Chapter Text
Thorin Oakenshield is a dwarf true to his word, and, sure enough, the first thing he does on reclaiming Erebor is set aside the chambers that will become the Royal Quarters. On the first night they share them Thorin and Bilbo still lack a bed, but they have bed rolls and Thorin’s furs as blankets and this is a time for quiet intimacy, of being wrapped up and basking in the presence of each other.
Bilbo knows, somehow he knows deep in his core, that the Company have all survived the battle through sheer bloody luck. Somewhere out there is a Bilbo Baggins who must spend the first night in reclaimed Erebor weeping for the loss of the King Under the Mountain, and he clings hard enough to Thorin’s arms to leave bruises. That is, of course, not to say they survived wholly intact – Thorin’s body is littered with scrapes and cuts, poor Kili has had his face laid open by an orc sword and Dwalin is missing even more of his ears than previously. Bilbo himself has come out the other side with only bruises and scrapes, and Thorin’s thumb lingers on the cut on his temple long into the night.
The first couple weeks are just as hard as the journey it had taken them to get there: the injured to treat, dead to bury, treaties to be carved out with elves and with Men, trading agreements to barter over, repairs to be done to the great halls and caverns. Bilbo patters about and helps all he can, but it is Thorin who rules over all with a steady hand. The first time Bilbo sees the dwarf king sat on his throne, crown on his brow, he thinks he’s never seen anything as majestic and sets about luring Thorin back to their chambers almost immediately.
By then, the bedrolls had been replaced with a lowly pallet bed – hay and cheap linens, but better than bare rock – and Bilbo luxuriates in having a bed for once even as he writhes under Thorin’s attentions. In Lake town they had already learned the best way of pleasing each other, so here the hobbit practices that exact best way to play with Thorin’s nipple piercings, and enjoys how excellent the piercing on the dwarf’s thick cock feels grinding deep inside him. Like young lovers, they spend the whole night in bliss and come morning Thorin produces needles and gold with a hopeful expression.
“Your tongue,” he says, heating the first needle in the roaring fire and Bilbo watches in shivering anticipation as the needle glows. “So everyone will know to listen to what you say.”
It burns so hot it’s cold, and Bilbo can’t help the few tears that leak out at the pain after the gold stud is fitted in place. His tongue feels twice as large now, and the stud clacks against his teeth, but Thorin kisses his forehead and says, “What would I have done without your counsel, when the elves and Men ranged against us? Imagine the battle that would have unfolded, if we had not had your sense.”
“Your left nipple for your coming of age,” says Thorin as he slides the first golden hoop onto Bilbo’s chest, and the needle trembles when it comes to that on the side of his heart. “And your right for your great deed.” He mumbles in Khuzdul, voice husky and deep, as he places the last ring in place and his lips brush gently over the gold. “For saving me.”
Bilbo would whisper back, “My King,” if only his tongue did not ache so abominably. Instead he nuzzles Thorin’s braids and clings to broad shoulders as he’s laid back in the furs and Thorin’s hips ease between his spread thighs once more.
In the end they agree that Bilbo should go home to the Shire, if only to sort out his belongings and Bag End before returning. Erebor is a busy place, and Thorin a very busy dwarf, and Bilbo’s new jewellery really rather prevents quite a lot of their clinches. This is probably the best time.
The young brothers of Durin’s line are heading to the Blue Mountains to inform the dwarf colonies there of their uncle’s success at the Lonely Mountain, and to collect all of those who wish to return, and Bilbo accompanies them, with only a couple heartsick glances back at the rebuilt gates of Erebor as they leave.
The journey comes with the aid of those lands they must pass through – the wood elves are almost hospitable and lead them through the forest swiftly, possibly to prevent further aggravation of the spider population, and Beorn shepherds them down and across to the pass over the Misty Mountains, which are much easier to traverse this time. They stop at Rivendell to give their gratitude to Elrond, and pass on messages from the various rulers the other side of Mirkwood, and then it is an easy journey to the edge of the Shire. Here Bilbo persuades Fili and Kili to head on with due haste and let him journey back to Hobbiton himself, less he draw even more attention to himself than he certainly already has.
