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Okay, so I'm going to chance this. Part one of a Hobbit canon divergence AU focusing on Bilbo, Ori and Bifur (with attendant families).
Title: Ghelekabad Books (Part I)
Chapter Title: The Bookseller and the Thieves
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: The Hobbit (movieverse)
Characters/Pairings: Bilbo, Dwalin, Ori, Nori and Dori, this part. Bilbo & Ori, Ori & Nori & Dori. Will become Bilbo & Ori & Bifur later
Summary: In an Erebor recovered under Thrain and in the process of rebuilding under his son Thorin, a wandering bookseller named Bilbo Baggins falls in with a bad, or at least rather suspect, crowd, and somewhat accidentally starts an industrial revolution with the help of a young scribe and a brain-damaged toymaker.
Chapter Summary: In the marketplace of Dale, a rather forlorn bookseller runs into a family of thieves
Wordcount: 2568
Warnings/Notes: 'Ghelekabad', if my neo-Khuzdul dictionary hasn't failed me, is Khuzdul for 'good mountain'. Anyone who knows German might thus have an idea where this is going ...
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Ghelekabad Books (Part I)
Chapter Title: The Bookseller and the Thieves
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: The Hobbit (movieverse)
Characters/Pairings: Bilbo, Dwalin, Ori, Nori and Dori, this part. Bilbo & Ori, Ori & Nori & Dori. Will become Bilbo & Ori & Bifur later
Summary: In an Erebor recovered under Thrain and in the process of rebuilding under his son Thorin, a wandering bookseller named Bilbo Baggins falls in with a bad, or at least rather suspect, crowd, and somewhat accidentally starts an industrial revolution with the help of a young scribe and a brain-damaged toymaker.
Chapter Summary: In the marketplace of Dale, a rather forlorn bookseller runs into a family of thieves
Wordcount: 2568
Warnings/Notes: 'Ghelekabad', if my neo-Khuzdul dictionary hasn't failed me, is Khuzdul for 'good mountain'. Anyone who knows German might thus have an idea where this is going ...
Disclaimer: Not mine
Ghelekabad Books: The Bookseller and the Thieves
The thin sound of a kettle whistling should barely have made a dent in the chatter of the marketplace. However, thanks to the persistent empty space around the book stall, it sounded quite loud indeed, at least to the rather forlorn hobbit perched on a stool beside the portable stove.
At least that was one good thing about dwarves, Bilbo Baggins thought, with a decent stab at optimism. Books, particularly Westron and Elvish books, might barely sell in a largely dwarven marketplace like Dale, but at least you got ingenious little things like the camp stove out of the deal. A strange little thing, metal bottle and wire mesh, apparently it was a variant on the gas lamps used down in the mines. Bilbo hadn't really understood the eager and partially Khuzdul explanation the merchant had given him. But the thing made having a cup of tea possible without ever leaving his stall, and for that a hobbit must be entirely appreciative.
Still, he thought, sitting back on his tall stool behind the stall with a hot cup of tea now warming his hands. Perhaps it was time he packed up, and found a caravan out of here. Dale was a city of men, still in reconstruction and well on the way back to greatness, the small matter of a recently deceased dragon having been taken care of. It was rich, yes, on the recovered treasures of the neighboring Erebor and the custom of dwarves. But it was not conducive, it seemed, to book selling. For all the richness and life of the market place, the focus here was still on rebuilding, on reliable wealth. And while there might be men willing to part with money for books from the south and west, mostly those up from Gondor and further south again, the dwarves were far from eager to spend good gold or silver on the words of men or, Mahal forbid, elves. Which, since a good portion of Bilbo's stock had come via the libraries of Rivendell and Isengard and Minas Tirith, was somewhat problematic.
No, he thought, disconsolately. Dale might have seemed a good idea back in Lothlorien, with all of the Wild East to explore and appeal to his Tookish spirit, but from a purely Baggins point of view, it just wasn't good enough for business. The dwarves were too much of the economic force, and what dwarves dealt in words at all dealt primarily in Khuzdul, which was rather beyond Bilbo's present means.
