Archive of Our Own ^beta

at last

With a gurgle of blood in his throat, Thorin strained to keep his eyes open against the pain, to keep them fixed on Bilbo’s face.

“Bil– Bilbo,” he rasped, then broke into a cough.

“It’s alright,” Bilbo murmured, “you’re going to be fine, just fine.”

Thorin laughed weakly, even though it was far from being funny. Bilbo’s eyes were glistening with water, even as he gave Thorin a smile just as weak. Thorin had to focus, he was about to die, and he needed Bilbo to know, he needed to hear Bilbo forgive him, to let him pass away in peace.

“Bilbo,” he whispered, “I –”

Bilbo shushed him gently, and brushed a lock of hair from his brow; his fingers were once soft, but now they were heavy with callouses. “Save your breath, Thorin,” he told him, and Thorin did his best to smile, and it was ever as weak.

“No,” he answered, “I have not much of it left. I have to say, have to tell you…”

“It’s alright, Thorin,” Bilbo whispered.

“No, it’s not.” It wasn’t alright, it would never be alright, but if he could just manage to stop coughing, if the blood pooling in his lungs would slow a little, long enough, he had to say… “I –” he coughed, and Bilbo’s fingers came to grip his shoulders, tight, his gentle expression flickering to one of great worry. “I am sorry,” Thorin rasped, and Bilbo smiled yet again, weak again.

“I know,” Bilbo murmured. “I know.”

“I cannot ever hope that you would forgive me, but I – I would want to part with you…” Thorin had to stop, had to breath, swallow the blood and phlegm congealing in his throat, as he felt his lifeforce slipping a little further away… “As friends,” he whispered, “even if I cannot have your heart, I would ask your forgiveness.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo whispered in a tight voice, a voice as tight as his fingers on Thorin’s shoulder, as tight as Thorin’s heart in his chest, leaning in closer, his curls falling over his forehead, “you are not going to die.”

Thorin struggled to lift a hand, then brushed his thumb across Bilbo’s cheek, and Bilbo’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, squeezing tightly, and a tear slipped out. Thorin caught it with the pad of his thumb.

“Please, Bilbo,” he whispered, and though he knew Bilbo would not understand it, he said it anyway: “ Kurdulu .”

My heart. Not the weak, frailly beating organ in his chest, not the faintly pumping machine that was ever steadily filling his lungs, not that, no, Bilbo, my heart .

“You are not going to die,” Bilbo hissed, his eyes opening again and his grip tightening on his shoulder, “you’re going to live, you’re going to be fine, I can’t – I can’t lose you, Thorin!”

Though the pain was mounting and there were black spots filling the corners of his eyes, Thorin whispered: “I am so, so sorry, Bilbo…”

Bilbo seemed to choke up. He drew in a breath that sounded just as frail and fragile as Thorin’s own breath, and said in a broken voice: “Thorin, please.”

“Will you forgive me?” Thorin asked quietly.

“I –” Bilbo blinked again, and another tear dripped from his lashes. Thorin wiped it away. He hated to see him cry. “I forgive you.”

Thorin smiled a little, his eyes falling shut. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I can –” Blood pooled in his throat again and he had to cough to clear it. He cared less about breathing now, he just needed to say one last thing. “I can pass… in peace now.”

“No, no, you are not allowed to! Thorin!” Bilbo hissed, shaking him lightly. “Thorin, look at me!”

Thorin forced his eyes open. “I’ve always,” he murmured and coughed. “Always loved your eyes…” His own fluttered shut again, the pain was getting worse…

“Thorin, don’t, stay with me, alright, you’re going to be fine.”

And though Bilbo’s voice trembled and broke, Thorin had one last thing to tell him, one last thing to say before he died, he did not have much time left, he could feel it.

“Always loved you, Bilbo…”

“I love you, too, Thorin,” Bilbo croaked, and Thorin gave one last smile. He meant to say, he’d see Bilbo again one day, Dagor Dagorath would come eventually, he’d see him then, but the pain mounted again, and blackness filled his vision.

And Thorin passed.

The Halls of Mahal were strange. Thorin found himself waking slowly from stone, laid out on a bed with soft furs covering his body. The room was small, torches mounted to the walls on either side of the only door. There was a chair by his bed, and a half-filled bowl of broth rested on the arm of it. Thorin felt weak, his body did not want to respond to his wish to sit up, and he was barely able to push himself up enough to look at the closed door.

“Hello?” he called out in a rasping voice. Who would he be greeted by, he wondered, and his chest tightened. His mother? His father? His grandfather, or Dís’s long since passed husband Víli? Would he see Frerin?

The door opened, and Fíli stepped in, a gentle smile upon his face. Thorin’s heart clenched. His little golden prince had beat him there.

“You’re awake, Uncle,” Fíli said quietly.

Then Kíli appeared behind him, and his second nephew broke into a grin as a pang of regret hit Thorin hard. “He’s awake!” Kíli shouted, and pushed past Fíli to dart to Thorin’s bedside, grabbing his hand in both of his and squeezing it tightly. “You’ve been asleep for ages, Uncle,” Kíli said.

“How – How long?” Thorin mumbled, but then Oin stepped into the room. Thorin felt another pang to his chest; how many had he gotten killed? How many had died because of him? Ori entered behind Oin, followed by Balin and Dwalin, and Dís? His sister approached the foot of his bed, a soft smile on her face, her hand falling one on Fíli’s shoulder and the other on his foot. Thorin stared at them all, at a loss for words for a second.

“You alright?” Fíli asked him.

“No,” Thorin whispered, “no. How many? How many others?”

Fíli and Kíli frowned at him and then at each other. Oin simply approached and pulled back the furs covering Thorin’s chest, giving him another surprise. His body was wrapped in thick bandages. He would have thought that upon entering the Halls of Mahal, he would be healed.

“You’re going to need a change, soon,” Oin mused. “You’re lucky, Thorin. You’re the last to wake, Fíli had to deal with replacing stitches and Lord Elrond himself.”

Of all the things to be in the Halls of Mahal – Wait, stitches?

“But –” Thorin began. “But aren’t we – Dead?”

Oin looked up at him sharply. Balin and Dwalin exchanged glances. Ori’s eyebrows rose very high upon his forehead, and Kíli made a quiet ah sound.

“You’re not dead,” Dís said softly. “You’ve been asleep, in a coma, Elrond called it, for about fifteen months.”

Thorin stared, his mouth open. Coma? Fifteen months? Elrond? Not dead?

“Lord Elrond saved your life,” Oin added. “You, and Kíli, and Fíli, too. He spent about a month getting you three back from the brink of death. Fíli woke almost a year ago, then Kíli a few months after that. We feared you’d never wake.”

Thorin couldn’t look at any of them, and though he should have been horrified at the thought of an elf performing any sort of healing on him, or on his nephews, all he could think was that he was in fact alive. He was alive, and here were his nephews, his sister, his brothers-in-arms, hale and whole, but…

“Uncle?” Kíli asked softly.

“Where’s Bilbo?” Thorin managed.

The other dwarves exchanged glances. Thorin’s heart clenched as they avoided his eye. Kíli squeezed his hand carefully.

“He left,” Kíli said. His voice was quiet. Careful. Pitying. “He returned to the Shire, not long after the Battle ended.”

Thorin looked down at his bandaged body, and no longer did his heart clench, no longer did his mind race, even the few trace thoughts attempting outrage at elven healing arts faded away. Bilbo must have just been telling him what he wanted to hear, he reasoned. Clearly.

“You need to eat,” Oin said after a long moment’s silence. “We’ll change your bandages, then see about getting you to stand. You’ve been abed a very long time, your body will be weakened.”

Thorin only nodded. Bilbo had only been humoring him.

Oin and Kíli helped him to sit up, then Oin began unwrapping the bandages on his chest as Balin started telling him about all the efforts to rebuild the mountain that had begun while he had been asleep. Fíli had taken charge the moment he’d awoken from his own coma, acting as regent and Crown Prince in Thorin’s slumber. Oin insisted that he’d continue to do so while Thorin got back on his feet, but Thorin saw the weariness on Fíli’s shoulders, he’d have to step up to relieve him, and fast.

So he did. Oin and Kíli were his caregivers, but not for long. It took almost a month, but soon Thorin was able to walk without Kíli’s support, though not without a cane for quite some time, and not long after Fíli stepped down and Thorin stepped up.

