Get Well Soon

[rocky41_7]

Fandom: The Hobbit/Tolkien

Pairing: Implied Thorin/Thranduil

Summary: The Elvenking takes it upon himself to send a gift to the newly re-instated King Under the Mountain to aid his recovery after battle. Regrettably, the gift commemorates a moment between them Thorin would rather NOT have spread across Erebor.

AO3 | Pillowfort | tumblr

From this prompt off the kink meme

I'm uhh slightly embarrassed this is the first Tolkien fic I've ever written but here we go.

Thorin, still recovering from the battle for Erebor, had delegated a number of tasks to Fili and Kili during his convalescence. As much as he chaffed against the enormous amount of rest prescribed by Balin and Dis, he also saw an opportunity to prime his nephews for leadership (or that was what he told Dis, as he sent them over to take inventory of their food supplies for the third time). Among these chores was monitoring any mail coming in. There wasn’t much, as Erebor had only been recently retaken, and there weren’t many eager to visit the dwarves for tea.

Uncle Thorin’s study was a useful place to hide out from him, as it was several staircases away from his bedroom, in which Balin was doing his best to confine the king. It was a dodging tactic that lost effectiveness by the day, with how well Thorin’s healing progressed. Soon there would be no more evading the delegation of tasks by the King Under the Mountain—not that the other dwarves weren’t also plenty willing to task the youngest among them (and Dis was never on their side).

“Where have those boys gotten to?” Thorin grumbled, legs stretched out in front of a gleaming fireplace while Dis worked over a leather satchel nearby.

“You sent them to check on the mail,” she reminded him. Thorin had kept a lid on most of his bellyaching—he had been lucky to survive his injuries at all, and he was keenly aware of it—but she could sense the restlessness in him, eager to get to the business of ruling and restoring Erebor now that it was theirs once again.

“We cannot possibly be getting enough mail to have kept them so long,” he complained, slouched in his seat, beard down to his waist. With none but his sister to observe, he felt less strictly held to a kingly bearing.
“If you haven’t figured out they’re avoiding you yet!” Dis laughed, glancing up at him with the firelight dancing in her dark eyes. Thorin scowled ineffectively, and Dis turned her eyes back to her work, a smile quirking her lips.

“They’re more than old enough to take some responsibility,” he opined.

“But they’re still young,” Dis reminded him. “You know how young ones are. Always looking to dodge a chore where they can.” She gave a tuneless little hum as she tightened her stitches. “Chin up. Maybe we’ve gotten word from some of the other kingdoms.”

“They’d have come straight here if we had,” Thorin disagreed. Dis shrugged, and gestured for Thorin to finish the mug of mead and the dish of bread and cheese beside his chair, lapsing from conversation into some more delicate, decorative stitching. Thorin sighed and picked up his mug, deciding it was not, for the moment, worth fretting about his nephews’ sense of responsibility, or lack thereof. If they idled too long, he’d send Dis after them.

The brothers in question were in the king’s study, playing a game of knucklebones before the hearth, with time for at least one more round before they really ought to go check on Uncle Thorin, Fili had said. A cheery fire crackled before them, turning the room’s gold décor to orange and helping to soothe the weary months of travel and war from the bones of the young dwarves. There was safety now in Erebor, and after so long on the road, beset by so many dangers, it was an unspeakable comfort to feel they were finally home. The smoke and heat of the fire traveled up through the flue and was then channeled along the walls, to further spread the fire’s warmth throughout the room, leaving both dwarves comfortable with only a light robe thrown on over their undertunics. The king’s desk, a solid stone monument, was stacked with various books and treatises Thorin had requested the boys prepare, but had not had time to attend to yet. Fili had lost track of how many times Balin had intercepted them bringing some tome to Thorin to send it back, insisting His Majesty needed to rest, not work.

Given the dearth of communication from the outside, both dwarves were unprepared for Bofur to pop in dragging a tall, thin package wrapped in cloth, and announcing, “We’ve got mail!”

