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Strange little thing, do forgive me. Heh. The Company celebrate at Beorn's.
Title: Merrier World
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: The Hobbit (movieverse)
Characters/Pairings: The Company, with Dwalin, Ori, Nori and Fíli in particular, but Kíli, Dori, Thorin, Balin, Gandalf, Bilbo, Bofur, Bifur, Bombur, Óin and Glóin too. Everybody & everybody, Dwalin & everybody
Summary: In Beorn's hall, having survived ... well, everything, the dwarves sit back and celebrate for an evening. Dwalin and Ori have words, Fíli challenges Nori to a fight, the Company celebrates their younger members and all they've done. Drunken and cheerful and with just a touch of foreboding
Wordcount: 2210
Warnings/Notes: As I said, just a touch of foreboding
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Merrier World
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: The Hobbit (movieverse)
Characters/Pairings: The Company, with Dwalin, Ori, Nori and Fíli in particular, but Kíli, Dori, Thorin, Balin, Gandalf, Bilbo, Bofur, Bifur, Bombur, Óin and Glóin too. Everybody & everybody, Dwalin & everybody
Summary: In Beorn's hall, having survived ... well, everything, the dwarves sit back and celebrate for an evening. Dwalin and Ori have words, Fíli challenges Nori to a fight, the Company celebrates their younger members and all they've done. Drunken and cheerful and with just a touch of foreboding
Wordcount: 2210
Warnings/Notes: As I said, just a touch of foreboding
Disclaimer: Not mine
Merrier World
"I'm sorry about your hammer, Mr Dwalin."
Dwalin, who'd been enjoying the first pint of decent ale he'd had in what felt like years, slowly levered his eyes back open to glare up at the intruder. The young one, Ori, shuffled uneasily at the lazy stare, but didn't back down. Just stared earnestly and apologetically down at Dwalin, until Dwalin had to force himself to actually pay attention to whatever it was he'd said.
"... Eh?" he asked, eventually. In his defense, Beorn's was not an impotent brew. "What's that?"
Ori blinked, confused, then shuffled again, a nervous smile flickering over his features. His brothers glanced over, half in worry and half in warning, but said nothing as yet.
"I said, I'm sorry about your hammer, Mr Dwalin," the scribe said again, ducking his head nervously. His hands, in their blasted mittens, started worrying at the ratty ends of his scarf. "I didn't mean to drop it, it was just there was this cliff, you see. And, well ..."
Dwalin blinked, and then snorted explosively, the sound shutting the lad up in shock. Ori looked at him like he'd been struck, nervous and shamed and alarmed, but Dwalin honestly wasn't in the mood to care, or be tactful. Not that he usually was, mind you, but even less so now.
"Sit down, lad," he growled, leaning up just long enough to tug the other dwarf, gently, down beside him. "Have some ale. And don't worry about it." He grunted, mouth twisting, and finished quietly: "Was the least important thing we might have lost, wasn't it?"
And he'd meant Thorin, mostly, he'd meant watching his king laid on his back, wounded and pinned and waiting to die, save for one silly hobbit's speed and nerve and blind, stupid courage. He'd meant Thorin, mostly. But Ori's expression went a little distant itself, his eyes drifting over to his eldest brother, who'd almost gone over the cliff with him, and his middle brother, who'd almost watched them fall, and the little crooked smile on the lad's face said plenty all by itself, didn't it? Not just kings and hammers almost lost, no.
"... You did well with it, mind," Dwalin said, softly. Kindly enough, in the warmth of the hall and the heady touch of their mutual relief. In an effort to think of other things, and maybe offer something small, just because he could. "You've a knack with the hammer, right enough." He grinned, possibly because of the ale, and nudged the lad gently on the shoulder. "Do a lot of bludgeoning people, do you?"
Ori stared at him, half alarmed and half amused, before apparently deciding sod it, he wasn't in the mood to be serious either. "I'm not supposed to," the scribe agreed, leaning back against the carved pillar alongside Dwalin, smiling cheerfully to himself. "It does terrible things to a book's spine, you know. But sometimes people get handsy and, well, what are you supposed to do, hmm?"
