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The wind was biting and cold; it howled in Thorin’s ears, cacophonous and shrill, drowning out the sounds of the men and elves lined in front of the gate below them. Yet it was not enough to drown out the sound of his blood freezing in his veins, the sound of his heart being torn asunder, the sound of himself hollowing out.
Bilbo had betrayed him. Bilbo betrayed him. Bilbo . He had found the Arkenstone— Thorin’s birthright — and hid it away, had pawned it off to the (greedy, thieving) Bard of Laketown, to Thranduil , the very elf who had turned his back on Thorin’s people all those years ago, who had locked Thorin and the Company in his dungeons to rot with nothing more than a thinly veiled sneer of disdain.
He had thought that perhaps one of the Company had been behind the obvious theft. He had never thought it would be Bilbo , his friend, the one he—
A burglar indeed.
“You…” Thorin himself was unsure whether his words were meant to be a question or an accusation. All he knew was that his voice was unnaturally flat, even to his own ears.
Bilbo— the Thief — paused, and looked almost apologetic. “I took it as my fourteenth share,” he said.
“You would steal from me?” Thorin asked, voice hollow. He felt the hot sting of tears behind his eyes, but he ignored them, pushed them back. He would not cry.
“ Steal from you?” Bil— the Thief said, a strange, nervous smile on his face. “No. No, I may be a burglar, but I like to think I’m an honest one.” A pause; Thorin took a step forward. “I’m willing to let it stand against my claim.”
He is afraid of me , some part of Thorin thought.-
Good , thought another.
“Against your claim?” Thorin repeated, his voice beginning now to show his burning, hurt anger. He smiled; it was wretched and twisted and angry. “ Your claim …” The smile was gone, replaced by a sneer. “You have no claim over me, you miserable rat !”
Thorin’s body jerked closer, and the Thief flinched back, something heartbroken in his eyes.
“I was going to give it to you,” the Thief said, moving forward half a step. “Many times I wanted to, but…”
“But what , Thief?” Thorin questioned, dangerous and low.
The Thief leant forward, something desperate and angry and raw about his face. “You are changed , Thorin,” he said, and Thorin felt the use of his name hit him like a blow that rent even the strongest of armor. How dare he , his head roared, even as his heart shattered. “The dwarf I met in Bag End would never have gone back on his word! Would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin!”
And, oh. Oh, the Thief would speak to him of loyalty ? Now, when his betrayal had been revealed for what felt like all of Middle Earth to see? Something snapped within Thorin, raging and heartbroken, and the Thief looked away.
“Do not speak to me of loyalty ,” he spat. He heaved a shuddering breath and looked away. The Thief had betrayed him, and he would be punished accordingly. “Throw him from the ramparts!”
No one moved, and the anger within him flared like dragonfire. He turned and grabbed his sister-son by the arm, pulling him bodily with a cry of “Did you not hear me ?!”, incognizant of the fear and upset on his sister-son’s face, of the way his advisor lunged forward to pull him back, until his sister-son was torn from his grip.
Thorin snarled. “I will do it myself ,” he growled, and with quick, striding steps he lunged forward and grabbed the Thief by the collar of his coat. “ Curse you !” Thorin cried, a sharp, angry sadness in his voice; he was deaf to the way the Company cried for him to stop, blind to their halting motions to tear the Thief from his grasp. He heard only the blood pumping in his ears, and saw the world through an angry blur. “Curse the wizard that forced you on this company!”
He was distantly aware of the booming voice of Gandalf ringing out from amidst the Elven forces, calling for— for something. Thorin ignored it in favor of slamming the Thief on the thick stone parapet. And yet the wizard kept talking , and so Thorin looked up at him, eyes wide, seeing his mouth move beneath that thick grey beard but hearing none of the words he spoke, until—
“ ... Thorin, son of Thrain ?” Gandalf said, and Thorin felt something within him shift.
Something desperate and keening bade him look once more at the Thief— at Bilbo — and, before he could even think of doing anything else, his eyes shifted to the body pinned down before him. Bilbo looked up at him with wide, wide eyes, his lips parted as he breathed heavily, afraid and—
And sad, so so sad , as if it were not his body Thorin was about to throw over the ramparts but his heart instead, and Thorin was— was confused , and then he saw the resignation that tinted Bilbo’s very being, colored the pull of his brow and the way his hand rested on Thorin’s gauntlet— not prying, just feeling — and, no , it was not fear in Bilbo’s eyes but heartbreak.