Fili and Kili both raised their heads and Fili jumped up to help Bofur pull the unwieldly package into the room and prop it against Thorin’s desk. It was a broad rectangle, nearly as tall as Bofur, and wide as a dwarf’s shoulders.
“Maybe it’s from the other kingdoms,” Kili said with a touch of breathless excitement in his voice. “They must have gotten our word that Erebor is reclaimed!” Fili frowned in thought and observed the package, but before he could opine, Bofur shook his head.

“I wouldn’t think so,” he said. “The messenger was an elf.”

“An elf?” Fili echoed, his brow knitting. “What did they say?”

“Nothing,” Bofur said. “Just ‘For the King Under the Mountain.’ Then she handed me the package and rode off without so much as a hello.”

“What did she look like?” Kili asked. The firelight rippled across the half-healed gash across his cheek, making Fili wince inwardly at its ghastly prominence. He did not like to think how near to death his brother had come so recently.

“What have the elves to say to us?” Fili asked, and shared a look with Kili. The last thing Uncle Thorin needed during his recovery was some antagonism from old dwarven enemies. None of them were so fooled to think that because King Thranduil had aided them against the orcs that he meant to bury the rusty old hatchet between elves and dwarves.

“Maybe we should open it,” Kili said, pushing himself to his feet. “To make sure it’s not anything…” Bofur pursed his lips, clearly ill at ease with the idea of breaking into the king’s mail, but it was well-known Thorin had a soft spot for his nephews—they were less likely to get a tongue-lashing over it than the rest.

Fili grasped the edge of the package and felt along it.

“It feels like a frame,” he thought aloud.

“Maybe they’re criticizing our decorative abilities by sending us artwork for the walls,” Kili joked. He joined Fili in examining the package, and then gave a tug on the twine bow at the front. The loose string fell away and he reached around back to lift a flap of the stiff cloth wrapped around it.

“I’m not certain we shouldn’t inform Thorin of this first…” Bofur said, tugging at one end of his mustache. At that moment, Kili uncovered one corner of the package, confirming that it was, in fact, a frame. Most likely with a painting inside.

“Look, it’s just a painting,” Kili said. “Uncle won’t mind if we have a look. Perhaps we can hang it for him.” Fili snorted.

“Oh yes, let’s put the elvish painting right over his desk. He’ll love that.” Kili took care peeling back the fabric, and the first thing they uncovered was the top of the Elvenking’s pale gold head, well-shaded and with all the details of his woodland crown painted with surely painstaking care.

“Did he…send us a picture of himself?” Kili asked in some awe at the sheer conceited audacity. He looked to his companions and none of them could suppress giggling snorts.

“Well, I think we’ve got to see it now,” Bofur decided.

“Are we still hanging it up for him?” Fili asked with a lopsided grin at Kili. Kili smirked back and carried on pulling the fabric down and away from the portrait, which then revealed the Elvenking’s bare shoulders, his delicate musculature neatly shown in smooth, even strokes.

“Blessed Aulë,” Bofur blurted out. “Is he naked?” Fili and Kili could barely contain their mirth; Kili grabbed his brother’s shoulder for support as he wheezed with laughter.

“It’s a welcome home nude portrait of the Elvenking,” he howled, tears prickling his eyes. Fili bit his lip red in an effort to restrain himself. “Oh, Fili, we have to hang it.” He gathered himself enough to continue, revealing that, at the very least, the Elvenking was indeed topless.

Before they could get far enough down to establish he was naked, though, it became apparent there was another figure in the painting.

“Who posed for a nude painting with the Elvenking?” Bofur asked in amazement, giving the portrait a bug-eyed look.

“Maybe it’s an elf thing,” Fili said. “It’s probably a honor or something.” They all shared a moment of agreement that elves were strange and unknowable and slightly indecent. But all amusement was cut short when Kili peeled the fabric down enough for them to get a look at the face of the other party. In fact, Kili took a step back from the painting, as if his mere proximity might mark him guilty by association.

