Chapter Text
Bofur leads Bilbo deeper into Erebor, down into the darkness and heat. He hears the distant clanging of metal against metal, and sees bright fire dancing against the stone walls.
“There aren’t many working right now,” Bofur says, still descending, step after step.
Vaguely, Bilbo registers he’ll have to climb all these steps later. Upwards. He ignores the thought.
“All at the banquet hall, I’d imagine?” Bilbo asks, less a question than a statement.
He’s really barely paying attention, anymore. His stomach feels tight. His head spins. There’s pressure in his throat, and a burning sensation.
Bofur notices. He smiles a little sadly.
“Cold feet?”
The stairs stop, and they begin over a pathway that is far above the deepest parts of Erebor.
“That is an understatement.” Bilbo’s meaningfully angry tone bleeds into an almost hysterical giggle as he speaks. He clears his throat in an attempt to claim his dignity, clenching and unclenching his fists.
Bofur hums affirmatively. He doesn’t speak, or try to comfort Bilbo. Oddly, it works to comfort him more than he would have thought. All the others—Holly, Horith, Gandalf, Legolas, Tauriel—had been insistent on making him feel better. They had meant well, of course. But Bilbo thinks that maybe this isn’t something that can be comforted. This is his burden, and he intends to carry it alone. It’s not as if anyone can help him, anyways.
(He thinks perhaps he’s drawing this out far too much, so he forces his mind blank.)
Bilbo trains his eyes on the pale grey of the path, thinking of nothing but the monotonous colour.
In no time at all, to Bilbo’s dismay, they arrive before a huge set of doors. They are as extravagant as everything else in Erebor; made of silver and gold, and embedded with jewels.
Bilbo thinks that maybe the jewels would shine much brighter with natural sunlight glinting through them. But the only light inside the mountain is from the oil lamps and the fires from the forges.
Dís stands expectantly, a handful of flowers in her hands.
“Lilacs.” Bilbo breathes, almost unbelieving. He hasn’t set his eyes on flowers in ages.
“For you to hold. Down the aisle.” Dís holds them out. “We did research on Westron traditions—and by research, I mean that we asked the hobbits—and made arrangements for some of them in the ceremony. Having only dwarven traditions would have been unfair, wouldn’t it?” She smiles sheepishly.
“Thank you,” Bilbo says, taking the flowers and biting his lip.
Thorin had mentioned adding flowers into the ceremony, on Bilbo’s behalf, but he hadn’t thought they’d add much more Westron traditions into it. It piques Bilbo’s interest in seeing the hall, but he simultaneously feels like he’s about to throw up his organs.
“Well then. We are due to start about now,” Dís turns to Bofur, who nods in confirmation. “Are you ready, Master Baggins?” She extends her elbow.
“I—” Bilbo swallows, feeling the absolute terror of it all washing over him.
For god’s sake , he thinks. You’ve drawn this out long enough.
Marrying a king—the king of the wealthiest kingdom in Middle Earth—was not something he should consider a great peril. He would be cared for. Frodo would be cared for.
Bilbo glances down at the lilacs in his hands.
Dís lets her arm fall back to her side, and makes an odd clicking sound. It’s somewhere between displeased and guilty.
“Thorin told you he did not know what they meant, did he not?” Dís asks, taking a step closer to Bilbo and motioning to the flowers.
He nods.
“They represent loves first emotions.” She clarifies. An odd smile fills her face, like she’s remembering something bittersweet. Bilbo can practically see shadows of the past as they dance in her eyes.
“A relationship—arranged or otherwise—only works when both parties are trying. You have to try to make it work, or it’ll fall apart.” Dís places a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “My husband and I were also pushed into an arranged marriage. We were very different, at first glance.” She chuckles, a hint of sadness tainting her tone. “I was outspoken and brash, while he was calm and level headed.” She lowers her voice and bumps her hip to Bilbo’s. “Bordering on shy, really.”
They both chuckle.
“I wanted to hate him,” Dís meets Bilbo’s wide eyes, her face grim. “I felt like my life was slipping out from under me. It was all so unfair, I thought. I’m the princess, I should be allowed to choose my beloved!” Her gaze softens. “But...after I got past my stubbornness, I realised that my life would be more miserable than it had to be if I did not attempt to build a relationship.”
“So what did you do?” Bilbo asks, a little breathless.
Dís suddenly beams, big and bright enough to outshine all the gold in Erebor. “I spoke to him. We exchanged our stories. I made it work, Mister Baggins. He made it work. We tried hard, and together, we made a love that continues to live on, even as he lies in his grave.” There it is again, those shadows passing over her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Bilbo tries. “But you two sound...perfect.”
