when you have a dream about dragon water parks and bois that shoot fake bullets from their hands. YEAH THAT SOUNDS LIKE MY PARTYYYY... help me. Anyway this guy i never wrote down the date, but he’s probably from the 2016′s telling by the art style+which notebook i found him in.
“You’re back!” Dwalin exclaimed, looking relived. Thorin smiled. Dwalin vaulted the fence of the practice field, abandoning the youngster class to Kíli, who had probably angered his amad in some way and been made to watch the dwarflings as punishment, Thorin thought, a slight snigger escaping him.
“I am, amrâlimê,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against Dwalin’s and clasping his arm; it was as much affection as he would allow himself in public, Thorin knew, even if he wanted to lose himself in Dwalin’s kisses – forget, even just for a little while, the news he would have to bring Dís… and the Quest he had already decided to attempt.
“You didn’t find him,” Dwalin guessed, his large hands finding Thorin’s shoulders and pulling him close against the warrior’s broad chest. Thorin sighed, sinking into the embrace with a pleased murmur.
“No,” he admitted, “it was naught but smoke and mirrors once more.” He had thought the pain of his knowledge lessened as he walked towards their small mountain village – they didn’t even really live inside the Stone here – but saying it out loud hurt more than he had believed it would. Dwalin’s arms tightened around him, but he didn’t say the words Thorin knew he had deserved; though, in fairness, Dwalin wasn’t the type to gloat about misfortune.
“You seem… different,” Dwalin frowned, pulling back to study Thorin’s face. He nodded. Finally knowing his adad’s fate was painful, yes, but it had also brought him a degree of peace, Thorin thought, even if he felt dismayed that he would not be able to tell Frís what he had learned – though, of course, Thraín himself could tell her when she woke in the Halls.
“I’ve some news,” Thorin said, knowing that he couldn’t put it off forever; it would take some time to outfit – and even secure funding – for just a small expedition. If he could not gain the support of the rest of the Clan-Lords – he was extremely unconvinced that they would consider Gandalf’s backing a point in favour of mounting an attack on Erebor – he still had to go; just to see it, once more, before he grew old and withered in this place that still didn’t feel like home even after more than a century’s occupation.
“You didn’t find him,” Dís stated, ending on a sigh as soon as she caught sight of the two of them coming up the road. Thorin shook his head, pulling her in for the hug he knew she needed. She might not have believed the rumours that had sent him travelling through Dunland, but she would still have carried a small nugget of hope, buried deep in her heart. Dís tugged lightly on one of his temple braids, pressing her forehead against his in a kin-blessing.
“No, I did not find him,” Thorin admitted, taking comfort in his sister’s embrace, “but Tharkûn found me.”
“Tharkûn?” Dwalin asked, startled. Neither of them had spoken of the wizard in years, and for a moment he didn’t even remember the person that belonged to the name.
“The wizard found you?” Dís asked, with no little amount of suspicion. Thorin nodded. His sister frowned lightly. “It sounds like you’ve quite the story to tell us, nadad,” she sighed, turning back towards the house.
Stepping back through the doorway and walking into the kitchen, Dís silently put the kettle on. No one spoke while the luxurious scent of kafh brewing slowly filled the air. Thorin dropped his pack – he had taken the route through the Shire back, and managed to trade himself some excellent cheese and a small sack of spring barley by mending a couple broken hinges. It wasn’t much, but he wasn’t one to let opportunities slide – they all still remembered the gnawing teeth of seasonal starvation, though it had been years since they’d faced empty pantries come the end of winter – and the Hobbits rarely traded in ready coins or gold. Sinking into his chair, he nodded a silent thank you at Dwalin who quietly spirited the sack of grain away in their small pantry – he’d grind it to meal later, for bread – and returned with a loaf and a crock of butter, cutting off some thick slices for all three of them. Spreading butter onto his slice, Thorin suddenly realised how hungry he was – it was late afternoon, but he had gone light on lunch, not wanting to cut up his cheese when he still had cram to spare for the road home.
