Archive of Our Own

“You know, Bilbo,” Gandalf says, staring down his nose at Bilbo. 

Sometimes, he really and truly hates their height difference. Hobbits are very respectable for a size, most of the world is simply much too big for them, made for the size of men or elves. Most of the time, he couldn’t be bothered to notice, but the way Gandalf stares at him puts his nerves on edge. 

Or perhaps being handed a sword for the very first time would do that. Though others had scoffed when Bilbo called it a sword, though it was the perfect sword size for him. 

Hobbits don’t tend to handle weapons though, so of course he’s a bit awkward and unsure of how to even secure it around his hips, much less actually do anything with it. 

“Do I know what, Gandalf?” he sighs, a moment later when it appears that Gandalf won’t be completing his half formed thought. 

The old wizard chuckles, as though Bilbo’s irritation is nothing short of amusing to him. Which it more than likely is, considering the befuddling nature of wizards in general. 

“Dwarves can be a strange bunch to get used to, if you’ve never been around them before,” Gandalf continues, ignoring the flat look Bilbo shoots in his direction.

“That’s one way of saying that, I suppose,” Bilbo grumbles. “I think I’d be less welcome visiting Lobelia unannounced, than getting a warm welcome from this lot.” 

“They’re slow to warm to strangers, but once you have the loyalty of a dwarf,” Gandalf voices, leading Bilbo back to their makeshift camp, “it is not something that you will ever go without again. Fiercely loyal, a dwarf.”

Most of the company is already packing it up, leaving it becoming a priority in case more trolls show, despite the likelihood of it being little to none. 

“Fascinating, thank you,” Bilbo says, for lack of anything better to say. 

“Of course, you will have to earn that loyalty,” Gandalf continues, either unaware or simply ignoring Bilbo’s flat look. 

“And how do you suggest I do that?” 

Gandalf hums, a brief noise that Bilbo’s noticed Gandalf only does when he has an answer but he’s not going to spell it out. 

Wizards and their mysteries. Bilbo would have better luck trying to get Thorin to teach him Khuzdul than he would getting a secret out of a wizard before he’s ready to reveal it. 

“Much like hobbits,” Gandalf says, ignoring Bilbo’s scoff that a dwarf would be anything like a hobbit, “they have an appreciation for subtlety, on occasion. I believe hobbits do so with flowers?” 

For a long moment, Bilbo blinks, uncertain on what to say to that. Of course flowers had meanings, especially to hobbits, and even more so when someone wanted to have something said but didn’t have the courage to put it into words. 

“Dwarves tend to use the stones they come from, but here,” Gandalf says, reaching into some hidden pocket of his robes and revealing a handful of very dirty gemstones. “Take these.” 

Covered in dirt and all else, Bilbo really can’t see what he’s even looking at. A couple of gems, perhaps, or crystals. Only one tends to be actually cut into the fashion of rings, but the others look like they’ve come from the ground directly. One looks to be a garnet, but that’s the only color he recognizes. 

“And pray tell,” Bilbo drawls, “what am I supposed to do with this?” 

Gandalf laughs, fully bodied and leaning forward slightly. Bilbo can’t help but stare, half debating on throwing the mismatched rocks right onto the ground. 

“Why, give it to Thorin, perhaps? As a token of… friendship,” Gandalf says, gesturing with his staff at the particularly large rock of the bunch. “Start with that one. Dwarves often give gemstones to their friends. Perhaps it will welcome you on the journey more.” 

He opens his mouth to argue, because dwarves really could be less sensible than this, and Gandalf can’t really compare the language of flowers to this. Flowers can have so many different meanings, especially when paired with others, that couldn’t be the same as these unpolished gems. 

“Move out!”

Gandalf whisks himself away towards his horse before Bilbo can think of anything else to say, leaving the hobbit to scramble back to his pack to make sure it’s not forgotten, and then rush over to Myrtle. 

The gems, unpolished and dirty, get shoved into his pockets without a second thought. They barely weigh anything, a simple thing that escapes his mind a few moments later. Hopefully, they would find another place to rest soon, because all he can think about is actually sleeping for a night, instead of running around from trolls. 

There are too many other things to think about. 

Unlike the rest of the company, Bilbo actually likes Rivendell. 

The calm, tranquil atmosphere feels like a balm to the soul from the recent adventures. Despite thinking he was up for a journey like this, nothing could have really prepared Bilbo for the actual journey. And it had barely started! 

He sighs, digging through his pack to see what might need repairs. The elves had been helpful to him, unlike to the rest of the dwarves whom they held a bit of suspicion for. From their rowdy behavior though, Bilbo could hardly blame them. 

His fingers brush something rough, and he pulls it out without a second thought. One of the gemstones Gandalf handed him sits in his palm, barely shimmering in the light. Bilbo sets down his other things in his pack, walking over to the bathing rooms. 

It takes a moment of hard scrubbing the thing before he can see any sort of shine to it. It looks to be a deep red color, the gem rough and uncut in his hands. He spends a few more minutes cleaning it to the best degree that he can, which really isn’t that good. 

Such a silly thing, but as a token of friendship? Bilbo isn’t even sure that Thorin would like it, much less accept it. He wouldn’t be surprised if Thorin tossed it back in his face. 

That doesn’t stop him from slipping the stone into his pocket and heading out to meet the others. 

It’s already well under way when Bilbo arrives, sliding into the back and taking one of the few available spaces by Thorin. The soon to be king doesn’t look at him, not even glancing at him, and then someone hands him a plate of food, and Bilbo lets his thoughts scatter. 

But still, the red stone in his pocket weighs too much for him to ignore. Like a lead weight meant for fishing, attempting to fall into the depths of his pockets to lure out what lint and other things might be lurking in the dark. 

It’s only when most of the company seems distracted, laughing at Bombur’s breaking of a whole elven bench. He reaches into his pocket, grabbing the gem and holding it out to Thorin. 

“Here,” he says, quietly. Thorin arches a dark brow, and after a long moment, holds his hand out to take it. 

The dwarf doesn’t say anything when Bilbo drops the stone into his calloused palm. It must be nice, having a beard, Bilbo thinks, to partially hide his face from everyone. Bilbo’s own fingers spasm as he shoves them back into his pocket, definitely not thinking about running them over Thorin’s face. 

“Garnet,” Thorin eventually says, voice… odd. 

Is he blushing? 

“Ah,” Bilbo starts, stops, takes a breath. Thorin turns the stone over in his hand, examining it from every angle. “I thought you might like it, if you don’t it’s okay.” 

He has to bite his tongue from speaking more, for assuring that it’s truly not a big deal, that it’s simply an idea he got from Gandalf. It wouldn’t do him any well now to ramble, not when he’s pretty sure Thorin still has a stain of pink on his cheeks under his short beard.

Bilbo starts when he looks up, face flushing. 

Everyone else is staring at them. Some with outright surprise on their faces, Kili and Fili with mischievous grins on their faces, and the rest look amused. 

Oh, what a time to actually wish Gandalf was near. The wizard would say something odd and break the tension, instead of leaving Bilbo alone and wondering if he just committed some horrible dwarvish faux pas. 

“Ah, if you’ll excuse me,” he says, standing and brushing off his pants. “I think I’ll retire for the night.” 

“I’m sure uncle would like to join you,” Kili chimes in, getting an assortment of laughs but a deadly glare from said uncle. 

Bilbo slips out of the room before more jeers can start, feeling like his entire face is on fire and nothing good. 

He probably just made Thorin hate him even more. With a sigh, and the knowledge that certain dwarves probably would make it their mission to harass him in a bit, he takes a right instead of a left to his room, and heads to the gardens instead. 

A night amongst the flowers would do him good. He used to do the same in the Shire, especially in the summer when the nights were at their warmest. 

