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Title: Hedgehogs and Painted Stones
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Hobbit
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Bofur/Elros
Warnings: Slowbuild fluff, minor charcter death, interspecies courtship
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: After receiving Bofur's gift, Elros finds himself debating what to do.
AN: So. Five years ago, I wrote Spines and Antlers, which is a slowburn romance between Bofur and a guard of Mirkwood who was named as 'Elros' in The Desolation of Smaug. It's the teeniest, tiniest of rare-pairs. I intended to write the sequel pretty much straight away, but got distracted (like, a bird flew past or something, IDK) after the first couple of hundred words and never managed it. Until this last week, when I opened the file in a fit of procrastination (Hi, Palgrave!) and finally completed it.
Tl;dr, this is the sequel to one of my ridiculous rare-pair fics that should have been written five years ago but wasn't.
He tilts and turns the hedgehog in his hands on his way back to the forest. It’s smooth and polished and exquisitely carved from ash; it’s a prickly little thing that peers up at him with curiosity and strange affection. Much like its maker, he thinks, and he smiles to himself.
He can admit, even only to himself, that his Dwarven toymaker has become something of an obsession these last few months. He has won himself Bofur’s respect, it seems, but he has also bought more toy deer than any one person should reasonably own. And now this. The hedgehog.
His smile widens, and he tucks the carving into the pouch he wears at his hip.
…
He sets the hedgehog down, not on the windowsill where he keeps his deer, but on the stand by his bedside. It looks up at him from next to the flask of water he habitually keeps there, its one paw raised in a gesture both defensive and inquisitive.
It is, quite possibly, one of the most beautiful things Elros owns. Certainly, it is the most meaningful. Suspicion that this gift is something more than a gift lingers in his mind. The flush on Bofur’s face; the way his fingers had curled, warm and calloused, briefly over his own… Perhaps Dwarves give courting gifts just as Elves do. It’s something to consider – he knows very little of other races, having spent his entire life under the boughs of the Wood, and Dwarves are notoriously secretive about their ways.
If - if - he is right, and this hedgehog is the token he thinks it could be, then what to do?
He rolls onto his back and stares up at the vault of his ceiling. His first impulse is to give in to the fluttering in his belly and the skipping of his heart, and embrace the gift for what it is. To return it, even, though with what he does not know. To purchase something would seem wrong, but Elros has more of an eye for art than any ability in it.
Besides, there are other things to consider: to love a mortal has consequences. There are songs the Sindar sing of an Elf maid who died for her love of a Man. Truly died, as mortals did, instead of fading or passing to the West or even entering the Halls of Mandos. The song is said to be true, but legends of the Sindar have never held much sway over him. He is of Silvan blood – he is an Elf of the forest and the stars. He imagines death as a vast blackness, like the night sky between those bright pinpricks his people love so much. He imagines it as peace.
He is not afraid of death. What he fears instead is the reactions of those around him. Bofur, he thinks, will not know of those songs; his king, to whom his fealty belongs, is a different matter. He is said to have grown up with that Elf maid, back in those distant days before the Sindar came East over the mountains to the great wood and made it their kingdom. King Thranduil hails from Doriath, he hates Dwarves, and though he is a good king, he is also a fierce one and Elros – still – is not in his favour following the escape of Oakenshield’s Company.
He bites his lip. He glances to his left, to the hedgehog on his night stand.
He does not fear his king any more than he fears death.
…
The Silvan Elves are a strange and ancient folk, considered less wise and more dangerous than their kindred. His people have no written language of their own; Tengwar and Cirth runes are both Sindarin imports. Their Elvish is considered low and base, with odd inflections. Elros has met enough visitors to Thranduil’s court to know that, should he speak swiftly enough in his own dialect, he would not be understood. The Sindar who settled in the wood after Doriath’s fall are considered, by outsiders, to be superior in some unfathomable way; some amongst the court would believe the same - had so believed, when Oropher was King – but for King Thranduil’s choice to woo and wed a Silvan maid to be his Queen.
Their ways are his ways now, and the ways of his son. Prince Legolas has none of the airs and graces that their occasional royal visitors use, and Elros – his childhood playmate – knows that Legolas grew up with the knowledge that he would never rule well if he considered his people lesser than himself. And while their friendship has changed in the centuries since, Elros has spent enough moons darting through the canopy with the prince, hunting spiders and defending their southern borders to know that the Prince considered himself as much a Silvan Elf as Elros himself does. And their ways are not, contrary to the opinions of others, devoid of culture and beauty. Silvan Elves are Elves after all.
As such, Elros has options of what he may give to his Dwarf to announce his intentions, though not as many as he would prefer. He has skill enough at singing, but little in composition, and he sincerely doubts that a song in any form of Elvish would be received in the way he desires. When his people choose to wed, they weave branches of young trees together to form the supports for their future talans; Elros knows little of how Dwarves age, but he is aware that his Dwarf is an adult grown and, as such, may not have time to watch their saplings grow into a sturdy home for them both. Carving is another option, but Elros was intrigued with Bofur’s craft for a reason beyond mere curiosity: he is able to use a knife to skin and gut animals, and to slay spiders, but not much else beyond that. Long centuries of experience have taught him that whittling is best left for other people, and he wishes to craft his courting gift himself. That leaves him with painting and weaving: two handcrafts used mostly for the creation of trinkets, but which may – with luck – catch the discerning eye of a Dwarf.
He tells this to his hedgehog in the dead of night, stroking a finger along its wooden spines. It does not answer, of course, but instead feels warm to the touch – as if Bofur managed to capture some essence of the tree’s feä within the carving.
…
“What do Dwarves like?” is not a question he wishes to ask of any Elf. Recent events have left all of them shaken and, in some cases, hyper-aware of the failings their insular nature has led them to. There are some, Elros included, who are trying to change that. Trying by aiding the Men of Dale in their building work and in ferrying supplies north from the Wood to the City and on to the Mountain. Even the King is trying. He extends his sorcery out from under the twisted boughs of his kingdom, over the shores of the lake, and up towards Dale; covering the landscape in fog and causing swooping disorientation amongst the mortal population before they become adjusted to it.
