Work Text:
T.A 2942
February 8th.
“No, no. That won't do. Pass me another piece of parchment, please,” said Bilbo, holding out his hand without looking up from where he was scribbling notes.
Thorin shifted, reaching to lift a couple of sheets from a pile on the wide table in front of them and giving the paper to Bilbo. He peered over at the hobbit's neat cursive, raising an eyebrow when Bilbo covered it with his hands.
“I thought the point of this session was to write the courting songs together, so that we could decide on appropriateness.”
“Well, yes! Of course. That doesn't mean I want you looking at it until I've finished, though, so keep your gaze on your strings,” Bilbo huffed, dipping his pen into the little pot of ink and tapping his chin with the end of the feather.
Thorin did as he was told, settling the harp a little more comfortably on his lap and drawing his fingers across the strings again. Unable to stop himself from sneaking one last glance at Bilbo, he started to pluck out the little tune he'd been working on. Once he had the music, then he could start on the words, though Bilbo seemed to favour the other way round.
It had been decided he and Bilbo wouldn't contract musicians to perform their courting songs for them. Both, Balin had pointed out, did well enough with voice to do their own, and it would seem more genuine.
More romantic.
The idea of tricking his people into believing he and Bilbo were madly in love sat badly with him still, and he had spent many hours with Dís, Balin, and Dwalin, discussing the idea. It was lying. Deceiving those who believed in him, and those who did not. Hadn't he done enough of that? Hadn't he deceived Bard, and the men of the lake? Even his own Company, his kin.
And while this wedding might be based in good intentions, how could he be sure it was really what Bilbo wanted? Perhaps he felt it a duty, somehow. A task to perform, to better keep a watch on his character in case he changed beyond recognition. In case the foul magic in his veins, poisoning him slowly, was biding its time for the chance to reveal itself through him.
Thorin swallowed, clutching the harp a little tighter.
What if his people found out it was all a sham?
After all, he was lying about one of the most sacred gifts given by Mahal:
Love.
“What's the matter?” asked Bilbo softly, his voice jerking Thorin from his thoughts.
“Nothing,” he quickly replied, plucking at the strings. He could feel Bilbo's stare burning into the side of him.
“You're worrying again,” the hobbit said, pointedly.
Thorin heaved out a sigh, letting his hand drop from the harp. He inclined his head, keeping his eyes on the sound-box.
Bilbo's hand on his arm was what drew his gaze away, over to the hobbit's face. He wore a small kindly smile, a smudge of black ink on the side of his nose.
“You're a very dear friend, Thorin. In fact, I'd go as far as to say you are my best friend; and that's not a title I grant easily, you know. If I had never met you, I very much doubt I would ever have done anything besides sitting in my armchair. I certainly wouldn't have gotten married! And even if the worst had happened and you had left us before your time, I still don't believe I would have returned to the Shire and found myself settling down.”
“You don't know that. You shouldn't be burdening yourself with me. This mountain and my running of it is not your responsibility. I am keeping you here beyond your time, the quest is over, and you-- … You should go home.”
By the time he'd finished speaking his gaze was back at his harp, and Bilbo's fingers were unmoving on his forearm. His gut twisted, a fist of nausea wrapping around his belly.
“If you want me to leave Erebor, then I will. I'm homesick, yes, but once this wedding is over, the plan – if you remember – is that we'll both be going to the Shire for a while. As per your tradition of staying awhile in your spouse’s home when they're not from your mountain range. It'll do you a lot of good, in my opinion, to get away from all... This. For a little bit. Goodness knows you deserve a holiday, no matter what you may believe! Now,” Bilbo said firmly, tightening his grip on Thorin's arm, “Are these pre-wedding jitters – fake wedding or not – or do you really want to call this off, and for me to leave?”
“No,” Thorin breathed, closing his eyes and letting the air rush out of him and his shoulders cave inwards.
The last thing he wanted was for Bilbo to leave. Not when he was still so unsteady, not when the only thing he could measure himself against was the hobbit. Dwalin and Balin, though strong and wary in equal measure, were too loyal to oppose him. Dáin, Dís, Fíli, and Kíli all loved him too dearly. All forgave him too readily.
But Bilbo... Bilbo would defy him and stand opposite him, not as a subject or a kinsman, but as an equal, and he would be right. If he was falling to ruin, if his very foundations were crumbling and sickness was creeping into his system, Bilbo would see it, and he would do the right thing.
