Ever After, To The End Of His Days
Dragon slayed, Erebor reclaimed, its rightful King crowned. There are many reasons to keep tongues wagging in the Shire when it comes to Bilbo Baggins and his infamous adventures, and he decides to give them a few more by showing up, unexpectedly alive and well... And betrothed to a dwarven king, no less. Bilbo is about to throw a most memorable summer wedding party for all of the Shire to talk about for many years to come.
Originally released December 18th 2014.
The Shire basked in bright sunlight. It was slowly drawing closer to midday; it was as peaceful and idyllic as could be, the trees heavy with green new leaves, rhododendron and hydrangea bushes in full bloom along the sidewalks, and barely a single hobbit was in sight apart from playing children in the green courtyards. On any ordinary day – and hobbits considered ordinary days to be of the best kind, with nothing unexpected or unwanted turning up to disturb the peace of their lands –, you would have found all the Shirefolk gathered around their tables in their cosy hobbit holes for a cup, or a pot, of nice tea, enjoying their elevenses without a care in the world.
On any ordinary day, yes, but this was certainly no ordinary day.
On a field within a shouting distance from Bag End there stood a large, white marquee, under which hundreds and hundreds of chairs had been crammed around tables laden heavily with appetizers fitting the most luxurious of feasts. Outside was a long lane of neatly arranged benches and stools, all marked with handwritten signs. Each sign bore a name - Brandybucks, Tooks, Bagginses, Bracegirdles and Proudfoots (where someone had crossed out 'foots' and scribbled 'feet' beneath it in angry red cursive), couple of them even sporting decidedly unhobbitish names. The lane of signs led towards a makeshift archway adorned with colourful wild flowers and ribbons and a very large banner emblazoned with ‘congratulations’.
Larger tables, located in small clusters all around the field, were laden with tall piles of plates, cups and cutlery. A storage house had been set up not too far away from the tables, holding a wide variety of foods and its doors ajar as more dishes were being carried in still, and dozens of barrels of the Green Dragon's very best ale, specially ordered six months in advance and now delivered on the spot the night before, just waiting for thirsty guests to arrive. For now, the scene was mostly vacated, only with a random hobbit here and there making last minute arrangements to the decorations, hanging banners to the tree branches and fitting flower bouquets to some of the empty vases waiting on the tables.
In the middle of this festive scene stood the tall figure of Thorin Oakenshield sweating in the bright summer sunlight right beneath the archway and looking and feeling very unlike himself.
His heavy, dwarvish fur-adorned clothes were gone and replaced by a white dress shirt with wide, slightly puffy sleeves, a blue vest and high-waisted pants. If it hadn't been for the boots and the beard one might have suggested he looked peculiarly hobbit-like in his current outfit. Bilbo had spent a week trying to talk him out of wearing the boots, too, but Thorin had refused to even consider going barefoot and mulishly feigned deafness everytime the subject popped up, and eventually the Master of Bag End had thrown up his hands and surrendered. He could not complain that the hobbits wouldn't have put their best efforts into creating his outfit: all of his clothing had been specifically tailored for him and him alone, and the amount of needlework that must have gone into the embroideries of his vest alone was enough for the tailor to gain his most heartfelt respect, but it was as plain as daylight that he felt exceedingly ludicrous in this getup and wished dearly that the day would be over as quickly as possible.
Quite frankly, he was now starting to understand Bilbo’s discomfort in Erebor several months ago much better, even though he insisted his Consort looked much more dashing in furs than he did a waistcoat.
Swarthy hobbit lass with long, curly hair swept past him with her arms full of empty pints, smirking as she glanced at him. Truth to be told hobbits in general still kept looking at him funny every chance they got. They did encounter dwarves in the Shire occasionally, that much was true, but never had there been one actually taking part in a Shire wedding, or any other one of their customs for that matter, even as a guest. Most outrageous, some called it, a wedding between a hobbit and a dwarf. It had been the main source of gossip for the hobbits in all four farthings and even in certain parts of Bree for the past year, ever since Bilbo Baggins had turned up, quite unexpectedly, back from his adventure. That had been a delicious source of gossip in itself already for countless months, and the fact that he’d announced his marriage plans quite soon after his return had only encouraged the town gossips.
Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had shown up on the doorstep of Bag End the day after and argued in shrill voices with Bilbo so heatedly that all the neighbours from the next twenty smials down the lane had shown up to witness the scene, some of them actually leaning out of their windows to see better, and on one memorable occasion, an elderly gentlehobbit had taken out his ear trumpet and waddled right in front of the curious crowd gathered on the lane. The things Bilbo had told her in the face of her recent attempts at auctioning away his property and now openly speaking against his marriage plans did not bear repeating, but the eye witnesses had all blanched visibly listening to them.
The general majority, however, had received the news of a coming wedding rather positively. It became widely known that the dwarf in question was of a very high standing – a king, they had heard, though they were seldom very interested in the dealings of peoples of the outside world – and therefore the party, too, would have to be unusually grand. This meant, for the hobbits, a whole week of eating, drinking, dancing and celebrating, and no hobbit would have declined to show up at such a feast, no matter how unusual the circumstances.
”I wish this nonsense would be over soon,” Thorin grumbled to no one in particular, shifting uncomfortably on the spot, feeling unusually exposed. Behind him, Fíli erupted into laughter.
”Relax, uncle,” he grinned with apparent enjoyment, sitting under a small apple tree that provided very little shade. ”You continue glowering like that and you'll end up frightening all the guests!”
Thorin glared at him, a tactic that seemed to have no effect whatsoever on his nephews anymore. ”Why aren't you at Bag End with your brother and Dís?”
”It's getting much too crowded in that hole with mother fussing around making all those last minute arrangements that Bilbo and her both seem to be so fond of. We tried to make a run for it but she caught Kíli when he was trying to climb out of the window after me,” Fíli pointed out, sounding slightly disappointed. He flopped on his back on the soft grass and crossed his legs, looking up at the brilliant blue sky.
”It was a very nasty trick from all of you to side with Bilbo, for that matter,” Thorin said and tried to loosen the tie around his neck for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. ”I feel absolutely ridiculous in this costume.”
Fíli gave him one of his usual glowing smiles. ”It's not just a feeling, uncle; you do look ridiculous.”
”Shut your mouth, Fíli.”
”I don't understand what you're so grumpy about, anyway” he continued as though he had not heard Thorin, closing his eyes and pulling out a pipe from his pocket. ”After today your union will be official according to both dwarven and hobbit customs – and you could hardly ask for a more beautiful place for a wedding, really.”
”That's easy for you to say,” Thorin replied with air of utter distaste. ”You're not the one dressed up in a ridiculous costume today.”
Fíli's responding laughter carried well over the field and caught the attention of every single hobbit bustling about in the area.
Meanwhile at Bag End, Bilbo stood on a stool in the middle of the foyer feeling every inch as ridiculous as Thorin outside in the field. Dís circled around him like a hungry warg, tugging at his pant legs and fixing his hair, until she finally stopped in front of him, eyeing him critically.
”Are you quite sure that you do not want me to braid your hair?” she asked, thick brows furrowed. ”It is a bit on the short side, I give you that, but there is a style or two that we could attempt to make you look more... festive.”
Bilbo sighed. This had been a recurring source of conversation in the past week. As much as he had grown to like Thorin's stern little sister since meeting her in Erebor several months previously, he had to admit her stubbornness easily rivalled that of her big brother’s and she did not easily relent in the face of obvious resistance. Her sons had, much to Bilbo's relief, done their best to cause trouble during their stay at Bag End whenever they read from Bilbo's anxious expression that their mother was becoming too overbearing, and had often managed to divert her attention elsewhere while Bilbo slipped out the door to mind his business, leaving her to discipline her two sons.
”Thank you ever so much for your concern, Dís, but I assure you, that truly won't be necessary,” Bilbo repeated as patiently as he could, trying to keep his expression friendly. The dwarf woman smacked her lips in disapproval, shaking her head so that the silver beads woven into her short, dark beard clattered against one another.
”Mister Baggins,” she began, and behind her Kíli looked positively alarmed. Bilbo noted the renewed use of his last name and gave Dís what he hoped was his most charming smile, mentally preparing himself for another round of whatifs and whithertos.
“Aren’t we quite beside formalities at this point?” Bilbo asked wearily.
“You’ll marry my brother in an hour’s time.”
“Yes, for the second time,” Bilbo replied. “And as you might still remember, my hair was braided for the occasion and I was forced to wear that uncomfortable circlet the entire day – not to mention the boots.”
