FIC: The Sleeping Dragon
Mar. 7th, 2013 01:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mithenTitle: The Sleeping Dragon
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins
Fandom: Hobbit
Warnings/Spoilers: Discussions of addiction and mental illness. Follows book canon in major events, although I smudged a few details of timing.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2300
Summary: Two conversations on the doorstep of Erebor: a glimpse of the past and a wish for the future.
Thorin Oakenshield stared out over the Desolation of Smaug from his rocky seat on the side of the Lonely Mountain. Before him was the vast wasteland of charred stumps and ashen ground. At his back was the looming bulk of the mountain. His kingdom. He reached out and rested a hand on the side of the mountain, like a rider soothing a restive horse. Soon, Erebor.
He heard the sound of soft footsteps in the dark, and did not turn to look at Bilbo Baggins as he slipped away from the sleeping dwarves to move closer to Thorin. "Can you not sleep?" Thorin asked as he sat down on a rock next to him.
A weak chuckle from the hobbit. "Tomorrow is Durin's Day."
"I am aware of that."
"No, I can't sleep."
Thorin said nothing, and the silence between them stretched out across the desolation. Finally, Bilbo cleared his throat. "What is he like? Smaug, I mean. You've...seen him, right?"
Thorin felt his hands clench as he remembered the cries of the dying, the doors of Erebor buckling as he stood before them, sword in hand. Leaping forward to defend his home.
Being tossed aside as carelessly as a child would toss a toy.
"He is...dreadful," Thorin said, remembering: an eye of flame that passed over him, incurious, leaving him shaking and helpless. "Like a forest fire that sweeps all aside. A landslide that crushes anything in its path."
Bilbo's voice was small. "That's...not very reassuring."
"It would be folly to reassure you," said Thorin. "I seek to prepare you."
"Well, I don't feel terribly prepared," grumbled Bilbo. "Sometimes I don't understand why you don't just let sleeping dragons lie, really."
"It is my destiny to win back Erebor," said Thorin. "I will do anything to reclaim it, I will risk death and worse to give my people a home again."
"Worse'?" Bilbo echoed him with a small, disbelieving laugh. "Is there anything worse than death?"
The night wind cried across the plain, curling up to slap their faces. Thorin touched the mountain once more. "Mr. Baggins, why are you here?" he said when the wind died down.
"Well, I suppose because a troop of dwarves fell on my doorstep and dragged me off on an adventure."
Bilbo's tone was light, and Thorin suspected he was trying to coax him from his dark mood, but he merely shook his head. "I do not mean here at Erebor. I mean...here," he said, waving a hand out at the plain and beyond.
"You mean...here? Like, in the world?" Bilbo chuckled. "Of course not. No one knows that."
"Dwarves do," Thorin said. He glanced sideways, almost far enough to see Bilbo. But not quite. "When the world was new, Mahal, whom the elves call Aulë, yearned to share his love of the earth. He wished to teach the secret ways of metal and gems, the glory and the wonder of them. But the Firstborn--the elves--did not exist yet, so he had no one. So he created the dwarves in secret, and he made them burn with the love of craft and cunning, to share in his passion for the beauty of the earth."
He shifted against the stone, uneasy. These words were sacred, forbidden to outsiders. But the burglar deserved to know.
"You see us as like you, Mr. Baggins, and in many ways we are. But we are not the same. Dwarves are created from stone itself, and born with the Maker's desire for beauty. We all carry this passion in our hearts, the need to shape and create, and to love the things we make. It is a passion that ennobles us, but it can also turn...dark. To a lust that undoes us."
If Bilbo had spoken then, Thorin would have stopped and changed the topic. But the hobbit remained silent as the stones around them. Thorin closed his eyes.
"My grandfather fell under its sway. The dragon-sickness."
As if the word had opened a hidden door, one that he wished would stay forever closed, memories rushed to meet him. His grandfather--his strong, beloved King--begging him to lock him away so no one would see him. The times when he would stand in front of the barred doors and tell the dwarves of Erebor--his sister, his father, Balin--that the King was deep in meditation and not to be disturbed. Like a scouring whip, the images raked his mind: Thrór, King under the Mountain, crawling on all fours like an animal, scrabbling through the treasure-rooms in search of some bauble, weeping when he could not find it, pleading with Thorin to help him, help him find it, he was lost without it. Long days and nights spent nursing him through the worst, wiping tears and saliva from his beard as he babbled and cursed.
The day his grandfather, lost in delusion, had accused Thorin of stealing a jeweled mirror. Thief! Betrayer! He had lunged at Thorin and locked his hands around his neck, and Thorin had not fought back. Let me die here, then, he thought as his vision swam, Let me die here rather than see my King like this.