Bilbo.
Bilbo .
Bilbo, who came along on a journey with a troupe of strangers. Bilbo, who was reckless in his bravery. Bilbo, who was sweet like a rose but just as thorned, who swayed in the wind like a sapling not out of weakness , but of strength, confident in his ability to survive, to grow around whatever obstacles came his way.
Bilbo, who saw a group of thirteen dwarves and found in them friends. Bilbo, who saw a group of thirteen dwarves and a home stolen from them and thought to see that home returned.
Bilbo, who, somewhere between the Carrock and Lake Town, Thorin had fallen in love with.
Bilbo, who he was about to kill.
Thorin jerked back as though he had been burned, quick and startled. His eyes were wide, and he could not swallow down the sheer horror he felt, the feeling drowning him in its intensity. He gasped in a breath, and then another, and fought the urge to be sick. Bilbo scrambled off the parapet and inhaled a few shaky gasps.
“No,” Thorin whispered. He was vaguely aware of Fíli reaching out to him, of Kíli and Balin doing the same, but he shrugged their hands away and ran , unheeding of the shouts that followed him. He ran down the ramshackle stairs of the ramparts, flying down the steps two at a time, not pausing to wonder at the miracle he did not fall and injure himself as he did; he doesn’t think he’d care if he had. He did not think as he fled; he just ran, far away, a crescendo of noNoNO NO s screaming in his head.
And, suddenly, he was in the Gallery of Kings, staring at his murky reflection on the golden floor below. The cacophony in his head grew, memories of words spoken to and by him shouting over each other, drowning each other out in a bid to be heard. His voice and Bard’s and Thranduil’s and Balin’s and Bilbo’s and, and , and all of them danced and wove themselves together until they were indistinguishable in their condemnation. Below him, a shadow of a dragon swam across his reflection in the gold.
I am not my grandfather , Thorin thought, desperate. I AM NOT MY GRANDFATHER .
You are changed , Thorin . Bilbo’s voice. Bilbo. Bilbo. Bilbo .
Thorin grit his teeth, grasped at his hair and pulled , as though that sudden sharp pressure might alleviate the pounding in his head. He had fallen so low, fallen into a trap he knew was there and yet was too headstrong, too blind to see. He felt like he was drowning in the gold, like it was rising around him in a cresting wave and crashing down on him, burying him in its depths for all eternity whilst memories cast their damnation upon him. And, oh , he was such a fool, such a weak, idiodic fool.
Is this treasure truly worth more than your honor? Bilbo had asked.
I am not my grandfather .
With a great and sudden force, Thorin pulled his crown off his head and threw it across the room. It fell to the floor with a clang.
It was as if a dam broke with that action, and suddenly Thorin was running , stumbling, down the Hall, escaping the pull of the gold as he threw the cape and armor he was laden with off , away, until he was cowering in a shadowed corner in nothing but his undershirt and trousers, gasping for breath that would not come. He shuddered, violent, as his stomach attempted to turn itself inside out within him, and oh Mahal, what had he done, WHAT HAD HE DONE ?
He had only wanted his home back.
“Thorin?”
And Thorin knew that voice, would know it always, would know it even when he did not know himself.
“ No ,” Thorin gasped out, his voice rough and tear-heavy and filled with panic, because if Bilbo were here then he was where Thorin could hurt him, and Thorin could not bear that. “No, no, Bilbo .”
“Thorin,” the voice said again, closer.
“Go,” Thorin choked out. “Before I—”
A hand fell on Thorin’s shoulder, and Thorin stifled a cry.
“No,” said Bilbo, as if it were the simplest thing in the world to say— to mean. “ Thorin —”
“I almost killed you,” Thorin said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I almost killed you .”
Bilbo hummed. “Yes, you almost did.”
“Then why—” Why are you here .
“Because everything I did— stealing the Arkenstone, lying to you, trading it away— I did for your sake,” Bilbo said, as though he had heard Thorin’s unspoken question, as if his answer should be obvious, and Thorin’s heart clenched painfully in his chest. “And so I— I cannot leave you now.”
