Ava‘s Art Blog

“Oakenshield. Good, I’m at my wits’ end.” Bilbo groaned when he saw the old-familiar silhouette darken the doorway of his smial. Strong and broad, he was the very epitome of safety and steady support.

Thorin walked in, taking off his overcoat and hanging it up neatly while Bilbo shoved a rag underneath it to catch most of the rainwater that was pouring down in rivulets and threatened to ruin the floor.

“I am helplessly overwhelmed.” Bilbo muttered, waving vaguely into the direction of the sitting room where a small creature was huddled up in one of the sofas.

Such a tiny thing, Thorin thought – his own nephews had been hearty and sturdy as a rockslide in summertime – but this fauntling looked positively withering, cowering against the plush surface of the furniture.

Approaching a chair, Thorin shed another coat, took off his boots that resounded with sonorous booms every time he took a step, and unclasped his belt. This was a battle in which armour was counterproductive.

“Hello, little one. My name is Thorin. What is yours?” He spoke gently, sitting down on the floor and watching the fauntling shiver every time a flash of lightening split the sky like the wrath of some angry god.

“I want my mama.” The creature whined, pushing further into the sofa. After a moment though, a tiny face appeared that seemed to be mostly made up of luminous, blue eyes. “I’m Frodo. You are not a hobbit, are you?” It asked with a voice so soft it seemed to float on the still air between them.

“No, I am King under the Mountain. I am the king of the Longbeards. A dwarrow, I mean, I am a…dwarf.” Thorin replied with a warm chuckle that drew the little boy up on his haunches and off the sofa within a few seconds.

He was lithe and agile, Thorin could appreciate that, and he ran towards the solid figure that seemed so much more inviting than the immobile sofa in a straight line, eager to plunge into the warm protection of those massive arms.

“What has you frightened so, little one?” Thorin asked. “The storm. I want my mama.” The kid replied in a trembling tone.

“Ah, yes…You know, I have two nephews.” Thorin, now only in his soft tunic, slowly lifted the fauntling into his embrace and rocked him gently against his chest. “They are already grown, I’d say big, but they are dwarrows as well and we’re not exactly known for our height.” Again, he laughed melodiously, while the small boy inspected his braids and beads with interest. “Pretty.” He commented, the lids on his huge eyes drooping ever so slightly.

Thorin thanked him, sending a silent prayer of thanks to Mahal for his sister; Dís had survived, despite and through everything, she had stood firm, for her boys, for her surviving brother. What would Dís do in this situation?

He knew that he was a far cry from the motherly warmth of a dwarrowdam, but here, locked within the storm and sheltered in a hole in the ground, there was nobody else but Bilbo and the child. He would have to make do.

“Shall I sing you a song my sister has sung for her boys? My…boys.” Thorin’s heart warmed at the thought of Fíli and Kíli. “Hmmm.” Frodo hummed in acquiescence, pressing his frail body closer to the reassuring warmth of the sturdy man holding him.

It was a song for pebbles and Thorin very much doubted that Frodo would be interested in long wanderings, daring quests and terrible danger, but he didn’t understand Khuzdul anyway; all he had to comprehend was that Thorin was there and wouldn’t go away.

He remembered having his nephews clinging to him in unspoken fright, he recalled the nights spent sleeping with his back against the wall of their chamber because it made them feel safer when he was in the room, he dreaded the recollections of their fevers and their coughs…or that memory of him almost losing both of them.

“How do you do it?” Bilbo appeared, finding his old friend sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, Frodo huddled snugly in his strong arms, singing a sweet lullaby to the now sleeping fauntling.

“The world is full of single men and their children, Master Baggins.” Thorin smiled up at him, softer than during the quest, more confident than when he had first retaken Erebor.

“Even those Elven idiots have managed to raise their children on their own. Men have done it. I had my sister, bless her, but I would have taken in my nephews on my own, you know I would have.” Thorin went on.

Bilbo knew this to be true, he had seen Thorin with his nephews and he had looked upon his immense pride when they were returned to Erebor as the rightful and prospective future of their people.

“I don’t know if I can do it.” Bilbo admitted fitfully. “You can. You must.” Thorin declared firmly, his body never shifting from his protective stance while his face mirrored myriad of emotions flitting across his brow like ghosts.

“Steady and reliable as the mountain, adaptable and soft as the river, warm and nurturing as the earth, Bilbo Baggins, you’ll shape your arms into shields and your heart into a sun for the little one.” It was a challenge…and a promise.

“When did you become so wise, King under the Mountain?” Bilbo mocked.

