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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ 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. ]

[Each touch from Bilbo travels like sparks beneath his skin, the fingers in his hair sending a rush to his scalp and down his spine that makes him feel as if he is entirely weightless, the world only tangible by the points where they are in contact. He tips his head to the side and lets the kiss grow deeper, hotter, definitely more desperate, as his tongue traces Bilbo's teeth and his heart thumps louder against his ribcage at the taste.

He seems to quite have forgotten himself by now, surrendering fully to the feelings and letting go entirely of thoughts. Yet he is reminded, painfully so, when he snakes his arm around Bilbo's waist a little too harshly than he ought to, and the injury is strained beyond dull and tolerable ache. The groan he lets out is none too pleased, as he finds himself pulling from the kiss rather abruptly, eyes closed and eyebrows knit together, as he tries to calm his labored breath into something that doesn't feel like the wound could just split open with each inhale.]

I think... [He says after a while, but the voice is coarse and he must clear his throat before speaking again.] I'm afraid I have gotten a little carried away.

[ It's the difference between drowning and being yanked back to shore: it startles him to fill his lungs with air, to open wide his eyes, to have awareness return to him as he is released so abruptly from the kiss. Legs that seem to have forgotten their solidity wobble a little beneath him, but Bilbo catches himself, his heart thumping in brief fear that something went wrong--something in that embrace and that kiss was unwelcome--but then he can see the pain drawing taut the lines of Thorin's face and making his breathing struggle and fear changes at once to concern. ] Thorin? [ He reaches out his hands and puts them around Thorin's tentatively, offering his support. He hopes that he isn't about to stumble--Bilbo could not possibly catch him--

But he seems to recover himself after a few moments, while Bilbo waits worried and holding onto him, ready to offer any comfort and assistance he could possibly provide. ] I do apologize. It was too taxing for you. [ He would be mortified if he weren't so worried. As it is--well, he could not say he regrets the kiss, not after those few moments of utter bliss, only that Thorin should have felt any pain. He ought to have waited; in fact, Thorin ought to be in bed where Bilbo can look after him properly. ] I'll help you inside. I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist that you lie down, Thorin; this is no time for any--any activities.

Edited 2014-03-21 23:55 (UTC)

[Thorin never actually loses his balance, and never the pain is too strong that he feels himself any close to fainting. Yet he welcomes the support of Bilbo's hands, his eyes closed for a moment longer and finally opening when the ache on his wound subsides. It makes him more frustrated still, that if before he could not fulfill his duties as king because of his injuries, then now he cannot even have this, a moment of peace and comfort that he had yearned for such a long time, perhaps even longer than he himself realizes.

Thorin cannot help the look he shoots at Bilbo at his words, an eyebrow arched, a smile playing at the corner of his lips, though small, barely there, as he is still feeling the wave of tension coming from his side.] I do hope not to have to wait another week to indulge in such activities. [Still, even with the displeased tone at having to part, he does. Bilbo is right, even if Thorin is beyond the point of light stubbornness when it comes down to it. He turns back towards the room, one arm resting over Bilbo's shoulders, though hardly leaning any of his weight against the hobbit, and taking steps much slower and cautious towards his bed instead.]

[ That amused look that Thorin gives him, heavy with significance, would be liable to make Bilbo's breath go short if he weren't so relieved that the dwarf king is not so badly off he might faint in front of him. As it is he feels the color coming back into his face as Thorin puts an arm around his shoulders and Bilbo leans carefully against his good side, giving him such small support as a hobbit can offer, taking short steps with him as they guide one another into the bedchamber. ] I—I hope not either. But the most important thing is for you to rest and get well.

[ He's glad that Thorin recognizes that now as well, or at least that he isn't arguing against lying down anymore. Bilbo hates seeing him in pain for a moment longer than he should be. He needs someone to look after him more closely, and if, as it turns out, Thorin likes to have him about, then surely he is the best person for the job.

So he pulls back the bedcovers for him and anxiously pushes a pillow or two into place before letting Thorin lower himself down to the mattress. ] Do be careful. [ His fingers touch Thorin's brow gently, pushing some of the heavy black strands of hair away from his eyes. ]

[Thorin has never had much trouble coping with pain. Even the most excruciating he could hide easily behind a façade of calm composure, a frown that many are most often used to seeing on his face. Yet it was as if in that moment he was caught all too unprepared for it, and he can see the hobbit worries, a bit too much perhaps, for it was hardly the most pain Thorin has ever felt. Aside from the sharpness of the ache that first came when he moved his arm, it was nothing but dull sensitivity, and by the time they reach his bed, it is all but gone.

For a moment he entertains the thought of asking Bilbo to continue, but he is no child. He knows that the pain is only gone because he is not making any effort currently. So he lowers himself onto the mattress, not entirely lying down as he had left his pillows piled up against the headboard, though he is not completely sitting either. There is a soft sigh, between relieved and resigned at his situation, but he supposes he ought to be thankful. At least he lives.

His blinking is slow for a moment, then he reaches for Bilbo's hand, wrapping his fingers around smaller ones and bringing it down so that it is resting over his own chest.] Thank you, Bilbo.

[ He too is so relieved, so very relieved that Thorin lives, that he is on his way to being well again. In his darkest moments he had tried to imagine what he would do if the dwarf king passed beyond his reach, and the despair of it had been greater than anything he'd ever known; even so singular a moment of pleasure as they shared tonight would be all the worse for knowing it was only a memory. Nothing now could make him leave Erebor, not even homesickness; he would make this place his home instead. He smiles as Thorin takes his hand in his, and puts the other one against his brow instead, enjoying the sensation of stroking back his hair too much to relent. ]

You may want to save your thanks; I'm afraid you're going to be quite stuck with me until you are better. [ Someone is going to have to make sure he stays in bed where he belongs. ]

[The touch is all too soothing, and Thorin shifts his head on the pillows as he closes his eyes with little thought to it. Even after everything, he has found his sleep so burdened with dreams still, that often times he would simply fight the tiredness in him. It has been a while since he last slept, though he cannot remember exactly how long, but his body seems eager to catch up the second that Bilbo's fingers brush the worries away from his mind just as well as the locks of hair from his face.]

Shall I take it back, then? [His voice is already lower and softer, a smile on his lips then. He is sure to thank Bilbo's presence too, even if objectively he knows the both of them are equally stubborn, and that may very well lead to one frustrating moment or another. He would be thankful even then.]

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