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Fauntlery (continued)

Summary:

Drafting a contract is a gravely serious task in Dwarrow culture; a contract concerning courtship, betrothal, and marriage even more so. Bilbo, the formerly respectable Hobbit of Bag End, was no stranger to the business of contracts, although he seemed to have underestimated the vigor with which the scribes of Erebor took to their task. Despite Dwarven confusion, there are some things a Hobbit simply requires, even if that Hobbit will live in Erebor.

(The second of my abandoned works to be continued.)

Notes:

Hello, everyone.
Allow me to explain: I deleted my AO3 account back in 2016 due to struggles with my mental health, and I orphaned the stories I couldn't bear to see undone. I have finally gotten to a place of strength so that I can return the thing I have loved my whole life (Writing) in the platform I have enjoyed since 2002 (fanfiction). AO3 has been the best fanfiction platform I have used and I intend to rework and complete the fics I had to set aside here nearly 2 years ago. I will be marking my updates as “Inspired by” and possibly as part of the same collection, if I can manage that, as the originals I had to set aside. I will be reposting the existing chapters, with minor edits and some alterations that I believe will better express what I had intended to portray.
I started with The Voice, and have finally begun working on Fauntlery. I will be updating the chapters as I edit them, and then start on the remainder of the fic I had planned.
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to those who have continued to hope for updates. Here they are; this one is for you.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Drafting a contract is a gravely serious task in Dwarrow culture; a contract concerning courtship, betrothal, and marriage even more so.

Bilbo, the formerly respectable Hobbit of Bag End, was no stranger to the business of contracts, although he seemed to have underestimated the vigor with which the scribes of Erebor took to their task. The scribe addressing Bilbo was ancient. He appeared to be older than Gandalf; the dwarf was a shriveled raisin of his former grape glory. "Now, Your Highness," this new moniker had been awarded to Bilbo upon his acceptance of Thorin's courtship offer, "what manner of accommodations and accoutrements will you be requiring to make your home here in the heart of Erebor?"

"Requiring?" Bilbo spluttered.

Bilbo's reply was hastily aborted when Balin cleared his throat. "Of course, Your Highness," Bilbo's friend interjected with a wry grin. "We know you left behind the home your father built as a wedding present to your mother to help us restore Erebor to your betrothed from the clutches of the calamitous Smaug." Balin paused to allow for the grumblings and cursing which inevitably echoed the name of the dragon. "And, in choosing to wed our heroic King Thorin, called Oakenshield," here Balin spread one arm magnanimously towards said King seated across the table from Bilbo, "you have accepted his home as your own. However, our king wishes his consort to feel completely at home here. As your Hobbitish nature compliments that his beautifully, we hope to shape our beloved Erebor into a home as dear to your heart as your own Bag End."

Bilbo nodded his understanding and gestured for Balin to continue. "I certainly remember the warmth of your smial when we enlisted your aid in our quest over a year ago. What things are necessary in a home that houses a Hobbit? This is, perhaps, what we are truly asking you, Your Highness.”

“Ah, I see,” Bilbo prevaricated. “Well, Hobbit needs are simple: sunshine and fresh air have been dearly missed these past months. Is there perhaps a room with a balcony? Or even just windows? Also. A kitchen would be nice. We Hobbits are rather prolific eaters, and I should hate to trouble the already busy kitchen staff for food I can just as easily prepare for myself.” Seeing one of the Dwarrow he was less familiar with puffing up ready to protest, Bilbo quickly added, “Besides, what sort of Hobbit would I be to not prepare the food for any guests and family members who join me in my room for a visit. Every Hobbit knows that hospitality is the primary virtue.”

The assembled Dwarrow nodded to each other, humming approval. Thorin grinned behind his hand and growing beard at the small being who already had the Council dancing to his pipe.

“I believe that is everything. I don’t need much.” After a pause, Bilbo added, “Well, of course we must construct a Fauntlery.”

A loaded pause blanketed the room. “A 'Fauntlery'?” Balin repeated. “What is that?”

Bilbo’s bewildered expression turned to quick understanding. “Of course, there is probably a word in Khuzdul for it. It is a room for growing.” Bilbo nodded to himself, leaning back contentedly.

“For growing herbs and such?” a young scribe ventured, warily.

“Well, no. That can be done wherever the windows and balcony are, should some be found. Or I can perhaps set aside some land in Dale should there be nothing suitable in the mountain.” Bilbo wrinkled his brow and stretched his neck forward. “It’s a growing room. It is sacred to Yavanna, the wife of your Maker. Surely Dwarrow follow this tradition as well?” He glanced around as the confusion and, in the case of one particular scribe, tension rose to fill the cavernous room to smothering levels.