Thorin was crowned before all the workers who were working to rebuild the mountain. They had cheered and Thorin smiled, but he kept thinking, sadly, he wished that Bilbo were there.

The mountain was far from being habitable, however, there were many things that needed to be done and there wasn’t time for Thorin to be sad. He had a duty to his people, and he had to fulfill that duty even if it killed him. He spent most of his time in deep discussion with Balin, Glóin, and Bofur, and between the three of them they drew maps and plans and figured how they would manage to put the mountain back together, piece by piece. And on top of that, rebuilding the mountain would be expensive; one afternoon he and Dís went down to the treasury to evaluate what they had to put towards the repair of the mountain, and within five minutes Thorin had to leave to go and vomit behind a pillar. Dís helped him back to the rooms where he and his family were staying, and after that, Thorin avoided the treasury whenever possible.

It took a very long time, and yet the years laden with labor passed quickly. The many halls of the mountain, destroyed by dust and cobwebs and dragonfire, were slowly brought back to their former glory. There were many caved-in sections, parts of the mountain that could not be trusted, but with hard and steady labor, they were repaired, cleaned, and restored. It took nearly another five years, in addition to the year and a half spent before Thorin, leading to nearly seven years overall. But in the late summer of the eighth year after Erebor’s reclamation, the first caravans arrived from Ered Luin. It may have been only the first of many, but for the first time, the halls of Erebor were filled with light and the laughter of young children.

And yet, as Thorin watched Glóin greet his wife and two children, whom he had not seen since leaving Ered Luin so many long seasons before, Thorin could only be reminded of what he did not manage to save.

The Lonely Mountain became noisy and bustling again even with only a few families there, as the first caravan had mostly been Guilds and tradesmen to start filling up Erebor’s markets and economy, and with the rebuilding efforts all but completed, Thorin found that he had less heavy labor and more paperwork. Eight years passed in the blink of an eye, and just as quickly, a month felt like an age. There were trade deals to be done. Regulations to put in place. A council to set up, Guilds to negotiate with, minutia and little things that demanded his attention, and Thorin’s shoulders grew heavier and heavier. The mountain was filled and lonely no longer, but its king was ever as lonely.

Winter came. Thorin had sent out some dwarves to collect the second set of caravans from Ered Luin just before Durin’s Day, but a raven came to inform them that the winter was heavy and hard in the Blue Mountains, and they would not be leaving until spring. Thorin, with the raven on his shoulder, stood at a window facing west, where the sun was just beginning to dip down behind the far off Blue Mountains, and he wondered how the Shire was faring against the snow.

The raven pecked at his ear. Thorin gave it a morsel of bread from the supper that had gone cold on his desk, and sat down behind it, feeling as if winter had moved into his bones already, and if he were honest with himself, winter had been raging within him for a very long time.

He had stopped cropping his beard, for what had the king left to grieve with the mountain restored and his people slowly returning from exile. It had grown to a respectable length in the past eight years, but it was growing with more gray than black these days, just as were the hairs at his temples, placing rivers of silver in what was once polished obsidian. His shoulders, though adorned with fine fabrics and rich furs, were drooped and heavy. He did not smile often, rarely in public and rarer even at home. Much had changed, and the King Under the Mountain had so very much left to grieve.

Winter passed, however, and spring arrived. The last of the negotiating with the Guild leaders had finished, Thorin appointed Dís as the Head of the Guilds because he was too tired by their bickering and constant fussing over even the smallest of details. The second caravans arrived, and he sent their guards back again after a few weeks in hopes to bring the third group before winter fell again. Thorin spent little time not at work, in his office, in the council room, on the Raven Throne beneath the Arkenstone. He sometimes contemplated taking it out and throwing it as hard as he could out of the highest window or just dropping it into the nearest forge, but couldn’t bring himself to the effort. Summer ended. Dís came to him as he was approving without really looking at the preparations for Durin’s Day celebrations, and for a very long time, she simply stood in front of his desk in silence.

“You need to smile,” she said eventually.

Thorin did. It felt wrong.

Dís leaned on the desk, her face heavy and her brow tight. She had a few gray hairs in her beard as well, he noticed abruptly. Since when had that happened?

“I mean it, Thorin,” Dís said, “you need to find something to smile about, anything.”

“I am fine,” Thorin told her, dropping his gaze to his paperwork. “Don't worry --”

“Thorin, you are going to look at me and you're going to listen,” Dís said sharply, and when Thorin stubbornly kept his gaze on Dori's detailed description of the new banners he was making, Dís shot out a hand, snatched a fistful of his beard, and yanked his chin upward. “Listen!”

Thorin, very coolly, pried her hand from his chin. “I am fine , namadith , I do not need you to lecture me –”

“When Víli died,” Dís said loudly, and Thorin hastily fell silent, “I did not cry for three months.”

Thorin remained silent. He hadn't known that.

“For three months,” Dís whispered, “I walked with a stony face and a stonier heart, because I refused to admit that I did not want to go on without him. I thought that I would just have to face the rest of my life, raising his sons, with this gaping hole in my heart where he should have been.”

Thorin could not look her in the eye any longer.

“For three months, I ached . I did not smile either.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Thorin whispered.

Dís moved around the desk and knelt down beside his chair, then took his hands in hers and squeezed them. “Because I can see,” she murmured. “I can see that you do not want to smile, that you just want to hide away from everything, because you feel like there is nothing you can do to heal the gaping hole in your heart.”

Thorin shut his eyes. He took a very long breath, and said nothing.

“Do you know what made me smile?” Dís asked in a whisper. Thorin shook his head. “Kíli came up to me, climbed into my lap, and told me that ‘adad always said that I was most beautiful with a smile.”

Thorin gave a nod. Kíli would say that, even as a dwarfling.

“I smiled, and then I cried,” Dís murmured. She squeezed his hands again. “In eight years, Thorin, have you cried?”

Thorin swallowed thickly. Dís watched, waiting, but Thorin did not relent to her.

“This is different,” he muttered. “Víli died. I drove Bilbo away.”

Dís gave him a very sad smile. “The thing is, you can never know for sure why your burglar left. He didn't even tell the rest of the Company when or why he would leave.”

“But he did, Dís,” Thorin answered sharply, “and why else would he leave if not that he could not forgive me?”

Dís must have known he was right, for all she did was sigh and squeeze his hands again. Thorin gently pulled them away from her, picking up his quill again and turning to the papers strewn across his desk. He barely saw them.

Dís rose to her feet, then set a hand on his shoulder. “At the very least, let Kíli give you a reason to smile.”

Thorin barely glanced back at her. “What has he done now?” he asked,  and Dís let out a quiet chuckle.

“He found his One,” she answered, and Thorin looked back at her, mouth open. “He's been sneaking out to see her for years, apparently. He's tried very hard to keep it secret,” Dís added.

“Secret?” Thorin repeated. “Why?”

“His One is an elf,” Dís said. “Tauriel, the elf-woman who was banished from Mirkwood for saving his life nine years ago.”

Thorin stared at nothing for a very long time, aghast in the absurdity of it all, then very slowly, his lips curled a little and he chuckled softly. Of course Kíli would manage to find his One in an elf.

Dís squeezed his shoulder once more before leaving him. Perhaps, he entertained the thought, she would be right about the other things.

And so it came to be that Kíli, son of Víli, second in line to the Raven Throne, wed Tauriel formerly of the Greenwood about a year later, after much fighting between Thorin and his council, and rather a lot of threatening to appoint Tauriel to the council once she became a Princess of Erebor as ambassador to Mirkwood, a position that had been unfilled for twice as long as they had been in exile.

Thorin had never seen Kíli smile wider, and it was all very worth it. He smiled again. Now, if only Fíli would stop being so nervous around Ori, he could ensure that both his nephews got the happy ending he would never see. He watched Kíli dancing with Tauriel, and he still managed to smile despite it all.

After the festivities died down for the night, though, back in his chambers, Thorin finally wept for it.

Travel between Ered Luin and Erebor peaked in the next few years. The council bickered, the marketplace grew, the Guilds expanded, and Erebor slowly crawled its way back to the glorious state it had been before the dragon. Ten years went by. Tauriel finally became with child, and Thorin couldn't be happier for his nephew. (His other nephew was still blushing and avoiding eye contact with Ori, even thought Thorin appointed the little scribe as Chief Counselor to the Crown Prince nearly a year previous, and Ori seemed just as oblivious as ever.) He occupied his time as best he could, with his duties, with his family, smithing or just moving through the streets of Erebor, trying very hard not leave moments where he was alone and not busy, because in those moments, Thorin’s heart ached still. Sometimes, when he was alone and failing to sleep, it would flare up and throb and hurt again, but by morning, he would get up, wash his face, breathe out deeply and do his best to smile. Dís was right. It made it hurt a little less.