A caravan south, he thought, absently sipping at his tea, smiling faintly for the taste of yellow daisy. Gondor, maybe. He'd collected enough Sindarin and northern texts in exchange that it might be profitable, and he could perhaps meet up with Gandalf there. His friend had told him in Lothlorien that he had business south this year.
Yes, he mused. Yes, that might well be the right course.
One should never have such thoughts unattended, he decided later. One should never resolve oneself so firmly to anything without first checking the surroundings. Because it was that precise moment, naturally, that a shadow fell over his stall. A shadow that was followed, before he had even turned his head, by a strangled yelp that had him leaping on his stool, and then a loud, harsh voice boomed out:
"Theft! This is not a good day to be following in your brother's footsteps, Ori brother of Nori!"
Bilbo, now wearing a rather large portion of his tea for a neckerchief, very carefully lowered his cup onto the planking, and looked over his stall. To the bizarre and rather alarming sight of large dwarf with a bald, tattooed head (and far more weapons than Bilbo was really comfortable with) holding a smaller and, to Bilbo's admittedly inexpert eye, younger dwarf by the scruff of the neck, glaring at him like he had done something utterly terrible.
And the smaller dwarf, squeaking up at his captor, held something clutched protectively to his chest like it was a precious thing. For all the large hand shaking him like a leaf, his arms were wrapped tight around ... around a book. In point of fact, one of Bilbo's books (from Rivendell, he noted absently, stories of the Dunedain). The dwarf stared wildly around from under his rough pudding bowl of hair, shaking and scared and flushed with shame, and curled instinctively tight to protect the manuscript from harm.
It was odd, Bilbo would think later. When the caravans to Gondor had been and gone, and him still in Dale. Thinking of that absurd, surreal image, the two dwarves fighting beside his stall with one of his treasure clutched desperately between them.
It was truly odd, he thought, the shapes fate could come in.
---
"I really cannot thank you enough," the grey-haired dwarf said again, pouring Bilbo another cup of tea with hands that were still shaking faintly. "Or apologise. Master Baggins, I am truly sorry for my brother's actions. And ... and so very grateful, for your intercession on his behalf. If there is anything, any reparation, that our family might offer you ..."
Bilbo, perched on the edge of one of the most lavishly upholstered armchairs he'd sat in since he'd left the Shire all those years ago, blinked up at him. Dori, he thought the dwarf's name was. Dori, brother of Ori. Not the thief. The other thief. That was apparently Nori, and he was out at present. Ori, though, was scrunched shamefully on his own chair on the other side of the small room, with the Ranger Tales still clutched semi-defiantly in his hands. He looked up as Bilbo glanced at him, and dipped his head with both shame and shy gratitude.
"It was no trouble," Bilbo found himself saying, reaching up to catch Dori's arm gently, holding it until the shakes seemed to subside somewhat. "Truly. I haven't had too many dwarven customers. Well. Any, really. At this point, if a dwarf wants to read my stock, I'm nearly happy to simply let him."
He smiled, rueful and warm, just to show he really did mean it, and Dori ... slumped, all at once, and pulled back to collapse down into his own chair. All his nervous energy, that had carried him through Bilbo's introduction and Ori's shamed explanation, rushing out of him at once.
"I'm so sorry," Dori repeated, looking suddenly unbearably tired. "We haven't ... Erebor hasn't been as good for us as we'd hoped, and we're somewhat short on gold at the moment. I'm sure Ori would not have ... That is, he's not normally like this, I assure you."
"... I'm sorry," Ori agreed, softly. His mittened fingers trailing softly over the leather cover of the manuscript, his head bowed. "I shouldn't have. I know. I ... I probably would have put it back? I just wanted to see."
