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The days began to grow short as the crisp autumn mornings bled into the bitter chill of winter. There was no peace in it. Winter in the Shire was a time of warm meals and evenings sat by the fireplace, but here, under the ancient stone of the Lonely Mountain, it promised to be bleak. For somewhere that had known dragon-fire, warmth seemed a far away thought.
The exhilaration of reaching Erebor and the blind terror wrought by Smaug in the hours that followed had eased into a steady kind of dread in the few short days that had passed since the dragon's death. It hung heavy over the mountain and the charred towns in its shadow. Bilbo felt as if he was holding his breath.
He sat high above the broken gates of Erebor in a corner of the battlements. Despite the ruin, Bilbo had found a place relatively undisturbed by the destruction. Smaug had ripped through the great doors as easily as a knife slipped through butter, and the gaping hole had yet to be mended. They had neither the time nor the means for that just yet.
The clouds overhead hung heavy, a dark and looming mass blackening in a promised rage. It was only a matter of time until they burst, and he didn't want to be there when they did. The cold stung his face and even his toes were beginning to feel the bite of it. Still, he stayed. He had needed solitude — an escape from the stuffy, unfamiliar halls, the tense voices of the Company, and the gold that filled every crevice of the mountain with Smaug's poisonous memory.
Far below him rubble scattered the ancient path, and amongst the fallen stones were flecks of gold. Bilbo had watched as Smaug shook it from his mighty wings, as it danced to the ground like small birds in flight, as his terrible roars rent the night sky and the town on the lake was ignited. Fire and water. It would almost have been beautiful, if not for the horror he'd felt as the dragon laid waste to the town. FÍli, Kíli, Óin and Bofur had still been down there, as well as Bard and his family and hundreds of nameless people who had greeted them as guests of honour. He had been unable to breathe, unable to believe what they had done.
Lake Town burned. Just as Dale once had.
Erebor alone had escaped the worst of Smaug's wrath, and only because the dragon had use for it.
Soon the survivors would make their way to the mountain, that much was easy to guess. Kíli had said that tents were being set up along the banks of the Long Lake, but they were only temporary shelters. Simple canvas to keep out the biting winds. The people has escaped with barely any food and nothing to their names but the clothes they wore and what goods they had managed to snatch away on the boats. It would not be enough to sustain them through the coming winter. Bilbo wondered how their rag-tag group of fourteen would greet them. The dwarves now stood in the halls of their ancestors, surrounded by riches and history, and it was greatly different to how they had arrived in Lake Town — lords and kings, sneaking through the shadows as if they were thieves.
Well, that wasn't too far off, Bilbo thought wryly. He was a burglar, and not a bad one at that.
The Company had promised wealth and prosperity to the folk of Lake Town and had instead brought dragon-fire and death. They owed them shelter at the very least. Still, Bilbo found himself uneasy. How would Thorin react? He had given his word, but the Thorin who was haunting the grand stone halls, gold dripping through his fingers and clinking under his feet, was a very different dwarf to the one who had made that promise.
He shook his head. No. No matter what sickness had descended on him, Thorin would not give up his honour.
Bilbo sighed heavily. Their journey was complete. He should feel relief, but when he closed his eyes all he could see were the orange flames illuminating the cold night sky, the silhouette of the beast as it passed the burning city, and Thorin's eyes. Cold and deadly.
The moment in the stairwell was stamped behind his eyelids in thick, black ink. No matter how hard he tried it wouldn’t shift. Thorin's expression had held an unrecognisable wildness, and then a cold, hard fury, the unforgiving point of his sword pointing straight for Bilbo's chest and his pleas for them to leave falling on unhearing ears. He had been on the receiving end of Thorin's frustration many times, but even in the most tense moments of their journey he had never looked at Bilbo like that. Like a predator sizing up his next meal. Like the dragon.
Oakenshield has weighed the value of your life and found it worth nothing.
No.
Bilbo shuddered. For a moment on that stairwell, he had believed Thorin had heard Smaug's roars and come to find him. He was foolish to have even considered it.
No, not foolish. Before reaching this cursed mountain, Thorin would have come to his aid. Even when he had clearly disliked Bilbo he had always ensured his safety, dropping his weapons in the face of trolls and climbing over cliff edges for him just as he would have with any of the dwarves.