It doesn’t really work. Hobbits come out of their holes to watch his pony trot past, people whisper and mutter behind their hands and the stream of people steadily pillaging Bag End halt worriedly whenever he arrives in the lane.
“You are meant to be dead,” says Lobelia Sackville-Baggins in an accusing fashion, her dress jingling merrily as she elbows her way to the front of the crowd.
“Well, I am not, and therefore those are still my spoons,” says Bilbo, who’s sat in on enough negotiations between tight-fisted wood-elves and stubborn dwarves to know exactly how to dismiss an idiot. “And that is my wardrobe, and those are my chairs and that is my dressing gown.” He snatches it back from a frustrated looking Proudfoot and slings it over his shoulder. “As you can plainly see, I am not dead, so kindly cease your looting of my property.”
His hand has always settled nicely on the hilt of Sting, and perhaps it is this that encourages the hobbits to return his belongings so swiftly. To show there are no bad feelings, and that hobbits are nice folk regardless, there comes his way a steady stream of greetings and well-wishes from various people, and invitations down to the Green Dragon that evening to share his story of adventure with them.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” says Bilbo, to a disappointed sigh from the onlookers, “But it has been a very long journey, and I have only eyes for my bed this eve.”
“What is that in your mouth?” asks Lobelia, who apparently has an eye for gold greater than a dwarf.
“A symbol,” says Bilbo smartly. “Which you would understand if you were dwarves. But you are not, so it is not important.” He can only imagine how scandalised they would be if they knew what he wore under the handsome waistcoat and shirt he had had tailored in Laketown – the slim gold hoops are warm on his skin, and the piercings long healed on the journey.
It takes much longer to chivvy everyone out of Bag End, especially the Sackville-Bagginses who have to be bribed with a case of silver cutlery to leave in the end, but finally Bilbo Baggins is back in his cosy little hobbit hole again.
Except… His fire burns as merrily in the grate as ever, but it does not roar like the fires burn in Erebor. His chair is comfortable, but there is no dwarf king on his throne to accompany him. His bed is not the great carved spectacle, with silk sheets and splendid furs, and it contains no sign of Thorin Oakenshield. With no one pressed close to his back, no great arms to burrow under, no one snoring faintly in his ear, Bilbo falls asleep grudgingly.
He sorts through and packs his belongings as harshly as he can, because he cannot take much on the journey back. Most of the furniture he bequeaths to various relatives and friends, making sure to gift several pieces to the Gamgee family down the lane, who were happy but often seemed lacking the richer things in life. The deed to Bag End itself he signs away to his cousin Drogo, on the proviso that the Gamgee clan would continue to be employed to care for the gardens and the house and perhaps that Bilbo might be able to come and stay whenever the hulking mass of the Lonely Mountain grew too heavy on his mind.
With everything done and sorted, Bilbo is left to sit and wait. He cracks open one of the barrels of Old Toby he had squirrelled away for the journey and sat out on the wooden bench in his front garden and enjoys a nice smoke every night. Every morning he wanders around the Shire, journeying as far as he can every day just for the joy of seeing the rolling hills and shallow bubbling streams again, slopes dotted with cheerfully painted round doors and the fields filled with gambolling sheep and flustered chickens. It is all very lovely and cosy, but Bilbo find himself standing atop of drumlins and thinking about mountains and walking through trout filled streams and willow copses and thinking of lakes filled with dragon bones and forests so great you couldn’t see the other side.
Time goes on. Bilbo grows impatient, but tries not to show it else the people of Hobbiton think him even odder than they already do. He knows the Blue Mountains are a distance away and that the dwarves will also need time to gather their possessions and ready themselves to move, but it does not change the fact that he wants to go now.
The sound of a heavy hand banging on his door startles Bilbo from his writing desk, where he had been scribbling down notes from his adventures, and he pattered around the loops of corridors to the front, heaving the door open with a flourish.
At his door is a dwarf, as he had expected. A female dwarf no less – with dark hair in a tight braid and a fine beard entwined with jewels, her eyes are blue and hooded and her brow strong.
“Lady Dís,” says Bilbo, bowing politely, “At your service.”
