today i want you all to imagine thorin and bilbo being on a vacation in the shire.
i want you to picture the king under the mountain and his consort enjoying long lazy evenings in the garden of bag end. the shared pipe weed. thorin’s bare feet getting used to the feeling of grass beneath them. the flower crowns bilbo makes for both of them.
i want you to imagine all the kisses they share now that there’s no one watching. the affectionate nose kisses. the sweet little pecks. the comforting and safe kisses full of love. the more passionate ones, those that make thorin blush when he sits in a council meeting months later and remembers how in the shire bilbo woke him up with breakfast and a kiss every morning.
i want you to picture them, laying on the floor of bag end, curled up together. arms and legs in one big tangle so neither of them knows where the other one begins and where the other one ends.
imagine them just laying there, smiling at each other and listening to each others heartbeats untill the rhythm is one and the same. until they aren’t two beings anymore, but one. one heart and one soul. same dreams and the shared hearbeat.
But there was in Thranduil’s heart a still deeper shadow. He had seen the horror of Mordor and could not forget it. If ever he looked south its memory dimmed the light of the Sun, and though he knew that it was now broken and deserted and under the vigilance of the Kings of Men, fear spoke in his heart that it was not conquered for ever: it would arise again.