His heart clenched tightly in his chest and he gritted his teeth bitterly against the rising emotion. It seemed wrong to call it grief when Thorin was still alive, and yet there was a gaping sense of loss. For the respect Bilbo had earned and the tentative friendship that had begun to grow between them, for Thorin's very personality, warped until he was a ghost of who he had been, save for quiet moments when he slipped back through the cracks.
Thorin was falling through Bilbo's fingers like dust, and he was helpless to stop it.
He had not told anyone of what had occurred that day inside the mountain. The urgency and terror had pushed it to the back of his mind, and now that the days had grown long and stretched, and the relief of their survival had finally dimmed into exhaustion, he still found the words stuck in his throat. How could he even begin to say it? Even if the Company could see the effect this place was having on Thorin, he didn't have the heart to ask them to doubt their king. They had followed him across half of Arda on a quest that had only a very small likelihood of success, which said plenty about their faith in him. Besides, seeing the truth and acknowledging it were two entirely separate things.
Balin and Dwalin were the most likely to get through to him. Out of the Company, they were clearly the two he trusted most. That was not to say that he didn't trust the rest of them — each dwarf had proved their dedication a thousand times over — but no one had been through as much together as those three. To Bilbo's own surprise however, he found himself rising higher on that list. As the months passed and the Company had travelled further from the comfortable borders of the Shire, and as they had narrowly escaped danger after danger, he had begun to be trusted to come up with plans. Foolhardy though they had been (the barrels in particular), Thorin had followed his ideas without question. Somewhere along the way Bilbo had earned his respect.
A cool breeze blew in from over the lake, chilling the already bitter air even further. It carried the distant smell of smoke, blowing the proof of Smaug's cruelty over the mountain and beyond. As if in sympathy, Bilbo's shoulder throbbed uncomfortably. They had all escaped with only minor burns and singed hair, but the pain was a nuisance. What would the people in the Shire say about him now? He was far from the presentable gentle-hobbit he had been — hair too long, clothes dirtied, and his poor feet singed beyond belief. Strangely though, Bilbo found he didn't care as much as he once would have. Instead of mortification, he only had the dull relief that it was nothing worse.
Still, he would have to see if Óin had any of that salve left.
Since the dwarves who had stayed in Lake Town reached the mountain, Óin had busied himself with tending to everyone's injuries. The dread was felt by all, and Bilbo knew this was his way of distracting himself from it — with his fingers and mind busy, there was no room to dwell on anything beyond the task at hand. Glóin and Dori helped without complaint, both accustomed to taking care of others — Glóin his son, and Dori his younger brothers — and they worked efficiently. Dori was fussy enough that none resisted his help.
Dwalin had set about organising the armoury, and seeing what weapons remained of Erebor's once mighty arsenal. The armoury had been one of the most heavily damaged areas of the city, and with no use for over a century, it had fallen even further into disrepair. Still, from the dust coated shelves, he had managed to scrounge together enough to outfit the company, and on the third day since the dragon's death he had found the armour of King Thror. It was old but strong, and when he wiped away the dust the gold glinted as brightly as the day it was forged.
Balin and Ori searched the records, and Bombur organised the little food stores they had left — that was a problem none of them knew how to broach yet, but before long it would be dire. Even if the building dread Bilbo was feeling turned out to be nothing, winter was still coming.
But above all, the Company searched. Through the endless mountains of gold, poring over goblets and jewellery and ornate armour, wading through coins deep enough to drown beneath. The gold rose in towering waves, stretching to the far reaches of the gaping halls and scattering even further. It was as vast and breathtaking as Bilbo imagined the sea being, if he ever saw it, and as still and silent as a tomb, save for the clinking as gold slipped underneath their feet.
The sound of footsteps behind him jolted Bilbo out of his thoughts.
It wasn't a secret that he had slipped away, but all the same he felt guilty, like he was a child again caught stealing cookies from his mother’s pantry. Thankfully he had left the Arkenstone tucked into his bedroll and not brought it here with him. Forcing a bright smile, he turned around to greet his visitor. His stomach dropped.
Thorin.