“You are his royal consort, Bilbo. It’s required that you act the part in ceremonies.”
“And that is precisely why I wanted us to be wedded according to hobbit customs as well,” he intervened. “I know that this may all seem much too casual to you, but this is hardly unusual to us.”
Dís’ scowl could have easily rivalled even the best of Thorin’s. “It’s the most important day of your life – well, one of them, in any case. Why wouldn’t you want to stand out a little bit more?”
Bilbo laid a gentle hand on her arm, smiling in an exasperated sort of way. “A wedding is not a celebration only for the happy couple to enjoy, but for everyone.”
He was quite sure that Dís still did not exactly understand his meaning, but she had no time to argue further when a knock on the door interrupted them. They all started, turning to stare at the visitors.
“I’m sorry if we’re interrupting anything, but guests have started arriving already,” Drogo informed them, stepping over the threshold with Hamfast and Bell Gamgee at his heel. All of them were smiling, Hamfast giving a smart little bow at Dís.
“It’s that time already?” she frowned and gave Bilbo’s collar one last tug. “I suppose you’ll have to do.”
Drogo looked heavily amused but much to Bilbo’s relief he remained quiet.
“Are we all ready to get going, then?” Bilbo asked, jumping down from the stool and returning it to its proper place in the kitchen.
“Not quite. Kíli!” Dís barked suddenly, making her son jump to his feet almost immediately. “Get over here. You need to get changed.”
“But I only polished my chainmail yesterday, just for the occasion!” he protested, looking panic-stricken. If only he’d managed to get away with Fíli earlier.
“You are not wearing your traveling armour to a wedding.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my armour, mother, it’s in perfectly good condition―“
“You are wearing the outfit we commissioned for you even if I have to dress you myself, Kíli!”
“But mother―”
“My sweet, darling, foolish son,” Dís began very slowly, and Bilbo saw it better to signal his escorts that now would be a good time to leave. “It is your own fault that you did not want to bring your ceremonial armour with you from Erebor like I suggested you before, and therefore, you are not dishonouring your uncles by dressing like a vagabond to their wedding, and in front of Bilbo’s entire family, no less.”
Kíli shot a pleading gaze after Bilbo, who gave him a sympathetic grimace before closing the door after himself. “Mother, please, I―“
The hobbits had barely managed to sit down on the bench outside when they heard a pained yelp, and the commanding voice of the princess of Erebor shook the ground.
“Into your bedroom! NOW!”
Ten minutes later they all made their way towards the field. No one seemed to want to comment on Kíli, who had been forced into suspenders, waistcoat and a sunflower yellow tailcoat that made him look like a very uncomfortable omelette, nor that his face had been scrubbed so scrupulously clean that his cheeks were now pink and raw. He kept casting his mother mutinous glares, his resemblance to Thorin suddenly striking, attempting to lag behind the rest of the company and being pushed right back to the front by Dís.
Hamfast had pulled out his pipe, smoking as they walked, and quite happily chattering about last year's tomatoes with Bilbo, as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Bilbo quite appreciated this. He was starting to feel butterflies in his belly and any distraction was welcome at this point.
They reached the edge of the field and Dís waved, spotting Fíli in the gathering crowd. “Let’s go join your brother,” she told Kíli, who simply nodded, looking utterly humiliated. “We’ll see you later, Bilbo.”
Hamfast smiled, exhaling a large amount of sweet-smelling smoke. “We’d best go take our seats as well lest the Sackville-Bagginses steal ‘em and pretend theirs have been misplaced.”
Bilbo grimaced. “If that lot does show up I hope it’s too late for them to find any seats at all.”
“You take care now, Bilbo, and don’t worry too much,” Bell said and patted his arm kindly before grabbing her husband and steering him towards the benches. Bilbo and Drogo walked past the marquee, friends and family shouting greetings when they noticed Bilbo, many of them already gathering appetizers on their plates and carrying pints of beer towards their seats around the aisle.
Thorin’s hulking figure came into view, and Bilbo resisted the urge to laugh. He looked extraordinarily out of place and more uncomfortable than Bilbo remembered ever having seen him, more than a head taller than even the tallest hobbits and effectively blocking the sun from the Gamgees’ table with his wide frame. Even without his bulk he would have been a striking figure with his long and, despite Dís’ best attempts at taming it, wild mane of dark hair, so very unlike a hobbit’s. Had it not been for his obvious discomfort, Bilbo decided with a smirk, he would have looked very handsome indeed with his hair pulled back on a thick ponytail at his neck with long braids falling past his shoulders, each decorated with a small, carefully engraved bead.
