![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Winter Friends [1/?]
Title: Winter Friends
Author: Phnx
Fandom: The Hobbit
Pairings/Character: Bilbo/Thorin
Rating: T+
Word Count ~1K, WIP — 1/?
Summary: Bilbo receives a curious letter from an old acquaintance requesting his presence at his wedding. That is, Bilbo's presence at Bilbo's wedding.
#AU #Everybody lives / nobody dies #Erebor never fell #Marriage of convenience
"A letter? In the Shire?" asked Bilbo, more than a little surprised. Bilbo received plenty of correspondence, true, as did his neighbours, but those were all small, domestic sorts of things. They would come in little, elegant envelopes that would be delivered at his door every morning between second breakfast and elevensies, bearing invitations to this birthday or that wedding addressed to our dear [Cousin/Nephew/Grandson] Bilbo, or else they would contain haughty little notices of charges pending payment from the Honourable Mr Baggins, Bag End, occasionally from the same sender as the party invitation.
The… thing in Hamfast's hand was nothing like either of those. The paper appeared to have originally been of very high quality, but it was crinkled and grubby and had grown stiff as though it had gone through varying stages of being wet and then dried again. The edges looked concerningly as though they'd caught fire briefly.
"It seems to have travelled quite the distance," Bilbo managed to say, smiling weakly. "You're sure it's for me? Only, I'm not really the sort to receive letters, you know, especially not from the outside."
"Don't I know it, Mister Baggins, don't I know it. Craziest thing of all, I would have sworn I saw the thing get dropped in your garden by a raven! An actual raven! What do you think of that!"
"I really couldn't say," said Bilbo primly, with all the ignorant virtue of someone who was so far removed from the concept of adventures of any sort that even the idea of avian post was beyond all comprehension.
Hamfast only winked at him cheerfully--but then, he'd been acquainted with Miss Belladonna Took, back in the day.
Bilbo took a deep breath and hesitantly accepted the letter from his gardener, holding it with the tips of his fingers as though concerned that it might bite. He turned it over, searching for the address, and when he found it, he nearly dropped the thing back into the dirt.
Written in a strange, angular script was Bilbo, son of Bungo, of the line of Baggins.
And under that--
As penned by Thorin, called Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, of the line of Durin.
As if anyone else would address Bilbo in such an absurd fashion.
"Alright, Mister Baggins?"
Bilbo realised he'd been staring, frozen, at the letter for rather too long for propriety's sake. It would be hard to pass this missive off as a mistake if he reacted this way.
"Yes, yes, thank you, Hamfast, I'm perfectly fine. I just--well, I wasn't expecting to ever hear from--from Mr Oakenshield, perhaps ever again. I've not--that is, you see, it's been many years, not since shortly after my mother passed."
"Ah," said Hamfast, and this latest information was finally enough for his amiable smile to curl into a sneer, though it had outlasted foreign mail and ravens. "Say no more, Mister Baggins. Fair-weather friend indeed! Just give the word, sir, and I'll dispose of it for you, nice and quiet-like."
"Fair-weather friend?" mused Bilbo, fingering the envelope thoughtfully. It took him a moment to recognise that he wore a rueful smile, and another moment to suppress it. "No, just the opposite, actually." Thorin would never be caught dead at a birthday, not in the Shire at least, and he'd have to be half starved to come to tea! But if one were to, as a completely hypothetical example, find oneself limping along in the Old Forest at night in the heart of the winter with wolves nipping at the heels--then Thorin was as dependable as the summer sun. Fair-weather friend! No, if anything, he was a poor-weather friend.
Given everything, Bilbo rather doubted that Thorin was writing to inform him of any upcoming nuptials. And yet he dared not ignore the message, not with what he owed him. Bilbo sighed and tucked the grubby letter under his arm. "Thank you, Hamfast. I trust this won't go beyond us…?"
"I won't tell a soul, Mister Baggins, not a soul!"