“Alright. Good. To tell you the truth, I'm actually quite at home here, believe it or not. Don't get me wrong, I'd certainly advocate for a few more windows, and when Spring comes I shall be spending a lot more time outside, but your home is beautiful, Thorin, and I am a happy guest in your halls. Now,” he said, patting Thorin's hand and settling more comfortably into his chair, “help me with this line: The forge burns brightly, hot and grey, I wandered far and found my way. Flame suddenly completes me, something something.”
Thorin dragged his gaze over to the few lines Bilbo had scribbled down, frowning softly.
“It's common in dwarven poetry to simply repeat the last line,” he replied, reaching to take Bilbo's quill and leaning over, “like so.”
The forge burns brightly, hot and grey,
I wandered far and found my way.
Flame suddenly completes me,
Oh! Flame suddenly completes me.
“Oh! Very good! Yes, I like that. Though I'm not sure about the fire imagery – I'm not going to upset anyone, am I? I'd hate to be making unfortunate allusions to Smaug,” said the hobbit, itching his cheek thoughtfully.
Thorin shook his head, putting the quill down onto the little stand.
“I shouldn't think so. Your theme of smithing will lift all allusions to dragon fire, and while your form is certainly... hobbitish,” he said, delicately, “It will be well received for its perceived understanding of the importance of forging.”
“Well. Good,” nodded Bilbo, crooking a rather pleased little smile. Then he picked up the pen again, and dipped it once more into the ink. “Onwards I shall go!”
Thorin closed his eyes, tilting his head back and pulling softly at a single note on the harp.
Balin had pointed out he and Dori were thinking about having a ceremony, in a few years. As bâha'kurdu, both had been considering the benefits of lifting some of the privacy around their relationship. Really, Dori had said kindly, perhaps Thorin and Bilbo were no different.
They did have a good point. He'd never felt that fabled call of umral, and was content enough with his family, and with his sister-sons. Though it wasn't unheard of, for him to find such a thing after one hundred and sixty three years would come as a surprise.
He was not denying himself some great love by marrying Bilbo. He had no ache for carving children, and had happily named Fíli as crown prince. Should his sister-son carve no heirs, the crown would pass to Kíli and his offspring, or to his cousin Dáin’s son, Thorin Stonehelm.
A union between him and Bilbo would hopefully lead to better trade relations between the Blue Mountains and the Shire, as well as tying in Erebor. Better relations with the Shire folk would be useful for import and export, Glóin had added, though Bilbo had pointed out that running back to the Shire after being considered missing for a year and claiming to be married to a dwarf king would do nothing except make him seem very peculiar indeed.
Thorin had laughed, then. After all, it was true. Bilbo was exceptionally peculiar. Every time he thought he knew everything there was to know about hobbits, Bilbo surprised him.
“Oh! That was nice,” the hobbit said, bringing Thorin out of his thoughts. He blinked, raising an eyebrow. Bilbo waved his hand. “The little tune you just played. Very nice. Quite hobbitish, actually.”
“Like so?” Thorin asked, moving his fingers over the strings and hoping to recreate what he had unconsciously played.
Bilbo smiled bright and wide.
“Yes! That. Lovely. It reminds me of the little hills of the Shire – which I'm sure you'll appreciate a lot more a second time round, when you're not lost in them.”
“Quite,” he replied, taking the quill and a sheet of parchment, sketching down the little sequence of notes.
“You must give me another lesson in dwarven notation,” Bilbo said softly, resting his chin in his hand as he watched Thorin write. “It all looks so terribly interesting.”
He hummed out an affirmation, returning the quill to Bilbo and plucking out the tune again. The next challenge was the words.
Unlike his father, Thorin wasn't a great poet. He could make a stirring speech, and had given good counsel in the past, and could play and sing as well as the rest. But he preferred the construction of objects to words. To twist strands of metal beneath his fingers felt more natural than penning letters, and as Bilbo started to hum snatches of tune, he found himself wishing the songs weren't to be performed publicly.
Perhaps if he was in love with Bilbo, it would be easier. Perhaps he would want to declare his feelings, to make public the blessing of Mahal, but he could not write some grand spectacle if it was not true.
Thorin sighed softly, reaching for a second quill and his own sheet of parchment, dipping the nib in the ink. Poetry is the language of the heart, he reminded himself. He felt deeply for Bilbo. The hobbit was perhaps now his closest friend – certainly his most daring and occasionally infuriating. He would find words.
Enough, at least, for a courting song.