Chapter Text
No rest did Thorin find that night, for all his good intentions. The royal quarters were beyond repair— his own room and those of his family all those years before— for they had been lined with gold and precious stones and therefore had not survived Smaug’s greed. The chamber found to replace it was simple enough, if massive, and made all the more cavernous by how it lacked the many tapestries and decorative gilding. The dwarves of Erebor and the Iron Hills had clearly thought the size was deserving of Thorin’s rank, with only one problem.
Dragon sickness had conferred one benefit, if it could be called that, but since he’d fallen ill Thorin had not known true darkness. The glow of his cursed eyes had illuminated his way, and keen dragon eyes had made even the dimmest light seem bright as midday, the ability gone along with the scales and claws. The few candles that could be spared were hardly enough to illuminate Thorin’s room, and he was not so wasteful as to use them through the night. Despite how exhaustion had weighed down his limbs and eyelids during the council sessions, sleep eluded him, and Thorin found no comfort even in pacing. He returned to his bed, and stared up at the blackness that surrounded him, with only the sound of his own breathing for company.
It’s gone, it’s done, Thorin reminded himself in annoyance. He would not awake a stranger in his own body, the passing of each night bringing with it new transformations, scales spreading, claws lengthening. He would no longer lose days, no longer needed to fear another take over of his mind as well as his body in his moments of unconscious. These things he told himself, and still the night closed in around him, strange in its solitude.
Bilbo did not know when he dropped off finally, but he woke shivering, his hand reaching compulsively, seeking Thorin and finding nothing.
This brought Bilbo fully awake, terror clawing at his throat as his hand fisted in the sheet and his eyes flew open. Gone. Thorin was gone and the dragon had taken him, or he had finally given up, going off into the darkness to die, he’d left without a goodbye, without giving Bilbo a chance one more time to talk him out of his despair, just one more chance…
Bleary, nightmare-soaked thoughts dissipated as Bilbo’s frightened gasps brought him awake the rest of the way. His breathing slowed, and he looked around in confusion. At some point in the night he’d kicked the blankets free, and hence the goose bumps that dotted his skin. Of course Thorin was not here, he had quarters of his own.
There was no chance of falling back to sleep, not after that, and from the sounds of movement outside his door Bilbo suspected that outside the sun had risen. Erebor was stirring once more to life. Caution overruled the worst of his early-morning grouchiness, and before moving, Bilbo first ran a hand over his belly, testing at the stitches beneath his nightshirt. After a bit of careful shifting, Bilbo wiggled his toes and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feeling quite bold as he risked standing.
Not…bad… Bilbo determined after a moment swaying on his feet. His vision spotted, but that was more likely the blood rushing from his head after so long lying down. The wound stung a little, but as far a he could tell it was quite manageable. He found the washbasin at the corner of the room, and though the water was cold, it was still a relief to wash his face and neck before changing into a set of the clothes that had been left in a pile beside the basic. They were clearly meant for dwarves, and so too broad across the shoulders and chest. At least he was not swimming in them, as he would have been clothing meant for Men, or worse: clothing meant for Men’s children.
Something glinted at the bottom of the pile, beneath a pair of completely unnecessary woolen socks, and Bilbo paused, his fingers tracing over the links of the mithril shirt. It spilled like water as he lifted it, the links slick and cool beneath his hand. Bilbo held it up, his eye was drawn to a slight discoloration in the metal at the bottom. Someone had taken the effort to mend the links pierced by the dragon’s claw with steel, or perhaps more mithril, and the imperfection was visible even to Bilbo’s untrained eye.
He stared at it a long time before slipping it over his head, wincing to feel the light tug of the stitches. Bilbo looked down at himself, still feeling faintly ridiculous to be clad in armor, but after the addition of a wide leather belt and a blue woolen coat over it Bilbo felt at least presentable, if not the gentlehobbit he’d once been.
The halls of Erebor were busier than the main square of Hobbiton on market day, with the same busy, cheerful air. Dwarves were hard at work wherever he walked, pulling wagonfulls of stone, clearing rubble, and sweeping away dust. Somewhere, in the great hall of the kings with its tapestried walls and a floor now paved with gold, the dead were laid out in state awaiting their final burial. Each day another hall was cleared, another room repaired, and that number grew. Yet there was a feeling of peace in it, of closure, as souls were put to rest who had already waited too long. Though the work would not be done overnight, Erebor was already well on the way to being a living city once again.
White light streamed in from high above and rounding the corner Bilbo saw the front gate, cleared now of most of the rubble that once covered it. Though he meant to continue on to the throne room, and the corridor that made up the new royal wing where Thorin now dwelled, Bilbo stopped and stared at the first glimpse of true sunlight he’d seen in weeks. It was a cold light— winter’s light, thin and pale—and the most beautiful Bilbo had ever seen. He closed his eyes, feeling the weak play of its warmth over his skin, breathing a sigh of relief he’d not realized he’d been holding.
A hand closed over his shoulder, jerking Bilbo from his reverie. He spun to see Óin glaring down at him.
“I’m sorry, did we have an appointment?” Bilbo said, baffled by Óin’s stern expression. Bilbo could have sworn that the palace was a maze, yet the dwarves seemed to have an unerring sense of Erebor, and where to find him within it.
“You should still be abed, laddie,” growled Óin.
“I was just searching for Thorin. Look, I checked the bandages before I went, it’s healing just fine, and it’s not as if I’m doing anything strenuous…” Bilbo protested.