It had been twenty years since the Battle of Five Armies, almost nineteen since Thorin had woken from his long slumber. It was nearing summer’s, the men of Dale were preparing for a great festival for the first harvest of autumn, all was well within the mountain. Thorin stood at a window in his office, looking out to the west at the sun soon to set. He wondered what the Shire did to celebrate the first harvest.

“We've got complaints from the head of the Goldsmith’s guild again,” Balin announced to Thorin as he entered. Thorin gave a nod, his gaze still affixed west. “Lobane is still angry you put Dís as Guild Master over him is my guess.”

“Lobane is still angry Dís married Víli instead of him,” Thorin sighed.

Balin gave a chuckle, and Thorin remained at the window, looking west. He hadn't slept the night before, he hadn't been sleeping well at all lately. The ache in his heart usually began to peak around Durin’s Day, but apparently had decided to visit him early that year.

“Whatever the cause, he's complaining that the Goldsmith’s guild’s access to the Great Forges is not enough, that we've given the Blacksmiths more time to use them than the Goldsmith’s.”

Thorin finally turned to face Balin. “The Goldsmith’s have their own forge,” he marveled. Balin gave another chuckle and a shrug. Thorin clicked his tongue and approached the desk; Balin handed him an armful of scrolls, as he always did at the end of the day, and Thorin sat to open the first.

“Glóin wants you to officiate his son's wedding,” Balin told him. “And wants you to make sure it's here rather than in the woods.”

Thorin gave a slight smile and a nod, knowing that Glóin only wanted to see Thranduil uncomfortable at having to enter the mountain; in the past twenty years, Thranduil hadn't left his forest since the Battle. Incidentally, this was what led his son to have to visit the mountain on so many occasions to then lead to the betrothal between the son of the Elvenking and Glóin’s firstborn.

“There's a petition asking the Market district to be extended further west, as well,” Balin told him as Thorin signed something. “And I'm thinking of making a petition to start a new policy.”

“And what would that be?” Thorin asked, signing another document.

“All Crown Princes, henceforth, should be wedded to their Chief Counselor.”

Thorin laughed as Balin chuckled, and then as if summoned, the door to his office opened and Fíli himself entered, followed directly behind by Kíli. “Here we go,” Balin muttered as they entered, then bowed to Thorin and left, waving to Fíli and Kíli as he did. “Have a good evening, then.”

“Evening report,” Kíli announced when Balin had left. “What's so funny?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Thorin said, still chuckling. “What have you got to say?”

“It was boring,” Kíli answered honestly. “I shot a pigeon.”

Thorin slowly rested his forehead upon his palm but he couldn’t help but chuckle again. Fíli rolled his eyes. The two of them had spent the day in Dale, as Thorin had put the two of them in charge of Erebor’s participation in Dale’s harvest festival, which was so far still in planning.

“I told him not to shoot the pigeon,” Fíli reported.

“Bard dared me to shoot the pigeon,” Kíli added with a grin. “Obviously, I had to shoot the pigeon. The King of Dale asked me to.”

“Bard bet that you couldn't shoot the pigeon,” Fíli corrected.

“Whichever,” Kíli said with a wave of his hand.

Fíli rolled his eyes.

Thorin, shaking his head, opened his mouth to ask what else had occurred that day, other than the end of some poor pigeon’s life, when the door to his office flew open again and Gimli, Glóin’s son, burst into the office, a little out of breath.

“Gimli!” Kíli said cheerfully, clapping him on the back. “I shot down a pigeon today.”

Gimli did not react to Kíli’s less than impressive kill. He held out a hand to Thorin, panted for a second longer, and then said: “Bilbo Baggins is here seeking asylum.”

The room was abruptly much too small and much too hot. Thorin’s heart stopped in his chest as his face fell slack and his mind went blank. Fíli and Kíli both gaped at Gimli, and Gimli looked between them and Thorin, before frowning.

“I brought him to your chambers,” Gimli said hesitantly, sensing the tension in the room. “Is that a bad thing?”

Thorin couldn't breathe as his heart remembered that it had to function and abruptly doubled in speed in his chest. He stared, open-mouthed, blood roaring in his ears and his chest tight –

Weeping, voice cracking, Bilbo had said, “I forgive you. I love you, too, Thorin.”

But he hadn't. He had not forgiven him, he had left. Bilbo had left him twenty years ago, he had run away, and never looked back. He had left Thorin to hurt for twenty years… Twenty years…

“Bilbo?” Fíli repeated in a whisper.

And Kíli was suddenly smiling. He grabbed Fíli’s arm, much like he had done as a young dwarf, and said, with great excitement: “Bilbo! Bilbo’s here!”

Fíli ran from the room, Kíli quick on his heels. Thorin, his knees shaking, rose slowly from his chair.

“Bilbo,” he whispered, the word barely leaving his lips.

And now, he'd come back!

“Aye, here, asking for asylum,” Gimli said, but Thorin wasn't listening any longer. Thorin made his way out from behind the desk, walking slowly with his eyes fixed on nothing, stepping towards the door. On a second thought, he gripped Gimli’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“Thank you,” he rasped. “You – You may return to your post.”

“Right,” Gimli muttered, as Thorin stepped past him into the corridor. “Of course.”

Thorin wanted to run, to chase behind his nephews to where Bilbo was, but his legs shook and trembled beneath him, much like they had done the weeks after his waking from his long sleep, and he could only walk by holding onto the wall beside him. He finally reached the door leading back into his family’s apartment, and for a long moment, he just stared at it. Bilbo was on the other side of that door. Bilbo!

He gripped the handle and yanked it open. Fíli and Kíli were there already, their figures blocking Thorin’s view of the room but for a man dressed in leathers, standing on the other side of the room and Legolas, the son of Thranduil, by the door. Thorin took a step inside, and Fíli and Kíli moved, revealing, standing behind them…

Thorin could only stare. He took another hesitant step, his knees feeling like they might give out underneath him. Bilbo was staring back at him, his hands covering his mouth, his perfect little mouth, his eyes wide and golden in the light of the fire. Thorin’s chest swelled, and he thought he might just break into a run to fall at Bilbo’s feet.

Then Fíli spoke. “Uncle. Bilbo's brought his tiny Hobbits.”

Tiny – Tiny what? Thorin tore his eyes away from Bilbo's, and felt a punch to the gut as they found, attached to Bilbo's leg, a child who looked painfully similar to Bilbo. His chest clenched, as if someone had reached into it and closed their fist over his heart, and he looked around again, seeing one, two, three more young Hobbits, with curly hair and large eyes, and Thorin swallowed the declaration he'd been about to make.

“I am told that you came seeking asylum,” Thorin managed. He felt betrayed, and guilty for feeling it, as Bilbo had never been his to betray, clearly, this entire time he had been someone else's, someone that Thorin had betrayed in loving Bilbo. He felt rather sick.

“I have,” Bilbo said, his voice so quiet that Thorin barely heard it. Bilbo cleared his throat and spoke again, louder: “Yes. Asylum. With these four young Hobbits.”

Thorin gave a nod, and found he couldn't look at Bilbo again. “And you did not bring…” The words got stuck in his throat. He swallowed. “Their mother?”

They tasted foul and vile on his tongue.

There was a silent second, and Thorin finally looked back at Bilbo, whose face was the picture of shock. What had he to be shocked over, Thorin wondered. What had Thorin left to surprise him with? What had Bilbo left to hurt him with?

“I am not their father.”

Thorin’s eyes widened and he took a very sharp breath. Oh, he thought, with nothing else to think, oh.

“Their parents were killed.”

“Killed?” repeated Fíli, though Thorin was lost in thought.

The sound of a child crying reached his ears. Thorin looked up, and saw the smallest of the Hobbits in the arms of the man, whimpering and crying. The man began to bounce him slightly, as Bilbo looked to the young Hobbit.

“Killed,” Bilbo said once again, and Thorin’s gaze slid back to him. “In a riot. Well, Frodo’s parents drowned five years ago, but Pippin and Merry – the both of them lost their parents to attackers. And Sam – Sam’s parents were killed protecting Frodo, Sam, and Pippin.”

