I was just wondering, could you PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE write a part 2 for "blacksmith needed" ? I'm literally dying PLEASE
Hello Nonnie and thank you for dropping by my inbox! 💙
For a while now I’ve been actually working on developing it into a longer story and I’m currently writing chapter 2… are you telepathic? ;) Your ask gave me a huge boost of motivation to write more, thank you 🙏
Anyway, how about a tiny glimpse of the things to come?
“Good day, sister,” Thorin approached Dis, placed the basket on the table, and offered her an embrace. She returned it with a wide smile on her face, but he could not overlook the fact that she looked wan and there were shadows under her eyes. “How are you faring?”
“I am on the mend, thank you,” she waved her hand dismissively and pecked him on his cheek. “What are you doing here, Thorin? I thought you were supposed to visit us in five days.”
“I will be here in five days, and I will bring more food with me this time,” he promised. “I am here to discuss a beneficial trade agreement I was offered yesterday.”
“A trade agreement!” Dwalin huffed. “What a heap of dung!”
“Dwalin!” Balin sighed.
“Don’t listen to him, cousin,” Dwalin stepped towards Dis. “Thorin decided it would be fun to throw his honour and freedom out of the window and marry some scrap of a lass of Men! He has clearly hit himself on his empty head!”
Hobbits are peculiar and queer little creatures. In just about every sense of the word. They are strange, with their short statures, round bellies, hairy feet, and pointed ears. But they are also just very gay. Such is the nature of one that lives in communal living where foods and ale are rich and aplenty and safety is just the order of the day.
So...I’ve been on a hike today with friends and I’ve been told a lovely local legend of my country and region. I’ve decided to put it into a short story with Thorin.
It’s a sort of prequel to all the amazing stories some authors write about Thorin and OCs while already under the Mountain... Please feel free to reblog and further the local saga of Oberschlinden 😊
So...here goes...
Black
Prologue
In a valley hidden within a dark forest, there were once two villages, very different from one another and yet doomed to suffer the same fate.
The first village was prosperous and industrious and its inhabitants knew much success in their bountiful endeavours, whereas the second village was merry and joyous, filled with music and celebrations all year round.
One day, a weary gleeman came this way and asked to be lodged and fed in exchange for a tune, but the upstanding villagers turned him away for they were much afeared that he had come to rob them of their wealth and goods. “We have no need for your futile, frivolous shenanigans.” They claimed and forbade him to set foot into their town.
Understanding what they were really afraid of, the man replied: “So be it, I should not have taken a single coin that had not been given to me freely. For your callous ignominy, I shall leave you something instead.”
And with these words, he turned around and headed to the other village across the valley.
Here, he was welcomed with open arms. He was fed and housed and after having regained his strength, he went on his merry way again to entertain and amuse other villages. The villagers were much aggrieved about his departure as they had greatly enjoyed his contribution to their daily merriment. They let him leave with their best wishes, nonetheless, for they were an indolent people, unable and unwilling to defend their interests with any kind of forcefulness.
A shadow fell over the valley. A dark sickness befell the first village and rapidly spread across the valley to the other one that had taken no precautions to keep the grim reaper out. Too busy had they been celebrating life and the sinking sun to pay any heed to the pestilence creeping their way.
This is how the first village learned that one who is too afraid to lose what he cannot keep, might well be given what he cannot get rid of, and the second village understood that evil spread faster than fell the night and crept, insidious, into every crack if not actively opposed. Like moss covering the immobile stone, the plague washed over the villages and left none but two women standing.
One of those women would rail and wail all day long, lamenting the loss of her glorious life and of her dear family, until madness took her and she returned to her empty house to wait for death to be her last visitor.
The other one, however, took it upon herself to do penance for the sins of her valley and all its ghostly inhabitants that were heard in the moaning of the wind and the gurgling of the brook.
This is her story.
The sun was low in the sky already when she was startled by the sound of footsteps behind her, making her look up in amazement.
“Good day, good woman, I am a blacksmith and I am looking for the prosperous village hidden in this valley. I am on my way back to my people and I am willing to work in exchange for food and lodging. May you point out the way to me, please?” A gruff voice resounded and a man stepped out of the shadow of the dense foliage.
He was short and stout, unlike any other man she had ever seen in her life, and she was so surprised by his appearance that it took a moment for her to react to his words.