“Aye, and if you were a dwarf I’d already have you out running laps around the mountain, but I’ve not worked with many wounded hobbits before, and I’ll not be leaving anything to chance,” Óin replied, crossing his arms.
“Excuse me,” Bilbo said, his ire rising. It was not as if he were delicate. “I’m feeling perfectly all right, and I’ve been in bed for days as it is. Now, I trust your judgment Óin, and I’m grateful for your help, but I really must protest…”
“Leave your protests with Thorin, since he’s the one that’ll gut me if any harm comes to you. Anyway, you’ve already missed him, he’s been away hammering out those treaties since sun-up.”
“And how long will that be?” Bilbo said, exasperated.
Óin sucked at his teeth for a moment and shrugged. “That, my lad, depends entirely on whether Thorin can keep his temper.”
“I do not withhold the gold for my sake, but for yours,” Thorin explained for what felt like the hundredth time that day.
“How are we to know that you will not cheat us? It would not be the first time Erebor’s king has gone back on his promise of aid, and we have no time to lose. Winter will soon be upon us, and we must rebuild before it comes!” Bard said, pounding the flat of his hand on the table as he spoke.
“And you shall have enough gold to rebuild, I will not begrudge it to you,” Thorin said, in what he thought was a very patient and reasonable tone. Until Bard gave a derisive snort at his words and Thorin had to bite back a snarl.
Thranduil was blessedly absent from these proceedings, seeing to his own people, and his time would come the next day. Yet Gandalf was still there, and Thorin did not even need to look to see he was giving him a warning glance. As if Thorin needed reminding of the madness that led him to deny Dale’s compensation in the first place.
Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling for the words to explain what to dwarves was a simple concept, but to Men seemed incomprehensible. “If I give you the share you request all at once, your people will not have the gold to buy food by the end of next year. The very reason for this is that there will be so many coins flooding your market that no amount will be enough to buy bread. All will be worthless, and you will see the true value of gold when it cannot be eaten, or forged into weapons. Do you have no grasp of what I’m saying?”
“What is your proposal, then?” Bard said, the edge of suspicion still sharp in his voice.
“We will release the gold as needed, but in controlled amounts so that Dale may be prosperous but not destroyed by its wealth. Why do you think the coin of Erebor was guarded within the treasury, rather than put into circulation?” Thorin said, forcing himself to speak slowly, and with small words.
“Your Majesty, I’m sure I cannot speculate on why dwarves do anything,” Bard said, eyes narrowing.
All right, that was it.
“There are not enough goods this side of the Misty Mountains for us to spend it on!” Thorin exploded. “Had we tried, the value of gold itself would have been lost. I thought you were a smuggler, do you understand nothing of trade?” Thorin rose half out of his chair, and only realized he’d begun shouting when a hand closed over his arm.
“You’ve made your attempt, Majesty, perhaps it is time cooler heads prevailed? By your leave,” Balin said. Thorin gave a sharp nod and stood, gesturing for Balin to take his place at the negotiation table. Bard settled back and folded his arms over his chest, relaxing and nodding in agreement. More the fool he, Balin was the canniest bargainer Thorin had ever known, all hidden behind a twinkling eye and a grandfather’s snowy beard. Bard would be lucky to leave with his shirt if Erebor had truly meant to keep the promised gold. Thorin had not even made it to the door when Gandalf rose too, and he stopped in his tracks.
“I believe I shall take my leave as well. I trust Master Balin will hold to his king’s fair standard of treatment, and I’m afraid trade policies are not my strongest suit.” Gandalf turned to Thorin. “As such, I have little more to add to these proceedings. King Thorin, I believe you and I have the same destination, and person, in mind?”
Thorin was grateful for the high collar of his tunic that hid his swallow, though surely he was staring like a startled dwarfling. Was he truly so transparent? He’d not known himself until a second before that he now had time to seek out Bilbo. How had the wizard…?
“Of that I cannot be sure, Master Gandalf, as I have given up my attempts to predict the ways of wizards,” Thorin managed, recovering his decorum and with it a neutral expression. “But it is ever my pleasure to walk in your company.”
Balin looked about ready to swallow his pipe in shock at the exchange, understandably, given Thorin’s hostility towards the wizard only the day before. But to Thorin’s mind it was a pointed discussion, and not for Gandalf’s benefit. Thranduil may disdain the wizard’s advice, but Bard did not have the Elvenking’s arrogance, and it paid to remind him that one of the few wizards that walked Middle Earth had done so in the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. Especially when Bard was being difficult about measures that were intended for his own good. Perhaps he was beginning to understand Gandalf’s frustration with those he tried to help, Thorin included.
Now there was a frightening thought.
Thorin nodded for Gandalf to follow him into the city, where the hubbub was such that few even noticed the arrival of their king, and those that did only had a moment to incline their heads in acknowledgement, too weighted down by heavy beams or stone to offer more. Not that Thorin would have had it any other way, but at the moment his attention was elsewhere.
“It’s not as if I’m planning to haul stone from one end of the city to another; I’m going for a walk,” Bilbo exclaimed, and it looked very much as if he was trying to keep from exploding. He gestured as he spoke, each one more violent than the last. “Maybe you lot can stand months cooped up underground, but we hobbits need the sun! Not to mention I dread to think what is going on in those tents. You say Thorin is negotiating with Thranduil right now? Good heavens, we’re going to be at war again within the month!”
“I cannot say if it’s the poncy elf he’s talkin’ to as such,” Óin said, raising his impressive eyebrows and nodding over Bilbo’s shoulder. “But if you like, you can ask him yourself.”