Bilbo finally looked back at Thorin. Thorin couldn't shift his gaze.

“Pippin saw whoever it was, that’s why we had to flee. They came looking to take Pippin, or worse, I don’t know, and Sam’s parents died protecting them. That’s why we need asylum.”

Thorin’s jaw clenched at the idea of these small, young things being hunted by criminals. Kíli spat a vile insult in Khuzdul, and Fíli hissed: “These scoundrels came looking to attack children ?”

“Asylum is granted,” Thorin said before Bilbo could answer. He hesitated for half a second, then added with a gesture to the rooms around them, “You may stay here, in my family's apartments.”

Thorin took a step back, about to go, when Bilbo stepped forward. Thorin froze, as Bilbo reached out to him and took his hand. Thorin swallowed, though it did not alleviate the feeling of tightness in his throat, and looked Bilbo in the eye.

“Thank you,” Bilbo said in a low whisper, “thank you, so, so much.”

Thorin swallowed again. He was tempted to pull Bilbo to him, or to touch Bilbo's cheek and hope that he responded in kind, but only nodded, and pulled away. He ducked out of the door, shutting it behind him, and let out a long breath.

Mahal , he was doomed. Bilbo was back, and he was doomed. Thorin had no idea how long he'd survive before he had to fall to his knees and beg Bilbo to forgive him, to truly forgive him, and he was even less sure of how Bilbo would respond.

He wandered. Eventually, he found himself in his own bedroom, sitting in front of the fire on a bear rug that had been his grandmother's, staring into the fire and just thinking about how Bilbo's fingers had become soft once again.

A door behind him opened. Thorin turned, seeing Dís coming in from his office. “We need to talk,” she said.

“We don't need to talk,” Thorin tried. Dís walked over and pulled him up from the rug, half dragging him back towards the office, and if Thorin were a little less distracted, he would have been suspicious. “I'm serious, Dís.”

“And I am more serious,” Dís snapped at him. “We have things to discuss.”

Thorin, suddenly angry, said: “I have nothing to discuss with you, however. I don’t see why you’ve got to meddle like this, namad, I’m perfectly capable of –”

Dís had opened the office door and pulled him in. Bilbo was standing in a corner by the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest and biting a nail on one finger. Thorin swallowed heavily. He heard the door shut and the lock click, and Thorin only swallowed. Bilbo had yet to say anything. Thorin cleared his throat, took a step forward, then in better judgment took half a step back, his fists clenching at his side. Bilbo's face was impassive. Thorin had to say something .

He did. “I fear my sister has decided to meddle.”

“That's obvious,” Bilbo answered snappishly. Thorin licked his lips, wondering what to say next as Bilbo glanced away, and back. His cheeks were flushed.

Thorin, feeling a little braver or at the very least a little bit more foolish, took the step forward. Bilbo, amazingly, copied him.

“You should know,” Bilbo said stiffly, softly, “that until this afternoon, I thought you were dead.”

Thorin didn't react for half a second. He blinked, then, stupidly, he muttered: “Dead? I'm not dead.”

“Again, obvious,” Bilbo said. “Fíli and Kíli, they told me Elrond saved you.”

“Aye,” Thorin murmured. If Bilbo had left Erebor because he thought Thorin was dead, then perhaps…

Bilbo took a second step forward, and Thorin did too.

“It wasn’t because – because I didn’t forgive you,” said Bilbo. “I forgive you, I forgave you, a long time ago.”

And Thorin heart leapt; it jumped into his throat and did a victory dance even as his mind struggled to process what Bilbo had just said to him. He couldn’t withhold his hope any longer, he was so close, and yet still so far. Bilbo’s eyes darted around, they rarely settled onto Thorin’s but Thorin couldn’t look away from him, visions of all he could say and all he could beg of Bilbo dancing through his mind now, but as he swallowed, Thorin found he couldn’t find any of the words. He whispered again, his voice thick, “Aye,” and Bilbo took a third step, so Thorin did, too.

“Do you…” Bilbo started, and didn't finish.

“Do I what?” Thorin asked in a low voice.

“Do you remember what you said to me?” Bilbo asked quietly. “As you were… Not dying?”

Thorin remembered. Thorin could remember as clearly as if it had been only that morning, the way Bilbo's tears clung to his lashes, the way Bilbo's voice shook, how his fingers held tightly to him, how he kept telling Thorin that he would not die, that he would live.

Thorin had spent a very long time remembering it, and just as long thinking that Bilbo had been lying to save his feelings.

“I remember,” he said in a murmur.

Bilbo took a deep breath. Thorin found himself lost in the way the firelight danced in Bilbo's eyes. They were glistening again.

“Do you remember what I said?” Bilbo whispered.

“Aye,” he said in a whisper even quieter. Bilbo fell silent, and Thorin stepped closer. Bilbo took one more step, putting them within arms reach. It took his every ounce of willpower not to pull Bilbo into his arms, to keep his hands firmly at his side, at least until he could ask:

“Did you mean it?”

Thorin didn't breathe. He didn't move, he just stood there, waiting, as Bilbo licked his lips, and then nodded.

“I meant it.”

Thorin’s heart did a final flip in his chest, and he reached out, still hesitant, and took one of Bilbo's hands in his. His throat trembled as Bilbo pressed his other hand to his mouth to muffle a little gasp, and Thorin pulled Bilbo in, setting a hand on Bilbo's cheek.

“I spent twenty years mourning,” Bilbo hissed, his voice breaking just as it had done when Thorin had been not-dying. “Twenty years, Thorin.”

“I spent twenty years missing you,” answered Thorin in a soft whisper.

“You were dead!” Bilbo murmured.

“I might as well been,” he said quietly, honestly, “for you took all the heart in me with you when you left.”

Bilbo let out a choked sob. Thorin put his arms around him, at last pressing him to his chest and burying his face into Bilbo's hair. Bilbo's shoulders were shaking with quiet sobs, and Thorin held him even tighter, whispering little things, words of comfort, promises, loving words in Khuzdul to his burglar, his One, his heart.

He ran a hand through Bilbo's hair, bringing it to his chin. He tilted Bilbo's face up, and pressed his lips to Bilbo's. The kiss was salty and sweet, and Thorin felt the aching gap in him fill, at last . Thorin held him close, as close as he possibly could, their kiss lengthening and growing ever sweeter, as Bilbo’s hand curled into Thorin’s beard and Thorin found himself nearly lifting Bilbo off his feet. It was when Thorin’s fingers brushed the crest of Bilbo’s ear and Bilbo let out a quiet moan that the kiss turned heated.

Thorin brushed his thumb over Bilbo’s ear once again. Bilbo shivered beneath his hands and Thorin smiled into their kiss. With one hand holding tight to his waist and the other at his head, Thorin pulled his lips from Bilbo’s; Bilbo whimpered and tried to chase his lips, but Thorin moved them quickly to Bilbo’s other ear, and when his mouth closed on the crest of it, Bilbo gasped, an erotic sound that sent electricity down Thorin’s spine. Thorin’s hand moved to his waist, then both to clutch his hips as he bit down gently on Bilbo’s ear, drawing more delicious noises from him, to hold him closer in a different sense of the word. The blood rushed in his ears, his body waking in other ways and he could feel Bilbo shivering in the same way.

Thorin wanted to be closer in that different sense of the word; he took stumbling steps backwards, thinking there was a chair somewhere behind him. He found it, and, dropping into it, pulled at Bilbo’s hips. Bilbo went easily, straddling his lap, pressing ever closer in that sense of the word, and as Thorin licked and sucked at his ear, Bilbo continued to squirm and moan, both driving Thorin a little bolder with each movement he made. He pulled at Bilbo’s shirt tucked into his trousers until it came free and he was able to push his hands into it, feeling Bilbo’s flushed skin beneath his hands. He pulled his mouth away from Bilbo’s ears, catching his lips in another kiss, a kiss that was closer in that sense of the word.

He lost track of time. Bilbo’s flushed body pressed close to his and Thorin’s heart beating faster than it had ever done in twenty long, long years drove every thought from his mind, every thought but that need, that urge to keep Bilbo close in that sense of the word.

