bakerstreet | (other-wordly)

(other-wordly)

The Other-Wordly Meme

Words are magical things; they can have so many lovely connotations and varied histories.
Words have family trees just like people. They are linked to each other.
Some words are full of flavor and color and describe things you never suspected there were words for.
Words are why we're here.

The meme is simple: post a comment with your muse's name and canon in the subject line.
List any preferences you may have ("No Shipping," "No Smut," etc.), if you decide to leave the next step up to responders.
Responders (or original posters, if they so decide), go to the Other-Wordly blog and hit 'Random' until you get a word. Use the word as a prompt to write up an RP scenario. Do this several times, if you like. Mix and match. Have fun with it!

Don't stop with a word, though! Words can often have etymologies that are at oddswith their current meanings. Words can shift connotations over time. Let your imagination carry you with the words as its wind.

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[The rain that falls outside is so light that it is almost as if it floats through the air like a mist. Thorin watches from the nearly empty chamber where he rests, one of the very few in the mountain to have a small balcony, an old and dusted box serving as a bench for him to sit on.

He is not yet healed, but he can lie down no more. For when he rests he thinks, though when he stands he thinks as well. The outside still smells of blood and battle, and makes his wounds ache just as much as his heart, but each hall he visits inside the mountain smells of dragon, fire and gold. Everywhere reeks and sticks to his skin unpleasantly, like wet fabric and glue, and still, he would want to be nowhere else.

The sun lowers in the sky quicker than he realizes, because he is lost thinking while he sits, ignoring the pain on his side, underneath the dressing of his wound. Soon enough it will be night, and in the morning people start leaving, the first group that returns to their own homes, Bilbo counting himself amongst them. Thorin is glad for the hobbit, even though he knows many things are left unsaid, and they may be so for a long time to come; perhaps forever.]

[ At last Bilbo slips away from all the drinking and eating and talking, taking to the halls of Erebor, scorched and glittering and forbidden, and his small naked feet make no sound upon the carven stone. There are no dragons to wake anymore. He feels terribly, terribly small in the dwarf kingdom still, but he must be away from the others, away from their earnest glances and their sweet goodbyes. They all assume he is leaving tomorrow with the armies of Dáin Ironfoot and the other outsiders; they are all so sorry to see him go, and so certain he must long to be half a world away, that he must yearn for his fire and his books as he yearns for nothing else, and it is maddening, so very maddening to be unable to answer, to be unable to articulate this sensation that is so akin to wretched loss. It takes him by the throat.

He walks alone until he realizes where his footsteps have brought him. Bilbo hovers a long time outside the door to Thorin's chamber, unwilling to intrude, unable to leave; it is not Thorin that he fears, really, not so very much, but rather he fears discovering where the truth lays, for he supposes that he will indeed leave in the morning, and a few months from now he will be home, very far away from the king under the mountain. And then it will be too late to speak things that should be spoken: he will have left his courage here in the place where he walked into the den of a dragon. And it is that thought more than anything that Bilbo cannot abide. He berates himself a coward; he squares up his shoulders, straightens the edges of his waistcoat, and then at last he raps upon the door.

Quietly at first, a slight tapping in the way of hobbits. Then, when there is no answer, a louder and anxious knocking. ]

[The first knock is so soft that it is not nearly enough to pull Thorin out of his pensive state, but when the hit of knuckles on the thick wood of the door becomes more insistent, he jerks alert to it, a wincing at the strain that such a move puts upon his wound. He mutters a curse, but hardly loud enough for anyone to hear but himself.

He is not sure if he wants to see anyone, or if he wants to talk to whoever stands outside. They come to either worry about his wound or his mind, and he wants to talk of neither, especially not when the day draws to an end and his bones are tired, and there is no patience left in him to deal with yet another concern. But the loud knocking tells him that this visitor will not give up, and after taking a moment to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose, he forces himself to stand.]

In you come, already, stop trying to bring down the door, by-- [His voice, along with his frown, dies when he reaches said door and pulls it open, his eyes settling down on the hobbit standing outside, looking as if he could just fall over from standing on the tip of his toes.] Bilbo.