Dís gives him a quick once over, her expression achingly similar to her brother’s whenever he was considering something deeply, and then laughed and clapped Bilbo on the shoulder. Over-proportionate strength was evidently a trait shared by both sexes of dwarf, and Bilbo’s knees bend slightly under the blow.
“And I at yours and your family’s!” She smiles wryly and says, “I can see why Thorin had you get your tongue pierced, if you think as quickly as that all the time.”
Bilbo clacks the stud against his teeth, as he as prone to doing when he thinks deeply, and says, “I have my moments. Please, do come in.”
As it turns out, over scones and tea because Bilbo Baggins was a polite hobbit if nothing else, that Fili and Kili are being reprobates down at the Green Dragon and Dís had long given up on them and come to find the esteemed Mr Baggins herself.
"I would despair of them," she says, sipping her tea with a mild expression until Bilbo offers the neat little dwarven flask Nori had gifted to him in Erebor, containing a nice nip of brandy for her tea. "That'll do very nicely... Yes, well I would despair of them but they are good boys and a mother must be blind to some foibles."
Bilbo thinks of Kili's face, laid open gruesomely by the orc sword and destined to carry a dashing scar across the bridge of his nose and cheek for the rest of his life, and of Fili, who has a few extra lines on his brow and a shoulder that will ache forever in the cold to bear, and thinks that it’s good that their mother at least still sees them as the young bucks they are. "They did well," he says and drizzles a little more brandy into his own tea.
They talk of the journey and the Battle of the Five Armies and the ruins that Smaug had left Erebor in, until the mood grows overly morose and Dís diverts to greener pastures, asking about the shire and hobbits and their cosy little homes and lives. Bilbo explains all he can, asking about the Blue Mountains in return, and the pair of them are soon deeply involved in reminiscing.
"There are metals and gems in most mountains," says Dís, fiddling with her bags for a moment and returning with a small leather sack that she empties onto the ottoman. Out spills a king's ransom in gold and silver and jewels, bracelets and rings and necklaces. "The Blue Mountains were prosperous enough. Erebor will be better still."
Bilbo plucks a little stud of gold out of the glittering mess and turns the earring around in his fingers. It has been a long time since he had last done something foolhardy after all.
"Thorin attempted to explain to me the meaning of piercings to dwarves," he says, trying not to blush when Dís grins at him knowingly. "But he never got to earrings."
"Some things have meaning, and some are just for the joy of decoration." Dís turns her head and her earrings, multiple hoops beaded with jewels, shiver in the firelight. "As are those for the navel. Mostly the women wear them, but males are known to, especially if they are high-ranking or considered attractive."
Bilbo clicks his tongue stud against his teeth and Dís grins and fetches another bag, the contents of which are sharp silver needles, hollow and in varying sizes and shapes. It’s easy for the hobbit to recognise their purpose.
“He wants me in gold,” says Bilbo, rolling the stud around in his fingers and thinking of Thorin’s promises to him. “And in some small way that worries me. I would be lying to deny it.”
Her finger is crooked under his chin, tilting his head up so he can see the firelight reflected as gold in her eyes, and Bilbo swallows. “We of Durin’s line are all affected by the gold-lust, Master Baggins,” she says, so soft he might not have heard it if he hadn’t been listening closely. “All of us. There is no escape from it, and we fear it rightly. In some it is much lessened than others and we may cope with that, but there is always the worry that we will suffer as our forebears suffered with it. Thorin fears it most of all, but I suspect he will remain strong despite that.”
Dís retreats as quickly as she had moved in. “You would look very handsome in gold, Master Baggins, but that is only one reason why my brother cares for you. Do you doubt that?”
“No,” says Bilbo firmly, undoing the clasp of the earring and handing it back to the dwarf. “Not for a moment.”
Fili and Kili whisper and chuckle between themselves when this new little company finally leaves the Shire, with Bilbo perched high on his pony and pretending that his newly pierced ears cannot pick up their mischief. Each lobe contains a single stud, with three hoops up the outer rim spaced to highlight the un-dwarflike point at the tip. Dís is a master of her work, and Bilbo can’t help but preen a bit at his own reflection as the swelling goes down. To aid quick healing, she also provides soothing poultices and so the piercings are entirely healed long before they even reach the Western borders of Mirkwood, including the other golden studs placed neatly in his navel and hidden well under an old shirt that was now comfortably baggy on his journey thinned frame.
