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Chapter Text

Bilbo Baggins held a quill above parchment but the words were not forthcoming. He could not decide what to write, he had options of course, another outlandish tale of the Took clan, or perhaps a tale told by the men in Bree, though he wasn’t sure how much truth was in their stories. He wasn’t opposed to writing fiction, perhaps about Elves; they had always interested Shire folk with their ethereal beauty and haunting melodies. A dalliance between the prince and the captain of the guard would make for a fine read but Bilbo was uncomfortable writing about such things.

At 56 Bilbo was somewhat of an oddity among the Shire folk, respectable but odd all the same. At 33 when he had come of age people expected him to take a wife and fill Bag End with children, but it was not to be. There had been interest but those wishing to court him had had their heart set on his name and inheritance rather than on him. It was devastating to learn people could be so shallow and cruel and he thanked Yavanna that none of his suitors had caught his attention. Instead Bilbo lost himself in his maps and books rather than letting himself be swept away by meaningless words and duplicitous actions.

“Uncle Bilbo?” A quiet voice called out in the dark. Bilbo placed his quill down and stood from his desk, pausing to stretch his aching body, wondering how long he had sat idle. “Bilbo?” The voice called again more urgently. Bilbo collected the candle on his desk and followed the sound of the voice. Bilbo was unsure of the time; though he knew it to be late as he had drawn the curtains and extinguished all the candles, save the one he was holding. Easily manoeuvring around the dark hobbit hole, Bilbo made his way to the guest bedroom opposite his own bedroom. The door was ajar, as it always was when he was babysitting his young cousin and he pushed it open further and stepped inside. The candlelight illuminated the small child sat up in bed and Bilbo made his way over towards the dark haired boy and set the candle down on the bedside table.

“What is the matter, Frodo?” Bilbo asked as he perched on the edge of the bed.

“I can’t sleep; could you tell me a story?” Frodo asked plainly, though his big blue eyes silently pleaded. Bilbo sighed as though put upon but it was merely in jest. Yes it was true he struggled putting quill to parchment but he had plenty of tales to tell and he knew Frodo enjoyed his stories much to the annoyance of his father, Drogo.

“And what would young Master Frodo like to hear about tonight?”

“The dwarves of Erebor!” Frodo called out instantly, and Bilbo wondered how long the child had been awake pondering the ways to get his cousin to tell him of the dwarves.

“I have just the story for you; make yourself comfortable for it is long as I am old.” Frodo laughed and placed his pillow behind his back.

“You’re not old,” Bilbo ruffled Frodo’s dark curls in thanks and the young hobbit settled back and pulled the blanket up around his raised knees.

“Let me tell you about the greatest kingdom in Middle Earth, Erebor. Stronghold of Thrór, King Under the Mountain, mightiest of the Dwarf Lords. Thrór ruled with utter surety, never doubting his house would endure for his line lay secure in the lives of his son and grandson. Ah Frodo, Erebor, built deep in the mountain itself the beauty of this fortress city was legend. Its wealth lay in the earth, in precious gems hewn from rock and great seams of gold running like rivers through stone. The skill of the dwarves was unequalled, fashioning objects of great beauty out of diamond, emerald, ruby and sapphire. Ever they delved deep down in the dark and that is where they found it, the heart of the mountain, the Arkenstone. Thrór named it the Kings Jewel; he took it as a sign that his rule was divine. All would pay homage to him even the great Elvenking, Thranduil.” Bilbo paused for a moment, enjoying the look of wonderment in the young hobbit’s eyes as if he could see Erebor.

“It was one such homage that our story begins, as befits a royal visit King Thranduil flanked with four guards had an audience with Thrór. The mighty dwarf king sat on his throne, the Arkenstone embedded above his seat the light of which always reflected in the king’s eyes no matter where the stone was placed. To his left stood his son, Thráin flanked by two guards and to his right stood his grandson, Thorin with a servant also flanked by two guards. Elves are not like dwarves, they do not covert gold or live in mountains they bask in the sunlight and especially the moonlight and sing to the stars. However there are some gems, white ones made of pure starlight that the elves do value above all else. King Thranduil had seen the expert craftsmanship of the dwarves and so he commissioned the dwarves to fashion jewellery out of the precious gems for himself and his kin. On this visit he came to collect that which was his, the servant came forward with a chest in his arms and opened the lid for the elf king to see. Thranduil was pleased with their work and mesmerised by the gems he reached out to touch but the servant slammed the chest shut!” Bilbo stated with a clap of his hands and enjoyed the way Frodo jumped.

“King Thranduil stared accusingly at the throne, but only the light of the Arkenstone stared back at him. A madness had come over the king, as his wealth had grown his goodwill ran thin and his sanity was all but lost. Thranduil said nothing for he was an old elf and wise and he knew this day would come. He had warned Thrór of his greed, that since finding the Arkenstone darkness had come over him but Thrór would not listen then and he undoubtedly would not now. Thráin was silent through the transaction, though he did step forward, hand on the hilt of his sword expecting the Elvenking to respond differently. What everyone failed to see was the young prince Thorin, he had watched on in horror as his grandfather swindled the elves. He stared aghast at the man he thought he knew and then looked to his father for support and realised none was forthcoming. It is sad, Frodo how old alliances can be broken, how friendship between peoples can be lost.” Bilbo paused, saddened by his own words and Frodo rubbed his arm, comfortingly.

“But not on that day,” Bilbo countered with a smile. “The elf king had turned and begun to walk away, Thrór chuckled at the spectacle and perhaps it was that sinister laugh that spurred the young prince into action. ‘Wait!’ he called, his deep voice echoing around the vast halls of his ancestors and stilled the retreating king. Climbing down the few steps from the throne the prince snatched the chest from the startled servant and glowered at him causing the dwarf to scarper away. ‘I believe these belong to you,’ Thorin stated and approached the still and silent elf. Behind him Thrór stood his blue eyes ablaze with the hue of the Arkenstone and anger. ‘How dare you!’ The dwarf lord cried out so loud and angry it shook the very foundations of Erebor. All of Erebor's inhabitants were alerted to the confrontation and no one dared to speak or breathe too loudly, as all eyes were on the throne and the prince.” Bilbo paused once again for effect.

“It takes a great amount of courage to stand up against one you love, but the prince knew in his heart dire things would happen if Thrór would continue in this way. He had heard his grandfather shout, all of Erebor had and though it made him pause, he resumed his approach to the Elvenking, who had now turned to face him. ‘Do not hand over that chest; you are defying your king! This is treason!’ Thrór bellowed and his son was beside himself, torn between his duty and his son. Thranduil chose not to speak or act, this was not his place and he refused to encourage or discourage Thorin’s actions. ‘These. Are. Yours.’ The young prince spoke clearly and passed the chest to the king. Thranduil inclined his head in thanks and left Erebor with the chest.”

“He didn’t help Thorin?” Frodo asked, aghast.

“It was not his place, dwarves are very private folk, Thranduil’s only option was to leave or else Thorin’s courageous actions would have been for nothing.” Noticing the candle was low; Bilbo quickly lit another and took his seat on the bed once more. “All was silent in Erebor until one word rang through the halls and was said to have echoed a thousand times and that word was traitor. Finally Thorin turned and faced the mad king. ‘I should have your beard!’ Thrór hissed, ‘were you anyone else, you wretched boy! I should disown you!’ Dwarves are proud folk and stubborn, awfully stubborn Frodo, do not argue with one if it can be helped. For how courageous he was, Thorin was still a proud and stubborn dwarf and Thrór’s empty threats had hurt him. He felt he had been betrayed by king and kin and such betrayal cuts deep Frodo, may you never know that pain. Thorin was young and had grown his beard only so long to make a four inch braid so it came as a shock as Thorin pulled a dagger from its sheath at his hip, held his braided beard in one hand and used the other to cut it off.” Frodo gasped, shocked. “He then threw his severed beard in the king’s direction, claimed himself Durin no longer and banished himself because he refused to be treated differently because of his status. Thrór had treated him like a common criminal and though his actions were pure and honest, Thorin could not forget that day and he could not forgive.”

“Where did Thorin go?”

“He was seen trading in Dale and there were rumours that he had gone into the Greenwood but where he went after that no one quite knows. Some say he never left the Greenwood and stayed with Thranduil as his honoured guest. Others say Thranduil put Thorin under lock and key like Thrór refused to do.”

“And what do you think?” Frodo asked, interested.

“It’s rather fanciful and highly unlikely.” Bilbo laughed, but one look at Frodo’s face and seeing his keen interest had Bilbo opening up. “I like to think he went to Moria, to reclaim his homeland from the orcs. I like to imagine he slew hundreds of orcs, a one dwarf army hacking through the filth until he could seat himself on the throne for the visiting king and name himself King Under the Mountain.”

“I’d like to think that too and maybe a wife and some children so he wasn’t lonely.” Bilbo smiled and leaned down to kiss the top of Frodo’s head.

“Of course, couldn’t have the mighty king lonely now, can we?” Frodo lay down and Bilbo covered him with the blanket.

“Or you could go to Moria and tell him stories, that way neither of you will be lonely.” Bilbo swallowed the lump in his throat that he was sure was his heart. He didn’t talk for a moment and was rather surprised how Frodo’s words affected him.

“Yes I’ll tell him all about naughty hobbit children that won’t go to sleep.” He replied and tickled his cousin until he was exhausted. “Goodnight Frodo,” he whispered after noticing his cousin was asleep. Collecting the candle from the bedside table Bilbo returned to his writing desk with thoughts of a dashing prince rescuing a damsel in distress and if the prince happened to be a dwarf and the lass a hobbit who introduces him to her brother, well fiction is what it is.

Chapter Text

The tread of a dwarf was heavy as they were one with the earth and refused to be parted from it. Thorin’s tread was especially heavy as he stomped out of his ancestral home muttering curses in khuzdul. The guards he encountered gave him a wide berth with a look of shock on their faces. No doubt all of Erebor’s inhabitants were shocked by his outburst to his grandfather and their king.

A part of Thorin wanted to march back into Erebor and demand the king see reason and apologise not just to him but to the Elvenking. He wanted to grab that accursed rock above the throne and stamp on it in front of his grandfather and break whatever hold it had over Thrór. He wanted his father to stand beside him; he wanted Thrór to look at him as his treasured grandson once more. He wanted so many things, but he would not get. He had done the right thing, he had salvaged an age old friendship but there was no victory in it. For his people, yes but for himself there was none to be had.

He tried to console himself with the feat he had accomplished. A king should consider the needs of his people for they should outweigh the needs of his own. Somewhere amongst the accumulation of wealth Thrór had forgotten that and Thráin had become complacent as next in line to the throne that he would not jeopardise his position, not even for his son. Thorin hadn’t realised he was expendable, but with his younger brother Frerin and sister Dís the line of Durin was safe and his disinheritance meant little to nothing to those mad with power.

Thorin stopped and turned towards the Lonely Mountain and shouted every curse word he knew. It was petty and childish, no more than a tantrum but it made him feel better and he at least deserved one vice. He wanted to cry out how he would be missed and what a terrible mistake they had made but he knew it would be nothing more than a child crying out for his father’s attention. Shouting at the mountain was enough, possibly too much, he had been taught better than that. He had learnt to keep his mouth shut and express his displeasure with his eyes, but glaring at the mountain did not vent his frustration and anger as shouting did.

He regretted storming out without packing, he hadn’t thought, he was too angry and hurt to think and had only reacted. There was no going back even if he wanted to, dwarves were notoriously stubborn and his pride had been hurt. However it was unlikely that Thrór would apologise, which was fine as Thorin wouldn’t accept it. He had been shamed in front of his people and they were his people, Thrór no longer considered anyone but himself and as for his father, his silence was enough to convict him of the same.

Thorin finished his tirade at the mountain, and turned to look upon the town of Dale. They would know him there, which was a blessing and a curse. He’d been to Dale often enough, hyperaware of the eyes on him as he perused the many stalls. ‘Always seem impressed and never come away empty handed’ was what he was taught. ‘Be one of the people so then you can be for the people,’ another lesson Thrór had clearly forgotten. Though Thrór never roamed the streets of Dale and if Thráin did it was a rare thing. It was always Thorin that was paraded around the streets as a prized possession making purchases each week of things he never needed, but happily gave away as gifts to less fortunate dwarves. He never visited the same store twice for fear of favouritism and he was there often enough he was sure there was not a store he hadn’t bought from, he hoped the people of Dale remembered that and showed him some goodwill.

The whispers started as soon as he stepped foot into Dale.

“Isn’t that the prince?”

“He’s tall for a dwarf.”

“No escort?”

It was nothing he hadn’t heard before, so it seemed news from the mountain hadn’t spread as quickly as he had thought. He looked around the bustling town and wondered where he could get a room. A woman selling roses noticeably perked up when his eyes fell on her and so he made his way over. The brunette woman was plump, possibly with child though he wouldn’t want to guess. Her skin was pale though her cheeks were rosy and she had a comely smile that reached her brown eyes.

“My Prince,” she welcomed him and curtsied. “Would you like a rose?” He didn’t, but he nodded and was pleased as the woman clearly searched for the best one.

“Could you tell me where I could get a room for the night?” Thorin questioned as the woman continued the search.

“The Red Dragon, aha!” The woman proclaimed, selecting the perfect rose. “Just walk down that street and it is the last building on the left.” Thorin turned and was thankful that he could see the tavern sign from where he was stood, as he was never good with directions. “One silver piece please,” the woman asked as Thorin turned back around. Had it been any other day Thorin’s pockets would have been empty, but as Erebor prepared for a royal visit Thorin had placed a few gold coins in his pockets to pass out among the less fortunate as they gathered to view the spectacle. Pulling one of these coins out of his pocket had the woman stunned. “Oh no my Prince, I could not accept that.”

“I have nothing else to offer.” The woman paused for a moment before passing over all of the roses in her basket.

“A fair trade is all I can offer.” Thorin took the roses gladly.

“A fair trade it is, my lady, I thank you.” The woman blushed prettily and pocketed the gold before curtsying again and departing. Thorin turned again with his arms full of roses and caught sight of the tavern sign and made his way over, passing out roses to women and children as he went. ‘People think dwarves are greedy and selfish, we share the wealth of the mountain with them but it is not enough, as my grandson you will be among them and dispel this image of us.’ Thrór had told him that and yet had eventually become that which the people thought he was, cruel selfish and greedy.

The tavern was strangely empty considering the hour, but Thorin supposed the people of Dale were shopping or catching the last glimpses of the Elvenking. Thorin could not be far behind the Elvenking, had he the mind to do so he could catch up, he knew he would be welcomed, but he decided against it. Thranduil had come to pay homage and collect his gems; he had not come to be burdened with a charge such as the prince. Besides, Thorin was unsure how his father and grandfather would spin his banishment. If he were to leave in the company of the elves Thrór could claim that his grandson was kidnapped and wage war against Thranduil burning down the Greenwood and taking back the chest. He would not risk it, too much had already been lost, and he had to focus on what had to be saved. Thranduil had to make it safely home where he would dwell in his woodland realm and hopefully forgive Thrór for his ill treatment. His own path ahead was unclear. He was faced with a solitary road with no family and no advisors from now on every decision was his own, it was frightening as well as refreshing.

The barman watched him approach with a look of awe in his eyes. On his visits to Dale the taverns were off limits for fear the young prince would drink and forget his station and besmirch the crown. It was quite clear that the balding barman knew him, well of him, the dwarf that was paraded about town. The stool before the bar was made for men and Thorin had had a trying enough day that he chose to stand a few feet from the bar and address the barman.

“I would like a room,” he stated simply. In his younger years he could talk for hours without actually saying anything. He would practise in front of a mirror, pretending to hold council while Frerin complained that he could not sleep through Thorin’s constant drivel. Balin had found it particularly amusing, but his father was unimpressed with his long-winded sanctimonious speeches. ‘Do not waste your words, Thorin!’ he would snap and Thorin no longer did although it pained him in the beginning to do so. ‘Do not be so abrupt, Thorin!’ his father would later complain and Thorin was at a loss as to what to do.

“Very well Prince Thorin...”

“Just Thorin,” Thorin snapped realising he sounded like a petulant child. The barman probably thought him to be no more than an errant child throwing his toys out of the cot in displeasure. Thorin wasn’t quite sure how to dispel that image as he had thrown away a life of luxury but it was a fair price for his sanity. He’d been a puppet for his family and advisers all of his life and he was not prepared to be ruled by a shiny rock.

“This way then...Thorin,” the barman obliged and snatched a key behind the bar before walking around the bar and made his way up a flight of stairs. Thorin followed behind him to the first floor and joined the barman at the second door on the left. The barman unlocked the door and opened it before stepping aside to let Thorin inspect it. Thorin stepped forward and took a quick look around the room, it was surprisingly big and well lit by the sun and the bed looked comfortable.

“Is this room satisfactory?” the barman asked cautiously and only then did Thorin realise the balding man was sweating nervously. Thorin gave a stiff nod and took the key from the man’s shaking hand and entered the room and shut and locked the door behind him.

Walking over to the bed, Thorin sat down and stared out of the window which typically faced the Lonely Mountain. The view made his blood boil so he lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling wondering what he would do. He suddenly realised he had not asked the barman for the price of the room. No doubt the barman thought to bill Erebor thinking Thorin would stay the night to prove a point before tucking his tail between his legs and returning to the comfort of the mountain.

Thorin sat up and counted the coins in his pockets. He had taken ten gold coins, five in each pocket and had used one for the roses leaving him with nine gold pieces. Three rings were on his fingers and he had an assortment of necklaces of varying value beneath his royal blue tunic. Clothes were another matter entirely; he was dressed in his finest royal blue tunic with silver embroidery with a black leather surcoat with a fur trim of the first warg he had killed. He still wore his silver vambraces along with black leather trousers and thick padded boots. He was aware he looked every bit the prince he no longer was and he wasn’t sure what to do.

He’d have to find out how much the room cost and sort his expenses from there. Thankfully the bar was still relatively empty as he walked down the stairs and climbed onto the stool before the bar. The barman was before him in an instant less wary and smiling easily as he placed a tankard of ale before the dwarf.

“How much for room and board?” Thorin asked staring into the tankard, deciding if it were truly wise to drown his sorrows.

“One gold piece a night, free ale on tap.” The barman replied and wiped down the bar once more out of nervousness. Thorin wasn’t sure if the price was fair having never taken care of his own expenses before, it seemed fair. Dale was a prosperous city and being on the doorstep of Erebor meant that such establishments could charge more for room and board. He doubted there would be a better price in the city, if anything he would need to leave for Esgaroth if cheaper room and board became a requirement.

He would have to search for a job the next day and he wasn’t adverse to the idea. He was capable of earning a living and supporting himself, if the people of Dale could do it then he saw no reason why he could not. They’d be talk of course but until Erebor released a statement Thorin was unwilling to discuss what had happened.

Staring into his cup Thorin caught his reflection in the amber liquid. His beard was shorn, chopped off in a fit of rage by his own hand, now anyone who looked upon him would know his shame. No, it wasn’t shame it was penance for a justifiable crime. How could he stand as a voice of the people and expect to be silent while witnessing a true crime. Thrór had always wanted him to assimilate into society and now here he was, no longer for the people but one of the people, Mahal bless the king.

Taking a deep drink from his tankard Thorin realised it was unwise. He was too bitter, his emotions too raw for him to be seen in public nursing a beer. He had to think for himself and consider his own honour and reputation now he was no longer affiliated with the crown. It would not do to dull his wits and bemoan his fate. He was a dwarf with no station and still ruled by the crown, should he see fit to disparage the king his life would easily be forfeit. Thorin Durin had paid with his beard; Thorin of no name would not be afforded the same luxury.

“I will take my dinner in my room,” Thorin barked at the barman and jumped off the stool. Thinking twice, he grabbed his tankard from the bar and marched up the stairs. There was little point in wasting fine ale and so long as he drank alone in a locked room, there was no harm.

The view of the Lonely Mountain was still as troublesome as before and he found himself stood at the window staring out. He had half a mind to shout expletives again but that would not do, not now he was stationed in Dale. They’d think him mad, and he wasn’t, sometimes he felt like the only sane one among his kin, but perhaps that was the true definition of madness, thinking himself sane and everyone else mad.

No, he tried to reason with himself, a shiny bauble hadn’t made him blind and sick with greed. He had not disowned his kin over some silly rock...although he had. The king was willing to be lenient and let him go with a slap on the back of the hand and perhaps no dinner. Maybe he would have been confined to his quarters and forced to write an apology, or have his study sessions extended. Thrór had no intention of carrying out his empty threats which allowed Thorin to see that Thrór was not completely lost. Through his rage and madness the king still recognised his treasured grandson and refused to be parted from him. It was almost beautiful if it weren’t so terribly tragic, but being taught to be one of the people for the people Thorin couldn’t allow such favouritism. Thus he acted on the king’s impotent threats and banished himself, allowing that stone to take everything from him but he would not part with his sanity.

Thorin drained his tankard of ale and stared into the distance. He could see the gates to the great kingdom of Erebor but little movement. He sighed wistfully and pulled the curtains together blocking out the view of the mountain. It was silly to be homesick so early on, it couldn’t have been more than an hour since his stand against his king. He didn’t regret his actions, a friendship between dwarves and elves still existed and Frerin could still buy those Elvish bows he was so fond of. It was simply that his sadness outweighed his cheer and only now the true extent of his loss was making itself known.

He lay down on the bed and allowed himself his grief and sorrow. There would be no advisers muttering derisively over the tracks left by his tears, no one to complain about his weakness succumbing to his sorrow. Such freedom came at a heavy cost and the thought that he should never see his family again broke his heart. Burying his face in the pillow Thorin allowed himself to sob uncontrollably but quietly.

Three knocks on his door awoke him some hours later. It was dark out but there was an orange glow coming from a gap between the curtains from the town’s torches. Turning to face the door Thorin saw there was also an orange glow seeping through the gap at the bottom of the door. There was enough light to see where he was going as he walked over to the door and unlocked it. No one was stood before him as he opened the door but a meal was left with a fresh tankard of ale. Carefully retrieving the items, Thorin placed them on the table beside the bed and locked the door once more. The room was too dark to see his food properly and he felt too idle to light the candles so instead he parted the curtains and let the street torch light flood the room. Sitting down on the bed, Thorin placed his plate on his lap and picked at the cold meats as he gazed out of the window. The great braziers of Erebor were lit and Thorin entertained the thought that he could see movement on the battlements but it was more wishful thinking as he was too far away to see. It didn’t mean he couldn’t imagine his father looking out hoping for a glimpse of his wayward son. Or even the proud king brought low by his own actions, whispering his apologises to the wind hoping they may reach him. Both seemed unlikely, if it were anyone looking for him it would be Frerin furious over missing out on an adventure. Not that Thorin would call his exile an adventure but to Frerin to step foot outside the mountain would be an adventure.

Finishing his meal and draining his tankard, Thorin stood once more and with a solemn nod of his head bid goodnight to the mountain and all kin within before closing the curtains and laid on the bed once more. Sleep came quickly as he was emotionally exhausted.

The next time he awoke the midday sun was high in the sky and Thorin managed a smile. At home he would never be allowed to sleep in, even if he were not feeling well. ‘A Prince is never ill, Thorin.’ He’d never felt so well rested before and unburdened. Of course he had to search for a job today but that was all on his own time and didn’t even have to be today. He was still safe for at least eight more days, but it was best to search as soon as possible.

Climbing off the bed Thorin made use of the chamber pot and had a quick wash in the water basin provided. He dampened his hair and freed the knots with his fingers and only then remembered his braids. The braids themselves meant little, but the silver clasps marked him of the line of Durin and he was reluctant to part with them as they were a family heirloom. Three had been given to him but only two remained as the third had held the braid in his beard which he angrily threw at Thrór. He could not keep them and he knew exactly who he was going to give them to but at the moment they were safe where they were.

Collecting his plate and two tankards, Thorin exited his room and walked down into the bar, placing the items onto the bar. The barman looked at him in surprise and Thorin wondered whether it was not his place to clean up after himself. In truth, he was surprised he was allowed to eat in his own room. It was forbidden in Erebor, although seemingly only to him as he regularly caught Frerin eating seed cakes on his bed. If he even dared to sneak down to the kitchen to fetch seed cakes his actions would be reported and he would be punished. He was only ever slapped on the back of the hand but it made him feel silly and small and he never committed the crime again.

Placing a gold coin on the bar, Thorin held the key to the room. “I would like to reserve the room for another night.” He said while pocketing the key.

“Yes, my Prince, Thorin,” the barman corrected looking nervous. Thorin felt bad that his presence distressed the man. “If you would leave the key I will have fresh linen for when you return.” Thorin raised an eyebrow, and handed over the key wondering if that was the true service of the establishment or because of his previous title.
Deciding it didn’t matter; Thorin left the tavern with thoughts of his future employment. Sometimes there were advertisements for job vacancies in shop windows, which he had seen in happier times. He hoped to find one today if only to ease his worry and increase his purse.

Luck was not on his side as he walked around Dale looking for any sign but there were none so far and his presence was causing quite a disturbance. He tried to ignore the whispers as he always did but it seemed there was news from Erebor and he couldn’t help but overhear the gossip.

“Banished, chopped off his own beard!”

“Isn’t that him? Thought he’d run off with an elf.”

“Apparently Thorin is in love with King Thranduil but Thrór objected, which is right of course because then Prince Legolas would become King Under the Mountain.”

That one made Thorin pause and his jaw dropped in astonishment. How dare they speak like that, had he his title such talk would be construed as treason but then the reason why they talked in such a way is because they were free to. He was no one now and from what he gathered Erebor had not made a statement so the people of Dale were drawing their own conclusions.

He’d been centre of attention like this once before, when he and Legolas went hunting together. Legolas was quite the braggart and Thorin could never resist a wager so off they went to prove a point. When they returned, point unproven and the wager null, all of Erebor was in a state of panic. His hand got slapped three times that day and his grandfather took him aside and asked him about his feelings for the Prince of the Greenwood. Thrór made it quite clear that a union between he and Legolas would be frowned upon and he would not allow it. From that day on Thranduil visited Erebor without his son and Thorin was forbidden to go to the Greenwood. Thorin had mourned the friendship he had lost but was accused of nursing a broken heart. Thrór in an act of what he assumed was mercy took to parading all of the wealthy dwarrowdams from the Iron Hills before him to placate him but none caught his eye.

Dale was beginning to resemble the state of panic Erebor was in then. It was no good, he would not find a job with all this attention and his clothing made him stand out. He would have to find a seamstress and hopefully trade as he did not wish to part with his gold. As luck would have it, and Mahal knew he was in short supply of it, Thorin had not long since passed a tailors shop. Turning around Thorin headed back from whence he came and found the shop easily enough.
The tailor’s was blessedly empty as Thorin entered the small shop. A plain blonde woman in a yellow dress was stood behind rows of fabric and Thorin saw her watching him nervously. He felt bad that his presence seemed to be terrifying the good people of Dale but there was nothing he could do but do some business and be on his way.

“May I speak to the owner?” He asked politely and the blonde scurried off only to return moments later with a white haired woman with a bent back.

“My Prince,” the old lady croaked and Thorin tried desperately not to flinch, as not only was he no longer a prince he was certainly never her prince, Dale had royalty of their own. Still Thorin was gracious enough not to correct her and take insult when none was intended.

“My Lady may I speak to you in private?” The woman acquiesced and Thorin followed her into the back room where a number of sewing machines were arranged and many items of clothing were hanged. After seating himself and politely refusing a beverage, Thorin began. “I am hoping to trade with you today for my benefit, as well as yours and to a number of dwarves in Erebor. The clothes that I wear now are all that I own and I wish to make a trade with you. As you may know Durin’s Day is a great celebration in Erebor and all come out in their finery but though there is wealth in the mountain not all can afford such attire as my own. I think this unfair, as we are all equal so I am willing to part with my surcoat and tunic so you may mimic the design and sell similar attire so come Durin’s Day all can dress like royalty.” Thorin finished with a self satisfied smile, happy to use his words once more.

“That is quite the offer and I thank you for it, there are many other seamstresses and I am honoured that you chose my establishment. I am moved by your speech, but notice you did not name your price.” The woman replied, quite clearly interested in Thorin’s offer.

“I require clothing, as much as you deem fair for such an exchange.”

“Very well my Prince, we have a deal.” The lady held her hand out and Thorin shook it gratefully. “Now this fur dear,” the woman continued bringing her withered hand up to the collar of the surcoat and ran a finger down the black fur. “What is it?” She enquired and removed her hand.

“Warg, the first warg I killed. The fur does not have to be that of a warg, any fur will do.”

“Very well, I have many clothes pre-made for men though I think it fair to say you are very tall for a Dwarf and should have no problems. If you would like to remove your surcoat and tunic, I will collect the items you desire.”

Thorin did as requested and left the shop with five pairs of trousers, ten shirts, seven pairs of underwear and a brown woollen coat that only reached slightly past his elbows and was held together by a sturdy circular brown belt. He was pleased with his exchange, as he had been treated fairly and that was all he could ask. Some of his kin may think he was betraying his race by giving away their secrets but it was not so. He was not so petty as to betray his people for vengeance or self gain. He had spoken from the heart, it had pained him to see struggling families try to dress impressively on Durin’s Day and fall short. The seamstresses in Erebor would still have their workload but now the playing field between the classes was somewhat evened.

“Isn’t that the prince?” Thorin stopped in his tracks, and sighed defeated. He was convinced he looked every bit the common dwarf and would not be recognised.

“He’s in love with the Elvenking.” Thorin shot a dirty look in the direction of the one who had spoken and stomped off down the street.

He stopped at a forge and traded his silver vambraces for four gold pieces with the man. He hadn’t the heart to haggle or the time to find a higher bidder. The smith could melt the silver down and make jewellery and earn a profit, or he could display them though no would believe they were his own work, still they would make a lovely display. The royal family was not short of admirers, should someone see them displayed they may offer quite a sum for royal memorabilia. It was not his concern, his purse was heavier and he had clothes, and now all he wanted to do was go back to the tavern and lock himself in his room and if people thought he was hiding from the world, then they were correct in their assumptions.

Chapter Text

For four days Thorin locked himself away in the tavern, only leaving his room when coaxed with a bath so that his room could be cleaned. He would consider his plan successful had his whereabouts not been known to the entire populace of Dale, leaving little doubt that all of Erebor knew of his hiding place too. The Red Dragon had never been so busy, as it seemed the people of Dale were simply happy being in the same establishment as the banished prince and perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Thorin found they were very respectful, keeping their voices low so even if they were talking about him, of that he was sure, he could not hear them.

Kaupi, the balding barman was simply over the moon with the extra business and showed his thanks with warm baths, extra meals and an abundance of pastries left outside his door. Thorin had never eaten so well and in the privacy of his own room without getting a slap for his ignorant behaviour. He was sure he was going soft around the middle with all the food he had consumed and no training to work it off.

Tilda, the white-haired seamstress had also kept in touch, sending over samples of her work and asking for his advice. None of his further business with her was conducted face to face; instead he would find her work left at his door in the morning. He would then look over the attire and write down what could be improved and then leave the note and attire outside his door with his used plates. Then by the next day there would be another item of clothing and a new shirt for his help, tailored to fit him. Tilda clearly had a good eye because he had never given her his sizes and they had only met the once but the new shirts fitted perfectly and each one was finer than the last.

Tilda’s last sample had been an entire outfit awaiting final approval, which Thorin gave without fail. The work was wonderful and the price a fraction of what it would cost in Erebor. Thorin wrote a long letter of praise to Tilda, wishing his name meant something to show his seal of approval. Instead all he could do was dispense advice and he did, informing her to show her new clothes outside the shop with the cost attached so any passing dwarf could see. It would take only one dwarf of the lower classes to see before her business would boom. He wished her all the best and thanked her once again not only for his new attire but for the service she would provide for all classes of dwarves.

By the fifth day a strange knock on his door had his attention peaked. Breakfast had been served, he had left one gold piece as payment with his used dishes as per usual but it was far too early for lunch and he usually took his bath in the evening. The knock sounded again; apparently Kaupi was insistent that he opened the door. Thorin’s stomach dropped, Kaupi knew better than to disturb him which meant a higher power was deciding Kaupi’s actions and there was no higher power than the King of Erebor. Thorin highly doubted Thrór was on the other side of the door, but that did not mean he had not sent for him.

Another three knocks in quick succession had Thorin’s heart racing. What could Thrór want? A pardon was out of the question because then the king would have to admit he was at fault and his grandfather was too proud and stubborn for that. Had they come for his head? Was exile too good for him? Or maybe he would be dragged back to Erebor as the king hadn’t banished him, Thorin had banished himself. Maybe Thrór had overturned Thorin’s rule, as king he had the power to overturn any sentence even those dealt by royalty.

Another series of knocks and Thorin stood. He was in no way fit to receive royalty dressed only in a plain blue shirt and matching breeches, with his long raven hair tangled from not being brushed for some time. He’d be thrown at the foot of the throne like a bootless savage urchin no way resembling the prince he once was.

Gathering his courage Thorin approached and unlocked the door and stood face to face with a terrified barman.

“Milord I’m s-so-sorry to bother you b-but you have a visitor.” Kaupi knew better than address Thorin with a title, which left little doubt that it was the king’s work at play.

“How many?” Thorin asked expecting the royal guard. King’s orders or not he would not make this easy for them. They would have to take him back to Erebor kicking and screaming, he would not kill but he would happily maim if it came to that.

“Just one,” a third person spoke and Thorin was taken by surprise as Girion, King of Dale came to stand before him.

“My King,” Thorin spoke quickly and bowed his head much to Girion’s amusement as the king chuckled.

“I am not your king,” Girion corrected.

“I am in your city, under your law.”

“Aye, that is true, still ‘my king’ from your lips Thorin, you could make a king blush. Let us forgo formalities shall we? Are we not old friends? Let us talk as such.” Thorin nodded and Girion turned to Kaupi who was wringing his apron nervously. “I thank you my good man, you may go back to your duties. I have brought many a thirsty escort with me and no doubt an abundance of followers.”

“Y-yes, thank you Milord, thank you,” Kaupi was bowing and retreating, clearly glad to be away from his royal guests.

“May I enter, Thorin?” Thorin snapped out of his reverie to see amused brown eyes sparkle in mischief. “Honestly you stand at that door like a dragon protecting his hoard. I promise I will not steal your new shirts, so may I enter?” Thorin stepped aside unsurprised that Girion knew of his dealings with Tilda.

The king entered the room and walked over to the writing desk. He was dressed in his finery, a burgundy tunic covered by chainmail which was covered by a burgundy leather surcoat. His trousers were made of the same burgundy leather and his feet were covered by black riding boots. Dale was a peaceful city but it was always best to be prepared for the worst. The king sat down at the writing desk on the only available chair and Thorin shut the door, almost locking it on instinct before realising what he was doing. Leaving the key alone, Thorin turned and walked over to the bed and sat down, facing the king of Dale. Girion was watching him with an amused smile playing on his thin pink lips.

“I do believe you were going to lock me in your bedroom.” Girion raised his thick brown eyebrows suggestively and Thorin felt himself blush fiercely. No one had ever spoken to him in such a way as it would be improper but he had to admit he rather did like the flirting.

“I would not be so forward...my King,” Thorin added, looking up through his lashes. He probably looked like a foolish darrowdam out of his league batting his eyelashes at a king while he himself looked like an unkempt vagabond.

“How I wish I was younger,” Girion sighed wistfully and Thorin was taken aback. He hadn’t ever entertained thoughts that the king of Dale thought of him as anything else but friend. There had been smiles between them and gift exchanges and Girion was always quick to compliment him but at the time Thorin assumed Girion was behaving for the sake of the friendship between Erebor and Dale. “I would have happily married you and returned your title to you, King’s consort of Dale.” Thorin smiled at the king’s sincerity. “To have you at my side, to take you to bed, you would have made this old man very happy but you are young, Thorin, not even of age by your peoples standards and I would not wish to grieve you by my abysmally short time on this earth.” Thorin could feel his face burn at Girion’s words. The king would never speak so honestly had Thorin not been disowned and Thorin was almost grateful. Hearing Girion’s words was praise indeed and a part of him wanted to lie back on the bed and let the king settle between his thighs.

“I’m terribly sorry Thorin that was improper of me.” Girion interrupted Thorin’s thoughts of their union and nervously ran his fingers through his salt and pepper curled hair that reached to his shoulders.

“N-no, I thank you for your words. Is that why you have come?”

“I would walk through dragon fire to see you, but no that is not why I have come. I wish to know why you are hiding in my city.”

“Has there been no news from Erebor?” Thorin countered, as Girion was aware Thorin no longer had a title.

“No news from the dwarves.”

“But news from Erebor?” Thorin pressed.

“I do not wish to speak of gossip as I do not know if it is fact, but Erebor is being silent and the people of Dale are drawing conclusions of their own.”

“Yes I have heard.” Thorin stated bitterly.

“Not true then? That is a relief, I do not compare to the Elvenking.” Thorin blushed again revelling in the king’s attention. “How I wish to see how far down that blush goes.” Girion spoke heatedly and Thorin imagined the king pressing kisses down his neck, his salt and pepper beard scratching against him as he traced his glowing skin.

“So what news have you heard and how did you come by it?” Thorin quickly asked trying to rid himself of improper thoughts.

“A trader from Dale was within Erebor during the Elvenking’s visit. After conducting his business he joined the masses trying to catch a glimpse of the elves. He says that there was...a misunderstanding.” Thorin nodded, knowing Girion was editing the story to not cause offense. “He says you were aware of the misunderstanding and tried to remedy it, which caused great upset to yourself and your grandfather. He claims heated words were exchanged and the king threatened you but did not punish you due to your heritage and you took offense and acted on his threats cutting off your beard and denying your birthright and banishing yourself.” Girion finished with a shrug of his shoulders and Thorin was surprised that the story was completely accurate without embellishments.

“That is a true account of what happened.” Thorin stated. He had heard snippets of the story said in the street and he should have known a man from Dale was within Erebor as a witness because the dwarves were far too secretive to speak about what happened to anyone outside of their race.

“Is Dale safe? I am not about to feel the wrath of King Thrór for harbouring you, am I?” Thorin shook his head.

“No. If I thought for a moment my presence here would cause problems I would leave, you have my word. No one should suffer for my actions.”

“Your word has always been good to me, Thorin and you are welcome here for as long as you like. Is there anything that you may need that I can help with?”

“I need a job.”

“I would hire you, if the thought of you under my roof would not drive me to distraction. What craft have you mastered?” Thorin felt his heart plummet, it was a fair question, as every dwarf had their own craft that they would master but as a prince Thorin didn’t have the same goals, he practised at everything but mastered nothing.

“I can work in a forge, I can craft jewellery and weapons but I am not a master in anything.” Girion’s cheery face gave way to a frown at Thorin’s words.

“That is most unfortunate, as you know Dale is the trading capital in Middle Earth, all master craftsman come here to sell their wares, it is a rather competitive market. Initially you would get work because of who you once were but once the novelty wore off I think business would dry up.”

“I thank you for your honesty, are there no jobs though? I would do anything.” Thorin realised he was nigh on begging and he felt slightly ashamed for putting the king in such a predicament.

“Must you regard me with those eyes and that tone of voice? You stir such passion in me I swear it will drive me to madness. I will see what I can do, but I do not promise anything.” Girion stated and stood.

“I thank you and I could ask for no more,” Thorin replied and stood as well.

“But you deserve so much more!” Girion proclaimed and approached taking Thorin’s hands into his own. “I would give you the world if I could, I would drape you in jewels and treasure you till the end of my life.”

“You flatter me,” Thorin replied, blessedly no longer blushing.

“May I have a farewell kiss or do I push my luck?” Thorin had never kissed anyone outside his own family and certainly not for romantic reasons. It was just not done and proper but he was free to do as he pleased now and he would be sharing a kiss with a friend and a king.

“You may.” Girion leaned down and immediately covered his lips with his own. Thorin was almost overcome by the man’s passion as a hand gripped his hair and another reached for his chin, tilting his head up as the king’s tongue entered his mouth. Thorin returned the kiss as best he could with his limited experience but Girion seemed to approve judging by the man’s obvious arousal straining against his breeches.

With obvious reluctance Girion ended the kiss and moved away, breathing heavily. “I must stop or else I won’t leave and you’ll find yourself on your back with a randy king on top of you and then where would we be?” Girion joked but Thorin saw the hunger in his eyes and knew the king was only making light of the truth.

“Farewell, my King,” Thorin teased knowing how his words stirred the man.

“Farewell, thief of my heart.” Girion bowed and then headed towards the door. “Oh and Thorin?” He turned.

“Yes?” Girion had opened the door and stood at the threshold.

“Do something about that rats nest on your head.” Thorin put his hand to his hair and looked aghast while the king laughed raucously and left the room, shutting the door behind him. Thorin allowed himself to laugh and listened to the commotion downstairs as Girion’s guards scraped their barstools against the floor in their hurry to leave.

Thorin went to the window and looked out catching Girion’s eye. The king pressed a kiss to his fingers and then blew in Thorin’s direction and the exiled prince laughed and waved as the king and his escorts mounted their steeds and departed. He watched until they were out of sight and then noticed some of the townspeople gossiping and pointing in his direction and he hastily pulled the curtains together.

Later that day while he was having a bath in rose scented water he thought back on his conversation with Girion. He washed his hair thoroughly thinking of the king’s parting shot and couldn’t stop smiling. He was fully aware he had developed a crush on the King of Dale but he assumed it was only natural. He was young, impressionable and Girion was a handsome man with a wicked tongue that spoke filth like it was poetry. No man, dwarf or darrowdam had spoken to him in such a way before, with such passion and intent. None had dared to look upon him as Girion did, and his lack of title didn’t deter the king either instead it seemed to ignite his desire.

Girion had kissed him too; his first kiss and he had felt the king’s arousal stir against him. It was a heady experience knowing he could inspire such lust in a person. He vaguely wondered if his father would approve of the match, would Thrór? He was paraded about Dale often enough, perhaps it was all a ruse to draw the king’s eye? Trade between Erebor and Dale was far more important than Erebor and the Greenwood so maybe the match would have the dwarf lord’s blessing, as his presumed relationship with Legolas did not.

Finishing his bath, Thorin returned to his room to find a dozen red roses tied together with a burgundy ribbon outside his door. Picking them up, Thorin read the note attached and entered his room and locked the door before reading the note once more.

‘They pale in comparison to you – Girion’

He was aware he was smiling stupidly at the note, and that his silly crush had clearly dulled his wits. It was of no matter, he sought no approval but his own and if Girion wished to court him...well he would think more about it if and when it came to that. At the moment he revelled in the attention and that was enough.

He placed the roses in the vase in the window that was filled with daisies and sat on the bed staring out at Erebor as he brushed his hair. As always he thought he saw movement on the battlements and perhaps he did. It was not outside the realm of possibility that guards could have been stationed there since his departure. Still he would like to imagine it was his family missing him as much as he missed them.

Kaupi knocked some minutes later signalling that his evening meal had arrived and as usual he ate his rather large meal by the window staring at the Lonely Mountain. As usual before he went to sleep he wished all of his family and brethren pleasant dreams before climbing into bed and sleeping away another day.

Chapter Text

His days were becoming quite monotonous, even with Girion’s visit the daily routine hadn’t been disturbed. So when he left his breakfast plates outside his door with his payment of one gold coin, he was startled as the gold coin was pushed under his door. He was listening as Kaupi collected his plates, as there really wasn’t much else to do, so he was already at the door and opened it, affronted.

“What is the meaning of this?” He hissed quietly to the retreating back of Kaupi. He watched the man become still and his shoulder’s noticeably stiffened. “Is my gold no longer good enough?” He pressed and finally Kaupi turned, his face shiny with sweat and ashen from fear.

“I meant no disrespect.” Thorin simply stared bemused and leaned down and collected the gold coin from the floor before standing once more.

“Then take your payment, it is owed and very much deserved.” Thorin’s purse was not so light that he could not afford his room for another week but Kaupi was shaking his head vehemently.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It has already been paid for,” Kaupi confessed.

“What? By who?” Thorin demanded, expecting this to be the work of his father or grandfather.

“The king.”

“My grandfather, he has the audacity to presume I cannot fend for myself, that I am just some child!” Thorin ranted, not specifically to Kaupi but generally.

“No, not King Thrór, King Girion. He has paid for last night and all the days that will follow.” Kaupi seemed to wilt at Thorin’s expression so he could only imagine how angry he looked, if it was half as bad as he felt he would look fearsome indeed.

“Send for the king.”

“Yes, yes, right away!” Kaupi then ran down the stairs, no doubt happy to be away from an angry dwarf. Oh he had been foolish, swept away by pretty words and allowing himself to be kissed. He was a fool to think he had standing with Girion; the king clearly wanted a pampered pet dwarf as his paramour. An exiled prince on his arm would show his wealth and status and there would be talk, of course, there was always talk. They would say how Girion lured the dwarf with riches because nothing else could stir a dwarf but gold and treasure. They would assumed he whored himself for a better life, finer clothes and better lodgings because he was once a prince and couldn’t possibly look after himself. No, he needed someone strong to control him otherwise he’d be on his back for every man with a pretty gem.

Retreating back to his room, Thorin slammed and locked the door and judging from the commotion downstairs his temper had caused a fuss. Oh how the people of Dale would be straining their ears when he talks to their king. Their king, not his, never his and he so wished he could take back his words from yesterday.

He pulled at his hair in frustration, he had been so foolish. Silly that he was beginning to think himself somewhat of a hero, a martyr for the sake of friendship. There would be songs and stories and his name would become legendary. He was a fool for entertaining such fanciful thoughts, to think of himself as anything but a stupid child led astray by the first person who spoke kindly to him. To think he would have happily entered into a courtship with the king, that he dreamt of the king and his words and his kisses. Girion desired no courtship, he clearly wished to pay for his pleasure, show off his wealth by covering a dwarf in gems and show him off because a dwarf was a gold digger in every sense and to keep one at his side must prove he was of substantial wealth.

He rubbed at his eyes angrily. He would not cry. Girion was a childish crush and nothing more; his heart would not break over this betrayal. But the pain in his chest was all too real, as though a physical blow had been struck and it hurt. It shouldn’t hurt so badly, had not his own grandfather cast him out while his father simply stood by? Had he not been shamed by having his beard taken? Had he not lost all that he was and all he could be? He was left with nothing but a silly heart and a clouded mind that couldn’t tell the difference between love and lust.

Girion was probably laughing over the innocence of the sheltered virgin prince. Possibly even doubted his innocence the way he kissed him so gamely. All the while Thorin was thinking of vows and courtship like a lovesick dwarfling. Stupid child couldn’t keep his temper under control and now his emotions were beyond his control too. He’d have words with Girion, few and angry but he will let that King of Men know he was not a dwarf to be trifled with. He should have cherished his heart and not cast it aside as if it was worthless. Yes he had no title, no name, no lands but a few gold coins but he had honour and he was not worthless and he would never let anyone make him feel like that again.

Pacing restlessly, Thorin decided to use his time choosing an outfit. He wanted Girion to know he was not the lesser between them due to his banishment; he was once a prince and deserved to be treated as such. He chose his leather trousers and his finest shirt, the last he received from Tilda, it was purple velvet with silver embroidery around the collar and he pulled on his boots and waited.

And waited.

News arrived with dinner, the king was busy and unable to visit but he sent his love.

Thorin sent for him the next day.

News returned at lunch, the king was busy and unable to visit but sent his love.

By dinner he received not one but two unexpected guests. His heart soared at seeing his cousins the brother’s Balin and Dwalin Fundin. Balin was the elder of the two, and smallest of the three with grey hair and a grey beard that reached down to his sternum. Balin had been his tutor and mentor as well as ambassador for Erebor for his sound reason and logic. Dwalin was the youngest and the tallest which was only increased by his brown Mohawk. He was Thorin’s old sparring partner and there was little doubt that he would be captain of the King’s Guard when it came time for Thorin’s reign.

“What have you done?” Dwalin hissed at him and Thorin’s smile faltered. He had expected hugs and head butts but he was only met with scorn instead and pushed back inside his room while the brothers entered.

“What?” He demanded, Dwalin was brash and straightforward, Balin was the diplomat but he didn’t want sugared words, Mahal knew he had his fill of them.

“Best you sit down, laddie,” Balin suggested and patted his arm and Thorin would never admit how much that simple touch meant to him. Instead he sat down on the bed while Balin took the single chair and Dwalin stood in the corner with his thick arms crossed in front of his massive chest.

“What have I done?” Thorin implored and chose to ignore Dwalin’s snort from the corner.

“That is what we wish to know.” Balin returned and Thorin shook his head, despairing of the words of diplomats. “You and King Girion?” Balin offered in explanation and Thorin’s blood ran cold.

“What of King Girion?” He demanded, testily.

“This would be the second day he has visited Erebor making absurd requests.” Thorin raised an eyebrow, he had thought Girion was avoiding him but it would seem he truly was busy.

“Such as?”

“Your hand in marriage.” Thorin almost choked on thin air.

“Truly?” If he sounded keen he could not help himself. He thought that Girion did not love him and he had suffered needlessly by assuming the worst.

“You say that as if it isn’t a terrible thing!” Balin admonished. “You are twenty four, Thorin, a child and he is an old man that should know better. He has no reason to marry, his wife gave him an heir before her passing, and he has no need of you.”

“Perhaps he loves me!” Thorin snapped and glared at Dwalin as the dwarf snorted again. “Do that again and I shall cut your beard off!”

“I’d like to see you try.” Dwalin challenged and Thorin was up in an instant marching towards the infuriating dwarf.

“Thorin!” Balin admonished and Thorin stopped in his tracks. Balin’s word had always been law and he found it hard not to listen and comply. Dwalin sneered under his thick bushy beard, which he was most undeserving of. “Dwalin, wait outside.” Balin ordered and it was Thorin’s turn to smirk as the dwarf stomped past him, bodily knocking into him as he exited the room. “I apologise for my brother’s behaviour, please sit.”

Thorin sat down on the bed once more. He could not understand Dwalin’s hatred of him, before he had left they were the best of friends, some even spoke of the pair courting. Of course that couldn’t happen, Thorin was to be promised to a darrowdam of the Iron Hills and produce the next line of Durin heirs.

“I am disowned, why should it matter who I marry?”

“It matters because you do not know yourself; you are too young and naive. Perhaps you do truly believe you are in love with him but no good will come of it. He will die before you even reach maturity and he wishes for you to remain as Lord Protector of his family after his passing and for as long as you shall live. Your life will be forfeited for the sake of one man; he would have you eternally bound to his bloodline while his time by your side will be short indeed. You will never take another lover, you will have to remain faithful and watch his son and his son’s children grow while never truly having a family of your own.” Words failed Thorin, he had asked for Girion’s help and it would seem this was the man’s plan. To marry him for as long as he had left and then ensure his safety and position by making him Lord Protector of his house.

“You seem flattered and you shouldn’t be.”

“You do not know of the conversation that passed between me and Girion. He honours me.”

“And you do not know of the conversation that passed between the king and your father.”

“I have no fa...”

“Silence!” Balin cut off his childish retort. “May I remind you that it was not the king that banished you, it was you? A child in a temper making rash decisions, do you know that the king can overturn your ruling? Of course you do because I have taught you well. I do not expect that you will come back willingly to Erebor and your pride would never allow for you to apologise for your words, whether they were warranted or not.”

“They were warranted.”

“The king is ill, Thorin.” Balin sighed and Thorin finally saw the weariness in his eyes. “It is your father that currently sits on the throne ruling as Prince Regent, denying all of King Girion’s requests.”

“How fairs my grandfather?” Thorin asked quietly feeling hollow and numb.

“It is an ill that cannot be cured,” Thorin gasped. “He is heartbroken, Thorin, your departure caused him great injury though you cannot be blamed. He is sick, the gold calls to him like a siren and has done for quite some time drowning out all sound and filling his vision so he can see little else. He was all but lost to us, but you drove the madness from him. He treasures you far more than gold and the Arkenstone and by losing you things were put into prospective and he could think clearly once more.”

“So if I was to return, would that help?” Thorin would crawl on his belly and plead forgiveness if it meant his grandfather was restored to health.

“No, that is not what I ask of you.” Thorin’s thick eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Then what is it you ask of me?”

“I implore you to leave,” Balin said sadly and Thorin could tell he did not mean it but thought it was for the best.

“I did leave.”

“Dale.”

“Oh.”

“Please understand you are like a son to me and it breaks my heart to say these things but for the sake of your father and especially your grandfather, you must leave.” Balin choked out and his blue eyes finally shed tears.

“Tell me why,” Thorin replied ignoring his own tears as he stared at the sad face of his most trusted companion.

“Each night Frerin tries to escape the city and come in search of you. King Girion upsets your father with his talk of you which puts the relationship between Dale and Erebor in jeopardy. Worst still, your father now sits upon the throne and has the power to overturn your banishment, which he will do because of Girion’s constant proposals. He will have you home whether you wish it or not and your return will undo the good your departure did. Thrór will be overcome again and he could do far worse than simply upsetting the Elvenking.”

“I must leave then.” Thorin replied, resolute. “And I shall keep moving, never shall I settle so that Frerin and Dís never come looking for me.” Standing up, Thorin wiped the last of his tears away. “I shall leave on this day,” he said. “I only ask that you send my apologises to King Girion and tell him whatever you deem wise to say, I trust your judgement.” Balin stood and enveloped Thorin in a hug that was too tight but all the better for it.

“I love you,” Balin whispered as he pressed their foreheads together. “As does your father and grandfather, even Dwalin though he behaves badly as he knows you must leave and your departure will grieve him. All of us have taken turns standing on the battements hoping for a glimpse of you. I have and will always consider you my son and know that it pains me to send you away but I would not do it if it were not for the best.”

“I know.” Thorin whispered putting on a brave face. Why he thought he could happily live out the rest of his life on the doorstep of Erebor, he did not know. Fate had chosen a different path for him and it was one he must walk alone.

Balin reached into his pocket and placed a red velvet pouch in his hand. Without another word Balin left the room and Thorin caught Dwalin’s eye and noticed the unshed tears and simply nodded in acknowledgement and received a stiff nod in return. Then the brothers were gone and Thorin felt as though his legs were cut from beneath him. He stumbled, dropping the pouch onto the bed and watched gold coins spill from it. By his reckoning there must be at least forty coins, no means a king’s ransom but to take much more on the road would be folly. Forty gold pieces would do him well, and now he could shop for provisions without fear of using the last of his coins.

Gathering up the coins and putting them back inside the pouch, Thorin quickly put them into his pocket. He had no time to tarry, the market stalls would be closing soon and he wanted to get to Esgaroth before nightfall. There would be less trade there and he was in need of a pack, provisions for camping and a sturdy raincoat.

Leaving the room and stomping down the stairs he was almost stunned by the many eyes on him. Of course he had not left his room for some time and now there were rumours of his and Girion’s courtship. Rumours he had no doubt caused himself, waving like a blushing bride at his window and then constantly demanding the king’s attention. They would have also seen Girion travel to Erebor and assumed correctly that it was in regards to the exiled prince.

Bowing slightly in acknowledgement to their many gazes, Thorin left the tavern and took off down the street. He tried to ignore the curtsies and bows he received from everyone he passed as he quickly walked around the closing market. He found a dark green raincoat with a wide hood first and insisted he pay as the store holder tried to give it away for free.

After forcing his gold onto the frazzled man he found the pack and supplies he would need all at one store. The merchant took his money, but Thorin guessed it was only because he had seen him force gold into the other merchant’s hand. Their refusal to take his gold stumped him only for a while until he realised they did not wish to upset their king, as if they had already accepted Thorin as King’s Consort. He vaguely wondered if Girion had made his intention known to his people and if he had, Thorin was in trouble.

Collecting the items Thorin quickly returned to The Red Dragon and packed his clothes. He could not help himself but look out of the window one last time, to look upon the Lonely Mountain and whisper his regret to the wind. Again he imagined he saw movement and he imagined it was Balin and maybe Dwalin beside him, wishing him well for the journey ahead.

He was snapped out of his musings by the sound of the King’s Royal Guard on horseback. Girion must have recently returned from Erebor and his palace was the other side of Dale which meant he was heading to The Red Dragon and there was not much time left.

Quickly pulling on the green raincoat and pulling his pack onto his back, Thorin left the room and ran down the stairs and placed the key onto the bar with three gold coins. Kaupi raised a blond eyebrow in question and Thorin merely waved his hand, as though batting away his questions.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” he hurriedly whispered. “I do not think King Girion will cover my debt and I will not leave you out of pocket, farewell.” He rushed and fled the tavern without interruption. He could hear the horses and the guards dismount at the side of the building and so he quickly pulled his hood up and slipped down a side street and ran towards the docks.

Chapter Text

Thorin was convinced he was walking in circles. He felt like he had been wandering in the Greenwood for days but it had only been hours. Surely it wasn’t so hard to find a palace in the woods? Oh but the damnable palace was made from the trees, so yes it was nigh on impossible. He hadn’t been to the Greenwood in years though it still looked very much the same, which was the problem. It all looked the same, every tree, every root, honestly how didn’t the elves got lost? Maybe they did, why else were there no guards? Surely the Elvenking would not desire wandering Dwarves on his land after everything that had happened. Yes, he was sure of it now, the elves were as lost as he was.

Trekking around the woods for a few more hours, Thorin was beginning to lose his mind. He shouted at the forest floor for not having a footpath, because if he were a forest floor he would have a footpath. Yes, he was mad, driven insane by the monotony of the Greenwood. He was wondering who would find his body when he heard rustling in the trees up ahead.

“Are you friend or foe?” He called out, hiding behind a tree for good measure. There was more rustling of leaves before a beautiful white stag jumped into the clearing. “Oh,” Thorin sighed, relieved and left the safety of the tree. “Are you lost?” Thorin asked and approached the white stag that shone like moonlight in the dense forest. “My name is Thorin,” he was mad; quite mad introducing himself to a stag!

Surprisingly the stag bent its front legs and lowered his head before righting itself. “Did you just bow to me? I’m not a prince anymore, Master Stag, but perhaps you are? You are such a magnificent creature I can only assume you are royalty among your kind.” Thorin bowed to the stag and laughed happily as the stag approached and nuzzled against his neck. Thorin patted the shimmering fur on the beast’s neck until the stag stepped back.

“Let us be lost together, Master Stag. We shall make camp soon and I can share my food with you. Have you any family? I don’t, not anymore.” The stag was regarding him with sad eyes as though he understood his words. “Come,” Thorin called, and continued to walk but the stag remained where he was. “This way,” Thorin called and he was almost ashamed of himself for being so lonely he demanded the company of a stag.

“What ails you? Why will you not come?” Thorin demanded returning to the stag’s side. The stag walked around him, knocking his flank into Thorin, almost making the dwarf fall upon the beast’s back. The second time it happened Thorin was sure the stag was sending him a signal. “Do you wish for me to climb upon your back?” The stunning beast inclined its head and lowered its body as Thorin climbed onto his back and the stag stood once more. “Very well, Master Stag, I am in your service.” The stag then began to trot off in the opposite direction that Thorin was heading in.

It seemed the Greenwood did in fact have a footpath and it lead all the way to the Elvenking’s palace, an elegant structure made from rock and tree standing tall and strong like the elves themselves. The stag stopped at the small bridge and Thorin climbed off as the two elvish guards in golden armour sounded their horns in a royal welcome.

“They do not know,” Thorin whispered to the stag as he climbed down. “I am not royalty, how do I make them stop?” He asked, hiding his face in the stag’s fur so the elves would not see his lips move. His worry was short lived as the thin doors were pushed open abruptly ending the fanfare and King Thranduil appeared before him in long silver robes that flowed like liquid and sparkled like starlight.

“King Thranduil,” Thorin acknowledged and stepped away from the stag to bow low in respect.

“Prince Thorin, I thought you were banned from the Greenwood?” Thranduil returned, as a thick dark eyebrow rose in suspicion.

“Aye, Prince Thorin was, but the banishment was lifted along with my title.” Thorin explained. “I have been in your forest for many hours, had it not been for this marvellous stag...” Thorin paused and turned towards the stag that was no longer there. “Which is no longer here, how unfortunate, I have never seen such a creature. I wished to show it to you as you would have marvelled at its beauty.” Thorin did not know why Thranduil’s cheeks coloured slightly, or why the armoured guards smiled between themselves. “Wait a moment and I shall try and find it for you,” Thorin turned to leave but Thranduil held up one long pale hand.

“Never mind that, you must be tired from your journey, please come inside.” Thorin took one last look into the woods to see if he could catch a glimpse of the stag, before obliging Thranduil and crossing the bridge. Once at the king’s side Thranduil held out his arm and Thorin cautiously looped his arm with the king’s wondering if that was the correct action. The king seemed pleased and he led Thorin inside, waving his hand at the armoured guards to close the doors.

“I did not expect the Elvenking to greet me on his doorstep,” Thorin broke the silence. The Elvenking’s palace was tranquil; a forest within a forest, less oppressive than the Greenwood and far more beautiful with babbling brooks filled with fish that swam like silver arrows. It was spacious too and allowed more sunlight through reflecting off leaves that shone like emeralds and waterfalls that flowed like running crystal.

“How did you expect me to greet the dwarf that so bravely defended my honour?” Thranduil enquired, looking down. Thorin returned his gaze realising that his time spent with men and elves will cause pain with his neck from his constant need to look up.

“I am no one now,” he shrugged. Thranduil stopped and turned to him with their arms still linked.

“You are somebody to me.” Thranduil stated seriously and Thorin tried to hide his shock as the Elvenking reached down and ran his long slender fingers through his hair before tucking it behind his ear. The pair stood for a few moments staring at one another, blue eyes on blue eyes before the spell was broken and Thranduil began to escort him through his halls once more.

Thorin had no words, as he was sure he had misread the signs. Thranduil had looked as though he wished to kiss him but that could not be. Thranduil was an ancient immortal being with beauty beyond compare. All elves were beautiful with their pale skin, slim waists and high cheekbones. Their long straight hair was like silk to touch and their height reflected how truly unreachable they were, like the stars they admired. Thranduil could have been named king for his ethereal beauty alone, and he was all grace and elegance the polar opposite of Thorin.

Thorin was lost in his own thoughts by the time they reached a room and he was led inside. Belatedly he realised he was in a bedroom where there was a large four post bed made from four living Weeping Willows. The trees had grown to the ceiling and curved, entwining together as their branches acted as curtains around the mattress. There was also a bath cut from the earth with water that steamed from natural heat. There was also a dresser littered with combs and beads, a wardrobe and an abundance of mirrors around the room.

“Is this your room?” Thorin asked and immediately regretted it. He had just implied the king had brought him to his bedroom, was there no end to his foolishness?

Thranduil simply chuckled, amused. “No, this is for our finest guests but perhaps later in your stay I could show you mine.” There was no mistake now that the Elvenking was flirting with him, only he did not know how to respond.

“Thank you?” He tried, though to his own ears it sounded like a question.

“Rest here awhile and freshen up, I shall have someone send for you when it is time to dine.” Thranduil released his arm but took up his hand instead and pressed supple pale lips against the back of it. “Rest well,” Thranduil whispered, lowering Thorin’s hand almost reverently and left the dwarf alone, shutting the door behind him.

Thorin was bewildered. It was too much, all of it, everyone had gone mad. Taking his bag off his shoulders, Thorin laid it down beside the dresser and then shrugged off his raincoat and draped it over the back of the chair in front of the dresser. Eying the pool, Thorin kicked off his boots and took off his clothes and climbed into the water, sighing content at the temperature of the water. He quickly unbraided his hair, leaving the clasps on the side and thrust his head back submerging his dark locks. He then moved to the side where there was a seat carved for men and elves but he could keep his head above water and close his eyes if he so wished.

