Chapter Text
The dwarves before them rose in unison, eyes bright and cheeks red with emotion. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” the mother echoed, before turning to lead her children out of the throne room.
Thorin shifted to his other foot, not wanting to show his tiredness from standing for the past several hours as his father held the day’s audiences. Not a year ago, he could endure these ceremonies without issue, but the lack of sleep he’d endured over the last couple months drained his energy more quickly than ever before.
He took a steady breath. Only one more party left before they could retire for the evening.
“Feenil, Son of Greefil, and his wife Toha, Daughter of Tuma,” Balin read out from the ledger, seated at the bottom of the dais. Thorin never envied his old cousin for that wooden stool more.
“Feenil, Toha, welcome to Erebor. May Mahal bless you both,” his father intoned from the throne. “Have you already found quarters in the mountain?”
“We have, Your Majesty,” the male dwarf returned, “near the forges, for we intend to contribute our work as a blacksmiths.”
“Ah, excellent!” Thror beamed, nodding to Thorin. “Perhaps you’ll run into my son by the fires. He’s become a bit of a fixture there.”
Feenil gaped for a moment before recovering himself. “Er, yes, Your Majesty. And we look forward to sharing your great forges, Your Highness,” the blacksmith added, bowing to Thorin enthusiastically.
Thorin returned it, grimacing only internally.
“It is rather obvious,” Dis said that night as they gathered around the fire in Frerin’s quarters.
If there was one thing that Thorin could take comfort in while back in Erebor, it was this new routine of a nightcap with his siblings. Quiet and leisurely conversations before turning to bed were something he could not lose hold of after months in The Shire, and Dis and Frerin were more than happy to indulge him.
“You’re an idiot to think it wasn’t,” Frerin added. “I’m not sure if I necessarily approve of Father’s method of addressing it, though.”
Thorin snorted. “Coming from Erebor’s least tactful messenger.”
Dis groaned loudly. “We are not,” she hissed, glaring at each of them in turn, “re-litigating this issue again. Frerin, you needn’t have disrupted an innocent hobbit’s birthday merry-making. Thorin, you’re a right bastard for not telling the truth sooner.”
Thorin winced. There was nothing more evident that the disappointing reality spelled out by his sister, and he had shouted himself hoarse for days on the road out of The Shire, arguing with Frerin and Dwalin without any real hope of vindication.
“Well, because of your tendency to lack all subtlety,” Dis continued, “everyone in our family’s employ has noticed how much time you spend in the forge now. Balin has even told me that the Master of the Blacksmith’s Guild is beginning to worry over how to allocate work amongt her members, what with you taking over more than they can keep up with.”
“Leave it to Thorin to turn heartbreak into more productivity than Erebor can handle.”
“Frerin.”
“No.” Thorin leaned back in his seat, massaging his brow in a fruitless attempt to rid himself of the dull pain that had settled in his head since returning to Erebor over two months ago. “He’s right. I’ll speak to the Guild Master tomorrow. I just…” He trailed off, staring into the hearth.
The seat beside him dipped as Dis moved to share the sofa. She rested her head against his shoulder and let out a long breath. “I know,” she said quietly. “It’ll take time. We’re here for you, always will be.”
Frerin let out a grim chuckle. “Unless you tell us you’re not really our brother and are a travelling blacksmith from the Iron Hills.”
Despite the weight in his heart, Thorin still managed to lob a cushion over.
—
“Welcome to Erebor,” Thrain paused slightly, perhaps only enough for Thorin and his siblings to notice, “my friends.” The three brothers in front of them bowed together before turning to shuffle out of the hall.
“Bit odd, don’t you think?” Frerin whispered from Thorin’s side, having accompanied him to the day’s audiences as a show of support. Thorin still suspected it had something to do with avoiding getting roped into coronation logistics. “No stated lineage?”
Thorin cast a glance at their father, whose genteel expression remained neutral, betraying no scorn towards the newly arrived brothers, heading up a caravan from Ered Luin. More dwarves from the caravan stepped forward to introduce themselves, throwing back their thick winter hoods as they did so. “Erebor is home to all dwarves, regardless of their background or profession or family history,” he replied, nodding occasionally as Thrain greeted each Ered Luin dwarf in turn.
