Work Text:
Dís glanced at her watch, then entered her brother’s studio. She found Thorin perched on a chair by one of the industrial windows. He looked far too clean for a sculptor who had spent all day in his studio. What was more, none of Thorin’s unfinished projects looked like they had seen any progress. Rather, Dís was pretty sure a few of them were missing. Thorin raised an eyebrow at her over the rim of his mug.
Dís raised both eyebrows in reply. “Any progress?”
Thorin lowered his mug. “No.”
Dís scowled. “Thorin, you promised to sculpt something for the Valar exhibition in Gondor. That’s four months from now.”
“Four months is plenty of time,” Thorin said.
Dís gave him a flat look. “It’s cutting it close, especially since the Gilraen Art Gallery actually has to see and approve your piece beforehand, and then we have to ship it, and then they have to receive it and set it up.”
Thorin sipped his hot drink.
Dís massaged her temples. “Look, Thorin, I get that you’re uninspired lately, but it’s an international exhibition, and you’re participating in the event as Erebor’s representative—and that twat from the Eryn Lasgalen Museum of Fine Arts will never shut up about it if you withdraw, so I’m literally begging you to sculpt something. Anything. Just sculpt Mahal, you’ve done it a million times, you could probably do it in your sleep.”
“I could,” Thorin said, looking down at his mug. “That’s the problem.”
Dís waited for him to elaborate, but Thorin was not only a master of sculpting but also of being a cryptic arse. She waved a hand. “Meaning?”
Thorin stood up and walked to the nearest workbench. He set down his mug on it, then picked up a chisel. He tapped it against the hardwood surface twice, his brow furrowed. “I would like to sculpt something different this time,” he said, modulating each word as though fearing he wouldn’t be understood. “I know there’s a lot at stake and so I should stick to what I know, but…”
“I get it,” Dís said, then rolled her eyes at her brother’s blank stare. “You don’t have to look at me like that. I understand the need to have a break from things you love. I’ve got two children. We’ll work something out, all right?”
Thorin tapped the chisel against the workbench again. “All right.”
“All right,” she repeated, then glanced at her watch a second time. “And speaking of children, I’ve got to pick up Kíli from archery practice. I just dropped by to see how you were. I’ll be in touch, yeah? And stop drinking coffee, seriously.”
“It was tea!” Thorin called out as she left.
Dís exited the building, then got into a cab. As it drove her down the streets, she grabbed her mobile and dialled a number. It didn’t take long for someone on the other end to pick up.
“Dís, my dear,” a merry old voice greeted.
“Gandalf, help,” Dís said, straight to the point. “Thorin’s still in a creative slump, and he’s got a really important deadline in less than half a year, and he just told me he’d like to experiment, and I haven’t the faintest idea how to help him with that. Please help me help him.”
Gandalf hummed, then said, “Don’t worry, my dear. I’ve got just the thing.”
Bilbo Baggins arrived at the studio half an hour early and gaped at it. This was the place where one of the greatest artists in the world worked his magic. Bilbo remembered reading about it once, in some magazine or other: Thorin MacDurin’s studio was in the first storey of what used to be one of their family’s smaller metallurgy factories, now repurposed into Thorin’s workplace while the ground storey housed an art gallery.
It was an honour to just stand on the sidewalk of such a place, and Bilbo would soon be let inside! Bilbo was humbled by the opportunity to collaborate with Thorin, so he was determined to do well. They were only meeting for an audition, but Gandalf had talked about it as a done deal on the phone. Bilbo sincerely hoped the old man’s prediction would be correct.
A phone started ringing; it took Bilbo a moment to realise it was his. He fished it out of his pocket in a hurry, Gandalf’s name flashing on the screen. Bilbo thumbed the green button and pressed the phone to his ear. “Hullo?”
“Bilbo, my lad!” Gandalf greeted. “Are you at the studio already?”
“Er, well,” Bilbo squinted down the street, then up at the building in front of him, “I suppose I’m here already, but I’m waiting outside. I got here a tad early. I think I’ll grab a coffee or something.”
“Just see yourself in, dear boy,” Gandalf said. “There’s a spare key under the potted petunias to your left—unless he’s moved it again.”
“Tragically, I’m not in the habit of barging into places uninvited.”
“But you have been invited. You’re just early.”
Bilbo pinched his nose. “Right. Well. Helpful as ever, Gandalf. Don’t know what I was expecting. Like I said, I think I’ll just pop over to a café I saw round the—”
From inside the building came the telltale clink-clank and jingle-jangle of someone walking down the last steps of an old iron stairwell and heading for the front door with a heavy set of keys in hand. Bilbo stumbled back, his mind aflush with a sudden panic.
