Work Text:
There are some matters in life that are important enough to mention once in a while, yet not quite enough that they must be pursued with utmost urgency. These matters, which fall between the cracks when drafting up schedules and agendas, tend to be pushed back for years on end, before finally coming to fruition.
It was in this rather peculiar way of postponing, but not quite forgetting, that it took about a decade for a royal portrait of the King under the Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield, and his Consort Bilbo Baggins, to be finally commissioned, painted, and displayed in the halls of Erebor, along with the other portraits of the kings of old.
It was a few weeks after Durin’s Day when a small ceremony unveiling the painting was held. Being the busy king he was, Thorin couldn’t make it, but Bilbo could, so he stood among the members of the artists’ guild, and then some, and watched as they tore down a velvet curtain, revealing the portrait of him and Thorin.
It was all a very traditional affair, and despite being the first hobbit in the line of Erebor royalty Bilbo fit right in with the courtly visage of the dwarves of the past. Both him and Thorin were in ornate dwarven robes, made of silks and furs, and adorned with jewels that seemed to catch the light, though they were but a painting. On Thorin’s head rested his crown, and on Bilbo’s was a circlet wrought of gold and emerald. Thorin sat, lordly as always, upon his throne with the Arkenstone gleaming above his head. Bilbo stood next to the throne, a hand resting against the stile, and the other on Thorin’s shoulder.
Bilbo remembered fondly how that very afternoon went when they first tried out different positions for the portrait. When Bilbo first put his hand upon his shoulder Thorin had, out of instinct, reached up to clasp his hand. The painter then had frowned and gently suggested that perhaps the king would look better with both hands on the armrest of the throne. Thorin then clutched Bilbo’s hand, and rather with the tone of a pouting child (according to Bilbo, at least) he insisted that his hand was touching Bilbo’s in the portrait.
Not being one to disagree with a king, the flustered dwarf had agreed, but warned that it wouldn’t be an easy position to hold for hours on end. Thorin, stubborn as always, pressed on anyway, and he held his hand over Bilbo’s for the rest of the day, until his arms trembled and ached from the sheer effort of keeping it up.
“You are by far the silliest dwarf I have ever met,” Bilbo had said that night as he rubbed down Thorin’s arm with fragrant oil and no small amount of elbow grease. “It was worth it. I got to hold your hand,” Thorin had replied with a fond smile, his face half-buried in the pillow as he watched his husband work. Bilbo blushed then, because even after ten years of marriage, flattery from the mouth of Thorin Oakenshield was still enough to get him all flustered.
So Thorin held Bilbo’s hand in the portrait, and though Bilbo would never claim to have an artist’s eye he rather thought that it was for the better.
In fact, the entire portrait was a very intriguing matter, and Bilbo kept staring at it, even after the rest of the dwarves had begun to float away to attend to the rest of their duties. From one angle to the other he paced back and forth, squinting and peering and tilting his head, taking everything in, all at once. He stayed so long that, when Thorin made his way down the hall to see the portrait for himself, late in the night, he was still there, hands on his hips, staring the life out of the poor painting.
“ Ghivashel. ” A smile broke out on Thorin’s face as he neared the hobbit. “You’re still here?” Easily he slid his hand around Bilbo’s waist, pulling him closer for a kiss. Bilbo grinned against his lips, feeling rather happy to see Thorin, as he always was.
“Yes. I’m taking in the sight. The whole thing.” He gestured to the painting, but his eyes never left Thorin’s.
“Is it to your liking?” Thorin turned, a gleam in his eye. “Oh, Bilbo. You look magnificent .”
“Well, now… so do you!” Bilbo laughed. “As you always do. I can’t help but notice though…” He looked the dwarf up and down, then back at the painting again. “They gave you more muscles, didn’t they. And I’m almost certain that they left out a great deal of fat.”
“T-they hardly did!” Thorin protested, crossing his arms around his stomach. “I look perfectly normal.” At his flustered face, Bilbo threw his head back in laughter and wrapped his arms around his girth.
“That’s neither perfect nor normal, my dear dwarf, not with all the seed cake I’ve been feeding you,” Bilbo said. “I like you the way you are. Just like that.” And he patted his stomach and gave him an extra squeeze for good measure. And in his arms, Thorin’s pride melted into a sticky-sweet affection, and his heart seemed to grow two sizes larger, and he pressed a kiss to his husband’s hair.