They are trying, all of them, but that does not mean that Elros is willing to risk something as fragile as this courtship on millennia of hatred and suspicion. He resolves to watch the Dwarves, instead.
His Dwarf is chief amongst those he focuses on. Even on the days he does not stop by Bofur’s stall, he is aware of him. His ears seem almost preternaturally attuned to the sound of his voice, and many a time Elros has found himself distracted by the sound of Bofur plying his trade and making merry with all he meets. But there are other Dwarves too that linger in Dale; some of Oakenshield’s party and others who came later. Their beards are long and elaborate, clasped with gold and silver, and their belts are heavy with gems. Dwarves, it seems, like jewellery – a shame, really, as Elros, like all Silvan Elves, has a rather hearty suspicion of anyone who chooses jewel-craft as their occupation, and has never set foot in a forge in his life. Bofur, though, appears to be something of an exception: the beads in his hair are wood and stone. Whether it is a matter of social status or personal preference, Elros knows not, but he suspects that Bofur is somewhat poorer than the average.
He learns other things about Dwarves. They respect craftsmanship of all kinds, he learns such from their inspections of stonework and net-weaving alike; they appreciate good food and beer, and are willing to part with plenty coin for both if it is of high enough quality; they have a tendency to sing as they work, their songs in time with the movements of their bodies. Elros doesn’t understand the words, but finds himself humming along as he helps haul stone into place and clear rubble. He’s overheard once or twice, he knows, but none pass comment on it.
He wonders if Bofur sings as he carves. He doesn’t know.
…
He peers over the edge of the boat into the lake. There is always ice on the lake, and it is the job of several Men to keep the water clear of the worst of it, chipping it away as it forms. Still, a crust of white slush laps at the side of the boat, leaving fine crystals on the wood. On a different vessel, King Thranduil stands with his head bowed towards the King of Dale. Dragonsbane. Invisible beneath them, the dragon rests on the bottom of the lake, poisoning fish and water alike.
The Men want to wait until high summer to haul the carcass up. King Thranduil wishes for them to act now. He has seen – they’ve all seen – the effect that the dragon is having on their most reliable source of food. Fish have been netted alive only to be found rotting from the inside; their organs blackened with decay and their flesh ruined. None dare eat them. None dare drink the water unless it’s boiled first to purify it, but there are rumours of sickness beginning to spread nonetheless.
“We cannot risk the cold, Thranduil,” King Bard is saying. Elros glances toward their boat in surprise. He’s never heard anyone address his King so informally before.
He catches his Prince’s eye, and Prince Legolas’ hand flutters in the quiet-speech that the Kings are more intimate than they’ve been pretending in public. The Prince rolls his eyes expressively, before returning to his duties; he’s playing a blank-faced bodyguard for the day, it seems.
Interesting. It seems the King is more favourable to relations with mortals than he appears. Not that Elros allows himself any hope that his own courtship will be accepted; the King’s feelings regarding Dwarves are unlikely to have changed overmuch.
“Water so cold will kill a Man in moments,” King Bard continues, oblivious to the gossip surrounding him. “We cannot risk it.”
“Yet you must,” King Thranduil counters, “as we have discussed before. Esgaroth is a fundamental part of life in the north, vital for all races who dwell here. To leave the dragon to sicken it further will only make things worse for all our peoples.”
“But – “
“And there are those amongst us who are less affected by cold than mortal races.”
There. The reason why Elros, still out of favour, and his comrades have been gathered. He looks down at the water in dread. Less affected, certainly, but not impervious; he dislikes the thought of dipping so much as a toe into the lake regardless of the weather, let alone swimming to the bottom to net a dragon.
The nets they’ve been provided with are sturdy, at least, woven of thick rope and secured with metal clasps forged by the Dwarves. There are pulleys affixed to the boats so that those who get to remain dry may winch the carcass from the lake floor and drag it free. There are teams of Men and Elves and Dwarves working together on this, just as they have been in Dale. The lake is important to them all.
On a different boat, he glimpses dark hair beneath a familiar hat. Bofur is here. He’s rubbing his mitten-clad hands together and peering down at the water with an expression of such doubt that Elros wants to laugh. He, at least, won’t be going in there.
King Bard gives in, as they all knew he must. His protest was more a token than any real argument; Smaug must be disposed of properly if life is to flourish in the north once more, and he knows it as well as they all do. Elros readies himself. He sheds his belt and boots and his outer tunic, and folds them neatly on his seat. Around him, his brethren do the same. A tide of mutterings rises from the Men and Dwarves, and as he places his foot onto the edge of the boat, he thinks he hears Bofur above the rest.
“Well, bugger me,” his Dwarf says.
It’s a pleasant enough thought to warm him in the seconds before he takes the plunge.
…
Less affected. Less affected.
Elros sits shivering by the fire in his favourite Dale tavern, drinking something that’s meant to be a mortal imitation of miruvor. Trying to drink it, rather; his hands are trembling. They’re aching from handling wet, rough rope in freezing water; red and sore in a way he’s never experienced. The first dive into the lake had knocked the air out of his lungs and left him treading water, gasping for air. Around him, his fellow divers are in a similar state. A sorry lot, all of them, still dripping wet and bundled in blankets loaned to them by grateful Men.
Elros doesn’t ever want to let his go. It’s soaked with water from his hair, and it smells of woodsmoke and tobacco, but he can’t imagine life without it. Not at the moment.
The drink he’s been given tastes of fire and earth. It burns his mouth and throat when he manages a sip, and sparks warmth in his belly. He shudders. He’d half-forgotten, down in the dark water, what warmth felt like. Swimming amongst the ghostly ruins of Lake Town, it had felt like something impossible; something as distant as Tirion’s path through the heavens. Remembering warmth in those moments had been as likely as his finding one of the lost Silmarils of the Noldor on the lake bed.