“Is that an officlal statement from the King?” Frerin returned quietly.
“I am not yet King,” Thorin said under his breath, trying to keep his focus on the caravan.
“In three days’ time you will be.”
“That has nothing to do with who we welcome to their new home in Erebor.”
Balin cleared his throat sharply, throwing Thorin a disapproving look from where he sat at the lower table. Thorin inclined his head towards their seneschal, hoping the exchange escaped the notice of the new arrivals. He stuck his elbow out ever so slightly to ruffle his brother. “I shall ban you from the throne room,” he muttered.
Frerin glared at him before turning to face forward again. He opened his mouth to say something, but his jaw dropped in sudden shock. “Oh, dear brother,” he said aloud, “I think you’ll be quite preoccupied with other matters to be worrying about me.”
“What?” Thorin frowned, following the direction of Frerin’s gaze and hoping that the surprise on his brother’s face was a simple overreaction.
He was wrong.
“Your Majesty,” read Balin after a his own huff of shock that mirrored Thorin’s own, “Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, and his nephew, Frodo Baggins.”
Thorin stared.
Bilbo?
There was no denying it. Standing just a few feet away from the dais, clutching a wide-eyed Frodo’s hand, was the last being Thorin had ever expected to see again, particularly after the tragedy of their last interaction. In an instant, Thorin’s mind whirled back to the final steps he took outside of Bag End, where he had stood at the beginning of the garden path and turned to look over his shoulder, watching as the smial door closed and Bilbo had disappeared from his life forever.
Or so he had thought.
Murmurs sounded throughout the hall at the appearance of a very obvious non-dwarf, but Bilbo appeared to pay them no heed. He looked resolutely forward, and Thorin saw him tug at Frodo’s hand to drop them both into a bow.
“Your Majesty,” Bilbo said clearly, and Thorin’s heart nearly skipped a beat at hearing that voice again. “Thank you for welcoming us to Erebor. My nephew and I seek shelter from the winter for as long as you’ll have us.” His eyes darted quickly towards Thorin, and Thorin’s heart definitely stopped for a moment then. “I… am not quite certain what I can contribute to the mountain, but I can be quite handy in the kitchen if necessary, as the Prince should be able to confirm.”
“Mahal’s beard,” Frerin breathed out, at the same time that Thorin sucked in a sharp breath.
Their father let out a dry laugh. “Oh, is that so? I take it you must be the hobbit—”
Thorin lunged towards the throne, grabbing Thrain’s forearm. “A recess!” he called out loudly. “To, er, allow the caravan to leave and settle into their quarters in short order.”
Thrain cocked his head ever so slightly and looked to Balin, who nodded with a shrug. “Very well,” he said softly, raising his voice to address the hall, “we will resume in fifteen minutes.” He stood, inclining his head towards Bilbo before rising and descending the stairs to speak to their seneschal. “Master Baggins.”
“Your Majesty,” Bilbo returned with a bow, straightening with a determined set to his shoulders as the force of attention from around the hall was directed to him once more.
“Thorin!” Frerin hissed, at the same time that Thorin all but ran down the steps of the dais towards the hobbit who had not left his mind since the door to Bag End had been closed on him.
Thorin was met halfway by Frodo, running towards him with an excited giggle and leaping into his arms. “Uncle Thorin!” the young hobbit cried, likely raising more questions in the minds of the curious dwarves around them, but Thorin found he couldn’t care less.
“Frodo,” Thorin breathed out, holding him tightly. “What are you doing here?”
“Uncle Bilbo wanted to go on an adventure,” Frodo said simply, scampering down and grasping onto Thorin’s hand, pulling him towards his uncle and taking Bilbo’s hand in his empty one. “We agreed we needed to see you again!”
Thorin paused, finally face-to-face with the hobbit. Bilbo’s expression was unreadable, though his face was flushed, betraying what Thorin knew to be a great effort not to burst forward with emotion. “Thorin,” Bilbo said, and Thorin’s throat tightened at the staleness of the hobbit’s tone. “It is good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” Thorin replied immediately, much too quickly, but he was pleasantly rewarded by a slight quirk to Bilbo’s lips. “I…” he began, trailing off and starting to lose himself in the novelty of beholding Bilbo, standing before the throne of Erebor. “I don’t…”
“Me neither,” Bilbo said, putting on a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I was told when we arrived that we’ll have our own quarters made up. Is there any chance we’ll be able to speak tonight, after Frodo and I have rested a bit?”