“Have you been hiding, Master Burglar? I had begun to think we would never find you again.” His eyes, piercing as ever, twinkled with humour as he spoke.
It was a surprise to see him so far from the gold that Bilbo had spent days trying to distance him from, but he knew better than to mention it.
“Not at all, not at all,” Bilbo replied hastily. He was more wary of Thorin these days than he had been even at the beginning of this foolish quest. As much as he wanted to he knew he could not trust Thorin's smiles to last, not matter how his heart warmed for them, for they were fleeting and fragile. His rage was too unpredictable. “I just needed space to think.”
“One might think you were running away.”
“Of course not, no, but after this last week... some solitude was needed. My head has been getting awfully muddled.”
Thorin regarded him silently, before moving to join him against the battlements.
“What will you do now, Master Baggins?”
He considered the question. It had only been a matter of time until someone asked, and yet it still came as a shock. In recent weeks he had come to dread the thought of parting, even when the opposite had very nearly gotten him killed. “I shall head home I suppose. It has always been my plan to return after all this is over, and that time is almost upon us. I do miss my garden terribly, and my hobbit hole, and the comfort of reading a book by the fire.” It had only been a year, but the memories felt far further. A different life. He sighed and shook his head, “But not just yet. No, I'm not ready to leave just yet.”
Thorin was silent for a moment. “Should you ever change your mind, you will always have a place here. We will be greatly saddened to see you go.”
Bilbo's heart clenched, fondness and gratitude so strong that his heart might burst with it. “I will miss you all terribly,” he confessed, hoping Thorin could hear the sincerity of his words. He would miss the warm, trusting smiles and comfortable conversation. Bofur humming old mining songs from Ered Luin to help them fall asleep. Bombur's hugs, Fíli's stories, and Glóin's dreams for his family's future, spoken with such love and conviction that Bilbo had no doubt they would come true. Dwalin begrudgingly patting him on the shoulder, Balin's wise and gentle words and Nori's sense of humour, as sharp as he was. Ori's bright enthusiasm and how he hung onto every story Bilbo told of the Shire. Óin's kindness, disguised behind gruff words but unmistakeable. Bifur's quiet smiles when he thought no one was looking, and his gentle, woodcarver's hands. Dori's constant help, holding his hand and dragging Bilbo along when he was too tired to walk, and mending tears in his clothes without so much as a word. Kíli's enthusiasm, filled with youth. His loud boisterous teasing and heart held out for all the world to see.
And Thorin. Who was watching Bilbo, understanding on his face and a small, sad smile tugging the corners of his lips.
Amongst the loud, raucous band of dwarves he felt more accepted than he ever had in his life. It wasn't that he'd been particularly lonely in Bag End — he enjoyed his own company plenty, and it was much more pleasant than spending time with the likes of the Sackville-Bagginses — but he was alone. The son of Belladonna Took, no matter how much time he spent carefully ironing his pocket handkerchiefs, was far from respectable. But here, out in the wilds, and away from the comforts of home, he had found himself, and the dwarves had welcomed him as one of their own.
Bilbo would miss them terribly.
“I'll even miss having to keep an eye on my pockets when Nori is around,” he said with a smile, “if you can believe it.”
Thorin laughed at that, deep and rumbling. He looked younger when he smiled, the exhaustion in his eyes crinkling away.
“I happened to notice him using one of my old silver spoons while we rested in Lake Town. The rascal pinched it from Bag End months ago.”
“Yes, that sounds like the Nori I know.” Thorin chuckled. “I'm impressed you caught him, that doesn't happen often. He would be fuming if he knew.”
“Oh I'll let him know some day.”
Thorin inclined his head, and despite his darkened eyes and heavy shoulders, he flickered with life. For the first time in many days, he had come back into himself, mind clear and not warped by gold. At least for this brief moment he was lucid.
He turned to look out over the battlements to the ruined shell of Dale and Lake Town beyond. Light caught in his hair, glinting mithril bright in the cold sun. “If you had seen it in the days before, Master Baggins… it was a sight to behold. The bells of Dale chimed as brightly as polished crystal, rich and joyous. Trade flourished, and the markets were second to none. On many occasions I used to wander those old streets, amongst the bustling crowds of Men and Dwarves alike.”
