Work Text:
Amongst many things to be restored in the reclaimed kingdom of Erebor were the windows. The glass panes that had filled the kingdom’s tall, arched stone frames were long since gone, and in Bilbo’s opinion (not that he would have dared to voice it) the Dwarves were taking an unconscionable length of time in replacing them.
A hot Dwarf King and several dozen goatskin blankets could only go so far. He still needed to breathe at night, but even the smallest degree of exposed skin was liable to acquire chillblains by morning, since the royal chambers, naturally, had windows that were especially large. The bitter Eastern winds howled through the room all night, so that Bilbo wasn’t even sure whether it was the cold or the noise that kept him awake more.
He had mentioned it once, and been rather encouraged by Thorin’s immediate agreement and promise to resolve things as soon as possible. He had even been introduced to the head of Erebor’s new Glassmaker's Guild, a small Dwarf called Pangur with a beard of riotous curls and the same boundless cheer as her cousin Bofur, though in a less rambunctious form. Bilbo had taken an instant liking to her.
For one thing, she was small, so he didn’t have to crane his neck to look her in the eye. She also had excellent manners, a trait certainly not shared by all Dwarves. In a very pleasant meeting over tea, they had discussed windows, of course, but with Pangur’s quick intelligence and enthusiasm the conversation had soon begun to range. Bilbo tentatively suggested building terrariums or glasshouses to broaden the range of foods available, and was delighted by her eager response. So few Dwarves took any interest in gardening or food, but Pangur had not only eaten his scones but actually bothered to praise them, and with charmingly enthusiastic sincerity. Bilbo considered it a great compliment to declare she was quite the most Hobbitish Dwarf he had ever met, and Pangur had smiled and seemed to understand it as such, which only confirmed his opinion.
Several weeks had now passed since that day. A few days after their meeting, Pangur had provided him with a few small glass terrariums, shyly presenting them with apologies for their poor quality. They were exquisitely fashioned, needless to say, and he loved them, thanking her profusely. Bilbo set them out in several sunlit, sheltered corners of the library, filled with moist soil and hardy, fragrant plants like mint and violets. It was a rare day when the sight of them did not make him smile over his books, reaching out to gently wipe down the glass with a sleeve and blow the dust from peeping green shoots. They were a welcome reminder of the new life to come in the midst of the slow, filthy work of rescuing Erebor’s library.
Yet still there were no windows in the rooms he shared with Thorin, and Bilbo was unwilling to pester his new friend. There was simply so much that needed doing, and of course the King’s Chambers were, for the most part, perfectly habitable. He had seen the conditions most of Dain’s army were quartered in and by comparison, Bilbo was in the lap of luxury.
Only, the army quarters were deep within the mountain, where the winds outside could not touch them. And near the re-lit forges, so they were gloriously warm. Not that Bilbo was jealous.
--
There came an evening when he had wandered down to the kitchens in search of a snack.
It was always snug there, and comfortingly full of quiet bustling industry, so that while he sat beside the fire with a toasted muffin and a large mug of cocoa, he felt himself drifting slightly. One moment he was watching Bombur and various others preparing bread and suchlike for the following day, and the next thing he knew Thorin’s hand was on his shoulder, gently shaking him awake.
“It is late,” said Thorin, as Bilbo stretched and yawned. “Come to bed.”
Bilbo grimaced. His chair was not so comfortable as all that, but it still appealed far more than their bedroom. “I don’t want to,” he grumbled, and sighed at Thorin’s look of consternation.
“You do not?” began Thorin hesitantly, and quite suddenly Bilbo found his temper at an end.
“It’s too cold!” he burst out. ‘It’s too bloody cold, and I can’t stand it any more! I know all you Dwarves run hot as furnaces, not to mention the lot of you are coated with fur from eyebrows to ankles, but I am not! I am a Hobbit, Thorin, and likely to become a Hobbit-shaped ice block if I spend one more night in that freezing cold, drafty, horrid room!”
And of course, Thorin was the King, which meant that despite Bilbo’s immediate, remorseful protests, in very short order half-a-dozen Dwarves had been summoned and were scurrying around making up fresh bedlinen in an entirely new room. So Bilbo felt wretched for shouting at Thorin, and then wretched for putting everyone to such inconvenience. It was rather a disaster, in all.
It was a shamefaced Hobbit who climbed into bed at last in the windowless new room, deep within the mountain.
“Better?” asked Thorin, gently stroking Bilbo’s hair back from his face, and Bilbo nodded gratefully, still apologising. Then Thorin blew out the light, and for a moment, Bilbo’s heart stopped.
It was terribly dark.
It was darker than Bilbo had ever known before, even under the Misty Mountains. If he opened or closed his eyes, it made no difference. He lay with his eyes stretched wide open, hoping that some dim shapes would emerge from the blackness, but there was nothing, not even a gleam of light from under the door. It was also terribly, terribly quiet. The night was so late already that Thorin had fallen asleep in seconds, and Bilbo could hear every ghost of his soft breathing. After a while he realised he could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.
It was much better than the howling wind and cold, of course. Indeed, it was warm and peaceful, and who could ask for more than that? Not remotely like being sealed up in a tomb, Bilbo told himself firmly, and proceeded to sleep barely a wink.
--
The following day, Bilbo took his courage in hand and headed down to the Glassmakers’ Guild.
Like most of the reclaimed parts of the mountain, it was hot and dark and full of activity. Some Dwarves were shovelling fuel into enormous kilns, their hair pulled back and scarves tied over their beards as sparks flew from the open arches. Some seemed to be blowing glass bubbles at the end of long tubes, twiddling them as they went in a sort of dance. Some Dwarves sat at benches, twisting small glass bulbs with long pliers to make beautiful pitchers and bottles, working at astonishing speed. Some were stretching over wide tables set with blank glass panels, winding a sort of lead ribbon through the gaps. Those definitely looked rather like windows, which was encouraging, and it was all fascinating stuff, but Bilbo didn’t dare linger.