From the corner of his eye he saw Dís ushering Kíli towards their designated table where Fíli sat waiting, roaring with laughter at the sight of his brother. Kíli responded with a hand gesture that earned him a slap to the back of his head from their mother. Musicians were already busy entertaining the guests waiting on both sides of the lane and with an encouraging smile and a final pat on the back from Drogo, Bilbo took a steadying breath before he slowly started to make his way towards the lane, and Drogo vanished into the crowd.
Hushed, excited conversation broke out all around as the rest of crowd saw him approaching and he tried to look as composed as possible. Mad Baggins, indeed! he thought to himself, deciding that there might be an ounce of truth in the gossip just this once. Had anyone told him two years previously that his quiet bachelor’s life at Bag End was coming to end with the arrival of a certain very much unexpected dwarven king, he would have thought the speaker quite hacked indeed. He did not think himself a judgmental hobbit and quite agreed that two lads living together was nothing for anyone to frown upon regardless of whatever cousin Lobelia might have thought about such things, but himself, a Baggins? Perhaps there was more to his Tookish side than he had previously believed.
He came to stand beside Thorin, the commotion around them quieting into dull, unimportant buzzing when their eyes met. Wordlessly, Thorin took his hand and laced their fingers together, and Bilbo felt heat rising to his face as they marched towards the front together. They had not taken more than a few strides when a high-pitched voice behind them squealed, “Mister Bilbo! Mister Thorin, sir!” and turning around, they came face to face with a group of beaming hobbit children. One of them, a brave-looking little girl with auburn curls and a flowery dress, tugged at Thorin’s pant leg and raised something that she was carefully holding in her tiny fist. On closer inspection Bilbo realised it was a flower crown, and one of her fellows, her brother judging by how remarkably alike they looked, was carrying another one.
“Mister Thorin, sir,” the girl piped up, standing on tip toe as though hoping to reach him better. “We ‘ave somethin’ for you and Mister Bilbo, we ‘ave!”
“For good luck!” squeaked another girl behind her, taking a small excited hop, and the other children nodded their agreement. Thorin looked slightly taken aback but broke into a smile at the sight of glowing enthusiasm on their small faces and got down on one knee with unexpected grace for someone of his size. The girl carefully took the crown, consisting of a dazzling number of tiny blue flowers, between both her hands and waddled to stand right in front of Thorin.
“Yours 'as forget-me-nots, because your eyes are blue,” she said very seriously and Thorin nodded, bowing his head so that the girl could place the crown there, the flower stems entwined together tightly with such care that only the nimble fingers of a child could have produced them.
“Thank you,” Thorin said kindly. The girl remained where she was, looking at him thoughtfully.
“Are you really a king?” she asked curiously. “You don’t look like a king, but my ma and pa said you are.”
Bilbo opened his mouth to intervene, wondering if the child had accidentally managed to offend every single dwarf present, but Thorin simply chuckled, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he smiled at her. “Your mother and father would be right, little one.”
“Oh,” she said, her expression slightly crestfallen. “That means you wear a crown all the time, don’t you, Mister Thorin?”
“That I do,” he admitted. “But it’s nowhere near as pretty as this one.” He reached out and ruffled her hair gently, and the girl broke into wheezy giggles.
The little boy hurried to Bilbo, who followed Thorin’s example and got down on one knee so the child could give him his crown. “Ma said that Mister Bilbo’s has to have red clovers an’, an’, woodland geraniums, ‘cuz of his hair. She said it would look nice,” he said, eyes wide with childish glee for being appointed with such an important mission.
“That was very thoughtful of your mummy,” Bilbo replied with a smile and bowed his head slightly, allowing the boy to set the crown upon Bilbo’s curls. He took his time arranging it as neatly as he could, tongue sticking out between his teeth in concentration. He turned around to look at his sister enquiringly.
“Daisy, what d’you think? This look nice?”
She nodded happily, bouncing up and down where she stood. “Uh-huh, very nice!”
“Thank you very much. All of you,” Bilbo said to the children, petting the little boy’s head as he stood up. The children tittered with excitement, the little girl giving Thorin a smart little curtsey before taking her brother’s hand, and they all turned around and returned to sit with their waiting families.