The last few days had been a nightmare and he wished he was back in the safety of The Red Dragon but that place wasn’t safe anymore. In fact due to his actions Dale wasn’t safe for him for at least seventy years, once everyone forgot how he had dishonoured their king. He had ran from Girion like a bride forced to wed and he was almost stopped from getting onto the last ship to Esgaroth by a guard who thought he recognised him. He claimed he was Balin son of Fundin, Ambassador of Erebor travelling to the Greenwood in the hopes that their friendship had survived the ordeal. It was a long shot, but Girion said news of what had happened had travelled around Dale, so Thorin had to try.

Luckily it had worked and the guard let him get on. His short stay in Esgaroth was only marred by the news coming from the passing ships to Dale. King Girion had put a price for any news of Thorin and a handsome reward should anyone find him and return him. Honestly, return him? Thorin was almost offended, and would have been had he not known how much the king cared for him and a part of him yearned for the king, even now.

Due to King Girion’s interference his stay in Esgaroth became quite difficult, especially as he found he was the only dwarf in the vicinity. All eyes followed wherever he went, which meant his trade had to be done in secrecy with less than savoury characters and he had to pay a rather substantial sum to get across the river to the Greenwood. There was little doubt the man that had almost emptied his purse would sell his information to King Girion and so Thorin had to make his stay short.

He could only imagine how furious his father must be. Thráin had been against Girion’s marriage proposal but the king would not stop his pursuit and now had put out a bounty on his son. He hoped that Balin could soothe the ties between Erebor and Dale and that no friendship was lost because of him.

And now King Thranduil was behaving oddly. He was clearly cursed, because he should not suddenly have two suitors when there were none before. Both kings had never shown any interest in him before, well perhaps Girion but neither had asked him to dance at any of the Durin’s Day celebrations and both were present at every event. He was forced to sit at the head table on King Thrór’s right and watch everyone dance, his father and grandfather included while he sat alone. Frerin always proved popular at these events dancing with anyone of any class and Thorin envied him. He could not see why Frerin had a better life and was more popular, everything was so easy for him. He did not have to take as many classes, certainly none of the boring diplomacy and etiquette ones. He did not have to train every single day, but once a week. If he was unwell he could stay in bed and have mother fret over him. If he wished to dine alone then he was free to and if he wished for extra helpings the kitchen staff would fall over themselves to oblige. His envy had turned to jealousy and he became mean to his brother, it was something he could not take back now though he wished he could. He had called Frerin a bastard because of his blond locks when both parents were dark haired. It was terrible to cast aspersions on his mother, but he was mad at her too for fussing over Frerin and not him. So any time a blond dwarf approached their mother he would cruelly ask if that one was Frerin’s father.

His sister Dís, he could not envy, as she was so young but had so many suitors already but that was to be expected as there was a lack of female dwarves. Only a third of the population of dwarves were female so she was a gift from Durin himself. Why Frerin had so many suitors and he had none, he did not know. He assumed as heir apparent and future King of Erebor people would be lining the streets trying to win his hand, but the streets remained empty. Instead he was forced to accompany his father to council meetings where once a month they would discuss another potential suitor for Frerin and Dís. He once arrogantly suggested he could leave the room while they discussed his potential suitors and he was told in no uncertain terms that would not be necessary as there were none.

Now he wonders if they were lying. There had always been talk of an alliance between Erebor and the Iron Hills and it was always clear that he would marry a dwarrowdam from there and he never questioned it because there had been no interest. He thought the poor dwarf chosen to marry him would have to be dragged from the Iron Hills kicking and screaming seeing as he was so repulsive. Had there been interest? His every move was monitored and he was heir apparent so a suitor would not be able to engage with him, but would have to ask his father or grandfather. Or maybe he flatters himself, having kings of their race openly flirt with him could have inflated his ego. Maybe it was his title that kept suitors away. He wished he could ask, but that was simply inviting trouble he did not need. Erebor’s and Dale’s relationship was strained, he did not wish to taunt Thranduil with Girion’s interest and strain Dale and the Greenwood’s relationship.

Not knowing how long he had, Thorin only had a short bathe before he was out of the water and routing through his pack covered only by a towel provided. He hadn’t taken off his best shirt since fleeing Dale so he could not wear that as it was in dire need of a wash as well as five other shirts. None of the trousers Tilda provided him with were up to standard to dine with the Elvenking so he would need to wipe down his leathers before redressing.

Making use of the bath, Thorin cleaned all of his dirty clothes and hung them around the room to dry. He hoped his actions would not cause offense as his allocated room now resembled the laundry room in Erebor. Once his leathers were cleaned he pulled them on along with his second best shirt, which was beige cotton with a slit V to his sternum tied together with lace. It wasn’t up to standard but compared to the elves nothing ever was and he was an exiled prince, bereft of all he once had.

He combed out his long wavy hair, taking longer than usual knowing how elves valued personal grooming. His beard needed no attention, which always startled him when he was reminded of its absence. He braided his hair to distract himself, two thick braids, one behind each ear held with wooden beads he found on the table. He placed his heirloom clasps into his pocket and tried to ignore the pain of knowing he would never wear them again.

Not long after he finished his braids there was a knock on the door. Thorin had already put on his boots and looked down at himself and simply shrugged. Thranduil knew of his disinheritance and he’d seen Thorin in his raincoat with his pack, it was highly unlikely the king would hold a formal dinner. Opening the door, Thorin merely gaped. King Thranduil had claimed he would send for him but Thorin found the elf himself had come to escort him to dinner. Gone were the silver robes, replaced with finer gold ones that shimmered like the veins of gold in Erebor. The Elvenking also wore his crown, a semicircle of branches that still flowered with red blossoms, which held in place around the elf’s small pointed ears. Thorin was reminded of the stag’s antlers and he noticed the way the king’s skin glowed like captured starlight like the beast’s fur had.

“Come,” Thranduil commanded and instead of offering his arm like last time, he held out his hand instead. Thorin wondered if turning and locking the door was an option, but he was in the Woodland Realm under Thranduil’s law and it would be disrespectful to slam the door in the Elvenking’s face.

“Thank you?” Again it sounded like a question as he took the proffered hand. He expected the king to release his hand once he walked down the sloped path but his expectation was proven wrong. Did the king take enjoyment from this? Thranduil’s hands were soft pale long and slender while Thorin’s were big thick and calloused from working in the mines. They were two entirely different beings made all the more apparent by holding hands. He could only imagine the picture they made, if they were about town one might suspect Thranduil was walking with his wayward son, keeping him close. Side by side the top of Thorin’s head reached Thranduil’s sternum but he dare not look up to see the expression on the king’s face or worse, reveal the one on his own face.

As a dwarf, Thorin was drawn to beauty and there may never be one more beautiful than king Thranduil but his heart did not beat for him. Thranduil’s interest left him feeling uncomfortable while Girion’s interest had made him feel alive for the first time in his life. Perhaps he would have felt differently had Girion not acted first but he could no more change the past than he could predict the future.

Arriving in the dining room Thorin tried to ignore the rather romantic ambience, but the small table boasting a candle lit dinner was rather hard to ignore. The lack of any servants or guards was equally worrying as Thranduil clearly wanted the pair to be alone. Swallowing his nerves Thorin approached one of the chairs and tried to react calmly as Thranduil pulled the seat out for him and tucked him in. Thorin felt Thranduil’s fingers ghost through his hair down his back before the king took his own seat.

It was no secret that King Thranduil was rather fond of Dorwinion wine so when he poured himself a rather large glass full, Thorin passed no judgement. Holding the bottle above Thorin’s glass, Thranduil seemed to stare right through him with his ice blue eyes.

“Are you old enough to drink?” Thorin bit his lip to keep from making a scathing insult. He had to be polite, never mind how much it was hurting him.

“Yes,” he returned quite pleasantly and mentally applauded himself. He could behave when needs be, it just generally took too much effort usually. Thranduil took him at his word and poured a large amount of wine into Thorin’s glass.

“I have a gift for you,” Thranduil stated, putting down the bottle and passing over a small wooden box. Thorin was unsure if he should accept it, for all he knew Thranduil could be starting the beginning of a courtship and Thorin would be accepting without realising. He had told his father he wished to learn of the races courting rituals to avoid such faux pas but Balin was prevented from teaching him for fear he was secretly trying to woo Legolas.

“Open it,” Thranduil encouraged and Thorin did so, revealing one of the starlight gems that had started this whole mess. He looked up expecting to see Thranduil’s smirking face but the blond was smiling delighted and took a sip of wine.

“I cannot accept this.” For many reasons the gift was a terrible idea, ill conceived and insulting though judging from Thranduil’s reaction, he was unaware of the insult.

“I insist.”

“This gift is far too grand for one such as me.”

“You have earned it, along with being named Elf-friend and perhaps in due time your title will be longer still.” Thorin took a large gulp of wine to steady his nerves. He understood Thranduil’s hint and though he was flattered by it, it was also terrifying. He needed the aid of the king and to speak honestly and deny the king would be foolish. He would leave on the morrow; so long as he played nice without consenting to anything the king suggests he was safe.

“I thank you then and may I have permission to use your forges? I wish to make my sister a bead and set your beautiful gem in it. I would wear it myself but for fear of being robbed I could not. It will be safe with my sister and admired by all who see it.” It would also be a spiteful shot at his father and grandfather. A painful reminder of what their greed made them lose; he would even have sister engraved in Elvish because he felt vindictive.

“You may.” Thranduil conceded and silence passed between them. Thorin waited patiently for Thranduil to begin to eat so he could do the same and was thoroughly disappointed with his meal. Elves valued nature and animals above all things and if food could come from the earth then they would rather find nourishment there than to deprive an animal of life. Thorin thought it was all rather noble but the food on his plate tasted of dirt and water and did not fill his belly. He knew better than to complain and so he washed down the vile greens with several mouthfuls of wine, much to Thranduil’s amusement.

Afterwards Thranduil refilled both their glasses and brought attention to the harp set up in the corner. “Do you play?” Thranduil had asked with the full knowledge that yes, Thorin did indeed play the harp. Dwarves were known for their love of gold but what was lesser known was their love of food and merrymaking. In an act to gain himself attention Thorin had learnt to play many instruments competently though it was said far and wide that none could play the harp more beautifully than he.

“Play something for me?” Thranduil suggested, flirtatiously batting his dark eyelashes. He should have looked ridiculous but the elf was stunning even if his actions were outrageous.

Thorin nodded and made his way over to the harp. His own harp was back in Erebor collecting dust in his old room, if of course Frerin hadn’t thrown his things out. Brothers could be spiteful at the best of times and he had been merciless to Frerin. His mother had lovingly crafted his harp so that it fit into his hands perfectly. The harp before him was of elvish make and taller than he in height, but he sat on the stool confidently and plucked at the strings. He played from the heart, expressing all the things he could not say and the result was a haunting melody that was filled with regret and loss and he added his voice, a low hum with no words that conveyed his overall sadness over recent events.

When he finished he was quite stunned to see his music had moved the Elvenking to tears. “You poor child,” Thranduil said, standing up and meeting Thorin as he tried to return to his seat. “So much pain for one so young.” Then Thranduil’s lips were covering his own and Thorin froze. Thranduil did not kiss like Girion, he seemed content with just their lips pressed together as though they had all the time in the world, and for Thranduil he truly did. Girion kissed like a mortal man, as though every minute could be his last and he would seize the moment.

“I will not rush you,” Thranduil whispered after breaking the kiss and combing his fingers through Thorin’s hair. “I am aware of your age and I am patient, I can wait.” Thorin realised he was on dangerous ground and he needed to escape and quickly.

“May I talk to Legolas?” In hindsight it was not the best time to bring up Thranduil’s son, especially when many were convinced they were once in a relationship.

“My son?” Thranduil asked bitterly and dropped his hand from Thorin’s hair and took up his wrist instead. Thorin grimaced as Thranduil tightened his hold and he finally saw that Thranduil could indeed be ugly, as his jealousy was a hideous thing to behold.

“He is my friend, only my friend and I have not seen him for some time. Then I wish to go to the forge.” If this was the price of Thranduil’s love then he did not want it. He had escaped a life of being constantly monitored and having his every move questioned, he did not want that back.

“Very well, I shall take you to him.” And take him, he did. Thorin was nigh on dragged to Legolas’ room by his wrist. It was clear Thranduil did not quite believe him and he refused to speak as he pulled Thorin along, no longer playing at lovers holding hands but suddenly they were master and slave and Thorin did not like it.

Arriving at what he presumed to be Legolas’ room, Thranduil knocked, released Thorin’s wrist and disappeared into the shadows before Legolas opened the door. When he did, Legolas’ stoic expression turned into one of joy as his eyes fell on Thorin. He pulled his old friend into his room and then into a hug.

“I have missed you Mellon-nin or should I say Ada?” Legolas asked cheekily his blue eyes sparkling in mischief.

“No you should not.” Legolas’ arms dropped from around him.

“You have not accepted my father’s pledge?” What joy there was a moment ago was killed by the iciness of Legolas’ tone. Thorin had never quite seen the similarities between Legolas and Thranduil up until that moment. Both possessed the same white-blond hair and blue eyes but Legolas’ features were softer no doubt due to age and his dark eyebrows thinner. His skin seemed to glow like pale moonlight like his father’s and just like his father all of his beauty turned grotesque when he did not get his own way.

“I could not accept that which was not offered.” Which was true, Thranduil hadn’t asked for his hand instead he expected it and it was that arrogance that would destroy him.

“My father fears you are too young. You are welcome here to stay until you come of age and then my father could properly court you.”

“How long has your father felt this way?” Thorin had to ask, wondering if his theory was true and potential suitors were turned away.

“Since he last returned from Erebor he spoke of little else. How I wish I had been there, father says your courage almost outmatched your beauty. Truth be told he has been waiting for you, not knowing your fate but hoping you would come here and finally here you are. I tried to placate him, as I know you well Mellon-nin, I told him you simply got lost on the way.” Legolas laughed and Thorin tried to join in on the merriment. “So why do I find you at my door and not at Ada’s?”

“I have come to visit an old friend, and to trade.”

“A trade?” Legolas’ eyes widened in interest. “What would you like to trade?”

“I have news first and once you hear it, then I wish to trade.” He could see the genuine excitement in Legolas’ eyes. “You are to marry a dwarf.” To be fair he had expected the elf to deny it but he did not expect the elf to become still and somewhat frightened.

“Thorin, truly, I’m honoured...”

“Not me!” Thorin snapped and Legolas’ sighed relieved.

“Who then?”

“I do not know.”

“Then why should I believe you?”

“I do not expect you to believe me but I would expect you to believe Tharkün.”

“Mithrandir? What part does he play in this?”

“A palantír was found in Erebor unlike all of the others and when he looked into it he saw your wedding to a red haired dwarf.”

“A palantír does not show the future.”

“This one did.”

“Did?”

“No one should possess knowledge of the future. Tharkün thought it wise to destroy the palantír so the only secret it revealed before its demise was that of your wedding.” Legolas seemed to accept his story if the colour of his cheeks was anything to go by.

“Wife, husband?”

“Husband, an axe-wielder with ties to the Durin line.”

“Is he handsome?”

“I could not say as I did not see.” Legolas seemed elated by the news and happily dropped onto his bed sighing wistfully. Thorin couldn’t help but smile. He had thought he was acting terribly with his crush on Girion but it was nothing compared to Legolas’ theatrics.

“I’m to marry! And a red head! I imagine he’s passionate especially between the sheets.” Thorin decided to ignore the rest of Legolas’ rather lewd musings on the length of his future husband’s cock. “Thorin...Thorin...Thorin!”

“Cry that out on your wedding night and you’ll find yourself alone.”

“I apologise for my behaviour, as I was saying, what is it you wish to trade?”

“Oh,” reaching into his pocket, Thorin pulled out his mithril hair beads. “These.”

“As lovely as they are, I have many beads.”

“But you do not have these ones.”

“Why are those so special?”

“If you wish for a dwarf husband, you will need them.”

“How so?” Legolas asked sitting up on the bed and Thorin joined him.

“It is hard to love outside of your own race and a dwarf is stubborn. He may love you but he would need motivation to confess. Once you think you have found him, add a courting braid into your hair and use this clasp. He will know the marking as he is from my line and he will be forced to confess as no dwarf can stand his treasure to be taken away.”

“What do you wish for in return?”

“Whatever you think that information and advice is worth.”

“Very well,” Legolas said standing and Thorin stood as well. “You have yourself a deal.” They shook hands and Thorin passed over his heirlooms knowing they were in safe hands and sooner or later they would return to the Durin line. “I shall think upon your offer and deem what is a fair price and come by your room in the morning.”

“That is fair, now if you could be so kind as to show me to the forge I would be much obliged.” Legolas happily showed him to the forge and left him to his work. As promised he melted down the last of his rings and made a silver bead with the starlight gem embedded and beneath it he wrote sister in Elvish and put the finished product back into the small box the gem came in and returned to his room.

Chapter Text

By morning he assumed he was up with the sun, though it was hard to tell situated in the lower halls of the elven palace. With luck all of his clothes were dry and he folded them and placed them back in his pack. He was considering if he should attempt to stay for breakfast when there was fierce knocking on his door. Opening it quickly, he found he was quickly pushed back as Legolas entered his room with a bundle in his arms.

“Here and be quick about it,” Legolas urged passing over the bundle, knowing Thorin would wish to look through it.

“Legolas you look wild-eyed and your hair has not been combed.” Thorin observed taking the bundle to his bed and untying the rope.

“Observant as ever,” Legolas chided and made his way to the dresser and began to comb his tangled hair. Turning his attention back to the bundle Thorin could see that the package itself was a green Elvish cloak with a Greenleaf clasp. Wrapped within the cloak were some lembas bread, a few beads, a bow and arrows and a sword. Thorin lifted it up intrigued and pulled it from its scabbard marvelling at the fine curved Elvish blade.

“Orcrist.” Legolas informed him as he walked over. “The Goblin Cleaver, a famous blade forged by the High Elves in the West.”

“I cannot accept this.” Legolas’ eyes narrowed.

“You’ll find no better blade, I can assure you.”

“You take insult when there was none. I meant this gift is too extravagant.” Placing the sword back within the scabbard Thorin tried to return it but Legolas held his hands up in refusal.

“You asked what I deemed a fair price for your information; this is a fair price for news about my soul mate.” Thorin’s shoulders fell in defeat and to think dwarves were known for their stubbornness.

“I do not even know if he has been born yet.”

“That does not matter, the knowledge that he will be is enough and now I at least know where to look. Now that you are gone, perhaps they will permit me to enter Erebor once more and I can search for him there. Though speaking of leaving you must go.”

“I can never judge your moods, Legolas.” The Elvish prince seemed insistent that he leave as he brought Thorin’s pack to the bed and packed away the cloak, beads and lembas bread and attached the bow and arrows onto the side. As he was helping Thorin into his raincoat there was another knock on his door and Legolas froze.

“He knows,” Legolas whispered.

“Who knows what?” Thorin asked testily as another knock rapped on the door.

“Father knows about Girion.” Thorin’s blood ran cold and he now understood why Legolas was so insistent that he should leave as soon as possible. Leaving his side, Legolas answered the door and bowed slightly “Ada,” he greeted and opened his mouth to speak further.

“Leave.” Legolas spared a worried look in Thorin’s direction and did as his father requested. King Thranduil then entered the room and closed the door behind him. Once more he was in his silver attire, though he had forgone the outer robe that dragged along the floor. He understood that last night’s gold attire was to appease him and catch his eye so the king returning to silver spoke volumes.

“King Thranduil,” Thorin greeted and bowed.

“Leaving so soon?” Thranduil enquired though there was coldness in his voice that was not there before.

“I have a long journey ahead,” Thorin lied.

“I see,” Thranduil began to pace with his hands tightly clenched behind his back. “One must get an early start when fleeing from a spouse.” Thorin could no longer plead ignorance but perhaps he could shed some light on the situation.

“I have not married King Girion.”

“But you know of who I speak. How you have blossomed, Thorin, having two kings fight for your affection. I can only imagine how worldly you have become since leaving Erebor.” Thorin clenched his fists in anger, only the Elvenking could insinuate he had slept his way through Dale with such flowery words.

“I would like to leave now.” Balin would be proud that he had managed to keep his anger under control and not insult his host.

“I am not so sure I wish for you to leave.” Dread settled at the bottom of Thorin’s stomach. “I have waited for you to come to me, is it not my turn now?”

“Your turn?” Thorin shouted, aghast. “To think I defended you!” Thorin grabbed his pack and sword and made his way to the door, but found the king blocking his path. “I thank you for your hospitality now please let me leave.”

“I could not, in good conscience, do that. My borders are crawling with cutthroat’s intent on claiming the bounty for your return. Seeing one such as you, one who is free with their love, I cannot guarantee you would make it back to Dale unmolested.”

“I do not intend to go back to Dale; the road I wish to take is in the opposite direction.” Thranduil did not move. “Let me pass!” He could feel his control on his anger slipping. “Please,” he amended but the damnable elf would not move.

“Marry me.” As proposals go, that one was particularly terrible. “Our marriage will null and void the contract Girion has put out on you.” That was certainly true but then he would be wed to the Elvenking and not far enough away from Erebor.

“I was told in no uncertain terms I was not allowed to wed Legolas, why would my family allow me to marry you?”

“Legolas is merely a boy while I am a King, as for your family, you are disowned.”

“By my own doing, easily overruled. Please let me leave.” For a second time Thranduil took him by surprise by kissing him soundly on the lips.

“I will let you go if you tell me that you do not care for me.” Taking a steadying breath, Thorin looked up and stared directly into Thranduil’s blue eyes.
“I think of you only as a friend and nothing more.” He could word it no better; it was simply the truth with no disrespect to Thranduil.

“I do not believe you.” Thranduil replied haughtily.

“It is the truth!” Thorin shouted once again losing control of his temper.

“Prove it,” Thranduil challenged, grounding Thorin once more. A challenge was good, something he could work with, although he had no idea how to prove he had no feelings towards the Elvenking.

“How?”

“Come to bed with me.” The request was almost lost on him, an innocent part of his mind supplied the thought that he was not tired, until realization struck. He looked at the Elvenking searching for any sign that he was speaking in jest but found none. The king had only told him last night that he would not rush him but Thorin knew the elf was using sugared words to lead him into a false sense of security. Perhaps Thranduil had meant what he had said, maybe before he would not have rushed him but his perception of Thorin had changed and there was little Thorin could do to change the king’s mind.

“Very well,” he agreed. It was a small price to pay, lying down on his back to get Thranduil off his back. He did not hold his virginity in high regard, it was not something that he cherished or would miss. He was rather young to be losing his virginity but it was not unheard of and though love was not involved what he lacked in morals he more than made up for in standards. He only wished he had let Girion into his bed first because the man was deserving of him and he knew Girion would think of his virginity as a gift while Thranduil was dubious it was still intact.

Placing his sword and pack on the floor, Thorin shrugged out of his raincoat and dropped it over the pack before walking over to the bed. Pulling his white shirt over his head, Thorin then kicked off his boots and pushed down his beige trousers and underwear and then stepped out of them and kicked them away. Suddenly he felt self-conscious exposing himself to the Elvenking, usually his own nudity meant little but then he had never had an audience before.

Keeping his eyes down, not wishing to see Thranduil’s reaction, Thorin looked at his own body. As he feared his once toned abdominals were less defined as his stomach had enlarged from all the treats Kaupi had given him. There were only a few wisps of dark hair on his chest and a small trail leading from belly button to groin. Dwarves were naturally hairy creatures and Thorin’s lack of body hair always alarmed him, especially when Dwalin already had a thick furry chest and was younger than him. Luckily his short legs were coated in dark hair, as well as his arms though the hair was fine due to his age.

A light thud made him look up and he saw that Thranduil had let his silver robe drop to the floor exposing his lean white torso. He then proceeded to remove his black leather boots and grey trousers until he was fully exposed. Thorin did not know where to look and he felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment. His gaze inevitably fell to the Elvenking’s groin where he noticed even there the Elvenking was hairless. The Elvenking was also aroused, his cock, much like its owner was white and slender but what it lacked in girth it made up for in length. Thorin’s own cock was limp and uninterested and that should have been proof enough of his lack of desire but the way Thranduil’s eyes lustfully roamed his body he knew he would have to go through with this.

“Don’t tell my father,” Thorin said and climbed onto the bed. He mentally reprimanded himself for thinking of his father at a time like this. Don’t tell anyone would have been more suitable.

“He will learn of our union once we are married.” Cocksure prick, and out of all the curses he could come up with, those were the first to come to mind. The elf’s arrogance knew no bounds, how deluded he must be to take an unwilling partner to his bed and assume one lay would change everything.

“Get this over with,” Thorin snapped, laying on his back and opening his legs. An heir of Durin reduced to whoring himself and all because of the Arkenstone. He could blame his grandfather, or father even Thranduil but he knew the culprit of the chaos that fateful day was the Arkenstone. How that day led him here on his back, vulnerable with the Elvenking stalking towards him with a glass vial, he surely could not foresee.

For the first time since the incident Thorin wished he had kept his mouth shut. Was a friendship between his people and the elves really necessary? It was an age old friendship, perhaps it was time to move on. No, in darker times the elves would be worth their weight in gold as allies and Mahal knew if Thorin hadn’t spoken up that day Thrór would not be cured and where sickness thrives bad things tended to follow.

Thranduil joined him on the bed and opened the vial, pouring a sweet smelling liquid substance onto his fingers. Thorin did not want to watch but he was mesmerised and terrified and it was his fear that made him watch. He was always taught to face his fear, honour his word and never back down and he wouldn’t. He would prove to the pretty king that looks meant little when the heart is not involved and his heart belonged to Girion, though it pained him to admit.

As though Thranduil realised his thoughts had strayed from him he leaned down and kissed him as his hand with slicked fingers moved up his thigh. Thorin tried to focus on the kiss, lazily stroking his tongue against Thranduil’s as one of Thranduil’s fingers penetrated him. It wasn’t painful but nor was it comfortable but he refused to squirm beneath the Elvenking. Instead he wondered where to put his hands and settled for running his fingers through Thranduil’s hair as the elf had done so numerous times to him. Thranduil moaned into his mouth so Thorin guessed he enjoyed it which was unfortunate as he had no desire to please the elf, he simply wondered if the rumours about the elves hair feeling like silk was true and he found it was.

A second finger joined the first and began to scissor inside of him and Thorin was ashamed as his heart pounded in his chest. He didn’t want this, at least not in this way. Thranduil was easy on the eyes even for a hairless elf. Given time perhaps he could have learned to love him, but Thranduil had forced a response and Thorin would rather suffer one night on his back than the rest of his life in the darkest cell Thranduil’s dungeon had to offer.

“You are so beautiful, Thorin.” More sugared words, was he not already on his back, must he suffer the indignity of meaningless words to placate the lack of affection he felt? He wanted to tell the Elvenking how he truly felt but that would not do. He didn’t save the friendship between elves and dwarves just so he could destroy it himself.

Thranduil moved away from him and Thorin watched as he used more of the liquid to cover the length of his cock. Then Thranduil was on top of him once more followed by a burning sensation in his lower body as Thranduil slowly entered him. Dwarves were sturdy hardy creatures born from the rock and made to last but the Maker hadn’t considered this form of intimacy. Thorin arched his back and spread his legs wider trying to alleviate the pain but only succeeded in having Thranduil slip further inside him until he was fully sheathed and remained still.

“You exquisite creature, I will make love to you every night once we are married.” Thorin grabbed the elf’s hair and pulled him into a kiss as he did not wish to hear Thranduil’s voice. He did not even wish to see Thranduil, he wished to see warm brown eyes instead of blue, he wanted to touch curled salt and pepper hair instead of straight white-blond locks. He wanted King Girion above him, loving him rather than taking him due to a sense of entitlement.

Slowly Thranduil began to roll his hips and Thorin gripped his shoulders wishing his fingernails were longer so he could claw down his back and break the flawless skin. Instead he turned his thoughts away from violence and imagined his comfortable bed at The Red Dragon. He imagined Girion had come to him in the night unable to stay away despite his father’s protests. He would silence all of Thorin’s misgivings with his mouth while he moved easily between his thighs. He closed his eyes and imagined it was Girion on top of him thrusting his length into him. He moaned into the mouth against his own as his cock stirred with interest and his legs tightened around Thranduil’s hips.

“My King,” Thorin whispered against Thranduil’s hair as the elf kissed down his neck. He heard Thranduil hum in approval but those words were not for him.

“So eager,” Thranduil chuckled against his throat and Thorin desperately wanted to punch him in the face. He hadn’t considered what prompted Thranduil’s words until a wet hand wrapped around his erection and began to stroke. Thorin hadn’t wanted to make any sound beneath the elf, but those dreams were dashed as he arched into Thranduil’s touch and accepted the pleasure.

It seemed his acceptance was what Thranduil had been waiting for before he dropped all pretence of love making. Instead of a slow roll of his hips, Thranduil pulled back and slammed back inside, building up a brutal rhythm that had Thorin crying out in both pain and pleasure. Thorin raked his nails down Thranduil’s back, desperate to leave marks in revenge but the elf grunted in approval, clearly enjoying the pain and tightened his grip around Thorin’s member.

Thorin wasn’t sure when they had left the bedroom and entered the battlefield, but he was grateful for it. Love was a tricky emotion but you knew where you stood with someone that hates you and Thranduil’s actions were not those of an elf in love. Perhaps in the beginning he thought himself in love by misconstruing Thorin’s actions in the throne room, but yesterday was so long ago and dreams faded so quickly. In a blink of an eye Thorin had gone from cherished intended spouse to whore, which was quite the fall from grace. Not only was he now a whore in Thranduil’s eyes, he was picky as well and had denied him, no doubt bruising the Elvenking’s ego as the elf now bruised his hips.

Pulling the elf’s hair, they shared a biting kiss before Thranduil pulled away, kneeling between Thorin’s thighs. Thorin moved his hands to the Elvenking’s chest raking his nails down the valley of his abs with one hand and pinching a small pink nipple with the other. Thranduil’s thrusts faltered momentarily so Thorin pinched his nipple again, gaining the same response. Grabbing hold of his wandering hands Thranduil pinned them above Thorin’s head and changed the angle of his thrusts nudging the dwarf’s prostate gland.

The sudden rush of pleasure on his over stimulated body took him by surprise and Thorin cried out as he reached completion. Thranduil followed moments after filling Thorin with his warm release, as his hips continued to piston until the elf was spent. Thorin dropped his head back onto the mattress feeling his hair sticking to his sweaty face as Thranduil gently removed his member and lay down on his back beside the dwarf.

They lay there for a while, breathing heavily and staring at the canopy of Weeping Willows. Thorin did not know what to say, as he was not sure where he stood with Thranduil. In truth he was still mad that the Elvenking had refused to allow him to leave and now a good part the day was gone and he was in dire need of a wash.

“You do not care for me, do you?” Thranduil finally broke the silence with a rhetorical question. Thorin hoped that was all that would be said on the matter as he felt sticky and uncomfortable and he did not want to be thrown in the dungeon in his present state. “You may leave; I will send a small garrison with you to see you through the Greenwood safely.” Thranduil still did not look at him, even as he left the bed and redressed, it was only once he reached the door did he look back and give a small stiff nod and left.

Thorin dragged himself from the bed and sunk into the warm water of the bath. He felt as though he had spent all day in the training yard, as he was covered in sweat and his muscles ached. He couldn’t linger though, as much as he wanted to, as he had certainly outstayed his welcome. Using all of the available lotions he washed his body and refused to leave the water until he was certain there was no trace of the Elvenking’s seed inside him.

His hair was still damp by the time he had redressed and collected his pack and sword but it was of no matter. When he opened his door he was surprised to find Legolas leaning against the wall with four armoured guards.

“I am to escort you through the forest.” Legolas explained and Thorin simply nodded, too tired to argue. “Where does your journey take you?”

“You need only escort me to the Brown Lands; from there I make my way to Rohan. They are always in need of a blacksmith.” Which was true, the horse lords certainly got through horseshoes and though it would undoubtedly be tedious work, it was still work.

“Very well,” Legolas agreed and Thorin noticed the Elven Prince was keeping his distance from him. He had only just regained his old friendship with easy hugs and playful banter and yet he found he was once more robbed of it. Keeping them separated was out of their control and their friendship had not suffered from it but sleeping with his friend’s father had damaged their bond beyond repair.

He wonders if Legolas knew he didn’t have a choice, surely he must know that to refuse the Elvenking in his own realm is a one way journey to the dungeons. Does Legolas think he had used his father for pleasure and nothing more? Was that why his old friend was so distant? Maybe he was ashamed of his father for forcing Thorin to submit, but he had seemed all for Thorin marrying Thranduil the previous night, until he learned of Girion. Maybe he was a whore in Legolas’ eyes too.

Their trek through the Greenwood was done in silence and as night fell they settled for the night in the ruins of Dol Guldur. Thorin had hoped to make it to the edge of the Greenwood but he was obviously walking slower as he tried to hide his limp from the elves all-knowing eyes. It was a poor attempt considering the startled look on Legolas’ face when it finally dawned on him why his gait was changed.

By morning they awoke with the sun and finished the short distance to the edge of the woods. Legolas remained silent at his side and did not hug him when it came time for them to depart. Instead Thorin passed him the wooden box with the bead for his sister and asked Legolas to pass it on for him. Legolas simply nodded his consent and Thorin left the Woodland Realm without a backward glance, vowing never to return. For a dwarf that only wanted peace he was certainly burning bridges wherever he went.

Chapter Text

‘Go to Bree,’ they said. ‘You can’t miss the Prancing Pony,’ they said. Clearly they did not realise to who they were speaking to, because he did not see the Prancing Pony and had not only arrived at Bree, he had also left it as well. Over one hundred and seventy years of traipsing Middle Earth and Thorin’s sense of direction continued to fail him and now he didn’t know where he was.

The woods did not seem too dense as he was sure he could see light through the trees so he carried on. It was nightfall but the moon was full and lightened his way as he made short work of the woods and came out the other side only to be faced by a river. Dropping his pack to the floor, Thorin sat down on the lush green grass and looked around. He was quite sure he could see smoke rising from the green hills but they were not on fire. If anything it looked as though it was chimney smoke but that couldn’t be right. Having never been this far West Thorin wondered if there were people living under the hills? Who would live under hills? Had he stumbled across some country dwarves? He dearly hoped he had, as he had missed the company of dwarves. Hiding from his family meant that he could not join his kin in the Iron Hills, Grey Mountains or even those further west in Ered Luin, as those would be the first places his family would look.

Instead he had found work in Rohan making horseshoes until his sound work caught the eye of the king and he was brought to the capitol Edoras. The king was so taken with his work that he allowed Thorin to design and make swords and armour for the king and the King’s Guard. Thorin may not have been a master smith but he was a dwarf so though his work in Dale was shoddy in comparison to the master’s of the craft, compared to the men in Rohan his work was superior.

For twenty years he stayed in Edoras as the king’s blacksmith. He was helping the king into his new armour when a rider came from Dale with the sad news that King Girion had died. Everyone wondered why the dwarf wailed in response but no one questioned it.

It was a risk returning to Dale but Thorin had to pay his respect and bid farewell to his first love. The king did not question his decision to join him on his trip to Dale, although he did question why Thorin was so adamant that they travel around the Greenwood rather than through it. Luckily they were making good time and a few of the King’s Guard had some misgivings about the Woodland elves and happily supported Thorin’s decision to go around.

Dale was just how he remembered it but instead of the shouts and general hubbub the streets were silent in respect for their king. King Girion’s body was laid out in his palace in the throne room on a stone table for all to pay respect, the queue was long but Thorin could not be angry as he waited his turn. King Girion was a great king and beloved by his people and Thorin knew this was how he would have wanted it. Thorin made sure he was the last in line and when it came time for his turn he walked up the three steps to the stone table and placed a dozen red roses tied with a blue ribbon in the king’s still hands. He then looked at the ashen face of his deceased love and pressed a kiss to his unmoving lips. ‘Farewell, my love’ he had whispered and allowed his tears to fall and he would have stayed like that for a lifetime had a gasp not startled him. Looking up Thorin saw Girion’s son on the balcony overlooking the throne room and he was staring directly at him. Thorin knew he had been recognised and he cast one last look at Girion before fleeing the palace. He did not return to Edoras as he heard rumours of a dwarf working for the king and knew his location had been compromised. Instead he set out for Helm’s Deep where his knowledge of mining proved useful to the men stationed there as they dug boltholes and escape tunnels in the Glittering Caves.

Eight years he spent at that fortress city until his location was once again compromised. He knew that would always be a problem, shorn beard or not a dwarf on his own anywhere would always be noticed and mentioned in passing. He decided to travel further and it was during his trek across the mountain pass that he saw what he once assumed were mythical creatures. The rain was heavy and lightening lit up the sky and then the mountains came alive, Thorin could hardly believe his eyes, stone-giants. He could only marvel for so long before the otherworldly beings either in play or war began throwing boulders at each other and the debris was falling too close to Thorin for comfort. Instead Thorin sought refuge in a cavern and thought the worst was over.

He was mistaken, as he had no idea he had walked into a trap. He had just finished setting out his blanket when the floor gave out and he fell and he kept on falling and just when he thought he would fall for eternity he finally landed in a cage. His brain was rattled and he was disoriented and more than a little bruised and suddenly he was set upon by goblins and dragged to their king. The King was a foul creature that towered over his subjects and Thorin. Thorin could match him in height if Dwalin was stood on his shoulders but the king was also fat, three times wider than Thorin himself. His throne was made of the bones of whatever unfortunate creature crossed his path, whether it be man, orc, dwarf, elf, warg or even goblin. His crown was a circle of warg’s teeth crudely tied together and on his staff there was a mounted head of some unfortunate beast.

The goblins of Goblin Town seemed like a sickly bunch, too skinny and with unsightly blemishes on their skin. Their king, though fat seemed to suffer the same as his chin seemed elongated and filled with puss and it wobbled when he talked turning Thorin’s stomach. There were hundreds of goblins all around so Thorin was quite surprised when the king was convinced he was a threat. He tried to placate the king and was certain he had the king convinced until one of the minions brought his pack and sword that had fallen through the gap with him. Orcrist was a fine blade, though at that moment owning the Goblin Cleaver while in the middle of Goblin Town trying to convince the king he came in peace was rather unfortunate.

The king had him whipped and beaten and whipped again, he was even stretched though the ropes were shoddy and snapped before any damage was done. All the while Thorin pleaded his innocence and the Goblin King finally seemed to believe him, and Thorin was stripped, though he was later given a dirty loincloth to cover himself and chained to the Goblin King’s throne. The leather padded collar around his neck was no hardship and he could release himself from it if he so desired but he was in the middle of Goblin Town with nowhere to go.

Thinking back he assumes the fall must have shaken something loose in his head because living in Goblin Town was perhaps the most fun he had ever had. Once the goblins no longer saw him as a threat he was treated well, mostly due to being the Goblin King’s favoured pet. Food was short in Goblin Town and so on more than one occasion Thorin was fed goblin, which tasted like rabbit hung over the fire for too long. He tried to reason with himself should he ever get out and someone were to ask that he was doing his part, fighting the war on goblins, eating his enemies one by one.

Though he would never say it, the goblins reminded him of his fellow dwarves. They were no miners and they couldn’t build a decent bridge to save their lives but their love of song and merrymaking was the same. When he admitted he could play the harp they fell over themselves to find one in their stolen hoard. When they asked him to play, he played. When they asked him to sing, he sang. When they asked him to dance he outright refused until the Goblin King stepped down from his throne and held his hands and spun him around in a circle. It was complete madness and so much fun, but like all good things, they must come to an end.

He didn’t know how long he stayed in Goblin Town; it could have been months or even years. There was no sunlight like there was in Erebor; the only light was the burning orange torches. So he did not know how long it was until he was introduced to Azog the Defiler. He hadn’t known a relationship between orcs and goblins existed until that moment. The goblins seemed like a paranoid bunch that kept to themselves but apparently the Goblin King was so taken with Thorin he had invited his friend to come and see him.

Azog was a freak of nature, quite like the Goblin King he towered over his fellow orcs though he was not quite as tall as the Goblin King, perhaps a head shorter and not nearly as wide, though his white scarred body was solid muscle. His head was bald and his eyes were blue and his ears had a bat-like quality to them. He also had a mouth full of sharp teeth, which he exposed immediately once his eyes fell on the tethered dwarf. There was something about the way he looked at Thorin that Thorin did not like. He had never feared for his safety in Goblin Town, perhaps in the beginning but since he became the king’s pet he was quite content with his position. Now though, something had changed, a grave error had occurred and before he could think of anything else the pale orc had grabbed the chain of his collar and lifted him into the air, keeping him far away so none of his kicks impacted on the orc.

He was not sure how long he dangled there, clutching his collar so he did not choke to death. He could hear the Goblin King shouting but it was all white noise as his eyes connected with Azog’s and the pale orc smiled at him. Finally the king got physically involved and Thorin was dropped unceremoniously to the ground and listened intently as the king explained Thorin was not for sharing, much to Thorin’s relief. The Defiler looked displeased and said he had misunderstood the invitation and he even went on to compliment the Goblin King’s captive and though the king seemed pleased, it made Thorin’s skin crawl.

He assumes orcs brought food with them because there was a feast that night, nowhere near as grand as the ones they held in Erebor, but a feast nonetheless. After the food was eaten many of the goblins broke into song while the Goblin King relaxed in his throne and Thorin sat by his side on the floor still in his collar and chain. He felt uncomfortable when the pale orc sat beside him but he tried to enjoy the singing and dancing even if every now and again Azog would randomly poke him with a big meaty finger, causing Thorin to shift closer to the throne and away from him.

The reason for the feast was so that the Goblin King could show off his pet dwarf so Thorin was asked to play the harp and sing. He was more than happy to do so as it meant he could put more distance between himself and Azog. He had also been working on a song just for the goblins and now was the perfect time to sing it.

‘Clap! Snap! The black crack! Grip,grab! Pinch, nab! And down down to Goblin-town you go, my lad!’ It was only one verse but the goblins howled in joy and started adding their own lines while Thorin played. The Goblin King was practically beaming and when the song was finished he danced with Thorin and Thorin’s worries were gone, even when Azog stood and took the goblin’s place, holding Thorin’s hands and spinning around with him.

They partied themselves to utter exhaustion, the king had fallen asleep in his throne and orcs and goblins had passed out wherever they fell. Even the Defiler’s eyes were drooping closed as Thorin made his way to his make-shift bed beside the throne. It was only a pile of furs but his pack and boots were behind the throne along with his harp and even Orcrist, known to the goblins as Biter was hidden beneath the throne.

He hadn’t been asleep for long before a large pale hand covered his nose and mouth and he opened his eyes to find the Defiler on top of him, kneeling between his thighs. He tried to scream but hardly a sound was heard against Azog’s hand and the orc leaned down and sneered at him before shoving a finger roughly inside him. Thorin hadn’t been touched since Thranduil and the penetration hurt and he squirmed. He could hear the Goblin King snoring as he struggled to breathe beneath Azog’s hand and he knew if he didn’t do something he was going to die. He struggled beneath the orc and noticed the chain attached to his collar was making quite a racket so he tossed his head back and forth making the chain clang louder.

It worked; the Goblin King awoke and dragged Azog off him and demanded an explanation. His anger was so fierce the goblins and orcs were awoken by his shouts. Thorin tried not to smirk victoriously, which was good as Azog pulled a knife from the waistband of his loincloth and cut the Goblin King’s throat. When the king fell with an almighty crash, Azog severed his head and held it aloft like a trophy. Thorin remembers screaming, drawing attention to himself and Azog turned from his showboating and threw the severed head at him. Thorin realised he was next to meet Azog’s knife, but it did not happen. The goblins were livid that their king was murdered and launched an attack on Azog and his fellow orcs and Thorin took the opportunity to unfasten his collar, collect his things and flee. Before he ran down one of the tunnels he turned back to see the utter annihilation of the goblins he had come to think of as family. Azog and his orcs had cut them all down and were now seemingly searching for him, deciding he did not want to die this day, Thorin fled.

From there he made it safely through the mountain pass but then he was in the wilderness with no destination in mind. Deciding it was simply best to keep moving Thorin continued until he was almost run down by an orc pack. There was no doubt who had sent them, he was just thankful Azog himself was not among them. Not that it would make much difference, one dwarf against twenty orcs on wargs was not a fair fight and though he could dispatch a few there was no doubt their number would get the best of him.

Help came from the strangest places and when he heard a horn he could hardly believe his eyes as elves on horseback easily dispatched the orcs and wargs. A brunet elf on a black horse wearing a silver crown stopped in front of Thorin and introduced himself as Lord Elrond of Rivendell. Thorin was wary of elves but he took Elrond’s offered hand and allowed himself to be pulled onto Elrond’s horse and taken to Rivendell.

He never told Elrond who he was, but he didn’t have to, Elrond already knew as apparently he had his grandfather’s bearings. He was also aware of what had happened that day in Erebor and from the way he kept eyeing him, Thorin was sure he also knew what happened in the Greenwood. Elrond never tried anything and for that he was grateful and he enjoyed his stay in Rivendell and learnt stone masonry and helped rebuild some of the older buildings.

Twenty two years later Thorin finally came of age at seventy five and he left Rivendell with plans to go to Gondor. Twenty two years of peace led him into a false sense of security and one night on his travel to Gondor he awoke to find none other than Azog the Defiler laid next to him. He had dared not breathe and hoped and prayed it was only a dream, but then his blanket was pulled off him and the Defiler was on top of him again. He could feel the orc’s cock hard against his leg and watched as Azog pulled a blade from the waistband of his loincloth, it was stained with blood and Thorin vaguely wondered if that was the same blade that robbed the Goblin King of life.

Trying to move away, Azog shushed him as though he was a naughty child and pressed the blade to his chest. Thorin considered begging for his life but he was an adult now and he knew this creature lacked empathy. He could only pray for a quick death but apparently he was asking too much as death did not come, instead Azog used the knife to slit open his clothing. As Azog stared at his exposed torso Thorin took his chance to escape and managed to get closer to the fire. Azog roared in rage and came at him swinging the knife and Thorin grabbed the nearest thing to him, an oak branch that he intended to put on the fire and used it as a shield, knocking the knife from the orc’s hand. Jumping up, Thorin decided to run to the woods but he didn’t get far at all before Azog grabbed his ankle. Thorin hit the ground face first and tried to grab a hold of anything as the pale orc dragged him back to him. When Azog flipped him over onto his back Thorin swung Orcrist in his direction and grimaced as black orc blood rained down on him as he severed Azog’s left arm. As much as he wanted to watch the filth bleed to death, he gathered his things and ran into the woods because he knew orcs, no matter the size of them, rarely travelled alone.

He never made it to Gondor, instead he took all he learnt about stone masonry and returned to Helm’s Deep. After that he visited Rohan once more not before being intercepted by orcs who called him Thorin Oakenshield and threw a bunch of flowers and weeds at his head. It had been long since Thorin had a second name and though it was given to him by orcs he greatly accepted it and when he returned to Rohan, it was the name he used. The king did not send for him during his stay in Rohan but then Thorin used his time to make saddles for dwarves. Most thought him mad considering he was the only dwarf in Rohan but he would send his wares in the caravans to Erebor where he traded under his new name.

He was waiting for the caravan to return to see if he had any orders when the news came that Prince Frerin had died in battle. When Thorin cried, no one questioned it or made mention of it as it was royalty and any dwarf would be devastated. They couldn’t know that it wasn’t a prince he mourned but his baby brother.

For a second time Thorin returned to Dale and joined the people in the streets as they lined up to see the funeral procession. He learnt through gossip that Frerin had tried to win back Khazad-düm from the orcs but he had greatly underestimated the number of orcs that resided there. The dwarves had walked to their slaughter and not only did Frerin lose his life, his entire garrison did. The news had come from the ravens and the king had to send another garrison to bring the bodies home.

He was not sure where the others were buried but Frerin would lie in state in the halls of Erebor. His body would travel through Dale so the people could grieve and throw flowers and then he would be taken to Erebor where the dwarves would then close the gates and mourn privately. Thorin could not risk entering Erebor; instead he found a spot at the front and waited for his brother’s body to pass by so he could throw his poppy to his beloved sibling.

When it was time and Frerin was laid before Thorin, Thorin could mistake him for simply sleeping. He almost wanted to make a long winded speech like he used to practise in the mirror in the hopes that Frerin would sit up and tell him to shut up. He wants to tell him that he’s sorry for being jealous, for calling him a bastard and despising him for no good reason. He wished that they could trade places so that Frerin could continue to live while Thorin’s cold dead body is paraded around Dale, like he used to be paraded around in his youth and maybe then they would rest his exiled body in Dale beside King Girion’s tomb. But there is no time and the procession is still moving so Thorin throws his poppy and chokes as it lands on his brother’s hands as though he had caught it.

He leaves Dale that day and joins a caravan on their way back to Gondor. On the road they are attacked by orcs and Thorin joins the battle and defends the Steward of Gondor and saves the life of his young son, Boromir. For the rest of the journey Thorin is promoted to the equivalent of the King’s Guard and has gained a new shadow in the form of Boromir. He does not have the heart to send him away, his blond hair and wide eyed excitement remind him too much of his brother and if on occasion he calls out the wrong name, Boromir still happily follows along.

As much as he loves having Boromir around the pain becomes too much so instead of following the Steward to Minas Tirith, Thorin instead travels to Osgiliath. The town is in dire need of repair and Thorin happily spends years there rebuilding the city. Once there is nothing more to do he turns his attention to Cair Andros and helps them rebuild their fortress. Cair Andros is by far in a worse state than Osgiliath was and Thorin less happily spends his time there.

When a raven from Erebor comes to Cair Andros and eyes him Thorin leaves. The fortress is almost complete and the men are beginning to begrudge his work ethic so it is for the best. He never makes good decisions when he panics and he simply left without planning his journey. He was also single minded about his departure that he hadn’t realised how truly angry he had made some of the men of Gondor. He assumes they must have followed him until they were a good distance away from Gondor before they attacked him.

His pack was taken and then his sword and then his money. He was thrown to the ground and kicked repeatedly and he thought that would be it but he was wrong. He counted seven attackers, one grabbed and pinned his left arm while another did the same to his right and there was one pulling his trousers down while the other four spent their time between being lookouts and watching. From the looks on their faces they were all going to have a turn and Thorin felt sick. He had known these men, they had never properly introduced themselves but they had worked with each other for years and Thorin was certain he had bought at least two of them drinks before.

He screams ‘Why?’ at them, not knowing if they will answer but he would like them to. There was no reason for this, they were paid the same as him and they had never approached him so he knows he hadn’t turned them down. They tell him that he’ll look pretty with a cock in his mouth and to be fair he should have seen that crude response coming. He dearly hopes they try, his teeth were rather sharp, and he’d make them regret doing this to him.

He never gets the chance. Instead one of the lookouts screams as he’s skewered on what seems to be an iron claw. The weapon retracts and the man’s body falls and Azog is revealed. The men’s grips on his arms loosen but he’s too stunned to move, they all are. To Thorin, he has seen a ghost, as he was convinced Azog died of the wound he had inflicted but to the men they had seen a monster. Azog made quick work of the other three lookouts and easily beheads the two men that were holding Thorin’s arms. The man between Thorin’s thighs is picked up by the neck and Azog shakes him so violently his head falls back with a sickening crunch and then Azog tosses his corpse aside.

Thorin is still laid in the mud with his trousers around his ankles as Azog watches him. There are no weapons nearby, not even an oak branch and his ribs hurt from the kicking so he could not run for long as breathing was difficult. ‘Thorin Oakenshield.’ Azog saying his name was quite simply terrifying. He waited to hear more but the pale orc had nothing further to say and simply left. Thorin stayed in the mud a moment longer before gathering his wits and reclaiming his pack, money and sword.

He thought that would be the end of it, maybe through some strange orc logic severing the monster’s arm had earned his respect. He would later learn that he was wrong as he joined a travelling band on their way to Bree. He had never been to Bree before and they were more than happy to let him join them and even happier when they heard he could play the harp and sing. He regrets joining them now, had he not been with them Azog would not have struck in the night beheading them all and leaving only Thorin alive to awaken to the massacre.

He almost lost his mind waking up covered in his friends’ blood and knowing they had died because they had travelled with him. He had thought Azog was saving him from rapists before but now he knows he was mistaken. Azog intended to isolate him by killing anyone who is a distraction whether they be friend or foe. There would be no one else in his life, only Azog.

He tried to carry on the journey to Bree but he knew he was being followed so he purposely got lost. He doesn’t know how long he wandered alone; he just knows it was long enough to send him mad. He started talking to himself to fill the void, but even then he got tired of his own voice. The silence was deafening some days and other days he did not want to wake up. He supposes it was inevitable that he finally broke and called out for Azog. He knew the orc was there, always watching but never interacting with him and making certain no one interacted with him.

The pale orc came when called and Thorin was so low he hoped the orc would finally claim his life. Instead the orc stole a chaste kiss before throwing Thorin over his shoulder and carrying him to a clearing. He gently placed Thorin down on a bed of grass and Thorin laid down, too tired to put up a fight. He knew the pale orc desired him and any attention was better than no attention so Thorin decided he’d lay back and think of Erebor.

He does not know why Azog hesitates and he will not admit he is so desperate for any kind of touch that he wants Azog to take him. He began to think that his submission had turned Azog off until he realised the orc was behaving strangely, constantly looking over his shoulder. Whatever was bothering him seemed to have gone and then Azog was on top of him, biting his neck and drawing blood. Azog tells him to scream for him and he does not because he was told but because a great black bear appears behind Azog and with a mighty paw, smacks the orc off of him. Thorin lays stunned on the ground as Azog and the bear face off and for whatever reason Azog verbally taunts the bear as though he knows him. He assumes then that the Defiler is just as mad as he is. The bear is twice the size of the ones Thorin had seen but then Azog is no ordinary orc so Thorin assumes the bear will die and then Thorin will be raped and join the poor beast in death.

He doesn’t know how it happens as his eyes were turned to the sky, but there was no doubt that was Azog’s cry of pain. Looking towards the fight Thorin can hardly believe his eyes as Azog is on his knees clutching his stomach and the bear swipes his paw and tears the orc’s throat open, spilling black blood on the green grass. Thorin could only stare with his mouth wide open in shock and then the bear turned his sights on him. Thorin had made his peace and he knew he would not go alone in death, there was little doubt Azog would follow him there as well and if the Maker thought that was what he deserved then who was he to question the decision?

Only the bear did not take his life, it approached and breathed in his scent and began to walk away. Thorin could not stand to be alone and he begged the bear to return, to keep him company or kill him, he did not care. When the bear began to change taking on the form of man, Thorin was startled. The skin changer was like no man he had ever seen before, he was taller than even the Goblin King and his greying brown hair was like a lion’s mane that even grew all the way down his back. His eyebrows were long and grew upwards and though there was little hair on his chin the hair on his jaw grew long and outward.

The man stood before him naked except for broken manacles around his wrists and without a word he collected Thorin into his strong arms and took him home. Thorin was to later learn the shape shifter’s name was Beorn and he was the last of his kind because of Azog. Thorin was a broken shell of his former self when he came under Beorn’s care and when news arrived that King Thrór had died, Thorin was not well enough to go and pay his respects. Instead Beorn took the dwarf out on the day of the funeral and together they looked out into the distance and Thorin said all that he could never say and bid his grandfather farewell as Beorn stood beside him with his arm around his waist in support.

His recovery was a slow process, Azog had not hurt him physically but mentally and he could not cope. He found he could talk to Beorn about anything, and he learnt of all the horror’s Azog put Beorn through. He told his own tales about Goblin Town and how in one night all that was good was stolen from him. He also learnt that it was Azog that named him Oakenshield and it was one thing acknowledging the name but by using it Thorin had unknowingly accepted Azog’s ownership of him.

He found once he had stopped fixating on Azog and remembered his life before he could breathe easier. Under Beorn’s tutelage Thorin learnt to till the earth, make his own clothes and appreciate nature. He wasn’t sure he ever wanted to leave Beorn’s side, but Beorn in his infinite wisdom knew as long as they stayed together they were keeping Azog alive and they both needed to forget.

So Thorin decided the best way to forget was to finish what he had started and travel to Bree and now he was here, wherever here was. Deciding he did not want to disturb any of the potential country dwarves, Thorin rummaged through his pack for his bedroll. He had planned to stay in a room at the Prancing Pony but that was just another dashed dream.

He was only slightly dozing in his camp bed when he heard an almighty splash and the panicked shrieks of a female. Throwing his blanket off, Thorin was up and running to the sound. He reached the water just in time to see a distressed female toppled from a boat and into the water. Without thinking Thorin dived in and swam to their aid, realising there were two. He caught the man first, a rather hefty fellow and pulled him over to the boat and told him to hang on as he swam after the female. She was much lighter and he swam with her to the boat and had her hold on and he shouted to them to kick their legs and they managed to get themselves and the boat to shore.

“What were you doing on the water this time of night?” Thorin demanded, wet and annoyed and also slightly disappointed that the creatures before him were not dwarves. He was once told his glower was something fierce but he found himself surrounded by the two small creatures that seemed to be hugging him.

“We thought it would be romantic, Master Dwarf, but thank Yavanna you were here. Should we have died tonight, oh! It is not worth thinking about, poor Frodo.” Thorin’s head was spinning, who was Frodo?

“We are in your debt Master Dwarf, though I did not know dwarves could swim.”

“Some do,” Thorin replied blandly. What he failed to mention was that the men at Cair Andros liked to push him into the river Anduin and it was either sink or swim. At first he thought it was an accident, and then in jest but then it happened so regularly he knew it could no longer be amusing and was malicious. Still it took being mugged, beaten and almost raped for him to realise just how malicious they truly were.

“Well we are thankful all the same and we insist you accompany us to Brandy Hall and dry off and then we shall go to Bag End for I need to see my son.” The stout man with damp dark curled hair insisted.

“My roll is just up the hill...” Thorin began.

“Then my dear Dwarf we shall help you collect your things and you’ll come with us and there will be no argument. Master Gorbadoc will be delighted to welcome a hero.” The female was rather insistent.

“I wouldn’t say hero...”

“Nonsense!” The fat one cut him off this time. “You saved a small boy from becoming an orphan. I should imagine Bilbo would have adopted him but it’s not right, a child needs his parents and it wouldn’t be right putting such pressure on Bilbo.” Thorin nodded, though he had no idea what the creature was talking about, who was Bilbo?

“Where are our manners?” The female suddenly spoke. “I’m Primula Brandybuck and this is my husband, Drogo Baggins.”

“At your service,” Drogo stated with a bow and Thorin found two expectant gazes on him.

“Thorin Oakenshield, at your service,” he returned with a slight nod instead of an exaggerated bow like Drogo.

“Well then Thorin, it is a pleasure to meet you, now show us to your things, if we tarry any longer we will all catch our death in this cold.” Thorin agreed and walked up the bank and collected his things, and though he insisted he could carry it all himself he was only allowed to carry his sword while Primula carried his bedroll and Drogo placed his pack onto the wide expanse of his back.

“What are you?” Thorin heard himself asking carelessly as he stared at the pairs’ big bare feet.

“Hobbits dear, and you are a dwarf now come along.” Thorin kept his mouth shut and followed the fussy hobbits.

Chapter Text

Bilbo was hesitant to place his quill down since the words were flowing naturally, but the knocking on his door was quite insistent. He glances down despairingly at his work, so close to the meet-cute and now this infernal knocking. He regrettably places his quill down and stands, grabbing hold of the candle and makes his way to his round door.

He mutters all the while thinking this was some tweens idea of a practical joke. Honestly, who knocks on a door at such a late hour? No respectable hobbit, he’d wager, and nothing good comes from opening doors to late night visitors. What could be so important that propriety be damned? Bilbo did enjoy visitors like any other hobbit, but he liked to know when they were visiting and he certainly expected them at an appropriate hour. Tea was at four and his door was always open but this...this utter shameless disturbance of the peace, well he’d open the door and give the perpetrator a good piece of his mind. Having worked himself up into a tizzy he pulled open his door with less decorum than he would have liked and barked at his visitors.

“What is the meaning of...” he began angrily until his eyes fell onto his lantern lit first cousin Primula Brandybuck. “Cousin, what has happened?” The dark haired lass was wearing male’s clothing and not to fit either and he was quite sure her hair was damp. Primula did not answer and instead pushed passed him and made her way towards Frodo’s room with her lantern.

“Terrible business, Bilbo.” His second cousin, Drogo spoke up standing in the doorway also holding a lantern. His cousin’s attire was ill-fitting, as his waistcoat could not button around his bulbous belly. If Bilbo knew no better he would assume Primula and Drogo had been playing dress up in Old Gorbadoc’s wardrobe.

Drogo slipped past Bilbo and started lighting the candles. Bilbo supposed he would have to light a fire because he was certain both Primula and Drogo’s hair was wet. He turned back to close the door when he saw a third lantern light up a stranger at his door.

“Do I know you?” Bilbo asked and mentally reprimanded himself. The stranger was a dwarf, of that he was certain. Silver reflected in his black hair that hung down his back, curled and also strangely wet. He at least was better dressed than his cousins in blue trousers and shirt with a green cloak over his broad shoulders. His feet were covered by padded boots that seemed to make a squishing sound whenever the dwarf transferred his weight from foot to foot, as though he had taken a dip fully clothed in the Brandywine River.

“No,” the dwarf replied resolutely and Bilbo chose to ignore the shiver down his spine at hearing the baritone voice.

Bilbo did not know why he assumed they were acquainted but once the dwarf informed him in no uncertain terms they were not, he realised he was stood before a stranger in his nightshirt with his patchwork robe wide open. Quickly tying his robe together, Bilbo bowed low to hide his blushing face.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” The dwarf raised a dark thick eyebrow and his blue eyes shined in the lantern light.

“Thorin Oakenshield, at your service.”

“Thorin?” Bilbo squeaked and was thoroughly ashamed of himself. “As in Thorin...” he couldn’t finish, as his idea was absurd. He assumed it was because he had just told Frodo of the dwarves of Erebor and now his mind was playing tricks. That story was over one hundred and seventy years old and it was very likely untrue so no matter how much he wished for it to be true, Thorin Durin, the exiled prince of Erebor was not on his doorstep.

“Oakenshield?” The dwarf supplied, eyeing the hobbit warily.

“Oh Bilbo, goodness me, I forgot to introduce you. Thorin Oakenshield, this is my second cousin Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo Baggins this is our saviour, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“Saviour?” Bilbo heard himself ask as Drogo pulled the dwarf into Bag End and shut the door. The poor creature looked like a caged animal, looking around for escape and resigning himself to his fate. He was no doubt making matters worse by simply staring at the dwarf but he couldn’t help himself, exiled prince or not the dwarf was handsome.

“Had it not been for our dear Thorin, we would have drowned this night.” Primula answered, exiting the spare bedroom carrying a sleeping Frodo in her arms.

“So you see Bilbo, we just had to come see our lad and we could not leave our friend to sleep among the trees like a lonely Ranger.” Drogo finished and Bilbo was relieved that both his cousins were well because he would simply miss their double act should anything happen to them.

“Well then Master Oakenshield,” Bilbo said, turning to the attractive dwarf. “I am in your debt.”

“Really, there is no need.”

“No, I insist. You all must be starved, we’ll have some tea and cakes and I’ll light the hearth, honestly walking around Hobbiton with wet hair you’ll catch your death.” Bilbo fussed and busied himself to try and distract himself from the dwarf.

