Chapter Text
Thorin has heard many a tale regarding the madness of wizards, most of them from his grandfather.
“They’re too damned old,” Thror shrugged once. “Older than most of the elves even. Makes their heads soft as soapstone, an age like that. They stop noticing the actual world around them, preferring to stay in their heads with their schemes and tricks. Tharkûn isn’t as bad as the others, at least.”
Looking over the soft, green land, with it’s quaint little round homes and it’s softer, rounder people, Thorin thinks his grandfather was probably wrong about Tharkûn .
Gandalf now , he reminds himself. Wizards are too damned old, and have too many damned names.
Thorin has enough doubts that the wizard truly found their burglar in this place. Looking over the meandering, directionless roads of Hobbiton, decorated with tender flowers and perfectly trimmed bushes, does nothing to alleviate them. He has met halflings before while working or trading in Bree, and found them to be soft and silly creatures, more concerned with food and their comforts than they were with anything of real worth.
Now he wanders their homeland, and starts to learn that by Shire standards, those empty-headed fools he had dealt with are considered the wild and brave ones. The hobbits of ill-repute who dare to live within the town of men.
In Hobbiton, the halflings are all gentle, suspicious and frowning creatures with rosy cheeks, well scrubbed faces, and delicate curls held in even more delicate ribbons. They are insular and suspicious in a way that is almost dwarvish, if Thorin were feeling charitable enough to compare them in any way to dwarves. But their suspicion doesn’t come from any long history of fire and iron. There is no hardship written in their blood. There is naught to them but a simple-minded stubbornness, a fascination with the soft soil, and whatever green they can work from it.
And Gandalf expects their burglar is here. Thorin only hopes that this Baggins is an anomaly, perhaps an outcast among these simple creatures. Surely Gandalf would not suggest him if he were anything like the rest of his folk.
He clings to this hope, even when every mention of ‘Baggins’ makes the halflings nod and say what a fine, respectable fellow he is, before squinting suspiciously at Thorin and asking why Master Dwarf would be inquiring about a fine person such as Baggins. But for the sake of his own sanity, he prays that the wizard has not gone completely mad.
Maybe, just maybe, Thorin will be wrong, and the halfling will be useful.
When he finally reaches the right hole (and of course, leave it to the halflings to make the most winding, nonsensical roads), Thorin has never been so disappointed to be proven right.
“So, this is the hobbit.”
He is small, which Thorin can not fault him for. And his eyes lack the cow-like simpleness of many of the halflings Thorin met. Baggins stands straighter as Thorin circles him, setting his jaw and narrowing his eyes. He isn’t afraid, or at least isn’t bullied into being afraid, and there’s a little spark in there.
But it only exaggerates everything else wrong about him. The halfling has never used weapons, doesn’t seem to understand why he would need them on a quest to go after a cursed dragon , and his softness is nothing but that, softness. There’s no strength hidden beneath, like with Bombur, no warrior spirit like in the lad Ori. This is a book keeper. A writer, a reader.
Baggins is the sort who sits backs and watches things happen, not one who does things. The life of a scholar is not a bad one, Thorin was taught to respect those who valued knowledge. But that did not mean they belonged in the wilds on a quest that was closer to a suicide mission than was comfortable.
But Thorin does not write him off entirely, and out of respect for the home of another, he does not laugh in the face of their “burglar”. He even manages not to turn on the spot and demand to know what Gandalf is thinking, or if this is some jest of his.
Time does nothing to alleviate his concerns. Later, Thorin watches as the little thing struggles for air just from the description of a dragon. He could stop Bofur, but if the halfling can not handle being told he may turn into a pile of ash, then none of them have any business being here.
The hobbit falls, splayed in a dead faint on his perfectly polished floor with its perfectly plush rug, and Thorin rubs a hand over his forehead, nearly bursting into laughter at the sheer absurdity of it all.
“Well this has been enlightening. I can see the wisdom of this excellent recommendation, Gandalf. If the dragon comes at us, we can throw the halfling at it.” There are some chuckles behind him, and Thorin lifts his head to glare at the wizard, who only glares back.
“Oh dear…” Bofur says, leaning in his chair and looking worriedly down at the halfling. “Was it something I said?”
“I thought that was a fine description, Bofur.” Fili says loftily, “The ‘poof’ was an especially nice touch.”
“Oh no! The poor little wee thing.” Dori bustles over, picking the limp pile of halfling up like it was no more than a rag doll, carrying him out while chatting all the while. “I should get some of that tea ready, he did have a lovely chamomile. And there was one with a touch of mint! That should perk him right up, so we can get this contract looked over and-”
“He is not looking over the contract.” Thorin sighs. “Because he is not coming.”
Gandalf rounds on him, glowering down menacingly. “Now see here, Thorin-”
“You expect that he will come? You may say he is a burglar, and it is only you who says this, but he has no reason to sign anything with us!” Thorin bursts. “You expect me to bring this halfling who knows nothing of anything except what he has seen written on his maps! I do not know what scheme you have-”
“There is no scheme, you blasted dwarf!” Gandalf snaps with a thump of his staff on the floor. “Bilbo Baggins is the best candidate for our burglar! And that is final!”
“Are you so determined to see your friend die?” Thorin asks, crossing his arms as he raises his brows at Gandalf. “Because that is what this will do to him. None of these halflings know anything of the real world, and there is nothing for him out there except for hardship and death.”
“Mark me,” Gandalf says, and there’s a change in his tone, something darker that makes the air close in around Thorin when one soot-stained finger points at him. “If you do not find a way to convince Bilbo Baggins to join, then the quest will fail.”
The words are heavy, weighed with prophecy. Again, Thorin feels the uncomfortable pull of fate, the same that had sunk claws into him in Bree when the wizard had looked at him and said, “Take back your homeland.”
He wants to hate the wizard. There is too much fate here, too much destiny clouding things up and taking Thorin’s choices from him. But despite the possible madness of the wizard, and Thorin’s bristling at having his father’s map and key kept from him until now, he knows that a wizard’s proclamation is not something lightly ignored.
“Very well. But I will not push him if he refuses.” He looks away from Gandalf, the anger draining from him. “I will not take anyone with me who does not wish to come, wizard’s pet or no.”
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‘ There’s a halfling that came in through the front gate, Lord Balin mentioned there may be a chance of burglary?’
The barked orders echoing through the halls, the sharp clangs of hammers on stone, the roar of machinery, his own heartbeat. All of it stops.
Thorin’s head rings as if he had taken a blow to the skull, or a black powder keg went off too close and his ears weren’t properly protected.
If he were not already leaning with his hands firmly splayed on the table with Masterbuilder Kolith’s figures and sketches, solid stone under his bare palms, the ground itself may have moved under him.
“What did you say?” His own voice is strained, drowned under the thudding in his chest. There’s a rustle of parchment; Kolith carefully collecting his rolls of data, murmuring something and bowing away. Barely noticed. Thorin only stares at the lad, who shifts uncomfortably and frowns in confusion at the shaken gaze of his King.
