Work Text:
Thorin hummed contently as he looked at the result of their day’s work: a pair of bronze strap hinges in form of intricately curved branches with leaves and a matching knocker. He put the rest of the instruments where they belonged, shooting one last glance at the furnace to make sure the fire was doused properly, walked out of the forge and secured the door.
Truth be told, they’d had a good deal of luck this time – the local blacksmith, an oldster by human standards, let them work in his forge and workshop in exchange for a third of the earnings and handed over a great part of the jobs to them. To say nothing about holidays, when they turned out to be the only ones still working. And they had been fortunate to find suitable lodging: the landlord with whom Thorin had stayed last year did not raise the rent, so they had quarters large enough and, best of all, with a hearth to cook something simple for dinner. It was good, considering that they were leaving for work before dawn and coming back late at night when the pub was closed already. The house they were staying in was situated on the edge of the little bourg, opposite to where the forge was, but the town was indeed small and they had no complaints.
The room had only one bed, but it was wide enough for two. And Thorin could think of at least two reasons for sharing the sleeping place: it was warmer that way and easier to kick the other in case of too loud snoring. Though, to be honest, there was one more reason… The corners of his mouth turned up in a small smile as it often happened when he was thinking of Dwalin.
Usually they went home together but that day Dwalin had some business around so he had left as soon as they’d finished, having left Thorin to clean up by himself. Thorin chuckled as he remembered Dwalin having walked out of the door, running straight into the little human girl who he had saved about a month ago from the hooves of a runaway horse.
“Happy holidays!” The girl smiled sheepishly and offered him two strings of strange-looking beads, putting them on his hand.
“This is for you. Thank you…”
She turned away and broke into a run along the trodden path in the newly fallen snow.
“Happy holidays to you too, marnith*,” Dwalin beamed at her and put the beads away in his pocket.
Thorin smiled. The girl, wrapped up in her thick woolen shawl on top of her vest, with her rosy chubby cheeks looked indeed like a ripe cranberry which cooks generously put into festive pies or made part of garlands decorating the windows along with the pine branches during those last days.
Local folk had started to prepare for Yule’s celebration a good deal beforehand and now, on solstice eve, the anticipation of the holiday was felt everywhere around town. People decorated their houses and put on their best clothes. On the doors there were wreaths made of winterberry tied up with red and white ribbons, and pine trees in the backyards were glittering with beads of golden foil, colorful bows and shining bells. On the pavement, covered with snow, there were squares of warm light coming from windows, and the street was full with the rich aroma of roasted meat and fresh bakery.
The merchant rows on the central square were dark and quiet, but Thorin remembered well the loud clatter of voices in the morning and the crowd circling between the stalls with various dainties, sweets, nice woolen knittings and high piles of Yule logs – an indispensable element of the holiday in every home. Children had been laughing and asking joyfully for toys and candies and adults wished each other happiness and luck and wealth…
Thorin couldn’t say why this atmosphere of joy and merrymaking all around town was making him drown in some sort of odd melancholy. What did he care about a human holiday? Maybe the reason was that he couldn’t even remember when they had celebrated their own holidays. First, when they’d had a hard time grieving for their losses, there had been more important things to think about, and later, after settling in the Blue Mountains, Durin’s Day usually saw him in one human village or another – they had to make supplies for winter and he had to look for any job he could find.
In the narrow alley he was passing by, two kids were playing in the backyard of a small house: a boy was fastening short twigs as hands to his snowman and a girl was jumping under the Yule-tree trying to reach the candy hanging on a string. The door opened with a loud crack, letting out a puff of steam and the rich flavour of a spicy meal; a woman stepped out, wiping her hands on the apron, and called the children in.
Yes, it was a human holiday, so what? There was nothing wrong with buying some pastry, maybe spiced cakes with sugar icing and have a quiet dinner near the fire with a mug of mulled wine… Having made the decision, Thorin quickened his pace.
Alas, the doors of the bakery on the corner where they bought bread sometimes on their way to the forge were already closed, a nice garland hanging above the lock, and the windows decorated with paper snowflakes were dark in contrast with the brightly lit windows on the owner’s rooms on the first floor. Today merchants hurried to close early for the night so they could celebrate with their family. Well… perhaps it was for the better, Dwalin would have laughed at him anyway. As for holidays… they would have them too. In time.
***
Thorin smelled the fine aroma of fresh baking when he stepped on the front porch, but he didn’t give it a thought since it probably came from their landlord’s rooms, no other way. But as he walked in, the smell didn’t dissolve, on the contrary, it became stronger and more pronounced. Following his nose, Thorin approached the table and picked up the corner of the cloth covering some parcel, wrapped in brown paper, feeling his mouth watering at once. The thick overwhelming aroma of crispy pastry, meat juice and fried onion of his favourite kidney pie! There was some rustling in the bedroom, Dwalin must have just come in and was changing his clothes. Thorin unbuckled his belt and took off his fur coat.
“Cooked it by yourself?” he couldn’t resist teasing his friend.