The forest is less horrifying than before, although darkness lingers in the boughs of the deep wood and there must be a number of guards on watch at all times lest spiders carry them off. Dís still sits tall in her saddle and barely blinks an eyelid when her sons must hack through spider webs that have been spun across the whole of the pathway, and Bilbo tries to sit as tall on his pony, though he is hampered by the urge to hop down and help as well.
It is after one of these occasions, when the company had stopped for a brief rest in a clearing along the road, that the wood elves come springing about them. Bilbo hears the call of horns first, and looks up from trying to peel cobwebs out of his hair just as the first elf drops out of a tree and severely surprises the dwarf who had been resting under it.
The elves don’t seem particularly bothered with the dwarves’ presence, and they pause only briefly in the clearing to bow to Dís and her sons and then to Bilbo, to his utmost embarrassment, before they leap back up into the branches. They are followed swiftly by a cavalry squadron, who come down the path on nimble little forest horses and a few on the backs of great deer. The Elvenking is amongst them, and though it would appear his elk would have to turn its wide antlers sideways to fit through the trees, it proceeds the fastest and more gracefully of all the steeds. As his men trot onwards, he pauses beside Dís and Bilbo, tilting his head in that idiosyncratic way that Bilbo suspects is the equivalent to a bow.
“I trust you have had a pleasant journey?” he says, and there is a certain unspoken plea to not talk about the spiders. Bilbo’s happy enough to obey, because he doesn’t like the blasted things either and certainly pities the elves who have to battle them daily, but Kili is listening in and speaks before his mother has a chance to be civil.
“Grand,” says the youngest of the line of Durin, adding, “Aside from the insects.”
“Ah,” says Thranduil, his lips pursing slightly.
“They add character,” says Dís, giving her son a sharp look. “And they have not overly bothered us. Are you away to hunt them?”
“We are always hunting them, my lady,” says Thranduil, his otherworldly calm countenance creasing in irritation for a moment. “But, it is no great hardship for us. The season is turning and soon the beasts will struggle through the winter; we will have peace for a few months in the snows.”
Sure enough, the King is no longer wearing his crown of autumn red leaves and crisp berries, but a weaved circlet of holly leaves and fir twigs.
“Oh, you’ve changed your crown!” exclaims Bilbo, who had always rather liked the Elvenking’s crowns for all seasons, although he didn’t quite like the piercing gaze of the elf being focused entirely on him. “It’s very nice,” he adds, because it’s only polite.
Thranduil surveys him briefly, and then smiles, in a sharp, acid fashion. “As have you, Master Baggins, although yours appears to have settled about your ears.”
Bilbo touches his ears and blushes as he realises what the elf referred to – his earrings, bright gold cool in the air.
“I hope you find the rest of your journey easy,” says the Elvenking, casting his gaze ahead to where the tail end of his company have disappeared into the forest. “You should find the paths clearer and the spiders less numerous from here on.”
“Thank you,” Dís bows her head and Bilbo does the same as the Elvenking’s elk strides on. They wait until the forest is silent again, and then both Fili and Kili curse all elves and all spiders and all apple barrels so thoroughly their mother boxes their ears and threatens to wash out their mouths with soap.
“Uncle calls Thranduil a weed-eating bastard all the time!” complains Kili, rubbing his sore ear.
“Well, then Bilbo can wash Thorin’s mouth out with soap in his own time,” says Dís, sounding exasperated with all menfolk. “Now get back on your ponies. We shall make Laketown in a couple days if we ride hard.”
Journeying by pony is much more pleasant than by foot – or barrel – but Bilbo is still glad to reach Laketown in the end. It had been rebuilt after Smaug’s last attack, north of where it had stood before, and work was still been completed, so the town rang with the sounds of carpentry and of smithies and stoneworkers and the wooden streets smelt strongly of fresh paints and varnishes. Nevertheless the town was busy, with the human residents and a new contingent of dwarves that Bilbo rarely recognised. They all bowed and tugged their beards respectfully in the presence of Dís and her sons, and a few even granted the hobbit the same gesture.