Let me die rather than ever be like this.
But his grandfather had returned to sanity and embraced him, weeping and begging forgiveness, and Thorin had put his arms around him and led him to bed once more.
The jeweled mirror he had found on the flagstones next to the king's bed. His face within it was pale, his eyes dark. A ring of mottled bruises was rising on his neck. He met his own eyes and stared into his own soul.
Mahal, keep this sickness from me, he had prayed that day at his grandfather's bedside. Let me not be consumed by it. Let me not abandon my people for madness. Let me be a King worthy of my crown.
Or let me die.
"But you came here anyway." Thorin started at the sound of Bilbo's voice, suddenly uncertain how much he had spoken aloud. "Knowing what you risked."
"I am no King without a kingdom," Thorin said, faintly surprised to find that his own voice was shaking. "And for dwarves, the riches are the kingdom." He shook his head and wrapped his arms around himself as if to hold himself together. "I have never spoken of these things," he murmured. "Not even to Balin. I do not know why I am speaking of them to you."
"Well," Bilbo said behind him, "Isn't that the task of a friend?"
The word hit him like a mace to his chest, knocking the last of his breath from him. He found himself on his feet, his back to the hobbit. "Princes--Kings--have advisers. We have counselors. We have burglars. We do not have friends," he heard himself snarl.
"Oh, that's just grand." Bilbo's voice was angry. "After all we've been through, you're going to get all uppity on me. You can call it whatever you like, Prince Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, your majesty, but you know as well as I do that we're--"
"--we are not friends," Thorin cut him off. He took a deep breath. "A King can hire a burglar, can command that burglar to do as he wishes. What kind of person would send a friend to face a dragon that he cannot? Only a bully. Only a coward." His voice cracked on the last word, and he swallowed hard. "So you see, we cannot be-- Can never be--"
His words faltered into silence, and he stood, listening to the wind keen across the Desolation, waiting for Bilbo to turn and go.
"Thorin." Bilbo's voice was very near him, at his elbow, and Thorin almost turned to look at him. "I'm not here for gold. If I yearned for treasure, I could have filled my pockets from the troll-hoard and returned to the Shire rich beyond any hobbit's imagining. And I am not a subject of yours. I owe you no fealty." He felt a hand touch his elbow, gripping the leather. "If the hidden door opens tomorrow, I will go into Erebor. But not because a prince commands it."
Now Thorin did turn. Bilbo's face was shadowed in the darkness, but there was a half-smile on his face, and he met Thorin's eyes directly. His hand tightened on Thorin's elbow. "You are no coward, Thorin Oakenshield. You are one of the bravest souls I can imagine."
And he released Thorin's arm and walked away, leaving Thorin shaken and alone in the long night.
: : :
Bilbo stumbled upward along the stone corridor, clutching his prize to his chest, his ears straining to hear the sound of Smaug awakening in rage behind him. His panic was such that he forgot to remove his ring, and nearly tripped over Balin, waiting with a drawn and grey face partway down the tunnel. His relief when Bilbo stepped out from behind a rock was such that he embraced him, beaming, before the two of them emerged into the fading sunlight, safely away from the sleeping dragon.
The other dwarves gathered around as Bilbo doubled over, gasping. Questions buzzed around him: "Is the dragon alive?" "Did you see him?" "Did he see you?"
"Give him room," came Thorin's voice. "He is overcome."
An expectant silence fell.
"The dragon is there. Asleep," Bilbo said, still crouched over, and a moan rippled through the dwarves. "He didn't wake."
"You have seen Erebor?" Thorin's voice was low and full of yearning. "You have seen our halls?"
"I have." Bilbo straightened up. "And I brought this."
He held out the little golden chalice by its two handles, lifting it up to Thorin. The ruddy sunset seemed to fill it with crimson light, and for a moment Thorin merely looked at it.
Then he reached out and closed his hands over the handles, lifting it above his head.
"The gold of Erebor," he said, and all the dwarves sank to their knees before the light in his face. "The gold of our home."
: : :
Bilbo was sitting near the hidden door as twilight fell. On the far side of the doorstep, the dwarves were all chattering happily about Erebor, as if they felt it would soon be theirs once more. There's that little matter of the dragon to deal with still! Bilbo thought, and sat and fretted.
Thorin turned from a conversation with Kili and saw Bilbo sitting alone. "Mr. Baggins," he said, striding over to sit beside him. "Our burglar seems troubled."