Dwalin blinked, one long, slow second. And then he laughed, a short, delighted roar, and clapped the lad solidly on the shoulder. Dori's head snapped around, Nori, the sneaky bastard, going still and careful behind him. Somewhere on the other side of the room, Balin looked up from his conversation with Thorin, just long enough to check on things before rolling his eyes and getting back to business.
But Dwalin didn't care, not one jot, and Ori, grinning faintly and in no small surprise beside him, didn't seem to either.
"Aye, I can see that," Dwalin rumbled, the ale sitting nice and warm in his belly. "I can just see that."
And he could, too. Any one of those brothers, he could see it. They looked fussy, finicky things, but try something on any of 'em, and if it was Dori, you'd wake up with your teeth on the other side of your head, or if it was Nori you'd wake up looking for your spleen in the gutter. He could see, he could just see, that trying something on Ori, nice, sweet, bookish Ori, might wake you up looking for a few body parts too.
"Take after your eldest brother, do you?" he asked, with idle cheer. Dori, who could do with a fist what most people needed a hammer to accomplish. Dwalin actually wondered, sometimes, what the dwarf would be like with a hammer, rather than his sword, and whether that thought was more alarming or exciting.
Ori grinned faintly. He had the strangest expression on his face, like he didn't quite believe he was having this conversation, or possibly just not believing he was having it with Dwalin, but he was game enough. Stout hearts, was that what Thorin said? Like the hobbit, like Ori's own brothers, like the Broadbeams coming along just to help. Stout hearts, the lot of them.
"Actually, it was Nori who taught me," the younger dwarf confided softly. "He's got his mace, it's not that much different." He shrugged, smiled. "Dori tried to teach me the sword, but, well, we didn't really have the money for that. And Nori tried to teach me the knife, too, but ..." He paused, and flushed faintly. "Lets just say, that wasn't my best effort. I can probably stick someone with a knitting needle, if you need me too, but ..."
He shrugged, sheepish and cheerful and casually warm, and Dwalin found himself grinning a little. Just a touch.
"Fair enough," he noted, burping slightly as he refilled his mug. "Leave the knife-work to your brother or me. Or Fíli." He grinned, slow and vicious, and rather more proud than was maybe his right, having trained the lad or no. "There's a lad who picked it up right quick. Quick as your brother, I'd wager."
Which, now that he thought about it, wasn't the most reassuring thought he'd ever had. And since Nori, who'd been listening in not at all surreptitiously, was now looking across at the two princes with a speculative look in his eye, possibly not the wisest thing he'd ever said, either. But the prince could hold his own, Fíli could hold his own very well, and the worst that could happen was that there'd be a few more unorthodox moves in the prince's repertoire by the end of it. And possibly in Nori's, too. Fíli could be bloody lethal, when the mood was on him.
"Nobody's as quick as Nori," Ori said, stoutly loyal, but he grinned a little at Dwalin. "Not that my brother likes to test that assertion, though."
"I test it often enough," Nori called across, light and cheerful. "It's just my opponents don't usually get up again for a rematch." He grinned, a frankly alarming twinkle of mischief in his eyes, and turned to look back across at Fíli. "Though if anyone might like to try a less deadly form of testing, I might make an exception ...?"
Fíli stood up from his seat beside the fire, his brother grinning slow and dangerously alongside him, and swept Nori a deep and laughing bow. "Any time, Master Nori!" the prince agreed. "If you like, I'll even go easy on you, out of respect for your greater age."
Dwalin coughed, spluttering on his ale, and the conversation around the hall dimmed considerably, an expectant hush falling over it. Nori, seated on the edge of the long table, a knife idly balanced in his hands, just grinned, the light of mischief practically a glow. Fíli, for his part, was standing by the fire with a glow of his own, and carefully ignoring the sudden glares directed his way by more or less every other dwarf in the company. Most especially, Dwalin noted, Glóin, Bifur, and Dwalin's own brother, Balin. He thought Óin might have joined in, too, but the healer hadn't had his trumpet in at the time.
