Of Snow and Silence by @emsiecat
Since the ‘Happy Hobbit Holiday’ gifts have now had their anonymity lifted, I thought it was safe to post this here for all to see :)
This was my entry for the absolutely lovely and wonderfully talented @hildyj
When I discovered I was Hildy's Secret Santa, I simply couldn't help but write something set in the amazing ‘Oak and Mistletoe’ AU.
*Spoilers are in my fic for those who haven’t read ‘Oak and Mistletoe’ by the way!*
If one were to ask Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror what he feared most in this world some years back, he would have had very little to tell. He had always feared for Erebor's prosperity and his family's happiness and safety, but he had feared most of all the sickness that had consumed his grandfather. A sickness or a likeness of it that his father told him he had inherited.
There was little else for him to fear in those muted 'before' years. The years before his outward wits -his senses- had been restored to him by one, Bilbo Baggins.
After all, many fears seemed to stem from knowing joy and pleasant experiences, and with every sense Thorin possessed dulled only to notice the bad and the absence thereof, there was little for him to fear losing or missing.
It was not a notion Thorin liked to dwell on overly much. He had been lacking something before, but now he did not. All thanks to Bilbo and his 'witchcraft'… and wouldn't his hobbit just scold him proper if he knew Thorin privately still referred to his talents thusly.
The scolding would always be accompanied by a poorly hidden smile though, and Thorin had a feeling that Bilbo did not mind the allusions folk in Hobbiton made of him being a witch as much as he tried to insist.
A notion Thorin did like to dwell on however, was just how fortunate he was. It was a notion that danced through his mind most mornings upon waking and revelling in every sense that had been restored to him.
The feeling of the warm, sturdy mattress at his back, the scent of the clean bed linen, the sight of dust motes drifting lazily through the morning sunlight streaming through Bag End's round windows, the distant sound of birdsong or the general goings on of other hobbits passing by their home. Then of course, once both he and Bilbo were awake there was breakfast and all the wonderful tastes that came with it.
However, Thorin would be willing to amend his earlier admirations, because as enjoyable as all these things were to experience; it was Bilbo himself who often encompassed his thoughts and senses most. Seemingly, simple things such as Bilbo's soft presence beside him as he slept. Or the spice and clove scent of his hair and skin from the soap he used as he buried his nose in Bilbo's curls, the sight of his face so close to his own in slumber, and the quiet sounds of Bilbo's nonsensical murmurs as he dreamed. And then of course the taste of bitter tea from his lips as Thorin would steal a kiss as Bilbo cooked breakfast. Somehow, all these moments with Bilbo could outshine even the most wondrous new experience and were immeasurably precious to him.