“Good day, Master Dwarf,” she replied courteously, for she now saw that this was what he was, “I am sorry to confess that this village no longer exists. Neither does its sister. I am the last living soul in these parts.”
He looked much alarmed at her words.
“Moreover, there is a sickness lying over the valley. It is not advisable to traverse it.” She went on, getting up from her kneeling position at the foot of the little chapel. “Master Dwarf, I live at the other side of this cursed valley, it is a two-hour walk and the light is failing. I offer you my guidance around the affected area and my hospitality.” She spoke, bowing her head deferentially.
The dwarf seemed to ponder her words for a moment, then nodded.
“Step where I step; the path is treacherous and night shall be upon us soon.” She warned and set out.
Every day, she made her way along the rocky outcrops and the stony ledges, through the dense foliage of the underbrush and the silent desert of trees, to circle the whole valley and pray for hours at the foot of the small chapel for the souls of those who had fallen prey to sickness, stubbornness and wicked ignorance.
Along the way, she collected herbs and mushrooms to sustain herself and produce ointments and potions she sold once a month in the next village, just beyond the valley.
She led a lonely life, but she was unerring in her penance. Those two villages that had been mother and father to her for most of her adult life had done wrong and had been smitten for it by the hand of God. There was nobody left to ask for forgiveness, but her.
“Dwarves have steady steps and exceptional eyesight, even in the darkness. Worry not for me.” The man, for she could not call him anything else than that, answered.
He was well-grown, like an oak, strong and sturdy; he seemed tired though and she vowed that she would not commit the same mistake her forefathers and elders had made; she would be a gracious host. Indeed, she would salve the burns on his bare arms and give him the best parts of whatever she would find in her traps along her daily trek.
“Have you no kin, woman?” He asked after they had mounted a steep rocky ledge leading them through dense undergrowth from which she would extract berries and healing herbs to stow away in the satchels she carried on her back.
“I have no kin, Master Dwarf.” She shrugged, extending her hand to him when they came to a brook. The stones were slippery and wont to shift beneath the unfamiliar foot.
He just chuckled, a sound reminiscent of the big rockslide that had occurred a few months ago, and leapt easily enough across the narrow expanse of wet pebbles.
For a creature looking this heavy, he was surprisingly agile, she thought. She knew nothing about dwarves of course. In her nan’s tales, there had been mentions of those mysterious man-like beings who lived under mountains and in golden halls, but she had imagined them smaller and less…beautiful than what she saw in front of her.
As a matter of fact, she could not remember ever having seen a man quite as enchanting as the one following her swift steps effortlessly. There were beads in his hair that shimmered in the dying light and his eyes were the colour of the great river rushing through the valley; indeed, he was the closest she had ever come to a genuine fairy tale.
“What happened here?” He inquired, as they reached the highest ledge and looked down on the villages, already plunged in deep shadows and obviously deserted.
“A plague broke out and took every living soul. It is said that it was the refusal of hospitality by this village,” she pointed to one cluster of houses, “and the lack of zeal or backbone of that one,” she pointed to the opposite side of the valley, “that led to their doom.”
She had been there, she had seen the people who had been her friends and family die a miserable, painful death and she had waited for the blight to fall upon her as well. It had never come and now, she was the watcher of the dead valley; in a world of ghosts, there was none who felt less alive than her, walking along the deserted ruins of her existence day after day.
“Thank you for warning me.” He had a good voice, she thought, low and kind. It was a miracle to stumble upon another living being, but his voice and the empathy in his eyes felt like a caress upon her bruised soul.
“It is my duty, Master Dwarf. I shall stand in harm’s way as long as I can.”
“My name is Thorin.” He declared in an almost questioning voice. He had been reticent to divulge his name, she realised and turned around to bow deeply.
“Come along, Master Thorin. The light is fading fast now.” She urged him on, almost running along the rocky paths, her feet sending up sprays of pebbles in her wake.
They walked on tirelessly for a long time, until they reached a fallen tree stump that had not been there when she had come this way earlier in the day.
Clambering over the dead wood swiftly, Thorin extended his arms, in turn, to her. She stepped closer and uttered a small cry of astonishment when he simply lifted her over the obstacle as if she weighed nothing at all. “Thank you, Master Thorin.” She bowed again.
He smelled like the pines that grew beyond the valley, she noticed, and like life. Everything about him was painfully alive: the vivid intelligence of his eyes, the small smirk he gave her on account of her breathless incredulity, and the warmth of his hands on her ribs that left a palpable impression.