Bilbo turned, and the breath froze in Thorin’s throat at the sight of Bilbo in the sunlight, the way the winter light bathed the flagstones and shone in his hair. It felt an age since he’d last seen such a sight. Not since their words at the gate, and that time was hazy with rage and sickness. How had he ever looked away? The life was back in Bilbo’s face and bearing, anger flushing his cheeks though that was quickly fading. He wore a dark wool cloak, and beneath it the mithril shirt that had been all Thorin could give to protect him the battle, and the dragon’s wrath. From his own wrath.
He loved him, so terribly much it felt he’d overflow with it all in that second. How had he ever forgotten? How terrible was the illness of his line that it could make him forget it, so lost in darkness he could see nothing else?
Thorin did not know if Bilbo wore the mithril shirt from fear, or because it was Thorin’s gift. Yet the sight made it real again, that he was alive, standing and not surrounded by the many pillows of his sick bed. There was sunlight around them, and other dwarves, and while he had known it for many days now in his mind, Thorin suddenly felt that it truly would be all right.
It was Bilbo who made the first move, padding towards Thorin who stood transfixed. Bilbo gives him a wry grin, uncertain and a bit sheepish, quirking an eyebrow up at Thorin. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“It seems a habit of yours lately,” Thorin said softly, inclining his head. The bustle of the halls fell away, and it was only the two of them, as much as it had ever been.
“Yes, for longer than I realized,” Bilbo said, quiet and somehow thoughtful as he looked up at Thorin.
“Council sessions. I am afraid those will be a habit of mine for the foreseeable future,” Thorin apologized. “There is much work yet to be done, and much I must make up for, thanks to my absence.”
“I understand,” Bilbo said, lip twitching. “Just as long as you’re not avoiding me.”
“I—” Thorin began, and saw the subtle shift in Bilbo’s expression. Worry, words building at the tip of his tongue, body swaying all but imperceptibly towards Thorin as his fingers curled at his side. Ah. “I’m sorry. I am here now.”
Bilbo relaxed. “Quite right.”
“It is only that I would not intrude on your rest,” Thorin said, feeling that something more was required, some explanation. “Or ask for more than was freely given.”
“My rest?” Bilbo blinked. “What do you…?” Words failed Thorin, and he moved in closer, so that Bilbo had to look up at him. He reached forward, perhaps some part of himself needing to be reassured that Bilbo was really here. His hand hovered at Bilbo’s shoulder then traced downward. It shook, and he could not bring himself to actually touch Bilbo.
Thorin’s gaze flickered to Bilbo’s face and his breath caught, expecting Bilbo to flinch away. How could he not, to be confronted once again with the cause of his injury?
Bilbo frowned, glancing down and back up again, nose crinkling. Then he took Thorin’s hand, Thorin stiffening at the contact, and pressed it to his side, just above the wound.
Perhaps Thorin’s expression gave it away, because Bilbo’s expression crumpled for just an instant, one of those flitting emotions that were so quickly covered. “Oh, Thorin. We talked about this.”
Thorin was silent, shame choking off the words when he felt fingertips on his face, guiding his chin up to look at Bilbo. “It’s healing just fine, I can assure you. Look, can this wait a moment?” Bilbo said, pitching his voice loud enough to carry to Óin, who was hovering closer than Thorin remembered, indeed he’d forgotten they had an audience at all. Bilbo cast an irritated glance over his shoulder at Óin, with a nod towards Thorin. Then he turned back, lowering his voice and leaning in a gesture of startling intimacy. “I know who did this, Thorin, and I know who did not. So I would feel much better if you wiped that kicked-puppy look off your face and stop needlessly worrying yourself.”
“I do not…” Thorin began, much at Bilbo’s little smirk he subsided, and huffed out a breath. Perhaps he was being excessive, certainly no dwarf would appreciate such concern, and Bilbo had proven himself tough as any. He offered a faint smile of his own back. “I am glad to see you on your feet again.”
“Glad to be there,” Bilbo replied, straightening. “Still, it seems we are overdue for a talk. Are you free now? It’s just about time for luncheon, and if I spend another hour in that bed I’m going to go stark raving...”
“Oh, no you don’t!” Thorin started as a hand clamped down on his shoulder, the other clapping down on Bilbo so his knees buckled. “Mister Boggins, glad to see you’re up!” Kíli then rounded on Thorin, who then saw that Fíli was a little ways off with his arms crossed. “As for you, dear uncle, I think you have avoided us long enough.”
“Excuse me,” Bilbo sputtered with no small amount of outrage, “we were having a discussion, in case you were unaware. A private one.”
Kíli perked up, and turned to Bilbo, taking his hand from Thorin’s shoulder and taking Bilbo’s in each. His expression became solemn and he fairly radiated sincerity. “And I swear to you, you will have the rest of your lives together, but we,” he pointed an accusing finger at Thorin, guiding Bilbo to follow it, “need to have a serious talk.”
“If you wish to spend your days in negotiations with Dale and Mirkwood, you’re welcome to take my place,” Thorin remarked. “I have not had a moment to myself until this very hour.”
“We know, because you spent every waking moment before that at Bilbo’s bedside,” Kíli said, rolling his eyes.
“Wait, what?” Bilbo said, except Fíli stepped forward, cutting him off as he faced off with Thorin.
“Thorin, you still have not told us what occurred down here,” Fíli said. “We’re your family, and this affects all of us. The last time we saw you was before the walls came down around the mountain and you were…not well.”