As it was, all they’d found was a decaying dragon lazing in a nest of shattered wood. Smaug’s great eyes had been plucked away by fish, leaving only gaping sockets to glare at their approach.
Elros knows he will remember that sight forever.
At least… as long as he shall live. A life bound to a mortal, one that ends in peaceful darkness and rest, seems like a blessing now compared to an eternity of dead dragons in sunken cities.
His Dwarf is here. In this tavern. He knows it as surely as he knows the scent of his blanket and the warmth of the fire. He can feel Bofur’s eyes on him. He sips at his drink and settles back in his chair and basks in the heat that gradually begins to spread through his limbs. He allows his eyes to close.
It was not just the dragon at the bottom of the lake, nor the ruins of Lake Town. There were other things too: gems scattered over ruined buildings and rocks, tangled in weeds. The jewels that had clung to the dragon’s scales during its last flight. He had thought, briefly, about snatching one up to bring back to the surface, but he’d resisted. His Dwarf finds joy in friendship and laughter, not dragon-treasure and certainly not in the other things that rested amongst the wreckage – the remains of bodies trapped by collapsing buildings. Fragile mortal bones, and decaying flesh, some of them too small to have come from grown Men.
Exhausted as he is, he knows he will not find rest this night.
He drinks instead.
…
He returns to the Wood with a stone recovered from the base of the Mountain. It is sharp and jagged and heavy at the bottom of his bag, and it digs into the base of his spine. He speaks not a word of complaint, and instead keeps up with the rest of his garrison as they race fleet-footed into the trees.
In his chambers, he sets it on his windowsill amongst the plants and his herd of wooden deer. They provide an audience as he perches on the edge of his bed and studies its surfaces. A miniature Erebor, all of their own; a stone he selected for the thrum of feä that clings to it.
He has heard in whispers that Dwarves can sense the feä of the rocks and mountains. It’s one of the most sensible rumours he has heard, although there is no way of knowing for sure if it is true. Not without asking. But even without knowing for sure, he knows that this is the best canvas he can find for his gift: a piece of the home his Dwarf fought so hard to return to.
He plots his designs in his downtime. While on watch he must be sharp-eyed and keen; he dare not disappoint his King again. He patrols borders and hunts spiders with his Prince and their garrison with single-minded concentration. But in the privacy of his chambers, he makes fine brushes from his own hair and gathers pigments with which to paint. He discusses symbols and their meanings with his little wooden hedgehog, stroking its spines and debating with it the merits of angular lines over swirls and curves. He cradles it close to his heart as he speaks, treasuring the slight warmth that seems to linger in its form.
Summer is blooming in the Wood around him before he sets brush to stone. He has mixed his dyes with blood and river-water, just as he was taught long ago – for he knows that if he wants his craft to mean anything, a part of himself must be present within it. He sings while he paints, Elvish words set to a Dwarvish tune, and he lets his mind drift as he works. Bofur’s wide smile and his kind eyes, the flush that spread across his cheeks when he told Elros he’d been crafting deer just for him. The way his hands had lingered, warm and calloused, over Elros’ own when he presented him with his hedgehog.
For all that love between them will end in sorrow, there is none of it in Elros’ song.
…
His last task in the Wood is to escort the caravan from Ered Luin along their winding paths. The Dwarves are wary and suspicious of them, but they are under strict orders to raise their weapons only in the Dwarves’ defence. It’s a far cry from the events of the previous year, and Elros can’t help but wonder at the change. His King appears to be warming, ever so slightly, to the idea of a world beyond their borders. How much of it can be placed at the feet of the Dragonslayer, he doesn’t know, though in a moment of boldness, he asks Prince Legolas only to receive a grimace in response.
“Tauriel,” his Prince says carefully. “When she raised weapons against him in Dale, it shocked him. I don’t think he realised how much he had retreated after my mother’s death before then.”
It is Elros’ turn to grimace. He remembers Queen Morgalen as a wild and capricious being, snatched away in the line of duty; she had never placed herself above the rest of the Silvan citizens of the Wood despite her status, and had insisted on taking part in the guarding of their home. He remembers the news of her death and the way grief had settled into the King like the harshest of winters. He can remember Prince Legolas growing colder in turn, learning to hide his mischief from his father’s gaze so as not to cause more pain, and Elros – he remembers grieving the loss of his childhood playmate, who had become a Prince instead of a friend seemingly overnight.
He also remembers the stories his grandmother once told him of the Noldor. The kinslayers. He knows that Captain Tauriel was wrong to raise her weapons against the King for more than just the act of treason, though there is little point in mentioning it now. She went to the trees the winter after Erebor was reclaimed and found her peace in the dark between stars.
“King Bard has more influence than he knows,” Prince Legolas says after a moment’s silence. “More than the King will admit to.”
His gift for Bofur, finished and securely wrapped at the bottom of his pack, seems heavier than usual, after that.
…
Influence.
Bofur’s stall is busy when he approaches. He takes a winding route towards him, pausing in his path to examine other wares brought down from the Mountain. Over the milling of the crowd, he can hear Bofur’s voice, bright with laughter. He touches the pouch at his hip where his gift rests and closes his eyes briefly.
He knows where this path leads. If he continues on his course, he will know the greatest pain that an Elf can suffer. This is his last chance to turn away. Except… It isn’t. His last chance fled the moment he plucked a wooden doe off Bofur’s table and marvelled at the skill of her creation. He can walk away now and hide his gift forever; he could toss it into the lake to rest with the bones and the wreckage and Bofur would never know. But still, Elros knows, there would come a day when he would come to this market and not hear Bofur’s voice and he would know that agony regardless.
He winds closer and closer, until the crowd parts and he finds himself at his destination, looking down at his Dwarf’s kind eyes and the warm smile that stretches wider at his arrival.
“Didn’t get lost in that forest of yours, then?” Bofur asks him.
Elros finds it hard to believe that he could get lost, having lived under boughs for so long, but he shakes his head all the same and slips behind the stall to claim Bofur’s stool as his own. It brings them closer to the same height – all the better to see the way that the lines at the corners of Bofur’s eyes deepen as he smiles. Such a fascinating face, he has.