“My King I only- Lord Balin didn’t tell me what it meant…”
Burglary. It could not mean-
Balin would have no other reason to use such words. He was exact, always meant exactly what was said and had a way with words that meant each one had a very specific purpose. Something with all the weight, the history, of ‘burglar’, would not be so casually added in.
But this...
A halfling came in through the gates, it was nonsense to think it could be anyone else. It was simple logic, yet his mind refuses to accept the truth of it.
“Thorin!”
Sounds come rushing in, crashing like hammer strikes on his skull. Thorin jerks his eyes up to the entryway of the main hall of the Eastern Slope, and does not see the way the lad nearly sags with relief at having the attention diverted off him. Bofur nearly runs over another dwarf as he barrels in, waving his hat like a standard and shouting enough for it to echo off the pillars and high arches. He at least is off duty and out of uniform, though Thorin would not have noticed even if Bofur was dressed in the finest raiment of the King.
“Thorin! He’s back! He’s here! Bilbo’s here!”
Bilbo. Bilbo was back home safe. Bilbo was tucked away in his rolling green Shire.
Thorin takes a slow breath, and takes the short time to log all the sensations around him carefully. It is an easy habit now, born from lack of sleep and the occasional blurs between what was dream or reality. In dreams things stayed hazed and intangible.
Now there is the smoothed and polished granite under his palms, the clamor and echoes of the work crews hauling away the rubble and ruin. His crown is heavy, and the air is cool, but not enough that the hot air from the forges has been diverted to flow through the mountain. There’s a slight breeze, just enough for him to feel the movement of the air, from the ducts directing wind from outside to every living chamber. This is real, and he is definitely awake.
Thorin stands fully, nods towards Kolith, manages a grateful small smile and a coin for the lad Balin sent running from the front gate, and strides to meet Bofur before his Guard Captain can knock anyone else over in his excitement.
“Thorin! Thorin he-”
“I just got word.” Thorin interrupts quietly, steering Bofur back out of the main hall. There's too much noise, too much movement and bustle and activity there and Thorin suddenly needs the quiet. Or at least as much quiet as he can ever get in the company of his head guard. He walks briskly, staring straight ahead, an ache already forming from the tension starting to knot his shoulders up as Bofur chatters on beside him.
"I don't know how Balin does it, no idea. He sent out messages to everyone by the looks of it. Bombur said there's already a quick celebration feast bein' put together. I'll take you to it!” Bofur falls into step easily just behind and to the side of him out of habit. How he expects to lead from there is a mystery, but Thorin barely notices.
Bofur rambles on, and while Thorin isn’t paying attention, there’s a familiarity to it that’s almost grounding.
“I can't believe that little bastard just goes an' shows up all bright as you please without any word! Does he not know how messages work at all? I saw all that fancy writing fruppery in his hole, I'm damn sure he knows how to use a pen.”
Why would Bilbo come back at all, was the real question. He was settled back in the Shire, and this wasn’t the season for a holiday. It might- but no. No, Thorin can not allow himself to go leaping down the same assumptions that chased Bilbo away in the first place.
“It's bad manners is what it is. I'm pretty sure that's bad manners anyway. He should know, at least with how often he went on about ‘em. ‘Bofur you can't be belchin at the elf king's table.’ and ‘Bofur that isn't a napkin.’ ‘Bofur don't go teachin’ the bargeman's kids that song.’ It's hypocritical is what it is."
In the mountain. He was here in the mountain at this moment. Instead of the joy Thorin always imagined, there’s a tight, smothering, trapped feeling growing in his chest.
Every day since the raven returned, every morning he chased away the remnants of whatever dreams came to him, was met with the acceptance that he would likely never see Bilbo again. And right as he was finding some sort of peace, or at least something resembling it, Bilbo returns.
‘I can’t...’
The words were so soft, yet the memory still drowns out Bofur’s voice. Last time Thorin saw Bilbo, there were bruises under the halfling’s dark eyes, blood staining the bandages on his temple. He looked worn and thin and drawn out, jaw tense and voice catching.
Thorin’s last memory of Bilbo is of him standing at the door, hunched and tense, and unable to look Thorin in the eye before he left.
‘ You’ll make a good king.’
“Thorin?”
What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? How could he expect Bilbo to honestly want to speak with him?
“Thorin, you’re going the wrong way! Hold on- hold on now!”
A hand on his shoulder stops him in his steps, and yanks him out of his thoughts. Bofur comes around to peer at him with a concerned frown.
“If I’m not mistaken, this is the way to your chambers.” Bofur gestures vaguely over his shoulder, still keeping Thorin in place with one hand. “Balin’s got everyone meeting up in the private dining hall by the front gates. And why by Mahal’s forges do you look like you’re about to face death?”
Thorin nearly stops, his head whirling as Bilbo’s visit and the reasons for it begin to become clear. The entire Company coming together again (minus Fili and Kili, but Thorin can not afford to dwell on the reasons for that.) Things start to fit together into, and Thorin feels some of the panic drain away, though it leaves a hollow in his chest behind it.
The Company. That was it. It was foolish, and dangerously self-obsessive, for Thorin to think he alone could scare Bilbo away from the rest of his friends and companions.
While that explains the why, it does not help Thorin solve the problem of how he can bring himself to face Bilbo. He pushes Bofur’s hand from his shoulder with a shrug.
“Go on.” He says, as evenly as he can manage. “I will join you all later. I simply need a few moments to…” Thorin trails off, gritting his teeth on his frustration when he can not find the words. A few moments to gather himself? To prepare a few lines? To relearn how to breathe properly?
Bofur hesitates, obviously torn between duty and the need to tear off to see his friend. Torn he may be, but his eyes are steady and he looks at Thorin with far too much understanding. “Are you sure? I can wait with you and head over whenever you’re ready.”
“I can find my own way without an escort well enough. Go and tell Balin and Dwalin I’ll be joining you shortly.”
A nod, then Bofur pauses again, sighing and leaning in to say quietly. “‘Ay now, this is a good thing! He’s back. And he came back right before winter’s to set in, so he’s likely to be here for a while if he doesn’t want to be buried in snow in the mountains. This is good. He’s back, and you two can get back to figurin’ out everything.”
Thorin looks away, clenching his jaw and nodding stiffly. He never, in all the long year since Bilbo left, went into the details of the massive misunderstanding between the two of them. Balin suspects, most likely, but most of them probably still think the engagement was entered with full knowledge by both of them. The old shame starts to slink back in, festering under the tense anxiety that won’t leave.
“I’ll only be a few moments,” he says quietly. “Go on.”
Bofur only hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Just don’t go taking too long, or we’ll eat everything again.” He says, before giving his usual exaggerated version of the formal salute and practically bolting in the direction of Balin’s meeting place.
Thorin sags, letting out a slow breath and running his hand over his forehead, just under the edge of his crown. It’s like a twisted version of one of his dreams, and all he can think is….now what?