“Er,” he said.
A tall and dark silhouette approached the frosted-glass iron doors.
“Oh, is Thorin there?” Gandalf asked. “Marvellous. I did tell him you’d be early.”
The tall silhouette unlocked the door, then yanked it open. A man that Bilbo had seen countless times in pictures poked his head out. His sharp eyes raked Bilbo up and down, making him feel like a balloon in precariously close proximity to a porcupine.
Bilbo mumbled something that even he couldn’t understand into his phone.
“I shall leave you to it then,” Gandalf said, then hung up.
Bilbo stood there for a moment, then shook himself. “Ah, good morning—”
“It’s afternoon,” Thorin grumbled, looking at Bilbo from head to toe again, his expression dubious. “You’re the model?”
Bilbo’s awe veered off into shock at the rudeness. He frowned as he pocketed his phone. “Indeed I am. Bilbo Baggins, pleasure to meet you.” He extended a hand, but Thorin had already turned away.
“This way,” he said over his shoulder.
Bilbo hurried inside, trotting upstairs after Thorin. Never one to falter in the face of bad manners, Bilbo tried to introduce himself again, but climbing stairs did not mix well with talking, and he ended up panting rather indecorously by the time they reached the first storey.
Thorin didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care.
As if on cue, he kicked out a stool. “Here,” he said, and Bilbo was about to thank him when he added, “Just stay put.”
Shock turned into indignation. He gave Thorin a look full of reproach, then clambered up onto the stool just as reproachfully. Thorin, again, either didn’t notice or didn’t care; he ignored Bilbo as he puttered around the studio, looking busy but doing nothing of substance. After ten minutes had passed in the same way, Bilbo began to dread that this was how the entire afternoon would go. He hadn’t even been offered a glass of water! He tried to start a conversation, but Thorin never replied. Eventually, Bilbo went quiet, fuming. He resolved to leave after half an hour.
At least he was sitting in a sunny spot. Golden beams of light streamed in through the tall windows, and Bilbo turned his face towards them. He closed his eyes and basked in the gentle radiance. He stayed like that for a while, the studio quieting around him. It seemed Thorin had finally decided to settle down, the scratch of charcoal on paper drifting up to Bilbo from his general direction.
Bilbo glanced at his watch, then went back to his close-eyed basking. The stool was surprisingly comfortable. He might have dozed off if it weren’t for the occasional thump of a mug being deposited on a solid-wood workbench. At one point, Bilbo did nod off, only startling upright in time because Thorin cleared his throat quite noisily.
Bilbo mumbled an apology, rubbing his eyes. Thorin, of all things, glared at him, his fingers were dark with charcoal; he had been busy drawing and didn’t seem to appreciate the interruption. Bilbo checked his watch again, then gingerly slid off the stool.
“Awfully sorry, but I should be leaving now,” he said.
Thorin frowned at him. He piled the sketches he had been working on into a folder, then closed it as he stood up from his chair. “Suit yourself. Downstairs is unlocked.”
“I’ll see myself out then,” Bilbo said, smiling, then did exactly that.
Once he was outside, he heaved a big sigh. This had probably been one of the strangest auditions in his life. Plenty of artists that Bilbo had worked with had been insular and saturnine, but they had at least shown an interest in collaborating with him. Thorin had barely acknowledged his presence. It was disappointing, even if a small part of him was relieved.
What a dreadful experience! And he had had such high hopes.
“Never meet your heroes, I suppose,” he muttered.
He took the tube home. Upon arriving, he made himself a much-needed cup of tea. He was lowering himself into his armchair with it when his mobile rang. For the second time that day, Gandalf’s name flashed across the screen. Bilbo groaned, but he still picked up.
“Yes,” he said.
“Goodness! You sound terrible, dear Bilbo,” Gandalf laughed. “To think that I was expecting you to be jumping up and down with joy.”
“Yes, well.” Bilbo lifted his cup to his lips and blew on it, then froze. “With joy? Why in the bloody Void would I be doing that? Today was absolutely horrid. Thorin’s horrid. I’ve had my fair share of divas, but he ignored me completely!”
“Did he, now?” Gandalf asked, his tone deep and full of secrets. “How curious. I bring news that tells a different story.”
Bilbo set his tea cup on the coffee table. “What do you mean?”
