Disclaimer: Owned by the Tolkien Estate and Warner Bros.
A/N: Smaug never attacked and Erebor is thriving; instead, this takes place between T.A. 2876-85, in which I've added a war where the Orcs of Moria launch an offensive for revenge.
Using the Gondorian calendar (since I can find no mention of a specific Dwarven one-they would keep it so secret, wouldn't they?) and taking influence from heathenism for the festivals mentioned.
Also, a WARNING: I also have to warn that I am not a fast writer, so updates will be spread out-I offer my apologies now-and it makes me really nervous because I haven't written a multi-chapter fic in a long time.
Written in Ink; Stained with Blood
When the books had finally been shut and the ink drying on newly transcribed documents, Ori quietly excused himself from his peers and found a lonely corner in the library (not a hard thing to do at all), pulling an envelope from his cardigan's inner pocket. He hardly had time to even look at the thing when receiving it, having been dragged away almost immediately by his duties as scribe apprentice: meetings to attend, notes to take, proposals to write and copy. Now turning it over in his hands, Ori found the small lumpy package to be battered and stained with something that may have been blood. He took a quick breath, heart denying that it could be from Dwalin's veins. News between generals and king flies by raven, but soldier letters pass hand-to-hand so often between messengers and outposts, he reasoned, and blood is on every warrior's fingers in war.
He carefully cut the twine crossing over the outside slip and pulled at the tucked flap. His hands turned clumsy in his excitement, and a few torn-off scraps of paper and several faded, brittle flowers fluttered into his lap. No one was near enough to observe him, but Ori's cheeks heated and he glanced up shyly out of habit, an apology on the tip of his tongue. Remembering himself, he swallowed thickly and collected the notes by date, leaving the flora where they lay with a quirked brow.
T.A.2876 April.28
The days are long with marching and the nights even longer without you near. We left Dale four days hence, passing through the southern crop fields. They grow feeble wee stocks, the first since the burning. And the landscapes to the east outside the shadow of the Mountain stretch far with wildlands of tall grass and flowers. You'd enjoy it, sketching them all. I'll bring you here after this is done.
T.A.2876 April.30
Balin laughed when he caught me picking flowers. Mayfair is tomorrow and I would braid them in your beard, if you'd let me.
Ori looked down to his lap, taking in the sight of the dried flowers all broken apart across his thighs. A twinge of sadness crossed his heart, for the May festival (a celebration for the bonds of family and lovers) had already passed. His mam had twisted his hair with bits of white tapestry string and sprigs of baby's breath. These should have been there instead, he thought as he petted one now-brown stem, even if Dori would not approve. He let a smile play across his lips then—Dwalin had embarrassed himself for his sake; him, who was still 'little Ori' to his brothers and not a warrior by many means—and gathered the plants back into the envelope so their sweetness would not be lost.
T.A.2876 May.17
Many in my company are green lads. They laugh easily and speak casually during marches, singing tavern songs to much amusement. They are a welcome distraction when my thoughts turn to you.
T.A.2876 May.22
The lads had their first taste of blood. A scouting pack. Tonight they celebrate with ale and lays of battle. Some look with scorn for praising a small victory, but it warms me: their cheers and smiles even as we walk closer to our enemy. I wish I could be walking back to you.
The last line had been scribbled out, barely legible to eyes untrained in making out difficult script (but scribes had much practice), and it warmed all of Ori more than the brightest forge fire ever could.
The young Dwarf sat in that lonely corner for a while longer, pressing the letters between his hands and chest, as if the action could transcribe each word onto his skin, into his blood to join the beating rhythm of his heart. He would have stayed until the candles burned themselves down, but he knew Dori would be around to fetch him soon enough.
Ori carefully shifted the notes in next to the flowers and then into his pocket once again, the glow in his face not diminishing, not even when his brother scolded him for missing dinner again.
Prompt Fill on Hobbit-kink. Original post: hobbit-kink()livejournal()com/4373()html?thread=8734741#t8734741
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