And Bilbo ... Oh, Bilbo understood that. He did, he truly did. Bilbo, who remembered journeying into Bree to pester Rangers and traveling merchants for manuscripts and books when he was a tween. Bilbo, who remembered his mother's library, his father's study, who remembered boxes of books dumped outside Bag End by Sackville-Bagginses, the only treasures he had been allowed to keep without a fight. Bilbo, who remembered standing beside Gandalf in the library of Rivendell, trying desperately not to be rude to the elf in front of them, despite almost bursting with curiosity and eagerness. Bilbo, who remembered the bookseller's traveling case he'd acquired there, the start of a new life, and all that it had meant to him.
Bilbo, remembering all that, looked at the skinny, shaking figure of the dwarf who had wanted to read about Rangers, and thought that, under the circumstances, he understood the temptation for a little light thievery all too well.
"I know, Ori," he said softly. Waiting until the dwarf raised his head to look at him before he smiled, very gently. "I know you would have." He shook his head, chuckling a little bit. "I don't think you're really cut out for a thief's life. You're much too honest, and much too bad at lying."
Not like Bilbo the Took, who had lied to Master Dwalin's face with casual ease, born of long practice attempting to convince Gandalf that he hadn't run into trouble in Mirkwood, no sir, certainly not. Though, being perfectly fair, he rather thought Dwalin, much like Gandalf, had been going along with it more from pity than belief. There had been an odd expression in the guard dwarf's eyes as he looked at Ori (who had been gaping rather unhelpfully at Bilbo at the time), and Bilbo did wonder if Dwalin had accepted his hurried story more to spare the lad than anything else.
He shook himself, focusing back on the present to find Ori looking sheepishly at him, and Dori looking at Ori with an expression that was equal parts pain, sadness, and tired relief. There were stories there, Bilbo knew. Stories, perhaps, relating to brother Nori, and the reasons Dwalin thought Ori might be following in his footsteps ...
As if summoned by the thought, the silence of the small set of rooms was shattered by a door slamming open, and a fourth figure rushed into the room, past Dori who was already half on his feet, expression morphing into something angry and fearful, and moved instead straight to where Ori was sitting.
"Ori," the newcomer hissed, already practically on top of his brother before he noticed there were other people in the room. "Ori, in Mahal's name, I heard Dwalin tried to arrest you, what were you thinking?!"
Ori opened his mouth to explain, Dori behind him drawing himself up as well (though to yell something entirely different, Bilbo suspected), but for his part Bilbo was too busy focusing on something else. Namely, the rather distinctive star-shaped design of the newcomer's braided hair, which Bilbo remembered very clearly from the caravan into Dale from the Misty Mountains. Mostly, it must be said, because it belonged to a dwarf who had almost robbed him in Laketown, and only stopped (and been caught) because he was too stunned and dismayed that Bilbo carried only books to notice the hobbit creeping up behind him on silent feet.
"Nori ..." Ori was saying, quietly underneath his elder brother's "As though you can talk!", but they looked around, all three of them, when Bilbo cleared his throat. Expression shifting to shamed (Dori), confused (Ori), and a slightly rueful alarm (Nori).
"So," Bilbo noted wryly, glancing sideways at Ori. "Your brother really is a thief, then?" He chuckled, shaking his head as he looked to Dori. "Maybe you ought to steal a little something too, to complete the set? I have some nice teas you might enjoy."
They stared at him. First in confusion, then in comprehension, then in horror. And then, as one, Ori and Dori turned to stare at their brother, and raised desperate, questioning eyebrows.
Nori, for his part, just smiled faintly, looking down at Bilbo. "Baggins, isn't it?" he asked, and there was no shame in his voice, but there was no hostility, either. "The bookseller from Laketown. Did I thank you, I wonder? For not raising a hue and cry?"
Bilbo grinned, shaking his head. "No, you didn't," he noted, with rather too much humour to really count as reproving. "Although, in your defense, I think you were too busy arranging to be elsewhere rather quickly?"
Nori grinned, bright and lazy. "So I was," he agreed.
And then he paused. Looking around, taking in Ori, looking shocked and worried and ashamed, and Dori, looking, well, much the same. Tallying up, maybe, what he had heard of events in the market place. Rumours of thieves and booksellers, and how Dwalin had been cheated of his prey.