“It seems that your mere presence sent Thorin into an inspired frenzy. He showed his sister—who’s something like his manager, I believe—a mountain of sketches, all featuring you.” Gandalf paused for a moment, letting that sink in. “And he would very much like you as his model for a Yavanna sculpture.”
Bilbo’s heart was hammering in his chest. Thorin MacDurin had chosen him as his muse. He had seemed so disinterested! Oh, but he could be as insular and saturnine as he wanted now: Bilbo was going to grasp this opportunity with both hands.
He stood up and began walking around the coffee table. “Really! Well, that’s quite unexpected. Quite unexpected, yes, but not unwelcome, not at all! Yavanna, you said?”
“Indeed. I know she’s not your main deity, but she’s popular enough in your community.” Gandalf’s tone let Bilbo know that his eyes were twinkling. “So, what do you say? Care to work out a schedule with me?”
Thorin arrived at the studio bright and early in the morning. Even during his long creative slump, he had kept the habit. Now that he had an actual reason to make the daily trip, he found himself arriving at dawn more often than not, cleaning his tools and going over his plans and checking his progress. His model—his muse—was a late riser, so Thorin often had to find ways to occupy himself until the man deigned to show up, and though it was frustrating, the rewarding afternoons they spent together, Bilbo posing and Thorin sculpting, were worth all the wait in the world.
The first week had been spent chipping away at a smallish mock-up. The following three weeks, Thorin had started and scrapped three sculptures; Bilbo had been greatly distressed every time. The fourth sculpture, however, held a lot of promise. There was a feeling behind it—a certainty behind Thorin’s movements, almost like muscle memory, like he had sculpted this particular piece a thousand times in his dreams. The material’s surface was more porous than Thorin was used to, and that made it almost nightmarish to work with. He had taken to spraying it with water. The studio always ended up a fine mess after every session, so Thorin tended to use the long hours before Bilbo’s arrival to tidy up.
Bilbo was an excellent model, and an even greater muse—his presence alone made Thorin’s mind bloom with ideas. Thorin was out of practice, and even though he could never truly forget how to use his tools or strike stone, he was motivated by his slow progress, determined to have his chisel in exactly the right place. He had even done something he never did with his works: he had worked on the face first, coaxing laugh lines and plump smiles out of the unyielding medium. The shapes were still broad and unpolished, but the expression was soft and bright, soulful in its joy, and Thorin was surprised that he could even manage to convey something like that. When he sculpted Mahal, he was always solemn and hardy-looking.
Bilbo strolled into the studio just as Thorin was polishing off his late lunch, a croque monsieur he’d bought from the café round the corner. “Good morning! Oh, and bon appétit!”
Thorin nodded in greeting, wiping crumbs off his beard and balling up the oily wrapping paper. He tossed it into a bin, then gestured at Bilbo’s stool, the same one the model had been perching on since day one. Thorin went to sit with the sculpture, half-listening to Bilbo as he yammered on about this or that sandwich recipe, this or that plant from his backyard that had bloomed, this or that cousin who had visited him—“Uninvited! The gall!”—at the weekend.
After some minutes, Bilbo finally quieted down, sitting on his stool in his briefs. Thorin held his breath as the man got into position—the way he turned his face toward the light like a sunflower, the way his curls lit up like dancing flames under the sun, demanded Thorin’s undivided attention. It was enrapturing, the way he moved with no trace of self-consciousness when he was so skittish the rest of the time.
They fell into an easy rhythm, familiar to them both by now, comforting for Thorin after so long. Every half an hour, they had a short break where Bilbo could stretch and hydrate. The first two weeks, Thorin had just busied himself with cleaning his tools and wetting the stone if it was beginning to dry, but now he joined Bilbo in his exercising after putting the kettle on. By the time they finished, the water was boiling, so they poured themselves a cuppa each.
Bilbo sighed contentedly into his mug. “Delightful. I’ve been meaning to ask: what brand is it?”
“My best friend’s boyfriend’s brother has a tea shop,” Thorin said. “The man makes his own blends. I’ve been buying from him for years. I can give you the address if you want. It’s a few blocks off the Járnfast station.”
“Oh, I go to the Járnfast street market on Sundays,” Bilbo said, then took a careful sip of his tea. He smiled up at Thorin, his dimpled face glowing and glowing. “They import a lot of things from Sûza. It helps me brave my homesickness.”
“How long have you been in Erebor?” Thorin asked.
“Long enough, I suppose,” Bilbo said. “I officially relocated about two years ago, but I’d always spent a lot of time here. Mum’s got friends in Ered Luin.”