As she walked on, nearing the point where the path would dip drastically and the danger doubled, she came to accept that she would cherish this encounter until the end of her days.
Maybe God had heard her prayers and granted her the small solace of seeing another soul, of speaking to someone who actually answered and of feeling living flesh upon her own once more.
She extricated a small rabbit from the trap she had laid on the highest crest and pushed it down into her satchel as well, gesturing to the silent valley with a sense of pride.
“This is home. And there’s my hut.” She pointed to a small wooden house at the far end of the valley, nestled between two tiny hills and reflecting the last rays of sun.
The light was growing dimmer now and the way down was treacherous even in broad daylight. “Permit me, Mistress.” He gave her a mocking smile and took her hand.
It felt huge and calloused, but its roughness comforted her. She had lived in this rocky wilderness for years now and the feeling of warm stones would always be synonymous with home to her.
To her shame and despair, she tottered several times on their way down and when Thorin slung his arm around her waist and steadied her, she did not object.
Finally, they reached the little plateau she called her own.
“Give me your boots.” She asked and when he did, she set them aside to be cleaned afterwards.
Stoking the fire, she started taking the small rabbit apart and tossing the various leaves and mushrooms she had collected into the pot filled with fresh water. She would deplete her stocks for him; she would not be a bad host like the first villagers. Also, she would mend his socks, tend to his injuries and clean his boots; she would not be a slovenly scallywag like the second villagers either.
“Make yourself at home.” She invited him, giving him the best chair and a blanket she had woven herself in her youth.
“Are you really all alone?” He asked her, as she sat on the floor, grinding herbs into a paste with devoted focus. “Yes, Master Dwarf.” She smiled, taking his hand and spreading the ointment gingerly on the burns dotting his strong forearms.
“Do you like being alone?” He pressed on, wincing as the wet unguent made his wounds smart.
“It is my punishment and my expiation.” She replied while stirring the stew she was preparing.
His eyes settled heavily on her face and she could read sympathy and sadness in those dark, blue lakes shot through with silver. He looked rather like a gem hewn from precious stone himself, she had to admit, feeling drawn to the solidity of his frame and the living warmth of his gaze.
“Eat, Master Thorin.” She handed him a deep bowl, containing most of the mushrooms and all of the meat she had managed to scrape off the scrawny rabbit.
“What about you?” He asked, suspicious, when she filled a goblet with the fragrant broth.
“Eat.” She encouraged him again. He had obviously known a long and tiresome road and she wanted him to feel safe and cared for; she was thankful for the chance to do right by him.
It was a small redemption of her blood to be a good host after the opposite reaction had plunged her people into extinction.
He looked relaxed now, sitting by the fire, listening to her hum to herself while she cleaned his boots and mended his clothing. “Your gifts are wasted on the dead.” He suddenly said.
“Beg your pardon?” She looked up from polishing his boots, a questioning expression in her eyes.
“You have been a good host to me, you’re a steady cook and a knowledgeable reader of nature. Come with me.”
She blinked. She knew not what he was talking about.
“I am, as I said, on my way to rejoin my kin. Come with me, there is nothing here for you but desolation and loneliness. There are people yet alive beyond this valley and they could greatly benefit from your knowledge…and your sweet nature. Come with me! Be my travel companion!” He reiterated when she didn’t reply.
“I cannot…I am here to…” - “You are here to wait for the next weary traveller and right the wrong inflicted by and upon your people. Consider it done, Mahal has heard you child, I am Thorin, and I shall be King under the Mountain one day. I might be here to deliver you and take you away from this place.” He interrupted her harshly.
A king, she thought, a future king. What prevented him from being king now?
“It is a hard life amongst my people; there will be deprivation and long, cold nights.” He warned her, but she simply motioned to the small hut they sat in while the wind howled with furious intensity outside.
“But…it is a life. I offer you a life, not an easy one, not a pretty one necessarily, but a life. Be the watcher of the living, be the minder of the sick, be the guide of the hale-bodied; leave behind your dead and let them find their peace. Come with me!”
She thought about it for a moment, then nodded. He was right; he might have been the sign she had been waiting for all these years.
Epilogue:
The last survivor of the great plague that had ravaged the valley and left it inhabited forevermore was never seen again. People say, she just vanished at some point. Some hold the belief that she has been carried away by fairies and others claim that on windy nights, one could see her walk along the stony ledges on her eternal way to the abandoned chapel.
