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Chapter Text

Thorin sighed heavily and sank down on the stone bench in the confessional. It was a dark, damp little room in a small crevice in the mountain, that had been carved into a kind of temple to Aule. It was a temporary measure until they had rebuilt Erebor enough to build the shrines, libraries, schools and squares that were all inside the mountain, and so much harder to restore, than if they had been working outside. There was need for light, and the chandeliers were broken and there weren't enough candles. Restoration required a lot of labor, and Dain's dwarves had already left for the Iron Hills. They needed food, and the traders still avoided the mountain. Dwarves needed warm clothing for the winter, and there were too few animals to hunt. And, surely, they needed water, and all the canals and wells were blocked up. It had been about a month and a half since their victory at the Battle of the Five Armies, and the king's head was already boiling with all the chaos. Luckily, the people of Lake-town and some of the Mirkwood elves stayed to help. But of course, it wasn't Thorin who had made the deal with them. It was the one who had made the king so addicted to going to confessionals.

The priest's heels clicked lightly. He approached a small crack in the wall and sat down opposite Thorin. Uzbad's eyes were visible through the crack: two blue lakes buried under drooping eyelids and dark circles from fatigue.

- You're early today, Your Majesty. - Thorin heard the priest's voice. He turned away from the crack. Damn it, does he have such a recognizable eyes? Or maybe no one else comes here? He felt a little ashamed of himself - the others were working, and he was chatting with the priest. But it was better this way. Who knows how this will all end, if he keeps it all to himself?

- I'm not your Majesty now. Everyone is equal before the gaze of Mahal, right? - there was no answer, but the priest sat up straighter and prepared to listen.

At first, Thorin thought he had gotten rid of the dragon sickness. But, as it turned out later, this voice never left him. Yes, it is no longer his own, he doesn't say everything that the dragon whispers to him out loud, he doesn't give in, but, damn it, how difficult it is to live with this monster inside. With the fear that at any moment he will be devoured and he will again fall into the abyss of madness. Again he will lie on piles of gold, pounce on everyone who touches even one coin... No, this will definitely not happen. But there will be something worse. After all, it is one thing when you go crazy because of a thing, and another when because of a living creature. Deep in his soul, Thorin regretted that he didn't die during the battle...

- Tell me, Father Stonemason, have you ever wanted to kill your own kind?

At first it all began with harmless complaints and repentance. A little less than a month ago, after his full recovery, Thorin came to the temple for the first time. That day, the young priest Sidri signed his own death warrant by agreeing to listen to the king's confession. The soul of the usually closed king desperately burst out when Sidri assured him that everything said in the temple would never leave its walls. At first, he said this because he sincerely believed that the tired king would feel better when he spoke out. But he never expected that uzbad would become so addicted to pouring out his soul to him that he would come so often.

- No, Child of the Mountain, I have never wanted to. Taking the life of a brother is a great crime. Where did such thoughts come from in your head?

But Sidri knew perfectly well where from. Despite his selfless faith and kindness of soul, he had already cursed that hobbit many times. The same one who helped him put the holy scriptures on the shelves with a sweet smile, who sneezed loudly when a cloud of dust flew into his face, and the one he first called "the sun." And no, he was cursed not because he was a bad creature or his soul was rotten, but because he took the king's heart in his tenacious fingers and didn't let go.

- My treasure... - this voice made cold sweat appear on Sidri's forehead. The dragon. But the tone quickly changed to a more lively one, as if Thorin didn't even notice what had just happened. - I don't want to kill either. My hands are already covered in blood up to the elbows. I just want him to disappear. So that I wouldn't have the desire to grab him by the throat and squeeze him until his body goes limp in my arms. I just want him to disappear, and I wouldn't even know his name. The one who is now hanging around near my treasure.

His last clarification wasn't even necessary. The king adored this "treasure" of his so much, it was obvious that he wouldn't wish for it to disappear. But everyone who surrounded this jewel, of course, fell into the circle of personal enemies of the king. You can't envy them. That is why Sidri soon stopped allowing the hobbit to come to the temple and communicate with him alone. He was afraid that Thorin was standing somewhere in the crowd and burning them with a hateful look. Of course, he had never seen how his jealousy showed itself, and didn't want to check.

And Thorin continued talking. He moved away from the topic of murder and continued about work problems: about the food running out, about the collapse in the treasury, about the desertion of the guards and the impossibility of properly warming the mountain so that the dwarves, people and elves didn't freeze. But, of course, his words about wishing death on someone still rang in Sidri's ears. And that dragon's voice... Damn. Sometimes he feels sorry for the hobbit. And he doesn't even know his name. The creature has become simply a "treasure".

The king himself was afraid of this nickname, but how well it suited him... Bilbo's curls really were like gold, and his eyes were like precious stones. And he loved the hobbit. At first it was a slight sympathy, weightless touches of their hands while they sat by the fire, fleeting glances and short conversations at night. After the incident on the Carrock Cliff, these feelings became full-fledged love. And the dragon sickness distorted it, turning it into either hatred or obsession. When the hobbit confessed that he stole the Arkenstone, Thorin really thought he would kill him. But when Bilbo's frightened eyes looked at him from under his death grip and Gandalf asked him to let go - that's when the dragon began to back down. And the king very soon regretted what he had done. About what he had said to the hobbit, about how that damn morning had been the end of their relationship.

He thought he would hate Bilbo, but in reality he only hated himself. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and saw Thror. How he had mocked his wife under the influence of dragon sickness and how everyone had to watch it.

He had hoped that he would die when Azog's blade pierced him. Then he wouldn't be remembered as a madman who locked himself in a mountain and didn't want to listen to anyone, and who almost threw one of his own off the bastion. He would be remembered as a hero who fought side by side with men and elves. And Bilbo would remember not his curses, cries of betrayal, but his tender dying touches, apologies and words of love. But this didn't happen. The hobbit raised such a ruckus on the mountain that the healer rushed in before Thorin couldn't be saved. Damn that Oin.

Bilbo was there the whole time Thorin was unconscious, but when uzbad opened his eyes, the hobbit was gone. All that was left of him was a tiny music box on the nightstand. According to Ori, Bilbo made it especially as a gift to Thorin for the conquest of Erebor, but he couldn't bring himself to give it to him - he was afraid of the dragon sickness. And now, what was there to lose? They were no longer together, and the hobbit decided to leave it as a parting gift. And from that very day, Bilbo no longer looked at him, didn't talk to him, and generally tried not to be in the same room with him. But this gift... the box was small, in the shape of a heart, and Thorin made a pendant out of it. Every night, the sounds of the melody from the box could be heard from the royal chambers. It played for a long time, but even Fili and Kili didn't dare complain about the noise.

The hobbit was persuaded with great difficulty to stay as one of the diplomats, but he flatly refused to work with Thorin, so he remained under the protection of Balin. And after parting, uzbad didn't even hope for anything. He thought that the feelings would pass. But when he was finally able to attend the negotiations in which Bilbo participated, when he heard his voice, saw him again so close that he could even touch him, he felt like he couldn't breathe. And when the hobbit looked down at his neck, saw the music box on it, smiled and barely audibly whispered: "I am glad that you liked my gift, Your Majesty" - that was the end. At first it felt as if his ribs were broken at one moment, and they all pierced his heart at once. The melody from the box played all night after those negotiations, and Thorin didn't sleep. He sobbed, until the tears stopped flowing from his eyes, then he just laid there and stared blankly at the ceiling, and when tears appeared, he cried again. A couple of days after these negotiations, he discovered the confessional. A dubious decision, of course, but in his situation, all means are good. The guarantee of non-disclosure sounded extremely tempting. And the priest hadn't lied.

- Mahal will hear your prayers, Child of the Mountain. Go and remember, you will always be welcome here. - Sidri, of course, would have preferred not to say the last, but such is the rule. Through the crack, he glanced at the king. He was sitting, leaning against the wall, and tightly clutching a small silver pendant in the shape of a heart in his hand. Then he silently rose and left the temple, as always. Only something told the priest that this time the uzbad did not leave with a pure soul.

***

Thorin had only started going to dinner with the company a couple of weeks ago, because Balin insisted. And by that time he was no longer as lost as before - he was talking to someone, even smiling and eating normally. The company wasn't all there: the Ri family ate at home, and Bofur and Baggins were also absent. Bilbo was a wonderful cook himself, and was too tired in the evenings to sit in the company, and the dwarf, as it turned out, had recently become a big fan to the hobbit's cooking. But no one mentioned this in front of the king, for obvious reasons.

Thorin, as always, as if mechanically, took two glasses of wine. He placed one in front of himself, and the second - in front of the empty chair on his right hand. No one asked anymore why he was doing this, why he wouldn't let anyone sit on that chair. If they didn't listen to him and took the chair, he would silently bring a new one, and when someone took that unclaimed glass, moved it, or drank from it, he would simply put it back and fill it again, as if he himself didn't notice what he was doing. And when they asked, he would just hang there for a while, let them take the glass away, and then put it back again. Everyone just unspokenly decided that this was probably a side effect of all those drugs that Oin was stuffing him with in an attempt to pull him back from the other world. As well as his constant touching of the music box.

Uzbad also listened to conversations with one ear, and became very irritated when his friends raised their voices. After surviving the battle, he developed a burning hatred for noise, and he returned to the Thorin he had been for a long time in Ered Luin - silent, strange, distant and unapproachable. Many were unaccustomed to it, but only Balin understood the real reason for the change. He was the most experienced of all the dwarves and understood perfectly well that there was a direct connection between the king's obsessive actions and the breakdown of his relationship with Bilbo. Thorin had to be kicked so that he would start paying attention to the conversation. Dwalin started talking about the pressing issue: the recent alliance that Bilbo wanted to conclude between the dwarves and elves. Trade. Something that without him no one would have thought about - neither the dwarves nor the elves.

- Now that's a bold move from our hobbit. After such a request, our beloved fellows will rise in rebellion and drive him out of the kingdom. - Thorin visibly tensed up. He knew what Bilbo was going to do, but he preferred to put it off for a long time. After all, elves were far from those he wanted to trust, and certainly not those with whom he was ready to cooperate. But it would be one thing if elves were proposing it - he would send them far away and wouldn't even be ashamed. But it was quite another thing when Bilbo was proposing it. And Thorin couldn't deny that the offer of trade would be very useful to them now. The kingdom was in decline after the dragon. Although there was enough food for now, they would definitely not survive the winter with such supplies, Dain was still quite far away, and Lake-town was starving. Then it turned out that by agreeing to negotiations, he would kill two birds with one stone: he would receive a guarantee that they would survive the winter - he didn't even doubt that the treaty would be signed, and in addition he would win back the hobbit's favor. Tempting.

- What do you think, Thorin? What will you do? The dwarves will start plotting against him, don't even doubt it. - the answer didn't follow immediately. Plotting. Against his treasure. No, nothing will happen. No agreement. If Bilbo is in danger, then don't even let them hope. Thorin's head began to ache slowly from the contradiction screaming inside.

- I haven't decided yet. The request is laying on my desk unsigned, and I'm not going to approve it. It will shake the internal situation, we are already extremely unstable. Bilbo is in a hurry. - his heart skipped a beat when he said his name out loud. He hadn't allowed himself such luxury lately, and the hobbit was always named as "treasure".

- But the elves are waiting, he must have promised them something. The forest princess will start writing us letters soon.

- Bullshit! He doesn't care about us! Even if we were here dying of hunger, he wouldn't even blink! What else do you expect from elves!?

- But Master Baggins is with us! He'll come to an agreement with the elves and calm the dwarves!

- You overestimate the hobbit's abilities! They already dislike him because of his decisions, which Thorin approves of!

The entire hall erupted in arguments, which soon began to gain momentum in raised voices, and Thorin had to slam his fist on the table with all his might to stop the bickering. A glass of wine, that belonged to no one, jumped on the table from the force of the blow, and fell right onto the king's freshly washed tunic. A deathly silence fell, and everyone looked at Thorin. No one could get used to his sudden outbursts when the room was plunged into noise. The king exhaled heavily and convulsively clutched the music box in his hand.

- I didn't say that I categorically reject this decision. It's just that for now it will remain temporarily unanswered. - a blatant lie, or not, he didn't know himself. After the words about Bilbo being disliked, the dragon in Thorin's head stirred. His ears began to ring from obsessive thoughts. He had seen the faces and eyes of the dead more than once, and now his mind, as if to spite him, drew his beloved with an empty look, cold, on the ground...

While the others were calming down, Thorin sat, staring into space and clicking the lid of the music box on his chest. Balin snapped his fingers in front of the king's eyes and tried to touch the jewel. Uzbad immediately jumped up as if scalded, covered the pendant with his hands and reflexively reached for his belt for the sword. Only a few moments later, looking hostilely into the eyes of his tutor, he realized what had happened.

- I'm sorry. Don't scare me like that again.

- Thorin, this is serious. You're not okay. I'll talk to Bilbo.

And, as always, the answer didn't come right away. The king fell out of reality for a moment, and the silence was broken only by the melody from the open lid of the music box. Thorin looked down and slammed the box shut.

- Don't you dare. He mustn't know anything about what's happening to me. Not a word, Balin!

Fundin's eldest son sighed and shook his head. Stubborn as always. Well, at least something remained from that Thorin. But this obsession of his... It will soon start to go beyond the bounds, and this ram is still silent! They could help, if not with action, then at least with advice, or just sit down and talk to Bilbo. The hobbit was a kind, understanding creature, and he would definitely be able to think of something. But, on the other hand, Thorin was right. Telling Bilbo was the worst decision. The gaping wound from their separation had apparently not even begun to heal. And yet it seemed to him that these two would never part, they loved each other so much.

- Very well, not a word. But if this continues, I won't ask you and will go to our hobbit myself. He is still our friend! He fought for Erebor with us, stood next to you at the throne, found you half-dead and…

- That’s enough, stop it! - Thorin shouted, but not loudly enough for everyone to turn to them again. He exhaled, his fingers slowly turning the music box back and forth. - Bilbo is dear to me too, I don't say that he is a stranger to me. But now is not the time, Balin. Too little time has passed, he still thinks I'm a madman, and he would be right.

Fundin’s eldest son noticed how uzbad’s hands began to tremble slightly when he clutched the pendant in his hand. This necklace was a comfort and a consolation to him. More precious than the Arkenstone, which he ordered to be taken to the dungeons and locked behind a sealed door after his return to Erebor.

- Let's go. You're tired. - Balin put his hand on Thorin's shoulder. They stood up and quickly left the hall so that no one would follow them. As soon as they left the hall, the king immediately opened the box and visibly relaxed, listening to the melody. Balin looked at his protégé with concern for a few moments. A memory of young Thrain flashed through his mind.

"- You don't understand, Balin. I love her, I have loved her and will always love her. - the then Prince of Erebor whispered selflessly, touching the portrait of his beloved. And yet he was now sitting in his wedding attire, ready to marry another woman! Thorin's mother!

- Thrain, this is not love, this is obsession. You are ill. Don't do stupid things, don't torment her if your heart cries for another.

Thrain raised his head and looked at Balin. With such a distant and lost look, which certainly shouldn't belong to the heir to the throne, the future King-under-the-Mountain.

- But she is not mine anymore. And she won't be mine anymore. And if I couldn't have her, then no one will, and I will marry another woman, so that later I can laugh in her face in the halls of Mahal, showing my children and telling her about the happily lived life. And all without her! "

Thorin was different with his intentions. But he loved as much as his father. And now, when he looked with the same distant look at the mechanisms rotating in the music box, Balin firmly decided for himself that if he didn't see any changes by the end of the month, he would go talk to Baggins, and neither Thorin, nor the guards, nor threats would stop him.