“Aye,” Bofur agrees, and when Bilbo turns, he sees his guide smiling softly. “They were perfect for each other. Many dwarven couples grew jealous of their unbreakable bond, even.”
“Oh, shush, you,” Dís chuckles, tone conveying embarrassment, but her fond look betrays her.
Bilbo feels...not exactly not nervous, but possibly a bit more prepared to steel himself through the evening. Dís seems to have an uncanny ability to calm him, wether by kind words or a soothing look. Yavanna, they barely even know each other, and Bilbo already feels as if he can confide in her.
Furthermore, the fact that Dís had been able to create a love between herself and her intended gives Bilbo just the smallest bit of hope.
“Thank you.” He says, firmly.
Dís turns, shaking her head a little, but still smiling, and then leans in, pressing her forehead against Bilbo’s.
He exhales rather sharply.
“Thorin will try if you do. You two will be happy together, I know it.” She leans away, and offers her elbow again. “Shall we, Bilbo?”
Bofur places a hand over his mouth, smiling softly behind it.
Bilbo wonders if that forehead touch had meant more than he knew. Either way, it is hard to ignore the warmth that pools in his belly. He recognises the feeling as fondness as he takes Dís’s arm.
“As ready as I shall ever be, Dís.”
//
When Bofur opens the doors, Bilbo forgets himself for a moment.
The first thing he notices are the decorations on the ceiling. There are boards stretching across the expanse of the room, flowers hanging off them—all the ones Thorin had spoken of. Chrysanthemums, cornflowers, daffodils, dahlias, and more lilacs. But in the midst of all the natural plants, Bilbo sees gold, silver, and jewels. The clumps of wealth are shaped and crafted into flowers, gleaming brightly even from the floor.
His eyes trail down, where lanterns of all colours(but most prominently in blue)hang, illuminating the space in warm light.
There aren’t many people present, just as Thorin had warned him. Maybe twenty, though Bilbo thinks less. They’re all standing, and smiling at Bilbo as Dís leads him towards the front of the room. (He admits he’s so distracted by the sights that she’s practically dragging him forward.)
The crowd parts before them as they walk.
When they reach the front of the room, and the last of the crowd clears, Bilbo spots Gandalf. He immediately feels himself lift—a familiar face!
Then, a little to the side, he sees Thorin.
The king is clad with robes. His cape is fastened with a golden clip, and there are beautifully etched designs on the cloth. There really is more gold than Bilbo can trace, sewn into Thorin’s shirt, his trousers, his boots. Woven into his beard are jewels, similar to the ones that hang from the ceiling. Thorin’s hair is free of any braids at all, which Bilbo finds odd, since yesterday there had been two, and all the other dwarves had many in their hair at all times.
But overall, Thorin looks much more fancy than Bilbo feels. He regrets not taking up Dís’s offer on clothing.
There are baskets of daisies surrounding them. Some are scattered on the floor, misshapen, but others are arranged in bundles. To share someone’s feelings , Bilbo recalls the meaning.
Dís lets go of his arm and gestures for him to join Thorin.
“Good luck.” She whispers, then takes her place in the front of the crowd of dwarves, smiling.
Bilbo isn’t fond of the silent hall. It makes everything so much more intense. At a hobbit wedding, there would be music playing. People clapping. Birds and crickets chirping. Something would have filled the silence.
Nevertheless, he places himself a foot or so away from Thorin, doing his best to look like he’s comfortable.
Which I am , he attempts to convince himself.
Gandalf stands to his left, and it strikes Bilbo’s mind that the wizard is going to officiate his wedding.
He almost laughs out loud.
Thorin seeks his eyes, unlike yesterday, and smiles. It’s small, and unsure, but it makes Bilbo feel warm. He supposes he isn’t the only one that’s nervous.
They stand in silence for a few moments before Gandalf speaks.
“We are gathered here today to witness these two souls, and two clans, unite.” He leans down, to Bilbo’s surprise, within a group of daisies, and lifts a hammer. It’s large and made of iron, from what Bilbo can figure, and everyone suddenly becomes very serious.
The dwarves surge forward and form a circle around Thorin and Bilbo.
Bilbo shifts a little in surprise, and meets Thorin’s eyes, out of instinct. He immediately regrets it, as Thorin wears a smirk.
It’s okay, He mouths, looking a little sympathetic, but mostly amused.