“Very picturesque,” Thorin rumbled with approval. “I spent quite a few summers in Ered Luin myself as a boy. My sister’s husband is from there, and I think Fíli—my oldest nephew—is planning to go to ELU after he’s done with secondary school here.”
“Is he planning to study art?” Bilbo asked, then took a longer sip.
“I’m not sure he’s made up his mind yet, but if he does, my father will riot. My brother became the new heir to MacDurin Metals after I became a full-time artist, but Dad’s concerned about everyone losing interest in the family business. Fíli’s got a good head on his shoulders, too, so he’d make a good heir.”
“What about your other nephew?” Bilbo asked. “What’s his name—Kíli?”
Thoring laughed. “Kíli would smelt everything into a pot just to see what happened. He might end up creating a new element.”
“Oh, well, as long as it’s a good one,” Bilbo grinned, and Thorin grinned back.
They got back to work a few minutes later. Thorin felt warm and tingly inside, and he wasn’t entirely convinced that the tea was the cause of that.
Dís scowled up at the old building, then entered her brother’s studio. Thorin had called her earlier that day to tell her that he was just about done with the sculpture. And not a moment too soon, the bastard. For the past fortnight, Dís’s phone had been blowing up with notifications from concerned parties wondering when Thorin would mail his piece to them. Luckily, all that would soon be in the past. Thorin had promised to wrap the sculpture for shipping that evening, which meant she could kick it—metaphorically, of course—out the door the following day.
She climbed up the steps to the area where her brother worked, then stopped. The sculpture was nothing she had expected. It was massive, for starters, probably two square meters. Moreover, whatever stone Thorin had chosen to work with this time, it was different from his usual mediums. It was dark and light by turns, whorls of black and grey and bone-white streaking across its surface; Thorin had clearly made an effort to have his chiselling follow along them. The result made the stone seem to be flowing, which countered its porous roughness, even though Thorin had also worked to highlight that natural characteristic. The effect was incredible. Dís stepped closer and caught fiery glints here and there in the sculpture’s crevices. She squinted up at them, then her eyes widened.
“That’s lava,” she said.
“No, it’s resin,” Thorin said, ever the smart-arse.
Dís rolled her eyes. “I mean you made Yavanna look like a volcano.”
“Yes,” Thorin said, looking up from where he was doing something with a small burlap sack and a plastic bag by the sculpture’s feet. “I thought it was fitting. Very fertile earth.”
“You’re going to cause a commotion again,” Dís said. She walked around the sculpture, still admiring it, and then looked down at her brother, grinning from ear to ear. “They won’t know what hit—what the hell are you doing?”
Thorin was very gently lifting and packing small clumps of earth into some of the crevices and larger holes in the honeycombed surface. He grunted and shrugged, then reached into the burlap sack and grabbed a handful of something that looked like very tiny pebbles.
“Are those seeds?” Dís asked, arching her eyebrows.
“Stop sounding so surprised,” Thorin grumbled, sprinkling the seeds over the stone. “It’s a Yavanna sculpture.”
“You used resin on it!”
“Organic resin. I’m a professional, Dís.”
“Are you, really?” She glared. “This is going to be a nightmare to ship!”
Thorin paused, then looked up at the sculpture like he hadn’t thought of that. Then he went back to planting tiny seeds into tiny pockets of earth. “If it gets bungled up, we’ll just say it’s a representation of nature’s entropy.”
Dís wanted to tell him that he couldn’t bullshit his way through his first finished project in two years, but then she remembered that this was art and he could do that. Lord knew what people would choose to interpret anyway.
“You’re wrapping it today?” she asked.
“Dwalin’s coming over later to help me with it,” Thorin replied. “I might have to finish tomorrow morning, but I’ll have it done in time to ship it in the afternoon.”
“Just stay up,” she said, throwing him another glare. “You’ve done it before.”
Thorin cleared his throat behind a hand, his nails dirty with damp soil. “I’ve got plans tonight,” he said, his tone so carefully nonchalant that Dís zeroed in on it immediately.
“Plans? What sort? With the model? With your muse?” she teased. When Thorin didn’t reply except for an annoyed rumble, she started cackling and pulled out her phone. “Oh, I’m telling Frerin right now! He owes me good! Oh, dear Maker, I bet the plants were his idea, too. Isn’t he super into gardening? Good heavens, you’re not replying, which means I’m right. This is incredible. This is groundbreaking. When’s the wedding? I call maid of honour.”
“Get out of my studio,” Thorin said, throwing a handful of seeds at her.
Dís did as told, laughing all the way.