Once they were all settled at the kitchen table with tea and cakes, Bilbo could not help but eye the dwarf some more. He had a rather aristocratic nose and his black beard was interspersed with grey, and was neatly trimmed around his mouth and jaw. The way he sat in the chair and drank his tea made Bilbo think this was no common dwarf but then he still could not get the exiled prince story from his head.

“So where are you from, Master Dwarf?” Bilbo asked, hoping the raven haired dwarf would put his outlandish thoughts to bed once and for all.

“Here and there,” Thorin replied with a shrug.

“What brings you to the Shire?” Bilbo continued.

“He was obviously travelling to Ered Luin,” Drogo spoke up.

“Were you?” Bilbo continued, noticing the dwarf’s shoulders were becoming tense from his questioning.

“Bree actually,” Thorin corrected.

“And what is it you do, smithing I assume?” Thorin looked at Bilbo incredulously.

“Because I’m a dwarf?”

“Oh no, I meant no disrespect, I-I just assumed...”

“And you are a...grocer perhaps?” Thorin mused.

“A grocer!” Bilbo stated, affronted.

“Forgive me, I did not know being a grocer was such a lowly position.”

“It isn’t...I should be asking for forgiveness, I was interrogating you when I should be thanking you and I took insult when none was given.” Through their exchange Bilbo noticed that Primula and Drogo were strangely quiet and listening intently. “I wish to make amends, is there anything I can do for you?”

“I am in need of a job, I don’t suppose you know of any smith work going?” Thorin asked with a wink and Bilbo felt his cheeks burn. Bilbo did not have the courage to look the dwarf in the eye and the silence between them was beginning to become uncomfortable.

“What about Daddy Twofoot?” Drogo blissfully broke the silence. “I think he would be chuffed to have a dwarf come work for him, seeing as his sons never took on his trade.”

“I’m sure he’d be delighted and he lives on this hill, just below Bag End, Number 4 Bagshot Row if I’m not mistaken.” Primula added.

“Not too far away from our Bilbo,” Drogo pointed out with a winning smile.

“Where could I find accommodation?” Thorin asked.

“Why, here of course, you silly dwarf!” Drogo announced loudly and Frodo stirred in his mother’s arms. “Bag End has many tunnels and plenty of room for a hobbit and a dwarf.”

“One hobbit?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo sneaked looks at him through the corner of his eye noticing the dwarf looked baffled. “Is this...” he looked around, clearly uncertain what term to use to describe a Hobbit Hole. “Home, not yours then?”

“Bag End!” Drogo practically shouted and Primula gave him a stern look as Frodo stirred once more. “Certainly not, though we wish it were.” Drogo added fondly.

“All Hobbits do, it is an enviable smial.” Primula agreed.

“I cannot stay here; I would not take advantage of your generosity.”

“No one is taking advantage of anyone,” Bilbo intervened. “You saved the lives of my cousins. You are cold and wet and it is too late in the night to look for rooms and I have plenty of room to spare and it is the least I can do. So I’ll hear no more of this nonsense of you leaving.” It was Thorin’s turn to stare and Bilbo was quite unsure of what the look on the dwarf’s face meant.

“A gaoler as well as a grocer? Very well, consider me your prisoner but in the morning I will find new lodgings, if of course I have your permission?” Bilbo knew his face was red as fury coiled in his belly alongside something he wished not to acknowledge as the dwarf smiled at him.

“Well!” Drogo loudly proclaimed, abruptly ending the staring contest between Bilbo and Thorin. “It has been a hectic night and I am exhausted. So we’ll take our leave of you for the night,” Drogo informed as he helped Primula up from her seat as she still held Frodo.

“We’ll take Frodo’s room, good night Bilbo and good night Thorin.” Primula said nodding at the two before taking her leave.

“Yes good night you two, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” With a suggestive wink, Drogo followed his wife and Bilbo heard the click of the door as they retired to their room.

“Are your boots wet?” Bilbo asked breaking the awkward silence between them.

“They are.” Thorin unhelpfully replied. Bilbo frowned, honestly the stubbornness of dwarves.

“Then come by the fire, Master Dwarf and take off your boots and give them chance to dry.” Thorin conceded and followed Bilbo into the living room and sat down in the armchair by the fire as Bilbo directed. Bilbo does not know what possesses him as he kneels before the dwarf and begins to untie the leather binding on the boots. The boots have clearly seen better days and the odd patches of leather and fur show that they had been mended many times in the past and Bilbo wonders if they are much loved or simply the only pair he owns.

Placing the boots by the fire, Bilbo then removes the dwarf’s sodden socks. He means to hang them on the mantle and be done with it but he finds himself staring at the dwarf’s petite pale feet. He supposes they are natural for a dwarf but to Bilbo they are dainty and rather cute. He doesn’t know how long he kneels at the dwarf’s feet with the dwarf’s left foot resting on his thigh as he gently rubs his ankle before he notices the toes curl and a deep chuckle breaks his concentration.

“Do you like my feet, Master Hobbit?” The dwarf teases and Bilbo is flustered and moves away to the safety of the second armchair beside the fire. He does not know what to say and he will not speak for fear of saying something that he shouldn’t.

“I am sorry,” Thorin startles him with an unexpected apology. “I have been without company for such a long time I simply do not know how to behave, forgive me?” Bilbo finally looks up and can’t help but laugh at the ridiculous look on the dwarf’s face. Thorin clearly knows he was pulling a face as he laughs as well and stops making puppy eyes at the hobbit.

“Of course you are forgiven, I find myself behaving oddly too. I feel as though you are familiar to me though I cannot think why.”

“Do you have much dealings with dwarves?”

“No, none.” Bilbo answers quickly, too quick. “The dwarves of Ered Luin keep to themselves though on occasion I have seen them pass by on the East Road.” He realises that does not explain why Thorin would be familiar to him so when in doubt, change the subject. “Is Thorin a popular name among dwarves?” Thorin’s shoulders tense as he puts his guard up once more.

“Why do you ask?” Bilbo sighs, honestly dwarves and their secrets.

“I was telling a tale to Frodo, about the exiled prince of Erebor, I’m sure you know the tale.”

“I do, though I hadn’t realised it had travelled so far.”

“Well a version of it has, though if there is any truth in it I cannot be sure but it is a good story and the fauntlings do love to hear it. I only wonder if Thorin is a popular name as it is yours and the exiled prince’s name and I do believe he was second of that name.”

“It is a name,” Thorin replies with a shrug.

“Right, well, I can see I’ll get no further so that’ll be the end of it. Do you smoke, Master Dwarf or is that a secret too?” Bilbo had enough of the dwarf’s teasing and felt he was deserved some in return.

“I do smoke, though I have been without a pipe for some time.”

“Well I have plenty so you are welcome to have one of mine.”

“I have coin, I can pay you!” Thorin loudly proclaimed as Bilbo stood to collect the pipes.

“Why must you find insult in all that I say?” Bilbo demanded, hands on his hips. He probably looked like a distressed hen but Thorin seemed to back down. “You have shown kindness to my family, why will you not see it returned?”

“Forgive me, in my travels kindness has been hard to come by I barely recognise it anymore.” The dwarf confessed and Bilbo could only imagine the hardship the dwarf had faced. Though he may not be the exiled prince of old, his beard was shorn so he was still an exile, turned away by his own people.

Collecting two long pipes from the shelf, Bilbo returned and passed one to Thorin and then collected his pipeweed from the mantelpiece and sat down in his chair with his pipe. He filled his pipe as quickly as he could and then passed the pipeweed to Thorin.

“Old Toby,” Bilbo informed him as he lit his pipe. “The finest weed in Southfarthing.” He finished and sat back comfortably in his chair. Finally the silence between them was no longer uncomfortable and Bilbo rather liked the company of the dwarf. Frodo’s words from earlier had reminded him of his loneliness, which was made all the more apparent when Drogo spoke of Bag End. It was nice to have someone to sit with and smoke with.

He kept stealing glances at his companion, hoping he felt the same. He seemed to have relaxed, no longer sitting stiffly in a chair on the defensive. He also noticed his shoulders were no longer tense as he lounged back in the armchair. For a moment Bilbo thought he looked as if he belonged there, but he barely knew the dwarf and it was too soon to be having feelings for him. He was sure it was that silly story trapped inside his head and maybe a hint of hero worship for Thorin saving his cousins’ lives.

Blowing smoke rings to distract himself, he couldn’t help but notice Thorin perk up. The dwarf seemed to constantly wear a haunted expression but when he smiled Bilbo could feel his heart melt. Thorin was unfairly beautiful with his blue eyes wide with childish excitement but the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes spoke of his age. Bilbo wouldn’t dare guess at it for fear of being insulting either way, instead he smiled back and blew another smoke ring. It was heart warming to see Thorin attempt to mimic him; he was almost child-like in his curiosity that Bilbo wondered how long Thorin had been on his own. He watched as the dwarf tried to blow a smoke ring and failed and strangely he did not try again, instead he simply watched and silently encouraged Bilbo to do more.

“I can teach you, if you’d like. If you are staying in the Shire.” Bilbo offered, though he was half way talking himself out of it. Thorin simply smiled revealing the top row of perfect white teeth and Bilbo cursed the attractiveness of dwarves.

“I look forward to it.” Though his eyes sparkled with childish excitement his voice was far from that of a child and Bilbo was ashamed of himself for thinking inappropriate things about his guest.

Settling down once more, Bilbo turned his attention to the portraits of his mother and father to stop himself from spying on the dwarf. When he finished his pipe he refilled it, and offered the Old Toby for Thorin to do the same, which he did.

They smoked in silence and when their second lot of pipeweed was smoked, Bilbo built up the fire so Thorin’s boots had a better chance of drying and led the dwarf to the spare bedroom beside his own. Then Bilbo retired to bed and drifted off to sleep whilst listening to the dwarf hum a jaunty song in the next room.

Chapter Text

Daddy Twofoot was an aging hobbit with white curly hair and wrinkling skin but he was never without a smile. Like all the hobbits Thorin had seen he had the overly large feet, pointy almost elf-like ears and a big belly. Though their weight was unsurprising when he learnt they ate like kings with seven meals a day. Better than kings in fact, Thorin had spent most of his life in the presence of kings of every kind, whether they be man, dwarf, elf, goblin or even orc and none of them had eaten so well. He wonders if they realise just how good they have it, and from the smiles on their faces he thinks they do.

Daddy Twofoot had two sons, neither of which showed any interest in working the forge, preferring instead to till the earth. Daddy had never tried to influence them into taking up his trade which surprised Thorin. He couldn’t imagine them not being locked in their room, denied meals and slapped on the back of the hand until they learnt to behave and do as they were told. Daddy pretended their decision did not upset him but Thorin had grown accustomed to lies so he could see right through them.

Still when Thorin visited and asked for a job as an apprentice Daddy was almost bowled over in joy. His timing could not have been better, it would seem as Daddy was considering retirement and was wondering what would become of his forge. The forge itself was located in the busy market in Hobbiton and though he did not get much work, it was enough to make a comfortable living. There was little Daddy could teach that Thorin did not already know, instead Thorin found himself sharing some secrets with Daddy much to the old hobbit’s delight.

Daddy Twofoot was so happy to have someone share in his love of smithing that he gave the forge to Thorin. Thorin offered to pay with the few coins he still had and whatever he would make working at the market but Daddy would hear nothing of it. Instead a trade was agreed that Daddy could use the forge if he ever needed it and that all the smith work he may need done would be free of charge and that he could come by at any time and simply talk trade with Thorin. It was a fair trade, though Thorin still felt he was cheating the old hobbit as he clearly had the better end of it, but for all the rumours that dwarves were stubborn it would seem they had met their match in hobbit stubbornness.

He had only been at the market for three days and Daddy was not lying when he said that business was slow. Thorin did not know if that was because he was a dwarf and the hobbits were unfamiliar with him or simply that there was no work to be done. Not wishing to be idle he used his time to make the backroom in the forge into living quarters for himself.

Like in Dale he found shopping around the market and buying from every stall won him some affection. Unfortunately his pockets were not as full as they were back then and he could not spend frivolously but he bought what was needed and reaped the benefits as hobbits began to acknowledge him and greet him.

He could not be sure but he thought he might have a stalker in the form of Bilbo Baggins. He was only three days in but the market so far had always been busy reminding him of a small scale city of Dale. He meant the small quite literally, it had been a very long time since Thorin had to look down when addressing someone, and he found he rather liked it. Before leaving Bag End he was treated to breakfast and then forced into having second breakfast before visiting Daddy Twofoot. The hobbit immediately took Thorin to his forge and by the afternoon Thorin was the new owner and was all set up when he noticed Bilbo.

He was not sure how to greet his gracious host and he knew he had behaved rather awfully to the hobbit the previous night. He simply could not help himself; the pretty little hobbit was easily flustered and blushed so fiercely. Perhaps there was something of an orc inside him; it would explain why the creatures were attracted to him and his devilish behaviour. Bilbo did not seem to notice him and he did not wish to shout, so he simply watched as Bilbo bought some cotton and left.

He hadn’t thought Bilbo was ignoring him, so he thought nothing of it and got on with his work. When he left his forge once more he was surprised to see Bilbo again, this time at the other side of the market buying an apple. He considered waving but the hobbit never looked in his direction and left. Not half an hour later the hobbit was back again buying string. An hour later, he bought some fish, and then two hours later just before the market closed he bought a clock and finally acknowledged Thorin with a nod of his head and went away.

Thorin just assumed the hobbit was forgetful or simply bored. Hobbiton was a lovely place and should he ever leave it he was certain to return to Beorn and tell him of it. But aside from relaxing and gardening, if you didn’t have a trade, and he was mistaken Bilbo truly wasn’t a grocer, then there wasn’t much else to do. So the next day Thorin wasn’t so surprised to find the hobbit at the market, only Bilbo seemed shocked when he bumped into Thorin as he made purchases and gave him a hasty ‘hello’ before he left, but he didn’t leave. Thorin was quite sure the little hobbit was following him as he kept seeing a red waistcoat out of the corner of his eye that vanished when he turned around.

Once settled back at his forge, Bilbo returned, doing the same thing as he did the day before, making odd purchases at different intervals by the forge. Again he appeared minutes before closing and purchased a bag of grapes and finally acknowledged Thorin with a nod and once again returned home.

Today was no different and Thorin found himself watching the hobbit haggle over the price of beef. Bilbo was one of the taller hobbits that Thorin had come across but he was a head and a half shorter than Thorin. His hair was a mop of brown curls that glowed golden in the sunlight and he was dressed respectably in a burgundy jacket, green waistcoat and a crisp white shirt and brown trousers that reached half way down his legs. Thorin still hadn’t gotten used to hobbit feet, the sheer size and lack of shoes was too hard a concept to comprehend.

Something seemed different about Bilbo today, there was stiffness in his shoulders, a determination in his dark eyes and he had acknowledged Thorin, so much so the dwarf was able to wave and the hobbit timidly waved back. His clothes were also finer, Bilbo was a fussy fastidious thing and always dressed well but today he had seemed to put extra effort into his appearance. Thorin suspected the hobbit was trying to impress someone so he made a game out of guessing who it could be as business was slow.

He had narrowed it down to the female fabric seller and the male fishmonger when Bilbo finally approached him. “Good morning,” Bilbo said with a small smile.

“What do you mean?” Thorin asked and Bilbo began to stutter making no sense at all. “Do you mean to wish me a good morning or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not?” Bilbo continued to fail to find words. “Or perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning, or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?”

“All of them at once, I suppose.” Bilbo finally replied and Thorin watched his shoulder slump in defeat but he was unsure of what the hobbit had lost. Judging from the way his hazel eyes looked around it was seemingly his courage.

“Well then good morning.” Thorin greeted, hoping the hobbit wouldn’t flee. The people of Hobbiton acknowledged him but no one actually conversed with him and he could use a friend, even though he knew he did not deserve Bilbo’s friendship since he was so needlessly cruel to him.

“I must go, goodbye.” Thorin cannot even return the farewell as Bilbo leaves and does not return to the market. He wonders if he was playing his game wrong that perhaps Bilbo wasn’t trying to impress the fabric seller or the fishmonger but had finally plucked up the courage to talk to him and he had scared him away due to his ignorance of Hobbit greetings.

Returning to his forge Thorin spends his time making a bucket full of nails, one thing he has learnt is that hobbits need nails like the Rohirrim need horseshoes, what he doesn’t know is why. Still if it will make the hobbits talk to him, he’d try anything. It doesn’t take long and before he knows it he is sat at the wooden table before the forge with the nails.

He thinks he should make more use of the table, rather than simply sitting at it and spying on Bilbo spying on him. Perhaps if he shows the hobbits the work he is capable of business might pick up and even if it doesn’t it will still give him something to do.

Bilbo’s absence is missed but the nails summon the hobbits like gold sings to dwarves and he takes the time to learn to interact with them. He doesn’t want to scare Bilbo off again; he wants to be his friend. He enjoyed the night he spent in Bag End sitting by the fire and smoking. The silent camaraderie reminded him of his friendship with Beorn and in truth he never wanted to leave the skin changer’s side but Beorn refused to be his crutch and put him back out into the wild. He knows it was not done maliciously but Thorin had lost so much and he was so tired of being alone. Sitting in that armchair with Bilbo amusing him by blowing smoke rings he had felt as though he belonged there and he wanted that back.

After all the nails are sold and the market is closed, Thorin retires to his lonely little room at the back of the forge. Bilbo had not returned to the market since their exchange but Thorin assumed he would be back the next day, as there was nothing else for the hobbit to do.

He’s wrong and really he should be used to being wrong by now. He could only imagine how much effort it took the hobbit to approach him and like a fool he had verbally cut him down. The worse of it is this time he didn’t mean to. Yes he was practically a troll in Bag End but here in the market he was on his best behaviour he just didn’t know stating the time of day was a greeting. How could he know? Shouting out the time of day was no greeting in Erebor, though to be fair it was rather difficult to distinguish the time of day in the mines but still. He was an uneducated dwarf and the hobbit should have known that and not have been so sensitive.

Instead of moping around he spends his time wisely making nails, buckets full of them, to take his mind off Bilbo. By the time he’s done he’s worked up a sweat by being in the forge and he happily steps outside and sits down at the table. Incredibly all the nails are sold and he is just beginning to wonder what it is exactly the hobbits are doing with them when he can hear shouting.

“Prince Thorin!” His heart plummets when he hears his old title. One hundred and seventy years and his bloodline are still hunting him. Though the voice did not sound dwarvish in fact it sounded very much like a child. “Prince Thorin! Prince Thorin!” It was getting closer and Thorin stood ready to make a quick getaway if needs be. He doesn’t get far when a weight knocks into his leg and clings. He looks down, wishing to know what his assailants had thrown at him and stares into the wide blue eyes of a hobbit child with black curly hair hugging his leg.

“Frodo! Frodo my lad! Oh Thorin!” Drogo exclaims, his chubby face red with exertion. “Terribly sorry about all this,” Drogo waves his hands in the general direction of Frodo as he walks over. “Bilbo has been filling my son’s mind with fanciful stories again. I told him you were a hero and so you are but I tell him your name and now you are a prince and he’ll not hear different.” The child is still attached to his leg and he does not know how to respond.

“Drogo! Frodo! Oh there you both are, Master Thorin, so nice to see you.” Primula steps out from among the gathering hobbits that are trying and failing at pretending not to listen. Thorin knew gossip was the life blood of the Shire and the little things were practically salivating at the thought of something new to discuss.

“Up, up,” Thorin looked down again as the child released his leg and opened his arms. A nasty part of Thorin, the orc part that he was slowly becoming aware of wanted to kick the child away but he had a crowd now and he was slowly building a respectable reputation. Well as much as a dwarf nail-maker could be respectable, far more than a child-kicker would be at any rate. He looks to Drogo and Primula for help but they just smile and nod giving him consent.

He hasn’t lifted a child since his brother Frerin was born and that had gone spectacularly wrong, who knew a baby could be so fat? He only wanted to play with him, his intention was not to dash his brother’s head on the stone, never mind what that maid said. Needless to say he stayed away from children ever since and when Dís was born he simply looked at her from a distance.

The crowd was waiting anxiously and a voice that sounded very much like his grandfather told him that Durin’s Folk never back down from a challenge. Durin’s Folk, also known as the Longbeards and Thorin were neither but he could do this. Leaning down quickly he snatched the child up and held him beneath his arms and brought him up to eye level. The child squealed in joy obviously never being that high up before and started playing with one of Thorin’s braids.

“Frodo talks about you all the time,” Drogo spoke up as the crowd dispersed but he could still see their big pointed ears listening intently. “Though to be fair I’m not certain he is talking about you or that prince.” Drogo said with a shrug and then turned away to discuss what had happened at the Brandywine River to a nosey hobbit.

“When Bilbo goes with you to Moria can I visit?” Frodo asks winding Thorin’s braid around his small hand. Thorin is about to agree when he realises what Frodo said.

“What did Bilbo say?” He asks and knows it is rather low getting information from a child but he has done worse things to survive.

“I haven’t asked him,” Frodo shrugs and Thorin realises he posed the question wrong. Settling the child against his hip, Thorin tries again.

“Why is Bilbo coming to Moria with me?” Why on Middle Earth would they be going to Moria is a better question, Bilbo didn’t seem like the type to have a death wish.

“So he can tell you stories and you won’t be lonely.” Thorin knew he was missing an important part of the story but he had no idea what it was. Drogo had said Frodo was confusing him with the prince of old and Bilbo had said a version of events had been told in the Shire so he could only imagine the tale Bilbo was telling. Rather fanciful if they assumed he lived in Moria and Bilbo could come have a sleep over and they can tell tales around a campfire. There were things far worse than orcs in those abandoned mines.

“Well we best be off, come Frodo,” Primula says returning with a bag of cloth.

“No!” Frodo stubbornly refuses, his little arms going around Thorin’s neck as he buries his face in his hair. Primula smiles with all the patience of a mother, he remembers the expression well when his mother tended to Frerin, never him. Clutching Frodo’s waist Primula tries to pull him away but Frodo is fighting and pulling Thorin’s braid, either to punish the dwarf for letting them take him or simply to have something to hold on to.

“Well then you’ll see Bilbo no more if you continue.” Unsurprisingly Frodo gives up the fight and the braid and lets his mother hold him. Thorin can’t really blame him, he also wants to see Bilbo again and would lay down his sword if needs be.

“We’ll see you soon,” Drogo calls out and Thorin assumes that was in farewell as the family departs. He looks around noticing the market is closing and gathers up his empty buckets and returns to the forge. He isn’t tired so he uses his time to craft short swords that the hobbits could wield. He even makes a hobbit version of Deathless, a blade that would have been his birthright had he not been disowned. It would not be honourable to make a copy for himself. Deathless could have been his but he threw it away, but if a hobbit had one that was simply respect and if Bilbo was to have it, well it would look fetching on the hobbit.

He learns quickly that hobbits have no interest in weapons, not even those made to size. They don’t even recognise Deathless and he fears it is because of his shoddy craftsmanship but he is told simply that hobbits do not know dwarves and in the same breath has he made anymore nails. He’s wasted in the Shire and he’s still feeling sorry for himself because Bilbo hasn’t come back. He doesn’t even know why he’s fixating on that hobbit; he supposes he’s just a terror for settling for the first thing that comes along and expecting things to work out. He tried it in Dale, he settled in Goblin Town and he honestly thought his travelling would be over with Beorn but then he was in the Shire and in Bag End. He should be happy, he has a forge for no other reason than he’s a dwarf, the hobbits are kinder than most but sleeping in the forge when Bag End is so close is like being back in Dale in The Red Dragon staring out of his window at his true home, Erebor.

The fact that he is comparing Bag End to Erebor is enough to make up his mind to leave the Shire. The plan was to go to Bree anyway and he doubts he’ll be missed. That night he melts down the swords he made not wishing to waste resources. He will leave, it is decided but he will plan first, the last time he left hastily he paid dearly for it. He will have to give the forge back to Daddy Twofoot with a sincere apology and he isn’t looking forward to that. He works the forge as he tries to word his apology and when he’s finished he’s surprised to see he has made a rather sharp pitchfork. It makes sense though; he can picture the angry Halflings chasing him through the Shire with their pitchforks. They might even string him up; there were plenty of trees around the border of the Shire to do so.

He goes to sleep that night and his dreams are plagued with nightmares. At first he dreams of the heartbreak in Daddy Twofoot’s eyes when he gives the forge back. After that he dreams of small hands pulling at him demanding nails and then he dreams of a pale scarred face and dead blue eyes. He dreams of blood and death and Azog forcing him to awaken to another bloodbath. He dreams of the Defiler forcing his copy of Deathless into his hand and holding Frodo still while Thorin runs the child through. He wakes up screaming and is surprised he is not the only one.

Sleeping in his clothes was a nasty habit but useful when you heard a noise in the night. Grabbing Orcrist Thorin ran out of his forge to see what all the commotion was about. He wasn’t surprised to see Hobbits in the street at dawn, they were early risers, had to be to fit in second breakfast before elevenses. What was surprising was their screams and they were all running away but Thorin could not tell what from. Choosing to face the danger head-on Thorin was rather surprised that some of the hobbits running in fear tried to grab a hold of him and dissuade him from going. It was...nice if uncommon for a dwarf. Had it been kin they would take up arms with him, shorn beard or not, instead of running away but dwarves were hardy creatures and hobbits were not.

A growl cut through the shrieks of hobbits and Thorin finally came face to face with his foe, a warg. The beast was alone and had caused little devastation but it was skin and bone and reckless and bold in its hunger. Before Thorin could reach the creature, the warg bit down on a fleeing hobbit’s arm. The male hobbit howled in pain and fell to his knees and Thorin ran before the beast could sever the poor hobbit’s arm. He acted quickly and swung Orcrist at the beast’s neck.

The warg released the hobbit’s bleeding arm and turned crazed hungry eyes on Thorin and pounced. Thorin was able to lift Orcrist just in time as the beast landed on top of him, impaling itself on his blade and knocking the wind out of Thorin. The beast twitched for a few seconds and finally stilled in death and Thorin squeezed his eyes shut and closed his mouth as blood dripped onto his face.

A different cry went up, one of grief for the hobbit that was hurt and another for the noble dwarf dead under the black beast of burden. It was nice hearing the hobbits mourn his passing and not one mention of nails, thank Mahal. He wants to move to show signs of life but though the warg was skin and bones it was still large and heavy and Thorin was dazed from being knocked to the ground.

“Where is he?” Thorin could hardly believe it, but he was sure that was Bilbo Baggins’ voice. “What? No! No no no no, Thorin!” Thorin tried to move to ease the heartache he could hear in Bilbo’s voice but the warg covered him entirely and he was trapped. “Don’t just stand there!” Bilbo sounded enraged. “Help me get this thing off him; you can’t just leave him there!” He could feel the warg moving as if persistent hands were pushing it but it was no good and Thorin was quite convinced Bilbo was trying to move the warg all by himself.

The warg started to move again, this time by force as Bilbo had rallied the hobbits and the beast was pushed off of him. Breathing was significantly easier and Thorin opened his eyes to see tear filled hazel eyes staring back at him. He smiled, so ready for this moment he thought his heart would burst.

“Good morning,” he greeted and he watched as Bilbo fell to the ground unconscious.

Chapter Text

The forge was the nearest residence so it was decided Bilbo would be taken there. Thorin offered to carry him but the hobbits were uncertain of the blood on his face thinking it was his own that they refused. Bilbo was placed on his single mattress on the floor and Thorin was watching him as the two hobbits that helped Bilbo began to argue in the forge.

“I think you’ll find I was the one that saw it first,” one of the hobbits began.

“Hasn’t there been enough bloodshed, or do you want some more?” The other argued back quite threateningly.

“Do you thirst for blood in my home?” Thorin demanded, leaving Bilbo’s side to see what all the fuss was about. The two hobbits cowered as he towered above them, his face stern and wearing a crimson mask of warg blood.

“Is this for sale?” the calmer of the two asked, pointing to the pitchfork they were arguing over.

“No.” He’s being vindictive again. “It is a guide for I intend to make many.” He lies easily.

“Well then I will order five.”

“And I will order six,” the aggressive one counters upping the ante in their private war.

“Very well, leave it with me.” The only truth in that sentence is leave, he wants them to go. He wants to be with Bilbo and he does not want them here when he wakes up. Luckily they seem to take the hint and leave the forge, not before discussing who they were going to tell about the pitchforks. It seemed business was about to pick up.

Returning to Bilbo’s side, Thorin sits on the floor and holds the hobbit’s hand. It’s clear to him now why he was mercilessly picking on the hobbit and yet felt at ease in his company. The feeling was so ancient to him he hadn’t recognised it but now he knows he had developed a crush on the hobbit. He doesn’t know when it happened however the hobbit had stood before him in nothing but a nightshirt on their first meeting so it was probably then.

Slowly Bilbo’s eyes begin to flutter open and he stares at the tin roof in confusion. His grip tightens and he turns his head to the side and smiles almost sadly at Thorin.

“So when are we going to Moria to face a Balrog?” Thorin teases.

“I’m dead,” Bilbo exclaims looking around. Thorin looks around his little room too.

“It isn’t that bad,” he remarks and turns his attention back to Bilbo as the hobbit caresses his cheek with his free hand.

“Not with you here.” There’s invitation in his eyes and actions and Thorin refuses to miss the signs a second time and leans forward and presses his lips against Bilbo’s. The hobbit startles under him and Thorin moves back alarmed. “You’re not dead? Did that just really happen?”

“I’m not dead,” Thorin states and brings the hobbit’s hand to his chest to feel his beating heart. “See? I wouldn’t go anywhere without you.” Slight exaggeration, an outright lie actually, he was going to leave the Shire but not now, not when everything he has ever wanted is within reach.

“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” There’s that courage again, he did not realise his supposed death would bring it back but then he was the one that had chased it away.

“I would love to.” Bilbo moves back slightly and Thorin fears he came on too strong.

“You smell of wet dog.” Bilbo informs him pulling a face.

“Dead warg actually.” Thorin corrects and they share a smile and Thorin is glad he didn’t leave because he can’t imagine never seeing that smile again.

“I insist you accompany me to Bag End and get cleaned up.” Bilbo says while sitting up and Thorin tries to hide his enthusiasm although he assumes he fails as he quickly snatches up his pack and sword. “Are you moving in, Master Dwarf?” Bilbo asks standing by his side with an amused grin.

“Are you inviting me to, Master Hobbit?” Bilbo’s face reddens and Thorin refuses to feel guilty about it as the hobbit started the teasing first. Bilbo doesn’t answer, but takes his hand instead and leads him from the forge.

Hand holding is just strange. Years ago a snotty self-righteous duplicitous Elvenking held his hand and he found the experience rather belittling and uncomfortable. Holding Bilbo’s hand isn’t quite so bad and he knows for certain they don’t resemble father and son like he imagined he and Thranduil did. It still feels unnatural though and the hobbits they pass are whispering about it as well as congratulating Thorin on a job well done. He has a sneaking suspicion he has just become the Shire mascot and for someone hiding in exile the role is a rather unfortunate one.

When they reach Bag End, Bilbo takes him directly to the bathroom and starts running a bath. For a moment Thorin thinks Bilbo will join him but the tub is too small to fit them both comfortably, he avoids thinking of the uncomfortable angles they could use to fit. Instead he drops his pack and sword to the floor and begins to undress, kicking his boots off and tossing his shirt aside. He’s just about to push down his trousers when a startled shriek stops him and he looks up to find Bilbo turned away and his ears are pink.

“Is everything okay?”

“C-could you please...” Bilbo begins, face still turned away and he waves his hand wildly much to Thorin’s confusion.

“Could I please what?”

“Cover yourself!” Bilbo snaps and manages to throw a towel at Thorin without looking.

“Why?”

“Why?” Bilbo asks incredulously and faces the dwarf, only to turn once more. Thorin looks down at his exposed torso, he never did manage to grow as much chest hair as Dwalin and his waist is rather thin. “It isn’t decent! I shouldn’t see, I can’t not see, I just...couldn’t you have waited for me to leave?”

“Does my nudity offend you?” He wonders if nudity once offended him but he had spent years in the company of Beorn, a man that is always as naked as a newborn when he sheds his bearskin that he barely noticed anymore.

“It doesn’t offend me you stupid dwarf.” That sounded rather nasty for someone that supposedly wasn’t offended. “You don’t get it!” Bilbo seems flustered, throwing his hands up in the air and then nervously running his fingers through his hair. Thorin would have to agree with Bilbo because he doesn’t understand what he has done. It isn’t until Bilbo is before him on tip toes, hands braced against Thorin’s chest and lips against his own that he thinks he might understand.

“Will you share the bath?” Thorin asks when Bilbo moves away. There’s warg blood on his face from kissing him and though it was only a closed mouth chaste kiss, Thorin knows they are the ones that can turn quickly. He’d learnt as much from that vile elf that posed as his friend and took advantage of him at his weakest.

“No, too soon, I’d like to get to know you first.” Thorin feels as though he was suckered punch, and he’s surprised Bilbo’s words had such an effect.

“Why?”

“Why?” Bilbo asks, aghast. “Because you are my friend and I’d like to get to know you to see if there’s more between us. I want you to get to know me too. I respect you as much as I desire you and I would not risk our friendship for a dalliance. You are worth more to me than that; I truly hope you know that.” Thorin is not sure what to say, or if he could talk with the lump in his throat. “Have a bath and I’ll get second breakfast ready,” Bilbo let’s go of his waist and leaves the bathroom and Thorin had no idea the hobbit was still holding him.

Pushing his trousers down and kicking them off, Thorin gets into the bath. He hasn’t bathed in a while so he makes good use of the lotions provided and washes the blood from his hair and face. The water is filthy by the time he is done but the heat is soothing and he can’t bring himself to stand. His head is also aching as he tries to process the new information that Bilbo does not wish to be his lover but rather a suitor.

A courtship seemed outdated to Thorin, and yet as a dwarfling he desired nothing more. He can still remember the excitement he felt when King Girion showed interest in him, but he was not the same dwarf now. Relationships were not Thorin’s forte and the customs of courtship had long since been forgotten as the world was cruel and dashed his childish dreams. Should he block the door and not allow Bilbo to leave until he slept with him, scream ‘marriage’ at him as though he had little choice but to comply and pretend the forced sex meant something? Or did he bind the Hobbit to him and show him off around the Shire, or maybe kill everyone Bilbo knew so he was the only one in Bilbo’s life? That was all he knew about courtships.

“Thorin? Is everything okay?” Bilbo’s voice calls from behind the door. “You’ve been in there an awfully long time.” Has he? Reluctantly Thorin leaves the bath and grabs the towel from the floor.

“Almost finished!” He calls back and goes over to his pack and pulls out a clean shirt and trousers. He can’t remember when he stopped wearing smallclothes, possibly when money was short and he made do without. He quickly dresses and runs his fingers through his long hair when he can find no comb and leaves the bathroom.

Bilbo is in the kitchen at the sink when he enters. The table is full of cakes and scones with a variety of fruits in a bowl in the middle. None of it looks as if it has been touched and Thorin feels guilty for making the hobbit wait knowing their appetites.

“Sorry,” he says and makes the hobbit jump. “Sorry!” He’s half convinced he’s going to spend the rest of his life apologising to Bilbo so he doesn’t know why Bilbo just doesn’t send him away. It would be kinder to them both if he leaves but he doesn’t want to, he’s tired of running and whatever this thing is between them it seems worth fighting for.

“You’ve had some visitors while you were in the bath, they were worried you were injured but I set them straight. They wanted to let you know that Old Noakes is doing fine after the attack and when he feels better he would like to thank you in person.” Bilbo gestures for Thorin to sit and takes the seat opposite him. “Also there’s some fuss around the forge, talk of pitchforks but I could make neither head nor tail of it, I assume it means something to you?”

“It does.”

“Also the Thain has declared the warg your kill and the body has been placed outside the forge for you to do whatever it is dwarves do with their kill.”

“What do hobbits do with their kills?” Thorin enquired and began buttering a scone.

“We eat them, as we do not kill for sport.”

“But I do?” Bilbo placed his teacup down with more force than necessary and sighed.

“This is why I wish to know you, so that I may stop insulting you.”

“In my youth I used to hunt for sport but as I travelled I learnt to appreciate the wildlife and value their lives. I took no pleasure in slaying that beast, its only crime was hunger but it would have eaten a great many of you to slake its hunger, so one life had to be sacrificed for the safety of many.” Thorin replied, and from Bilbo’s expression he is surprised that Thorin has shared that information.

“I was a horror in my youth,” Bilbo begins. “I threw rocks at the crows, hit them rather than missed; a bird has never flown near me since.” Thorin laughs and Bilbo joins in moments later and then they finish breakfast in silence.

“I must be going,” Thorin states, wiping the crumbs from his beard. “I fear I will have lots of work to do.”

“Fear? I doubt you fear anything, Master Dwarf.”

“You’d be surprised; I fear a great many things.”

“Oh?” Bilbo replies and Thorin knows he is fishing for more.

“I fear I would have so much work I may miss dinner with you.” Bilbo laughs and goes to the bathroom to collect Thorin’s things and returns them to him.

“Fear not, I will come and collect you if I must.”

“Very well, until then.” He has no idea what the proper etiquette is, a kiss? A kiss on the back of the hand? No touching whatsoever? He goes with a wink and a smile and leaves before Bilbo turns any redder.

All the hobbits he comes across greet him on the way to the forge and true to their word the dead warg is around the side of the forge, out of sight for those wishing to visit the market. He already has some ideas of what he wishes to do with the body. The warg's teeth he would fashion into necklaces, he knows the Shire folk are terrible gossips and embellish stories so he has little doubt ‘The Black Beast of Burden That Terrorised the Shire’ would become legend. The hobbits would practically fall over themselves to own a piece of history and Thorin is only too glad to help, for a fee of course. The skin he would fashion into a coat for Bilbo for the winter months, there was little meat and the bones were weak so he would put the rest on the fire.

He sets his bag and sword back inside his forge, then thinks twice and brings Orcrist outside with him. The sword is blooded and needs cleaning, but when he reaches his table a queue has formed and he sees the two hobbits that helped him with Bilbo wave with pleased smiles.

“Master Dwarf, there’s been talk of some pitchforks ye might be selling?” Thorin nods and retrieves the pitchfork he made and is bewildered by the awe from the crowd.

“Don’t suppose you make spades too?”

“I could do with a trowel.”

“New shears would be lovely.”

“Anything you want,” Thorin offers and takes down a list of orders. Supplies are low, and he tells them as much but they are willing to wait. Daddy Twofoot even comes for a visit and is surprised by how busy Thorin is and chooses not to disturb him and instead puts in an order for more ore while Thorin is too busy to do so. When he returns Thorin hasn’t the heart to turn him away and they discuss rather quickly what is to be done about the warg. Thorin happily tells him about the teeth and coat but does not say who the coat is for, not that Daddy asks. Thorin gets the impression the old hobbit is lonely as he offers to pull the teeth for him and he’d be a fool to deny such help and he decides the first necklace will be given to Daddy Twofoot.

Not even a forth of his orders are done before he runs out of steel. It was his own fault really, choosing to make the whole thing steel. It would cost more but well worth it as it would last longer and be easier on the hands and if they were to get dented or bent out of shape, they knew where to find him. It wasn’t time for dinner so he sat down with Daddy and washed and polished the teeth he had pulled. He had no gold or silver, so the necklaces would not be extravagant. He imagined there were some dwarves in Erebor who would openly weep at his poor attempt at jewellery. Piercing the teeth was delicate work but he managed it and looped string through the holes and as he had already decided, he passed the first one to Daddy who was so moved there were tears in his blue eyes.

He put five more aside as gifts for Bilbo, Drogo, Primula, Frodo and Old Noakes who had come down with a fever from the stress of being bitten. The rest sold quickly, not that Thorin was surprised, the warg story would keep the hobbits entertained for months so of course they would want one of its teeth. What does surprise him is the way they marvel over the necklace and think it is astonishing work when truly it isn’t. He is capable of so much more but while he is not satisfied the hobbits are and he is truly reminded of what he is, a dwarf among hobbits.

When it is time for dinner he doesn’t run to Bag End, never mind what Sandyman the miller says. Bilbo greets him at the door and takes his cloak and Thorin notices the way Bilbo marvels at the Greenleaf clasp. He can only imagine Bilbo’s surprise when he learns the cloak is older than him but that is a story for another day.

Thorin is then ushered into the dining room, as opposed to the kitchen and he sits at the head of the table while Bilbo brings him his meal. The plate put before him is loaded with food, mashed potatoes and plenty of beef covered in gravy with sausages and bacon and a small cluster of greens taking refuge behind a Shire pudding. A tankard of ale is also placed before him to wash it down and then Bilbo takes the seat at the other end of the table facing him.

“How was your day?” Bilbo asks tucking into his meal. Thorin does not know why the hobbit is the slightest bit interested in his day but it is strangely nice having someone care.

“Busy,” he admits, not sure if Bilbo desires all the details.

“I could tell.”

“You were at the market?” He didn’t see him and spotting Bilbo was his favourite pass time.

“Yes, I had to replenish my soaps as I seemed to have an over enthusiastic dwarf in my tub this morning.” Thorin tries to look guilty and sorry but he’s trying too hard not to laugh so he keeps his head down. “The same dwarf left horrible smelling clothes on my floor so I spent my day washing his clothes and drying them, as well as trying to make my bathtub white again.”

“Forgive me; I thought you had placed them back in my pack.”

“And allow that smell to contaminate your other clothing? It was no hardship really, I had nothing better to do and if you ever need a bath you are more than welcome to use mine.” The kindness the hobbit shows him never fails to surprise him.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely and watches Bilbo’s cheek redden.

“You’re welcome now please stop looking at me like that, your dinner is getting cold.” Thorin isn’t quite sure how he was looking at Bilbo but he listens to his host and eats his dinner, as well as the cluster of greens that thankfully don’t taste of dirt. He even uses the bread provided to mop up the gravy so his plate is clean, surely the highest compliment one could pay to a hobbit? He’s not sure but they don’t seem to value trinkets and hoarded gold, they prefer food and song and gossip above all else.

Bilbo seems pleased when he takes Thorin’s plate away and returns with a slice of apple pie and custard. Thorin hasn’t eaten so well, not even in his other life when there were feasts in the Great Hall. It was clear Bilbo had seen his waist and found him lacking and decided to fill his belly. What he assumed was Bilbo feeling his body earlier was clearly the hobbit measuring his waist and thought him no better than the starving warg that infiltrated their town.

The taste of the apple pie is divine and he can’t help the sounds he makes as he eats it. From the way Bilbo squirms in his seat, he gathers he is being terribly indecent though he means it as a compliment. He’s not sure he could stop the sounds even if he tried so he chooses to eat faster rather than savour the meal because he fears for Bilbo’s health.

“That was divine,” he compliments. “You must give me the recipe.” That seems to startle Bilbo out of his reverie.

“You can cook, Master Dwarf?”

“A little.” He can burn things, but at least it tastes better than goblin and he wasn’t sure how many people on middle earth could make that comparison. He was a kitchen hand at best, but even Beorn got nervous when he saw him in the kitchen alone.

“I’m glad you liked the apple pie. I shall wrap the rest and you can take it home with you for supper.” Thorin nodded, noticing Bilbo did not want to share the recipe but he made no mention of it. “If you’d like to wait in the living room, your pipe is on the armrest and the Old Toby is on the mantelpiece and I’ll be with you shortly.” Thorin nodded again and entered the living room and sure enough the pipe he had used that first night was resting on the armrest, exactly where he had left it but he assumes it is just a coincidence. Picking up the pipe he stuffed it with the pipe weed and lit it and sat back down in front of the fire, waiting Bilbo’s return.

“That’s my father’s armchair,” Thorin jumps in surprise, as the hobbit is too light on his feet and he did not hear him approach.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” He begins to stand, convinced it was the same armchair he sat in before.

“No, please, sit.” Thorin settles down, uneasily. “My mother used to sit in this one,” Bilbo informs him and takes a seat in his mother’s chair. “They were very much in love,” Thorin has no idea where this conversation is heading. “My father built Bag End for my mother; they wanted many children but only had me.” Thorin slowly understands that the hobbit is sharing stories so they may get to know each other.

“I am one of three children, well, two now.” He corrects, sadly.

“What happened? Or would you rather not say?” Bilbo’s tone is kind and gentle and he knows the hobbit wouldn’t force an answer and for that Thorin feels the need to share. It was therapeutic speaking to Beorn but they never spoke of Frerin and he always thought he did him a great disservice by not keeping his memory alive.

“War. I was not there as I had been...travelling and because of my absence Frer...” He stops, realising he is saying too much to the one Hobbit that was capable of working out his true identity. “Frer went in my stead and they had underestimated how many enemies awaited them and they walked to their slaughter. All of them, not just my brother, the whole army that marched with him.”

“That is terrible.”

“It should have been me; I shouldn’t have been...travelling. If I had kept silent and stayed home my baby brother would still be alive.”

“But you would be dead.”

“Would that be such a terrible thing?” He’s melancholic and does not know what he is saying but it is a thought that has troubled him, knowing Frerin died in his place.

“It would be for me, Drogo, Primula, Frodo and Old Noakes and Daddy Twofoot along with however many other hobbits you saved this day. I know you feel guilty; I feel the same about my parents. I could not cure my father and the fell winter took him and I was not enough for my mother to carry on living without him. It is a pain that cuts deep and would take the life from you if you would let it.” He does not know if it is Bilbo’s words, or the tears in the hobbit’s eyes or the simple fact that he misses his brother, that he starts to cry. His father would be ashamed of him crying so openly and with company but his father isn’t here and Bilbo is and Bilbo understands and from the little sniffles he hears, Bilbo is crying too.

“Not the best start to a first date,” Thorin quips trying to ease the sorrow.

“I think it is going perfectly,” Bilbo returns, his eyes red from tears undoubtedly like Thorin’s own. “I want to get to know you and share in your perils, the good the bad; anything to do with you is worth knowing.” Thorin has no words, none, the hobbit had a habit of stealing the words from his tongue and the breath from his lungs. “Stay for supper, we can have the rest of that apple pie and I’ll bake you another one and bring it to the forge tomorrow.” Thorin nods in agreement and Bilbo wanders off to the kitchen to reheat the pie.

His pipe has gone out but he doesn’t relight it and instead places it back on the armrest. He can’t help thinking Bilbo had left the chair and pipe as Thorin had and he wants to return to Bag End to see if the pipe would be there again, half stuffed with pipe weed. He would need a reason to return as he was not certain Bilbo would invite him again after the disaster of crying at each other and he wasn’t completely sure the offer of a bath was not one done in jest. He needed a good reason to return and he found his excuse resting on his shoulder, a simple bead he had made with Oakenshield written in Khuzdul. He had crafted it before he learnt who had named him and what it meant for him to accept the name. It was his name now, and Azog was dead and held no claim over him. He was fond of the bead, though it was hardly a thing of beauty but it was his. Pulling it off his braid he turned to see that Bilbo was not nearby and placed it beneath the armchair he was sitting in.

Bilbo called him through to the dining room moments later and together they finished off the pie and whether in jest or to torment him, Bilbo decided to verbally enjoy the pie too. He could only imagine what the neighbours were thinking hearing such pleased moans coming from Bag End but Bilbo didn’t seem to mind so neither did Thorin. After supper Thorin thanked his host most graciously though he feels he laid it on pretty thick the way the hobbit was rolling his eyes at him.

“Before I go I have a gift for you.” He announces and brings the warg tooth out from his pocket. “For a most excellent and audacious hobbit- may the hair on your toes never fall out. All praise to your wine and ale...”

“Stop it! I fear the effect my ale has had on you. Honestly, waffling on.”

“Waffling on?” Thorin repeats with mock upset.

“Waffling on.” Bilbo confirms with his hands on his hips.

“My brother called it ‘constant drivel’ I’m not sure I like either to be honest.”

“You spoke of a gift?”

“I did, though I’m not too sure you deserve it now.”

“O hail Thorin, defender of hobbits, forgive this lowly hobbit for he knows not of what he speaks.”

“Better,” Thorin comments with a smile and passes the warg tooth to the grinning hobbit.

“Oh my, Thorin, this is beautiful, thank you.” Bilbo is looking at the tooth as though it was the Arkenstone and Thorin is simply flummoxed by it all. “I’ll see you tomorrow, good night.” Thorin steps through the door and looks up to the sky.

“It’s okay but I think it might rain,” he comments looking at the clouds fit to burst.

“N-no I meant that...never mind, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He isn’t sure how to end their first date and he is certain they are both staring at each other beyond a respectable amount of time.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees with a smile and walks away. He does not mind leaving as he knows his bead is safely tucked away giving him his excuse to return. He hums the tune to Goblin Town as he makes his way home, so long as he does not put words to the song no one would be upset with him and think it was a merry song from his youth.

The warg fur is still hanging on the line behind the forge untouched and he finds the body is no more than ash on the fire. He enters his forge and looks at the line of pitchforks; he’ll deliver them tomorrow if supplies do not come. Locking the door, Thorin goes directly to bed and when he closes his eyes Azog isn’t waiting there for him, instead a hobbit with golden curls stands at a round green door inviting him in.

Chapter Text

Daddy Twofoot is waiting outside on the bench when he leaves the forge in the morning. The hobbit seems unconcerned with Thorin’s late rising as he happily smokes his pipe and watches the hobbits bustling about the market.

“Good morning,” Thorin calls, by now used to that strange greeting. Daddy seemed to startle and then turns on the bench to smile.

“Good morning, Thorin, would you come join me with a pipe?” Thorin joins the hobbit on the bench but his pipe is in Bag End and he is sure it is still residing on the armrest of Bilbo’s father’s armchair. “I’m afraid to say the iron ore won’t be here for another two days. There’s to be a caravan from the Blue Mountains on its way to Erebor and they say it will be delivered then.”

“They?” Thorin asks, aghast. “As in dwarves?” As a dwarf, he sounds terribly racist against his own people and his outcry makes Daddy arch a brow in confusion. “The Shire has no dealings with dwarves.” Or so Bilbo had said, or was it that Bilbo had no dealings with dwarves?

“They are a private bunch, true enough and the Shire as a whole doesn’t do business but as a blacksmith I do.” Thorin doesn’t drop his head in his hands in despair but it is a close thing. Out of all the hobbits to acquaint himself with, he chooses Bilbo who knows some version of his past and now Daddy the only hobbit who has dealings with dwarves.

“You did not tell them about me, did you?” Daddy puffs on his pipe in thought.

“I told them there were a new blacksmith and a right good one at that.”

“Did you say I was a dwarf, did you use my name?” Thorin asks urgently, as he has no time for flattery.

“No...No I don’t believe I did, are you in trouble lad?” The way Daddy looks at him reminds him so much of the way Balin used to look at him when he used to get up to mischief and was afraid of his father finding out.

“Not as such.”

“Is this about your beard?” He’s surprised Daddy had dared ask, but he reasons that he has unfairly startled the old hobbit by seeming to be some kind of nefarious dwarf.

“In a way.” He’s drawing more suspicion by being cagey but there really isn’t much he can say without giving away his true identity. He always thought he should let his beard grow, that the price of his defiance had been paid in full but then he would remember Frerin and his lifeless body being carted towards Erebor and he knows for that sin he deserves no reprieve.

“News might have already left the Shire about you. You’re somewhat of a celebrity among the hobbits, our own warrior. Normally the Rangers protect our borders but there’s been some stirring in the south and their numbers were greatly reduced, which is how that warg got by them. Strider apologised to the Thain and he was told all about you, I’m afraid.”

“Bound to happen,” which was true but did it have to be so soon? He did not want to leave but if he must he would have to talk Bilbo into coming on an adventure with him. He can’t imagine the soft creature giving up the comfort of his home to live rough with him and he’d like to think he was an honourable dwarf and would not kidnap him if he said no.

“You won’t leave, will you?” There is genuine sadness in Daddy’s voice and Thorin feels horrible for being responsible for it. No one had seemed sad to see him go since leaving Dale and that was a lifetime ago, so Daddy’s reaction is rather unexpected. “It’s silly, I know but you’re like a son to me.” It’s nice to hear even if somewhat strange as he’s sure he’s almost three times Daddy’s age. “And there’s Bilbo, why I haven’t seen the lad smile as much. After his parents died he seemed to wilt and holed himself up in Bag End, not right, young lad like that shouldn’t be alone. Next thing you’re plucking his cousins from the Brandywine and he’s come into full bloom again. Would be a shame if he was alone, dare say he’s been waiting his whole life for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” Thorin enquired, curious.

“Someone who sees past his wealth and actually sees him. Now I know there will be those that say it’s only natural for a dwarf to be attracted to the wealthiest hobbit in the Shire...but by the look on your face you were unaware.”

“I didn’t know,” and how terribly stereotypical of him.

“Even if you did, from what Drogo said it wouldn’t have made a spot of difference. He says you were a match from the start. I didn’t believe him at first, not that you aren’t handsome but because Bilbo shut himself away and lost himself in his books and maps. I told him, ‘the world is out there,’ I said, ‘not in your books and maps’ but he was terribly jaded. Can’t say I blame him, being courted for your name and inheritance must be a pain, me I’m just a blacksmith so I’d never know what it’s like but I could imagine. So when I hear a tale of love at first sight I wasn’t convinced, not until I saw for myself that first day I helped you set up. Why he was like a tween, hanging around the market watching you, you didn’t notice and I hadn’t the heart to tell you in case it would scare Bilbo away. He’s a sweet lad, none better, but if you are thinking of leaving make it quick or take him with you. I could not bear to see his heart break, he doesn’t deserve it.” The confirmation that Bilbo was stalking him brings a smile to his face and he knows he’s never leaving now, he couldn’t have Girion and a part of him would always love him but here and now he could have Bilbo.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He replies resolute. He’s halfway across the world and he’s an old dwarf now. If his family loved him they would cease their dwarf hunt and let him live out the rest of his days in peace.

“So what’s on today’s agenda?” Daddy asks, changing the subject and stuffing his pipe in his pocket.

“Deliveries and I mean to visit Old Noakes to see how he is doing.” Daddy pats his hand with a pleased smile.

“You’re a good boy, Thorin. I’ll leave you to it.” And with that Daddy up and left and Thorin was left in a daze with all the new information.

Deciding he was left to his thoughts long enough, he collects the pitchforks and personally delivers them. He fears for his ego when all he receives are compliments for his work and as a gift as well as payment he is given home baked goods. Apparently it isn’t just Bilbo who thinks his waist is alarmingly thin. There’s a moment when he starts to think the hobbits are giving him a strange salute, clutching their chests as he passes but after the fifth time it happens, he turns in time to see the hobbit was simply clutching a warg tooth hanging from their neck. It reminds him to visit the hobbit that was attacked.

Old Noakes is far too ill to receive him at the door and instead he is ushered into the hobbit’s home and into his bedroom by a concerned hobbit that is nursing him. He realises this is the second hobbit hole he has entered, as Daddy Twofoot never invited him inside and Brandy Hall was a wooden building much to the shock and disgust of hobbits that did not share the surname Brandybuck. Perhaps that is why he had not known Bilbo’s wealth, because he is quite sure Bilbo’s smial is three times the size of the one he is currently in.

Old Noakes is in bed and whimpers from time to time. His right arm is bandaged from shoulder to wrist and Thorin is told the teeth marks will scar the hobbit for life. He worries at first, blames himself for not being quick enough but then he notices the way Old Noakes basks in the attention and plays to the crowd. He’s not short of visitors or of gifts but he makes a big production out of receiving the warg tooth and makes jokes to see which scar matches the tooth. Thorin is as always reminded of Frerin, not a day passes when he doesn’t think of his brother and his antics. Frerin always had a flare for the dramatics and when he fell from a tree and sprained his wrist all of Erebor knew about it. Honestly you’d think he had faced a cave troll alone from the way people praised him for being so strong and brave. Frerin naturally loved the attention, he thrived on it and on occasion he would act up especially if a pretty lad or lass was nearby and they would fall over themselves to help the injured prince. He can appreciate Frerin’s actions now, but back then he was up the tree hiding from Balin and was the reason for Frerin climbing in the first place. Needless to say he was punished for his brother’s inability to climb trees and was slapped on the back of the hand and called an elf and to this day he doesn’t know which one was worse.

After chatting a little with Old Noakes and his guests, Thorin takes his leave. There’s nothing to do at the forge except stow away baked goods, so he wanders around the market. Any time in the company of hobbits is a learning experience and today’s lesson is that stating the time of day is a greeting but not all times of day. He learnt that after saying ‘Midday’ to the grocer, the real grocer, not Bilbo. It seems there are only four time greetings that are allowed, morning, afternoon, evening and night, midday, midnight and dawn are not considered the same, though he can’t think why. The grocer finds it absolutely hilarious that he can’t get his head around it and Thorin has half a mind to drag him to Ered Luin and throw him down a mine just to show how silly their greetings were. But he’d like to think he was a good dwarf and he was above the bullying tactics of the common man, so he laughed along, paid for his goods and walked away.

He was near his forge when he looked over and noticed familiar golden curls. Bilbo was sat at his little table with something resting on the table top and Thorin remembered the apple pie Bilbo promised him. He doesn’t run, though he does walk faster to get to him.

“Bilbo!” He calls and hazel eyes pick him out from the crowd as he makes his way over. Bilbo’s face is red by the time he reaches him and he wonders what he could have done in the short time it took to cross the market.

“I didn’t think...” Bilbo mumbles and cuts himself off, and though Thorin does not have the hearing of an elf he had heard what the hobbit said.

“Didn’t think what?” He presses and takes a seat beside the shy hobbit, placing his bags on the table.

“I didn’t think you knew my name.” Bilbo confesses with a blush. For a moment Thorin is struck dumb, he has always known his name; in fact he knew his name before he had met him as Drogo kept prattling on about Frodo at Bilbo’s house while they were dressing in Brandy Hall.

“Bilbo,” he can’t help it, he adores the hobbit’s reaction to him using his name. He realises now that though he knew Bilbo’s name he never actually used it but he can’t think why. He supposes saying Master Hobbit was rather aloof but the way they teased each other with it, it was more of a game. Grocer and Gaoler was just his way of flirting, although to be fair the first time he said grocer he had meant to be cruel and belittle the hobbit.

“Have you no work today?” Bilbo asks, changing the subject.

“Plenty but no ore to do it. I suppose I could mend things but no one seems to need anything mended.” He lays it on thick in the hopes of an invitation to Bag End. “What are your plans for the day?” He asks, still fishing for an invitation.

“Cooking, cleaning and I’ve got the Gaffer coming around to discuss growing vegetables. In fact I must be off; I just came to deliver your apple pie as promised.”

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.” Bilbo stands up and shakes his head.

“Just an hour or so,” Bilbo shrugs as if the wait wasn’t too long. “Hopefully I’ll see you soon, bye Thorin.” He pointedly uses his name and two can play that game.

“Goodbye Bilbo,” Bilbo blushes and leaves but Thorin can’t take victory in his parting shot as there was no invitation. Collecting his things from the table, as well as the apple pie Thorin enters his forge and piles the food on a rickety table in the far corner opposite his mattress. He helps himself to a cream bun and heads outside and sits at the table in case by some miracle someone needed something fixing.

Since Bilbo spotting is out, staring at the clouds and guessing what they most resemble becomes his second favourite pass time. So far he has seen a dragon, a warg, a teacup and Erebor. His latest one is tricky, from one angle it could be a tree but if he tilts his head it looks like an elf and he’s not sure what that says about his psyche, the cloud or elves and trees in general.

“Prince Thorin!” No matter the voice, the title will always strike fear in his heart and he sits up from lying on the table.

“Busy as usual,” Drogo quips as Frodo climbs onto the table and settles beside him. Ignoring Drogo, Thorin turns to Frodo and points to the elf/tree cloud.

“What does that look like to you?” The concentration on the young hobbit’s face is almost comical.

“A sea monster.” Bilbo certainly fills that boy’s head full of nonsense.

“What can I do for you, Drogo?” Thorin asks as Frodo keeps his eye on the clouds and it seems they are in agreement that one looks like a teacup.

“Oh the Thain sent me, he’s quite busy and we’re family. He’d heard some distressing news that you were leaving us?” Drogo simply stares at him, desiring an answer and Thorin curses the gossip of Hobbits, he had meant for his conversation with Daddy to be private. A slight tug on his sleeve has him turning to look at Frodo.

“Are you leaving for Moria?” There he goes with that fanciful tale again, he must insist Bilbo tell him the story.

“No,” he says once to Frodo and then turns to Drogo. “No, I won’t be leaving.”

“Phew!” Drogo exclaims making a show of wiping his forehead in relief. “The Thain felt that you were not feeling appreciated and to show that you are truly appreciated he would like the Shire to acknowledge Durin’s Day and celebrate it. Unless of course it is just not done and would insult you, he only means to honour you and make you feel welcome.” Thorin thought it was only Bilbo that could steal his words but it must be a hobbit trait. He’d spent years in Gondor helping them rebuild their fortresses and he did not get even so much as a thank you. Yet here he saved two hobbits from drowning and one from a warg and they wished to acknowledge a dwarven holiday so he would feel appreciated and comfortable among a race that was not his own.

“Oh dear, are you terribly offended?” Drogo asked timidly and Thorin merely shook his head. He was moved by the gesture and he feared his voice would break if he tried to use his words.

“What have you done?” A new voice, one he knew well spoke up sounding angry.

“Ow Bilbo!” Drogo cried out and Thorin looked up to see Bilbo step in front of him, holding a frying pan threateningly; a frying pan that he had clearly already struck his cousin with.

“I will not have you upset him.” Bilbo warned and Thorin dearly wished that he could capture this moment, so the memory of it would never fade. He liked this wild angry side of Bilbo coming to his defence and actually shielding him against his own cousin. For a respectable hobbit it was rather reckless, assaulting his cousin and then placing himself in perceived danger. He knew he should speak in defence of Drogo and stop hiding behind a hobbit, but honestly he was enjoying it too much. His old Master-at-Arms would openly weep at his behaviour but let him, he might set Bilbo on him too as apparently there was more than one way to use a frying pan.

“I did not mean to upset him!” Drogo protested, pointedly rubbing his elbow that was clearly struck. “The Thain sent me with a message, one does not strike the messenger, Bilbo, honestly, I don’t know what’s come over you. One day you only leave Bag End when dragged from it and the next you are assaulting family in the streets with cookware.”

“Maybe that is why I rarely left Bag End.” Bilbo challenges but then the adrenaline of the potential fight simmers and he ducks his head in shame. “I am sorry Drogo; I thought you were saying something else. I do not know what came over me, I reacted terribly and I had no right to strike you as I did, please forgive me.” He sounds genuinely remorseful and Thorin wonders what Bilbo could possibly believe was said to him to make the hobbit react violently. Drogo looks back and forth at him and Bilbo and laughs despite the charged atmosphere.

“Favourite Cousin of course you are forgiven. I know why you reacted badly and I cannot fault you your actions, why if someone was chasing me off Primula, I’d give ‘em what for, you mark my words. Still Thorin, what shall I tell the Thain?”

“Hmm?” Thorin was still trying to work out what Drogo meant about chasing people off. “Oh, right yes, tell him that I am moved and grateful and I would enjoy for you all to celebrate Durin’s Day with me.”

“What’s that? We’re celebrating a new holiday?” Bilbo asks lowering his newfound weapon and stepping to the side so that he is no longer shielding Thorin.

“You know what we’re like, we’d celebrate anything, just give us a reason to break out the ale. Not that it won’t be a classy affair, of course,” Drogo amends.