Well. Bilbo certainly wasn’t beating around the bush. Thorin couldn’t blame him.
“Anything,” Thorin answered. “We can talk, and I shall find you tonight. Take whatever rest you need.”
“Tonight, then.” Bilbo began to pull Frodo away so that he was forced to drop Thorin’s hand. The boy gave a fervent wave that Thorin returned with a wink, though the non-smile was still on Bilbo’s face when he nodded back, turning to trail after the remainder of the caravan out of the hall.
Thorin broke to see it. “Tonight,” he echoed, staring after the hobbit he still so fiercely loved until a rough hand pulled him back up next to the throne.
“That,” Frerin muttered, as Balin called the great room to order and Thrain re-entered from the side door, “was painful.”
Thorin had no argument about that.
—
Thorin was breathless by the time he turned the hallway to the guest quarters, which he had been warned were almost fully occupied, what with his upcoming coronation and the ongoing Yule festivities. Erebor did not have any rooms built out specifically for hobbits, Thorin had made a note to start converting some of the dwarven-sized rooms to quarters that more closely resembled those of a smial on his return to Erebor. Lower chairs, larger cooking and dining areas, space for a small pantry—realistically he had never expected any hobbit to travel the great distance and visit Erebor, but the refurnished rooms would be most welcome for dwarves, too.
He should have known that one particular hobbit could act quite unexpectedly.
He approached the room that he had been told was meant for Bilbo and Frodo now, steeling himself for what he anticipated would be a hard conversation. He rapped on the wooden door and let out a shallow breath.
A few seconds later, the door swung open to reveal Bilbo, looking less than pleased. “Thorin,” was his simple greeting. “It’s quite late.”
There were circles under Bilbo’s eyes, which were also puffier than they had been in the throne room this morning. He’d been crying, and the realisation had Thorin reaching forward automatically. “Bilbo—”
Bilbo took a step back, out of Thorin’s reach, and when he caught himself doing so, crossed his arms and pulled the belt of his robe tighter around his waist. He bit his lip. “Frodo’s asleep in the second bedroom,” he said. “He wanted to wait for you, but it’s been a long while since we’ve had some decent rest.”
“That is understandable.” Thorin stood, half-leaning into the room while he waited for the invite, holding Bilbo’s gaze steadily.
The hobbit heaved a great sigh, his eyes crinkling slightly. “Well, don’t just stand there.” He gestured with his head for Thorin to follow, leading him into the room and towards a sitting area where a small hearth housed a warm fire.
It pleased Thorin to see a tea set already being used at the low table between two armchairs, the two cups and pot having been forged on his first day back at Erebor. It was probably Dis who snuck those to Bilbo during the day, having seen Thorin staring at the crafts morosely when she had found him in the forge back then.
“Your sister stopped by,” Bilbo said, confirming his suspicions. The hobbit waved for Thorin to sit as he poured out tea for the both of them. “She’s quite lovely. And you were right, if she had been born first I do believe she would have made an excellent ruler.” Bilbo handed a cup to Thorin, their fingers brushing slightly, though he made no sudden movement to jerk away. “The succession line makes a lot more sense now.”
Thorin dropped his gaze to the tea cup, shame flooding every corner of his chest in a way that he hadn’t felt since his earliest days leaving The Shire. “I take it there is no need for the niceties?” he murmured.
“Not at this hour.” Bilbo settled into the opposite chair, leaning back with a look in his eyes that reminded Thorin of the first assessing glance he had given that day at the forge, back in the spring. “Though, if you must know, the caravan that aided Frodo and me was more than hospitable.”
“How did you even find them?’
Bilbo took a sip of his tea, gazing into the middle distance. “They had set up shop by your old forge.” He tilted his head at Thorin. “If I could ask a favour, the ‘Ri brothers were absolute gems. I would wish them to have every opportunity for success here.”
Thorin nodded. “Yes, Bilbo. I told you. Anything.” And he meant it.
