Work Text:
Come Rain or Come Shine
As a rule, Dwarrow were not overly fond of rain, or weather, in general and they vastly preferred to remain tucked away within whichever mountain range they called home, separated from such nonsense by as many feet of stone as they could manage.
This was standard amongst the people of Erebor, as well. During the heights of winter and summer, especially, it was commonplace for the Mekhêmel to stay sealed for weeks at a time to protect the kingdom from blizzards and heatwaves and storms so lengthy that the Long Lake and the Celduin flooded the land. In the halcyon days before the Dragon had descended, it had not been unheard of for a Dwarf or Dwarrowdam, of any rank below royalty, to have never set foot outside the mountain walls or to have no firsthand experience with the more tumultuous seasons of Arda. Thorin, born a prince of Durin’s line, had never been so sheltered in those days, nor could he afford to be as King Under the Mountain, but that did not mean he liked snow or hail or rain. He rather loathed the former two, truth be told, and found the latter to be nothing but an inconvenience at even the best of times. During the long years that Thorin had spent in exile, any one of the three occurring whilst he was away from Ered Luin had made being a travelling blacksmith very, very difficult. He could live forever without weather and not be upset by the lack of it.
Normally, his beloved Consort’s opinions about the extreme weather in the east matched Thorin’s own. The Shire had been subjected to rain and snow, of course, but from the way Bilbo described it the storms that passed over the four farthings had oft been almost gentle, as if the clouds themselves wished to protect Yavanna’s sons and daughters from any true harm. Rain and snow were part of the balance that kept their rolling hills and green life flourishing. Mild winters and summers, blossoming springs, and bountiful autumns were what Bilbo had grown up knowing and he had not been pleased to discover how life-threatening the yearly mid-summer tempests and winter blizzards could be to the land which surrounded the Lonely Mountain and the peoples who called it home.
Due to the danger, Bilbo was typically just as resigned as Thorin was to stay indoors during any storm of note, though he was also quick to lament how they kept him from getting his daily dose of sunshine – Hobbits did so love the sun, Thorin knew. So, when Thorin returned to their apartments to dress for dinner and realized that Bilbo had gone out into his garden despite the rain pouring down, the first emotion he felt was panic and he immediately darted out into the torrential shower without a shred of concern for his own safety.
“Bilbo!” he yelled, all but slamming into the stone railing of the terrace that overlooked the rest of the garden and looking around wildly in order to locate his husband. “Bilbo, where are you!”
“I’m over here, darling,” Bilbo called from beneath the boughs of their Oak tree, to Thorin’s immense relief.
The first seed that Bilbo had planted in his garden, minutes after Thorin had gifted the space to him on their wedding night, had been the acorn he had picked up at Beorn’s and it had grown to nearly full-size in less than four years, imbued as it was with Bilbo’s natural magic. On clear, sunny days, Bilbo could often be found curled up against its trunk with a book or pipe in hand. He had never before dared to do so during a rainstorm, however. Even though he was safe from lightning, because the Everbright steel net shrouding the garden absorbed the bright flashes, Bilbo could easily crack his head open or break an arm or fall ill or suffer from some other mischief thanks to all the water cascading down from the heavens.
Thorin rushed down the stairs – it was a minor miracle that he did not slip and crash down onto his arse given how slick the marble steps were – and through the garden until he could duck beneath the branches of the Oak, where he found his husband kneeling in the wet dirt beside a patch of silvery-white flowers, each no bigger than a fingernail.
“Ghivashel,” Thorin demanded, crouching down next to Bilbo and kissing his forehead, trying to calm his racing heart, “What are you doing out here? It’s not safe.”
“The storm isn’t that bad, darling. There hasn’t even been any thunder and here, under the leaves, it’s much less intense,” Bilbo replied with a wide smile and no small measure of excitement. “Besides, I simply had to come. I felt it happening in my heart and nothing would have stopped me from coming out to see for myself. The seven Seeds we planted on Lithe last year have finally begun to sprout, dearest, that’s why all these flowers have grown here.”
“The…” Thorin trailed off as realization struck him, and he turned to look at the dozens of tiny blooms in wonder, “Oh. Oh, Bilbo.”
“I suppose it took so long because Dwarven pregnancies are so lengthy and, thus, our Fauntlings needed more time to fully take root, but in just a few weeks, they shall Blossom and then we’ll be parents at long last,” Bilbo announced cheerfully.
Bilbo himself had been a gift from Mahal, one which Thorin could never deserve but would cherish with every breath in his body, nonetheless. And then, when Bilbo had told him in Lake-town how Hobbits made their children, growing them in the ground like the most precious of flowers, and that they could grow bairns from the Seeds that Bilbo was already then nurturing in the deepest part of his soul, it had changed everything. Maybe the gold-sickness would have found purchase in his mind, like most feared it would, had he not been so resolved to protect the future Bilbo carried within him – nothing was more important to a Dwarf than their children – and maybe he would have actually been able to send Bilbo into the Treasury to face Smaug alone, but neither of those things came to pass. With the Company’s help and Bilbo’s clever tongue, Thorin had been able to slay the worm with a lance of Shadow Mithril, found by sheer happenstance amongst the piles of half-melted gold and gems, and the reign of the beast had ended.
The Battle that occurred shortly following Smaug’s death might have had an ending far more devastating than that which had come to pass if Thorin had not been so willing to ally with the Men of Esgaroth and, yes, even the Elves. His pride and ancient grudges had not meant anything when faced with the possibility of Azog getting his filthy hands on Bilbo. He had given the Gems of Lasgalen to Thranduil and barrels of gold to the Men without hesitation; he would have given away the Arkenstone had it been necessary.
“There are four girls and three boys,” Bilbo determined.
Thorin inhaled sharply, absolutely delighted, and then pulled Bilbo into his lap, kissing him properly and as ardently as he was capable of. Bilbo responded at once, winding his fingers in Thorin’s damp hair as he deepened the kiss. The rain became far less of a nuisance then, as it provided an almost musical background for the intimacy King and Consort shared.
“I love you,” Thorin whispered fiercely a few minutes later. “So much, Ghivashel, and I love our children already. I can hardly to wait to raise babes with you, Bilbo Baggins.”
“I love you too,” Bilbo replied, and then kissed him again.
THE END
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Translations (Khuzdûl)
- Mekhêmel [Great Gates]
- Ghivashel [Beloved]