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Barrels. Only Bilbo Baggins would think of something as madly brilliant as barrels. Thorin is bruised and soaked, the new battering only highlighting how sore he is from weeks locked away in the damp dungeons. There are small pricks of pain in his hands and arms, splinters most likely, and his muscles scream in protest as he steers his barrel through the slow water towards the shore where the others are gathering.
He counts up all the barrels, eyes darting from one head to another. Of course Bilbo hadn’t actually thought to get into one himself, that would have been far too sensible! And Bilbo bloody Baggins was only sensible if it gave him a reason to chew someone else's head off.
But even in the rapid churning water foaming all around them, Thorin was able to catch glimpses of the halfling clinging to one of the barrels. Bilbo had gone through that cursed forest, avoided capture by the elves, survived, undetected, in the Woodland Realm for weeks; he certainly is strong enough to come out of the end of their escape.
But there isn’t a sign of a red coat, or a thatch of short curly hair among the barrels steering to the rocks.
“Where’s the halfling?” He croaks, winces, then shouts louder when no one hears him. “Where’s Bilbo?”
A few heads turn in his direction, Nori pauses in pulling his Ori from the water and shrugs, frowning out at the river.
He had to be around here, he was just with them a few moments ago! Thorin scrambles out of his barrel, aches forgotten, heart pounding in his chest.
“Bilbo!”
No, no Bilbo only couldn’t hear him. Or he was already up on shore, waving his hand muttering about Thorin worrying too much. Thorin struggles through the bitingly cold, knee-deep water, nearly running into Dwalin’s barrel.
“Bilbo!” This time he can feel the shout tearing at his throat, his voice was already strained from the shouting during the orc attacks. But he needs Bilbo to hear him, needs to hear something back.
Kili wasn’t able to avoid injury, and there had been such chaos during their escape. Arrows and blades everywhere, barrels smashing into rocks. Crashing against the sharp riverstones, with Bilbo clinging to the outside of one. Easily lost in the churning white water. It would have been impossible to see if he went under then.
No. No he could not allow himself to think it. He just needs to get to higher ground, needs to get up to where he can see better. The thought has barely entered his mind when Thorin’s nearly falling back into the water in his haste to climb out onto the rocks, still screaming Bilbo’s name on the chance he’ll hear an answer.
There’s nothing but the voices of dwarves, and the bubbling of the river. Not a sign anywhere. He could have been hit with an arrow, could have been struck by one of the axes, even knocked into the water by the damned elf prince hopping around!
“Thorin! The river!”
Thorin does not take the time to see who’s shouting, he spins around and looks back at the water. And- there! Another barrel floating with a small cluster of empty ones. And clinging to it, soaked and coughing, fingers digging desperately into the joints of the wood, was Bilbo.
“Bilbo! Over here!”
Bilbo looks up, then yelps when the barrel rolls and he scrabbles at it to stay afloat. “Yes- yes I can see that!”
“Then get over here!” Dwalin bellows, “Before someone,” he looks at Thorin, who ignores him, “has a heart attack!”
“Ah- problem. There is uh- a slight - ah- problem. With that plan.” The barrel tips again, and Bilbo very nearly goes under the water, spluttering and gasping as he clutches at the barrel like it’s life. “Definitely a problem.”
A memory strikes Thorin, just some offhand comment Bilbo made as they sat around the fire near some creek, watching others leap wildly into the water.
He can’t swim.” Thorin says faintly, then again when every implication of that fact crashes in all at once. “He can’t swim! Iklifumun !” He spits the curse angrily, throwing it at every elf, orc, and foolhardy halfling that got them into this mess!
The water is ice, and hardly noticed when he dives back in, snarling curses in westron in khuzdul alike. “Hold on! Stay still you damned-”
"Try telling the current that!” Bilbo snaps back, and the next startled yelp, cut off by another wet coughing fit, drives the retort from Thorin’s mind.
There is a lot more shouting, curses and half-panicked snapping that gets garbled with swells of water and Bilbo’s floundering. It is not the most romantic or dashing rescue, and Thorin is still snarling when he grabs Bilbo off the barrel by the scruff of his coat. Thorin drags Bilbo back onto the shore, pulling him in and away a little from the curious eyes of the rest of the Company.
They’re all here, they all came out alive. Bilbo is standing bedraggled and looking like a drowned cat, but whole enough to mutter protests when Thorin can’t stop his hands shaking as they pat Bilbo over. He is fine. He is here and with no injuries, yet Thorin can’t bring himself to let go.
Bilbo doesn’t exactly make any attempts to pull away, though he does flap his hands at Thorin and huff in annoyance. “Thorin really, I’m fine! Just a bit of a dip. Needed a bath, to be honest. Though I could have done with it being a tad warmer.”
“What were you thinking!?” Thorin hisses, fingers curling into the sleeves of Bilbo’s soaked red coat. “Throwing everyone in the river when you can’t swim?!”
“Well, that’s what the barrels are for.” Bilbo says patiently.
“Only if you’re in the thrice damned barrel!” Thorin shouts back, forgetting for a moment that there may be orcs tracking them. “You can’t swim, and you decided to throw yourself right into a river after-”
“I didn’t throw myself in so much as fall. And that is besides the point! We’re all here, are we not? We’re all out of the dungeons! We’re all far away and no one drowned, so as far as I’m concerned-”
“You damn well nearly drowned! If I hadn’t dragged you out of that river…”
“Well, good thing I can count on you to drag me out of any rivers in the future then.” Bilbo shrugs, then coughs, shivering in the breeze, and Thorin can’t stop himself from pulling him into a tight embrace. It’s a testament to how adjusted Bilbo is to dwarves that his only reaction is a slightly protesting “oof” and a few incoherent grumbles.
"If you could find ways to save all of our skins without throwing yourself into an insane scheme in the future, I would be much obliged.”
Bilbo snorts, for once not squirming away from the excess contact. He tucks himself further against Thorin’s chest, and it’s only when he shivers again that Thorin realizes he must be freezing. “Stop getting everyone into stupid situations, and I won’t have to. Problem solved! However, seeing as we’re heading to a mountain with a dragon in it, I’m afraid we’ll both just have to strap up and make do.”
The words should sting, and they sound eerily similar to the thoughts that have kept Thorin awake for many of the nights spent in Mirkwood. But Bilbo pulls away (much to Thorin's disappointment) with a small, but honest curve of a smile and a wink, and Thorin only chuckles and shakes his head.
"We can not linger here." He admits, the relief of everyone alive and accounted for whisked away with the knowledge that they are in no way safe. Turning from Bilbo, he looks out over the ragged and soaked Company. They're miserable and half drowned, but they're alive.
"We have two minutes! Then we move!"
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Back in the solitude and safety of his room, Thorin leans his forehead against the thick wood of his door, ignores the edge of the crown digging into his skull, and breathes slowly.
He can not hide away forever, but he can at least take some time to settle himself.
Foolish, to think Bilbo would never return at all. Bilbo had his friends, the rest of the Company, even Bard.