"It's unwise to underestimate someone based on their years," Nori noted, his grin like a knife in and of itself, tapping his actual blade against his boot lightly. Beside him, Dori was focusing very carefully on his mending and not at all smiling, no.
"Aye," Thorin spoke up, from the corner he shared with Balin. His voice wry and light, despite it all, and with a careful nod of respect for the dwarf sitting pointedly at his side. "Careful, nephew."
Fíli smiled, a small toss of his head, and bowed to his uncle in turn. "Of course," the prince agreed, with Kíli grinning faintly beside him. "Though I would remind the company that it goes both ways?" He raised an eyebrow. "It doesn't do to underestimate someone based on their lack of years, either."
And he looked over at Ori, at that, and then at Bilbo, bringing the conversation back around while the both of them flushed furiously and Ori, at least, tried to hide behind Dwalin's shoulder. The prince smiled, bright and golden where he stood by the fire, and cheerfully handed congratulations onwards, to the young and the weak who'd stood with them anyway, and did their part despite how very much they weren't suited to it. Out of the middle of the joke and the playful teasing, Fíli handed out genuine gratitude and praise, like the true prince he was going to be someday, and in the silence, with Ori against his shoulder and Bilbo blushing against Gandalf's across the way, Dwalin found himself raising his tankard in agreement.
"Aye," he said, loud and bold and strong, and trying desperately not to be strangled by the lump of pride in his throat. "And I'll drink to that too!"
"Here, here!" Bofur agreed, the miner raising his tankard with quick and easy cheer, and a smile just for Bilbo. "Here's to the young! May they stand guard on us decrepit farts for a long time to come!" He laughed, Bombur's rough chuckle at his back, Bifur's small, satisfied smile beside him. "To the young!"
"TO THE YOUNG!" the Company roared, one roar, one voice, one rather drunken cheer. Balin grinning beside Thorin, shoulder to shoulder with the king as Thorin stared at his nephews in blind pride. Óin and Glóin raising their tankards in unison, Glóin in particular smiling the secret, fervent smile of someone who had young of his own to be proud of, even if they weren't there just at present. Gandalf, smiling bright and broad beneath his beard, with Bilbo tucked in close against his side, the heat of the hobbit's blush probably warming the old wizard as much as the fire. Nori, grinning for his brother, and Dori, broad and tired and so desperately proud, after everything their family had been through, and all the rumours that had dogged them. Fíli and Kíli, grinning for each other as much as anyone, for Bilbo and for Ori, and for the pride in their uncle's eyes.
And Dwalin himself, leaning against the pillar with Ori against his shoulder squeaking and pressing his fingers up against his desperate, embarrassed grin. Dwalin roared alongside them, raised his mug with strength and cheer. For things more important than hammers, things not yet lost. For children he'd taught, and children he'd fought beside, and children he hoped to see king, one day in the future when the dragon was dead and the mountain theirs once more.
For the young, and the brave. For stout hearts and strong hands. For the future.
And most of all, more than anything, for the fact that none of them were bloody dead yet.
"To the young," Dwalin said, almost softly to himself as the roar died back down. Meeting his brother's eyes, meeting Thorin's. Meeting Gandalf's and Dori's and Glóin's, and seeing, in all of them, the echo of his hope.
"To the young," Dwalin repeated, with an odd little smile. Glancing down at the flustered, red-faced lad at his side, and feeling the slow grin, the dark and dizzy pride, bubbling up through his chest. Ori blinked up at him, his flush fading and narrow-eyed curiosity sneaking back in, the suspicion he'd learned from his brother, maybe, or just from life, from all the trials of exile and poverty and more. Ori blinked suspiciously up at him, and Dwalin found himself grinning the old, rough grin.