Sod off, Bilbo mouths back, embarrassment coursing through his blood.
Thorin looks away, but his mouth quivers, like he’s attempting to hide a grin.
Gandalf places the hammer back on the ground, and then raises his hand in Thorin’s direction.
Thorin steps forward, over to Bilbo, who feels his heart rising to his throat.
The crowd begins to cheer— finally some noise—as Thorin’s feet carry him in a wide circle around Bilbo.
Bilbo isn’t sure what it represents, but he guesses it’s something special from the uproarious hollars and laughs that surround him.
As Thorin brushes behind Bilbo, he whispers, “Center of the circle, Bilbo Baggins.”
Bilbo complies, and ignores the shudder that makes its way up his spine at his full name falling from Thorin’s lips. It’s enticing in a way he can’t explain.
Even when Thorin finally makes his full round, and takes his place directly in front of Bilbo, the cheers do not fade. It almost seems like the dwarves are attempting to out-yell each other, as if it’s a competition of who is the most happy.
Bilbo finds himself chuckling a little, watching the dwarves shouting praises and well-wishes. Thorin smiles too, eyes meeting Bilbo’s.
“You’re very different from your picture.” Bilbo says, almost deaf to his own ears above the crowd.
“How so?” Thorin replies, eyes squinting slightly.
“I think it’s the eyes,” Bilbo says, very solemnly, motioning vaguely. “A lot more dramatic in person.”
Thorin laughs quietly.
Bilbo grins.
It takes a few more minutes for the cheers to stop, and for the room to settle.
Gandalf steps forward once more, the crowd making way for him. His eyes meet Bilbo’s for a moment, and he winks. Then he faces Thorin.
“Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrar, do you accept Bilbo Baggins into your halls?”
Thorin steps forward and kneels before Gandalf, pressing his right hand to his chest, flat against his heart. “I do. I thank you for the honour and privilege.” He stands, makes his way back to Bilbo, and extends his hands.
Bilbo swallows, glancing back and forth between Thorin and Gandalf for a moment. Then, with a nod from the wizard, he grasps both of Thorin’s hands in his own. They’re rough and calloused, from some type of work, Bilbo imagines. A sharp contrast to his softer fingers with only a few rough spots, from kitchen burns and the like.
Thorin’s thumb brushes over Bilbo’s, and he meets his eyes with importance.
“Blessed are you Mahal who has created everything for the glory of Eru.” He says. His voice is gruff and sharp, and booms in a different way than Gandalf’s. “Blessed are you Mahal who fashioned the earth, the mountains and the hills.”
Bilbo begins to understand that these must be dwarven blessings—a prayer of sorts. Is he expected to say something as well? He might be able to draw some words up.
Our mother, who art in heaven…oh, bloody hell.
“Blessed are you Mahal who fashioned the gems and metals in the heart of the mountain. Blessed are you Mahal who fashioned the dwarves and the seven houses.” Thorin gives Bilbo’s left hand a squeeze, as a reassurance. “Blessed are you Mahal who gladdens our Halls through his children.” His eyes seem to pierce straight through Bilbo’s. “Blessed are you Mahal...who gladdens groom and groom.”
There are cheers, but they halt more quickly than the last ones.
Bilbo has absolutely no idea what he’s to say—in a hobbit ceremony, there would be a priest doing all the blessing and good wishing. The ones marrying were expected to say no more than “I do” and their vows.
Luckily, Thorin seems to understand this, for he quickly speaks again. “In my Halls you will find a house, in your heart I will find a home.”
Bilbo’s heart flutters.
Gandalf clears his throat. “You may now present your own vows, Bilbo.”
He straightens, letting out a quick puff of air.
He remembers wedding vows from the various weddings in Mirkwood.
“I take you to be my husband,” Bilbo begins, voice betraying him and shaking a little. He clears his throat as discreetly as he can before continuing.
Thorin has the gall to hide a snicker.
“I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad,” Bilbo tries to sound more firm, chasing away Thorin’s moment of mirth. “In sickness and in health.” His nose twitches, and one corner of his mouth pulling up. An awful nervous tick, but he sees Thorin smiling softly. He meets Thorin’s eyes with the same intensity that Thorin had met his with. “I will love you and honour you for all the days of my life.”
I will try to make this work, so it won’t fall apart.
There are various happy sighs from the crowd, and Bilbo sees Dís dabbing at the corners of her eyes.
He wonders why people are so emotional. He supposes he might cry at a wedding himself if he knew both people, and knew how right they were for each other. But no one knew Bilbo, and much less if he and Thorin would be good for one another.