We shall never know for sure what really happened to that sole survivor, but her name disappeared from the ledgers, never to be mentioned again in the books of men.
I love the idea of bagginshield bingo!! I'm going to have to ask for Blacksmith Thorin :D
I thought I was never going to get this finished in time! But here we go. I do apologize, the ending is a little rushed. This gives me some interesting possibilities towards getting the bingo now. ;) Thanks for the ask and please enjoy!
Title: Reasons Why Not to Live in the Shire
Summary: Thorin is a traveling blacksmith who grudgingly travels to the Shire for work every year, but there is only one reason why he would ever decide to stay.
Hobbits. A species slightly more tolerable than men, and infinitely easier to stomach than elves. Still hobbits, with their frivolous conversations and round bellies that speak of full meals and not an ounce of hardship, made Thorin grind his teeth. Especially when they spurned Thorin’s masterpieces in well crafted hunting knives, intricate hair beads, and jewelry so fine many couldn’t believe it was iron and not silver. No, the hobbits wanted pots and pans, door locks, sometimes a wind chime, but only if it was plain. They deemed the sound quality lost if he bears too much detail. He didn’t mind that some folks had simpler tastes, if they were at least consistent with it.
His metalwork would be passed in a heartbeat if it was “too embellished”. However, Bofur’s carving skills would be the talk of the market. His pipes were top sellers for their caravan every year. Even Dori’s tea sets and weaving would catch their eyes. Hobbits. If they didn’t pay as well as they did, Thorin would have their caravan pass the Shire every year.
“You’re late this year.”
Thorin passed the reins over to his oldest nephew, Fili, before hopping down from the cart to meet with the Thain. Thorin had worked well with his father and brother before him. Isumbras Took, on the other hand, was fair, but rather curt. Of course, Thorin credited that to his advanced age. Hobbits, much like the dwarven royalty, passed on the title of Thain through the males of their line with no abdication except in death. Yet, they tried to argue that the position wasn’t that of a king. Isumbras has only been Thain for four years and looked days away from passing the title onto his son, Fortinbras, which is why Thorin figured the gentlehobbit was accompanying him today. The business of training heirs and ruling ‘kingdoms’ were tasks he was thankful would never have to be his.
“You’ll have to excuse us. We had a death in the family this year.” Thorin explained somberly.
It had been a mining accident. Vili, Dis’ husband, was taking on some extra work while they were in Ered Luin, and a tunnel collapsed on him. She and the boys were devastated. Thorin had considered the man a brother and was hurt by the recent loss. Normally, they would have arrived in the Shire by summer’s end, but he couldn’t begrudge his family their time to mourn. The Thain nodded sympathetically.
“I understand the sentiment. My sister, Belladonna, passed away this spring as well. The white plague. It took her husband eight years prior as well. Left poor little Bilbo up on the Hill all by himself, but he’s a resourceful lad. Seems to be doing just fine, even if he is a little thinner.”
Thorin listened to the hobbit ramble about his family, nodding along appropriately. That was the other thing about hobbits. They were practically all related, and would spout stories about each other as if Thorin was expected to know exactly who they were talking about.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Thorin stated.
The Thain nodded his appreciation as he looked over Thorin’s papers of commerce, allowing their caravans the right to sell in the Hobbiton marketplace.
“I know your lot tries to clear out after about two weeks, but you ought to consider staying through the Harvest Festival. I’m sure a little extra coin will more than make up for your late start.” Isumbras encouraged.
“And Bilbo’s birthday.” Fortinbras pointed out.
“Yes! The lad is turning 44! A good grounded year.” Isumbras nodded eagerly.
Thorin nodded politely, feeling his attention begin to wane.
“We will consider your offer. Thank you for your hospitality.” Thorin spoke the practiced words as he jumped back onto the wooden bench.
Isumbras and Fortinbras waved at them as they urged the ponies forward on the well traveled lane.
“Can we stay for the hobbits’ festival?” Kili asked eagerly from the back. “I’ve never been to one.”
“I’m sure it’s like every other festival we’ve been to.” Thorin grumbled.
“How can we know for sure if we don’t go?” Fili interjected with a smirk.
Thorin rolled his eyes at his nephews’ playful attitudes, pleased to see them smiling once more. Which is why he couldn’t outright deny them.
“I will consider it.” He sighed.
