So, what do elves hang on their walls? Well, paintings, just like the rest of us do. And what are the subjects of these paintings? Down at the Moot Hall, they have a load of HUGE paintings, all detailing the history of the elves. So, where does Thorin fit in? Read on and find out, LOL!
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All About Thorin….And Everyone Else
Thorin and the Painting
Pt I
"Do you ever miss being a king, Thorin?" Tauriel asked idly one morning. They had woken up early and were wasting a bit of time before going off to Poppy's house for breakfast. She was lying with her chin upon her husband's chest whilst he enjoyed playing with her silken hair and wondering if there was enough time for…..
"What?" he said.
"Being king. Do you miss it?" she repeated.
He thought for a moment and then said: "In many ways, no. But, if it doesn't make me sound too arrogant, I enjoyed being famous…..I liked walking down the street and everyone knowing who I was. I liked being asked my opinion and people waiting respectfully for an answer. And I also liked it that everyone knew about my famous deeds and made up songs about them. Does that sound awful?"
"Yes, really awful," she laughed, slapping him on the wrist and then immediately kissing it better. "You sound just like Thranduil."
"Well," said Thorin in a snotty voice that was a perfect, languid imitation of the arrogant elf lord's, "we kings are a superior breed and deserve a bit of respect."
"Ah, yes, but it's my opinion that you have to earn respect. So, what are you going to do to deserve mine?" she asked, giggling.
"Hmm," pondered her husband. "We've got a couple of hours. Is that enough time in which to earn your respect…..If I really try hard and get stuck in…..?"
Actually, it only took an hour and Tauriel, getting up thoughtfully, left Thorin asleep and went off to start a new story on the laptop.
Thorin and the Painting (she typed)
Thorin was lying on his back in bed, his hands clasped behind his head. "I just cannot believe those elves want to paint a picture of me," he said, his voice full of wonder. Since this was the one hundredth time he had said this after hearing the news earlier that day, Tauriel was no longer full of wonder but had fallen asleep.
"Wake up!" he said, nudging her.
"Yes, unbelievable," she muttered.
"I wonder what kind of picture they'll want to do?" he pondered. He knew it wasn't so much a portrait as a scene from his life to go with a string of large paintings that decorated the main room of the Moot Hall down by the harbour. He had never studied them properly – they were just background decoration to him – but Tauriel said that they all portrayed famous scenes from elven history.
"So, I'm going to be famous," he had said smugly on receiving the letter from Ellandel.
"You're already famous," said Tauriel, kissing him on the nose.
"Yes, but this will make me famous, like, for all time," he had said in awe at the thought of his coming renown.
Ellandel had asked to meet him down at the Moot Hall the next day so that he could explain the project further. Now Thorin was running through the scenes of his life and wondering if he would have a say in the matter.
"What moment would you choose?" he asked Tauriel, nudging her again.
"What?" she mumbled.
"Well, do you reckon the painting should show me confronting Smaug at the Gates of Erebor when the dragon first came? Or how about me getting the name of Oakenshield at the Battle of Azanulbizar? Or do you think me coming to the rescue of Elves and Men at the Battle of the Five Armies would be best? My golden armour would look very good in that."
"Whatever," yawned Tauriel. "You'd look very fine and noble in any of them."
And so Thorin lay half-awake for the rest of the night, dreaming of a glorious, heroic painting, with all the elves of the Undying Lands gathered to see its unveiling and murmuring in astonishment as his valour was revealed to them.
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The next morning, he hurried down the hill to meet his old tutor, Ellandel. He had tried to help Thorin behave more like an elf but, when Tauriel had laughed at him, he had reverted to his dwarven ways. Ellandel had been rather disappointed at that since Thorin had been a star pupil but he had accepted that this was not what Tauriel had wanted from her husband and he still had a fondness for the dwarf.
Ellandel was not only a tutor, he was also an administrator for a large area around the harbour. He was waiting for Thorin in the Moot Hall, a place of meetings, weddings and various other ceremonies, and he took him to the grand central room to examine the paintings there. These were large and imposing and covered nearly three walls. Each represented a significant moment in the long history of the elves.
"Yours will go there," Ellendel said, pointing to a space at the end of the third wall. "And, here," he continued, pointing to the empty fourth wall, "we shall hang a whole series of pictures depicting the War of the Ring."
"This is a great honour," said Thorin graciously but he was finding it very hard to contain an almost childish delight. The burning question was: what part of his life would the painting portray? "So," he asked politely, "will this scene include Smaug?"