Indeed, he had not been. Thorin remembered the suspicion that darkened his mind, when even his own family seemed to have turned against him. It was like a fever dream now, the world painted in shadows and gold. Fíli was frowning at him, and there was not the same humor about him that Kíli had. Fíli looked serious. He looked like a king. Thorin shifted, aware suddenly of how childish his actions were, unwitting as they may have been. He had not meant to avoid them, or any of them. He simply did not know where to begin. “I am recovered now,” Thorin finally said. “And you need not fear that this curse will spread to you…”
“That’s not what we’re worried about, Thorin,” Fíli said. “We were worried about you. We still are, and we will continue to be until you talk to us.”
“Oh, go with them,” Bilbo sighed. “They’re right, Thorin, we’ve been terribly selfish about this. You and I can catch up later. But,” he waggled a warning finger at Thorin, “I will be expecting you.”
“Never fear, Bilbo, we’ll return him to you in one piece,” Kíli said, and before Thorin could launch any defense, indeed even protest the interruption, there was a hand on each shoulder guiding him away from Bilbo. There was just the right amount of pressure to suggest that if he did not walk, they would drag him.
“You know, I once had respectful nephews, ones who obeyed their uncle,” Thorin muttered as they walked.
“Yes, Thorin,” Kíli said cheerfully. “That was before you locked yourself inside the mountain for a week.”
Bilbo could only shake his head as Thorin was dragged away by his nephews, head bowed as if he were already the victim of the inevitable tongue-lashing. Truth be told, he could not blame them if it was true that Thorin’s avoidance tactics had spread to all his kith and kin. He felt a thread of unease at the thought of the two plying Thorin with questions, as there were certain elements of their time dealing with Thorin’s sickness that were rather… intimate, and surely the Baggins side balked at the thought of airing that information, to close family members no less. Yet there was no choice but to trust to Thorin’s discretion, and Bilbo turned back to where Gandalf still stood waiting, leaning on his staff. Then, to Bilbo’s chagrin, he realized Óin was still there too, waiting expectantly.
“Yes, yes, back to my room, I know!” Bilbo huffed. Óin nodded and grinned, once again blessed with perfect hearing as he so often miraculously did whenever it meant getting his way. Bilbo sighed, and looked up to the wizard. “Though I’m quite certain I shan’t sleep a wink. Gandalf, would you consider joining me for luncheon?”
“I was just about to ask you the very same, my dear Bilbo,” Gandalf said, leaning down. “Business may call me away any day now, and I did not wish to depart without speaking to you first.”
“Excellent, I’ll have some sent around. I assume luncheon is acceptable?” Bilbo said to Óin.
“Oh, aye, just so long as you don’t go trotting off again,” Óin said, with far more self-satisfaction than Bilbo felt was strictly speaking warranted.
The food was polished off in short order, and Bilbo found he was far too hungry to do more than listen and chew as Gandalf gave him a recap of all that had happened in the council sessions. It was not until only crumbs remained that Bilbo realized, with a heavy heart only slightly offset by a full stomach, that he must now provide his own half.
“You don’t seem overly eager to share,” Gandalf observed as Bilbo settled back in the chair, wincing a little as the wound tugged. A minor discomfort, thankfully growing more minor by the day.
“Oh no, it’s not that, it’s only…” Bilbo trailed off, not sure how to encapsulate it all.
“Perhaps some tea then?” Gandalf said. “I know on my part it often helps matters.”
“Gandalf, my old friend,” Bilbo sighed. “I’m not sure there’s enough tea in the world.”
Nevertheless, he was not one to oppose the idea and this time Gandalf volunteered to play host, so that it was only a short time later that Bilbo accepted a steaming cup. He warmed his hands against it as he choose his words. Gandalf sat across from him, neither pushing not showing the least bit of impatience at all.
Then he began, well, where all such stories must. At the beginning.
“After you left me at the entrance which, by the way, I’m still a bit miffed about, I had just begun to make my way down the tunnels when I heard the most unearthly cry…”
Unlike Gandalf, the heirs of Erebor were not so patient when it came to allowing Thorin to finish his meal. They were mirrors of a sort, as Fíli settled back with his arms folded across his chest and a raised eyebrow, waiting, while Kíli leaned forward with his arms clasped in front of him, wearing an expectant smile for Thorin to begin his tale.
The rest of the food would have to wait, Thorin thought with a sigh as he pushed away the plate of bread, cheese, and far more greens than was proper for any dwarf. Not that beggars could be choosers, and at the moment Mirkwood was their main source of supplies.
He looked to his nephews, an unexpected and terrible wave of fondness flooding him suddenly, his irritation falling away as it struck him. He had never thought to have this again, and so easily might not have had matters gone differently. He had not thought of it as avoidance, but realized in retrospect it had been exactly that. A desire to have everything in order again, to make up for all his mistakes, Bilbo’s injuries, Erebor’s allies and the results of his absence, before he saw to matters closer to the heart. So much had been done to keep Fíli and Kíli from seeing the extent of the dragon sickness, all futile in the end. Perhaps that was why he’d kept his distance, fearing that he would see the reflection of the creature he’d become in their eyes, leaving that stain upon their image of Erebor, of a cursed place that brought out the monstrous in their kin rather than the home it had been to him.
Nothing but honesty would do now, as ever, and he would have to bear the cut to the bone it brought with it. Yet he was never one to turn away from pain, or from fear. Thorin squared himself, intent as he addressed each of them head on. Beginning at the end, because there was no other way to explain it.