He settles back amongst the flowers, and has no idea who might come knocking at his room, and falls asleep with the scent of moonflowers in his nose. 

They leave Rivendell too quickly, in too much of a hurry. Bags improperly packed and stuffed full, with everyone’s things mixed in with everything else. Bilbo’s also pretty sure that Nori has stolen quite a fair bit from the elves, and most of their new weight is from things his sticky fingers have grabbed. 

Thorin gives him a strange look when Bilbo pauses to glance back, just for a moment to think about what he’s leaving behind. It’s a rush but not like the rush of leaving Bag End. 

It is not like leaving home, but instead like leaving a safe place to the uncertainty of the future. 

“Master Baggins,” Thorin calls, voice as deep as ever. It’s edged with something else to, a coldness to it that makes Bilbo look back from Rivendell to their leader. “I suggest you keep up.” 

He’s lost his knack for complaining quickly on the journey, so all he does is nod, rejoining the line of dwarves as Thorin falls into space beside him. 

“You have been quite… elusive, Master Baggins,” Thorin says, only when they’ve gone out of sight from Rivendell and the small bit of peace with it as well. 

He tilts his head slightly. “Whatever do you mean, Thorin?” 

A small huff, one Bilbo couldn’t really figure out the meaning of. Dwarves are too different from hobbits to really make assumptions on things they normally put no stock into. 

“I went to your room last night, and you weren’t there.” 

He looks at Thorin finally, fully facing the dwarf. Somehow, they’ve ended up in the back of the group, the rest of the dwarves ambling ahead as Balin leads them through the winding paths to put them back on the correct one towards the mountain. 

“Oh,” he says after a moment, “I went out to sleep with the moonflowers. We don’t have any in the Shire.”

Thorin looks at him. Bilbo’s used to staring, people in the Shire love to stare even if they pretend not to, but Thorin’s the only person he’s ever met who can look at someone like he’s trying to see into their soul. Bright blue eyes that can somehow make his knees weak. 

He’s getting off track. 

“Moonflowers,” Thorin repeats in disbelief. “You went to sleep in a bed of flowers?” 

Heat overtakes Bilbo’s cheeks before he can stop it, hands flapping for a moment. Of course a dwarf wouldn’t understand, some other hobbits wouldn’t even understand the appeal of it. After a moment of floundering, while Thorin simply stares at him, as he is wont to do, Bilbo sighs and shakes his head. 

“Flowers are very important to hobbits, like rocks are to dwarves, but I won’t make you understand that,” Bilbo grouches. He pauses slightly. “Did you like the one I gave to you?” 

With a start at the redirection, Thorin huffs and turns away, that penetrating blue gaze finally leaving Bilbo. He grumbles something, nonsense in their language that none of them are willing to teach Bilbo. 

“Thorin!” Balin shouts from the front of the group. 

Said soon to be king takes one last glance at Bilbo, his face unreadable besides his once again slightly pink cheeks, and heads towards the front of the group and leaving Bilbo behind. 

Fili and Kili slide up on either side of Bilbo instead, smiles stretching across their faces, and Bilbo doesn’t even bother trying to hide his groan at their behavior. 

“Storm’s coming,” Fili chimes, arm slung around Bilbo’s shoulders and almost making him lose his balance. 

“Hope our hobbit brought his raincoat!” Kili finishes, slinging his arm around Bilbo’s waist as well. 

“Do hobbits even like the rain?” Fili asks over Bilbo’s head. 

“Guess we’ll find out!” 

Bilbo groans again, much to their amusement, and pushes his way forward until he’s walking beside Bofur and Bifur. 

Those two, Bilbo thinks, only slightly in amusement, troublemakers. Nothing but troublemakers. 

But as it does turn out, Bilbo doesn’t like the rain. 

Not for lack of trying. It turns out there is a very large difference between enjoying the rain while tucked safe and warm in his Smial, and being out in a deluge on the edge of a mountain path as they try to find safety. 

And the stone giants. He doesn’t think he’ll forget them for as long as he lives. Their giant, thunderous forms are only eclipsed by the words from Thorin, still rocking around in his head. 

“He’s been lost ever since he left home.” 

The cave they found is cold, the noise echoing deep to let them know it goes far deeper into this mountain than the opening they’ve sought refuge in. Bilbo tucks himself into a corner, hard stone at his back and his pack resting against his knees. 

“He should not have come, he has no place among us.” 

There’s no fire tonight, no merriment to be found. Ori is still tucked between his brothers after the near death, Bombur and Bofur with their cousin Bifur, Kili and Fili whispering amongst each other in another corner. Even Dwalin sits a bit closer to Balin, his expression tight. 

It’s not the first time that they’ve come close to death, but perhaps the first time it’s rattled so many of them so quickly. They could have lost half the company in an instant, sheer luck bringing them another breath of air. 

“Eat your rations. No fire tonight, we need to stay quiet in case there’s danger. Bofur, take first watch.” 

Bilbo tightens his grip on his own knees, the cold truly starting to sink in as the knowledge there will be no fire tonight comes across him. He’s soaked through with ice cold rain water, his pack none the better. 

Fili and Kili were right, he should have brought his raincoat. Or at least something waterproof. He hadn’t thought of rainstorms when he packed though, a mistake he’s sure he’s not going to repeat again. 

He holds himself a bit tighter, teeth chattering lightly, not even bothering to pull out his rations. His one and only thought is about keeping warm, and he’s halfway through talking himself into approaching Bofur to see if he can stay close for warmth, when something thick and heavy descends over him. 

It smells like rain, and dirt, and soil, and stone. Like traveling and wandering, without a home to go back to. Bilbo sputters as he pulls it away from his face, looking at the fur lined cloak he’s seen Thorin wear everywhere since he’s met him. 

The soon to be king wanders back over to his nephews, one cloak short, and Bilbo considers giving it back, but then a shudder rolls down his spine and he pulls it over himself, trying to ignore the fact that it’s Thorin’s body heat that’s warming him up. 

“Get some sleep,” Thorin eventually says to the group, though when he looks away from his nephews, it’s Bilbo’s eyes that he meets. “We leave before dawn.” 

“He has no place among us.” 

A few short hours later, when Bofur’s the only one still awake, Bilbo slings his pack over his shoulder, and silently walks over to Thorin’s side to drape the cloak back over the king to keep him warm as he sleeps. Though not before pulling out another one of the small stones that Gandalf gave him a while ago. A lovely blue thing, he discovered after trying to clean it, and slips it inside the inner pocket of Thorin’s cloak.

His debate with Bofur on leaving barely has a chance to start before the floor drops out from underneath all of them. 

Caves and riddles, back aching and hurting from the fall, and then fire. He loses his pack somewhere along the way. It doesn’t even matter, all that matters is running for his life. 

And then, worst of all, there’s Azog, up on the ridge, his face pale and unlike any orc Bilbo’s ever seen, and he’s only ever seen a few from a distance. 

On the beginning of the journey, he still held the naive belief that winter cold and snow would be his biggest fears. Fell Winter is the source of many nightmares to him, of many hardships for a lot of the hobbits as well. 

It doesn’t really compare to the heat of burning trees and grass, of palms scraped bloody from scrambling up the tree. The smoke burning his lungs and the pain in his back still lingering from the fall. 

He would take those long, cold winter nights any day rather than the panic in his throat when he saw Thorin descending the tree to fight Azog alone. 

“Thorin, no!” someone screams, and thinks it might be Dwalin, who tries to scramble after Thorin as best he can. 

But trees like this that live on rocky beds are not meant for heat like this. It’s probably only Gandalf and a miracle from Yvanna that make it so the tree they cling to hasn’t fallen already. 

The branch Dwalin tries to climb fractures and breaks underneath him, and Bilbo doesn’t even see it. He’s quick to scramble up, and throw himself into danger without a thought. 