"Erm, no," said Ellandel.
"Or Azanulbizar?"
"No, not that either. You have to remember that these paintings are all about elven, not dwarven, history and so we have chosen a moment in your life when both cultures come together. In fact, the other person in the painting will be Thranduil."
"Thranduil!" choked Thorin. "Well, if you want to show the moment in Mirkwood when he clapped me in his dungeons, then I refuse to participate." Why was it that this elven king always managed to spoil every pleasure?
"No, no!" cried Ellandel. "We would never insult you like that. We were thinking of a scene from the Battle of the Five Armies."
Thorin relaxed: that sounded more like it. "My best moment," he said modestly, "was when Bard and his men with Thranduil and his elven army were losing badly against the orcs. Then I charged out from Erebor with my company, drove a wedge through the enemy and called all the allies to my side." His eyes glowed, imagining this moment dramatised on the wall.
"Erm, no, not that moment," said Ellendel a bit uncomfortably.
"Well, what moment, then, for goodness' sake?" asked Thorin in exasperation.
"Umm, the bit where you're lying injured and Thranduil saves your life."
Thorin spluttered, thought about reneging on the whole deal and then swallowed his pride. Thranduil had saved his life – he owed him all the wonderful things that had happened to him since that moment – and being portrayed as lying heroically injured was not too bad a thing.
"I can accept that," he said.
"Good," said Ellandel. "We'll meet up with Thranduil and the artist in two days' time."
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Pt II
Two days later, Thorin arrived at the Moot Hall on foot just as Thranduil reached the harbour on horseback.
"What!" laughed Thorin. "No big entrance? I thought you'd be arriving at least on the back of a giant eagle."
Thranduil gazed nonchalantly over his own shoulder and then up and down the road and then at the dwarf: "Well," he said, "I don't see anyone important enough to make a grand entrance for." And he dismounted elegantly and swept past Thorin into the Hall.
Thorin, as usual, was left with his mouth open. How does he do it, he thought? And he hurried after him.
Ellandel and the artist, Arnor, were waiting inside. Like most elves, Arnor was good-looking and fair-haired, but he had a soft voice and a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. Thorin grinned to himself. It would be interesting to see how he managed Thranduil but he doubted that he had the necessary force of personality.
"Well," said Ellandel, eager to be doing other things, "I'll leave you in the capable hands of Arnor. I'm sure you'd like to hear what he has planned for the painting." And, with that, he was gone.
Arnor gestured them over to his easel where he had displayed a very sketchy sketch of his ideas for the canvas. In the foreground, a wounded 'Thorin' lay upon the ground in the shade of a tree, stripped of most of his armour, pieces of which were strewn about him. His hand was raised pleadingly to a tall 'Thranduil' who stretched forth a compassionate hand in return.
Hah, thought Thorin to himself. If Tauriel hadn't twisted his arm, he would have left me to die.
The two were positioned on a hill and, in the background, the battle still raged. It was a dramatic and lively scene and Thorin could already imagine the finished product. Even with Thranduil's presence, it would be worth looking at.
A space had been cleared at one end of the Hall and a stage was set up there, ready for action. A green cloth covered the floor and a large tree in a pot had been plonked down at one side whilst various suits of armour and items of clothing were lying on a table.
"Now, Thorin," said Arnor, "I like to be accurate, so perhaps you can tell me exactly where you were wounded during the battle."
"I was struck by a spear," offered Thorin, more than happy to give the artist as much information as possible, "and it penetrated my side between the plates of my armour just below my ribcage." And he helpfully pulled up his shirt and showed his old scar to the fascinated Arnor. Even after all these years, it was still ugly and jagged and Arnor gave a delicate shudder.
"Just too, too ghastly," he said.
Thorin gave him an amused look. Surely through his long life, Arnor must have been in battle and received the odd scar, he asked.
"Oh, no, no," he replied. "I have always been an artist – I've never fought."
Thorin was curious as to how he assumed he could depict a battle scene if he had never been in one but he discovered that the artist had often taken his gear to the fringes of a battle and had recorded what went on there for posterity. "I'm quite famous for my historic scenes," he said proudly. And Thorin concluded that perhaps they were in good hands after all.
"Posing for an artist is not an easy job," he told the two of them. "It is very tiring when you have to hold the same position for a long time. But, I would ask you to do your best and for as long as possible."
Thranduil was examining the suit of armour on the table. "You're not expecting me to wear this?" he asked with a sneer.
"Well – um – yes," Arnor said, "but it's only to supply me with a rough outline. If you can give me a detailed description of your armour, I shall do my best to portray it."