“I lost myself, as I’m sure you know when you saw the effects of the curse, even if I wish you had not. Perhaps you will not believe me if I tell you the physical manifestation was the least of it. The mark of a path that I set myself upon by my own will. I lost myself to anger, and pride, and petty malice, as much as I did to a curse laid upon our line long ago. If not for Master Baggins, I may never have found my way back.”
“There is that name again, Mîm,” Gandalf remarked, while Bilbo took a sip of his tea to wet a throat gone dry from talking. He nodded, having already gone through several cups, and still he felt his nerves taut as harp strings, and that was before getting to the worst of it. That being said, there was something calming about relating it all, of putting it all to words and hoping to make some sense of it. There was still too much that was only between him and Thorin, and very little purpose in repeating what they had both seen, what words would never be sufficient to fully encapsulate. However, telling it to Gandalf allowed him to set some of that aside, to go down to the bare facts of the matter, without the swirling confusion and anxiety. The not-insignificant amount of love made it all so fraught and difficult at times, when walking away would have been easier if only that option had ever occurred to him.
“Yes, Thorin seemed to believe that the failure of his ancestors to protect the Petty-dwarves resulted in their fall to the shadows, as some matter of vengeance,” Bilbo added. “He found the tablets in the library, as I understand.”
“Indeed. Perhaps not all that willing, at least not all of them,” Gandalf said. “Though without a doubt there were Petty-dwarves who turned to Morgoth for aid after many wrongs were committed against them. As for Mîm, he is a…complicated figure. He resisted the Shadow, and escaped with his sons, yet regretted his decision to do so when tragedy found him in his home. As I said to Thorin, I believe he deserves our pity, if not our blind trust in his version of events. He had his own reasons for all he did, as a result of grief, as I’m sure many here with us today can appreciate.” Bilbo frowned at this contemplatively, and Gandalf continued. “Those were dark days for all, Bilbo. The Enemy worked many foul deeds upon the children of Middle Earth, but the lines were not so clear then between justice and vengeance, for goodness and wisdom were not always present. Elves hunted dwarves, dwarves killed elves, and caught in between were the petty-dwarves who found safety where they could. A great evil came of it, but they cannot be blamed for that, and certainly the Longbeards of this Age bear no responsibility for that crime.”
“But will it happen again, Gandalf?” Bilbo said, looking up from his cup, his feet swinging from the overly tall chair. “Is it possible for another dragon to arise, or Thorin’s illness to return?”
“There are some few cold drakes who still make their abode in the mountains of the north, but they are a solitary bunch with little interest in the treasure hoards of the warmer climes. Smaug was the last of the fire drakes in this realm, and gold may only be corrupted to the point of transformation by the presence of a living dragon. Anything is possible, of course, but I’m tempted to say no, this is truly the last time.”
Bilbo let out a breath he did not realize he’d been holding, and drained the last of his tea. “Well, thank goodness,” he said. “A nasty, uncomfortable business it was.”
“There’s still a matter I do not understand, Thorin,” Fíli said. “First you tell us that Bilbo waited for days with you while you were certain you were going to die, or worse.”
“Still not forgiving you for that one,” Kíli grumbled beside him.
“So you’re saying that you were completely convinced that our burglar had gone against your wishes, which, by the way that seems hardly fair given you broke your word first…” Fíli continued, ignoring his brother.
“What exactly is your question, Fíli?” Thorin sighed, feeling the sting of shame to hear it laid out so plainly. He tolerated the questions nonetheless. Explaining it all in such bald terms had left him reeling internally. At the time it had all seemed so sensible, so logical that all hope was gone, that he was only humoring Bilbo in his final hours. Now, though…
“What did he do to convince you, after the throne, that he had not sent for us? I hate to say it, Thorin, but you’re not the most trusting person, and he’s not even a dwarf. Now, we all saw the way you looked at him.” Thorin felt heat rise to his cheeks at this, and looked away. “But it must have taken something fairly serious for you to believe he was looking out for your best interests, what with the Arkenstone.”
“I… he…” Thorin stopped his fingers just short of his lips, where they had drifted without his knowing, and instead scrubbed a hand over his face, a common enough reaction when dealing with his nephews. He was hardly going to give them the details of that pain and confusion, when Bilbo had confessed that he stayed for love of Thorin, and all had suddenly made sense again. The silence stretched, and as Fíli looked more perplexed a broad, slow grin began to spread over Kíli’s face.
“I think I have some idea,” Kíli said, eyes sparkling. Fíli looked from Kíli, and then to Thorin, who was now glowering at his younger nephew.
“What?” Fíli said.
“What Master Baggins said to convince me was a private matter, and no concern of yours,” Thorin said, aiming for steady dignity, but at the slight waver in his voice at the word ‘private’ Kíli’s grin spread so far it seemed he would hurt himself.
“Of course, Thorin,” Kíli said, as Fíli’s look of confusion deepened.
“What in the… Come now, Kíli, what are you two on about?” Fíli said.
“Maybe when you’re older,” Kíli said with a sidelong grin at his brother, ignoring Thorin’s growing scowl.
Fíli’s eyebrows shot up as understanding dawned. His expression turned blank, then aghast as he whipped around to stare at Thorin. “Uncle? But you had scales, claws! I saw them!”
“What? What in Durin’s name does that have to do with anything… Kíli!” Kíli was doubled over now, laughing so hard it seemed he would choke himself to death. “Whatever you are thinking, it is not what happened. Even if it was, it would be none of your business. Master Baggins was extremely…” Kíli howled, “eloquent, in his pleas that I should give him my trust.”
“Yes… None of my business… that at least is something we can agree on,” Fíli said, and Thorin had the inevitable feeling that of the three of them, he could no longer be counted as the one with the most dignity.
