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Balin had sent out application forms for anyone interested in being a councildwarf over the latter half of a month. The rest of that month was spent sifting through the applicants to find those that fit Thorin's criteria. From there, Thorin could choose the seven he wanted and assign them an expertise.
Letters of approval or denial were sent out with a date for a meeting with the king; and every chosen dwarf was ecstatic. The king hadn't been seen since the battle for Erebor, relaying orders through his trusted 13 allies. Rumor was, wounds from the war still held him back.
The day arrived, and twenty one eager dwarfs piled into the grand meeting room. It had a rectangular shape that came into a rounded dome at the top, a constellation of gems representing the stars of Durin's crown adorning it.
A long table that could seat 30 (excluding the seats for the King, Consort, Head of Guard, and the King's Advisor) rested in the center with three large chandeliers above illuminating the space.
The dwarves filed into seats, fighting over who got to sit closest to the King. The two youngest, no older than the princes, got the right while the eldest dwarves fought over it. Some of them were children of the councilmen who served the king's grandfather (Balin only let those in to give Thorin someone to tell off, and some were scrappy kids who had fought their way to the top.
"Welcome, lads and lasses," Balin said with a polite bow. "The king will be with you shortly. His preparations has extended further than expected." With that, he left the room.
The youngest of them, a lass who went by Vyolsen, was giddy in her seat. "I've never met a king before!" She came from middle class lineage. Certainly not poor, but not rich either. It took a bit of work to get where she was.
The young lad who sat in front of her, Bastieol, grinned. He grew up rich. Professionalism was drilled into him like a pickaxe to the stones of a mine. He relaxed a bit, seeing someone else show how giddy they were. "Me neither. I met one of the princes, though. Prince Kili. He seemed friendly, maybe the king will be like him?"
"Oh, I do hope." Vyolsen said back.
An elder dwarf (Emrin) scoffed. "You children know nothing of politics. My father served King Thror. No doubt King Thorin is just as controlled as his grandfather, and would not take inexperienced and untamed pebbles."
"Your father was also dragon chow," Vyolsen snipped back at him. "I've heard that King Thorin is the quiet type; and that he treats everyone as their actions warrant."
"Listen here gal-"
"No." Vyolsen crossed her arms over her chest and turned her nose the other way. Perhaps she was a tad immature, but she knew politics like the hilt of her axe.
Bastieol leaned back in his chair. "I doubt the king wants an old crab like you. Rumor has it he picks by character and skill, not age or lineage."
Emril was appalled, both by the gall of these youth and the snickers from the potential councilors behind him.
"You ought to learn respect. King Thorin surely values that," he spat.
Vyolsen stuck her tongue out at him. As unfortunate luck would have it, the door at one end of the hall opened. King Thorin, Head of Guard Dwalin, Advisor Balin, and Dwarf Friend and Hero Bilbo Baggins waltzed right in.
Mahal, dressing with a bad hip and missing foot was a nightmare. Thorin still wasn't used to the prosthetic (the proper proportioned one, not a spare from Dain) either. Most days he opted for a crutch and went without it. The only reason he managed to dress was with help from Bilbo.
Thorin checked himself in the frustratingly small mirror. "Does this look alright?" He asked to Bilbo, who was standing behind him.
Bilbo inspected the outfit and tilted his head. "Uh-" he reached up to Thorin's hairline, then stopped his hand short. Unbeknownst to him, it was quite the disappointment for the king.
"You have strand of hair flipped on the wrong side," Bilbo said matter of factually.
Thorin bent down to look in the mirror and frowned. "So I do," he hummed. He looped one finger into the hair and pulling it back where it belonged. "Better?"
Bilbo nodded, smoothing the furs of Thorin's coat that had puffed where they didn't belong. His hand lingered there as he looked up. "Perfect."
They started at each other like the love struck idiots they were, neither one admitting that maybe what they had wasn't entirely platonic. It was the same song and dance they'd done since Björn cabin. There seemed to be no sign of it slowing down either.