“So what do you think?” Bilbo asked, leaning against Thorin’s chest. Pressed in his embrace, he felt the dwarf heave a happy sigh.
“I’ve always dreamed of having a portrait of my own,” he said. “Hanging high in the halls of Erebor, in the likeness of my forefathers’ before me. To have you there, with me. And the little adventure we went through to get here has only made this all the greater.” He kissed Bilbo’s hand, and a sunny, childlike smile spread across his face. “It’s perfect.”
“I know you don’t like dwarven garb, my dear, but you look lovely in it.”
“Oh, stop it, you,” Bilbo said with a giggle, swatting his hand away.
“Do you like it?” Thorin asked. “Our portrait?”
“Oh, me? Well.” The hobbit scrunched up his face, in the way he usually did when he tried very hard to like something, but there was just something that was not quite right. Bilbo had pulled the same face when he adjusted the armchair in his study back and forth for two hours, only to find out that he should have moved it half an inch sideways instead. With the same face, he had stared down a newly-restored tapestry with such potent displeasure that the royal decorators took it upon themselves to shift tonnes of heavy cloth and metal until it was to Bilbo’s liking.
“What’s wrong, dear?”
“Nothing. Oh, nothing. It’s just that…” Bilbo sighed. “It looks very nice. It’s lovely. It fits right in with… everything here. It’s very grand. There’s you in it. That’s always good.” He chuckled. “I just feel like… it’s just the slightest bit… stiff.”
“Stiff?” Thorin tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, well, you look big and strong, and I’m all dolled up, but that’s not… not quite … how we are, you see. I’m hardly a monarch, and I look quite strict here, and really I try not to be. I should like to think that we’re more… kindly than we look here.”
“Oh, ghivashel. ” Thorin laughed softly, pressing a kiss to Bilbo’s cheek. “I’m afraid that’s how royal portraits are, my love. Just a bit more serious than they are in real life. I assure you,” he tucked a strand of Bilbo’s hair behind his ear, “you’re still as lovely as always.”
“Well, yes, but Thorin. That’s all we’ll be leaving behind for the generations to come. A portrait of a Strict King and his Strict Consort. It’s just that… we’ve made Erebor our home, you see, and I quite hoped that it would show a bit of the homeliness we’ve found in this place. I want our people to feel… ah, warm , when they see the very picture of us. Not just in awe. I want them to feel right at home.”
“You know,” Bilbo said, his voice growing quiet. “I’m rather reminded of the portraits of my parents that hung above the fireplace in Bag End. The way they were placed, it seemed like they were looking at each other, and well — they looked very much in love.” Bilbo sighed then, as if he could still see the paintings in his mind. “That’s… that’s rather the thing about hobbit portraits, really, they made you feel at home. You walk into the smial and you see their faces on the walls, and suddenly you see all the love they had shared in this very same home, and then you just feel very lovely and warm all over.”
Then he shook his head, scoffing at his own words. “I’m sorry, I’m just being all silly and sentimental. It’s what happens when a hobbit gets old.”
“ Amrâlimê .” Thorin’s voice was gentle as he squeezed Bilbo’s hand. “Would you like to commission another portrait, in the hobbit-style that you speak of?”
“Can we really?” Bilbo looked up, his eyes shining like a child’s. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with this portrait, in fact, I’m quite in love with it, it’s just…”
“I know,” Thorin said, swooping to silence him with a kiss. “Let’s return to our quarters. We’ll talk more along the way.”
“Oh, I do believe I know exactly what I want,” Bilbo said with an excited grin, clinging onto Thorin’s arm as they began to walk away. “Just you leave it all to me, my dear husband.”
-
“So I’ve asked Ori to do our portrait,” Bilbo announced one evening, while he was fervently rummaging through old, dusty trunks. Thorin looked up from the papers on his lap, a little surprised.
“Ori? He’s hardly the best artist out there. He barely made the guild apprenticeship two years ago.”
“If I asked around, I’m sure I can find a more experienced artist. Only the best for you, dear.”
“No, no! Thorin, that’s the point.” Bilbo stood, waving his hand insistently. “You could find the best artist of the guild and he would know how to capture the most… attractive parts of you. The parts you would want to show off. But a friend who knows us as Ori does… he’ll know to capture the most… well, candid parts of us. The wonderful, everyday parts of us. Really, the parts I love the most about you. No frivolous pretences or poses.”