“There is one thing I do not understand, Bilbo. How in the world did you manage to convince Thorin that you were only looking out for him, once he levied accusations at you of being a spy? He is not the most trusting fellow, after all,” Gandalf said. The tea was long gone, the fire burning low as Bilbo’s tale dragged long past sunset.
Never let it be said that a hobbit could not hold his own when it came to the treacherous social fields of teatime conversation. He was hardly going to tell Gandalf, of all people, that confessing his love to Thorin was what drew him back from the brink. Bilbo’s face remained utterly impassive at the question; he even took a moment to appear to consider the question as he sipped his tea. “My dear Gandalf, I’m sure I have no idea what you mean. Even if I did, I should think that after all the secrets that have been kept from us, we deserve a few of our own.” He added an arched eyebrow to the last, along with a pointed glare.
“And I would not dream of intruding where I am not welcome,” Gandalf said, all too innocently for the fact it was a blatant lie. He did not add more, and as the silence stretched Bilbo entertained for a brief instant the possibility that the matter was dropped, preparing to continue with his story when Gandalf suddenly piped up. “Only, I imagine it took an act of kindness, and love, to keep that darkness at bay.”
“Perhaps,” Bilbo acknowledged, “but only a small one.”
“From there, I carried Master Baggins to the treasury for aid, and the rest you saw,” Thorin said, relieved to finally have the tale behind him after so many hours. Any peace he might have hoped to gain by relating the story was easily counterbalanced by the sheer amount of grief they gave him every step of the way.
Kíli gave a long whistle of shock. “Bilbo is going to kill you if he finds out you made that bargain to save his life.”
“Honestly, Thorin, what were you thinking, giving that thing a way into Erebor?” Fíli added.
“It’s not as if I had a choice in the matter,” Thorin snapped.
“No choice?” Fíli exclaimed, but Kíli was the one who stopped him this time, patting his brother’s shoulders to calm him.
“Not for him there wasn’t, Fíli,” Kíli said, with gravity Thorin had not come to expect from his younger nephew.
“Excuse me?” Fíli said, frowning.
“Just another of those things you’ll understand—” Kíli began.
“If you say, ‘when you’re older’, Kíli, I swear—! ” Fíli said. “And anyway, I’m the elder, where exactly has this great romantic wisdom of yours come from?”
“We’ve already talked about it,” Kíli said, and there was gentleness to his tone, a faint blush to his cheeks. “It changes you, you see things different when you’re in love with someone. There is no choice, in the end, and you’ll do all sorts of mad things to protect them. Tauriel, well… let’s just say I’m happy for Thorin. He’s a bit of a late bloomer, but it’ll be good for him, having someone around who makes him feel alive.”
Thorin was silent at this exchange. Love indeed, and alive? Yes, that could be said as well. Certainly it brought from within him the will to live, which he had not known was absent before. He loved Bilbo, truly, and at the thought an ache bloomed in his chest and he wanted nothing more than to quit this room, bid his nephews a good evening and scoop Bilbo into his arms, never letting him go. Still, something niggled at his mind. “And who exactly is this ‘Tauriel’?” Thorin said.
Kíli sat up, suddenly pale, and made a strange gurgling noise, which only served to deepen Thorin’s suspicion. “No one!”
Bilbo closed the door behind Gandalf after they bid their farewells for the evening and stumbled back to his bed. He was more grateful than ever to have taken luncheon in his quarters so many hours before; at least he did not have to use his waning strength to return, and thus give Óin the satisfaction of being right. The bed depressed under his weight as he sat, and with a sigh, he shucked off his mithril shirt and coat.
He’d learned a few matters of interest that day, not the least of which was how easy it was to request multiple meals from any passing dwarves. It seemed that it was a matter of some note to save the life of Erebor’s king from whatever malady had afflicted him, and the dwarves were falling over themselves to provide Bilbo any aid they could, in a manner that gave new meaning to the words, “At your service!” As far as he could tell, the details of what had happened to Thorin were not known. Word was that Thorin had fallen ill while defending Erebor from the armies outside the gate, and Bilbo had entered the mountain to nurse him back to health, thus saving his life. It was close enough to the truth that Bilbo was not one to feel shame in supporting that version. As far as he was concerned, it was Thorin’s tale to tell in any case. He had only been along for the ride.
A ride that now left him easily exhausted. Even with no exercise more strenuous than lifting a fork or teacup, Bilbo had felt his energy flagging when he finally begged off, and bid Gandalf goodnight. He slid under the covers, and had just leaned over to blow out the bedside candle when he heard the knock. With a startled yelp, Bilbo snatched the covers up to his chin just as the door opened.
“My apologies, did I wake you?” Thorin said, shutting the door behind him. Bilbo sighed, and let the covers fall, and with it any attempt at salvaging his dignity. The sight of Thorin alone bled tension away that he hadn’t known he was carrying. Thorin did not come closer immediately, instead eying the distance between them and shifting from one foot to the other in a gesture so minute, Bilbo might not have noticed if not for the days spent together.
Bilbo shook his head, gesturing to the still-lit candle. “Not at all. Long day?”
Thorin sighed, rubbing a hand against the back of neck beneath his hair as he nodded. “Indeed. My nephews were not satisfied until they had the details, and with the negotiations now gone to deliberation and revision, it was high time to do so. Though it might have gone much quicker if not for the interruptions.”
Bilbo clucked sympathetically. “It seems something they have in common with great wizards. Gandalf just left and we discussed much the same thing, I imagine.”