“I was tasked with escorting the caravan from Ered Luin,” he explains.
“Ah, so it’s you I’ve got to thank for my nieces and nephews, is it?” Bofur grins at him. “You have my gratitude, Master Elros, for not feeding them to the spiders – although, rowdy as they are, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did.”
Elros laughs at the glint of humour in his eye, and chooses not to inform him that the Dwarven caravan had been near silent the entire time. Only a young Dwarf with hair as red as fire had approached any of them, and he’d driven Prince Legolas near to distraction once he’d plucked up the courage to do so.
It had been nice, though, to see his Prince with some of his former fire back. Even if it had only emerged in order to spar verbally with a Dwarfling.
“They are settling in well?” he asks.
It seems to be a cue for Bofur to chatter about his brother and the thirteen children he’s been blessed with. Thirteen. Elros is too stunned by the number to catch more of Bofur’s speech than the tone of pride in his voice; he loves his family deeply and it shows. Elros cups his chin in his hands and settles in to listen, fixing his gaze on Bofur’s animated face and drinking in the sight of him.
“…you can’t have come to hear me natter on,” Bofur finishes.
Elros’ stomach twists. Months in the making, and the time has come to deliver. He reaches for his pouch.
“I wished to give you something,” he says. “A gift for a gift.”
He has surprised him, judging by the expression on Bofur’s face. His mouth opens soundlessly, and he stares at Elros with wide eyes and a flush spreading over his cheeks as Elros holds out his gift, still wrapped in cloth. He blinks. Closes his mouth and opens it once more, only to close it again. He doesn’t reach out to take it.
Elros lets his hand drop to his lap. He – of all the things he has considered over the past months, rejection had not been one of them. He’s not sure why. Bofur is a Dwarf, and one with little reason to be fond of Elves at that; Elros is a guardsman from an only recently friendly kingdom, and he is of the lowest caste of Elves – and while he is aware that a Dwarf may not know that, he also knows that, unlike Captain Tauriel, he is no great beauty.
“I have overstepped,” he says. His voice sounds alien to his own ears; stilted and awkward as he knows he must appear. “I apologise.”
“I –“ Bofur says. He stops, apparently flustered. He glances around them. “Can we go somewhere else?”
…
Bofur had suggested the lake shore, but Elros hadn’t quite been able to hold back his shudder at the thought, and they have found themselves in the corner of a tavern instead. Elros cradles a cup of the mortals’ miruvor between his fingers, staring down at amber depths instead of looking at the Dwarf opposite him. His chest is aching, and he both wants to be close to Bofur and as far away from him as possible.
“I figured I should tell you,” Bofur says quietly, “before I accept a gift from you, that the one I gave you wasn’t quite as, ah, innocent as you might be thinking.”
Elros takes a sip of his drink, relishing the taste of fire for a moment before he looks up. Bofur is studying him over the rim of his tankard, his blush still firmly in place. “I’m not sure I understand,” he says.
“Dwarves,” Bofur says. “We value our crafts, you see. We hardly ever give things we make away. There’s always a price attached. And when we do, it’s – well, you see, we. We dedicate ourselves to our craft, so when we give a part of it to someone, we’re giving ourselves.”
For a moment, nothing he says makes any sense at all. Then, abruptly, it does. The warmth of feä in his hedgehog isn’t the tree as Elros first thought, but Bofur. A lingering trace of Bofur’s own spirit, carved into the very grain of the wood. An example of his finest craft intended as…
“A courting gift?” he asks. He has to know. He has to be sure.
Bofur’s blush deepens. “Aye,” he says. “One of those. Not that you have to do anything, or even – I mean, I know you have a gift for me, but you don’t have to – you know. Do you understand, then? Why I had to tell you first?”
Elros nods. “I do,” he says. “And I believe I must tell you that the same tradition exists amongst the Eldar. To give gifts through their courting.” He reaches into his pouch and places his gift on the table between them. “My people have no skill in jewel-making, as a rule. Silvan Elves are creatures of the earth and stars, and we find beauty in simple things. We weave living trees into tales of love and build our marriage-beds amongst the branches. We embroider blankets with our hair and paint with our blood, because all craft has to contain something of ourselves to be worth anything.”
Bofur looks at his gift. “That sounds like a sensible approach,” he says. “So far as a Dwarf might be concerned.”
Elros feels some of the tension in his shoulders relax. Just a little. Just enough that breathing becomes a little easier.
“Not sure about sleeping in a tree, though,” Bofur continues. He reaches out to touch his gift, running a finger over the soft cloth wrappings. He fixes Elros with a look that’s far more serious than any he’s seen on his Dwarf before. It sends a shiver down his spine and makes heat furl in his belly.
“Is this a courting gift, Elros?” he asks.
Elros takes a deep breath. “Yes,” he replies.
There’s the briefest of pauses before Bofur plucks his gift off the table and begins to unwrap it.
The stone he reveals is vastly different from the one Elros plucked from the base of the Mountain. He has chipped away its sharp edges and flattened its base so that it will not topple so easily. He has painted its sides with angular designs that whirl together to form images of animals: ochre deer hiding between geometric branches; a stylised hedgehog in raw umber, foraging in undergrowth; a flock of ravens soaring high above a mountaintop. It’s the best thing he’s ever painted, and the strangest – an attempt to merge their two cultures together.
Bofur rolls it between his hands, studying each side before looking up at him with wet eyes. The look on his face takes Elros’ breath away.
“Do you think it can work?” Bofur asks. “An Elf and a Dwarf?”
Elros thinks briefly of Captain Tauriel and her tragedy. She and her Dwarf had no time to discover if they could or not, and Bofur knows that just as well as he does.
“I do,” he says. “I do think it could work.”
Bofur sets his gift back down on the table and stretches his hand out. Elros reaches back, letting their fingers tangle together. Bofur’s hand is as warm and calloused as he remembers, and he squeezes tightly even as he sighs in relief.