Thorin looks very overjoyed, though, contrary to the way Bilbo feels.
Gandalf reaches out and drops something in Thorin’s hand, then turns to Bilbo.
The ring that falls in Bilbo’s palm is plain and gold, but beautiful all the same. He looks up and sees Thorin holding his own ring up, raising his eyebrows. Bilbo bites the inside of his cheek, and offers Thorin his left hand.
The ring slides onto his finger easily, and Bilbo wonders who had made the ring, and how they’d known his size. (It hardly matters, anyways.) His ring has dwarvish markings, unlike Thorin’s plain one, and the imprints gleam in the yellow light of the hall.
Bilbo takes Thorin’s hand and slides his respective ring on.
It feels intimate. As Bilbo looks up and meets Thorin’s eyes, he feels like they’re the only two people on the earth. The feelings of butterflies still lie in his stomach, but he can’t pinpoint where they change from dread to excitement. Breathless has stayed so long that he’s beginning to think he will never be able to catch his breath.
“Let it be known, from this day forth,” Gandalf says, voice filling the entire room in its grandness.
Dramatic wizard , Bilbo thinks rather fondly.
“That Thorin Oakenshield has accepted Bilbo Baggins into the line of Durin, and will care for him, now and forever.”
A pint of frothy ale is suddenly handed to Bilbo by a rather plump, red haired dwarf. The dwarf grins, hardly giving Bilbo a moment to smile back, and then disappears into the crowd.
The king has one as well when he looks up. Thorin leans forward, and for a fleeting moment of mixed emotions, Bilbo is sure their about to kiss. Only natural for a wedding, of course, but his blood freezes.
“ Asti zi abnâmul .” Thorin says gently, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against Bilbo’s. His eyes remain wide open, holding Bilbo’s gaze.
Bilbo wants to ask what Thorin means, but Thorin leans away and knocks their ales together with an easy grin. So Bilbo exhales shakily, smiles back shakily, and chugs.
More cheers ring throughout the room.
//
The ceremony had been the hard part, Bilbo comes to realise.
As soon as Bilbo enters the banquet hall, Thorin on his arm, there are more shouts of approval. Though the dwarves make up a large portion of the noise, Bilbo is delighted to find that the creatures cheering the loudest are the hobbits of Erebor.
It’s a pleasure he can not explain, seeing an abundance of his people there in the hall. It feels, for a moment, that he is back in Mirkwood, at his party, surrounded by very distant relatives and good food.
The hall itself is decorated in a similar manner to the wedding, with flowers hanging from the ceiling, and various displays of gold and diamond. There is a deep crimson carpet trailing the floor, and white cloth on the single table—which is endless in expanse. There are hobbits and dwarves alike eating, all merry and lively.
Bilbo’s mouth waters just looking at the different plates of hot food. There is a myriad of meat selections, but he does manage to spot a few platters with greens(no doubt the work of insistent hobbits). Towards the end of the table, far down, are two large seats, made of delicate wood.
Indeed, this part of Bilbo’s wedding has yet to fail him.
“I did not get to ask you yesterday,” Thorin says into his ear, as they walk down towards the opposite end of the hall. As they pass, many glasses are raised in their direction. “But where is Frodo?”
Bilbo feels a pang of guilt wash through him, cold and heavy. Here he was, worrying himself with something he should have resigned himself to weeks ago, while his poor little hobbit was back with the elves, most likely wishing he was here.
It’s not like Bilbo was dying. This bloody hall—filled with riches and food—was proof of that.
He sighs, then explains to Thorin. “I’m afraid I had to leave him in Mirkwood. He became ill a few days before we were to leave, and the nurse did not think it wise to make him travel in such a condition. Something about the air, and how it was different than air Frodo was used to, before he lived with me.”
Thorin frowns, seemingly genuinely displeased about the situation. “That’s unfortunate. Will he be travelling here soon? Or—“
“Thorin!” A large collection of booming voices suddenly cut through his and his husband’s—holy Yavanna , does it feel odd to think those words—moment.
Towards the wooden seats that Bilbo guesses he and Thorin will sit at are a section of vaguely familiar faces; he thinks they must be the dwarves from the ceremony. He recognises Bofur, Balin, Dwalin, and even the dwarf who had handed him his mug of ale.
Dís and her children sit a few seats down, and wave frantically when they spot him. He waves back slightly giddily.
“Hello, my friends.” Thorin grins, a pleasant look on his face as he parts with Bilbo to squeeze Dwalin’s shoulders.