Chapter Text

Bilbo Baggins' life seemed to be getting better after the Battle of the Five Armies. It seemed to him that even the breakup with Thorin had not hit him so hard, and he would have quickly forgotten the king. Hobbits tend to change many partners in their lives, and usually after a breakup, they immediately found someone new and quickly forgot about the former. But not Tooky. And Bilbo, as luck would have it, was one of them.

- Bofur, dinner is ready! - the hobbit put two plates of soup on the table. From the next room, the loud stomping of dwarven boots was heard, and a moment later Bofur joyfully flew into the kitchen and looked at the food with appetite. He ran up to Bilbo, hugged him tightly and gently kissed him on the cheek several times.

- You are simply wonderful, flower! It smells so delicious, even Bombur can't do that! - He sat down at the table with a wide smile and began to devour the soup. Bilbo looked at it all, although with warmth in his eyes, but terribly tired.

________

- Here, Thorin, take it. - He handed the king a plate. The king stared at him in bewilderment.

- What is this? Bombur made food for everyone, I already got my portion. If you don't want it, keep it for the night, you'll get hungry.

- No, I made it for you. You don't like this porridge, so I thought you might want something else... - the hobbit muttered embarrassedly, while Thorin stared at him as if he was some kind of alien. He fell out of reality for a few moments, after which his gaze softened so much, that Bilbo's heart did a somersault in his chest. The king reached out and took the plate from him. He tried the food, and his face blossomed. He tried to squeeze out some kind of praise, but the look was more than enough for Bilbo. The hobbit sat down next to him, their shoulders lightly touching, and it seemed as if he felt goosebumps run across the king's skin. They sat in silence until Thorin finished his meal. He turned to Bilbo.

- T hank you, ghivashel... - the hobbit did not yet know what this word meant, but this completely uncharacteristic soft tone of voice made it clear, that it was far from an insult.

__________

Thorin's whispers screamed about feelings louder than Bofur's kisses, touches, loud declarations of love, than his attempt to propose to Bilbo... Well, or it was all because the hobbit still loved the king of the dwarves. Despite all the hurt, the anger, the brutal breakup on the bastion, and despite the fact that he still denied it, his feelings for Thorin hadn't gone away.

So he sat there, dreamily staring into space and picking at the hot soup with a spoon. Bofur was not in front of him. Uzbad was sitting in his place. That was why, when the dwarf turned to Bilbo, he stuttered for a few moments before answering.

- What's wrong? I just asked for salt. - Bofur narrowed his eyes and looked at the hobbit carefully. Bilbo waved his hand dismissively and muttered something inarticulate under his breath, finally starting to slowly eat his soup. He would want to attribute all this to fatigue, but Bilbo had been acting like this every day lately, and it didn't matter whether he was doing something or just lying flat out on the sofa all day - which, incidentally, was also not typical for him. Until one moment.

Bofur cursed the signing of that treaty with all his heart. Thranduil demanded that Thorin be present at the negotiations. After all, the conclusion of a military truce is an important moment in the lives of both countries, and the king simply could not help but come. And Bilbo was, as always, at Balin's right hand.

Before the negotiations, they learned of the king's presence only an hour before, and Bofur noticed how his hobbit immediately began to behave much more distantly. If before that he even allowed the dwarf to touch his hand sometimes, now he simply threw angry glances at him and stopped such actions. And when the king appeared in the hall, Bilbo completely ran to Balin and began to ignore Bofur's presence. At first he thought that the hobbit was simply nervous before concluding such a serious treaty, but then an unpleasant thought came to his head, namely when he saw Thorin staring at Bilbo with fascination, and the hobbit in return throwing fleeting glances at him. His heart stabbed unpleasantly, but he began to convince himself that he had just imagined it.

- Flower, I believe in you, you will succeed. - a few minutes before the negotiations, Bofur decided to support the nervous hobbit. But it didn't seem like he was a fan of this action - he looked so distant and even... irritated? He snatched his hand out of Bofur's grip and a grimace appeared on his face, as if this hand had just been in a bucket of slop. The dwarf even expected Bilbo to wipe it.

- We have already come to an agreement that peace will take place. This meeting will only be the signing of the treaty and the settlement of the remaining minor issues that required the presence of His Majesty. - perhaps it was just in Bofur's head at this point, but he would have been ready to swear that Bilbo's voice trembled when he mentioned Thorin.

- Really? And I thought that if you just batted your eyes and smiled at him, he would even sign his own death warrant. – the dwarf himself didn't understand why he said this, and instantly regretted it, because at first his hobbit's eyes widened so much that they seemed ready to fall out of their sockets, and then, before he could put in a word or apologize, Bilbo gave him a resounding slap on the cheek and disappeared behind the door.

Already inside the negotiation hall, both Thorin and Bilbo were acting quite formally, at a distance, and didn't even look at each other. But then it was Balin and the elven adviser's turn to draft the treaty, and Bilbo unconsciously sat down next to the king. They sat in absolute silence, and then they themselves didn't notice how they began to look into each other's eyes, and their hands lightly touched with their knuckles. The hobbit remembered that feeling very well, and replayed it in his head over and over again. And then he looked down first at the uzbad's lips, and then at the shiny thing on his chest. The music box that Bilbo was going to give him in honor of the liberation of Erebor, but left on his nightstand only when the king almost said goodbye to life. A smile involuntarily blossomed on his face.

- I am glad that you liked my gift, Your Majesty. - he couldn't resist commenting, and then, with a sinking heart, he looked into Thorin's blue eyes. There was no need for words, the king was perfectly able to communicate with just a look, and during the campaign Bilbo had already learned to decipher the meaning of each of his ambiguous glances.

- There's no way I could not like it. This is amazing work. - Thorin whispered barely audibly, and for a moment the hobbit felt like he couldn't breathe. But he quickly returned to reality, because the situation required his intervention. Despite Balin's wisdom, the wild dwarven blood still boiled in him, and he and the elven advisor were already beginning to glare at each other.

The treaty was signed successfully, both sides were satisfied, and Thorin and Thranduil even shook hands. Balin watched all this with his jaw hanging open, and Bilbo was incredibly proud of himself. After the negotiations, he even wanted to go up to the king and talk to him, but he noticed a sullen Bofur in the crowd. He remembered how he had hit the dwarf before the negotiations, and he felt terribly ashamed of his actions. Yes, of course, he had crossed all boundaries with his comment, but he shouldn't have hit him either. As much as Bilbo didn't want to leave to talk to Thorin, he still overcame himself and went to Bofur.

- Bilbo, flower, are you even listening to me? - the hobbit sat in Bofur's arms, head laid on him, while the dwarf stroked his shoulder. No, he wasn't listening to what was said to him at all, and he didn't really care. As much as he wanted to, he didn't have the strength to pretend today. Yes, he liked the warmth that Bofur gave him, he liked that he was always there. But it was at that moment that the realization that he had been desperately pushing away for the last month hit him in the head. He didn't love Bofur. He never had. Yes, his pride would prevent him from returning to Thorin, but his heart still belonged to uzbad. And what to do about it?

- No, I didn't. Repeat. - Bilbo croaked tiredly, and this time he promised himself he would definitely listen. Bofur frowned for a moment, but still repeated.

- Balin asked about changing the documents recently. He asked whether to list you and me as "partners." - the hobbit turned cold and looked at Bofur with fear. It was as if the dwarf expected such a reaction, and only looked away, offended. - I refused. I know that if I offered you, you would look at me as if I said something crazy. Moreover, His Majesty wouldn't approve.

Bofur understood that he would only ignite the conflict with his words, but he couldn't help himself. The offense was bursting to come out, and he was terribly irritated by the behavior of both the uzbad and the hobbit. His heart ached when Bilbo stood up from his chair with a gloomy look.

- You know very well that not much time has passed. I'm not ready to call you an official partner yet, Bofur, we've only been together for only about a month. That's very little time.

Whether it was an excuse or not, the dwarf no longer knew. He equated every word of Bilbo with "I need Thorin, not you." And this both irritated him and caused an insane feeling of guilt. What if this was not the case at all, and he was simply accusing Bilbo of infidelity? But he didn't have time to say anything more, in principle, as usual in such situations, because Bilbo left, loudly slamming the door.

Bilbo was on edge because of Bofur's statements. It was already embarrassing how often he had to slow him down. He would either pull his hand away, or move away from hugs, or make a remark about unnecessary care and affection in public. And why all this? Because he didn't like to force himself to reciprocate. He didn't remember the last time he spoke words of love to Bofur. He always just nods or smiles briefly at him. And it would be a shame if the dwarf stopped talking like that, but at the same time he didn't care. He felt bad for the dwarf, but the raw wound from breakup with Thorin was still hurting, and it was a desperate search for some stability. Bofur was stable, while Bilbo understood, that he himself wasn't.

They sometimes argued in the evenings, and each time Bilbo ran away, not letting Bofur get a word in. And he went to the hated bastion every time. The guards let him through without asking questions, and sometimes they even stepped away, leaving him alone with himself. That was the case this time. The guards silently turned around, letting him through to the bastion, and left. Bilbo inhaled the winter air and felt a wave of cold goosebumps run through his entire body - he was in a light tunic and short pants. But the cold was even pleasant, it woke him up and sobered him up well. So Bilbo could stand there and think carefully about his life decisions. Here he was with a good, loving man who was ready to carry him in his arms, but at the same time something was wrong. And he felt sorry for Bofur too, but the dwarf wasn't leaving. Apparently, he was waiting for Bilbo to forget Thorin. Only a month had passed, why not wait? But the hobbit himself didn't want to forget him at all. Well, or he wanted to, but he couldn't.

He stood in the cold for so long that he didn't notice how his cheeks and nose turned red in the frosty wind, and he began to shiver slightly. But he was deep in his thoughts, so he didn't notice the weather, or the snowflakes falling on his nose, or the footsteps that came from behind him, or the clicking of the silver music box, or the familiar melody that he himself had invented and, following the sensitive instructions of the dwarves, brought into that box.

But what managed to tear him out of his thoughts was a heavy fur coat that fell on his shoulders. His heart jumped in surprise, he reflexively grabbed the Sting and pointed it at a potential threat. But instead of an enemy, he met the blue eyes and the sad face of a king. Thorin stepped back and raised his hands in defeat.

- Is it my turn to suffer on this accursed bastion? - the king spoke very quietly, as always when he had a dialogue with Bilbo before. But this whisper was louder than the rumble of bells and the noise of war.

The clock struck midnight. The hobbit couldn't even return the sword to its sheath, he simply silently unclenched his fingers and dropped it on the stone, and he himself recoiled to the edge. Thorin reflexively stepped forward to hold him and not let him fall. Now they stood opposite, looking into each other's eyes.

The fur collar of Thorin's coat laid softly on Bilbo's neck, as if it belonged there. No, this was not a king. This was simply Thorin Oakenshield, or maybe not even Oakenshield at all, and not of Durin's line. Standing before him, was just an ordinary fool. No crown on his head, no weapons, no royal robes - a simple tunic, and under the tunic a silver chain and a music box.

- I wish. - Bilbo blurted out barely audibly, looking into Thorin's eyes. After what happened on the bastion, they had never had a normal conversation. And of course, Bilbo wouldn't want Thorin to suffer at all, but he urgently needed to save his ego, and this was the only thing that came to his mind in such a situation. But he was still afraid. He was afraid that the dragon affliction was still somewhere there, in Oakenshield's heart, that he would break loose and again would try to throw him off the bastion, only Gandalf wouldn't come to the rescue this time. But Thorin didn't lash out. He silently walked around him and obediently laid down in the same place where he had pushed Bilbo last time. The hobbit's heart sank.

- What are you doing, are you a complete idiot!? - Bilbo grabbed Thorin by the collar and pulled him away from the edge of the bastion. All this time the king looked at him with a look that the hobbit had never seen before, and he had no strength to decipher it.

- You could have taken revenge on me. Or even killed me. For example, if I were you, I would have done the same to myself.

Bilbo wanted to yell at him. Like all those times on the campaign, like that time at the bastion, like he had never done to anyone except him. To break down and scream, shout each other down, point out their misdeeds and throw insults around, so that later, with wet eyes and shortness of breath, they would cuddle up to each other instead of apologizing. But Bilbo knew that if he broke down now, he wouldn't just shed a tear or two, as he had before, but would simply start sobbing loudly, say stupid things, and finish the situation to the point of no return. And now, no matter how hard he tried to deny it, he didn't want that at all. He wanted this hope to burn like a small flame in his heart.

- You're a blockhead, Thorin. Who even says such things? - no matter how much he wanted to sound confident, his voice was treacherous. He took a ragged breath and slid down the wall onto the cold stone. The king was silent and did not comment on the situation, just sat down next to him, looking at the sky.

- I know. But what else can I say? I don't know when or what to say anymore. - there was no plea for forgiveness in this voice, no challenge or complaint. Simple fatigue, from which Bilbo again felt the desire to turn this into a loud quarrel. When Thorin was tired, their quarrels always ended with quiet hugs and kisses on the top of the head with a whisper that meant much more, than the curses and accusations shouted before. But he suppressed this desire again.

- Then learn again. Everything I used to tell you. - he barely held back a sob and a heavy sigh, but his voice slowly faded away at the last words. - Well, or at least don't sneak up on me from behind in this damned place if you want to talk.

Again he wanted to either shout or just leave, but Bilbo stayed. A single tear rolled down his cheek, but he didn't make a sound. They sat in silence, side by side under the moonlight.

- Did that mean you aren't angry with me anymore?

Bilbo didn't answer. He just looked at the sky and felt his eyes filling with tears again. No, he wasn't ready to forgive Thorin, not after what had happened between them, but he certainly wasn't angry. However, uzbad never knew that, because the rest of the time they sat in complete silence. And let Thorin decide for himself what this silence meant - anger, weakness, or forgiveness.

Chapter Text

Sidri was already starting to get a little headache from how much and how loudly he heard the ritual hammer strike under his ear. And all because of that ill-fated request for parley... It wasn't that the priest hated elves. Not at all, but the others who were present at the council, except for Bilbo - yes, today he finally learned the name of the "treasure" - had a terrible dislike for these elegant, pointy-eared creatures. But Erebor was in danger of starving, without the help of King Thranduil they would most likely be practically helpless. However, to these pompous fools - although Sidri didn't really want to call them that - their pride was more important than the happiness of the people. The priest glanced at his king. So tired, but still unshakable... A fine man. Delightful. If you don't count his soul cracked in half, the pain from which the king poured out on his head during confessions.

- Unthinkable! That we should bow down to these long-eared runts! - oh, and this is Lord Harn of the Blackstone clan. A hot-tempered old dwarf with grey hair, who always jumps up from his seat and shouts down Bilbo whenever he disagrees with something. He doesn't like anyone but dwarves, and he especially dislikes hobbits, perhaps even more than elves. - This is not trade, master Baggins, this is surrendering! We are exposing our borders to those who only recently came with an army for our treasury?

- We aren't surrendering our positions. And he didn't come for our treasury, but... - Bilbo interrupted himself. He knew that the dwarves didn't consider the stones of Lasgalen to be the property of the elves. - We are offering a route for the peaceful exchange of goods and trade. And this route will not touch your mines, Lord Harn, the elves will not come near you.

- The problem is not trade, gentlemen. - Lady Ragni from the Stoneback clan. Her character is somewhat reminiscent of Thorin, even their look is similar. But the dwarvine, unlike Harn, loved hobbits very much, since she came from the Blue Mountains, which are not far from the Shire. However, she couldn't stand elves, and didn't accept Bilbo's decisions. And the fact that she adored the hobbit incredibly, and she allowed herself to squeeze him more than once, didn't prevent her from changing her face and acting rather calculating and cold during council meetings. - The problem is trust. We trade our trust in the same way as gold and steel. Thranduil betrayed us once, which means he can betray us again. We are taking too much of a risk. Knowing him, when the time comes to pay, instead of money we will receive a flurry of arrows.