“Oh, no.” All three dwarves exchanged a stricken look. “It’s not…”

“It can’t be…”

“This can’t be good for diplomatic relations,” Bofur muttered.

“Maybe it’s not,” Kili said hopefully. Fili wanted to agree, but it was difficult. The painting was detailed, and seemed quite accurate. Even the gray streaks in Uncle Thorin’s hair were present and properly placed.
“We have to be missing something,” Fili said. “Uncover the rest of it.” Kili resisted, looking at his older brother, but Fili nodded towards the painting, and with a tentative hand, Kili reached out to remove the fabric once and for all. Any hope they had held out that the painting wasn’t what it seemed from the first 3/4ths was smote to ash when Kili revealed the rest, which was exactly as it looked from the rest: The Elvenking Thranduil, woven crown and all, straddling Uncle Thorin’s naked lap in loving detail, sprawled across a bed of elven make. Thorin’s broad hands grasped the Elvenking’s slender, bare thighs and their attentions were fixed upon each other, fantastic in their contrast: Thorin short and thick and dark of hair, Thranduil like the drawn-out tail of a shooting star coalesced on the earth, and lacking hair anywhere but the sleek mane on his head and his stern brow (here, softened in temperament, but no lesser in intensity). Even the faint shadows between the Elvenking’s ribs were visible, and some focus must have been put to painting Thorin’s chest hair.

“Oh, no. Oh…” Bofur looked back towards the door, as if it might not be too late to run after the elven messenger and make her take the thing back.

Fili and Kili struggled to tear themselves away and turn their backs on the painting.

“That was more of Uncle Thorin than I ever needed to see,” Kili whispered.

“What on earth was Thranduil thinking?” Fili whispered back. “We have to get rid of it,” he announced in a louder voice.

“I still think we should hang it,” Kili mumbled, amusing himself if no one else.

“We can’t do that,” Bofur fretted. “It was a gift from the King of Mirkwood. Thorin has to know we received it.”

“Oh, do you want to show this to Uncle Thorin?” Fili asked.

“Show what to Uncle Thorin?”

“Mother!” Both brothers jumped at the sound of Dis’ voice entering the study.

“Yes, what is it we’re showing to your uncle? Don’t tell us you’ve actually been working on something down here.” Balin was at Dis’ side and Bofur briefly seemed to contemplate hurling himself in front of the painting to shield his king’s honor, but he didn’t make the choice in time. Dis startled so violently when she saw it that the beads in her beard rattled and Balin’s hand flew up to cover his mouth.

“We’ve had a gift from the Elvenking,” Kili said, keeping his back to the painting but unable to maintain an entirely straight face. For a moment, even the capable Dis was shocked into silence, and Balin seemed torn between laughing and taking offense the elves had decided to commemorate their king in such an undignified manner.

“Is this meant to be a…a courtship offering?” Bofur asked, to which Balin shrugged.

“Far be it from me to feign knowledge of elven courtship rituals,” he said. “I hadn’t expected Thranduil would show that interest in one of us, let alone...” Fili noticed his eyes studiously avoiding looking directly at the lurid gift.
“Well it can’t be that Uncle Thorin posed for a picture while we were being kept prisoner in Mirkwood!” Kili exclaimed, his hyperbole opening up a terrifying possibility, particularly taking into account how the elves had not recaptured the dwarves after their escape, and had aided them in the fight against the orcs.

“Thorin!” It was Dis’ roar that finally broke the silence. “Thorin!” She stepped out of the study to summon the king. With only a couple dozen dwarves in all of Erebor, there was little enough sound that Dis’ bellowing carried up to the king’s bedchambers and in a few minutes’ time, Thorin came hobbling down to the study, fighting the urge to clasp his throbbing side, unreasonably pleased to think there was something so urgent and critical it needed his immediate attention. A king did like to feel needed, after all.

“Care to explain why you left such a thing lying around in the study where you’ve got my boys working?” Dis demanded, pointing a thumb at the salacious image.