The two cheered and immediately began chatting about what could possibly happen at a hobbit festival that would be different from the dwarven and mannish festivals they had been to beforehand. They came up with eating competitions, sleeping contests, and jumping contests due to their large feet. Thorin merely shook his head as he worked on tuning them out.
The Company had already pulled into their usual spots and were hard at work setting up their displays as Thorin and the boys crested the hill. Their group was made up of five individual families, each with a different craft. However, after so many years on the road together, they were one big family at this point.
There was Bombur with his wife and children, and they would sell dwarvish pastries and tarts. Thorin was assured those weren’t the same thing. His brother, Bofur, and cousin, Bifur, were wood carvers. Bofur tended to focus on the practical end of furniture options and pipes while Bifur loved to create toys for the little ones. The next family was Dori and his brothers. Dori usually tended to keep Nori close by to keep the former thief out of trouble, but Ori worked with Balin selling books, quills, parchment, and inks.
Gloin, with his brother, wife, and son, were the hunters in their group and sold off what they couldn’t eat. Oils from the fat that his wife somehow managed to scent with different kinds of flowers. Furs and leather also came from their stand, and Oin tended an apothecary. That left Thorin, Dwalin, Fili, and Kili to man the forge while Dis handled their sales. It saved Thorin from having to talk to the hobbits personally which tended to work out better for everyone involved.
It took them the rest of the day to get settled in, and Thorin could see some of the hobbits passing by with their curious, yet suspicious stares. The gossip mill ran so fast here, he was certain they would have a line of customers by the next morning. There were three peak times in a hobbit market, and they all revolved around their meal times. The morning rush would happen between first and second breakfasts, the midday would be right before tea time as they wandered out of their smials to socialize, and the final one would happen right before supper.
Right on cue, as soon as the sun’s rays touched the earth, here came the hobbits to check out their wares. Even from the back of the forge, Thorin could hear their grumblings about how they were late this year, and how inconsiderate it was to keep them waiting. He knew he would have blown up at somebody by this point, and he could only thank Mahal for Dis’ patience to be able to handle the ridiculous and fussy creatures.
“Oh Thorin! I think you’ll want to handle our next customer.” Dis teased.
Thorin raised an eyebrow at her looking up from the bent pan he was trying to hammer back into shape. He didn’t talk to hobbits unless… He screwed up his face in exasperation even as he rushed towards the front of the stand. So maybe not all hobbits were bad. In fact, there had been a young lad and his mother who had always been very appreciative of Thorin’s crafting.
When the dwarrows first started appearing in the Shire marketplace, the lad was barely of age. He was lean, something unusual for a hobbit, and had a boundless amount of mischievous energy. In fact, that was what endeared him to Fili and Kili. The three would sneak off to the pubs or down to the river as soon as the Company pulled into town. Over the years, Master Baggins tempered out, but his hazel eyes still screamed for adventure. In fact, with as much as the other hobbits tended to watch him with judging eyes and mockingly disappointed whispers, he figured the only reason the lad hadn’t run off into the wilderness yet was his mother.
Misses Baggins had probably the kindest heart of any being Thorin had ever met. She greeted them not only with respect, but as if they were old friends dropping by for a visit. A few years back, she had commissioned Thorin for a set of silver spoons, and had asked for his very best work. She wanted her dining set to be ‘the envy of Hobbiton’. It was the first time he had truly poured his heart into a project in the Shire, and it was well worth the effort when her face lit up at the sight of her spoons. He had etched flowing vines and leaves in the handle of each spoon with a little acorn sitting at the end.
She made it a point to brag on his spoons every time they came back. It got to the point where the rest of the Company teased him into bribing her for compliments. However, Misses Baggins was quick to point out how credit is only given where credit is due. There was not a hobbit that didn’t seem to at least respect Misses Baggins, and as for her son, he absolutely adored her.
As the golden haired hobbit picked his way through the market, Thorin couldn’t help but notice there was something vastly different about him from their last visit. He never greeted a single person, be they dwarf or hobbit, unless he was spoken to first. Even from this distance, Thorin could tell his reply was curt and impersonal, his smile polite but forced. Sympathetic, but approving, eyes from the masses followed Master Baggins as he slowly made his way to the forge.