[The name slips from his mouth thoughtlessly, Thorin's expression bearing nothing but surprise for a moment, as he wordlessly stands to the side in a gesture for Bilbo to come in.]

Oh. [ His hand is upraised, still, when the door opens and Thorin is there filling the doorway: he looms so, and that is something Bilbo quite forgot when he stood at his bedside after the battle with his heart in his throat, the dwarf king so deathly pale against the linens, his blood so scarlet bright. Oh, Bilbo was angry with him then. What business did Thorin Oakenshield think he had dying on his back, so terribly diminished, so wrought by regrets? But he did not die; he slept and he waked again, his wounds cleaned and stitched and bound, and then there came a day when he climbed to his feet and suddenly Bilbo could again breathe, could think, could go quietly away from the tent where he had lain and try to contain the terror and relief that nearly overwhelmed him. ]

I'm sorry, I thought-- [ All sorts of terrible things. That Thorin collapsed, that he was hurt, that he took ill or exhausted himself or worse; Bilbo decides not to elaborate, clearing his throat instead, and steps promptly inside. What he has to say will not do in a hallway. ]

You must be feeling better. You are looking more yourself, I'd say. [ More like Thorin. Like a king, fierce and grand, and very good at stopping a hobbit's tongue in his mouth. He links his hands behind his back, wondering how to begin. ]

Edited 2014-03-13 01:36 (UTC)

[The door is closed once Bilbo is inside, Thorin's eyes following him as he threads his fingers behind him, in a nervous tick he might not even realize he has. His choice of words is a surprise - more like yourself. He has to wonder if Bilbo even realizes the weight of them, how they sit sourly at the back of Thorin's throat, and sting unpleasant memories back to life.

He wonders if he feels more like himself. If the gold no longer plagues him or if it is only because he stands far from it for now that he sees himself rid of thoughts of it. He wonders if he will remain himself when, sooner or later, he will come to have it in his sight, or if he will descend into the madness that looms over his family like a curse. Those three words, innocent and light, linger heavily in the air between them, then crawl into his lungs as if to choke him, and wrap themselves tightly around his heart like a bad omen.

But he does not show it in his face, nor his tone. He gestures for Bilbo to sit on the box as he steps towards the balcony again, slow and careful as to not pressure his wound, lest he will wince in front of the hobbit and have him worry about it needlessly.] I am. Óin insists I take more rest still, but I much prefer to stand. [Which clearly means he simply stubbornly refuses to do as the healer tells him to, despite it being better for him.]

[ There is a tendency in him to fidget when Thorin is looking at him closely, which Bilbo controls as best as he can, looking back at him in glances rather than an outright stare: watching the way he moves, the way he holds himself, as though to determine for himself whether Thorin is truly well enough to be up and about. It has been some time since the battle and he watched Thorin through the worst of it, saw when Óin's grave and sorrowing face took on a light of hope again and his tending became all the more vigorous, was there when they knew at last that he would heal and heal wholly, but a shadow of fear still lingers in the back of his mind. If he is to leave tomorrow, he wants to go with some certainty that Thorin is well, that he will be well.

He goes after him to the balcony, ignoring the seat and instead staying by the side of his king—not his, really, but he imagines he would be, if Bilbo stayed in Erebor. Which he supposes he cannot do. He is a hobbit not a dwarf, and the dwarves clearly think he would be better off home in Bag End; probably Thorin does as well. ] He must be concerned about the speed of your recovery. [ Bilbo answers after a moment's thought. ] The more you rest, I imagine, all the more soon will you be able to take up your duties as king under the mountain. Though I am sure they will wait on you another couple of weeks.

[ Which seems to him the very likely end of Thorin being all too restless and exhausting himself before he is recovered. This is the best way Bilbo can think of to get him back into bed where he belongs: appeal to his sense of responsibility, which is very weighty indeed. ]

[Thorin finds in Bilbo's tone the same concern he does in Óin's, although not quite so direct. Bilbo seems to find a way with words, to present them with a subtlety that hides their true meaning beneath the surface, yet Thorin finds that after a while it is very easy to look past that mask of politeness and find the real intent in his speech. He welcomes the thought, or the feeling that the hobbit cares about his well-being, and yet he cannot help the faintest roll of eyes just before he slides them close for a moment, that yet another person has come to try to get him to lie down.

