Trying out shorter chapters, since this story looks to be at least twice the length of my previous one-shots. Written for the Hobbit Kink Meme (hobbit_kink on LJ), as always, where I latched onto another Thorin/Bard prompt. Because, also predictably perhaps, that's the pairing I've got on the brain, despite current fandom trends and my not-so-sekrit personal ambition to ship Bard with every character I can halfway convince myself to. Originally meant to be more lighthearted crack, the fic took a decidedly serious turn in Bard's POV and has now settled a bit on the dramatic end of the comedy scale. Here's hoping some parts are still funny!

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Such Fair Ostents

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Glimmering in Bard's hand was the Arkenstone, bright as a splinter of the moon caught in ice and unmistakable. Thorin was astounded. "What sorcery is this?" he asked sharply. "How came you by the heirloom of my house?"

Bard did not answer. Instead he said, "Can we not now agree to terms, Thorin son of Thráin?" His voice was even and his gaze steady on Thorin, carefully not searching out any other familiar figures that might be on the ramparts.

From where he stood watching next to Balin, Bilbo gulped and tried not to fidget. Grateful as he was that Bard, unable to convince him of the folly of returning to Thorin's side, wished to keep him from Thorin's ire by not naming him a thief, he was afraid it would only serve to anger Thorin more. And then his betrayal—and it was a betrayal, by the twisting of his heart in his chest—will have availed them nothing and failed to prevent the bloodshed he dreaded, desperately.

Thorin's shoulders were tense beneath his armor and heavy mantle of fur, his knuckles white as his grip tightened on the stone parapet. "How came you by the King's Jewel?" he demanded again, voice rising. This time, Bard's eyes darted to Bilbo, but Bilbo could see in the stubborn line of his jaw that the fool man did not intend to ever answer Thorin.

"It was my doing, Thorin." Bilbo stepped forward before he could regret it. Though he almost faltered under the stare Thorin, whirling, pinned him with, so filled was it with stunned confusion, he forced his spine straight and his head up. The splendid shirt of mail Thorin had gifted him weighed upon his shoulders as if it were wrought of pure gold, not featherlight truesilver. "I gave the Arkenstone to Bard." Had Gandalf counseled wisely? Was there need for him to fear Thorin? He didn't want to believe that.

"You! You!" Bilbo could not help it. He flinched at Thorin's strangled cry, the words ringing harsh in the still air like the sound of a sword drawn from its sheath. "I should have known!" Thorin's eyes were bright, wet with a sheen of tears, and his hands trembled where they were clenched into fists at his sides. He strode towards Bilbo in a rush, pushing away Fíli, Kíli, anyone who moved to bar his path and deaf to Balin's pleas that he not act rashly.

For a moment, Bilbo considered fleeing, but some part of him balked at the idea, like a cord of steel had, unbeknownst to him, become woven into his every fiber. Surely, he felt, if he did not run, it would not be cowardice to shut his eyes so he could remember Thorin as his friend? He did just that, his own breathing loud in his ears, and waited for his doom.

When Thorin's strong hands finally closed on him, though, they did not wrap around his throat, choking, as he half expected them to but around his middle in a bone-crushing hug that lifted him clear off his feet. Bilbo wheezed, the air that had not fled his lungs in his shocked relief squeezed out of him. His head spun, and he flailed—quite uselessly, in fact, his arms trapped at his sides, only succeeding in bruising himself on the hard points of Thorin's armor and inhaling a goodly hank of Thorin's dark hair, pressed against his face.

At last, Thorin seemed to recognize that Bilbo's need to breathe was growing dire and released him. He even rubbed Bilbo's back in small, comforting circles as Bilbo gasped, heart racing, before elation chased concern from his face and he slung an arm about Bilbo's shoulders, almost sending them both sprawling to the floor.

"You are a true friend, Master Baggins," Thorin said to him, grinning proudly, "to know my heart so well." And Bilbo thought, Wha—? He sputtered; Thorin merely looked amused and terribly fond.

"I should have known," he continued, "that I could not hide my desire from your keen eyes." His expression softened further into a rueful smile. Bilbo blinked. He could not mean that he wanted Bard to have the Arkenstone, could he? "I had hoped to surprise you"—Bilbo had to bite his cheek, a sharp retort on his tongue—"yet as always you have surprised me. Truly, Hobbits are amazing creatures." He chuckled and, with another mangling hug, left Bilbo winded but no less baffled.

Thorin had brooded long after his parley with Bard, then commanded the Company to make more haste in scouring the treasure hoard for the Arkenstone, frowning darkly at the damage done by Smaug to the Mountain's halls and stilling whenever Bard's name was mentioned or his promise to share Erebor's wealth. So frightful was Thorin at those times, eyes agleam with a feverish energy and body drawn taut as a fiddle string, that the Company soon stopped asking. Contrary to Thorin's belief, Bilbo had no earthly idea what was running through the Dwarf's mind, confound him! And neither did the others, if their gaping looks of pained uncertainty were anything to judge by.

Later, Bilbo decided one of them should have pulled Thorin aside for an explanation. But they were so occupied exchanging puzzled noises—and, Bilbo admitted, reluctant to learn what new madness possessed Thorin—that he was able to lean out over the parapet unopposed and shout, "You have accepted my suit then, Dragonslayer, and my hand in marriage?" Every head snapped around to stare at Thorin with such alacrity that Bilbo swore there was an audible sound of necks cracking.