Bilbo doesn’t know a lot sometimes. Ask him for the best recipe for a blackberry crumble, and he’d have at least five to try out. He knows three different days to plant tomatoes on, because the date and time of planting them has meaning and of course, affects the harvest. 

He knows a lot of hobbitish things, but none of being a dwarf, or battles. 

That doesn’t stop him from slamming his entire body into the orc about to decapitate Thorin, using the only skill he really does have. 

Surprise. 

The thing with big folk is they always underestimate the smallest amongst them. 

Azog sets eyes on him and Bilbo brandishes his sword with all the skill that shows how brand new skills that mean nothing. Azog takes a step forward on his warg, the great thing growling low in its throat. 

And really, Bilbo is sure this isn’t the worst way to die. It would be quick, at least. 

A great caw cuts through the sky and Bilbo barely has a moment to think before he’s scooped up, Thorin as well, and then being carried to safety. 

And then they land, and Thorin hugs him, and truly Bilbo can’t think of anything other than that. Strong arms wrapping around him, pressing against his bruised back, but the pain is negligible compared to the warmth and safety of those arms.

He really can’t be blamed for not noticing the looks the other dwarves share with each other. After all, Thorin is smiling at him. 

His heart takes a while to settle, after that.

The rowdy sound of drinking songs is all he can hear when Bilbo slips outside into the warm evening air. Summer was at its peak in Beorn’s place, almost suffocating at times. Bilbo prefers it over the bite of the cold, but it’s suffocating in its own way. 

He lights up his pipe as he takes a deep breath, ears still ringing from the drinking songs. His limbs feel a bit loose from the ale, but nothing that won’t wear off in a few short minutes with a cup of water. Bilbo lets out a wince when a great crash sounds and only more noise comes from inside. 

He loves his dwarves, he really does, but they’re much too loud. 

The bench outside suits him much better than inside, he thinks, as he blows smoke rings into the sky full of stars. He’ll slip back in when everyone passes out from the ale, and hopefully no one will notice one missing hobbit for an evening. 

As if summoned by his thoughts alone, the door creaks open and reveals a sliver of gold light before the door closes once more. The figure leans against it slightly, taking a few deep breaths. 

“Thorin?” Bilbo asks in surprise before he can stop himself. Any other dwarf and he probably would have remained silent and slipped away. 

Thorin takes another breath, shoulders tense. Bilbo waits a moment before standing, coming to the dwarf to stand next to him. Thorin’s entire body is tight with tension, but after a couple more breaths the tension seems to drain out of him all at once. 

“Are you alright?” Bilbo asks kindly, voice barely able to be heard over the riotous cheers from inside. Something else must have happened. 

“Yes,” Thorin rasps, “I’m fine. The heat was simply a bit too much. Nothing to concern yourself with.” 

Thorin doesn’t leave though, stepping further away from Beorn’s house and into the open air. It is a bit cooler outside, and last Bilbo had seen, the fire inside had been roaring hot as Bombur prepares their dinner. 

But wouldn’t a dwarf not mind the heat? Thorin is even a master blacksmith, he must be used to the heat of a forge or a fire. This seems like something else, a shakiness seems to consume Thorin that Bilbo’s never seen before. 

It takes him a bit of time, time spent in silence, a few feet back from Thorin, before Bilbo figures it out. 

“It must have been unbearable,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Thorin, but that doesn’t stop the dwarf from turning to him. 

“What must have been unbearable, Master Baggins?” 

“The dragonfire.”

Thorin’s face spasms through a series of complicated emotions, before settling on something akin to pain, but not quite. Old pain, perhaps, the kind that’s been there for so long a person simply grows used to it. 

After a long moment, Thorin admitted, “It was.” 

He takes a long inhale of his pipe, letting the old toby do it’s job in settling his nerves. Then, once he felt ready, he hands the pipe to Thorin in offering. 

“Will you tell me about it?” 

Thorin doesn’t, for a long time. He smokes the remains of the leaf in the bowl, then lets the ember die before returning it to Bilbo to either refill or put away for the night. Bilbo ends up adding more, but hesitates to light it. 

And then, in a quiet voice, Thorin starts.

“I have never felt something so all encompassing before,” he speaks, lowly as though someone might be listening in. “The heat of it all felt like it was burning me from the inside out. I have felt fire before, younger than I could ever remember. All dwarves have. But this, I had never felt anything like this before.”

Bilbo hands Thorin his pipe, but gets waved away. Thorin stares at the flower bed in front of them, staring at the monkshood as though it would give him all the answers. 

“It remains in my dreams, sometimes,” Thorin continues. “Smaug, the worm that he is, set fire to so much. I have smelled burning flesh before, after battles, but never like this before. People disintegrated into ash in a heartbeat.” 

Bilbo visibly shudders, hair standing on end. Thorin shoots him a look, and continues. 

“I still feel it on my skin, sometimes. I hear the screams cut off in death. It gets to be too much, at times. I appreciate their merriment, Mahal knows how much of that we’ll be able to find on the road soon enough, but it is a lot.” 

Thorin makes a vague gesture back towards Beorn’s house, where said sounds of merriment have finally started to quiet down. Bilbo hums in understanding. 

“I hate the cold for the same reason,” he eventually confesses, almost able to feel how quickly Thorin’s eyes snap to him. “In the Shire, we don’t have a lot of things that harm us but one year… one year we had a very bad winter.”

He clears his throat, feeling a knot lodge itself there. Thorin doesn’t press, waiting patiently as Bilbo had done for him. When he’s collected himself, the words come easier. 

“It feels like a lifetime ago, you know? We had a very harsh winter, and the Brandywine River froze. Wolves prowled the Shire, and you know we are not very adept fighters.” 

The joke lands as frostily as snow, but Thorin’s eyes are anything but cold as he looks at Bilbo. It makes Bilbo’s breath stutter in his chest, heat rising to his cheeks. 

“It’s nothing like a dragon, mind you, but sometimes I still feel it, deep in my bones when the snow becomes too heavy.” 

Bilbo can’t imagine hating the warmth that to him, meant safety and much more. And he’s sure Thorin can’t imagine hating the cold that meant a dragon bellowing fire was nowhere near. The same issue, but so different. 

After a moment, he offers his pipe to Thorin again, and they listen to the laughter and cheers inside together as Thorin takes the offering. It is quiet, and lonesome, but somehow less so together. 

It’s not until the light inside starts to die down, the laughter abating, that Thorin finally rises, and gives Bilbo the smallest of smiles that Bilbo has ever seen. 

It shouldn’t make his heart leap as it does, but Bilbo can’t really tell it to be quiet, can he?

“Good night, Master Baggins,” Thorin says, “I shall leave you to your flowers.” 

A small laugh erupts from him, not a giggle. But Bilbo’s still glad that Kili and Fili aren’t around to hear it. 

“Good night, Thorin.” 

Beorn pulls Bilbo aside, before they leave. 

“I do not like dwarves,” he reminds, as though Bilbo would forget such a fact. “But I like you, little bunny.” 

Again, with that nickname. Bilbo winces when he hears some of the members of the company chuckle at it, but they move on to more interesting things when Bilbo sends a glare over his shoulder at them. 

“I know, Master Beorn. Thank you for letting us stay, as you have.” 

Beorn huffs, giving the dwarves a bit of a glare. Thorin meets his gaze evenly, before he looks at Bilbo and seems to decide that Bilbo must have this handled.

“It is no issue, little bunny. Here, I have something for you.”

He holds out a massive hand that could encompass Bilbo’s entire chest if he wanted it to. When Bilbo reaches out, Beorn drops a handful of stones into them. Bilbo’s almost thankful that the other dwarves have moved on to more interesting things, because he has a feeling they would have a lot to say on things. 

“Give these to your dwarf, when you’re ready. They attach meaning to stone.” 