“What a lovely party,” Balin says politely, eyes flashing from Thorin’s face to Bilbo’s, curiosity evident there. “How are you faring, lad?”
Bilbo reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, chuckling. “Very well, now that we’ve gotten to the food.”
There’s a chorus of laughter.
Thorin takes his arm again, grinning, and leads them the few steps forward and into their seats. (Bilbo takes a moment to admire them; there are engravings of vines, swirling all over the surface.) Once seated, Thorin immediately reaches forward and piles things on Bilbo’s plate, from meats to boiled vegetables, naming the foods off absentmindedly as he places them down.
Bilbo isn’t sure why he can’t serve himself, but writes it off as yet another cultural difference. Perhaps it was a courtesy?
“We haven’t introduced ourselves, have we?” Balin says suddenly, setting his cup down. “You’ve already met Dwalin, Bofur, and I. But there is also Bofur’s cousins Bifur and Bombur, and then Ori, Dori, and Nori—brothers. Then, of course, there’s Oin and Glóin.” He motions to each dwarf, and each name is met with a proud holler in return.
“Well—very nice to meet you!” Bilbo gestures in greeting, cursing the awkward stiffness in his voice.
This is a little overwhelming, he allows himself to think.
It soon becomes clear that Bilbo will not get much more out of Thorin for the rest of the night, seeing as he is rather busy with greeting any and every person who comes by with well wishes. (Bilbo doesn’t have to do much more than offer a simple greeting and a smile, but Thorin forms endless conversation in the dwarven language.)
Now that Bilbo thinks of it, he may get more than he wants out of Thorin later on in the evening. After the party was over, and Bilbo was introduced to “their” room… He supposes it is traditional...
Unfair , He thinks, for the umpteenth time in the past months as he stuffs more asparagus into his mouth.
Most people would look forward to the end of their wedding night. They could go home, to their bed, and tie off the loose ends. But most people knew each other. Most people were in love. They were ready and excited to cross that line.
Bilbo’s moves his gaze to Thorin, who’s chewing and listening intently to some story of grandeur that Glóin is supplying.
Thorin’s beard is thick and wiry looking, though not very long. His face is clean, but there is a certain brooding in the way he carries himself that darkens his features. His eyes seem to convey an entire storm of emotions—like there are secrets he’s keeping locked up.
Then, as Bilbo stares longer, there’s something... familiar in the way Thorin’s lips move; in the tug of his lips and the widening of his eyes, and the stretch of his skin.
Bilbo sighs. He guesses that if he has to do this with someone he doesn’t know, at least it is with someone who is attractive. (The thought doesn’t stop him from asking a servant to pass him another ale.)
He almost thinks that he will be ignored the entire evening—left to pick at his food and watch as Thorin socialises—but then a young dwarf speaks to him.
“You really are handsome, Mister Bilbo! Everyones been so excited to meet you, especially me!” The dwarf that Bilbo thinks is Ori says, beaming in such an innocent way that Bilbo can’t help but be charmed.
“Well, thank you,” Bilbo blushes. “I’m excited myself, but fairly nervous as well, I confess.”
“Only natural!” The dwarf beside Ori—who looks very similar in stature, but has grey, well kept beard hair—grins. “But don’t worry too much! The hobbits are beyond happy that the king is marrying a fellow hobbit.” He winks.
Bilbo laughs, thinking of the pride that hobbits bore. “Oh, I’m sure,” He mutters behind his bite of seared nug.
“How’s the food, Master Hobbit?” The plump hobbit who had given him his ale—Bombur, he thinks?—calls from a little further down the table, smiling so big that it’s visible through his impressive beard.
“Oh, positively delicious!” Bilbo says back, lifting lifting his fork. “I’ve become rather fond of nug in a short period of time!”
Bombur laughs heartily. “Very good! It’s me wife’s secret recipe.” He winks, drawing another polite laugh from Bilbo.
“Bombur and his wife’s food is the finest,” Ori puts in, leaning closer to Bilbo and nudging him with a wide smile. “The cake he made for today is gorgeous!”
“I’m excited to see it.” Bilbo replies earnestly.
There is suddenly a tap on his shoulder.
“Bilbo,” Thorin says, turning to Bilbo with a faint but happy smile. His fingers close around Bilbo’s upper arm. “I’ve just been told that the cake is on its way. We will have the first bite, as is traditional amongst hobbits, yes?”
The way he says it is so breathless with eagerness that Bilbo can’t help but feel like he’s comforting an anxious child.
