Disclaimer: I don't own The Hobbit or any of J. R. R. Tolkien's works. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: This is my second time dipping my toes into Tolkien's universe and my first time trying the 'soul bond' trope in the Hobbit fandom. So, I greatly appreciate any and all feedback/constructive criticism you have to offer. The main pairing in this fic is Dwori (Dwalin/Ori) with a hint of Bagginshield if you squint.

Warnings: Contains spoilers for 'The Hobbit' and 'The Desolation of Smaug'. This is set in an 'everyone lives' style AU. This is also a 'soul-bond' fic. Expect canon appropriate violence, mature language, age difference, size difference. Timeline? What timeline? Dwarvish courting rituals/traditions/culture, slash and smut.

Mahal's Script

Chapter One

They were in the middle of negotiations, something to do with how to respond to a good will gesture sent from Dain, King of the Iron Hills, when he suddenly doubled over, gasping for breath. The argument faltered, spluttering to a halt around the table as his hands firmed around the edge, distantly aware that they were trembling as he wrenched himself to his feet.

A conflicting surge of sensation rose, heady as the thick oak underneath his fingers creaked. The feeling was queer, painful, yet not, pleasurable, but too much. He grunted, free hand pressing against his chest, trying to sooth the sudden ache as he wavered. He sucked in a breath, only to choke on it. The realization was muffled - strangely muted considering the gravity of the situation. He couldn't breathe.

"Dwalin? Dwalin! What is it? Are you-" Thorin gripped him by the shoulders, voice pitching strangely in his ears as somewhere in the background Balin ordered everyone out. Kili and Fili – young as they were – were hastened through the door, with Dis leading the charge as she herded the entire group of merchants and nobles clear out of the room personally.

He needed to breathe. He had to-

But whatever Thorin had said was lost to him, drowned out by the fast-paced thrum of his beating heart. Sweat slicked across his skin, splattering across the flagstones as he slumped, weak, into Thorin's hold. Balin was there too, one arm flung over his side, while the other was on his face, trying to get his eyes to focus as the room whirled – spinning like one of Kili's tops as his arse hit the ground with a thud he felt right to his very core.

He staggered, rearing up as they tried to lay him down. Heat exploded through him, flushing down his skin in a way that stole his breath all over again. It turned the very air into ash – flooding through the still with all the power of dragon's fire – eradicating everything it touched. How he was still here, how everyone save for him was still standing was a mystery to him.

It made no sense.

Could they not feel it?

His body was burning!

His mind-

There were hands scrabbling across his tunic, ripping out the laces and holding him down as he tried his best to fling himself clear across the room, struggling to claw at the burning ember that was searing through his chest. He bellowed, cursing in pain and frustration.

Could they not see?! It was going to set him aflame! It was going to burn right down to the heart of him until there was nothing left! Nothing left but ash and ember!

The stinging rasp of someone's nails caught across his chest, and for reasons beyond him, his back arced like a bow string. He smothered a scream into Balin's shoulder – overstimulated, unsure if it was pain or pleasure that had caused it as he tried to wrench himself away. Thorin cursed, throwing his weight across him as Balin gripped him by the shoulders, shaking him – yelling. But he was deaf to it.

It was too much.

Too fast.

He couldn't-

And suddenly – as quickly as the pain had started – it faded. It simmered down into a warm golden glow that rose up, filtering through his skin as a feeling, quite unlike any other, rippled through him.

He gasped, trembling with the aftershocks as pleasure – warm and thick - spread through him, trickling out from the center of his chest as the hands moving across his skin suddenly stilled.

There was an intake of breath from somewhere above him.

Awareness drifted back slowly.

He opened his eyes, unsure of when he'd closed them, only to be half blinded by a searing warmth, a golden light that was issuing up from the center of his chest, throbbing in time with his pulse as Balin and Thorin took shape above him.

Together they watched, his brother and King as witness, as a book, intricately engraved, with a quill to match, etched itself across his skin in a beautiful golden script. It filled the room with a shattered prism of the purest gold, highlighting the intertwining ruins of Erebor and the Iron Hills before it gradually faded, sinking back into his flesh with a shimmer.