“I do not deserve such kindness.”
“I think I’ll be the judge of that,” Bilbo said rather imperiously. “After all, it was me who was very nearly thrown from the ramparts.”
Thorin tensed at that, and Bilbo sighed, the hand on Thorin’s shoulder squeezing in comfort and apology.
“Thorin, you weren’t yourself.”
“That does not change what happened.” Thorin raised his head, and, finally , looked at Bilbo through a curtain of his hair. “It was my hands that nearly threw you to your death. My madness, my weakness , does not change that, does not matter—”
“It matters ,” Bilbo said with a sudden, desperate cry. “ Confound it , Thorin, it matters to me ! It has to, it—” His face crumpled, and Thorin’s heart ached to see it, so he turned away, burying his face in the crook of his own arm. “Thorin, look at me.” Bilbo pleaded, but Thorin did not move. “ Thorin —”
“I am sorry,” Thorin said. “I am sorry for—”
“Enough of that,” Bilbo said, voice stern, and Thorin heard Bilbo sit behind him. “I am here of my own volition, Thorin Oakenshield, something you would do well to remember. These past few months have been full of trials and hardships, and quite a few more near death experiences than I care to admit, but they have been the best months of my life . So don’t you dare apologize for whatever nonsensical notion has you feeling guilty, because I— I couldn’t bear it.”
Thorin felt Bilbo’s fingers card through his hair, and his breath caught in his throat. “Bilbo…”
“Hush,” Bilbo said. “If you mean to apologize for the scene at the gate, then I forgive you. Of course I do. I forgive you, Thorin, so long as you forgive me.”
“You did only what a true friend would do,” Thorin protested.
Bilbo huffed a laugh at that, and he was so close Thorin felt it on the back of his neck. A shiver ran down his spine.
“ Friend ,” Bilbo murmured, his hand trailing from Thorin’s hair down his back, as though chasing the shiver. His words were half a huff and half a smile, his hands an absolution. “Hm.”
Bilbo parted Thorin’s hair, pushing it aside so that the back of his neck was exposed, and Thorin felt the biting cold of late November dance across it. And then— and then the chill was chased away by Bilbo’s warm breath, and then, and then the press of Bilbo’s lips, and Thorin felt everything fall away around him except Bilbo — his lips on the nape Thorin’s neck, his hand that trailed from his shoulder down his arm and his hand that pressed against the small of his back like a brand; the warmth in the air between them, and the feel of Bilbo’s hair brushing against his head. It was overwhelming and not enough and Thorin was frozen, breathless, scared the smallest action might break some spell around them and Bilbo would pull back in anger and disgust, and—
“ Friend ...” Bilbo said without pulling away. There was a sad humor in his tone. “I have been trying so very hard to be more than a friend to you, Thorin.”
This was a dream. It had to be. Thorin was dreaming, or perhaps dead, because this was… this was more than Thorin deserved, more than Thorin could ever hope for. “Bilbo,” he said, the name like a prayer on his lips. He twisted to see Bilbo’s face, because he had to know that this— that this was real , not a dream borne of some strange lingering madness. Bilbo looked back at him with warm eyes and a soft smile, but there was a flicker of trepidation across his face. Thorin went to touch him, to— he wasn’t sure what he meant to do, to touch , but the moment the thought of doing such a thing came to him, he knew he would not— could not. Not when he could still hurt him. His hand twitched at his side. “ Bilbo ,” he said again, and his voice broke.
Bilbo’s face, rather impossibly, softened even more. “Oh, Thorin,” he said, and there was such rich emotion in his voice that Thorin was awed. He laid his hand on Thorin’s, and a soft smile pulled across his face. “You won’t hurt me.”
Thorin opened his mouth to protest— to say that he might , though he would never mean to, not in a sane state of mind, but that he might hurt Bilbo regardless, because Bilbo was beautifully delicate, like spun glass or the petals of a wildflower, and Thorin’s hands were used to hammering iron and fighting wars, and did not know how to deal with delicate things— but before he could speak Bilbo grabbed Thorin’s hand with a surprisingly firm grip and brought it to rest on his throat. Thorin could feel the warmth of Bilbo’s skin under his hand, feel his pulse, perhaps quickened but nonetheless steady, feel the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. Thorin tensed, not daring to move, scarcely daring to breathe. He felt his eyes widen and his nostrils flare in fear, his brows draw together, his lips press into a tight, wobbling line.