This will work. He knows in his heart that they will work. Or, at the very least, he knows that they will try.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Hobbit
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Bofur/Elros
Warnings: Slowbuild fluff, minor charcter death, interspecies courtship
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: After receiving Bofur's gift, Elros finds himself debating what to do.
AN: So. Five years ago, I wrote Spines and Antlers, which is a slowburn romance between Bofur and a guard of Mirkwood who was named as 'Elros' in The Desolation of Smaug. It's the teeniest, tiniest of rare-pairs. I intended to write the sequel pretty much straight away, but got distracted (like, a bird flew past or something, IDK) after the first couple of hundred words and never managed it. Until this last week, when I opened the file in a fit of procrastination (Hi, Palgrave!) and finally completed it.
Tl;dr, this is the sequel to one of my ridiculous rare-pair fics that should have been written five years ago but wasn't.
He tilts and turns the hedgehog in his hands on his way back to the forest. It’s smooth and polished and exquisitely carved from ash; it’s a prickly little thing that peers up at him with curiosity and strange affection. Much like its maker, he thinks, and he smiles to himself.
He can admit, even only to himself, that his Dwarven toymaker has become something of an obsession these last few months. He has won himself Bofur’s respect, it seems, but he has also bought more toy deer than any one person should reasonably own. And now this. The hedgehog.
His smile widens, and he tucks the carving into the pouch he wears at his hip.
…
He sets the hedgehog down, not on the windowsill where he keeps his deer, but on the stand by his bedside. It looks up at him from next to the flask of water he habitually keeps there, its one paw raised in a gesture both defensive and inquisitive.
It is, quite possibly, one of the most beautiful things Elros owns. Certainly, it is the most meaningful. Suspicion that this gift is something more than a gift lingers in his mind. The flush on Bofur’s face; the way his fingers had curled, warm and calloused, briefly over his own… Perhaps Dwarves give courting gifts just as Elves do. It’s something to consider – he knows very little of other races, having spent his entire life under the boughs of the Wood, and Dwarves are notoriously secretive about their ways.
If - if - he is right, and this hedgehog is the token he thinks it could be, then what to do?
He rolls onto his back and stares up at the vault of his ceiling. His first impulse is to give in to the fluttering in his belly and the skipping of his heart, and embrace the gift for what it is. To return it, even, though with what he does not know. To purchase something would seem wrong, but Elros has more of an eye for art than any ability in it.
Besides, there are other things to consider: to love a mortal has consequences. There are songs the Sindar sing of an Elf maid who died for her love of a Man. Truly died, as mortals did, instead of fading or passing to the West or even entering the Halls of Mandos. The song is said to be true, but legends of the Sindar have never held much sway over him. He is of Silvan blood – he is an Elf of the forest and the stars. He imagines death as a vast blackness, like the night sky between those bright pinpricks his people love so much. He imagines it as peace.
He is not afraid of death. What he fears instead is the reactions of those around him. Bofur, he thinks, will not know of those songs; his king, to whom his fealty belongs, is a different matter. He is said to have grown up with that Elf maid, back in those distant days before the Sindar came East over the mountains to the great wood and made it their kingdom. King Thranduil hails from Doriath, he hates Dwarves, and though he is a good king, he is also a fierce one and Elros – still – is not in his favour following the escape of Oakenshield’s Company.
He bites his lip. He glances to his left, to the hedgehog on his night stand.
He does not fear his king any more than he fears death.
…
The Silvan Elves are a strange and ancient folk, considered less wise and more dangerous than their kindred. His people have no written language of their own; Tengwar and Cirth runes are both Sindarin imports. Their Elvish is considered low and base, with odd inflections. Elros has met enough visitors to Thranduil’s court to know that, should he speak swiftly enough in his own dialect, he would not be understood. The Sindar who settled in the wood after Doriath’s fall are considered, by outsiders, to be superior in some unfathomable way; some amongst the court would believe the same - had so believed, when Oropher was King – but for King Thranduil’s choice to woo and wed a Silvan maid to be his Queen.
Their ways are his ways now, and the ways of his son. Prince Legolas has none of the airs and graces that their occasional royal visitors use, and Elros – his childhood playmate – knows that Legolas grew up with the knowledge that he would never rule well if he considered his people lesser than himself. And while their friendship has changed in the centuries since, Elros has spent enough moons darting through the canopy with the prince, hunting spiders and defending their southern borders to know that the Prince considered himself as much a Silvan Elf as Elros himself does. And their ways are not, contrary to the opinions of others, devoid of culture and beauty. Silvan Elves are Elves after all.
As such, Elros has options of what he may give to his Dwarf to announce his intentions, though not as many as he would prefer. He has skill enough at singing, but little in composition, and he sincerely doubts that a song in any form of Elvish would be received in the way he desires. When his people choose to wed, they weave branches of young trees together to form the supports for their future talans; Elros knows little of how Dwarves age, but he is aware that his Dwarf is an adult grown and, as such, may not have time to watch their saplings grow into a sturdy home for them both. Carving is another option, but Elros was intrigued with Bofur’s craft for a reason beyond mere curiosity: he is able to use a knife to skin and gut animals, and to slay spiders, but not much else beyond that. Long centuries of experience have taught him that whittling is best left for other people, and he wishes to craft his courting gift himself. That leaves him with painting and weaving: two handcrafts used mostly for the creation of trinkets, but which may – with luck – catch the discerning eye of a Dwarf.
He tells this to his hedgehog in the dead of night, stroking a finger along its wooden spines. It does not answer, of course, but instead feels warm to the touch – as if Bofur managed to capture some essence of the tree’s feä within the carving.
…
“What do Dwarves like?” is not a question he wishes to ask of any Elf. Recent events have left all of them shaken and, in some cases, hyper-aware of the failings their insular nature has led them to. There are some, Elros included, who are trying to change that. Trying by aiding the Men of Dale in their building work and in ferrying supplies north from the Wood to the City and on to the Mountain. Even the King is trying. He extends his sorcery out from under the twisted boughs of his kingdom, over the shores of the lake, and up towards Dale; covering the landscape in fog and causing swooping disorientation amongst the mortal population before they become adjusted to it.