“It was hardly a classy affair in Erebor,” Thorin adds to ease Drogo’s discomfort.

“You’re from Erebor?” How foolish of him to let such information slip in front of Bilbo of all people. He could lie, say he just celebrated in Erebor, that would make sense but he didn’t want to outright lie but simply omit certain damning details.

“I was,” he was a fool. Bilbo would never let this go and he had the pieces of the puzzle, all he had to do was put them together. He was fishing that first night for details and Thorin feared then he knew who he was.

“I thought you were from Moria,” Frodo says and Bilbo goes oddly pale and presses a finger to his lips while staring at the child.

“No, I have never been to Moria.” Though he should have, to the gates at least to be cut down by orc filth but knowing his luck Azog would have been there. He sometimes wonders if he was, even one armed he was still extremely dangerous, was he the one to end Frerin’s life? It wasn’t like the orc could torment him with Frerin’s death as Azog never learnt his true identity and gave him a new one.

“Kids eh?” Bilbo says with a nervous laugh.

“Well I best send this message, wouldn’t want to get hit with a frying pan for tarrying,” Drogo states with a raised eyebrow aimed at Bilbo. He walks over to the table and lifts Frodo into his arms.

Thorin looks at the blushing hobbit and notices the warg tooth hanging from his neck. “Before you go,” he calls out as Drogo is about to walk away.

“You’re not going to hit me with a frying pan, are you?” Thorin climbs down from the table and pulls out the three necklaces in his pocket and presents them to Drogo.

“For you and your lovely wife and one for little Frodo.” Before Drogo can accept Frodo reaches out and collects them, placing all three around his neck.

“Now I look like Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo states proudly and marvels at the teeth.

“You do,” he doesn’t but Thorin doesn’t have the heart to say otherwise. Although sometimes he’d like to think if he and Bilbo were somehow able to have children they would look like Frodo. He had Bilbo’s curls, pointed ears and big feet but with Thorin’s pale skin, dark hair and blue eyes.

“You’re too good to us, Thorin,” Drogo pulls him into an awkward hug that squashes Frodo against his chest but the child doesn’t seem to mind and immediately starts playing with his braid. The hug seems rather longer than necessary but the way Bilbo is watching with a fond smile makes it bearable and he never realised that he would love having a child in his arms.

“Right, well, must be off,” Drogo coughs dropping his arm from Thorin’s waist as though he was aware that the hug had lingered for too long. “Thank you again, see you tonight Bilbo!” He waves and takes his leave and Thorin suspects the poor hobbit has unnerved himself by holding him for too long.

“Back again so soon Master Baggins?” Thorin finally acknowledges Bilbo who seems ready to swing for his cousin once more.

“So soon? It has been four hours, have you been staring at the clouds for so long?” It was possible, but he was deep in conversation when Bilbo approached so he wondered how the hobbit knew he had been staring at the sky.

“I like to keep busy, what can I do for you?” He was tempted to tease Bilbo about stalking him but he could not find it in himself to be so cruel.

“Oh well I was doing the dishes and dropped my frying pan and dented it, don’t suppose you could mend it? I’ll pay you, of course.”

“Are you sure the dent did not come from striking your cousin?” He teases instead, still capable of seem degree of cruelty.

“Quite sure!” Bilbo snaps but then a mischievous grin crosses his lips. “Though there might be two dents.”

“I could not accept payment then,” Thorin states and takes the proffered frying pan, looking it over. “Seeing as you were defending my honour.”

“Defending your honour? Perhaps I simply wanted to whack my cousin, Master Dwarf.” He must tell the hobbit that placing his hands on his hips does not make him the least bit intimidating. Instead he finds himself simply staring into Bilbo’s eyes and smiling and Bilbo is staring back with a smile of his own and nothing else matters. When he looks at Bilbo everything else just seems to fall away until there is nothing left but them and this moment. He’s been told it is rude to stare, but he is not alone in this, Bilbo is staring right back. There is no battle between them, no contest to see who would look away first, this mutual staring is becoming quite a bad habit and one that he does not wish to break. He likes the way it makes him feel, like he is finally at peace, that Bilbo is the balm to his fractured soul, that after travelling for years he has finally found a home and it’s not a mountain or a hobbit hole but it is a hobbit.

“Get a room!” Someone heckles and Thorin turns to see Sandyman smirking arrogantly and he thinks about using the frying pan to crack the miller over the head.

Bilbo is blushing furiously and Thorin decides he will smack Sandyman twice. “So...can you fix it?”

“Of course, no problem, would you like to wait?” Bilbo looks perplexed, torn between staying and going.

“I would love to, but I must get dinner ready. I can come round in the morning if that’s alright?” Thorin notices there was no invitation to dinner but what was he to expect, last night was a failure with them both crying for hours in front of a fire. Their first date, his first ever date and probably his last as well, he did not wish to know how many dates Bilbo had been on and how theirs compared.

“I’ll see you then,” he lies. The lack of an invitation won’t stop him visiting Bag End tonight, as he still has a card to play, a certain missing bead.

“Okay...I’ll see you then...” Bilbo seems hesitant to leave, not that Thorin minds, he’d happily get lost in Bilbo’s eyes for hours but the hobbit had things to do, so he claimed.

“Go then,” Thorin shoos him away with a flick of his hand.

“I’m going,” Bilbo replies standing still.

“So am I,” he needs to light the forge and he wouldn’t mind another cream bun, not forgetting the apple pie. He isn’t moving though, he feels trapped in Bilbo’s gaze and it is a containment he could happily live with.

“Give it a rest!” Thorin turns his head towards the nosey miller and narrows his eyes. For all he knows he could be bearing his teeth because that miller is walking on thin ice. The smile from the slimy cretin is immediately wiped from his face and he lowers his head like a scalded child and quickly walks away.

“Think I should take that frying pan off you,” Bilbo jokes timidly and Thorin hates Sandyman all the more for making him show that side of himself in front of Bilbo.

“Do you think the Thain would believe me if I said we had a sacrifice on Durin’s Day?”

“Worth a try,” Bilbo laughs thankfully unafraid. “I’d back your claims, now really I must be off, please don’t kill the miller, see you tomorrow.” Not knowing if Bilbo still thinks he is interested, he grabs the hobbit’s hand and kisses the back of it.

“See you,” he won’t add tomorrow because that would be a lie. He lets go of Bilbo’s hand and notices the hobbit’s cheeks have coloured slightly. Bilbo looks as if he wants to say something but resolutely shuts his mouth and shakes his head as though there is another conversation going on that Thorin is not privy to. Finally Bilbo leaves and Thorin watches him go, catching every single sneaky glance over his shoulder cast his way.

He ignores the knowing looks and smiling faces as he returns to his forge. He has a pan to fix and cakes to eat, and if they assume he is hiding they would be correct but he won’t admit it. He has given the hobbits far too much to gossip about as it is, no wonder they wished for him to stay as he was a source of entertainment for them.

He heats up the forge and stares at the frying pan. He wants to show off his skill and engrave roses around the pan and reshape the handle but he’s not so sure Bilbo would appreciate that. Bilbo was the sentimental sort, so he had gathered and he had no idea how much this particular frying pan meant to him, if it meant anything at all. Had he any supplies left he would make Bilbo a whole new set, it would be a perfect courting gift. He assumes they were courting, he had kept saying date last night so Bilbo knew his intention, but Bilbo neither agreed nor disagreed. Daddy seemed to think they were courting, as well as Drogo and even that obnoxious miller, his love life was in a poor state if strangers knew of his relationship status before he did.

He fixes the pan and makes no alterations and then goes into his room as it is still too early to call on Bilbo. Instead he makes a meal out of the cakes and pastries and happily eats the apple pie keeping the noise to a minimum. It wouldn’t do to have people believe Bilbo was with him, or worse still, Bilbo hearing the gossip and thinking he was with someone else. He can’t imagine being with anyone else, not that he had even bothered to try, Drogo was right, he and Bilbo were a match.

He leaves the forge at nightfall, rather late for visitors but not late enough to catch Bilbo in his nightshirt which is a shame. He sees the curtains are drawn in Bag End but there is smoke coming from the chimney and a faint light behind one of the curtains so he knows Bilbo hasn’t gone to bed early. He knocks on the green round door and smiles to himself as he can hear Bilbo making a fuss behind the door. Finally the door is opened, but not by much and Thorin catches Bilbo’s eyes.

“Thorin? What are you doing here?” Bilbo hasn’t opened the door any further and keeps looking behind him as though someone was in Bag End with him. Thorin holds the pan up.

“I fixed it and last night I seemed to have lost one of my beads, may I come in and look for it?” Bilbo’s hesitancy to open the door fuels Thorin’s paranoia and he is convinced he has been replaced. He should have known Bilbo would not be short of admirers, he had a kind heart, good looks a generous nature and he was wealthy. He clearly didn’t need or want a two hundred and one year old dwarf darkening his doorstep.

“Okay...sure, but be quiet I’ve just put Frodo to bed.” Thorin releases the breath he was holding in relief and enters Bag End and passes over the frying pan. Bilbo marvels over his work and he realises then that he will never understand hobbits and the pleasure they take in such mundane things. Bilbo heads towards the kitchen so Thorin makes a show of looking for his bead in the dining room, it wouldn’t do to go straight to the armchair and give his little trick away. “Anything?” Bilbo asks as Thorin gets up off the floor, he fears he may be playing the role a little too well, Bilbo might start to think it was valuable or that Thorin was a terrible actor.

“I’ve been retracing my steps,” he lies but it gives him the excuse to check the living room. He tries to hide his cheer when he sees his pipe left exactly where he placed it half stuffed with pipe weed. He makes a show of walking around the chair and then bends down to pick his bead up, only it isn’t there. Getting onto his knees, Thorin looks under the chair but there is nothing. He knows he placed it behind the front right leg so he has no idea where it could have gone. “It isn’t here,” he sounds more bewildered than sad. Bilbo liked to keep a tidy home; he might have swept it up without realising.

“Did it mean a lot to you?” It was a difficult question; the answer was both yes and no. Retail value it had no worth and to be fair it didn’t have that much of a sentimental value either but it was his. He wasn’t sure how to convey that to Bilbo that he was a dwarf and there was a flaw in his character due to his race. He didn’t want to admit that he was possessive over such an insignificant thing.

“Yes,” he lied kneeling up and looking at Bilbo. The hobbit would not make eye contact with him and was nervously playing with the pocket on his navy waistcoat and Thorin realised that Bilbo had his bead. The little thief, he had no intention of giving it back even though as far as he knew it meant the world to him. “If you find it, could you return it to me?” Bilbo simply nods his head barely making eye contact and Thorin’s not so sure he likes the hobbit lying to his face but then he started it by planting the bead in the first place. He feels the need to steal something of Bilbo’s but he just settles for taking the hobbit’s time. “Mind if I smoke?”

“No no, go right ahead.” His pipe is already half full so he lights it and sits in Bilbo’s father’s armchair. Bilbo joins him moments later and he can see the hobbit watching him out of the corner of his eye. He wants to ask why Bilbo has his bead or more importantly why won’t he give it back but he doesn’t want to startle the hobbit. He doesn’t believe his actions are malicious but he would like to know what his motives are. There are too many secrets and lies between them and the biggest one is his own, that Thorin Oakenshield was a person rather than an assumed identity. He’s tired of the lies and the sins of omission. If he expects honesty from Bilbo then he should be honest himself, but first he needed to know the outlandish tale Bilbo was telling children about him.

“Would you tell me the tale of the exiled prince of Erebor?” He asks, finishing his pipe and setting it down.

“I think you’ll find that is a bedtime story.”

“Take me to bed then,” he says with a wink and Bilbo blushes.

“You can stay in the spare bedroom.” He can stay? As in Bilbo was really taking him to bed? Bilbo stands up and Thorin follows him as he goes into the bedroom beside his own, the one Thorin had stayed in the first night they met. Bilbo pulls down the cover and pats the mattress implying he wants Thorin to sit so he does and watches as Bilbo takes off his boots and places them at the end of the bed. “Lay down,” Thorin does, expecting the hobbit to leap on him at any moment but Bilbo only pulls the covers up and tucks him in and then settles on the edge of the bed.

“Let me tell you about the greatest kingdom in Middle Earth, Erebor. Stronghold of Thrór, King Under the Mountain, mightiest of the Dwarf Lords. Thrór ruled with utter surety, never doubting his house would endure for his line lay secure in the lives of his son and grandson. Built deep in the mountain itself the beauty of this fortress city was legend. Its wealth lay in the earth, in precious gems hewn from rock and great seams of gold running like rivers through stone.”

“Have you been to Erebor?” Thorin interrupted as the description was very much as he remembered it.

“No, now may I continue?” Thorin nodded. “The skill of the dwarves was unequalled, fashioning objects of great beauty out of diamond, emerald, ruby and sapphire. Ever they delved deep down in the dark and that is where they found it, the heart of the mountain, the Arkenstone. Thrór named it the Kings Jewel; he took it as a sign that his rule was divine. All would pay homage to him even the great Elvenking, Thranduil.”

“Pah great?” Thorin questioned derisively but quieted when Bilbo narrowed his eyes. “Sorry.”

“It was one such homage that our story begins, as befits a royal visit King Thranduil flanked with four guards had an audience with Thrór. The mighty dwarf king sat on his throne, the Arkenstone embedded above his seat the light of which always reflected in the king’s eyes no matter where the stone was placed. To his left stood his son, Thráin flanked by two guards and to his right stood his grandson, Thorin with a servant also flanked by two guards. King Thranduil had seen the expert craftsmanship of the dwarves and so he commissioned the dwarves to fashion jewellery out of the precious gems for himself and his kin. On this visit he came to collect that which was his, the servant came forward with a chest in his arms and opened the lid for the elf king to see. Thranduil was pleased with their work and mesmerised by the gems he reached out to touch but the servant slammed the chest shut!” Bilbo stated with a clap of his hands.

“King Thranduil stared accusingly at the throne, but only the light of the Arkenstone stared back at him. A madness had come over the king, as his wealth had grown his goodwill ran thin and his sanity was all but lost. Thranduil said nothing for he was an old elf and wise...”

“Wise?” Thorin muttered and earned a second glare from Bilbo.

“Okay, that’s quite enough, do you know Thranduil?”

“I did.”

“Truly?” He does not like the excitement in Bilbo’s voice.

“He is not as you think, he is a snake and an oath breaker and I never wish to see him again.” He can see Bilbo is disappointed and full of questions and one day he will have to answer them and he will tell Bilbo everything that happened in the Greenwood but not today.

“Shall I continue?”

“Yes please.”

“Thranduil knew this day would come. He had warned Thrór of his greed, that since finding the Arkenstone darkness had come over him but Thrór would not listen then and he undoubtedly would not now. Thráin was silent through the transaction, though he did step forward, hand on the hilt of his sword expecting the Elvenking to respond differently. What everyone failed to see was the young prince Thorin, he had watched on in horror as his grandfather swindled the elves. He stared aghast at the man he thought he knew and then looked to his father for support and realised none was forthcoming. The elf king had turned and begun to walk away, Thrór chuckled at the spectacle and perhaps it was that sinister laugh that spurred the young prince into action. ‘Wait!’ he called, his deep voice echoing around the vast halls of his ancestors and stilled the retreating king. Climbing down the few steps from the throne the prince snatched the chest from the startled servant and glowered at him causing the dwarf to scarper away. ‘I believe these belong to you,’ Thorin stated and approached the still and silent elf. Behind him Thrór stood his blue eyes ablaze with the hue of the Arkenstone and anger. ‘How dare you!’ The dwarf lord cried out so loud and angry it shook the very foundations of Erebor. All of Erebor's inhabitants were alerted to the confrontation and no one dared to speak or breathe too loudly, as all eyes were on the throne and the prince. It takes a great amount of courage to stand up against one you love, but the prince knew in his heart dire things would happen if Thrór would continue in this way. He had heard his grandfather shout, all of Erebor had and though it made him pause, he resumed his approach to the Elvenking, who had now turned to face him. ‘Do not hand over that chest; you are defying your king! This is treason!’ Thrór bellowed and his son was beside himself, torn between his duty and his son. Thranduil chose not to speak or act, this was not his place and he refused to encourage or discourage Thorin’s actions. ‘These. Are. Yours.’ The young prince spoke clearly and passed the chest to the king. Thranduil inclined his head in thanks and left Erebor with the chest. All was silent in Erebor until one word rang through the halls and was said to have echoed a thousand times and that word was traitor. Finally Thorin turned and faced the mad king. ‘I should have your beard!’ Thrór hissed, ‘were you anyone else, you wretched boy! I should disown you!’ For how courageous he was, Thorin was still a proud and stubborn dwarf and Thrór’s empty threats had hurt him. He felt he had been betrayed by king and kin and such betrayal cuts deep. Thorin was young and had grown his beard only so long to make a four inch braid so it came as a shock as Thorin pulled a dagger from its sheath at his hip, held his braided beard in one hand and used the other to cut it off. He then threw his severed beard in the king’s direction, claimed himself Durin no longer and banished himself because he refused to be treated differently because of his status. Thrór had treated him like a common criminal and though his actions were pure and honest, Thorin could not forget that day and he could not forgive.” Thorin was surprised that an accurate account of events had made it to the Shire. Some of the heated dialogue had been lost through time but there were no embellishments.

“I suppose you think him foolish, throwing away a life of privilege for one of exile?”

“That story is true?” Thorin nodded. “No I do not think him foolish; if I did I would not tell his story to all who would listen. In truth I have always admired him whether he was real or fictional; it took such bravery and heart to do what he did. He is not a fool Master Dwarf, and I’d like to think you thought better of someone that shared your name.” He did more than share the name but he could not tell Bilbo, not now but soon.

“How did he end up in Moria?” Bilbo’s face pales and he looks around the room as though he was trapped.

“He didn’t, he could be in Thranduil’s dungeon for all I know. I-I just told Frodo he was King of Moria to give the story a happy ending.” He feels as though Bilbo is leaving something out but he won’t push, not with all the things he is leaving out. A silence starts to build between them and turns awkward as time goes on. “Well good night then,” Bilbo finally breaks the silence and leans down seemingly to kiss him on the cheek. Thorin doesn’t want that, he’s been babied enough and though he enjoyed it he wants something different so he turns his head and catches Bilbo’s lips with his own. They haven’t gone further than simply pressing their lips together and though he would like to he doesn’t want to force anything, he is not Azog and he most certainly isn’t Thranduil. Instead he simply runs his tongue over the seal of Bilbo’s lips to show he would like to if Bilbo was willing.

Not a moment later Bilbo is deepening the kiss, clearly wanting it as much as Thorin but was patiently waiting for permission. It had been a long time since someone gave a care for his wants rather than simply took what they wanted, or tried to in the very least. Bilbo was smaller and not as strong but Thorin believed even if he were the size of the Goblin King with the strength of Azog he would still wait for permission. It was in his nature, he was kind and unassuming and pure. Thorin wishes he met him sooner, when they were similar in character, before he stupidly stepped foot into the Greenwood and mistook an enemy for a friend.

There is no urgency in the kiss, as both seem to be complacent with the slow stroke of tongues. Thorin’s not sure how long they stay like that, both breathing through their noses to keep their mouths together but he can see Bilbo’s arms are weakening as he is leaning over him and slowly coming closer to his body. Taking pity on the hobbit, Thorin grabs him around the waist and pulls, toppling the hobbit over his own body and bringing him to lay by his side. Their mouths meet once more and Bilbo curls against him. There is nothing overtly sexual in his actions and Thorin is quite sure the hobbit is settling down to sleep. He doesn’t mind, he hasn’t shared a bed since he was a child and a pillow fight with Dwalin left them both exhausted they fell asleep together. After he explained that nothing between them happened, which was done after no breakfast and several slaps to the back of the hand, his parents relented and let Dwalin sleep over. There were strict rules, there always were, one must sleep beneath the covers, preferably Thorin because a prince was never sick and never complained of the cold, while the other must sleep on top of the covers fully clothed. It wasn’t allowed to happen often and when a servant found the two of them huddled up on the bed together it was stopped entirely and he was forced to share a room with Frerin. They hadn’t been touching like the servant insinuated but Dwalin had bought a rather dirty book from Dale that they were hiding it between them as they read and laughed.

“I never want to stop kissing you,” Bilbo whispers as his eyelids droop, heavy with sleep.

“Then don’t,” Thorin challenges and catches his lips once more.

“I wish,” Bilbo sighs defeated. “Good night Thorin.”

“I don’t think so, it was raining earlier.” Bilbo chuckles but he doesn’t know why. “Sleep well, Bilbo.” The smile on the hobbit’s face is brighter than the Arkenstone as he uses his name and Bilbo presses one final kiss to his lips and settles against him. Hesitantly he places his arm around Bilbo, unsure if the hobbit desires that much contact, but Bilbo presses against his side and gives a contented sigh so Thorin releases the breath he was holding and closes his eyes.

Chapter Text

Thorin never did like waking up and not knowing where he was, even though it happened frequently. He had expected to open his eyes and face a tin wall rather than an overfilled bookshelf. He expected to be laid on a lumpy mattress on the floor not wrapped up in warm sheets on a soft bed. He most certainly expected to be alone, but he was quite sure there was a body pressed against his back and there was an arm slung over his waist as he was laid on his side. He tried to lift his head to look over his shoulder but there was an unexpected weight on his hair that forced his head back down to the pillow. He must have made a noise as the body behind him stretches out and the hand comes to life rubbing over his clothed and sheet covered stomach. There’s a slight tug on his hair and he realises his companion has a made a pillow out of it and is currently burying his face it in with a happy noise of contentment. He has heard that sound before and he realises where he is and who is behind him and settles down.

He watches the hand against his stomach and then catches it with his own hand and laces their fingers together. He has never been fond of handholding as there seemed to be very little point in it but it made Bilbo happy, and Bilbo made him happy so it was only fair. He can feel Bilbo stirring once again, clearly fighting to stay asleep but it appears to be a losing battle.

“Oh...huh...Thorin? Am I?...Oh!” He clearly isn’t coherent in the morning, but thankfully the hobbit moves and his hair is no longer trapped. “Terribly sorry, I haven’t shared a bed before, I hadn’t realised I would be so clingy.” They release hands and Thorin turns over to look at the blushing hobbit.

“Good morning,” he greets and Bilbo no longer looks so frightened.

“You do realise good morning and good night are the same thing just different times of day?” Bloody hobbits and their stupid greetings, what was so good with everything? He doesn’t want to admit that he did not know now that it seems so very painfully obvious. He thinks about responding in Khuzdul and see how well he is understood.

“Uncle Bilbo?” A small voice cries out from the room next door. Clearly Frodo has awakened and was in search of his cousin and could not find him in his own room.

“I best get him before he turns my home upside down,” Bilbo whispers and climbs off the bed. Thorin thinks that Bilbo did not wish to be caught in bed with him, not that they were doing anything as they were both fully clothed and Thorin was beneath the covers. Still Frodo was rather perceptive and two people sharing a bed always seemed more scandalous than it actually was. “I’ll get breakfast ready,” Bilbo says whilst straightening his braces and then exits the room.

There’s a comb on the bedside table that wasn’t there the first night he stayed over but he makes use of it, combing out the tangles in his hair that were made by being Bilbo’s pillow. He puts his boots back on and joins the two hobbits in the kitchen.

Frodo’s blue eyes widen in excitement as he spots him. “Uncle Thorin!” He chirps merrily and dips a piece of bread into a cracked egg. Thorin’s jaw drops at the greeting while Bilbo colours in response to the new title.

“Do you like eggs?” Bilbo calls.

“With ham, six, fried not poached and mind you don’t break ‘em.” Bilbo says nothing, only turns and levels him with a stare that could very well be a well mannered glare.

“Please,” the hobbit huffs and the hands return to his hips suggesting he has done something wrong again.

“What?”

“You have to say ‘please’” Frodo helpfully supplies.

“Oh, please?”

“No, you’ll get one with bread and make do until second breakfast.” Frodo seems amused and Thorin takes a seat quietly. One might say he was sulking but they would have to be brave to suggest such a thing.

When Bilbo places an egg and bread in front of him he lays the praise on so thick Bilbo is rolling his eyes and muttering about the rudeness of dwarves. Frodo only seems amused by it all and plays with the warg tooth necklace to catch Thorin’s attention. When Thorin does look at the child, Frodo simply smiles and Thorin returns it before looking away, only to notice Frodo playing with the necklace again. Each time he looks back Frodo simply smiles, happy enough with the dwarf’s attention. It becomes a game to pass the time between breakfast and second breakfast, each time he looked away, he’d look back and make ridiculous expressions making Frodo laugh and sometimes Bilbo will chuckle too when he turns around to see what they are up to.

The game stops when second breakfast arrives, as Frodo clearly finds him amusing but he pales in comparison to a fry up. When a plate is set in front of him with ham and six fried unbroken eggs he fails to hide his surprise. He hadn’t thought Bilbo was paying attention to him and even if he had been he never truly expected it. He wanted it, he wouldn’t have said so otherwise but he certainly didn’t expect it.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely almost reverently. He does not know what he has done to earn such endless kindness from Bilbo, but he hopes he continues doing it.

Bilbo sits down with his fry up but neither of them are eating, but simply staring at each other again. He wonders if Bilbo is trying to work out if he is real, in the same way he is trying to work out if Bilbo is real. Maybe on his trek to Bree he fell and hit his head and there are no such things as Hobbits and all this has been his imagination. If that is so then he never wishes to awaken and if he must depart this world, he wishes for Bilbo to be the last thing he sees and then he could die peacefully.

Their staring is interrupted by Frodo’s overly loud munching and eager hands reaching for both their plates. Thorin laughs at the opportunist child and sets an egg on his plate while Bilbo grudgingly parts with his bacon. They both share a look and shrug knowing how utterly hopeless they were against a hungry child.

“So what are your plans for the day?” Thorin asks since Bilbo is forever asking him.

Bilbo lifts his head in surprise of the question. “This one,” he begins with a point to Frodo. “Has a play date with Samwise Gamgee,” a faint cheer from Frodo follows his statement. “Then I was going to do some planting in my garden. What are your plans?”

“I was hoping I could help you in the garden.” Thorin replies and finishes off a second egg.

“Truly?”

“Would you believe I am a better gardener than a miner?” Bilbo smiles and he wonders if he is remembering that jibe about being a blacksmith on the first night. “Beorn taught me everything he knew.” He does not know why but Bilbo’s smile falters.

“Beorn? Is he...was he...did you...never mind, it is not my place to ask.”

“He was, is, my friend. He saved me from a terrible orc that tried to...kill me.” He was going to do more than that but there is a child present and Azog’s eventual endgame was his death so he isn’t lying, simply omitting the truth once again.

“That was very kind of him; I would very much like to thank him.”

“What for?” Thorin asks, perplexed.

“Saving you, of course! For giving me the chance to meet you.”

“Then I should also thank him for kicking me out, so I could find my way here, to you.” He’s not sure declarations like these are suited for the breakfast table but Bilbo’s kind words needed to be met with his own. He loses himself in Bilbo’s gaze again and the cost for his distraction is another egg to Frodo while Bilbo loses his fried tomato and toast.

After breakfast Frodo holds both their hands and they swing him between them as they make their way to the Gaffer’s house. He lives on the same hill and is Daddy Twofoot’s next door neighbour so Thorin knows exactly where he is going. It is unsurprising that the hobbit that opens the door is a plump fellow with dirty blond curls poking out from under a straw hat. His green dungarees are dirty with soil and the sleeves of the white cotton shirt beneath are rolled up to his elbows away from his dirty hands.

“So!” the Gaffer calls, looking at Thorin over his bulbous nose with a sparkle in his blue eyes. “This is the blacksmith.” There are worse things to be known as, and Thorin doubts it was meant as a slur due to the Gaffer’s enthusiastic grin.

“I am.”

“I’ve heard all sorts of things about you.” For a moment Thorin is worried. “Oh no nothing so bad, ‘ere don’t suppose you make pruning shears? Normally I have to go to Bree, and from what I hear about these pitchforks of yours, well I doubt I’ll need to travel there again. Have you thought about making spades? Can’t beat a good shovel, wouldn’t mind a watering can as well, if you could manage it. Sorry I do go on, wife mentions it all the time, can’t get a word in edgewise she says, though how can she say that when she can’t get a word in, I say. Gaffer Gamgee,” he says holding his hand out and Thorin shakes it.

“Thorin Oakenshield.” He releases the hobbit’s hand and watches as Frodo catches it instead and shakes the Gaffer’s hand.

“Frodo Baggins,” he states seriously and then looks at Bilbo who reluctantly shakes the Gaffer’s hand.

“Bilbo Baggins.”

“Well now we all know each other,” the Gaffer quips and turns to call his son. Moments later a mini Gaffer appears in the doorway, the spitting image of his father. He eyes Thorin timidly before reaching for Frodo and pulling him inside and they run into the hole laughing. “So, pruning shears?”

“I can do those for you, as well as a watering can only there is a waiting list as I await supplies.”

“Not a problem, I can wait, put me down for a spade too no rush. I’ll drop Frodo off after dinner, have a good day.” The Gaffer then closes the door and Thorin turns to Bilbo.

“You have Frodo again tonight?”

“Well, I do love company,” Bilbo answers as they make their way back up the hill. “And Drogo and Primula require some alone time.”

“For what?”

“Honestly?” Bilbo asks, disbelievingly. “They would like a sibling for Frodo.”

“Oh...Oooh, sorry I asked.” Thorin states when it finally dawns on him what they were doing with their time alone.

When they reach Bag End they go straight into the back garden where Bilbo is deciding on having a vegetable patch. The front of the house is for the flowers but he would also like a border of flowers around the back. Thorin listens and digs the patch while Bilbo sorts his seeds, deciding how many rows he would like.

“I was thinking,” Thorin states, stopping digging for a moment. “We should have a pumpkin patch over there.” Bilbo kneels up from lining up his seed packets.

“We?” He questions with a smile.

“I meant you,” he can feel the warmth in his cheeks and ducks his head down.

“I prefer we, and that sounds like a marvellous idea.”

“I suppose I’ll have to dig that too?” He fakes a sigh as though gardening is a hardship.

“Of course, Dwarf,” Bilbo teases with a blinding smile and Thorin deserves that jibe and takes it. He finishes Bilbo’s vegetable patch and goes to work on his pumpkin patch as Bilbo starts to plant the seeds.

He almost has his patch finished when a familiar hobbit walks around the hobbit hole and enters the back garden. “Ah Thorin, thought I might find you here. Good afternoon Bilbo, sorry for the intrusion but I have been knocking for some time.” Bilbo turns around and acknowledges Daddy Twofoot.

“Terribly sorry, can’t hear a thing back here. What can I do for you?”

“Well I’ve actually come to see Thorin.”

“What can I do for you?” Thorin asks intrigued.

“The ore you ordered has arrived. I took the liberty of paying for it and collecting it so you would not have to. I left the cartload at the forge and came in search of you.”

“I thank you and hope you did not search long?” Daddy laughs.

“When you were not at the forge this is the first place I looked.” Thorin supposes that is the polite way of saying he is thoroughly predictable.

Thorin looks down at his pumpkin patch sadly. It only needs to be a little bigger and then he wanted to even the edges and he hadn’t gotten around to digging the border. He wants to stay in the garden with Bilbo, he wants to plant their seeds and watch them grow but he gave his word that when supplies come he would get back to work. There is also the matter of paying Daddy back for covering his debt with the dwarves of the Blue Mountains.

“Bilbo, I haven’t...but I must...” damn his word! It would not do to have his integrity questioned and he knew he must leave.

“I understand Thorin, it’s okay, I can finish things off here. I’ll even plant the pumpkins for you, now off you go.” Thorin leans the shovel against the hill and walks over to Bilbo, pulling him up by the arm and planting a kiss on his lips. He doesn’t care that Daddy can see, as the hobbit has already admitted he is wise to their relationship even before they were.

“I’ll see you soon,” and with one final kiss he leaves Bag End accompanied by Daddy as he makes his way back to the forge.

The forge is as he left it, the warg skin is untouched and the lock is still in tack on the door. It is a nice feeling knowing he could leave his door open if he so wished and would not be robbed. He supposes there is no need for crime as the hobbits want for nothing, their land is fertile, their crops plentiful and best of all there is no class system. There is of course the Thain but he is hardly a king, at best he is a mediator for the Shire and their treaties.

The class system in Erebor never sat right with him. As far as he was concerned they were all equal, every single dwarf played their part and was a part of a system that generated a great amount of wealth, enough to send his grandfather mad. If it was shared evenly and not hoarded how things would have been different. The higher classes, those that believed themselves to be noble did not share his beliefs but those in the lower classes loved him and eagerly awaited his reign. He knows he let them down with his departure but he hopes they understand that there are far worse things than unfair class systems and he hopes his final stand prevented the darkness that was coming over Erebor.

“You okay son?” Daddy asks, interrupting Thorin’s thoughts.

“Yes, I was just remembering...things that are better left in the past. How much do I owe you?”

“Two hundred silver was the best price I could barter.” Daddy informs him and Thorin is thankful that he delivered the goods he had already made and been paid otherwise he would not have the funds to repay the hobbit. He enters the forge, noticing Orcrist is still against the wall beside his pack and walks over to his mattress. There’s a tear in the side and he reaches in and removes the tin where he keeps his money. There is over two hundred silver pieces and he quickly counts it out and returns to Daddy and hands it over. “I won’t keep you as I know you are busy, I’ll visit soon, good bye.”

“Thank you,” Thorin calls after him and wheels the small cart of ore into the forge. He decides the sooner he starts the sooner he can finish and get back to Bilbo and his pumpkin patch.

There was a saying among the dwarves, ‘the best laid plans often go awry’ and Thorin found that it was true more often than not. It was certainly true now, as it seemed no matter the hours he worked the orders kept coming so he was making little progress. For five days he had been away from Bilbo and in that time he hadn’t eaten or slept or even left the forge determined to finish his work and return to him. Try as he might the work was never done and the distance between him and Bilbo was becoming further with each passing day.

Daddy visited often and delivered his finished work and collected payment for him and took down new orders. Thorin felt terrible for exploiting the hobbit’s generosity but Daddy always told him he was doing no such thing. Daddy had said Thorin gave him purpose and Thorin thought there might be more considering the hobbit no longer used his name but called him son. It was hard to see Daddy as a father figure due to their age difference but somewhere buried deep within him was a child with unresolved father issues that was calmed each and every time he was called son.

By the sixth day of continuous work Thorin knew he was weakening. His eyelids were heavy and the hammer in his hand felt like it weighed four times as much as it should. His stomach no longer made noises of discontent instead there was only a dull empty ache and the muscles in his arms felt like they were on fire.

“Well I had to see it to believe it!” Bilbo huffed standing by the door. Thorin knew he wasn’t there; it was only his imagination trying to get his mind away from the aches and pains.

“I have to finish so I can come home to you.” He often speaks to the spectre to ease his loneliness.

“Don’t waste your pretty words on me, Master Dwarf; you are doing this to yourself.” Usually his imagination supplies a much kinder hobbit dressed in a nightshirt so not only was his body betraying him his mind was too. “Have you eaten? Have you slept? What good are you returning to me like this?”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

“That’ll be sooner than you think, and if you should die, so help me Thorin I shall not forgive you.” There are tears in the hobbit’s eyes, and Thorin feels terrible and so very weary as though he could feel every one of his two hundred and one years of age.

“I’m doing this for you.”

“You are doing this for yourself, you are hurting yourself you stupid dwarf. I would never ask this of you, please Thorin, see reason, you’re not only hurting yourself you are hurting me too and Daddy, he was the one that sent me to you.” His mind was truly against him.

“I cannot lose you, I could not bear it.”

“I am not going anywhere.”

“That’s what they all say and they all go away in the end and I am alone, unwed, unwanted making mistake after mistake. Not this time, not if I can help it.” Usually after such a declaration Bilbo disappears back inside his mind, only this one has not left or even moved an inch.

“You are hurting, I understand but please if not for yourself then for me, stop. Just stop. Put down your tools and sleep. What you are doing is insanity and I refuse to stand by and let you do this to yourself. You say you wish to return to me then do so now because I do not know the dwarf in front of me and I daresay I do not like him.” So it was true then, he was mad, he had always known it no sane person would discard a kingship.

“You wish to leave then?” It was inevitable, they all left. The only constant in his life was Azog and he had lain on the ground useless and let Beorn tear his throat out.

“Don’t think you are getting away from me so easily.” Bilbo moves then and takes his hand in his and Thorin realises his mistake. Bilbo was truly here with him and he had not known otherwise he would not have made such admissions.

“Bilbo?”

“Don’t think using my name will make me any less angry with you.” Bilbo tugs on his hand and Thorin follows Bilbo into his small room. He watches as Bilbo lies down on his mattress and then pats the space beside him. Thorin immediately lies down and though the mattress is old and lumpy it feel divine against his weary body. “Don’t think you are off the hook, I expect an explanation but that’s for later, for now I want you to sleep.” Sleep should come easily but it doesn’t, even with Bilbo by his side he can find no peace. His constant shifting has Bilbo sighing in frustration before he pulls Thorin to him, allowing him to rest his head on his chest. Bilbo begins to sing quietly as he strokes Thorin’s hair and Thorin finally begins to succumb to sleep by the lull of Bilbo’s heartbeat and his soft voice singing of green pastures.

The next time he opens his eyes he has no idea what time it is or what day it is for that matter. Bilbo is not beside him but he can hear him bustling about the forge, possibly cleaning. His stomach aches and his eyelids still feel heavy and he groans in pain as he turns over onto his back. He hears a tut of disappointment and turns to see Bilbo standing in the doorway with Thorin’s pack over his shoulders and Orcrist in his hands.

“Am I being robbed, burglar?” He can tell Bilbo is trying very hard to keep a stoic expression but it eventually gives way to a smile.

“No, kidnapped.” Thorin laughs.

“How very honest of you.”

“I may be a kidnapper but I’d like to think I am an honest one.” Honest indeed, Thorin has half a mind to tell the hobbit to turn out his pockets and prove himself to be a thief but it is only a bead, such a silly insignificant thing to be upset about. “I’ve put a sign on your door so you’ll have no business today, come along now, we’re going home.”

Thorin begrudgingly sits up. “You mean you’re going home,” he corrects and stands, flinching as his bones crack.

“No, we’re going home.” Bilbo corrects and Thorin simply stares dumbfounded. Bilbo takes advantage of his distraction and grabs his hand and leads him from the forge. He does not like being led like this; it brings back memories best left forgotten, though he deserves to be led like a scolded child. His single-mindedness had caused Bilbo to worry and think him incapable of looking after himself. It was hard to refute given the evidence and his behaviour would seem extreme to those that did not know him. Azog’s last attack had broken him, he had come to fear the quiet and fear what he would do on his own. He would not take his own life, though sometimes he feared he might when the silence filled the room and the darkness came over him and threatened to drown him. He had proven he was not above hurting himself, so he cannot fault Bilbo if he believes the worst.

Strangely they do not encounter anyone on their way to Bag End and Thorin is thankful for it as he finds walking more challenging than it usually is. He is grateful that Bilbo noticed and ceased to lead him by the hand and instead stood by his side with an arm around his waist. He fears should his strength fail him, Bilbo’s support would do little other than bring the hobbit down with him but he cannot fault the hobbit’s good intention.

When they reach Bag End Thorin is helped into the kitchen and settled down in a chair before Bilbo is darting about the place. When the hobbit returns to the kitchen his pack and Orcrist are gone so he can only assume Bilbo has placed them in his room, or perhaps in Bilbo’s room. He doubts the latter; Bilbo was not Thranduil and would not force him into his bed because the opportunity arose.

He watches as Bilbo heats something in a pan and it isn’t long before a bowl of onion soup is placed before him and a small glass of water. Bilbo is fussing about the state he is in and about his stomach but all Thorin can hear is his father’s voice telling him a prince is never ill. Strangely Bilbo becomes quiet and still and Thorin looks at him, noticing his coloured cheeks and the way he is covering his own mouth and he wishes his father’s voice had quieted so he could have heard what the hobbit had said.

The soup seems tasteless but warm and easy on his stomach, but the glass of water makes him feel ill after a few sips. After he is finished Bilbo takes away his used dishes and places them in the sink before helping Thorin up. He expects to be led to the guestroom but instead of turning right, Bilbo turns left and takes him into the bathroom and starts running him a bath.

He does not strip as he did the last time and upset the hobbit with his impropriety. Instead he allows the hobbit to fill the tub and waits for him to leave and is surprised that he doesn’t. It dawns on him that Bilbo does not trust him enough to leave him alone, that he fears he may take his last breath beneath the water.

“I will turn away,” Bilbo states and keeps his word and turns his back. Thorin strips quickly and climbs into the tub. He’s not sure how to feel when Bilbo kneels beside the tub and begins to wash his shoulders and back with a cloth. On the one hand it has been a very long time since someone attended to him while he was bathing and he had missed it. He was fourteen when an embarrassing incident put an end to his attendants for fear if he was left to his own devices there would be numerous bastard Durin’s running around Erebor. He’d been flattered that his father thought his seed would be so potent and also slightly afraid because he wasn’t looking at a dwarrowdam at the time of the incident but the young dwarf guarding the door, who he later learned was named Dwalin.

On the other hand Bilbo was not washing him because it was his duty, nor was there anything sexual about it; he was cleaning him because he felt Thorin was incapable. He wished he could explain the dark moods that come over him from time to time but Bilbo would ask how they came about. He did not fear talking about Azog, but to explain Azog he would have to mention Goblin Town and each series of events needed an explanation that led back to Erebor and a title he no longer possessed.

“I am sorry,” he says, sorry to be a burden, sorry to be broken.

“You don’t have to apologise, not to me.” He wonders then if Bilbo is as broken as he is. The hobbits he has come into contact with claim Bilbo is a kind decent fellow but there was something strange about him. From what Thorin was told, before he came to Hobbiton Bilbo was a recluse that would not leave Bag End unless absolutely necessary. Thorin had hardly believed what he had heard considering every time he turned around there was Bilbo, but the hobbit had shared in his sorrows about his brother and seemed to understand his pain.

After Bilbo washed his back, he was advised to lean back while Bilbo washed his arms and torso, avoided his groin and washed his thighs, legs and feet. Bilbo used a pitcher to wet his hair before pouring some sweet smelling liquid onto his head and massaging his scalp. It felt divine, as if the little hobbit was worshipping him and he could feel his eyes closing with Bilbo’s fingers working diligently in his hair.

“Stay awake Thorin, you can sleep soon.” Bilbo used the pitcher again to wash out the suds in his hair and then sat back. “I’ll be back in a moment, don’t move.” He informed while standing and turned to leave before he changed his mind and pulled the plug and then left the bathroom.

Thorin felt ridiculous sat naked in a tub with no water so he stood and wrapped a towel around his waist as Bilbo re-entered the bathroom. “I...er...I made you this,” Bilbo then holds up a nightshirt similar to the one he was wearing the first night they met only this one was far larger. “I thought you could use it when you sleep over. Dry off and get dressed and I’ll meet you in your room.” Bilbo then hurried off again, always busy but never really doing anything, it was a great way to stave off boredom.

Thorin did what was asked of him and found the nightshirt was even large for him but it would serve its purpose. When he entered the guest bedroom towelling his hair dry, Bilbo was sat on the bed with a comb in his hand. “I can’t let you sleep with wet hair,” Bilbo informed him as he patted the space next to him. Thorin sat down unsure why he could not sleep with wet hair, possibly because it would wet the pillows or was it a silly hobbit superstition? Like the first night he was informed he would catch his death for walking around outside with wet hair, hobbits certainly did not like wet hair.

Bilbo took over towelling his hair dry and Thorin offered no resistance as it was nice. Bilbo didn’t have to do this, none of it but he did and Thorin would give him the explanation he deserved. He had been running from the past too long and Bilbo deserved to know who he was, the mistakes he had made and why it had come to this.

“This was my mother’s comb,” Bilbo informs him as he starts combing his hair; he wonders if the hobbit is sharing again.

“I do not have anything of my mother’s.” She had died a year before his departure and all that he had was the harp she had lovingly crafted for him. It was later left abandoned in his room as he lost his temper with his grandfather.

“Your hair is dry, you’ll sleep better in bed and I’ll wake you for dinner.” Like the last night he stayed, Bilbo tucks him in bed and lies on the covers beside him. He can feel the hobbit’s fingers running through his hair and then Bilbo sings for him once again, this time about the eagles though he only hears the one verse before sleep claims him.

He awakens later to the hobbit shaking his arm. He slaps at the offending hands and rolls over much to Bilbo’s amusement. “Come, Master Dwarf, your dinner will get cold.” Thorin does not reply with words but a few grunts of protest. “Don’t make me drag you from the bed,” Bilbo threatens and Thorin forces one eye open and as he thought the hobbit’s hands are on his hips.

“Like to see you try,” he mutters against the pillow and much to his surprise, Bilbo does. Tries at least, even weakened from hunger Thorin is larger and outweighs him. Still he can’t fault the hobbit’s spirit. “Mercy! I surrender,” he calls and forces himself to sit up.

“I almost had you.” He most certainly did not but Thorin is amused and isn’t about to refute the hobbit’s claims. Instead he gets up and follows Bilbo to the kitchen where he is seated at the head of the table. He feels terrible for taking the spot that should be rightfully Bilbo’s but he doesn’t want to fight or argue, there’ll be enough of that later when he reveals who he truly is.

The plate of food is already before him and there seems to be a slice of well done pie in front of him. It does not look appetising in the least but Bilbo is happily eating away at his. “It’s called bubble and squeak,” Bilbo informs and Thorin stares at his plate horrified. What poor creature died to become this monstrosity? Hopefully not a field mouse, as he suspects. Hesitantly he uses a fork to prod the pie and thankfully it does not squeak, it also isn’t bubbling either.

“I thought you might like it, it is vegetarian. I used some potatoes, sprouts, carrots, peas and cabbage. Good solid healthy food to build up your strength.”

“Why is it called bubble and squeak?”

“Because that’s what it does in the pan, hobbits are not well known for being inventive though we should be considering the amount of pipe weed we go through. Try some; if you do not like it I will make you a sandwich.” Thorin does as he is told and though the dish looks horrendous it tastes quite nice and he eats all of his dinner but refuses seconds.

After dinner Thorin offers to wash up but Bilbo shoos him from the kitchen into the living room where he takes his usual seat but does not smoke. Bilbo comes to join him, passing him a steaming mug of tea and takes his usual place opposite him. They drink quietly while staring into the fire while Thorin tries to work out where to start.

“You say you do not know what became of the exiled prince of Erebor?” He can see his question throws Bilbo, but the hobbit recovers and settles his tea on the table. “I know where he is.”

“Really?” Bilbo asks enthusiastically. “Where is he?” The hobbit stands to retrieve his pipe from the mantel obviously believing he was going to hear a tale.

“Bag End.”

“Bag End?” Bilbo says with a laugh and turns towards him. “As in...But you...oh my.” He looks unsteady on his feet.

“Are you okay?” Thorin asks setting his mug on the table as the hobbit takes deep breaths.

“Erm...” the hobbit pauses. “No.” And like the time in the market place Bilbo drops, but this time Thorin wasn’t laid on the ground and managed to catch Bilbo before he fell to the floor unconscious.

“Bilbo?” He gently shook the hobbit in his arms. “Bilbo?” Not sure what to do, Thorin lifted him into his arms and took Bilbo into his own room and tucked the hobbit in bed. Not sure of his welcome, Thorin joined him on the bed, lying on the covers and fell asleep against Bilbo.

Chapter Text

Hazel eyes were peering into his own when he next opened his eyes. The room was lit by the light of the sun which meant he had slept a good long while. His body felt all the better for it and his stomach no longer hurt but still felt empty.

“Are you watching me sleep, Master Hobbit?” His inquiry was met with melodious laughter.

“Well it’s not every day you wake up with a prince in your bed.” Thorin groaned in response and pulled a pillow over his head. “Oh don’t be like that, my liege.”

“You take too much delight in this, Shire rat.” Thorin argued from beneath the pillow.

“Shire rat indeed! Am I not owed some revenge? The night we met you were positively dreadful, and I took your disdain quite well if I do say so myself.” Bilbo says nothing for a moment so Thorin peeks out from under the pillow and sees the hobbit deep in thought. “Would you believe I thought you were the prince then?” Thorin removes the pillow, intrigued. “I had just told Frodo the story, your story, and suddenly there you were at my door. I thought I’d gone mad, I wasn’t even sure if that story was true and even if it was, I was not sure my account of it was correct. That is why I was asking so many questions, my lord, and you were simply horrible.”

“You assumed I was a blacksmith,” Thorin protested.

“You are a blacksmith.” Thorin couldn’t really argue with that. “A rather dashing, princely one.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere and one shouldn’t assume.”

“That’s rich; you said I was a grocer.”

“Because you implied I was a blacksmith.”

“But you are a blacksmith while I’m not a grocer.”

“Well you ought to be, you have far better manners than our current grocer.” Bilbo laughed.

“Is he still not over you greeting him by saying ‘mid-day’?” Thorin narrowed his eyes.

“It was mid-day.”

“My prince does not like to be laughed at, off with the grocer’s head!” Bilbo called out merrily.

“Rather barbaric, I was thinking we could cut out his tongue and nail it to the wall.”

“Oh right, because that’s not barbaric and we indeed!” Bilbo stated with mock offense.

“The royal we, by that I mean you. I cannot sully my hands with the blood of a commoner that is for my champion, Master Fry of Pan, to do.”

“Master Fry of...why you...” Bilbo broke off laughing while Thorin sat up. “How unfair of you, it was my turn to tease you mercilessly and you turned the tables, confounded dwarf!” Bilbo paused and then sniffed as though he could smell something off and Thorin felt mildly offended. “Oh dear, I’ve left the cakes in too long!” Bilbo fussed and jumped off the bed and ran away, presumably to the kitchen.

Thorin got up off the bed and looked down at his attire. He was still wearing the nightshirt Bilbo had made for him and though it was large, extremely so and reached down to his ankles, how big did Bilbo think he was? It was still rather indecent and he should get dressed only there was the small matter of not knowing where his pack was as the hobbit had taken it from him.

He went into the kitchen as he was and watched Bilbo mourn over some blackened cup cakes. They looked beyond help, although icing hid a multitude of sins. When he mercilessly cremated Beorn’s favourite honey cakes, he used the man’s love of honey to disguise the disaster beneath. Beorn probably knew of course but he was too much of a gentleman to say anything, Bilbo was like a mini Beorn by way of personality rather than looks.

“Should I say a few words?” Thorin teased and he knew he shouldn’t but he couldn’t help himself. “Dearly departed cup cakes, though we knew not what you tasted like we could only imagine how delicious you were until your untimely incineration. I’d like to take this time to reminisce about your humble beginnings growing strong in a field...” He could see Bilbo’s shoulder’s shaking either from laughter or sobs. “Until a farmer hobbit, perhaps related to Daddy Tw...”

“Shut up!” Bilbo howled out in laughter, clutching his stomach. “Keep going and I shall serve them to you.”

“That is no way to treat your prisoner.” Thorin protests and takes a seat at the head of the table.

“Prisoner now is it?” Bilbo asks and tosses the cup cakes out of the open window.

“You deny it? Captive then, did you not kidnap me? Take my things from me? Hide my clothing and dress me? If you are seeking a ransom I’m afraid no one will pay it.” He assumes no one would pay it believing him to be dead hopefully, you can’t pester the dead you just let their name live on in legend.

“I’d pay,” Bilbo says and places a bowl of porridge before him.

“Defeats the purpose if you are the one ransoming me in the first place.”

“Honey?” To be fair he wasn’t expecting that response.

“Yes, sugar?” He replies in kind and sees Bilbo blush.

“No, I meant would you like some honey for your porridge?”

“Oh...yes please,” Thorin replies feeling awkward and keeps his head down. He spoons some honey into his porridge and eats hoping the awkwardness is forgotten in the long silence. He doubts it, considering the silence itself is awkward and when his porridge is finished he no longer has an excuse to stay quiet.

“I should get back to the forge,” he states letting Bilbo know his intention.

“No need, Daddy is covering for you today so you don’t fall behind.” Bilbo tells him collecting his bowl and putting it into the sink and begins to wash it.

“So what would my gaoler have of me?” Bilbo walks over and sits on the chair nearest to him.

“Just a chat, I promise I won’t interrogate you like before. I want to know everything about you, before I knew who you were I wanted to know and you can ask me anything and I promise to answer truthfully.” Bilbo states and places his hand on top of Thorin’s.

“Where are my clothes?”

“In your room hung up in the wardrobe, sorry I did not tell you before, I thought you knew.”

“Let me get dressed and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” Bilbo nods so Thorin leaves the kitchen and enters the guest bedroom, which as Bilbo keeps telling him is now his and true to his word his clothing is washed and hanging in the wardrobe. He quickly changes into a simple blue shirt and trousers as a tribute to his original name’s colours and easily slides his boots on as they are old and worn.

Bilbo is smoking in the living room sitting in his mother’s chair. Thorin watches him as he blows smoke rings, seemingly relaxed content to wait. He is dressed in his quarter length brown trousers and a white shirt, he imagines there are braces but he cannot be sure as a green waistcoat hides them. He notices the hobbit’s hand strays to the pocket of his waistcoat every now and then, ghosting his fingers over a round protruding object to confirm it is still there before departing. He does not know if he flatters himself for thinking it is his bead but if he were a betting man, and he is a dwarf that can’t resist a wager, then he would place a great amount of money on saying it was indeed his bead inside the hobbit’s pocket.

Thorin steps out of his hiding place and joins the hobbit, taking his usual seat and notes a cup of tea is on the table for him. He takes a sip and then places the cup down and sits back waiting for the questions to come. “What would you like to know first?” Thorin asks due to Bilbo’s continued silence.

Bilbo coughs and sits up and abandons his pipe on the small table between them. “I have told your story a thousand times, I speak of the Arkenstone as though I have seen it but in truth I can hardly imagine it. Did it hold such power to corrupt your grandfather? I do not mean to cause offense and you do not have to answer, but that is one question that has always been on my mind ever since I was a boy.” Thorin listens avidly to the question and ponders his answer.

“I once believed it was the Arkenstone that was my grandfather’s undoing, but as the years have gone by I realise it isn’t as cut and dry as that. I was there, you know? When the Arkenstone was found. Regularly without my father or grandfather’s knowledge I would go to the mines and do my part. If I were to one day rule then I wished to know what my people actually did and I wanted firsthand experience. That day I was on the pulleys and my father would thrash me if he had known, we had just unearthed a new vein of gold and I was four dwarves away when the Arkenstone was found. They pulled me up immediately, passing it to me as though he expected me to take credit for his find. Obviously I couldn’t never mind that I wouldn’t and it pains me to this day that his name was never remembered only that the Arkenstone was found. His name was Ur.”

“I shall remember and I shall amend my story when I next tell the children.” Bilbo informs him.

“The Arkenstone was magnificent; it was like a beacon of light in the palm of my hand. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, all who have looked upon it have said the same. But did it drive my grandfather insane? No, not on its own at least, the Arkenstone was simply the final straw. My grandfather had been hoarding gold, he was no better than a dragon and it was that amount of wealth hidden in his vaults which truly sent him mad. The Arkenstone was the crown of his madness and for years I blamed that silly rock but before that was even found my grandfather was changing but it was so slight only when I look back I can see the truth.”

“I wish to write your story one day, if you would allow it. Do you have a question for me?”

“I do, I wish to know how you came by my story?” Thorin asked and picked up his tea that was cold from his talking but he drank it anyway.

“My mother told me it, it is the first story I remember her telling me and it was my favourite. No wonder you seemed familiar to me, I feel as if I have known you my whole life.” Bilbo turns his head away, clearly revealing more than he meant to.

“Do you know how your mother came by it?”

“The Elves.”

“Elves? Which ones?” Thorin asked alarmed and suddenly felt judged by the portrait of Bilbo’s mother hanging above the fireplace.

“My mother only travelled to Rivendell and didn’t that cause a stir, hobbit’s aren’t the travelling type, we know what we know and that’s fine by us. Not my mother though, her name was Belladonna and she was a Took and that’s saying something in the Shire. She was spirited and feisty and knew so many stories; half the Shire was in shock when she married Bungo, a Baggins. That set tongues waggling and I’m quite sure they never stopped considering my behaviour.”

“Kidnapping dwarves?” Thorin supplies.

“No, not marrying and filling Bag End with children.”

“And why is that?” Bilbo shakes his head and stands up.

“It is my turn to ask a question.” He collects his cup and lifts Thorin’s cup, and heads to the kitchen and returns with two teas and a plate of biscuits. “Why don’t you like King Thranduil?” Thorin paled at the question and Bilbo looked alarmed. “I did not mean to upset you.”

“It was long ago...” Thorin starts to protest but drops his head in his hands. Too long he had been burdened by what happened in the Greenwood and he was too young and foolish to truly understand what Thranduil did to him. Such a betrayal could never be forgotten nor could it be forgiven. “I didn’t deserve it,” he mutters to himself but Bilbo hears and stands from his chair and kneels by his side rubbing his back comfortingly.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were friends, I tell your story as though you were, please don’t be upset.” Thorin takes deep breaths and gathers his courage, the deed was done, he could never go to his marriage bed pure but as the years had shown him there probably would never be a marriage bed for him to sully anyway.

“When I left Erebor I was twenty four and I thought I knew everything.” He begins and Bilbo returns to his chair. “People tried to tell me I was too young and didn’t know myself and to be fair I didn’t really know what they meant. How could I not know myself? I knew my likes and dislikes, my wants and desires and I knew right from wrong but it wasn’t as simplistic as all that. I had lived a sheltered life, though I didn’t truly believe I did having worked in the mines and heard bawdy stories and read those books in Dale that Dwalin would secretly bring me. I learnt that reading stories and hearing them isn’t the same as experiencing things firsthand. That is what they meant, not that I didn’t know myself more that I didn’t understand other people and my reaction to them.” He pauses to take a drink of tea.

“I had always been taught to be myself and stand up for the people, be a voice to those that did not have one. That is why I defended Thranduil that day, because he was in the right and I could not lose the Elves as allies over so petty a thing. Thranduil was not my friend more of an acquaintance, we exchanged pleasantries but I did not know him nor did he know me. My presence in Dale was causing problems and I had to leave to get far away as I could. I only wanted to spend the night in the Greenwood before moving on and though as I say we were not friends we were allies and I trusted him to aid me and he did. Though there had been some confusion, he had misunderstood my reason for defending him and he expected me to stay with him in the Greenwood and eventually marry him.”

“Oh,” Bilbo coughs to cover his outburst. He wondered if the hobbit was jealous and if he was it was needless. Folk needed to stop comparing themselves to the Elvenking, Girion did that too and it was unnecessary, just because the elf’s skin glowed like starlight did not make up for a heart as black as night.

“It was terrible timing, I was in love with someone else but for the sake of Erebor I had to spurn him. I was running from him as well as my family and I don’t want to tell you this but you have a right to know, I wanted to marry him, I loved him, I always will and because of that I could not marry Thranduil but I did not tell him.” Bilbo is quiet and Thorin worries. “Are you mad?”

“How can I be?” Bilbo returns with a weak smile. “It is hardly a betrayal when I was not even born. My only hope is that you were loved in return, because you deserve to be loved.” Thorin clears his throat and wills his tears away.

“Girion, King of Dale did not take my departure well and put a bounty out for my safe return. The man that sailed me across the river to the Greenwood sold the information and the borders were crawling with bounty hunters so the news that I did not share reached the Elvenking before I could leave. He was livid and he would not let me leave no matter how many times I asked. He implied that I was a whore and that it was his turn and then he tricked me and I was too young and naive not to fall for it. It was simple, prove I did not love him, my words were evidence enough! My lack of desire was enough! My ruined engagement was enough but none of these things mattered. The king wanted what he wanted and he took what he wanted.” Bilbo looks positively horrified with his eyes wide open and hand covering his gaping mouth.

“Did he...?” Bilbo cannot finish but Thorin understands.

“Yes but not by force but by words and unspoken threats. One does not say no to the Elvenking in his own realm unless they wish to spend the rest of their life rotting in his dungeons and he would have put me in the darkest one. He hated me, Bilbo; I have never been so despised. He would have never let me out, I had no choice it was either lay with him or die alone and forgotten in an Elvish cell. So I did and he used me and hurt me and picked up his clothes and left telling me in no uncertain terms to leave. I lost my best friend that day, his son, Legolas because of what he did to me.”

“But why? Why would he do such a terrible thing to you?”

“Because I slighted him, so he believes. He thought I loved him and he thought because of his beauty I would fall over myself to be with him. It was not so and now I hate him as much as he hated me that day, perhaps even more. He let me leave the Greenwood alive, a so-called mercy; I would pierce his heart with an arrow if I thought he had one.”

“He had no right to do that to you.”

“He was a king, while I was an exiled prince in his realm.”

“Exiled in his defence! To think I thought so highly of the elves.” Bilbo mutters with obvious disdain.

“Do not judge them all because of the actions of one. I made the same mistake and I was fortunate to meet some of the kindest elves in Middle Earth, they resided in Rivendell and there is no doubt it was from there that your mother learnt my story.” How he wished he had stayed in Rivendell, he might have met this formidable woman and been invited to Bag End and he could have met Bilbo while he was whole and unbroken.

It was a silly thought, fanciful and dangerous. Had he not left Rivendell Azog would be whole and alive. He had not been the one that had ended the orc’s life but it was cause and effect, Azog was stalking him and became so singularly obsessed he travelled alone and let his guard down whilst Beorn lurked in the shadows waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. Had he stayed in Rivendell Azog would not be so foolish to travel so close to a dangerous and hated enemy, he’d have both arms too and he would forever be on the hunt for the dwarf that escaped him. Had he left Rivendell with a hobbit and entered the Shire, maybe he could have made it unscathed, maybe but it was unlikely. Azog would have learnt of his hiding place and though he would not attack the Last Homely House he could certainly post guards to watch the comings and goings. He would attack the Shire and he would raze it to the ground as he was only a simple monster with no thought to the fertility of the land or the usefulness of hobbits. The poor creatures would be murdered in their thousands, men, women, children, livestock nothing would survive and the last blood to be spilt would be his after he was forced to watch every single atrocity. It would not be a clean quick death either, and if the orc had learnt his true identity...well he was glad he did not. He left Erebor to prevent a war with elves not bring one to their door with orcs.

“My question!” Thorin shouts out putting to bed stupid ideas. Azog was dead, DEAD but he lived on behind his eyes and in the back of his mind. Though the creature’s blood was black it was still Elvish, corrupted but immortal and the pale filth would not die and leave him alone. “Why did you not fill Bag End with children?” Bilbo pales and looks distinctively uncomfortable. The questions between them have certainly been probing and though he felt bad for asking, he wanted to know. Bilbo knew about the worst day of his life, so it only seemed fair to ask an equally probing question.

“Right well, you have been honest with me, so I shall show you the same courtesy as I promised. I suppose I should start by telling you a hobbit comes of age at thirty three...”

“Thirty three?” Thorin asks, stunned.

“Is it rather old for a dwarf?”

“Old?” Thorin asks incredulously. “Dwarves come of age at seventy five.”

“Truly? You look no older than sixty.” Thorin’s jaw dropped, his once raven hair was greying and there were lines at the corners of his eyes more so than around his mouth. Laugh lines, someone had once said, so it made sense, he didn’t have much to laugh about. Then of course Bilbo knew of his story, a very dated story that was a hundred and seventy seven years old.

“You think I look like a child?” To be fair it would explain the bath and the way the hobbit dotes on him.