"Say, lad," he rumbled, soft and cheerful. "If you'd like, I could give you a few pointers in the mornin'." He grinned, glancing up at Nori, the old challenge between them. "After all, I'd hate for you to feel left out while my best student is showing your brother how it's done."
Ori straightened in his seat, delight and pride and narrow-eyed affront flickering rapidly across his features, his brothers not far behind him at all, and Dwalin settled back against his pillar, with his ale and his hope and the promise of a good fight, and three narrowed-eyed, identical glares to keep him company.
Yes, he thought, somewhat muzzily. Here's to the young, and no bloody mistake.
He just hoped they weren't so young they'd avoid a hangover in the morning. Because if Ori and his brothers were anything like Dwalin's Mahal-cursed princes the morning after a bash, then someone would be looking for body parts come midday.
And it wasn't going to be him.
"I'm sorry about your hammer, Mr Dwalin."
Dwalin, who'd been enjoying the first pint of decent ale he'd had in what felt like years, slowly levered his eyes back open to glare up at the intruder. The young one, Ori, shuffled uneasily at the lazy stare, but didn't back down. Just stared earnestly and apologetically down at Dwalin, until Dwalin had to force himself to actually pay attention to whatever it was he'd said.
"... Eh?" he asked, eventually. In his defense, Beorn's was not an impotent brew. "What's that?"
Ori blinked, confused, then shuffled again, a nervous smile flickering over his features. His brothers glanced over, half in worry and half in warning, but said nothing as yet.
"I said, I'm sorry about your hammer, Mr Dwalin," the scribe said again, ducking his head nervously. His hands, in their blasted mittens, started worrying at the ratty ends of his scarf. "I didn't mean to drop it, it was just there was this cliff, you see. And, well ..."
Dwalin blinked, and then snorted explosively, the sound shutting the lad up in shock. Ori looked at him like he'd been struck, nervous and shamed and alarmed, but Dwalin honestly wasn't in the mood to care, or be tactful. Not that he usually was, mind you, but even less so now.
"Sit down, lad," he growled, leaning up just long enough to tug the other dwarf, gently, down beside him. "Have some ale. And don't worry about it." He grunted, mouth twisting, and finished quietly: "Was the least important thing we might have lost, wasn't it?"
And he'd meant Thorin, mostly, he'd meant watching his king laid on his back, wounded and pinned and waiting to die, save for one silly hobbit's speed and nerve and blind, stupid courage. He'd meant Thorin, mostly. But Ori's expression went a little distant itself, his eyes drifting over to his eldest brother, who'd almost gone over the cliff with him, and his middle brother, who'd almost watched them fall, and the little crooked smile on the lad's face said plenty all by itself, didn't it? Not just kings and hammers almost lost, no.
"... You did well with it, mind," Dwalin said, softly. Kindly enough, in the warmth of the hall and the heady touch of their mutual relief. In an effort to think of other things, and maybe offer something small, just because he could. "You've a knack with the hammer, right enough." He grinned, possibly because of the ale, and nudged the lad gently on the shoulder. "Do a lot of bludgeoning people, do you?"
Ori stared at him, half alarmed and half amused, before apparently deciding sod it, he wasn't in the mood to be serious either. "I'm not supposed to," the scribe agreed, leaning back against the carved pillar alongside Dwalin, smiling cheerfully to himself. "It does terrible things to a book's spine, you know. But sometimes people get handsy and, well, what are you supposed to do, hmm?"
Dwalin blinked, one long, slow second. And then he laughed, a short, delighted roar, and clapped the lad solidly on the shoulder. Dori's head snapped around, Nori, the sneaky bastard, going still and careful behind him. Somewhere on the other side of the room, Balin looked up from his conversation with Thorin, just long enough to check on things before rolling his eyes and getting back to business.
But Dwalin didn't care, not one jot, and Ori, grinning faintly and in no small surprise beside him, didn't seem to either.
"Aye, I can see that," Dwalin rumbled, the ale sitting nice and warm in his belly. "I can just see that."