Bilbo looks at the small collection of gems. They’re more polished than the ones Gandalf gave him, and are distinctly lacking the scent of troll, but they are still shiny. 

“Are you sure, Master Beorn? I hate to take from you more than we already–what do you mean my dwarf?!” 

His voice goes a little high, gaining him a few glances, but no interest. Beorn tilts his head as he looks down at Bilbo, and Bilbo decides he is much too large for a normal person. 

“You are not taking from me. I have no need for shiny rocks. My animals do not require them either. Keep them or get rid of them, I care not. Though I will talk with my goats about spreading rumors, if there truly is nothing between you and your dwarf.” 

Bilbo ignores the heat on his face as he shoves the rocks into his pocket where it clinks against his ring. Beorn chuckles at the sight, taking a knee before Bilbo. 

“I like you, little bunny. If you ever need shelter again, you are more than welcome.”

Bilbo pulls a face, thinking it likely that his dwarves won’t ever be back at this part of the valley unless they come to visit him in the Shire. And then starts, and realizes he hasn’t thought about returning home since Thorin hugged him on the carrock. 

“Thank you, Master Beorn,” he says instead, “I would offer you the same, but it won’t be my mountain, but I will ask Thorin to extend the same offer.” 

Beorn laughs loudly, head thrown back. “Little bunny, I think you could ask you dwarf for anything, and he won’t deny you.” 

For a second, Bilbo’s eyes narrow, and he half considers calling Thorin over to prove that the shape changer is wrong, but he doesn’t have to. Thorin comes up beside him to help him onto his pony, a large hand coming up on his shoulder. 

“Master Baggins does not have to ask me. If he wishes to invite you to the mountain for shelter, then you are more than welcome,” Thorin says briskly as Bilbo climbs into the saddle. 

Beorn smiles at Bilbo as though this proves his point, when it most certainly does not, thank you very much. Still, he gives a polite smile, waiting for Thorin to get on his own pony before offering a wave goodbye.

He will miss the shape shifter, and his little farm, despite everything. But he’ll treasure the memories of Thorin in the garden forever. 

Mirkwood feels sick in a way Bilbo’s never felt plants be sick before. 

Like a toxin in the air, it feels heavy and overpowering, resting on his shoulders even as he tries to follow along with everyone else. His eyes glued to Thorin’s back, right behind their leader, as they walk down the path set in stone underneath their feet. They can’t risk losing it, and the path isn’t big enough for anyone to walk side by side. 

Bilbo desperately wishes it was though. Even the dwarves, not known for their appreciation of nature in any way, seem affected by the dank atmosphere and the oppressive air. They snap at each other every chance they get, grumbling under their breaths as they move on through the woods. 

They can’t even light a fire at night. The first night they finally stopped, Gloin tried to start one only for it to be assaulted by giant moths coming from the trees above, and no one had dared to try to light another one in case of the same result. 

He’s not even sure how long they’ve been in the woods. Days? It feels longer, like weeks and months spent walking with no end in sight. 

According to Ori, it’s only been five days. Apparently he’s been keeping tally marks in the book of his, though Bilbo doubts the accuracy of it. It feels like much, much longer. 

“You haven’t eaten,” Thorin says beside him. 

Bilbo grunts. Appetite left him and the company shortly after entering the forest. Thorin shifts awkwardly, Bilbo hears it more than he can see it. 

That’s another thing he hates. During the day, the sunlight can peek through the leaves above and give them enough light to navigate any see any threats that might be approaching, but during the night there’s no chance of it. The moon barely had a hope of sneaking through the dense leaves above. 

Once the sun set, Bilbo could barely see a few feet in front of him. The dwarves didn’t seem as affected by the darkness as him, thankfully enough. At least they all agreed to stop once the sun set. Bilbo wouldn’t be able to take stumbling around in the dark. 

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbles, glancing at Thorin’s form. It’s hard to make out, just a shade or two lighter than the darkness of the forest around them. 

He’s less bulky without his cloak. After day three, apparently Bilbo’s quiet demeanor was enough to gain some attention, at least, and that night when Thorin ordered them to stop, when Bilbo rolled out his bedroll, Thorin threw his cloak on top of it, giving him more of a barrier against the sick earth. 

Bilbo wasn’t hesitant to be grateful for it, and Thorin waved off his protests, simply stating that Bilbo needed it, so it was his for however long he needed it. 

He doesn’t really sleep either, not with the sickness underneath him. The first night he tried, he had the worst nightmares of his life, of a dragon waiting for him on top of a pile of gold, waiting for him with piercing red eyes full of rage, and breath of ice that chilled his bones instead of the burn of flame.

He hadn’t wanted to sleep since. 

Eventually, he lays on his side, facing Thorin. All he can see is the darkness, and all he can hear is the breathing of the rest of the company. It’s what he imagines being trapped in his own mind is like. 

“I hate this forest, Thorin,” he eventually whispers, when the night seems to refuse to break for dawn, when he can’t stand the sound of breathing anymore. 

He misses birdsong, and the rustle of wind against the trees. He misses the sunlight on his skin, the promise of tomorrow. 

Surprisingly, he hears Thorin shift beside him, and realized the dwarf has turned towards him at some point during the night. They lay side by side, curled towards each other. 

“We will be free of it soon,” Thorin murmurs back, deep voice comforting. 

It doesn’t feel like it. It feels as though they’ve been walking for weeks, and there’s nothing but darkness and sickness of the earth, and it’s never really going to end, and he will never see the sun again and feel its warmth on his skin, or hear the birds sing their song–

“Bilbo,” Thorin interrupts, and Bilbo’s teeth snap together in surprise. He hadn’t even realized he was speaking. 

A strong hand reaches out, grasping one of his own, that was just clutching the edge of Thorin’s cloak. Thick fingers interlace with his own, giving his hand a comforting squeeze. 

“We will be free of it soon,” Thorin repeats, more firmly than before. 

Bilbo squeezes back gently. Thorin radiates heat like the sun itself, and without thinking, he inches a little bit closer. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes without thinking. “I’m being a bit much, aren’t I?”

“Not at all.” 

It’s a small comfort, in the darkness. He blinks, still unable to see, and dawn is still several more hours away. Exhaustion eats at him, but not in the muscle and bone. It feels as though his soul itself is tired. 

And when he speaks next, it’s with the desperate, needy hope inside of him that Thorin still isn’t asleep. 

“Thorin?” 

A shift, only slight, as though Thorin had been on the edge of sleep and Bilbo’s voice brought him back. Bilbo only feels slightly guilty for the relief he feels. 

“What do you need, my burglar?” Thorin wonders.

You, Bilbo does not say, because he is a respectable hobbit, and all he wants right now is sleep. 

“Can you talk?” he asks instead, for it’s the only thing he can think of. “Please, Thorin, I can’t take the silence anymore.” 

He curls up a bit more, leaning towards Thorin like vines crawling up a post, trying to get closer to the sun. 

Thorin’s steady breathing is the only thing that greets him after his request. Just long enough for Bilbo to panic, ready to open his mouth and offer apologies but still beg Thorin to talk about anything so he doesn’t hear the all consuming silence, and then Thorin finally speaks. 

“After Erebor fell,” Thorin starts, his deep voice rich in its murmur, “we wandered for a long time. Mostly, it was to find a new place to live, but I think some part of me wanted to find a place as beautiful for us as Erebor was. I have never found anything like it since.” 

Bilbo hums, just enough to show he’s listening. Already his eyes droop, exhaustion tugging at him.

“When we have claimed the mountain again, you will see the splendor of it all. Gold runs like rivers, streams across the walls the likes of which have never been seen since. Gems that fall from their place, eager to be mined.” 

Thorin squeezes his hand just as he finally drifts off into a fitful sleep. 