“N-no no I didn’t mean...what I meant is you look like me, not me-me, no...I’m saying this all wrong. You look around my age.”

“How old are you?” Thorin asks with a smile enjoying the way Bilbo gets flustered.

“Fifty six.” For a moment Thorin fears he has been kissing a child but he remembers that Bilbo said he had already come of age and he is somewhat calmed. “It’s rather old to be on my own. I may be respectable but it is marred by the fact I am considered an oddity among my kind.”

“I’m two hundred and one and unmarried.” He says to placate the hobbit but in truth that wasn’t such an oddity. Females were rare and some dwarves were married to their crafts, though he should have been married for political reasons.

“It’s not that I didn’t try, I would have loved to fill Bag End with children, I adore children. I did everything right, I dressed well; I attended all the events and danced with the lads and lasses. I had found myself more attracted to the lads but as I desired children I paid more attention to the girls, and I daresay I was a hit with both. One can get quite a big head from such open flirtations and so much attention, I was overwhelmed and I didn’t think why I was so popular I only knew that I was.” Thorin grabs a biscuit from the plate and settles back in his chair.

“There was this one lass, hair as black as night who always wore such a severe expression. She was my staunchest admirer and though she was plain with a mouth that more oft frowned than smiled she had wide childbearing hips. She was of good stock too, the Bracegirdle’s of Hardbottle so I went about courting her but I did not love her but I thought given time I could grow to love her especially if she was to give me the children I so desired. It was early into our courtship, so early in fact she was unaware that I was attempting to court her. I could see her talking with some of her friends so I approached with a flower, thinking to make my intentions known in front of her friends but then I heard them, or should I say her?” Bilbo pauses with a pained expression. “She was telling her friends about my smial, about the tunnels and my wealth and the respectability of my family name and she said not one word about me, not one word. I ceased all communication with her from that day and instead she married my first cousin Otho who is heir to Bag End should I pass without any children. They have one child together, Lotho and Lobelia has made it quite clear she desires no more.”

“A lucky escape then.”

“I thought so too, just bad luck I assumed and entirely my fault for courting someone I did not love. So I attended the dances again and though I wanted children I was drawn to the lads, one in particular, Andwise Roper, he was the Gaffer’s eldest brother and a rope-maker by trade. I was drawn to him like a moth to a flame, I thought it to be love it was certainly infatuation. I shared my first kiss with him and there may have been some fondling but we were young and there was nothing more. We used to meet in the woods, I used to dream about him proposing to me there and in my need to be with him I had quite forgotten the day and went into the woods the day before we were due to meet. I heard voices coming from our spot and that is where I found Andwise and Lily Brown kissing and touching as tweens in love tend to do. They had not seen me so I hid behind a tree and tried not to make a sound as I heard Lily refuse him, saying she wanted him to end things with me before they could go further. Andwise tried to calm her and said he would go through with marrying me, though I repulsed him and he could carry on with her and stay with me long enough to loot Bag End of its wealth and hopefully find damning evidence against me so I do not gossip or report him.” Thorin ground his teeth listening to the tale, he had not come across Andwise but he would make sure their paths would cross at some point. “I thought I would hear a resounding slap but instead I heard laughter, Lily’s laughter if you would believe it. She was mocking me, said I deserved to be robbed for thinking so highly of myself and thinking people wanted me for more than simply my wealth and name. They said such vulgar things about me, but there was truth in what they said...no do not look like that, I mean that I was not desired for myself but for Bag End and my wealth. I returned home desolate and cried my heart out on my mother’s shoulder.” The story is sad but Bilbo is smiling. “Do you know what she said to me?”

“Kill him?”

“Good heavens no! She said that one day my prince would come.” He says softly with a smile and then looks down bashfully. It is endearing, so much so Thorin leaves his armchair and approaches the hobbit and leans down to kiss him soundly on the lips.

“Where is Andwise?” He asks with false pleasantness, he hoped the cowardly disgusting thing could swim because he was going to throw him off the bridge over the Brandywine.

“The Fell Winter took him, as it took my father.” Well that put an end to that, though maybe he could trip Lily if he ever saw her. “Put an end to your violent thoughts, Thorin I can see then etched on your face. Lily married and became a Cotton, a poor family and she was cursed with no children. She’s naught but a bitter washerwoman now, she has paid too highly for her sins, a dip in the Brandywine would simply be cruel.” Thorin kisses him again.

“Is there anyone else I should know about?” He doesn’t really want to know, it was bad enough knowing about Andwise but he needs to know.

“No, after that revelation and I preferred to stay indoors. What about you?”

Bilbo looks up at him so earnestly he can’t help but blurt out, “There was this orc,” and really he should have expected the startled gasp. “No it wasn’t like that, he was huge...” He can see Bilbo’s cheeks reddening and he knows his are burning from his poor choice of words. “No, I meant his size, his height he was tall, huge as in tall!” and then to his surprise he started to laugh and Bilbo joined in and he honestly never believed he would find enjoyment from talking about Azog.

“The look on your face,” Bilbo chuckles as Thorin wipes tears from his eyes as he takes his seat. His stomach hurts from laughing but it is a small price to pay. “I do believe we have talked right through luncheon and it’s time for afternoon tea.” Bilbo stands up and Thorin copies him and mindlessly follows him into the kitchen. He should be ashamed of himself, following Bilbo around like a dog but he can’t bring himself to care. “I wasn’t thinking and made cherry pie, I should have made apple pie.”

“I will have to think of a suitable punishment.” Thorin says in jest wondering why Bilbo falls over himself to appease him, as he owes him nothing.

“My Prince knows best.” He used to flinch at that title but now he wishes it was still his.

Bilbo retrieves the pie from the pantry and goes about slicing it, shooing Thorin away when he tries to help. He continues to offer his service until a waving dismissive hand catches the back of his and he is thoroughly reprimanded. He used to scoff at such a punishment as a child but it was effective and he ceased immediately, as old habits die hard. Instead he takes a seat, the one Bilbo occupies as he has no right to be at the head of the table. He is under no delusion of past rights and even so Erebor was leagues away, he had no jurisdiction here.

“Why are you sitting there for?” Bilbo asks suspiciously.

“Why must I sit there?” He challenges and places his hands on his thighs beneath the table.

“Because that’s where my fa...where you sit.” Bilbo amends quickly but not quick enough. The hobbit’s words come back to him, ‘That’s my father’s armchair, my mother used to sit in this one; they were very much in love.’ He wonders if Bilbo is trying to recreate the relationship his parents had. He doesn’t really remember his parents; they were there but so distant from him and though they sat together there was nothing to ever suggest they were together. Unless you counted the children, but Frerin was blond and though he meant it maliciously sometimes he truly believed they did not share the same father. It didn’t help his jealous musings when she doted on Frerin and barely acknowledged Thorin. Balin claimed it was a form of tough love to ‘wean him off the teat’ apparently but he wasn’t asking to be breastfed or mollycoddled, a simple ‘hello’ would have sufficed.

“Thorin, Thorin! Hello?” Thorin snaps out of his reverie and looks at Bilbo, noticing the hobbit’s hand on his hips and lack of pie in front of him. Would Bilbo really withhold food if he didn’t comply with his wishes? Deciding if it was that important to him Thorin switched seats and was rewarded with a slice of cherry pie.

After afternoon tea it seemed their question time had finished and Thorin asked if he could go into the garden and finish his pumpkin patch. Bilbo fussed of course, questioning his strength which he answered by throwing the hobbit over his shoulder and carried him outside. Not one of his best moves as the Thain himself was walking up the hill with some advisors and took one look at them and promptly turned and walked back down the hill.

“I was respectable until you came into my life!” Bilbo huffed mortified as Thorin put him down and cast worrying looks at the backs of the retreating hobbits.

“Well then, you’re welcome.”

“Insufferable dwarf!”

“Fastidious hobbit.”

“Blacksmith!”

“Grocer!” There was a pause and then they both laughed and Thorin stepped closer to Bilbo. “Gaoler,” he continued and then pressed close to Bilbo to whisper in his ear. "Amrâlimê,” he steps back noticing Bilbo staring at him in wonder.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I think you do.” And if he doesn’t, serves him right for that ‘good night’ jibe.

The way the hobbit fidgets and turns crimson suggests he does know what it means and he notices his hand straying to his waistcoat pocket once more. “Well, yes, right, you finish the edges of your pumpkin patch and I’ll get dinner ready.” Bilbo tells the ground rather than looking at Thorin. “I’ll come fetch you when it’s ready...amralime.” His pronunciation is awful but that seemed a silly thing to muse about when the hobbit had just called him his love.

Chapter Text

The forge was far too hot for the dying summer days. Thorin had already shed his coat but now his shirt was to follow leaving him bare-chested. He imagined his actions would be deemed inappropriate for the sensitive Shire folk, but so long as he stayed inside his impropriety would not be known. He didn’t mind if it was as he had lost all hope of gaining a respectable reputation ever since he stepped foot outside Bag End with Bilbo over his shoulder. He was only trying to prove that his health had greatly improved but the hobbits were not to know that and the rumours that followed were quite amusing. Bilbo didn’t find them as amusing at first but once he heard the one about the heroic Thain preventing the dwarf from kidnapping him he finally relented and found the funny side.

Unfortunately the Thain wasn’t easily won over and was quite upset by the spectacle. Thorin didn’t know why, but the way the hobbit averted his eyes and cleared his throat suggested he believed he had stumbled upon something indecent. Clearly the hobbit thought him to be no more than a beast carrying out a poor respectable hobbit over his shoulder intent on ravishing him on the lawn. As nice as that sounded it was incorrect he only wanted to tend his pumpkin patch, Bilbo over his shoulder was just bad timing. He half expected the Thain to cancel the Durin’s Day celebration but it was not so, he’d like to think it was because the Thain still had respect for him but he knows it is more likely he fears for his safety should he cancel a celebration.

That day also marked an irrevocable change in his relationship with Bilbo and he’s still not quite sure it was for the best. There had always been something between them but while it remained nameless it was harmless. They could look, touch, kiss and share a bed and it didn’t have to mean anything, now though they stayed in their own rooms and stepped around each other as though they were on shattering ice. He knew sooner or later something would have to give, he only hoped he could hang on long enough for Bilbo to crack first.

Though their relationship had fundamentally changed Bilbo was still Bilbo. He made him breakfast in the morning, thankfully he could escape second breakfast as he told Bilbo he was a dwarf and did not need to eat so much. After breakfast Bilbo will walk him to the door and see him off to work with an awkward kiss and stand in the doorway watching until they could no longer see each other. He could accuse Bilbo of staring but he was no better himself, constantly looking over his shoulder and waving. He’d walked into many hobbits doing that that the good Shire folk learnt to give him a wide berth.

Bilbo would come by the forge with a basket full of baked goods so they could have afternoon tea together and then the hobbit would return at five to collect him. Thorin tried to insist he could see himself home but after working himself sick Bilbo would not believe him. He supposed it was his own fault and to be fair Bilbo had turned up numerous times to collect him and he had lost track of time and was still working.

Dinner was moved to six so he had time for a bath and change of clothes before he sat down at the head of the table and they spoke about their days as if they haven’t seen each other earlier. Then they would retire to the living room and smoke and talk in front of the fire. Bilbo had tried to insist on supper but it was too much for Thorin and Bilbo didn’t want to eat alone so they would have tea and biscuits instead. The night would end with a song or Thorin would play the harp and with an awkward kiss goodnight they would retire to their separate rooms and sometimes shout things to each other like unruly children misbehaving at bedtime.

Sometimes the routine changed and Bilbo will turn up with dented cookware of some sort that had fallen. Thorin would drop whatever he was doing and fix it while Bilbo waited. He was worried about the frequency of Bilbo’s visits as he knew where the pans were placed, usually hanging on the wall by a nail. Bilbo had never bought any nails from him and they had always sold so well and now he knew why considering a Shire nail could barely maintain the weight of a pan. He planned to make some nails just for Bilbo and he’d need to fix the top shelf considering items were falling from that too.

Bilbo didn’t seem too upset with his beaten up pans and he took the opportunity to make a game out of it. It was just another way of getting to know each other but this was simple things. Bilbo would come in with a pan and then say his favourite colour was green and Thorin would reply his favourite colour was blue. Then the next time Bilbo showed up, it would be Thorin’s turn to make a statement. So far he learnt that Bilbo could not play an instrument, he considered conkers a sport and apparently was quick to anger when Thorin disagreed. His weapon of choice would be a slingshot, how Thorin had laughed at that one. He wanted to write a book one day and his dearest wish was that the Sackville-Bagginses never got their greedy mitts on Bag End.

His thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the forge door. Daddy had already been and gone, taking care of deliveries and orders. Thorin had even begun to pay him a wage, a silver piece a day as well as their original agreement still being in place. Daddy tried very hard not to accept but dwarven stubbornness won out, although Daddy had the last laugh and would use his pay to buy Thorin something. He still called Thorin ‘son’ every chance he got and occasionally Thorin would abbreviate the hobbit’s name to ‘Dad’ and watch the hobbit smile and his blue eyes would sparkle with unshed tears of the happy sort he was sure.

The white head of hair he was expecting was honeyed curls instead as Bilbo entered with something in his hand. It was one of the copper pans that hung in the dining room which was more of a display; it was part of a set of three if he wasn’t mistaken. Bilbo closed the door, muttering to himself, it was a bad habit and usually triggered by someone upsetting him and at a guess he had ran into Lobelia, that woman was vile.

“Sorry to disturb you again Thorin but I...” Bilbo finally looks up at him and his mouth moves but no words come out. It’s a very warm day so Bilbo is only in his trousers and a white button-up shirt that has the top three buttons undone. “Are those new trousers?” Bilbo asks and his voice sounds strange almost strained.

The trousers are not new in fact they were the very same he wore when he left Erebor. He was quite surprised they still fit not that he expected the length of his legs to grow, he may have still been a child but his growing was done by then, but he expected his gut would cause a problem. The leather trousers and his boots were all that remained of his previous life and the boots were so worn they were like a second skin. He had to repair them more times than he cared to remember but it was hard to find good boots for dwarven feet. Only dwarves would understand and it was the dwarves he could not go to so time after time he mended what he had. Not so with the trousers, though he rarely wore them they were sturdy leather made by dwarves meant to last. He didn’t feel comfortable wearing them on the road and as time went on they slowly got buried in his pack. It wasn’t until recently that he noticed singe marks on his trousers that he realised he needed leather and found them again. They were stuffed at the bottom of his pack so much so they looked as if they were the bottom of the pack, which explained why Bilbo had not seen them and hung them up.

“These trousers are older than you,” he informs the hobbit. “What can I do for you?” He asks while moving the trowel he is working on into water to cool.

“You’re already doing it,” Bilbo replies breathlessly and Thorin assumes it is probably from the steam as it can get quite stifling. He watches Bilbo head towards the door and thinks he means to get some fresh air so he is quite surprised when the hobbit bars the door with the wooden plank.

“Bilbo? Is everything okay?” The hobbit shakes his head with a wild-eye expression.

“You don’t realise...” Bilbo chokes out and Thorin wipes the sweat off his brow as he studies the hobbit. The poor creature looks like a caged animal which is absurd considering he was the one that locked himself inside. His chest is rapidly rising and falling and Thorin fears Bilbo is having a panic attack. He remembers those so he goes to Bilbo and tries to calm him by breathing deeply so the hobbit might mimic him and calm down.

“You don’t...” Bilbo seems adamant to tell him something.

“I don’t what?” He asks and notes the hobbit’s exasperated sigh.

“You don’t realise how gorgeous you are!” Before he has a chance to react Bilbo has dropped the pan and is against him, hands on his shoulders and mouth against his own. The kiss is like nothing they had shared before and if he’s honest it feels more like a desperate frenzied attack. He returns it realising this was the moment he was waiting for, the ice had cracked and now they were both free falling unable to stop.

Bilbo pulls at his shoulders, either to bring him down or in an attempt to climb him. He has a tendency to forget how much bigger he is from the way Bilbo treats him but he certainly likes this reminder. He moves his hands down Bilbo’s back all the way down to his posterior and lifts so Bilbo can lock his legs around his waist. It relieves the pressure on his shoulders and Bilbo is free to use his hands and one hand immediately runs through his damp hair as the other grips his chin, holding him still as the hobbit plunders his mouth.

It’s too hot, he can’t think or breathe and he’s quite sure the hobbit is pulling the air from his lungs. Bilbo is weightless in his arms but warm, scorching against his bare chest it is almost unbearable. He’s torn between wanting to distance himself from such heat and desiring to press Bilbo’s back against the door and enjoy the friction of their bodies as they burn together.

His mind is made up when Bilbo breaks the kiss to moan shamelessly, his breath hot against Thorin’s skin. He can feel the hobbit’s arousal press firmly and insistently against his stomach as Bilbo mouths his neck and strokes a hand down his sweat-slick back. He carries the hobbit to the back room, taking longer than he might have thought as his blood flows south leaving him dizzy and disorientated. Bilbo is of no help as he is lost in his own need rutting against Thorin like a dog in heat.

How he makes it to the mattress he will never know but he lays Bilbo down and follows him, settling easily between his parted thighs. His trousers are too tight and he means to relieve the pressure but Bilbo’s hand in his hair distracts him as the hobbit pulls, the pain a pleasure in itself. Their lips lock again but clumsy and chaotic that he can taste blood and he’s not sure if it’s his or Bilbo’s but they don’t stop intent on devouring each other. Bilbo keeps one hand fisted in his hair, the other travels down his back once more and over the curve of his ass where it settles while Thorin’s hands are either side of Bilbo’s shoulders keeping himself up so his weight does not crush him.

The pressure between his legs becomes too much and he thrusts against Bilbo feeling his covered cock against his own. Bilbo moans into his mouth dirty and wanton and Thorin wants to hear it again so he thrusts against him once more. The next moan is his own and he can’t stop his hips from moving as though their bodies were trapped in a parody of fucking. He can’t find it in himself to be ashamed not with Bilbo’s hand in his hair and the other grabbing his ass while his legs wind around his thighs as his body meets his every thrust. Like in everything they are in this together and whatever madness had come over them it had affected them both equally. He hoped no one was too near the forge to hear the sound of their heavy breathing, or the wet sound of mouths meeting with no finesse or even the sound of his leather trousers squeaking as he rubbed himself against Bilbo.

The hand in his hair pulled tighter and the one on his posterior gripped him hard had he not been wearing the leather he would imagine small half moon indents by Bilbo’s fingernails. Bilbo’s teeth bite down on his bottom lip, not enough to tear as his body shuddered beneath his own. The knowledge that he had just made Bilbo climax sends him over the edge and he comes in his trousers like when he was a teen. He does not move for some time, neither of them do, instead with their lips pressed together they simply breathed each other in.

He wished he could stay like that forever but his arms were aching from holding himself up for so long and he had no desire to crush Bilbo beneath him. With a sigh of reluctance he collapsed onto his side beside the hobbit and stared at the tin roof. He’d been in this situation before, but back then it had never felt like this, Thranduil had not stirred anything but his animosity while Bilbo made him feel like he was engulfed in dragon fire, terrifying and all consuming. The only similarity between them was the post coital haze and the fear of not knowing what came next. His heart pounded in his chest in fear that Bilbo would stand, throw one last look his way and they would never see each other again but Bilbo wasn’t Thranduil. Although he had started it and like Thranduil he had turned vicious...Bilbo wasn’t Thranduil...Bilbo wasn’t Thranduil...surely if he thought it enough it would be true. Bilbo wasn’t Thranduil, history was not repeating itself, Bilbo was...

“Thorin?” Talking to him. Bilbo was laid on his side, head propped up by his arm and his eyes seemed warm but darker as they regarded him as his right hand stroked over the hair on his stomach leading from navel to groin. “Do you regret what we did?” He asks demurely but surely he must know it does not work with red kiss-swollen lips.

“Do you?” He returns, not wishing to give his answer for fear his feelings were not returned.

“My only regret...” Thorin’s heart plummets. “Is that we didn’t take our clothes off. How am I to return home like this?” With a wave of his hand the wet stain on the front of his trousers is brought to Thorin’s attention.

“Take them off, I have water and you can wash them, they have a good chance of drying quickly in this weather.”

“And you, Master Dwarf?”

“Leather is easy to clean and quick to dry.”

“I might have to buy myself a pair then.” Just when he thought he knew all there was to know about Bilbo Baggins he goes on to surprise him. He could hardly believe this was the same person who panicked when he undressed for a bath. Now the hobbit that made him a nightshirt so he could cover himself was now considering buying leather trousers so they could have a repeat performance of today’s events.

He does not know why but Bilbo tuts in disappointment before leaning over him and runs his tongue up from Thorin’s navel to chest, up his throat over his chin and delivers a quick kiss. Then Bilbo climbs on top of him, knees either side of his hips with his ass firmly planted on Thorin’s groin as his hands explore his pectorals.

“Why do you think Girion wanted to marry you?” Now doesn’t seem to be the appropriate time to speak of Girion but he promised to always answer Bilbo’s questions no matter how awkward they may be.

“Because I asked him to help me.”

“Why do you think Thranduil wanted you so badly?”

“Vengeance.”

“And that obsessive orc?”

“Because he was an orc.”

“Those men in Gondor?”

“They felt belittled.” He was half their size and did twice their workload; they were idle craven bastards and deserved what they got.

“The sad thing is you believe those lies. You can’t see how beautiful you are, inside and out. You drive men mad with want and some men react badly as you have seen. Honestly even Drogo is taken with you and he is happily married. I daresay if Daddy hadn’t seen you as a potential son he would have you as a lover and had I not come along he’d be trying to pass you off to his sons if he could not have you. You,” he pauses to bestow a quick kiss on his lips. “Are,” another kiss. “Gorgeous.” Another kiss and then Bilbo climbs off him possibly believing his point had been proven. The hobbit gets up from the mattress and starts looking around the room. “Not forgetting how regal you are, how majestic.”

“Majestic?” Thorin scoffs knowing Bilbo was teasing him now.

“What? You are. It’s in the way you walk and hold yourself, the set of your shoulders, your voice and the look in your eyes. I should have known who you were the night we met just by looking at you, never mind that your actions should have given you away.”

“My actions showed you had naught but a fool at your door.”

“Fool you say but I say a selfless caring brave honourable dwarf. I should have known the dwarf that could turn down his birthright for the sake of his people was the same one saving two drowning hobbit’s without a care for himself.”

“Sounds reckless,” Thorin dismissed the praise.

“Sounds heroic,” Bilbo countered and wandered into the forge. “What are these doing here?” Bilbo shouted and marched back into the room with a circle of white lace.

“Oh your tea towels had holes in so I didn’t want to waste them so thought I could use them here to wipe my hands.” The hobbit looks positively murderous and his face is practically purple in rage.

“These are my mother’s doilies!”

“They don’t look like dollies.”

“Doilies!” Thorin holds his hands up.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Oh you will be sorry.” Bilbo threatens and collects the rest of the doilies and holds them in front of his crotch. They hide the stain should he decide to leave and he could claim it was a sweat mark due to the usually warm weather. “When you get home Thorin Oakenshield I will teach you to knit so you can make up for all the doilies you stole.” For a moment Thorin thought the hobbit might do something drastic like kick him out so knitting doesn’t seem like a hardship. “I’ll see you at five,” Bilbo informs him and leaves. He hears the wooden plank being removed and the door opening and closing and breathes a sigh of relief.

There’s not much work left to do as business has been slow lately so his interlude with Bilbo hasn’t put him behind. He can’t help feeling like a naughty child again when he removes his trousers and cleans himself up. It reminded him of when he read those books from Dale, or worse when his cousin Dain learnt of his books and scoffed at the ‘child’s literature’ as he called it. Dain didn’t make bold claims without proof and so books came from the Iron Hills in fake covers so no one was the wiser. Those books were certainly an eye-opener and he was quite sure none of that happened in Erebor so the Iron Hills sounded like a den of filth. Naturally he wanted to go, he claimed he wanted to spend some time with his favourite cousin, not necessarily a lie. He also hinted he might find a nice dwarrowdam while he was there, that was a lie but it wasn’t granted. They said Dain was a bad influence and every minute he spent with his cousin he returned more insolent stubborn and defiant.

Dain was the perfect dwarf in Thorin’s opinion, proud, strong stubborn and brave. He was the type of dwarf you wanted with you in a battle rather than against. He was a red-headed ball of energy and had his weapon not been a war hammer he would assume it was Dain meant for Legolas. That wouldn’t end well; Dain was more likely to crack the pretty thing in the face than marry him. There were some days, long since passed that he wanted to send word to Dain and tell him what Thranduil did to him. Though it would not be fair to wind up his cousin just to watch him go and really that was his own battle and there was no point upsetting his cousin as he was quite sure Dain held grudges far longer than he could.

Thorin always did like him even when he visited Erebor and knocked Thorin onto his arse more often than not. His Master-at-Arms taught him to fight, but Dain taught him how to fight dirty and once he combined the two Dain was the one knocked down. There was talk that Dain was unreasonable but Thorin didn’t think so, the dwarf knew his mind and knew what he wanted just because he was strong willed did not make him unreasonable. Of course he was absolutely bias and agreed with everything Dain said so no one took his protests seriously and went to great lengths to keep them separated. He knows some letters that Dain sent were destroyed but not the books. They kept in touch by passing letters hidden in the spine of the book, mostly Thorin asking for Dain’s honest opinion on who he should marry. He remembers the last letter he received was only one line and so Dain.

‘Me, I want your throne and will do anything in Chapter 43.’

Obviously he read chapter 43 first and laughed so much he drew one of the servant’s suspicion that he wasn’t in fact reading Gems and Where to Find Them. It was mortifying having his father come into his room and snatch the book off him, and if that wasn’t bad enough he began to read.

‘Stop, he cried pulling at the chains that bind his arms to the bedposts. His assailant did not listen and tore his soiled undergarments from his body and proceeded to stuff them into his protesting mouth.’

Lucky for him he was expecting the slap, though he hadn’t anticipated being whacked over the head by the book. His father simply glowered at him and then with an ominous ‘I’ll show this to your mother’ he left his room with the book. He can’t imagine he truly showed mother, and what if he did? To call him anything but his given name she would have to acknowledge him and considering she didn’t even use his given name he was in no fear of that happening.

Leaving the past where it was, Thorin enters the forge and notices the discarded copper pan on the floor. He goes over and retrieves it and sure enough there is a dent, so similar to the others but that just makes it easier to fix.

Aside from the pan, he only has a large dustpan to make and he makes a bunch of nails and by the time Bilbo arrives the forge is cold and he is fully clothed and ready to go home. Bilbo is all shy smiles and demure looks a world away from the hobbit that jumped him but he doesn’t mind. In all honestly he’s probably doing the same thing, so long as there are no regrets all is well and he has none.

To prove it to himself and to Bilbo, he takes the hobbit’s hand in his. One of their nights spent talking he explained why he did not like handholding and how it went from dislike to loathe because of Thranduil. He had seen the disappointment in his eyes, hobbits were tactile creatures and he had regularly passed couples holding hands. It wasn’t fair to deprive Bilbo of that after everything the hobbit had given him. He had to let go, not forgive, he was not sure he was capable of that but he had to let the exiled prince of Erebor go. What happened to him was wrong and tragic but he had to lay him to rest.

Bilbo looks at their joined hands and then back to him and his mouth opens as though he wishes to say something but he doesn’t. Instead he just smiles and for the first time Thorin leaves the forge and leads Bilbo by the hand to Bag End.

Bilbo has already ran him a bath when they return home so Thorin goes to the bathroom while Bilbo fixes dinner in the kitchen. It’s too hot to put his leathers back on and his shirt is drenched in sweat so with a towel around his waist he heads into his bedroom. He had left his nightshirt at the end of the bed but it isn’t there. He thinks Bilbo may have washed it so he goes to the wardrobe only to find that not only is his nightshirt missing, all his clothes are. He looks to the door and sees that Orcrist has gone, along with his comb from the dressing table. That isn’t good especially considering that comb was not even his.

“Bilbo!” He shouts in panic and Bilbo arrives at his door scared half to death.

“What is it?” Bilbo asks frightened, cowering behind the door.

“I did not mean to frighten you but all my things are missing, have we been robbed?”

“Oh...n-no not robbed, I...erm...well you see...the thing is...” Thorin simply stares at the hobbit as he fails to find the proper words, and to think he accused him of waffling on. “After today I thought...there shouldn’t be a wall between us. I moved your things into my room.”

“I’m to share your bed?” Bilbo’s bed was much nicer than his own.

“Yes,” Bilbo replies with a blush staining his cheeks no doubt from the connotations of sharing a bed.

“Why?” He could guess, but he likes to push. Considering he is the one in the towel it is Bilbo who looks exposed and vulnerable.

“Because amralime,” his pronunciation is still awful. “That means I love you, right?”

“No,” Thorin states simply and walks over to Bilbo. “My love,” he whispers and presses a kiss to Bilbo’s lips. “I would love to share your bed, ghivashel.”

“Does that mean I love you?”

“No.”

“What does it mean then?”

“Khuzdul is a secret language known only to the dwarves, so I’m afraid I can’t tell you.” Bilbo’s hands find their way to his hips.

“That’s not fair; you could be calling me something horrible.” Thorin smirks and nods.

“And you’d never know vaen.” Bilbo scoffs at his answer and in a move he did not anticipate, he grabs the towel pulling it away from Thorin’s hips and runs. Bilbo is quick but Thorin’s legs are longer and he catches the thief outside their new bedroom and drags him inside and dinner is completely forgotten.

Chapter Text

Summer turns to autumn and the work slowly dries up at the forge to the point that he only goes by once every five days. His inactivity leaves him restless and he feels like he is wasting away whilst leeching off Bilbo’s generosity. Bilbo doesn’t mind and even goes so far as to offer to pay for his company but that’s too close to prostitution for his comfort and he would never bastardise their relationship in that way. He tries to pass the time by knitting, though Bilbo had meant for it to be a punishment he found it rather cathartic so now Bilbo had more doilies than he knew what to do with.

They spent a day going through Bilbo’s parent’s things, looking for his mother’s knitting books. Bilbo had kept all of his parent’s things and it sparked a tiny bit of jealousy in him as he had nothing of his parents save for his mother’s dismissive attitude and his father’s eyes. What he wouldn’t give to have his harp back, he had managed to keep his hands on the one he was given in Goblin Town but the one he wanted the most he could never have. He often dreams about returning to Erebor in the cover of darkness and stealing back what is his. Lately his dreams have changed and involve Bilbo coming with him; he is light on his feet and could pass by unseen. Thorin could cause a disturbance and draw the guard’s attention allowing Bilbo to sneak inside. Bilbo would probably argue about the morality of his actions but considering the harp was his it isn’t thievery, simply a covert retrieval.

They could make an adventure of it, stay awhile in Rivendell where the elves could speak to Bilbo about his mother. Then on to the mountain pass and see if they can see stone-giants, Bilbo had marvelled at that story. Then he could introduce Bilbo to Beorn and he knows those two would connect and they’d stay awhile but Beorn was a solitary man and would eventually ask them to leave. It wouldn’t be personal, people just broke in different ways and while Thorin despised solitude Beorn wanted nothing more. He was content with his animals, simple creatures that loved easily and did not kill for sport. After that they would go around the Greenwood and Bilbo would not question why and if they see a white stag he would shoot it and cook it over the fire. Esgaroth was nice enough though it had a tendency to smell like fish, they could stay the night if Bilbo wanted to. Then they would catch a boat to Dale and Thorin could show Bilbo what a real market was and that night Bilbo could go retrieve his harp while he waited for him. It seemed rather craven sending Bilbo in alone to do his dirty work but he couldn’t risk being caught. What if they locked him in forced a crown on his head and give him responsibilities? They’d marry him off by the next day so he couldn’t be found, besides Bilbo was clever and could talk his way out of anything should he be caught. If things did take a turn for the worst he would reveal himself to save Bilbo, maybe he could beg them to let them both go. Actually the more he thought about this adventure the more it started to sound like a suicide mission and was best left as a fantasy.

They found the books in Bungo’s boxes although Bilbo swears his mother truly did knit the doilies he shamelessly pilfered. He likes the look of the knitted animals and tries a few until he has mastered it and then tries his hand at a freestyle warg. It turns out better than he expects and he gives it to Frodo as a gift. Why he assumes children gossip less than their parents he does not know and before long a line of children are at his door asking for knitted animals. He is too weak to say no to their hopeful faces so he takes their orders and receives payment in the form of acorns and pinecones and Bilbo says nothing when he places them on the mantel piece.

He looks for odd jobs around the Shire and spends a few days in the fields with Daddy Twofoot’s two sons who welcome him like he was part of their family. They offer him a permanent position as a farm hand but he declined as he couldn’t do that to Daddy. He had already lost two sons to agriculture, as his practically adopted third son he couldn’t succumb to the same.

It was only by chance that he was passing by Celandine Brandybuck’s residence when he heard the spinster curse in the garden. Too long among the hobbits made him poke his head over the fence and enquire if everything was okay. She did not seem upset with his intrusion and seemed pleased with the company and invited him to join her in the garden. Celandine was a nice lass with a good heart, why she had never settled was beyond him but there was a nasty stigma attached to the Brandybucks. When asked what the matter was Celandine pointed to a pile of logs that needed chopping for the approaching winter. Though he was looking for work, he could not accept payment from her and chopped the logs in an act of friendship but he did accept the glass of lemonade.

Hobbits talk and before long he becomes the resident woodcutter. To his surprise Bilbo does not approve of his job and tries to talk him out of it, daily. The work won’t last as the hobbits are only storing up wood for winter and not all were blessed with strong sons to help cut the wood so he continues without Bilbo’s approval. This disagreement could be considered as their first fight, dwarves tended to sort matters with their fists, married or not but Bilbo was a pacifist and made cherry pie instead of apple.

The discontent was palpable and it made sharing a bed extremely awkward. He was unsure of his welcome and he had no desire to share a bed with an enemy, once was quite enough. It took three days before Bilbo apologised, a day later and it would have been Thorin on his knees begging forgiveness. He did not believe he was in the wrong but the silence was deafening so if he had to play the martyr for peace then he would, he had done it before.

When Bilbo said he was jealous, Thorin was confused as their woodshed was filled already. When he points that out Bilbo levels him with a stare that quite clearly brings his intelligence into question. What he says next is complete nonsense, and he does not believe the hobbits are quite so perverse that they would pay him to chop wood so they could watch the muscles flex in his arms and back. Bilbo insists that they are and they come to an accord, Thorin can continue to chop wood so long as he keeps his shirt on and a loose shirt at that with long sleeves and his hair must be tied back. He agrees only to satisfy Bilbo and to ensure he could leave Bag End without question. Durin’s Day was quickly approaching and though he explained to Bilbo and the Thain that it was not a gift giving celebration he intended to give the warg fur coat to Bilbo on that day so he was sneaking to the forge to do some finishing touches.

The lead up to Durin’s Day inspired many questions, especially from the Thain who wanted the day to go by without a hitch. Unfortunately he was not believed when he said every Durin’s Day they sacrifice the miller in their tribe even though Bilbo swore he had read a text confirming the story. He was almost believed when he said they danced naked around a bonfire and yelled at the moon until Bilbo started to laugh which set him off and the Thain left Bag End in a foul temper muttering about their behaviour.

Now the long awaited day had arrived and he had watched all the hobbits assemble under the party tree and help set up for the celebration. He and Bilbo were put to work, separately due to an incident with the streamers. He was the tallest so he was tasked with hanging the lanterns from the trees and from tent to tent while Bilbo was tasked with setting the tables. It was refreshing to see everyone participate instead of just the lower classes falling over themselves to please their so-called betters. That wasn’t what Durin’s Day was about, it was a sense of community and camaraderie, the dwarves could learn a lot from the hobbits, he certainly had.

After the lanterns were strung up and he had tied the last of the bunting, he and Bilbo left to get ready. He was not sure how long the celebration would last, if it were anything like Erebor’s then it would last until the early morning. He would not have a chance to give Bilbo his coat, which he had left in the forge. He had sent Bilbo home ahead of him, telling him he had left something and Bilbo did as he bid without question.

Now he was here, in his forge, late and staring at the black fur coat as though it was lacking. He had been struck by nerves for the last half hour and could not move. What if Bilbo did not like it? He has taken so long washing and brushing the fur to make it glossy as the warg that had attacked was in a dire state. The fatal wound was the first buttonhole and Thorin had used the beast’s claws, which he had scrubbed and whitened, as the buttons. It was too late to be having second thoughts; Bilbo would no doubt be in a state of panic due to his absence.

Going against his better judgement he takes the coat from the hook and ignores the sniggers as he runs up the hill. How his old boots stay together from his heavy footfalls he does not know but is thankful that they survive. “Where have you been?” Bilbo demands as soon as Thorin gets the door open. He immediately turns around, clutching the coat to his chest hiding it from view. “Don’t you run away!”

“I’m not running away!” He protests and tries to side step his way to the bedroom but Bilbo isn’t having any of it.

“What’s in your arms?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar, let me see.” This could have gone better; he holds the coat by the shoulders and turns around showing Bilbo.

“Happy Durin’s Day!” He calls out with false cheer fearing his gift won’t be well received.

“What is that?”

“It is a gift, a token of our...” he knew he should have rehearsed what he was going to say. Relationship? Romance? Love? “Friendship?” He supplies though it sounds more like a question. There is an awkward pause before Bilbo throws himself at him, his arms looping around Thorin’s neck as Thorin’s arms encircle the hobbit’s waist. “You like it?” He asks in disbelief and Bilbo kisses his cheek and lets him go.

“Help me put it on?” Bilbo asks while shrugging off his purple coat leaving him in a white shirt and navy waistcoat and dark brown trousers. Thorin complies and holds the coat out as Bilbo slips an arm through and he helps with the second arm. “I’m guessing this is the warg that tried to kill you?” Bilbo asks stroking his hands down the fur and marvelling at the way the coat reaches his ankles.

“I’d like to think it was the warg that saved my life.” Thorin contradicts and Bilbo presses a quick kiss to his lips. He had already told the hobbit that he had planned to leave and had the warg not attacked he would have gone.

“I actually have a present for you too.” Bilbo disappears into their bedroom and returns with a square bundle in red paper. “I was going to give it to you when we got home since you said no presents. Go on, open it.” Thorin does, tearing the paper easily and unfolds a patchwork robe. For a moment he thinks it was the one Bilbo was wearing the first night they met but when he unfolds it the size suggests it is for him.

“Thank you,” he goes for a kiss but Bilbo turns his cheek.

“Get dressed, you can’t be late.” Bilbo insists and pushes him into the bedroom. His clothes are already laid out for him, Bilbo’s choosing not his own. He can’t help but smirk and wink at Bilbo when he sees the leather trousers, there’s also a blue shirt and his long oxen fur coat, the first he ever made without the slaughter of animals. He had brushed the woolly oxen religiously to get enough light brown fur for the outer trimmings of his otherwise blue coat and it was painstakingly long to bind them together and then onto the coat but he was proud of his work.

He dresses quickly and he is practically assaulted by Bilbo with a comb. He tries to bat the hobbit away but he’s fierce and stubborn when he wants to be and comes right back combing his hair and fixing the braids. When he finally releases him Thorin stands up and poses in his outfit.

“How do I look?”

“Like you shouldn’t leave this room.”

“That bad?”

“Let me re-phrase, like you shouldn’t leave my bed.” Thorin winks and Bilbo winks right back and sits down on the bed. “Do we really have to go? Can’t we just stay here and...talk?”

“And what would we talk about?” He asks, eyes straying to Orcrist as he wondered if he could take it with him.

“This and that.” Thorin approaches the hobbit and raises an eyebrow as Bilbo parts his legs so he can step in between them. He does and proceeds to lean down over Bilbo as he lies back on the bed. His hair falls from his shoulders and frames their faces locking them in their own private world and he watches the hobbit wet his lips in anticipation.

“You are making me late, and I am guest of honour.” He whispers with his mouth almost against Bilbo’s and then straightens and leaves the bedroom and listens to Bilbo complaining. When Bilbo finally emerges from their bedroom Thorin is surprised how cute he looks wrapped in his fur coat. He holds his hand out and Bilbo takes it and they leave Bag End together.

He was not sure when they were placed but there are torches lit from Bag End to the party tree and it makes him stand a little taller and feel important. He’s not sure if Bilbo had something to do with it but he is quite clearly mesmerised by it. The nights were approaching quicker now and though it was only five it was as dark as any mine he has been in so the torches were both practical and beautiful.

When they reach the party tree a cheer erupts and Thorin is led away from Bilbo and taken to sit at the head table with the Thain. The head table only has two seats and is placed off to the right before the stage while the rest form a U shape around the dance floor. Behind each section of seats there are tables of food and behind them tents full of food and many casks of ale. The place is well lit with hanging lanterns and burning torches and if he is not mistaken there is a bonfire burning in the distance.

Bilbo is sat on the first seat on the right of the long table beside the Thain’s wife. He tries to catch his eye but the hobbit is too busy answering questions about his new coat to notice. He is rather surprised that the Thain hasn’t seated them together although he shouldn’t be. He and Bilbo hadn’t exactly been on their best behaviour around the Thain and he quite clearly did not trust them to behave at the head table. Still, he did not have to relegate his own wife just because he had to go without a companion.

“Ladies and gentleman!” The Thain calls out, tapping a spoon against his glass. The loud natter becomes a quiet murmur before there is complete silence. “I’ll make this quick,” Bilbo catches his eye then and smirks as he had informed the Thain not to allow Thorin to make a speech. “Beneath the last light of Durin’s Day I want to wish all the dwarves well and to thank Thorin for joining us and giving us plenty to gossip about.” He pauses as the crowd murmur ‘hear, hear’ and then raises his glass in the air. “To Thorin!” The Thain shouts and the crowd repeats as he unthinkingly raises his own glass and hopes they don’t think him vain for toasting to himself.

The band come to life behind them and suddenly the hobbits are up making their way to the tables of food and casks of ale. Only he and the Thain seem to be seated and waited upon which is nice but he is surrounded by laughter and chatter and so far removed from it. He can no longer see Bilbo but he spots Drogo and Primula and Frodo with a plate piled high with sausages returning to their table. Celandine is chatting to a lad he does not know and they have a brief spin on the dance floor while they wait for the queue to die down. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins is by one of the tents looking as self important as ever. There’s a brief moment when he wants to launch his jacket potato at her severe looking face or in the very least knock that stupid yellow hat off her obnoxious fat head.

He manages to restrain himself and eats what is in front of him while the gathered settle down and eat. He forgets the gluttony of hobbits and by the third serving his stomach is full and he is waving the servant away while the rest queue for dessert. He looks around once more and sees Daddy sat with his two sons and not two seats away is Old Noakes playing with his warg-tooth necklace and gesturing to his arm and Bilbo’s coat. Some of the children have broken away from their parents and are running around on the dance floor chasing each other. Frodo is not among them, not that he expected him to be, as he was still gorging himself on chocolate cake. That lad would turn out to be the fattest hobbit of them all considering how much he ate.

A little girl approaches him, Rosie Cotton, no relation to Lily so Bilbo said and passes him her knitted pony for safe keeping. As with everything it only takes one and the next thing he is suddenly promoted to looking after their knitted toys. He doesn’t mind really as it’s no hardship and really as if he could say no, children were a terrible weakness of his he has come to realise.

As the night progresses his mood turns sour and he drinks more ale than he should. He manages to tell the passage of time by how many children come to collect their toy for a nap, the last one was not half hour ago and now he was sat at the head table alone while the Thain was not short of dancing partners. He supposes he should have expected this and applaud them for an authentic Durin’s Day experience. He wanted to go home, this had been a stupid idea but it had sounded so fantastic that he was swept up in it all. A celebration for him, surely that meant dance partners but apparently not. He was as untouchable now as he was then and he doesn’t know why. Bilbo seems to find him attractive but he had lost sight of Bilbo some time ago, before he could signal to the hobbit that he wished to leave so he was trapped here.

Finally the music begins to slow which always used to indicate that the night was coming to an end. The dance floor is half full of swaying couples which is certainly no fun to watch but he can’t realistically drop his head in his hands and pray for it all to be over. This was his celebration, well Durin’s really but he was Durin’s folk not that they knew that of course and may they never know as he wouldn’t tell and he doubted Bilbo would.

“Enjoying yourself?” Thorin jumps in surprise as Bilbo seems to materialise by his side.

“Remind me to put bells on you.” Bilbo laughs and holds out his hand.

“Would my prince care for a dance?” Thorin stares at his hand in disbelief. “Thorin? Come dance with me.” He’s drunk and hallucinating, surely. “I want you to dance with me.” Yes, yes of course yes such an easy thing to say and yet he struggles to say it. “Please Thorin dance with me.” There’s an edge of desperation in the hobbit’s voice and Thorin gives up hope of ever finding his own and simply nods his consent and takes Bilbo’s hand.

Bilbo leads him to the middle of the floor and they stand together, uncertain. As much as he has always wanted to dance he doesn’t actually know how, in Goblin Town that was more holding hands and spinning but ended far too quickly as both parties ended up dizzy and fell in a heap on the floor. Deciding to mimic a couple beside them Thorin steps forward and places his arms around Bilbo’s waist while Bilbo places his arms around his neck and they gently sway together. It should feel wrong and stupid but it doesn’t, it never does when Bilbo is in his arms, he just feels peaceful.

His peace is sort lived as the song ends abruptly and people begin to clap. Unsure of what is going on, Thorin releases Bilbo and turns to applaud the musicians as everyone else seems to be doing. He can only assume he has the worst luck and it is the end of the night, so he turns around to collect Bilbo and leave only to find the hobbit on the floor.

“Bilbo, are you okay?” He asks reaching out a hand to help him up from his knees but Bilbo only holds it without pulling himself up. There is a deathly silence and he suddenly feels caged as the dancers are no longer applauding but have formed a circle around them. “Bilbo, what’s going on?” He felt like he was in a fighting pit and he looked for an escape noticing Drogo and Primula smiling and holding Frodo up so he could have a better view. Daddy was there as well with his two sons giving him the thumbs up whatever that was supposed to mean.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Thorin’s attention was drawn back to the hobbit on one knee nervously stroking his fingers over his waistcoat pocket. “Will you marry me?” His jaw drops and Bilbo pulls out a simple gold ring and looks up at him expectantly. He looks back noticing the slight trembling in the hobbit’s shoulders, he is terrified that he might say no as if no was ever an option.

“Yes,” he replies though to be fair it was more of a mumble as he didn’t trust his voice.

“Yes?” Bilbo enquires.

“Yes!” he repeats louder and the gathered crowd erupt into cheers and the band start to play once more as Bilbo slides the ring on his finger.

“You planned this,” Thorin accuses after all the well wishers have said their pieces and resumed dancing.

“I did,” Bilbo replies smugly.

“These rings, it is not the way it is done in my culture. I will have to braid your hair and make you a bead.” Bilbo looks away and then parts his fur coat so he can get to the pocket of his navy blue waistcoat and retrieves something and holds it out and resting in his palm is Thorin’s silver bead with Oakenshield written in khuzdul.

“Could I maybe have this one?”

“Where did you get that?” As if he didn’t know, but he was always curious as to why Bilbo kept it from him. He would have never assumed marriage was the hobbit’s endgame.

“When you left it shone in the firelight beneath your chair so I put it in my pocket with every intention of giving it back. I had quite forgotten it was there until you came around looking for it and I was...jealous I suppose, you wanted it so much and I wanted you to want me in that way so I kept it.” Bilbo looks genuinely remorseful so Thorin lifts the hobbit’s chin and presses a kiss to his lips.

“Burglar,” Bilbo laughs and returns the kiss.

“Blacksmith.”

“Grocer.”

“Husband.” Thorin smiled and spent the rest of the night as he hoped to spend the rest of his life, in Bilbo’s arms.

Chapter Text

When Bilbo first suggested April 26th for the date of their wedding Thorin thought it was a lifetime away but now it was here it was too soon. Maybe they could postpone for another year since the date seemed important to Bilbo. He had waited two hundred and two years to be married, surely another year couldn’t hurt.

He was panicking, he knew but he couldn’t stop. Ever since a host of hobbits broke into Bag End and put a bag over his head he had been panicking. Apparently it was tradition, as he was later told after he had knocked them all to the floor and was reaching for Orcrist. He and Bilbo were not supposed to see each other, so since they were cohabiting before marriage it was tradition that members of both families come in the night, place a bag over their heads and take them to their family home. He understood that, it sounded like a nice family affair; he would have also liked to have been told. As far as he knew he was being attacked, and worse still Bilbo was being attacked right beside him. They were lucky they had only managed to get away with blackened eyes, bruised ribs and bloody noses had he reached for Orcrist first this would have been a most sombre day. Luckily for them he hadn’t been thinking, he had only reacted trying to get to Bilbo. Surely they must know he would die first before letting anything happen to Bilbo, but he assumed their assailants were dim-witted. The biggest threat in the room was him, they should have used all their force to take him out first, not split up and take on both himself and Bilbo as if they were equals. Not that he believed Bilbo was lesser than him but when it came to fighting, unless he had something to throw or a pan to hit you with, Thorin was definitely the one you didn’t want to fight with. Their lack of tack should have made him suspicious but he was blinded and being pulled from the bed and only swung out violently when he heard Bilbo scream.

Thankfully Daddy hadn’t entered the bedroom, as he was collecting Thorin’s clothes for the wedding. He couldn’t forgive himself if he had hurt Daddy, he feels bad enough that he blackened both his sons’ eyes and given Drogo a bloody nose. Had Daddy not heard the noise and entered, blocking his path to Orcrist who knows what could have happened? Thankfully the sight of Daddy stopped him in his tracks and he was led out of the bedroom and into the kitchen and Daddy made him a cup of tea to calm his nerves. A cup of tea was a cure for all in the Shire, so he sat down at the head of the table, back towards the bedroom while the other hobbits picked themselves up and took Bilbo away.

After tea Daddy helped him into his robe and he put on his boots and took him to his smial while his sons’ followed a safe distance behind them, not trusting the dwarf’s temper. It would be a lie to say that he wasn’t offended, being treated like an unhinged violent psychopath just because he reacted badly when they came in the middle of the night to kidnap him. Daddy picked up on his sons’ anxiety and sent them off to the party tree to put Thorin’s outfit in the blue tent to the right before the aisle.

At Daddy’s he had a bath and put his nightshirt and robe back on and entered the living room where Daddy fussed with his hair. He ended up with four more braids he would usually put in but Daddy seemed pleased so he kept his mouth shut. Breakfast was a chore as his stomach felt strange and he picked at his food as he wasn’t hungry. Daddy wasn’t offended and blamed it on the butterflies, why they were to blame he didn’t know.

The wedding was going to be at noon, and the plan was to leave Daddy’s at ten thirty to get ready in the tent. His nerves were still shot and tea wasn’t helping so Daddy lent him his pipe not that that did much good either. What he needed was a strong drink but it was ill advised, he was meant to walk down an aisle not stagger down it. Plus he was to exchange vows with Bilbo; a slurred speech would ruin the day.

Daddy came to his rescue again offering to play conkers with him. He didn’t know how they intended to play as the conkers were not ready and usually fell in September but Daddy appeared with two hanging from string so he said nothing and played. Unlike the games he had with Bilbo, where the hobbit decimated his conker, his game with Daddy was lasting a while with minimum damage to either conker and he knows he got some good shots in. He gets so focused on trying to destroy Daddy’s conker that they lose track of time and the game is a tie as his two sons arrive to escort Thorin to the wedding tent.

This time when the hood is placed over his head he doesn’t panic. It was just precaution, they said, as they were not sure when Bilbo would be escorted to the green tent to the left of the aisle. Daddy holds his arm to guide him and stop him from stumbling and he keeps the conversation going to distract him. He doesn’t think anything the hobbit could say could distract him until Daddy reveals how he had conkers and why they were so hard to break. Apparently he had baked them for half an hour, left them in a cupboard for a while and then boiled them in vinegar which made them hard. As if that revelation was not enough Daddy told him it was Bilbo who taught him how to harden a conker. That little sneak had been cheating the whole time, no wonder he could never win no matter how long it took searching for the biggest and the best. He’d even climbed a tree once, thinking he had found the perfect conker but it was destroyed in round three. Still it was the longest he had ever survived and now he knew why, he’d be having words with his husband about this.

His husband, a sobering thought. They made it to the party tree without incident and no further words. The hood was removed when he was secured in the blue tent and he saw that his outfit had been hung up and Orcrist was there too. Daddy left him to see to the seating arrangement and food so he could get dressed in private.

This was how he got to this moment dressed in his leather trousers with his scrubbed and re-furred boots. He was also wearing a sky blue long sleeved tunic that reached mid-thigh and a black velvet surcoat inlaid with silk with silver embroidery and fur trimmings around the neck and at the bottom where it dragged across the floor. The fur for the bottom had come from a bull that had been killed in a field and the farmers needed help removing it and had fetched him. The payment for his help was the fur, and the fur along his collar was the fox that had killed the bull. He reasoned that he hadn’t killed the animals so Beorn would not be mad at him for taking the fur and preserving the meat.

He looked at himself in the full length mirror and to his horror his grandfather stared back at him. All he needed was a crown and a beard, King Thrór had an impressive beard and they would be twins. When he was young and able to sit on the king’s knee he would braid his grandfather’s beard and think of the one he would grow one day. Very rarely Thrór would place his crown on top of his head and sit him on the throne but that was before the sickness took hold when he was a treasured grandson, the only grandson at that point.

He wishes Frerin and Thrór could be here, but their place was in Mahal’s halls where Frerin would be causing trouble no doubt and Thrór would be telling Durin himself how to rule. It would have been nice to have his father here, to be the one to give him away instead of Daddy and Dís could come too and be a flower girl. Though he forgets almost one hundred and eighty years have passed and Dís is no longer a child but a woman fully grown. She might be married herself and blessed with children, he might be an uncle and he has no idea.

“Thorin?” Daddy enquires and enters the tent. Thorin turns away from his reflection and sees tears in the hobbit’s eyes. Immediately his mind jumps to the worst conclusion.

“Is it Bilbo? Has he changed his mind?” No wonder they had put a hood over his head, Bilbo was running away from him and they were all in on it. “Where is he?”

“Calm down son.” Calm down, he says as if that was a possibility. There’s no air, he can’t breathe, he needs to get out of the tent and see Bilbo.

“I will not! Where has he gone?” It shouldn’t feel like this, he shouldn’t feel vulnerable and defenceless the same way he felt when those Gondorians forced him to the ground and took his property and tried to take much more. “You are all in league!” He accuses incensed, mad at himself for putting himself in such a position to be easily hurt. He moves towards the exit but Daddy blocks his path. “Move, I shall not ask you again.” To his surprise Daddy not only stands his ground but grabs his hand and slaps the back of it. The move leaves him stunned and all the fight drains out of him as he steps back reprimanded.

“Bilbo said that would work and I daresay I did not believe him until now. Now take deep breaths, Bilbo is here.”

“You lie.”

“How can I prove it to you?”

“Bring him to me,” Thorin demands.

“I can’t do that Thorin, be reasonable. I give you my word but it is not enough, so let me go ask him a question, the answer only he would know and let me prove myself and my word.”

“I’m sorry, forgive me...” He was a fool, too quick to judge and expect the worst.

“Oh no, you questioned me now let me prove to you how insufferable you are being.” There is silence between them and Thorin knows he has upset him. “The question Thorin, now.” He’s put on the spot, he can’t think, what if he asks a damning question and Daddy works out who he is? What if he asks a vague question or an easy one and Bilbo has truly fled but he knows the answer and buys the hobbit more time? They all by now know his favourite colour is blue and that he can play the harp.

“What is the name of...” my first love? Not the best time to bring that one up. The elf that raped me, again that was inappropriate and would lead to too many questions. The orc that stalked me, Azog had no business being mentioned on this day. “The skin-changer.” Daddy nods and leaves the tent and comes back a few minutes later.

“Beorn, he changes into a big black bear.” Trust Bilbo to offer a little more information. “It’s okay, he is fretting just as much as you are and had to be restrained from running in here. Not long now and I will pass you to him, so keep calm, take deep breaths.”

“Why did you look so sad when you entered?” He asks, thinking if Bilbo wasn’t the problem something else was.

“I didn’t look sad.”

“There were tears in your eyes.”

“Oh my dear boy, they were not tears of sadness, come here.” Daddy pulls him into a tight hug and he wraps his arms around the hobbit’s upper back. “You look beautiful, son, I’m so proud of you. That’s all you saw, Bilbo loves you and he is waiting for you, he has waited his whole life for you, why would he run?” Daddy releases him but they are still within arm’s reach. “Now enough of this, we can’t have tears staining your cheeks in front of your guests,” Daddy warns and wipes away his tears with his thumbs. “There now, wouldn’t want them to think you were being forced into marrying Bilbo.” The music begins to play and they both look in the direction of the sound and back to each other. “It’s time,” Daddy says and holds out his arm and Thorin loops his with his and they exit the tent together.

He’s not two steps out of his own tent when the green one opens and out steps Samwise Gamgee dressed in full length black trousers, a white shirt and cream waistcoat with a bowtie and a black jacket. On his left arm is a basket of petals and on his other is Rosie Cotton wearing a white flowing dress with flowers in her hair and a basket of petals in her hand. Behind them Frodo emerges with a very severe expression, eyes firmly on the cushion in his hands bearing the two wedding bands and then finally Bilbo steps out with Drogo and he breathes a sigh of relief.

Bilbo is fussing with his bowtie out of nervousness before their eyes meet. Like Samwise and Frodo he wears full length black trousers, a white shirt and cream waistcoat with polished brass buttons and a black coat over the top. Drogo is dressed likewise though his outfit is marred by the darkening around his eyes due to an unfortunate bop on the nose.

They walk towards each other and when they reach the centre of the aisle Daddy releases him while Drogo does the same to Bilbo and they are free to take each other’s hands. The music changes which is apparently a cue for Samwise and Rosie to skip down the aisle and scatter petals as they go. He glimpses red as the petals fluttered to the floor and assumes they are rose petals. Had he agreed to rose petals? If he did he shouldn’t have, roses belonged to another time, a different dwarf and another spouse. Roses had no business on this day, none, he’d ruined everything, he knew he would.

“Thorin?” Bilbo whispers to him worriedly and grips his hand tighter as he tries to pull away.

“I can’t,” there is no air, his throat is closing up, he can’t breathe.

“You leave and you’ll be alone, take this short walk with me and you’ll never be alone again.” It’s Frodo’s turn to walk down the aisle and he can hear Primula cooing over her son. “I won’t force you, but you need to decide.” It’s too much, everything always goes wrong and this day is perfect and he doesn’t deserve it. “Decide!” Bilbo hisses angry with him and he turns to see tears welling in the hobbit’s hazel eyes because of him.

It’s not fair what he’s doing to Bilbo, it could be argued it is not fair what he is doing to himself. He deserves this, surely, after everything; he wants this so much too much. That’s the problem, everything he has ever wanted has been taken from him so it’s only a matter of time before Bilbo is taken from him, or maybe he will be taken from Bilbo? He is no longer young, the years have been unkind and he has gained more enemies than friends, he could be cut down on this night, stabbed and left to die in his newly wed’s arms. It would hurt Bilbo if he left but it would be a kindness really, a relationship with him was toxic, he was poison, he always had been.

It’s their turn to walk and the guests have gathered something is wrong as heads are beginning to turn in their direction. He hadn’t thought there would be such a large turnout for the ceremony, for the celebration afterwards yes but not for the ceremony. He had laughed when they placed ten rows of ten seats either side of the aisle but they have all been filled and there are guests standing as well.

Bilbo is openly sobbing by his side and it is his entire fault. He needs to leave, go to Bree; he should have always gone to Bree. “Please don’t do this,” Bilbo begs brokenly. “I love you,” more eyes stare in their direction as Frodo makes it to the Thain and stops to turn his big blue eyes at them in question. He had been looking forward to being the ring bearer; maybe he could have another chance when Bilbo found someone better.

“I love you too,” he whispers back to Bilbo, so he knows why he has to leave. He isn’t being malicious he is doing the right thing for Bilbo; no one deserves to be trapped with him for life. He’d been kicked down and put in his place more times than he cared to remember, he needed no more reminders that he was worthless. Bilbo shouldn’t marry him out of pity or over a long lost title, he would go and if he was lucky he and Bilbo would remain friends.

The music is faltering as the musicians are slowly realising something is wrong and the guests are beginning to talk, a quiet murmur that is gradually getting louder. He should run no one would give chase surely? There was plenty of food and the band has been paid for, they could still enjoy the day and Bilbo could drink and curse him and he was well within his right to, but he would get over him. He did nothing but burden the hobbit anyway, Bilbo will realise and hopefully one day forgive him.

“Why are you doing this?” Bilbo demands and the grip on his hand tightens.

“Because I love you.”

“You don’t love me,” Bilbo snaps but does not release his hand. “If you loved me you wouldn’t do this to me. I’d rather you had thrust a knife in my heart than curse me with a slow death.” The chatter is getting louder he can almost make out the words. “You could have said no when I asked you to marry me, you’re no better than Andwise.” That verbal shot was more impactful than a slap might have been.

“I am nothing like him,” he hisses back offended. Andwise wanted his wealth, while he is concerned for his wellbeing and happiness.

“No, I daresay you are far worse. Leave, go on, but know that no friendship of mine goes with you.” For all his talk of leaving the hobbit has yet to release his hand. The music has completely stopped now and Frodo is slowly making his way back to them thinking he has done something wrong. “You’re breaking my heart,” Bilbo whispers and turns away from him while letting go of his hand.

He can hear Daddy and Drogo talking, questioning each other about what is going on and what they should do. Daddy might make a grab for him if he runs, but he has seen what befell his two sons and might think twice. Frodo is halfway up the aisle still dutifully clutching the cushion with the two rings. One was the one Bilbo gave him on Durin’s Day and the other he had made himself and had engraved ‘amrâlimê’ on the inside.

Amrâlimê, he can remember when Bilbo first said it and every time after. He was the one that said it first though, no wonder Bilbo felt so betrayed by him. Azog probably felt the same way, following him all the way to his own death; he was only trying to spare Bilbo the same. It could not end like this; he could not leave with Bilbo thinking he did not love him when it was so far from the truth.

“Bilbo?” The hobbit refuses to make eye contact with him and continues to stare at the floor. “I love you; you’re all I ever wanted.” His words may as well be lies as Bilbo stands dejected at his side and the crowd whisper about cold feet. He wished Azog had killed him because nothing is worse than this moment. He had a horrible tendency to hurt the people who loved him, his father, grandfather, Frerin, Balin, Dwalin, Girion even Thranduil though he hated to admit it but it was him that corrupted Thranduil’s love to hatred. Like Bilbo, Thranduil wanted to marry him and instead of just saying no he led the elf on, letting him think they had a future together because he refused to correct him. Now he had done the same thing only they could have a future together and he was throwing it away because of his fears.

“Uncle Bilbo, uncle Thorin, did I do something wrong?” Frodo asks with tears in his own eyes. This is turning into a catastrophe, he never meant to cause this much upset. Samwise and Rosie have realised Frodo has retreated and they are now coming back, still throwing petals oblivious to what is happening.

“It’s not you,” Bilbo says simply to placate the child; not needing to say anymore, Thorin knows it’s him.

“It’s me,” he confesses, finishing Bilbo’s insult for him. “My foot caught on my coat,” Frodo nods believing his lie and why wouldn’t he? “Daddy!” Thorin calls and the white haired hobbit appears at his side, concern in his blue eyes but his lips are pressed together sternly. “My foot caught on my coat, could you ask the musicians to start again?” Daddy’s eyes widen a fraction and his lips turn upwards into a smile.