“I think you just earned yourself a whole bunch of avid admirers,” Bilbo whispered to Thorin as they started down the lane again, the musicians picking up a slower, regal tune.
“Jealous?” the dwarf asked, lightly nudging him with his elbow as they walked.
“Oh, terribly,” Bilbo replied dryly, though his eyes gleamed with humour as he returned the nudge.
They came to stand in front of the decorated archway, the final notes of the wedding march blaring out. With a fleeting glance at the enthusiastic officiator, dressed in a rather flamboyantly cut emerald green suit, they turned to face each other, standing about three feet apart. Bilbo was starting to feel rather hot, and he could no longer tell whether it was the sun or the fact that he was standing in front of the curious eyes of half the Shire, all of whom where there to witness yet another very unhobbitish oddity from the odd Mister Baggins of Bag End.
”My good hobbits and dwarves,” the officiator began, rather loudly for his voice to carry over the general, if hushed, chatter in the crowd, and the hobbits finally fell silent. ”We are gathered here on this most fine summer's day to witness an unusual but most joyous occasion...”
The speech had been mostly written from a scratch to suit their purposes; quite a lot of it had been pencilled by Bilbo himself, with suggestions and corrections from Ori, who had cleverly introduced the idea of borrowing suitable bits and pieces from its dwarvish equivalent. It had only felt proper to include something from both their traditions, Bilbo had admitted, something that would make them both feel as comfortable as possible even though it would no doubt be seen as crossing some invisible line of propriety by some of their guests. And truthfully, they might as well make the ceremony look and sound like themselves if they were to have one at all. There would not have been an existing sample to use as an example even if they had wished for one, for no one could claim for ever having heard of a union declared between the two races before.
The officiator drawled on and on with necessary and heartfelt flattery to both of their families, which drew enthusiastic cheers from the crowd, but Bilbo felt as though the world was shifting out of focus, all the faces and sounds around him becoming an uninteresting, unimportant blur. While the ceremony in Erebor had been extravagant, rigid and formal to the point of boredom, there was something completely different about standing on a green field in the Shire surrounded by friends and family, dressed up in his comfortable hobbit clothes and with a feast of laughter, song and food and Gandalf's fireworks awaiting them, and his heart swelled at the sheer familiarity of the place.
His shoulders relaxed and he breathed in calmly. He could smell the new grass, the flowers, the trees. The Shire was nothing short of marvellous in the middle of the summer. There was something about standing on the same field where his parents had been wed years ago that touched him deeply, and for a while he wondered what they would have said about their only son marrying a dwarf. He was certain his mother would have liked Thorin, and he saw her dimpled smile with his mind's eye, imagining how she would have teased him about the clothes. Bungo might have shaken his head at first and questioned whether he'd received too many blows to the head on his journeys, but he would have warmed up in time, Bilbo knew. He always had in the end - he had married a Took, after all. It might have taken an interrogation or two on poor Thorin's expense, but they would have received his blessings eventually. Bilbo smiled, quite wishing his parents could be there to witness his wedding. All the formalities of the dwarves had made the other ceremony feel most alien to him, cold, somehow, but this – this time, he thought, this time was different.
Slowly, Bilbo lifted his gaze to meet Thorin's eyes. His face was as inscrutable and solemn as ever, the same emotionless mask he had often worn when their journey had begun what felt like an eternity ago, but when they reached out and grasped each other's hands, Bilbo could tell that he was more nervous than his face revealed. His hands, much larger than the hobbit's, were sweaty and betrayed only the slightest of tremors, and Bilbo smiled in spite of himself. He gave the dwarf king's hands a firm squeeze, which Thorin soon returned, and for the first time it really, truly, hit him; he was going to be married, really, properly married, to the dwarf in front of him, who presently looked absolutely out of place with that flower crown of forget-me-nots, their blue the same blue of his eyes, upon his head. Married to the dwarf now holding his hands tightly in front of their families, and knew he would hold them, in spirit, for the rest of their lives.
“Marriage, it is said, is the promise to stand by one another through good times and through bad times, to love one another here and now as well as in the unforeseeable future, come what may,” Bilbo could hear the officiator say, and he suddenly didn't know where to look. Although the words had been written by his hand, to hear them voiced out loud and laid bare for all keenly listening ears like this made him feel very small indeed, very small yet as visible as though he had been standing alone under a bright light. It was then that he felt Thorin's grip on his hands tighten and looking back up, he saw that the dwarf king's eyes were soft with unusual tenderness, and Bilbo momentarily forgot to breathe.