“Cheese-fiend,” Dwalin teased, cutting off a good-sized wedge and carving slices – Thorin stole a few before they could end up on the bread.
“I’m hungry!” Thorin protested. Dís chuckled, pulling her own snack close and stealing an extra slice of cheese for herself. Dwalin shook his head fondly.
“You’re both cheese-fiends,” he exclaimed, an old argument.
“Says the dwarf who’d eat cookies for dinner if I’d let him,” Dís returned, raising one dark eyebrow.
“She’s got you there, Dwal,” Thorin smirked. Dwalin scowled, but he could hardly deny that he was as much a cookie raid enthusiast now as he had been when Fíli and Kíli were small. Dís patted his hand in mock sympathy. Swallowing a mouthful of the bitter dark brew, Thorin savoured the rich flavour – they might all like tea in the evening, but he had missed his morning kafh while on the road. When he set down the cup, Dís’ dark eyes were staring at him, and he knew he could put it off no longer.
“Tell me,” she said. Thorin reached for her hand across the table; when he spoke, the words came haltingly at first, though soon he built up speed, trying to infect his audience with the same fire that filled his very soul at the thought of going home.
“…There is a way, Dís, don’t you see?” he asked, filled with bright fervour. His sister did not reply. “Adad knew it, and now we have the tools to find it!”
“Thorin,” Dís nearly choked on his name, staring into her brother’s blue eyes. Dwalin had gone silent, his face stony. “Thorin, this is madness!” she cried. Could he not see…?
“No, Dís,” he exclaimed, and she could not remember him smiling like that, not even on the happiest days of their lives. Thorin’s usually cool blue eyes were on fire; filled with a strength of purpose that scared her, feeling her heart beating rapidly in her chest. “This is our chance to go back; to reclaim our land, our home!”
“No, Thorin,” she felt like begging him, but she knew she had too much pride to do so, “this is a dream; one that took our Adad from us already!” Pushing away from the table, feeling like she was going to be sick, Dís fled the house. If he went, he would not come back… just like Thraín.
Dwalin said nothing, simply staring at the dwarf he loved, the King he would follow to the ends of Arda if he asked – and even if he didn’t. Dwalin felt the jaws of fate close tight around him, even as he followed Dís out of the small house, seeing none of the dwarrow he passed as he headed towards the river, staring across the swirling eddies and seeing only the haunting darkness of unfriendly trees, heard the light laughs of Elves who weren’t really there, felt the way the magicks beneath the dark branches insinuated its way into his mind, his heart. He still had no recollection of leaving the trees, finding himself in the mountains, barely enough food in his pack to make it across the Misty Mountains and having to live on what he could forage in late September until he found a hint of civilisation. Dwalin shuddered. He did not wish to return to the land called Mirkwood.
The gentle hand on his arm startled Dwalin out of the shadowy recesses of his mind, making him turn his head sharply.
Wish speak? Bifur signed, taking a seat on the dew-glistening grass beside him, making Dwalin realise that night had fallen. He shook his head. Thorin came, Bifur continued. You are mad at him? Dwalin shrugged. He was numb; did that mean he was mad? Bifur just nodded, lapsing into silence, his clever fingers occupying themselves with the carving knife that was never far away and a small block of wood he fished from a pocket.
“He wants to go back…” Dwalin finally whispered, his voice so quiet that a breeze might have born his words away. “To Erebor. There was a Wizard, and, and…” he trailed off, his thoughts a wild tangle.
Scary, was Bifur’s response, putting the knife down to sign it twice more for emphasis. Dwalin nodded. If you tell me, I will listen.
