and he refused them all, politely but quite firmly. None of the company have offered yet, because, Dwalin knows, they’re waiting for him to say something - all but the other two Ri brothers, who Mahal willing have not yet realized that Dwalin is head-over-heels for their little brother.
“It would be my honor,” he says gruffly, “if you would allow me to buy you a drink to quench your thirst after so fine a performance.”
Ori’s grin gets even wider. “That would please me very much,” he says, and Dwalin, knowing he’s blushing to the tips of his ears, offers the young scribe his arm.
The feeling of Ori tucked contentedly against his side is more than worth the glares from Ori’s overprotective older brothers - especially when Ori sighs happily as they leave the hall and says, “After you buy me a drink, would you like to get dinner? Just the two of us?”
“Just the two of us,” Dwalin agrees, smiling down at the smaller dwarf. “It would be my honor.”
“Good,” Ori says contentedly.
And it is.