- But without trade, we won't survive the winter! - and this is Sidri's headache, and even worse than Thorin. Lord Grimvar from the Steelblood clan. He has no better temperament than Harn, but instead of opposing the poor hobbit, he supports him so aggressively that Bilbo clearly feels uneasy. And this is especially true considering that Grimvar doesn't trust him at all, even though he thinks he's moving in the right direction. - We need to rebuild Erebor, and instead we'll starve and drown in poverty while the elves and men prosper!

Grimvar cast a look at Sidri as if begging him to intervene. But without the king's permission, the priest had no right to interfere. He had to just smile and nod encouragingly. Ragni seemed to notice this exchange of glances and grinned coldly.

- What, is the loss of blood better than the loss of honor? Or have you also decided to go into religion, and now you glorify peace and alliances?

Sidri closed his eyes and covered his ears, because out of the corner of his eye he saw Thorin swing the hammer again and hit the table with all his might. The priest even thought that the table cracked.

- Enough. - Thorin didn't shout, but his thunderous voice echoed throughout the hall. You could immediately hear - the king. "This swearing is no better than the squeal of children who are arguing over a toy. This is not a question of emotions. This is a question of our future, and you, Ragni and Harn, understand this very well. If we all die of hunger and cold, we will rather be called crowned rams than proud brave men.

A smile involuntarily flashed across Sidri's face. Thorin very often used this expression at meetings, and at first the priest wondered where it came from, he had never heard the dwarves say it. And then he heard it from a hobbit, and everything fell into place. Ragni said nothing, only bowed her head slightly in respect and sat back down in her place. A bit of humility flashed across her face, she seemed to accept her wrongness.

The only one who said nothing the whole time was Lord Orlik of the Silverbone clan. A reserved and peace-loving young dwarf with long blond braids and pleasant features, he commanded respect from everyone, and at meetings he always said very wise things, and always the last one. But the king did not like him. Sidri remembered well how Thorin called him a "fake" during another confession.

"- He never shouts down Ragni and Harn at meetings, he never contradicts me, does not express dissatisfaction with my decisions."

"- But he isn't perfect. He smells of rust, rot, he poisons the air. He is false, his speeches taste like orc meat with sugar powder."

"- And his eyes... When he spoke of the death of his predecessor, his gaze didn't darken, didn't tremble, didn't mourn. He looked as if he was talking about the weather."

"- And he always walks silently. A dwarf shouldn't move like that. We are noisy creatures, every step should echo in the stone. Even the pointy-eared do not walk like him."

"- And I cannot find fault. Even Dwalin trusts him... And my treasure is sure that he is a worthy dwarf, smiles at him when he speaks. They all think that he is reasonable, correct."

"- I don't know, Father Stonemason. Perhaps I am just very tired. Or I am going crazy again. Paranoia."

But apparently the king was the only one in this hall who looked at him with a sober gaze. After Thorin's confessions, Sidri also began to take a closer look at Orlik. And now that he had heard what uzbad thought of him, he began to notice it too. The Lord of the Silverbone clan had finally decided to speak out.

- Uzbad is quite right, and I agree with master Baggins. - he smiled at the hobbit, and Sidri noticed out of the corner of his eye how Thorin unconsciously reached for the box on his chest. - However, if our elven friends are so unreliable, we should think about alternate trade routes and treaties. Then, even if we lose Mirkwood, we will still have a chance to preserve the kingdom. We have already concluded a military truce, so there will be no problem with the passage of our traders through the forest, right?

A wise decision, and everyone hastened to agree with it. But Thorin was very unhappy, and Sidri understood perfectly well why. He does not contradict, but between the lines hints at the continuation of the feud. This undermines Thorin's plans - if the lords hate the elves and don't even consider them as potential allies, then what kind of peace can we talk about? They will perceive every move of the elves as an attack.

Thorin exhaled heavily and slammed the hammer on the table again to call the lords to silence. The king has the final say in making decisions, and now that everyone has spoken, it is time for him to speak.

- Master Baggins's request for negotiations with the elves will be approved. None of you demanded a vote, which means that the king has the final say. - uzbad dipped his seal in ink and placed it on the document that Bilbo wrote for him. Sidri glanced at the hobbit. He broke into a wide smile and looked happily at Thorin. The king barely restrained himself from smiling back, so he quickly looked away and handed the paper to Balin to put his seal on as well.

***

Bilbo didn't expect the king to accept his request, and even when Thorin sided with him during the discussion, he didn't expect approval for the negotiations. All the lords, except Grimvar, were against the elves, and asking for negotiations was wild. And he went against them all like this... No, Bilbo, of course, understood that Thorin was the king, and could do whatever he wanted and however he wanted - he always had the last word, and no matter how much the lords raged, if none of them asked for the opinion of the people or the opinion of the council, then Thorin himself made the decision that seemed most reasonable to him.

The hobbit wanted to talk to the king, to express his respect and thank him, and not run away, as always. After the recent conversation on the bastion, the ice wall between them began to thaw, and it was no longer so unbearably cold to approach it. They could now be in the same room without deadly tension, and although they had not yet spoken since that incident on the bastion, they often exchanged glances, and these glances were not what one would call hostile.

Thorin stood next to Lord Harn, and Bilbo caught a glimpse of what they were saying.

- ...I don't trust elves, Thorin. And I trust your stranger even less, and the fact that you allow him to meddle in dwarven affairs. - Harn croaked, bowing his head. - But the way he stood firm against us and the fact that he didn't bend even under your gaze from the throne... I admire him. Perhaps a little more, and he will sit with us, and not stand in the middle of that hall.

Bilbo froze and simply stared dumbfoundedly from Harn to Thorin. The dwarves exchanged a few more words, and then turned and noticed the hobbit. Harn looked at him suspiciously and left without a word, leaving the hobbit standing before the king. The uzbad's gaze softened, and he came closer.

- Did you want something? - and again that quiet tone of voice, completely different from the one he used during the meeting. Bilbo noticed how the king unconsciously reached his hand towards the box on his chest again.

- Yes. I wanted to tell you... Your majesty... - the hobbit didn't know how to address the king, but his expression was unreadable, and Bilbo had no time to decipher those meaningful glances. - I wanted to thank you. For taking my side and approving the negotiations.

Thorin didn't answer at once, he looked at Bilbo much longer than was necessary for an answer. There was weariness in his gaze, but at the same time, warmth. The corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly, leaving a hint of a smile that wasn't there.

- I trust you, Bilbo. - the hobbit didn't even notice the king leaning a little closer to him. As if that was how it was supposed to be. - If you really think this is important for Erebor, then I will support it. You wouldn't just insist like that.

Bilbo felt his throat tighten a little, and he took a shaky breath. The words stuck in his throat, so he just nodded. Thorin's voice dropped almost to a whisper.

- And I won't forget who fought to the end for my kingdom, despite the insults and my disgusting behavior.

Their hands touched weightlessly, and they looked into each other's eyes for a few more moments. But the ice wall was still strong, and such a long eye contact forced them to awkwardly pull away. Bilbo smiled softly at Thorin, muttered something under his breath, and hurried away.

Bofur watched this dialogue from afar. He was about to approach Bilbo and congratulate him on approving the negotiations, but when he saw their dialogue with Thorin, he immediately stopped himself. He saw the expression on the king's face - a warm, tired look, and a hint of a smile on his face. And the way he leaned towards Bilbo, and Bilbo stood as if it was supposed to be like that, made his heart ache unpleasantly. He silently turned and left the hall before Thorin and Bilbo finished speaking.

The expedition company split into several camps. And the most important thing that surprised everyone - Fili and Kili quarreled against the background of the decision to negotiate with Mirkwood. Everyone expected that Kili would support the idea, because he had a rather serious affair with Tauriel, which everyone had long accepted. But the youngest son Dis was very annoyed by his uncle's verdict.

- You don't understand, Fili! Tau is one thing, and this pompous rooster, whom she calls king, is another! - Kili jumped up from his chair and slammed his fist on the table. - You were with us in the dungeons, Fili. We were dying of hunger in the forest, and instead of helping and understanding, he ordered that we be tied up and thrown into prison! And now we are supposed to bow down to him?

- Well, no one is asking you personally to kiss Thranduil's shoes. - the brother answered irritably. - This is not about our grievances and old conflicts, this is about the future! Where are we going to get food during the famine? Will you bring it?

- I would rather die of hunger myself than accept his handouts! Or do you no longer care who will trample on our pride, just to fill your belly!?

At this point, Fili couldn't stand it any longer and rose from his chair, grabbing his brother by the ear.

- If Thranduil wanted you to kiss his hand, and then he will feed us for two years, then I will personally drag you to him by the scruff of the neck! Because I think about the people, not about pride. And who would talk!? The same one who runs away from the palace for the sake of an elf, like a boy, and then, spitting on pride, lies to his uncle about his activities! Look, a fighter for justice has appeared!

Kili hissed in pain and tried to fight off his brother's strong hand. The others watched this interaction with interest and waited to see how the argument would end.

- And don't drag her into it! She would understand!

- Yes, of course! She is also a boy who doesn't have the slightest idea about how not to bring the kingdom into the abyss of poverty and hunger!!

- Enough! - Dwalin's iron fist made both brothers jump, and Fili let go of Kili's ear. - If Thorin has decided so, then it is for the best.

There was a silence, and the brothers looked at each other guiltily. The silence was broken by Bofur's short laugh. The dwarf suddenly decided to join them, and everyone immediately understood - he had quarreled with Bilbo.

- Look, what we have come to. Outsiders are meddling in our affairs, and the king smiles and pretends that it's all right. And the heirs are good, too. One is ready to die for an elf, another is ready to dance for an elf's bread. No wonder the whole kingdom is in chaos. No council, no unity, only shouts and quarrels. It's surprising that we haven't torn each other's throats yet. - he croaked irritably and took a sip from his glass. Even Fili and Kili froze with their mouths open from that. That was Bofur speaking! Their good friend! Gloin was the first to come to his senses.

- You should hold your tongue, Bofur, until Thorin hears how you speak of him and his nephews. And you even called master Baggins a stranger.

But, surprisingly, the dwarf only rolled his eyes and irritably threw his feet up on the table.

- Oh, yes, I forgot that a sideways glance at Bilbo will soon be punishable by death. - the next moment, Bifur grabbed his brother by the scruff of the neck and dragged him out of the hall. The last thing he needed was for a real fight to break out. Bofur tried to protest, but his brother turned him around, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him hard.

- What are you doing? Bofur, you've known Thorin for a long time, and now you're behaving like a brat. - the dwarf hissed in Khuzdul. - I understand that you had a row with Master Baggins, and now you hate everything and everyone, but don't make your grudge the center of the universe. If you want to lose your temper, yell at me, not at the boys, Thorin and Bilbo. Don't disgrace yourself.

Bofur immediately felt ashamed of his behavior. He muttered an apology under his breath and hugged his brother. For a moment he even regretted everything he was about to do, but the feeling quickly passed. He was on the right track... Wasn't he?

***

Bofur stood in the shadows and thought about what he had just seen. It was disgusting that he was so jealous of Bilbo. He loved him... Didn't he? He loved him? His mind replayed over and over again the moments when the hobbit distanced himself from him, closed himself off, kicked him out and ran away. But now, instead of thinking about Bilbo sitting somewhere alone and quietly nurturing his grievances, the only thing Bofur could think about was his hobbit running away to the king, and that made him sick.

He felt a light touch on his shoulder and quickly turned around. In front of him stood a handsome dwarf with blond braids and a pleasant smile. There was no reason to panic, he didn't look hostile. But something in that look was wrong. It wasn't two living eyes that were looking at him, but two pieces of steel.

- Is it unpleasant to watch yourself being replaced? - the dwarf whispered barely audibly. Bofur clenched his fists. The scene with Thorin's loving gaze flashed through his head.

- I'm not his toy, I'm not being replaced. - he hissed, but the stranger's words had already pressed on a sore spot.

- Of course, but you're not just looking at all this. You're trying to understand what's hidden behind that smile he gave the king. You're counting all the times he smiled at you like that. You can count them on the fingers of one hand. - again, that whisper was like a punch in the gut. The smiles of Bilbo that Bofur remembered were tired, warm, and sometimes a little irritated. But there was no such admiration in them, no feeling that the hobbit was looking at him and thinking about love. Bofur was silent, gritting his teeth, while the stranger continued.

- You know, Bilbo isn't one to go against those who are dear to him. He will stay with them until the last, until the last hoping for the healing and success of his friends and loved ones. He will be there, even if it will destroy him. - the dwarf's hand began to slowly sort through Bofur's braids. A strange gesture, considering that hair should not be touched by anyone except family and lovers, but the dwarf did not find the strength to resist. - And Thorin knows no bounds.

- He is not a monster, he was cured of his illness. - Bofur snapped. Despite the offense against the uzbad, the toymaker still respected him as a ruler, and it would be foolish to consider him a careless fool without a drop of respect for either him or Bilbo.

- And did you see how he looked at him? - there was silence, and again that look of the king flashed through Bofur's mind, his whisper and the barely noticeable smile on his face. This scene was instantly distorted in his memory, the warm look was replaced by a predatory one, the whisper became like a dragon's roaring, and the slight smile became a grin. - That's how dragons look back at their treasure. You remember how it ended last time, and you understand perfectly well that this time everything will be exactly the same.

Bofur didn't know what to answer. Just a moment ago he was sure that he was wrong, but the stranger's words sounded so convincing, so plausible...

- We must save master Baggins. You know that the first to fall under the fire of the people's rage won't be the king. But him. The stranger.

- Why are you telling me all this?

There was silence for a few moments. Bofur couldn't understand what the stranger's face expressed, but it was clearly not something good.

- We are against master Baggins's decisions. And we are going to prevent him from implementing his revolutionary policy, to prevent Thorin from accepting everything that master Baggins offers him.

- Betrayal? Conspiracy?

The stranger only laughed quietly. This laughter sent shivers down Bofur's spine.

- We don't ask for betrayal, my young friend. We ask for determination. If you want your hobbit to live until spring, come tonight to the central hall in the east wing at midnight. We will be waiting for you.

- And you aren't afraid that I will tell ob you to Thorin?

He glanced at the stranger. He was no longer laughing, but simply looking at him with a look that he had never seen even on Thorin. It was unclear what the owner was feeling now; his eyes were empty.

- We know you won't give up. You'll do this for the stranger, and you'll come because you want to protect him. We won't harm him. We'll keep him safe. And with our help, he'll be able to live until spring.

The stranger left, his image vanishing into the shadows of the corridor, and Bofur remained standing there. A few minutes later, Thorin passed by. The dwarf was about to stop the king, to tell him about the meeting of the separatists, that he and Bilbo were in danger... But he remained silent. He exchanged greetings with the uzbad, smiled at him, and watched as he, too, disappeared into the darkness. The central hall of the east wing, then...

Chapter Text

The heart of winter had come. Outside, fierce snowstorms raged. The wind howled through the corridors nearest to the exits, the entire kingdom shivered, and the stone walls glistened with morning frost. Many of the doors had to be hastily replaced with ones of solid stone - temporary wooden ones had proven far too thin, and with firewood now painfully scarce, no one could properly heat the mountain.

To make matters worse, a collapse had occurred in the hallway leading to the Stoneback clan’s warehouse. Lady Ragni was desperate. She even joined the workers clearing the rubble herself to help speed up the work. She was a strong woman, and her presence among the laborers only spurred the other dwarves on. But the cave-in had blocked access to the storehouse - and worse, the goods meant for trade might have been damaged. The clan was facing losses. Bilbo, moved by Lady Ragni’s plight, suggested her advisor bring a request before the inner council: to grant the clan a temporary tax reduction.

To Thorin, the situation was clear enough. He understood well the clan’s position. They could pay the tax in full, but at great cost. Damaged goods wouldn’t sell, funds would be diverted to hire extra hands and purchase costly elven timber for reinforcement in their remaining storage rooms. Yet Thorin had no right to make such decisions alone - the council’s approval was required. And not everyone agreed.