For once Bilbo didn't feel disgruntled by Thorin's habit of long speeches. Instead, he felt himself smiling properly for the first time in several days. Thorin's words were a woven tapestry — thick, richly coloured threads, spun into vivid memories. It was different to hear them while seeing the burned shell of the city before him, while standing on the ancient stones and breathing different air. As he spoke, Bilbo could see the bustle of the streets, the dwarrowdams painting bright kites, the dwarves whittling wooden toys and the children tugging their parents through the stalls, as clearly as if he were standing there.
“I can think of many a hobbit who would love to have visited such a place,” he said. “Gifts are important to us. We sometimes even think up occasions just for an excuse to give them!” Bilbo smiled at the memory. Even though many things from the Shire felt distant — like looking through a foggy window — some of the traditions were so ingrained that even a year on the road couldn’t shake them. The only thing that had stopped him from showering his new friends in gifts was the knowledge that their customs were different, and he didn’t want to offend any of them by accident. Gentle-hobbit he may no longer be, but he was not without manners. “I always had great fun deciding what to give,” he continued. “Some folk are not subtle in their gossip and snide opinions of me, and I must confess I had a nice laugh using the opportunity to get them back.”
Thorin arched a brow. “I didn't take you for the kind to pull pranks.”
Bilbo laughed. “I once bought Lobelia — my good old cousin, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, who makes the most disastrous cakes — a cookbook for her birthday. Oh she never has let that one go. All in good fun of course.”
There was an amused glint in Thorin's eye. “Is she the one after your house?”
How he remembered that from an offhand comment made many weeks ago, Bilbo didn't know, but his chest warmed anyway. “The very same. Yes, the Sackville-Bagginses are always disgruntled by my gifts, but,” he grinned, “fair is fair. While I'm still alive they can't get Bag End, but I'm convinced Lobelia is after my silverware. Although,” he added as an afterthought, “she will have to fight Nori for the rest of it.”
“Now that would be interesting to witness.”
The image of his respectable, snobbish cousin wrestling Nori over a pair of spoons was so amusing that he choked on a snort.
“You must think us such simple folk — all this talk of silverware and birthday presents,” Bilbo said apologetically, after he composed his face again. “Especially after all you've seen.”
“You’ve proven yourself to be much more than first appearances let on. I doubt I shall find many more companions as trustworthy as you have proven yourself to be.”
Bilbo was startled by the sincerity of Thorin's words. With a horrible lurch of dread, he remembered the Arkenstone, tucked safely into his bedroll. Even so far away, it felt like a leaden weight. He swallowed.
“Thank you,” he said, and hoped it sounded stronger than he felt.
A beam of sunlight broke through the heavy, tormented clouds and shone down on the battlements. Beside him, it outlined Thorin's sharp profile, as bright as blazing fire or molten gold. Standing up there on the battlements, his eyes clear and sharp, he looked like the king he was born to be.
“Over by the foothills,” Thorin said, returning to his story, “there used to be a great forest. It once covered the hillside, the trees as strong and old as the mountain itself. They are but a ruin now of what they once were. Smaug saw to that.”
The trees like torches, blazed with light. Bilbo remembered the words with blinding clarity, as if he were back in his hobbit hole, the low dwarven voices rumbling the haunting tune in the darkness.
“And Erebor... It was once a great kingdom, rivalled only by Khazad-dûm, the great city of Durin himself.” His eyes glazed in memory, and a smile tugged at his lips. “It was full of beauty, the kind that can only be found in dwarven craftsmanship and ancient stone. The forges were manned by the finest smiths, masters of their craft who passed their knowledge on through the generations, and the city thrummed with the life of a thousand hammers. The air was filled with the music of cracked gemstones and precious ores, of hammers and rough voices melded together in song.”
“We will make it that way once again,” Bilbo promised. It was a vow he didn’t know if he could keep, but in this moment, the weight of Thorin’s legacy heavy between them, the words felt right.
Privately, Bilbo found the mountain rather oppressive, but he knew he was only seeing a shell of the place that lived in Thorin's memories. It was a ruin, a graveyard, a marker of great loss and pain.