Bard jerked in surprise, eyes widening, and nearly toppled from his horse. He righted himself with a curse but did fumble the Arkenstone, and Bilbo squeaked as the great white jewel pitched towards the ground, imagining the royal heirloom of the House of Durin shattered into a thousand pieces. Luckily, a slim, long-fingered hand, pale as starlight, reached forth to catch it with the speed and grace of Elvish reflexes. While nothing so crass as shock showed on the Elvenking's fair face, there was a... distinctly nonplussed air about him, his head tilted and one elegant eyebrow arched.

"Thorin, y-you can't be serious...?" Bilbo said weakly. Thorin, however, was too rapt gazing down at Bard, engaged in a hissing conversation with the Elvenking and now Gandalf, to answer, so he turned to Balin. Who, to Bilbo's consternation, was beginning to look as if he'd come to a sudden and pleasant realization. "Can he?" Understanding was similarly dawning on the faces of the rest of the Company, and Bilbo thought, with a sinking feeling, that Thorin was indeed as serious as ever.

"Well, that is a relief!" said Kíli. "And here we all feared—" He shared a solemn glance with Fíli, swallowing nervously, before shaking his head with a chuckle. "Mother always did warn us that he was 'prone to dramatics.' She's going to have his beard for this. Especially as she'll miss the ceremonies!" Sobering, he added quietly, "Perhaps he would have confided in us earlier, had we not been so quick to mistrust his motives." There were murmurs of agreement, and even Bilbo was given pause, though he in truth found Thorin's actions stranger than when the dragon sickness was to blame.

"Come, Brother," Fíli said, squaring his shoulders, "Let us be the first to offer our congratulations to Uncle." Watching Thorin, who seemed wreathed in smiles as he accepted his sister-sons' wishes, his grim mood of the past few days banished like fog at the sun's rising, Bilbo was quite unexpectedly reminded of his least favorite Uncle Longo.

"He's sore as a bear with a wounded paw over that Sackville chit tossing out his flowers," his mother had told his father after one visit to Uncle Longo's, stamping her foot in exasperation. "Fuming and snarling like a hungry dragon in its lair... and just as apt to take a bite out of the company!" She sighed, absently thanking Bilbo for the cup of tea he handed her as she settled into her armchair by the fire. "I'll be glad when they're finally wed, Bungo dear, if only it'll spare Belba and me this dreadful courtship."

At the time, Bilbo thought his mother had exaggerated, for she had a love of colorful speech that exceeded any other except, perhaps, the affection she bore for husband and son; Uncle Longo was all smiles at the handfasting, graciously greeting the guests with his blushing bride-to-be on his arm. Were the trials of courtship truly so terrible? Could they turn even so stout a Dwarf as Thorin... dragonish?

But Thorin and—his mind stuttered, shying from the idea—and Bard? Bilbo knew little of how Men and Dwarves went about courting, but he did not feel it likely that their customs were so different from those of Hobbits that suitors wooed their intendeds by insulting them and their ancestors in the town square instead of with sweet endearments whispered in their ears. No, he decided, pinching the bridge of his nose, this had to be a mistake. A misunderstanding or a, a ruse, to stall the Elves from trying the Mountain's defenses maybe.

"Thorin Oakenshield," called Gandalf from below, "I think it's best that you come down for some explanations." To Bilbo's comfort, there was a note of bemusement in Gandalf's voice, too, seldom heard. Behind him, a scowling Bard, safely dismounted, waited with arms crossed for the Elvenking to do the same. His face darkened further until he resembled nothing so much as a towering thundercloud when the Elvenking held out the Arkenstone with an imperious hand for him to take back. Take it Bard did, however, like it was a coiled snake about to strike.

Until this moment, Bilbo had only half believed that Smaug was slain and by the bargeman they'd met collecting barrels on the river, his appearance worn if his aim was unerring. But the glare Bard skewered the Elvenking, the Arkenstone, and Thorin with in turn was so fierce, cold and flashing as sharp steel in the moonlight, that Bilbo thought, yes, this was one who could have braved dragonfire to fell the beast that had laid waste to cities with a single mighty shot from his bow. A slightly hysterical laugh wanted to bubble up in his chest. Thorin had best tread carefully around Bard, or Smaug's killer might just succeed where the dragon had failed.

"What a great mess you've made of things, Bilbo Baggins," he berated himself under his breath. He was a fool to suppose that giving Bard the Arkenstone would solve their problems. Still, at least there was no more talk of war and the matter was out of his too-small Hobbit hands, which were ill-suited to meddling in the affairs of kings. Gandalf will set them straight. Why, Bilbo figured that's what Gandalf did—counsel the high lords of distant lands in their halls of stone—when he wasn't at his excellent fireworks or a pipe of Old Toby, on account of being one of the less magical Wizards.

"Gladly, Gandalf," Thorin replied with an amiable nod. "Balin, Bilbo, with me." Bilbo started. Wha—? He sputtered in protest. Thorin ignored him, of course, already heading for the stairs with a jaunty spring in his step and clearly expecting them to follow. "The rest of you stay here. Soon, my friends, we shall be toasting to my nuptials!" Picturing Bard's glower, Bilbo thought glumly that Thorin was bound to be disappointed, whatever it was he wanted of the man.

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TBC