AN: So... The Hobbit hit me hard. Like it hit half the world (and the other half just hasn't seen it yet).
Yet this is the first thing I was willing to try that's close to the fandom. And it's bittersweet. Go me. _
This was inspired by another of Koneko's (you know who you are) many mails. I want to explain, but it'd spoil the story below. If you want to know which pic inspired me, you can pm me and I'll tell you what it says. ^_^
Disclaimer/warnings:
I do not own any of the characters, nor anything else from the Tolkien-verse. I only own the sequence of the words below, and maybe the idea.
It's UA (Universe Alterations) or AU (Alternate Universe), however much you think the Durins surviving the BotFA would affect the course of Tolkien-history. XD
Enjoy, both favs and reviews make my day, but you don't have to review when you fave. :3
"Thorin?" a soft voice murmured in his ear. "You should wake up now, love. The weather's very nice, so perhaps we can spend some time in the garden before the day gets too hot for it."
It was a lovely voice, even if there was a certain note of age in it. A small flash ran through his head, warm humming in a kitchen, curls turned golden in the light from the window, then it was gone. And he was left wondering why, while the voice was so very familiar, he couldn't remember who it belonged to.
'Opening your eyes would certainly help, you silly dwarf.' That same voice. He still couldn't place it, but the suggestion it made was true enough.
With a stretch that made his joints creak, he opened his eyes and met the brown ones of...
Of...
He had brown eyes (warm, changeable but mostly brown eyes, sparkling with joy), hair a curled mix of blond, grey and white (dark golden curls, a bit dirtied with travel but still very fetching, despite the length) and lines where worry, laughter and age left their marks (dimples beside his mouth when he smiles, he'd do anything to make them appear). A small hand was idly stroking through his hair (deftly braiding it, like he had shown him how to, how he did the other's slowly lengthening lock, just the one, just for him) as he struggled to place the slowly saddening face he was looking at.
"Thorin?"
The hand retreated, and he watched as it was slowly drawn back to the other's chest. It was a hand lined with age and with rather short fingers, definitely not a dwarrow's hand, but what caught Thorin's attention was the ring.
(Hands clasped around a sword, his advisor standing beside them and helping the other along with the vows, a beautiful ring slid from one scarred, bloodied hand on a smaller, less lined hand, himself saying the last vows, struggling to keep breathing, tear-brimmed eyes and a voice saying: "Promise me you'll heal, Thorin. I shan't like being a widower before enjoying my marriage."
He coughed through a chuckle. "I will try, my dear...)
"Bilbo?"
A bright, dimpled smile lit his husband's face. "There you are, my love."
It was a lovely garden. He didn't know how long he had sat here, watching the bright, young hobbit with dark curls lounging near the flowers with a book (bright blue eyes looking up at him, twinkling with delight, toys he had made all over the floor, "Uncle Thorin!"), but he was quite content to stay there, on the bench, smoking his pipe.
Every once in a while, a very fetching hobbit near his age (well, relatively his age, he had a feeling that hobbits and dwarrows age very differently) would walk around, carrying gardening-tools or potted plants or some greenery to be dumped somewhere out of sight (flowers everywhere, under him, beside him, hiding them from view, a warm head on his shoulder, a hand on his chest, just above his heart, "I missed you"). He was so very familiar, but Thorin couldn't really place him. Still, every time the hobbit smiled at him when he passed, he smiled back.
He really was quite fetching.
Thorin had picked the prettiest flower, with some help from the lad. While the hobbit had looked a bit startled when he came to him with his request for help, he had gotten a certain mischievous twinkle in his eye when he heard what Thorin wanted to do. Apparently, the flower he had picked was one symbolising eternal love.
"And why pick a whole bouquet of different flowers when one says all the things you want to tell Bilbo," the lad had said, eyes twinkling (twinkling, gazing up at the other hobbit, enraptured by the tale he was spinning, the tale of their quest).
It made sense, he supposed. Now all he had to do was gather some courage and approach the hobbit (Bilbo, his name is Bilbo) he had seen in the garden.
He found him in the kitchen of the smial (a round door, still marked with a rune, a bright smile on the other's face when he told him he would stay), kneading dough for something that was bound to be delicious. His warm, brown eyes looked up when Thorin stood beside him, a question already forming in their depths.
He quickly held out the flower and spoke before the other could - and before he lost his courage.
"I would be honoured if you'd let me court you."
Bilbo looked a bit stunned.
"Old as I may be, I couldn't help but notice you out in the garden, and you won't leave my mind. Dwarrows love but once, and you already hold my heart, if you'll have it."
A smile lit the other's face as the flower was plucked from his hand.
"Thorin, my dear love," and here Thorin was the startled one. How had the hobbit known his name when he had only just approached him? "We are already married."
And then he wiped the flour from his left hand, showing a beautiful ring with a small stone he'd recognise anywhere.
(Bilbo, a flowercrown on his head, smiling brightly at him, a big celebration, their second wedding, singing, dancing, learning how to tend to the garden, his own sister-sons visiting again, listening to the stories he told Frodo, almost all of the company gathered in the smial, bringing his husband gifts whenever he finished one, falling asleep and waking beside his husband, every night, every day...)
His whole body tingled with joy. He may not remember everything anymore, but he remembered enough to know that his beloved husband was - is indeed very much beloved. And he would continue to love him, even if he forgets why.
"Thank you, my love."