Clarity of Vision, Chapter 24
Dec. 7th, 2013 07:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mithenTitle: Clarity of Vision, Chapter 24
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin, Kili, Fili, Balin, Dwalin
Fandom: Hobbit
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: G
Word Count: 2200
Story Summary: In a Middle-Earth where Erebor never fell, a shadow remains in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo Baggins finds himself drawn reluctantly into a quest that will lead him across the continent--from Bree to Lake Evendim to the icy North and beyond--with a party of five dwarves searching for an artifact that will cure the ailing King Thrór.
Chapter Summary: The party makes its way back to the Shire as winter starts to set in.
The innkeeper stared as her door banged open. "Ale!" bellowed a balding dwarf with blue tattoos on his head. "Ale for thirsty travelers!"
"Some food would be nice as well," added a smaller voice, and she blinked at the sight of a travel-stained hobbit among the dwarves.
"We don't get many of your kind these ways, Master Halfling," she said, fetching six flagons and polishing them off with her apron. "Where are you coming from and where are you going?"
They seemed to find the question amusing somehow. "Well, I'm from the Shire and I'm going to Erebor with them," said the hobbit. "Or, they're from Erebor and are going to the Shire with me."
"Sometimes it feels like we're from everywhere and are going nowhere," said one of the younger dwarves.
The tattooed dwarf drained his flagon and slammed it down on the table. "But wherever we're going, we're going together, and nothing's going to stop us!"
The others made loud sounds of approval and clinked their flagons together.
"Well, you're a far sight from either Erebor or the Shire right now," the innkeeper said as she put a plate of meat and cheese on the table. "Even on horseback, the Shire's days away to the northwest."
The dwarf who seemed to be their leader rose to speak to her, drawing her aside as the others dug in with relish. "We shall need mounts. The fastest you know of." He smiled slightly at the innkeeper's dubious look and reached into his pocket. "Despite our appearance, we can pay well," he said.
Blinking at the sapphire he held out, the innkeeper dropped a quick curtsey. "My husband runs the stables and can sell you the finest horseflesh this side of the Misty Mountains!"
"We shall visit him in the morning," said the dwarf. "For now, food and drink and comfortable beds are all we require." His smile was weary but warm. "I don't suppose you have any viola tea?"
"You can make a tea with violas? Never heard of such," she said.
He looked thoughtful. "It seems to be a variety local to the Shire," he said. "Apparently the Shire is the source of many wondrous things."
He returned to his meal, leaving the innkeeper puzzled, for she had never heard of anything particularly wonderful coming from the stodgy old Shire.
They rode out in the morning on the five fastest ponies the innkeeper's husband could provide, covering the leagues at a steady but not breakneck pace. The road was unreliable, disappearing entirely for long stretches of time that led to much backtracking and cursing as they followed the Glanduin westward. The weather grew bitterly cold as the days drew on; the river formed delicate crusts of ice along the edges and the ponies' hooves rang against the frost-hardened ground. Bilbo's shoulder healed slowly but cleanly, and although Thorin pressed them on, his urgency was less fierce and more lucid. He had time for songs, and energy for eating, and he laughed when his nephews clowned and joked.
Their physical hurts were not the only things healing.
The ground grew boggy and treacherous, and Bilbo's little black mare (he named her Viola, of course, but privately felt she was not as intelligent as his Daffodil) shied as her hooves crunched through ice and into brackish water beneath. One morning Bilbo heard Fíli cry out and looked up, following his pointing finger to where six great white swans were flying in formation, their long necks stretched south. Their cries echoed down to the landbound group, a cheerful honking.
"Too bad they're out of bow-reach or we'd have roast swan for dinner," said Kíli, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked up. He didn't sound particularly disappointed.
Bilbo watched the swans soar away toward the sea, the morning sun rose and gold on their white wings, until they were out of sight.
They started to see abandoned houses, their frames sagging askew, empty windows like dead eyes staring. "Tharbad," Thorin said. "It was abandoned after the Fell Winter, when the rivers flooded."
Bilbo shuddered as an owl hooted from the skeletal rafters of a ruined house. "I remember that time. I was just a child when the white wolves came over the river, but I'll never forget the sound of their howling." Fíli and Kíli exchanged amused glances. "What? There was nothing at all funny about the Fell Winter, let me assure you," Bilbo said rather curtly.
"It's just--we forget how young you are, sometimes," said Fíli. "You don't seem it. I was the age you are now when the Fell Winter came."
"It was good hunting, that winter," said Kíli with a sharp grin.