“I can not wait to show it to you, Bilbo.”

He hates the ring. He loves it. 

Bilbo has never felt more alone, wandering about unknown, than he does with it on. The dungeon of the elven king runs deep, after all. 

Sometimes, he thinks it whispers to him, in a tongue he doesn’t understand as he works on freeing his dwarves. 

His dwarves. He wonders when that happened. 

Bilbo hates the ring. He loves it. 

He only takes it off when he finds Thorin. 

Thorin’s cell is guarded more than the others. Bilbo’s not sure if Thranduil knows who Thorin is, or the purpose of the quest, or if he’s simply smart enough to figure out that Thorin is their leader and the best one to answer why they’re there in the first place. 

The last meal gets delivered later in the night, just barely enough to sustain a dwarf, and mostly green things that they won’t eat in the first place. Hunger does tend to win out more often than not, though they’re always happy to save Bilbo a portion of their meal so he doesn’t have to sneak into the kitchens not to starve. 

Bilbo lets himself reach the cell doors, fingers grasping the bars of it before he slips off the ring. Thorin doesn’t notice him at first. 

“Lovely accommodations they have here,” he murmurs, looking at the bare cell. 

At least the others in their company were given blankets and something to lay on. Thorin doesn’t even have his fur cloak to keep him warm in the small cell. 

The dwarf jumps in place, hand lashing out as though Bilbo’s a threat to be taken care of. Bilbo almost laughs at it, his nose twitching slightly as he meets Thorin’s wide eyed stare. 

“You’re here,” Thorin eventually says. 

There’s something like wonder in his voice, but Bilbo brushes that thought away before it can truly form. Wonder, at his presence? Thorin would never. 

“I’m here,” Bilbo agrees, tilting his head with a smile. 

The next thing he knows, Thorin throws himself forward against the bars of the cage, thick arms just barely able to squeeze through to wrap around him tightly and squeeze him close. He makes a small noise when his nose smashes against the hard metal, but does nothing else to fight the embrace.

“I thought we lost you,” Thorin murmurs, and it’s almost frantic in a way, but still controlled. “With the spiders, I turned around and you weren’t there.” 

“Ah,” Bilbo says, still tucked into Thorin’s arms. It’s quite comfortable. “Hobbits are rather unnoticeable when we want to be.”

One last squeeze, and Thorin finally releases him. At least a little bit, a heavy hand remains on Bilbo’s shoulder as though he’s going to disappear the moment Thorin lets go. 

“You’ve proven that much,” Thorin replies with a laugh. “I knew you would come.” 

“Yes well,” Bilbo stutters, not really sure what’s going on anymore. “Sorry it took me so long.” 

“Have you seen the others yet?” Thorin asks quietly. 

Bilbo nods before he’s even finished the question. “Yes, you were the last one I had to find. Everyone else is in the same general area, they’re all fine though.”  

Thorin’s face falls slightly, but relief mostly shines through. His shoulders fall slightly as though a weight has truly been lifted off of them, at the reveal of Bilbo’s safety and the rest of the company’s. 

“Just as well,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Bilbo. “You’ll find us a way out.” 

It’s said with so much confidence, a sense of finality to it as though Thorin never had a doubt in the world for it. And there had to be doubts, sitting here, alone in the dark with nothing for company other than his own thoughts. Bilbo would have gone half mad, being kept below the ground and in the dark like this. 

And yet Thorin just looks relieved, still pressed against the bars of his cell, one hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. They’re not more than a few feet apart, Bilbo could lean forward and find himself back in that embrace, if Thorin would let him. 

But then Thorin makes a small noise, pulling back slightly, and the moment is gone. 

“I have something for you, though it’s not likely to help you find us a way out of here.” 

Bilbo’s nose twitches, lamenting the loss of contact, as Thorin reaches into the pocket of his trousers and pulls out a rather crumpled and pathetic looking flower. 

He recognizes it instantly, of course, as any hobbit of good standing would. Monkshood is a flower rather unliked in the shire, though not for its appearance. The flower itself is beautiful, a rich blue that was more purple in the right light. Bilbo’s only ever seen it given in a bouquet once, on account of the meaning of the flower. 

He remembers the one time he saw it as Thorin holds it out for him between the bars. His cousin, too young to really understand the meanings behind the flowers but feeling big emotions as children tend to do, managed to find a flower of it blooming near the woods. His cousin marched right up to his other cousin and presented it with all the airs of someone saying something they don’t really mean, all the while his hand swelling from the poison practically leaping off the flower and onto his hand. 

It’s the only flower Bilbo knows of that means hate. 

“Monkshood,” he says after a long moment, not reaching out to take it. Dwarves have to have thick skin, because Bilbo can think of no other reason as to how he’s able to handle it without his hand swelling from the poison. 

“Is that the name of it?” Thorin asks, looking a bit uncomfortable as Bilbo doesn’t take the flower. His face pulls slightly with a frown. “The elves found it when they searched us, but ended up giving it back to me. I didn’t ask why, but I was surprised they weren’t upset with me taking something from their woods.” 

Of course, elves would know exactly how poisonous monkshood could be, and probably left it with Thorin just in case he wanted to do something more… well Bilbo didn’t even want to think about that. 

Only a third of the flower would be enough to poison a hobbit past the point of return. And though dwarrow are hardier than hobbits, Bilbo’s pretty sure the entire plant he’s holding would be enough to at least cause Thorin a great deal of pain. 

“It’s lovely,” Bilbo manages out, after a moment. “But I can’t take that, Thorin.” 

He doesn’t even get a chance to say why, because it’s a nice thought but still a very poisonous plant, when Thorin’s face falls. Like a stormcloud covering the sun, that regular scowl gracing his features leaves a lot to be desired. 

“Oh, Thorin, don’t look like that! I would very much like to take any flower you give me regardless of the meaning, but that one is very, very poisonous.” 

Thorin’s thunderous expression dissipates as quickly as it forms. He pulls the flower back with a frown, looking down at it as though it personally offended him by being poisonous. 

“Truly?” Thorin asks. 

“Perhaps not to dwarves, I watched my cousin’s hand swell up like a loaf of bread in the oven when he tried to give it to our other cousin when she insulted his mothers pie.” 

Thorin blinks, looking down at the flower with a hint of skepticism on his face, as though Bilbo has any reason to lie about flowers. 

He opens his mouth to ask Thorin if he really thinks he might be lying, when a noise comes from further in the area. Bilbo jumps, scrambling and shoving on his ring just as a guard rounds the corner. 

Bilbo creeps up to them as they pause to look at Thorin’s cell. The dwarf king still stands there, flower and stem clutched in his hand, brow furrowed as though trying to figure out a puzzle placed in front of him. 

The guard scoffs at the sight, turning away after a moment. “Maybe he’ll finally eat it and put us all out of our misery.” 

At least while invisible, Bilbo doesn’t have to worry about hiding his facial expressions. He flinches with his entire body at the thought of Thorin eating such poison as an escape. 

He follows after the guard silently, who still mutters to themselves.

“I need a drink after dealing with all these dwarves. Limbend should still be in the cellar. He wont mind a few missing cups from a barrel.” 

And Bilbo, with no better ideas for an escape, follows along. 

It still takes him another week. Even Bilbo isn’t skilled enough to sneak twelve dwarves through an elven dungeon without notice, as loud as they are with something as simple as breathing. 

So he waits, and spends his time invisible and memorizing the routines of the guards. Most importantly, where they store the keys to the cells. 

He doesn’t go and visit Thorin again. He doesn’t allow himself to do anything there except for one moment when a guard he currently follows passes by Thorin’s cell, and Bilbo pulls out a gemstone from Beorn he had managed to hang onto. This one had been his favorite one, like a piece of amber with bands of darker shades lining it. 