It was interrupted by a quiet gurgle. Their kiss broke, and both Thorin and Bilbo looked down at Bilbo’s stomach, which let out another grumble. Thorin smiled a little, his hands retreating from where they had taken refuge beneath Bilbo’s clothes, and Bilbo pouted. It was adorable, yet Thorin gently lifted him from his lap, saying: “Your charges will be wondering where you are.”

“Bugger,” Bilbo answered moodily, and Thorin chuckled. Then Bilbo’s stomach let out another gurgle, and Bilbo blushed a very attractive rosy pink.

“And,” Thorin said smarmily with a raised eyebrow, “I believe it is supper-time.”

Thorin doubted a Hobbit ever looked so put out at the thought of dinner. Bilbo let out a heavy sigh and nodded. “Fine, but this is not over.”

Thorin smiled at him. “I am perfectly happy with that arrangement, kurdulu .”

Bilbo, his lovely Bilbo, drew in a long breath, and Thorin gripped his hands again. “You’ve called me that before,” Bilbo whispered, and he nodded. “What does it mean?”

Thorin squeezed his hands. “My heart.”

Bilbo slipped a little closer. He set a hand on Thorin’s cheek, then let his fingers trail into his beard. Thorin’s eyes fell shut, his heartbeat kicking in his chest, before he opened them again and looked up at Bilbo. He never wanted to part from his burglar, who he had never meant to let burgle his heart, ever again. He murmured, in low tones meant for moments between lovers, “I would like to court you.”

“Court me?” Bilbo whispered, a soft sound meant for moments between lovers, for this moment between these lovers.

“Aye,” Thorin whispered back. His thumb brushed over the knuckles of Bilbo’s hand, answering his question as he did. “In Dwarvish custom, when we find our One we enter a period of courtship where we exchange gifts before marriage.”

Bilbo’s lips curled a little and he slid his fingers further into Thorin’s beard. “Are you asking me to marry you?” he whispered.

“Aye,” Thorin answered quietly.

Bilbo leaned against him, his head tucking under Thorin’s chin, as if he belonged there. “I’d like that,” he said, and Thorin, kissing the top of his head with an ever leaping heart, figured that he had always belonged there.

He turned, though, to the desk and opened a drawer where he’d been keeping a courting gift for a very long time. Their customs dictated the gift be made by hand, to show proof of one’s skill in their craft and proof that they would be able to provide for the one they offered courtship. He had made it years ago, when he had still been hopeful that perhaps Bilbo might come back to him one day, but had moved it from his room to his office less than a year after that when that hope, albeit prematurely, faded. He withdrew a small box, about six inches square, and set it on the top of his desk. Bilbo shifted to face the desk, but remained leaning on his chest, as Thorin said to him, as custom dictated, “Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, I would offer you my courtship.”

Bilbo looked into the box, seeing the fine brass buttons engraved with acorns that Thorin had made him, saying with what sounded like astonishment: “You already had a gift?”

“I knew that if you returned, I would not want to wait long. And I knew if you never returned, I would never need to make courtship gifts for anyone.”

Bilbo turned back to him. He pressed a kiss to Thorin’s forehead, then his nose, then his cheek, and, finally, his lips. The sweet taste of his mouth was already Thorin’s favorite flavor, even as Bilbo broke the kiss and rested his forehead against Thorin’s. “I accept your gift. And your courtship. Whatever it is I’m meant to say, yes, yes.”

Thorin, the happiest smile that he’d ever had on his lips, kissed Bilbo again. His hands moved to Bilbo’s waist, the courtship gifts quickly forgotten as he drew Bilbo closer, ever closer –

The door flew open as Balin’s excited voice said: “Thorin, I’ve just heard –” and Bilbo and Thorin parted rapidly. They blinked at each other for a long moment, Balin gaping, Bilbo glancing between Thorin and Balin, and Thorin, just, blinking.

“What have you heard?” Thorin asked finally.

“That Bilbo returned,” said Balin, a bit dumbly. He cleared his throat and gave a nod, his hand returning to the door handle as he retreated a step. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he muttered, and bowed out.

Thorin looked back at Bilbo, shrugged, and pulled him back in for a kiss. His fingers drifted back under Bilbo’s shirt and waistcoat, Bilbo lifting a knee to crawl back into his lap which sent a shiver down Thorin’s spine, their lips feverish in their kiss.

“Okay, you’ve had enough time, have you killed each other or –”

Thorin jerked back as Bilbo jumped away and turned a firm glower on his sister, who had just opened the door. “Dís!” he hissed sharply, not even sure how else to scold her for interrupting them, but, ever irritating, Dís merely smiled at them.

“Yes, brother dear?” she said in a sickeningly saccharine voice. Thorin clenched his jaw and doubled his glare.

“Do you mind?” he growled.

“Not at all,” his sister announced; Thorin could have strangled her with his bare hands for that as she turned her gaze on Bilbo, who shrank a little. “Now, your tiny Hobbits are quite hungry,” she said, “but the oldest one, Sam, keeps saying that they have to wait for Mr. Bilbo before they can sup, so do you mind?”

This she directed at Thorin, who was highly irritated but had to admit that she had a point. As if to agree with her, Bilbo’s stomach gave another grumble, and Thorin huffed. “Fine,” he said, rising from the chair.

Bilbo, glancing between Dís and Thorin, grabbed his box of buttons and Thorin bowed a little at the waist to him, raising an eyebrow as he offered Bilbo to go first. Bilbo, seemingly doing his best to regain some sense of decorum, gave a little nod before turning on his heel and following Dís through to Thorin’s chambers. The moment Dís got far enough ahead, Thorin, with a lengthen of his stride, caught up to Bilbo and slid his arms around his burglar’s waist from behind, pressing his face to the nape of Bilbo’s neck and inhaling deeply. Bilbo shivered beneath him.

“Would your tiny Hobbits be upset if you did not share a room with them?”

“Ah,” Bilbo mumbled, and Thorin nuzzled at his neck. “Well, maybe if I was just within earshot,” he said, and Thorin smiled a little, “so if one of them had a bad dream, I could hear them.”

“Then I will have to join you, rather than you join me,” he whispered, and felt Bilbo shiver again.

“I am perfectly happy with that arrangement.”

Thorin let out a low chuckle, before pressing his lips to the crest of his ear again; Bilbo let out a little squeal, half moan and half gasp.

“Very good, kurdulu,” he said softly into his ear, “very good.”

Dís appeared in the doorway of the room. “Are you coming or not?” his sister asked gruffly.

“Yes, yes, coming,” said Bilbo as he pulled from Thorin’s grip. “Of course.”

Thorin, smiling very widely, took Bilbo’s hand in his. Supper would be long, but he’d waited twenty years, he could survive a few hours.

Thorin was wrong. He was very, very, very wrong. He could not survive a few hours of supper, any moment then, he would burst into flames and combust right there at the head of the long table that had been drug out so that the whole Company and family could dine together. Bilbo, just to his right, slid his toes up Thorin’s leg for the eight hundredth time.

“... we’re still finding caverns that are just piles of rubble,” Bofur was saying to Bilbo, who had the calmest, most serene expression on his face as his toes crested Thorin’s knee to brush the inside of his thigh. It was damn infuriating and Thorin very much wanted Bilbo to not stop. “I’ll bet you, in three hundred years, someone will find some pocket of the mountain that’s been left to rot, covered in cobwebs and reeking of dragon even then!”

“It is a very large mountain,” Bilbo agreed, his eyes flicking briefly to Thorin’s face. Thorin gripped his fork and knife a little harder, and Bilbo smiled serenely, as if he wasn’t driving him mad under the table.

“And the last of our folk haven’t even arrived from Ered Luin,” said Glóin. “There're still five or six groups waiting to arrive, but it’s a long journey there and back.”

“It is, quite long,” Bilbo said. Thorin accidentally bit the inside of his cheek. “I imagine it takes twice the time with so many, not to mention the little ones.”

“Aye, about five months,” Glóin said. “We send a troop or two of dwarves to meet them first, of course, and they can get there in about two, so we can usually get at least two groups of caravans before winter.”

“It should only be a few more years before everyone who wants to move back is able to come,” Fíli added to the conversation.

“And the mountain will finally be full again,” Bilbo replied with a warm smile, mercifully, or regretfully, Thorin couldn’t decide, letting his toes slide back down to Thorin’s ankle.

“Perhaps by then our Crown Prince will have found his One, or at least said something,” Nori said to Bilbo, as he winked and Bilbo frowned.