“I can do that,” he nods as he walks down the aisle with Drogo tagging along beside him.

“What are you doing?” Bilbo asks him unsure casting suspicious glances his way. He takes the hobbit’s hand and kisses the back of it.

“Marrying the love of my life.” He replies simply. He is tired of running and being afraid, though he is uncertain of their future he would rather they face it together than alone.

The music starts again and Samwise and Rosie skip down the aisle once more as the guests turn to face the front. Frodo follows next holding his head a little higher no longer singularly obsessed with the cushion and the rings. Then he and Bilbo set off together as though the last ten minutes never happened, he is surprised Bilbo has forgiven him so easily but he forgets Bilbo isn’t like him, Bilbo doesn’t hold grudges.

He doesn’t pay attention to the guests, as he tries to keep himself focused on getting to the Thain before his nerves get the better of him again. It should have been the Thain to be the one to give away Bilbo as the highest ranking official of his family but as he was presiding over their nuptials he could not do both and Bilbo refused to be escorted by Otho so Drogo got the job.

“Just breathe,” Bilbo whispers beside him, clutching his hand tighter. “Almost there,” he states with no trace of sadness in his voice. Thankfully he is aware of what happened before was a moment of weakness, just another instance of him succumbing to the demons in his own mind. “If you run, I’ll chase you,” Bilbo warns teasingly rather than threateningly and he knows he is just trying to distract him. “I’ll never stop chasing you, we’ll both be withered and old and I’ll still be after you, though much slower than before.”

“You’d still want me when I’m withered and old?”

“What do you mean, you already are.” It wouldn’t do to slap his intended halfway down the aisle but he is tempted. “I jest; of course, you look young for your age.” He never thought Bilbo would resort to insults as a distraction but it is effective. “I would, you know? I’d still want you and be with you and when our time on this earth is done, I’d share a coffin and a gravestone with you and we’ll walk Yavanna’s Field together, forever, always.” He wants to reply but they have reached the Thain who is looking at them both with disapproval. It was not custom to chat on their way down the aisle but he doesn’t care, if he wants to talk to Bilbo he can, customs and etiquette be damned.

“Friends, we have gathered here today to witness the joining of Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins in matrimony. In their time together they have seen their love and understanding of each other grow and blossom and now they have decided to live out the rest of their lives as one. Matrimony is commended to be honourable among all and therefore is not to be entered into lightly but reverently, passionately, lovingly and solemnly. Into this- these two persons present now come to be joined. If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together- let them speak now or forever hold their peace.” Thorin’s heart races but it is needless as there is complete silence not even the birds are chirping, though he shouldn’t be surprised birds had a tendency to stay away from Bilbo. “Very well, you may now say your vows.” They turn to face each other and Frodo comes to stand between them holding the cushion up.

Thankfully they had already discussed this part, so Thorin picks up the gold band he made for Bilbo and holds the hobbit’s left hand. “I, Thorin Oakenshield, take you Bilbo Baggins to be my husband, my partner in life and my one true love. I will cherish our union and love you more each day than I did the day before. I will trust you and respect you, laugh with you and cry with you, loving you faithfully through good times and the bad, regardless of the obstacles we may face together. I give you my hand, my heart, and my love, from this day forward for as long as we both shall live.” He places the ring on Bilbo’s fourth finger and breathes a sigh of relief for memorising his lines.

Apparently Bilbo has not done the same as he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a folded piece of parchment. With shaking hands he unfolds it and then takes hold of Thorin’s left hand. “I, Bilbo Baggins, take you Thorin Oakenshield to be my husband, my partner in life, my best friend and my soul mate. I promise to love and protect you, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part.” He’s still shaking as he puts the parchment away and retrieves the ring. “I knew I loved you before I met you, my sweet prince, champion of my heart, my one true love.” Bilbo slides the ring on his finger and he almost leans in for a kiss before he remembers they are not alone and there is a correct time for kissing and it is not now.

“It is with great pleasure that I announce Thorin son of Aulë and Bilbo son of Yavanna bonded in the eyes of the gods and witnessed among friends. May your love be everlasting like that of Aulë and Yavanna; you may kiss now and seal your bond.” Thorin doesn’t have to be told twice and quickly kisses Bilbo on the lips and pulls him into a tight hug.

Vaguely he can hear the crowd cheering but it sounds distant, a world away from where he stands with Bilbo in his arms. He should let go but he can’t, Bilbo is real in his arms what if he were to let go and none of it was real?

“Thorin, you’re suffocating me.” Bilbo protests with a laugh turning his face away from the stifling fur. Thorin loosens his hold but does not let go. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers aware of his fears and moves a hand to caress his cheek. “Thorin, I’m not. I belong to you and you belong to me. Now if we don’t move on to the wedding feast our marriage will be a short one as we’ll both be killed by our hungry guests.”

Reluctantly he releases Bilbo and they turn to face the crowd and kneel down. Samwise and Rosie place a flower crown on his head while Frodo does the same for Bilbo. He has every reason to believe Bilbo made the crown he is now wearing but unfortunately he did not make Bilbo’s. Though he had planned to make the crown himself he had an overabundance of help from Frodo, Samwise and his latest shadow Rosie. He couldn’t very well say no to the children so the crown upon Bilbo’s head was not of his own making or design but he had watched its construction and threw in some suggestions so that has to count for something.

Standing once more they take each other’s hands and run up the aisle while their guests throw petals at them. It is customary to walk but when had they ever bothered to conform to what society dictates, maybe once when they were alone they followed the rules but they weren’t alone anymore and never would be again.

They don’t run far, just past Thorin’s blue tent and around the corner to where the tables and tents were set up reminiscent to the Durin’s Day celebration. The only difference is that the head table, still seated for two is a metre in front of the centre stage and off to the left is a solitary table holding the wedding cake. Apparently the wedding cake was a big deal in the Shire, and the cutting of it was equally as special though he did not know why.

The musicians come to life as they spot them and play a jaunty tune and since they are on the dance floor they spin each other around garnering laughs and applause as their guests begin to arrive. The majority of the children take to the dance floor and mimic them, though not Frodo, he unsurprisingly has a plate in his hand and is queuing for food along with the rest of their guests. Slowly the food summons the children, one by one until only he and Bilbo are left, flushed and breathless on the dance floor.

Most of their guests have seated themselves so they retire to their table only to realise in their distraction they have gathered no food for themselves. A quick trip to the buffet table rectifies that, for Thorin at least, he returns with some ham, two sandwiches and a few sausage rolls while Bilbo piles his plate high to save himself another trip. When Bilbo returns they settle down to eat and wait while all their guests have had their fill before Bilbo stands, tapping a fork against his glass to bring some order to the chaos. How he is heard over the noise Thorin can only guess, he thinks it was most likely due to the guests seeing Bilbo stand rather than hearing him.

“My dear Bagginses and Boffins, Tooks and Brandybucks, and Grubbs, and Chubbs, and Burrowses, and Hornblowers, and Bolgers, Bracegirdles, Goodbodies, Brockhouses and Proudfoots, friends and even the Sackville-Bagginses.” He pauses to raise an eyebrow at Thorin and he covers his replying smirk with his hand. “I want to thank you all for witnessing our union and celebrating with us. I daresay the turnout was larger than we could have hoped for and I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you as well as you deserve.” Thorin looks at his husband with a mixture of horror and amusement, but the devil in him won’t make him stop his husband from further insulting their guests.

“One year to this day I opened my door to a wet, ill-mannered dwarf.” Thorin feels terrible, he hadn’t realised a year had passed. He knew the date was significant to Bilbo but he hadn’t known exactly why. “A year later and not only was my door opened but my eyes and my heart were too. A year ago I met my best friend and today, though dry but still ill-mannered I got to marry him. So I hope you’ll all join me in a toast, to true love.” A chorus of ‘true love’ rings out and Thorin raises his glass. “Now it is time for the cutting of the cake,” Bilbo holds out his hand so Thorin takes it and stands up and they walk the short distance to the table.

The cake is seven tiers of white iced fruit cake that, to his eye at least, resembles Erebor. There’s a knife beside the cake and Bilbo picks it up and Thorin covers his hand and together they slice the cake to the cheers of their guests. It seemed a shame to mar the cake so early on but Bilbo wouldn’t part with that tradition and really the cake had to be eaten at some point. In his distraction Bilbo has cut a slice of the cake and is holding it near his mouth as if to feed him. He goes along with it opening his mouth obediently before the cake is pushed into his face to the amusement of their guests.

“Why you little...” he swallows his curse words for fear the children might hear and instead cuts another piece of cake behind Bilbo’s back and pushes it into his face when the hobbit turns to smirk at him. He’s not sure if he should be offended or not, but as Bilbo looks stunned one moment the next he is laughing as much as their guests are. Primula joins them by the cake table, passing napkins to them both to clean their faces as she begins to cut up the cake for the guests.

The musicians return from their feast and Bilbo takes his hand and leads him to the dance floor for another tradition. Apparently the newlyweds have the honour of the first dance, usually a song chosen or written together but Bilbo had shoved him out of his study every time he tried to offer his input. Still, saying ‘I know a word that rhymes with duck’ didn’t aid his cause but Bilbo was adamant he wasn’t going to get a line in so it didn’t matter what he offered.

The piano begins to play accompanied by a soft drumbeat and the melody sounds almost morose as Bilbo’s arms loop around his neck as his hands find their way to Bilbo’s hips and they sway together as a hobbit with a deep voice begins to sing.

Wise men say only fools rush in
But I can't help falling in love with you.
Shall I stay, would it be a sin
If I can't help falling in love with you

Like a river flows surely to the sea
Darling, so it goes
Some things are meant to be
Take my hand, take my whole life too
For I can't help falling in love with you

Like a river flows surely to the sea
Darling, so it goes
Some things are meant to be

Take my hand, take my whole life too
For I can't help falling in love with you
For I can't help falling in love with you

Bilbo looks at him hopefully, as though there was a chance that he would not be moved by such lyrics. He means to give the hobbit a chaste kiss but quite forgets himself and his surroundings as Bilbo opens his mouth so he can deepen the kiss. Bilbo seems to have forgotten as well as his hand clutches a handful of his hair and pulls him down as his tongue enters his mouth. What was happy sighs coming from their guests morphs to uncomfortable coughs but he doesn’t care, not when he has Bilbo trying to climb him.

“Ahem!” A hand clamps down on his shoulder and he reluctantly moves away from Bilbo’s lips to turn his gaze on Daddy Twofoot. “Now there’s plenty of time to do that later, there are children present or have you forgotten?” Considering the old hobbit is chastising them there is a hint of mirth in his eyes and his lips quirk in a smirk. “May I have the next dance?” He asks Thorin and Bilbo releases him.

“You may, I’ll help bring out the desserts.” Thorin wants to make a joke about how quick Bilbo gave him away but Bilbo dashed off before he could open his mouth and Daddy took him in his arms, clutching one hand while the other rested on his hip. It is almost comical how this hobbit desires to be his father but is so much smaller than him, but then even his own father was smaller than him. He had had a great growth spurt in his teens and towered over both his father and grandfather, he never could match Dwalin in height though, and that was always a pain. Still the captain of his guard should be intimidating and taller than his charge, it made sense but it didn’t mean he had to like it.

“You gave me a fright earlier,” Daddy begins, taking Thorin’s attention away from Bilbo who is placing cakes and sweets onto the now empty tables. “I must say I am proud of you, not everyone can recover from...tripping on their coat.” Daddy says the latter in a tone of a conspirator. He was unsurprised that Daddy knew the truth, he had seen him work himself sick and he was also stood beside him and would have seen firsthand that no such stumble happened. The guests were easily duped thankfully and bought his lies as easily as he sold them.

When the song ends Celandine Brandybuck replaces Daddy and he spins her around the floor showing her off to any potential suitors they had among them. Primula has the next dance, followed by Drogo, followed by Old Noakes. He can hardly believe his luck, this is all he ever truly wanted to be accepted, danced with, adored and loved by one that held his heart. Dance partners keep coming giving him no reprieve, and to his surprise he dances with Sandyman who is nothing but complimentary and he even dances with Lobelia and eagerly tells her of the extension he was thinking of building at Bag End much to her annoyance.

The songs and dances vary, he joins in a spirited dance with Daddy’s two sons that involve a lot of jumps and kicks and he’s sure he does the dance no justice at all, with his arms draped over both brothers and laughing raucously. There’s a moment when he’s the only adult on the dance floor surrounded by children and they form a circle holding hands. It’s more like running than dancing and when the song reaches its chorus they all run into the middle raising their joint hands. He won’t say they remind him of mini goblins because they were likely to take the comparison as an insult, but they did.

Bilbo returns to him every now and again and they dance together or try to before someone interrupts them. When the music slows he thinks he might have a chance to sit down until Rosie launches herself at him and he holds her in his arms and sways while she rests her head on his shoulder and plays with one of his many braids. He catches Bilbo watching him from their table and smiles and continues to sway until Rosie is asleep in his arms. He returns her to her parents and then gets roped into dancing with them both before he can escape and sit beside Bilbo.

“I love you,” he whispers and shares a quick kiss with his husband.

“I love you too but you best get up, you’ll love this dance, lots of spinning.” Thorin turns his attention to the dancers and watches as they hook arms and spin in a circle before hooking on to the next person. It does look fun and even the Thain and his wife are beckoning him to join so he gets back up and is quickly swept up in the madness. The music is fast and he is sure it is getting quicker as he is spun around and changing partners faster. He’s exhausted and sweaty and can barely breathe from laughing so much but he won’t give this up for anything. He has neared the end of the dance floor when he is swung around with quite some force. He can hear laughter from an older gentleman and lifts his head to see who his partner is.

Dread settles in the bottom of his stomach from having to lift his head. He was dancing with no hobbit. He took in the grey robes and the long grey beard and long grey hair beneath a pointed grey hat. “Tharkün?” The wizard drops his arm and leans forward to take a better look at him.

“Prince Thorin, by my beard I never expected to find you in the Shire. In fact I never thought I’d see you again it seems the rumours of your death were false, oh but this is good news.” The dance is still going on behind him and someone crashes into his side and he catches them in time to prevent them both tumbling to the floor. He catches a glimpse of a flower crown and realises Bilbo was his assailant.

“Gandalf?” Bilbo asks, righting himself. “Gandalf!” He cries in joy and opens his arms wide for a hug.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Tharkün greets and embraces Bilbo like they were old friends.

“How do you know each other?” Thorin asks perplexed, why would one of the Istari have business in the Shire?

“Gandalf has been a friend of my family for as long as I can remember. He once gave the Old Took a pair of magic diamond studs that fastened themselves and never came undone till ordered. And the fireworks! Magnificent they were, Old Took used to have them on Midsummer’s Eve. They used to go up like great lilies and snapdragons and laburnums of fire and hang in the twilight all evening.”

“To hear him talk you’d think I was no more than a travelling salesman though I am pleased you remember my fireworks kindly.”

“A travelling salesman would be a fine thing. This is the man responsible for my mother going off on so many mad adventures.”

“It was merely a suggestion; I had naught to do with much of her travelling though I was extremely fond of the lively lass. It is why I have come, I had business with the Rangers and they told me Belladonna Took’s only son was getting married and I could not miss that for the world. When they told me your spouse was to be a dwarf I was surprised and never did I expect to see the little Prince under the Mountain.”

“Keep your voice down, the boy you speak of is no more.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“I mean it, Tharkün. I am Thorin Oakenshield; you mistake me for someone else.” It was ill advised to raise ones voice and threaten the Istari but he was at a loss for what else to do.

“Oakenshield? You hide yourself behind a slave name?” There is a deathly silence between the three of them before they retreat to a disused corner and speak more privately.

“What do you know?” Thorin demands.

“I know that many years have passed and you have yet to control your temper. I also know that the name Oakenshield was given to you by the orcs, one in particular, a great pale orc known as Azog the Defiler. From there my information is incorrect, it was said that he had killed you and driven mad by his own grief he took his own life. His body was found, though yours never was, we assumed he buried you in his sorrow.”

“We?”

“Your father, Thráin. He never stopped looking for you, he never stopped loving you. He always dreamt of you returning to Erebor so he could right the terrible wrong he did to you. When we found Azog’s body your father almost lost the will to live realising you had gone to the Halls of Waiting before him. And now here you are a fine chance meeting.” Thorin didn’t quite believe the grey wizard; nothing he did was left to chance. He must have suspected that he still lived and instead of raise Thráin’s hopes he sent him home while he continued his search.

“Do not tell him that I yet live, his son is dead, Azog did kill him, what remained of him so there is truth in the lie. If you must report back, say this to him and tell him I died with no hate in my heart. He was my father and I loved him regardless of what happened. Let him know that I am at peace, ease his sorrow and let him be content that one day we will be reunited.”

“You speak as if you will never return to Erebor.”

“My place is here now” he replies and takes hold of Bilbo’s hand. “I am not a prince; I’m a humble blacksmith, part-time woodcutter, sometime toy maker, husband and now a Baggins.” Bilbo lifts his hand at that and kisses the back of it and Tharkün regards them both with blue eyes that know too much and a quirked mouth that says too little.

“A shame, you would have made a splendid King under the Mountain but I do not claim to know your mind and I believe there is nothing I can say to change your mind so that will be the end of it. I have kept you too long as it is, it was fireworks I came with, not sad tidings after all. Go off and be with your guests, I wouldn’t mind having a slice of wedding cake. I can only assume it is delicious as Thorin has decided to wear it in his beard.” Tharkün laughs as Thorin rubs his beard, knocking the last of the icing away from when Bilbo shoved the cake in his face. “Go dance and be merry.”

“And you will not speak of this night to my father?” He does not like the look in the wizard’s eyes.

“Why would I speak to a dwarven king about a hobbit wedding?” He speaks in riddles, but Thorin can only hope there is truth to this one and he will not tell. “If you wish to sit and sulk that is your choice, I have better things to do, and there is cake to be eaten.” With that the grey wizard leaves them both sat at the table.

“He’s a character,” Bilbo jests trying to ease the tension. “What will happen if he tells?” Thorin shakes his head.

“I have wondered that myself, Thráin could pardon me, and as his last surviving son and heir of Durin I would be next in line for the throne. The line is unbroken and I will have to marry for politics and children, he would...” He doesn’t want to say anything more; the mere thought of it stirs his fear and anger. “He would dissolve our marriage” he finally manages to say.

“He can’t do that,” Bilbo protests.

“He is the king.”

“Not my king.”

“No, but mine as well as being my lord father.”

“I won’t let them take you from me.” Bilbo’s hand presses against his cheek as he makes him face him. “I won’t. I would die first.” He says earnestly and Thorin believes him, he’d seen Bilbo come to his defence before, stepping in front of him with no concern for his own safety. He wants to reassure Bilbo that he won’t let them take him; he too would fight to the death to remain at Bilbo’s side. He chooses not to use his words, talk of death had no business being mentioned on their wedding day, and instead he uses his mouth and kisses Bilbo desperately to convey all that he will not say.

“Ah, thought I’d find you two all over each other,” Daddy Twofoot laughs as he approaches. “Gandalf will be lighting some fireworks, he had already distributed the squibs, crackers, backarappers, sparklers, torches, dwarf-candles, elf-fountains, goblin-barkers and thunder-claps so you have missed those. Come along, do this one last thing and off you may go to your marriage bed.” Daddy winks and Thorin tries desperately not to blush at his implication. He and Bilbo had done many things together but they had yet to do that.

Getting up from the table, they join the gathered hobbits by the tree and look up into the night sky. He hadn’t been aware of the passage of time, too lost in dancing and enjoying himself to pay attention to the hour. The sky comes alive in an explosion of glittering lights and the gathered stare transfixed at the sky as the show continues. There were rockets like a flight of scintillating birds singing with sweet voices. There were green trees with trunks of dark smoke: their leaves opened like a whole spring unfolding in a moment, and their shining branches dropped glowing flowers down upon the astonished hobbits, disappearing with a sweet scent just before they touched their upturned faces. There were fountains of butterflies that flew glittering into the trees; there were pillars of coloured fires that rose and turned into eagles, or sailing ships, or a phalanx of flying swan; there was a red thunderstorm and a shower of yellow rain. It finally finished with a forest of silver spears that sprang suddenly into the air with a yell like an embattled army and came down again into the water with a hiss like a hundred hot snakes. The crowd applauded and hollered their approval but Thorin could only stare at Daddy who was grinning and waving him away, giving them permission to leave.

He takes Bilbo’s hand and they make their getaway while their guests are too busy, eyes still trained on the sky in case Tharkün would release anymore fireworks. There are torches lit from the party tree all the way to Bag End so their way is lighted. He had thought the torches to be beautiful on Durin’s Day and asked for the same to be done on their wedding day. Halfway home they hear the musicians start to play and know their absence is not missed and would not be so long as there was plenty of food and ale, which there was. Bilbo was a wealthy hobbit and Thorin had been slowly but surely lightening the purses of the good Shire folk.

Reaching Bag End they pass the gate and walk up the few stone steps before pausing at the door. “Is there a tradition here?” Thorin asks, pausing only because Bilbo had.

“Yes actually, there is.” Thorin waits to hear it but instead Bilbo grabs him, one arm around his waist while the over curls around his thighs.

“What are you doing?” Thorin practically squawks almost losing his balance.

“I’m carrying you over the threshold,” Bilbo tells him gruffly trying to lift him.

“Shall I carry you instead?” Thorin offers trying not to laugh at Bilbo’s determination.

“No, Bag End is mine which makes you the bride.” Bilbo goes for his leg again almost toppling them both over. “Let me get the door open first,” Bilbo suggests and opens the door like it would make a spot of difference before returning to the task at hand.

“Stop!” Thorin warns, stumbling again. “You’re going to get us both killed.”

“Almost have you,” Bilbo carries on regardless.

“How much have you had to drink? Dwarves were not meant to be parted from the ground.” Much to his surprise and to Bilbo’s too he is slightly lifted from the ground. Bilbo takes one step forward, but on his next step his foot is caught on Thorin’s coat and he trips. Thorin falls into Bag End landing on his back, unable to pad his fall and Bilbo lands on top of him, one of his elbows driving into his stomach. His flower crown has fallen off his head and he would laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. He supposes he deserved that, considering he made up a lie earlier about stumbling on his coat.

“I am so sorry!” He’d like to think his husband is genuinely remorseful but considering he’s trying to mute his sniggers with his hand, he doubts it.

“I want a divorce.”

“No.” Bilbo covers his mouth with his and moves his body against him in a way that reveals his arousal. Thorin returns the kiss and wraps his arms around the hobbit too concerned with the door being wide open to do much more. “We shouldn’t do this here,” Bilbo finally speaks sense. “Our first time shouldn’t be on the floor,” he turns away finally noticing the open door. “But maybe our second time,” he adds with a wink and leans down to press a quick kiss to his lips before he is up and shutting and locking the door.

Thorin gets up off the floor and Bilbo approaches him, slipping his fingers down the front of his leather trousers to take a firm hold of the material and pulls him along to their bedroom. When they enter the room he notices the roaring fire and before that, a great wooden bathing tub filled halfway with water.

“When did you do this?” Thorin asks, stripping off his velvet coat.

“Before our wedding, though I had Drogo come up and light the candles and fire and fill the tub with warm water before the fireworks.”

“How, were you not at Drogo’s? I heard you leave.” Bilbo gives him the look that questions his intelligence, it should not be a look is he accustomed to.

“Did I not tell you that the intended couple are taken to their family homes?” Thorin nods. “Bag End is my family home, you heard me leave because I did, but did you not notice that Daddy collected your clothes but no one collected mine?” No, he hadn’t noticed due to the fact that he had almost driven his sword through a bunch of hobbits chests. “I was at the Gaffer’s, so I was able to hear when you arrived at Daddy’s and was able to return home. I know you like a bath but my tub is too small to fit us both so I had this brought.”

“You want to, in there?” He asks liking the idea more and more.

“Water brought us together so it makes sense to consummate our marriage in water.” He couldn’t agree more and kicks off his boots and pulls his tunic over his head. Bilbo simply watches him so he arches a brow and crosses his arms in front of his chest waiting for Bilbo to undress.

When Bilbo is down to his trousers he approaches and starts to unravel one of his braids. “Why so many braids?” Bilbo asks, as Thorin removes the hobbit’s flower crown.

“Do you not like them?”

“What? No, I love them, you look beautiful Thorin, you always do. Though today you looked like a king, my king.” He kisses him them, before unravelling another braid. “Did Daddy do them?” At Thorin’s nod, Bilbo laughs. “My sweet husband, stands up for his people, plucks strangers out of the river, jumps in front of a starving warg but won’t say anything to a hobbit doing his hair in case he hurts his feelings.” Thorin does not reply and Bilbo continues until all his braids are undone and then his hands travel down to the front of his trousers. “Off!” Thankfully the leather is old and worn and they come off with relative ease. He lets Bilbo eye him a moment longer before pointing to Bilbo’s trousers.

“Off!” Bilbo shakes his head. “Why not?”

“I can’t,” for one horrifying moment Thorin thinks Bilbo has made a mistake and doesn’t want to consummate their marriage. “I’m sewn in.” The hobbit clarifies and Thorin breathes a sigh of relief. It hadn’t even crossed his mind how the hobbit had pulled his trousers on over his enormous feet. “You’re going to have to tear them off,” Bilbo informs him excitedly with a wink and Thorin does just that. The seams are weak at the back and the trousers pull away easy enough leaving his husband only in his smallclothes.

Leaving him like that Thorin climbs into the tub, surprised the water is still warm. Bilbo makes a show of stripping off for him and he never thought he would be so stirred by a relatively hairless body. Bilbo’s cock is hard when he kicks his underwear away and straightens revealing himself to his husband. He begins to stroke himself, watching Thorin watching him, before he too climbs into the tub. There is plenty of room for the hobbit to sit opposite him if he puts his legs over his own, but he chooses not to and sits down on Thorin’s lap. Both of the hobbit’s hands end up in his hair while his mouth presses against his as he grinds in his lap. They hadn’t spoken of this, and Thorin was at a loss as to what role to play. Considering he was the sullied one and aware of how much a coupling could hurt, he pushes Bilbo away, snatches the oil that was placed beside the tub and turns around.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s easier this way,” he can hear Bilbo scoff behind him.

“Don’t make it sound like a chore, Thorin!”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“So you’re letting me hurt you instead?” He’s not sure of Bilbo’s tone, he should really turn and look at him but he can’t and just nods. “Well thank you very much,” he’s quite sure that was sarcasm. “I’m so glad you think so lowly of me.” He turns back around and is met by Bilbo’s glare. “You honestly think I would hurt you? I’m not him!” Him doesn’t need a name, they both know to who he is referring to.

“I never said you were,” Thorin protests.

“You may as well have done, thinking I’d take my pleasure at your expense. We are married now, or does that mean nothing to you? I clearly mean less to you than I thought if you find me no better than that scum.”

“You take insult when there was none. I thought only to spare you the pain, I was thinking about you, not him.”

“Your own words prove you false. Sex isn’t about pain, what did that monster do to you? No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know for fear of what I might do to that damnable elf!” There is silence between them as Bilbo practically seethes across from him. “Is this why you faltered down the aisle? If you do not want to have sex then that is fine, I don’t want to hurt you, you’ve been hurt enough. I’m happy with what we’ve been doing and I would never force you into doing anything you didn’t want to do.” He should have expected that response, he knows Bilbo has a good heart and had proven it in their year together but he was always expecting the worst.

“I’m sorry,” as apologies go that was a poor one. He had almost ruined their wedding day and now he was ruining their wedding night. Bilbo deserved better.

“Stop apologising for being you. I married you; I knew what I was getting and it is everything I wanted, so stop. And quit thinking so little of me, I married you for your heart not your body, although that was an added bonus. I would happily spend the rest of my days never touching you again so long as I got to keep you.”

“You don’t have to stop touching me.”

“Good!” Bilbo proclaims and climbs onto his lap once more. They share a kiss that grows more heated as Thorin wraps a hand around both their cocks and begins to stroke. It may be a poor alternative but Bilbo doesn’t seem to mind as he leans into his touch and moans into his mouth. “Can I tell you a secret?” Bilbo whispers hotly in his ear and he swallows not trusting his voice and nods. “While you’ve been at work leaving me all alone,” Bilbo begins exaggerating although work had picked up once more. “I’ve been thinking of our wedding night, about you on top of me, inside of me, making love to me.” He pauses to moan and kiss his neck, there is a scar there from when Azog bit him and he feels self-conscious. “Sometimes I’ll lie on the bed and spread my legs and use my fingers to open myself up thinking of you and you return home none the wiser. I don’t even have to touch my cock to cum. You won’t hurt me Thorin, I want to try but only if you want to.” His strokes falter as Bilbo’s proposition hangs between them.

“You would let me...?” He doesn’t say it, he can’t bring himself to although hearing Bilbo talk such filth was a turn on he wasn’t sure he could stir the hobbit in the same way. He’s surprised Bilbo is offering himself in such a way, it wasn’t a position he liked to be in himself although others always tried to force him onto his back and one succeeded.

“Trust me,” Bilbo says picking up the discarded oil and demonstrates that his words were not seductive lies but truth as he oils his fingers and reaches down, penetrating himself. He’s not sure if he should turn away or not and even if he tried he wasn’t sure he could because watching Bilbo prepare himself was the most erotic thing he had ever seen. He should offer his assistance rather than just stare, but he doesn’t think he could offer anything but mindless fumbling and besides Bilbo likes it when he watches as the hobbit has told him many times.

By the third finger, Bilbo is pressing down against his own hand moaning unashamedly and the throbbing between Thorin’s thighs begins to hurt. He doesn’t want to touch his cock for fear he’ll cum too soon and it’ll all be over before it has even begun, but he needn’t worry as Bilbo’s hand finds his cock instead. The hobbit tries to add oil to his member but it seems a lost cause as surely the water washes it away but the hobbit continues regardless.

“If you don’t want to, say so now.” Bilbo tells him, removing his fingers and manoeuvring himself on Thorin’s lap. He can feel the hobbit’s hole against the head of his cock and moans in frustration.

“I want to.” He agrees and revels in Bilbo’s beatific smile as the hobbit’s hands clutch his shoulders as he slowly sits down, impaling himself on Thorin’s cock. It’s a struggle to keep his hips still and not just grab Bilbo’s hips and thrust up into him taking him in one motion, but he isn’t an orc or even an elf and he would never harm Bilbo. Instead he waits patiently with his hands resting on Bilbo’s hips as the hobbit takes his time moving down his length and adjusting to his girth.

“Are you okay?” Bilbo asks earnestly as he settles himself on his lap and he can’t help but laugh.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” He asks as Bilbo wriggles uncomfortably on his lap.

“I’m good, it feels good; just hold still for a while.” The hobbit distracts them both with a kiss and Thorin finally understands now why Thranduil realised he cared nothing for him after their coupling when his words were not good enough. He hadn’t felt like this, as if his world had narrowed and could only encompass himself and Bilbo and there was nothing else, nothing of matter, nothing of worth, just Bilbo surrounding him. He’d once compared his love for Bilbo to dragon fire, terrifying and all consuming and he’d stand by that statement because he felt consumed by Bilbo, possessed in a way Azog could never have him and loved in a way Thranduil thought he did.

Slowly the hobbit begins to move, a steady lift of his hips drawing himself away from Thorin’s member and then settling back down in a shallow thrust. Bilbo feels tight and hot around his cock and it is almost too much as he finds a rhythm, fucking himself on Thorin’s member. Fucking seems too crude to use during this act, though he couldn’t describe it as making love either. It was too raw and primal to be that and yet too meaningful to be the other.

His hands move to Bilbo’s posterior helping the hobbit rise and fall onto his cock as his lips latch onto the hobbit’s neck. Bilbo drops his head back, exposing his throat for Thorin’s mouth to feast on as he shifts his hips and begins to bounce with wild abandon. The way the hobbit moans at the new angle almost becomes his undoing and apparently it is Bilbo’s undoing as he claws at his shoulders as his cock pulses against Thorin’s stomach and his muscles tighten around Thorin’s member. It’s too much, his body is over stimulated and his senses overpowered and he almost bites down on the pale throat as he releases his seed inside his husband.

Both exhausted and panting for breath, Bilbo settles against his chest and nuzzles his neck, content to have Thorin still inside him. Thorin simply wraps his arms around his husband’s back and closes his eyes. The water has become cold, but he feels as if he had been engulfed in flames so it is a nice reprieve.

“I love you,” Bilbo mumbles against his neck, and slowly lifts his head with a satisfied grin and presses his lips to Thorin’s. “I want to sleep like this, but there’s one more thing we need to do.” With a groan Bilbo moves away from him, severing their connection and exiting the tub with Thorin following moments after. They towel each other dry but do not dress and go over to the bed and sit down. Bilbo grabs the small box from the nightstand and sets it in between them. Inside the box is his bead and beside it a silver replica that read ‘Baggins’ instead. Bilbo had insisted on its design, wanting a twin for the one he had stolen and Thorin guided him through the process of metal craft and was pleased with the results.

Thankfully neither of their hair is wet due to the small amount of water in the tub. Bilbo had clearly feared for his carpets knowing what they were going to do in the tub and had filled it as much as he dared without knowing what the level would become with their combined bodies. Thorin collected his bead and looked at Bilbo’s hair. He had asked Bilbo to grow it out for the braid but it only seemed to be an inch longer. Still, he had already practised as Bilbo had with his hair and together they weave a marriage braid into each other’s hair and tie it off with the beads. He finishes first and sits back and lets Bilbo diligently braid his hair with a look of concentration on his face that is near comedic in its intensity. When he is done he sits back and marvels at his work in the same way Thorin marvels at the braid to the left before Bilbo’s pointed ear.

“You look beautiful, Bilbo Oakenshield.” Bilbo is red in the face but it is not from embarrassment. He lays down on the bed and Thorin copies him, pulling the covers over them both. He presses a kiss to Bilbo’s cheek and settles against his side.

“So do you, Thorin Baggins.”

Chapter Text

Sat before the open fire with his bare feet resting on Bilbo’s thighs, Thorin blew an enormous smoke-ring and sent it sailing behind the clock on the mantelpiece. Bilbo paused from rubbing his feet to applaud him, as he blew another and sent it up the chimney.

“And here I was thinking that my smoke-rings were impressive,” Bilbo compliments while putting himself down.

“I had a wonderful teacher.”

“Only wonderful?” Bilbo asks, unashamedly fishing for compliments.

“Charming, kind, patient,” he moves one of his feet to Bilbo’s crotch and gently presses against it. “Sexy,” he says with a wink and is unsurprised when the hobbit knocks his feet to the floor and climbs into his lap. Five years of marriage had not lessened their desire for one another, even if more of his hair has turned to grey and Bilbo’s roots are stark white like the snow crowning the mountain peak of Erebor.

Just as their lips are about to touch there is a loud knock on their door and Thorin sighed, annoyed. This had been the first night in a long time since he and Bilbo were alone, as they had been babysitting Frodo and his little sister Belladonna. He was worried that Drogo and Primula were going to have a boy as they said to honour him for saving their lives and making another child possible they would name him after him. It was an honour, truly but he was still thankful that it was a girl and they knew by appeasing Bilbo they by default appeased him and so they named her after Bilbo’s mother, which brought tears of joy to his husband’s eyes. Still, the desire for more children struck again and so Thorin and Bilbo found themselves with Frodo and Belladonna more often than not and the possibility of a Thoro Baggins was still on the horizon.

“Who could it be at this hour?” Bilbo asked annoyed while getting off his lap.

“Do you think it is Lobelia again? Should I hide the silver?” That woman had become a thorn in his side ever since he started building extensions to Bag End. It was a large enough smial but each time he built a new room, he wanted another and another until he had built two new hallways which Bilbo referred to as ‘Thorin’s Halls.’ Lobelia was forever checking his progress, inviting herself around and he suspected she was helping herself to their silver spoons, considering he constantly had to make new ones.

Bilbo mutters all the way to the door and he finds himself grumbling under his breath too, for a moment he has a horrible feeling they have turned into each other. He hears Bilbo open the door and quietly converse with someone as he looks at the portraits hanging above the fire. Some years ago Belladonna and Bungo’s portraits had been joined by a portrait of Frerin. A hobbit in Michel Delving, his name he could not quite remember had listened to him as he described his brother as he remembered him and he was pleased with the finished design, so much so he commissioned the same hobbit to draw his portrait and Bilbo’s and one of them together, although those were displayed in the bedroom and not the living room.

Wondering what is keeping Bilbo, he turns in his chair and catches Bilbo’s eye. The door is blocking the visitor from view and they are speaking so quietly he cannot make out the words over the roaring fire. It should not be a cause for concern but the look in Bilbo’s eyes reminds him of prey being faced with a bow, helpless and haunted. He feels as if Bilbo is trying to mentally pass a message to him but as much as he knows the hobbit he cannot read his mind.

Bilbo nods and beckons the visitor inside, only closing the door halfway as a small figure in a red hooded cloak enters their home. Thorin stands, worried by the look on the hobbit’s face and equally unnerved when Bilbo points to him and the hooded figure turns to him. The stranger pulls back their hood revealing short white hair and a long white forked beard that reaches his stomach and turns upwards. Dark eyes beneath white eyebrows twinkle in recognition and Thorin wastes no time in approaching his old friend.

“Balin!” He calls out joyfully and the older dwarf opens his arms in welcome and he eagerly falls into them and head butts his friend in greeting. He had tried to do that to Bilbo once, momentarily forgetting himself and Bilbo was extremely angry with him when he regained consciousness. “You are shorter and wider from last time we met.”

“Wider not shorter,” Balin corrects, rubbing his arms as though he does not truly believe he is real.

“Don’t I get a hug?” Another voice speaks up from the door and Thorin looks up to see Bilbo being smothered by a dark green cloak as a large dwarf stands by the door. His brown beard is interspersed with grey and the Mohawk has gone leaving a bald tattooed crown with brown hair growing all around but on top but Thorin would know him from anywhere, considering he is only one of the few dwarves taller than himself.

“Dwalin?” He calls in disbelief and untangles himself from Balin to hug and head butt his old friend. “What are you two doing here?” It had been so long since he had last seen a dwarf and he never expected to see his distant cousins again. “Where are my manners, you must be starved and in need of rest, would you like some tea?” It is as he has feared, he has turned into Bilbo. “Here, Balin let me take your cloak.” He helps the older dwarf out of his cloak ignoring the wary looks he is receiving from both brothers and hangs it up on a peg in the parlour beside Dwalin’s. “I’ll put the kettle on, Bilbo will you get the cakes?” He heads into the kitchen and can hear Bilbo directing his guests into the dining room, before departing to the pantry to retrieve the cakes. They were meant for Sunday as Daddy and his two sons were due for a visit but they could make more.

He must lose track of time, as he can hear Bilbo shouting him. Quickly he pours the tea and listens to his husband’s excitable calls. “Thorin! Thorin! Insufferable dwarf! Thorin!”

“What?” He shouts back, trying to lift all the cups.

“You never told me you had a son!” He spills the tea and shrieks as the hot liquid falls from the counter and splashes his bare feet. He drops all the cups as he starts hopping around cursing in Khuzdul, as he tries to make his way to the door to see what Bilbo is talking about.

The image in front of him should leave him incensed as he finds Bilbo stood at the door with a young dark haired dwarf nestled in his arms. He barely looks of age, with a beard shorter than Thorin’s own; Bilbo should be ashamed of himself.

“Twins!” Bilbo calls out joyously and hooks his arm around another dwarf, pulling him inside Bag End and then pulling them both against his chest. This new one is blond haired, though he can’t see much more as the dark haired one brings him tighter into the hug hiding him from view.

“Bilbo, I don’t know those dwarves, please unhand them.” He pinches the bridge of his nose feeling a headache coming, never mind the pain from his scolded toes.

“Hmm?” Bilbo asks petting both the young dwarves’ hair, clearly not listening to him. The young ones don’t seem to mind, as they are stooping down to rest their heads on Bilbo’s shoulder basking in the attention.

“I don’t have any sons,” he clarifies and watches Bilbo’s petting hands still in horror.

“I am so sorry,” Bilbo apologises to the cuddly dwarves who don’t seem to care. He has half a mind to go over there and pull them off his husband, but he won’t, he can’t bring himself to punish misguided children. Bilbo drops his arms and steps away from them, while the kids grin, well he assumes they both do, the dark haired dwarf had a nasty habit of standing in front of his brother, eclipsing him, he once knew a dwarf like that.

Bilbo seems perplexed, brows furrowed in concentration as he looks between the boy and him. Thorin finds himself looking from Bilbo to the child and back. Aside from being dark haired with short black beards and being dwarves the similarities end. Thorin’s hair was wavy and worse when wet while the child’s hair was straight, he had Durin blue eyes, the boy had brown, his eyebrows were thick while the boy’s were practically a fine line. By Bilbo’s racist reckoning the boy could easily be Dwalin’s child as much as his, maybe he was, why else would he be here?

The boy is looking between them unsure of their assessment of him. His enigmatic grin is faltering, before he suddenly says, “Kíli.”

“And Fíli,” the blond speaks up, stepping beside his brother and Thorin’s heart stops.

“At your service,” they speak as one and bow with a flick of their blue cloaks. When they straighten Thorin can only stare at the blond haired dwarf with the Durin blue eyes. He knows it is impossible and he’s insane for even thinking it, but that is the spitting image of his brother stood in front of him.

“Frerin?” He asks and the blond startles, clearly unused to being addressed.

“Fíli,” he corrects, and slowly becomes unnerved by Thorin’s intense stare. He can’t help it and he wants to pull the youngster into a hug but he doesn’t dare to. For a young boy he is dressed impressively in silk and fur, but clearly he is paranoid as he is covered in many weapons like a walking armoury, he’s definitely Dwalin’s boy. His eyes drop to the boy’s hip expecting to see an axe like his father wields but instead his eyes fall upon Deathless, the sword that should rightfully be his.

“Frerin had a son?”He asks aloud to no one in particular, he just needs to say the words, as he never knew. No one said at the funeral, no child followed the cart. He should have questioned it, he should have known. Frerin loved the ladies and the ladies loved him, and it seemed one loved him enough to give him twin boys. He doesn’t care how standoffish the blond looks, he drags him into a hug and rests his forehead against his, before grabbing the twin while keeping hold of the blond and resting his forehead against his. “I’m your uncle,” he doesn’t know why he tells them, he’s sure they know but he wanted to say it. He thought he had lost Frerin for good and instead he lives on in his two sons and the very image of him has Deathless on his hip and would rule as future king of Erebor.

“Ah Thorin...” Balin speaks up, leaving the dining room to join them in the parlour. He looks uncomfortable and struggles to maintain eye contact, which was not like the Balin of old. Back then he could admonish him with a look a league away, and he had used his steely gaze to bring him down from many a tree he thought he had climbed subtly to escape lessons. “Frerin passed with no children,” he informs sadly and Thorin had forgotten what it was like to have his heart rendered in two but the sudden pain in his chest reminded him.

“Then...” he says no more, pulling back to stare at Frerin’s double, the boy had said his name, twice no less, but he hadn’t been listening. Maybe Frerin came back, like Durin himself, they were of the same blood, and surely it was possible. Could Frerin have been Durin reborn? Could that be why his baby brother was blond? The legends were vague on Durin’s hair colour.

“May I introduce to you Prince Kíli and Crown Prince Fíli, sons of Princess Dís of the line of Durin.” So they were his nephews, at least he hadn’t completely messed his introduction up. He wonders why Frerin-Fíli is the crown prince but on closer inspection he can see they aren’t twins, Fíli is clearly older with more facial hair and a braided moustache. Frerin never braided his facial hair, he was too proud and vain forever running his fingers through his growing beard, and he imagines Fíli is the same, as clearly those braids are for vanity, a little boy trying to prove himself a king. It’s a terrible thing when your own brother outshines you, he would know but Fíli doesn’t seem to mind. That’s a good thing, he has come to loathe the jealous child he was and it heartens him to see the obvious love these two brothers have for each other.

The formal introduction reminds him that he hasn’t introduced Bilbo to his friends and family. They obviously already know, as only a dim-wit would have missed the matching wedding braids and beads, but still a formal introduction was required. He steps away from the boys to hook an arm around Bilbo who startles at his touch, before relaxing.

“Then may I introduce my husband, Bilbo Baggins...Durin,” he adds and receives a side-eyed glare from Bilbo.

“Oakenshield,” Bilbo corrects and holds his hand out for a handshake. Dwalin, who has finally followed his brother into the parlour, refuses to shake his hand, and Balin only takes his hand to pull him into a hug. It unsettles him, the way Dwalin turns his head away in disgust, it is damn well rude but he won’t cause a scene, not unless he has to.

“I once had dealings with an Oakenshield in Rohan,” Balin begins, releasing Bilbo and Thorin watches the young lads hang up their cloaks. “He made the finest saddles I had ever seen.”

“Thank you.”

“So it was you, I had always hoped that it was.”

“Is there anything to eat? We’re starved,” Kíli interrupts walking over to the glory box and scraping the mud off his boots.

“That’s my mother’s glory box!” Bilbo squeaks, red in the face from fury rather than embarrassment. The parlour floor is covered in mud, though it goes no further suggesting only the boys’ boots were dirty.

“Take off your boots,” Thorin instructs knowing it would seem an absurd request to a dwarf. “The floor is fine for your feet, I’m not wearing boots and I’m a dwarf.”

“You’re not a dwarf!” Dwalin growls, silencing the room.

“Excuse me?” Thorin asks with false politeness as at the same time Balin calls his brother’s name in warning.

“Look at you,” Dwalin sneers, and Thorin looks down. His feet are bare and the toes on his right foot are sore and red from the scolding tea. His trousers are three quarter length revealing strong calves covered in dark hair. A white shirt covers his torso and is tucked into his trousers, he can find no fault in the way he is dressed. “We came in search of a dwarven prince and instead we find this, a hobbit in a dwarf’s body.” He’s torn between anger and amusement but amusement wins out and he laughs out loud. “See?” Dwalin fumes. “The Thorin I knew would have smacked me in the face for that remark!”

“The Thorin you knew was murdered in the woods, and where exactly were you, Captain of his guard?” His words are cruel and unfair, he knows but he is only retaliating in kind. There is an intense silence and the tension in the air could be cut with a knife, this was not how dwarves fight. Words were rarely used to injure, it was fists that were used to solve problems but this seemed to be an age old problem, the last time they met Dwalin was unkind. He hadn’t done anything wrong then and he hasn’t done anything wrong now but Dwalin still attacks him. He wouldn’t mind if he deserved it but he had welcomed an old friend into his home, offered him food and drink, it was late so the offer of a bed was a given, so there was no reason for such hostility.

“You belong together,” Dwalin spits distastefully, choosing to glare at Bilbo and a rage that he hadn’t felt for so long consumes him. If Dwalin wished to insult him then that was fine, but to dare insult Bilbo inside Bag End, he would not tolerate it. He flies at Dwalin without warning and punches him square on the nose, knocking the dwarf to the floor as blood sprays on his toes and the muddy floor. His anger is not spent so he goes to follow up his attack with a kick to the ribs but someone runs at him, catching him around the waist and pulls him away. He expects it was the lads so he is quite surprised to see brown curls, as Bilbo desperately clings onto his waist to prevent further attacks.

“Who’s the hobbit now?” He taunts the fallen dwarf, since he can no longer physically assault him he chose to verbally do it. “You wouldn’t have lasted five minutes against Azog, you pathetic excuse for a dwarf. Get out! Go on, I’m ashamed I ever considered you my friend.” Slowly Dwalin gets back up to his feet and wipes the blood from his nose. Bilbo refuses to give up his grip around his waist, so he pushes Bilbo behind him, daring Dwalin to strike him. He doesn’t and he can’t think why, dwarves settle things with their fists but Dwalin seems to eye the hands clasped around his waist and he can almost see the fight drain out of him. He wishes it were the same for him, but it is not and he cannot forgive this slight against Bilbo. “Leave, before I kill you.” It scares him how much he means it, and Dwalin nods and collects his cloak and leaves without a backward glance.

“Thorin, a word?” He is not the least surprised that it is Balin that speaks first. Bilbo’s hands slip from his waist and he gives his husband a nod, letting him know that he is both fine and willing to speak to Balin.

“Come on lads; help me get a cask of ale and some food from the pantry.” The brothers give a faint cheer and kick off their muddy boots and depart with Bilbo. He could only wish that he understood Bilbo’s facial expressions as well as Bilbo could read his, but Bilbo always had a better understanding of him.

He directs Balin to the living room and he offers his chair to the elder dwarf as he stands by the fire. “I suppose you will make excuses for your brother?” Balin was the diplomat, it made sense.

“Not this time laddie,” Balin shakes his head and takes a seat. “Dwalin attacked your heart; there is no excuse for that but may I offer an explanation?” Thorin nods, as he was curious what prompted Dwalin’s campaign of hate against him. “You do remember how close you two were?” He nods again, they were like brothers, assumed lovers but that wasn’t true. “You were promised to a lass in the Iron Hills, you were expected to produce the next line of Durin heirs so Dwalin never pursued you in the way that he wished. Then you left, and Dwalin confessed all to me, how much he loved you, how he wanted to marry you. We tried to find out where you were, as Dwalin was going to go with you but as soon as we learnt your exact location King Girion rode into Erebor and asked for your hand in marriage. It was no lie that his constant proposals were upsetting your father and so I came to you with Dwalin. He was packed and ready to depart with you, he left his pack by the door while I questioned you about Girion and he was heartbroken to learn the truth that you were in love with the king. He could not bear to not have your heart so he chose not to leave with you. When the king died his son claimed you were in Dale and we searched everywhere for you and continued to search until...” Balin’s voice breaks and he coughs to cover his upset. “Still, here you stand before me, so our information was wrong. Dwalin blamed himself for your presumed death and when we learnt that you still lived he thought he would have a chance with you. I’m afraid to say he came here with the intention of courting you and marrying you only to find he was too late once again.”

“But we were children, has there been no other?” He feels as though his childhood has been a lie. Dwalin knew he feared he was not loved, he had told him often and all the while the dwarf was supposedly in love with him? He did not believe it.

“When your father returned with the news of your passing there was one, a caring young bookish dwarf by the name of Ori. If ever opposites attract it was then, but Ori’s elder brother caused problems and Dwalin was still in mourning so it was a doomed affair. Then of course we find you were not dead as we thought and Ori was all forgotten in his desire to be with you.”

“How did you find out that I was not dead?” The Grey Wizard no doubt, interfering old fool.

“That, my lad is a story for later. I do believe I was promised food?” Thorin nods and Balin gets up from the chair and they head into the dining room. Fíli and Kíli are already at the table sat close together, shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed as they shovel food into their mouths. They look more like starving urchins rather than princes and Bilbo is sat across from them, ignoring his plate of bread and cheese to stare fondly at the two boys.

“How much for the pair?” Thorin asks. “My husband is wealthy.”

“That maybe so, but as much as I would like to, I cannot sell the future king.”

“Just the dark haired one then?”

“There is no Kíli without Fíli and vice versa.” He says nothing further and allows Balin to sit in his chair and help himself to the ale and the bread and cheese and chicken and ham and what remains of the cakes. It would have been nice having another dwarf around the place but it was not meant to be.

He walks over to Bilbo and leans down, pressing a kiss against his cheek. “I’ll light the candles and the fires in my front room and in the bedrooms.” It’s spring but at night there is a chill in the air, especially in his halls for some strange reason. The Gaffer said it was because Bungo haunted his halls for building extensions on his pride and joy, he knew it was a lark but it made him think and the next day he visited Bungo’s grave with a wreath and an apology.

When he moves away from Bilbo he is met with twin grins. He wonders what he could have possibly done to distract the brothers’ from stuffing their mouths and realises he had openly kissed Bilbo. He can’t recall ever seeing dwarves kiss, not even his parents, he imagined they did but behind closed doors. Affection wasn’t easily shown by dwarves, his mother was a perfect example though they were quick with handshakes and head butts anymore affection shown than that was crossing a line. So he has just shown his nephews something they were not privy to but he doesn’t feel bad, it was the role of an uncle to broaden their horizons and they should not limit themselves in their capacity to think and feel and express themselves.

Leaving the others to eat, he lights the hearth in his own front room, Bilbo’s is warm and comfortable with their chairs before the fire but not suited for guests whereas his was designed for such. His halls also boasted a study, a bathroom and numerous bedrooms as he had become something of a babysitter among other things. One of the rooms was a twin room designed for Frodo and Belladonna though they had yet to use it due to the cold. He lights the hearth in there and candles before leaving his halls and entering his old bedroom. His guest rooms were not as grand as Bilbo’s and for a guest such as Balin only the best would do, so he lights the candles and the hearth and double checks that everything is clean and proper and feels like a child again trying desperately to win Balin’s favour proving that he could keep a tidy room.

He can still hear them eating and laughing in the dining room, the dark-haired dwarf- Kíli- is rather loud constantly drawing attention to himself and away from his brother. It doesn’t surprise him that the brothers complete each other; given Fíli’s appearance and Kíli’s disposition as a whole they make Frerin. He collects the boys’ boots that were kicked off haphazardly and places them on the shoe rack beneath their cloaks beside his own. He can’t blame the boys for trailing mud through the smial as he was guilty of the same crime many times, as dwarves didn’t tend to bare their feet often. Of course he was somewhat of an oddity now, constantly breaking the stereotype of his people in his quest to assimilate into society. The truth was his boots had seen better days but he could not part with them and the people of Hobbition happily walked around without any shoes and he thought he could do the same. He was horribly wrong as he’d only made it to the bottom of the hill before a red hot pain shot through his foot so sudden and painful he screamed bloody murder as his arms windmilled to keep him standing but he fell on his arse and stared at a fallen sign now attached to his foot by a nail. A sodding nail of all things, it was like the world was laughing at him and that day he stopped believing in luck, you made your own luck, it made sense, he never crafted any and he had none.

One thing he was never short on was stalkers in the Shire; he attracted them like bees to honey. That particular day he was being followed by Peregrin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck who were over from Buckland visiting cousins but they had sneaked away to follow him, covertly apparently but they couldn’t be more overt if they tried. Still they saw what had happened and ran up the hill to get Bilbo causing so much fuss on the way half the village came out to see what had happened. He thought it strange the way Bilbo stared at his feet but now he had half the village doing it and he’s quite sure a little lass said his feet were cute, it was humiliating. Among the spectators there was in fact a healer who removed the nail and blood poured from the wound upsetting many of the viewers and causing one to faint. The blood would not stop and they were worried he had nicked a vein so he was helped to Bag End by Daddy and the healer while Bilbo shouted at him the entire time.

It was not until he was in bed pale from blood loss and burning hot with fever from an infection caused by the nail that Bilbo revealed the truth about hobbit feet. To be fair he missed most of what he said due to the goblins dancing around the room and Bilbo was swaying in his chair to the clash of drums. He wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t, but the one thing he remembers clearly is Bilbo’s words to him. ‘Wear boots you stupid idiot, if you die I’ll kill you.’

He laughs at the memory and collects a cloth and a dustpan and brush. He wipes the blood off his foot first before cleaning the blood off the floor and sets about sweeping the caked mud up. When he thinks his job is done he remembers the mess he left in the kitchen as he hears a voice – Kíli again – enquire if they have any dessert. There are two pies in the pantry, a cherry and an apple one and selfishly he hopes Bilbo chooses the cherry one as he wants the apple one to himself but he did just threaten to murder someone so there was a good chance Bilbo was mad at him. Bilbo never fought him with fists or words, he showed his anger with deeds and his favourite was making cherry pie instead of apple. They didn’t fight often but when Thorin was angry he remained silent, or cast nasty looks Bilbo’s way and refused to kiss him when he went off to work in the morning. Sometimes if it was a bad argument he would leave the forge when Bilbo was due for luncheon and share a meal with Daddy or Drogo, or anyone else he could find.

When he enters the kitchen he finds that he has broken the four mugs. He hasn’t tried his hand at pottery but he might have to because Bilbo will not be happy about this. Still he has plenty more mugs and what Bilbo doesn’t know can’t hurt him. He cleans up the chipped and broken mugs and throws the remains in a bag and mops up the spilt tea while he heats some water. He doesn’t bother pouring the tea this time, he just makes a pot and sets it on a tray with milk, sugar and five mugs and takes it through to his living room. He goes to the pantry to collect some biscuits and is heartened to see his apple pie is still there. He provides double the amount of biscuits he usually would considering the boys appetites and returns to the dining room to fetch them.

It seems he gets there just in time as Bilbo is red in the face, chasing after the boys who are throwing dishes to each other. Balin seems amused, making no move to neither help nor hinder, happy with his ale and a show. He moves to catch a plate and he enjoys the way the brothers’ freeze in their play as he glowers at them. They are young and playful; he can’t fault them for that but Bilbo looks as though he is about to have an aneurysm so he must lay down the law. He can be intimidating when he wants to be, using his size and bulk to his advantage and there was the fact that he had just knocked their guard onto his arse. They should fear him, fear breeds a certain amount of respect and surely after everything he deserves a little respect.

“Wash those dishes properly and apologise to Bilbo,” he orders gravely, not liking the way he uses his voice to threaten but it works. The boys look properly chastised and clean the dishes, leaving them on the side to dry as they mumble their apologies to Bilbo with their heads lowered looking like kicked puppies. Bilbo, soft hearted and gullible immediately consoles them and he doesn’t like how suddenly he’s the bad guy. The boys needed boundaries, they were young and excitable, and he doesn’t recall being that loud and even Frerin was more reserved than them.

He looks at Balin seeking validation or approval, he’s not sure, but what authority he may have had is promptly flung out the window like burnt cake for the crows in his apparent need to appease the elder dwarf after all these years. “If you’ll follow me, there are tea and biscuits in my front room.” They probably won’t understand the distinction between the rooms, and to be fair it was only the fact that they were new that one could tell them apart. In his time in Rivendell he had learnt to mimic the design of the elves so that he could rebuild, and he had done the same at Helm’s Deep and Gondor, so it was only natural that he followed Bungo’s design, as if the hobbit himself had made Thorin’s Halls.

Balin follows first and then the boys at a more sedate pace with Bilbo at their heels, cooing to them. Surely he must know the dwarflings are playing him but either he is oblivious to it or charmed by it, either way he won’t stop fussing over them. It makes him feel bad in a way, making his shortcomings glaringly obvious as he could offer Bilbo many things but he could never give him children. Sure they borrowed some from time to time but it wasn’t the same and they both knew it.

Entering his living room Fíli immediately collapses into a chair and retrieves a small pipe from his pocket and lights it beside the fire. Kíli follows, dropping down next to him so close that their arms are touching but he turns from the fire to shovel biscuits into his mouth. Balin chooses to explore the room and stops to look at all the drawings stuck to the wall.

“Are you taking up art, laddie?” Dear precious Balin, always one to encourage when he was faced with disaster. It made him a great teacher, he was kind and patient even when he used to lose his temper and throw his books because he couldn’t understand something. Balin would calm him and praise him for what he did know, soothing a bruised ego. He never thought he would see that particular expression again, even though Bilbo constantly questions his intelligence and he can’t help but laugh and turn to Bilbo.

“Balin thinks I drew those,” Bilbo smiles enigmatically and stands beside Balin.

“He is improving,” he agrees and Thorin laughs louder, more amused than offended.

“I didn’t draw those, the Company did.” He protests and looks at the pictures, there are a few obvious ones, hobbit holes and trees and gardens but mostly colourful swirls and strange creatures, the identity of which he hasn’t a clue. It had taken him awhile to learn to praise the picture for effort rather than what it was due to mistaking a pig for a warg, in fairness it was a black cloud with five legs, a tail and red eyes so it was an easy mistake to make, harder to explain to the crying child’s mother though.

“Who is the Company?” Balin asks.

“The Company of Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo gives the full title but Balin only shrugs as it offers no more information.

“I told you we should have called them the Hobbit Army,” he interjects.

“So you have a garrison of hobbits that draw you pictures?” Balin questions with an arched brow and Thorin laughs.

“Not quite, the Company is made up of children, mostly Tooks and Brandybucks. We meet up once a week and go on adventures, go camping in the woods, treasure hunts, or come here to draw or play hide and seek.”

“My husband is a legend at playing hide and seek,” Bilbo praises out of the blue. “He lost one time and was so sore about it he built another room and told no one so he could win the next game.” His jaw drops as Bilbo tattles on him, and it wasn’t strictly true, he hadn’t only built that extra room to cheat, he needed a study and he knew an opportunity when he saw one.

“Speaking of cheats, he dips conkers in vinegar and pretends it is his skill that he remains undefeated.” The shocked noise from Bilbo appeases him.

“He got so lost in Bywater, the next village over instead of asking for directions he just sat in a field waiting to be rescued.” Balin laughs, no doubt remembering the child that used to wander around Erebor proclaiming he wasn’t lost just exploring when in truth he was helplessly lost. It wasn’t that he didn’t ask for directions in Bywater it was only that he could find no one to ask and he wasn’t waiting to be rescued either, he had fallen asleep.

“You know when I first came here he used to stalk me and he would deliberately dent his pans so he could have a reason to talk to me.”

“Wait, you knew about that?” Bilbo asks, blushing bright red.

“Not at first, it was only when I came to replace the nails and fix the shelf that I could find no faults and then I found the hammer in the kitchen draw that matched all the dents I had fixed.” He forgets that he occasionally becomes so focused on Bilbo everything falls away and he is ignoring his guests. It isn’t until Balin pointedly coughs that he realises he has turned to Bilbo and was leaning down staring into his husband’s eyes. He realises it looks as though he was going to kiss him and as he pulls away he sees the lads by the fire are watching them with anticipation.

“Sorry, would you like some tea?” There are plenty of seats because this room was used for the Company but he couldn’t sit as he found all the biscuits were gone. A quick trip to the pantry and he returns to find Balin and Bilbo with tea, a mug for himself but the boys have chosen to go without but Kíli is eyeing the extra biscuits. It’s nice and quiet around the fire but odd all the same, he’s happy they are here but he doesn’t know why and he would love to know how they found the home of a supposed dead dwarf.

“So what brings you here?” It’s tactless and straightforward but even he refused to trade words with a seasoned diplomat like Balin.

“We were on our way to Ered Luin to see our kin in the Blue Mountains. We thought it would also be beneficial for Fíli to see all the last remaining dwarf kingdoms before he takes the throne.”

“But why the Shire? You should have taken the Great East Road.” He turns to direct a smug smirk at Bilbo as he wasn’t completely clueless when it came to routes and directions.

“That is true, but we came to the Shire to come see if you were truly alive.”

“Let me guess, Tharkün told you where to find me?”

“Not exactly, no. Though for some time the grey wizard talked highly of the Shire and suggested that we visited saying that we may find friends there. He was forever telling your father to open up trade, if not for Erebor then for Ered Luin. He spoke of the fertile lands and plentiful crops and the hobbits peaceful nature but not one word was said about you.”

“He kept his word, then how did you know?” He asks perplexed and Balin looks uncomfortable.

“Best not be said in front of your husband.” That sounded ominous and as if he wasn’t going to tell Bilbo anyway, he was practically a Shireling now and he loved to gossip.

“My husband and I have no secrets.” Pointless keeping secrets from Bilbo, he could read him like a book that’s why he had to be kept in the dark along with Bilbo when the family threw a surprise birthday party for both Frodo and Bilbo.

“Very well,” Balin begins uncertainly. “Some months ago the elves came to pay homage and take a seat on the small council. To our surprise Prince Legolas was wearing a courting braid tied off with your mithril clasp.” Balin looks between him and Bilbo expecting to see a fall out, honestly after all these years and finding him happily settled and married they still believed he harboured feelings for the brat prince.