“Our little halfing hero,” teases Kili, and gets his comeuppance a few minutes later when the hobbit spots a stall selling roasted chestnuts and intersperses eating them with pelting them at the back of the young dwarf’s head.
In the distance the Lonely Mountain towered grimly, and there were streams of smoke from the bottom of one of the south-eastern slopes. They take rooms on the second floor of an inn and Bilbo spends a few minutes peering out of the windows and trying to figure out what on earth is happening out there.
Information comes in the form of visitors: Dori and Nori arrive the morning after the company’s arrival in town and come visiting to the inn. They bring a message for Dís, written on neat vellum in a hand that looks suspiciously like Ori’s.
“King’s scribe, now,” confirms Dori, pleased as punch. He’s dressed to the nines, Bilbo notices, with rich, hardwearing fabric and new beads in his intricate braids. Nori also looks splendid; though he wears darker, more muted colours and less jewellery, his hair is even more superb than before. “And he’s in charge of the old archives.”
“We’ve had to ask Dwalin to tow him out once a day,” adds Nori, “Else he forgets to eat. The boy gets vicious when you separate him from his books.”
“And how are yourselves? How is everyone else?” asks Fili.
“Oh, well,” says Nori, “Balin and Dwalin are back at their old posts, advising and guarding as ever. Bifur and Bofur have been helping open the mines back up; you should see the lumps of ore they’ve been bringing back up! Bombur has been courting a very lovely lady from the Iron Hills. Oin’s been hard at work in the infirmaries, and Gloin has just returned from the North with his wife and little Gimli, so now we get to watch him fuss over them instead of just listen to it.” He rolls his eyes, but there’s no malice in the gesture. “We are back at the merchant business.”
“I am back at the merchant business,” says Dori, pointedly.
Nori ignores him neatly and finishes, “And Thorin, of course, is busy being King. No one has tried to overthrow him yet, so I reckon he’s doing a good job.”
“So everyone is doing well,” says Bilbo, feeling relieved, “I am glad to hear it. And how is the Lonely Mountain?”
“Oh, it is excellent, master Bilbo!” says Dori. “The halls are all cleaned and the worst of the damage has been fixed. Some of the old carvings will never be the same of course, but we shall replace those with new designs and it shall be perfect!” A glint passed over his eyes and he exchanged a look with his brother, who chuckled. “And the rooms! Well, I don’t doubt you’ll love those. The King Under the Mountain had special say in some of those!”
“Thorin has moments of supreme taste,” mutters Dís, without looking up from the message. “Although, as his sister, I am of course loathe to say it.”
“Is there building work going on at the foot of the mountain?” asks Bilbo, “I would not have thought you would have wanted to build so far outside the walls, but that is what it looks like from this distance.”
“That is Dale,” said Dori, tucking his thumbs into his belt, “Bard is rebuilding his ancestor’s town along the banks of the River Running. You shall see it in a few days, although there is not much to look at yet. The King has declared a feast day in honour of your contingent’s return, you see.”
“A feast!” says Bilbo, forgetting immediately about new towns and reconstruction work. He had been enjoying the plentiful food served at the inn with some glee: a hobbit could deal with many of the dangers that the road threw at him, but the lack of regular and filling meals was simply intolerable. A feast would be just the thing.
“A feast!” echoes Dís, tucking the vellum away and clapping her hands together, her face lighting up into canny delight. “Excellent! Dori, Nori, you must come with me! There are things to be done!”
Before, when Bilbo had not met Dís, he had suspected that Fili and Kili's continent wide mischievous streak had come from their father, because there was no way the sister of the grimly majestic Thorin Oakenshield could have passed that misbehaviour down to her sons. Now, Bilbo suspects that Dís certainly had her role to play. She nearly claps her hands in glee when Bilbo appears from behind the dressing curtain in his new clothes. The silks and velvets have been dyed red and blue and steely grey, and there is a trim of silvery fur about the lapels of the coat, glittering thread swen through the shirt and ivory buttons on his waistcoat. He feels a bit like a lamb being dressed up for the slaughter, especially when Dís shows him his reflection in the mirror.
