Work Text:
When Ori had imagined his wedding, he had never imagined it quite like this. He had always assumed that he would marry for love or perhaps remain married to his Craft. He never imagined that he would find himself married off to the Captain of the King’s Guard, barely of age, and not yet begun his apprenticeship. Circumstances being what they were, however, Ori son of Khoris stood beside Dwalin son of Fundin and pledged his soul to a dwarrow he did not know.
--------
“A marriage to the Captain of the King’s Guard is more than we could ever have hoped for,” Dori had told him. Such a match would allow Ori the luxury of choosing a craft without thought of finances or practicality. None of them would ever go hungry again. It would absolve them of the responsibility of Nori’s debts.
-------------
Ori did not have many friends, and Nori had refused to attend. (In fact, Ori had not seen nor heard from Nori since he had been informed of the impending wedding). In the end, Dori stood as Ori’s attendant. He could not name the dwarrows that stood with his intended, though it was easy to tell by their finery that they were all nobility. By the way Dori had fussed, they were clearly important.
--------
Ori had awoken that night to the sound of slamming doors and raised voices.
“You have left me with no choice!” Dori had shouted.
“There’s always a choice!” Nori had shouted back. “And any choice is better than that kakhuf inbarathrag!”
“You owe too many people money Nori!” Something crashed against the wall, and Ori slid further under his blanket. “They’ve started coming knocking! That lowlife Uggi has demanded Ori’s hand in place of the money you owe him, and there is nothing I can do about it! He has that right! Do you know what someone like that will do to a sweet boy like Ori? And how many more will begin to demand the same thing? At least this way I’ll know that he’s taken care of.”
---------
The wedding ceremony had been mercifully short with no reception following. Instead, Dwalin had taken his hand and led him to a small house within the vicinity of the royal residence. The place was simply but comfortably decorated. From what Ori could tell, there was a kitchen, a dining area, a living area, and a handful of rooms with closed doors. Dwalin stopped at the last door at the end of the hall and gestured for Ori to enter. His few possessions had already been delivered, and the bed had been draped in his mother’s knitted blankets.
This was the moment of truth it seemed, and yet Dwalin had already turned to leave with a, “If ye need anythin’, my room is across the hall.”
“Wait!” Ori implored.
“What is it, laddie?” Dwalin turned back to address him. Ori gulped as he tried to collect his thoughts. In an effort to remain calm, he had avoid looking too closely at his new husband before this moment. Dwalin was an imposing dwarrow, but even underneath his ceremonial armor, his muscles were apparent, and Ori could not help but think that being bedded by him of all dwarrow may not be the worst thing.
“Laddie?” Dwalin repeated, his eyebrows raised.
Ori felt the blood rise to his cheeks and quickly looked down to his own feet as he realized he had been caught staring. “I am… aware of my husbandly duties. That is to say…”
When he could no longer find the words, Ori began to undo the laces at the neck of his wedding clothes. He flinched as Dwalin grabbed his hands roughly and barked out a harsh, “No.”
“No,” Dwalin repeated more softly a moment later. He released Ori’s hands and said, “Tha’ won’t be needed. Ye don’ owe me anythin’, lad.”
When he released his hands, Dwalin fled the room, leaving Ori feeling confused and oddly nauseous.
------
Their marriage continued in much the same manner. They developed a hesitant friendship, but any kind of physical contact remained off limits, by Dwalin’s insistence. Ori could not understand his husband’s reluctance, and he couldn’t help but feel rejected.
He and Dwalin shared meals as often as they could. The better Ori came to know Dwalin, the more his heart ached for something more. Sometimes he thought he could see that something behind Dwalin’s eyes, but the larger dwarrow always brushed it off with a brief remark and an, “Aye, laddie.”
On their first anniversary, Ori presented Dwalin with a pair of gloves that he had knit to fit under his knuckle dusters, as well as a hat for patrols.
“It gets cold this time of year,” he had explained, a faint blush apparent across his cheeks. Dwalin had taken them with a grunted, “Thank you, laddie,” and presented Ori with a knife to sharpen his quills, forged by his own hand. Ori had accepted graciously, and, upon no more conversation being engaged, had quickly retreated to his own room.
It was from Dori that Ori later heard about the effect his gift had had among the other guards.
“Lofir, one of the younger recruits, gave him trouble,” Dori explained one afternoon over tea. “To be fair, he does look rather silly with a knit cap on his head and all of those tattoos peeking out. But Dwalin is not the kind of dwarrow to be laughed at, no. Got blood all over your pretty gloves. Such a shame.”
When Ori next saw the gloves on Dwalin’s hands, they had been cleaned, but he could still see the discoloration from where someone else had bled on them. He felt a sense of pride in his husband and set to knitting him some new socks to match his hat and gloves
---------
It was just over two years between the wedding of Ori son of Loris to Dwalin son of Fundin and the day the Company of Thorin Oakenshield set out to reclaim the Lonely Mountain. Nori had signed onto the Company as some kind of plea deal. Ori, whether he was willing to admit as much or not, had found himself in love with his husband, and, as such, he was unwilling to remain behind. Dori had followed along, always the protective older brother.
The journey was long and grueling. Dwalin had had to save Ori’s life more times than Ori was comfortable with by the time they reached Erebor. In the course of the battle, however, Ori finally came into his own. He stayed near his brother and his husband as long he was able, and on one occasion cut off the head of an orc that had tried to take Dwalin’s head.
Losing sight of Dwalin was the most terrifying event of Ori’s short life. He would later learn that, as was his duty, Dwalin had followed the king and the princes to Ravenhill. At the time, however, he was quite sure that his husband had fallen. In a blind rage, or so he would be informed later, Ori retrieved a fallen battle axe from the ground and slew every orc within his reach.
When the battle was over, Dori forced Ori to the dwarvish healing tents. It was there that he found Dwalin standing guard outside of the king’s tent. It was there that he ran into his husband’s arms for the first time.
“I thought you were dead, you bastard!” Ori shouted, tears streaming down his face as he threw his full weight into Dwalin’s chest. He wrapped arms around Dwalin and croaked, “You can’t die, Dwalin. You can’t leave me, yet. I love you.”
Dwalin lifted Ori from the ground until Ori could wrap both legs around his waist and replied, “I love ye, too, laddie. I love ye, too.”
Ori did not know how long they stood there. Tears streamed down both of their faces as they held on to one another for dear life. At some point, someone must have brought a crate because Dwalin lowered him gently until he was straddling his lap.
“This isn’t how I thought this would go,” Ori whispered as he wiped away tears and crusted blood from Dwalin’s cheek. Nonetheless, he leaned in and pressed his lips gently against Dwalin’s. Dwalin pressed back in return and ran his fingers through his hair.
“No, laddie,” he finally whispered in return. “But I think it’s pas’ time I braided yer hair for myself.”
“And I, yours,” Ori agreed before kissing his husband again.
When Oin declared the king and the princes would live, Dwalin allowed others of the Company to take over his watch. He led Ori to a tent that his by right of rank. There they undressed one another for the first time. Each cleaned the other’s wounds before they collapsed together, face to face, in the small cot that had been left for them. There would time for talking and love making and heartfelt declarations later. For now, they were too exhausted for much beyond holding tight to one another and a whispered, “I love you, Dwalin.”
“I love ye, too, laddie.”
“Please, call me Ori,” Ori whispered pleadingly into Dwalin’s chest.
“I love ye, Ori,” was the last thing Ori heard before he drifted to sleep.