“Indeed? Tell me; is there a new member on your small council?”

“Yes,” Fíli calls out, as Balin pauses to think.

“Yes the lad is right.”

“Red haired?” Thorin presses.

“I believe so.”

“Yes,” Fíli calls out again. “His name is Gimli, the Master of the Coin’s son.”

“Does he wield an axe?”

“He does, like his father...how do you know?”

“Just a guess.” He says nonchalantly but then he thinks back to what they had said. “Why is Legolas on the small council shouldn’t that be...his father’s seat?” He manages to get out, refusing to use that elf’s name.

“It was but Thranduil has never returned to Erebor since the misunderstanding.”

“May he stay in his beloved Greenwood,” and rot he does not add.

“Have you not heard? It’s not the Greenwood anymore, a sickness lies over it. It is a dark place, renamed Mirkwood.”

“No we have not heard.”

“These are dark times we are in, orc roam the plains leaderless they were but now something calls to them. Trolls have come down from the mountains, and there is discord in the land. Still our journey was safe although we did fall into an old trap in the mountain pass, but no goblins set upon us, as there was naught but old bones and the smell of death. Thanks to you no goblin has been seen in years.” Bilbo takes his hand, casting a worried look his way. He knows Balin means it as a compliment but they were his friends and he feels responsible for their deaths.

“How do you know about the goblins?”

“Now that was Tharkün, he told our king that he was set upon by cutthroats mistaking him for a vagabond. Upon their persons he found an invitation written in black speech. He did not know how the bandits came by it and he could not ask as they lie dead at his feet. It was an invitation to Azog the Defiler, boasting of a dwarf he might like to see and signed by the Goblin King. Tharkün urged the king to call the banners and march on Goblin Town swearing by the description it was you and that Azog should never see you or else we would all be in peril. So we marched aided by the dwarves of the Iron Hills but there was only rotting corpses and a beheaded king to find. We searched the bodies, all were goblins save from two orcs and we found the collar and chain by the throne. We hoped you had escaped but we thought the Defiler had you and we readied ourselves for war, but as you know war never came.”

“No,” he agrees. “Instead you sought it at the gates of Moria.” It sounds as if he is accusing Balin for the massacre but he isn’t, it is just an old hurt that took his brother from him.

Balin shakes his head. “No, that was not the reason for that war. Your brother wanted to prove himself, he was always so jealous of you, of your beliefs and your strength to do what needed to be done. You saved your grandfather and prevented a sickness overcoming the kingdom, Frerin wanted to do something as equally brave and noble. We did not know of the alliance between Gundabad orcs and Moria orcs and for that mistake your brother and his men paid with their lives.”

“Was Azog there?” The thought that Azog ended his brother’s life still haunts his dreams, and now he knows his brother went into a hopeless battle to escape his shadow that he was never in. Frerin shone brighter than the sun and cast shadows, never was he in them, never.

“I cannot say for certain,” Balin says setting down his empty cup. “Though there were rumours that he was in Gundabad and had been for some time, as a vicious foe severed his arm.” Balin looks at him, long and hard. “Were you that foe?”

“I was,” he hears the boys gasp in amazement and suddenly look at him all starry-eyed.

“So it is true then, and he gave you the name Oakenshield?” Not that he knew but yes so he nods in response. “Why Oakenshield?” Balin asks, intrigued.

“I was on my way to Gondor and I was camping for the night and woke up with him beside me. He got on...” he pauses, looking at the two boys listening attentively. “Should the boys not be in bed?” Some elements of his story were not for children to hear.

“They are of age.” He looks at them with their batting eyelashes and downturned mouths and doesn’t believe it. “You were traipsing Middle Earth when you were a third of their age.” It’s hardly the same thing and besides Frerin-Fíli doesn’t seemed to have been taught as strictly as he had been back then.

“Bed time,” he announces while standing and the boys reluctantly stand up. “Bilbo could you make another pot of tea while I get the boys tucked in?” Bilbo nods and gets up, taking the tray away while he has the boys follow him into the twin bedroom. He helps Fíli remove his many weapons but does not touch Deathless in case a madness comes over him and he starts waving it around declaring himself a prince, he’d never hear the end of it from Bilbo. He might be babying them too much as he helps Fíli out of his surcoat and then tucks him into bed, pressing a kiss to his forehead much to the dwarf’s shock and delight. He finds Kíli stood by the second bed waiting for attention so he helps him out of his surcoat and tucks him into bed, also pressing a kiss to his forehead. The boys are smiling widely by the time he blows out the candles and bids them good night and shuts the door behind him.

He rejoins Balin and Bilbo in his front room and finds Bilbo has already poured his tea for him and takes a drink. “So where were we? Ah yes Oakenshield, I thought the orc meant to kill me but he had other ideas first. He slit my top open and as he was looking at me I crawled away to the fire. He came at me with a knife and I reached out for anything to protect myself with and managed to grab an oak branch and knocked the knife from his hand. While he was distracted I tried to run, but he caught my ankle and I fell beside my pack. He started to pull me back to him and I reached out and managed to grab a hold of Orcrist, and when he flipped me onto my back I swung the sword blindly and severed his arm. Later on my way to Rohan two orcs on wargs cornered me, called me Thorin Oakenshield in Westron and threw a mix of flowers and weeds at my head before riding off. I liked the name and used it to trade under.”

“You were trading with me, they were fine saddles you made lad, used by myself and your brother, father and grandfather. I knew only a dwarf could make such saddles and kept asking about you but all they would say is that you were nice to look at. After Frerin died my last order went unanswered and then there were rumours again, about a stone mason in Osgiliath. There was no name and no description just a dwarf and our hearts were already broken from Frerin’s passing so we did not build up our hopes. Not until a raven returned to us, an old bird but loyal and still had his wits and claimed he saw you at Cair Andros. He says you saw him too and that we should go to Gondor as soon as possible. Your father led a small group of dwarves and I was one of the chosen. Along the way we came across Tharkün and he joined us but we were too late. We asked around and were told that you had left with seven of your friends and co-workers at very short notice. We tried to find you but instead found what remained of your friends.”

“Friends?” He scoffs. “They tried to ra-rob me,” he pales as he almost revealed too much but Balin caught his slip.

“Thorin,” Balin has a way of saying his name that makes him spill all of his secrets and it hasn’t lessened with age.

“They didn’t leave with me, we worked together for years but I never learnt their names but we got along, or so I thought. Then they jumped me from behind, I had no idea they had been following me. They took my pack and sword and money and started kicking me, all seven of them, I couldn’t get up, I couldn’t stop them. I thought they meant to kill me and then suddenly they stopped and I thought it was over until they held me down. I tried to fight them off but I was too beaten up and there were too many of them, I’m sorry Balin.” The elder dwarf looks stricken.

“Did they...?” He cannot finish and covers his mouth with his hand as tears well in his eyes.

“No, Azog murdered them all before anything like that happened.”

“Good, and the second lot of decapitated bodies, were they bandits too?”

“No, they were a travelling band on their way to Bree.” He informs sadly. “Azog killed them because of me, because he was jealous just like he was jealous with those men assaulting me. I was his, I had unknowingly accepted him as my master by using the name he gave me and I was misbehaving. He didn’t want me to be with anyone else, just him, only him or remain alone. I tried to be alone until I was driven mad by the isolation, he had broken me and I gave in and called to him. He meant to have me before he killed me but in his obsessive stalking of me he hadn’t noticed that he had wandered into an old enemy’s territory. His enemy had noticed and waited for his chance and Azog gave him his moment by climbing on top of me. I watched as a bear knocked him off me and I watched Azog’s final moments as the bear slashed his throat. Afterwards the bear became a man, he was a skin-changer by the name of Beorn, and he became a good friend and took me in.” He adds more wood to the fire and then sits back down. “Why did you think Azog killed me and then himself?”

“Oakenshield was not the only name he gave you; there was another you were known by. All the orcs we questioned told us the same name, among them you had outgrown Oakenshield and were now the King of Moria.”

“Really? Why would he call me the King of...” he stops when it dawns on him. Azog thought himself to be a king, could well have been, who kept the ancestry of orcs? His home was the stolen kingdom of Moria, which would have made him King of Moria. He never did learn who he was, he had no idea that he was of the noble line of Durin and heir to the throne of Erebor. To Azog he was a common dwarf and the only way to raise a commoner’s status was by marriage. Dwalin wanted to marry him and now Azog? This night was full of surprises.

“One of the orcs we questioned told us that Azog played too roughly with you and when he was finished he found you dead beneath him. We didn’t want to believe him, but then we found Azog’s decomposing body in the woods with a wound at his neck that looked self-inflicted. We knew he wanted to take you back to Moria and your death was accidental so we searched the surrounding area but could find no fresh grave.” Balin pauses to finish his tea. “Your father wanted to keep searching but we all knew it was his guilt that motivated him, in his heart he knew you were gone. Still it took Tharkün to remind him of what he had rather than what he had lost and we returned to Erebor. By this time King Thrór’s health was failing and the news of your death finally broke him and cured what remained of his dragon sickness. He removed the Arkenstone from above the throne and renamed it the King’s Bane and then he held a funeral for you and your empty tomb is still in Erebor beside your brother and now your grandfather. He had emptied most of his vaults but there are halls within halls in Erebor and he had secreted away some gold. After your funeral he gave away his hoard to the lower classes abolishing the class system in your name and now even our poorest people are rich and want for nothing.” He thought he was doing rather well showing little emotion, Bilbo had been writing his story and they had discussed things making them easier to talk about, but news about his grandfather would always be a sore point. He hadn’t wanted to yell at him, he hadn’t wanted to leave and break his heart. For so long he wanted to apologise and then he lost the chance as his grandfather died and he was too weak to attend his funeral.

“Thorin, could you join me in the kitchen please?” Bilbo asks and he nods and stands up. “Balin, would like you anymore tea or biscuits, perhaps some wine?”

“Some wine would be nice.”

“We’ll just be a moment.” He doesn’t know why it would take the both of them to fetch some wine but he follows Bilbo into the kitchen regardless and is immediately pulled into a hug. “I know that what he just said hurt you and you are trying so hard keeping up appearances but you don’t have to. Your grandfather loved you and I know you loved him, you don’t have to pretend that you don’t feel anything.”

“He died thinking I didn’t love him.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You don’t know that he didn’t!” He snaps back. “Sorry,” he sighs, defeated.

“No, let it out, if it comes out in anger, let it.”

“I sent him to his grave, it was my fault, I killed him!” Bilbo shakes his head but says nothing. “Frerin died because of me, believing he was in my shadow, I don’t even cast shadows. Now there are no goblins, a whole race wiped out because of me,” his voice is getting higher as he becomes hysterical. “I even feel bad about Azog, I’m mourning the Defiler, you’ve married a mad dwarf!” Bilbo holds him tighter as his anger simmers. “Do you know what Balin told me earlier? He said Dwalin was in love with me and came here to tell me and court me. And what did I do? I punched him and knocked him to the floor and swore to kill him. I hurt everyone that loves me.”

“You haven’t hurt me.”

“Yes I did and on our wedding day.”

“These things were not your fault, stop blaming yourself. After all these peaceful years in the Shire and you still hold on to your anger and grief, it isn’t healthy. You are letting it fester and sooner or later it will poison you. You need to learn forgiveness and then the first person you need to forgive is yourself.” Bilbo speaks the truth, he knows it but it is easier said than done. Dwarves were not a forgiving race and forgiveness could not be achieved if it is not truly given and he could not give it. Instead he leans down and kisses Bilbo, he can be wise but he’d prefer him to be silent. “Stop trying to distract me,” Bilbo protests but he ignores him and kisses him again. “Fine you bloody stubborn dwarf, go back in the room and I’ll fetch the wine.”

He does as instructed and does not completely like the way Balin is eyeing him as Bilbo follows moments later with the wine and three glasses on a tray. Once the wine is poured he sits back with his cup and tries not to gulp it down as he wants to. It’s too fruity and not his favourite but Bilbo likes it and he needs something stronger than tea so he drinks it anyway.

“So when will you be travelling to Ered Luin?” He asks trying to make it sound innocent and not rude.

“Oh, well, we won’t be going now.”

“Why not?” Balin looks uncomfortable and finishes his wine rather quickly.

“I’m afraid to say I haven’t been completely honest with you. We were only going to Ered Luin if the rumours of your death were true. Had we found you alive and well we were tasked to bring you home.” His only response is stuttered nonsense. “Your father is ill, not the dragon sickness, the King’s Bane was buried with the king. Age catches us all and before he dies he wishes to see you again, safe at home where he may pardon you and you can reclaim your title and when he passes you will become king of Erebor.” All this time he worried about being a prince, he never considered that he would become king, especially after the Arkenstone fiasco. “Wouldn’t you like to be king’s consort under the Mountain?” Balin asks Bilbo.

“A lovely title but I am a Baggins of Bag End and so is he.” Thank Mahal for Bilbo.

“It’s true, I am no king and Erebor is not my home.” To say Balin looked disappointed would be an understatement.

“It seems your mind has been made up and you have always been wilful Thorin, so I shall not try and change your mind. Now I am old and tired, will you show me to my room?”

“Of course,” Thorin gets up and helps Balin up and takes him to the guest bedroom. Balin opens the door and then looks at him.

“We will leave tomorrow at noon if you have a change of heart. Good night Thorin.” Balin shuts the door in his face to show he is displeased with him. Still, it was better than a slap on the back of the hand.

He spots Bilbo carrying out a tray from his room and he returns to blow out the candles and put out the fire before going to the kitchen with the tray of wine and glasses. Quietly they do the dishes, Bilbo washes while he dries and puts them away. Once done they blow out the candles in the kitchen and living room where the fire has already died and the parlour before retiring to bed. They change into nightshirts in silence and climb into bed.

“You should go,” Bilbo whispers as he settles down to sleep.

“What?”

“I think it will be good for you.”

“You want me to leave?” Bilbo sighs and leans over to press a quick kiss to his lips.

“Not without me. Let your father see you, let him pardon you.”

“I don’t want to be king,” he answers honestly.

“Then don’t be, see your father, let him pardon you and then abdicate the throne and let the blond have it.” He laughs realising Bilbo can’t tell the boys apart.

“Fíli,” he corrects. “I can’t just up and leave, what about my pumpkins and what about the Company? Who would look after Bag End? We’ll be robbed by the Sackville-Bagginses and there’s the forge.”

“Stop making excuses, Drogo can look after Bag End, the Gaffer can look after the garden and Daddy can look after the forge and the Company can go a few weeks without you.”

“What do I tell Daddy?” For the past five years he had taken to introducing Daddy as his father, and his sons as his brothers. Had he not married Bilbo he would be known as Thorin Twofoot.

“Daddy will be pleased you have made it up to your real father. It won’t make a difference to him; he will still consider you his son because he likes to boast about you. Besides you will be coming home to him, you need this, let your father forgive you and then you can start to forgive yourself.” There’s a long pause, though he does not know why, his husband was far too clever for his own good.

“We’ll go then, we’ll go to Erebor.”

“The Prince in Exile Homeward Bound that could be a new chapter in our book.” He says nothing, only presses a kiss to Bilbo’s cheek and turns on his side. Bilbo takes his usual position curled against his back with his arm around his waist and before long he can hear his husband’s soft snores but for him sleep will not come.

Chapter Text

The life of a Hobbit was simple and could be argued quite dull if one were not related to the daring Tooks or the kooky Brandybucks. Bilbo had the advantage of being the son of one of the most daring hobbits to have ever lived in the Shire. The tale of his mother and the three trolls was the stuff of legend and was still talked about to this day; though it was largely due to the stolen hoard she brought back with her and not her quick thinking to outsmart the trolls.

They say his mother’s sense of adventure faded when she met Bungo though he thinks they are misinformed if they believe so. Belladonna had lost none of her spirit and sense of adventure only her journey had changed as she wished to become a mother and that wish was fulfilled. They had wanted more children but they were not blessed and Belladonna doted on him as if he were a rare gift. He had lived for his mother’s stories, of old tales of the Tooks, to the elves in Rivendell but his favourite story had always been The Exiled Prince of Erebor. It was a story that resonated with him and even more so when his parents had died. A child pure of heart and lost in a world he was too good for, he could sympathise and when he had nobody in his mind he had the prince. They were childhood friends and though no one could see him in his heart he knew his prince was there.

Then he had opened his door late at night to soggy cousins and an equally soggy dwarf and deep down he knew his prince had come just like his mother always said he would. Of course her version was far more romantic than what truly happened. She had made it sound glorious as it would be an unmistakeable moment of two halves of the same soul uniting. There was no mention of a damp dwarf with ill manners and scathing words. She never said he would be teased mercilessly and smirked at and made to feel small.

Thorin says it was his abysmal flirting but he feels it was more of a defence mechanism as he tried to acclimatise himself to his surroundings. By the end of the night he had ceased with his barbed comments and was perfectly behaved but that could be largely due to keeping his mouth shut. His husband had the unfortunate habit of speaking before he thinks and he could speak for hours if no one was to stop him. He was quite sure he was in love with the sound of his own voice and with such a voice a deep baritone that made his toes curl with the right words; he was a little in love with it too.

Belladonna had said they would stay together forever but Thorin couldn’t leave quick enough, even tried to refuse second breakfast if it could be believed. Thorin likes to tell everyone he was stalking him in the early days but it wasn’t true, not entirely, he hadn’t gone to the market that day for the express purpose of watching Thorin but it had happened. It had started with a laugh honest and open and he turned to see Daddy and Thorin by the forge empting the backroom and he was awe struck by the smile on the dwarf’s face. Thorin had smiled to him the night before but there was smugness in it, it wasn’t genuine as the one he was sharing with Daddy and he was a little jealous. For a moment he thought his prince had come and fallen in love with Daddy until he noticed the instant affection was not of lovers but father and son. It was no secret that Daddy always wanted an apprentice and acquiring a dwarf was quite a boon and he knows now that Thorin was desperately searching for a father figure.

He had wanted to talk to Thorin, he would have said anything just to hear the sound of his voice but he was too busy and he didn’t want to impose so he watched for a while until he started to hear whispers about his presence and decided to come back later. So he did and he could see Thorin sat at a table bored and out of the corner of his eye he saw that Thorin noticed him and perked up, as though he wished to speak to him too. It was perfect but his courage failed him and he could not even so much as look at Thorin as he bought some trivial thing and ran away. He cursed himself the entire way home and tried again and again and again but his Took blood only afforded him a nod of acknowledgement before the market had closed.

He tried again the next day and gave himself a dreadful fright when he walked smack into the dwarf he was stalking. Not stalking, privately investigating in pursuit of friendship. He managed a hasty hello before he retreated behind a stall and watched Thorin making small purchases and keeping an eye on his ever shrinking purse. He couldn’t help but follow him, as precaution should the dwarf require something he could not afford, he had money and plenty to spare and he would happily spend it on the dwarf. In truth he envisioned himself saving Thorin from a humiliating moment and paying for his things, even carrying them as the gallant fellow that he was. Thankfully the moment did not occur because should it have and he had behaved in that way Thorin would have never forgiven him. He would have misconstrued his mindless gallantry for buying his affection and thinking because he was a dwarf he was of a race that could be bought. Thorin was a grafter and would earn every piece of silver he spent rather than be a kept pet.

The third day was the day he would talk to the lonely dwarf. He could see Thorin was desperate for any kind of communication rather than just being asked for nails. He had wanted some nails but he could see the slump in Thorin’s shoulders every time he was asked and so he refrained from asking. Well, he would have if he could even bring himself to talk to him. He was determined to talk to him and he had dressed his best and polished his brass buttons until he could see his reflection. He was sure Thorin would be his friend, he had no others and Daddy didn’t count, and they had got on like a house on fire once Thorin quit verbally flaying him. If he didn’t want to be his friend, well that was his choice but there was nothing wrong with a nice greeting between two acquaintances.

Oh but there was. Thorin was not a hobbit; Thorin did not understand what good morning meant. It was foolish of him to greet him in such a way, narrow minded and arrogant really and he wasn’t those things. Thorin wouldn’t want to be his friend now, not even if he paid him to be and yes unfortunately he had considered employing Thorin to keep him company but perfectly above board. A smoking companion, someone to trade stories with because Thorin looked like he had some stories to tell and not all of them good. Those dreams were dashed now, so once again he made a quick exit and stayed in Bag End where he belonged.

Drogo tried to coax him out but he wouldn’t have it. He was sure if he waited long enough Thorin would forget what an uncouth idiot he was and welcome him back with open arms. He was clearly dreaming of the open arms as Thorin had shown no desire for him and he would be lying if he said it hadn’t hurt. What a befuddled tale of romance he was forced to endure, waiting patiently for his prince to arrive only to be shunned romantically. Souls could bond without a sexual element though and he would rather live a life with Thorin in it than without him. A friendship that would last the ages and be told in stories across Middle Earth though not quite a love story but just as special was worth pursuing.

Then came the warg and he thought his world had turned to ash. He was blowing smoke rings over the hill when he had heard the screams and his Tookishness took over and he ran into the town. Celandine Brandybuck had caught hold of his arm, frightened and hysterical she told him how she tried to stop Thorin though she never said what she tried to stop him doing. She was too distressed to elaborate and he found himself making his way towards the town square where people were shaking their heads sadly at him and taking off their hats. He didn’t know what it had meant, or to be perfect honest he knew exactly what it meant but he didn’t want to believe it. They shouldn’t know about his feelings for Thorin but apparently they did.

He saw the dead warg, he saw the blood and he saw the passed out and bitten hobbit but what he did not see was Thorin. When he had asked they simply pointed at the warg and he had never felt so angry in his life, not even when he found Andwise in the woods with Lily. How undignified to let the corpse of his beloved remain beneath a warg, it was disgusting behaviour, Thorin had died for them. He let them know it too and soon they had the creature off him and there he lay still and covered in blood. His eyes were closed and that gave him a small comfort as he looked peaceful no longer caged and haunted and sometimes sad just peaceful. He had wanted to say so much, tell him that he was his dream, that he loved him even if he did have a temper and was mean to him. He wanted to hold his hand, clean the blood from his face and comb his hair, protect him in death as he failed to protect him in life but then blue eyes opened and a voice he thought he should never hear again greeted him and all turned to darkness.

When he had opened his eyes and saw the ramshackle room he was in he thought he had died, and when he turned his head to find Thorin beside him holding his hand he knew he was dead. Still, it wasn’t so bad, not when he could freely touch him and bask in his attention. The kiss was unexpected and real, too real and he panicked which startled Thorin and made him retreat. When the dwarf placed his hand over his still beating heart and promised he was not leaving everything seemed much clearer as if he had awoken from a dream. It was rather fanciful believing a kiss from his prince had woken him and he didn’t want to get swept up in the romanticism of it all but it was true. Before Thorin arrived he had been living a half life, he was naught but a ghost haunting Bag End until Thorin pressed his lips to his and breathed life into him.

And what a life it had been, far more than any Baggins deserved. Six years of companionship, five of those years of wedded bliss and now five months of travel and who knew he would have travelled further than any hobbit had travelled before, surpassing Bullroarer Took and his mother. He had met Lord Elrond of Rivendell and was surprised when the elf spoke highly of his mother and in private blessed his union with Thorin. Thorin gave him the tour of the grounds and showed him buildings he had helped restore and he didn’t begrudge him time spent with the elves to discuss his mother. Not one to be idle, Thorin found his old stone mason colleagues and went back to work as though one hundred and thirty two years hadn’t passed. What happened to his other travelling companions he was not sure although he did hear heated whispers from the elves about a certain fountain being used as a bath and a strain on their stores of wine so he imagines they were enjoying themselves.

They went on to the mountain pass but unfortunately there were no stone giants to be in awe of. He supposes it was a blessing as he was far too concerned with Thorin and the memories this place may bring back to him. The pass was thin and dangerous so he could not stand beside Thorin or take his hand in support but he hoped his presence would help. He was fortunate that the others kept quiet about the genocide of the goblins and he thinks that Balin had seen something in Thorin when they had discussed the goblins that made him realise all was not as it had seemed.

Dwalin had a rough and abrasive attitude and he had feared he would make a scathing comment but during the trip he would only speak quietly to his brother or shout at the boys. His presence wasn’t even registering with the dwarf while Thorin’s was probably too much as every now and again he would catch the taller dwarf staring longingly at him. He was torn between feeling bad and angry though his anger won more often than not as he thought if Dwalin’s feelings were true then he should have fought for him. It was too easy to play the blame game and he was somewhat fatalistic but Dwalin had been in a position to ease Thorin’s heart as a child and he chose not to. He had the opportunity to travel with Thorin and keep him company and he chose not to. So many things could have been avoided if Dwalin had been selfless but he was too concerned with his own wellbeing and possessive of Thorin’s heart that he would rather see it broken than to belong to another.

When they met Beorn he was amazed but the skin-changer wasn’t as happy by their presence. He was quite surprised by the anti-dwarf tirade Beorn gave them and he expected Thorin to kick up a fuss only to notice Thorin wasn’t actually there. So he took it upon himself to introduce his companions and himself and tell him briefly of their journey before Thorin finally appeared with a handful of wildflowers and much to his and their companions surprise Beorn’s demeanour immediately changed as he swept Thorin up in his arms and carried him off. He knew Thorin wasn’t too happy being parted from the earth and being carried was a great insult to a dwarf but you certainly wouldn’t know it from the way Thorin was behaving, happily nattering away as if nothing was amiss.

It was terribly inappropriate to be jealous of their would-be host but there was no getting away from the fact that his husband was quite literally in the arms of another man. There was no fear of being made a cuckold but to simply cease to exist was just as bad. It took every bit of the Baggins in him not to cause a scene because as troubling as the scene before him was if it hadn’t been for Beorn this scene would have never been possible. Thorin would have been dead, or taken to Moria and named king and endure whatever horrors Azog had in store for him. So he swallowed his pride and followed them both into the wooden cabin.

It was quite a home and Beorn was a talented carver with an affinity towards animals. When Thorin was finally released he introduced him and he found he had very much in common with the skin-changer and he worried that Thorin had replaced Beorn in his life by using him as a surrogate. It was a silly thought as there was nothing but friendship and understanding between them as they were both survivors of Azog. His eyes had been drawn to the broken manacle around the skin-changer’s wrist and he had wondered if he had chose to keep it on or he could not remove it. Beorn seems the sensible sort so he thinks it is the former rather than the latter because if he truly wished to be rid of it he could have asked Thorin for help a long time ago. Some might say it is a badge of honour like Thorin’s shorn beard but he knows the truth, like Thorin’s beard it is a hideous scar to torment him for past wrongs.

He does not think the manacle reminds him of what Azog did to him but perhaps more of what he was forced to do. Thorin never divulged the details of what happened to Beorn and he never asked but he could imagine what happened. Though the manacle doesn’t remind Beorn of Azog, Thorin clearly does and though he obviously loves Thorin as a friend and is concerned for his welfare he cannot stand the sight of him because of the reminder, so they are asked to leave but Beorn promises they will come to no harm as he will be watching.

The boys grow tired of the journey and cannot understand why Thorin does not wish to pass through Mirkwood as it was two hundred miles north while four hundred miles south to go around. Growing up with tales of the Greenwood he had seen for himself that something was wrong, the forest seem sick as if a disease lied upon it. It would be unfair to call it the Greenwood as there was no green in sight just brown dead trees and a sense of foreboding in the oppressive darkness of the forest. The boys were undeterred and relentless though and their constant whining put Thorin on edge, which in turn put him on edge. They had to be stopped and Yavanna forgive him for the racist slurs he said about the woodland elves. The Company had froze when he gave an impassioned speech about the untrustworthy duplicitous tree-scum and he thought of Thranduil as he said the most vile things that no decent hobbit should know never mind say. After he gave his speech he tried to calm himself because he had worked himself into a state by thinking of the vile thing that lived in those dark dank woods and preyed on children. There were questions, of course and thankfully Thorin realised what he had done for him and went along saying he knew of Bilbo’s animosity towards woodland elves and thought it best to go around. It wasn’t enough, the dark haired dwarf; the spitting image of Thorin though Thorin claims otherwise, would not let the matter rest. Thinking quickly he told them as a child playing in the woods a woodland elf had swung down from a branch, knocked him to the floor and kicked him for good measure. It was a terrible story, hardly believable but his companions were so willing to believe badly of the elves that they had accepted his tale as truth and it was agreed that they would travel around Mirkwood.

They came to no harm as Beorn promised and managed to cross the sea to Esgaroth. The town was a masterpiece of human ingenuity and though it did slightly smell of fish it was still the largest trading centre in Middle Earth surpassing Dale as all ships made port here first. He had thought they would book a room and push on towards Dale on the morrow so as he was stood counting his coins with Thorin he was quite surprised by the boys’ outlandish behaviour. Apparently their covert operation wasn’t as covert as they had imagined as the boys announced their arrival and called for a feast and summoned the Master of Lake-town. He didn’t know what to expect but he certainly wasn’t expecting a heavy set fellow in lavish gold robes with thinning ginger hair to be the Master. There was something untoward about him, though it was too early to cast aspersions on his character. Perhaps it was his lank greasy hair, or blotchy skin or the calculation in his blue eyes and the way the corner of his mouth quirked upwards revealing small yellowed teeth as he rubbed his fat sweaty hands together when he saw the princes. For a moment he naively believed the Master was pleased to see the boys as he threw a great celebration in their honour. It was a grand affair for such short notice but the people of Esgaroth did their very best, which at the time he thought was done out of the goodness of their hearts but as he learned before they had left no such favour was given. Everything was to be paid for and he daresay twice as much for what it was worth. The Master was a greedy selfish man and the boys had grown up knowing that money was no object so they were the perfect victims for such a devious despicable character.

Before they had left, he and Thorin changed attire so they would make a good impression. He had selected a clean white shirt, brown trousers and his best green waistcoat with polished brass buttons and finished his look with his warg fur coat, as Thorin said it would be cold in the mountain and it gave him just cause to sing the praises of his husband. Thorin however was clearly trying to kill him as he wore his wedding attire, leather trousers that always turned his mind to mush, a blue tunic in honour of his house, which he would soon be welcomed back into and finally a long velvet surcoat inlaid with silk with fur trimmings. He wanted to marry him all over again as his husband looked like he did on their wedding day, like a king.

He had refrained from tackling his husband onto the bed and they left by boat with a short farewell celebration which was probably paid for. The boat ride was nice and when the mist parted and they saw the Lonely Mountain it was awe-inspiring. He had spoken of Erebor as if it was his second home and never did he think he should live to see it. Their companions did not know why he and Thorin embraced then, for them the sight was nothing new, but for Thorin absence makes the heart grow fonder and for him to even see the mountain was a dream come true.

He had thought Hobbits were terrible gossips but it seems they had met their match in mankind as they docked on the Dale port and a cry went up. ‘The king has returned’ they had announced and the Company had a brief look around for King Thráin but found him nowhere in sight. Dale was a hive of activity as people lined the streets and clapped and blew whistles and threw flowers. The boys were in their element, smiling widely and waving while Dwalin was scowling and Balin was looking perplexed. He shared in Balin’s confusion, as the boys announced who they were in Esgaroth but they never gave Thorin’s identity away. Still, the people of Lake-town probably took one look at him and saw the similarities between him and the dark haired dwarf and came to their own conclusions. They were aware that the boys’ father was dead and they had a missing uncle and Thorin always had a kingly presence so by the simple art of deduction it was clear who Thorin was.

Unlike the Master of Lake-town the people of Dale seemed genuinely pleased to see them. He almost feels swept up in the attention but as always his concern for Thorin keeps him grounded. He doesn’t presume to know his husband’s mind but he can read his facial expressions easy enough and his husband is certainly looking surprised. He expects the line of well-wishes reaches all the way to Erebor but his theory is proven false as they are ushered towards the town square and a dark haired man wearing burgundy leather stands with a boy and two girls awaiting them.

“Who is that?” He whispers to Balin as Thorin seems transfixed on the man.

“King Bard,” he nods though not really taking it in more concerned by Thorin’s assessment of the man. He was convinced Thorin only looked at him in that way but apparently he was mistaken. He does not mean to glare at the king but he wants to weigh his competition. The man is tall, obviously with brunette hair that just reaches his shoulders and has a thick moustache and a thin goatee with warm brown eyes and a pleasant smile. There is no getting away from the fact that he is handsome and that his husband is quite clearly taken with him as though he has seen his face before.

“King Bard did you say?” He needlessly questions as it finally dawns on him what is happening. Bard is a descendant of King Girion, the only competition he ever had for Thorin’s heart and he was safe in the knowledge that Girion was no longer a threat; he hadn’t considered a descendant lookalike to catch his husband’s eye.

To his horror he watches the king pass a dozen red roses tied with a burgundy ribbon to Thorin who blushes, actually blushes, he hadn’t blushed in years. He hopes they are both ignorant of what those roses mean or else he will grab them off Thorin and stamp on them. A dozen red roses was an act between Thorin and Girion and should not be repeated, of course he was going to have to buy twenty four now. Bard does not seem to be blushing but he is leaning forward smiling charmingly at his husband and Thorin is smiling back.

“I’m Bilbo!” He announces since no one else is willing to introduce him. “Thorin’s husband!” He announces just as loud and grabs Thorin’s hand. He’s not sure if he should slap Bard with his left hand with his wedding band on or whip his braid in his face. It is not like him to behave so irrationally and he liked to consider himself a pacifist if one were to ignore the pan incident with his cousin and blacking out Sandyman’s eye when the miller attempted to kiss his husband. According to Thorin he had managed to press their lips together before he pulled away. Sandyman had behaved differently towards Thorin ever since their wedding day and when he volunteered to go camping with the Company no one thought anything of it. It was a tentative friendship and they both wanted to make it something more though their goals differed greatly. The next day his husband had returned noticeably upset and it took him hours to get the story from him. He was told after the children had gone to sleep he had joined Sandyman by the fire and they heated marshmallows and made small talk and then out of the blue Sandyman turned and kissed him so suddenly their lips connected before he could move away. He’s surprised to hear Thorin hadn’t knocked the daylights out of him but there were children present and Thorin was clearly internalising the events finding a way to blame himself for leading Sandyman on. He had done no such thing and despite Thorin’s protest he went directly to Sandyman’s smial and as the scoundrel opened his door he punched him in the eye and told him to keep away from Thorin.

He is not above punching Bard in the eye, if he could reach but a gut punch could be just as painful. Honestly flirting with his husband...the...the...the harlot! He can see why Thorin was so taken by Girion if Bard is a reflection of the past king. Thorin would have been completely helpless against him, he was practically a hormonal tween and suddenly given all the freedom in the world. Girion was older than Bard is and that no doubt stirred Thorin’s longing, confusing his feelings for a lover and a father figure because his husband had father issues but always became tetchy when he tried to talk about it.

“Shouldn’t we be going?” He asks aloud being terribly rude but darn it, so are they! He’d tell them to get a room had he not been married to one of them. The king shakes Thorin’s hand but the touch lingers as the two simply stare at one another, like he and Thorin used to do. They’ve become complacent, that’s the problem but a ghost from the past was not about to break their bond. He knocks Thorin’s hand away and shakes Bard’s hand and the others follow suit.

“I am so glad you have returned I feel as if our families are united, if you wish to come to the palace for a rest and refreshments you are more than welcome, my home is your home.” The King is quite clearly an orc in a man’s body, boasting about past relations between their houses as though he was not present! The audacity!

“No, no that is quite alright, we must be on our way now, good day.” He knows his companions, aside from Thorin who is still staring at Bard, are looking at him as if he has gone quite mad. If they wish to be ignorant to the events transpiring before them then that was their prerogative, he however would not be standing for it.

By some miracle they are released and carry on their journey through Dale towards Erebor. His anger is still as potent as before as Thorin casts looks over his shoulder, the same way he used to when he leaves Bag End in the morning, when had he stopped looking back?

“I see no apple pies in your foreseeable future,” he warns and his words bring Thorin to a halt.

“Are you threatening me?” His husband all but growls at him.

“What? No I....”

“You have no claim over me,” Thorin hisses, coming closer. “I’m not afraid of you.” He has no idea what has come over Thorin or why he has been perceived as a threat.

“I am your husband,” he reminds the enraged dwarf.

“Start acting like it then,” Thorin then pushes past him knocking into his shoulder so forcefully he almost loses his balance. The action doesn’t hurt but the act itself does, Thorin would never speak to him in that way, even the night they met he was only teasing and obnoxious but for a moment he thought his husband hated him.

To his shame he feels tears welling up in his eyes and as Dwalin turns to smirk at him he refuses to shed them. Thorin was just confused and upset, that was all, too many ghosts on this journey that was the problem. It was so bad in fact the dark-haired lad spoke to Thorin more to overcompensate for the blond lad’s lack of affection because more often than not Thorin would call him Frerin and answering to a name that was not his own never mind a deceased brother and uncle started to weigh heavy upon him.

The trek to Erebor is done in awkward silence with Thorin leading and Dwalin at his heels. The fool thinks he has a chance and he most certainly does not. It was a misunderstanding and nothing more, Thorin was just hurting and instead of just admitting it he’d rather push everyone away and hurt himself, he’d done it before.

He hadn’t thought the climb towards Erebor would be so steep but he soldiers on without complaint not that there was anyone to complain to. Balin keeps turning to check on him, and sends him a small smile that keeps his spirits up but his presence is lost on the others. It feels like a small victory when the ground evens out and he can look upon the great gate of Erebor.

He was afraid his tales had fallen short of the true magnificent of the place and he was only at the door. The two boys run off ahead and to his surprise Thorin comes to stand next to him, his arm brushing against his as they stare at Erebor together. There are two large statues of dwarves in a battle stance, hunched forward holding an axe carved from rock that are simply marvellous. Though it may be his imagination he is sure he can spot stairs on one of those statues but not on the other. Is there a secret door perhaps? It was very interesting all the same and he couldn’t wait to find out.

“Who is that?” He asks pointing to the dwarf on the right.

“My grandfather King Thrór,” Thorin replies with a hint of pride in his voice.

“And that one?” He asks, pointing to the left statute. Thorin turns to look at him then with a look of disbelief on his face.

“King Thrór,” he replies testily. “We don’t all lookalike!” He argues but with none of his anger from before.

“You thought Drogo was my brother,” he reminds him.

“Yes, but he is your cousin.”

“You thought Lobelia was my brother too.” There is no reply to that one because they both knew Thorin had a terrible time of telling a male and female hobbit apart.

He almost jumps out of his skin when the great horn of Erebor sounds in welcome and the massive doors open. He had thought the doors were more for show and didn’t actually open but he was mistaken as dwarves spill out of the mountain some waving handkerchiefs while others have a hardened stance with an air of suspicion. Thorin grabs his hand and he is thankful for it knowing the nastiness from earlier has passed. He’s still nervous for him as they make their way towards the greatest kingdom in Middle Earth.

He must have sensitive ears or the dwarves were a gruff blatant sort that had no fear of voicing their opinions. He had thought Thorin was terribly rude and now he feels slightly bad because it wasn’t Thorin with the ill manners it was seemingly dwarves in general. Still, having heard ‘what is that?’ for the third time he is becoming irritable. That indeed! He was a respectable hobbit from the Shire and King’s Consort to boot, but no, he cannot be swept up in their cheers, Thorin was not king and would not be king that was why they were here.

Erebor is simply breathtaking and so very big, with huge tapestries and enormous statues of past kings. He almost thinks that the dwarves are overcompensating for their short stature but he doesn’t believe that is true, rather they truly believe they are that tall as they certainly act as if they are. The floor in the Great Hall is made of solid gold which seems rather ostentatious and needless but for all their folly and wastefulness of making a floor of gold it truly does look magnificent and is polished to a brilliant shine. To the back wall there stands a solitary statue made from solid gold.

“King Thrór?” He asks Thorin, hoping he is correct. In truth he hasn’t a clue but the decoration on the beard matches the ones outside and he hoped beyond hope that was only something King Thrór had.

“Yes,” Thorin replies pleased and he lets out a breath of relief.

As they step closer he realises the statue is a memorial and it seems rather crude. The King had suffered from gold sickness and this was how they chose to honour him? It seemed misguided, if not insulting but perhaps it was the way of dwarves and it was not his place to pass such harsh judgement.

Thorin continues to stare at his grandfather’s image while he turns his attention to the floor. Really, it was quite overdone, were the dwarves simply trying to show off? Had King Thrór ordered them to do this at the height of his madness? This floor was certainly going to be added to his story, he might even write a poem as he was truly inspired.

“You like the floor, laddie?” Balin asks, coming to stand by his side and he makes eye-contact via his image staring back on the floor.

“It is truly amazing, though a bit much perhaps?” He words it as best he can and Balin laughs and nods.

“It was an accident, we were pouring gold into the bust by three lines but the bottom line broke pouring gold onto the floor. A whole vat of molten gold, wasted.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Oh no but I can tell you a few miners were smarting. That was a month’s worth of gold hewn from rock and given straight back to the rock.” Balin chuckles but he can’t help but think he wouldn’t be had he been one of the miners. It makes him wonder if there is still prejudice even after the class system was abolished as it would be a terrible shame if there were but old habits die hard.

“Where is my father?” Thorin asks.

“The throne room lad, awaiting you. I’ll take you there in case you have forgotten the way.” Balin walks on ahead but Thorin seems frozen and he remains by his side as their hands are still clasped.

“A king doesn’t meet you on his doorstep,” Thorin mutters and it is only because he is standing so close that he had heard him. He shakes his head as though to dispel bad thoughts and they move to follow behind Balin.

He thinks he knows what Thorin was muttering about, hadn’t King Thranduil met him on his doorstep? The way he told the story he thought it was improper but welcomed as the elves were sounding a fanfare in welcome to a prince that he no longer was. He could never quite understand the tale of the stag and he would think it was his husband’s clouded mind confused and lost imagining things had he not seen firsthand his husband’s appalling sense of direction. Could he have stumbled upon the palace by chance? It was possible but unlikely; Thorin was the type to just lie down and wait for death rather than ask for directions. So the stag must have been real and somehow it was sending messages to Thranduil, or was the Elvenking a secret skin-changer? Thorin had said the stag disappeared when the king appeared, so they were connected but he wasn’t quite sure how.

They follow Balin up endless flights of stairs and he is quite sure they are climbing to the very peak of the mountain. In all his tales and all his thoughts he never assumed the throne would be placed so high. In the telling of his stories he imagined the throne room to be where the Great Hall was, and never once considered the security risks of having a king so exposed on his doorstep. When Thorin was cast out it would have been a terrible walk of shame, stomping down endless steps as fury coiled in his belly and eyes watched him from all around.

Finally they reach the top and the walkway leads right towards the throne and there shapes into a T allowing the King to exit left or right. It is misleading calling this place a throne room as it is no room at all, just an open walkway at the top of the mountain and made all the more spectacular for it. He feels giddy as he walks up the lone path, looking at the heads of the statues of past kings noticing subtle differences which would make Thorin proud. His stomach aches in nervous excitement and deep down he feels terrible because as much as he loves visiting a place of such an historic event he now knows what that event led to and how Thorin had suffered for simply doing the right thing.

He casts a look at Thorin but his face is set as hard as the stone of his forefathers but the grip on his hand is tight, almost painful. They encounter more steps, he counts ten and they continue on. Above the throne there hangs a huge stalactite that gleams with a vein of untapped gold. From afar he thought the stalactite merely pointed to the throne as if to show the importance of the dwarf that sat there but as they draw closer he can see the stalactite reaches the walkway and is a part of the throne.

They stop just before another set of steps, five of them and he realises they are standing where Thranduil had stood all those years ago. The king sits regally in his throne draped in gold and fur and his blue eyes, Thorin’s eyes, apparently Durin blue stay fixated on his son. The King’s hair and beard is long dark grey with streaks of black suggesting he once had raven hair like his son and surprisingly there are no braids in his hair but his beard boasts three tied off with thick rectangular beads. What he is most drawn to is the tattoo on the dwarf’s face etched across his brow beneath his crown and runs down his nose the pattern of which he does not understand.

The king is not alone, to his left stands the blond heir- Fíli or was it Kíli? They were a set pair always together that he never realised which one answered to which name. To the left stands the dark haired brother and next to him stands a dwarrowdam with raven hair and Thorin’s eyes. To him he imagines that is what Thorin would look like if he wore a green dress and allowed his beard to grow but he doesn’t think they’d take that as the compliment that it is, so he won’t say it.

She needs no introduction as he knows this is Princess Dís who was naught but a babe in the cradle when Thorin made his stand and paid for it. Unlike the other dwarrowdams he had seen today the princess seems less decorated only wearing a necklace made of many emeralds as green as grass and a bead sparkles in her hair like a star. She clearly has taste and prefers quality over quantity and wears the right amount without coming across as vain.

Dís’ eyes are also fixed on Thorin, on a brother she knew of but had never known as she was far too young to remember. Thorin’s eyes had not left his father, Dís was a stranger to him and him to her, this was a moment between father and son though neither would speak and simply stared at the other expressionless.

“King Thráin, may I introduce Thorin Oakenshield and his husband Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.” Balin announces them and bows low with an elaborate sweep of his red cloak. He noticed a slight twitch of the king’s left eye when Balin used Thorin’s second name but there was no reaction to his introduction. The princess notices him and smiles sweetly and he is both charmed and scared by the similarities between her and his husband.

The silence is uncomfortable and his hand is beginning to ache for how hard Thorin is holding it, so he casts his eyes around the mountain to take his mind off the awkwardness and pain. It really is quite spacious and he’s almost tempted to drop a rock off the side of the walkway just to hear it hit the bottom but that would be dangerous and the mines were dangerous enough without him adding to it. He looks over the walkway and sees many other walkways and halls within halls as the mountain is practically a labyrinth and he truly believes that a word shouted loud enough could echo a thousand times. At first, he had thought it was only a story, a plot device to reflect how furious King Thrór had been but now he believes it was the truth and Thorin had been vilified and named traitor and all eyes would have been on him.

His attention returns to King Thráin as the dwarf reaches inside his fur coat and retrieves a rolled up piece of parchment that is tied and sealed. He holds it out and Balin climbs the five steps to retrieve it and moves back into position. It feels improper to stare so he turns his gaze upwards and notices a geometric design in gold with a hollowed space in the middle and realises that was where the Arkenstone had been. The King’s Bane, formerly known as the King’s Jewel was gone now to lie upon the breast of King Thrór in the catacombs of Erebor and curse his family no more. He is quite surprised how big it was and he wished he could have seen it just to understand the beauty of it but it was needless as Thorin had said the Arkenstone was a scapegoat for the real sickness his grandfather suffered from.

“I hereby announce that Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, Prince Under the Mountain and heir apparent has been pardoned and all titles and rights have been restored.” Thráin announces and Balin hands the parchment to Thorin and he is simply dumbstruck. Was that it? It seemed lacklustre for such a monumental moment, where were the streamers? The crowds, the applause? Why were there no historians jotting down every moment? This was history in the making and no one seemed to care.

The King stands but says nothing further and the pain in his hand is red hot now. Then the king walks down the steps, like he should have done all those years ago and stands toe to toe with Thorin and thankfully his injured hand is released. The pair look like two wily predators eyeing the other up rather than father and son and the tension between them is so thick it could be cut with a knife. The King acts first, wrapping his arms around his son and instead of a clash of foreheads, Thorin simply leans down and they rest their foreheads together which brings tears to his eyes.

He quickly wipes them away as it appears no one else is as moved, bloody dwarves and their hearts of stone no wonder Thorin always thought he was so soft. He looks again noticing the ease of Thorin’s shoulders and the small smile on his lips and looks away again before he openly weeps. This is why they had traipsed thousands of leagues across Middle Earth, not for a piece of parchment or a pardon that was never needed, but for a father and son to be reunited. Past wrongs could not be undone but they could be forgiven and that is all he truly wanted for Thorin, to find forgiveness and to stop blaming himself for things that were out of his control. This moment was a step in the right direction, as much as Thorin used Daddy Twofoot as a surrogate he had always longed for his father.

“I am so sorry,” Thráin apologises, his rough voice thick with emotion as he takes a step back. “What that monster did to you...” he chokes off and involuntarily Thorin’s hand reaches towards his neck to stroke over the scar left there by Azog’s crooked sharp teeth. It dawns on him then that Thráin does not know exactly what Azog did as he was only fed lies by the orcs they had captured. He was not aware that there was a monster before Azog, one that did as much damage to Thorin’s psyche and practically resided on their doorstep.

“We must talk,” Thráin continues and glances in his direction. “Alone.” He states bluntly, and he is astounded by the vitriol in the one word and the nasty side-eye glare that accompanies it. He almost wants to hold his hands up in surrender, as surely the mighty dwarf lord couldn’t possibly perceive him as a threat but only an hour before Thorin had turned on him as though he had said something awful. Maybe there is something in the air, or he gives a terrible first impression, still at least he was dressed properly this time while stirring a dwarf’s ire.

“Go,” he encourages when Thorin turns to look at him unaware of his father’s blatant disdain. He gives them both a smile, hoping he was correct in doing so, never laugh at dragons but smile in the face of adversary, was it not said? The King’s left eye twitches and he realises he cannot win but it matters little, he hasn’t come to win Thráin over, this was Thorin’s adventure and he was just along for the ride.

The King throws his arm around Thorin’s upper back, possibly attempting to go for the shoulders but he is too short for that and the position would be awkward. The size difference could be considered comical but thankfully he does not laugh as Thráin leads Thorin off as he was used to seeing Daddy Twofoot beside Thorin acting as his father. He stoically watches them leave and catches Balin’s eye, noticing the advisor looks as puzzled as he feels. The others seem unaware of the animosity towards him but they were not as astute as Balin, he supposes that is because Balin had to be vigilant due to his position.

“Looks like we’ve got you all to ourselves Mister Boggins!” The dark haired dwarf-Kíli possibly, though there was a forty percent chance it was Fíli crows with an exceptionally large grin.

“Baggins,” he corrects though he’s quite sure the dwarfling knows considering he has never made a mistake when referring to Thorin as Mr Baggins.

“Not so fast,” Dís interjects and thankfully her voice is soft and feminine nothing like her brother’s. “I’ve only just got you two back and I want to know everything about your trip, I hope you understand Mister Baggins?” He’s mildly stunned by her politeness.

“Yes of course, your Highness.”

“Balin will take you to your room and take care of your needs but we’ll talk soon, I wish to know my brother in-law.” The welcome in the princess’ eyes is appreciated and the wink that follows is nothing but friendly and he finds himself quite charmed by her. They take their leave, following in the wake of Thorin and Thráin and he finds himself alone with Balin.

“Best I show you to your room,” Balin offers and they leave in the opposite direction. He had thought they were at the top of the mountain but he appears mistaken as they climb another set of stairs that lead to a long corridor with great golden doors on either side. “This is the royal apartments,” Balin says as they walk down the corridor.

“Will I be staying in Thorin’s old room?” He asks, wondering if they kept it as a shrine to their lost brother and son.

“Ah no laddie, that is the princes’ room now.” The news saddens him, as he would have liked to have seen where Thorin had grown up but he imagines it was minimal and clean as his parents were very strict, frightfully so. It would have been nice to see though, as he would love to see if he collected anything like he did at home. His husband resented Thrór hoarding gold but he was quite the hoarder himself but nothing quite so valuable though it depends on who you asked. There were pinecones and acorns though he insists they were gifts from the Company, feathers and rocks that came with no excuses and an alarming collection of dirt that on closer inspection revealed many ant farms. Thorin had said they reminded him of home and now being inside Erebor and seeing all the passageways and tunnels he sees the resemblance.

They stop at a door, five doors down on the right, but the corridor goes on and on. How many members of the royal family were they expecting? Birth rate among dwarves was abysmally low unlike hobbits that mated like rabbits, Thorin’s comparison not his own. However they did live longer, far longer than a hobbit at any rate so it could be possible to fill all of the rooms if they started young in life.

“Are the rooms given in form of a hierarchy?”

“No,” Balin replies simply and opens the door. He follows him inside and is unsurprised by the vastness of the room. The vaulted ceiling is a bit much but he is learning quickly that dwarves like to overdo everything as if they have something to prove. It is certainly giving him more insight to what he perceived to be Thorin’s strange ways, always complaining that things could be better and never simply being content. Over the years he had greatly improved but every now and again he would randomly fuss about something blowing it all out of proportion and they would argue and then go silent sharing nasty looks, Thorin was a master of the side-eye glare so he would retaliate and make cherry pie and the next day Thorin would deliberately leave the forge when he is due for afternoon tea. It was a vicious cycle and only tolerable because they both knew the other would weaken in a day or two and the make-up sex was mind-blowing.

“Bilbo?” Balin’s voice snaps him out of his musings, which is good as now wasn’t the time to think about what he and Thorin got up to.

“I’m sorry, I was miles away, you were saying?” Balin’s expression is one of scrutiny and he dearly hopes he is unable to read his expression like Thorin seemed incapable of doing.

“Is there anything you need or would like to do? I imagine Thorin won’t be back for some time.” He isn’t tired and he can’t actually sleep without Thorin by his side and as big as the room is there isn’t really anything to see.

“Is there a market within Erebor?” He enquires convinced that there must be considering Thorin’s seamstress story. If not then he would unpack, maybe take a bath as he had no desire to return to Dale while that king was there.

“There is indeed, though it is small.” He nods and shrugs off his rucksack.

“Let’s go,” he calls enthusiastically and comes to regret his decision as there are more steps. Thankfully the market is located in the centre of the mountain and was named Thorin’s Square. Apparently there were originally two markets in Erebor due to the class system one located in the upper halls and the one in the lower but both were closed when the class system was abolished and they met in the middle as one market.

The market itself was hardly small, as it was certainly bigger than Hobbiton market but smaller than Dale and that was only because of the lack of vegetables and home grown items. As much as a dwarf was good with dirt, farming was just not for them, they were great diggers and could mine practically anywhere but they didn’t sow seeds. He supposed it made sense, their pockets were heavy with gold and the common man would happily make the trade so why should they take up something they possibly deemed beneath them?

He was going to bemoan the almost criminal lack of food until they passed a bakery- Bombur’s Buns- and he laughed in both delight and amusement. Balin didn’t understand his childish amusement but he thought Thorin might laugh, he might not get what was funny but he’d join in laughing simply to keep up appearances. When they go inside they are warmly welcomed by a rather large ginger haired dwarf, and when he puts his order in the dwarf looks at him as if he is a kindred spirit. He supposes it was a rather large order but his meals had been greatly reduce during their trip and he intended to take some back to their room to share with Thorin as he had quite the sweet tooth and favoured cream buns almost as much as his apple pie.

Balin humours him and takes one sticky bun when offered and they chat about the Shire and grain and the lack of food around the market. They also discuss when best to bring up the trade agreement from the Thain and Balin’s cagey response let’s him know that Thráin’s attitude towards him had not be imagined.

They leave Bombur’s and continue their trek around the market. It’s quite monotonous, furs and tunics, weaponry and a great amount of toys, incredible though they were there was hardly any children about so there can’t be too much of a demand. He has almost given up hope of finding anything to buy when his eyes land on a pair of boots. He can’t contain his noise of excitement and he rushes off and finds many pairs of varying sizes. He has seen and touched his husband’s feet enough to estimate the size and buys a beautiful black pair made from warg fur and the geometric design on the rectangular boot is made in solid silver, a bit much but that was dwarves for you.

After that he is eager to return to his room and give Thorin his present. The stairs don’t even bother him and he takes them in twos in his hurry to get back, not even considering that Thorin might not have returned. He realised belatedly that he was leaving an elderly dwarf behind but he faintly heard Balin excuse himself once he was well on his way in the right direction that he continued on.

When he flings open the door Thorin is sat on the edge of the bed and lifts his head. “I’ve bought you something!” He announces and brings the boots from behind his back. Thorin is up immediately and before him in seconds pulling him into a hug. “If I had known this was how you would react I would have gone to Ered Luin and bought you a new pair.” Thorin doesn’t say anything and he’s beginning to think this isn’t about the boots, so he drops them in favour of wrapping his arms around his husband.

He’s not sure what to say and it pains him to know his husband is hurting and he can do nothing to help. So he just holds him, lets him know that he is here for him even if he is just a shoulder to cry on because he is sure Thorin is crying and that is why the hug has not ended. He shouldn’t be embarrassed, he had seen him cry before, their very first date they practically bawled their eyes out to each other, not the usual response to a first date but then nothing between them had been conventional.

There had been other instances of him crying when he talked of his past and all of his regret and there were other moments too, when he could be found staring off with a haunted look as if Azog had never left. He hated those moments the most because he had been so lost and helpless, possibly scared but certainly utterly hopeless and broken. It was a slow agonised torture hunting him, isolating him until death started to look appealing, he wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy. Thankfully he had found a way of snapping Thorin out of those thoughts by whispering things no decent hobbit would say at all never mind to their spouse. He had to do something because Thorin’s expression broke his heart and so he lifted himself on tip toes and whispered, ‘Are you thinking about the orc with the big cock?’ He blushed furiously as he said it because his parents wouldn’t approve of such filth but Thorin’s reaction was instantaneous as his eyes widened shocked at what he had heard and then he laughed possibly remembering his own blunder when he first tried to speak of Azog and unwittingly implied he was well endowed.

“Will you come with me tomorrow?” Thorin asks his voice raw with emotion.

“I would follow you to the end of the earth, there and back again.” Thorin pulls back, remaining in his arms but now looking into his eyes.

“We’re going to the crypts.” A sense of dread comes over him at those words. Of course he would wish to see his brother and grandfather and say goodbye properly, his mother was there too but from what he was told their relationship was none existent. It might do him some good, putting old ghosts to rest but it could also affect him negatively and he could succumb to his guilt once more.

“I will go with you,” he reiterates confirming his pledge just spoken. He’s curious about the ‘we’ Thorin mentioned and believes he means his father and though he has had his fill of the dwarf’s spiteful looks he would tolerate more as his husband’s wellbeing meant more to him than his father’s distaste. “I have another gift for you,” he changes the subject and passes the bag of cakes over. “You can finally eat them in your room,” he whispers but it is needless as he had already asked Balin if it was okay.

Thorin opens the bag and looks up at him smiling mischievously and he thinks he got a brief glimpse of the prince he used to be. Together they make short work of the cakes, eating them on the bed and laughing like naughty children. He gets swept up in the mood and turns and kisses his husband, a simple closed mouth kiss on the lips. It is innocent and sweet but he wants more but as he tries to deepen the kiss Thorin pulls away from him.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises, cursing himself for being swept up in the moment. It was a terrible move coming onto Thorin sexually when his husband was going through so much. He hadn’t been thinking he could only see his husband in his wedding attire, hear his laugh, and see his smile and he was a simple hobbit on a bed with a prince in a palace so of course his thoughts would turn carnal in nature.

“Let’s unpack before we go to bed,” he says changing the subject once again. Thorin nods but says nothing and thankfully he does not look haunted but indifferent, which could possibly be worse. They unpack their things, hanging up clothing in one of the many wardrobes that line the far wall from the door. They change into their nightshirts and get into the bed and though the bed is large enough for them to share without touching he wants to touch but is unsure of his welcome. Once Thorin turns on his side facing the door he thinks it might be permission and he tentatively lays his arm over his waist and when it isn’t pushed away he presses himself against his back and closes his eyes.

When he opens his eyes he knows something is wrong as there is no warm body against his chest and no dark hair beneath his head or a hip for him to rest his arm. He reaches out towards the space Thorin should occupy and finds the sheets cold implying his husband has been gone for some time. He sits up rubbing his eyes and takes a look around the spacious room.

“Thorin?” He calls thinking he may be in the bathroom as the lounging area is vacant. With no reply he gets up out of the bed and notices Thorin’s nightshirt discarded on the floor and beside it his old boots, the new ones nowhere to be found.

“Thorin?” He calls again not wanting to believe his husband had left without him. He wouldn’t, would he? After last night’s plea to accompany him surely he wouldn’t just up and leave without a word. Was Thráin behind this? Not wishing to jump to conclusions he dresses quickly completely ignoring the breakfast laid out for him and pulls open the door.

“Thorin!” He cheers to the figure standing in the doorway but on closer inspection he realises something is off and he has inadvertently insulted the Lady Dís.

“My sons said you were quite the racist Mister Baggins, I didn’t believe them until now.” There is a smile on her face so he does not believe he has insulted her too badly. “May I come in?”

“Yes of course,” he insists, stepping aside allowing the princess into the room. She enters with purpose and strides into the lounging area and takes a seat, casting a look his way. He quickly shuts the door and takes a seat opposite her before remembering his manners. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’m quite alright thank you, though I would love some of your time.”

“It’s yours,” he offers sincerely and quite forgets that he is talking to the sister and not his husband.

“Soooo,” she drags out the word, smiling enigmatically, the same smile the dark haired prince wears. “How did you meet my brother?”

“He saved my cousins from drowning,” he replies instantly and watches the princess’ eyes widen in disbelief.

“Truly? I met my husband when he walked into me and my guards pummelled him for the disrespect. I thought that was rather romantic but it seems you have me beaten.” There is something so disarming and calming about Dís that he wants to gossip with her more.

“He may have saved my cousins but he came into my home and thoroughly insulted me.”

“Did he?” Dís sounds intrigued, leaning forward. “What did he say?”

“He called me a grocer.”

“I see,” the princess paused. “Is that very insulting where you are from?”

“No but it was meant as an insult because I said he was a blacksmith.” Dís laughs at that. “In fairness he was a blacksmith,” his argument sounds familiar as he has seemingly found a second Thorin to trade words with.

“Never call a dwarf a blacksmith,” Dís laughs. “That is a lowly position and even if it is true best not say it to their face,” she looks at him and bursts out in laughter. “You said it to his face!” She announces and wipes tears from her eyes. “How are you still on this earth Mister Baggins?”

“I’ve no idea; he must have seen something he liked.” He covers his mouth with his hand far too late as the words had already left his lips.

“Indeed, tell me was my brother telling tales or did you answer the door in your smallclothes?”

“He has been telling tales, I was in my nightshirt with a robe I’ll have you know only I hadn’t tied it. He may have feasted his eyes on my legs and feet but nothing more, I can assure you.”

“Oh, he was telling the truth then.” Dís replied, disappointed. “He said nightshirt and robe, never fear it was just me, I didn’t believe him so I was simply testing your story.”

“You’ve spoken to him, when?”

“Yesterday, though he made no mention of saving your cousins from drowning. He said that he met a nice couple who saw he was in need of lodgings and brought him to your place, Bag Hen was it?”

“Bag End,” he corrects. “Well that is Thorin for you, he won’t take credit for his selfless acts, and did he tell you about the warg?”

“Just that it was terrorizing your town and he put an end to it and made you a coat.”

“Oh so he missed the part where he spent a great amount of time trapped beneath a dead warg.”

“He didn’t tell us this, go on.” Dís encourages moving to perch on the edge of her seat.

“I wasn’t there, I did not see it happen but I was told that the warg had bitten a hobbit and Thorin charged in like the reckless fool that he is.” Dís laughs again and he’s beginning to like that sound. “He swung his sword like a madman, catching the beast in the neck or shoulder, wounding but not killing. He saved the hobbit’s life by putting himself in harm’s way and the warg leapt on him knocking him to the ground. Somehow he had managed to raise his sword and as the beast knocked him down it impaled itself on his blade, dying on top of him and covering him entirely. He was trapped and the wound he had inflicted first was pouring blood and it dripped onto his face so he closed his eyes and mouth and could not call for help. By the time I arrived the town was in mourning and they had left him under the warg, it was insulting and disrespectful and I let them know it! I bullied them into helping me push the warg from him and there he lay, eyes closed covered in blood and I thought I had lost him.”