The arch of the door that leads to the balcony is where he stops, and he leans with his back to it, arms crossing over his chest resolutely. The skin around the wound stretches and screams in protest, the pain sharp like a blade through his muscles, but he bites the inside of his cheek and swallows back a noise of complaint, the message of his stance clear. He has no intention of going back to his bed right now.]

I will be driven insane if I have to lie sickly for another two weeks. [He shakes his head, relaxing his shoulders just barely as he settles his eyes on the faint fog outside. He finds it difficult to keep his eyes on Bilbo still, after all that had happened.] My injury is almost healed, I expect that in a few days I will be able to walk unburdened by it.

[ That is not what Óin thinks, he knows, but he decides to bite his tongue instead of continuing to argue the point: Thorin looks very prepared to be immovable on this subject. Very well, perhaps he will wear himself out and then be more amenable to being coaxed to bed. Miracles can happen, Bilbo supposes.

He goes past Thorin to the edge of the balcony, where a stone balustrade serves to keep him back from the open air and the vast, dark night; Bilbo puts his hands on it, trying to make out the wreck of Laketown in the distance, and the light of the houses of Men. The fog makes all indistinct and blurred; he can feel the faint damp of it cling to his hair and his clothes. He doesn't fear to stand beside Thorin here. The terror of his near-death cured of him of that, and all the long waiting after, all the hours when he would have been nowhere else but at the side of the dwarf king where he could see that he was yet breathing, that a will towards strength and life remained in him. ]

A dark night, isn't it? And a little chill. I don't suppose the weather will be fair for travel tomorrow. [ Perhaps it will rain, perhaps storm, a deluge of catastrophic proportions; perhaps all the mountainside will turn to mud; perhaps all the planning and the journeys will have to be postponed. ]

[The fine drizzle that falls is quiet, almost soothing, and to him it looks like dust specks dancing in the air, all the more visible when the sun filters through an open window. Without much thought to it, if any, Thorin steps outside to stand next to Bilbo, the humid rain falling upon his skin and hair, his clothes, and instead of unpleasant, he finds it almost cleansing. He watches as it falls on the ground far below, and he wonders if in the morning, or in a few days perhaps, it will have purged the mountain just as well.

There is a hint of hope to Bilbo's voice, he thinks for a moment, as if he wants for a storm to hit, or even just rain that comes down too strong, for anything that can delay his departure. But Thorin does not feed that thought for long, because he knows it is not in Bilbo's tone that the hope lies. It is his own wishful thinking that filters the words as they slip through his ears, making him think that he hears them differently, and he does not allow himself to be fooled by it. Bilbo was never meant to stay and the king knows it, has known it all along, and there is no amount of wishing that can change that. He must accept this now more than ever before, as they reach the end of their road together.]

If that comes to be the case, then I am sorry you will have to wait. I know you miss your home. [It is partly insincere, but on the other hand he truly wants for Bilbo to return to the comfort of his house, where he can sit on his chair by the fireplace reading a book, or stand by the hearth in the kitchen cooking a meal. Thorin can see it too vividly now, that odd and comfortable hole in the ground, dark and cold and abandoned all this time, as if only waiting for Bilbo's return.] In the meantime, you know you are welcome to stay here.

[ Something in him breathes a little easier when Thorin comes to stand beside him. There is solidarity in it and companionship, those things which he has come to value so much on the long journey to the Lonely Mountain, when once he was so often alone and content with that, in the peace and quiet of his house. He thinks often of what Gandalf told him before he departed, that he would not return as the same hobbit, and it is so terribly true now, isn't it? Change so irrevocable. It is as he once feared: venturing forth was the greatest error he could possibly have made, for now he yearns for things which no proper hobbit should yearn, and the thought of home—of the quiet and the peace, the emptiness, in his own dear Bag End—brings not comfort but a sense of terrible loss. ]

Thank you; that is kind. [ The answer is automatic, and Bilbo's eyes are fixed on some distant point below, not really seeing anything. Then a sheet of drizzle blowing into his face makes him blink, and his eyes water; he lifts a hand to rub at them, then shakes his head and looks up at Thorin. ]

It is strange, isn't it, how everyone thinks that I must miss my home so much, when it is so far away that I can't remember the last time I sat in my armchair: has it been six months, Thorin? You probably remember better than I have. [ He hears himself stammering a little as he says these words, and feels his fingers tightening on the balustrade. ] I suppose it is where I belong, as I said once. And this is where you belong. You have everything that you have wanted.