Perhaps this was a second chance, in a way. Not for the marriage and life together that Thorin longed for, but for some scrap of affection at least. It would be just like Bilbo to seek out the remains of the friendship they had shared.
The friendship Thorin spent over a year thinking was something else. Over a year deluding himself into thinking the smiles, the jokes, the little moments, all had the weight of a future together. While to Bilbo it was nothing more than a friendship. And perhaps Bilbo honestly hoped to return to what they had been. That they could move past what had simply been an awkward moment and everything would be fine. Back to business as usual.
Thorin was well adjusted to the idea of never seeing Bilbo again. A life without Bilbo seemed far preferable to a life with a Bilbo kept just out of reach, held behind a wall of polite smiles and friendly talk.
‘ It is not a life. ’ Thorin reminds himself forcefully. ‘It is a visit. And you can not hold a visit against him any more than you can hold your own mistakes against him. ’
No, he could not hold any of this against Bilbo. And he could not spend the entire time hiding away in his room, waiting for Bilbo to return home.
He is King. This is his realm, his home, and he will not make any friend of his feel unwelcome here. Even if the word ‘friend’ feels like dry coal in his mouth.
Taking one last deep breath, Thorin feels his resolve grow stronger. He could do this, would do this. He could face Bilbo and at least pretend that he held on to nothing but the friendship they once had. He would not force any more of his true feelings on Bilbo, would not make Bilbo face that again.
It’s a resolve that carries him through the mountain, hard and determined. It feels like an armor cloaking him as he marches through the stone halls. It lasts him until he ducks down the narrow corridor leading to the small banquet room Balin has set up for the impromptu welcome party.
It lasts until he actually hears Bilbo’s voice.
"-wasn't here for that."
Thorin stops in the narrow corridor, closing his eyes, hand pressed to the cool and solid stone just before the doorway. Bilbo sounds just the same, voice untouched by a raven's crackle. Light and clear, and for a moment with his eyes shut against the stone walls and carved doorway, Thorin could almost hear the crackle of a campfire, the wind in trees and the scrape of wooden spoons and bowls.
"But you're here now!" Bofur cheers, and Thorin's eyes open to the mountain. His kingdom. It is strange, he thinks distantly, slowly stepping towards the doorway, how he has much more than he did in those days of hurried travels and open camps. He is a king in his own right now, standing in the thriving mountain that was won with this company and has grown in his rule. Thorin in so many ways is steadier than he had been, a little more sure of his place here and in the world. Yet he longs for those days in a way, for all that he was always plagued by doubt and the weight of the quest and all that stood upon it.
At least then, he felt sure about his place with Bilbo, wrong though he was.
'I am his friend. ' He thinks, stepping into the entryway. 'I can be that much for him. I can have that.'
The hall here is spacious enough, but small for Erebor. Built for private meetings with foreign dignitaries or Kings so words wouldn't echo where they could be easily heard by anyone nearby. Thorin has had a few awkward and tense meals with Bard in here, to talk over trade agreements and supplies for their rapidly growing kingdoms. Now his company is crammed into it, with a table heaped with rapidly prepared platters of whatever breads and meats that Balin could acquire on such short notice. With grinning faces, they each slowly fall silent as they spot him.
And then there's Bilbo.
Standing at the head of the table, back to Thorin. He looks like he's put some weight back on in the Shire, no longer a half starved and bedraggled hobbit. There's a glow of sun on the back of his neck and on the skin of his forearms exposed by the rolled up sleeves of a travel worn, but clean shirt.
He falls silent, and turns to face Thorin, expression guarded and hopeful, and it is all lost.
Thorin is caught, caught in the way the multitude of candles hits Bilbo's hair that was never quite brown or gold. The soft lines of his face, the nervous twitch of the corner of his thin lips trying for a strained and small smile, eyes dark as pools within caverns, taking in Thorin's appearance. Thorin never really saw him within the mountain, he realizes. The entire time he was blinded, first by the wild rush of fighting the dragon, and then by his own mind. He never truly saw Bilbo standing in his halls, a creature of green and sunlight in walls of fire and stone.
“Thorin.” Bilbo says gently. A single word, nothing more than a name with a small and tentative smile, a real one now, starting to grow on Bilbo’s lips.
‘We are friends. Do not stare.’ Thorin swallows, his arms crossed tight in front of him.
“Master Baggins.” It’s almost easier this way, falling back on formal titles. Master Baggins is the gentlehobbit who lives in the Shire, who mainly concerns himself with gardening and what he will cook for his next meal. It is easier to be friends with this hobbit than it is with Bilbo. “I hope your journey went well.”
“What?” The small smile freezes before it can become more than a twitch “I. Yeah. Yeah it was alright. A lot less exciting this time around, but I’m not complaining.” The smile attempts to come back, but Thorin can see the confused and concerned furrow between Bilbo’s brows, the tense lines around his eyes.
“Of course.” He nods stiffly, before mentally kicking himself. A joke, Bilbo was trying to make a friendly joke. That should be acknowledged with at least something more than a nod. But the moment passes, and a tense silence settles in behind it.
Bilbo shuffles nervously on his feet, looking around while Thorin cannot stop looking at him. There’s a small, faint line of color along the collar of Bilbo’s shirt from long days on the road here. Sting sits comfortably on his hip, no longer an awkward addition but now as a part of Bilbo’s attire as his cravat and waistcoat. Thorin feels the eyes of his company on them both, feels the tension in the air, and his mind fills the silence with every question he cannot ask.
‘Why did you come back?’
‘Why did you have to leave?’
‘Was I so horrible that you truly could not wait to get away from me?’
‘Why did you stay when I was mad, when I tried to kill you? Why did you leave when I was in my own mind again and said I loved you?’
‘How could you not know that I loved you?’
‘Did you keep the mithril? Was it sold to the first high bidder? Was it the unfortunate relic reminding you of the mad dwarf king who tried to bind you with it?’
‘Did you think of me?’
‘Did you dream of me? Did I haunt the dreams or the nightmares?’
‘Can you stay? As friends, as anything you want, any way you’ll have me. Just as long as you stay.’
‘Leave. Leave me in peace. Let me live comfortable knowing that you are too far away, out of reach.’
‘Could you let me try again? Can you stay and let me start over? Let me try again just once. With as much time as you need. Let me try, now that you know that I am trying. I will go as slow as you need. I will be as clear as you need. Anything you need. I promise I will not shove things at you again. Let me try again without a dragon and death overhanging us, let me woo you as a king.’
“Ah, Thorin-”
‘Stay...’ Thorin thinks, and at the same moment realizes that he can not do this. Not now. Not when it has all come at him so quickly. Not when Bilbo went from something lost forever to being here, just out of reach, in front of him and giving him that distantly polite smile without a whisper of warning.
“You will excuse me.” Thorin says quickly, controlling his tone, his posture, everything. He can not remember the last time he has had to hold himself under such control. He needs to leave. He needs to get space and work his mind around this new world where Bilbo is here and they are nothing more than polite friends, where Bilbo stands as nothing but a guest within his halls..