His hand twitches to move a piece of hair from Thorin’s face, but he manages to restrain himself.
“Correct.” Is all Bilbo says.
Thorin looks pleased, but then he’s releasing Bilbo’s arm and turning away once more.
Bilbo takes a deep breath as he sits, watching the nearest dwarves as they talk amongst themselves. Far down the table, he catches sight of hobbits, but they’re far too busy laughing(and probably gossiping)to notice his gaze.
He realises he’s the only hobbit sitting with the dwarves. Not a single hobbit had journeyed this way to give their pleasantries to Thorin.
In Mirkwood, hobbits and elves alike shared the space. Elves were keen to sit with hobbits at dinner and listen to their folk tales, just as hobbits were eager to listen to the tales from the long lives of elves. There have never, to Bilbo’s recollection, been times where elves and hobbits were sorted by their race.
Bilbo frowns, about to pull Thorin from his conversation to ask about this, but suddenly he catches sight of a huge cake.
It’s being wheeled in by a she-dwarf, and Bilbo guesses it’s Bombur’s wife when said dwarf lets out a proud cheer at the sight of her.
The cake has four square shaped tiers, but they are the largest tiers Bilbo has ever witnessed. The top one is easily the size of his bed back in Mirkwood, and the bottom one is much larger than any bed belonging to a man, elf, or wizard. The cake is white, but there are amber coloured decorations all over it. They look so fragile that Bilbo thinks any of them could shatter with the slightest movement.
Thorin stands, and offers his arm to Bilbo. He takes it, and Thorin leads him towards the cake.
The hall has gone quiet, except for the low murmur of laughter.
When they get closer, Bilbo makes out the decorations better—they are all in the shapes of flowers and axes, pressed into the frosting. It’s a rather dainty touch to such a huge cake, but Bilbo loves it.
“It’s honey butter cake,” Thorin mumbles into his ear.
A spark of joy flits through Bilbo, and he grins.
The she-dwarf says something to Thorin in the harsh language of the dwarves.
“Grunna asks if the cake is suitable to your tastes. Visibly.” Thorin relays to him.
Bilbo starts. “Oh!” He meets Grunna’s eyes and smiles as wide as he can. “It’s very beautiful.”
Thorin speaks in his native language.
Grunna laughs pleasantly, and then hands Thorin a cake cutter and Bilbo a glass plate—which it beautiful and fashioned with diamonds, unsurprisingly.
“I simply cut a piece, right?” Thorin asks, shifting on his feet a couple times, like he’s preparing for a monumental task.
Bilbo can’t help the giggle that protrudes from him, and it echoes in the relatively silent hall.
The hobbits and dwarves alike are turned in their seats, watching with big smiles on their faces.
Bilbo clears his throat before taking Thorin by the wrist.
“We will cut a piece together, and then we shall feed each other a bite. It represents our union. Our first bite of marriage.”
He gets momentarily lost in the wideness of Thorin’s blue eyes, as they refuse to leave Bilbo’s face.
“I understand.” Thorin assures.
He hands Bilbo the cake cutter, and then wraps his warm fingers around Bilbo’s hand. They push down into the corner of the bottom tier, and cheers erupt from the crowd.
Cutting the piece and getting it onto the plate with essentially one hand with two different minds is a harder task than Bilbo had deemed it. He and Thorin’s hands shake a little as they laugh, but eventually the slice lands safely on the plate, and Grunna hands them both a fork.
Bilbo watches Thorin scoop a generous bite of the cake onto his fork.
He had observed Thorin as a brooding man, but underneath the formal exterior, Bilbo is surprised to find a childlike joy. He sees it in the grin on Thorin’s lips, and in the spark in his eyes. He seems so overjoyed to be trying new things. So excited to begin this odd, new part of his life.
Why can I not be that way? Bilbo thinks, smiling oh so softly as Thorin meets his eyes.
Why shouldn’t I?
“To us.” He says, lifting his fork as he would a mug of ale.
Thorin’s grin fades a little, and is replaced with a more solemn glance. His eyes are glazed with some emotion, and Bilbo feels it too.
“To you, Bilbo Baggins. And to many happy years to come.”
Thorin clinks their forks together.
They both bring their forks to the opposite mouths, and Bilbo laughs as they both miss, just slightly. He licks at the frosting above his lip as he chews, and Thorin brings his finger to clean his chin.
“Oh my goodness,” Bilbo moans. “This is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“I’m pleased that you like it.” Thorin smiles, already taking another bite.