Thorin watched him, unsure of how to greet him. Much to his sister and nephews teasing, there had always been an attraction, at least from the young hobbit’s end. Of course Thorin was an old dwarf, and did his best to dissuade his affections. However, as the years went by, Thorin learned there was a difference between hobbits and dwarrows in terms of age. He watched as Master Baggins transcended young adulthood pushing into the maturity of middle age. Then one summer, two years ago, Thorin was watching Master Baggins sitting out on his front porch smoking his pipe in the dying like of the sunset, and it hit him. He had never seen anyone so beautiful in all his life.
It had been a sobering moment, and one he still didn’t know quite what to do with. Did the young hobbit still hold to his childhood crush or had that died in the wake of his maturity? Was it something Thorin should even pursue or would his mother frown upon such a relationship? Perhaps his greatest shame, how was he to court someone when he couldn’t remember their first name.
“Good morning, Master Baggins.” Thorin finally called out as soon as the hobbit was close enough.
“Hmm?” The hobbit questioned, clearly distracted before putting on that forced smile once more. “Good morning, Mister Thorin. We certainly missed you this summer. I hope everything is okay?”
Thorin knew he was staring at the hobbit’s abnormal pale complexion and listless expression, but once he brought up their tardiness, Thorin ducked his head.
“We lost Vili earlier this year.” Thorin confessed knowing the hobbit had been close with the boys’ father.
He hadn’t expected his entire demeanor to fall. His body slumped, and his eyes looked haunted and lifeless.
“I’m...so sorry. My condolences.” He whispered. “Please excuse me.”
Thorin watched as he picked his way back up the hill as if in a hurry. Fili and Kili poked their heads out in confusion.
“What’s wrong with Bilbo?” Kili questioned.
“I’m not sure, he...Bilbo?” Thorin spun around on them.
Fili glared at Kili who was looking sheepish. Thorin wanted to be irritated that they had known his first name the whole time and didn’t tell him, but he was more focused on the name itself. Where had he heard the name Bilbo recently? The Thain’s conversation came rushing back and dread seeped into his very soul. Thorin didn’t think as he hopped the counter rushing past the suspicious and bewildered hobbits to get to Bag End.
Thorin pounded on the bright green door, the hobbit’s long sought name falling easily from his lips. Bilbo’s eyebrows were furrowed in confusion when he finally answered the door, a surprise gasp on his lips upon seeing Thorin. The dwarf only took in his red cheeks and watery eyes before pulling him into a hug. Bilbo was limp in his grasp before folding his arms tightly around Thorin’s torso. His body shook like a leaf, and Thorin’s tunic slowly began to develop wet spots. He could care less.
“It’s okay, Bilbo. I’m so sorry.” He soothed as the hobbit clinged to him like his life depended on it.
“You figured it out.” His shaky voice huffed. “Fili and Kili will be so disappointed. They were making bets on when you would ask after my first name.”
Thorin rolled his eyes over the top of Bilbo’s head before burying his nose deeper in the hobbit’s wild curls. He pressed a chaste kiss to the top of his head making sure Bilbo knew that he had people to care for him. He would take care of his infuriating nephews later. When Bilbo finally pulled away, Thorin wouldn’t say he looked better, but his eyes at least looked less lifeless.
“What can I do?” Thorin asked as he rubbed the tear stains on Bilbo’s cheeks with his thumbs.
The hobbit bit his lip, unable to look Thorin in the eye as his ears turned pink.
“I...No, I couldn’t…”
“Bilbo.” Thorin cut off his ramblings. “Anything.”
“Stay.” Bilbo whispered, ducking his head in shame at requesting such a thing.
Thorin sucked in a deep breath before releasing it.
“Done.”
“What?” Bilbo questioned in shock.
“I said done.” Thorin repeated with a small amount of amusement.
“But...your family?” Bilbo murmured.
“They know the way to Erebor well enough at this point, and they have each other to lean on. You clearly need me more here, so I will stay.”
For a moment, Bilbo looked like the young lad he had met all those years ago. Then his face broke out in a bright smile before launching himself back into Thorin’s arms. The dwarf laughed as he held tight to the hobbit. His hobbit who knew good food and hardships. He would suffer the Shire for the rest of his life for him. He knew? Perhaps, he could persuade Bilbo to make the journey with them next year. For now, Bilbo was all the reason he needed to stay.
I have a surprise for you! A Thorin Oakenshield fic for the Armitage Summer Splash event :)
WEEK 2 - PROMPT 8
Trope: A secret is found out
Quote: “Show me your face.”
Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x OC
Rating: G
You can find this fic on AO3.