“Dwalin!” Thorin called, staring after the broad back of his love. Dwalin did not turn. He had expected Dís to storm off, her temper was – like his own – soothed through pacing and thinking, but he hadn’t expected Dwalin to follow. Dís would take time, but she would see that it was a necessary thing to do, Thorin told himself, only halfway convincing. Dwalin… and that was the moment it hit him, the sheer scale of what he was asking of his lover, his beloved, his husband. They might not be married, and Thorin didn’t allow himself to use the title often, even in his own mind, but it had always belonged to Dwalin, the only one he’d ever truly wanted. He had seen it, on that night in Bree, briefly, while the wizard spoke of Burglars and Doors, had seen again the wasted form of his lover stumbling into the village half-starved and more than a little delirious, ready to throw himself on Frís’ axe for abandoning her husband, even though he could give no coherent account of the how or the why of it, speaking only of trees that moved in darkness. Thorin felt guilt rise up, black and vile, viscous like tar, choking the breath from his lungs. How could he ask Dwalin to follow him this time, knowingly lead him back beneath those trees? They had a life here; how dare he ask for more? Feeling like the worst piece of scum ever to leave the Maker’s Forge, Thorin sank into his armchair, morosely poking at the fire. He barely acknowledged the homecoming of his nephews, did not speak to his sister, who eventually gave up on making him join them for dinner, stuffing a cheese sandwich into his hand instead. The cheese had been good earlier, but Thorin felt it choke him with every bite. A part of him argued with the brooding darkness of his thoughts, tried to marshal logical arguments for trying to regain Erebor, but Thorin’s mind was occupied with seeing again the stumbling staggering form of a Dwarf coming towards him; nearly unrecognizable if not for the tattoos on his head.
“Ay, nadad,” Dís whispered, when the fire had almost died.
“He will hate me, Dís,” Thorin whispered. He stared at the leaping flames, now seeing different flames, flames licking over faces long gone, felt the phantom touch of Dwalin’s hand in his own, the one solid point in his world as they watched their kindred burn.
“He will not,” Dís replied, certainty in every word. “He loves you.” She had often called him foolish for not marrying, for believing that he had to marry in his own Halls, which meant that doing it here would somehow make him less Prince of Erebor – King, now, Thorin supposed, and it did not fill him with glee – and Thorin had never managed to make her understand the yearning to return to the cool green stone that sang in his very being. If he gave up on that, even for love so deep as the one he had found in Dwalin, it would be a betrayal of their line, of himself, and of Erebor.
“I have to try, Dís, I have to.” Thorin muttered the words, leaning into her shoulder when she leaned against him, perched on one arm of his chair.
“Why?” she croaked, but she did not cry; Dís was rarely weepy, and right now Thorin wished for her strength.
“What we do here, Dís, it isn’t life,” Thorin whispered, gesturing around them. “I don’t care about the gold – well, I do – but I want our people to have a future; a place where we are strong, not having to scrabble on the surface like Men. I want to be surrounded by the cool stone again, feel that special feeling that lives in my heart, the sensation I can only remember feeling beneath the Lonely Mountain. I know you don’t have it; you were too young, but I… I yearn, nana, yearn for home.”
“We have peace here,” Dís objected, “even if there is no great wealth in these mines, still, we have peace. Hard-won and precious.”
“But for how long?” he countered, “We’re dying here, Dís, dying a little more each year, forgetting our skills, because striving for the pinnacles of our ancestors will not put food on the table!” Wrapping her arm around his shoulder, Dís rested her head against Thorin’s, joining him in staring at the fire.
“You mean to do this, nadad?” she whispered after a long stretch of silence. Thorin nodded.
“I must,” he whispered, a vision of Dwalin’s haggard form once more wiping away the sight of the fire, “and he will hate me for it. I know it. Dwalin will hate me and I- Dís, I don’t think I can do it without him, but how can I ask him to do this, to follow me as he did adad, knowing what it did to him last time?” Thorin’s hands clenched into impotent fists, but Dís did not reply. Instead, she squeezed his shoulders once, pushed another log into the fire and left the house so quietly Thorin didn’t even realise she’d gone, returned to staring at the dancing flames.
“Dwalin,” Dís’ voice wasn’t loud, but it still startled the two by the river. She sent Bifur a small smile, knowing his brand of silence often allowed Dwalin to sort out his thoughts more easily than being alone; she had been the one to send the toy-making Cantor after her brother.