"And you complained constantly of the cold," added Thorin, causing Kíli to blush and fall silent.
The sun was sliding down the sky, but Thorin refused to camp in the ruins of Tharbad, and no one disagreed with him as they crossed the crumbling stone bridge to the west side of the river.
The road grew more reliable, changing from a rutted dirt track to paved stone, although frost-bitten grass grew thickly between the stones this far from any city. "We call this the Greenway," Bilbo said. "Though it's not very green right now, is it? It goes straight to Bree, but if we take a left at Sarn Ford we'll enter the Shire." Despite the cold, his spirits rose as they drew closer to his home. He even finished "The Man in the Moon Stayed Up Too Late," and performed it in front of the campfire one evening, to cheers and approval from the company.
"I wish we had some wassail," he said wistfully as he took his bows. "It's nearly Yule Week in the Shire--everyone will be picking out their Yule logs and preparing their stars."
"Preparing their stars?" Balin said, eager as always to hear some new bit of hobbit customs.
"Oh, you don't give stars at the end of Yule? How strange." Bilbo took a moment to contemplate this oddity, then went on: "It's the tradition on the last day of Yule, the Star Festival, to give your--well, your sweetheart--a star of some sort. We usually make them out of paper or wood, and some people make star-shaped biscuits. My mother carved my father a star from a piece of quartz before they got married, that was considered quite romantic." He laughed softly. "I only gave one, to a--" He faltered, then went on, "--a lad I had rather a crush on. I went early in the morning and made a star in the snow outside his window with my footprints, so he'd see it first thing in the morning. He never found out who did it." He cleared his throat and took a drink from his canteen, looking down at his feet. "He's married now. Has seven adorable children."
"We don't do anything like that," said Kíli rather sadly. "I mean, we have the Ceremony of the First New Moon around the same time, but that's serious stuff, nothing romantic or fun."
"Oh, Yule is the most fun!" said Bilbo, brightening. "We go skating and sledding, and there are dances and games--snap-dragon and blindman's-bluff and forfeits, pass-the-slipper and squeak-piggy-squeak--" Kíli and Fíli's eyes were wide with amazement, and Balin and Dwalin looked like they were stifling giggles. Thorin, on the other hand, was listening gravely with his eyes narrowed, as if he feared he might be called upon to explain the rules of squeak-piggy-squeak. "And we sing all of the traditional star carols and the songs of Yarndo--"
"Yarndo?" Balin asked politely, his eyes dancing.
"You don't know Yarndo?" Bilbo found himself legitimately shocked. "I thought everyone knew the Tale of Yarndo! He's the whole reason behind the Star Festival, after all." He put his hands on his hips and shook his head in amazement at the circle of blank faces, then recited carefully: "During the Time of Great Famine, Yarndo built a ship of silvery beechwood and sailed to the uttermost West, to the Land of Plenty, where he asked the Fair Folk to have mercy on his people. And they had pity on him, and they heaped his boat full of good food--oranges and bread and cider and taffy--and they polished his ship until it shone like silver in the darkness, and hallowed it so it could sail through the air, and it became the Morning Star. And thus every Yule we give each other stars for mercy and for love, and are thankful for all the plenty and happiness in our lives." He shot Thorin a narrow look. "What exactly is so funny?"
Thorin's shoulders were shaking, but his face remained serious--apparently with some effort. "I believe your Tale of Yarndo has...some precedent in the writings of the elves," he said. "But the taffy and oranges are a uniquely hobbit addition."
"Well, I think it sounds lovely," sighed Kíli.
"Do you think maybe we'll be able to stay through Yule?" Fíli asked, giving his uncle an imploring look.
"We are in haste," Thorin growled. "But...the Misty Mountains may be impassible for some time, and perhaps we can spare a week," he added.
Fíli and Kíli chortled in delight, and Bilbo contemplated his neighbor's reactions to having five dwarves visiting for Yule.
The Baggins in him was rather horrified at the thought, but part of him--it must be the Took--was surprisingly gleeful.
"How much farther do you think it is, Bilbo?" called Dwalin.
"We're almost to Sarn Ford, and once we cross the Brandywine we'll be in the Shire," Bilbo said. "After that it's probably another half-day's ride to Hobbiton and Bag End."
Dwalin cast a wary eye to the southwest. "I don't like the look of those clouds," he said.
Balin flexed one hand on the reins, wincing. "My bones say it's a storm."
"We shall just have to try to keep in front of it," said Thorin.
But soon enough the wind picked up and the first flakes of snow started to scud past the party. By the time they crossed the Brandywine, it was already gathering on the ground, and the wind was a steady howl that made speaking difficult.