And yet, even after dragon-fire and a century of disrepair, the halls and chambers of Erebor inspired awe. The statues towered high above him, bearing the faces of kings and queens past. Intricate and imposing. The age and power, Bilbo could barely imagine.
He felt very small indeed.
“We set out on this quest with a hope to retake our home, but even as we made plans in your darkened kitchen it seemed an impossible task. What could thirteen dwarves and a hobbit do against a dragon? It was a fools errand, a journey of hope alone. But we succeeded. We did what no one believed possible, even myself. And we will see Erebor restored to how it once was. The home of my people. Our home.”
Thorin gestured back towards the mountain and the ancient halls behind them. “My grandfather, Thror, saw our people flourish and our riches grow beyond compare. It is wrong that he should be remembered for his fall — you heard them speak of it in Rivendell — when he accomplished so much for our people. Before he lost himself he was a great man and an even greater leader.”
There was an uncomfortable lump in Bilbo's throat.
Thorin's eyes glinted. “And greater still was his gold.”
The conversation had taken a turn, one that Bilbo had been desperate to avoid. Talking about Thror only lead in one direction these days, and even though he knew that the clarity of Thorin’s mind was only temporary, his chest twisted anyway.
“Speaking of your family, what about your mother?” Bilbo asked, hoping that he wasn't changing the subject too obviously. “What was she like?”
Thorin continued as if he hadn't spoken. “The riches under this mountain, under our very feet, are enough to make the world bow, enough to feed all the dwarves in Arda for ten generations. It is wealth untold, wealth unimaginable. Worth more than we have ever lost.”
All the dwarves were changed by the gold. He had seen it in their eyes — none as fiercely as Thorin, but still there nevertheless. Bilbo understood — they had grown up on tales of it, spoken of it with awed voices around the campfire — how could they not be enchanted by the sight of their home and the legends come to life? But the gold did more than that. It had broken something within Thorin, something that Bilbo didn't know could be fixed.
“Thorin—” he begun, but the words died on his tongue. He wanted to help, to drag Thorin's mind away from the treasure chamber and back onto the battlements, to remind him of his purpose. He tried again, “You are not yourself.”
Thorin's eyes flicked away from his agitatedly.
“We have won back the mountain. The dragon is dead. Is that not enough?” It was not the first time he had found himself asking this, and he knew it would not be the last.
“I cannot rest until the Arkenstone is found. It is my right as king.”
“I know Thorin, I—” he took a frustrated breath. “If you found it, would you then rest from this tireless existence? You're not eating, you're not sleeping. You're haunting the treasury as if you're among the dead.”
“Without the Arkenstone we travelled on this quest for nothing.”
“No.” Bilbo shook his head vehemently. “No you didn't. You said it yourself only moments ago. You returned to Erebor to give your people a home. You returned to rebuild your kingdom so that future generations won't suffer as you have done. The stone may give you the right to rule, but you've been king for far longer than reaching the Lonely Mountain. The dwarf who lead his people to a safe refuge, who refused to give up hope that his home could be saved — you were as much a king then as you would be with the Arkenstone.” He was half pleading now, but he didn't care. “Thorin—”
Thorin was silent.
“I know it is not my place to tell you this, but you cannot live like this. Your people need a king, not the stone.”
“You are right,” Thorin spat. “It is not your place.” His voice was as cold as it had been all those months ago. He has no place amongst us.
Cold crept through Bilbo's chest. Thorin was lost to him again. He had returned to the mountains of riches many floors of stone beneath their feet. Standing right beside him but further than ever. Bilbo traced the ring in his pocket and the tightness in his chest sparked into something hot. A bitterness he could almost taste.
“I may not be kin, I have not lived your life, but I have travelled with this company for months, gotten all of you out of a number of scrapes and braved a dragon for you. The dwarf I followed then would not have turned his sword on me.” Months of pent up emotion — at Thorin's irritation and the Company's distrust — built until he was overwhelmed by them. “And I'm hurt, Thorin,” he burst out against his better judgement, “that that rock means more to you than my life. Than any of our lives.”
He hadn't meant to say it. As much as he'd wanted to talk to Thorin about that moment on the stairwell, he’d had no idea how to vocalise what he wanted from him. An explanation? An apology? Both seemed too feeble for something that haunted him so completely, something that Thorin had not been in control of. An uncomfortable curl of guilt settled in his gut amongst the rest of his battered emotions.