“Aye, Dís?” he replied softly, turning to look at her; the dark hair that so resembled Thorin’s, even if the colour was more brown than black, twisted into a long mohawk braid and her dark blue dress showing off her bulk.
“Will you go tell my fool of a brother that you don’t hate him?” she sighed, taking a seat beside him. Dwalin wrapped his arm around her shoulders in a half hug.
“I could never hate Thorin,” he murmured. It was the truth; he truly did not think there was anything Thorin could ever do or say to make him hate him. Anger, he could manage, and did so regularly, exasperation also, but both those usually had satisfying resolutions involving their bed and a round of honesty afterwards. Dwalin felt heat stirring in his blood.
“I know.” Dís gave him a shrewd look, probably well aware of the paths his mind had wandered, while Bifur busied himself with his carving again. “But he’s…”
“Thorin is Thorin, aye, and well I know it,” Dwalin sighed, getting to his feet. He did know; no one was harder on Thorin than Thorin himself, and often far harder than anyone expected, his brooding making whirls of darkness in his mind. Thorin would be capable of convincing himself that Dwalin hated him without even a shred of evidence. “Have you finished yelling for now?” he asked, looking down at her. Dís smiled, but it was a bitter thing that twisted his guts.
“For now,” she warned, taking an interest in the small dwarf warrior Bifur had finished while they shared the silence. Dwalin chuckled, bending to press his forehead against hers for a moment. Thorin might have a temper on him to rival a dragon when truly riled, but Dís was the scarier one, he’d always thought.
Walking into their house, Dwalin found Thorin sitting by the fire, staring morosely into the flickering flames.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, looking up at the silent warrior. “I can’t… not even for you, or for Dís – I can’t give up the dream of going home.”
“I know, Thorin,” Dwalin replied softly, pulling him out of the chair and into his arms. For a moment, the King – and he was the King, now, truly; even if they had considered him so for nigh a century, Thorin had never believed it… until now – remained stiff as a rock, but then he sighed, softening into Dwalin’s arms.
“I love you,” he whispered, pressing the words into Dwalin’s skin, “but I have to do this.”
“Are you asking me to go with you?” Dwalin wondered, tilting Thorin’s head up for a kiss. “The King’s desire?”
“Desire?” Thorin chuckled, though his attempt at levity did not break the tension strumming between them. “No, amrâlimê, this is a need… but no, I will not ask it of you; cannot ask of you to go back there, Dwalin,” he murmured. Dwalin hummed, stealing another kiss.
“Ask me,” he whispered, tangling his broad hands in Thorin’s sable locks. Thorin whined low in his throat; a needy sound that had Dwalin hardening rapidly as he plundered his mouth.
“Will you marry me?” Thorin asked. Dwalin froze, one hand cupping Thorin’s arse while the other remained tangled in his hair. For a heartbeat or an eternity, there was silence between them.
“Why now?” Dwalin breathed. After so many years of… well, not-marrying, though they were as good as in the eyes of anyone. “Why ask that… now?”
“I cannot ask you to join me,” Thorin mumbled, tracing his face, “but I would like… Dwalin, I always want to call you mine. If my adad’s fate should be mine… I would like to have been yours – even if it’s just for a little while.” Dwalin shuddered. His hands clenched tight, making Thorin hiss in protest as he pulled on his hair.
“I gave you my word, once,” he murmured, “do you remember?” Thorin shook his head, though Dwalin knew he did. “I promised to wed you in Erebor,” Dwalin continued, “in the Halls of your forebears, in your Halls…” Kissing him slowly, Dwalin grasped Thorin’s hand where it had been tangled in the hair at the back of his head, drawing it gently along the side of his neck until their fingers grasped a small bead, securely fastened in the only braid Dwalin wore, hidden beneath his bushy beard. “You gave me this, and I have kept faith with my oath, pledged you my love every day since,” he tugged gently on the matching braid, hidden beneath Thorin’s dark hair, smiling at the pleasured hiss escaping his lover’s mouth, the way Thorin’s hips jumped against his, “just as you pledged me yours.”