This time, Bilbo spoke not on Balin’s behalf, but Thorin’s. Since their tentative reconciliation, Bilbo had gradually begun operating under the king directly, a new arrangement that suited them both, especially the uzbad. Thorin now had more reasons to meet with his treasure, more excuses to linger alone with him after negotiations to “discuss outcomes,” and the tension between them was steadily building. The air grew thick and heavy, like syrup, and by the end of their talks neither could speak. Thorin watched with guilty delight as Bilbo’s eyes darted, his voice cracking with weak jokes before he fled the room, ears flushed pink no matter how he tried to hide it.

And so, even now, during this rather mundane and - to Thorin - tedious council session, the king let his thoughts drift. He barely listened to the advisors’ arguments. He preferred the sound of his treasure’s voice and followed the discussion through Bilbo’s words alone. Most of the other dwarves might as well have been invisible. The hobbit’s curls shimmered in the torchlight and the dim sunlight bleeding through the stained-glass windows. Thorin caught himself smiling as he watched Bilbo shiver and wrap himself more tightly in the fur cloak Thorin had generously draped over his shoulders at the start of the meeting. This wasn’t the same dull, possessive craving he had once felt for the Arkenstone, that damned rock. No. This was something far more dangerous. For the hobbit was alive. He breathed. His heart beat. He was more than the Arkenstone. But the voices in the chamber were rising. Tensions were flaring, and it dragged Thorin back to the present.

- The law is the same for all! - roared Belek of the Blackstone clan, Lord Harn’s right hand. - If we give you leniency, everyone else will come crawling with open hands! You can pay your tax! This isn’t some charity fair! You’ve other storehouses, haven’t you? Maybe focus on working instead of begging the king for handouts!

Thorin winced. He understood Belek’s frustration. Lord Harn would never ask for help, even if all his mines collapsed in one day, and his followers shared that rigid pride. Though Harn himself was on good terms with Lady Ragni, his men despised hers, viewing the Stonebacks as soft, mere jewelers and tailors.

- Our work takes weeks, if not months! - snapped Daghri, Ragni’s advisor and cousin. - That warehouse held custom-stitched garments for lords, crafted with costly fabrics and fur. Now our resources are going into rubble-clearing instead of production!

Daghri was the only male in Ragni’s clan to hold such a high position - Lady Ragni didn’t often share power with men. Not that anyone complained: the women ran the production, finances, and quality control with precision. Still, some lords grumbled about her decisions, though Thorin was not among them. Ragni knew how to rule her clan and manage her trade. As long as her actions remained within the law, the king would not interfere with the careful structure she had built. He respected her deeply, even if she often opposed his treasure’s proposals - he saw no threat in her. She was no enemy.

- Our work matters to the kingdom - Daghri continued. - Elven fur prices are too much for us. If we’re left without money or resources, the kingdom will collapse - or worse, our people will freeze.

- That all sounds lovely. - Belek sneered. - But you're wasting money! Buying timber for other warehouses instead of paying taxes or feeding your own!

Thorin rubbed the bridge of his nose, Belek’s voice drilling into his skull.

- If the elves raise prices or cut us off, what then? - Belek snapped. - You’ll starve?

- If one more ceiling collapses, then we will starve! - Daghri hissed. - We’re not asking for a full pardon. Just temporary relief. If the elves raise prices, we’ll postpone reinforcement and do all we can to protect what’s left.

- And who’ll feed your clan? You? Or Baggins?

Thorin’s eye twitched. Belek was digging his own grave. How dare he speak that way about his treasure? The dwarf kept ranting, but Thorin’s mind was spiraling. A pulse of pain burst behind his eyes. In the distance, the dragon’s voice coiled in his ears.

So kill him. What stops you from silencing the bastard? Just like the others who stare at him.

Thorin exhaled shakily and gripped the box at his chest. The voice echoed louder. The dwarves’ shouting blurred into noise—until a gentle hand touched his shoulder. He looked up into Bilbo’s worried eyes.

- Thorin, you’re pale. Are you alright? - the hobbit whispered. Even through the yelling, that soft voice rang clear. And Thorin felt a burning rage swell in his chest, inexplicable and overwhelming. He rose, seized the hammer by his throne, and brought it down on the table with a crash. The wood groaned beneath the impact, a deep dent forming in the surface.

When my treasure speaks, no one else has the right to open their mouths.

- Silence! - the king roared. The chamber froze. From the corner of his eye, he saw Bilbo flinch. That brought Thorin back a little. He tightened his grip on the box at his chest and slowly sat down.

- Belek, your position is noted. Now let others speak. Darrak, your thoughts?

A gaunt dwarf from Grimvar's clan rose. Unlike his robust leader, Darrak was wiry, with sharp, intelligent eyes. He spoke in a calm, steady voice - a welcome relief after Daghri and Belek’s clash. Unlike his superior, who aggressively supported Bilbo’s proposals with a cold, pragmatic distance, Darrak seemed genuinely close to the hobbit.

- Master Baggins is doing all he can. - he said. - Bringing this proposal to council was wise. I believe if the Stonebacks are granted temporary relief, they will repay the sum later as a debt. Daghri, your clan is among the wealthiest in the kingdom. I’m certain Lady Ragni will recover quickly.

But Thorin barely heard him. His attention was fixed on the quiet exchange of smiles between the dwarf and Bilbo. Unconsciously, his hand moved to the edge of Bilbo’s cloak and gave a subtle tug, drawing him slightly closer to the king’s table. The hobbit stepped back without protest, as if this was how it was supposed to be. Only one voice remained to be heard. And it was the last one Thorin wanted to listen to.

Yet, through clenched teeth and gathering irritation, he gave the floor to Rayrak of the Silverbones, Orlik’s right hand. This dwarf stood in stark contrast to his leader. While Orlik was measured and - according to most, except Thorin - sensible, Rayrak possessed all the qualities Thorin desperately sought in Orlik, just to point them out and prove his madness once and for all.

Listening to that dwarf was unbearable even for Bilbo. Thorin could clearly read the discomfort on his face. Rayrak’s voice trembled - not from fear or uncertainty, but due to an old injury. Years ago, he had badly damaged his vocal cords and remained mute for a long time, until Orlik took him under his wing and, using some of his "modern methods", gave him a voice again. But it was no longer a living voice. It was mechanical, hollow, like the creak of ungreased gears. Bilbo instinctively took another small step closer to Thorin. Perhaps the only pleasant side effect for the uzbad.

- We are inclined to believe that such a concession is necessary. - Rayrak said. - However, if the Stonebacks are granted this leniency, it will mean increased taxes for the rest of us. We expect that, should Your Majesty approve their request, compensation will be provided by the Stonebacks once they’ve recovered.

- And who is ‘we,’ Rayrak? - Darrak interrupted sharply. Judging by the look on his face, Thorin suspected he didn’t like the Silverbone advisor either. - You speak only for yourself, like the rest of us here.

- ‘We’, - Rayrak thundered, placing his hands theatrically over his heart, - are the voices you never hear! The voice of my entire clan!

Then, out of nowhere, he began to shout—so loudly the glass in the windows rattled.

- Not you, not the king, not Baggins! And what even about the Baggins!?

Thorin tensed, listening to the enraged tirade. Rayrak’s eyes were bloodshot. He clutched the collar of his cloak and turned to Bilbo. But this time, instead of reaching instinctively for the box at his chest, Thorin’s hand settled on the hilt of Orcrist at his belt.

- He’s a stranger! He understands nothing! All this Baggins is good for is dressing in the king’s furs and fluttering his lashes at him! A spineless weakling who panders to other weaklings and plays with our uzbad’s feelings! Put him to the scaffold!

Thorin’s face twisted with fury. But no one echoed Rayrak. The room fell utterly silent. If the council had sided with him—if anyone had voiced support for sending Bilbo to the scaffold—Thorin would’ve had no choice but to imprison him, at least temporarily. The very thought of locking away his treasure in a freezing stone cell, just to appease a bunch of smug bastards, made his stomach turn.

Let them stay quiet.
I’ll slit the throat of anyone who dares threaten my treasure. I’ll spill the blood of any fool who questions him.

But the voice of the dragon was silenced by a loud smash of the hammer. Thorin turned and saw Bilbo standing with the great council hammer in his hands, eyes locked on Rayrak. And Thorin recognized that look. The hobbit had once looked at him the same way—on the battlements, when he’d tried to pull him back from the edge.

- You should agree to the tax reduction, Lord Rayrak. - Bilbo said calmly, voice firm. - Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to sacrifice the royal furs for your clan and the others, because we will all freeze to death without the Stonebacks’ clothing. You know as well as I do: they’re the only producers in the mountain right now. And unlike you, I was there, with Lady Ragni. I helped clear the rubble. I saw the damage with my own eyes. So if you’re so unwilling to show the slightest generosity toward the Stonebacks… pick up a sewing machine and start working. - Rayrak fell silent and took a step back. It was time for Thorin’s decision. Without a word, the king placed his seal on the document approving the temporary tax reduction.

- The tax is reduced. No compensation required from the other clans. Council is dismissed. - the uzbad rasped. His gaze shifted to Bilbo. The hobbit still held the hammer, his hands trembling slightly. Once the chamber had emptied, he let out a shaky breath and leaned against the table.

- How are you feeling? - Thorin asked softly, tilting his head. He wanted to touch him, to hold his hand, to pull him close… anything, anything, just to feel him nearby. He brushed his fingertips lightly against Bilbo’s hand, but when there was no response, he didn’t press further. The dragon’s voice was silent now. Bilbo was all he could think about.

- I’m alright… But, you know. - Bilbo gave a weak laugh, wiping cold sweat from his forehead. - It’s not the best feeling, being told you belong on the scaffold. My heart nearly stopped when he said it. What if they'd agreed? Would they really have killed me?

Thorin’s heart clenched so hard it hurt. He had seen many executions by silver axe in his time -  gruesome ends reserved for murderers and monsters, not those who tried to help the people. He swallowed the lump in this throat and met Bilbo’s eyes.

- No. Never. - he said. And then, he felt Bilbo’s fingers shift just a little closer to his own. Thorin gently took the hobbit’s hand. When warm fingers curled around his in return, he allowed himself, at last, to hold his treasure’s hand fully.

- You helped save this mountain from a dragon. You saved me. I won’t let fools who can’t see your worth decide your fate.

Bilbo looked at him the same way he had the day Thorin gifted him the mithril shirt - only now, there was no fear in his eyes. He stood still for a long moment, then smiled.

- Thank you, Thorin. - he whispered, and gently squeezed the king’s hand. The world dropped away. Thorin’s breath caught. His heart pounded. He leaned in, almost without thinking—drawn to the hobbit by a force he didn’t understand. Bilbo didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. It was as if he expected it, welcomed it. His lashes fluttered. His eyes began to close - and then the door creaked. They sprang apart like they’d been burned. Both turned toward the sound. There stood Rayrak. His expression was strange, unreadable. Without looking at Thorin, he stepped toward Bilbo and bowed.

- Forgive us, Master Baggins. Anger blinded us. We do not wish you harm. - he said, and left before Bilbo could utter a word. The hobbit looked at Thorin, a silent question in his eyes: And what do I even do with that? As much as the king longed to keep him there, he gave a faint nod toward the door. It took Bilbo a few seconds to understand, but then he turned and hurried after the Silverbone advisor, without so much as a goodbye. It should have upset Thorin. But he felt nothing but calm. If he didn’t say goodbye, it meant he was sure he’d be back.

***

Chapter Text

After the fracture, Bilbo spent a little over a week under Óin's care, most of it in a fever. And in his delirious dreams, he saw Bofur. But the scenarios were far from romantic. In those dreams, he would grab Sting and plunge it into the dwarf's body again and again, until it was nothing but a bloody pulp. These visions filled him with genuine horror. How could he ever do such a thing?

When Thorin appeared in his dreams, it was even worse - twisted, revolting nonsense that made his skin crawl. Whether asleep or awake, Bilbo felt disgusted to his core, waking every time with a scream and in a cold sweat that only added to the chill of the fever.

To make matters worse, it was mostly the uzbad who visited him in the chamber. Bofur came only twice: the first time, he brought sweets, kissed Bilbo on the forehead, sat with him until he fell asleep, and held his hand the entire time. And Bilbo felt truly touched. He was deeply ashamed to still be in love with the king, even considered ending those ambiguous encounters and quiet conversations. But the moment he saw Thorin at his bedside, that resolve melted away. He could barely remember anything from those visits, but fleeting fragments, Thorin’s fingertips grazing his burning cheeks, sent a warm shiver through his chest. Such foolishness. They still loved each other, yet kept their distance.

Well, truth be told, it was only Bilbo who kept his distance.

Once the fever broke, he laid there thinking. He was certain the uzbad would come back if he only asked. But he couldn’t. What if the dragon sickness returned? What if Thorin had another fit of madness and strangled him in his sleep, or pushed him from a balcony, or slit his throat? He didn’t want to think such things, and his heart refused to accept them. But his mind kept circling back to that moment on the bastion. Thorin truly might have killed him.

And yet, at the same time, his mind wouldn’t stop replaying the best moments of their love. The first touch, the embrace atop the Carrock, their first kiss, the protection, the care… and even now, whatever this was. No, he couldn’t go back now. But perhaps, just a little later, he could think about reuniting again.

There was also the matter of Bofur. Bilbo didn’t know what to do with him. He could walk away in silence, but they shared too many mutual friends, and running into him would be very awkward and painful. Break things off? But what things? They weren’t even in an official relationship at this point. Bofur had never asked him to be his partner or lover. Ending it would mean ending the friendship. And Bilbo didn’t want that either. But on the other hand, how could there still be any friendship between them now? It was hard. And he had no idea what to do. He couldn’t very well kill the poor dwarf.

His head still throbbed - maybe from the fever that kept returning, or maybe from the pain in his broken leg that now seemed to echo through his entire body. He couldn’t tell. And yet he had to attend a meeting with one of the dwarf lords from the Iron Hills, Dáin himself. had demanded Bilbo’s presence. Both Óin and Thorin, and then later Bofur as well, had protested fiercely. But the king under the mountain’s cousin was adamant: bring the hobbit, even if you have to carry him.

So they stuffed the poor creature with painkillers, bound his leg tight, and dragged him into the cold stone hall, where dwarves sat waiting to tear him apart over the slightest misstep - a step he literally couldn’t take, as the bones hadn’t even begun to knit yet.

Bilbo barely listened to what the dwarves were droning on about. He didn’t even know what the meeting was about, or what they were trying to negotiate. He was shivering despite the heavy furs wrapped around him, and his leg throbbed relentlessly. With a loud sigh, he let his head drop onto the table. Luckily, no one noticed, except Thorin.

- Are you all right? - the king whispered, and Bilbo barely managed to raise his head to meet that concerned gaze and shake it slowly.

- I’ll sit through it, that’s for sure. Just… tell me what to say if they ask my opinion. - he sighed again and glanced down at the bandages on his leg. The deep crimson of a bruise showed through the thin fabric, and the pain was searing. Thorin began to say something, but when Bilbo started trembling, he fell silent and shifted closer.

- Bilbo, you’re shaking. You’re pale as death.

- Thorin... I’m going to throw up...

In the middle of one dwarf’s speech, Thorin simply stood up without a word, lifted the quickly paling and greening hobbit into his arms, and carried him out of the council hall. All the dwarves fell silent, frowning at the king’s departure. But Thorin didn’t rush.

Outside, Bilbo really did nearly vomit, but Thorin held him until he could lean his cheek against the cold stone wall, finally finding some relief. The uzbad sent for Óin, and while they waited, Dáin emerged from the hall. The red-bearded dwarf did not look pleased.