"... Has Ori thanked you?" the thief asked softly, stiff and careful and standing almost protectively in front of his brother.
And Bilbo found himself smiling, softer, and much more genuinely.
"Yes, he has," he said softly. "And Dori. Repeatedly." He stopped, shook his head, letting his smile go a little crooked. "Though really, it wasn't that much trouble. And Ori isn't really much of a thief." He grinned. "Even less so than his brother."
Nori snorted, taking the professional slight on the chin. And then met Bilbo's gaze, held it and ... and bowed. Low and deep, with an odd expression in his eyes. "If this family may ever be of service to you," he said, echoing his elder brother perhaps unknowingly, "you need only send for any one of us, and we will come."
Bilbo blinked rapidly, somewhat shocked to find his eyes prickling gently, and bowed back as earnestly.
But before he could open his mouth, to accept the gesture, or perhaps to repeat that it had been nothing, that repayment wasn't necessary, Ori spoke up behind them. Wincing a little, as three sets of eyes turned to stare at him, but resolute and with a rather charming note of triumph.
"Actually," the youngest brother said, "I think I might have an idea about that."
---
Which was how, a week later, Bilbo Baggins, wandering bookseller and formerly of the Shire, ended up back at the marketplace of Dale, setting up his stall with Ori on one side, nattering cheerfully at no-one in particular while he laid out books and manuscripts and scrolls, and Dori on the other, clucking reprovingly at Bilbo's tea selection as he set up the camp stove.
It was how he ended up setting up a sign next to the stall in neatly-lettered Angerthas runes, announcing in terse Khuzdul (or so Ori earnestly assured him) that the stall offered Dwarven versions of Elvish and Westron scripts, translations of the outside world written in the secret tongue and designed specifically for dwarves to store their knowledge and their entertainment as it deserved to be stored, in this rebuilt city and this home for a people who had once been lost. Offering the selection of wares, texts of men and elves and stranger peoples, ready to be translated for anyone who wished to commission it.
That had been Ori's idea. Haltingly suggested in the rooms he shared with his brothers, offering Bilbo a means to stay in Dale that little longer, and perhaps a means to make a profit, too. Between Ori's Westron and Khuzdul, and Bilbo's Westron and rudimentary Sindarin, and with perhaps some small outlay for writing materials ... Well. It had seemed worth a try, hadn't it?
Bilbo took a moment, leaning on the sign as he looked back at the stall, watching Ori grin eagerly at his brother, and the hesitant, still rather worried smile Dori sent back. He took a moment, reflecting on books and money and caravans to the south, on services and friends and fate. Bilbo leaned beside them, and frowned thoughtfully for a moment.
And then he picked himself up, grinned determinedly and happily for the both of them, and moved to start setting up his new business.
The caravans would always been there if he needed them, after all. And Gandalf would find his way back north eventually. It would do no harm, maybe, to chance a few more months among the dwarves. Just to see. Just to try.
And just, he carefully didn't think, to see if that smile of Dori's might be induced to be a little less hesitant.
Contd: Ghelekabad Books: The Toymaker
The thin sound of a kettle whistling should barely have made a dent in the chatter of the marketplace. However, thanks to the persistent empty space around the book stall, it sounded quite loud indeed, at least to the rather forlorn hobbit perched on a stool beside the portable stove.
At least that was one good thing about dwarves, Bilbo Baggins thought, with a decent stab at optimism. Books, particularly Westron and Elvish books, might barely sell in a largely dwarven marketplace like Dale, but at least you got ingenious little things like the camp stove out of the deal. A strange little thing, metal bottle and wire mesh, apparently it was a variant on the gas lamps used down in the mines. Bilbo hadn't really understood the eager and partially Khuzdul explanation the merchant had given him. But the thing made having a cup of tea possible without ever leaving his stall, and for that a hobbit must be entirely appreciative.