“Oakenshield. Good, I’m at my wits’ end.” Bilbo groaned when he saw the old-familiar silhouette darken the doorway of his smial. Strong and broad, he was the very epitome of safety and steady support.

Thorin walked in, taking off his overcoat and hanging it up neatly while Bilbo shoved a rag underneath it to catch most of the rainwater that was pouring down in rivulets and threatened to ruin the floor.

“I am helplessly overwhelmed.” Bilbo muttered, waving vaguely into the direction of the sitting room where a small creature was huddled up in one of the sofas.

Such a tiny thing, Thorin thought – his own nephews had been hearty and sturdy as a rockslide in summertime – but this fauntling looked positively withering, cowering against the plush surface of the furniture.

Approaching a chair, Thorin shed another coat, took off his boots that resounded with sonorous booms every time he took a step, and unclasped his belt. This was a battle in which armour was counterproductive.

“Hello, little one. My name is Thorin. What is yours?” He spoke gently, sitting down on the floor and watching the fauntling shiver every time a flash of lightening split the sky like the wrath of some angry god.

“I want my mama.” The creature whined, pushing further into the sofa. After a moment though, a tiny face appeared that seemed to be mostly made up of luminous, blue eyes. “I’m Frodo. You are not a hobbit, are you?” It asked with a voice so soft it seemed to float on the still air between them.

“No, I am King under the Mountain. I am the king of the Longbeards. A dwarrow, I mean, I am a…dwarf.” Thorin replied with a warm chuckle that drew the little boy up on his haunches and off the sofa within a few seconds.

He was lithe and agile, Thorin could appreciate that, and he ran towards the solid figure that seemed so much more inviting than the immobile sofa in a straight line, eager to plunge into the warm protection of those massive arms.

“What has you frightened so, little one?” Thorin asked. “The storm. I want my mama.” The kid replied in a trembling tone.

“Ah, yes…You know, I have two nephews.” Thorin, now only in his soft tunic, slowly lifted the fauntling into his embrace and rocked him gently against his chest. “They are already grown, I’d say big, but they are dwarrows as well and we’re not exactly known for our height.” Again, he laughed melodiously, while the small boy inspected his braids and beads with interest. “Pretty.” He commented, the lids on his huge eyes drooping ever so slightly.

Thorin thanked him, sending a silent prayer of thanks to Mahal for his sister; Dís had survived, despite and through everything, she had stood firm, for her boys, for her surviving brother. What would Dís do in this situation?

He knew that he was a far cry from the motherly warmth of a dwarrowdam, but here, locked within the storm and sheltered in a hole in the ground, there was nobody else but Bilbo and the child. He would have to make do.

“Shall I sing you a song my sister has sung for her boys? My…boys.” Thorin’s heart warmed at the thought of Fíli and Kíli. “Hmmm.” Frodo hummed in acquiescence, pressing his frail body closer to the reassuring warmth of the sturdy man holding him.

It was a song for pebbles and Thorin very much doubted that Frodo would be interested in long wanderings, daring quests and terrible danger, but he didn’t understand Khuzdul anyway; all he had to comprehend was that Thorin was there and wouldn’t go away.

He remembered having his nephews clinging to him in unspoken fright, he recalled the nights spent sleeping with his back against the wall of their chamber because it made them feel safer when he was in the room, he dreaded the recollections of their fevers and their coughs…or that memory of him almost losing both of them.

“How do you do it?” Bilbo appeared, finding his old friend sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, Frodo huddled snugly in his strong arms, singing a sweet lullaby to the now sleeping fauntling.

“The world is full of single men and their children, Master Baggins.” Thorin smiled up at him, softer than during the quest, more confident than when he had first retaken Erebor.

“Even those Elven idiots have managed to raise their children on their own. Men have done it. I had my sister, bless her, but I would have taken in my nephews on my own, you know I would have.” Thorin went on.

Bilbo knew this to be true, he had seen Thorin with his nephews and he had looked upon his immense pride when they were returned to Erebor as the rightful and prospective future of their people.

“I don’t know if I can do it.” Bilbo admitted fitfully. “You can. You must.” Thorin declared firmly, his body never shifting from his protective stance while his face mirrored myriad of emotions flitting across his brow like ghosts.

“Steady and reliable as the mountain, adaptable and soft as the river, warm and nurturing as the earth, Bilbo Baggins, you’ll shape your arms into shields and your heart into a sun for the little one.” It was a challenge…and a promise.

“When did you become so wise, King under the Mountain?” Bilbo mocked.