Khuzdul:
Lulkh - fool
The Tinderbox
Thorin always liked stopping by Falunath in his travels. Men, Dwarves, and even a handful of Elves lived there in relative harmony, united by a common enemy: the Orcs. This was another reason why he usually stopped there every year for a couple of weeks on his way back to the Blue Mountains – to his people. Where there were Orc raids, there was a need for weapons and he happened to enjoy forging them. The local smithy owners always welcomed him with open arms, especially Old Matt who always paid well and on time.
There was only one problem. Eidris. A Broadbeam lass with a sharp tongue and a heavy hammer. She worked at Old Matt’s smithy every summer as one of the blacksmiths alongside Thorin. He had to admit, she was quite easy on the eye and Thorin caught himself stealing glances at her from time to time while she worked. Only out of professional curiosity, of course. Her broadswords were the best examples of craftsmanship he had seen in years. In addition to being a constant source of distraction, she was also friendly. Thorin did not do friendly. He stayed away from the everyday chitter-chatter of the other smiths and apprentices; the reason for his presence in the smithy was simple – doing his work and receiving payment which he greatly needed. Besides, being friendly with others implied sharing details of his life – including his identity – and that he wanted to avoid. As far as the good people of Falunath knew, he was simply Thorin the Bladesmith and he preferred to keep it that way.
September that year ended like any other – with rainy and windy weather – and Thorin knew that it was time for him to return to the Blue Mountains. He thanked Old Matt for his hospitality, received a coin-filled purse, and promised to come back next year.
The return journey took him over a week, but when he finally crossed the threshold of his home, it was after midnight. Darkness and silence surrounded him. Not wanting to wake up Dis and the boys, he directed his steps towards his study as quietly as he could. Inside, he lit a candle. Taking the coin purse in his hand, he opened the money chest. At its bottom lay only a handful of copper coins. Thorin let out a sigh. He could only hope that the money he had earned would be enough to buy the needed supplies for the winter – both for his family and for those in need.
A sudden whiff of wind puffed out the candle at his desk. A door squeaked in the distance. Something shifted in the darkness.
“Kili? Your last prank with that skeleton was scarier than this,” Thorin chuckled, walking into the corridor.
There was no response. He stopped in his tracks to listen. And then he heard it.
In a swift move he lunged towards the source of the noise and pressed Kili against the wall.
“Oof!” someone exclaimed. Not Kili. It was a woman’s voice.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he hissed, pinning her arms to the wall not without an effort. The cogwheels in his brain worked in overdrive. A Dwarf-woman. In his own home. Empty-handed. Not an assassin, then. But who? A hood made her features impossible to distinguish in the darkness. Was she a thief? Or a spy?
“Let me go!” she protested and tried to wiggle herself free. She was strong, muscular, and almost as tall as Thorin, but he was stronger. His grip held her firmly in place.
“Not until you answer my question!” he warned the intruder. His face was so close to hers that he could feel her hot breath against his cheek. The sweet scent of honey filled his lungs. Suddenly, he realised that his chest was pressed against the softness of her pleasantly full bosom. Mahal, have mercy on him. This woman most probably was a thief or an assassin and the only thing he could think of was whether her lips tasted like honey.
“I mean no harm to this home or those in it. Mahal be my witness,” the words of an ancient dwarvish pledge reached his ears, snapping him out of his thoughts. Reluctantly, he loosened his grip.
“Show me your face,” he ordered, ready to act if her intentions were less than honourable despite her words.
Slowly, she raised her hand to the hood. As the damp fabric slid off her head, a mane of light brown hair fell to her shoulders.
“Eidris? What are you doing here?!” he took a step back in confusion.
“I was trying to catch up with you, you lulkh! And the door was ajar,” she stated in an agitated whisper and added, “You’d better tell me what you are doing here!”
“How do you mean what I am doing here?” he grunted. What a cheek!
“This place has the House of Durin markings on the door! Let’s get out of here before the owners wake up!” she pulled at his sleeve. “Unless… You aren’t a thief, are you?”
Thorin stifled a chuckle, not wanting to wake up anyone. He could imagine Fili and Kili’s comments if they were to find him in a dark corridor with a woman, suspiciously close to his bedchamber.
“I happen to live here,” he offered.
“You…” her eyes widened. It was too dark to see them clearly, but he remembered their colour. Hazel. And whenever she stoked the fire in the furnace, amber specks would dance in them. “You… live… here?”