"It was the greatest of elven smiths who forged it," said Thranduil with a snotty lift to his chin. "I looked magnificent in it and I will expect to look magnificent in this painting."
"My gold armour was pretty good too," put in Thorin mildly.
"Gold!" exclaimed Arnor in amazement. "How wonderful! But wouldn't that be too soft to be effective?"
"Actually, it was mithril overlaid with gold" Thorin supplied. "Nothing could penetrate it. But, unfortunately, that lucky spear thrust worked its way between two plates."
"Right, strip off then," said Arnor, already thinking excitedly about how he was going to paint two magnificent suits of armour. "I assume they did strip you to the waist so that they could get at your wound? Right, keep your breeches on and we'll strap these greaves to the front of your legs and scatter your helmet, breastplate and other bits and pieces around you on the ground. I shall be trying to capture the chaos of battle."
Thorin removed his shirt. Arnor gawped and then clapped his hands delightedly. "Ooo, tattoos! I just so love tattoos! They'll be a striking feature of the painting. All eyes will be drawn to you."
This rather annoyed Thranduil who thought that all eyes would be drawn to him. "So barbaric, don't you think? They will pinpoint the contrast between dwarf and elf."
"Oh," said Arnor innocently, unused as he was to mixing with dwarves, "you mean, like, the refined and the savage, the sophisticate and the boor, beauty and the beast?"
"You've got it," smiled Thranduil, pleased to have someone who understood the situation.
Thorin just glowered. His glare was so intense that Arnor wondered if he could somehow work it into his painting. What fearsome brutality, he thought! And he shivered with delight.
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Pt III
Arnor directed Thorin to lie down under the tree. "Lean on your right arm – that's right – and stretch out your left towards Thranduil." Then he got down on his knees and arranged the dwarf's hair so that it fell forward in a dishevelled mass, one braid swinging free in an interesting way, but in such a manner that his tattooed shoulders were still exposed.
This close, he noticed that Thorin smelled of soap and leather with just the faintest trace of sweat that was not unattractive. This surprised Arnor. Somehow he had expected him to smell of the stable – something more animal-like. And the hair was wonderful to work with: thick and heavy, its tendrils curling beautifully to frame his face – so dark, so unusual and so very clean.
His eyes skimmed Thorin's torso as he arranged his powerful arms. What a chest! Twice the width of his own, he reckoned And the tattooed bracelets above the elbow were really quite delicious, emphasising, as they did, the dwarf's biceps. Arnor felt quite flustered and he flushed a little as his artist's soul almost persuaded him to stretch out a finger and trace the line of Thorin's musculature – for research purposes, of course!
"Are those more tattoos I can see, just poking above your waistband?" he asked with interest.
"Er, yes," said Thorin, "but they dip pretty low."
"Hmm, just a little exposure, I think," was the murmured response, and the elf edged down Thorin's breeches so that they hung just below his navel. "Yes, that looks good. A classic pose."
Thorin was unsure but decided that the artist must know best and so said nothing.
Arnor stood up and studied the effect for a long moment. Then he clasped his hands together. "You look beautiful," he said, with a note of surprise in his voice. "Gorgeously heroic, I would say. And in fact, if you are the beauty, then one must wonder who is the beast." And he gave a little giggle at his own joke.
"Oh, Thranduil every time," grinned Thorin and he was pleased to see that the remark had got under the elf lord's skin. This might be fun.
His raised arm was already aching and so he was relieved when Arnor produce a crutch-like contraption which he adjusted to fit under his arm and offer some support. "There, that should help," said the elf. "You wouldn't be able to adopt that posture for long without some assistance."
Then he turned to his other model. It was Thranduil who was glowering by now. He had to admit that Thorin looked very good. The dwarf would be positioned in the centre of the painting and the elven king would be less prominent, off to one side. Moreover, he would be encased in armour which, however glorious, could not compete with the eye-boggling nature of Thorin's semi-naked body.
"There," said Arnor, pinning a lovely cloak to Thranduil's shoulders, "that will help you look more striking and this great swathe of white silk will help to draw attention away from the delights of naked flesh and more towards you.
This pacified Thranduil a little but he doubted if anything would drag the gaze of the onlookers away from that muscled chest. Even he had a problem.
"And now," continued Arnor, starting to arrange Thranduil, "if you could just stoop down towards Thorin, with one leg bent, offering your hand in a gracious gesture. People will need to know that you have come to his aid and that your ministrations will save his life."