Fíli blushed and turned to Frodo, who was sat on his left, and said, gesturing to Frodo’s untouched slice of chicken, “Here, do you need help with that?”

Frodo held out his knife and fork to Fíli. “Please,” the little Hobbit said, even as Nori chuckled, pointing surreptitiously across the table. It just so happened that Sam, sat on Frodo’s left, was being helped by Ori, whose ears were rather pink. Bilbo chuckled a little, nodding in understanding. If only Fíli would open his eyes, Thorin mused.

The toes slipped under the cuff of Thorin’s trousers. He swallowed thickly, and tried to ignore it; he shoved another forkful of rice into his mouth.

“Thorin,” whispered Dís, just to his left, “are you alright?”

Thorin paused in chewing. The toes retreated from his cuff. He swallowed again, then said to her: “Fine,” in a voice that was a little softer than he meant it to be.

Dís raised an eyebrow, then looked to Bilbo, who betrayed nothing. Thorin shifted his chair a little closer to the table, then caught a small smile on Bilbo’s lips out of the corner of his eye, before the toes slipped back to brush his ankle.

Dinner ended, finally , and though Thorin may not have appreciated it as much, it was quite good. The catching up between Bilbo and the Company complete, Thorin and his family returned to their apartment, Glóin’s still audible fussing over how he didn’t quite trust Legolas to remain in the guest apartments of the Noble’s District and out of Gimli’s apartment near the barracks fading as they left. (Though, truthfully, Glóin had right to complain; Thorin highly doubted that Legolas had spent one night in the quarters assigned to dignitaries of Mirkwood since the elven prince had begun his courtship with Gimli.) The four young Hobbits all appeared rather sleepy, and after a few moments walking, Pippin, the littlest, tugged on Dís’s arm until she lifted him up, before shutting his eyes and appearing to fall asleep. Bilbo walked close to Thorin, their hands intertwined, where once they would have only brushed occasionally, and Thorin, still frazzled by Bilbo’s under-the-table footsie, wanted dearly for the evening to be short.

One of Bilbo’s nephews, Frodo, approached them as they walked with curious eyes. “Why’re you holding hands?” the little Hobbit asked.

Thorin glanced at Bilbo, then at their clasped hands, then back at the young Hobbit in a bit of honest bewilderment. He had no clue how to answer such a question, he realized; he’d gotten rusty as Kíli and Fíli had grown up. Bilbo chuckled, and patted Frodo’s hair.

“Because we want to,” Bilbo answered.

“Why?” Frodo asked. Another one of Bilbo’s little Hobbits skipped closer to them, Merry.

“Yeah, why?” Merry repeated.

“Well, we’re fond of each other,” Bilbo explained.

“What’s fond mean?” Merry asked.

“It means they like each other!” Frodo hissed loudly towards Merry, who let his mouth split into a wide O before giggling.

“You like Uncle Bilbo,” Merry said in a sing-song voice, and then he grabbed Thorin’s other hand. Thorin’s eyebrows rose a little in surprise. Merry’s hand was very small in his, half of his forearm becoming covered by Thorin’s palm as his hand fit easily in the slot between his thumb and his palm. “Do you like like Uncle Bilbo?”

Bilbo was chuckling, and Thorin even smiled. Dís looked over at them with a warm smile, as Kíli ruffled Merry’s hair.

“I do like like your Uncle Bilbo,” Thorin answered.

“Are you gonna marry ‘im?” Frodo asked.

“Ooh, can we call you Uncle Thorin, too?” cried Merry.

“Yes,” Thorin said, glancing between both.

“Yes you’re gonna marry Uncle Bilbo or yes we can call you Uncle Thorin?” said Frodo.

“Yes to both,” Thorin clarified.

“Can I throw the flowers?” Merry asked. “Amy Proudfoot got to do it when Tybalt married her big sister, but they wouldn’t let me help, even though Tybalt’s my cousin.”

“Half the Shire’s our cousin, Merry,” Frodo pointed out.

“Oh, yeah,” Merry said.

“You can throw the flowers,” Bilbo told Merry. Thorin frowned at Bilbo, who whispered: “I’ll tell you later.”

Thorin shrugged.

“Can I help throw the flowers, Uncle Bilbo?” Kíli asked cheekily.

Thorin wanted to cuff him around the back of the head, but regrettably, or mercifully, he couldn’t decide, both of his hands were occupied by Hobbits. Dís looked as if she shared a similar thought, as her arms were filled with Pippin.

Thankfully, Tauriel’s hands were free. She hit him, rather gently, across the shoulder, and Kíli yelped before turning a scowl on his wife. “You’re meant to be on my side!”

“Pip’s gonna help me throw the flowers!” Merry announced, and Pippin stirred a little in Dís’s arms. “Right, Pip?”

“Mmhmm,” mumbled Pippin, and everyone smiled at how cute he was. Tauriel a little more than most; as she was addled by pregnancy, everything was cuter to her.

“Can we carry the rings, then, Uncle Bilbo?” Fíli asked, and since Tauriel was far off from him, Frodo smacked him on the arm, much harder than Tauriel had hit Kíli, apparently, as Fíli yelped louder than Kíli had. “Fearsome, fearsome tiny Hobbits you’ve brought, Uncle Bilbo.”

“Rah!” Frodo called, and Fíli let out a play-scream of terror before running off at a light jog. Frodo let go of Bilbo’s hand to chase him down, and Bilbo chuckled again.

“They’d’ve loved those two back in the Shire,” Bilbo whispered. “Everyone wanted a good child-minder who didn’t mind playing with them like that. Siblings grow up too fast and have children of their own, then there was me.”

Bilbo trailed off. Thorin looked at him, then squeezed his hand gently. “The children adore you,” he murmured softly to him, and Bilbo smiled a little. Thorin was sure the whole Shire had called him uncle at one point, if not any longer.

“I was everyone’s favorite childminder because no one ever had to worry I’d have my own children,” he said quietly. “As it was very plain I’d never marry.”

Thorin lifted Bilbo’s hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “You’ll marry now,” he murmured. Bilbo smiled warmly to him.

“Hey, Uncle Bilbo, can we all throw flowers?” Fíli called from the other end of the corridor, just before he was ‘tackled’ by Frodo; though really, Frodo just collided with Fíli’s legs and Fíli scooped him up into his arms.

“Me and Pip are throwing the flowers!” Merry shouted, and tore away from Thorin to chase down Fíli too. Thorin chuckled as Fíli scooped up Merry as well, the two small Hobbits laughing loudly.

“I’ve not been here a whole day, and they’re calling me Uncle Bilbo,” Bilbo whispered, a smile of delight upon his lips as he watched Fíli spin Merry and Frodo around in his arms. Thorin gave his hand another squeeze.

They reached the guarded door to the Royal Apartments, and Fíli, still holding Merry and Frodo under each arm, gave a nod to the two dwarves flanking it. Thorin would have questioned it, but the two guards merely shrugged and opened the door for Fíli, who thanked them before entering. The rest of them entered a few moments after, the guards pulling the door shut behind them. Fíli was setting the two Hobbits on the sofa as they entered, where Sam quickly joined them. Fíli ruffled Sam’s hair.

“I think it’s bedtime for this lot,” Dís announced.

“I need a bath!” Frodo protested.

Thorin gaped in shock. “Since when have bairns asked for baths?”

“You have a thing or two to learn about Hobbits,” Bilbo said to him.

“It’s a blessing, don’t question it,” Dís told him. She shifted Pippin a little higher in her arms, looking to Bilbo. “Would you like help to get them washed up?”

“I’d be very grateful,” Bilbo said as he let go of Thorin’s hand to walk over to the sofa, where he picked Merry up and gave Frodo a hand down.

“We’ll get you nice and clean,” Dís said to Pippin in a little voice Thorin hadn’t heard her use since Kíli was very small. Then, she looked to Fíli and Kíli with raised eyebrows. “You two might as well come along.”

“I am a fully grown dwarf!” Kíli protested. “I’m married and everything, amad!”

“Then you’re Tauriel’s problem,” Dís told him, before beckoning a finger to Fíli. “You, on the other hand, have yet to marry Ori, so come.”

“What?” Fíli spluttered, pointlessly, and Thorin chuckled as Dís grabbed one of his mustache braids with a hand and, Pippin still asleep in the other arm, started pulling him towards the door leading to the family baths.

“I forgot you dwarves all bathe communally,” Bilbo said in a soft whisper. He was looking rather pale.