The cheering of the crowd doesn’t register until then, and it’s like a tidal wave crashing over him. The little bubble around him and Thorin, where time had frozen for just a few moments, pops.
Bilbo is confused at the wistfulness that washes through him.
Nonetheless, Thorin cuts him his own slice of cake, and they return to their seats. They watch as the rest of Erebor gets up to get their piece of the delicious creation.
Thorin turns to him, crumbs in his beard, perfectly accenting the jewels and gold.
“ Halwê .” He says, softly, lovingly.
//
It is not until very, very late into the night—possibly early in the morning—that Thorin and Bilbo retire to their chambers.
The party had raged until every last spot of food had been eaten. Bilbo isn’t sure if it was a dwarvish thing that may have rubbed off on the hobbits, but he’d never eaten more in his entire life. He felt pleasantly full and very sleepy.
“I hope today met your every expectation.” Thorin says, so earnestly as they walk up and up, towards nowhere Bilbo finds familiar.
“It exceeded my expectations, Thorin.” He smiles, hands swinging freely at his sides.
“I’m glad.”
They stroll in companionable silence for a while more, until they reach a door that is large but less grand than others Bilbo had set eyes on today. It’s simple and wooden, but engraved with vines and plants.
“Here are our quarters.” Thorin opens the door into a small antechamber. There are two doors, one to the left and one to the right.
“That room is meant for Frodo.” Thorin says, motioning to the left. “I didn’t get to ask earlier. Will he still be joining us?”
“Oh, yes,” Bilbo nods. He is so tired that he can’t even remember to feel guilty when he thinks of his nephew. “Just later, when his health improves. They’ve promised to write me.”
Thorin nods, and then leads Bilbo to the right, and into their room.
The ceiling is high, and from it hangs a candle lit chandelier. The bed(which is humongous)resides to the left, and is sheltered by a canopy of sheer, mesh fabric. To each side of the bed is a small table with candles and matches, and Bilbo spots his candelabra on one of them.
In front of them, on the far wall, is a vanity. There is a large mirror and scattered objects on the surface: brushes, beads, and perfumes. To Bilbo’s far right is a door to what he assumes is the closet, and then a desk with paper and ink.
“It’s grand.” Bilbo breathes.
“Your things must not have arrived yet,” Thorin says hastily, his arms crossing over his chest. “I apologize. I will make sure they are here by tomorrow morning—“
“Thorin.” Bilbo says.
Thorin turns to him, raising his eyebrows in slight shock. Bilbo reckons he isn’t used to being interrupted.
“I don’t mind. Please do not worry about it. I will be comfortable enough without a change of clothes, for tonight.”
I probably won’t be needing any clothes, tonight.
As he thinks it, he feels a blush creep up his neck.
“Very well.” Thorin replies, sighing. He makes his way over to the vanity. “Do make yourself comfortable. I’m just going to get ready for bed.”
Bilbo stands a little awkwardly as silence fills the room.
Thorin begins to undress.
Bilbo hastily makes his way to the bed in a small panic, and he sits facing away from Thorin. Slowly, he unbuttons his vest, and his overshirt, until he wears nothing but his trousers and his undershirt.
“Thorin?” He eventually manages to get out, shakily, when he can’t stand the silence any longer.
Thorin hums inquisitively.
“Are we going to…?” Bilbo can’t make himself say it.
“Are we going to what?” Thorin asks, innocently.
Bilbo squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the food in his stomach begin to churn.
Bloody hell. He’s making me say it.
He whips around to meet Thorin’s gaze.
“Are we going to make love tonight?”
A heavy silence falls over them.
Bilbo regrets the words, and wishes he could burrow under the covers and disappear entirely.
Thorin’s face begins to turn pink from his ears to his nose. He turns away, and rubs the back of his neck. Then, he pads over and sits beside Bilbo on the bed. His hands stay in his own lap, folded together.
“Bilbo, I believe that when two people marry, they make love to bring everything to a close. They make their bond eternal and binding, and it proves that they would not take anyone else.”
“Yes.”
Bilbo's throat feels dry.
“But that is when the two people know that they will be eternal. When they are positive they are meant for each other.” Thorin turns, still pink, and smiles awkwardly. “We do not know that yet. This marriage is political. But, maybe in the future, it will turn into a marriage of love instead.”
The burning in Bilbo’s eyes is unwelcome in every way, but he can’t stop the tears from beading in his eyes. It feels like a pressure has been lifted off his shoulders.
“If that happens, we will tie our marriage then.”
