Full Summary:

The deep places of the earth. Vaulted cathedrals filled with Mahal's voice. And the perfect cradle from which to reform two souls; forged anew in synchronous heat and passion...

Only, things aren't going exactly how Thorin Oakenshield, Reformed King Under The Mountain, dreamed. Bilbo is confoundingly...confused. The bond that is tearing apart his very being is in danger of being snuffed out before it's even had much of a chance to begin, and there is far too much political chicanery than is good for his fraying nerves and temper.

And orcs. Definitely too many orcs.

If he is very lucky, he may just manage to woo Bilbo, and possibly save his sanity in the process...

A prompt fill for a Dwarven Courtship story; with lots of feels, a touch of fluff and a mine-cart full of Dwarven culture thrown in for good measure.

And Nori. Because he'd find a way to steal centre stage, regardless.

Many thanks to NepthysMoon, who once again saves me from making too many errors, and as always, pushes me to be a better writer. I love you!

Forge of Origins:

The Legacy of Our Fathers

All That Glitters

Gilded. Aurulent. Opulent. Practically ludicrous, even; there were many, many words one could use to describe the Treasury of Erebor. Bilbo had been both eager and nervous to see the newly restored once-lair of Smaug.

Quite frankly, though, this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind.

"Thorin! What heaven's name do you think you're doing?"

Bilbo found himself scrambling over coins, his soles scrapping painfully as he slid down the treacherous footing on a handful of gemstones as he attempted to dance back out of reach. The dwarven king stood unmoving, arms crossed over his chest, holding his ground before the massive stone door and preventing Bilbo from simply darting out and leaving Thorin to this idiocy. His only concession to this ridiculous stand-off was ducking slightly as the hobbit, in a fit of frustration, scooped up a handful of coins and threw them at him. The small projectiles bounced harmlessly off his broad shoulders and arms with musical pings as the gold and silver pieces struck his armour.

Bilbo couldn't explain what in the name of all the West was going on.

"Relax, khufdûn," the infuriating dwarf rumbled, but showed no other signs of explaining, beyond his earlier, and equally baffling, statement that the Khebabel Azyungaz, was now to begin. This got him a second handful of loose coin thrown at him. Unfortunately, Bilbo was forced to concede, it was no more effective than the first.

The Great Hall of Thráin, now the Treasury of Erebor, was located deep in the mountain, far below the Great Chamber of Thrór the Mountain King.

Even after all these months, Bilbo wasn't certain he'd ever be able to get over the sheer scale of the dwarven kingdom. Not to put too fine a point on it - and it would be very ill-mannered of him indeed to insult his companions by pointing this out, he was sure - but when it came right down to it, dwarves were... not all that much taller than hobbits. They were broad; and they had muscles that Bilbo was privately certain Yavanna had never given to her softer children. They were louder, and angrier, and just noisier in general, Bilbo supposed, but not in actuality, much taller.

So why in the world did they feel the need to build such massive spaces?

For centuries, Erebor had stood as a mighty testament of dwarven craft and majesty. Its hallowed halls a citadel hewn from the ancient flesh of the Lonely Mountain, and over the years their on-going war with the orcs of Mount Gundabad had caused the khazâd to create defensive measures like no others in Middle Earth. Attacking the mountain itself would be a laughable venture, if your opponent were not a firedrake, of course. And it was deep in the roots of that mountain, in what was once the most protected heart of the kingdom, Thorin, son of Thráin now lost himself to Gold Fever once more. At least, Bilbo could think of no other explanation for such bizarre behavior as inviting a loyal companion and friend down to examine the recently finished restorations to the deepest chambers, and then proceed to give every indication of trying to lock them up in it!

Bilbo halted, panting, twenty feet still between him and the immeasurably high door that was thankfully, still sitting slightly open; a sliver of torchlight visible through the narrow crack this left. That narrow sliver was all that was keeping Bilbo's heart from beating right out of his chest. From this distance, he could still hear the deep, rumbling chant coming from beyond this room. Various voices had taken it up throughout its progression, and Bilbo was a bit affronted to find that he could recognise Bofur's higher register amongst them. That chanting had been the first indication that something was unusual was happening.

