Chapter Text
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If Thorin had hoped he’d seen the last of Thranduil, he was sadly mistaken.
Once the Elvenking had swept out of the infirmary and given his orders to the guards to escort the dwarven soldiers to the boarders of the forest, Thorin had assumed Thranduil would not bother with them again. Sadly it seemed Thorin had maybe celebrated a bit prematurely, as the Elvenking had taken it in his mind that Thorin was in need of his advice for everything concerning Frodo. Constantly. At all hours of the day. And night.
He hovered persistently over Thorin’s shoulder with ‘sage’ suggestions and ‘wise’ council on how to hold the babe or how to feed Frodo and even gave direction on how to change the halfling’s diaper. He was like an annoying bee, insistently buzzing around and irritating Thorin until there was a constant dull ringing in the dwarf’s ears that didn’t even fade when he went to sleep.
Frodo wasn’t taking too well to the Elvenking either. Thranduil liked to poke the babe in the belly, perhaps hoping to obtain the delighted giggles that Thorin did when he tickled the small halfling, but it was not to be. Whenever Thranduil came into sight, Frodo eye’s would widen in what Thorin imagined was panic and flail his skinny arms. When Thranduil saw the babe’s expression he would pout for hours afterward, until he got so into his cups of wine he’d lament to Thorin about how much missed his son being that age. Thorin learned more than he ever wanted to know about Legolas during these types of sit downs, which somehow occurred most often or not in his assigned chambers in the middle of the night. Thorin worried about the types of rumors Thranduil’s actions were causing. If any of them got back to Erebor, his sister would shame him!
“No,” Thranduil flapped his hands at Thorin from across the table, his rob’s long sleeves slapping against the oak surface. “You need to pat his back, not pound it. He’ll burp eventually but there’s no need to get impatient. I once had to stay up a whole night to get Legolas to burp. You know, he had the most noxious gas as a child. Worst in the realm, I swear to Illúvatar.”
Never in Thorin’s wildest and horrified nightmares would he ever imagine talking about baby fumes to the Elvenking in his bedroom in his sleep-clothes, but it had become somewhat of a familiar scene as of late. Like magic the Elvenking would appear whenever Frodo made so much as a mulish frown of displeasure at something Thorin did and the Elvenking would settle down for a long discussion about what the dwarf had done wrong this time.
It was becoming a bit irksome for Thorin to control his temper. He wasn’t getting much sleep either and his nerves were constantly frayed by the overabundance of advice he was bestowed with. He constantly had to remind the elves that he had experience with children before.
“I know what I’m doing,” Thorin growled, switching from patting Frodo to smoothing a hand down the halflings bony back. Frodo settled against his shoulder, tucking his curly head against Thorin’s neck and mouthing at the skin there. He wondered distantly, if the babe had been nursed at all since its birth, but the thought quickly disappeared before he could think more on Frodo’s past.
Thranduil gave the dwarf Prince a baleful look. “Do you?”
“I’ve dealt with children before,” Thorin repeated himself, raising a pointed eyebrow as the babe cooed in happiness. He’d only just discovered recently that petting the halflings ears made him gurgle with joy, so Thorin had set about doing it as often as possible in front of the elves, especially in light of the horrified screeching Frodo made when someone else tried to do the same.
“Your sister’s,” Thranduil said. “It is not the same though as having your own, I assure you. There is a major difference, especially when you can pass on a fussing child to its parent when--”
Thorin interrupted before the elf could go on, tired of all the conjecture on his parenting abilities. “I know there is a difference. Do you think so little of us dwarves that we would not care for our kin even if they are in a bad mood? I was just as much involved in raising Fili and Kili as their own father. Unlike elves, all our kin participate in the raising of a child, not just the parents.”
Thranduil was seemingly unfazed by Thorin’s blistering comment, his expression blank as he sipped at his wine. “Oh? Would that explain your father’s absence during your youth? King Thrór raised you and your siblings almost singlehandedly if I recall. After your mother’s death.”
Embarrassment caused Thorin’s cheeks to burn with anger. A heavy stone settled in stomach and resentment burned in him like the great forges of Erebor. He would not have some elf belittle his father, the King, in front of him over such personal matters. Thranduil council was not needed on that subject.
“Silence!” he hissed, lips curling back in a snarl. If he was not so fatigued he’d almost be tempted to challenge the Elvenking to a duel in his father’s honor.
Frodo squirmed in his hold and tugged at Thorin’s hair, pulling the dwarf’s attention away from the pale elf as one of Thorin’s braids and bead disappeared into the babe’s mouth.
“No, Frodo,” Thorin’s voice softened, his anger fading at the cherub face of the babe turned awkwardly towards him. The end of the braid plopped wetly onto his shoulder. “I will make you toys to play with when we return home. My advisors already think I am being tortured as it is. If I return bedraggled and missing my beads they will take up arms.”
Frodo blinked his large, luminously blue eyes up at Thorin and then sneezed right into the dwarf’s mouth. Thranduil made a wheezing sound of strangled pain and quickly looked away.