“Thank you.” Bilbo tapped his tea cup, a gesture that Thorin guessed belied his nerves. The hobbit inhaled deeply and then, finally, gave Thorin a small smile that had his eyes crinkling the way Thorin remembered from late nights sharing a smoke outside Bag End. “So. Where to begin?”
Bilbo had one question, followed by another, and another, such that Thorin found himself detailing everything pertinent to his life as a Prince of Erebor over the last couple years.
He spoke of his grandfather’s goldsickness, the horrible disease that had settled in Thror’s mind after successfully defending the mountain against a terrible dragon, but falling victim to the beast’s hoard of gold. He spoke of Thrain’s ascension to the throne, the steady manner with which his father ruled but that drained him more than he anticipated, such that Thorin’s duties as Crown Prince doubled and grew until he was nearly ruling over Erebor in tandem with the King.
He detailed Thrain’s plan to abdicate, and the subsequent plan hatched by the Council and his family to send Thorin away in disguise, so as to learn more about the world outside the mountain and how he fits in it as a ruler of a great dwarven kingdom.
He described his travels in the initial months on the road, how he found work in Gondor and Rohan, even finding some respite in Rivendell for a period of time. He told Bilbo how he had never even heard of The Shire until a chance meeting with some dwarves in the village of Bree, how he had planned to pass through to Ered Luin with the other smiths—
“Until, well.” Thorin chanced a smile at Bilbo. “Until I met you.”
Bilbo, to Thorin’s great delight, returned it.
Thorin explained Dis’ letters, how she was the one who sent the ravens regularly, and how he had stopped sending replies once he began to more deeply settle into life in The Shire.
He explained how the rough timeline of his return before Durin’s Day felt constricting, how the thought of returning to Erebor and his future as King felt incongruous with the happiness he had found while building a home with Bilbo and Frodo.
“You… really felt like it was home for you?” Bilbo interrupted, eyes widening.
Thorin looked Bilbo in the eyes with all the sincerity he could muster. “My family sent me away to learn about my place in the mountain. What I learned during my time with you is that my responsibility is to its people, people I care about, people that are the heart and soul of any land and the reflections of its wonders and beauty.”
He could feel his chest warming in a way that had nothing to do with the gently flickering flames in the hearth. “Bilbo, I cannot turn away from Erebor and the crown that they will place on my head soon, but neither can I ascend the throne without telling you that you have my heart. Always. And it will be the greatest mistake of my life, this terrible lie that I’ve forced you to endure. I do not deserve your forgiveness, but know I would welcome you into Erebor, any day, any time, if only so I could show you the great home you have inspired me to build in this mountain.”
Thorin paused there. The fire crackled quietly in the background, and Bilbo was staring at the flames with watering eyes. Thorin could feel the tracks of his own tears drying on his face, but he refused to wipe them, refused to tear his gaze away from the hobbit and miss out on another moment in his presence if Bilbo were to decide that it was all too much and he had to leave Erebor forthwith.
“Well,” Bilbo said at last, “you certainly haven’t lost your flair for dramatics, have you?”
Despite himself, Thorin barked out a shallow laugh. “Shall I blame you for bringing it out of me?”
Bilbo waved him off, quirking his lips in a way that had Thorin’s heart leaping. “I’ve done plenty of thinking on the road, and I’d like to believe I am a sensible enough hobbit to trust in whatever decisions I make.” He stood then, grabbing their teacups and setting them on the table so that he could place himself directly in front of Thorin.
Bilbo stuck out his hands, palms facing up, and Thorin gladly grasped them in his own, relishing in the touch after so long without it. His heart hammered in his chest as Bilbo looked to be choosing his next words carefully. “I think we are past the point of me telling you that I forgive you, but,” Bilbo said quietly, squeezing Thorin’s hands, “I did just travel all the way here, and I suspect that we’ll need to habit here until the winter thaws, at the earliest. That must tell you something.”
Thorin gazed up at the wondrous hobbit before him who had captivated him from the moment he had asked for a set of star-shaped cookie cutters. “‘At the earliest?’” he grinned.
“I only say that, in case I have reason to stay longer,” Bilbo said back, stepping closer until he could rest his forehead against Thorin’s. “So, try it again.”