“Aye. It is my home.” he nodded. The cat was out of the bag. There was no point hiding his real identity any longer.
Eidris covered her mouth with her hand and then said, “But… but that would mean that you are…”
“Thorin!” a sharp voice together with a faint light filled the corridor. “I hoped it was you! What on earth is that noise?”
“Dis,” he turned towards the newcomer, opening his arms. “It is good to see you too!”
Their embrace was short but affectionate. It felt good to be home.
“Forgive me the commotion, sister. It seems that the joy of returning to you took the better of me,” he smiled fondly.
“Will you not introduce me to your friend?” Dis raised an eyebrow, adjusting the shawl on her shoulders.
Thorin swallowed, casting a glance at the unexpected guest.
“Of course. This is Eidris, daughter of…”
Before his complete lack of knowledge about her lineage became evident, the woman interrupted him.
“Eidris, daughter of Eida. Fifth-generation blacksmith. T-Thorin and I work together in Falunath. It is nice to meet you, my lady,” she greeted his sister formally, but he noticed her hesitation when she spoke his name. It puzzled him. The Broadbeam lass was many things, but she had never hesitated in his presence before.
“Welcome under our roof, Eidris, daughter of Eida. I am Dis, daughter of Valdis. And we don’t use our titles any longer. Waste of time, if you ask me. Please, call me Dis, just like you call my brother by his name,” his sister gave her one of her warm smiles and a conspiratorial wink. “You probably know how cranky he gets when people start addressing him ‘Oakenshield’ or, Mahal forbid, ‘king’...”
“That is enough, dearest sister,” Thorin rolled his eyes. “The hour is late and I would like to offer our guest a proper meal. It rained all day long.”
“By all means! You both look like you need some warm food in your bellies. There is some leftover stew in the kitchen,” Dis smiled and asked in an innocent tone of voice. “Tell me, Eidris, will you be staying the night?”
Thorin could swear that the silence that followed was louder than a dragon’s roar.
“Well, I…” Eidris gave him an uncertain look. “I should be going.”
“In this weather? Out of the question!” Dis protested and Thorin clearly saw amusement on his sister’s face.
“I only came here to drop this off, that is all.” The blacksmith protested, rummaging in her rucksack. After a moment, she produced a familiar bulky leather pouch and offered it to Thorin.
He could not believe his eyes. His fingers quickly untied the straps and took out the contents of the pouch. His favourite fire striker… and the time-worn brass tinder box with a sapphire in its lid. The token he received from his grandfather when he reached half Battle Age. Years and years ago. In another life. Something tightened in his throat.
“I thought I lost it somewhere on the road,” he spoke hoarsely.
“Millie found it under your bed at Old Matt’s when she was sweeping the floor,” Eidris shook her head. “It didn’t look like something you would want to get rid of. I was about to leave Falunath as well, so I decided to return it to you in person.”
“What an incredible coincidence!” Dis chimed in, addressing Eidris. “This is one of Thorin’s most treasured possessions. He takes with him everywhere. And you say it was found under your bed, hmm?”
Thorin narrowed his eyes.
“Under my bed, sister dear. It must have fallen out of my rucksack when I was packing. Thank you, Eidris. I appreciate it more than I can say.” He placed his hand over his heart and lowered his head in thanks. “Please, you must stay the night. I insist. It is the least I can offer you.”
Eidris glanced towards the entrance door.
“I don’t want to be a bother.”
“You are very welcome here, I assure you,” Thorin offered, feeling how his sister’s gaze moved from Eidris to him. Somehow, it made him feel uneasy.
“In that case, I will be honoured,” the Broadbeam lass consented.
“That’s settled then,” Dis clasped her hands together, beaming at them both. “You are staying with us, Eidris, and I hope to get to know you better at breakfast.”
An alarm bell started ringing in Thorin’s head. Loudly.
“That’s very generous of you, Dis,” Eidris shifted one foot to the other, avoiding his gaze. “Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it. But before I leave you to your meal, allow me to ask you one last thing.” His sister acted like an embodiment of the perfect hostess. The alarm bell in Thorin’s head turned into a mine siren that usually wailed moments before a detonation took place.
“Yes?” He heard Eidris’ oblivious voice.
“I’d like to prepare sleeping arrangements for you,” Dis spoke sweetly, treating them both to her most charming smile. “Tell me, shall I make the bed for you in the guest room or will you be sleeping in Thorin’s bedchamber?”
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