They are trying, all of them, but that does not mean that Elros is willing to risk something as fragile as this courtship on millennia of hatred and suspicion. He resolves to watch the Dwarves, instead.
His Dwarf is chief amongst those he focuses on. Even on the days he does not stop by Bofur’s stall, he is aware of him. His ears seem almost preternaturally attuned to the sound of his voice, and many a time Elros has found himself distracted by the sound of Bofur plying his trade and making merry with all he meets. But there are other Dwarves too that linger in Dale; some of Oakenshield’s party and others who came later. Their beards are long and elaborate, clasped with gold and silver, and their belts are heavy with gems. Dwarves, it seems, like jewellery – a shame, really, as Elros, like all Silvan Elves, has a rather hearty suspicion of anyone who chooses jewel-craft as their occupation, and has never set foot in a forge in his life. Bofur, though, appears to be something of an exception: the beads in his hair are wood and stone. Whether it is a matter of social status or personal preference, Elros knows not, but he suspects that Bofur is somewhat poorer than the average.
He learns other things about Dwarves. They respect craftsmanship of all kinds, he learns such from their inspections of stonework and net-weaving alike; they appreciate good food and beer, and are willing to part with plenty coin for both if it is of high enough quality; they have a tendency to sing as they work, their songs in time with the movements of their bodies. Elros doesn’t understand the words, but finds himself humming along as he helps haul stone into place and clear rubble. He’s overheard once or twice, he knows, but none pass comment on it.
He wonders if Bofur sings as he carves. He doesn’t know.
…
He peers over the edge of the boat into the lake. There is always ice on the lake, and it is the job of several Men to keep the water clear of the worst of it, chipping it away as it forms. Still, a crust of white slush laps at the side of the boat, leaving fine crystals on the wood. On a different vessel, King Thranduil stands with his head bowed towards the King of Dale. Dragonsbane. Invisible beneath them, the dragon rests on the bottom of the lake, poisoning fish and water alike.
The Men want to wait until high summer to haul the carcass up. King Thranduil wishes for them to act now. He has seen – they’ve all seen – the effect that the dragon is having on their most reliable source of food. Fish have been netted alive only to be found rotting from the inside; their organs blackened with decay and their flesh ruined. None dare eat them. None dare drink the water unless it’s boiled first to purify it, but there are rumours of sickness beginning to spread nonetheless.
“We cannot risk the cold, Thranduil,” King Bard is saying. Elros glances toward their boat in surprise. He’s never heard anyone address his King so informally before.
He catches his Prince’s eye, and Prince Legolas’ hand flutters in the quiet-speech that the Kings are more intimate than they’ve been pretending in public. The Prince rolls his eyes expressively, before returning to his duties; he’s playing a blank-faced bodyguard for the day, it seems.
Interesting. It seems the King is more favourable to relations with mortals than he appears. Not that Elros allows himself any hope that his own courtship will be accepted; the King’s feelings regarding Dwarves are unlikely to have changed overmuch.
“Water so cold will kill a Man in moments,” King Bard continues, oblivious to the gossip surrounding him. “We cannot risk it.”
“Yet you must,” King Thranduil counters, “as we have discussed before. Esgaroth is a fundamental part of life in the north, vital for all races who dwell here. To leave the dragon to sicken it further will only make things worse for all our peoples.”
“But – “
“And there are those amongst us who are less affected by cold than mortal races.”
There. The reason why Elros, still out of favour, and his comrades have been gathered. He looks down at the water in dread. Less affected, certainly, but not impervious; he dislikes the thought of dipping so much as a toe into the lake regardless of the weather, let alone swimming to the bottom to net a dragon.
The nets they’ve been provided with are sturdy, at least, woven of thick rope and secured with metal clasps forged by the Dwarves. There are pulleys affixed to the boats so that those who get to remain dry may winch the carcass from the lake floor and drag it free. There are teams of Men and Elves and Dwarves working together on this, just as they have been in Dale. The lake is important to them all.
On a different boat, he glimpses dark hair beneath a familiar hat. Bofur is here. He’s rubbing his mitten-clad hands together and peering down at the water with an expression of such doubt that Elros wants to laugh. He, at least, won’t be going in there.
King Bard gives in, as they all knew he must. His protest was more a token than any real argument; Smaug must be disposed of properly if life is to flourish in the north once more, and he knows it as well as they all do. Elros readies himself. He sheds his belt and boots and his outer tunic, and folds them neatly on his seat. Around him, his brethren do the same. A tide of mutterings rises from the Men and Dwarves, and as he places his foot onto the edge of the boat, he thinks he hears Bofur above the rest.
“Well, bugger me,” his Dwarf says.
It’s a pleasant enough thought to warm him in the seconds before he takes the plunge.
…
Less affected. Less affected.
Elros sits shivering by the fire in his favourite Dale tavern, drinking something that’s meant to be a mortal imitation of miruvor. Trying to drink it, rather; his hands are trembling. They’re aching from handling wet, rough rope in freezing water; red and sore in a way he’s never experienced. The first dive into the lake had knocked the air out of his lungs and left him treading water, gasping for air. Around him, his fellow divers are in a similar state. A sorry lot, all of them, still dripping wet and bundled in blankets loaned to them by grateful Men.
Elros doesn’t ever want to let his go. It’s soaked with water from his hair, and it smells of woodsmoke and tobacco, but he can’t imagine life without it. Not at the moment.
The drink he’s been given tastes of fire and earth. It burns his mouth and throat when he manages a sip, and sparks warmth in his belly. He shudders. He’d half-forgotten, down in the dark water, what warmth felt like. Swimming amongst the ghostly ruins of Lake Town, it had felt like something impossible; something as distant as Tirion’s path through the heavens. Remembering warmth in those moments had been as likely as his finding one of the lost Silmarils of the Noldor on the lake bed.
As it was, all they’d found was a decaying dragon lazing in a nest of shattered wood. Smaug’s great eyes had been plucked away by fish, leaving only gaping sockets to glare at their approach.