Bilbo says nothing, simply blinks rapidly to disperse the wetness in his eyes.
Thorin shifts then, and a different kind of smile fills his face. “Bilbo, there is one thing we haven’t done yet.”
“What is that?” Bilbo asks.
“Braiding.” Thorin replies excitedly.
“Hm?”
“Dwarves have braids to signify their status. Whether it be married, single, widowed, king, queen, common folk. There is a braid to make almost any statement. And, for you, you should have two braids, here,” Thorin motions to the space above his ear. “With two beads.”
Bilbo pauses for a moment, licking his lips. “Are you asking if you can braid my hair?”
Thorin shrugs, nodding. He almost looks embarrassed about it.
“I would...love that.” Bilbo smiles. It is certainly a more decent activity than what he’d been fretting over all evening.
Thorin chuckles happily, and then stands. He takes Bilbo’s hand rather abruptly, and leads him to the vanity. Bilbo sits.
There is a brush combing through his curls first, gently.
Bilbo’s hair is not nearly as long as Thorin’s, but it does reach the base of his neck, and curls around his ears, and sticks to his forehead. It should be long enough for decorative braids, he thinks.
Thorin gets to work almost immediately, pulling strands of hair and twisting them expertly.
His scalp burns a little from the tightness of the weave, but he does his best to ignore it. It becomes easier to, as he watches Thorin’s concentrated face in the mirror. His tongue pokes out from the corner of his mouth, which of course brings Bilbo endless joy.
The beads that Thorin weaves into his hair are the same blue as the lanterns in the marriage hall, and have designs that Bilbo can’t quite make out. Either way, they gleam beautifully in the candlelight.
“There you are, Mr. Baggins.”
Thorin places his hands on his hips proudly as Bilbo turns his head to admire the braids better.
“Thank you,” Bilbo says, meeting Thorin’s eyes.
“My pleasure.”
A few minutes later, they both are settled into their bed.
Bilbo is a little unnerved by how naturally they face each other as they lie down, still a good widths apart.
Thorin has tied his hair back with the grey hair tie that Bilbo had woven for him.
“Why don’t you have braids anymore?” Bilbo whispers, after the candles have been blown out, and he’s almost sure Thorin is asleep.
For a moment, there is no answer.
“For a while after a wedding, the groom is supposed to leave his hair unbraided. It signifies that he is not above the one he marries. It’s humbling.”
Bilbo processes in silence.
“Braids must mean a lot in your culture.”
“They allow dwarves to express themselves. Whether it’s for status or fashion, there are a million kinds of personalised styles.”
Bilbo can’t help the little smile that pulls at his lips.
But after a few moments, more questions flood his mind.
“What do those things you said to me mean?”
“Hm?” Thorin hums, sounding just the slightest bit irritated.
“I’m sorry,” Bilbo rushes. “I’ll let you sleep now.”
A deep rumble that resembles a chuckle shakes through the mattress.
“Do not worry, little hobbit. I’m merely unused to this many inquiries as I lie in bed. I will have time to get used to it.”
Something warm strikes through Bilbo.
“But to answer your question, I said two things to you in my language, did I not? At the wedding ceremony I said asti zi abnâmul , which…well. It more or less means that I think you are...nice? It’s stronger than that, though… possibly beautiful? Wonderful? There isn’t a direct translation, I regret to say.”
Bilbo chuckles softly, tugging his blanket closer to his chest.
If he wasn’t careful, he might fall for Thorin faster than is healthy.
“And the other thing? What you said at dinner?”
“Ah. Halwê . It is a pet name of sorts. Something like honey. My honey.”
“Very fitting.”
“Which is why I used it.”
“Should I be creating clever endearments for you?”
“If you’d like. But I should warn you that anything but Thorin will exceed any expectations I have.”
A giggle bubbles in Bilbo’s throat, and he covers his mouth in an attempt to muffle it.
“Your laugh is very pretty.” Thorin mutters.
“Oh, shush.” Bilbo says, just the slightest bit breathlessly, and reaches out blindly to swat at Thorin’s arm.
Thorin laughs, so Bilbo considers it a small victory.
After that, they fall into silence.
Bilbo wonders how Thorin is so good at this. At the witty banter that draws him in to no end. At the compliments and honest glances that make Bilbo feel comfortable even in the most uncomfortable situations.
Maybe it runs in the family , Bilbo thinks fondly, recalling Dís’s comforting speech.
He decides to leave his thoughts alone in favour of enjoying the warm, peaceful silence of falling asleep next to an intriguing, kind stranger.