He places it on the bar of the cell, quietly and without noise, and rushes back through the dungeon to catch up with his charge. 

When he next sees Thorin’s cell, the small gem is missing, and Thorin looks at him with eyes that make it seem as though he holds the world in his palms. 

Laketown greets them with suspicious looks and the smell of rotting fish. 

Bilbo can’t really say he’s surprised by the fish part. Especially considering how Bard snuck them in. It’s probably one of the only sources of income, and the town seems to be struggling on that account. 

Still, he’s pretty sure he’s never going to be able to get the smell out of his clothes now, borrowed as they are. The master of the town was reluctant to provide anything beyond necessity, leaving them in the borrowed clothes from Bard. Though the master did provide them with food, and that’s something that all the dwarves and Bilbo himself are thankful for. 

Not that Bard wouldn’t have. The man seems to be struggling, and with three mouths to feed, and Laketown being as poor as it is. 

The master of the town seems to be the only one not struggling for money. That and the greasy man constantly by his side, whispering in his ear. What a strange duo they seemed to make, one that Bilbo would rather avoid. 

And so he does. When most of the dwarves were drinking themselves into excess, Bilbo slips out the back, making his way through the town with ease. 

Men are the easiest to slip past, from Bilbo’s experience. Elves tend to be more aware of what’s around them, or perhaps that’s simply a by product of being more aware of nature. Dwarves also tended to notice, if they knew to pay attention. He thinks sometimes it’s from being trained from an early age to be battle read. 

Men though, Bilbo could walk through a crowd of men and be completely ignored by all of them. It makes traveling to the other side of Laketown relatively easy. 

He knocks on Bard’s door, foot tapping with anxiety. Bilbo can still feel the rage of the water beating him, feel the wood of the barrels underneath his fingers as he held on for his life. He wants nothing more than to go and sleep before they have to be off at dawn to fight a dragon. 

The door cracks open after a minute. Bard looks down at him with a mixture of worry and exasperation, a small sigh on his lips. 

Bilbo waves. Bard doesn’t return it. 

“Oh um, sorry to bother you, Bard,” he starts, shifting in place. “I just wanted to thank you for bringing us here and looking after us.” 

The door opens more, Bard looking wearier by the second. “And is that from all of your company, or just you, Master Baggins?” 

“The entire company, of course!” Bilbo replies, fierce over his dwarves. But then a second later he sighs, shoulders slumping. “I know they can be an… odd bunch. But they really do mean well.” 

Bard sighs, the kind of sigh only a parent can really do when they become exasperated over their child's determination that they already know the best course of action. 

“You lot mean to wake a dragon,” Bard eventually says. “Excuse me if I won’t support your quest.” 

Well, unfortunately that did seem rather fair to Bilbo. It’s not like he wants to wake the dragon, but there’s not truly a great chance that the dragon will be lying dead in Erebor, or that it’s simply left. All Bilbo could hope to do was not wake it. 

“I assure you, I am quite light on my feet! I have no plans to wake the dragon,” Bilbo counters, hands on his hips. 

Bard sighs again. He looks tired. “What do you want, Master Baggins?” 

“Ah, right,” Bilbo fumbles, searching his pockets. He could have sworn he brought it– “There it is! Here, this is for you.” 

Bilbo holds out his fist, waiting for Bard. If trepidation could be a word, Bard would have been the embodiment of it. Clearly cautious, he holds out a single hand for Bilbo to drop a rather large diamond into it. 

“What is the meaning of this?” 

Thorin’s voice slices through the air quicker and more brutal than an arrow launched from a bow. Bilbo’s hand, thankfully devoid of any more precious gems, covers his own heart to quiet the racing beat of it, even as he turns to the soon to be king beside him. 

How Bilbo didn’t hear the dwarf come up, he’ll never know. Thick arms cross over Thorin’s chest, his face dark as he glares murderously up at the man. For barely half a second, Bilbo feels a hint of nervousness race down his spine, but then Thorin uncrosses his arms and lays one of them on Bilbo’s lower back, and the fear dissipates as quickly as it formed. 

“Thorin, what are you doing here?” 

“Master Baggins, I can not accept this.” 

Bilbo and Bard’s voices sound at the same time, both turning to look at each other. Bilbo’s said as he leans in closer to Thorin to press against his warm hand. Bard’s said with incredulous disbelief, still looking down at the diamond. 

It really hadn’t been too hard to sneak into Thranduil’s treasury. The entire place was unguarded most of the time, and clearly the wood elves didn’t think anyone was going to come by and rob them any time soon. So just before Bilbo had gone to sneak out his dwarves, he went and filled a pocket of his jacket with precious gems and gold coins. 

“You don’t like it?” Bilbo asks, after a moment, a tinge of hurt lacing his tone. 

“It’s not that,” Bard starts helplessly, taking a long glance at Thorin. “I can’t accept something like this, where did you even get it?” 

“It’s the least I could give after you helped us get here, Bard,” Bilbo argues firmly. “Please take it. Hobbits don’t have too much use for gems or gold, this would be much better with you.” 

Bard’s fist is already closing around the diamond before he does anything else. He sends one last long look at Thorin, who only nods in agreement when Bilbo elbows him roughly in the side. The soon to be king looks rather unhappy about it, but doesn’t argue. 

“If you’re sure,” Bard agrees, after a very long moment. “I won’t object further. But please do not wake that dragon.” 

“We will do our best,” Bilbo promises easily. “Now if you’ll excuse us, I am in desperate need of sleep.” 

The door closes as Bilbo drags Thorin away, though it’s not so much dragging as it is leading. Thorin wouldn’t be moved if he didn’t want to be, as stubborn as the stone he’s carved from, but that won’t stop Bilbo from doing it anyway. Thorin’s hand is still pressed against his back, keeping him close.

“Where did you get a diamond?” Thorin eventually asks, when they’re close but not quite there to the Master’s house. 

“I went into Thranduil’s treasury before I went and broke you lot out. I didn’t think he’d mind if I took a couple, in case we needed it for the journey.” 

He tries to shrug nonchalantly, desperately looking at anywhere that wasn’t at Thorin. The air about them felt strange suddenly, as though Bilbo had stepped on a patch of thorns but the pain was delayed, not registering yet. 

“And you gave it to Bard,” Thorin continues, when Bilbo doesn’t. 

He tilts his head slightly, nose twitching. “Of course. As payment for getting us here, and the clothes.” 

Thorin stares at him, the way a jewelry stares at a gem, searching for imperfections in the faceted face. Bilbo shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, not comfortable with the feeling. 

“And you meant nothing else by it?” Thorin eventually asks, his hand as hot as an iron band on Bilbo’s back. 

“What else could I possibly mean?” he returns, confusion making his brows pinch. 

There’s a long moment where Thorin opens his mouth as though to say something, but then he closes it again. His face spasms instead, as though he desperately wants to say something only to hold it back as hard as he can. 

But then he nods, and at some point they must have stopped walking because Thorin guides him forward again, and Bilbo is left feeling more confused about things than ever. 

And really, he’s much too tired for the secrets of dwarves. Whatever was bothering Thorin, it could wait until tomorrow. 

Tomorrow when they found the door and faced a dragon. That tomorrow. 

They’re already back, and he barely notices. There’s something about Thorin that makes him feel safe enough to not think, apparently, or perhaps he really is that tired. Thorin gives him a nudge towards his room, and gestures with his head. 

“I need to make sure everyone sleeps and doesn’t drink the night away,” he explains, giving Bilbo a once over. “Unless you need me?” 

“Yes,” Bilbo says without thinking, his cheeks coloring when he sees the smirk that immediately graces Thorin’s face. “Don’t look at me like that! You know what I meant!” 

The smirk remains though as Bilbo rifles through his pocket of stolen treasures, until he finds the one he’s looking for. A pale blue gem, smoothed and rounded to a polish, that he holds out to Thorin. 