The chanting had built up to a crescendo, deep voices seeming to come from the very mountain, were now joined by a single voice raised above the others in a complimentary counterpart. Bifur, he thought. This new song was solemn sounding, in a minor key that seemed to burrow its way into the listeners' mind and settle on the skin as vibration, bypassing the ears as being completely unnecessary. Bilbo shivered, not liking the feeling of enchantment that permeated the air. He would have described the sensation as if something inside of him, without so much as a by-your-leave, was stretching; a sort of pleasure-pain tingling as a space seemed to be forming where previously only he had existed.

Altogether, he found it highly disagreeable.

Still, Thorin stood, impassive and impassable, seeming to take no heed of his kin's voices echoing behind him. Slowly, the voices trailed off, the sounds of their performance still hanging in the air for long moments, echoes held and cradled by the mountain stone as if reluctant to end. It was perhaps for this reason, Bilbo didn't immediately realize the change, so focused had he been on the vibrations' effect on his senses.

When he finally focused again, it seemed as if the entire world slowed in an instant. The flickering torchlight from behind the door was diminishing, the orange glow growing dim, and at first he thought the hallway torches beyond had burned down. With a sick feeling in his belly, he realised the torches were fine, and he watched helplessly as that narrow sliver of outside light got smaller, and then disappeared, and the sound of the door hitting the lintel boomed solidly; undeniable.

Time became real again, and he could hear the soft slither of metal rods, seeming terribly loud in the huge cavernous vault, finding their home in cold stone as clever mechanisms sealed the door. What in the world is going on here?

Gilded. Aurulent. Opulent. Practically ludicrous, even; there were many, many words one could use to describe the Treasury of Erebor. Unfortunately, and utterly confoundingly, Bilbo could now add one more.

Prison.

Note:

The original prompt is from the LiveJournal kink_meme:

'Dwarvish Courting'

Dwarves have a very odd concept of courting their mates.

Instead of wooing them with flowers and love letters they Kidnap them!, then hold them prisoner for six months in which they must either gain their mates love or release them and consign themselves to a life of solitude unless they themselves are captured by a suitor.

During this six months they must show their potential mate their wealth and ability to support them, they must demonstrate their skills to impress their mate and show that they are not fools, they must also lavish them with affection through gifts of sonnets, songs, jewelry, and food to show their mate just how much they will be cherished.

They may not however harm their mate in anyway, nor are they to make any sexual advances upon them during this six month courting period unless the Mate falls for them sooner than expected and agrees to wed them.

However if the mate is posing a threat to themselves, by starving themselves, attempting to escape, making themselves ill, then they can intervene and restrain and force the mate to take food and water to keep them healthy.

Once the mountain is reclaimed and Smaug is dead, Thorin does not fall into gold lust, he takes this chance to capture Bilbo and lock him up in the treasury and spend the next six months wooing and courting his Hobbit.

Massive Kudos if Bilbo is totally horrified and alarmed when Thorin captured him and locks him up in the treasury, yelling for help from the company who are simply cheering that their King is courting!.

Bilbo being totally uncooperative at first, shouting at and begging Thorin to release him, throwing gold coins at the Dwarf and shouting very un-Hobbit like obscenities!

Thorin hand feeding Bilbo cakes and whispering poetry to him

A wedding presided over by Balin follows six months later!

Obviously, this sounds like it has massive potential for Stockholm Syndrome, which is something I'm trying to avoid and diffuse as much as possible. I took this writing prompt because I wanted to challenge myself to try and figure out some kind of cultural reason for this kind of courting right; what kind of belief and or social structure would they have to have for this rite to even exist? It takes a few chapters to sort out, but hopefully, when I'm done, I will have accomplished my goal of writing this in as justified a manner as possible. Please know that I've tried to be as sensitive as I can, while still honouring the prompt. The rest is just an excuse to do a whole lot of research and ponder just what makes dwarves tick *lol*

What I have done, is a whole lot of world building, a bit of humor, and a much bigger story than I ever intended to write :)

I hope you enjoy what I've come up with - I know I've enjoyed writing it

~Ny(ruserra)