“Try what?”
Bilbo chuckled. “Asking me to stay.”
—
“I didn’t realise that Yule was also a tradition among hobbits.”
“Well, it does seem that there is more in common between us than at first glance.”
“Such as?”
“A propensity to eat and celebrate with enough enthusiasm to warrant no sleep, perhaps?” Bilbo tapped his chin in mock thought. “If I remember correctly, you and Dwalin drained a barrel of ale each at my party.”
Frerin shrugged casually. “If I remember correctly, both hosts had left the party unattended.”
“If I remember correctly,” Dwalin put in, “Thorin came back and dragged us away before the cake came out.”
“Oh did you?” Bilbo laughed, shoving Thorin gently. “I knew you were the party pooper.”
It was all Thorin could do not to grab the hobbit and tickle him into shutting up—such playfulness was best reserved for times away from one’s family. “I saw many a hobbit celebration during my time in The Shire,” he said instead, throwing an arm around Bilbo and pulling him closer on the sofa. “One barrel of ale would fell lesser dwarves than Frerin and Dwalin.”
Thrain raised a curious eyebrow, sharing a look with Fris from where they sat on the opposite sofa. “And here we thought you’d be doing more blacksmithing than merry-making on your travels,” the former king chuckled.
“We did sleep like wee pebbles that night,” Dwalin mused, slowly sipping his mug of decidedly Ereborian ale, while Balin shook his head in exasperation beside him.
“Good ale or no, Yule is much the same sort of celebration as it appears here,” Bilbo smiled. “Don’t you think so, Frodo?”
Thorin peered over to where Frodo stood at the foot of the large pine, towering at the side of the main sitting room in the royal family’s wing. The young hobbit was still wearing a sheep’s wool tunic that Fris had knitted for him upon learning that they would stay the winter.
Bilbo, for his own part, still refused on both of their behalfs to wear the boots that Dis had offered them. “If you plan on staying in my brother’s rooms, I won’t have you trouncing about barefoot like a vagabond,” she had said sternly, when Bilbo and Thorin emerged that morning to the family dining area. “Not for my sake, you see, but for your own. Fili and Kili spill their drinks everywhere.”
Of course, the ever-gracious Bilbo had replied perfectly, “If it would endear me to you further, perhaps I shall give them a lesson in hobbit etiquette? My young Frodo probably has as much to learn as they do.”
Dis had only laughed heartily, proceeding to drag Bilbo to every Guildmaster’s meeting she had that day and threatening to install him as Head Guild Advisor.
Thorin knew better than to think Bilbo would not make an excellent one.
Now, Fili and Kili were engrossed with some sort of game involving hollow chestnuts on strings that Bilbo had taught them the morning of Thorin’s coronation. He rather suspected the image of Kili getting his fingers tied in the string and being unable to properly genuflect before his uncle and stumbling towards the dais would be burned in his mind forever.
Perhaps hobbit etiquette lessons would also be something to add to Bilbo’s diary.
“The trees are smaller in The Shire,” Frodo was saying now, interrupting Thorin’s thoughts. He stared up at the tree, trimmed with gems and mountain flowers, sparkling in the firelight. The young hobbit fiddled with a new ornament that Thorin had forged that morning, spinning the silver acorn around its hook absently. “I can’t reach the branch I want to hang this on!”
Fris nudged her husband. “Go help the lad,” she said.
“No, no, I can do it,” Bilbo waved at them, beginning to get up before Thorin stood up swiftly.
“Allow me,” Thorin said, making his way to Frodo and scooping the boy up onto his shoulders easily. “Frodo and I had plenty of practice picking apples in the forests, just like this.”
Frodo giggled, hanging the ornament gracefully and sticking his little fists in the air. “Thank you Uncle Thorin!” he cheered, causing a chorus of delight to sound out from his family.
“Uncle Thorin, eh?” Frerin called out, taking Thorin’s seat next to Bilbo. “I heard this the other day, too. When did that start up?”
Bilbo laughed, catching Thorin’s eye. “He did it on his own! I’m afraid there’s no great story behind it all.”
“No great story?” Thorin smiled back, winking at his beloved hobbit. “I beg to differ.”