[There it is, again he sees it, his own wishes reflected upon the hobbit. But when Thorin turns to him, he sees him rubbing at his eyes, and immediately he hopes - thinks - that he is crying. It is but a moment of a thought before he reproaches himself for it, for finding any sort of comfort in the fact that he may not be the only one that does not want to see the end of this journey. Such end has not come with the return of Erebor, or the victory upon the battlefield, it would only be here the moment he could no longer see Bilbo as he disappears beyond the lake and past the forests of Mirkwood. All stories must end, all things must finish, yet Thorin feels like a selfish child when he wants for anything but this one to be over so soon.]

I could not tell you, Bilbo. Our journey has felt like years to me, and yet some memories have gone faster than the blink of an eye. [Hearing his own name spilling in that small and shaken voice softens Thorin's traits, though ever so barely that many would not even notice. Bilbo would, he thinks; at least he is standing close enough. His arms lower to his sides, yet they feel too heavy when he thinks of reaching over, of placing a reassuring hand on the other's shoulder, as if there is no strength in him to offer comfort or friendship. He feels weaker now than he did when he lay on his own blood, clinging to whatever he had left of life to speak words he never thought he would have the chance to again.

He lets silence fall around them after that, his eyes dropping onto the ground heavier than the rain, and after a moment that feels like eternity, he turns to glance over the balustrade and to the same empty space that Bilbo seemed so focused on earlier.] You are wrong. I do have everything I wanted before, yes.

[His voice is low, and the words come to him much more arduously than he expects. Still, he says them, even if it would be far easier right now to pick up his sword again and see himself pushed back into the field of yet another battle. For it would be a hopeless battle, and that would be far better than the expectation in Bilbo's voice as it trembles its way out of him, and in his eyes when he looks into Thorin's.

The air turns darker, and he continues.] But I do not have all the things that I now want.

[ Bilbo sees it, yes. The way Thorin's body shifts, as though he is on the brink of reaching out a hand to him, as though he yearns to, held back only by some part of him which is as guarded and forbidding and unreachable as he ever was on the long journey. And perhaps this is a fancy on Bilbo's part, but he is a hobbit: his eyes and his thoughts and his own gestures are turned towards subtle things. He sees what is not always spoken, what is not always consciously revealed: as he saw in Thorin, when all the rest of the company was lost to their great hopes and, at last, their joy of being returned to the place that was their own, the shadow darkening his mind.

And he feels as though breath is being squeezed painfully from his lungs when Thorin speaks. This feeling is hope and it is despair; he stands a long time silent, not daring to look at the dwarf king's face, trying to identify that which weighs so heavily within him. Hope that the meaning he dares to take in Thorin's words might be true, despair that he must soon leave, he must soon turn away and leave all unspoken between them, that the place where he belongs is half a world away and not at his king's side—

One of Thorin's hands is bandaged, the knuckles bruised and healing after the battle, and Bilbo reaches for that hand and holds it between the two of his, very gently, so as to cause his friend no pain. Many hours he held it, when Thorin lay so near to death and he had only the smallest of hopes that some anchor of touch would keep him clinging to life, so why should he not hold it now when Thorin is returned, when he is whole and healing and aware? His courage is a small thing, but this needs no great boldness. ]

I think I feel the same. I think I feel that I should want my home, that I should yearn for it in my heart above all other things, but that has changed in me wholly; I suppose I am not a very good hobbit.