"I know the way," called Bilbo over the gusts to Thorin. "Just follow me."
Snow dusted Thorin's beard and hair; he nodded and waved to the others to fall in behind Bilbo.
Slowly, they made their way deeper into the Shire.
After a few hours Bilbo realized this was a storm nearly worthy of the Fell Winter: Viola pushed through the growing drifts with stolid patience, but by the time Bilbo spotted the Harwood to their left, the spruces like spectral figures in the storm-gloom, the snow was up to her hocks. There was an inn at Pincup, the Scarlet Spindle, but Bilbo found himself loathe to stop so very close to home, so he pushed onward, his heart leaping as he picked out familiar landmarks through the blowing snow: the great old oak on the Smallburrow farm, Bywater Pool, the Party Tree, and--at last, at last--a little green door nearly-covered with snow.
"We're home!" he called over the wind, and swung off his pony, floundering through the drifts to his dear familiar door.
It swung inward to admit Bilbo and a fair amount of snow; Bilbo tsked but was too eager to get a fire going to worry about melting snow on his nice clean floors. There was a fine layer of dust on the furniture, but everything was still in place, tidied up as if he was going away for just a few days--was it nearly four months ago now? He piled logs and kindling in the fireplace and blew a spark into life. "That should help," he said, his teeth chattering.
The dwarves were still standing in the entranceway, looking around as the snow slowly melted from their cloaks. "Well, do get your wet things off," exclaimed Bilbo, "It wouldn't do to catch a cold during Yule!"
They came in slowly, looking around the cozy hole as Bilbo took their dripping cloaks and hung them up.
"Give me a moment and I'll find us some food in the larder--nothing fancy, but there should be some dried fruit and jars of marmalade, that should be quite nice on our waybread while we wait for the storm to blow itself out. And tea! Of course we'll have--what's wrong?"
Thorin was still standing on the doorstep, a strange expression on his face as he looked into Bilbo's home. "I just...never thought I would see beyond the door," he said.
"Well, here you are at last," Bilbo said. "And my home is yours for as long as you like." He felt himself blush as he said it, and hoped Thorin didn't notice.
Thorin nodded slowly; he wasn't smiling, but there was a deep stillness in his eyes that made Bilbo feel content and restless at once, somehow.
"Welcome home, Bilbo," he said, and stepped into Bag End.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin, Kili, Fili, Balin, Dwalin
Fandom: Hobbit
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: G
Word Count: 2200
Story Summary: In a Middle-Earth where Erebor never fell, a shadow remains in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo Baggins finds himself drawn reluctantly into a quest that will lead him across the continent--from Bree to Lake Evendim to the icy North and beyond--with a party of five dwarves searching for an artifact that will cure the ailing King Thrór.
Chapter Summary: The party makes its way back to the Shire as winter starts to set in.
The innkeeper stared as her door banged open. "Ale!" bellowed a balding dwarf with blue tattoos on his head. "Ale for thirsty travelers!"
"Some food would be nice as well," added a smaller voice, and she blinked at the sight of a travel-stained hobbit among the dwarves.
"We don't get many of your kind these ways, Master Halfling," she said, fetching six flagons and polishing them off with her apron. "Where are you coming from and where are you going?"
They seemed to find the question amusing somehow. "Well, I'm from the Shire and I'm going to Erebor with them," said the hobbit. "Or, they're from Erebor and are going to the Shire with me."
"Sometimes it feels like we're from everywhere and are going nowhere," said one of the younger dwarves.
The tattooed dwarf drained his flagon and slammed it down on the table. "But wherever we're going, we're going together, and nothing's going to stop us!"
The others made loud sounds of approval and clinked their flagons together.
"Well, you're a far sight from either Erebor or the Shire right now," the innkeeper said as she put a plate of meat and cheese on the table. "Even on horseback, the Shire's days away to the northwest."
The dwarf who seemed to be their leader rose to speak to her, drawing her aside as the others dug in with relish. "We shall need mounts. The fastest you know of." He smiled slightly at the innkeeper's dubious look and reached into his pocket. "Despite our appearance, we can pay well," he said.
Blinking at the sapphire he held out, the innkeeper dropped a quick curtsey. "My husband runs the stables and can sell you the finest horseflesh this side of the Misty Mountains!"
"We shall visit him in the morning," said the dwarf. "For now, food and drink and comfortable beds are all we require." His smile was weary but warm. "I don't suppose you have any viola tea?"
"You can make a tea with violas? Never heard of such," she said.