"I don't bow to anyone," said the elven king stiffly, "and especially not to Thorin." And, although Arnor argued with him for some time, he would not be persuaded. And, in the end, there was nothing for it but to allow him to stand upright with a hand extended in a rather mean-spirited sort of way.
"Well," sighed Arnor, "I suppose you can compensate with the compassionate expression on your face. Now, can you give me 'compassionate'?"
"This is 'compassionate'!" snapped Thranduil.
Arnor blinked. "Erm, just a little too aloof, I feel."
Thranduil's expression didn't change and Thorin snorted with laughter. "I'm afraid that 'arrogant' is the only look he can do," he grinned. And Thranduil stared daggers at him.
"Well, perhaps I can – er – adjust your look when I come to paint your face," Arnor muttered and he moved to his easel. This was proving more difficult than he had imagined.
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He drew and painted all day and, as he had warned them, it was very hard work, not least because of the boredom. They had plenty of breaks, but, even so, the time seemed to drag. Towards late afternoon, he finally allowed them to see his progress. The whole scene had been sketched in with all the details, even the battle in the background, and he had started to paint Thorin.
Thorin was very impressed. It was all so vivid, even largely unfinished as it was, that he was taken back in time to that dreadful day when the bodies of the dead had been piled high all around and he had lost his nephews. His own image, of course, was inaccurate in so far as he had been semi-conscious after Beorn had carried him from the battlefield: it had been Tauriel who had reached out to Thranduil for help. But, he supposed this was artistic licence and it was, indeed, very artistic. In all modesty, he had to admit that he looked a tragically noble figure, lying there in the centre of the canvas, and now that Arnor had started to indicate blood, bruises and wounds, he seemed the very model of the hero willing to sacrifice himself in a great cause. Thranduil, on the other hand, even in sketch form, looked stiff and completely removed from all the tragic incidents that were playing out around him. He really hoped that something could be done about it otherwise the whole painting might be spoiled.
Arnor was having similar thoughts. Thorin had been a delight to work with, willing to stay in position for much longer than the elf and very amenable to any suggestions. Thranduil had been difficult from the word go and he would be relieved when he no longer needed him to model but could get on with the painting on his own.
Thranduil, on the other hand, thought his image looked splendid – very kinglike and majestic. He would send Arnor his armour so that the artist had the real thing to work from – it was very important that he got it right.
"Back to work, then," said Arnor, "just for another hour, and then I'll let you go."
They had nearly got to the end of the session when Tauriel stuck her head around the door.
"Hello," she said, "I'm Thorin's wife. I've been itching to see how things were going and I couldn't stay away any longer."
.o00o.
Pt IV
"Come in," smiled Arnor at the beautiful elf. "It will be interesting to have an outsider's point of view on the work so far."
Tauriel giggled when she saw her husband's pose on the green sheet but went over to examine the canvas. "My goodness!" she exclaimed, "that really is marvellous!" And Arnor beamed in delight.
She thought how well the artist had captured Thorin's likeness and, although she had giggled at him when she had first entered the room, she could now see how well his stripped body suited the theme of the painting. He looked so vulnerable and yet so brave – and so totally kissable! But Thranduil wasn't quite right – his posture wasn't suitable for the moment, perhaps – she couldn't exactly put her finger on it. And this wasn't how it had happened.
"This will be wonderful when it's finished," she said, "even though it didn't quite happen this way."
"It didn't?" Arnor exclaimed. He liked to get things right and her remark concerned him.
"Why, no. Didn't they tell you? I was there and it was me who stripped off his armour. When I realised that he had been very badly injured and was likely to die, I begged Thranduil to save him." She gave a wry grin. "He was very reluctant at first because there was bad blood between them, but I reminded him of all that had passed between us – and I also bribed him with the thought of the dragon's hoard. It was only then that he gave in."
Thranduil harrumphed at her less than flattering retelling of the story but Arnor gazed at his painting for a moment and then shouted: "That's it! That would work! It would resolve the problems I am having with Thranduil's expression and posture."
He wanted Tauriel to be part of the picture now and he began to rearrange the group. Thorin was to stay as he was but he asked Tauriel to kneel near his head. Then he turned Thranduil away from the two of them and directed Tauriel to reach out and seize hold of his cloak as if she were pleading with him. "Can you all just stay on for another hour so that I can redraw a section?" he asked.
An hour later, they clustered around the canvas and found themselves all nodding in approval. Thorin was pleased that Tauriel was now included, as was fitting and accurate; Tauriel was thrilled to be portrayed in such a historic scene; and Thranduil thought he looked suitably like himself – aloof and haughty – it never occurred to him that it also portrayed him as being rather unpleasant.