“You won’t hurt me,” Bilbo asserted, and he let his hand fall from atop Thorin’s. His eyes met Thorin’s, and they said, I will not break under your touch; I will not fracture beneath it , and Thorin looked at him with something beyond even awe, something more adulating than wonder.
And, oh , he was a fool to think Bilbo would shatter from his touch. Had he not learned? Had he not watched as Bilbo rose to every challenge, if not unhaltingly, then with sheer determination and great durability? Watched as Bilbo survived , strengthened, unbreaking?
Thorin watched now as slowly, oh so slowly , he trailed his hand up until it cupped the line of Bilbo’s jaw, the pad of his thumb brushing against his soft, hairless cheek. “I do not deserve you,” he said in a breathless, reverent sigh. His eyes flickered up to meet Bilbo’s, watching as fond exasperation flickered across features so beloved to him.
Bilbo sighed with a smile. “Silly dwarf,” he said, and he pulled Thorin forward into a kiss.
If Bilbo’s hands were absolution, his kiss was something akin to deliverance. As their lips pressed and moved against each other, Thorin felt as though some great weight had been lifted from him, felt his heart grow impossibly light in his chest, felt his very soul settle into place. It was as if Bilbo’s lips were a grounding force, a tether Thorin would keep tying himself to until the end of time. Thorin’s body ached, his spine twisted like a creeping vine, his nerves like frayed wire digging into the softest parts of him, and yet he could not bring himself to draw away for even a moment, could do nothing but throw himself against Bilbo as if he were the tide and Bilbo were the shore, as if the press of their lips were a benediction. Bilbo’s hands fisted in Thorin’s shirt as they surged against each other, their kiss desperate, now, as if both were afraid they would wake up and this would all be a dream. A soft, whining noise left Thorin’s lips, and Bilbo pulled back, looking at Thorin with glazed eyes and, oh , oh he was beautiful. His hair was ruffled and his mouth was puffy and red from kisses, his face flushed and dazed. Thorin was breathless as he beheld him, and oh how he wanted to exalt Bilbo, to lionize him, to venerate and deify and worship him, because he was so beautiful, so good, and Thorin loved him so much he felt he was about to burst.
Bilbo blinked, and looked at the position Thorin was in, and laughed. Thorin smiled, unsure, but unwilling to break this moment, unwilling to drive away mirth for fear of what might take its place.
Bilbo shifted, moved, and Thorin was briefly afraid that he was going to leave, but Bilbo simply shuffled on the floor and moved to straddle Thorin’s legs, and oh this was it. This was it, he had died and gone to the Halls of his Ancestors, and then Bilbo smiled at him and Thorin very suddenly felt alive .
“I love you,” Thorin said, because it was true. He loved this superlunary creature, loved him with his very soul, his entire being consumed with a sheer raw tender-worshipful-companionate-fond-intimate-warm-ardent-adoring- loving sentiment. He loved Bilbo so much it— it didn’t hurt , because that was not what such pure love did; no, he loved Bilbo so much it comforted, made the world bright and healed the hurts time and men and elves and gold had cast upon him. He loved Bilbo, deeply and bounteously, so much he was overflowing with it. He loved Bilbo. And...
I love you , he said, because he was scared if he didn’t say it now he never would; that if he didn’t say it now, Bilbo would never know.
Something like surprise flickered across Bilbo’s face, only to be chased away by a deep blush. “I— oh ,” Bilbo said, his voice thick with emotion, chiefest amongst them shock. “ Oh , I— well, I—” Bilbo licked his lips nervously but met Thorin’s gaze. Quietly, but sincerely, he said, “I love you, too.”
With those words…
It was not as though, with those words, all was made magically better, as if all wounds were healed and all trespasses forgiven, or any other such notion. There was yet much to do, much to fix, much to forgive and seek forgiveness for.
But with those words, the promise that such things could happen was made. With those words, the promise of together was made, forged from mithril and sealed with the kiss Thorin then laid on Bilbo’s lips, chaste and sweet and full of a litany of emotion.
No, it was not as if all were made magically better, and true there was still much for them to face together… but despite the odds laid out before him, Thorin felt at home.