Work Text:
Bard wiped his brow with the back of his hand, then did the same to his upper lip. He could feel the sweat dewing on his moustache and tickling at his temples. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear and cursed the summer heat.
His companion did not seem to be faring any better, judging from the laboured grunts and groans behind him. For all his noise, Thorin had made no complaint yet, though sweat had been glistening on his face from the outset, standing outside the pub door, and he’d screwed up his face in the sun’s glare though it was only early morning. He’d been too long underground, Bard judged. This walk along the skirts of Erebor would do them both good.
The trail they were following took a turn and just a little ahead, passed by a few rocks. Bard hurried his steps and sat down on the warm stone, propping his legs up as he waited for Thorin to join him. He had just taken off his gloves – the wool was soaked through but he’d been loath to give up the grip the leather palms afforded him – and was tying back his hair (properly, this time), when Thorin came around the corner.
Bard near chuckled at the sight of him. Early into their walk, Thorin had shucked off his coat and slung it over his shoulder; now that same coat was being dragged behind him, his shoulders slumped in the very image of defeat. Not only that: the dwarf may have left his chain mail beneath the mountain, but he still wore at least two shirts, the outermost of which had its laces had undone. One side had been unlaced so fully that the leather strap had come out of the eyelets and was dangling at Thorin’s waist. Sweat was dripping off Thorin’s nose, and his face was framed with sweat-soaked hair plastered to his skin.
Thorin made his way to the rocks without a word, eyes more on his heavy boots and the dust they stirred than the way ahead, and dropped down on the ground in front of Bard, his back to the rock.
“Is there no shade in your cursed kingdom?” Thorin panted, sweeping back his hair with both hands and twisting it over one shoulder. From his vantage point, Bard could see the skin on the back of Thorin’s neck and the collar of his shirt, the blue all the deeper for being wet with sweat. The skin there was so pale and unmarred that it hardly seemed to fit with the rest of the dwarf.
“Is there no sun in yours?” Bard countered. “Or had you forgotten it was summer above ground?”
“I know it’s summer,” growled Thorin, resting his head back against the stone and squeezing his eyes tight against the sun. “The mountain is simply cooler than this.”
“And you’re overdressed, for once.” Thorin smiled briefly at that, both of them having commiserated on the ceremonial robes of their office enough times for this to be an old gibe. “Your coat, for starters.”
“You’ll be thankful of my coat if we lose our way and have to camp out here for the night.”
Bard laughed. “And you’ll be thankful of my sense of direction when we reach the pub well before nightfall.”
Thorin was in no mood for jokes. “Of course you’d be able to find your way back to the pub.” It was a baseless snipe, as Thorin well knew that Bard did not fill his cup with anything other than water most days, so Bard took no slight in it.
“I’ll buy you a round,” promised Bard, settling down on the ground beside the dwarf. Thorin grunted at this, but did not move nor open his eyes.
It was rare to find Thorin with his guard so low, so Bard took advantage of the opportunity to examine him carefully. His heavy layers of travelling clothes – and Bard could almost swear they were the same ones that Thorin was presented himself with on the banks of the Forest River, asking for passage on his barge – did little to hide his bulk and girth. For all that Bard was taller, he’d wager Thorin to be wider, and perhaps even heavier. His hands alone could probably snap a bone or two in his, thought Bard, spreading out his fingers and comparing them to Thorin’s, and from what he could see of Thorin’s forearms – shirt sleeves pushed up halfway – his own forearms could hardly contend.
Bard’s eyes moved up Thorin’s arms, taking in the hidden shape of his biceps and the thick roll of his shoulders. He’s seen smiths at work, men of his town labouring bare-chested over the anvil or the forge, bodies like bulls, and he’d seen Thorin’s nephews, splashing along the banks of the lake in soaking trousers and little else. If those young dwarves had already shown as much muscle on their backs as Saer had in his prime smithing years, Bard could not imagine what Thorin’s chest must look like, a dwarf and smith – King, aye, but smith for longer than Bard had been alive – all rolled into one.
With that thought, Bard’s gaze travelled across to Thorin’s chest. It was as thick as a barrel, and the curve of the muscles was slightly visible, between his clinging shirt and the wide-open laces at his front. Bard thought on the few times he’d laid a hand on Thorin and remembered the feeling of those muscles under his palm, as hard and unyielding as the warm stone at his back.
Thorin’s breaths were coming in quick and shallow, sweat rolling along the inner line of his collarbone, and even there, at the base of his neck, was muscle that made Bard feel as spindly as a sapling. Oakenshield, he thought, and if Thorin were indeed an oak – broad, low, warped with age – then Bard was a mountain pine, all narrow height and sparse branches.
Dwarves, marvelled Bard. A childhood of stories, months of dealings, and he still had no idea what they were truly like, not even skin-deep.
“If you’re quite finished,” came Thorin’s voice, low and chiding, though the rest of him made no move.
Bard looked up to find Thorin staring at him, face red where the sun had kissed it and lips parted with the heat. How long had he been watching Bard’s inspection?
“You’ll get heatstroke,” recovered Bard, “wearing all that.”
Thorin huffed. “Days spent in your poorly-aired forges, and you think this heat is too much?”
“Did you smith in your travelling cloak?” countered Bard. Flashes of Saer’s fire-flushed skin bare under his blacksmith’s apron crossed his mind.
Thorin held his gaze for a moment, swallowing slowly as if his throat were dry. Then, as if fearful of making any sudden moves, Thorin sat up and pulled his outer shirt from his belt and dragged it over his head. Beneath it, he was soaked to the skin. The inner shirt clung to him as if it had been painted on, and Bard busied himself with uncorking the waterskin strapped to his hip to keep his curious eyes away.
Thorin twisted around and threw his shirt onto the rock to dry, then stripped off his second shirt and did the same for good measure. He sighed as the mountain air hit his wet skin, and drank greedily from the waterskin that Bard offered.
Bard took a long swallow himself when Thorin handed the skin back, then squeezed the bottle, judging the water left in it. “Here,” he said, passing it back. “Splash some on your head.” He’d been serious about the heatstroke.
Bard kept his eyes on his boots while Thorin did as he suggested, waiting until he had the waterskin back in his hands before looking over at his travelling companion. Thorin had his head resting against the rock, water darkening the hair on his crown and clinging to his beard like diamonds. His face was turned towards him, and his eyes caught Bard’s.
“You’ll want to follow your own advice,” he said, and his tone was anything but a suggestion. In moments, Bard has his coat and shirt strewn on the rock behind him. When he turned towards Thorin, he found that Thorin’s eyes were still on him, roaming here and there over his body.
Bard had half a mind to throw Thorin’s words back at him – If you’re quite finished. – but he couldn’t bring himself to make a sound. The air about them was hot and still, the sun pounding down on them so hot their heartbeats seemed to echo it, and it felt as if time had stopped. He’d made many truces with Thorin – every step and every drink they took together was a truce, not to be overshadowed by the ones they set to paper – and this was another.
Slowly, Bard shifted and rested his temple against the hot stone. Thorin met his eyes, then slowly, deliberately, travelled his gaze down his skin. Bard did the same, and what he saw distracted him so, that he did not even think to notice he’d underestimated Thorin’s form.
“You’ve nothing but scars,” said Bard, as his eyes roamed over centuries' worth of war.
“And you’ve none,” countered Thorin, which wasn’t quite true. But then an oak may call a sapling small.
Eventually they saw the skin behind the scars, and held their hands up against the other, put their forearms side by side, and tested their strength against the other. They compared themselves like children until their shirts were dry and they were ready to renew their walk. This time they walked along the path together.