“I’m afraid I can not linger for long. My apologies, Master Baggins, there’s much to be done still. It’s--.” Thorin stops, lost for words again. It is not a feeling he is used to, and usually Bilbo is the cause. It is good to see you again. I think of you at least once a day. Having you here like this is torture. Never leave. “It’s good to have you visiting.” He says finally, and he can’t call his leaving anything other than an escape.
---------------------------
“So...that’s it then? Open the door, sneak in, get the Arkenstone, kill the dragon with a lot of angry dwarves?”
Thorin nearly snorts. Trust Bilbo to put what sounded in Thorin’s mind like a solid plan, and make it sound like childish nonsense. If it were not for the fact that he is used to Bilbo’s singular talent in turning the direst circumstances into flippant quips, Thorin would be more concerned. The combination of the wine, the sight of Erebor, and the fact that Bilbo has not noticed their thighs pressed together - or, even better, has noticed and hasn’t done anything to separate them - coalesces into a warm blanket of exhilaration, keeping the usual storm of doubts far from his mind.
"There is much to do afterwards.” He admits. “Erebor is in ruins, and the rebuilding alone could take decades, depending on how deep the dragon has dug itself in. We would need to establish ourselves, make a settlement that could last and grow. Most importantly, I would need to bring my kin here and establish my line as King. There’s much to be done, before I can say this is finished.” It’s a daunting task, overwhelmingly so. But currently not quite so daunting as the dragon. As Bilbo would likely say, it is best to keep focused on the most immediate threats to life and limb.
Bilbo squints his face up a bit, looking down and tapping his fingers on his goblet, and Thorin tries not to be too obvious in watching the thoughts work through the hobbit’s mind.
Thorin just admitted how much work there would need to be, how much this really required. Bilbo was only signed on as a burglar and his contract would be fulfilled as soon as he obtained the arkenstone. Thorin is sure...almost entirely sure...mostly sure, of what they are to each other. Mostly. But Bilbo thinks for a while, and Thorin starts preparing himself. Start’s bracing for the ‘well glad I won’t have to deal with all that mess then’ or ‘I’m sure you’ll be alright with it all’ if Bilbo was feeling supportive.
“Well…” Bilbo starts, and Thorin holds his breath. Then, without warning, without precedent, Bilbo reaches out first and puts a small hand on Thorin’s shoulder. Thorin goes still, heart pounding. It is such a small gesture, stiff by dwarf standards. But from Bilbo, nervous, reserved Bilbo who tolerates unnecessary touches at best and shoves them off at worse, it’s almost…
From Bilbo, this is practically a declaration. Spoken in the slight pressure and great warmth seeping from Bilbo’s palm through to Thorin’s skin. Thorin’s body stays mostly angled towards the window, almost afraid to move, as if he’ll frighten Bilbo away if he does anything too sudden.
“Well,” Bilbo starts again, looking up at Thorin with full eyes and a smile so small it would be missed if one had not spent months memorizing how Bilbo’s face works. “I signed on to this, and I’ll see it to the end. I may have just been taken on as a burglar, but I want to see it finished.”
Right there, Thorin very nearly throws all hesitation to the wind. That he could say what all would be involved in truly completing this quest, and that Bilbo still wanted to stay to the end…
Thorin is hardly thinking when he puts his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, thumb brushing against the jumping pulse in Bilbo’s neck, and leans down to press their foreheads together. By now Bilbo has seen the gesture enough times to know the importance and weight behind it.
Bilbo does not pull away, and Thorin closes his eyes, letting himself feel.
They would get through this. They had to get through this. There was much to be done, and Bilbo would stay to the end. Bilbo, who is solid and warm before him, breath warm on Thorin’s face, soft curls of his strangely short hair brushing Thorin’s forehead. Bilbo is here, and Bilbo will stay.
“When this is finished, when it’s all done,” Thorin says quietly, “we will have much to discuss, you and I.”
---------------------
Once more, before Thorin fully registers where he is going, he finds himself on the ramparts.
This is not the same wall that he stood on only a year ago, caught in a blazing haze of rage and loss. It is not even the same stone. The old rubble of that wall was scattered into the river and then removed to be broken and recarved into some other use, somewhere else in the mountain. It has been comforting, to know all the stones that witnessed his actions there were scattered and broken for new purposes.
That thought is little comfort to him now, not with Bilbo back within the mountain, whole and happy, just out of reach.
Even now, on these new stones, Thorin looks down and can feel rough cloth and mithril bunched in his fist, a rapid heartbeat pounding against his palm. He can hear the small, terrified sound and see dark eyes staring up at him in confusion. A single pair of eyes that struck him heavier than the hundreds upon hundreds of sets watching him, a quiet sound louder than all the shouting of his kin.
He has apologized, again and again, and each time felt like a trivial spec compared to the magnitude of his actions. Each time, Bilbo forgave him, because that is what Bilbo does. He would bring up the time Thorin burned everyone’s dinner a thousand and more times, but nearly being killed is waved away with a nervous smile and shrug. In a hobbit’s mind, burning food was the far greater sin.
If he were not listening for it, he would have missed the sound of bare feet on stone, slowly approaching from behind him.
A lifetime ago, a year ago, just yesterday? Time is a confused thing, and the memory of Bilbo’s head and shoulders held over the sheer drop of a wall, of hands gripping Thorin's arms and shoulders from all sides, always feels like a bad dream, and yet all too real at the same time.
“I remember it all.” He says, breaking the tense silence. There’s a scuff on the stone behind him, then Bilbo comes up along the ramparts. Well out of arm’s reach, Thorin notes.
“Yes.” Bilbo says stiffly, with his usual odd sniff as he looks out over the wall. “Yes. Well, I like this wall a great deal more. It’s nicer.”
Bilbo keeps a distance, leaning on the wall, but tense as he stares out towards Dale. And with him here, the memories are only sharper. It was a colder wind then, though Thorin hardly remembers that. All he can recall is the heat that consumed him and filled his thoughts. The heat that sparked into a white inferno when Bilbo stood against him.
“I’m sorry.”
It comes out quieter than he intended, and he has said it already, but still feels as if he has not said it enough. “I’m so sorry. For all of it. For all the things I said. For-”
“Thorin, it’s alright.” Bilbo interrupts. “It’s really…” He trails off then, and a hard lump forms in Thorin’s throat, sinks down into his belly, and sits like a stone. It is not alright. It never was. Thorin has built a kingdom, has done everything he set to do when he left Ered Luin. It still feels like nothing compared to the day he raised his hand to Bilbo.