Arnor was mentally rubbing his hands in glee. Thank goodness that Tauriel had turned up at that moment and had saved his painting. In the new scene, Thranduil had his arrogant expression on – the one he did so well – and the lovely Tauriel was pleading with him to save her beloved. So moving! He could already see that this would turn out to be one of his best works.
He worked for another day with the three of them posing and then he took it away for two weeks to attend to the details - the depiction of the battle alone was a very complex scene to paint. And then it was hung – temporarily – in the centre of the empty wall and the work was ready for its unveiling.
.o00o.
Not much exciting happened to the inhabitants of the Undying Lands and so the unveiling was an event that no-one in the area wanted to miss. Even Elrond turned up with some of his court. The Moot Hall was packed and a delicious buffet had been laid out for all the guests. Tauriel, Thranduil and Thorin were the centre of attention and everyone was trying to guess what the painting was about. The whole thing had been kept a closely guarded secret. All that anyone knew was the title of the piece: She Pleads For His Life. And many were laying bets on what the incident would be about, some even wondering if Thranduil had intended to execute Thorin when he had thrown him into his dungeons until Tauriel, his captain of the guard, had begged for mercy.
At last, the moment arrived. Arnor and the three subjects of his painting, stood on a podium below the framed canvas and Elrond was invited to unveil it. The elf lord pulled a cord, the sheet fell away and everyone gasped in amazement. What an exciting and moving scene! As a terrible battle raged in the background, Tauriel was reaching out with one hand to grasp Thranduil's cloak whilst gesturing to her badly wounded lover with the other. Everyone knew that Thorin had been the hero of the hour. He had turned the tide of battle but had nearly lost his life in the attempt. Only the help of the king of Mirkwood had saved him.
But, this they hadn't known: an arrogant Thranduil was turning away from him, refusing to help, and it was only the pleading of the beautiful Tauriel that would finally make him change his mind. And, stretched out in the centre of the painting was the hero: his golden armour had been stripped from his body and he was lying bloody, bruised and nearly naked. They could see quite clearly the dwarven tattoos on his arms and body but no-one curled their lip; instead, these markings seemed to underline his warrior status. What a man, thought the elf lords! Yeah, what a man, thought the ladies!
There was silence for a moment as everyone tried to take it all in. And then there was loud applause and cheering. Arnor looked very pleased with the response, Tauriel and Thorin looked rather self-conscious and Thranduil bowed graciously at what he perceived was the acclaim of a crowd of admirers.
When they mingled with the assembled throng afterwards, with glasses of wine in their hands, the three subjects of the painting were congratulated enthusiastically. How beautiful Tauriel looked; how handsome and brave was Thorin (and delectable, murmured the ladies to themselves). Thranduil was the more difficult one to say something nice about and they searched around for a word that sounded kinder than 'arrogant'.
"How marvellous you look in that suit of armour!" said one.
And Thranduil smirked and said: "I know."
"And what a lovely silken cloak – it does call attention to you."
"Arnor said it would," was the smug reply.
"And you look so – so – above it all."
Thranduil wasn't quite sure what to say about that one.
But, after it was all over, all three of them went home happy.
Well, mostly happy.
.o00o.
("So, what did you think of my story?" asked Tauriel as she closed the laptop. "Did you enjoy being famous?"
"Well, the one thing that spoiled it," muttered Thorin, "was that remark of yours."
"What remark?" asked Tauriel.
"That remark you made to Thranduil about helping me because of everything that had passed between the two of you." And he sounded upset.
Tauriel pulled him to her and, seizing him by the plaits, made him look into her eyes. "And what ARE you thinking I meant by that?" she asked.
"Umm…" he said, after a moment.
"I know what you're thinking," she said in exasperation, "and you'd be wrong!"
He looked relieved but couldn't let it go. "Well, what DID you mean?" he mumbled.
"Only that we had been friends for a very long time," she sighed, "and that friends should try to help each other…And he did. And, now, you stupid dwarf," she added, giving his plaits a very hard tug so that he yelped, "now give me a kiss or I shall find it difficult to forgive your silliness."
And he gave her a whole string of kisses and, although she held out for a good long time, which obliged him to kiss her some more, in the end, she forgave him.)
.o00o.
Next story: Thorin and the Mancation, in which Thranduil sets off on a journey to find himself and Thorin decides to go with him. And the Big Question is: Will they have fun together?