“I uh, got this one for you too,” Bilbo says after a moment, placing the gem in Thorin’s calloused palm when he holds his hand out. 

Thorin doesn’t move for a bit, until his thumb rubs over the surface of the gem. He doesn’t say much, but his lips turn up the barest bit, just a hint of a smile. 

“It matches your eyes, you know,” Bilbo continues, smiling softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone in the Shire with eyes like yours.” 

He yawns just a moment later, jaw aching from the stress, and misses the look Thorin gives him at his words. 

All of the sudden, the thought of facing a dragon isn’t nearly as frightening as having to take ten more steps into his room to make sure he actually makes it to bed. Without thinking, he reaches up, hand pressing against Thorin’s cheek for a moment, missing any words Thorin might have said as he stumbles into bed. 

When he wakes in the morning, there’s a heavy cloak around his shoulders. Not the same one from before, that one lost in the depths of an elven dungeon, but one that still has the scent of traveling and wandering, of a home just on the edge of the morrow. 

They wake the dragon. 

Or perhaps they didn’t. Bilbo has no way of knowing if Smaug was even truly sleeping, or lying awake in the gold admiring it all. 

But still, Smaug is awake and brings down the terror. 

It’s not until the morning comes that Bilbo realizes he hasn’t seen Thorin in hours. 

When everyone searches the treasury, Thorin pulls Bilbo aside. 

For a moment, he thinks they might be returning to the throne room, so Thorin can sit and brood and ignore Bilbo’s attempts at conversation and discussion of the future. But then Thorin keeps pulling him up different flights of stairs, and while Bilbo might not have the best sense of direction in the mountain, he can tell they’re not heading to the throne room. 

Thorin tightens his grip when Bilbo falls a little behind. He does not alleviate his pace, and Bilbo thinks he’ll have another bruise on him to decorate his skin. 

“Thorin?” he tries, and receives no answer. 

It’s really not fair. All this time, all this effort, and for what? A brooding king who cares only for a gem that Bilbo would rather chuck in the lake or into the deepest mine than hand over. Bilbo can feel it, pressed against his skin. 

There’s something unnatural about it. Stones aren’t meant to glow like that. Nothing natural should. 

Is this it, the greed of dwarves? Bilbo can’t reconcile this Thorin, who barely looks at him and speaks to him even less, with the Thorin in the forest, who told him stories of this land. 

He isn’t sure what to do, how to make this right. Thorin… Bilbo has never feared Thorin before, not until the dwarf put that sword to his chest and only asked for the stupid stone that Bilbo already found. 

“Look,” Thorin says, the first time he’s spoken to Bilbo today, and gestures forward. 

He does not let go of Bilbo. 

They must be near the top of the mountain, for how they look down at the treasury. All Bilbo can see for leagues are piles of gold that, horribly enough, remind him of the rolling green hills of the Shire because of their shape. It’s as though someone froze the sea and replaced it with gold, bright and glittering. 

Utterly horrifying. 

Thorin watches him carefully. “Any gem you might like, except the Arkenstone, you may have. I will give you the most precious things from here, so all may know the wealth of Erebor. Pick out what you like, and it is yours.” 

Something hard lodges itself in Bilbo’s throat. The gold feels blinding, and he turns away before it can sear itself into his mind. Thorin frowns, but allows this. 

“I don’t need any gems, Thorin,” he says quietly. “I’m a hobbit, after all.” 

That seems to be the opposite of what Thorin wants to hear, his face darkening as he holds Bilbo’s wrist a bit tighter. There truly will be a bruise there tomorrow that Bilbo won’t be able to ignore. 

“What is it you wish for, then?” He comes forward, crowding Bilbo against the cold stone wall. “I can not have my consort not adorned in the riches of the kingdom.” 

His entire brain stops, staring at Thorin in wide eyed shock. Consort, consort? Whoever said anything about being consort? Did Thorin really refer to him as that? Did everyone else think that as well? Is that why they hadn’t complained that Thorin kept Bilbo from searching the treasury as well?

“I–what do you mean, Thorin?” he tries weakly, gently pulling on his wrist and unable to hide his wrist when Thorin’s grip only tightens. He can feel his bones creaking under the strain. 

“I will not have the consort under the mountain without the finest treasures in this treasury. I will make them search more, so you can be only adorned in the gems worthy of you–”

“Thorin, you’re hurting me.” 

The King Under the Mountain reels back as though Bilbo was Smaug himself, come back to rain dragonfire upon them. Bilbo clutches his wrist to his chest, the Arkenstone heavy in his pocket as he takes a few, deep breaths. 

Neither of them speak. Thorin breathes in gasping, heavy breaths, face turned away from Bilbo and back towards the darkened hall behind them, not the treasuring before them. 

“I don’t need any gems, Thorin,” Bilbo eventually says, reaching up to touch Thorin’s face the same way he did the night before he faced Smaug, in Laketown. Thorin leans into the touch like a leaf turning towards the sun, with reverence. 

“I’m not like you, I don’t need gems. I don’t need gold or fancy crowns. Do you know what I need?” 

Pale blue eyes snap to him. For the first time since Smaug was slain, they’re as clear as the cool waters of the Brandywine River. Something that Bilbo’s never noticed before, or never paid attention enough to, crackles in the air between them. 

“Tell me,” Thorin rasps, voice ragged. “Tell me and I shall give it to you, ghivashel.”

He has no idea what the word means, but it comes across clearly in the way Thorin looks at him, at the way the king reaches up, fingers barely ghosts along his skin until they reach his hand, and presses it to his cheek. 

Bilbo steps forward, leaning close, having to stand on the tips of his toes for a moment, and then someone thunks down the hall to their left, coming closer, and the moment is gone. 

Thorin’s clouded, dark look returns, and he half moves in front of Bilbo to hide him from sight as Dwalin comes lumbering around the corner. 

To his credit, Dwalin looks a bit upset to be interrupting them, shoulders hunched like making himself look smaller would make him quieter. It’s not his fault but Bilbo feels irritation climb up his throat anyway. 

“Your highness,” Dwalin greets, glancing at Bilbo. “We uh, we found a few relics. Do you want to come take a look?” 

Thorin gives a tight nod, and Dwalin turns to head back down to the treasury once more. For a moment, Bilbo let’s himself hope that maybe he had done something, that if it is gold sickness affecting Thorin so deeply, then Bilbo has broken him out of it–

But when Thorin turns, his eyes are muddled, and his face dark, and they’re back at the start of it all over again. 

“I’ll fetch you later,” Thorin says. “Stay with the treasure.” 

He doesn’t wait for Bilbo to reply. After all, why would he wait for a part of his treasure to reply? 

Later that day, Thorin gives him the mithril. 

He presents it proudly, as though it’s the one thing in the mountain that Bilbo might accept. It’s not gold, or gems, and it’s still a shiny, valuable thing. Bilbo takes it with a token of protest, because Thorin insists and Thorin is not someone to argue with right now. 

It isn’t until later, when he has a moment alone with Balin, does the dwarf reveal the sheer value of the item, almost as an afterthought. 

“That is probably the most valuable item in this mountain, outside of the Arkenstone,” Balin explains, in the gentle grandfatherly way he has about him. “And I think that for now, it’s best that you have both of them.” 

Bilbo nods idly, picking at the metal that somehow remains cold against him no matter how long he wears it. He eventually leaves Balin, and doesn’t realize what the dwarf said until it’s late in the night, and he’s throwing a rope over the wall to make deals with men and wizards and elf kings. 

He can still feel Thorin’s hand around his throat as he presses against the gaping, open wound on Thorin’s chest. 

There’s so much blood, more blood than Bilbo ever thought possible to see and still have someone draw breath. Bilbo leans more of his weight against the wound to staunch the bleeding, even as Thorin lets out a low groan of pain. 

