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Mar. 12th, 2013 11:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardI have no idea what this is, y'all. And I'm certainly not writing it, because I have no idea what it is.
Bilbo has spent most of Frodo’s life telling him stories about his adventures and the people who had populated them, so Frodo recognizes Thorin Oakenshield the moment he sees him, no introduction necessary. He doesn’t even think, but he’s been dead for sixty years, for a good ten heartbeats; the first thing he thinks is, oh, that’s why Uncle Bilbo went. The reason that Bilbo Baggins had gone tearing out his front door sixty years earlier has changed with every telling, but the moment Frodo recognizes Thorin he understands, even if Bilbo himself hadn’t. There’s something about him that draws the eye, something about him that says, look at me. No wonder Uncle Bilbo had spent the next sixty years looking categorically unimpressed, if usually somewhat reassured, but the Shire.
Gimli’s spluttering draws his attention; Frodo realizes that he’s staring and diverts his gaze. Most of the others merely look confused, but Legolas looks like he’s been hit over the head with a brick, which is at least the first time that Frodo has ever seen an elf look unattractive. Even Gandalf seems shaken: another first, and that’s when he really starts to worry.
“Gandalf,” Thorin says, sounding cautiously relieved. He’s in dwarvish furs and leathers, a little more weathered and worn than Gimli’s; the hilt of a sword pokes up over his right shoulder. Frodo remembers it from the sketches he’d seen in Bilbo’s book, peeks snuck when Bilbo had been out of the room and left it lying about.
Gandalf’s mouth opens and shuts once, then he draws himself back together and says, “Thorin Oakenshield. You return in an unexpected hour.”
Bilbo has spent most of Frodo’s life telling him stories about his adventures and the people who had populated them, so Frodo recognizes Thorin Oakenshield the moment he sees him, no introduction necessary. He doesn’t even think, but he’s been dead for sixty years, for a good ten heartbeats; the first thing he thinks is, oh, that’s why Uncle Bilbo went. The reason that Bilbo Baggins had gone tearing out his front door sixty years earlier has changed with every telling, but the moment Frodo recognizes Thorin he understands, even if Bilbo himself hadn’t. There’s something about him that draws the eye, something about him that says, look at me. No wonder Uncle Bilbo had spent the next sixty years looking categorically unimpressed, if usually somewhat reassured, but the Shire.
Gimli’s spluttering draws his attention; Frodo realizes that he’s staring and diverts his gaze. Most of the others merely look confused, but Legolas looks like he’s been hit over the head with a brick, which is at least the first time that Frodo has ever seen an elf look unattractive. Even Gandalf seems shaken: another first, and that’s when he really starts to worry.
“Gandalf,” Thorin says, sounding cautiously relieved. He’s in dwarvish furs and leathers, a little more weathered and worn than Gimli’s; the hilt of a sword pokes up over his right shoulder. Frodo remembers it from the sketches he’d seen in Bilbo’s book, peeks snuck when Bilbo had been out of the room and left it lying about.
Gandalf’s mouth opens and shuts once, then he draws himself back together and says, “Thorin Oakenshield. You return in an unexpected hour.”