Not a soul, Bilbo added silently, except your wonderful wife, who will also not tell a soul, but you will be overheard by one of your many children, who will then faithfully report it to one or all of their many aunts, uncles, and cousins, and by the time I'm sitting down for supper, they'll be talking about my letter as far off as Buckland. But that was the way of things in the Shire, so he simply gave Hamfast a smile and a nod and retreated back inside.
It took a fortifying pot of tea, and then a glass of brandy, and then a pipe, and then another pot of tea and a plate of honey cakes, before Bilbo was brave enough to retrieve his letter opener and finally read what Thorin had written him.
And then he read it again, and then a third time for good measure.
Well. It seemed he had been wrong to think Thorin wouldn't be writing about a wedding. Of course, the pleasantness that would have accompanied such a surprise was somewhat muted by the fact that the wedding Thorin was inviting him to was Thorin's own--his wedding to Bilbo himself, if Bilbo agreed.
What could have possibly possessed the blasted dwarf to reach out across all Arda proposing blessed matrimony to a silly little hobbit he'd known only for a few months, if that, more than a decade past? Nothing good, certainly. Something far worse than deathly freezing temperatures and hungry wolves was stalking Thorin, and he was calling in a favour which would no doubt turn out to be of vastly uneven proportions. Bilbo should toss this letter in the fire and let Thorin handle his own disaster. No doubt he wouldn't press the subject.
And yet--if he closed his eyes, Bilbo could still feel his tears from his mother's passing frozen on his cheeks, could still feel his heart rabbiting with terror, could still feel Thorin's hand on his arm, gentle where his words were harsh, could still feel the relief that blossomed within him after Thorin had wielded axe against the wolves and fire against the cold.
Bilbo stroked the strangely formed letters on the paper and sighed.
He could toss the letter into the fire, but he wouldn't. He had known the moment he had seen his name written in that angular script that he would answer Thorin's call.
Thorin had been Bilbo's only friend in that dark, miserable winter. And now, in return, Bilbo would be a friend to Thorin in whatever winter his life had led him to.
Author: Phnx
Fandom: The Hobbit
Pairings/Character: Bilbo/Thorin
Rating: T+
Word Count ~1K, WIP — 1/?
Summary: Bilbo receives a curious letter from an old acquaintance requesting his presence at his wedding. That is, Bilbo's presence at Bilbo's wedding.
#AU #Everybody lives / nobody dies #Erebor never fell #Marriage of convenience
"A letter? In the Shire?" asked Bilbo, more than a little surprised. Bilbo received plenty of correspondence, true, as did his neighbours, but those were all small, domestic sorts of things. They would come in little, elegant envelopes that would be delivered at his door every morning between second breakfast and elevensies, bearing invitations to this birthday or that wedding addressed to our dear [Cousin/Nephew/Grandson] Bilbo, or else they would contain haughty little notices of charges pending payment from the Honourable Mr Baggins, Bag End, occasionally from the same sender as the party invitation.
The… thing in Hamfast's hand was nothing like either of those. The paper appeared to have originally been of very high quality, but it was crinkled and grubby and had grown stiff as though it had gone through varying stages of being wet and then dried again. The edges looked concerningly as though they'd caught fire briefly.
"It seems to have travelled quite the distance," Bilbo managed to say, smiling weakly. "You're sure it's for me? Only, I'm not really the sort to receive letters, you know, especially not from the outside."
"Don't I know it, Mister Baggins, don't I know it. Craziest thing of all, I would have sworn I saw the thing get dropped in your garden by a raven! An actual raven! What do you think of that!"
"I really couldn't say," said Bilbo primly, with all the ignorant virtue of someone who was so far removed from the concept of adventures of any sort that even the idea of avian post was beyond all comprehension.
Hamfast only winked at him cheerfully--but then, he'd been acquainted with Miss Belladonna Took, back in the day.
Bilbo took a deep breath and hesitantly accepted the letter from his gardener, holding it with the tips of his fingers as though concerned that it might bite. He turned it over, searching for the address, and when he found it, he nearly dropped the thing back into the dirt.
