Spoon
Author: wanderingsmith & Bofursunboundbraids
aug 2014
Summary: And one day he cracked a laugh at the thought that the
only silver he had to make a bead, was the little spoon that his
thick fingers had accidentally bent a few times when fury overcame
him.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I ain't got no money, and nobody'd be daft enough to
pay me for this. As it is thought, so let it be said; you make the
toys, I play with 'em.
AN: Written with Bofursunboundbraids
while following each other's random thoughts
after coming across a spoon
ring
Hearing his company suddenly laugh around their campfire, Thorin
pulled his gaze from the horizon where he had been lost in thought
rather than watching for pursuit as he'd originally intended.
Only to watch the halfling stand up and, with what seemed to Thorin
like reluctant humour, claim that his father always told him there
was no excuse for a hobbit to ever be unprepared to make at least a
simple meal; with refinement!
Was that a silver spoon he was brandishing??
For an instant, those dark eyes, lit with self-deprecation as he, in
turn watched Thorin's dwarrows laugh, once again caught and held the
king's reluctant attention. But then Thorin shook himself, snorting
his ridicule at such a foolish creature.
--
Weeks later, when he noticed the spoon on the ground while making
his last circuit of their previous evening's camp, Thorin wondered
with disdain what kind of creature would bring such a finely crafted
utensil on a quest, but not a single weapon. He shook his head and
dropped the silver in his weed pouch without thinking, shouting for
everyone to get moving.
--
Months later, the elves stripped him of his weapons and armour. The
map and key remained hidden in their protected leather in his boot,
but they found the spoon in his empty weed pouch; and they laughed,
giving it back while promising, with saccharine sweetness, that all
his meals would be soup, since he liked it so much as to carry a
silver spoon with his pipe weed.
Biting his tongue, Thorin glared stoically, refusing to give them
the satisfaction of a response.
--
He spent his days in darkness, sitting against the wall furthest
from the door, brooding at the mistakes and ill luck that had led
him here; fingers smoothing back and forth over a silver handle,
memorizing every carved line. Some days, when the fear for his
company's safety and the bitterness and regret and fury at how close
they had come to Erebor became too much to swallow, he grasped the
handle tight and found his mind escaping far to the West, trying to
picture the life of this spoon. Polishing his memories of the
hobbit's little home even as he polished the silver with his skin.
Escaping to somewhere peaceful and fine, for he'd learned it was no
small thing to celebrate a simple life.
Times when the pain of frustration was nigh unbearable, a small
voice inside would consider that perhaps, one day, he would return
there. If only he had a familiar smiling hobbit by his side to show
him all the small things he might otherwise miss, to explain until
the dwarf saw what his hobbit saw.
Tea time and flowers and growing tomatoes as he had heard him speak
of wistfully on cold nights. It was a bitter escape, hopelessness
always waiting in ambush for him when he was forced to return to the
reality of his cell.
--
Then one day, instead of those cursed elves, it was the hobbit's
voice that broke the silence.
And the sheer joy and gratitude and wonder filling him sent him
scrabbling for the bars with no thought to dignity. There was
nothing to be seen in the dark corridor; but the brilliant burglar
was still somehow there, and understood without Thorin needing to
beg. And small hands came to rest on his.
And when hands were not enough for Thorin's starved senses, he
barely swallowed a whine as he reached through the bars, unable to
slide more than a few inches of his wrist through before the
close-set rods stopped him. It was enough for his fingertips to
blindly reach Bilbo's face; and though the invisible hobbit gasped
in obvious surprise, he came closer and allowed the dwarf to cup
that strangely bare jaw, stroking.
The utterly hairless skin was soft, even if it was as dirt-gritty
and sweat-greasy as Thorin's, and even as Bilbo reached through with
a hand of his own to pet Thorin's beard, the dwarf felt curly hair,
much longer than he remembered, touch the back of his hand.
When the hobbit finally had to leave, Thorin slowly returned to
leaning on his wall, absently patting the ground for the spoon he
had dropped in his earlier haste. And he spent his hours now with
hope, even if there was still much uncertainty, no escape plan
having come to them yet.