"Well, that dragon probably isn't going to kill himself," Bilbo said.
Thorin nodded gravely. "And yet, I find there is hope in my heart," he murmured. "A hope for the future."
"The future," Bilbo sighed. "I would be happy to see you all home once more."
"And your future, burglar?" Thorin looked at him. "Do you see your roads leading away from the Lonely Mountain?" There was an intensity in his voice, an undercurrent of some strong emotion. "Now that you have seen the beauty of its halls, and the glory of its treasure, I had thought that...perhaps you would not wish to return to the Shire."
"Oh," Bilbo laughed a little. "Erebor is beautiful, but I would not leave the Shire for all the gold under the mountain."
Thorin leaned back. "Of course not," he said gruffly, crossing his arms. "I never expected otherwise."
"But...I might be willing to leave it for a friend," Bilbo said.
Thorin turned to look at him, and the expression on his face in that one unguarded moment Bilbo carried with him through all the dark days ahead, and all the empty years beyond.
Then Thorin looked away and cleared his throat: once, then twice. "Then I hope you have made a friend among my company," he said. "Even if, perhaps, he would never call himself such."
"I hope so as well," Bilbo said, and found himself smiling.
As they lay down to sleep that night, Bifur and Bofur on guard against the dragon, Bilbo thought back to the terror and triumph of the day. A grocer, eh? he thought with satisfaction. But who brought back that chalice? Was it a warrior or a fighter, was it dwarvish royalty? No. Who brought Thorin Oakenshield the first gold from Erebor? I did.
A chill seemed to touch him then, and he shivered.
I did.
: : :
On the other side of the camp, Thorin lay, a welter of emotions running through him. The strongest one was sheer relief: he had been so fearful, and there was nothing at all to fear. He had been terrified that if he touched the gold of Erebor he would feel the lust and greed that broke his grandfather awaken in him. But he had felt nothing like that, not at all, and now he wanted to laugh with the joy of it.
In that moment when he had held the gold of Erebor up for his people to see, he had felt no desire to hide it from them, he had felt no need to keep it from them, he had felt no fear they would steal it from him. He had wanted everyone to see it and share in the glory of Erebor. There had been no sickness, no shadow, no doubt.
In the darkness, his hand crept to wrap around the handle of the little gold chalice and hold it close to his heart, cherishing the memory of that precious moment.
For the first time in his life, he had felt worthy to be King.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins
Fandom: Hobbit
Warnings/Spoilers: Discussions of addiction and mental illness. Follows book canon in major events, although I smudged a few details of timing.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2300
Summary: Two conversations on the doorstep of Erebor: a glimpse of the past and a wish for the future.
Thorin Oakenshield stared out over the Desolation of Smaug from his rocky seat on the side of the Lonely Mountain. Before him was the vast wasteland of charred stumps and ashen ground. At his back was the looming bulk of the mountain. His kingdom. He reached out and rested a hand on the side of the mountain, like a rider soothing a restive horse. Soon, Erebor.
He heard the sound of soft footsteps in the dark, and did not turn to look at Bilbo Baggins as he slipped away from the sleeping dwarves to move closer to Thorin. "Can you not sleep?" Thorin asked as he sat down on a rock next to him.
A weak chuckle from the hobbit. "Tomorrow is Durin's Day."
"I am aware of that."
"No, I can't sleep."
Thorin said nothing, and the silence between them stretched out across the desolation. Finally, Bilbo cleared his throat. "What is he like? Smaug, I mean. You've...seen him, right?"
Thorin felt his hands clench as he remembered the cries of the dying, the doors of Erebor buckling as he stood before them, sword in hand. Leaping forward to defend his home.
Being tossed aside as carelessly as a child would toss a toy.
"He is...dreadful," Thorin said, remembering: an eye of flame that passed over him, incurious, leaving him shaking and helpless. "Like a forest fire that sweeps all aside. A landslide that crushes anything in its path."
Bilbo's voice was small. "That's...not very reassuring."
"It would be folly to reassure you," said Thorin. "I seek to prepare you."
"Well, I don't feel terribly prepared," grumbled Bilbo. "Sometimes I don't understand why you don't just let sleeping dragons lie, really."
"It is my destiny to win back Erebor," said Thorin. "I will do anything to reclaim it, I will risk death and worse to give my people a home again."
"Worse'?" Bilbo echoed him with a small, disbelieving laugh. "Is there anything worse than death?"
The night wind cried across the plain, curling up to slap their faces. Thorin touched the mountain once more. "Mr. Baggins, why are you here?" he said when the wind died down.