Still, he thought, sitting back on his tall stool behind the stall with a hot cup of tea now warming his hands. Perhaps it was time he packed up, and found a caravan out of here. Dale was a city of men, still in reconstruction and well on the way back to greatness, the small matter of a recently deceased dragon having been taken care of. It was rich, yes, on the recovered treasures of the neighboring Erebor and the custom of dwarves. But it was not conducive, it seemed, to book selling. For all the richness and life of the market place, the focus here was still on rebuilding, on reliable wealth. And while there might be men willing to part with money for books from the south and west, mostly those up from Gondor and further south again, the dwarves were far from eager to spend good gold or silver on the words of men or, Mahal forbid, elves. Which, since a good portion of Bilbo's stock had come via the libraries of Rivendell and Isengard and Minas Tirith, was somewhat problematic.
No, he thought, disconsolately. Dale might have seemed a good idea back in Lothlorien, with all of the Wild East to explore and appeal to his Tookish spirit, but from a purely Baggins point of view, it just wasn't good enough for business. The dwarves were too much of the economic force, and what dwarves dealt in words at all dealt primarily in Khuzdul, which was rather beyond Bilbo's present means.
A caravan south, he thought, absently sipping at his tea, smiling faintly for the taste of yellow daisy. Gondor, maybe. He'd collected enough Sindarin and northern texts in exchange that it might be profitable, and he could perhaps meet up with Gandalf there. His friend had told him in Lothlorien that he had business south this year.
Yes, he mused. Yes, that might well be the right course.
One should never have such thoughts unattended, he decided later. One should never resolve oneself so firmly to anything without first checking the surroundings. Because it was that precise moment, naturally, that a shadow fell over his stall. A shadow that was followed, before he had even turned his head, by a strangled yelp that had him leaping on his stool, and then a loud, harsh voice boomed out:
"Theft! This is not a good day to be following in your brother's footsteps, Ori brother of Nori!"
Bilbo, now wearing a rather large portion of his tea for a neckerchief, very carefully lowered his cup onto the planking, and looked over his stall. To the bizarre and rather alarming sight of large dwarf with a bald, tattooed head (and far more weapons than Bilbo was really comfortable with) holding a smaller and, to Bilbo's admittedly inexpert eye, younger dwarf by the scruff of the neck, glaring at him like he had done something utterly terrible.
And the smaller dwarf, squeaking up at his captor, held something clutched protectively to his chest like it was a precious thing. For all the large hand shaking him like a leaf, his arms were wrapped tight around ... around a book. In point of fact, one of Bilbo's books (from Rivendell, he noted absently, stories of the Dunedain). The dwarf stared wildly around from under his rough pudding bowl of hair, shaking and scared and flushed with shame, and curled instinctively tight to protect the manuscript from harm.
It was odd, Bilbo would think later. When the caravans to Gondor had been and gone, and him still in Dale. Thinking of that absurd, surreal image, the two dwarves fighting beside his stall with one of his treasure clutched desperately between them.
It was truly odd, he thought, the shapes fate could come in.
---
"I really cannot thank you enough," the grey-haired dwarf said again, pouring Bilbo another cup of tea with hands that were still shaking faintly. "Or apologise. Master Baggins, I am truly sorry for my brother's actions. And ... and so very grateful, for your intercession on his behalf. If there is anything, any reparation, that our family might offer you ..."
Bilbo, perched on the edge of one of the most lavishly upholstered armchairs he'd sat in since he'd left the Shire all those years ago, blinked up at him. Dori, he thought the dwarf's name was. Dori, brother of Ori. Not the thief. The other thief. That was apparently Nori, and he was out at present. Ori, though, was scrunched shamefully on his own chair on the other side of the small room, with the Ranger Tales still clutched semi-defiantly in his hands. He looked up as Bilbo glanced at him, and dipped his head with both shame and shy gratitude.
"It was no trouble," Bilbo found himself saying, reaching up to catch Dori's arm gently, holding it until the shakes seemed to subside somewhat. "Truly. I haven't had too many dwarven customers. Well. Any, really. At this point, if a dwarf wants to read my stock, I'm nearly happy to simply let him."