It left only it's likeliness in black. A perfect tattoo of grey and midnight shading that highlighted the tiny engravings as a dot of ink froze on the tip of the quill before the last of the light faded into his skin.

It was Mahal's script.

The mark of the soul-bonded.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, in the shadow of the Iron Hills, a newborn, motherless and small, cried. Heralding the first rays of a dawn it hadn't been expected to see.

It wasn't long before its squalls took on a high, wailing pitch. Bathing the room with a warm glow as little arms and feet kicked up, squirming in its crib as golden light seeped from its ruddy skin. The sound was different from a normal cry and by itself was enough to bring the healer and his apprentices, exhausted by the long labor, running.

"By Mahal's braided beard…" one of the apprentices breathed, hand hovering just above a flailing little foot, spellbound, while the other clutched her long red braid to her face - clearly torn as a commotion sounded just outside the room.

"What is it? Is he alright?!"

Dori stumbled through the door, a harried mess of rumpled sleep clothes and drawn features. Nori was all but on his heels, his mourning braid only half finished as they skidded to a halt. Stopping dead in the threshold when the golden glow ebbed all the brighter, centering itself high on the newborn's forearm - the same arm almost every dwarf used to heft both ax and pick.

It was there, in the presence of dwarrow and dam that they watched as the golden script etched itself across the babe's tiny arm. It revealed itself with an elegant hand; twin axes crossed together, with the runes of Erebor, the lost mountain, faint in the background.

It wasn't until the etching turned black and the child's cries lessened that they found their tongues. Dori was first, seizing on the obvious.

"Is-is he alright?" Worry frayed the edges of his tone as he inched forward, gently stroking a tiny toe as the healer called out a sharp command, and suddenly his apprentices were bustling about, readying a salve that would take away any lingering sting as the old beard set about testing the newborns reflexes.

"I believe so. More than alright, I'd imagine," the healer replied, silver beard jumping and twitching as he smiled hugely. The sadness from the night before was momentarily forgotten as the babe squealed, blinking up at them, eyes smart and sharp in all the ways that seemed apt for the family of Ri.

"But isn't that unusual?" Dori asked, fretting despite the fact that the babe seemed to be in better health than ever, visibly concerned as the healer raised him up by the elbows, pulling out a looking glass as he examined the mark with interest. The mark would not glow gold again until the child was in the presence of his one. Or so the elders said.

"The mark, I mean," Dori added, clearly not about to let the matter rest. And with good reason, there hadn't been a soul-bond in their family for at least fifteen generations. Soul bonds were rare. And when they did appear they were more often seen amongst the greater families of Durin – the more direct lines, tying the founding families together through blood and stone.

Somewhere in the background one of the apprentices stoked the fire, changing the linens and dressings set out for the naming ceremony as the small house rang with happy sounds and excited murmuring. There was still a funeral to plan, and a mother to be put to rest. But the joy of new life still rang, crisp and clear as the news of what'd transpired quickly spread.

"Unusual, but not unheard of," the healer hummed, putting away his looking glass with a flourish. "It simply means that this little one is even luckier than we thought. He made it through the night and has been twice blessed already. The fever might have taken his mother, but Mahal favors him, the mark is a good omen," he added with a chuckle, beckoning to his apprentices as he started packing his bag.

"His one is already alive, is all. Probably gave him or her quite the turn, I'd reckon."

At a loss for words, the two brothers just stared at each other. They let their housekeeper deal with the matter of payment, showing the three dwarrow out with a swish-swish of her skirts before leaving them in silence for the first time in hours.

And despite the fact that there were arrangements to be made and a time of mourning to come, the brothers Ri couldn't help but smile as their baby brother burbled up at them. The babe reached up, tiny hands gathering up twin handfuls of beard each as a gummy smile spread across his fuzzy cheeks.

"…Ori."

A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This is the first time I have done a soul-bonded fic in The Hobbit fandom, so hopefully it turns out well. I am taking some liberties with the idea. The next chapter should be up in a few days.