An Unexpected Fanfiction: The Hobbit & LOTR One Shots

Memory Mantel

Requested by the wonderful soccer_queen4! Thank you so so much for the request and your patience (that I really do not deserve)!!

Type: one-shot

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader (left her race pretty anonymous because why not)

Translations: 'amrâlimê ' = 'Love of Mine/My Love'

Hope you like!

We open on a crackling fire, its flames bright and cheery as it fends off this winter morning's chill. If we zoom out a little, we see the mantle of a stiff, marble-trimmed fireplace, the sheen stone glinting in the flickering light. On this mantle rests a number of objects, memorabilia, if I may- symbols of the precious past. To the far left sits a small glass vase of crocus flowers. Beside those are, in this order from second-left to far-right, a simple yet elegant crown of 'woven' silver, a single wooden bead the color of bronze, draped upon a thin chain, and an empty tear-shaped vial. Gazing upon these odds and ends is the lady who's memories they represent. Her eyes twinkle in the firelight, the laugh lines around her eyes stretching as she rocks back-and-forth, back-and-forth in a rocking chair made from the wood of an alder tree, a smile spreading across her well-aged complexion. Her name is Olivia. She is a lady in her waning years, a retired adventurer- but that is not all.

She is a wish-maker.

A much younger depiction of her watches the grey clouds as wheatgrass and crocus flowers tickle her bare feet. She, then limber enough to easily bend down and pick one of the latter, does so as a rumble in the distance alerts her to the afternoon sky's disagreeable temperament. A woman, a queen, who has the same narrow nose as Olivia, steps out from the doorway of a nearby tent- which is decorated quite regally -and watches her daughter with a small smile. Olivia has not picked flowers since she was a child, and her mother's heart warms to see her pondering the sunshine-yellow crocus as such. She calls to Olivia, warning her of the coming storm, and her daughter replies calmly, asking rather out-of-the-blue what that old rhyme for luck in love is. Her mother recites it straight from memory and Olivia repeats the four verses, whispering them to the flower in her hands as the breeze begins to pick up and the sky issues another deep note. She releases the six-petaled flower into the strengthening wind, hoping with a trusting heart for her wishes of good fortune in the ways of love to come true- for she suspects something about why her parents are bringing her away from home this week. Once this storm passes, the way to their destination will be clear, and although she knows mostly what to expect when they get there, she's also sure that she doesn't really know at all.

She is a dance-burglar.

It isn't like she means to be. It is only the first evening in this splendrous mountain kingdom since Olivia and her party arrived. How was she supposed to know the crown prince would notice her a short while ago and bring her to meet his uncle, the king (a move her parents were clearly very excited about)? How could she have predicted how taken he's become with her, how he now asks her for just one more dance, and then another, and perhaps again? Why does she not perceive the jealous stares from the other noble ladies who pass her by, disdain in their eyes? She does not notice because she is too busy being caught up in his eyes, and who can blame her? His eyes are worth getting caught up in. The night falls into its later hours and the dancing ends to Olivia's overall chagrin (ignoring her aching feet). The king offers her one final bow and she curtsies customarily in return. When she rises, she feels a gentle hand on her temple- he is realigning her crown of delicately-woven silver from where it has tilted atop her silky locks, shifted astray throughout all the twirling and tapping of the evening. He bids her goodnight and is gone like a specter, leaving her with her no-longer-crooked crown and an oh-so-lucky heart.

She is a lady-who-bides-her-time.

Two weeks have passed. She stays in Erebor longer than planned. The King Under the Mountain has sought her out every chance he can. Her mother is thrilled to have the great Thorin Oakenshield, king of the grand realm, so interested in her daughter. Olivia herself is thrilled as well. Her heart thoroughly belongs to him, yet the courage to tell him so evades her. She fears her time to discover how he feels for her in that way is growing thin. He is leaving soon, for a crusade against the evil that has been creeping into the nearby Misty Mountains for far too long. She will not see him for a long month, during which the prince who first introduced Olivia to Thorin will rule in his stead. She fumbles for the right words on the day of their parting. He finds them all. She tears up when he offers her a single, beautiful courtship bead to signify to all his love for her. She lets him braid the bronze-toned wooden bead into her hair, just as silky as the night they first danced. They share a tender kiss, then another, then just one more. And he is gone, once more a specter from her world, and she waits, her fortunate, faithful heart missing him always.

She is the one-who-says-yes.

On the last day of the month of Thorin Oakenshield's absence, Olivia stands to the left of the center parapet above the main gate, so very worried. Is he returning to her unscathed? Does he still love her? Is he returning to her at all? She is so uncertain. She wrings her long sleeves and waits, agonizing and beleaguering. The horn of the King Under the Mountain resounds across the plains before Erebor and she can feel the rhythm of her heart hasten. She does not have much longer to wait with her uncertainty. The cavalry appears from the horizon, their leader, the king, appearing sturdy and proud as ever as he leads his troops at a strong gallop to the gate of Erebor. The guards haul open the massive doors and the thundering of hooves sound nearly as loud to Olivia as the pounding of her heart. She rushes down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Thorin dismounts his steed not ten feet from her as the cacophony softens, those familiar subaqueous eyes scanning the welcoming party crowding near. He does not see her. She calls to him. 

He turns. 

She pauses, unsure whether or not she should run to him. 

He makes up her mind for her, and hastens up the remaining steps, and then they are sharing a fierce hug, words of love and missing, a steady kiss, then another, just one more. A tear disobeys her command to stay put as he holds her soft hands in his slightly-rougher grip and expresses his dream to be with her forevermore. He asks for her hand in marriage ever so eloquently. She replies, with akin passion, how she's never desired anything more. They embrace again, another time, just one more kiss. And they are joyous. And he gives her then a vial in the mold of a tear and vows that if it should ever be filled with tears of her sadness due to his actions, he would renounce his place as king and as her love provided she requests it.

The morning glories on the mantel are replaced every day at Olivia's request. The silver crown rests gently tarnished from age and wear. The bead on the necklace chain, Olivia wears often, tucked under her upper garment and resting close to her heart. The vial has been collecting dust for all these years, always dry as a desert. As Olivia's gaze now drifts to the portrait hanging centered above the marble mantel, a hand comes to rest, soft as a pillow, upon her shoulder. Up beside her steps her husband of forty years, Thorin Oakenshield, as her hand moves to cover his in a gesture of affection. The love between he and her has never dimmed in their years together, not even once. They, both with peaceful smiles on their faces, look up to that portrait. In it, a slightly-younger Olivia and Thorin stand behind Fili, Kili, and their darling daughter, their only child. In the very front sits Olivia and Thorin's five grandchildren, as well as their three grandnephews and one grandniece. The portrait was painted ten years ago to this day, and Olivia gently squeezes her husband's hand as if to remind him, although she's sure he already remembers.

Thorin leans down and kisses the top of her head before asking, "Are you ready to go, Amrâlimê?" She takes one last look over her memory mantel before replying softly, "Yes. I am ready." Thorin waits for her to stand. They turn toward the door of their cozy room together, sharing a tender smile, and head on their way to their granddaughter's wedding, to see the beautiful cycle of love come around once again.

And all is right in their joyous world.