--
Although they were not repeated, the tender touches of that reunion
were not forgotten. Barely acknowledged thoughts escaped in the
darkness: wishes that he dared not call hopes. Thoughts of longish,
curly hair, with just a few braids. And beads on those braids.
Aye, Bilbo was frequently on his mind, though it no longer made him
ache with fear and regret to picture the hobbit using his spoon to
prepare his tea.
For the hobbit would live to prepare tea again.
Would he pour for Thorin? Offer a sugar cube and lemon? Would Thorin
have his own little spoon to stir in fine bone china? There would be
tiny tea cakes, from what he had heard. As delicious as they were
pretty. And the bright breeze of spring would come in through the
open kitchen window.
As lovely as tea time was, what Thorin could not WAIT for, was for
it all to be done.
When the last sip was taken to chase down the last crumb, he would
stand and quietly hold out a hand to his content hobbit. Draw him up
and close, and then lean down and taste the delicacy that was his
burglar. Soft and slow; there was no rush in the shaft of golden
afternoon sunlight. And when they finally parted, it would be with
quiet sighs and with un-hobbitish braids nestled tight into the
dwarf's un-dwarvish shirt, arms around his waist and hooking into
the waistband of his pants, and he would wrap his arms fully around
his ghivashel and drop his cheek on wild curls, the smoother root of
a braid pressing into his beard; a hand often finding its way up to
fondle the bead at the other end of that braid.
And one day he cracked a laugh at the thought that the only silver
he had to make a bead, was the little spoon that his thick fingers
had accidentally bent a few times when fury overcame him. And as
well-crafted as the engraving on it felt, it would be a shame to
melt it down. Even to create a courting gift.
--
Then their burglar stole them out from under haughty elven noses.
And when he emerged from that deadly barrel to the first clear sight
of a dreadfully tired and thin and worried hobbit face, the first
thought Thorin had was that he should have known, he should have
accepted his fate that first night, when for all his perfectly
reasonable reasons to be scathing, he had still wished to like the
odd creature.
How hard could it have been? Instead of ridicule and disdain,
curiosity and grace. Fate was being too kind to allow for this
second chance.
--
With the Men of the lake to deal with at that moment, it was not
until much later, laying on a soft bed for the first time since
Rivendell, that Thorin let himself think. And out of recent habit,
the spoon found itself in his hands.
This time he stared at it, remembering the evening following the
morning he had found the silver. It had been the second night after
the surprising burglar had both landed them in troll bags, and
gotten them out. When he had found his spoon missing, Thorin had
expected him to pitch a fit worse than the handkerchief nonsense.
He had already been reaching for the silver that had spent the day
in his pipe weed pouch so that he could give it back, only to hear
the creature laugh, and explain that at least his thieving cousin
would never get her hands on the full set; and then accept Bombur's
offer of one of his many well-worn tin ones with complete
indifference. Somehow, in the midst of staring at wickedly amused
features, Thorin had failed to give the utensil back.
Not so soft and silly, he had briefly admitted: the creature was
becoming one of the company.
Finding himself touching the spoon during long watches had, at
first, been no more than an idle twitch. But as time went on, the
metal had become an effigy of his small comrade, kept in his pouch,
close, as he believed he never would be able to have the hobbit.
But now... now he could not hold back hope. The thought of regaining
his home was no longer enough: Erebor without Bilbo would be almost
as lonely and bitter for him as the Blue Mountains had been.
What was a kingdom without blue skies, green grass, gentle breeze,
flowers... It was not a dwarven thought, but he had come to see that
every living thing needed the signs of life about them. Such bright,
brilliant life! Bilbo gave him this by his mere nearness, and he
could no longer imagine doing without it.
Leaning next to his candle, he turned the spoon to look at the
engraving, curious after touching it for so long. And he thought,
looking at the kink in the handle from his last bit of bad temper,
that he need not melt it. With the right tool, he could snip the
actual spoon end off and roll the rest so as to leave the engraved
end section exposed as the outer surface of a bead.
It was a beautiful thing he had been carrying with him. A silver
seed that will signal the blossoming of the dearest, most fervent
desire of his heart. If he was indeed blessed.
--
When morning came, he snuck away between meetings with the greasy
Master and his scheming councillors, and found a blacksmith willing
to lend the King Under the Mountain the use of his tools.