He smiled, rueful and warm, just to show he really did mean it, and Dori ... slumped, all at once, and pulled back to collapse down into his own chair. All his nervous energy, that had carried him through Bilbo's introduction and Ori's shamed explanation, rushing out of him at once.
"I'm so sorry," Dori repeated, looking suddenly unbearably tired. "We haven't ... Erebor hasn't been as good for us as we'd hoped, and we're somewhat short on gold at the moment. I'm sure Ori would not have ... That is, he's not normally like this, I assure you."
"... I'm sorry," Ori agreed, softly. His mittened fingers trailing softly over the leather cover of the manuscript, his head bowed. "I shouldn't have. I know. I ... I probably would have put it back? I just wanted to see."
And Bilbo ... Oh, Bilbo understood that. He did, he truly did. Bilbo, who remembered journeying into Bree to pester Rangers and traveling merchants for manuscripts and books when he was a tween. Bilbo, who remembered his mother's library, his father's study, who remembered boxes of books dumped outside Bag End by Sackville-Bagginses, the only treasures he had been allowed to keep without a fight. Bilbo, who remembered standing beside Gandalf in the library of Rivendell, trying desperately not to be rude to the elf in front of them, despite almost bursting with curiosity and eagerness. Bilbo, who remembered the bookseller's traveling case he'd acquired there, the start of a new life, and all that it had meant to him.
Bilbo, remembering all that, looked at the skinny, shaking figure of the dwarf who had wanted to read about Rangers, and thought that, under the circumstances, he understood the temptation for a little light thievery all too well.
"I know, Ori," he said softly. Waiting until the dwarf raised his head to look at him before he smiled, very gently. "I know you would have." He shook his head, chuckling a little bit. "I don't think you're really cut out for a thief's life. You're much too honest, and much too bad at lying."
Not like Bilbo the Took, who had lied to Master Dwalin's face with casual ease, born of long practice attempting to convince Gandalf that he hadn't run into trouble in Mirkwood, no sir, certainly not. Though, being perfectly fair, he rather thought Dwalin, much like Gandalf, had been going along with it more from pity than belief. There had been an odd expression in the guard dwarf's eyes as he looked at Ori (who had been gaping rather unhelpfully at Bilbo at the time), and Bilbo did wonder if Dwalin had accepted his hurried story more to spare the lad than anything else.
He shook himself, focusing back on the present to find Ori looking sheepishly at him, and Dori looking at Ori with an expression that was equal parts pain, sadness, and tired relief. There were stories there, Bilbo knew. Stories, perhaps, relating to brother Nori, and the reasons Dwalin thought Ori might be following in his footsteps ...
As if summoned by the thought, the silence of the small set of rooms was shattered by a door slamming open, and a fourth figure rushed into the room, past Dori who was already half on his feet, expression morphing into something angry and fearful, and moved instead straight to where Ori was sitting.
"Ori," the newcomer hissed, already practically on top of his brother before he noticed there were other people in the room. "Ori, in Mahal's name, I heard Dwalin tried to arrest you, what were you thinking?!"
Ori opened his mouth to explain, Dori behind him drawing himself up as well (though to yell something entirely different, Bilbo suspected), but for his part Bilbo was too busy focusing on something else. Namely, the rather distinctive star-shaped design of the newcomer's braided hair, which Bilbo remembered very clearly from the caravan into Dale from the Misty Mountains. Mostly, it must be said, because it belonged to a dwarf who had almost robbed him in Laketown, and only stopped (and been caught) because he was too stunned and dismayed that Bilbo carried only books to notice the hobbit creeping up behind him on silent feet.
"Nori ..." Ori was saying, quietly underneath his elder brother's "As though you can talk!", but they looked around, all three of them, when Bilbo cleared his throat. Expression shifting to shamed (Dori), confused (Ori), and a slightly rueful alarm (Nori).
"So," Bilbo noted wryly, glancing sideways at Ori. "Your brother really is a thief, then?" He chuckled, shaking his head as he looked to Dori. "Maybe you ought to steal a little something too, to complete the set? I have some nice teas you might enjoy."