[It seems that Bilbo is never quite done surprising him. Whenever he thinks he knows him fully, something else unexpected happens, a word, a reaction, a motion, and Thorin is left to add that to the pile of intricate tangled threads that shape the hobbit, all little quirks and thoughts, like a maze or a riddle for him to solve. He is reminded of this when softly there is a touch to his hand, and Thorin's heart jerks - the rest of his body nearly does the same in sheer surprise, but instead he simply turns ever so slightly, with slow and pause, eyes not widening enough for it to be noticeable.]

I would say you have not been a very good hobbit for a long time. Not ever since you joined our Company. [He does not sound the least bit apologetic for it, neither does he think Bilbo should be. From what Thorin understands, it has never been in the manner of a proper hobbit to ever leave his house with no plans, no bags, not even his handkerchief. Thorin finds himself smiling at that particular memory, seeming to him as if it happened years ago, one tiny little hobbit, with no weapons and no wounds, no strength in him that Thorin could see, and he remembers having decided right then that Bilbo would not make it too far before either dying or giving up and turning back. How wrong he had been, and how glad he is now that he had been proven otherwise - more than once, too.

There is a slow but steady warmth that seeps through Bilbo, something comforting and welcoming that surges through him from where the smaller hands touch his, his eyes settled on the pale and unblemished skin, as if untouched by time, work or war, even after all the hardships the Company had gone through in the past months. After such long moment of quiet contemplation, Thorin's fingers curl around the hobbit's, creating awareness of contrast by touch alone, his own skin covered in cuts and callouses, some recent from the battle, others old, dry and scarred from working in forges and laboring in fields.

It is too much to hope for, yet that single gesture must mean something, even if most of it may be no more than what Thorin wishes for. His eyes don't move, not even to look at Bilbo's own when he speaks, and his voice lowers, nearing a softness that is so foreign coming from the dwarf king.] Stay. If that is what you want. You can stay for however long you wish to.

[Forever.]

[ Indeed it is a wholly different hand from his own which Bilbo holds, marked so by many years and all the bitterness that has been Thorin's to carry since he last left this mountain. He has not himself known the depth of grief that must come from such awful loss, and from the ravages of war and starvation beyond even that, and the hopelessness with which pride holds out against despair; a hobbit cannot really know such things, yet Bilbo looks at Thorin and tries to understand, drawn to him by the pain he carries as much as by the honor and pride, all of it bound together in Thorin's heart, which Bilbo would have for his own beyond any other treasure. He knows that, in the moments when he is honest to himself past the point of all his defenses.

He too looks down when he feels Thorin's hand curve around his small fingers, the gesture pleasing him so much that he can barely contain it; at least it is dark enough to perhaps just hide the blush of color that comes into his face. Hope seems to leap in his chest, as though his heart would burst forth from the cage of his ribs, and for a moment he cannot speak. He longs so much to answer, and fears to, and berates himself silently for the fear: as though hobbits who steal treasure from under the noses of dragons have any business being afraid to speak what is true, what is most desired. ]

That is what I want. [ He says it at last, with terror and with relief all tangled up inside of him and his heart beating very quickly. ] I think--I think I wanted that before we even came to Erebor, or knew how it would all end. Because this is your place: and if I returned home I would be returning alone, because this is where you would stay.

[The spark bursts from within him. It feels to him as if expanding from the very core, the dead center of his whole existence and pushing at the edges of the world itself. Thorin had never thought before that knowing such relief was possible, and he had known relief in the past days, the past weeks and months, time and again. He remembers feeling it when he opened his eyes after Bilbo saved him, one small hobbit so recklessly planting himself between the injured dwarf and the white warg, and saw that he still lived. He watched his younger nephew pierced by an arrow, nearly succumbing to the poison spreading through him, and he knew relief when he saw him brought back to life. He saw through blurred eyes as both brothers stood in front of him and were struck down violently by Azog, and he knew relief when he woke later on to the news that they lived.

He knew relief when he looked to his side then, and found Bilbo sitting near him, even after the monstrous things he had told him, after the manner in which he treated him and cast him aside when the hobbit wanted nothing but to help him. He knew it by the hold in his hand, warm and an anchor, feeling thin but strong like Elven Rope, and he learned relief when, upon sliding his eyes close, he felt himself freed from the madness of the gold, and his body surrendered gladly to whatever should come next.