“ I’m sorry.” Bilbo sighs. So soft that Thorin nearly does not hear it. It scatters Thorin’s thoughts, and before he can gather them enough to ask what in this earth Bilbo could apologize for, the halfling continues. “Whatever my reasons were, I betrayed you. And I didn’t...it wasn’t what I wanted. That was the hardest thing I did, and a few times I had been so close to giving it to you, just because I knew how badly you wanted it. I never wanted to betray you. Handing that stone over was-. I knew I was hurting you and I couldn’t-”
“You did what was needed.” Thorin interrupts before Bilbo can continue. The betrayal still hurts. The fact that what was needed was his love hiding and going behind his back never lost it’s bitterness, but he does not want to hear apologies for something that he knows he needed. He can not take apologies when he was the one at fault, even if something eases in his chest when Bilbo says it. Even if there is some deep part of him, something sharp and hard that never had anything to do with gold, that relaxes at the apology. “You were right, not to give it to me, to take it away and know not to follow me into death and ruin. You were the only one who saw what was best for the company, for me. Your only mistake was coming back after you did it. You always-”
You always come back. And each time, it takes Thorin’s breath away. Ever since Bilbo ran up waving the contract like a banner of victory, leaving Thorin dumbfounded as the question came to him for the first time. Why? Why does he always come back? Why was he here now? “My apologies.” Thorin says, before any of the questions can escape. “These shouldn’t be the sort of memories you dwell on during your stay.”
Silence falls, hard and heavy. He can hear the smallest tap of Bilbo’s fingers on the stone, and can feel the space between them tug at his skin.
Why. Why are you here. Why are you in Erebor? Why did you follow me out here, when your friends are waiting with warmth and light and food? Why do you torment me? Why did you come? Why did you come back?
“Where…” Bilbo breaks the silence stiffly, then stops, fingers tapping nervously on the stone. “Where is it now? The arkenstone?”
The hesitance in his voice makes Thorin wince inwardly, though he has no trouble answering the question.
“Deep. It is back down in the depths of the mountain. Sealed within a tomb dedicated to those who lost their lives in this place.” Lost to his folly, by his need for that same stone. All the facts that Thorin had pushed himself from for the past year.
Bilbo nods. “Good. That, that’s good. It’s a good place for it.”
Silence again. And Thorin can feel the tension in the air, thick and potent, making his skin crawl with the awareness of it. Bilbo is watching him, he is aware of that much, but he cannot bring himself to look back. Looking back at Bilbo makes him more real, more solidly here, more out of reach. How long will he need to endure this? How long will it take until friendship settles back into something palatable?
“Thorin-” Bilbo’s voice is closer, Thorin had not noticed him approaching. And there’s something softer, more intimate in his voice. Ah yes, of course they would talk about it. Or Bilbo would try. Try to talk about where they stand, about the forced and ruined proposal, about the feelings Thorin projected into their relationship.
All the things Thorin does not want to drag out and lay bare again. Especially when he knows how gentle Bilbo will be, how kindly he will tell Thorin how much his friendship is valued.
“How long will you be visiting us?” Thorin asks quickly, before it can start, wanting to know how much time he has to adjust.
“What?”
“You are always...you can stay as long as you like.” Bilbo is staring at him hard. So hard that Thorin can feel the gaze boring into him as he looks at some fixed point at the fields. If he continues talking, Bilbo can be distracted by niceties, and hopefully any talks about the value of friendship can be shoved well down. “I will have Balin arrange a place for you, if you wish to spend your time in Erebor. It may be wise to wait until the spring, when it will be easier to cross the mountains back to the Shi-”
“You idiot!” Bilbo shouts, and it is so unexpected that the sound makes Thorin jolt. His head whips around to stare in surprise, and finds Bilbo closer than he expected. And, another surprise, Bilbo is livid.
“You absolute idiot! I can’t believe-” Bilbo stops, shaking his head and throwing his hands up in Thorin’s direction, as if he cannot articulate Thorin’s apparent idiocy. Thorin had nearly forgotten this side of Bilbo and the sudden switches Bilbo could make from his polite talk and little questions, to the spitting angry thing in front of Thorin now. And how Bilbo tended to snap from one to the other for no discernible reason, such as now.
“What?” Thorin asks, hesitant, wondering what offense he has given this time, feeling horrendously off balance.
“You-!” Bilbo shouts, waving his hands towards Thorin again, in case Thorin was incapable of understand who ‘you’ was. “Why do you think I came back? Why do you think I hitched myself up to a bunch of dwarvish merchants and spent months coming all the way back to this bloody mountain!?”
“I don’t-?” Thorin can think of several reasons that Bilbo would return, and none of them warrant all this yelling. To see his friends? To visit a place that had been a large part of his life? Perhaps, as it seems now, because he had forgotten some argument with Thorin, and had found a few more points that needed to be made?
“You’re a king! You’re supposed to be able to catch onto things! You absolute moron! A visit!” Bilbo nearly spits the word ‘visit’, yanking aside the collar of his shirt.. “A visit! Really?!”
Bilbo is making no sense. What was wrong with a visit? What was there-
And Thorin sees it. Moonlight and torchlight catching on silvery white metal. The world sharpens, then blurs as everything focuses on the unmistakable shine of mithril. Without thinking, his mind flipping through countless questions at once, Thorin reaches out and takes a bit of Bilbo’s shirt collar in his fingers, tugging it down and showing the bright linking rings with the diamond studded collar.
(Art by Rutobuka)
“Why do you think I came back?” Bilbo asks, the rage replaced with a light touch of laughter that sends Thorin’s heart up into his throat. It feels as if the fever from his wounds has returned, leaving him shivery and warm and floating and heavy all at once as the world moves slowly around him. He is more aware of the movement by his hand than of the sight of Bilbo shaking his head, more aware of the vibrations as Bilbo chuckles. “You complete, utter, incredible moron.”
A grounded section of Thorin’s mind notes that only Bilbo could say ‘complete, utter, incredible moron’ with all the softness of a wedding vow. He looks up into Bilbo’s face.
It is a face he has only seen in his dreams as of late. Dark eyes warm and open, eyebrows up making familiar furrows in Bilbo’s forehead, and a crooked twist of a smile so full of fond exasperation that Thorin can only look for a few moments before he yanks his eyes back to the mithril. The mithril that Bilbo kept, that Bilbo wears here and now in the mountain, fully knowing why it had been given to him.
“I just needed to think!” Bilbo sighs, and Thorin watches in a distant fascination as the rise and fall of Bilbo’s chest makes the mithril catch the light. “Thorin, I needed to actually think! Away from all the pressure here! I had no idea that you- that there was all that. I’d never dared to hope for any of that! You’re-. Well you’re you! You’re Thorin Oakenshield, the king and warrior and everything else you’ve become. I’m just-”
“Bilbo.” Thorin finishes, though he does not see how Bilbo could be Bilbo in a way that deserves a ‘just’ before it.
Bilbo stops short with a nervous swallow, and takes a few moments before he begins to speak again. There’s a shift that Thorin barely registers, his attention still entirely on the mithril. The mithril is safer, somehow. If he looks too long anywhere else, he may awake. But then there’s a warm hand wrapping around his, holding him holding onto Bilbo’s shirt. Bilbo’s fingers drift lightly over the back of his hand, growing more solid as they wind over Thorin’s knuckles and grip in a way that is far too real.