“Alright, alright,” Thorin said in resignation, a small smirk creeping up his lips. Bilbo always looked endearing whenever he was worked up about something. His reports abandoned, he watched his husband dig through the old chests and closets. “What are you looking for, ghivashel ?”
“Just a moment… ah! Here they are.” From a trunk at the back of the room, Bilbo pulled out a stack of clothes. “Remember when we visited Bag End last year and Primula was so kind as to alter a set of shirt and trousers for you?”
Thorin remembered, and he remembered it well. It had been the heat of summer, and with one look Primula could tell that the poor dwarf was sweating profusely underneath his thick layers of fur and leather. Then, with a kind laugh, she told Thorin to put his feet up and enjoy a cool glass of cider while she sent young Frodo out to the market for a few bolts of cotton and good buttons.
By the next morning, the hobbit-lass had sewn up a lovely set of clothes that was dwarf-sized. In particular, the shirt had a beautiful hint of blue that was a few traces lighter than the Shire summer sky. It was loose enough to flutter against the wind and was weightless on his shoulders. And for the first time in a long time, with no armour pressed against his chest and crown heavy on his head, Thorin was able to breathe deeply.
“You found them! Of course I remember,” Thorin said fondly, his eyes lighting up. “Will I have to wear this for the portrait, then?”
“Yes,” Bilbo said, setting them neatly on a table. “But don’t you worry,” he continued, approaching Thorin as he spoke. Gingerly he took the papers from Thorin’s hands, set them on the floor, and lowered himself onto his lap, his legs hanging down either side. “I’ll be more than happy to… help you out of it,” he whispered, his face mere inches from Thorin’s.
The dwarf gave a low chuckle, his hands moving to hold Bilbo at the hips, giving him a small squeeze. “I’d be more than happy to take you up on the offer, then.” Then he leaned in and kissed Bilbo, whose hands had already begun to peel away his coat with a fumbling eagerness.
-
“So you’ll just be sitting in this armchair, right here, and I’ll be on this rocking chair right next to you. Ori will just do our busts, so I shouldn’t have to worry about the furniture.”
Bilbo narrowed his eyes and ran over to pluck a discarded vest that was unceremoniously draped over a chair.
“Too much, at least.”
“Our quarters are fine, dear, I’m sure Ori wouldn’t mind it,” Thorin called after the hobbit, who now scurried about the living room, adjusting the decoration and rubbing dust off the shelves with his fingers.
“Oh, but—”
“We can’t have you all flustered and messy when he comes. We’ve got to keep you looking your best, hm?”
And Bilbo stopped, because Thorin had this annoying quality about him, where he was usually right when it came to matters like this. So he heaved a sigh and made his way back to the dwarf, who was already comfortably nestled on his armchair, looking rather lovely and relaxed in his shirt.
“Sit up a little for me, love,” Bilbo said. Slowly his fingers began to weave through Thorin’s hair, a thick blend of silver and faded black, working at all the knots with gentle precision. “Mm.” Thorin hummed, leaning back into his touch with a smile on his face.
“I’ll just put this up in a simple plait. It’ll look lovely over your shoulder,” Bilbo murmured as he began sifting and parting his hair between his fingers. Thorin murmured in appreciation as he worked, feeling his hair tighten up gently as the strands wove itself into place. “There we go. Wonderful.” Bilbo tied off the ends with a piece of string and stepped back, admiring his handiwork.
“Oh! I almost forgot. One moment.” He laid his hand on Thorin’s chest and pressed a kiss to his cheek, and then he scurried to the other side of the room, where he retrieved a wicker basket. When he made his way back, Thorin could see that the basket was filled with fresh-picked flowers; Bilbo must have made his way to the greenhouses this morning. Gently the hobbit took a peony and tucked it in Thorin’s braid, just a little above his ear. Then he slipped some rosemary in his hair, giving a frame to the flower, and when he was finally satisfied he placed Thorin’s braid over his shoulder, his fingers lingering on the ends before letting it fall against the fabric of his shirt.