Chapter Text

Sidri sat in his temple, carefully gluing together the pages of sacred scriptures that Thorin had generously gifted him from one of the abandoned storerooms. The door creaked, and the priest turned. In front of him stood a dwarf in a cloak and a hood pulled low over his face. He didn’t emanate danger—the poor thing was trembling, and judging by the tilt of the hood, staring at the ground. Sidri stood up and walked toward the dwarf.

- May I help you, Child of the Mountain? - he asked with a gentle smile. The dwarf gave a short nod and clenched his fists. The priest didn’t step any closer or insist that he remove the hood. The last thing he wanted was to scare the poor soul away.

- I want to confess, Father Stonemason. I was told everything I say within the walls of the temple stays here. Is that true? - the dwarf spoke in a whisper, and his voice gave away nothing. But Sidri was certain of one thing: this wasn’t Thorin. The king had long been the only one to come and confess, but this… this was definitely someone else. And certainly not one of the lords. The priest led the dwarf into the confessional and sat on the other side. From across the partition came a heavy sigh and the rustle of fabric. No, it wasn’t Thorin—but the way this dwarf held himself made it clear he was about to confess to something far worse than anything the king had ever shared.

- Tell me, Father Stonemason, have you ever killed one of your own kind? - he was right. Something was seriously wrong. Was this dwarf somehow connected to Thorin? It didn’t seem like it. Sidri did his best not to let his nerves show.

- No, Child, never. That is a great sin. Even if you truly want to, reaching that extreme is never the answer. There are many ways to resolve conflict without taking a life.

- It wasn’t about conflict. - the dwarf whispered plaintively. - What if I… took a dwarf’s life not by my own will? What if I was forced to, and had no choice? - Sidri’s heart skipped a beat. So it had already happened... From behind the wall came heavy breathing and a muffled sob.

- Don’t cry, Child. In the house of Mahal, you are always welcome. If you were protecting a friend, a loved one, or a relative, Aulë will have mercy. I will pray for your soul, Child. Will you tell me what happened?

That helped—the priest’s kindness broke through the poor dwarf’s defenses. After a few minutes of quiet sobs and shaky breaths, he finally spoke.

- I can’t resist him. He’s not just a Leader anymore, Father-Stonemason... he’s becoming something greater. A Master.

At first, it was even easier to live under his Master's control. Everyone said he looked better—like he had bloomed. And it was true. The Master didn’t burden him with work. It was enough to simply be present at negotiations and council meetings. And even then, those meetings were uneventful, just discussions of the king’s recent decisions. Sometimes, he was even allowed to return to his workshop. He would reopen it gladly, chat with customers, and feel alive again. That’s how it was - for everyone, except his friends. Toward them, he began to feel resentment, even hatred. He had become a bodiless shadow to them since returning to Erebor. They weren’t his friends anymore. They were just people he used to know.

When he accidentally fell asleep at the table over paperwork, he would wake up with a cloak gently draped over his shoulders. When things got hard, a cold hand would rest on his shoulder, and a steady voice would offer wise advice. And gradually, without even realizing it, he began to stay later and later, just to feel that cold presence nearby again, the scent of healing herbs, the way sharp fingernails on bony fingers gently scratched his temple, tucking an unruly strand of hair behind his ear.

"You’re the only one like you in all of Erebor. You’re the only one we have. We’re lucky to have you."

"You deserve to be cared for. To be noticed. You’re not just someone’s shadow, are you? You’re something more. And we see that."

And then, suddenly, something broke. Master turned away, shut himself off, and wouldn’t come near anymore. He began to burn. Every glance was like a whip across the heart. He said nothing. He no longer spoke to him. And that silence was worse than anything else. What did I do wrong? Why did he turn away? Will the same thing happen as it did with my Sun? Has the black cloud returned—to hide his light from me forever?

"We’re tired of repeating ourselves."

"Another failure. We’re disappointed. And we thought more highly of you."

"Maybe we should’ve left you alone with your miseries."

It was terrifying—and infuriating. No, I’m not some failure. I’m capable of more! And I will do more—just to spite you! You’ll regret treating me this way, Master. You’ll see me again, and you’ll be ashamed. You’ll come back. You have no choice. But as it turned out later, it was he who had no way out - not the Master.

After fingers rubbed raw from building prosthetics and herbal processing machines, after sleepless nights and oceans of sweat and toil, he felt it again. That fleeting, weightless touch - so alive. The Master began to speak again. Not throwing burning knives in words—but gently, frost-like, cooling the aching burns. And then he praised him again. Smiled again. It was like a gasp of fresh air after suffocation. He had done it, he had won him back, all by himself. Or so he thought.

But then he began to lose the Master again. And so, in complete desperation, he came to him—to talk, before it was too late, before his presence started to tear open the same wounds as last time. This time... this time maybe it wouldn’t go that far, if he just knew what to do.

- He didn’t even command me, Father Stonemason. He just looked at me, and I knew I would do the right thing. I’m just a monster. - Sidri clasped his hands together, listening as the dwarf’s voice began to falter again, as if he were on the verge of breaking into tears. The worst part of it all was that the poor soul wasn’t even blaming the monster who had so mercilessly played with his feelings. He had already called himself a monster - and yet, had no accusations for that creature. Damn it.

- No, Child, you are not a monster. That beast’s hands are wrapped around your heart with a choking grip, you knew not what you were doing. - the priest said in a calm voice. But the response he got was unexpected.

- Don’t speak of him like that. You don’t understand anything, Father. - the voice had turned tense, hostile. Sidri sighed quietly. So, he was already too far gone.

“And who else but you? You know that if he stays, your Sun will be in danger. Or have you forgotten how he wished him dead? He doesn’t suit us either. You and I will fight for our goals, and he’s in the way.”

And again, the cold touch. Again, the tender whisper. As if they were the only ones in the world, and only the Master’s words carried weight and meaning. Suddenly, everything felt so right, so logical...

And then came the damp basement hall, a hammer, and the Obstacle - kneeling with a shattered shoulder, spitting curses and growling like a wild animal. Hands soaked in blood up to the elbows, a fractured skull, and a cold corpse mutilated beyond recognition, so much so that even the most experienced healer could not have identified it. Master didn’t ask where the body was. He didn’t ask if he had cleaned up the mess, or whether the corpse was still lying there in that musty room, filled with dusty furniture and mold in the corners. But he praised him. Pet his head as he wept. Comforted him for hours.

“Well done, little bunny. You’re not just a guest now—you’re one of us. Our little bunny.”

He didn’t even want to scream. Didn’t want to resist either. Just to shed empty, soulless tears over the body of someone he had never even known. But now, he understood. He was utterly alone in this world. And above him stood Master - someone akin to the Valar. A celestial light greater than his Sun, whose rays dimmed each day, hidden by the cloud before it. Salvation. Perhaps not a light, but a wind strong enough to blow the cloud away from his Sun.
But would he still need the Sun if something greater, something brighter and more powerful, stood before him? Somehow, he knew, he believed, that the Master was omnipotent, and that whatever he wanted, he would receive without hesitation.

“You killed. And you came to us. Not to him - to us. Why is that, bunny?”

Sidri stared grimly into nothingness. This was certainly not what he had expected when he chose a life devoted to the Valar. Perhaps it was a test of the strength of his will? And he couldn’t tell anyone what he’d heard. No matter what the dwarf confessed during the rite of penance, the priest must remain silent. Even if a rapist, a maniac, or worse came to confess—under questioning or torture by the guard, the only response must be silence. No matter how terrible the crime. The dwarf slowly calmed down, his breathing evened.

- What would you advise me, Father? - Sidri smirked slightly. How ironic, considering just minutes ago he had “known nothing,” apparently. But the smile wasn’t one of offense or anger. He truly found it amusing to witness such a shift in demeanor—and he was glad to remain in a position where his words still held value and weight.

- You came to me with an open soul, Child. Your mind is lost in fog, and your heart is caught in foreign claws. But that blow was yours.The pain from it is yours as well. And the responsibility for what happened rests with you. It was your hand that held the hammer. But it is not my place to judge you, and I will speak no word against you. Mahal will forgive not because He forgets your sin, but because He believes you can become better. Be the one whose future outweighs their past. Go, Child. And may the blood be washed from your hands. I will pray for your soul.

A quiet whisper of gratitude, then the creak of the door and the heavy steps of someone leaving. Sidri sat a while longer, staring into nothing, wondering what to do next. He didn’t know who the dwarf had been talking about - who he was, or who the Sun, the Dark Cloud and the Master were. The dwarf had spoken in half-voice or whispers, impossible to identify. Maybe only the eyes—but even then, it had been too dark to make anything out. There was just one comforting thought: It wasn’t Thorin. His thoughts led him to one conclusion: To go and check whether the body was really there somewhere. Of course, the basement halls were massive, and he had no idea which one the dwarf had dragged the victim into. And then there was the other problem...

Sidri was deathly afraid of the dark. He really didn’t want to go alone, but there was no choice. How else could he explain why he was going down there? Half an hour later, trembling like a leaf, armed with not one but two torches, he stood before the massive staircase leading down to the lower levels of Erebor. The area was still unused - occasionally a few workers passed through, but it was too cold now and all restoration had been temporarily halted. Sidri descended.

The cold bit into his bones, despite the fact he was wearing two fur coats. He only glanced briefly into the first couple of halls, but the third turned out to be a library. Ladders were strewn everywhere; a presence still lingered. Curiosity - or fear of moving deeper - got the better of him. He wandered the library corridors for some time, when suddenly he saw dried bloodstains on one of the shelves. His heart skipped a beat, and he looked up. On one of the upper shelves, a hammer was visible. The murder weapon? He climbed one of the ladders standing nearby and reached for the hammer. He was too focused on not letting one of the torches fall - he was holding it between his teeth - so he didn’t notice anything else around him. Nothing but that hammer.

- And what exactly are you doing up there, Father Stonemason? - the voice that suddenly came from below startled Sidri so badly that he let out a shriek, dropped the torch he had clenched in his teeth, released the last two fingers holding onto the ladder, since the rest were occupied with the second torch - and plummeted downward. Instead of hitting the floor, however, he landed with a thud in a pair of large, rough hands. He opened his eyes in fright and met the stern gaze of Lord Grimvar. A moment later, that gaze melted into a clumsy, dopey grin.

- Scared you! I did it! I cracked your unbreakable mask! - he announced proudly, and was immediately rewarded with a loud slap from Sidri, red and pale at once from shame and lingering terror.

Lord Grimvar was a recurring headache for the poor priest. From the first day they met, the dwarven lord had become oddly obsessed with drawing any emotion from Sidri, who always remained reserved and stoic - such was the way of the preachers and followers of Aulë. This supposedly mature and serious dwarf had tried everything: pinching Sidri, stepping on his foot, tugging his braids (which was unthinkable!), even showing up at the temple just to irritate him—and more. But Sidri was impenetrable. He knew these were just tests. And now, after all this time, such a failure! Grimvar would chase him all over Erebor now, just to keep scaring him. The dwarf lord set Sidri down, picked up both torches, and extinguished one.

- So? What are you really doing here? You're afraid of the dark. - he said, and his smile faded. Sidri pressed his lips together. He couldn't exactly tell him the truth.

- And you, Lord Grimvar? What is Your Grace... - but he was cut off by a hand suddenly covering his mouth. He stared at the lord in bewilderment. What did he think he was doing?

- Just "you" is fine Sidri. Let’s drop the formalities. And don’t answer a question with another. - and again, he couldn’t help but smile, seeing how furiously Sidri's brows had drawn together, they were nearly touching. That only irritated the priest more. He stepped back, inhaled deeply, and returned to his usual calm expression.

- Fine. I came here on business. - he silently asked Aulë for forgiveness for the lie. - His Majesty recently brought me a sacred scripture, but only the first part. I wanted to find the second. But it doesn’t seem to be in this hall. I’ll have to check the others.

Grimvar thought for a second, then shrugged and handed Sidri one of the torches.

- Well, in that case, I’ll come with you. If there are any rats down here, you’ll fall off another ladder from fright. - Sidri felt a strange sense of relief. Yes, they might find a corpse in one of these halls, but at least he wouldn't be alone in the dark. And if Grimvar made a fuss, so be it. Maybe the body was already removed. The dwarf had spoken as if time had passed. No one had started looking for the victim yet... Fine then. Just not alone in the dark. To hell with this tests of his bravery - he wasn’t ready for it yet.

They walked in silence down the corridor, and Sidri peeked into every doorway with a pounding heart. Grimvar followed quietly behind him, and that made things a little easier. Even though the lord usually annoyed him, he was now deliberately walking closer beside him, slowing his steps. It was still frightening. Especially when the air began to warm ever so slightly. They were moving beneath the forges, which meant the corridor would end soon, likely with a pile of rubble. And that was the moment Grimvar furrowed his brow, grabbed Sidri by the sleeve of his coat, and stopped him.

- I smell the stench of death. - he whispered. Sidri’s heart skipped several beats. So the body was still there. But why could only Grimvar smell it?

- What should we do? - Sidri whispered back, trying to keep his face calm. Still, he unconsciously stepped closer to the lord.

- Let’s go. We need to see the body. Maybe it’s a suicide, then we won’t have to call the guards.

Grimvar took Sidri by the hand, and they walked down the corridor toward one of the halls. The closer they got, the worse the smell became. Then, they were there. Grimvar drew his sword and went in first. The door creaked open.

- Mother of Mahal... - Grimvar rasped. The blood drained from Sidri’s face, and bile rose to his throat as the unbearable stench of rotting flesh struck his nostrils. On the floor laid something, that no longer resembled a dwarf. There was no head to speak of, just a mass of blood and pulp where a skull should have been. The hall was beneath the forges, and the warm air had absorbed that sickly-sweet odor of decay. Grimvar dragged Sidri back, as the poor priest looked like he was about to throw up.

- Breathe, breathe. What the hell... who could even think of doing this?! This is barbaric! -  Sidri’s head was empty. Only the voice of that dwarf echoed through it, and his confession. And the Master… he praised him for this. No, the Master wasn’t one of them. He was just a beast. For the first time in his life, Sidri felt such a thing toward another dwarf. It wasn’t even hate - it was a mess of fear, fury, revulsion, and helplessness. Because it wasn’t the Master who killed. It was someone else.
The little bunny.

And the worst part was: Sidri couldn’t understand how someone - one of their kin! - could be pushed so far, to such brutality.

- We need to call the guards. - the priest whispered, still trying to steady himself. He stared blankly at the ruined corpse by the door, breathing heavily and clutching Grimvar’s coat. Praise Mahal the lord had come with him. He couldn’t have stumbled across this alone.

***

It didn’t take long for the news to reach Thorin. And to say the king was enraged would be an understatement. Sidri received both a reprimand and praise - but it didn’t matter. The image of that mangled corpse kept replaying in his mind. He couldn’t sleep at night. The darkness seemed to devour him from all sides. And in that darkness stood that dwarf from the confessional, hammer in hand. Was it a trial? Or a warning?

Each night, he ended up staying in the temple. He lit a torch and prayed until he simply passed out over the sacred scriptures. And one night, in the midst of his whispering prayers, he suddenly heard approaching footsteps. He could think of no better plan than to extinguish the torch, stand beside the door, and arm himself with a small knife. Not the best weapon, but the temple held no others. Voices came from outside.

- We’ll find that priestling and make him keep quiet. And what about the bunny? Gonna gut him yourself? - asked a hoarse voice, its owner clearly a heavy smoker.

- No need to be so cruel. We’re not wolves to pounce on a bunny. He was good. You praise a job like that, you don’t slit his throat. - Sidri’s heart froze.

He had to cover his mouth with his hand. Only one dwarf in all of Erebor ever spoke of himself not as "I," but as "we."

- You’re slipping, my Lord. Let’s take a look inside Mahal’s house, maybe your victim is in there.