Thorin went still, not looking up as he said. “And did you tell him… everything?”
“Of course not, the busybody,” Bilbo scoffed, and saw Thorin relax. “Only what he needed to know. What about your nephews? Did you tell them… everything?”
“Most, but not all,” Thorin said wryly. “Though I believe Kíli divined the rest, and Fíli lost much of his curiosity after that.” Silence fell at that, Thorin not seeming quite sure how to continue, and Bilbo at a similar loss.
Then Thorin cleared his throat. “I have been set up in my quarters, though the royal wing has not yet been cleared, and are altogether in a wretched state, what with all the gold that once gilded them now gone. The new room is serviceable enough, if somewhat… cavernous.”
Thorin was still standing across the room from Bilbo, and the topic might have seemed a strange one for his mannerisms: arms folded, looking up at the corner of the room as if it was somehow fascinating, despite being quite bare. Even his tone was odd, rushed and a little breathless. If Bilbo didn’t know better, he’d think Thorin was babbling from nerves.
“It should be peaceful, yet I find when I close my eyes,” he took a deep breath, “I dream I am trapped again, alone without the sound of your breathing, and in those waking moments it is as if you truly died there, or left, though of course that would have been your right… and I find…I cannot sleep after.” He looked up at Bilbo then, and there was shame in the downward twist of his lips and the furrow of his brow. “My apologies, I should not have troubled you with this. You too need your rest.” Thorin turned to leave, and Bilbo’s heart leapt in alarm.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Thorin!” Bilbo exclaimed. Thorin paused with his hand at the latch, and looked back over his shoulder. Bilbo was sitting straight up in the bed, leaning forward intently. “My dear, at our respectable middle age, I should think if we wish to share a bed it is no one’s business but our own!” A blush crawled up his cheeks as his brain caught up with his words. “To sleep, that is. We may share a bed to sleep and it means… nothing more than what we wish it to. Goodness knows, these beds are large enough for five, at least they’re a civilized distance from the ground, but still I…” Now it was his turn to babble, and the blush was only getting worse. With a huff, Bilbo closed his eyes to regain his composure, and tried again. “Thorin, last night I woke in the middle of the night and nearly died of fright when you weren’t here beside me. So yes, please come to bed. I would…appreciate it, very much.”
“You are certain?" Thorin said, but there was relief shining in his eyes and more than a little amusement at Bilbo’s stuttering. Well, there’d be time to avenge himself on that count soon enough: his feet were icy cold.
“Absolutely. Now, stop dithering and get over here. I was nearly dozing off when you came in, and in no mood to issue a second invitation.” Bilbo extended his hand, and could only wonder at Thorin’s soft expression as he closed the distance between them and took it.
Bilbo awoke feeling warm, which brought the first thought trickling into his brain that he did not remember falling asleep at all. The second thought to penetrate the wall of warm cotton fuzz that shrouded his brain was that he was indeed quite cozy and could well snuggle up and go back to sleep right then, a tempting thought. He could not recall the last time he had rested so comfortable, and he reached to draw the blankets around himself tighter, quite content to burrow his way into the warmth and stay there for the next few years, thank you very much, after all he must deserve it after all of…
Bilbo’s eyes popped open.
This was for a few reasons. First, he recognized that as delicious as it was, it was not a soft down comforter that was keeping him toasty, but something quite solid that was wrapped around him like a cloak, and a very warm one at that. Second, some memory of what had transpired these past weeks was seeping its way back into his brain, and he had not yet quite come to terms with even the first day of it, let alone the whole enormity. Even the first hint of memory dropped his stomach down to his feet. He might have sat up then and there and bolted from the room, gibbering quite hysterically and probably shouting incoherent accusations at certain wizards, had not a touch more awareness filtered back to his brain. This awareness took the form of strong arms wrapping around his stomach, and a soft yet plaintive grumble against the side of his neck that bade him on no uncertain terms to stop fidgeting and go back to sleep.
The voice was certainly a familiar one, and Bilbo's stomach did a queer little swoop to hear it grumbling low and close in his ear. He could not help himself but to tilt his head back, to take in the head of black hair streaked with silver that fell behind them, the sharp nose buried against his shoulders. Bilbo drank in the sight of Thorin, the way the pale skin of his shoulders gave way to the sun-burnished hands and throat, the faint lines of scars and the roughness of calluses against Bilbo's stomach, bare except for the bandages. He blushed a little at, at the fact that Thorin had apparently joined him in stripping to the waist to sleep, but it was a faint and frankly silly impulse that was quickly swallowed by a wave of contentment so strong it fairly melted Bilbo into a puddle. To think that Thorin was a clingy sleeper? Why, Bilbo never would have imagined with the way he kept so contained and wound up when he slept on the road. Perhaps not much had changed, though. Thorin still slept with his arms folded, curled in on himself, except that space now contained Bilbo as well, drawn tightly against him. Most remarkably, Thorin did not snore, a most singular trait amongst dwarves in Bilbo's experience. Bilbo shifted his head a little on his own pillow to avoid the spot of drool he'd left there, Bilbo's own sleeping habit that had mattered little in all his years sleeping alone. This drew another grumble from Thorin.
"All right, all right, I'll stop," Bilbo murmured back, quite content to do so in truth. The wound in his belly was a distant pang that he felt no desire to test, and the cozy haze of sleep still fell heavy upon his limbs and eyes. Thorin gave another grumble at this, but a more satisfied one, and shifted so his breath tickled hot against the back of Bilbo's neck and sent a delightful little shiver through him.
Yes, he could indeed become used to this, he thought as he drifted back to sleep.