“Mahal bless us all,” Thorin sighed. He was used to the daily gunk and filth he’s accumulated since acquiring the babe so he wasn’t too fazed by this latest deed. Being sick for so long and in bad health, Frodo’s messes weren’t as ordinary as a normal babes. Thorin had been introduced to a variety of sickly colors, filth, and projectile body fluids since he’d come across Frodo. This latest action wasn’t even embarrassing because of their audience, as Thranduil had been subjected to Frodo’s dripping snot all over his white clothes in front of a spectator of elves during a feast thrown in the halflings honor. Thorin still grinned at that particular memory. He liked to recall it whenever the Elvenking got on his nerves during one of his long disparage lecture on baby care.
After his silent laughter subsided, Thranduil passed over a silk handkerchief from his pockets. Thorin almost didn’t take it, but it was much too late to refuse the elf’s hospitality at this juncture. Since being stuck here for more than a week, Thorin had learned much about his host that surprised him. As unflappable and collected as the Elvenking often appeared, he wasn’t always so poised and his open concern for Frodo was sincere. His placid dislike of Thorin had cooled the longer they were in each other company, and the dwarf was hard pressed to say he hated Thranduil, despite his disparaging comments towards Thráin.
“You look weary,” Thranduil commented, looking the dwarf over. “Have you slept any? My healers can watch the child for the night so you can get a full night’s rest.”
“No,” Thorin grunted, wiping his face quickly and tossing the silk rag onto the table.
The elf hummed in disbelief.
“I’m fine and it is late, leave me,” Thorin grumbled, yanking his braid out of Frodo’s hands again.
Thranduil ignored him. “I’m having someone search the libraries for you, or young Frodo actually. There’s a book of children stories that was given to me by someone who traveled West and procured it for a relative. I believe there are some mentions of halflings in it.”
“There are children books in Erebor,” Thorin said in exasperation, exhausted from too little sleep and taking care of Frodo in the middle of the night. Even during the day when Thranduil had other duties to see to, he had a cache of guards, healers, and other such elves of dubious purposes trailing after Thorin. It was frankly more tiring dealing with them than a sick and squalling Frodo.
“Really? How surprising.” Thranduil raised an incredulous eyebrow and sipped at his wine indifferently. “Still, I doubt you or anybody this far East has stories of halflings. You would not want young Frodo to believe himself a dwarf.”
The elf’s word sent a sharp piercing arrow through Thorin’s heart and he squeezed Frodo tightly in his hands. The babe squeaked and gave a large belch against the dwarf’s shoulder, earning a relieved sigh from his caretaker and a small smirk from Thranduil at the spit up that now decorated Thorin’s clothes.
“No, he is not a dwarf,” Thorin admitted, but it cost him. In the last couple of days in Mirkwood alone with Frodo, he’d bonded with the child. The babe did not like for Thorin to leave his sight and would often pitch a fit if handed over to another. Thorin was there for all the halflings examinations and was more often than not lately the one who had to administer whatever healing salves the elves had prescribed him. Frodo slept where Thorin could see him, ate his meals in Thorin’s arms, bathed together, and rested against the dwarf’s chest when they lay down to nap. There wasn’t a moment they’d been without each other since the halfling had been found. So it took everything in Thorin’s power to remind himself that one day he may be forced to give the child up.
Thranduil peered down at the bottom of his empty cup with an unhappy frown. “Look at us, agreeing to something. I’m half convinced the child has some sort of magic in him.”
Thorin laughed, the sound of it rough and abrasive in the quiet of the night. “I would not be surprised if he did. Frodo is something special.”
The Elvenking’s cool gaze moved to Thorin’s. “You care for him.”
It was more of a statement than a question, so Thorin didn’t answer. Instead he hefted Frodo up and carried him to his bassinet next to Thorin’s overly large bed. The babe gurgled, reaching up with his tiny, fat fingers to try to tug at Thorin’s braids. The dwarf caught Frodo’s small fist in his hands and tucked them under the soft blanket. Large blue eyes blinked at him sleepily.
“I will repay you, for the hospitality you’ve shown us.”
Thranduil flapped his wrist as the dwarven Prince. “You will, but not in the way you expect. I will not take coins for the child’s care.”
Thorin glanced suspiciously over his shoulder. He did not like the sound of that. “Than what will you be asking of me in return?”
They stared at each other for a long moment. “Nothing of value to you. We will discuss such matters later, for now it is late and Master Frodo sleeps, so I should do the same.”
The dwarf did not like leaving such ominous demands over his head, but he was also tired and too drained to deal with duplicitous elves and their secreted agendas. He glared hard as Thranduil swept from the room without dismissal, leaving his empty cup and a half filled decanter on the table. Thorin snorted, rolling his eyes at the elf’s behavior before turning back to Frodo. The babe had fallen asleep, his curling eyelashes kissing pink cheeks, bowed lips smacking together as he sighed softly in slumber. Thorin could not help himself as he reached out to touch the curling black hair at the babe’s forehead.
He would pay whatever Thranduil asked, for the help his healers had given Frodo. Anything.
And in a few days’ time, Frodo would be ready to return to Erebor with Thorin.
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