And he could, too. Any one of those brothers, he could see it. They looked fussy, finicky things, but try something on any of 'em, and if it was Dori, you'd wake up with your teeth on the other side of your head, or if it was Nori you'd wake up looking for your spleen in the gutter. He could see, he could just see, that trying something on Ori, nice, sweet, bookish Ori, might wake you up looking for a few body parts too.
"Take after your eldest brother, do you?" he asked, with idle cheer. Dori, who could do with a fist what most people needed a hammer to accomplish. Dwalin actually wondered, sometimes, what the dwarf would be like with a hammer, rather than his sword, and whether that thought was more alarming or exciting.
Ori grinned faintly. He had the strangest expression on his face, like he didn't quite believe he was having this conversation, or possibly just not believing he was having it with Dwalin, but he was game enough. Stout hearts, was that what Thorin said? Like the hobbit, like Ori's own brothers, like the Broadbeams coming along just to help. Stout hearts, the lot of them.
"Actually, it was Nori who taught me," the younger dwarf confided softly. "He's got his mace, it's not that much different." He shrugged, smiled. "Dori tried to teach me the sword, but, well, we didn't really have the money for that. And Nori tried to teach me the knife, too, but ..." He paused, and flushed faintly. "Lets just say, that wasn't my best effort. I can probably stick someone with a knitting needle, if you need me too, but ..."
He shrugged, sheepish and cheerful and casually warm, and Dwalin found himself grinning a little. Just a touch.
"Fair enough," he noted, burping slightly as he refilled his mug. "Leave the knife-work to your brother or me. Or Fíli." He grinned, slow and vicious, and rather more proud than was maybe his right, having trained the lad or no. "There's a lad who picked it up right quick. Quick as your brother, I'd wager."
Which, now that he thought about it, wasn't the most reassuring thought he'd ever had. And since Nori, who'd been listening in not at all surreptitiously, was now looking across at the two princes with a speculative look in his eye, possibly not the wisest thing he'd ever said, either. But the prince could hold his own, Fíli could hold his own very well, and the worst that could happen was that there'd be a few more unorthodox moves in the prince's repertoire by the end of it. And possibly in Nori's, too. Fíli could be bloody lethal, when the mood was on him.
"Nobody's as quick as Nori," Ori said, stoutly loyal, but he grinned a little at Dwalin. "Not that my brother likes to test that assertion, though."
"I test it often enough," Nori called across, light and cheerful. "It's just my opponents don't usually get up again for a rematch." He grinned, a frankly alarming twinkle of mischief in his eyes, and turned to look back across at Fíli. "Though if anyone might like to try a less deadly form of testing, I might make an exception ...?"
Fíli stood up from his seat beside the fire, his brother grinning slow and dangerously alongside him, and swept Nori a deep and laughing bow. "Any time, Master Nori!" the prince agreed. "If you like, I'll even go easy on you, out of respect for your greater age."
Dwalin coughed, spluttering on his ale, and the conversation around the hall dimmed considerably, an expectant hush falling over it. Nori, seated on the edge of the long table, a knife idly balanced in his hands, just grinned, the light of mischief practically a glow. Fíli, for his part, was standing by the fire with a glow of his own, and carefully ignoring the sudden glares directed his way by more or less every other dwarf in the company. Most especially, Dwalin noted, Glóin, Bifur, and Dwalin's own brother, Balin. He thought Óin might have joined in, too, but the healer hadn't had his trumpet in at the time.
"It's unwise to underestimate someone based on their years," Nori noted, his grin like a knife in and of itself, tapping his actual blade against his boot lightly. Beside him, Dori was focusing very carefully on his mending and not at all smiling, no.
"Aye," Thorin spoke up, from the corner he shared with Balin. His voice wry and light, despite it all, and with a careful nod of respect for the dwarf sitting pointedly at his side. "Careful, nephew."
Fíli smiled, a small toss of his head, and bowed to his uncle in turn. "Of course," the prince agreed, with Kíli grinning faintly beside him. "Though I would remind the company that it goes both ways?" He raised an eyebrow. "It doesn't do to underestimate someone based on their lack of years, either."