The door creaked open, and Sidri, trembling like a leaf, scrambled behind it into the farthest corner. Even in the pitch-black darkness, he caught the silver gleam of Orlik’s hair.

"But he isn’t perfect. He smells of rust, of rot—he poisons the air. He’s fake. His words taste like orc meat sprinkled with sugar."

Thorin was right. The mad king, whose mind was clouded by a dragon’s curse, turned out to be the clearest of them all.

- What’s this, hiding now, holy man? - Sidri didn’t even scream, he froze for several moments. Then something pricked his neck, and suddenly his eyes clouded with a putrid haze. Everything after that was a blur.

Orlik stood across the room, watching with a barely visible smile as the once-composed priest devolved into a beast. His eyes were bloodshot, and foam frothed at his lips as he lunged at the mercenary he had always kept close. A filthy sight, but so dramatic.

While Sidri stabbed the little knife over and over into the mercenary’s body, Orlik calmly approached the table, lit a torch, picked up a quill, and began making notes in his little book. Sidri only came back to himself when the mercenary’s face was no longer recognizable—cut up so badly it looked more like a scarecrow than a person. Orlik watched with interest as the priest paled, turned green, and slowly spiraled into a panic attack.

- There, there, hush now, little one. - Orlik knelt beside him and gently wiped the blood from Sidri’s face with a white cloth, then delicately pulled a small dart with an ampoule from his neck. - Breathe slowly. Nothing bad happened, you did very well.

Sidri gasped hysterically for air while the lord carefully, like handling a porcelain doll, cleaned him of blood. He dipped his pristine handkerchief in a bowl of holy water, staining it red.

- Look at you. Wonderful. And we’ll take care of this. - he stood up, pulled a bottle of some fluid from his bag, and began slowly dripping it over the corpse. The body arched and hissed. Sidri huddled in the corner, clamping a hand over his mouth. Orlik once again took out his notebook and made more notes. In just a few minutes, though it felt like eternity, all that remained of the body was a small viscous puddle of sickly yellow liquid and a few strands of hair. A thousand questions raced through Sidri’s mind, making him sick. What had just happened? Why was there a corpse in front of him, and why were his own hands covered in blood? Why hadn’t the lord dissolved the corpse in the basement the same way?

- Poor thing. How did you end up like this, sweetling, charging in with a knife? - Orlik asked with mock sympathy, crouching in front of him and stroking his hair.

- Why… why did you do this? What did you do to me? - Sidri began to choke again with panic. The lord only smiled and pulled him into a gentle embrace, still petting his head.

- There now. Don’t cry, little one. We mean you no harm. And we won't mean you harm further, if your pretty mouth stays shut. - Orlik’s cold finger traced Sidri’s lips. - We really don’t like it when handsome dwarves like you speak too much.

- But why did you… why did you make me kill him…? - for the first time, the lord truly smiled. It was a predator’s grin, and far more terrifying than any words.

- We want you to understand. We made the Bunny kill. We made you kill. Nothing will stop us from making the King kill. And nothing will stop us from making the Treasure kill.

How did he know the nickname? Had he heard the confessions? Did he know what Thorin was thinking?

- But all of that can be avoided, if you stay quiet, little one. My doll told the Bunny, and the Bunny killed. The Bunny told you, and you killed. Do you see the pattern?

Sidri felt he was going to pass out from the stress. Orlik stood, picked up his bag.

- We always find out. I see everything.

The priest remained in that same corner for hours, sobbing uncontrollably, whispering broken prayers. He didn’t know what he was doing. His mind was no longer his own... It had happened before to someone already. How ironic. Had Aulë heard him? Perhaps. Would he help? Also perhaps. But did Aulë know who - or what - Orlik really was? Unlikely.

Chapter Text

From that moment on, Bilbo never woke up in the morning again. There were a few options: either he sat through the night staring at the ceiling, then got up - always careful not to wake Bofur sleeping beside him - and spent hours in the kitchen examining the mechanisms of his burgundy leg prosthetic, or he slept past noon. Something was wrong. And it was definitely not something natural. Orlik had broken something in him. No, he had planted something in him. Something that didn’t belong. But Bilbo couldn’t prove it. He just felt it. Bofur brought him sleeping pills, but instead of sleep came nightmares. He could only sleep once sunlight began stabbing into his eyes. He had survived the night—things would be better now.

- Bilbo, Bilbo! Wake up! - the nightmare was ripped away by a dwarf’s hands. The hobbit could feel cold sweat trickling down his forehead, his throat raw from screaming. But it wasn’t Bofur in front of him. Two steel-grey eyes. Silver braids. He only fully woke up when a sharp kick hit his side. His hands had locked tightly around the poor dwarf’s neck, and Bofur - his face flushed red - was desperately trying to fight him off. Letting go didn’t come easy. Something inside Bilbo wanted to finish it. To squeeze until the body went limp. But he let go. He tried to get up from the bed, but his leg was missing, and he fell to the cold floor.

- Flower, what’s wrong with you?! What was that? - Bofur’s voice was hoarse between coughs. Bilbo saw double, everything was melting in front of his eyes. Clutching the bedframe, he stood and put on his prosthetic. Words turned into meaningless mush, ringing madness. Time seemed to slow, and he moved as if underwater. But in reality, he ran out as fast as he could.

He had nearly killed Bofur.

The next day, he left for Mirkwood with Thorin, as if nothing had happened during the night. He didn’t even say goodbye to Bofur. He never came back home. But he didn’t go to the uzbad either.

All night, that huge mirror stared down at him from the ceiling. It had been placed there to reflect sunlight, so there would be no total darkness in the mountain. But at night, instead of the moon, Bilbo saw only liquid fear in its surface. And it wasn’t his own. It was outside of him, hiding in a corner, pressed into the walls along with the imprint of warm dwarvine hands and the scent of their hair. And at night, it crept out and wandered through the mountain, searching for a safer place to hide, a place where it wouldn’t be reflected in mirrors.

They didn’t give Bilbo a pony - Thorin forbade it. Said he looked too pale, and there was a risk he’d fall off the horse. Bilbo didn’t argue. Some part of him had been counting on that outcome anyway. The last thing he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts, that felt like spoiled porridge laced with mold deeply rooted in his brain. And since they were taking a wagon, Thorin rode with him. After all, why should the diplomat have all the comfort while the king sat in the cold?

- Bilbo, get some sleep. You look like death. - how nice it was when Thorin spoke softly. The shouting still rang in Bilbo’s ears, and he felt constantly lost. And it was true, his head was splitting. He needed rest.

They were going to be gone a long time, so Bilbo had brought his pills. The king frowned as he watched the hobbit count out a dose almost twice what had originally been prescribed. Yes, Orlik had said the dosage could be increased three to four times without major consequences, but could he really be trusted? Especially with that smile he’d had when he said it... Thorin pulled the curtains shut over the warped glass slits that served as windows. Bilbo reacted to the darkness with a delay. He stared blankly at the handful of pills for almost a minute before slowly reaching out and nudging the curtain aside, letting in a dim beam of sunlight.

Something was definitely wrong.

The king got up and sat at Bilbo’s feet, on the cold wooden floor.

- Are you going to tell me what’s going on? - he didn’t want to speak louder, but feared the rattling of the wagon would drown his voice. Bilbo stayed silent for a long time. Not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he was trying to read Thorin’s lips. Time had slowed again. Everything blurred. The pounding of hooves drowned even the sound of his own heartbeat. It felt like he couldn’t breathe. The air cut through his lungs, shredded his vocal cords. Even if he had  understood what the king was saying, he wouldn’t have been able to answer. And yet, it didn’t really feel wrong. There was no overwhelming discomfort, no urge to cry. But when the king’s hand rested on his shoulder, the clatter softened—and Bilbo found he could speak.

- I’m fine. - he finally said and gently pushed Thorin away. He didn’t even know if he wanted to. But when the uzbad looked at him like that, needles traced patterns of sick shame and guilt across his soul. - I just didn’t sleep well.

Thorin exhaled sharply and obeyed Bilbo’s gesture. The hobbit could almost hear the king’s joints creaking in protest as he stood and returned to his seat. He knew Bilbo and Bofur were officially together. Bilbo himself desperately tried to remind himself of that every day. But with this strange madness that had grown in the place where his leg used to be - as if the flesh craved wholeness, trying to fill the coldness of the metal with this wrong warmth, like pus - Bilbo found his hands reaching for things they shouldn’t. The black curls of the king appeared in his dreams again, those wanted nightmares, where he’d wake up drenched in sweat and aching in his chest. He saw how Thorin suffered, but couldn’t find the strength to ease that pain. Because he himself was hurting too. After that damn status in the documents, nothing was simple anymore.

And now, he was scared, and the desire to soothe that fear was stronger than his shame. Bilbo swallowed the pills, got up, and sat beside Thorin. He looked at him like if the hobbit was one of those sirens from the cursed river in Mirkwood - a beautiful, unclean creature that would drag you to the bottom, and you’d be grateful. And when Bilbo rested his head on Thorin’s shoulder, the king let out such a painful sigh it was as if the hobbit had pierced his heart with filthy claws.

- I’m cold, Thorin. Cold and scared. - he whispered, eyes already closed.

A moment later, the uzbad’s fur cloak settled around his shoulders, and Thorin’s hand tightened around his. Even through the gloves, Bilbo could feel the warmth of his palms. Unconsciously, he leaned into the heat of Thorin’s hair and nestled into that familiar, beloved scent. To the soft murmur of Khuzdul from Thorin’s lips, he slowly drifted off. And for the first time in all his torment, he truly slept. No nightmares. No Orlik strangling him in his dreams. No phantom pain in the missing leg.

***

Thranduil had somewhat toned down his hatred for dwarves, he even smiled at Thorin now. And as the two of them exchanged relatively pleasant chatter on their way through the palace halls, Bilbo was genuinely glad his efforts had finally borne fruit - those two had stopped tearing at each other’s throats.

- He knows. The pointy-eared one. He’ll tell. He’ll tell everyone. - Bilbo flinched and turned toward the whisper—but saw no one. The moment he blinked, it returned again, ringing in his ears.

- They’ll toss you out, you and your king. Sick bastards, both of you. Out of your minds. - the hobbit quickened his pace to catch up with the uzbad.The whisper  chuckled hoarsely. - Yeah, that’s right. Go hide behind the back of a madman. That knife he carries there is not meant for you.

- Bilbo, are you alright? - he instinctively moved away, dodging the king’s hand as it reached for his shoulder, and nodded with a hesitant smile. The gesture clearly didn’t sit well with Thorin, Bilbo caught a flash of amber in his eyes. That same glow his eyes took on during the dragon sickness. Or had he just imagined it? He was losing his mind, wasn’t he? Hearing voices, seeing things that weren’t there. What else could explain it? Thorin showed no signs of madness. And could someone even hide something like that?These questions wouldn’t leave him alone.

The day blurred by. He cried it all out with a single tear in front of the mirror that evening. His body looked awful - he hadn’t even realized he’d stopped eating altogether. And hobbits needed steady weight maintenance, they lost weight quickly and looked hideous doing it. The belly caved in, ribs jutted out, skin clung to the organs. On an emaciated hobbit, you could see lungs move, hear the heart beat. Bilbo hadn’t reached that point yet, thank the stars - but his belly had already flattened into a tight knot, and his usually round shoulders had grown sharp. Something foreign stared back at him from the mirror, using his eyes.

He grabbed a blanket from the bed, wrapped it around himself in shame, and stumbled back. But the thing in the mirror didn’t disappear.

- Was it you who spoke to me today? Who sent you? - Bilbo whispered. The mirror said nothing. It just glared at him with his own eyes—and smiled. It crept closer, slowly approaching the surface.

Bilbo stepped back. The reflection stepped closer. It stood so dangerously near that it felt like it might burst through at any moment. It would rip off his blanket, drag him by the hair into the hallway, point out the pale scars on his knees, thighs, forearms, rip off the prosthetic and laugh loudly as he flailed, trying to find something to hold on to. It would drag Thorin there. And it would make Thorin watch.

- What are you? What do you want? - Bilbo backed away toward the wardrobe. Each step made the metal prosthetic clang heavily against the floor. But the reflection stayed silent. And it had both healthy legs. It stepped into this world, and from its wounded leg flowed blood mixed with pus. A yellowish, iron-like liquid streamed in thin lines onto the floor, stretching toward the hobbit. And still, it stayed silent. Bilbo threw on an elven nightgown, grabbed a candlestick from the bedside table, and fled the room so fast that the iron leg carved a scar into the soft stone floor as he turned the corner.

Thorin was still awake. When Bilbo burst into his room, the king was all dressed and standing silently by the window. Bilbo’s prosthetic had been fastened poorly, it flew off during the fall and clanged against the bedpost.

- Thorin, close the door! - the hobbit was panicked, staring at the king in horror. Thorin, without a word, slammed the door shut, sat him on the bed, and pulled Orcrist from the drawer.

- What happened? Were you being chased? Did something happen in your room? - after a few moments without signs of anything—or anyone—outside, Thorin relaxed a little. He approached the trembling hobbit and placed his hands gently on his shoulders. Bilbo couldn’t speak. His ribs clung to his lungs. His chest ached with every breath. His heart pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer. He could see the reflection behind the door, waiting for him to turn away.

- Thorin...! The reflection... - his fingers clung to the king’s tunic, his knuckles pale with tension. - There’s nowhere to hide, I can’t defeat it...

The words came out in jumbled panic. Thorin’s face swam in front of his eyes, distorted. He was sure the reflection had already opened the door—already stood behind him. He slipped out of reality for a while. And when he came to, the door was still closed. The reflection was gone. Thorin was holding him close, stroking his golden curls. He was still shaking, but gradually, peace returned. Silence settled in. His hands went limp.

- Are you feeling better? Can you hear me? - Thorin asked hoarsely, but gently. Bilbo nodded with a stuttering breath. When Thorin tried to pull away, the hobbit clutched his tunic again.

- No, don’t go... I’m still scared. - he didn’t have to ask twice. The uzbad shifted slightly, adjusted his position, and held him again. Just like that time on the Carrock cliff. Warm, safe arms, and nothing could break through them.

- The forest is still sick, Bilbo. You hobbits are sensitive to such things, it’s easy for your mind to play tricks. But everything’s alright. I’m here. You’re not alone with them. - finally, Bilbo relaxed and laid his head on Thorin’s shoulder. The tunic was damp in that spot - he figured it was probably from his tears.

- Tomorrow I’ll speak to Thranduil. He’ll give you some medicine. You need rest. This might all just be exhaustion...

- Thorin, I don’t want to be alone tonight. - he pulled back slightly and looked into the uzbad’s eyes. They were silent for a long time, as if speaking not with words, but with glances. Their eyes said more than voices ever could.

- I want to let you stay, but I can’t.

- Why? If we both want this.

- Yes, I want it so bad... If anyone finds out, there’ll be trouble.

- With Bofur? Is it because of our relationship?

- You know the answer.

- But I’m so scared. And besides... who’s to stop two close friends from staying near each other?

- And he’s not even here right now...

- It's all the forest. Thranduil's spell is befuddling us. - Thorin was no longer embarrassed to stare at Bilbo's lips, not taking his eyes off them for a single second. They were too close for just "good friends." And Bilbo didn't move, only leaned forward a little. As if this was how it was all supposed to be.

- We need to ask for medicine tomorrow, you said. - he leaned a little closer, and already felt Thorin's burning breath on his dry lips. Uzbad's heart was beating so loudly and resoundingly that Bilbo could hear it even at a distance, felt its return in his trembling breath and the heavy, frozen air. He, too, lowered his eyes to Thorin's lips. Not because he really wanted to look at them - he didn't want to spoil the impression by seeing ahead of time what he was about to feel. It was a call to action. What are you waiting for? And Thorin heard this call. They had been dreaming about this for too long to stop now.