“Is Pangur about?” he asked bravely, before spotting the tiny, curly-headed Guildmaster in the farthest corner of the hall.
She stood at a desk covered with diagrams and plans. Beside it were dozens of open boxes that held small, coloured shards of something, and from these Pangur picked and choose pieces to lay across the paper. Watching her was Thorin, nodding with approval and occasionally pointing at something and asking low questions. From where he stood, Bilbo couldn’t see quite what they were making, but with all those jagged little pieces, it clearly wasn’t any sort of window.
“Um,” he said, once he judged himself close enough to be heard, without intruding. “Um?” he repeated, a little louder, and both Dwarves turned to stare, apparently most surprised to find him there.
“Good morning, Pangur,” said Bilbo, attempting his most ingratiating smile. “Hello Thorin. I wonder if I might have a word with you in private, perhaps?”
“Of course,” said Thorin, and took a step forward before Bilbo could explain.
“Actually I didn’t mean you, I’m afraid. Pangur, have you a moment?” he asked. Pangur looked alarmed, and her gaze slid over to meet her King’s.
Thorin cleared his throat. “Master Pangur is very busy,” he said.
“You can’t spare her for even a moment?” asked Bilbo, his courage wavering. Thorin looked troubled now, and Pangur positively distressed, which would not do. He hadn’t the least idea what was going on, but clearly his presence wasn’t wanted.
“There is much to be done,” said Thorin, wearing that particular expression that meant he was about to launch into some wonderfully noble speech, and after such a bad night Bilbo wasn’t sure he had the patience for it.
“No no, it doesn’t matter,” said Bilbo, trying not to let his disappointment show. “Nothing important. It can wait.”
He trudged back up the stairways and corridors to the library once more.
--
Bilbo made up his mind to simply endure, as his Dwarves did. He was not cold at night now, after all, and it would not be forever, he told himself. It was easy enough to persuade those around him that he was all right, since Thorin clearly had some new pet project that led to him striking out for his offices with renewed purpose each morning. If Bilbo took to having long naps after lunch on his library desk, no-one seemed to notice it.
Or if they did, they were kind enough to say nothing, thought Bilbo, grateful that Ori appeared to have had a coughing fit just loud enough to rouse him as Thorin himself entered the library.
“Are you busy?” asked Thorin. Bilbo shook his head rather more vigorously than the question deserved.
“Not very,” he said, still blinking himself awake.
“Good,” said Thorin. “Come with me.”
For a grown Dwarf, and a King besides, he seemed rather endearingly excited about something, and Bilbo followed him with rising curiosity. It seemed they were headed to the King’s Chambers, and whilst Bilbo wasn’t about to object to that, it was only the middle of the afternoon and hardly time for bed yet. Unless Thorin had some romantic intentions, which Bilbo wouldn’t necessarily object to, either.
Thorin pushed open the door, and it wasn’t accompanied by the usual whistling blast of chilly air. He ushered Bilbo inside the familiar room, now so still and peaceful, with a warm fire crackling in the hearth.
“Oh,” said Bilbo. There were windows.
“Oh!” said Bilbo again, in awe, because they weren’t just any windows.
Most were plain glass, clear panes arranged in elegantly complex patterns. In the centre of the wall, however, taller than Bilbo, taller even than Thorin, was one window that was the furthest thing from plain.
The lead had been arranged in curving patterns around coloured glass, so that light poured through, transforming the cold winter sunlight in swirling, scintillating shades of green and amber. The colours fell across Thorin’s hopeful, anxious face, illuminating the silver of his hair and the shining metal of his crown.
The only coloured glass Bilbo had ever seen before was the muddy browns and olives of Elven wine bottles. Nothing could have prepared him for such shades of glowing gold and luminous emerald more like a bright Spring morning than a Winter’s afternoon under stone. The sheer brilliance of the colours took his breath away, and it took him more than a moment to realise that this was not simply a pattern, but a picture.
“It’s a tree,” said Bilbo suddenly, blinking in astonishment. Though as angular as any Dwarven decoration, the arrangement was clearly intended to represent a tree, a large and gnarled one, with a thick trunk, small brown fruits in upright cups, and distinctively lobed leaves.
“Do you like it?” asked Thorin, moving to stand behind him, and Bilbo leaned back against Thorin’s shoulder, weak with happiness, marvelling at the beauty before him.
“It’s an oak tree, just like the one over Bag End,” he said. “I love it, Thorin. Oh, I love it. Although it isn’t very Dwarven.”
Thorin laughed out loud. “You forget, I am Thorin Oakenshield. I promise you, celebrating my own name in precious stones is more Dwarven than I could wish.”
“I thought it was glass! Isn’t it?”
“Some, not all. This is jade, cut thin,” said Thorin, pointing to an especially lustrous leaf, and then to one patterned in rings of pale green and yellow. “This is merely agate, and this is quartz, but the mixture seemed pretty enough. Pangur’s idea, of course. I have no skill with such art.”
“This is what you were doing that day, isn’t it? When I came to the guild and you sent me away!”
“It is,” said Thorin. “And I will admit, Pangur was not happy at having to deceive you so. She is a Dwarf of great kindness, as well as great skill.”
“Well,” sighed Bilbo happily, basking in the warm, dappled light of the miraculous window, feeling more at home than he had in many months. “I shall have to bake her something extra special as soon as I can.”