“And now, in front of all those gathered here today standing as witnesses, I ask you, Thorin son of Thráin, son of Thrór, a dwarf of Erebor, is it your intention, of your own free will, to wed this Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, son of Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Took, a hobbit of the Shire, and take him as your husband from this moment on?”
Thorin turned away from the officiator to look at Bilbo, considering him in silence for a moment that felt much longer than it truly was. His eyes were full of wonder as he cupped the hobbit's hands between both of his own and slowly said, “yes, it is.”
The officiator nodded with a smile, turning to look at Bilbo instead. “And I ask you, Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, son of Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Took, a hobbit of the Shire, is it your intention, of your own free will, to wed this Thorin son of Thráin, son of Thrór, a dwarf of Erebor, and take him as your husband from this moment on?”
Still looking at Thorin, Bilbo opened his mouth once, but no sound came out. He felt as though he had forgotten how to speak at all.
“It is,” he managed, then cleared his throat and said more loudly, “, it is. I – I do intent to wed him.” He felt strangely breathless, and realised he had been holding his breath unconsciously. Thorin's hands were so very warm around his and he was only barely aware of the officiator speaking somewhere, as though very far away, when suddenly Thorin was embracing him like he had never embraced him before, his hand in Bilbo's hair and the other draped around his waist, and Bilbo hastened to stand up on his toes. Their foreheads touched and they looked at each other, briefly, until the hobbit’s hand snaked behind Thorin’s neck, fingers tightly entangling into his hair, and he closed the distance between them and met his lips.
All around them dwarves and hobbits cheered and clapped, Gandalf's cheerful laughter carrying over the noise. Fíli and Kíli were wolf-whistling and, finally breaking away from Thorin though his hand stayed firmly at the nape of his neck, Bilbo could just make out the distinct figure of Dís grabbing twisting their ears and the boys' sheepish grins turning into grimaces of pain.
Thorin straightened and they were suddenly surrounded by a loud gaggle of well-wishers and relatives patting their backs and hugging any part of them they could reach in the confusion, and Bilbo couldn't suppress his laughter any longer. His eyes swept over the crowd; there was Bofur, standing up on one of the tables to lead a round of applause with Ori and Dwalin joining him; Gandalf, already engulfed in pipe smoke, his face full of laughter; Lobelia and Otho Sackville-Baggins, with furious looks of utter disapproval on their faces, standing behind the cheering crowd (for there had been no seats reserved for them); Dís yelling at her sons about proper behaviour befitting the heirs of Durin; Balin, sitting a bit further away and giving them the thumbs up; and Hamfast and Bell Gamgee standing up with bright smiles on their faces as they clapped enthusiastically with everyone else. And then they were being pulled down by the crowd as someone picked up a fiddle and yelled, “now, good hobbits, we dance!” and all around them people were pushing out of the crowded lane and towards the empty space on the field where more musicians were already gathering.
Bilbo gave Thorin a wide, foolish grin, and taking his arm, allowed the crowd to lead them towards the field where the more enthusiastic couples were already spinning around. Bilbo and Thorin found themselves in the very middle of the ever-growing crowd of enthusiastic dancers and without pausing to explain Bilbo placed Thorin’s hand on his waist, ignoring his wide-eyed expression. “I told you there would be dancing,” he said, amused.
“But I don’t know the steps.”
Bilbo’s grin widened. “Just follow my lead and try to keep up.”
It occurred to Bilbo that his dwarf was a fast learner. His initial fumbling did not last long, and Bilbo was too quick from his feet to get his toes stepped on. He firmly steered Thorin across the field, the king’s stony expression of utter concentration slowly relaxing into one of genuine enjoyment once the tune became more familiar to him. Hobbit music was much faster and relaxed than the solemn dwarvish melodies Bilbo had heard so far, requiring fast footwork and a whole lot of spinning which only increased the more intoxicated the dancers became. Bilbo spun his husband around and the sound of their breathless laughter drowned under the song.
The afternoon stretched on as hot as ever, sweat streaming down everyone’s faces as the dance continued. Barrels of ale and honey mead were rolled out and crowds gathered in the shade of the party tree and the marquee, partaking in both refreshments and dishes.