He looked thoughtful. "It seems to be a variety local to the Shire," he said. "Apparently the Shire is the source of many wondrous things."
He returned to his meal, leaving the innkeeper puzzled, for she had never heard of anything particularly wonderful coming from the stodgy old Shire.
They rode out in the morning on the five fastest ponies the innkeeper's husband could provide, covering the leagues at a steady but not breakneck pace. The road was unreliable, disappearing entirely for long stretches of time that led to much backtracking and cursing as they followed the Glanduin westward. The weather grew bitterly cold as the days drew on; the river formed delicate crusts of ice along the edges and the ponies' hooves rang against the frost-hardened ground. Bilbo's shoulder healed slowly but cleanly, and although Thorin pressed them on, his urgency was less fierce and more lucid. He had time for songs, and energy for eating, and he laughed when his nephews clowned and joked.
Their physical hurts were not the only things healing.
The ground grew boggy and treacherous, and Bilbo's little black mare (he named her Viola, of course, but privately felt she was not as intelligent as his Daffodil) shied as her hooves crunched through ice and into brackish water beneath. One morning Bilbo heard Fíli cry out and looked up, following his pointing finger to where six great white swans were flying in formation, their long necks stretched south. Their cries echoed down to the landbound group, a cheerful honking.
"Too bad they're out of bow-reach or we'd have roast swan for dinner," said Kíli, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked up. He didn't sound particularly disappointed.
Bilbo watched the swans soar away toward the sea, the morning sun rose and gold on their white wings, until they were out of sight.
They started to see abandoned houses, their frames sagging askew, empty windows like dead eyes staring. "Tharbad," Thorin said. "It was abandoned after the Fell Winter, when the rivers flooded."
Bilbo shuddered as an owl hooted from the skeletal rafters of a ruined house. "I remember that time. I was just a child when the white wolves came over the river, but I'll never forget the sound of their howling." Fíli and Kíli exchanged amused glances. "What? There was nothing at all funny about the Fell Winter, let me assure you," Bilbo said rather curtly.
"It's just--we forget how young you are, sometimes," said Fíli. "You don't seem it. I was the age you are now when the Fell Winter came."
"It was good hunting, that winter," said Kíli with a sharp grin.
"And you complained constantly of the cold," added Thorin, causing Kíli to blush and fall silent.
The sun was sliding down the sky, but Thorin refused to camp in the ruins of Tharbad, and no one disagreed with him as they crossed the crumbling stone bridge to the west side of the river.
The road grew more reliable, changing from a rutted dirt track to paved stone, although frost-bitten grass grew thickly between the stones this far from any city. "We call this the Greenway," Bilbo said. "Though it's not very green right now, is it? It goes straight to Bree, but if we take a left at Sarn Ford we'll enter the Shire." Despite the cold, his spirits rose as they drew closer to his home. He even finished "The Man in the Moon Stayed Up Too Late," and performed it in front of the campfire one evening, to cheers and approval from the company.
"I wish we had some wassail," he said wistfully as he took his bows. "It's nearly Yule Week in the Shire--everyone will be picking out their Yule logs and preparing their stars."
"Preparing their stars?" Balin said, eager as always to hear some new bit of hobbit customs.
"Oh, you don't give stars at the end of Yule? How strange." Bilbo took a moment to contemplate this oddity, then went on: "It's the tradition on the last day of Yule, the Star Festival, to give your--well, your sweetheart--a star of some sort. We usually make them out of paper or wood, and some people make star-shaped biscuits. My mother carved my father a star from a piece of quartz before they got married, that was considered quite romantic." He laughed softly. "I only gave one, to a--" He faltered, then went on, "--a lad I had rather a crush on. I went early in the morning and made a star in the snow outside his window with my footprints, so he'd see it first thing in the morning. He never found out who did it." He cleared his throat and took a drink from his canteen, looking down at his feet. "He's married now. Has seven adorable children."
"We don't do anything like that," said Kíli rather sadly. "I mean, we have the Ceremony of the First New Moon around the same time, but that's serious stuff, nothing romantic or fun."
"Oh, Yule is the most fun!" said Bilbo, brightening. "We go skating and sledding, and there are dances and games--snap-dragon and blindman's-bluff and forfeits, pass-the-slipper and squeak-piggy-squeak--" Kíli and Fíli's eyes were wide with amazement, and Balin and Dwalin looked like they were stifling giggles. Thorin, on the other hand, was listening gravely with his eyes narrowed, as if he feared he might be called upon to explain the rules of squeak-piggy-squeak. "And we sing all of the traditional star carols and the songs of Yarndo--"
"Yarndo?" Balin asked politely, his eyes dancing.