All the dwarves had decided Thorin was a far better place to fix their eyes than on the sensual portrait, which meant they all had a clear view of the violent shade of puce that bloomed across the face of the King Under the Mountain. If nothing else, the shock in Thorin’s expression belied any belief that he had known about the portrait before then.

“I left!” he blustered. “Wh— You think—! That I had anything to do with this?” He whirled on Bofur and Balin, then remembered it was Kili and Fili who had been in charge of the mail, and turned on them, his dark blue robe swishing with the movement. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“It was a gift from King Thranduil!” Fili blurted out.

“Well, we think it was,” Kili amended.

“You think it was?” Balin asked. “There’s a question about who sent this?”

“It was just delivered by an elf,” Bofur relayed. “She didn’t say anything when she dropped it off, except that it was for you, my king.”

“Well, have it destroyed!” Thorin exclaimed, but everyone in the room froze, none quite willing to risk viewing the painting again in order to grab it. Shoving past the rest, possibly deciding he would rather handle it himself than give anyone a chance to examine it again, Thorin seized the offending smut, keeping the painting side pressed to his body, so only the back was visible to passers-by. He shuffled for the door, when Kili pointed and announced:
“There’s a note!” And so there was. Tucked into the backside of the frame was a small bit of parchment, which Kili came forward to remove. Once it was in his hands, he reconsidered whether he really wanted to open it, given how his last foray into opening Thorin’s mail had gone, but the light against it suggested there were mere words on the inside. He unfolded it and Thorin tensed as if perhaps to grab the paper from his nephew before some fresh humiliation at Thranduil’s hands could be made public.

“Well?” Balin prompted him after a silence. “What does it say? Does he offer us an explanation?”

“It just says…‘May your recovery be swift and clean’,” Kili said, holding the brief note out to prove its truth. “There’s not even a signature.”

“Not sure we really need one of those,” Fili muttered under his breath.

“Give me that,” Thorin said, turning with effort, struggling to keep a grip on the large painting, to yank the note from Kili’s hand. “All of you have better things to be doing! Fili, Kili—the entry hall needs scrubbing. Bofur will help you. Get to work!” As he passed by Dis and Balin, the king’s sister and his advisor heard a low hiss: “I’m going to kill that fairy sprite.”

Fili and Kili found there was something to be said for scrubbing the massive stone hall, and that was this: at least there were no naked pictures of their uncle hiding around the corner.

***

The proper thing to do, Thorin knew, would have been to pitch the thing, frame and all, into his fireplace and teach Thranduil a lesson about sending such things unmarked to his residence. But…the effort that had gone into the thing was clear, and worse, the artist—and Thorin writhed inwardly to think of some elf getting a carnal description of his body to recreate the image (and he refused to believe he had looked with such enraptured awe on Thranduil at any time)—had done a truly remarkable job of capturing Thranduil’s grace and control, even at such an intimate moment. The elegant sway of Thranduil’s back, the curtain of his white-gold hair, the noble lines of his jaw, his nose…the pale musculature of his thighs hugging Thorin’s hips…the firm, narrow profile of his chest…(the way his gaze was locked on Thorin, no attention paid to the audience)…

Thorin’s fingers traced over the line of the Elvenking’s ridiculously long leg, folded in half and splayed to the side to seat himself on Thorin’s lap, and silently chided the artist for the shading: the light had been the purple-blue of evening during their tryst, not the late afternoon gold shown in the portrait. Doubtless Thranduil had made this adjustment to allow the yellow light to bathe them and illuminate his own silken locks, the vain creature.

Thorin could only pray the rest of his company took this as some impertinence on the part of the spritely king of the woodland realm, for which Thorin would show due displeasure.

Without consciously making a decision, Thorin found himself sliding the portrait under his bed. No one else could ever be permitted to see this…but he could make a decision about what precisely to do with it later…

May your recovery be swift and clean. He couldn’t have at least signed it? Perhaps Thorin was well after all—well enough to receive guests. Perhaps it was time for the Elvenking to come and pay due honors to the new King Under the Mountain.