“Aye”, grunted Dwalin, “you know, I’ve a magic hammer: swing it one time and you’ll have a pie baked, swing it twice – and you’ll get a keg of beer. Speaking of beer, will you put the pot on the fire?”
Thorin looked around and saw a jug of ale on the table near the candle. The liquid smelled a little of honey and something else, pungent and spicy. He poured half of it in the pot and put it on the fire.
“So, what occasion is all this for?”
“Hm… a holiday?” Dwalin came out of the bedroom shrugging his shoulders.
“A human one.”
“I see no reason why we can’t celebrate it, stuck in this town as we are.”
“Fine. Are you going to decorate a Yule-tree and put a garland on the door too?”
“Don’t need a tree, we’re no elves.” Dwalin look perfectly unfazed. “As for garlands… I’ve got something better.”
He rummaged around in his pockets for a while and took out two strings of beads, that Thorin recognized with some shock as rowanberries and hawberries and glaced nuts – it must have been the girl’s present. One string Dwalin lowered on Thorin’s neck, the second he put on himself. Then he opened his bag lying on the chair next to him, took out a slightly flattened wreath and, taking advantage of Thorin’s confusion, put it on his head.
“And that too.”
Thorin raised his hands, feeling pointed leaves, some berries and, it seemed, acorns. He wanted to pull it off, but Dwalin caught his wrist.
“Leave it!”
Thorin frowned, but Dwalin had already cut the pie into pieces, handing one to him. Thorin swallowed and lowered his hand.
They ate the huge pie in one go. Thorin licked the meat juice and fat from his fingers and went to pour another half of ale into the cauldron. The smell of spices and herbs started to spread across the room. Thorin sat down at table, his “crown” almost slipping off his head. He caught it with a wince.
“I’m feeling like a Thranduil.”
“Sorry,” Dwalin chuckled. “That’s all I could find. By the way it’s the King’s return that they celebrate today.”
“The Sun King!” Thorin said.
“Oak King.”
“Exactly. Not Oakenshield.”
“They simply don’t know the whole story,” Dwalin winked at him. “We are not humans after all, why not celebrate as we wish?”
He looked Thorin in the eyes.
“There’s no other king for me. And never will be.”
Under his gaze a warm feeling rose in Thorin’s chest that had nothing to do with hot ale. Not taking his eyes off him Dwalin put his hand on Thorin’s shoulder and leaned closer, his warm breath caressing Thorin’s cheek. His lips barely touched Thorin’s chin, then his throat… and then Dwalin bit the hawberry off the beads around his neck. Thorin laughed, threw his hand around Dwalin’s neck drawing him closer and stole a glaced nut from his beads in revenge. He raised his head and kissed the berry’s sweetness off Dwalin’s smiling lips.
By the time they had finished up their ale both their necklaces were looking rather sparse. Dwalin stood up and dragged Thorin with him towards the bedroom. Thorin kissed him hard on the mouth, tugging up his shirt, and dived both hands under thin fabric, eager to touch his furry chest and tight nipples. Dwalin gave an impatient growl and stepped back, pulling his shirt over his head. Thorin’s shirt fell on the floor not long after together with his pants and underwear, and before he knew what was happening, he was lying on his back in their bed, Dwalin’s heavy body on top of him. Thorin instinctively threw his leg on him to bring him down even closer, and buckled his hips up, pressing his own erection into Dwalin’s hard cock, hidden by the layers of fabric. Dwalin drew back and put the wreath back on his head. Even in the dark Thorin could feel his hungry look all over his naked body.
“Wait.”
Dwalin went to the hearth, stirred up the coals and added some wood to the nearly dead fire. A sudden thought made Thorin sit bolt upright.
“We forgot it.”
“Hmm?”
Dwalin climbed on the bed and sat next to him, openly admiring his nudity. Thorin raised himself up on his elbows.
“The main holiday symbol.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Yule log. People put it on the hearth and it warms them all night, and with some luck twelve days more.”
“When I walked home, all logs were sold out,” said Dwalin. “But we agreed to have our own celebration. I promise to keep you warm even without a log.”
He loosened his pants’ lacing and let them drop to the floor, giving Thorin a perfect view of his thick, fully erect length. Tied with satin ribbons. Red and green ones.
Thorin roared with laughter, hiding his face in his palms.
“It’s a holiday after all,” grinned Dwalin. Thorin took a deep breath trying to calm down. “Don’t you like it?” Dwalin wiggled his eyebrows and pointedly moved his hips up. Thorin’s gaze moved lower on his own accord. Yule log… He fell on his back and had to bite his hand, shaking helplessly with laughter. By the time he had managed to calm his breath, Dwalin had already taken off the rest of his clothes and was hovering over him, impossibly close, his breath tickling Thorin’s lips, driving away every single thought: about holidays and traditions and logs, leaving him melting from desire and urgent, pulsing heat under his skin.
“Don’t worry about the night,” Dwalin breathed into his temple, and Thorin pulled him closer, biting his earlobe. “Not about the next twelve. And all the others, if you want – we won’t get cold.”
*marnith – little berry (khuzdul)