“You’ll get used to it,” Tauriel said, lifting Sam.

Thorin picked up Frodo, smiling broadly at Bilbo as Tauriel pushed Kíli after Dís and Fíli, he hissed to him very smugly, “This is your punishment for dinner.”

Frodo looked between them, very confused as Bilbo blushed. He locked eyes with Merry, who shrugged.

“Grown-ups are weird,” Frodo decided.

“Yes, yes, we are,” Bilbo sighed, tucking Merry on his hip. “Yavanna save me.”

Thorin chuckled, then lead Bilbo on. They climbed a set of stairs, then walked down a short corridor, and by the time they reached the pool of water that served as the Royal Baths, Fíli and Kíli had already stripped and jumped into the far end, and were having a water fight.

Tauriel shook her head at them. Dís tsked.

“Sometimes I wonder why you married him,” Dís said conversationally to Tauriel.

“You know,” Tauriel laughed, “sometimes I wonder that, too.”

Bilbo was very pink in the face. Thorin set Frodo down by a bench, where Tauriel and Dís were helping Pippin and Sam undress to bathe. Bilbo set Merry down, looking very firmly at the wall. Thorin chuckled again. He helped Frodo, then, as Dís was already in the shallows with Pippin and Sam, sent him off to get in the water. The little Hobbits didn’t seem to question the group bath, seeming to be far too interested in simply getting their bath. Merry squirmed away from Bilbo quickly and darted after Frodo, Dís calling at him not to run as he climbed down into the pool.

Thorin looked at Bilbo. Bilbo was not looking at him. Thorin, chuckling again, took his hands, making Bilbo jump.

“It’s alright if you’re a little nervous,” Thorin murmured to him, then added: “You know, Tauriel leaves on her smallclothes, if the same would make you feel a bit better…?”

Bilbo visibly relaxed. Thorin kissed his cheek, then stepped away to undress himself. Tauriel and Dís were kneeling in the shallows with the four young Hobbits, so he slipped into the water a little further on, near where Fíli and Kíli were trying to drown each other.

“You two do know the purpose of bathing, correct?” he asked them.

Fíli stopped wrestling Kíli’s head underwater. “Duh,” he said. Kíli surged upward and tackled Fíli into the water. Thorin sighed.

“Will you wrangle them into using some soap, nadad ?” Dís called.

“Please?” Tauriel added. Kíli straightened up abruptly, then not-so-subtly sniffed himself. Tauriel shook her head again, and Fíli shoved Kíli over with a splash.

“Are they always like that?” Bilbo asked. Thorin figured Dís would answer, and allowed himself a moment to watch Bilbo. He had left on his smallclothes, and he quickly knelt down to place his waist below the water level, but his chest and ruddy cheeks remained dry, mostly, until Merry splashed him. “Now, none of that, this is bathtime, not playtime.”

“They’re doing it!” Merry whined, then Pippin splashed him. “Hey!”

“Just because those two are misbehaving doesn’t mean you should,” Dís told them both, and the two little Hobbits pouted at her. “And besides, Uncle Thorin there is about to go and scold them, right, Uncle Thorin?”

Thorin jerked his gaze away from Bilbo. Dís raised her eyebrows at him. “Right,” he said, and turned around pointedly. He found two pairs of legs sticking up out of the water, Fíli and Kíli’s heads far underwater. Thorin sighed again. Kíli’s legs wobbled, then he toppled over backwards, followed quickly by Fíli. Both of them burst up again, their braids and beards plastered to their faces, and Fíli laughed pointedly.

“I win!” Fíli said.

“You pushed me!” Kíli protested.

Thorin waded over to the other edge, where two bars of soap lay. He picked up both carefully, raised one, aimed, and chucked it at his nephews. It hit Kíli in the head and bounced off to sink to the bottom.

“Oi!” Kíli shouted.

Thorin threw the second bar as Kíli turned around, and it struck Fíli in the chest; Fíli scrabbled instinctively to catch it.

“That, young dwarflings, is called soap,” Thorin said. “It is a marvelous tool used for washing –”

Kíli lunged for him, knocking him under the water. Thorin came back up, spluttering with hair in his eyes, to the sound of laughter.

“Oh, shut it, Dís!” he called in the general direction of his sister, trying to push his braids out of his eyes.

“Bilbo’s laughing, too!” Dís protested.

Thorin scowled. Kíli meekly handed him a bar of soap.

“You were saying, Uncle?” Kíli sniggered.

Thorin gave him a shove, and Kíli bounded away, laughing. Thorin waded his way back towards the shallows, grumbling: “I’m too old for this.” He pointed to Tauriel, who was laughing alongside Bilbo and Dís, and added: “Kíli’s your problem, remember?”

“Yes, but you’re doing such a wonderful job of it,” Tauriel said coolly. “Besides, Fíli’s still yours.”

Thorin scowled some more. “I think I’m going to take a hammer to Fíli’s head until he promises to ask Ori to court him,” he said.

“Wait, what?” Fíli called. There was a loud splash behind them.

“Who’s Ori?” Frodo asked Thorin.

Thorin blinked at Frodo, who blinked back at him. “You met Ori at dinner, remember?” he prompted. “He helped Sam with his chicken.”

“He’s nice,” Sam said helpfully.

“Does Fíli like like him?” Merry hissed.

Dís snorted. “Fíli like likes him.”

“I do not!” Fíli shouted.

“Fíli loves him,” Thorin added.

“Shut up!” Fíli called.

“Fíli’s in love!” Kíli sang.

There was another loud splash, probably Kíli being shoved back under the water. Frodo, Merry, Sam, and Pippin giggled.

“So, since when has Fíli like liked Ori?” Bilbo asked.

Thorin and Dís chuckled a little. “Since he was about twenty,” Dís answered, already looking as if she were reminiscing the days when Fíli publically plotted how he would court and marry the youngest of the Brothers Ri, even as Ori himself watched and giggled.

“I didn’t know that,” Bilbo said, looking out past Thorin to where Fíli and Kíli were still wrestling.

“Neither does Ori,” Thorin sighed. “It’s quite pathetic. The both of them think the other’s not interested and insist that they themselves are not interested either.”

“Dori and I have tea twice a week to discuss it,” Dís added.

“You what?” Fíli called.

“Why don’t they just get married?” Frodo asked.

“Because they are both very, very stupid,” Dís assured him.

The little Hobbits giggled in very much the same way as Ori used to do when Fíli offered him pebbles and bits of parchment for courting gifts.

“We’ve already worked out all the details for when they finally do something about it,” Dís said to Bilbo, “Ori’s got to finish his mastery before they wed, obviously, but at the rate they’re going, that’s almost definitely going to happen, and I’d like Fíli to have a bit of a fuller beard, but Kíli got married still with his scruff, so I’ll take what I can get.”

“Hey!” came a shout from the other side of the pool, this time from Kíli. “I have a very magnificent beard!”

“Yes, dear,” Tauriel replied dryly.

Bilbo chuckled along with the little Hobbits’ giggles. Thorin, now kneeling in the water near them, splashed Bilbo lightly. Bilbo turned to him, his eyebrows raised, and Thorin splashed him a little again.

“Aunty Dís,” Frodo whined, and Thorin had to marvel at how quickly Dís had adopted these small Hobbits, “Uncle Thorin’s splashing Uncle Bilbo.”

“Well, Uncle Thorin’s old enough to make his own mistakes,” Dís said to Frodo as she washed his hair.

“Uncle Thorin thinks its a fine idea,” Thorin assured Frodo.

“Uncle Thorin’s also very, very stupid,” Bilbo said to him.

“Oi!” Thorin protested lightly as he laughed again. Bilbo raised his eyebrows again, then splashed him gently in return. Thorin grinned to himself. Barely a day, and it was if Bilbo had never left.

Then Pippin held out a bar of soap to him expectantly, breaking him from his thoughts. Thorin took it, and dutifully washed the tiny Hobbit’s hair.

The young Hobbits were clean before long, and eventually, Fíli and Kíli managed to stop fooling around long enough to scrub themselves briefly. The family exited the pool, wrapping in towels to dry off and dress the little Hobbits in their old clothes, and out of the corner of his eye, Thorin saw Tauriel quietly showing Bilbo to a cabinet off to the side containing fresh smallclothes. They dressed themselves, then returned to the first floor, carrying the young Hobbits in their arms once again.