But a new day came next, and another, and Thorin's eyes opened again, and the king welcomed that just as well. Yet all those times did not compare to the feeling that washes through him now, too grand and strong for him not to express in his face, as it lights up and unfurls into a soft smile, or in his breath, sharp and not so quiet as he exhales deep and shakily. He turns then, until he is facing Bilbo, and carefully moves his other arm until his palm rests over the hobbit's hand, adding to the clasp of their fingers where they hold onto each other.]

Then I must present my apologizes. [His voice is almost melodic in the way the tone wavers, but if anything it carries in it no more than the elation veining through him right at that instant.] For when I spoke of your journey back to Bag End, I thought that was what you so hoped for, now that Erebor has been returned to us. There is nothing I hope for more than to see you stay beside me, yet it is not as strong as my wish that you have whatever it is that you want.

[ Those battle-scarred fingers cover his, and Bilbo steals a glance upwards, drawing in a breath as though to brace himself for what he might see in Thorin's face. It is only a glimpse which he dares, but in the faint light that burns in the chamber inside his face seems wholly transformed from the usual stern, stony lines that it is set in; it has softened, there is a smile there touching his lips and some warm glow that seems to come from within, and it makes him keep looking, stealing glances over him and then finally letting his gaze settle on Thorin's, deciding that if there is to be all this honesty between them he must not fear to face him.

And then Bilbo finds himself smiling too, caught between pleasure and embarrassment and a weight of warmth in his heart as though there is nothing more now to fear. ] No, it is my fault; I should have been frank about it, only I could not bring myself to speak before now. [ After all that passed between them, he had thought, what right did he have to speak what was in his heart? Yet now he has, and nothing will ever be the same again: he is so very far away from the place where he has lived all his life, among people that are not his own, and he shall have to find some place here for himself if he is to be comfortable with his choice, and Bilbo has no idea what that should be yet. But none of that matters truly, not so long as he can stay by Thorin's side. ]

I am truly happy— [ His voice sticks briefly and Bilbo looks down, clears his throat. ] I am truly happy that your wish and mine are the same in this. I was lost when I saw you so terribly hurt, you know. I don't think I could bear to lose you.

[A feeling ever so bittersweet, it is a joy that wraps around his very bone yet it is laced with a hint of sadness and remorse. It forms a lump in his throat, and makes it hard for him to draw breath or shape words, even if the ache of loss seems to have seeped out of him completely, having started to fade the moment their hands first touched.

Still there are words he wishes to say, things he had not managed when lying in his wounds and blood. Things of perhaps little importance now, or quite the contrary, all the more meaningful to say now that Thorin is no longer counting the minutes, the seconds to see his life's end. He is not frowning but his eyebrows knit together, in a mix of worry and repentance that is embedded in his voice just as well.] I thought... you resented me. For what I did and said to you.

[And what terrible moments those had been. Even now, as Thorin tries to remember them, it seems to him as if it had been another person entirely, and not himself, who had treated someone so dear to him in such a horrible manner. In a way, he knows. It had been someone else; he had been someone else. He forces the memories away for now, not wanting to sour the moment with the ache that they bring.] When I woke I did not expect to see you there. I was sure you would be long gone, all chance of reconcilement leaving with you.

[A deep, quiet breath, and he steps closer, enough that he can lean down to rest his forehead against Bilbo's, much more softly than he would anyone else. Partly because he does not want to hurt the Hobbit, who is after all not as sturdy as other Dwarves, and partly because this time it holds an entirely different meaning to it, and he wishes to convey that through the intimate gesture.] I'm glad you stayed; I fear I would not have lived were you not there.

[ Bilbo shivers, blissful at their closeness, which is more than he has ever dared to imagine. A brush of fingers, a smile exchanged, those keen eyes of Thorin's softened as they look upon him: that has been the extent of Bilbo's dreaming in his moments of solitude. But now Thorin is close enough to kiss, and more than that: he thinks of feeling that stern mouth soften beneath his, thinks of nosing at the bearded jaw, thinks of putting his lips to the steady throb of a pulse at the hollow of the throat. All things now seem possible.