Written in a strange, angular script was Bilbo, son of Bungo, of the line of Baggins.
And under that--
As penned by Thorin, called Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, of the line of Durin.
As if anyone else would address Bilbo in such an absurd fashion.
"Alright, Mister Baggins?"
Bilbo realised he'd been staring, frozen, at the letter for rather too long for propriety's sake. It would be hard to pass this missive off as a mistake if he reacted this way.
"Yes, yes, thank you, Hamfast, I'm perfectly fine. I just--well, I wasn't expecting to ever hear from--from Mr Oakenshield, perhaps ever again. I've not--that is, you see, it's been many years, not since shortly after my mother passed."
"Ah," said Hamfast, and this latest information was finally enough for his amiable smile to curl into a sneer, though it had outlasted foreign mail and ravens. "Say no more, Mister Baggins. Fair-weather friend indeed! Just give the word, sir, and I'll dispose of it for you, nice and quiet-like."
"Fair-weather friend?" mused Bilbo, fingering the envelope thoughtfully. It took him a moment to recognise that he wore a rueful smile, and another moment to suppress it. "No, just the opposite, actually." Thorin would never be caught dead at a birthday, not in the Shire at least, and he'd have to be half starved to come to tea! But if one were to, as a completely hypothetical example, find oneself limping along in the Old Forest at night in the heart of the winter with wolves nipping at the heels--then Thorin was as dependable as the summer sun. Fair-weather friend! No, if anything, he was a poor-weather friend.
Given everything, Bilbo rather doubted that Thorin was writing to inform him of any upcoming nuptials. And yet he dared not ignore the message, not with what he owed him. Bilbo sighed and tucked the grubby letter under his arm. "Thank you, Hamfast. I trust this won't go beyond us…?"
"I won't tell a soul, Mister Baggins, not a soul!"
Not a soul, Bilbo added silently, except your wonderful wife, who will also not tell a soul, but you will be overheard by one of your many children, who will then faithfully report it to one or all of their many aunts, uncles, and cousins, and by the time I'm sitting down for supper, they'll be talking about my letter as far off as Buckland. But that was the way of things in the Shire, so he simply gave Hamfast a smile and a nod and retreated back inside.
It took a fortifying pot of tea, and then a glass of brandy, and then a pipe, and then another pot of tea and a plate of honey cakes, before Bilbo was brave enough to retrieve his letter opener and finally read what Thorin had written him.
And then he read it again, and then a third time for good measure.
Well. It seemed he had been wrong to think Thorin wouldn't be writing about a wedding. Of course, the pleasantness that would have accompanied such a surprise was somewhat muted by the fact that the wedding Thorin was inviting him to was Thorin's own--his wedding to Bilbo himself, if Bilbo agreed.
What could have possibly possessed the blasted dwarf to reach out across all Arda proposing blessed matrimony to a silly little hobbit he'd known only for a few months, if that, more than a decade past? Nothing good, certainly. Something far worse than deathly freezing temperatures and hungry wolves was stalking Thorin, and he was calling in a favour which would no doubt turn out to be of vastly uneven proportions. Bilbo should toss this letter in the fire and let Thorin handle his own disaster. No doubt he wouldn't press the subject.
And yet--if he closed his eyes, Bilbo could still feel his tears from his mother's passing frozen on his cheeks, could still feel his heart rabbiting with terror, could still feel Thorin's hand on his arm, gentle where his words were harsh, could still feel the relief that blossomed within him after Thorin had wielded axe against the wolves and fire against the cold.
Bilbo stroked the strangely formed letters on the paper and sighed.
He could toss the letter into the fire, but he wouldn't. He had known the moment he had seen his name written in that angular script that he would answer Thorin's call.
Thorin had been Bilbo's only friend in that dark, miserable winter. And now, in return, Bilbo would be a friend to Thorin in whatever winter his life had led him to.