"Your greens and yellows suit you better, of course, " says Dís, opening one of her little leather bags of treasures, "But these are Thorin's colours, dwarf colours, and we must present you specially for the night."
"I’m going to be eaten alive," groans Bilbo, carefully unclipping the golden ear studs and replacing them with the delicate hoops Dís offers him. She tells him to keep the original tongue stud in, and there's little chance of him ever swapping his nipple piercings for any other - he earned them for saving Thorin's life after all - , or removing his ring from its chain about his neck, but she weaves gold strands of chain into his hair and presses something into his hand when she is finished.
It is a navel piercing, a curve of metal with a pale blue sapphire set on the lower barbell, and the gem alone must be worth half of Bag End.
"You saved our home, Master Baggins," says Dís softly, her voice firm and unbroachable. "You out thought dragon and the rulers of multiple armies and you have saved my brother’s life multiple times. Consider this a gift, from your sister."
“Oh!” Bilbo turns the piercing over and over in his hands, feeling a blush scour up to the tips of his ears. “I- Well, I…” He looks up and meets Dís’ gaze, kindly and grateful, and smiles back. “Thank you. I shall treasure it.”
They pack their new purchases and their old accoutrements and set off finally for the Lonely Mountain, a whole convoy of dwarves and wagons in tow. The journey is slightly too long to be completed in one day, so they must stop in the shell of Dale for the night and get readied in their finery come the morning.
So it comes the next day they set off, dressed in silks and velvets and every last one of them wearing a handful of precious metal in some capacity. Bilbo perches on his pony – neatly washed and brushed to a shine - at the head of the column and tries not to blush too spectacularly when anyone glances his way. Plenty of dwarves do, he notices, many of them are from the Iron Hills and have evidently never seen a hobbit before, certainly not one dressed up in dwarf made clothes and decorated with dwarf made jewellery.
They make a good pace up the road – newly paved and easy on the ponies’ hooves – and it is only minutes before they are at the gates of the mountain. The new doors are constructs of strong wood and stone, with metal brackets so new they still glisten with oil. At their foot two squadrons of professionally armoured dwarf soldiers stand to attention, with Dwalin at their head. He looks good at the head of his men, and Bilbo salutes him cheekily as the little column drew up.
“Our esteemed burglar has returned at last,” the warrior dwarf growls, but he beams regardless, the smile splitting his grizzled face from chewed ear to ear. “I was starting to think the comforts of your wee hole had gotten to you.”
“Oh honestly,” says Bilbo, with a dismissive flap of his hand, “I said I’d come back, when have you known me not to follow through with my plans?” He hops down off the pony, having to move carefully so as to not tip himself onto the ground face first – that hadn’t been amongst his plans for a triumphant return to Erebor. Dwalin gives him an appreciative smirk, eyes flickering around the fur collar of his jacket and pausing on the plumes of gold hanging from his ears for a moment longer than necessary. Bilbo’s attempt at a welcoming handshake was batted aside and he finds himself drawn into a hug so tight it threatens to suffocate him, his toes dangling helplessly a good half foot about the ground as he is squeezed.
“Try not to hug the hobbit to death before Uncle Thorin can get a hold of him,” says Fili dryly, leaping off his pony, his brother swiftly following suit. Both of them look far more regal than they normally manage; Fili especially has drawn himself up to his full height, though there were few things that would ever truly rid him of his pleasantly cocky smirk. Dís watches them with fond eyes, narrowed all the same as they greet the older dwarf. Apparently pleased at what she sees, she eases herself down from her own pony and waded into the middle of the greetings with out-stretched arms. Dwalin earns himself an embrace - whether he wants one or not is clearly not a matter he isn’t allowed to express an opinion on - and then a brief telling off for the state of his ear.
“We’ve had carts coming in from Laketown for days,” says Dwalin as the luggage trailers rumble past into the cool depths of the mountain. “Tonight is going to be a feast to remember!”
“Or possibly to forget,” says Dís, as two wagons loaded with casks pass by. “Depending on consumption.”