Elros knows he will remember that sight forever.
At least… as long as he shall live. A life bound to a mortal, one that ends in peaceful darkness and rest, seems like a blessing now compared to an eternity of dead dragons in sunken cities.
His Dwarf is here. In this tavern. He knows it as surely as he knows the scent of his blanket and the warmth of the fire. He can feel Bofur’s eyes on him. He sips at his drink and settles back in his chair and basks in the heat that gradually begins to spread through his limbs. He allows his eyes to close.
It was not just the dragon at the bottom of the lake, nor the ruins of Lake Town. There were other things too: gems scattered over ruined buildings and rocks, tangled in weeds. The jewels that had clung to the dragon’s scales during its last flight. He had thought, briefly, about snatching one up to bring back to the surface, but he’d resisted. His Dwarf finds joy in friendship and laughter, not dragon-treasure and certainly not in the other things that rested amongst the wreckage – the remains of bodies trapped by collapsing buildings. Fragile mortal bones, and decaying flesh, some of them too small to have come from grown Men.
Exhausted as he is, he knows he will not find rest this night.
He drinks instead.
…
He returns to the Wood with a stone recovered from the base of the Mountain. It is sharp and jagged and heavy at the bottom of his bag, and it digs into the base of his spine. He speaks not a word of complaint, and instead keeps up with the rest of his garrison as they race fleet-footed into the trees.
In his chambers, he sets it on his windowsill amongst the plants and his herd of wooden deer. They provide an audience as he perches on the edge of his bed and studies its surfaces. A miniature Erebor, all of their own; a stone he selected for the thrum of feä that clings to it.
He has heard in whispers that Dwarves can sense the feä of the rocks and mountains. It’s one of the most sensible rumours he has heard, although there is no way of knowing for sure if it is true. Not without asking. But even without knowing for sure, he knows that this is the best canvas he can find for his gift: a piece of the home his Dwarf fought so hard to return to.
He plots his designs in his downtime. While on watch he must be sharp-eyed and keen; he dare not disappoint his King again. He patrols borders and hunts spiders with his Prince and their garrison with single-minded concentration. But in the privacy of his chambers, he makes fine brushes from his own hair and gathers pigments with which to paint. He discusses symbols and their meanings with his little wooden hedgehog, stroking its spines and debating with it the merits of angular lines over swirls and curves. He cradles it close to his heart as he speaks, treasuring the slight warmth that seems to linger in its form.
Summer is blooming in the Wood around him before he sets brush to stone. He has mixed his dyes with blood and river-water, just as he was taught long ago – for he knows that if he wants his craft to mean anything, a part of himself must be present within it. He sings while he paints, Elvish words set to a Dwarvish tune, and he lets his mind drift as he works. Bofur’s wide smile and his kind eyes, the flush that spread across his cheeks when he told Elros he’d been crafting deer just for him. The way his hands had lingered, warm and calloused, over Elros’ own when he presented him with his hedgehog.
For all that love between them will end in sorrow, there is none of it in Elros’ song.
…
His last task in the Wood is to escort the caravan from Ered Luin along their winding paths. The Dwarves are wary and suspicious of them, but they are under strict orders to raise their weapons only in the Dwarves’ defence. It’s a far cry from the events of the previous year, and Elros can’t help but wonder at the change. His King appears to be warming, ever so slightly, to the idea of a world beyond their borders. How much of it can be placed at the feet of the Dragonslayer, he doesn’t know, though in a moment of boldness, he asks Prince Legolas only to receive a grimace in response.
“Tauriel,” his Prince says carefully. “When she raised weapons against him in Dale, it shocked him. I don’t think he realised how much he had retreated after my mother’s death before then.”
It is Elros’ turn to grimace. He remembers Queen Morgalen as a wild and capricious being, snatched away in the line of duty; she had never placed herself above the rest of the Silvan citizens of the Wood despite her status, and had insisted on taking part in the guarding of their home. He remembers the news of her death and the way grief had settled into the King like the harshest of winters. He can remember Prince Legolas growing colder in turn, learning to hide his mischief from his father’s gaze so as not to cause more pain, and Elros – he remembers grieving the loss of his childhood playmate, who had become a Prince instead of a friend seemingly overnight.
He also remembers the stories his grandmother once told him of the Noldor. The kinslayers. He knows that Captain Tauriel was wrong to raise her weapons against the King for more than just the act of treason, though there is little point in mentioning it now. She went to the trees the winter after Erebor was reclaimed and found her peace in the dark between stars.
“King Bard has more influence than he knows,” Prince Legolas says after a moment’s silence. “More than the King will admit to.”
His gift for Bofur, finished and securely wrapped at the bottom of his pack, seems heavier than usual, after that.
…
Influence.
Bofur’s stall is busy when he approaches. He takes a winding route towards him, pausing in his path to examine other wares brought down from the Mountain. Over the milling of the crowd, he can hear Bofur’s voice, bright with laughter. He touches the pouch at his hip where his gift rests and closes his eyes briefly.
He knows where this path leads. If he continues on his course, he will know the greatest pain that an Elf can suffer. This is his last chance to turn away. Except… It isn’t. His last chance fled the moment he plucked a wooden doe off Bofur’s table and marvelled at the skill of her creation. He can walk away now and hide his gift forever; he could toss it into the lake to rest with the bones and the wreckage and Bofur would never know. But still, Elros knows, there would come a day when he would come to this market and not hear Bofur’s voice and he would know that agony regardless.
He winds closer and closer, until the crowd parts and he finds himself at his destination, looking down at his Dwarf’s kind eyes and the warm smile that stretches wider at his arrival.
“Didn’t get lost in that forest of yours, then?” Bofur asks him.
Elros finds it hard to believe that he could get lost, having lived under boughs for so long, but he shakes his head all the same and slips behind the stall to claim Bofur’s stool as his own. It brings them closer to the same height – all the better to see the way that the lines at the corners of Bofur’s eyes deepen as he smiles. Such a fascinating face, he has.