He took his time, but it was only the work of an hour or so to
gently shape the metal into the best form. He almost changed the
design on the very first step, almost faltered and gave up his
foolish, greedy hopes to settle for a simpler token. But a
craftsman's hands will have their will, regardless of any hesitation
from his reason. And so he ever so carefully used a hammer and blade
to slice the beautifully pure silver all along the handle. And ended
with two beads, each with half the original design.
Holding them in his hands, Thorin's soul rang like a bell, too loud
for his fear to be heard. And the rest of the day passed in a blur,
the sound of his blood in his ears like the sea he had once visited.
He spent supper with his rowdy company quiet in his seat, eating
little. Although such behaviour was hardly new for him, the frequent
frowns from almost everyone made him suspect he was not keeping his
agitation from showing.
When Bilbo left the evening's after-supper get-together to go to
bed, Thorin followed, too twitchy to be subtle. It was not until he
saw Bilbo about to enter the room he shared with Ori that he found
the courage to speak up, hoping the rare shake in his voice would be
missed, and asked the hobbit to follow him to his private room.
The door closing made him blink, suddenly aware that he had no idea
how to broach this subject. He had hardly broached it to himself!
But he felt as though the beads in his pocket were beacons, lit
across mountains in undeniable appeal.
When Bilbo's curious expression turned worried and he moved forward,
reaching out as though gentling some wild creature, Thorin finally
found a calm moment, thinking of those hands reaching out to bring
him peace in the maddening dark of the dungeon. And he thanked the
burglar, as he had never thought to do before, for all the rescues
the company owed him. That Thorin owed him.
And then he took one last breath, and reached up to undo two of his
braids, removing the beads.
Bilbo watched him, silent but with eyes wide with curiosity. Thorin
was not in the habit of undoing his hair in public. Though the
hobbit had no doubt seen all his company groom their own and their
kin's braids, he still had to be wondering...
Pulling his weed pouch out, and fishing out the beads hidden there,
before putting the pouch back against his heart, Thorin looked up,
the brief sight of those two halves of a whole in his palm affecting
him again with that feeling of rightness.
He started by admitting to having found the hobbit's spoon, all
those months ago. And watched momentary confusion change to memory;
the hobbit had not even missed his so genteel memento. That further
proof of who Bilbo truly was gave his hopes strength, and Thorin
separated the four beads to hold out a hand with just one of his and
one half of the Shire spoon in the palm.
And he asked his hobbit if he would let the dwarf put braids in his
hair.
The silence that greeted the question, accompanied as it was with
wondering, hopeful even, eyes that flickered between his own, his
undone braids and the beads in his hand made the dwarf's hope turn
to joy. Feeling his eyes brighten and his lips part in the beginning
of a smile, Thorin knew he would have to explain at least a little
more, but he preferred to wait until his audience was ready to hear.
Then Bilbo stepped closer and gently picked up the unfamiliar bead,
fingertip grazing Thorin's palm for a breathless instant. And Thorin
watched his eyes widen and fly up to meet Thorin's with both
recognition and confusion.
And, a remnant of fear for a moment insisting on leaving a path to
safety, Thorin explained earnestly that he could weave the braids to
show the hobbit's friendship to the people of Erebor, his
acknowledged bravery.
But then, grasping hope, he added that they could mean something
more. Showed the matching pair of beads in his other hand; and he
found the words to ask if the hobbit would also be willing to braid
Thorin's hair. Words to explain, breathless from what felt like the
greatest risk of his long life, that the strange beads were each
half of his old spoon; as Bilbo was half of Thorin's soul.
The impossibly bright smile on his hobbit's lips was too much for
him to continue to find words, and the breathless 'Yes!' that
accompanied it made further words superfluous anyway. The hobbit
lips pressed against his an instant later also made words difficult;
as well as thought.
--
It took sensuous hours of hair combing and twisting, interrupted
with kisses and touches and cries of pleasure, before Bilbo was
convinced he had made Thorin's braids correctly to show a great deal
more than friendship. And then there was more stroking of slick
braids, and possessive kissing, and when the morning sun came
through the window, it was immensely satisfying to look at his
hobbit and be certain that everyone would KNOW not only that the
hobbit was his, but that he belonged to the hobbit.
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