“Thank you, my dear,” Thorin smiled, tilting his head to kiss the hobbit. Just as they pulled away the door opened, and Ori stepped in, his arms full with his artists’ supplies. “Your Majesty! Bilbo! At your service.” He bowed slightly, only because if he tipped himself any further his supplies would slip right out of his arms and onto the floor.
“Ori! Welcome, welcome,” Bilbo said brightly, ushering the young dwarf to a chair he had set up in front of the room. “You can set up your canvas here, and Thorin and I will be sitting right there…”
Promptly two wooden easels were laid out with a thin canvas on each. “You wanted two paintings, sir?” Ori asked again, and Bilbo nodded. “Do you remember the portraits which hung above the fireplace in Bag End, Ori? I know it’s been a long time, and you didn’t stay for long…” “Oh, no, I remember it clear as day! They truly gave your house a sense of homeliness, Master Baggins.” Then Ori’s eyes lit with understanding, and he shared a gaze with Bilbo, as if he now knew exactly how he should draw the pair.
“Well, Master Baggins, take a seat,” he instructed, standing up to better assess the scene before his eyes. “If you and Thorin could just turn towards each other a little more… yes, this is nice… if you like you can reach for each other’s hands… ah, good.”
“Shall I hold my pose?” Thorin asked through gritted teeth, trying his hardest not to move a muscle. His arm rested lightly against the chair, reaching out to clasp Bilbo’s, and he gave it a squeeze. Bilbo squeezed back, three times for three unspoken words: I love you .
Whereas they had been facing the painter directly in the dwarven portrait, this time they were angled in such a way that they gazed into each other’s eyes, like how they would be positioned if they were sharing a casual conversation over supper. After a few minutes of silence, Ori frowned and stood up from his canvas.
“Actually, if you please, you can relax and have a little chat, if you like. It’s easier for me to capture you this way.”
Almost at once, Thorin released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Bilbo’s face, once serene, now broke out into a soft grin. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?” he teased the dwarven king.
“Not at all,” came a weak reply. Bilbo chuckled.
“So, what do you want for dinner tonight?” he asked. “I thought I’d make apple strudel for dessert. I picked some lovely flowers that I could use to garnish our main course, but I haven’t quite figured out what that would be yet. Thorin?”
“Sorry, ghivashel ?”
“Did your attention wander off again?” Bilbo said with a huff.
“I’m afraid so. I was rather distracted by the sight of you,” Thorin said, tilting his head, affection shining in his eyes.
“You sappy old dolt,” Bilbo muttered, though a blush had begun to form on his cheeks. “As I was saying, what do you want for dinner tonight?”
“Well.” Thorin tapped his chin thoughtfully. “You.”
“ Thorin! ”
-
It took the rest of the evening for Ori to finish his sketch, and within a week he had the paintings fully rendered in soft, rich colours and set in two round frames. Upon it, Thorin’s expression was gentle and leisurely, very much unlike the face of the king he wore in the courtroom. The flower in his hair was pale and pleasant, like the moon in the sky, with the faintest blush upon its petals.
Bilbo, dressed in a red vest and his lucky scarf, looked the part of a very respectable hobbit, which he was quite pleased about. His golden-brown locks, now bearing its first hints of white, were reproduced with good care. His face was warm like a summer’s day, yet in his gaze was also wisdom, hard-won from his days in Erebor. Honey-brown eyes, sweet with affection, looked on beyond the thin glass of the frame, as if they were eyes which bore a soul of its own.
The whole affair was simple -- hardly detailed, unlike the royal portraits, yet it was the very thing that inspired the feelings of the hearth, warm tea, and freshly baked bread. Indeed, a child looking upon this may see within a love-story greater than that told of in the grand, heroic tales. And perhaps it was this very love that one held onto in the face of bitter evil, a love that must be preserved, and kept safe, and defended to the final breath, so that it may live on. It was a thing that hardly deserved wonder yet inspired it all the more: the light of a faint star that struck the strings of the heart, and sun-dappled butterflies that perched on flowers.
Bilbo placed them on the mantle of the fireplace, and he loved to give them a good dusting even if they weren’t dusty. “Just wanted to get a good look at you, my dear,” he would tell Thorin, who would then insist in a playful tone that he should have a good look of the real thing instead.
When the fire was roaring and hot, the flames would dance off the glass of the frames. And firelight would breathe life into the portraits, of those who made Erebor a kingdom, and those who made Erebor a home.