Thus came the days of the king. More often than not, Bilbo and Thorin barely saw each other during the working hours of the day, running from one errand or meeting to another. Dale needed constant assurance of their regular payments, and Bilbo was more often than not called upon to handle communications with the Elves (in truth, he’d volunteered rather than risk Thorin starting another war. A grudge that lasted centuries was not thrown off overnight).
Still, they found time together when they could, stolen moments at the end of the day such as this one, when they went out to the parapet to watch the sun set over the Long Lake. The land unfurled below them, blanketed in white from the oncoming winter. Behind them, Erebor knew no such sense of day or night and the clanging of hammers and shout of dwarven voices as they worked to rebuild their city filled the once empty halls with noise and life.
“I’ve thought of an ending for my book,” Bilbo said without warning.
“I did not know you were writing one.” Thorin looked at Bilbo askance.
“Oh, but I feel I must,” Bilbo said. “All those books in the library, I should think one of them must tell the tale of how the kingdom was reclaimed.”
Thorin laughed under his breath. “Bilbo, I promise you there will be no lack of songs and tales about our quest. It has hardly gone unnoticed.”
“Ye-es,” Bilbo said, drawling over the word. “But they weren’t there, were they? They won’t know the truth of what happened.”
“My reputation is not going to survive this book of yours intact, is it?” Thorin remarked, but Bilbo caught an underlying hint of concern in his voice that Bilbo jumped and stuttered to correct.
“Well, when I say the truth I hardly mean…” Bilbo began, “I’m not very well going to go and spill personal secrets!”
“You would hardly need to, to present Erebor with a far more humble account of its king,” said Thorin, the corner of his lips quirking.
“True, I’m afraid no amount of poetic license will be enough for the troll incident.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Thorin said. Twilight was descending over the mountain, casting black shadows over Thorin’s face. His breath misted in the air before him like smoke, causing a chill of familiarity to shiver through Bilbo.
“Perhaps someday,” Bilbo finally managed, and thought Thorin did not need the aid of bewitchment to arrest him so. “For now, it all seems a bit too near. I thought to end it sooner, when Smaug fell, and all seemed rather in order and everyone in their best light. We do have relations with Dale and Mirkwood to consider.”
There, that was about as delicate as he could put it. He hoped to begin the second book, should it ever be written, with the truth of what had transpired after. It did much better to begin with tragedy, so that one may end with happy endings. To do so gives a tale a nice, balanced feeling. After all, he intended to live happily ever after, but that was a tale for another day, one he could not yet see, for who knew what could happen before that. It seemed tempting fate to end a book with those words too soon.
Thorin grunted, and there was agreement mixed with the usual distaste at the mention of Mirkwood. Relations, as they were, were a great deal less chilly and every day improving along with the reconstruction effort and the flow of gold, in and out as trade returned to the region. Kíli had been extremely helpful in that regard, with the constant and inexplicable volunteering he did to play emissary to the Woodland Realm. Certainly the Elves had aided a great deal in the battle against the orcs, but Thorin was not likely to forget anytime soon that when they first arrived, there was no such threat to be had.
A silence fell, save for the wind as it breathed a sigh over the mountain. Perhaps it was the place, and the wind and all those memories of darker times rising around them like the scent of old pipe smoke, but Bilbo jumped a little when he felt Thorin’s fingers brush against his neck. Then Thorin’s arm settled over Bilbo’s shoulder and he drew him close.
Bilbo sighed, and rested his head against the fur mantle of Thorin’s cloak, staring out at the shadow of the mountain stretching across the land, fading into the coming night. Warmth fluttered from the open door behind them into the mountain and the bracing air banished any thoughts of melancholy that threatened.
“What were they?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The final words of your book,” Thorin said, his low voice rumbling deep in his chest. “Or must I wait until it is finished?”
“Oh, of course,” Bilbo, feeling a bit muzzy with contentment and the warmth of Thorin against him, contrasted with the cold of the winter wind. “Let me think… oh look! How appropriate.” Snowflakes were falling from the sky, whirling in the air above them, falling as little white pinpricks in the dark cascade of Thorin’s hair. Thorin looked up just as one flake fell on his nose, not yet melted when Bilbo saw his chance.
“Allow me,” Bilbo said, rising up on his toes. Then he pressed a quick kiss to the tip of Thorin’s nose, tasting briefly the cold snow as it melted on his lips, and because Took and Baggins were quite in agreement these days, he pressed another kiss to Thorin’s lips, content that they were perfectly alone here on the wall. It seemed time to begin re-writing the memories of there last time there.
“Are you trying to stall?” Thorin murmured against his lips, though he did not give up the chance to steal a kiss of his own.
“Hmm, well now it feels quite silly. Perhaps I should wait…” Bilbo said and smirked at the growl Thorin gave him.
“Bilbo,” warned Thorin. “Please. Tell me of your book.”
Bilbo considered prolonging the game, just for a bit, before he sighed and settled back against Thorin’s shoulder. “Oh, very well. You must promise me you will not laugh. I thought it rather poetic.”
White flakes blanketed the world in quiet around them as the land took on the blue and violet of falling night. Over the wall of the parapet, Dale was beginning to come alight, its towers and windows flashing gold. Thorin shifted beside him, looking down to inquire when Bilbo cleared his throat, and pronounced, “So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings.”
Thorin was silent a long moment, then settled his cheek against the top of Bilbo’s head. His beard pressed against Bilbo's curls, and the hand clasped around his own was warm despite the winter’s chill. “Indeed, they do.”