“Bilbo.” 

“It’s fine, you’re fine, everything’s going to be fine,” Bilbo murmurs, fingers sticky with blood. 

Thorin looks at him, with eyes as blue as the sky above, as though he’s the only thing worth looking at. 

“Bilbo.”

The hobbit shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. He can just barely hear the sounds of battle ending, of the eagles screaming into the sky with fierce battle cries as the last of the orcs and goblins fell. 

There’s no one left on the ice with them. Only a dwarf and a hobbit, one much nearer to death than the other. 

“You have to stay awake, Thorin, please.” 

Thorin’s lips barely twitch into a smile. But the effort is there, and his eyes crinkle in the corner with it. 

“I’m awake right now,” Thorin starts. A shaking hand reaches up, touching the barely formed bruises on Bilbo’s throat. His other hand places itself over Bilbo’s own on his chest, something smooth and hard pressing against the outside of Bilbo’s fingers. “I’m sorry.”

Bilbo can’t even lean into the touch, or reach up to take Thorin’s hand. For a moment, all he wants to do is bend down his head and sob, to break down and try to forget how horrible it’s been since Smaug emerged from the mountain. 

But he can’t, because there’s still blood on his hands and Thorin is still breathing, so breaking can come later. 

He takes a deep breath, then another, and then finally looks Thorin in the eyes.

“I don’t forgive you.” 

The hand drops, Thorin’s eyes widen with hurt, but Bilbo is racing forward without a single care in the world, the words tumbling forth like water at the edge of a cliff. 

“I don’t forgive you, Thorin Oakenshield. I can’t, I won’t until you are fine, and recovered. I won’t accept any apologies, no king would leave their consort like this.” 

He uses that word again, the word he barely got a few hours to think and appreciate and anticipate. Bilbo looks furiously into Thorin’s eyes, as the eagles come closer to get Thorin actual help. 

“Don’t you dare die, Thorin, don’t you dare leave me here.” 

Blinking incredulously, Thorin barely barks out a laugh that sounds more painful than it does joyful, and then the eagles are there, and the rest of the company shouts as they rush up as well. 

It’s a flurry of activity after that, and Bilbo only let’s go when Dwalin hauls him away so Gandalf can do some kind of healing. Someone else comes up to poke at the wound on his head from being knocked out, and though it’s tender, it’s not painful in the moment. 

“Bilbo?” Ori asks, quiet, unassuming Ori who’s covered in orc blood from nearly head to toe. He’s got the largest axe that Bilbo’s ever seen held in his hand, holding it like it weighs nothing. 

Bilbo lifts his head. He’s leaning quite heavily on Dwalin, now that he thinks about it. The other warrior is bruises from head to toe, also covered in the black blood of orcs. 

Bilbo’s the only one covered in the bright crimson of blood. Thorin’s blood. 

“Ah, I think you might have dropped this,” Ori continues, giving him a worried look as he holds out his hand. “Are you alright?” 

He nods without thinking, but it makes the entire world spin and Dwalin has to hold him around the waist so he doesn’t go crashing head first into the ice. Ori’s there as well, holding his shoulders up as everyone seems to talk at once. 

All he cares about is knowing if Thorin is going to be okay or not. 

Then Ori presses something cold and hard into his hand, and he looks down at the rough, uncut gem he first gave Thorin, way back after the troll hoard. Bilbo barely even feels his fingers as he curls them around it, holding the gem tightly. 

The last thing he remembers is a wild, unhinged laugh leaving his lips as he slumps against Dwalin, and the world went dark once more. 

There is no such thing as a war without casualties. 

They burn the bodies the next day. Separate fires for the goblins and orcs from the dwarves and elves and men. Many tears were shed over fallen family and comrades, though not as many as could have been. 

“I should be out there,” Thorin grumbles, making every move to get up until he’s pinned in place by Bilbo’s stare. 

He settles back after only a moment, much to the amused delight of Fili and Kili, who just minutes before were making the same complaints. 

Bilbo arches a brow. “You can’t take more than two steps on your own. I’m sure everyone will understand why Balin is giving the speech and not you.”

Fili and Kili hide their snickers behind their hands until Bilbo turns to them, hands on his hips. Really, wrangling three dwarves shouldn’t be such a chore, but the line of Durin sure does know how to make a simple job harder than it has to be. 

“I am the king,” Thorin rebukes, almost petulant. 

“And I am the consort. I don’t see your point.” 

He says it half out of truth, and half out of seeing the startled blush that overtakes Thorin’s face. The King Under the Mountain confessed shortly after waking up to remembering everything that happened, but that didn’t make it any less embarrassing. 

Especially with Kili and Fili not even trying to hide their laughter. 

“Boys,” he sighs, turning to the both of them. “You’re both going to pop stitches if you don’t behave. I can and will bar Tauriel from coming to visit, if you can’t behave, Kili.” 

Kili’s jaw drops open at the threat, looking absolutely flummoxed that Bilbo would do such a thing. Fili, at least, does a better job of muffling his laughter in bed, though half of that effort is simply because of the pain from the great wounds they all received. 

“Unfortunately, you can not banish me just yet,” Tauriel says, walking into the tent, something wrapped in a dirty cloth in her hand. 

She completely bypasses Fili, much to his chagrin, and heads to Thorin’s side. With an arched brow and a dubious look, she hands the bundle to Thorin, and returns to take her place by Kili’s side. 

Thorin doesn’t thank her, of course, he still seems to be grappling with the knowledge that Kili is only alive because of Tauriel, but he does gesture for Bilbo to scoot a bit closer. As though Bilbo needs any excuse to get close to Thorin. 

“Bilbo,” he starts, then pauses, and holds out the bundle. “Gandalf told me a while ago that flowers have meaning in your culture, as gems do for my own. I do not know what this one means, but I hope you understand what I mean.” 

Curiously, Bilbo takes the bundle with the utmost delicacy and gentleness the occasion calls for. He peels back the fabric, staring down at the slightly crushed flower, protected from his hands by dirty cloth. 

Monkshood. 

He looks up and oh, Thorin looks so uncertain despite Bilbo still declaring he was the consort not a few minutes ago. Careful not to let his skin touch the flower, Bilbo looks it over, examining it as though it is the most precious item in all of the land. 

And to him, it is. 

“Thank you, Thorin,” he murmurs, standing up to place it aside so his hands are finally free to cup Thorin’s own. “I love it just as I love you.” 

He tries his best to ignore the cheers when their lips finally meet. 

“You know, monkshood is a flower you typically only give to someone you hate,” Bilbo says, pouring another cup of tea for his king. 

Said king looks at him, a small smirk crossing his face. He reaches over, tugging at the chain around Bilbo’s neck to bring forth the still uncut and rough gem Bilbo had fashioned into a pendant. 

“Do you know what kind of stone this is?” Thorin asks, holding it loosely in his palm. The chain dangles from Bilbo’s neck. 

He considers for a moment before shaking his head, looking down as best he can. “A red one?”

A small laugh rumbles out from Thorin’s chest. He lets the gemstone drop, where it bounces slightly against Bilbo’s chest before settling. 

“The meaning is a bit hard to translate, but it basically means that you want to… have relations with someone. Lust would probably be the most basic meaning of it.” 

Bilbo’s already flushing red before Thorin can even finish, mortification running through him faster than Smaug decimated Laketown. Thorin wraps an arm around him, probably meant to be comforting, but all it does is have the opposite effect. 

It’s rumored later that the entire mountain was able to hear Bilbo’s next shout, but no one brings this up to the consort themselves. Not unless they want to be on dish duty when he tried out his latest baking experiment. 

“Are you telling me I gave you a stone that means ‘I want to fuck you’ in front of the entire company?!”