They stared at him. First in confusion, then in comprehension, then in horror. And then, as one, Ori and Dori turned to stare at their brother, and raised desperate, questioning eyebrows.
Nori, for his part, just smiled faintly, looking down at Bilbo. "Baggins, isn't it?" he asked, and there was no shame in his voice, but there was no hostility, either. "The bookseller from Laketown. Did I thank you, I wonder? For not raising a hue and cry?"
Bilbo grinned, shaking his head. "No, you didn't," he noted, with rather too much humour to really count as reproving. "Although, in your defense, I think you were too busy arranging to be elsewhere rather quickly?"
Nori grinned, bright and lazy. "So I was," he agreed.
And then he paused. Looking around, taking in Ori, looking shocked and worried and ashamed, and Dori, looking, well, much the same. Tallying up, maybe, what he had heard of events in the market place. Rumours of thieves and booksellers, and how Dwalin had been cheated of his prey.
"... Has Ori thanked you?" the thief asked softly, stiff and careful and standing almost protectively in front of his brother.
And Bilbo found himself smiling, softer, and much more genuinely.
"Yes, he has," he said softly. "And Dori. Repeatedly." He stopped, shook his head, letting his smile go a little crooked. "Though really, it wasn't that much trouble. And Ori isn't really much of a thief." He grinned. "Even less so than his brother."
Nori snorted, taking the professional slight on the chin. And then met Bilbo's gaze, held it and ... and bowed. Low and deep, with an odd expression in his eyes. "If this family may ever be of service to you," he said, echoing his elder brother perhaps unknowingly, "you need only send for any one of us, and we will come."
Bilbo blinked rapidly, somewhat shocked to find his eyes prickling gently, and bowed back as earnestly.
But before he could open his mouth, to accept the gesture, or perhaps to repeat that it had been nothing, that repayment wasn't necessary, Ori spoke up behind them. Wincing a little, as three sets of eyes turned to stare at him, but resolute and with a rather charming note of triumph.
"Actually," the youngest brother said, "I think I might have an idea about that."
---
Which was how, a week later, Bilbo Baggins, wandering bookseller and formerly of the Shire, ended up back at the marketplace of Dale, setting up his stall with Ori on one side, nattering cheerfully at no-one in particular while he laid out books and manuscripts and scrolls, and Dori on the other, clucking reprovingly at Bilbo's tea selection as he set up the camp stove.
It was how he ended up setting up a sign next to the stall in neatly-lettered Angerthas runes, announcing in terse Khuzdul (or so Ori earnestly assured him) that the stall offered Dwarven versions of Elvish and Westron scripts, translations of the outside world written in the secret tongue and designed specifically for dwarves to store their knowledge and their entertainment as it deserved to be stored, in this rebuilt city and this home for a people who had once been lost. Offering the selection of wares, texts of men and elves and stranger peoples, ready to be translated for anyone who wished to commission it.
That had been Ori's idea. Haltingly suggested in the rooms he shared with his brothers, offering Bilbo a means to stay in Dale that little longer, and perhaps a means to make a profit, too. Between Ori's Westron and Khuzdul, and Bilbo's Westron and rudimentary Sindarin, and with perhaps some small outlay for writing materials ... Well. It had seemed worth a try, hadn't it?
Bilbo took a moment, leaning on the sign as he looked back at the stall, watching Ori grin eagerly at his brother, and the hesitant, still rather worried smile Dori sent back. He took a moment, reflecting on books and money and caravans to the south, on services and friends and fate. Bilbo leaned beside them, and frowned thoughtfully for a moment.
And then he picked himself up, grinned determinedly and happily for the both of them, and moved to start setting up his new business.
The caravans would always been there if he needed them, after all. And Gandalf would find his way back north eventually. It would do no harm, maybe, to chance a few more months among the dwarves. Just to see. Just to try.
And just, he carefully didn't think, to see if that smile of Dori's might be induced to be a little less hesitant.
Contd: Ghelekabad Books: The Toymaker
Tags:
- au,
- fanfic,
- ghelekabad,
- hobbit,
- lotr