"You don't know Yarndo?" Bilbo found himself legitimately shocked. "I thought everyone knew the Tale of Yarndo! He's the whole reason behind the Star Festival, after all." He put his hands on his hips and shook his head in amazement at the circle of blank faces, then recited carefully: "During the Time of Great Famine, Yarndo built a ship of silvery beechwood and sailed to the uttermost West, to the Land of Plenty, where he asked the Fair Folk to have mercy on his people. And they had pity on him, and they heaped his boat full of good food--oranges and bread and cider and taffy--and they polished his ship until it shone like silver in the darkness, and hallowed it so it could sail through the air, and it became the Morning Star. And thus every Yule we give each other stars for mercy and for love, and are thankful for all the plenty and happiness in our lives." He shot Thorin a narrow look. "What exactly is so funny?"
Thorin's shoulders were shaking, but his face remained serious--apparently with some effort. "I believe your Tale of Yarndo has...some precedent in the writings of the elves," he said. "But the taffy and oranges are a uniquely hobbit addition."
"Well, I think it sounds lovely," sighed Kíli.
"Do you think maybe we'll be able to stay through Yule?" Fíli asked, giving his uncle an imploring look.
"We are in haste," Thorin growled. "But...the Misty Mountains may be impassible for some time, and perhaps we can spare a week," he added.
Fíli and Kíli chortled in delight, and Bilbo contemplated his neighbor's reactions to having five dwarves visiting for Yule.
The Baggins in him was rather horrified at the thought, but part of him--it must be the Took--was surprisingly gleeful.
"How much farther do you think it is, Bilbo?" called Dwalin.
"We're almost to Sarn Ford, and once we cross the Brandywine we'll be in the Shire," Bilbo said. "After that it's probably another half-day's ride to Hobbiton and Bag End."
Dwalin cast a wary eye to the southwest. "I don't like the look of those clouds," he said.
Balin flexed one hand on the reins, wincing. "My bones say it's a storm."
"We shall just have to try to keep in front of it," said Thorin.
But soon enough the wind picked up and the first flakes of snow started to scud past the party. By the time they crossed the Brandywine, it was already gathering on the ground, and the wind was a steady howl that made speaking difficult.
"I know the way," called Bilbo over the gusts to Thorin. "Just follow me."
Snow dusted Thorin's beard and hair; he nodded and waved to the others to fall in behind Bilbo.
Slowly, they made their way deeper into the Shire.
After a few hours Bilbo realized this was a storm nearly worthy of the Fell Winter: Viola pushed through the growing drifts with stolid patience, but by the time Bilbo spotted the Harwood to their left, the spruces like spectral figures in the storm-gloom, the snow was up to her hocks. There was an inn at Pincup, the Scarlet Spindle, but Bilbo found himself loathe to stop so very close to home, so he pushed onward, his heart leaping as he picked out familiar landmarks through the blowing snow: the great old oak on the Smallburrow farm, Bywater Pool, the Party Tree, and--at last, at last--a little green door nearly-covered with snow.
"We're home!" he called over the wind, and swung off his pony, floundering through the drifts to his dear familiar door.
It swung inward to admit Bilbo and a fair amount of snow; Bilbo tsked but was too eager to get a fire going to worry about melting snow on his nice clean floors. There was a fine layer of dust on the furniture, but everything was still in place, tidied up as if he was going away for just a few days--was it nearly four months ago now? He piled logs and kindling in the fireplace and blew a spark into life. "That should help," he said, his teeth chattering.
The dwarves were still standing in the entranceway, looking around as the snow slowly melted from their cloaks. "Well, do get your wet things off," exclaimed Bilbo, "It wouldn't do to catch a cold during Yule!"
They came in slowly, looking around the cozy hole as Bilbo took their dripping cloaks and hung them up.
"Give me a moment and I'll find us some food in the larder--nothing fancy, but there should be some dried fruit and jars of marmalade, that should be quite nice on our waybread while we wait for the storm to blow itself out. And tea! Of course we'll have--what's wrong?"
Thorin was still standing on the doorstep, a strange expression on his face as he looked into Bilbo's home. "I just...never thought I would see beyond the door," he said.
"Well, here you are at last," Bilbo said. "And my home is yours for as long as you like." He felt himself blush as he said it, and hoped Thorin didn't notice.
Thorin nodded slowly; he wasn't smiling, but there was a deep stillness in his eyes that made Bilbo feel content and restless at once, somehow.
"Welcome home, Bilbo," he said, and stepped into Bag End.