LotR/The Hobbit Drabbles

Songbird (Thorin)

The sequel to Silence, another tumblr request!

Once Thorin learned your name, he used it as often as possible. It made you feel more at home to hear your name so frequently, even if it was in a voice that did not at all sound like home. Thorin's voice was deep and resonant, regal with a hint of wildness that you wondered if he might ever tame.

You hoped he wouldn't.

His company had gotten better about not begging you to sing at every moment. They only asked for music every few hours, which was easier on you. Kili and Ori asked most often, the former with fluttering eyelashes that betrayed his flirtatious youthfulness, the latter with a shy bashfulness that you found hard to refuse. In the end, you sang more than you meant to, though Thorin was always mindful of his dwarves' requests. He would quell the requests that would tax you the most, smiling in that close-lipped way of his as you nodded your silent thanks. Some days he would not let you sing at all, to your bafflement.

You tried to grow braver, but it was still hard for you to be around so many people that were near strangers while simultaneously isolated from the world by wilderness. Gandalf and Bilbo were still kind to you. They made sure you felt welcome at the dinner fire once camp was settled, and they told you stories that made you forget your own troubles. Bilbo was an amazing storyteller, and you encouraged him to write them down, smiling to yourself at the thought that maybe you would have an impact in this fanciful world, after all. You tried to be helpful in other ways, loathe to be a burden on the ones who had been kind enough to take you in. Bombur always offered you a cutting board loaded with vegetables and a knife as he prepared the evening meal, his wordless welcome and thankful smile a bit of peace in a world that never seemed to stop moving.

But you always seemed to come back to Thorin. He drew you in as if he had his own gravitational force. It was a steady pull, a silent pull, fed by the sound of his voice saying your name and the shocking gentleness of his hands whenever they touched you to help you over a log in the path or pull you to safety if an attack came. It was fed by the rapt look in his eyes when night fell and the stars appeared and you sang your last song. In those moments, he looked like a man finding fresh, clean water after years in the desert. But he never made a request. Never once did he ask you to sing, or express a preference for a song.

That is, until that night after you had caught your first glimpse of the Lonely Mountain.

You had been through so many trials with the company, it was a relief to have been delivered to safety by the Eagles, and an even bigger relief to make camp on high ground. There was a mountain stream not far from the camp, where you took some of that evening's dirty dishes to clean. You were humming to yourself one of the old love songs from your world—a classic that had always touched your heart, and seemed to spring from your lips with the setting of the sun. It was a clear night, the moonlight romantic over the changing autumn leaves, and you couldn't seem to help it. You knelt on the streambed, rinsing dishes and humming happily to yourself. But a quiet splash from just downstream stopped you, the tune faltering on your tongue, and you looked up to see Thorin crouched next to the stream, water dripping from his hands like gems in the moonlight, his shirt discarded.

Your happiness was forgotten at the sight of his many wounds, inflicted by the orc one night ago. The scabs were new and faint, with dark bruising that outlined where the warg had clamped her jaws around him. You winced, blushed, and looked down again, for the wounds had not marred the chiseled muscle of his torso, or hidden the rugged allure of his form.

"Do not stop on my account," Thorin said, his voice rough as if he had been stifling grunts of pain.

Your blush deepened, and you looked up, mutely shaking your head.

"Please," he intoned quietly. "It is a lovely tune. I would be glad to hear more of it."

You had never thought you would hear the displaced king plead for anything. He was so stern, so proud, so sure of himself. "All right," you found yourself saying, and resumed the tune and your work.

When you had finished the song, repeating the chorus one time too many, your dishes were clean, and your hands were still. You had glanced at Thorin surreptitiously throughout the song, and had seen him wince as he dabbed his wounds with a steady hand.

"Would you let me help?" You finally asked in the stillness of the quiet wood.

Thorin looked up in surprise. He cleared his throat. "Aye."

You took the rag from his outstretched hand, rinsed it in the cool stream water, and dabbed a wound on his shoulder that he might have had trouble reaching. To spare yourself the awkward silence that deepened your embarrassment—why had you offered to touch him?—you said, "There seems to be no sign of infection."

Thorin nodded, his gleaming eyes fixed on yours. "There will not be. I know how to clean wounds, and we dwarves are made of stern stuff."

You glanced once at the many scars on his hairy chest, corded arms, and tight stomach, and swallowed. "I see."

The stream burbled in the sudden quiet between you. You moved to the next wound, dabbing the abused area gently with the cloth, steadying yourself with your other hand on an expanse of his warm, unblemished skin...

"My sister had a canary when we lived in the mountain."

"Pardon?" Thorin's rich voice had interrupted your inexcusable appreciation of him, and you forcefully redirected your attention to his story and not to the firm muscle beneath your hand.

Thorin chuckled to himself, the sound buzzing from his ribcage to yours. Why was breathing suddenly difficult? "For a long time she thought there was something wrong with it. It was intended to be a mining bird, to indicate unsafe areas to miners, but it would not sing." Thorin's smile was wry on his lips. "Dis thought she could fix it by bringing it to court. But it was too noisy there to even know if the bird sang. We dwarves are rowdy creatures," he fixed his eyes on you again, and the light in them made you warm beneath your ribs, "and the court is no quiet place. Dis nearly gave up on the poor thing, and begged me to try. The only thing I could think of was to take it away from the court. I had it moved to the library, next to the window where it could see the sun. And the next thing I know," the wry smile transformed to a grin that lit the night, "the little thing was singing its heart out."

You had stopped dabbing his wounds, distracted by the story, but one hands still rested on him. He reached out, taking the rag from you and setting it down, turning your hand over in his. His palm cradled your hand, making it look small and delicate for the first time in your life, as if it were a precious bird.

"I think you are very like that canary," he said to your palm, tracing the lines with one finger with gentleness that sent thrills of anticipation up your neck. "You sing best in the quiet. In the light." He punctuated the statement with a kiss pressed to the center of your palm. You didn't dare breathe, lest he remember who you were and break the spell.

He looked up at you again, the normally stern set of his brow softened. "You are a beautiful songbird. You will look so beautiful in my court, once I reclaimed Erebor. On a throne, next to me. My queen."

You made a desperate sound, your eyes bugging out of your head. Was he saying what you thought he was?

He smiled again, this one tinged with a darker warmth, and growled, "But I would much prefer to keep you to myself, songbird."

He leaned toward you, your hand a willing captive in his, your cheek carefully cradled in his other hand, and then his lips were on yours.

Were there words to describe the magic of it? You weren't sure, but if there were you didn't know them. He was warm and gentle and firm, but not so firm that you couldn't pull away. You didn't, though. You couldn't. Your heart wouldn't let you.

When his lips left yours, his eyes searching, you felt a little breathless. The only thing you could think to say was, "I hope you didn't kiss the canary like this."

His rich laughter burst from his lips before he kissed you again. "Certainly not, my songbird. Those are just for you."