"Well, I suppose because a troop of dwarves fell on my doorstep and dragged me off on an adventure."
Bilbo's tone was light, and Thorin suspected he was trying to coax him from his dark mood, but he merely shook his head. "I do not mean here at Erebor. I mean...here," he said, waving a hand out at the plain and beyond.
"You mean...here? Like, in the world?" Bilbo chuckled. "Of course not. No one knows that."
"Dwarves do," Thorin said. He glanced sideways, almost far enough to see Bilbo. But not quite. "When the world was new, Mahal, whom the elves call Aulë, yearned to share his love of the earth. He wished to teach the secret ways of metal and gems, the glory and the wonder of them. But the Firstborn--the elves--did not exist yet, so he had no one. So he created the dwarves in secret, and he made them burn with the love of craft and cunning, to share in his passion for the beauty of the earth."
He shifted against the stone, uneasy. These words were sacred, forbidden to outsiders. But the burglar deserved to know.
"You see us as like you, Mr. Baggins, and in many ways we are. But we are not the same. Dwarves are created from stone itself, and born with the Maker's desire for beauty. We all carry this passion in our hearts, the need to shape and create, and to love the things we make. It is a passion that ennobles us, but it can also turn...dark. To a lust that undoes us."
If Bilbo had spoken then, Thorin would have stopped and changed the topic. But the hobbit remained silent as the stones around them. Thorin closed his eyes.
"My grandfather fell under its sway. The dragon-sickness."
As if the word had opened a hidden door, one that he wished would stay forever closed, memories rushed to meet him. His grandfather--his strong, beloved King--begging him to lock him away so no one would see him. The times when he would stand in front of the barred doors and tell the dwarves of Erebor--his sister, his father, Balin--that the King was deep in meditation and not to be disturbed. Like a scouring whip, the images raked his mind: Thrór, King under the Mountain, crawling on all fours like an animal, scrabbling through the treasure-rooms in search of some bauble, weeping when he could not find it, pleading with Thorin to help him, help him find it, he was lost without it. Long days and nights spent nursing him through the worst, wiping tears and saliva from his beard as he babbled and cursed.
The day his grandfather, lost in delusion, had accused Thorin of stealing a jeweled mirror. Thief! Betrayer! He had lunged at Thorin and locked his hands around his neck, and Thorin had not fought back. Let me die here, then, he thought as his vision swam, Let me die here rather than see my King like this.
Let me die rather than ever be like this.
But his grandfather had returned to sanity and embraced him, weeping and begging forgiveness, and Thorin had put his arms around him and led him to bed once more.
The jeweled mirror he had found on the flagstones next to the king's bed. His face within it was pale, his eyes dark. A ring of mottled bruises was rising on his neck. He met his own eyes and stared into his own soul.
Mahal, keep this sickness from me, he had prayed that day at his grandfather's bedside. Let me not be consumed by it. Let me not abandon my people for madness. Let me be a King worthy of my crown.
Or let me die.
"But you came here anyway." Thorin started at the sound of Bilbo's voice, suddenly uncertain how much he had spoken aloud. "Knowing what you risked."
"I am no King without a kingdom," Thorin said, faintly surprised to find that his own voice was shaking. "And for dwarves, the riches are the kingdom." He shook his head and wrapped his arms around himself as if to hold himself together. "I have never spoken of these things," he murmured. "Not even to Balin. I do not know why I am speaking of them to you."
"Well," Bilbo said behind him, "Isn't that the task of a friend?"
The word hit him like a mace to his chest, knocking the last of his breath from him. He found himself on his feet, his back to the hobbit. "Princes--Kings--have advisers. We have counselors. We have burglars. We do not have friends," he heard himself snarl.
"Oh, that's just grand." Bilbo's voice was angry. "After all we've been through, you're going to get all uppity on me. You can call it whatever you like, Prince Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, your majesty, but you know as well as I do that we're--"
"--we are not friends," Thorin cut him off. He took a deep breath. "A King can hire a burglar, can command that burglar to do as he wishes. What kind of person would send a friend to face a dragon that he cannot? Only a bully. Only a coward." His voice cracked on the last word, and he swallowed hard. "So you see, we cannot be-- Can never be--"
His words faltered into silence, and he stood, listening to the wind keen across the Desolation, waiting for Bilbo to turn and go.
"Thorin." Bilbo's voice was very near him, at his elbow, and Thorin almost turned to look at him. "I'm not here for gold. If I yearned for treasure, I could have filled my pockets from the troll-hoard and returned to the Shire rich beyond any hobbit's imagining. And I am not a subject of yours. I owe you no fealty." He felt a hand touch his elbow, gripping the leather. "If the hidden door opens tomorrow, I will go into Erebor. But not because a prince commands it."
