#anunexpectedanniversary

Portrait

🎉 As I’m sure you all know by now, today is my thirtieth birthday, yay! 🎉

I decided to both honour the hobbit tradition of giving a gift to you all, and attempt to contribute something late to ‘An Unexpected Anniversary’ by writing a little fic.

Recently, @ahiddenkitty reblogged a lovely photo of Bilbo here (x), and the tags she added really inspired me, so this is what I used as my prompt for the fic.

Enjoy!

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Three years to the day following the beginning of the Quest for Erebor, Bilbo was asked to pose for an official portrait.

"All the Company are having a portrait painted of them." Ori beseeched, scurrying after the belligerent hobbit as fast as his legs could carry him while encumbered with goodness knows how many scrolls. "Besides, all the newly arrived dwarves want to see the Hero of Erebor."

This was probably the wrong thing for Ori to say, and behind him, Balin brought a hand to his face in order to pinch the bridge of his nose despairingly as Bilbo halted, turned, and replied; raising his arms in an acerbic flourish.

"Well, here I am. They can see me well enough as is. In case you forget, I am the only hobbit living here, so I daresay newcomers should not have much trouble in guessing who the so called Hero of Erebor is."

"Does the idea of a portrait upset you that much, laddie?" Balin came to Ori's rescue, stepping up beside Bilbo to place a fatherly hand on his shoulder.

The effect was instantaneous. Bilbo sighed and let the tense hunch to his shoulders ease as he regarded the elder dwarf, replying in as measured a way as he was able whilst still trying to convey the proper amount of conviction.

"It's not so much upsetting as it is ridiculous. I’m not a hero, Balin. I do not need some daft painting of myself hung for all and sundry to gawp at."

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One week after the actual Unexpected Anniversary, it’s time for the last chapter of my contribution “Where we belong”. The epilogue “Deep Roots” is now on AO3! 

Aaand here’s the last entry for @anunexpectedanniversary hope you enjoyed them :3

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There were a few dwarves amongst the many who claimed to be able to see events which had not yet come to pass.

It was a rare gift, rare and oft met with scepticism. Owing perhaps to the unscrupulous number who tried to hoodwink others into believing they had said gifts when in fact they did not.

Thorin had always viewed those claiming to be able to see the future with a healthy dose of distrust. Perhaps it was because he had seen too many folk try to dupe his grandfather and the court when he had been young in Erebor, or maybe he was just naturally cynical of such things. However, there were times when Thorin wished keenly that he could boast such ability, or failing that at least know someone who truly did.

The implications were, after all, wondrous. They might have had a foretelling of Smaug's arrival and so had more time to prepare or maybe even prevent the attack completely.

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Bilbo distinctly remembered the long ago evening at his father's knee when he had been told that to gain years and wisdom meant to grow as a hobbit, and that growth was important.

The fire in the hearth had been warm and welcoming, the air outside chilly and rich with the scents of wet earth and leaves, distant bonfires, and the coming of winter. His mother had been seated across from them darning a hole in the elbow of one of Bilbo's shirts (a growing hobbit as adventurous as little Bilbo was prone to frequent stains and rips and tears in his clothes, so simply patching them up made more sense than wasting coin on new items until he outgrew them).

Bilbo had been curled on the rug, leaning against his father's legs as he read a book, and Bungo had grinned at the look of rapt attention writ on Bilbo's features and spoken about 'growth'.

The young faunt had been confused. Apart from growing up and out, how else would anyone grow? Bilbo was who he was and nothing would change that he had proclaimed firmly. 

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"I always worry that it is too slow, but Óin assured me this is usual for your folk."

The odd little statement had been spoken sleepily and apropos to nothing. Bilbo often did this; launched into a conversation without giving the dwarf any prior knowledge of what the subject he wished to discuss might be about, it certainly kept Thorin on his toes when conducting small talk with their burglar at any rate. It was a rather endearing propensity he was quickly becoming accustomed to.

"And what riddles does our hobbit weave this time?" Thorin's voice was a quiet, equally sleepy rumble that reverberated through his chest and into the waiting ear of the hobbit resting against him.

Healing had been slow, painfully slow in Thorin's impatient opinion, but his wounds had now knitted enough that Óin would not huff and bluster whenever he walked in and caught Bilbo curled up at Thorin's side with his head tucked beneath the king's chin.

Such was their current position, and Bilbo had been quiet for such a long time that were it not for the way he gently traced patterns over Thorin's bandaged chest and stomach with an absent finger, the dwarf might have thought him sound asleep.

"Your heart," Bilbo clarified and pressed his ear a little closer to where it beat within Thorin's breast. His eyes closed and finger now tapping a rhythm in time to the beat as if to illustrate his point to the dwarf. "It is far slower than any heart has a right to be. It honestly worried me at first."

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