“That must have been terrible losing your husband like that.”

“Oh he wasn’t my husband then, we weren’t anything though we both wanted to be with each other and we were both too stupid to realise. He was actually going to leave the Shire because I had been avoiding him, so that warg was a blessing in disguise.”

“Was he badly hurt?”

“He wasn’t hurt at all; I swear he could walk through dragon fire and come out of it unscathed. There are very few who can do what he can do and survive what he has. I only know of one other person who survived Azog and he is a large skin-changer.”

“As opposed to a small dwarf?” Dís asks teasingly.

“Hardly small,” he returns and realises what he said when he hears the princess’ dirty giggles. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” she winks. “So how did my brother propose?”

“Oh...err...well he didn’t.” Dís looks at him suspiciously.

“You can’t get pregnant, can you?”

“What? No! Our courtship was perfectly above board, he did not propose because I did.”

“Really? Oh that is too precious, did you shower him in gold?”

“If I had done that then I would not still be on this earth.” Dís says nothing but her whole stance is one big question mark. “Your brother cannot be bought and if I were to shower him in gold he would be thoroughly insulted and might even drop his breeches and shower me in gold and it wouldn’t be pleasant.” He doesn’t know what possesses him to make that comparison but Dís howls in laughter and almost falls from her seat.

“Oh, I do like you Mister Baggins. You are nothing like what I was expecting, I thought you were a shy timid fellow but you aren’t, are you? I suppose anyone that marries a dwarf would need some fire in their belly and more so being married to Thorin.” She seems to sober then. “I don’t remember my brother, he was distant like a shadow and then he was gone but I’ve heard stories, funny how different people had different interpretations of him. Thrór called him reckless; father said he was passionate while Balin said he was incorrigible. Cousin Dain said he was a legend, Frerin agreed and made him sound like a god while Dwalin made him sound lost and lonely. I didn’t like to hear that but it’s a terrible truth isn’t it? He had everything, he should have been content but he felt unloved and lost in his brother’s shadow all the while Frerin was moaning about being in his shadow.” She looks sad and he doesn’t like it. “Still, he has you now and Balin says you love him well.”

“Balin said that?” He asks surprised wondering what Balin had seen.

“Oh yes, said you were joint at the hip and yesterday though you were apart he said Thorin never left your thoughts as you talked about him constantly and bought him gifts as though you were still courting.”

“I suppose that is true, your brother is my life.” He means breathed life into him but he doesn’t correct himself because his statement is true. Dís seems pleased and smiles warmly at him.

“Are all hobbits like you? My sons are due to wed and it would ease my mind if they could find a race that loves as passionately and selflessly as you do.”

“I cannot speak for all hobbits I’m afraid and my love for you brother is hardly selfless. I wanted him the moment I saw him on my doorstep, marrying him and keeping him for myself is possibly the most selfish act I have ever done.”

“You’re too good for this world, Mister Baggins, even your most selfish act is one of kindness. I am glad that Thorin found you, you are clearly a light for him in his darkest hour and though he will not say what troubles him I think you ease the burden that he carries. I think he has told you things that he cannot tell us, horrible things, maybe even worse than Azog. He told us briefly of the Defiler but if there is any truth to what he has said I cannot say for sure.”

“The orcs told you lies.”

“They did,” Dís agrees. “Though that doesn’t mean Thorin told the truth.” Thorin had told the truth to Balin, he was there and heard the tale so he wonders why Dís believes her brother speaks false. “Tell me truthfully, did that orc rape my brother?” Dís asks suddenly and seriously.

“No, intended to but never did.”

“Then who did?” His heart plummets to his toes at the question. Thorin would never have said so how did she know?

“No one,” he answers breathlessly and Dís sits back in the chair with narrowed eyes.

“The first lie you have told me, Mister Baggins.” She drums her fingers on the armrest in thought. “Was it King Girion?”

“No, he loved Girion and to my knowledge Girion loved him.”

“A man in Dale then? Angry over the proposal?” He shakes his head. “Those men in Gondor, they were stopped but before then? Was he attacked by a group of men?” It troubles him how lowly she thinks of mankind when they depend so heavily on their harvest and goodwill. He should be thankful for it though as Thranduil hasn’t even crossed her mind. “You will not tell me, it is not your secret to tell, I understand.”

“How did you know?” There is no point denying it as she clearly knows and will not be told otherwise.

“I once had a maid, a lady in waiting and one night in Dale she got lost in her cups and her companions had left as a silly joke. She had enough wits about her to hire a room but not enough to stop drinking. A patron took a fancy to her and instead of approaching her he waited for her to go to her room. Before she had closed the door he overpowered her and forced himself on her and when she returned to me she was not the same. So you see, Mister Baggins, I know that haunted look in my brother’s eyes because I have seen it before.”

He doesn’t know what to say. He knows what happened in the Greenwood, they had talked about it in length and in great detail. It was a story as old as the Exiled Prince and it was clearly a memory long stewed on, analysed and gone over again and again until it was polished to perfection. It had sounded rehearsed when Thorin finally told him and he thought he was spinning a tale he could stomach but the pain in his eyes and the emotion in his voice was too real for a made-up story.

“Well I’ve certainly soured the mood and I apologise for it, but I could not bring that up yesterday in front of father and do not fear you have given him away, as I already knew. So let us turn our thoughts to happier times, how did you propose to my brother?” He is relieved and thankful that Dís has seemingly quit her pursuit of answers he cannot give.

“At the feast on Durin’s day...”

“You celebrate Durin’s day in the Shire?” Dís interrupts.

“We do now, the Thain heard that Thorin wished to leave so to show that we wished for him to stay and make him feel at home we adopted your holiday. Everyone knew what I had planned and they were bursting to tell him that I spent most of the night keeping it quiet. I feel bad now, I did not know he was so neglected at the celebrations here and because of my plan he was being neglected once more because people feared they would give the game away. Your brother is rather...err...slow when it comes to things like romance and relationships, he had no idea. When I danced with Thorin that was the cue for the musicians to cease playing and then I got down on one knee.”

“Why?”

“Because I love your brother and wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.”

“I understand that, I meant why one knee?”

He shrugs. “It is how it is done in the Shire, as a sign of respect and spiritualism, a surrender of oneself for a higher reward. How do dwarves propose?” Thorin had never said the one knee confused him although he was trying to help him up in earnest.

“When courting three gifts are exchanged and if both parties accept the third gift then they are engaged. We dwarves are more pragmatic to your romantic tendencies, I almost feel sorry for my brother he must be a fish out of water in the Shire.”

“Not at all,” he contradicts with a shake of his head. “Thorin has assimilated quite well it’s as if he has always been there, well from Buckland in the very least with his zany ideas. He’s a pillar of the community and such a soft touch with the children, I daresay the population of the Shire has spiked since he started taking care of the little ones and giving the parents a break.”

“Did he want children?”

“He’s never said but he has Belladonna.” He has Frodo too, if he’s being honest and if Drogo and Primula had their way he would soon be blessed with another follower. “Sorry to change the subject but have you seen Thorin today?”

“Seen him? No but I know where he is, he has gone to the crypts with my father.” Dís informs without a hint of suspicion.

“Oh,” is the only reply he can muster. Thorin had gone without him. It hurt but he must have had his reasons.

“I could take you there?” Dís offers obviously sensing his confusion.

“Best leave them to it,” he declines. Thorin had left without him so Thorin didn’t want him there for whatever reason. He wouldn’t impose, it was not his place and Thorin would eventually return to him, he always did.

“Well we can’t be letting them have all the adventures, can we? Would you like to accompany me to the Hall of Memories?” That is an offer he graciously and gratefully accepts and in his hurry to simply be out of the room he quite forgets breakfast and follows Dís down the steps.

The Hall of Memories was built during the class system and never relocated so it is a short journey. When they arrive a whole floor has been dedicated to the conservation of ancient artefacts preserved in glass cases. There are coins depicting king’s of old, original mining tools and cloaks worn in the first age. There are even dragon scales from Glaurung who was struck so deep in the belly by the dying Lord Azaghâl’s knife that he fled back to Angband.

The Hall is displayed by years, starting from the First Age all the way to the Third like a walk through history. It is all very fascinating and though he cannot read the scrolls of old he is thankful for the chance to have actually seen them. The Hall is a marvellous idea, and certainly born from the mind of a proud race.

“Bilbo, come see this,” Dís calls and he walks over, abandoning an old map of Belegost. He stands beside the princess and looks into a case and sees a piece of cloth, a single tooth a lock of hair and a golden baby rattle. No wonder dwarves were so drawn to gold when they were given such items in infancy.

“I cannot read the script, my Lady.” All of the cases come with a description but unfortunately it is all written in Khuzdul.

“This was the rattle of Durin the Second, it was said he had dropped it from the walkway to the throne as a babe and for five years he cried continuously in mourning. The dwarves searched and searched but never did they find it and as recent as three hundred years ago it was finally recovered. The mountain can give, but it can also take back, that incident in the Great Hall reminded us all of that.”

They move on and he’s quite surprised how Dís takes her time, even longer than he does. She is fortunate to come here whenever she pleases and it warms his heart to see she takes none of it for granted. He goes on ahead, looking at maps and jewellery and cutlery and chalices. He stops at another case depicting a battle with mini figures, dwarves facing orcs with the mouth of a cave behind the orcs. Beside the model is a dented helm and rent armour and a notched axe and to his horror he realises he is looking at what Frerin had worn. The scene is the slaughter at the gate but what the dwarves refer to as the Battle of Azanulbizar. He looks at the description card and sees Frerin’s name appear many times proving that was indeed his armour. He can only imagine how bloody and vicious the fight must have been if that was the kind of damage done to the prince.

He turns away, making a note to never let Thorin step foot in here and notices that Dís has got ahead of him. He hurries to catch up with her as she is staring intently at one of the centre pieces of dwarven attire.

“What does this say, my Lady?” He asks standing beside her. She does not answer but gives him a look, the same one Thorin gave him when he had accidentally insulted him. She still will not give an answer and he wonders if he has insulted her when to his horror he sees the Lady Dís not far from where he last saw her which means...oh dear. “Thorin, you’re back!” He cheers wondering if he should open his arms for a hug, best not to after calling his husband a woman, or his sister a man however way you looked at it.

“I sold these,” Thorin says in disbelief ignoring his slight so he turns to look at the case. Inside there is a mannequin in a royal blue tunic with silver embroidery covered by a black leather surcoat with a black fur trim. Silver vambraces cover the wrists and two rings adorn the fingers and an assortment of necklaces hangs from the neck. There is also a case attached to the front glass with a finely made bead inside. “These are mine,” he says angrily and he wonders why his husband is so enraged as they were not his, not anymore by his own admission he said he had sold them.

Dís finally joins them and looks over the display. “I used to come here when I was a child and talk to you. King Girion wasn’t the only one searching for you; we were trying to find you too. People started to come forward, a seamstress in Dale sold back your tunic and surcoat, a smith sold back your vambraces. Traders here and there sold back your jewellery, some even from Esgaroth. The bead, well you threw that at granddad and we’ve tried to get the other two back from Legolas but he won’t part with them, says you had a deal and they are his.”

“We did have a deal,” Thorin practically growls and he wonders if Dís can sense his temper.

“He really ought to give them back now that he is courting Gimli.”

“Poor Gimli,” Thorin snaps.

“But you and Legolas, are you not friends?” Dís asks confused.

“Yes,” Thorin answers back unconvincingly. He doesn’t know why Thorin is being snappish and so very unlike the dwarf he knew but his behaviour is giving too much away. As far as the royal family knew there was no issue between Thorin and Legolas or even Thranduil, to their knowledge he only went around Mirkwood because his husband was a foul tempered racist.

“Lying to your sister brother dearest?” Dís is teasing and taking his temper quite well, but his husband’s ire is stirred and he hasn’t calmed down.

He won’t respond, which is strange as the trick was to get him to shut up. He wonders if Thráin has reprimanded him for talking too much and if he had dared to strike him, even on the back of the hand Yavanna help him, he would let that dwarf king have it. Thorin is not fighting, not with words and thankfully not with fists but there is a nasty look in his eyes that seem as cold as ice and he could turn at any moment.

He chooses to walk away, but not the way he had entered meaning he would pass Frerin’s armour and really that’s the last thing he needs. Acting quickly, he runs around the display case and manages to intercept Thorin.

“Not this way!” He insists but Thorin keeps moving knocking into him forcing him to clench his hands into fists and beat pathetically at his chest before he is knocked over.

“Move!”

“Not. This. Way!” He insists and for a moment he thinks Thorin may just strike him, but instead he storms off from whence he came. He takes a deep breath to calm down as it wasn’t every day you feared your spouse may punch you in the face. He honestly feels as if he has been punched, a sucker punch right to the gut.

“Are you okay?” Dís asks concerned. “Does Thorin lose his temper with you often?” The question makes him sick; Thorin was not making a very splendid figure as the newly restored Prince Under the Mountain. “Does he hit you?” Dís continues bluntly and with compassion and it worries him that she should think so lowly of her brother but kin or not, they do not know each other and they are all strangers under the mountain.

“No, your brother has not and would never hit me. He’s just upset; there are many memories here and not all of them good.”

“Don’t make excuses for him, Kíli told me how he behaved with Bard and then viciously turned on you.”

“He was mistaken, Bard was a ghost from the past and nothing more and his temper flared when I made an insensitive comment.” He hadn’t but Dís won’t believe the truth. “I have always been jealous of Girion and had no idea one of his descendants wore his face.” There is truth in the lie, about Bard at least but never has he been jealous of Girion, sometimes he wished that things had worked out for them. Sure he would have never met Thorin but Thorin would have been safe and loved, away from elves and orcs that did so much damage.

“I must go after him, if you’ll excuse me?” Dís nods sadly, as though she hasn’t believed a word he has said. It is terrible and he wants to throttle Kíli, whichever one that one was for telling tales. Why that story? Why did he not speak of the kisses they shared, the ones the boys enjoyed to watch? Why did he not tell of how they met, or how they behaved together? He could have even said Thorin knocked Dwalin down in his defence but instead he tells a tale of a simple falling out. Worst still, he made Thorin sound like an adulterer with a short temper and Thorin was nothing like that, he didn’t even punch Sandyman when he so rightfully deserved a good walloping.

There are a few more displays to see but Thorin is far more important so he leaves, hoping Thorin has returned to their room. Once he leaves the Hall he can hear Thorin stomping putting his new boots through their paces, he was going to have to buy another pair at this rate. He follows after him, not rushing as he has no desire to be swept up in the fur and attitude of his spouse. He takes a nice leisurely stroll at a safe distance behaving like the stalker Thorin always accused him of being.

It’s a short distance back to their room, not too many steps but a lot of twists and turns and from time to time he loses sight of Thorin but he can still hear him. When he finally reaches the royal suites Thorin is already in their room and has left the door wide open. He wonders if Thorin had seen him following, as he couldn’t possibly have heard him from the noise he was making, or he simply knew he would follow.

When he enters the room, he knocks on the door and spots Thorin sat on the bed touching his hair. For one horrifying moment he thought he was unravelling his marriage braid but on closer inspection he was simply re-braiding it. He looks at Thorin’s left hand to see if he should be worried but his wedding ring is still on and he releases the breath he was holding.

He’s not sure what to say as he’s not sure what has upset him. Lately it seemed everything upset him and once upon a time he used to be a balm for Thorin but now it seems he upsets him too. It weighs heavy on him knowing he has caused this much misery because he thought it would be a good idea to return. He doesn’t know why he thought it was a good idea now because something was upsetting Thorin and driving him mad and he hoped and prayed to Yavanna and even Aulë that it had nothing to do with the gold.

“I saw my tomb today,” Thorin finally speaks and he almost drops to his knees and praises all the Gods he knew. It wasn’t the gold corrupting him, he’s ashamed that it even crossed his mind, wealth meant little to Thorin he had proven that when he banished himself. “It’s beautiful but claims Azog took my life.”

“That is what they believed,” he answers back. Unfortunately they were told he died from injuries by being brutality raped by Azog and the Defiler was torn apart by his guilt that he took his own life. How on earth that story was accepted was beyond him, but dwarf morale was at an all time low and they were still mourning the loss of Frerin.

He wants to add that he could have been there with him but he won’t. Why pour salt on an open wound? Thorin had been faced with his own mortality and that would shake anyone to their core. Instead he joins Thorin on the bed and they lie down together like they did so long ago and he allows Thorin to rest his head on his chest and he sings about home while stroking his husband’s hair.

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knows is that the door is opening and Balin makes a quick apology and departure from their room. He rubs at his eyes and notices in his sleep he has climbed on top of Thorin, he was terribly clingy when he slept and to the untrained eye it would look like...oh dear.

“I think we’ve scarred Balin for life,” Thorin laughs and he is thankful for the sound. He climbs off his husband and goes over to the door and opens it to see Balin fretting outside.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realise you were...” he can’t bring himself to say it.

“We weren’t,” Balin tilts his head and smirks showing he did not believe him. Honestly these bloody dwarves always so quick to think that Thorin was up to no good. When he was innocently reading a book, they accused him of feeling up Dwalin. When he had a bath and became aroused as tweens tended to do he was suddenly a randy fiend and no one was safe. He had a simple argument with his spouse and he’s an abusive adulterer and now sharing a bed with said husband and doing nothing but sleep they are accused of having sex. Was there really any surprise that given the opportunity to leave he took it and ran?

“King Thráin has requested that you both join him for dinner.” His own invitation throws him and once again he thinks Thráin told Thorin to leave him behind and now he is making up for the terrible mistake that he made.

“We accept, when will he be expecting us?”

“Now laddie, it is quite late.” Is it? How long had they slept for? He hadn’t even had breakfast; he’d waste away for worrying about Thorin. He turns to see that Thorin had heard and was combing the tangles out of his hair with his mother’s comb. His hair possibly needs combing too but quite frankly he does not feel the need to impress a king that so openly despises him.

The dining room is directly opposite on the other side of the mountain, so they walk down the stairs and cross the throne walkway. The clang of pick-axe on rock is as clear as ever and he wonders if the miners ever give it a rest? He supposes they don’t really have to as there is no sun down in the mines and their vision is shot anyway so they could hammer away all day and night as there really was no difference to them. At least he understands now why Thorin couldn’t grasp a basic greeting, how was a dwarf to know what the time was in the mines? Sure Thorin was a prince and not a miner but by his own admission he used to sneak into the mines and work.

The dining room is large with vaulted ceilings, tapestries and suits of armour. The oak carved table takes up the majority of the room polished to a perfect shine and it can seat up to at least sixty people. Whichever dwarf designed the royal suites certainly thought the king was virile if he thought he could fill all of the rooms and all of the carved wooden chairs.

King Thráin is already seated at the head of the table and he doesn’t stand to welcome them. Thorin takes a seat to the king’s left where the next in line should sit which means he has not made his wishes known. He sits beside Thorin and the servants enter moments later with soup. He had thought Dís and her sons would be joining them but the only other person there is Balin sitting to the king’s right.

Dinner is lovely, a three course meal he cannot fault but there is no talking at the table that he wonders why they were summoned to be ignored. After dinner they retire to the king’s study and sit before an open fire and drink wine. The walls are lined with books he would love to read but he has a sneaking suspicion they are all written in Khuzdul. It is sad to say but seeing them made him miss his own books and long for home.

“I received a letter today,” Thráin finally speaks and walks towards his desk. Thorin follows and not to be left behind he follows Thorin. “Here it is,” the king announces producing a piece of parchment from a draw. He looks over it as though to reacquainted himself with the script and then looks to Thorin. “It is from Mirkwood, King Thranduil has been informed of your return and he would like to visit.” A strong arm encircles his waist as he is pulled against Thorin’s chest like a shield- Bagginshield- he thinks and will tell Thorin later, when he wasn’t hyperventilating.

“But I’m married!” Thorin shouts confusing both his father and Balin. Of course they do not know of the proposal or the rape that followed it, they know only what they were told, which was nothing. All they knew was that Thorin had issues with goblins and orcs and the truth was he didn’t even have issues with goblins and there was only one orc as the rest wouldn’t dare touch him. Still, his protest would seem odd and he can see they wish to question it so he spits on the floor.

“Elves!” He hisses and Yavanna forgive him. “Disgusting filthy incestuous tree lovers!”

“I did warn you about him,” Balin speaks up, already having heard his tirade before.

“My husband hates elves; I cannot permit them to enter Erebor.” Thorin jumps on the lifeline he threw him and he is thankful for it because he doesn’t like to say such horrible things.

“Your husband needn’t be present when you have an audience with the Elven King.” Thráin counters and he curses the stubbornness of dwarves.

“No!” Thorin practically screams and he wants to help but what more can he do?

“Thorin!” Thráin growls back. “Be reasonable. Have you been hiding in the Iron Hills? I find myself arguing with Dain. You will do as you are told. Thranduil has not stepped foot inside Erebor since your tantrum, it will do us well to have him here once more.”

“Then get on your knees and pray that he comes!” That remark is below the belt and he wonders if Thráin caught the double entendre.

“Watch your mouth!” Thráin bellows, red in the face. “You selfish foolish boy! Why do you refuse to grow up?” This is getting out of control and he worries when Thorin releases him and pushes him out of harm’s way. He wouldn’t attack his father, surely.

“You were never a father to me!” Thorin changes the argument and says what he has always been thinking. His father never stood with him, his father forsook him for gold and as much as he loved his father he could never forgive him for that slight.

“How dare you!”

“How dare you!” Thorin counters. “You left me! You just stood there and let granddad verbally tear me apart and did nothing! A kingship meant more to you than your own flesh and blood.”

“It was....”

“Then when I had a chance to be happy you told King Girion no. He wanted to marry me, he loved me and you said no! Because of you I had to leave! Because of you I fell into a trap in the mountains! Because of you Azog ruined my life!” Thorin was not red in the face but he was breathing heavily and if looks could kill Thráin’s heart would stop. “You cared nothing for my happiness so I care little about yours. You want to see Thranduil? Be my guest because I am not your servant and I am not your son!”

“All these years and you haven’t changed one bit, you are still a moronic child! Do I regret that day? Of course I do! I regret that I thought you were responsible and able to keep your mouth shut, but I was mistaken. You were and apparently still are an embarrassment to the line of Durin! If only Frerin was first born then I would have been spared your stupidity.” His jaw drops as does Thorin’s as that was low. “Do you know what else I regret? I regret pardoning you!”

“Then stick your pardon and your kingship! I don’t want it and don’t need it. I have my own family in the Shire and it is better than this one!” Thorin chooses that moment to storm out of the room and slam the door behind him, unfortunately leaving him behind.

“This is all your fault,” Thráin growls turning his anger on him.

“My fault?” He squeaks indignantly.

“Filling my son’s head full of nonsense.” He doesn’t know which ‘nonsense’ the king is referring to. “My son is far too good for you.”

“I have to agree with you there,” he states calmly holding his hands behind his back so the king does not see them clenched into fists. “He can do better than me, far better. I’m not a hero, I’m not a king and I have no titles to give him. But because of you he doesn’t even think he deserves me. He cannot see how beautiful he is because of you and I wager your father had something to do with it too.”

“What do you mean?” Thráin asks, with his anger seemingly simmering.

“Durin’s Day and telling him he had no suitors.”

“Of course he had suitors; he was the future king of Erebor! A good looking lad too, I had to fight them off.” The knowledge makes him angry, not that Thorin was wanted as that was obvious but that they were all scared off and Thorin never knew.

“Why did you tell him he had none?”

“I don’t have to answer to you but I will tell you, he was promised to a dwarrowdam in the Iron Hills so none of his suitors stood a chance. Why tell him of something that could jeopardise a deal made at his birth? Best he not know.”

“Best he not know!” His own temper spikes. “You destroyed his confidence; he has no self-esteem because you thought it best that he believed he was unwanted.”

“Worked out well for you though, didn’t it?” Thráin replies spitefully and really he is quite a horrible dwarf. “Marrying him for his wealth.”

“What wealth?” He fires back thoroughly insulted. “When I met your son he had less than twenty silvers on him. He moved in with me, the only thing I took from your son was the only thing I ever wanted and that was his heart. The same thing you are so determined to break and I’ll tell this right now, I won’t let you. You are not my king, my husband is my king and I only brought him here to make amends with you and now I see how foolish that was.”

“Yes, talked him into coming here, Balin told me. Twisted his arm so you could get your grubby mitts on my gold.” Thráin accuses, clearly not listening to a word he has said.

“I am not a Sackville-Baggins! I am a Baggins of Bag End and that is the only title I desire! I am a hobbit, confounded dwarf! I care very little about your precious rocks, they mean nothing to me. Thorin came here to make amends and abdicate so you would cease hunting him. You are no better than Azog and I couldn’t save him from that foul beast but I can save him from you.” He cares little for Thráin’s reply and chooses to leave in the same fashion as Thorin and slams the door behind him.

He is quite riled and possibly red in the face and he tries to take deep breaths as he journeys back to his room. They would leave, right this second had it not been the dead of night. It was doing neither of them any good being surrounded by such negativity and though he wasn’t too fond of returning to Dale it seemed that currently Dale was the lesser of two evils.

When he returns to his room Thorin is not there and he wonders where he could have gone. The market is closed, as is the Great Gate so he is sure Thorin is still within Erebor. He travels to the Hall of Memories thinking he might find him staring at his old attire but the Hall is vacant and he walks back out onto the walkway. The miners are still digging away and he looks over the side of the walkway and sees only a black abyss and dread settles in the bottom of his stomach. Thorin wouldn’t...he couldn’t...he would not believe it but it was possible and he had looked so upset.

He screams. He can’t stop. Because...because it was possible and Thorin was gone. He hears the slap of leather against the stone and a click of a sword tapping against a thigh and thinks Thorin is approaching in a hurry. He turns and only sees Dwalin running towards him, an axe slapping against a leather clad thigh not Orcrist.

“What’s the matter?”

“Have you seen Thorin?”He asks urgently.

“He was in the crypts ear....”

“In the last half hour?” He interrupts and Dwalin shakes his head. “No, no, no,” he looks over the walkway once more, into the endless darkness.

“What’s going on?” Another voice asks one he knows and he doesn’t want to see the Lady Dís right now.

“Have you seen Thorin?” Dwalin asks instead.

“No, boys?” Dís questions and he sees both Fíli and Kíli behind their mother fixing their hastily pulled on clothes.

“Nope,” they both reply in unison. He can’t stop looking over the edge, hoping beyond hope that Thorin had not gone to where he could not follow.

“Why are you looking over the...oh no.” He turns with tears in his eyes as Dís covers her mouth in shock. The boys are not following but Dwalin is looking between them.

“He jumped?” Dwalin asks with obvious disgust and he sees red.

“How dare you judge him? You don’t know what he’s been through and you’re to blame for most of it you selfish ignorant dwarf!” It’s wrong to place the blame squarely on Dwalin’s shoulders but he is hurting and he wants to blame someone.

“Uncle? Uncle?” The boys cry over the walkway and more dwarves start leaving their beds to see what the commotion is all about.

“Did you see him fall?” Dís asks and it hurts looking at her.

“No, he might not have I just need to find him.”

“Call the guards, I want a mountain wide search, find my brother.” Dwalin, Fíli and Kíli depart to carry out her order and Dís comes to stand next to him. “We’ll find him,” she says resolutely and he wants to believe her that they will find him safe and sound and not find what remains of him. “Why would he jump?”

“Thráin basically said he wished he had never been born.” It is wrong to stir tension in a family but Thráin had been too harsh and cruel and if Thorin had jumped...if it were true, if he was alone...then Thráin was going to pay.

Before long the whole army is up and awake searching and he joins them. The mines are vast and each miner is checked over and pulled up from the pulleys to make sure. The Great Forge is checked as is the jewellers, silver mines, and the library and scroll room. Soldiers are sent from the mountain up to Ravenhill where the ravens perch but come back with little news other than no one has left the mountain since the closing of the Great Gate. Balconies are checked, and even abandoned mines are searched but no one has found anything.

Morale is at an all time low and they are running out of places to search when they hear a female scream. He rushes towards the sound with Dís and Dwalin at his side and they find a distressed dwarrowdam with tears streaming down her face and his heart breaks.

“Where is his body?” Dís asks gently and he’s surprised she is so calm as tears stream from his eyes and he couldn’t form words if he tried.

“Body?” The dwarrowdam asks. “I saw no body, I saw a ghost, King Thrór himself!” He has never been so relieved to hear the ravings of a crazy woman.

“Where did you see this spectre?”

“The crypts, pacing he was, right in front of his tomb.” He shares a look with Dís and immediately they make for the crypts and to his relief he finds Thorin laid on top of his own tomb between his brother and grandfather.

“You had us worried sick!” Dís rages and he can see the relief on Dwalin’s face. Thorin sits up, unaware of the panic he had caused and his eyes are red raw from crying and it breaks his heart all over again. Coming here was supposed to be a step forward but now he feels as if they have taken five steps back.

“I’ll call off the search,” Dwalin announces and leaves still unable to face Thorin after their confrontation in Bag End.

“The search?” Thorin asks, confused.

“I thought you had gone...gone where I could not follow.” Thorin climbs off the tomb and comes to stand before him; taking his hand in his and placing it over his thankfully still beating heart.

“I’m not dead, see? I wouldn’t go anywhere without you.” The statement is an echo of the past when he thought a starving warg was his biggest problem.

“You better not,” he warns and it eases his heart when Thorin leans down to rest his forehead against his own. He had tried to headbutt him once in greeting completely forgetting himself and his thick skull and knocked him out. He can laugh about it now but at the time he was not at all pleased.

“I’ll leave you two alone, goodnight.” Dís takes her leave but he is lost in his husband’s eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers because he feels the need to reassure Thorin of his devotion. “When we return to the Shire I thought we could renew our wedding vows.” He had been thinking about renewing their vows for some time now and seeing Thorin in his wedding attire brought the thoughts back.

“You just want a party.”

“Of course, and lots of food and our cake could be a large chocolate gateau and we could have a chocolate fountain with marshmallows and ice-cream and jelly for the children. Then we can dance all night, just you and me with no interruptions.”

“You’ve thought about this.”

“I have, for years now; I would re-marry you every year. Wouldn’t that be the perfect anniversary? Getting to tell the Shire folk that I love you that I still love you and will forever more.”

“Wouldn’t that be bragging?”

“Our guests will get free ale and food; I hardly think they would mind. Besides the most handsome person in the Shire is married to me, I have every right to brag.”

“You are wrong,” Thorin contradicts. “The most handsome person in the Shire is married to me.” He wants to kiss him but he does not dare to.

“Come to bed... I’ll tell you a story,” he adds realising it sounded as though he wished to sleep with Thorin. He does, obviously, a prince in a palace he has been here before but with all this talk of Thranduil sex was best avoided.

“I want to stay here; I’ll join you in a while.” He doesn’t think it is wise but he wasn’t about to bully him into doing something he didn’t want to do, he wasn’t that kind of spouse. So he presses a kiss against his cheek and stands back.

“I’ll see you soon,” and he leaves to go back to his room finding the mountain is calm once more with only the sound of axe on rock.

He changes into his nightshirt and climbs into bed and watches the door. He does not know how long he waits but his eyelids feel heavy and his back aches and by sheer exhaustion he slumps down and feels himself drift off to sleep.

When he awakens he is curled around Thorin’s pillow, his scent still faintly clings on to the material but he knows his husband has not been back to the room. He has a feeling he hasn’t left the crypts so he has a brief wash in the bathroom and changes into clean clothes and sees yesterday’s breakfast on the table. He had thought it would have been taken away and replaced but Balin had possibly told tales about what he and Thorin were up to in their room. Rather difficult to do such things when he was minus his partner but still, dwarves always thought the worst of Thorin, whether he was in the room or not.

He’s interrupted from his thoughts by knocking on the door. He thinks it might be breakfast and opens the door to see the Lady Dís in a black dress with the emerald necklace and shiny bead ever present.

“Hello Bilbo, is Thorin available?”

“Erm...no, he didn’t come back last night. He’s well, he just...he needed some time. I was just going to the crypts if you care to join me?”

“Of course,” he shuts the door behind him and notices Dís stare at him expectantly. Unfortunately he hasn’t a clue of what she is expecting and he tries to think of what Thorin could possibly want at a time like this but nothing comes to mind. “I thought you had an impeccable reputation?”

“I do,” well he did until Thorin decided to throw him over his shoulder right when the Thain had come for a visit. His reputation had never recovered from that, and the fact that he married the very same dwarf sealed his fate.

“Will you not escort me then?” It seems an odd request but he forgets it is Thorin with the hand-holding issue and not his sister. Had he known back then how much his careless acts were hurting Thorin he would have never made a grab for his hand so often. In fairness Thorin was forever brushing against him that he thought it was overtures to suggest he wanted to hold hands.

He holds his arm out and Dís rests her hand on the crook of his elbow and together they walk to the crypts. The crypts are silent, eerily so and not many torches are lit as Thorin had scared away the dwarves that cleaned and watched over the tombs. It’s hard to see but there is still a flicking glow of orange near Thorin’s tomb and as they approach they find Thorin asleep resting on top of his brother’s tomb.

It isn’t healthy, this guilt he has over his brother’s death made all the more real by his father’s unthinkable and vicious words. Dís seems to share in his concern if the look on her face is anything to go by. He goes over to his husband and gently shakes his arm.

“Thorin,” he whispers and his husband stirs.

“I’ll be up in a minute,” Thorin murmurs.

“You fell asleep in the crypts, wake up.”

“Does my brother make a habit of sleeping in strange places?” Dís asks and Thorin immediately sits up wiping sleep from his eyes.

“Not unusual but he tends to sleep in the bath especially when I’m washing his hair.”

“You share a bath?” Dís asks with an arched brow and he knows that cheeky look, he has seen it on Thorin’s face often enough.

“No,” he’s not sure what else to say. It is the truth and not for want of trying, he’d love to share a bath with Thorin but there was not enough space. Really he should invest in a new tub but he wasn’t sure who in Hobbiton would fit one and really was it worth the questions? If only the bloody dwarf wasn’t so tall, and yes he was perfectly aware of the irony of that statement.

“Can you stop talking about me as if I’m not here?”

“Who said that?” Dís teases. “Don’t be cranky brother dearest, I’ve brought you a gift.” He is intrigued by the princess’ statement as she carried nothing with her and there were no pockets on her attire. “This is yours,” she states reaching behind her neck to unclasp the emerald necklace. It is a thing of beauty with hundreds of emeralds as green as grass and clearly much loved as she always wore it.

“I do not understand,” Thorin states climbing off his brother’s tomb to accept the necklace. “Why are you giving this to me?” Dís looks practically naked without the gems around her throat.

“It was never mine, it truly is yours. A gift, from King Girion, he meant for you to have it. When he died his son came to Erebor and claimed you were in Dale and with him he brought the necklace of Girion and told us Girion’s final wish was that one day you would return to Erebor and be given this as a token of his love or at the very least of friendship. We had searched for you but you had already gone and we would have not believed you were ever there if not for the roses tied with a blue ribbon.”

“I cannot accept this.”

“It is yours and has been in my safe keeping since it was given.”

“I would give it back to you but it is wrong. This is a family heirloom and belongs to the King of Dale; I would see it returned as a show of respect.” He hands back the necklace and he is thankful for it.

“I will see it done, brother.”

“I cannot look upon his face once more; there is no ill will I just cannot.”

“I understand, I have worn that necklace for almost two hundred years and I will be happy to return it. It is not the only jewellery you have gifted me.” She moves her long dark hair revealing a braid behind her ear and dangling from it is a silver bead with a gem that shines like starlight.

It dawns on him what he is seeing and why the mannequin in the Halls of Memories only wore two rings when Thorin left with three. The third ring had been melted down, fashioned into a bead and the gem that Thranduil gave him was embedded into it. He was sure if he looked closer he would see the word sister written in Elvish. The young Elven Prince had kept his word to pass on the bead, a shame he had lacked a backbone to protect Thorin from his father.

“A gift from my brother that I never knew but always loved.” There is no denying the gem is beautiful, perhaps even on par with the Arkenstone? He cannot compare the two having never seen one however the white gems were worthy to fall out over. Of course there were other theories, conspiracy theories really, that there was more in the chest than starlight gems. Some claimed Nauglamír- a necklace forged by dwarves and set with a Silmaril was added into the chest without Thorin’s knowledge as a spiteful gesture from King Thrór. It made little sense why the King would do such a thing, turning on an ally and yet why else recall the chest? He had once asked Thorin if there was any truth to the tale but he claimed he had never seen Nauglamír and did not know where it was, that was not to say it was not in the chest, only that he had not seen it.

“You have worn it all this time?” Thorin asks in disbelief, always convinced his work was not good enough.

“The moment it was given to me, grandfather helped braid it into my hair while he was ill in bed.” He wonders at which point it was given, as he was told Thrór had become bedridden twice, once when Thorin left and the second time when he was told Thorin had died. Legolas had also been barred from Erebor, or as it was said politely informed not to return and everyone understood why. So long as Thorin resided in Erebor Legolas was not welcome, so the ban must have been lifted with the prince’s banishment and from what he has been told about Legolas he imagines the elf would have immediately returned to Erebor in spite and for his spouse.

“Will you come to breakfast with us?” He finally speaks up. It is indeed lovely having this heart to heart but it is terribly dark and the crypts are no place for social gatherings.

“I...” Thorin hesitates and turns back to look upon the three tombs. “I’ll join you in a little while.” The lie from last night is used again and he immediately worries. Thorin won’t leave the crypts. What was he to do, drag him out kicking and screaming? He wasn’t scared of Thorin but he was also of sound mind and knew he couldn’t take Thorin in a fight. He didn’t want to fight at all. Could there be another solution to lure him out? A trail of apple pies maybe? The promise of sex worked wonders in the Shire but ever since coming here that avenue was closed.

“Very well,” he agrees finally as he has come to no logical decision. Dís eyes him warily and without the emeralds he finds it hard to tell them apart, so he focuses on her bead instead. She hadn’t heard his lie from last night, she was not aware that his actions belied his words and he would not come.

They leave together and have breakfast with her two sons and surprisingly both the boys mind their table manners in front of their mother, a world away from the starving dwarflings he had at his table. Thorin is not mentioned and as he feared, Thorin does not come.

They return to the crypts bringing food and drink and they can hear Thorin mumbling in Khuzdul as he paces. He looks positively insane and though he cannot understand what he is saying, the look on Dís’ face is worrying.

“Thorin, food!” He’s treating him no better than a dog he realises but there is a crazed intensity emitting from his husband that makes him no better than a wild animal. They hadn’t been gone for very long; it was far too short a time for him to have ascended to this level of, for want of a better word, madness.

“Not hungry,” Thorin replies in Westron without missing a step, pacing the length of the three tombs and back again. A new torch has been lit and he wonders if it was Thorin’s doing or if some dwarf braved the crypts and Thorin’s reaction.

“What is he saying?” He whispers to Dís and his follow-up question would be to who he is talking to because he and Dís have fallen into the realm of obscurity.

“I’m not sure, he is not making any sense but he keeps on saying he’s sorry.” Dís informs him and he wonders to which tomb he is apologising to now. “Thorin, would you like to know about your nephews?” For one moment Thorin freezes and then it is as if he hadn’t heard anything and continues his agitated pace. “They wanted to know all about you,” bless her heart, the princess is still trying. “They never knew either of their uncles that is why I gave them your room. Do you remember? Father put you in with Frerin because he thought you and Dwalin were together? You shared one room, but it certainly seemed like two with your different sides. Can you remember? You painted your walls black and hung up swords and armour and had all your books neatly lined up on the shelf. Frerin painted his side gold and made his own art on the walls with rubies and diamonds; can you remember any of this?” Try as she might, there is no getting through to Thorin.

“We’ll be back soon,” he adds as he notices the princess seems upset and frankly he is upset too but he has seen this before while she has not. He does not know where he leads her, just away from the crypts. “You mentioned Thorin’s room; did he collect rocks and feathers, ant farms perhaps?” Dís shakes her head.

“Axes and swords, the very ones Fíli carries with him though from what my son told me Thorin had not recognised his own collection. To be fair I think he was trying to appease father to show an interest he so sorely lacked. Father was insistent on his training, every morning for no less than two hours with multiple opponents so they would not tire as they put him through his paces. It was not luck that allowed him to survive Azog.” The statement makes him pause and he wonders if Thorin had not been telling the truth to his family because though he was undoubtedly a great warrior it was a tremendous amount of luck, or should he say help that saved Thorin. Elves saved him from an orc pack, the Goblin King and kin died in his place, and though the campfire and grievous wound was his own doing, he would have met his end had Beorn not intervened.

They keep walking and find themselves in the library where Dís takes her leave. There are hundreds upon hundreds possibly thousands of texts and he’s sure he hasn’t a hope of reading a single one. He looks around to see if someone could help him when he finds a brunette knitted book waif that is so unkempt he looks as if he has been dragged through a hedgerow backwards.

When he talks his speech is slow, measured as if every word is considered. He’s not sure if the boy is simple but he’s a nice enough lad and they get along well. As he had feared there were no texts in Westron, though dwarves were proud of their history they were almost too proud and kept great deeds to themselves in their own tongue and they would rather kill than share a single word of it with a non-dwarf.

It does not stop him from perusing the texts though all he does is marvel at the illustrations. He almost asks if they have Gems and Where to Find Them remembering that naughty book from Dain, maybe that could draw Thorin from the crypt? The boy however looks far too young and skittish to ask so he turns his attention to old maps. He cannot focus as the thought of that book brings back a fond memory of Thorin’s second birthday in the Shire, the first having been and gone without a word from the dwarf. His husband was none too happy to learn he was to give gifts out on his birthday as apparently he thought he would be given presents as was a dwarven tradition. His ire rivalled that of Lobelia as he begrudgingly handed out gifts, scowling at all his guests and there were plenty as they thought the dwarf would gift them with gold, which he did, in a fashion. His less liked guests all received a small lump of gold and practically cheered in excitement, he too thought it was a lavish gift until his husband let him in on the secret, that it was pyrite or more commonly known as Fool’s Gold. It was a nasty trick and he was quite aware his husband had a mean streak in him but it was so clever he could do nothing but snigger at the excited guests.

When they got home he thought such cleverness needed rewarding and he produced a book and passed it to Thorin as a gift. His husband rolled his eyes at the title ‘Pipes and Where to Smoke Them’ but he was trying so very hard not to look disappointed that he went so far as to open the book and read the first paragraph. He watched his husband’s mouth move as he quietly read so he caught the moment when he became slacked jawed and stared at him in shock. Obviously the book was not as boring as the title claimed, as it was his own little trick in honour of Gems and Where to Find Them. Inside there were many stories, or scenes was the better word of things he and Thorin had done together, most were true accounts written in first person but there were other more outrageous and dirty scenes he thought his husband might like to try or read about. It still made him blush to this day using such profanity and writing such filthy ideas down but his husband had loved the book so it was a job well done.

When he finally leaves the library he checks on Thorin and finds him sat on Frerin’s tomb deep in thought and so he leaves him. He tries to collect him later but he is fed the same lie, even when he begs Thorin to join him that he cannot sleep without him his husband does not budge.

How many nights he spends alone he does not know and sadly he uses Thorin’s velvet cloak draped over pillows just so he can sleep. He slowly learns the ins and outs of the mountain and makes himself useful helping in the kitchens or he helps the maids tidy. He even befriends a chipper dwarf, a miner by trade and tries his hand at mining. He’s terrible at it but it was a new experience and he pockets the first part of rock he chipped.

He visits Thorin daily, multiple times a day to mainly bully him into eating something but he does not know how to make the dwarf sleep without knocking him over the head. He tries singing to him but Thorin just sings back and he would be terribly angry if it wasn’t so endearing. Thráin offers to help but his tone suggests that he was not above knocking Thorin over the head so he politely refuses. Balin tries, Dís and the boys try but he will not leave.

He’s passing by the crypts on his way to the mines, he’s a terrible miner he knows but Bofur promised him a chance at a new vein of silver and he always preferred silver over gold. He looks in as per usual and sees Thorin sat on his own tomb; they should really dismantle it as it was naught but lies, and he is staring at an object in his hand.

“What is that?” He demands, outraged and for one terrible moment he thinks Thorin has opened Thrór’s tomb and taken the Arkenstone. He storms inside and Thorin stands closing his hand around the object. “In your hand,” he states, and really Thorin should know better than to hide things from him.

“It’s nothing.”

“Show me,” he orders and Thorin shrugs and lifts his arm and opens his palm to reveal a rather large acorn and he feels terrible for assuming Thorin was a grave robber.

“I picked it up in Beorn’s garden,” Thorin begins to explain and he doesn’t have to, he shouldn’t have to and he thought...oh what he had thought. Too long among the dwarves and now he believed the worst of Thorin.

“You’ve carried it all this way,” he sounds shocked to his own ears and he does not know why. Thorin collected things and it makes him think about the acorns on the mantelpiece which he swore were all given by the Company.

“I thought we could plant it in our garden, in Bag End.” Our garden, a simple statement but it fills his heart with so much joy. He can remember when Thorin had first suggested they have a pumpkin patch; they were still early into their courtship then if it could be called that the way they danced around each other. It was a statement of intent and he knew from that moment on that Thorin would be joining him in Bag End, if he were perfectly honest the moment he saw the dwarf at his door he knew he would not be leaving.

“You’ve been in here too long Thorin, come with me.”

“Don’t ask that of me.”

“You have come to Erebor to spend time with the living, not with the dead.” Thorin moves away from him, further into the crypts and he wants to scream in frustration.

“I left my brother once; I will not leave him again.” He wants to tell him that Frerin is dead and nothing he can do can change that. He is doing nothing but guarding old bones out of a sense of duty born from guilt.

“Will you just...”

“Don’t ask it of me!” Thorin screams back, drifting further into the shadows. The mad, stupid, guilt-ridden so and so! He won’t scream back, as much as he wants to, because Thorin has moments when he can be sweet or murderous and sometimes he fears what his husband is capable of.

He meets Bofur in the silver mines and gets to work, thoroughly enjoying swinging an axe against rock imagining it is his husband’s thick skull. He’s drawing attention and doing such a terrible job that he is asked to leave so he goes to the market and sits and talks with Bombur while sampling all of his excellent cakes and Thorin has him so annoyed he buys him none.

He’s surprised to learn that Bombur is Bofur’s brother and they have a cousin named Bifur who made the most exquisite toys, some of which he had purchased a few days before. A dwarven family tree is reminiscent to a hobbit one with cousins coming out of their ears. He learns of Dain, Lord of the Iron Hills and he makes a note to tell Thorin when he wasn’t being so pig-headed that Dain had named his first born son after him. He thought it was in honour due to his passing but he is told Thorin junior was born when the prince was very much alive. Apparently Dain thought Thorin’s defiance was a thing of beauty and it was said his laugh was heard all the way to Gondor when he was told of what had happened.

More days pass and Thorin’s skin becomes a deathly pallor and there are bags beneath his sunken eyes and his lips are cracked from lack of moisture and cold. Conversation becomes less and less until he is only responding in grunts as though he was devolving right in front of his eyes. It was painful to watch but he was at a loss for what else to do. He wished it was the gold sickness corrupting him at least then he could lure him out, feed him, bathe him and put him to bed but this guilty waif was killing himself and it was killing him in the process.

He wanted to spend as much time with Thorin as possible but he also couldn’t stand to be near him. He imagined that was what Beorn must feel like, practically torn in two because he had the misfortune of loving Thorin as well.

So he keeps up appearances, tells tale to excuse Thorin’s absence all the while casting a nasty glare at the king. He doesn’t care if his actions are punishable by death, a life without Thorin was no life at all and Thráin had ruined everything with one sentence. There is no mention of his pardon being reversed but the abdication has been drawn up and waiting to be signed. His marriage to Thorin earns him an invitation to all the events and he learns that dwarves have a love of food and merrymaking and they are very musical, playing flutes, fiddles, guitars, drums and harps.

To the surprise of no one the princes’ are loud braggarts that can play more than one instrument and make a spectacle out of every performance. They can both play the fiddle quite fabulously and while Fíli- the blond he has learned- also plays the clarinet, Kíli produces a beautiful golden harp from a green cloth and his heart almost stops at the sight of it. He has heard tales of it, many tales, more so than the Arkenstone and all the gold in Erebor. That was Thorin’s harp and surely if it was returned to him it would break the terrible spell that has come over him.

It takes a lot of sweet talking and even some threats but Kíli refuses to part with it. He has never wished to slap someone as much as he did then, the stubborn little upstart, it was not his. Dís refuses to get involved so he exploits the dwarf’s need for a wager and tells him he could beat him at a game of riddles. Kíli doesn’t seem too smart, so it should be easy. The dwarf accepts promising to hand the harp over should he lose and taking possession of Orcrist should he win. It should worry him how the young prince wishes to own Thorin’s things and though Orcrist is not his to wager he makes the deal.

“You ask first,” he says, as he had not had time to think of a riddle.

“What has roots as nobody sees, is taller than trees. Up, up it goes and yet never grows?”

“Easy, a mountain.” Kíli’s face falls and he thinks this will be even easier than he imagined.

“Thirty white horses on a red hill, first they champ, then they stamp, then they stand still.” Kíli looks to his brother but he shakes his head.

“Teeth,” Kíli replies smugly, playing at being daft. “A box without hinges, key, or lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid.”

“Egg,” he replies smugly, honestly he had to get up pretty early in the day to get a riddle past him. “This thing all things devours: birds, beasts, trees, flowers; gnaws iron, bites steel; grinds hard stones to meal; slays kings, ruins town, and beats high mountain down.” He enjoys the helpless look on the dwarf’s face.

“One moment,”

“As you wish.” He listens to the dwarf run through his riddle, brows furrowing in confusion. He takes so long someone tells him he must hurry or forfeit.

“Weather?”

“Time,” he answers with a smile. “I shall be taking that harp now, if you don’t mind.” He still desires to slap the child but embarrassing him in front of his peers was just as good if not better. He was sure to remember this night as the people present were sure to not let him forget it.

He chooses not to stay and brag and receives many mighty slaps on his back as he takes his leave and heads directly to the crypts. Before he walks through the entrance he plucks at the strings and the sound the harp makes is simply beautiful and he’s surprised his untrained fingers were able to create such a melody. He stops and plays some more and when he finally remembers himself and his quest he finds Thorin stood before him, weak and hollow resting against the wall.

He should hand it back, allow Thorin to play but he chooses to keep playing and takes a step back. He wants Thorin out of the crypts, would even have the doors barred if he could. He takes another step back and begins to sing.

“I saw the light fade from the sky; on the wind I heard a sigh.” The words are sorrowful but then so is the melody. “As the snowflakes cover my fallen brothers I will say this last goodbye.” He takes two more steps back and watches Thorin step forward. “Night is now falling, so ends this day. The road is now calling and I must away!” He retreats at a steady pace and is pleased as Thorin follows.

“Over hill and under tree, through lands where never light has shone. By silver streams that run down to the sea. Under cloud, beneath the stars over snow and winter’s morn I turn at last to paths that lead home.” He turns around to see where he is going and heads towards the ramparts so they could see the moon and the stars and breathe in fresh air.

“And though where the road than takes me, I cannot tell. We came all this way but now comes the day to bid you farewell.” He finishes on one last lingering note and hopes Thorin realises he wrote this song in honour of Frerin, for Thorin’s book.

“That’s a beautiful song,” Thorin compliments.

“In honour of Frerin,” he confesses in case Thorin believed he was bidding him farewell. “I believe this is yours,” he holds the harp out and Thorin takes it reverently and brushes his fingertips against the strings.

“I always dreamt I would have this back and when we met I knew you would be the one to return it to me. My burglar.” He looks like death warmed up and he is still breathtakingly beautiful.

“Amrâlimê,” he says perfectly though to be fair he still isn’t entirely sure what it means. He’s quite sure it means ‘I love you’ but he wouldn’t like to bet on it. Thorin places the harp down onto the floor and pulls him into a hug.

“Thorin Mellon-nin?” He hears a Sindarin welcome and Thorin stiffens in his arms and for a horrifying moment he thinks that Thranduil has come to Erebor. He slowly releases his husband and looks towards the elf that had just spoken. He is tall, thin with long straight white-blond hair combed backwards and fashioned into a braid with two thin braids either side of his head. His eyes are blue and his eyebrows are thin and black contrasting against his pale skin and white-blond hair. He does not believe he is looking at Thranduil as Thorin always made scathing comments about his thick eyebrows and lavish robes. The elf before him is wearing silver armour and the way he speaks with such familiarity towards Thorin makes him believe he was looking at Legolas.

“I am not your friend,” Thorin growls with his back to the elf as a sign of disrespect.

“Then I am yours,” the arrogance of the elf is astounding. He steps closer and for a moment he thought his skin might glow like pale moonlight but it does not. From Thorin’s tales he thought the elf’s skin was luminescent but he supposes to a dwarf’s poor sight it would seem that way when in actual fact it was simply pale. “Why will you not see my father?”

Thorin turns then and there is beauty in his rage but there is madness too. “I would see him from this earth!”

“My father means only to honour you.”

“Honour me, from an elf that lacks all honour. I have seen how he treats his friends and I do not want a repeat performance!”

“What falsehood are you implying?”

“I came to him once, nameless, shamed, seeking help from a friend and all he did was help himself to me!”

“Lower your voice, dwarf. I never took you for a liar.” Thorin is silent but he is sure had Orcrist been at his hip Legolas would be minus a head.

“You were there, you know what he did.” It pains him how broken Thorin sounds and he knows he is being betrayed all over again with Legolas’ lies.

“I was outside your room, I heard you consent.”

“After I begged him to let me go! Why did you not help me? I asked him to let me go and he refused. I did not consent willingly, I had no choice.” Legolas seems unmoved and as cold as ice.

“You should not have flaunted yourself so gamely.” It had always worried Thorin that he had somehow asked for it but as he had told him time and again no means no and nothing he could have done deserved that response.

“Now see here,” he speaks up knowing Thorin is taking his words to heart.

“What is this goblin-mutant?” Legolas sneers looking down at his nose at him.

“Congratulations Legolas, you have become your father.”

“Well then I dearly hope I have a better taste in dwarfs. Gimli would not play with my heart as you did with my father’s.”

“I came seeking help.” Thorin reiterates.

“Yes of course, because you tired of leading King Girion on and instead of taking responsibility for your actions you sought refuge in my house.” It is hard to believe that Legolas was once Thorin’s friend. “You were fed, given a room and given a gift. When he made his intention known why did you say nothing? When he kissed you why did you not turn him away? You play games, Thorin, you always have. You ask me why did I not come to your aid. Because I heard you moaning like a whore.” Thorin lashes out but he manages to grab a hold of his husband before a fist lands on the filthy creature.

“Be gone with you!” He hisses, as Thorin struggles in his arms and the elf leaves as quickly as he appeared.

“Get off me!” He has a very good hold on his husband, if he does say so himself, immobilising his arms.

“Calm down Thorin.” Thorin is too strong for him and he finds his grip weakening.

“Take your hands off me you descendant of rats!” Thorin turns in his arms and the motion spins them and his grip is lost. “I am betrayed!” He cries, though he has committed no betrayal. “Be gone with you!”

“Stop Thorin, I am on your side!” He protests but all the anger for Legolas is now directed at him.

“You believed his lies, be gone with you I said!” Thorin shoves him away from him clearly unaware of his own strength. He stumbles back and something catches the back of his foot, Thorin’s harp, and he falls against the ramparts his arms windmilling to remain upright or fall to his untimely death.

Everything slows down in those moments as he feels weightless as his feet fall from beneath him. He hears Thorin’s scream, sees the dawning horror on his face as he realises what he has done. He closes his eyes not wanting that to be his last memory of Thorin, instead he thinks back to the time a third lantern lit up a stranger at his door and how his life was changed for the better and he smiles.

Hands grasp his waistcoat and pull him so forcefully he finds himself on the floor with his brass buttons torn clean off. He catches his breath convinced he was in for it, as he was quite literally falling to his death. However someone had pulled him from that fate dragged him back to the world of the living and he turns to see Thorin hunched down on the floor, brass buttons scattered around him, crying into his hands.

He crawls over to him, not trusting the strength in his legs as they feel like jelly and drapes himself over his husband’s back and holds him through his wracking sobs. He does not know what to do so he continues his song from earlier.

“Many places I have been, many sorrows I have seen but I don’t regret nor will I forget all who took that road with me. Night is now falling, so ends this day. The road is now calling and we must away.” He changes the words as he means for them to leave. “Over hill and under tree through lands where never light has shone. By the silver streams that run down to the sea. To these memories I will hold, with their blessing we will go to turn at last to paths that lead home.” He finishes the song there as it makes sense for their current situation.

“I’m taking you home.”

“No, leave me here; you have seen what I am capable of.”

“I know what you are capable of,” he replies smartly. “You are capable of looking after the fauntlings. You are capable of making the sharpest garden tools in Middle Earth. You are capable of knitting and sewing and growing prize winning pumpkins. You are also capable of burning water by simply looking at it and getting lost on a straight road. You are capable of loving me and that’s all that matters. I was a fool to bring you here, I’m sorry. I was only trying to do the right thing and it has all gone wrong but I will right it.” He presses a kiss to the side of his husband’s head as Thorin rests his head on his shoulder.

“I’ll put you straight back to work when we get home, blacksmith.” Thorin is shaking against him and he’s not sure if it is from laughter or tears.

“Grocer,” he returns shakily and he knows with that reply everything will be well. They will return to the Shire and plant the acorn on top of the hill and as they watch it grow they will remember both the good and the bad of this journey and know that they survived it and came out of it stronger than before.

Chapter Text

Bilbo once told me that all great stories had a beginning, a middle and an end. But life doesn’t end, our time may be spent and we move on but what we did with our time can shape a generation. So, allow me, if you will, to chronical the last years of Thorin Oakenshield, an exiled prince, a husband and a Baggins of Bag End.

I was very young when Thorin and Bilbo returned from Erebor but even I, as a naïve child could sense something had changed. For the better and for the worst. Their bond was stronger because of it, but Thorin became distant again. He disbanded the Company and became a recluse. In his absence, Daddy Twofoot was forced to close the forge as the work was too much for himself.

It was officially the end of the long summer, as it has come to be known. Five long years of fertility when the birth-rate spiked in the Shire. My parents were unable to conceive again after Belladonna but they did not grieve, instead they praised Thorin for her birth. If he had not plucked them from the Brandywine river that fateful night then they would have perished and Belladonna would have never been born.

I had heard the tale often, as my parents were keen to tell anyone who would listen. Thorin was a hero to them, to me, and to the Shire. Thorin was a hero to all but himself. I was too young to understand his melancholy, so much I did not know and I imagine there is more that I will never know.

His greatest secret was his identity. He seemingly chose to live a life of anonymity and no one was the wiser. Until the day King Thrain abdicated the throne. Like his father and unbeknownst to his people, the Dragon Sickness had taken a hold and he had raged at a son he thought he had lost only to lose him again. Cured by his son’s absence, Thrain renounced his kingship and moved to the Blue Mountains claiming he chose to die as a father rather than a King.

It was the talk of the town when the former king rode into Hobbiton and asked Lobelia- of all people- directions for Bag End. Shire folk are not known for their intelligence and often put two and two together and end up with five. That day, however, even they could not be so obtuse.

Rumour had it, that the former King was reluctantly welcomed and stayed no more than ten minutes and left disheartened. Still, he persevered and visited again and again, fighting for the love of a son he had never truly lost. Thorin eventually forgave him as his love for his father outweighed his sadness and in that one-year Thrain moved into Bag End and was introduced to the family.

My memories of Thrain are brief. I simply remember an old dwarf with a tattoo across his forehead and a look of contentment on his face. He had a strong friendship with Daddy Twofoot and they were often found at the forge together bragging about ‘their’ son. Thrain never begrudged Daddy for his possessive terminology regarding his son and Daddy never felt threatened when Thrain moved in.

During that year Thorin and Bilbo renewed their vows with Thrain accompanying Thorin and Daddy accompanying Bilbo. Their vows were heartfelt and meant more than I could ever know. Thorin’s sister attended with her son Kili and a blond-haired dwarf who stayed hidden from view. Later I was to learn that it had been King Fili.

I keep referring to that one year because that was all it was. Thrain passed away in his sleep. It was sudden to me who was unfamiliar to death but others had suspected. He had lived a long life and he died as he had wished, as a father loved by his son. Despite seeing out his final year in Hobbiton his body was returned to Erebor to lie in state with the kings of old.

The Shire mourned him and celebrated his life. We were honoured to have a king among us if only for a short while. Thorin’s popularity was to soar even higher when it was revealed Fili hadn’t taken the throne when Thrain left and upon Thrain’s death, Thorin became king of Erebor for one day. It was a thoughtful act done by a devoted nephew. The tragedy of Thorin Oakenshield is that he was to save Erebor twice from ruin within but he would not benefit from it. Now he would. Once a king of Erebor, always a king of Erebor.

Life goes on as it always has and as it always will. Daddy Twofoot died two years after Thrain and Thorin’s name was added to his gravestone declaring him as his son. Thorin was devastated as pieces of his old life were falling away and now pieces of his new life were slowly being stolen from him.

Life had one last cruelty for Thorin. In his eleventy-first year Bilbo Baggins passed away. I was of age then and the enormity of it took my very breath so I can only imagine what it did to Thorin. I know Thorin would have preferred to have died first but I do not truly believe he knew how much Bilbo loved him and how much Bilbo needed him. As sad as it is to say, Thorin was accustomed to death but Thorin was Bilbo’s life. He said it often enough but Thorin always took it in jest, I often wonder if he ever truly knew the extent of Bilbo’s feelings for him.

Uncle Bilbo was laid to rest beside his mother and father and his gravestone was made from mithril, a metal more precious than gold. Thorin was still a dwarf after all and expressed his feelings with valuable trinkets but I know he loved Bilbo more than he could admit to. More than he could ever say. More than he even knew.

After Bilbo passed, Thorin became a shell of his former self. A part of him died with Bilbo and I watched as his eyes became sunken and his skin became ashen as his life slowly ebbed away. I stayed with him as much as I could, I promised uncle Bilbo that Thorin would never be alone again and he wasn’t.

If I was not there, Belladonna was with her three little ones, and Daddy Twofoot’s youngest son as the elder had passed away some years before. It was too short notice for the princess to arrive or her sons as Thorin declined rapidly. They had visited the spring before and nothing was left unsaid. In her absence she penned a beautiful letter in which I read to Thorin as his second family surrounded him as he was comforted by words from his first family.

Days before, he had passed me this book but he did not tell me to finish his story, he told me to write my own. So, you see, there is no end to this tale, there is only another chapter, my chapter. Belladonna’s chapter. The story of her children because life goes on.

Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, heir of Durin, King of Erebor and a Baggins of Bag End died fourteen days later after Bilbo passed away. He died surrounded by people who loved him, and I think for once he finally realised that he was loved.

I held his hand as his time drew near and I will never forget his final moments as it is ingrained in my memory for a lifetime. He looked towards the door where no one was stood and he smiled a rare smile I had only seen him reserve for Bilbo and then his grip slackened and he was gone.

I like to believe that Bilbo came back in Thorin’s final moments so he would not be alone. I know somewhere they are together once more because death is not the end.

I write this now, at a table my uncle used to sit at in a smial they called a home. I too, am married now, to my best friend Samwise Gamgee. I owe my happiness to Bilbo and Thorin who taught me to love to the fullest and never give up. Life is hard and love is harder but a moment of true love is worth a lifetime of pain.

Sam infuriates me but he completes me. He is the Thorin to my Bilbo and their love, like life is deathless.