The young Hobbits were very tired by then. They were all yawning and blinking slowly, as young ones did, and Bilbo and Dís took them off into the room given to Bilbo to settle them for the night. Thorin loitered by the fire, as Fíli took up an armchair and Kíli and Tauriel settled themselves on the sofa.

Dís and Bilbo returned, and the moment they did, Fíli asked: “So, when’s the wedding?”

Thorin flushed. Bilbo did too, but a little more gracefully. “Well,” Thorin said dumbly.

“I’m thinking Durin’s Day,” Dís said and Thorin raised his eyebrows, but she completely ignored him. “Obviously, we’ll have to rush to get everything ready in time, and there might not be time for far-off invitees to arrive, but it would be best to have it over as soon as possible, it wouldn’t do for our king to spend too many nights in his betrothed’s chambers before they’re wed.”

Thorin flushed twice as bad. Bilbo became very fascinated with the marble fireplace. Fíli and Kíli covered their eyes.

“Amad, do you have to talk about Uncle Thorin’s love life right in front of us?” Fíli asked dryly.

Dís cuffed him on the back of the head. “We’ll have to send out ravens with invitations tomorrow, practically,” she continued.

“Are you going to ask our opinion on any of this?” Thorin asked dryly.

Dís glanced at him, then at Bilbo, who was still examining the fireplace. “No,” she said simply.

Kíli snorted as Fíli smiled a little, and Bilbo blushed harder. Thorin shook his head. Dís smiled a little.

“Don’t worry, Bilbo,” Kíli said, “she did this to Tauriel and me, too.”

“Well, you went and got yourselves married in the Elven way before you even told me Tauriel existed,” Dís said with a sniff, and Kíli blushed just as hard as Bilbo had. “Anyway, what’s this about flowers?”

“It’s Hobbitish tradition,” Bilbo answered, though he was still avoiding eye contact, “flowers are carried by the bride and groom, or groom and groom or bride and bride, and by their attendants, flower petals are scattered over the aisle before the couple enter, flowers are used in the decorations, given as gifts to guests, et cetera.”

“That’s a lot of flowers,” Kíli mumbled.

“Elves have a similar tradition,” Tauriel commented, “the couple to be wed exchange flowers as part of their vows.”

“I thought Elves gave their vows privately,” Fíli quipped.

“There are public and private vows,” Tauriel said, turning up her nose at him.

Bilbo glanced at Thorin, an eyebrow raised. Thorin shrugged. Neither Kíli nor Tauriel had ever explained to him what it meant to be wed in the Elven way, but he suspected it had something to do with rather private events.

“Well, we’ll certainly incorporate Hobbitish traditions into the wedding ceremony,” Dís mused, stroking her beard thoughtfully. “I’ll have to see where some flowers can be procured. Do they need to be a specific sort or would any flower do?”

“Not just any flowers, no,” Bilbo answered, and, seeming to get over Dís’s comment on Thorin’s sleeping arrangements, he stepped nearer to her. “They have to be particular kinds, flowers have meanings in Hobbitish custom.”

“What sort, then?” Dís asked. “There are few flowers growing on the mountain, and most are used for medicinal purposes.”

“Roses, peonies, lilacs, irises,” Bilbo listed. “Lilies as well, sometimes mums.”

“I only know what a rose is,” Dís replied with a smile and a laugh, “you can do the flowers.”

“Yes, that would be best,” Bilbo mused.

Thorin smiled softly as Bilbo tapped his chin much as Dís stroked her beard. He dropped into an armchair, leaning back on the afghan Dís had knitted him back when they were young, and watched as Dís and Bilbo discussed wedding details.

The hour drew on. Tauriel eventually collapsed onto Kíli’s shoulders with her eyes closed, and not long after that Fíli began to snore. Bilbo covered a yawn, and Dís finally seemed to run out of steam.

“We’ll have to pick this up in the morning,” she said, “while we write up invitations.”

Bilbo gave a nod and another yawn as Dís gently shook Fíli’s shoulder.

“Huh, Ori, what,” Fíli said as he jerked awake. He flushed as Dís smirked and Kíli snorted.

“Go to bed, inùdoy ,” she said, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Right,” mumbled Fíli, rubbing at his eyes like a child. Dís patted his shoulder again as Kíli gently roused Tauriel, and Bilbo turned to Thorin, offering him a hand.

“I’m not that old yet,” Thorin grumbled, but took Bilbo’s hand to rise from the chair, before pulling Bilbo close to him and placing a soft kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Off to bed, little ones,” Dís announced, “I’d tell you to go to your own bed, Thorin, but I don’t believe you’d listen.”

Bilbo flushed, and Thorin shrugged, as she was frankly correct. Fíli covered his face with both hands, sighed heavily, and vanished into his bedroom. Dís gave Thorin a wink as she exited into her own, Kíli and Tauriel leaving just as quickly. After the door to Kíli and Tauriel’s chambers shut, Thorin slipped a hand beneath Bilbo’s chin, and, bringing his own lips nearly to touching Bilbo’s, murmured softly to him, “I believe we have unfinished business.”

“Yes,” Bilbo mumbled, his eyes half shut, “probably.”

Thorin kissed him gently, then bent and lifted Bilbo into his arms; Bilbo gave a little squeak and threw his arms around Thorin’s neck, and Thorin carried him through to the chamber that had been given to Bilbo, through the secondary sitting room and past the closed door that led to where the young Hobbits were sleeping, into the larger of the three bedrooms within that chamber. Thorin set Bilbo down upon the bed, his burglar’s cheeks ruddy, and tilted his face up once again to kiss him.

“These chambers are actually the king’s,” Thorin said quietly, and Bilbo’s eyes widened. “But they are meant for the king and his consort.”

“Con – Oh,” Bilbo breathed.

“If you’ll let me, I would have the king and his consort never part again,” Thorin asked, taking Bilbo’s hands in his own and kissing the knuckles of both. “I would never leave your side again, Bilbo.”

Bilbo squeezed his hands, leaning in closer to press their foreheads together. “I would never leave yours again either,” Bilbo whispered, and Thorin caught his mouth in a tender kiss.

In the past twenty years, Thorin had never slept soundly through the night. He had never found that his bed was ever truly warm, nor had he ever found solace in his sleep. But that night, Thorin slept with Bilbo tucked in his arms, and he slept well.

Thorin woke slowly with the dawning sun, and for a long moment before he opened his eyes, he nearly convinced himself that the day before had been naught but a dream, but even as he did, he could feel Bilbo breathing slowly beside him, the warmth shared between the two of them, Bilbo’s fingers still curled gently into Thorin’s beard. As the sun’s rising rays drifted through the window to the east, Thorin opened his eyes to the final proof that it was no dream. Bilbo’s hair was slightly mussed, from sleep and hands, one arm draped over Thorin’s chest and his head resting on his shoulder. He was beautiful and peaceful in his sleep.

“Good morning, Thorin and Bilbo!” came Dís’s shout through the door. “Breakfast is ready!”

Bilbo grumbled faintly and curled closer to Thorin. Thorin let out a soft chuckle and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Bilbo’s head.

After breakfast’s end, Thorin would present Bilbo to his people as his betrothed. Dori came with fine clothes for Bilbo and even the little Hobbits, Dís found the silver coronet their grandmother had worn, and Thorin wove two courtship braids into Bilbo’s silky hair. The cheers were tremendous, and Bilbo’s grin was just the same.

And so a new chapter of his life began. With autumn just beginning, Durin’s Day was about three months in the future, and Dís’s wedding planning went spectacularly, even with the short window she’d had to do it in. Ravens were sent out with invitations within the first week after Bilbo’s arrival, food and flowers were ordered from across the whole of Middle Earth, and even the final caravans of the year arrived in time for Durin’s Day and the Royal wedding.

Bilbo wore a wreath of flowers, that was removed as Balin crowned him consort to the king. Thorin wove marriage braids into his hair to replace the courtship ones, their vows were exchanged and as Hobbits did, Bilbo tucked a single rose into Thorin’s finest armor.

“All hail, King Thorin Oakenshield and Prince Consort Bilbo Baggins!”

“Hail!”

Thorin took Bilbo’s arm in his own as his people cheered and hailed them. Their grins ear-to-ear and their hearts full of gladness, Thorin saw the happy ending he’d never thought he’d get. As they moved on to celebrations and feasting, Thorin thought to himself, if Fíli would just ask Ori for his hand, he could see his whole family receive that same happy ending.