Disclaimer: I don't own The Hobbit or any of J. R. R. Tolkien's works. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This is my second time dipping my toes into Tolkien's universe and my first time trying the 'soul bond' trope in the Hobbit fandom. So, I greatly appreciate any and all feedback/constructive criticism you have to offer. The main pairing in this fic is Dwori (Dwalin/Ori) with a hint of Bagginshield if you squint.
Warnings: Contains spoilers for 'The Hobbit' and 'The Desolation of Smaug' if you squint. This is set in an 'everyone lives' style AU. This is also a 'soul-bond' fic. Expect canon appropriate violence, mature language, age difference follows the general plot line of the first two movies and my take on the beginning of the third. Dwarvish courting rituals/traditions/culture, slash and smut.
Mahal's Script
Chapter Eleven
Things had been decided on pretty quickly after that. Bilbo and Thorin had delegated the tasks, Dori and Oin had set the stage, and somehow, the details of said conversation were still something of an ale-addled mystery to him - thatwas how Nori found himself waiting outside the infirmary two days later.
He twisted his wrist, smiling as one of his blades shimmied out into his palm. He twirled the thin little pig-sticker between his fingers as he waited, deep in thought. Today was to be Dwalin's first day out of the infirmary after the Battle of the Five Armies, and Oin was insistent their plan be put into action immediately. Indeed, it was a testament to the warrior's state when one considered the fact that he could have bullied his way to freedom nearly three days ago and been let off with a strong warning to take it easy.
It was perhaps that same lack of fuss that had caused everyone to agree – it had to be now. Dwalin had never taken coddling very well; even on the odd occasion when he'd woken up and still been in the process of being sewn back together. But this time? Well, by all accounts, he'd barely caused a ripple. No grumbling or cursing at the nurses. No death threats. No escape attempts. Apparently there really was a first time for everything.
Thorin and Balin had been practically beside themselves in worry.
He sighed, watching the hustle and bustle as Dain's folk scuttled to and fro – helping where they could. There was already talk of rebuilding, with missives being sent far and wide through the Iron Hills and the Blue Mountains, bidding the people of Erebor to return home at last.
He'd barely seen Ori since he'd slipped out of the infirmary a few days after the battle. And for all intents and purposes, his brother had shut down. He forgot to eat, bathe, change - Mahal, even sleep! Dori was having conniptions, practically force feeding the dwarf when he could find him. But Ori was not to be swayed, he seemed to have made up his mind to bury his head in the sand – or should he say, books – sorting through the ruins of the main library with a fervor that made even him uncomfortable.
He breathed out slowly, forcing his frayed nerves to calm; the last few weeks had been hard on everyone. But Ori couldn't go on like this and neither could Dwalin. Oin was right. This had to work. Hell, at this point, there was very little he wouldn't do just to get Ori to smile again.
The corner of his lips quirked up in wry amusement as he turned the thought over in his mind. No pressure, Nori.
It wasn't like he hadn't taken on challenging assignments before. But this was different. This was his baby brother. He tested the sharpness of the blade with his thumb, laving at the blood that rose up as his tongue chased the bitter tart. He still wasn't exactly convinced that Dwalin was right for him, but this wasn't about his happiness, it was about Ori's.
If Dwalin was Ori's one, that was good enough for him.
He didn't like Dwalin, but he disliked him the least of the guardsmen he'd come to know over the years. The warrior had been good to him - as good as one could be considering that more often than not, he was the one hauling him in for questioning or shoving him into a cramped cell for the night. The man had always been fair, loyal to his calling and just when it was required of him.
He perked up, kicking off from the wall when Kili flittered past, sending him a furtive thumbs-up before joining Fili on the other side of the hall. That was the signal. Dwalin was coming.
"Oy, Dwalin! Over here!" he called, gesturing over to the crumbled pillar he was leaning against as the warrior exited the infirmary in a huff, irritation hanging over him like a dark cloud as he pulled his furs tight around his shoulders. And for that, he certainly couldn't blame him, the mountain was still cold as ice. They were still working to get the main furnaces dug out from under the rubble – it would probably be another few days before the boilers could be lit.