“Yeah. Yeah that. Look this-” Bilbo stops again, takes a deep breath and settles himself. “This is mad and irregular,” he goes on succinctly, and it is such a Bilbo thing to say that Thorin looks up then. “But you kind of make me do mad and irregular things pretty...well...pretty regularly. I-”
The words drift in syllable by syllable, slowly coming together in Thorin’s mind. The air is cool around them, Bilbo’s fingertips cracked from the journey, his shirt dirty, and none of this is a dream. There was a serious discussion happening, not once has Bilbo used the word ‘friendship’, and instead of calmly gentle and nervous, Bilbo is stammering and huffing and turning a deep shade of pink.
“I. Ok. I’m for it. Alright? The- the marriage. That whole thing. That idea. I’m. Yes. Yeah. I-you...I love you. Alright?”
Bilbo is still talking, but those words stick and start repeating in Thorin’s mind. Within his dreams, waking or sleeping, he has heard it many times, imagined a million different ways Bilbo could say it. In life it comes out rushed and breathless, as if they were shoved out in a hurry before Bilbo could think better of it.
‘I love you ’ repeats again and again as Thorin memorizes the exact way Bilbo said it. Not sweet and soft or gentle, but in a way that was entirely Bilbo.
“And I did before but I had to get my head around the fact that that wasn’t a bad thing and that you were actually a thing that I could- Yeah. So I came back for that. Because I want-. That wasn’t home anymore. And I’m thinking this could be. A home. With you. If you-”
Home.
The word punches the air from Thorin’s lungs, and he is aware in some way that he makes a sound, though he does not really hear it. There is not much that Thorin knows in that moment except for the need to have Bilbo closer. To feel him solid. Here and wanting a home with Thorin.
With a shift and a gentle pull, Thorin brings Bilbo closer, and Bilbo steps in easily, closing the distance between them and tilting his head forward as Thorin rests their foreheads together. Even through the thick layers of his clothes and cloak, he feels the light pressure of Bilbo’s hands holding his arms grounding him where he stands.
How long the loose embrace lasts, Thorin can not say. Even long years later he will say it felt like a few seconds stretched into hours. There is no speaking, no sound except their breath and the snap of wind through pennants on the ramparts.
He would have thought that his heart would be pounding hard and fast, and it is beating hard in his ears, but there is no rush. It feels as if a tense pressure has released it’s hold within his chest, a tightness that had become such a part of life that Thorin was not aware of it until now as it melts away. There’s his own heart beating, calm and slow and steady, and Bilbo leaning into him.
The skin on the back of Bilbo’s neck feels like a gentle furnace on Thorin’s palm, and soft curls of hair brush against his knuckles. While longer than before, it still seems strangely short to Thorin, who wonders what it would feel like to card the short curls through his fingers.
It is the realization that he could, possibly, do that which jolts him out of the trance. Not just possibly. Probably. If Bilbo wanted to marry him, then that is very likely something he could do. And perhaps…
“Bilbo…” Thorin says quietly, a decision already solidifying, making his calm heart start to beat faster, ““I am going to kiss you now, and I would prefer if I not get yelled at for it this time.”
He is glad that he has his eyes open, and can therefore see the wide and shaky grin on Bilbo’s face. “I’ll yell at me if you don’t kiss me you utter-”
That is all Thorin needs. Whatever Bilbo was going to call him can wait, can wait until tomorrow or the day after, or the week after, or the year after. Thorin cups Bilbo’s face between his palms, taking only a breaths time to savor the soft skin and way Bilbo tilts his head up with bright eyes, before he ducks his head down and presses their lips together.
Now his heart will not settle, and he never wants it to. As Bilbo grips his arms, Thorin swears that his hands blazes through the layers of fur, leather, and wool. The distance between them closes, not by a move from either one of them, but like the pull between a lodestone and solid iron, an irresistible tug as their heads tilt to allow for the deeper kiss. A piece inside Thorin settles back into place, completing something that he had thought was lost, that he had only dared to dream of before.
And he knows that for as long as he lives past this moment, this is a kiss he will not forget.
-----------
The wind is far more bitter up here, and Thorin feels it all the more now for the heat that has guttered out in his heart. There are only grim glances exchanged between him and Dwalin as they look out over the notably empty landscape.
Where are they?
Thorin stalks across the ice covered stone, muscles hard and tense as he glares down around the crumbled stone of Ravenhill. There are too many places to hide, and it is too quiet, and Dwalin hovers by his back, a solid wall of support.
Already another plan is forming in his mind. Azog wants him, and will likely want him separated. As soon as Fili and Kili return he can send them to relay information to Dáin, and Dwalin…
Hopefully he will be able to separate from Dwalin at some point in the chaos of battle. And what comes after will come.
But first he needs to know where the filth is. There is a strange sound just under the wind, like a gust of air hitting something.
“Thorin!”
Thorin spins around hard, not daring to believe what his ears tell him.
And there stands Bilbo, doubled over and gasping for breath.
“Bilbo!”
Thorin can not keep the shock from his voice, or the relief that he did not expect to feel. He had been so certain that his last memory of Bilbo would be of fear and hate and a fire in his mind that would not block out the terrified sounds and hurt stare looking at him. But Bilbo was back here, after everything, alive and....why was he here? Why was he not already miles away, away from the ice and iron and blood?
Thorin moves forward without thinking, the cold forgotten. All that he wants is to clutch Bilbo to him, to feel him solid and warm and say again and again how sorry he is.
Bilbo steps back and to the side as he steps closer, holding an arm out, and Thorin stops. The cold returns, more bitter than before. He does not think Bilbo will ever let him come within an easy arms reach ever again, and he does not blame the halfling in the slightest.
‘I did not mean…’ He thinks, but Bilbo speaks before he can force the words out.
“We have to leave here! Now!” Bilbo gasps, staggering up to stand with them. “Azog has another army coming in from the north, this tower will be surrounded!”
Plans dissolve and reform. If Bilbo has not left, then Thorin can not let himself die here and now. Not yet.
There is too much to be said to leave it to chance now.
----------
The cold returns, hard and bitter through his clothes as if he were wearing nothing but his own skin in the ice. It is a scene that has replayed countless times, though in this moment of the dream it feels as if he is truly back on Ravenhill with his boots sliding on the frozen river.
Azog leers before him, somehow always fresh to the battle, while Thorin feels every cut, every ache, every bruise down to his bones. With each swing of his sword, his shoulders scream and his arms shake. He rolls up across the ice and is certain with each dodge that he will not be able to get up the next time. It goes on and on, Azog laughing and never tiring, never showing any of the blows Thorin lands as he swings the flail of stone around as if it were a toy on a string.
This battle will go forever, he knows. It already has. Centuries will pass and he will still be in this winter, on the ice, struggling to keep fighting for another second while his body threatens to crumble.