“Mahal’s wife surely favors your people, Your Highness. And we will of course strive to fulfill whatever spiritual requirements you must attend to which will validate a marriage in her eyes.” Balin’s diplomatic skills shined and polished the words as they rolled off his tongue, a fact which both miffed and pleased Bilbo. “However, we still must profess some confusion as to the nature of a Fauntlery; now, you say it is a room. How large must this room be to suit its purpose. Will a room this size be sufficient or would a smaller one suit?”

Bilbo glanced around the room as Balin spoke, noting the dramatic height of the ceilings, and the grand scale of the room in general. Grand was perhaps the best word to describe the hall. “No, this... I would imagine a Fauntlery in the mountain being much, much cozier. It is a place for family. There ought to be space enough for cots, and some sort of storage for clothing and toys. A fireplace which is shielded in some fashion to protect the little ones, of course. Nothing quite so grand as this chamber. Additionally, it would need to be close, and preferably connected to my room. I can’t imagine not having my faunts close by.”

“Litte ones?” This time it was Thorin asking the questions. “Do you mean children?”

“Of course!” Bilbo’s eyes widened as the realization hit home. “Oh! Did you not... Yes, children. Every home in the Shire has a Fauntlery, set aside for the faunts who will live in that home.”

“Ah, but Bilbo, we will not be... That is, why should we need a Fauntlery? I do not wish to dismiss the wishes of Yavanna, but at the present moment, space is needed more in other places than to leave one standing empty.”

“Empty?” Bilbo’s reply was shocked, but swiftly bled into irate frustration. “Thorin, dearest, are you telling me you do not want children?” By the last syllable, Bilbo’s voice was chilled as ice and his tongue could have reduced the King Under the Mountain to ribbons.

Thorin shifted uncomfortably in his chair before replying, “Bilbo. I would love nothing more than to have an entire brood of children with you. And, perhaps once Erebor is more settled we could adopt a child or two in sore need of such love as I know you are capable of giving. But. We... We cannot... You and I won’t be able to have children of our own.”

“Why ever not? Is there some decree of other which pronounces that a King should not have—“ Bilbo started with a sudden realization. “Is this about Fili and Kili? Because, I want them to remain your heirs, of course. Any children we have would have a shorter lifespan than full- Dwarrow, so why bother dithering about policy when they can practice diplomacy without being in direct line for the throne?”

Thorin’s face did a complicated grimace. “Bilbo, I... That is not... I don’t...” He sighed dramatically before looking down at the surface of the table before him. “Bilbo, ghivashel. You and I cannot have children because we are both male.” thorin looked dup at his betrothed imploringly.

“Of course we can." Bilbo was exasperated as well as angry. "Why would... Wait," Bilbo said as the realization dawned on him. "Are you telling me Dwarrow are like Men? In that only your dams can bear young?”

The newest scribe gasped and dropped his quill to his scroll, scattering scraps of paper into his lap and onto the floor.

“Your Highness,” Balin spoke with an unsteady, tremulous voice for the first time since Bilbo had met him. “Do you mean to tell us that male Hobbits, and more to the point, you are capable of bearing young?”

“Obviously.” Bilbo glanced around at the Dwarrow surrounding him as they all went a bit mad. Ancient and young Dwarrow alike shouting in various pitched of bass voices, a mixture of Weston and Khuzdul, each clamoring to be heard over the other.

Electing to ignore the surrounding chaos momentarily, Bilbo looked to his betrothed. Thorin was still sat across the table from him, hands clenched firmly to the broad granite table. “Bilbo,” his voice was more a whisper of air than an actual sound.

Thorin inhaled deeply, closing his eyes before speaking again. “Bilbo. You can bear children? My children? Our...” his voice broke and he released a ragged sob. “Our children," he finished wetly, valiantly.

Bilbo nodded, poleaxed by the emotion overwhelming his future husband. “Yes, Thorin. That’s sort of the purpose of the Fauntlery; a place to keep our faunts.”

“So... It’s a nursery then?” Thorin managed, a smile trembling at the corners of his mouth, almost afraid to appear.

“A what?” Bilbo queried.

“A place to care for the young, a playroom, and bedchamber to those too young to be on their own for nearly any time at all,” Balin answered, having collected himself. If one ignored the tears falling freely from his eyes. “If it is possible, laddie,” Balin broke formality, “I wish you and our beloved King as many... faunts?... as your Yavanna will grant us.”

Ori abruptly pulled himself to his feet, “Do you mean we sent a bearer in to face Smaug?!?”