Thorin's eyes shuttered. “Birashagimi, I—” His voice faded off. It was the same look he'd worn after the goblin tunnels, caught somewhere between remorse and frustration.
Maybe Bilbo was beginning to get through to him. Maybe, with time and care, Thorin would be able to heal from this sickness, but they didn't have the luxury of time. Winter was clawing its way ever closer, the refugees from Lake-Town would soon reach the mountain, and the gold still held far too much sway over him. Bilbo could not force him to heal. He could only try and guide him, until the part of Thorin that had been lost within himself found the strength to claw itself free.
He felt so helpless.
Bilbo reached up and ran a hand through his hair in despair. Thorin's empty eyes followed the movement.
“I didn't know you braided your hair, Master Baggins.”
It was more of a question than a statement, Thorin's cracked voice quirking almost imperceptibly up at the end.
“Bilbo,” he replied shortly. “We have been through too much to not use my name.” He took a deep breath and looked away from the dwarf beside him, until his breathing was under control again and his hands had stopped shaking.
“I— I have lost that right.”
Bilbo shook his head. “We have been through too much,” he repeated. “Besides, I call you Thorin.” He took another steadying breath, focused on the bitter wind filling his lungs. That was better. At least now he didn't feel like he would explode in unfair anger, or sob at the overwhelming helplessness of it all. “And no,” he added, answering Thorin's question, “I don’t. Or, I didn't. Bofur braided it. He said I had earned it, and as a member of the Company I am an honorary dwarf. I expected the others to have a right laugh, but…"
During the months on the road, he had grown used to being teased while they sat around the campfire — jokes about his inability to ride a horse, and his pocket handkerchiefs. This would be another one of those occasions, he had assumed, but instead the assembled dwarves had been solemn, their faces serious and sincere. He had nodded, flustered.
He knew dwarves well enough to know that hair braiding was intimate, only done between family, lovers and close friends. A sign of deep trust and respect. As close as they had all grown, it took him by surprise, and he was incredibly touched by the gesture.
The braid hung in front of Bilbo's left ear, framing the side of his face. It was still short despite how much his hair had grown during their journey, and the beaded end bounced against his cheek. Bifur had whittled a small wooden bead for the end, while Bofur braided his hair, and pressed it into his hands with a nod and gruff word in Khuzdul. For all the roughness of his exterior, Bifur's work was intricate and it was clear that he had taken great care with it.
Warmth filled Bilbo's chest at the memory.
“I see.”
“Now I know I don't know much about your culture, and as an outsider I'm not allowed your secrets, but I do know that hair braiding is important, and I'm honoured for them to have done it,” he said defensively. With Thorin's eyes focused on him like this, intense and unreadable, Bilbo felt like his skin was transparent and Thorin could read everything single one of his thoughts as clearly as if it were written on his forehead in thick, black ink.
After long a moment of silence, his brow furrowed, Thorin finally said, “Can I?”
“…can you what?”
Strangely, it looked like Thorin was unsure what he wanted to say. “Braid your hair.”
“Pardon?” Bilbo blinked in surprise. He had not expected this, after their conversation only moments ago. The dwarf would never cease to surprise him. He glanced back at Thorin, and despite the shadows around his eyes and tightness of his lips, they were undeniably clear. The sickness had passed again for now, like clouds in the breeze. Bilbo nodded, “Oh, alright then.”
Thorin lifted his hands to Bilbo's hair and began, separating the curling strands and twisting them together in a simple braid. It felt strange, to have someone else’s fingers in his hair, calloused and rough but unbearably gentle. More intimate than any words they had ever shared. There was so much left unsaid between them, so much that Bilbo couldn’t even begin to untangle, but with each careful tug of Thorin’s fingers, Bilbo could feel all of it. Belonging, trust, apology and forgiveness. Everything they would never say. The sickness had taken Thorin’s stubborn pride and made an impossible barrier of it, but Bilbo knew in his heart that he was trying to communicated in the only way he knew how to in this moment.
“There, Bilbo.”
Thorin finished braiding a bead into the end, then stepped back to admire his handiwork.