The kiss was desperate, screaming in agony. First a simple touch of lips, then eyes closing, hands burying themselves in each other's hair, tongues intertwining and the fingertips of their souls connecting. Disgusting. How could he? In Erebor he shared a bed with one, and as soon as he left, he gave his soul to another. And with such zeal, with such passion and desire, that it was even more disgusting. They kissed until the cracks on their lips began to burn a little, bringing them to their senses. But even that was not enough. Why did they come to Mirkwood at all? Oh, yes, the agreement... What was it about? Bilbo had shamelessly forgotten. All memory dissolved in that pair of blue eyes.

- And how long did you hold it back? - Bilbo whispers. Thorin's eyes were still clouded, he looked up vaguely and looked at him with the same despair he would look at Erebor if a dragon destroyed it again.

- Since that day on the bastion. I am an idiot. It is all my fault, because I let that serpent take something more valuable than Arkenstone, which in fact turned out to be a useless, glittering boulder. And every single day I cherish the thought of slitting the throat of the one who now has the place where I once were.

- Kiss me again. - The words of pain and cruelty were bittersweet, with the iron taste of blood. But the forest magic clouded the mind. He wanted it. Not the death of a loved one, but to see if Thorin was telling the truth. At the same time he wanted to descend into a vat of infidelity, and his hands crawled of their own accord under the king's tunic, in search of warmth and comfort, the calming in this sinful feeling. And as always, he breathed heat, like a forge. In his embrace, the dead iron leg received its portion of blood and muscles again, could feel and exist. He was whole again. This was a one-time mistake. He wouldn't give in to weakness again. But how good it was in the moment. How pleasant it was to put out his moans on Thorin’s neck, how good it was when he whispered something in Khuzdul with his hoarse bass, mixed with shame and desire, how Bilbo liked to draw patterns of his plea on the king's back with his nails...

***

The negotiations were more of a formality - Thorin and the Elven King quickly settled everything. It could have all been handled by correspondence, but King Under the Mountain had to visit the elf from time to time, so the people wouldn’t forget that the pointy-eared folk were now allies and deserved respect. The dwarves were beginning to get used to the elves’ presence, and vice versa. No longer did they look at each other as enemies or disgusting, inferior creatures. The kings shook hands, smiled, and parted ways.

Thorin and Bilbo rode in the carriage in silence. A silence that ached, because they didn’t know what to do now. Since that night, they hadn’t spent a single one apart. Every night they lay side by side, in tender embraces and warm conversation, or in waves of passion. And now they had to pretend none of it had happened. That they were just friends. But those nights hadn’t soothed their pain. They’d made it worse.

Now that Bilbo had tasted the forbidden, he only wanted more. And maybe it was still the enchantment of the forest, but he wanted Bofur to know. Not just out of guilt for the betrayal, but because he was tired of hiding. However, he also understood how much relationships meant to dwarves. A sacred union. And even though he and Bofur weren’t married - he had still been unfaithful.

Which only made things worse. Because the pull toward Thorin was unbearable. It felt like something physically pushing him. Even in the carriage, before they returned to Erebor, it had ended with shameful kisses. They were afraid. Because it wasn’t just the unfaithful one who got punished - it was also the one they were unfaithful with. Even a king could be punished, especially if he’d ruined the bond between two lovers not of royal blood. And Bilbo? They’d tear him apart. He was a stranger. And he dared to defile the sacred traditions - and defile the king.

- You’re not going to tell anyone? Are you sure none of the elves heard us? - Bilbo had asked this probably thirty times already. And always the same answer:

- Of course not. I won’t risk you like that. And if the elves did hear, it’s none of their business. They’ll keep quiet.

Bofur greeted Bilbo with open arms and tired eyes. The hobbit prayed Orlik hadn’t implanted some sort of device in the dwarf’s eyes that could trace every kiss Thorin had left on his shoulders, chest, and thighs.

But Bofur didn’t seem to care. Apparently, the healer had been working him to the bone, days and nights spent in his office. Hence the fatigue, the dark circles, all the little things Bilbo had never noticed before. Now, guilt sharpened his vision, and dulled the thorns he used to throw at Bofur.

- This is madness! He's out of his mind. No living being can work that much! - Bilbo grumbled, setting down the leftover soup from the day before. Bofur ate with his usual appetite, but this time, he looked distant, almost sluggish.

- No, Lord Orlik knows what he’s doing. He’s treating me well, really. - Bofur smiled. Bilbo gave him a hesitant smile in return. - And you? I see the prosthetic’s working, you’re walking so confidently now. Did you go anywhere today?

- I’m resting today. - Bilbo assured him. But it was a lie.

No, he hadn’t gone to Thorin. They hadn’t seen each other since their return from Mirkwood. He’d gone to the temple.

- Father Stonemason, I’ve sinned and I want to confess. I know I’m a child of Lady Yavanna, but is there a chance that Aulë, being her husband, might also hear me?

Sidri, usually calm and solemn, looked uneasy. His fingertips were chewed raw, knuckles scratched, nails torn like shredded paper. When Bilbo asked again, he just smiled strangely and gave a strange little laugh.

- We’re all sinners, little hobbit. I’ll try to ask Aulë for your forgiveness, but I can’t say whether he’ll listen to me. Why not ask the king to build a temple for Yavanna? You could confess there.

Bilbo frowned. There was a sugary coating on the priest’s words, but it smelled of hidden terror. For some reason, Sidri didn’t want Bilbo to tell him anything. Though usually open and kind, he now seemed closed off. Bilbo began to feel like the entire kingdom was going mad. He would find someone who wasn’t insane. Or at least someone his own madness wouldn’t lump in with the rest.

- All right... yes, I’ll do that. Thank you, Father Stonemason. - he bowed and left. And Sidri, watching him go, let out a breath and relaxed. From behind the confessional wall, Orlik stepped out. He frowned as he ran his fingers through his silver braids.

- Looks like we went too far with the dosage. The treasure’s grown too suspicious. - he stepped over to the desk, took out his notebook, dipped his quill in ink, and began to write. - We need to revise the formula.

Chapter Text

- He knows. He knows everything, Thorin, I’m sure of it... -  Bilbo paced nervously around Thorin’s study, the dull thud of his iron prosthetic echoing off the cold stone floor. The King sat at his desk, mindlessly scratching at a piece of parchment with his quill. His thoughts were chaos - he cursed himself for that damned weakness back in Mirkwood. The forest’s enchantments had undone him, cracked his resolve, and everything had gone off the rails. That kiss in the darkness had shattered the ice wall between them too quickly, and they were swept away in an avalanche of feeling. And worst of all - the dragon had grown louder, and Thorin could no longer see the line between his sane self and the sick one. Even now, after seeing Bilbo for the first time since Mirkwood, after they both agreed that what had happened was a mistake, he couldn’t stop wanting more.

He thought it would get easier,that the contact would bring closure. But instead, it had only fanned the flames. It wasn’t love. It was something deeper, more consuming. Dependence. Though Thorin hadn’t admitted it to himself yet. Or maybe the dragon wasn’t letting him.

- Bilbo, listen. If he really knew, we wouldn’t still be alive. And if he does know but stays silent, then he’ll keep quiet. - Thorin tried to sound rational, but he was scared - not of Bofur finding out about their affair, but of what he saw happening to Bilbo. The hobbit was slowly, unmistakably, unraveling. Sometimes his eyes would go glassy, and he’d reach out to Thorin dreamily, playing with his hair, as if lost in another world. Other times, he would suddenly snap back to reality, starting again on his paranoid mantra that someone had seen them, someone knew, someone would tell. He tore at his grown-out curls, bit his lips until they bled, chewed the dry skin with his teeth.

And even then, Thorin looked at him like he was the most beautiful thing in all of Middle-earth.

- Lock the door, please. - Bilbo sat with his knees pulled up, gazing at his reflection in the mirror. Thorin stood wordlessly and obeyed. As soon as the latch clicked, Bilbo rose from the floor and approached him.

- Hold me. Please.

Mocking him. But Thorin didn’t have the strength to resist. He pulled the hobbit into a quiet embrace, stroking his pale golden curls and pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. Bilbo melted into the touch.

- He was probably just held by Bofur like this. Or worse, like with you in Mirkwood. Tell me, do you think he likes it more with you or with him? - hissed the dragon in Thorin’s ear. Rage surged through him, bitter and nauseating. He squeezed Bilbo tighter. But the embrace wasn’t enough. He didn’t want to prove Bilbo preferred him—though that would’ve been satisfying. What he needed now, what the dragon craved, was blood. A rival eliminated. The dragon was scratching at his heart, screaming for a sacrifice.

- Tell me, ghivashel... is everyone treating you well? - the soft question broke the silence. Bilbo tilted his head to show he was listening. - You go to Orlik for medicines often. Are his people kind to you?

Bilbo’s eyes clouded over again, and his fingers absently traced Thorin’s beard.

- Why are you asking? What if I give you names? Are you going to slit their throats, Your Majesty? - Thorin’s breath caught. Every inch of him froze beneath that touch. It’s the dragon. It’s always the dragon. That’s why he was so helpless before this creature—smaller than a dwarf and yet... everything. And still, he liked it. He liked that right now, he wasn’t a king.

- If you ask me to. - Thorin whispered. Bilbo’s eyes burned with a feverish unknown madness, alluring and scalding, something that left flushed marks on his cheeks and made the air in the room shimmer with heat. And still, Thorin loved him.

- Say it out loud. Tell me what you’d do. - damn devil, taunting him. But Thorin obeyed.

- I’m ready to cut the throat of anyone you point at and ask me to kill.

- Kiss me.

Thorin had started to notice this odd pattern - kisses always came after violence. As if Bilbo craved the metallic aftertaste of cruelty on his lips. And Thorin let him sate that hunger again. Their lips met in a searing, consuming kiss. And then Bilbo pulled away. Horror flooded his eyes, and Thorin immediately released him and stepped back. The dragon finally went quiet, replaced by a hollow shame, a gaping wound in his chest. It took Bilbo several minutes to calm down while Thorin stared blankly at his own blurred reflection in the mirror.

A damn animal.

- Bilbo... - he wanted to ask him to leave. Truly. But the words stuck in his throat. He physically couldn’t say them. Yet Bilbo just nodded in silence and headed for the door. Even now, both drowning in their own madness, they could still hear each other without words. The lock clicked. Hinges creaked. The sound of the prosthetic faded. Thorin was left alone with his thoughts and a stack of reports on the disappearance of several dwarves—disappearances that started after they’d found a corpse in the lower halls. A wave of nausea hit. And just moments ago, he had claimed he would do the same. And he kept thinking about it - killing his own kin for a foreigner. For his treasure. Would he really do it?

He was so lost in thought he didn’t hear Balin enter or call out to him. Thorin stared at the mirror, asking himself if he could picture being the killer in the dungeon. Could he stand over a mutilated body and accept that he’d done it? The answer wouldn’t come. Or maybe he was just afraid of the "Yes" that rang through his head like a hammer blow.

- Thorin! - Balin finally raised his voice, and the King snapped out of it. Noise again, that damned noise. Irritating. He reflexively reached for the box on his chest. His heart stopped. It was gone. The pendant was missing. He hadn’t checked when Bilbo was here. Balin saw the king go pale as he touched his neck. A bare chain dangled against his skin, only a piece of the clasp remained. And from that moment on, Balin was sure Thorin wasn’t listening to him anymore. His eyes dulled, swallowed by amber madness.

Thorin swept the papers off the desk, tore open every drawer, but the music box was nowhere to be found. When he looked up at Balin, the older dwarf instinctively took a step back and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. No talk of councils or planning was possible now. What could he even comprehend in this state?

- Empty your pockets. - the words came mechanical, dead, through clenched teeth.

- Thorin, I just came in, I haven’t even been near you. Think clearly! Maybe you left it in your chambers this morning?

- Did I stutter? I gave you an order. Empty. Your. Fucking. Pockets.

Arguing was pointless. The situation painfully echoed the madness about the Arkenstone. But even then, it hadn’t come to this. He hadn’t ordered people to empty their bags and pockets. And now, instead of the dwarves’ legacy, it was a small silver music box. Balin’s pockets were empty. Thorin visibly calmed.

- I have to remember who I saw today... who could have taken it... - the king leaned on the desk, exhaling raggedly. Cold sweat beaded on his brow, his fingers frantically toyed with the broken chain, as if ready to tear it off completely.

- If I find out who took it... Balin, I’ll kill them. I’ll kill whoever dared to take the gift of my treasure.

He laughed hollowly and clutched his head. He saw nothing now. Heard nothing. His vision was soaked in blood-red, his mind consumed by the dragon’s voice. It wasn’t whispering, it was screaming, clawing its way out. They had taken part of him. His treasure. Treasure. Precious. He stood upright.

- I want you to make an announcement, Balin. I’ll grant the thief a chance at mercy. I want the music box returned - placed in Bilbo’s hands. Tell them that. And tell them, they have until tonight.

***

Orlik examined the object brought to him with great interest. The melody played softly, the mechanism was wearing out. Clearly, the uzbad had used it often. And it was very poorly made. A true amateur’s work.

- How can a king wear such tasteless nonsense? - he snapped the lid shut and set it on the table. Bofur rubbed his eyes and blinked again. The invisibility serum Orlik had been testing on him had countless side effects and was terribly unstable. The injection site burned like fire, his head was spinning, and the world had lost its color. He didn’t even understand how Thorin hadn’t noticed him when he’d slipped into his chambers and taken the trinket from his chest. Now, guilt gnawed at him for stealing it - even though Orlik had been absolutely delighted.

- It’s very dear to him, my Lord. It should be returned.

- And do you know why it’s so dear to him? - Orlik squinted and tilted his head. Bofur hated that tone. It was how Orlik tested himб pressing on the most painful spot, only to later offer comfort. And by now, Bofur already longed for that comfort. He wanted to believe that someone understood him.

- Because Bilbo made it.

- Exactly, little bunny. You’re such a clever thing. And since Bilbo made it, that means he should be the one to give it back. Just imagine how happy the king will be if he gifts it to him a second time?

But something told Bofur the king would not be happy. He immediately thought of the Arkenstone. If Bilbo had given Thorin the stone, he would have suffered all the same. Or is this situation different now? And how would Bilbo react to a stolen pendant? Their relationship had finally begun to mend, he didn’t want to ruin that fragile peace.

- Do you want me to give it to Bilbo?

- Of course not. Not you. Thorin will bowel whoever stole it. There’d be even less left of him than there was of Reirak after you were done with him. We've slightly changed the formula. We’re testing this compound as one that doesn't act immediately. And now it can be administered not only through blood.

Bofur stepped back a few paces, grabbing his head. As if it weren’t enough to be reminded of damned Reirak - something he had almost come to terms with - now this. That morning, when Orlik asked him to fetch the music box, he had handed him a small packet of powder and ordered him to pour it into the cup of water by the king’s bedside. Orlik’s prized creation, his most terrible weapon - one that turned dwarves into killing machines, was now in Thorin’s bloodstream. And in a mind-boggling dose.

- Is there... is there an antidote, my Lord? - Bofur asked, his voice trembling. Orlik merely smirked.

- Blood. He must fulfill his desire, and then the effect will end. And if it doesn’t... well, we’ll have to consider a counteragent. Don’t worry, little bunny, we just want to see what happens with such a high dose. We have a perfectly prepared little test rat. I won’t let you interfere, because the rat must fulfill her purpose, before she’s torn apart by the beast the king will become. Tonight, he is without morals. Whatever conscience he has will be powerless.

- There was so much powder... My lord, are you sure the dose isn’t lethal? Are you sure Thorin will survive?

- You vastly underestimate how strong your king is. He fights off something worse every single day, resisting our experiments constantly. The hobbit’s mind cracked much faster, but he’s holding on well. We’re very eager to hear the details. He’ll tell us soon enough how he feels under the effects of his sleeping pills.