Now Thorin did turn. Bilbo's face was shadowed in the darkness, but there was a half-smile on his face, and he met Thorin's eyes directly. His hand tightened on Thorin's elbow. "You are no coward, Thorin Oakenshield. You are one of the bravest souls I can imagine."
And he released Thorin's arm and walked away, leaving Thorin shaken and alone in the long night.
: : :
Bilbo stumbled upward along the stone corridor, clutching his prize to his chest, his ears straining to hear the sound of Smaug awakening in rage behind him. His panic was such that he forgot to remove his ring, and nearly tripped over Balin, waiting with a drawn and grey face partway down the tunnel. His relief when Bilbo stepped out from behind a rock was such that he embraced him, beaming, before the two of them emerged into the fading sunlight, safely away from the sleeping dragon.
The other dwarves gathered around as Bilbo doubled over, gasping. Questions buzzed around him: "Is the dragon alive?" "Did you see him?" "Did he see you?"
"Give him room," came Thorin's voice. "He is overcome."
An expectant silence fell.
"The dragon is there. Asleep," Bilbo said, still crouched over, and a moan rippled through the dwarves. "He didn't wake."
"You have seen Erebor?" Thorin's voice was low and full of yearning. "You have seen our halls?"
"I have." Bilbo straightened up. "And I brought this."
He held out the little golden chalice by its two handles, lifting it up to Thorin. The ruddy sunset seemed to fill it with crimson light, and for a moment Thorin merely looked at it.
Then he reached out and closed his hands over the handles, lifting it above his head.
"The gold of Erebor," he said, and all the dwarves sank to their knees before the light in his face. "The gold of our home."
: : :
Bilbo was sitting near the hidden door as twilight fell. On the far side of the doorstep, the dwarves were all chattering happily about Erebor, as if they felt it would soon be theirs once more. There's that little matter of the dragon to deal with still! Bilbo thought, and sat and fretted.
Thorin turned from a conversation with Kili and saw Bilbo sitting alone. "Mr. Baggins," he said, striding over to sit beside him. "Our burglar seems troubled."
"Well, that dragon probably isn't going to kill himself," Bilbo said.
Thorin nodded gravely. "And yet, I find there is hope in my heart," he murmured. "A hope for the future."
"The future," Bilbo sighed. "I would be happy to see you all home once more."
"And your future, burglar?" Thorin looked at him. "Do you see your roads leading away from the Lonely Mountain?" There was an intensity in his voice, an undercurrent of some strong emotion. "Now that you have seen the beauty of its halls, and the glory of its treasure, I had thought that...perhaps you would not wish to return to the Shire."
"Oh," Bilbo laughed a little. "Erebor is beautiful, but I would not leave the Shire for all the gold under the mountain."
Thorin leaned back. "Of course not," he said gruffly, crossing his arms. "I never expected otherwise."
"But...I might be willing to leave it for a friend," Bilbo said.
Thorin turned to look at him, and the expression on his face in that one unguarded moment Bilbo carried with him through all the dark days ahead, and all the empty years beyond.
Then Thorin looked away and cleared his throat: once, then twice. "Then I hope you have made a friend among my company," he said. "Even if, perhaps, he would never call himself such."
"I hope so as well," Bilbo said, and found himself smiling.
As they lay down to sleep that night, Bifur and Bofur on guard against the dragon, Bilbo thought back to the terror and triumph of the day. A grocer, eh? he thought with satisfaction. But who brought back that chalice? Was it a warrior or a fighter, was it dwarvish royalty? No. Who brought Thorin Oakenshield the first gold from Erebor? I did.
A chill seemed to touch him then, and he shivered.
I did.
: : :
On the other side of the camp, Thorin lay, a welter of emotions running through him. The strongest one was sheer relief: he had been so fearful, and there was nothing at all to fear. He had been terrified that if he touched the gold of Erebor he would feel the lust and greed that broke his grandfather awaken in him. But he had felt nothing like that, not at all, and now he wanted to laugh with the joy of it.
In that moment when he had held the gold of Erebor up for his people to see, he had felt no desire to hide it from them, he had felt no need to keep it from them, he had felt no fear they would steal it from him. He had wanted everyone to see it and share in the glory of Erebor. There had been no sickness, no shadow, no doubt.
In the darkness, his hand crept to wrap around the handle of the little gold chalice and hold it close to his heart, cherishing the memory of that precious moment.
For the first time in his life, he had felt worthy to be King.