And he looked over at Ori, at that, and then at Bilbo, bringing the conversation back around while the both of them flushed furiously and Ori, at least, tried to hide behind Dwalin's shoulder. The prince smiled, bright and golden where he stood by the fire, and cheerfully handed congratulations onwards, to the young and the weak who'd stood with them anyway, and did their part despite how very much they weren't suited to it. Out of the middle of the joke and the playful teasing, Fíli handed out genuine gratitude and praise, like the true prince he was going to be someday, and in the silence, with Ori against his shoulder and Bilbo blushing against Gandalf's across the way, Dwalin found himself raising his tankard in agreement.
"Aye," he said, loud and bold and strong, and trying desperately not to be strangled by the lump of pride in his throat. "And I'll drink to that too!"
"Here, here!" Bofur agreed, the miner raising his tankard with quick and easy cheer, and a smile just for Bilbo. "Here's to the young! May they stand guard on us decrepit farts for a long time to come!" He laughed, Bombur's rough chuckle at his back, Bifur's small, satisfied smile beside him. "To the young!"
"TO THE YOUNG!" the Company roared, one roar, one voice, one rather drunken cheer. Balin grinning beside Thorin, shoulder to shoulder with the king as Thorin stared at his nephews in blind pride. Óin and Glóin raising their tankards in unison, Glóin in particular smiling the secret, fervent smile of someone who had young of his own to be proud of, even if they weren't there just at present. Gandalf, smiling bright and broad beneath his beard, with Bilbo tucked in close against his side, the heat of the hobbit's blush probably warming the old wizard as much as the fire. Nori, grinning for his brother, and Dori, broad and tired and so desperately proud, after everything their family had been through, and all the rumours that had dogged them. Fíli and Kíli, grinning for each other as much as anyone, for Bilbo and for Ori, and for the pride in their uncle's eyes.
And Dwalin himself, leaning against the pillar with Ori against his shoulder squeaking and pressing his fingers up against his desperate, embarrassed grin. Dwalin roared alongside them, raised his mug with strength and cheer. For things more important than hammers, things not yet lost. For children he'd taught, and children he'd fought beside, and children he hoped to see king, one day in the future when the dragon was dead and the mountain theirs once more.
For the young, and the brave. For stout hearts and strong hands. For the future.
And most of all, more than anything, for the fact that none of them were bloody dead yet.
"To the young," Dwalin said, almost softly to himself as the roar died back down. Meeting his brother's eyes, meeting Thorin's. Meeting Gandalf's and Dori's and Glóin's, and seeing, in all of them, the echo of his hope.
"To the young," Dwalin repeated, with an odd little smile. Glancing down at the flustered, red-faced lad at his side, and feeling the slow grin, the dark and dizzy pride, bubbling up through his chest. Ori blinked up at him, his flush fading and narrow-eyed curiosity sneaking back in, the suspicion he'd learned from his brother, maybe, or just from life, from all the trials of exile and poverty and more. Ori blinked suspiciously up at him, and Dwalin found himself grinning the old, rough grin.
"Say, lad," he rumbled, soft and cheerful. "If you'd like, I could give you a few pointers in the mornin'." He grinned, glancing up at Nori, the old challenge between them. "After all, I'd hate for you to feel left out while my best student is showing your brother how it's done."
Ori straightened in his seat, delight and pride and narrow-eyed affront flickering rapidly across his features, his brothers not far behind him at all, and Dwalin settled back against his pillar, with his ale and his hope and the promise of a good fight, and three narrowed-eyed, identical glares to keep him company.
Yes, he thought, somewhat muzzily. Here's to the young, and no bloody mistake.
He just hoped they weren't so young they'd avoid a hangover in the morning. Because if Ori and his brothers were anything like Dwalin's Mahal-cursed princes the morning after a bash, then someone would be looking for body parts come midday.
And it wasn't going to be him.