So the pills aren’t for sleep? What are they drugging him with? Who else is being experimented on? Is there anyone around him still sane? What else is Orlik hiding? What the hell is going to happen to Bilbo and Thorin? Bofur clutched his head and collapsed to the floor. Who had he allowed to control him? Who had he submitted to? Orlik leaned over him and gently touched his messy braids. He loved touching Bofur’s hair, he did that only with him. Bofur had never seen his master be so gentle with anyone else. Usually, those who showed weakness either disappeared mysteriously... or were stripped of the ability to be weak again. But Bofur - he endured.

- What did you put... in Bilbo’s pills? - Bofur whispered in panic, his voice shaking. But fear was slowly giving way to calm as Orlik stroked his head tenderly. His breathing steadied, the lump in his throat dissolved, and his hands stopped trembling.

- There, there, little bunny, no need to thump your little feet. Nothing bad, just a few compounds we’re testing. It might even help him. - Orlik sat beside him and wiped away a tear from Bofur’s cheek with his thin, icy fingers. - You’re allowed to be angry with us. But think for yourself, little one. We saved him from an infection—would we kill him now? Besides, we promised you. He’ll live till spring. We don’t even have a compound that could kill someone that slowly. We’re trying to help his madness so you don’t have to deal with it.

- He’s not mad, my Lord. He just needs time...

- Time? Time to finally kill you during his next crashout? Time to drown in his own sobs and fears in his sleep and never wake up again? Or time to fully lose his mind, run off with the king, and leave the whole kingdom to rot?

Bofur said nothing. Another blow to the gut, delivered in that same gentle tone, with soft touches layered on top. And yet... it felt calm. Orlik remembered. He understood. And he had taken all this filth upon himself. The master said what Bofur was afraid to admit. And that meant he was doing what Bofur was too afraid to do. But was it right? What if he was causing more harm than good?

Orlik sat close, allowing Bofur to rest his head against his bony, cold chest, but Bofur didn’t move yet.

- You’re very tired, little bunny. These relationship is exhausting you. We only want to make your life easier. Let us.

It seemed Orlik’s voice truly softened. And Bofur gave in. He pressed his face into his master’s furs, while those icy hands pulled him closer. The master smelled of herbs and medicines, like Oin’s infirmary. Orlik had tamed him. He had clipped off his claws along with the tips of his fingers, and now he kissed the stubs and bloody bandages. And Bofur couldn’t hate this monster.

To "return" the box, Orlik chose one of his own - a mute dwarf named Brandir. He handed him the wretched little treasure and ordered him to take it to Baggins’ chambers at night. Along with it, Brandir was to bring another curious object: a small glass bead.

- I want you to cut open the hobbit’s chest and implant this under his skin. As close to the heart as possible.

He didn’t explain the request. Brandir wasn’t Bofur, he wouldn’t ask questions he didn’t want answers to. The dwarf nodded, pocketed the music box, the bead, a scalpel, and rusty tongs.

Orlik had heard Balin’s address to the people but didn’t plan to inform his subordinates. On the contrary, he aimed to keep Bofur in the dark for as long as possible. Thorin was the true target, and the plan was to reach him through Bilbo. The uzbad loved that hobbit even without interference, and Orlik’s compounds didn’t create feelings, they only magnified what was already there and distorted it. But Thorin was a king for a reason - the substances affected him strangely, differently. He should have lost his mind by now and killed Bilbo with his own hands. That was exactly what Orlik had hoped to provoke. And yet, Thorin’s love for the hobbit only grew. No violence in sight. He was veering far from Orlik’s expectations. And that was both infuriating and fascinating. So the dwarven lord had no plans to stop experimenting.

***

Obsessive thoughts wouldn’t leave Thorin’s mind. He sat at the table, mechanically signing unimportant documents, jumping up every few minutes to check if anyone was headed toward Bilbo’s house. At the same time, he was pestering Balin with growing insistence. Fundin’s eldest son decided it would be wise to stay with the king in such a state - who knew what might happen or what could cross his troubled mind.

- Balin, this isn’t just paranoia. I swear, I can hear it... Something’s going to happen. She didn’t vanish for no reason... - and then he would sit back down, touch the chain around his neck, sigh heavily, and start scratching away at parchment with his quill again.

- You’re not yourself, Thorin. This is paranoia, you’re seeing things that aren’t there. Calm down, you’ve spilled ink all over the desk. - Balin stepped up and wiped a large blot of ink with his handkerchief, in which Thorin had already smeared with his elbow. But the king didn’t even notice. He signed another document in a sweeping hand and walked off again to check if anyone was heading to Bilbo’s house. The path remained empty, and after a while of pacing back and forth, candlelight began to flicker in nearby windows. Balin finally gave up.

- If you’re this worried, just go to him. You’re tormenting yourself, and I know you. You won’t rest. I can forge your signature, I’ll manage. - or a few seconds, the madness in Thorin’s eyes faded into its usual weary blue. He looked sadly at his old mentor and nodded with gratitude.

- I’m sorry I’m like this. - he wanted to say, but only a hoarse "sorry..." came out. It was enough. Thorin grabbed Orcrist and headed for Bilbo’s home.

The hobbit was alone, and the door was unlocked. That worried Thorin - Bilbo always fretted about unlocked doors - but perhaps he had simply forgotten, being sick and distracted. Bilbo sat in the kitchen in front of the oven, where a pie was baking. He stared into the void, slowly peeling the skin and hangnails from his fingers with his teeth. Thorin’s appearance didn’t frighten him—it was as if he’d expected or even hoped he would come.

- So, how’s the music box? Did they give it back to you? - Bilbo adjusted the clasps on his prosthetic, drew the curtains, and stepped closer. Thorin shook his head and didn’t find the strength to move away. There had already been too many games of near and far, hot and cold, today. It was pure madness.

- Bilbo, I think you’re in danger. Where’s this your...? - He glanced around.

- Bofur said he won’t be sleeping here tonight. - Bilbo deliberately ignored the first part of the sentence, but Thorin could see the panic returning in his eyes. His gaze darted around, and he went pale—paler than before. Thorin had been right. He was in danger. If both of their souls felt it, then something truly was going to happen. They stood in the doorway, less than an arm’s length apart, unmoving for a few heartbeats. Finally, Bilbo managed to turn away and take a couple of steps back.

- You need to go, Thorin. We’ve spent too much time together today. You know exactly where that leads. - it would’ve led to yet another week-long silence, only to fall apart again - another kiss, or worse, another night together. They both knew by now it was a vicious cycle. Still, they couldn’t stop it, no matter how hard they tried. They didn’t yet realize there were external forces influencing them, too.

- I know, Bilbo. But my soul won’t rest, I can’t just leave you. - the scent in the kitchen was starting to turn. The pie was beginning to burn, but Bilbo seemed completely unaware. Thorin took a few steps forward, and Bilbo recoiled, pressing his hands against the hot oven door.

- Thorin, leave. This won’t help either of us. It hurts.

- It hurts me too. - Thorin reached for Bilbo’s hand and gently pulled it away from the metal. Fortunately, the surface wasn’t searing hot, his palms were only reddened, no serious burns. - But I’m begging you, just not tonight. I won’t forgive myself if something happens to you.

It was entirely unbefitting of a king, but Thorin didn’t care, no one could see or hear them now. He sank to his knees before the hobbit and kissed the reddened knuckles of his hand. Bilbo didn’t resist, didn’t pull away or say a word. In doing so, he both allowed Thorin to continue embarrassing himself and made it feel like he wasn’t doing anything shameful at all. A moment later, Bilbo crouched down beside him to lessen the awkwardness.

- This will end terribly, and I don’t agree. But... I agree to let you stay, as long as I’m somewhere else. I’ll sleep in Oin’s infirmary if there’s space. And if nothing happens tonight, and it turns out to be just in your head, I expect an apology for barging into my home.

- I want you to stay in my chambers tonight. - Thorin said, having heard only the "I agree." - That way I’ll know you’re safe. They’re the most secure place. And if you object, I swear, I won’t come near you. Please. And don’t tell anyone where you’re sleeping. Not even Balin.

Bilbo paused, weighing the risks, then finally nodded. He opened his mouth to say something else, glanced at Thorin’s lips, and quickly left the kitchen. The king remained seated near the oven, which now reeked of burning. He extinguished the embers and laid Orcrist on them. When the door slammed behind Bilbo, Thorin heard the dragon’s voice in his head.

- They’re poisoning us. Something vile flows beneath our skin. The Treasure’s blood has been laced with that same poison.

The dragon knew something. He felt something. And Thorin believed him - they now shared one body, they were one.

- What do you mean? - Thorin muttered, forcing himself up and stepping in front of the mirror in the hallway.

Something stirred beneath his skin, but the dragon fell silent. In the reflection, patches of shimmering scales began to surface. The wounds itched and ached unnaturally. Thorin stared at his hands - nothing. No trace of what the mirror showed. Then the face in the glass distorted, and steel-colored eyes under silver lashes stared back at him. Only the constant reminder that he was in someone else’s home kept him from smashing that cursed mirror to pieces.

The hours dragged on, long and agonizing. To distract himself from the ever-watchful reflection in the mirror, Thorin fashioned a makeshift Bilbo out of pillows and blankets. To him, it looked painfully real - so much so that he even imagined the doll blinking or smiling, though it had no face. He didn’t even notice when he began speaking to his creation. He told it everything he was too afraid to say to the real Bilbo: about his obsession, the dragon, his madness, beating the dwarf who had broken Bilbo’s leg, and his urge to kill. He realized it had been a long time since he’d visited Sidri. But somehow, this doll seemed to listen better than the priest ever had. And after Mirkwood, Thorin hadn’t stepped foot in the temple once. Sidri seemed... strange.

When darkness had fully fallen outside, he tucked the Bilbo-doll into bed and headed to the kitchen. He lit a fire in the hearth over Orcrist and waited. The blade first turned red, then began to pale and glow. Just as Thorin was about to take it off the heat, he heard soft sounds at the lock. Someone was trying to break in. Thorin grabbed Orcrist and shut the stove.

A hunched dwarf entered the house, holding a small candle. In his other hand, he carried a scalpel. The tip of the blade was sharp, but the rest was coated in rust. Without looking around, the dwarf walked down the corridor toward the bedroom. Thorin took off his boots to move silently and followed him. His vision began to blur, and the dwarf slowly morphed into an orc, or a goblin, and then, eventually, his mind erased the distinction altogether.

The creature wandered the house until it found the bedroom. It slowly approached the bed where the doll lay. Then it reached into its pocket and pulled out the music box. Thorin’s vision went red. A thief. A murderer. It had stolen, and now it was going to kill Bilbo. Kill his Treasure. Treasure. Ghivashel.

When the dwarf raised the scalpel toward the doll, Thorin felt a strange heat behind him. The dwarf turned around and met Thorin’s eyes, now black. The king swung the glowing blade. The sword sliced through the body as if it were paper, not flesh. There was no scream, though the dwarf tried. Instead came a hissing sound, like oil in a skillet. The skin shriveled and blackened, letting the sword pass through with no resistance, which Thorin took as an invitation to stab again. And again. And again. There was almost no blood, just plumes of black smoke and a sickeningly homely smell. Only now, instead of roasted meat, the house reeked of charred dwarf flesh. Thorin didn’t stop until the dwarf was reduced to a smoking, blackened corpse. Only after shoving red-hot Orcrist down the creature’s throat did he finally step back to inspect his work.

- Oh God... - he muttered, wiping his eyes, only to smear the blood across his face. His legs wobbled as he stumbled out of the house. On his way out, he threw the sword into a nearby water bucket. It hissed violently, and steam burned his face, filling his nose with the acrid stench of rust and wet metal. Thorin coughed, wiping the droplets off his face. They mixed with blood and trickled down in a pale, sticky stream. The sudden temperature shock blackened Orcrist and cracked the blade. It took immense effort to force it back into the scabbard, since he was shaking all over.

Bilbo wasn’t asleep. He couldn’t sleep, even after taking a dozen pills. The largest dose he’d ever dared. He’d started with just three or four, and Orlik had continued to encourage increasing the dosage in letters. But now, Bilbo wasn’t sure the pills were even meant for sleep.

Something told him that Thorin would come. And that he would come with not the most pleasant news. Or rather, unpleasant for that small healthy part of the hobbit that could still at least sometimes be the main one in his body. But for the rest of him it was a celebration. He waited, he longed to see Thorin with someone else's blood smeared on his face, who would enter the chambers and coldly say: "I did it. I killed him." From this picture, which his sick mind, as luck would have it, painted surprisingly brightly, there was a pleasant ache in his groin. The hobbit was sickened by himself to the point of nausea, he wanted to cry from this abomination. The worst thing was that he didn't understand why he could like this. Why did thoughts of kind and loving Thorin alternate with this? And why did he like these two pictures of the king equally much? He wrapped himself in a blanket and buried his face in the pillow. He was pathetic. Why was Thorin still holding on to him? Why does he still love him so much?

The door burst open, and in stumbled the promised king. Pale, disheveled, and smeared with blood. Bilbo jumped out of bed, shut the door, and rushed to him.

- Thorin, what happened? Are you all right? - the hobbit asked, though he already knew the answer.

- Bilbo... Bilbo, I killed him... - Thorin whispered, unsteadily, while his treasure held him close and tried to calm him. Oh, this wasn’t how he should have reacted, not at all. And he hated himself for it. But somehow, in that moment, he couldn’t lie to himself. It felt unbearably good knowing Thorin had risked his reputation and gone to such a violent extreme for him. Bilbo gently stroked his hair and murmured soothing words until the king stopped trembling. In that moment, he accepted it completely. Yes, he’d gone mad, totally and irreversibly.

- Is the body still in the house? - Thorin nodded. Bilbo’s voice was soft, so soft it frightened even him. - Then let’s go. We have to get rid of it. Bofur will be back tomorrow afternoon.

By the time they reached the house, the streets were deserted. Even if someone had passed by earlier, now it was dead silent. Thankfully, the door was shut. The smell had begun to fade, but Bilbo still sensed it. When he saw the body, he nearly fainted, but the shock quickly gave way to madness. He approached the corpse and examined it carefully. It looked like a burnt scarecrow, full of holes from fiery crow beaks. The face was twisted in agony, and smoke still drifted from some of the wounds. There was no way to explain or justify such a mutilated dwarf body.

- We need to cut him up and burn him down. - Bilbo said, horrified by his own words. Why wasn’t he screaming at Thorin? Calling him insane? Because he was mad too. He turned to the king. - Get Orcrist. I’ll get the saw.

They dismembered the dwarf into countless pieces, stuffed the remains into bedsheet sacks, and made their way to the royal forge. There, the pair lit a fire. While Thorin added coal and stoked the flames, Bilbo pulled the body from the bags, wondering how he’d come to this. But he couldn’t stop thinking about how much he loved this Thorin too, insanely so. And when, covered head to toe in blood, they finally tossed the head into the furnace and the stench of burning flesh filled the air, they realized: this was it. This was their feeling. The forge reeked of charred meat, but all they could do was melt into kisses, again and again. Thorin’s bloodied hands smeared Bilbo’s face even more, and his grown out beard scratched at the hobbit’s lips.

- You’re insane, ghivashel. You’ve gone mad. - Thorin whispered, lightly biting Bilbo’s lip and licking a droplet of rusty-tasting blood from the corner.

- Add more coal. There’s probably still some skin left...

Thorin knew it was all artificial, that they’d been forcibly injected with this nature, that their bodies loathed it, that their souls wanted to rip it out. But the heart didn’t care - they were in this filthy vat together, and as long as they held hands, as long as they heard each other beneath the surface, everything would be fine. And when Thorin began unbuttoning Bilbo’s nightshirt, the stench of scorched flesh and burnt hair no longer seemed so revolting, because the filthiest thing in that room was them. Ew.

- I love you.

- How vulgar... Say it again.