“Why does it have so many green things in it?” Bilbo heard Kíli complain loudly as they bypassed Dís and her sons, busy filling their plates with everything they could reach.
“It’s hobbit food, dear,” Dís sighed. “Give it a try, at least, for courtesy’s sake.”
“I’ve already given up my dignity for courtesy’s sake, how many sacrifices do you want from me?”
Bilbo stifled a chuckle, grabbing a plate of his own and serving himself a generous amount of mashed potatoes and stir-fried rabbit meat, all swimming in delicious, succulent sauces. A sweaty palm pressed momentarily against the damp curls at the nape of his neck, tickling lightly at his flesh in a way that caused shivers to crawl up his spine. Then the hand withdrew almost reluctantly and Thorin started filling his own plate next to him, a concentrated frown on his face. The half-exasperated, half-flustered look Bilbo shot him went completely unnoticed.
The noise levels went up considerably following the opening of the ale barrels, and the air was heavy with sweet pipe smoke when dusk began to fall. Lanterns were soon lit, the approaching night doing nothing to quell the eagerness of the wedding guests. On the contrary, Bilbo was amused to notice that with a pint in one hand and a pipe in the other his neighbours showed no sign of their previous hesitation towards conversing with the dwarves. Thorin sat on a bench with a gaggle of children on his lap, climbing on his shoulders and entwining more wildflowers into his hair while their parents conversed with him good-naturedly, cheeks reddened from both dance and drink alike.
Really, he made quite the adorable sight with a little one cradled in his arms and a flower crown askew on his locks, Bilbo observed and grinned brightly.
“Now there’s something you don’t see every day,” Dís said with an amused chuckle, sitting down next to him.
“No, certainly not,” he agreed, lifting his pint. “I haven’t seen Fíli or Kíli around for a while. Did you finally take pity on them and allow them to leave?”
Dís laughed. “The boys took much more interest in the party after they started serving the drinks. Last time I saw them they were both twirling around some charming little lasses on the dance field over there.”
And sure enough, he could just make out Fíli’s golden braids flashing through the air above the heads of everybody else.
“Just make sure the said lasses return them or Erebor will soon be two princes short.”
The princess grinned, taking a sip of her own drink. “My good Bilbo, if there was ever a chance of marrying those two off to some unsuspecting girls and getting them off my hands for good, I’d jump to the opportunity with utmost glee.”
“You are an evil woman, Dís.”
“It’s the only way to remain sane if one grows up with Thorin.”
“And are you glad that he is off your hands now as well?”
“Like you have no idea,” she admitted and they both laughed. “You wouldn’t happen to have any of that famous Longbottom Leaf on you by any chance? I’ve been told by at least twenty different people today that what us dwarves smoke is nowhere near strong enough for a wedding party, as though it was an offence if wedding guests are not quite high enough.”
“Oh, some folks tend to take that as a sign that the party isn’t enjoyable if too many fellows are able to stand unsupported by the end of the night. Here, let me fill your pipe.”
They sat there smoking and talking lazily and erupting in laughter when Kíli was steered past them by a Bracegirdle maiden, colour high on his cheeks and his tailcoat missing. A few tables away Bofur stood up and, with a delighted titter from all spectators, started singing a highly inappropriate song very loudly. From the corner of his eye he saw Thorin hastily clap his hands over the ears of the child on his lap, who seemed very curious about the sudden merriment.
Bilbo emptied his pipe and walked up to Thorin, gently lifting the child from his lap. “Hello, little cousin,” he said merrily, giving the child’s nose a soft kiss. She giggled, wriggling in his arms.
“Tickles, unga Bee!”
“Not quite as much as a kiss from uncle Thorin would,” her mother supplied airily from the bench. “What with all that beard and all that.”
“Quite right,” Bilbo said happily, handing the girl back to her parents. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I shall borrow my husband for a bit.”
“Oh, of course, dear, wouldn’t be right of us to keep him all night!”
Bilbo pulled Thorin to his feet, trying not to laugh when he noticed that the children had negotiated flowers into his beard, too. “Aren’t you going to ask me to a dance, husband?”
Without waiting for an answer Bilbo slung an arm around his waist and pulled him towards the party tree. Thorin frowned, trying not to topple over when Bilbo spun them around to the beat of the song.