“Y-Your point?” Thorin panted, using the braid to pull Dwalin back to him for more kisses, keening when Dwalin lifted him up, turning towards their bedroom.
“My point, amrâlimê, is that I love you.” Dwalin muttered the words through kisses, his hands busy kneading Thorin’s arse – such a lovely arse, he thought – moaning slightly when Thorin’s clever fingers finished untying the laces that held his tunic tied at the neck, moving to his belt buckle instead. Stopping to press him up against the wall, Dwalin ground himself slowly against the hard hammer of his love – his King. Thorin groaned, his strong thighs pressing against Dwalin’s sides. “And you’re already mine.”
“I-I,” Thorin panted, attacking his neck with kisses, “I love you, too.”
“Your plan is going to get you killed, Thor,” Dwalin rumbled, his kisses turning nearly savage as he rubbed against Thorin’s needy flesh, sliding his hands up to his waistband and then plunging them into his trousers, wrapping firmly around the taut globes and tickling gently across the furled muscle between them. Thorin groaned, pressing into the touch. “Of course, I’m going with you.”
“Do you think it’s possible?” Thorin whispered, later, resting on Dwalin’s wide chest as his tattooed hands traced nonsensical patterns along Thorin’s spine. “Erebor,” he added, when Dwalin didn’t respond.
“I think it would never have been possible for Thraín,” Dwalin whispered back, “he was too reckless, too impatient – and too obsessed with the glory of it.” Thorin winced, but silently he had to agree that his late adad – as much as he missed him, he wasn’t blind to Thraín’s faults – had been all those things, and somewhat unstable to boot. Thorin had – as he grew older and Frís told him more stories of their youth – realised that although he had always felt a deep need to make Thraín proud, it was a drop in the ocean compared to how his adad had felt for Thrór. Thorin, at least, had had other people whose opinions he valued and who offered him love and validation. Thraín had had only his distant and domineering Adad; Frís’ image of Thrór was vastly different to his own, remembering mostly instances of curling up on Thrór’s lap for a story or trying on the crown that fell down to his nose when he put it on. Thorin had memories of the last few years before Smaug, of course, but he’d been kept from a lot of the worry his parents had shared, even though he had felt worried enough in those days. “For you, though,” Dwalin continued, startling Thorin out of his thoughts as Dwalin’s thick fingers continued to card through the dark locks on his head, “for you, I believe it is possible.” Thorin looked up, heart hammering in his chest.
“Really?” he croaked. If Dwalin believed it, maybe it was not such an impossible dream to reclaim their home-land; maybe it really could be done.
“Uthran Mamahdûm,” Dwalin murmured, his voice wrapping around Thorin’s Khuzdul name in a way that made his toes curl in pleasure. “Ithirrin d’abdug ra zagujujmizu.[1]”
“Amrâb umnasul. Nê galadmi astû,” Thorin replied, reaching up to stroke Dwalin’s cheek. “Madtûnê[2]. Amrâlimê. Maralmizu.”
@life-is-righteous, @pandepirateprincess
[1] Darer who is blessed. Continue to dream and I will follow you.
[2] Most loyal soul. I don’t deserve you. My brave one. My beloved(possessive emphasis)
A personal project I’ll be working on - an 1500pts Age of Sigmar Dispossessed army for the local nerd store army painter competition. I’ll try to go as pure Duârdin as possible! 🤙🏻 . . . #warhammer #gamesworkshop #citadel #modelpainting #mini #miniature #miniaturepainting #ageofsigmar #picoftheday #art #painting #copperforge #ironbreaker #greywaterfastness #greywater #dwain #duardin #dispossessed #gyrocopter #gyrobomber #PaintingWarhammer https://www.instagram.com/p/B9YMxuAHM21/?igshid=5cjfjatwedsa