The new braid hung in front of Bilbo's other ear. It was a similar style to Thorin's himself, although Bilbo knew it certainly wouldn’t look as grand on him. Still, he found himself wishing for a mirror so he could see the braids himself. It was very un-hobbit-ish of course, but that didn't stop the warmth that settled into his heart. The feeling of belonging.
“Thank you,” he said, overwhelmed. He lifted a hand and ran his fingers down the length of the braid and over the bead at the bottom. Precious, green stones had been imbedded into the gold in ornate geometric patterns and the shapes of Khuzdul runes. In the cool morning light they glinted brightly, like sunlight filtering through the leaves of a tree on a warm summers day.
“Is this part of my reward?” Bilbo asked. The bead was beautiful, more beautiful than anything else he owned. So different to Bifur’s and yet just as precious.
Thorin shook his head. “No. It is a gift.” He smiled, and although it wasn’t as wide as earlier and the twinkle in his eyes was tired and worn, it was sincere. “You may not be kin, as you pointed out, nor a dwarf, but you have proven yourself to be a great friend. We would not be standing here, upon the great walls of my forebears, if it were not for your bravery. And for that, I am very grateful.”
Bilbo didn’t know what to say, deeply touched by Thorin’s words, but before he got the chance to even open his mouth another set of steps on the stairway jolted him out of his thoughts. He turned around just as Fíli’s blonde head appeared at the top of the stairs.
He looked as exhausted as Bilbo felt, bowed down under the weight of supporting the Company in Thorin’s stead. It was not something they’d asked him to bear, but as the heir he took it upon himself anyway, trying to strengthen their failing morale. It hung heavy on his tired shoulders.
“Bilbo! I’d been looking for y— Uncle?” Fíli cut himself off, looking at Thorin in surprise. Like Bilbo though, he clearly knew better than to mention the gold.
“It seems I wasn’t the only one looking for our burglar.”
Fíli nodded in Bilbo’s direction. “Óin wants to see you, said something about checking your burns, and—”
“You were injured?” Thorin turned to him then, and Bilbo shrank under the intensity of his gaze. It stung that he hadn’t noticed, but Bilbo was not at all surprised. When most of the Company were being treated for their wounds, Thorin had been absent, wandering the treasure halls. It had been one of the first signs that something was terribly, horribly wrong. Until that day, any time any of them had been injured he’d been almost as concerned as Óin (however much he tried to hide it behind his usual stoic demeanour), frequently asking them how it was healing and instructing them to switch their packs around so whoever was hurt didn’t need to carry as much weight.
“I’m perfectly alright, it was nothing serious,” Bilbo said. “You’d be surprised how resilient Hobbits are.”
“I might have been once, but not anymore.”
Bilbo smiled. It felt like months since he’d smiled as often as this and truly meant it, even though it had likely been much less time. The dread of the last few weeks painted the days grey, but once again, Thorin’s faith in him warmed him in a way little else could. At his words, even the bitterness of the chilled air lessened.
Fíli’s words cut through his thoughts. “Uncle, Dwalin also wanted to see you, to try Thror’s armour. It will have to do until we can restart the forges, or till we find something more fitting.”
Thorin sighed darkly, but his expression stayed clear. “Lead the way.”
Again, Bilbo’s traitorous heart lurched with hope. Every moment that Thorin stayed lucid was its own quiet victory.
Perhaps, if he could get Thorin to the battlements more often, if he could take him away from the gold even only for a moment each day, then there was a chance that he would truly heal. The wind that whipped at the mountain’s sides washed away the clouds of Thorin’s mind as surely as it did Bilbo’s own. Even though the sickness had briefly seized him, he’d remained more himself in the cool air of the battlements than he had been in days.
Bilbo could feel the hope almost as if it were a tangible thing. As fragile as the petals he pressed between the pages of his books, but undeniable all the same.
He would try again tomorrow. He would try again and again for as long as it took.
With one last look out at the ruined cities in the distance, Bilbo turned away from the battlements and followed Fíli and Thorin down the makeshift stairs.
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What Bilbo didn’t know was that in three days time, he would be held over the edge of the very same battlements, Thorin’s first white around his collar, and the truth of what he’d done spilling from his lips.