“I am surprised you are still so steady on your feet,” the king called over the music, and indeed, Bilbo’s coordination seemed to have suffered no damage from anything he had consumed during the day.
“How so?”
“I’ve barely seen you without either a pint or a pipe in your hands since the ceremony.”
“We hobbits can take far more than you might believe at first glance,” he replied merrily. “Any common hobbit can easily drink a dwarf under the table, you mark my words.”
Thorin scoffed disbelievingly. “That I would like to see.”
“Oh, you will see it before the night is over. Why, you are tripping over your feet far worse than I am!”
That earned him a jab to his ribs, but even in the hazy glow of the lanterns Bilbo could see him smirking. Up on a hill the first of the fireworks went off, casting a rain of golden sparks over the delighted guests. Children chattered excitedly, and flowers of brilliant green and red bloomed in the sky next. Bilbo smiled. He had not seen fireworks like this since his grandfather’s parties, and the memory of his mother’s laughing face illuminated by the flashing lights stirred his heart.
The sounds of celebration grew steadily even louder as more barrels of ale were brought to the tables and more dancing lights shot into the sky. Parents with young children left when their offspring started showing signs of falling asleep on their puddings, but the remaining guests were much greater in number and they seemed to only grow more eager by the hour. It was well past midnight when Bilbo and Thorin tottered through the still dancing crowd and towards the other edge of the field that was almost entirely deserted now. A small group of gentlemen sat on a stack of empty barrels, smoking and telling stories. Bilbo thought he could just make out the familiar form of Balin from behind the cloud of smoke.
“Is it just me or has the number of guests increased since night fall?” Thorin wondered, watching the crowd.
“Nothing that I was not expecting,” Bilbo said lightly. “Even those who have not been invited usually turn up anyway at a later hour. You could almost call it a tradition, it happens so frequently.”
Thorin only shook his head in answer, his expression serene as he beheld the dancers under the party tree. There might have been more silver at his temples and more lines on his forehead, but the tenseness that had plagued him before was now gone from his posture. Recovering from the war had placed many new burdens for him to carry upon his shoulders but he carried them with grace and pride, and Bilbo had been glad to see the haunted ghost of a man in exile make way for the king he was born to be.
It was unsurprising to see that the largest crowd was still gathered around the buffet tables, though they had lost a considerable amount of their offerings by now. Four pairs of feet, two of them wearing boots, poked out from under a table at the far end, and Dís’ booming laughter carried all the way across the field when she lifted the tablecloth to find her sons half-conscious in the company of amused hobbit girls, both of whom seemed to hold their liquor much better than the princes.
Ah, well, Bilbo mused, at least some of these dwarves will finally believe that trying to outdrink a hobbit is an unwise thing to do.
He pressed against Thorin’s side, the dwarf king’s arm curling around his shoulders almost automatically. Becoming this accustomed to the warmth of his strong body had happened faster than Bilbo could ever have guessed, but it was a familiarity that he welcomed with open arms.
“Thorin?”
“Mmm?”
“Are you warm?”
“Quite,” he admitted. “The nights are much warmer here than in the mountains.”
“Then how about we honour one of the most ancient hobbit wedding customs and disappear for the rest of the night?” Bilbo suggested, his expression sly.
“Are we not required to be present until the end of the celebrations?” Thorin asked, his expression one of genuine bafflement. Bilbo snorted and stood up on his toes to press a kiss on his cheek.
“We’d be here all week if we waited for that,” he laughed, then whispered conspiratorially, “, and I think I’d rather like to offer an opportunity for you to be relieved of your clothes and get more comfortable.”
Thorin flushed a deep crimson shade and his arm tightened around Bilbo, pulling him into a fierce kiss. The hobbit hummed his contentment. Thorin could practically hear him grinning when he spoke in hushed tones. “My, you really do need to cool down a bit, don’t you?”
Wordlessly, Thorin took his hand again and they left, for once not as royalty announced by the ringing of silver trumpets and a battalion soldiers in full armour, but as thieves in the shadows, slipping away to the night unseen and unnoticed by anyone in the light of the party tree. Down on the fields fiddles played far into the night, quite unconcerned by the couple’s disappearance, and no passers-by paid any notice to that it was only a little before dawn that the lights at Bag End were finally extinguished.
And if a pair of slightly intoxicated princes were forced to sleep under the party table when they found the front door locked, well, there were worse fates to be had than that.