“Give up.” Azog grins, speaking his dark language, though Thorin can understand every word perfectly now. “You have nothing left. You will fail your kingdom again, you will fail and be remembered for nothing else. Just like your father. Just like your grandfather.”
Ice cracks under him as Thorin throws himself to the side, a rib screaming in protest as he lands and Azog laughs.
“Give up.”
He can not give up. Can not give in to the pain and exhaustion. It would be easy to give in to it. And the temptation is there to shut his eyes and let the dark peace pull him away. To not push himself up the next time he needs to fling himself onto the ice. There would be relief, perhaps warmth, a welcome finality to it all.
“I can not...” It feels less like defiance and more like a tired, pained confession. “I -”
The stone hits him in the middle, ribs crack, the icy air hits lungs even as they collapse and-
Warmth rushes in after the cold, and Thorin sucks the warmth into his chest as he wakes. He takes a few moments to simply lay there and breath, to be sure that his lungs are whole. It is not until the mattress shifts and dips that Thorin realizes his is not alone, and he opens his eyes.
Bilbo frowns down at him from where he is propped up on one elbow, brow furrowed and folded, hair mussed in the firelight and mouth a tense line. Another night, like every other night. How many times has it been now, that Thorin wakes from one nightmare into another? How many times has Bilbo looked down at him like this and asked “Why didn’t you just give up? I gave up on you long ago.”
And this time Thorin is just...tired. Tired in every bone in his body, spirit drained away. Bilbo’s fingertips brush over his face, pushing back a lock of hair, and Thorin shuts his eyes to the pained exhaustion, hoping to force himself awake.
“Thorin…”
“I know.” Thorin grits, willing himself to finish waking up, or to fall back into the ice and pain, or the fire and gold. Either is preferable to this right now.
“Know? Know what? I haven’t said anything.”
That is not right. Thorin frowns and opens his eyes, looking up as Bilbo frowns back at him with a puzzled tilt of his head.
“Bilbo…”
“Are you alright? You started thrashing in your sleep. Was it wrong to wake you?” Bilbo asks, fingertips curled to rest his knuckles at Thorin’s temple, thumb moving in slow, careful strokes over where Thorin knows a scar from Azog slices his forehead. Hand shaking, Thorin reaches up and wraps his fingers around Bilbo’s.
“You are here…” He breathes, memories starting to come back as he wakes more. The ramparts, the kiss, more kisses, the heated rush to the rooms and laughter as clothes hit the floor. Laughter as their lips met and hands explored.
Bilbo’s nose wrinkles up and twitches. “Of course I’m here. Where else would I be? Especially in the middle of the bloody night after- well. I’m certainly not going anywhere else.” The last bit is said defiantly, as if Bilbo would be challenged on this.
With a sharp exhale that pulls all the air from his lungs, Thorin practically topples towards Bilbo until his face is pressed to the soft chest and Bilbo’s free arm settles on his shoulders.
“Thorin?” Bilbo asks gently, hand moving in slow circles between Thorin’s shoulder blades. It is such a simple, intimate touch that takes Thorin apart more than all the desperate grasping did before.
“I am not well…” Thorin admits, teeth gritted around it.
There’s a pause, where Thorin focuses on the sound of Bilbo breathing and the heartbeat against his forehead. The hand on his back pulls him in closer, and moves in steadying strokes of Bilbo’s palm.
“You don’t mean the battle wounds, do you?” Bilbo asks, voice so soft. Thorin shuts his eyes and gives a slow shake of his head.
“There are nights, most nights, where everything is either ice or fire. And always blood and gold.”
‘ And you.’ Thorin thinks, but does not want to say, not when Bilbo is here now.
Another pause, where Thorin lets himself feel Bilbo around him, letting the silence settle him. When Bilbo speaks again, it is a soft, gentle cadence that threatens to send Thorin back into sleep.
“You know, I was quite blown off my cart when I saw Dale.”
Thorin’s eyes crack open, and he frowns, puzzling at this new leap that Bilbo’s mind has taken. It is not too concerning however. It is too much of a relief to be once again at the mercy of Bilbo’s odd mind and the strange turns that it takes.
“How so?” Thorin asks, curiosity overwhelming exhaustion.
“How far it's come.” Bilbo goes on. “And Erebor, so much more so. I felt like I must have come to the wrong mountain! Just a year ago there was rubble and loss, chaos as everyone scrambled to figure out where food would come from, how rations would be split among the cities, who would do what.”
“There still is quite a lot of that.” Thorin points out wryly, remembering the latest meeting with King Bard and the resulting arguments on the exchange rate of the trade of farmed food for metalwork.
“Oh I’m sure. But that’s part of the whole kingdom thing, I imagine. But they’re actually kingdoms, not just piles of rock barely held together. Erebor looks like it’s already nearly rebuilt, structurally at least. It doesn’t…”
Bilbo trails off, and Thorin tilts his head to look up without moving himself away from Bilbo at all. The result is a strain on his neck, but entirely worth the effort.
“It doesn’t look like a tomb anymore, and Dale doesn’t look like a battlefield.” Bilbo goes on, and Thorin watches as Bilbo’s eyes glance away, grow distant and squinted in a tense frown. “Sometimes, I still have dreams as well. Dreams where I am running up to Ravenhill forever, with bodies falling around me. Sometimes there’s nothing but dark and the screams of the dying all around, as if I got shoved into a pot with a closed lid in the middle of battle.”
Silence descends again. Bilbo, Thorin decides, is still too far away and frowning too much. It takes only a slight tug at a curl of hair to bring Bilbo back down to where Thorin can curl against his chest and wind an arm around Bilbo’s middle.
“Better?” Bilbo asks with a chuckle, which grows when Thorin only nods. There are a few moments, where Thorin has an odd sense of having been here before, curled against Bilbo’s front as hands gently card through his hair.
“What I guess I’m trying to get at.” Bilbo starts again, the words both coming from above Thorin’s head and pressed as low vibrations against his ear to Bilbo’s chest, “Is that this place is alive again. I could see it so clearly against all my memories of the pain and loss. There’s life and healing and movement forward. There are still some piles of rubble, some bare areas of the mountain and, I imagine, there are some scars that will never go away. There will always be some memories of what happened.”
Thorin has the distinct feeling that Bilbo is not entirely speaking of the stone and ground of the kingdoms, and he tightens his arm around Bilbo’s middle.
“But it is healing, and it has come a very, very long way.” Bilbo goes on, and when Thorin tilts back to crane his neck and look up, it is into Bilbo’s soft, warm twist of a smile. “And even if some scars never fade, I’m all too happy to stay and see how much more growth and life blooms here.”
The silence is shorter this time, and Thorin does not dare break it with words. Instead, he pushes up until his lips brush against Bilbo’s with hardly more pressure than a breath of air. He stays there for a few more moments, in an almost but not quite kiss.
“There is a long way to go…” He warns.
“I’ve already come a long way.” Bilbo answers. “And so have you.”
“I love you.”
“I love you. Now stop being melodramatic and kiss me already.”
And he does.