But he does not want to be apologized to, not now; he does not want Thorin burdened with regrets, with things that were already spoken and forgiven when he lay so near to death's door. Bilbo would be quite happy to forget the shadow of madness that ever lay across Thorin's mind. But it is not that simple either: to forget would be a betrayal greater than his theft of the Arkenstone had ever been, for if he can make even the smallest effort to safeguard Thorin's wellness, his wholeness of mind, he must not fail in his vigilance.

With his small hands he touches Thorin's jaw, framing his face carefully between them, feeling his heart leap with a sort of shivering delight at the soft prickle of his beard beneath his fingers. ] You cannot think me so small-minded as to leave a dear friend in his greatest hour of need. And I could not take credit for your life, except to say that if wishing could give you long and happy years you would have a thousand of them now.

[It is not the thought that he is close enough for them to kiss that comes to Thorin's mind, but rather the fact that they are close enough for Bilbo's scent to fill his nose completely. His hair and clothes and, Thorin thinks, his very skin smells of a garden, of fresh grass after the dew settles, of the first flowers blooming in Spring, and he finds himself sighing at how much he wants to bury his nose into the soft curls of Bilbo's hair. It is a mystery to him, along with many other things about the hobbit, how these scents still linger in him even though the land around them is barren, and the last they have even seen of healthy trees or flowers had been back at Beorn's house.

He finds it is within his reach, at least, to rest one hand on Bilbo's shoulder, while with the other he plays at the tips of his hair, almost distracted enough for it to seem casual, even if it is enough for a lump to form at the pit of his own stomach.] My mistake lies in the fact that I thought you no longer saw me as a dear friend.

[He had not been himself, he knows this now, but others, he knows, would have abandoned him for much lesser offenses. It had just been yet another time that the hobbit had proven his own worth, in his astounding ability to forgive, to simply let go of a grudge with such ease, as if nothing had ever happened. Thorin sees in that a perfect mirror of himself.

He chuckles softly, the sound ever so foreign coming from his lips; and he opens his eyes.] I do not ask to live so long. To live for now is more than enough.

Well, I am afraid you're quite stuck with me. [ He makes effort at a light tone of voice, while within his chest his heart beats with happiness so great it is almost painful; he feels it all the more with every touch between them, little intimacies tested and found to be wonderful and wanted. There is a great pleasure to be had in caressing a dark strand of Thorin's hair between his thumb and his forefinger, tucking it gently behind his ear, and to feel the dwarf toying with his curls in turn. If Bilbo smells of spring, of things soft and growing, then Thorin's scent is of iron and fire: familiar and, he thinks, beloved ever since the first embrace on the Carrock.

It pleases him that Thorin speaks of living for now. Perhaps it means he has found at last that which he sought over all the unimaginable years, all that drove and tormented him. Perhaps there is happiness for him here in the Lonely Mountain after all, when for a time it seemed there would be nothing but violence and death. His hand comes back to Thorin's cheek and Bilbo looks up at him from beneath his lashes, his head still bowed forward a little to let Thorin's brow rest against his. ] That is as hobbits see things. A very sensible outlook, I think, not to worry so over what the future brings.

[ For it would come whether or not you were prepared for it, and catch you up in its bright long arms, and fling you out into a waiting world. His gaze drops again to the hollow of Thorin's throat where the pulse beats, about the highest point of him that he could kiss without standing up on his toes, and Bilbo does so, tremulous and unthinking. ]

[For a brief moment, Thorin muses at the thought that he himself may be starting to think like a hobbit of all things. And he is about to ask Bilbo if that is what he is implying with his words, albeit teasingly of course, when Bilbo moves, and he feels something foreign pressed against the hollow of his throat, something soft and warm, and it is only when he glances down to see nothing but Bilbo's curls that he realizes what is happening.