"What?" Dwalin grated, distracted as he paused, tugging at the splint Oin had wrapped around his broken thumb until the whole thing came loose. He tossed it behind his shoulder as an indignant cluck issued from one of the orderlies that'd seen him to the door.
"Thorin sent me, something about a security concern he wanted to inform you about," he drawled, pausing for a moment before adding the bait. "That is, if 'yer well enough," he finished, pretending to be absorbed with something over his shoulder as the warrior's gaze darkened.
"I'm fine," he growled, shouldering his way towards him, "what sort of security concern? Elves givin' us trouble already?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of Fili and Kili slipping away, running like a fire drake was on their heels as they set off to inform the others. He slipped his knife back up his sleeve with a movement too quick for the casual observer to notice. So far, so good.
"You see a crown on my head?" he snorted, leading the way down the hall, towards the royal chambers. "How should I know?"
"Thorin did appoint you Royal Spymaster, did he not?" Dwalin pointed out, lengthening his strides until they were walking shoulder to shoulder, sporting such a dark expression that it sent unfamiliar dwarrow beetling out of their way, clearing the path in front of them as everyone gave them a wide berth.
They continued in silence for a few beats before-
"…Unless it's something you did?" Dwalin remarked, eying him suspiciously as they passed one of the main halls. They took the first left, down what had once been a servant's corridor. It would lead them directly towards the royal wing, it had been barely used or noticed since they'd arrived and thus, perfect for their plan.
"You insult me with the very question," he replied, sniffing a bit before winking roguishly as he took the lead down the narrow hall. But the dwarf just stared back at him, muzzily, almost disinterested in fact.
His eyes narrowed. Because instead of a cuff on the head and a growl, all he got was an indifferent snort and silence. He took the man's measure as Dwalin kept pace behind him – using the dusty mirrors that lined either side of the hall, barely visible in the dim torch-light. And privately, he was shocked at what he saw reflecting back at him.
There was a dullness in the dwarrow's expression, a vacant sort of apathy that made something in him smoulder. It was a painful empty ache he could feel right down to his core. It felt wrong, like a sickness festering in living flesh. He shuddered and pulled back, trying to shake the feeling away, only to grow uncomfortable when it lingered.
He'd believed Oin when the healer said it had to be now, but he hadn't realized it was this bad!
He'd heard about the fading, how dwarfs – otherwise healthy and hearty with no visible wounds or history of moodiness - literally stopped living. They lost their drive, their fire. He'd seen something like it once, during his time underground in the Iron Hills. He'd briefly been part of a group that regularly smuggled a dam – elderly but spry - to and from a hidden passage under the city cells. Her mate, an old dwarrow of almost three hundred was serving a ten year sentence – what for, he hadn't asked. But bad enough that when he'd been admitted he hadn't wanted to risk listing her as his bond mate.
There was a small hole in the cobble floor that could be pried up, and from that small gap, they would spend hours doing little more than holding each other's hands. It had been the easiest money he'd ever made and the most conflicted he'd felt every time he'd collected it. There had been something in the air when their fingers had met, something comforting and warm, soothing in a way that made him wonder when he'd gotten so restless.
Even then, decades before Balin had even spread so much as a hint about Thorin's quest, his mind had never strayed far from Ori and his mark. It was said that when a soul-bonded couple finally met their other half, something of a tempest forms up in their wake – a pull – a longing. It was not considered wise to prolong it and yet, Ori and Dwalin had taken it to an extreme even he hadn't foreseen.
They were both pig-headed, in their own way, but frankly, he'd had his fill of it by the Thunder Battle. The next few months after that had been downright torturous, and he knew he wasn't the only one to think so.
It was only when he heard the soft patter of Bilbo's hairy feet from the main hall that he realized it was time to put the next part of their plan into motion. He grinned when he heard Ori fussing, Bilbo had coaxed out him of the library somehow – that had been part of the plan he'd lost in the ale-haze.
Now all he had to do was that which he did best.
Lie.
A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – We are coming in for the home stretch here! Seven more chapters!