"We should go. We're already late," Bilbo whispered almost inaudibly.
Thorin nodded. "Mm." He had no intention of taking his eyes off of Bilbo.
The hobbit slowly took his hand and led him out of the dressing room, all the way down the hall and to where Balin and Dwalin were waiting on them. He mourned the warmth Bilbo's hand brought him as he jerked away.
"Took ya long enough," Dwalin muttered.
Thorin rolled his eyes with extra drama. "It's alright, princes," he said. "Shall we?"
They pushed open the doors and walked in with the special royalty posture that was drilled into them at a young age. All for Bilbo, who Thorin was dragging by the arm (he was not told he was joining the meeting.)
The first thing they saw was a young girl sticking her tongue out at one of the older lads. He looked red in the face from anger. That anger quickly dissolved into a grin that made Thorin question how he even got into this room in the first place.
The lass whipped around and gave a sheepish grin. "Uh, your majesty!"She said quickly, giving a proper bow. "My deepest apologies. But he was being an asshole."
The councilors rushed to stand behind their seats (Vyolsen red in the face) until the King settled in his own. Thorin sat down first, as was customary, while Balin and Dwalin followed. Bilbo stood awkwardly beside him with the stark realization that he didn't have a chair. He leaned in to whisper into Thorin's ear.
"Uh, Thorin, where am I to sit?" He asked, glancing around the room.
"There is a perfectly good seat to my left, you may sit there," Thorin said far too calmly for Bilbo's liking.
Bilbo glanced at the seat then back at Thorin. "That's the consort chair, is it not?" His words rushed out and a blush crept into his face.
"What does it matter?" Thorin was clearly acting coy now.
"It matters everything! People are going to think we are involved!" Bilbo whisper-shouted. No doubt, the potential councilors were staring at them.
"Is that such a problem?" Thorin titled his head and look up at Bilbo with reverence in his eyes.
The tips of Bilbo's ears turned bright red. "You have very poor timing for confessions, o' king," Bilbo huffed, but he did sit down.
Thorin made a lowering motion with his hand, signaling that the potential councilors could sit. He waited patiently for them all to get settled in their seats while his left hand idly rubbed Bilbo's knee.
The potential councilors were all giddy with anticipation to hear the voice of the King. Most people had described it as full of range, that you never knew what you'd hear. It came as a rolling boom that could shake mountains, making orcs and troublemakers tremble where they stood. Other times it was a soft hum that could lull a crying pebble to sleep.
None of them really paid attention to the introductions Balin was giving, besides when they had to give their own courtesies. Finally, the king stood before them and opened to his mouth to speak. Aaaaand
It was all gibberish. Never had any of them considered that the king who lived among peasants in the Blue Mountains, where lived the moonshiners and the hics, would sound like a peasant.
The king stared at them for a bit, a confusion on his face that matched theirs. That was until Savior Bilbo Baggins (who was apparently his consort/consort-to-be?) burst out laughing.
"Oh, my goodness. Thorin, I don't believe they understand what you said," he said between chuckles. None of the councilors knew what he was saying as they only bothered to learn their language.
"I spoke Khuzdul, did I not?" Thorin titled his head with much confusion.
Bilbo shook his head. "You're Khuzdul sounds very different to theirs. I believe you have a regional accent that they can't decipher."
It looked like a spark lit in Thorin's brain and he covered his face with his hands. He dragged them down his face at snails speed with a groan that sounded very relieving.
"The Blue Mountains. They're country folk." Dwalin threw in, pointing to the councilors.
"These people know posh Khuzdul." Balin added.
It took everything in Thorin not to slump down into his chair. "It has been a good while since I spoke a form of Khuzdul that's considered 'proper.' The company just got used to it."
He cleared his throat and though very, very carefully on his next few sentences. What even was the 'proper' pronunciations, anyhow? It hadn't been since he was around 100 that he used it.
"Let's…try that again, shall we? I apologize for the misunderstanding."