He tries to breathe but it is nearer to a gasp, and everything that could pass his throat, whether it is air, a dry swallow he forces down or even his very heart as it lunges up to his mouth, is stolen by Bilbo's lips through that spot where they rest so comfortably. There is nothing from him for a moment, not a single movement, and after he closes his eyes for a good few seconds he finally tilts his head, rests his cheek against those soft locks of hair, sliding down the side of the hobbit's face so their cheeks touch, their temples, their noses brush and they are close enough that Thorin can breathe the very air that comes out of Bilbo's lungs.

He opens his eyes then, and stays like that until Bilbo is looking back at him, warmth and surprise evident in that one single gaze. And when he is sure that there is no attempt to pull away, his fingers become bolder, sifting through hair and cradling the back of Bilbo's neck, coaxing him to tilt his head as he closes the distance and presses their lips together.]

[ He is not sure why he does it, but that it is a desire that enters into his heart so sharply and sweetly that it must be at once obeyed, and perhaps if Thorin is beginning to think more like a hobbit then Bilbo is beginning to think more like a dwarf, in their bold, impulsive, indulgent ways. But he does not think about it just then, does not let his mind linger on anything but the scent of Thorin's skin and the faint throb of a pulse beneath his lips, and Thorin's stillness just before his cheek comes to rest against his curls (just soon enough that the spell is not broken) and the way he shifts and nuzzles at cheek and nose and draws Bilbo into looking at him quite naturally, so that when his hand comes to cradle the nape of his neck and his mouth presses to Bilbo's mouth the painful sweetness of it steals all the breath out of his lungs.

It feels like a very long time since Bilbo has kissed anyone. It has been: he is circumspect, for what would be the point of kissing someone he didn't yearn for as much as he yearns for Thorin? How could it possibly feel like this, frightening and so wonderful? He shivers and clings to Thorin's shoulders, small hands finding a hold in his clothing, the press of his mouth at first light and chaste; but then he grows bolder and he nibbles a little, softly, at Thorin's lower lip. He doesn't know, yet, what he would like, how it is that dwarves kiss, and now he is thinking again, perhaps thinking too much, but not enough to shy away. He has wanted this too badly; he can learn whatever needs to be learned. ]

[For Thorin it is impossible to think of the last time he has kissed anyone, because even those times it could hardly compare to this moment. He does not think he has ever quite wanted to reach for anyone else in the same way he does Bilbo, nor to want to have anyone else this close to him. He keeps the kiss soft, surprisingly so even to himself, but finds that he seeks no more than the quiet warmth of Bilbo's lips against his for now, wishes for nothing deeper or closer and as such, presses no further. Smells assault him even more vividly now, and yes, his skin smells fresh and sweet just as well, but more of fruits and spices, and Thorin finds himself wishing to take from that, to let those scents linger around him and embed into his hair and clothes, into his own skin, hoping only that the smells of the mountain that he knows he carries with himself will not linger around the hobbit too much.

But the slowness of the contact lasts no longer than it does for Bilbo to nibble on his lip. The tide unfurls from deep within him, claws its way up his ribs and slips out into the kiss, a loud and gasped rumble, his whole body tensing and his fingers curling tighter, one on his shoulder, the other into his hair. He pulls Bilbo closer, presses his mouth harder against the other while parting his lips, as if coaxed to do so by Bilbo's teeth.]

[ Oh—that gains him a response, certainly, and it is as the earth shifting beneath his feet, that rumble of sound from Thorin as though a part of the mountainside itself is crumbling, and Bilbo too gasps as he is pulled closer and he feels Thorin's fingers bury themselves in the curls of his hair. It seems to him that they are pressed impossibly near, that he can feel all of Thorin's body tense and the hunger in that mouth which kisses his harder, and elation fills him, a burning rush of it like liquor in his veins, and just as dizzying. Once more he quite forgets to think. His hands in turn tangle in Thorin's hair, burying themselves into those dark thick locks the way he has long desired to, with reverential joy. His kisses search Thorin's mouth, gentle but bold for a hobbit, for if Bilbo has no particular roughness in him at least he need not be shy where he wants to taste and nibble, not with the dwarf's lips parted as though to welcome him.

There is a shivering delight in him, a thirst unquenchable; he wants to touch and explore and know this joy forever, never again to be parted, never to know even a shadow of parting. ]

(other-wordly)

any/all!

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