“I was tasked with escorting the caravan from Ered Luin,” he explains.
“Ah, so it’s you I’ve got to thank for my nieces and nephews, is it?” Bofur grins at him. “You have my gratitude, Master Elros, for not feeding them to the spiders – although, rowdy as they are, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did.”
Elros laughs at the glint of humour in his eye, and chooses not to inform him that the Dwarven caravan had been near silent the entire time. Only a young Dwarf with hair as red as fire had approached any of them, and he’d driven Prince Legolas near to distraction once he’d plucked up the courage to do so.
It had been nice, though, to see his Prince with some of his former fire back. Even if it had only emerged in order to spar verbally with a Dwarfling.
“They are settling in well?” he asks.
It seems to be a cue for Bofur to chatter about his brother and the thirteen children he’s been blessed with. Thirteen. Elros is too stunned by the number to catch more of Bofur’s speech than the tone of pride in his voice; he loves his family deeply and it shows. Elros cups his chin in his hands and settles in to listen, fixing his gaze on Bofur’s animated face and drinking in the sight of him.
“…you can’t have come to hear me natter on,” Bofur finishes.
Elros’ stomach twists. Months in the making, and the time has come to deliver. He reaches for his pouch.
“I wished to give you something,” he says. “A gift for a gift.”
He has surprised him, judging by the expression on Bofur’s face. His mouth opens soundlessly, and he stares at Elros with wide eyes and a flush spreading over his cheeks as Elros holds out his gift, still wrapped in cloth. He blinks. Closes his mouth and opens it once more, only to close it again. He doesn’t reach out to take it.
Elros lets his hand drop to his lap. He – of all the things he has considered over the past months, rejection had not been one of them. He’s not sure why. Bofur is a Dwarf, and one with little reason to be fond of Elves at that; Elros is a guardsman from an only recently friendly kingdom, and he is of the lowest caste of Elves – and while he is aware that a Dwarf may not know that, he also knows that, unlike Captain Tauriel, he is no great beauty.
“I have overstepped,” he says. His voice sounds alien to his own ears; stilted and awkward as he knows he must appear. “I apologise.”
“I –“ Bofur says. He stops, apparently flustered. He glances around them. “Can we go somewhere else?”
…
Bofur had suggested the lake shore, but Elros hadn’t quite been able to hold back his shudder at the thought, and they have found themselves in the corner of a tavern instead. Elros cradles a cup of the mortals’ miruvor between his fingers, staring down at amber depths instead of looking at the Dwarf opposite him. His chest is aching, and he both wants to be close to Bofur and as far away from him as possible.
“I figured I should tell you,” Bofur says quietly, “before I accept a gift from you, that the one I gave you wasn’t quite as, ah, innocent as you might be thinking.”
Elros takes a sip of his drink, relishing the taste of fire for a moment before he looks up. Bofur is studying him over the rim of his tankard, his blush still firmly in place. “I’m not sure I understand,” he says.
“Dwarves,” Bofur says. “We value our crafts, you see. We hardly ever give things we make away. There’s always a price attached. And when we do, it’s – well, you see, we. We dedicate ourselves to our craft, so when we give a part of it to someone, we’re giving ourselves.”
For a moment, nothing he says makes any sense at all. Then, abruptly, it does. The warmth of feä in his hedgehog isn’t the tree as Elros first thought, but Bofur. A lingering trace of Bofur’s own spirit, carved into the very grain of the wood. An example of his finest craft intended as…
“A courting gift?” he asks. He has to know. He has to be sure.
Bofur’s blush deepens. “Aye,” he says. “One of those. Not that you have to do anything, or even – I mean, I know you have a gift for me, but you don’t have to – you know. Do you understand, then? Why I had to tell you first?”
Elros nods. “I do,” he says. “And I believe I must tell you that the same tradition exists amongst the Eldar. To give gifts through their courting.” He reaches into his pouch and places his gift on the table between them. “My people have no skill in jewel-making, as a rule. Silvan Elves are creatures of the earth and stars, and we find beauty in simple things. We weave living trees into tales of love and build our marriage-beds amongst the branches. We embroider blankets with our hair and paint with our blood, because all craft has to contain something of ourselves to be worth anything.”
Bofur looks at his gift. “That sounds like a sensible approach,” he says. “So far as a Dwarf might be concerned.”
Elros feels some of the tension in his shoulders relax. Just a little. Just enough that breathing becomes a little easier.
“Not sure about sleeping in a tree, though,” Bofur continues. He reaches out to touch his gift, running a finger over the soft cloth wrappings. He fixes Elros with a look that’s far more serious than any he’s seen on his Dwarf before. It sends a shiver down his spine and makes heat furl in his belly.
“Is this a courting gift, Elros?” he asks.
Elros takes a deep breath. “Yes,” he replies.
There’s the briefest of pauses before Bofur plucks his gift off the table and begins to unwrap it.
The stone he reveals is vastly different from the one Elros plucked from the base of the Mountain. He has chipped away its sharp edges and flattened its base so that it will not topple so easily. He has painted its sides with angular designs that whirl together to form images of animals: ochre deer hiding between geometric branches; a stylised hedgehog in raw umber, foraging in undergrowth; a flock of ravens soaring high above a mountaintop. It’s the best thing he’s ever painted, and the strangest – an attempt to merge their two cultures together.
Bofur rolls it between his hands, studying each side before looking up at him with wet eyes. The look on his face takes Elros’ breath away.
“Do you think it can work?” Bofur asks. “An Elf and a Dwarf?”
Elros thinks briefly of Captain Tauriel and her tragedy. She and her Dwarf had no time to discover if they could or not, and Bofur knows that just as well as he does.
“I do,” he says. “I do think it could work.”
Bofur sets his gift back down on the table and stretches his hand out. Elros reaches back, letting their fingers tangle together. Bofur’s hand is as warm and calloused as he remembers, and he squeezes tightly even as he sighs in relief.
This will work. He knows in his heart that they will work. Or, at the very least, he knows that they will try.
