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Once Thorin began to rule, he could not set it aside for a second.
The villagers of Dale were disorganized and hungry. The Elves of Mirkwood were missing their line of supplies, and had come to him looking for answers. Bard was doing the best he could, but a human’s idea of best was often different from a dwarf’s version of best, and he was looking for advice, trying to breach an impassable gap between races while trying to keep the humans alive. Dwarves were trickling into Erebor, and there was little food and water here to sustain them. A small market had sprung up, but the true business of the dwarves needed investing in, and the crown held all the gold at the moment, and all the dwarven royalty and advisors were preoccupied and had not the time to judge business models. Even were they to give out gold, there were few places to spend it.
And to the east, the Iron Hills loomed.
“Dain’s farewell banquet is tonight. He will give a speech,” Balin warned in hushed tones. Those old, wise eyes looked to Thorin expectantly.
One thing they were not lacking in Erebor was finery. As rightful King Under the Mountain, Thorin wore the proper garb. Over his embroidered shirt was a vest, and then a leather jacket for protection, and then a finer jacket over the top of it, with rich furs piled on the top. There was a crown on his head that was stuffed with jewels, and his bracers were works of art.
Beneath all of it, Thorin felt very small.
“I know Dain’s ways,” Thorin said, because he did. He also did not know how to combat them.
The hopeful light in Balin’s eyes dimmed a little; the old dwarf sighed and gave him a small bow. “I am sure that you have everything in hand,” he said, and bustled off to other ventures that had more hope of success.
It had only been a few weeks since Thorin had risen from his stupor, and he was still a little frightened of himself; of how easily first the madness and then the gloom had set upon him. Even had he had the chance to laze about he would not have. The constant activity at least meant that he was too harried off his feet to let his mind dream up further tortures.
But in that moment, Thorin gave himself the span of a single breath to drop his face into his palms and shut his eyes.
“Is something the matter?” a small voice enquired by his side.
Thorin dropped his hands down and spun around to find the little sandy-haired Halfling standing there next to him, as though he’d been there all along. Gandalf was right, Thorin thought, hobbits are remarkably light on their feet when they wish to be.
“I… that is… No. All is well.” Thorin didn’t know why he kept lying to Bilbo.
Bilbo apparently didn’t know either. He stood his ground and raised an eyebrow, looking mightily unimpressed for such a small creature.
The urge to move closer itched at Thorin. It was stupid and probably shameful besides, but the presence of so much strength and heart in such a small form gave Thorin some sort of strange comfort.
“Why does Balin mind if Dain gives a speech before he leaves?” Bilbo asked.
He could answer a direct question, Thorin supposed. “Have you looked at a map lately, Halfling? We have neighbors on both sides; the elves and the humans on one, and the Iron Hill dwarves on the other. The elves and the humans do not want our land. They could do nothing with it. But the other dwarves…”
“They could take over,” Bilbo summarized, aptly enough. His eyes were large and shocked for only a moment. Then his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed in thought. He looked as though he were plotting. Thorin was not amused so much as… well, he did not entirely know his own thoughts. “But I am still not sure how this connects to dinner.”
A sudden swell of voices nearby made both of them look away; Thorin put a hand on the Halfling’s shoulder and steered him further into the shadows, near to long-abandoned mines full of dust and old, ugly memories.
When he gave himself the time to think of it, being in his kingdom again was strange to Thorin. The getting here, that had been difficult and unpleasant, but not so challenging to his mind as this. He saw everything as though it was through a veil of his memories. Sometimes it was difficult to separate what he remembered from what really remained.
It was different, standing next to the Halfling. He seemed to radiate his own inner light. The earth and stone around Bilbo was tired and worn, but distinct from Thorin’s memories. Bilbo looked tired too - Mahal knew they were all tired, and Thorin tried not to think about how he’d had more rest than any of them - but not defeated; there was a constant hum of quiet energy in him. Not like Thorin’s, something that would crash through ice and fire, but something quieter and steadier, as if to say, I am here now and I will be back again tomorrow.
For the first time since he’d acknowledged it, Thorin let himself truly think through the problem of Dain Ironfoot.
“My kind are not like your kind, my Halfing,” Thorin said without thinking. Beside him, Bilbo squeaked and colored, but Thorin hardly noticed. “We do not hold peace and abundance of food in very great esteem. It is deeds of valor in battle, and great craftmanship, a mastery over the elements: these things bring us glory.”
He looked down - the distance between a commoner and a king - and didn’t know if Bilbo would really understand when he said, “A true king must wear his glory like armor; with a fit so close it might be skin, on display for all to see. Dain… Dain knows how to do this.” Dain knew how to convince, how to imply, how to brag. He could win the support of many with only his words if given the chance, and Thorin had not the power yet to take that chance from him.
The Halfling looked him up and down. The tips of his ears were flushed, which seemed odd, but then Thorin never saw any ears normally. He wondered if he might convinced the Halfling to grow his hair long, and then wondered why he wanted it.
“And… You think… There’s a disconnect here?” Bilbo said, sounding like he was wording his thoughts carefully.
Thorin snorted and gave into temptation; leaned his back against the solid rock next to the Halfling.
“For years I have worked a forge for Men, at half the coin they would pay another Man, and had to take it for fear they give me nothing at all and my kin do not eat that night. I have wandered from town to town, outlasting our welcome at each one, explaining to my nephews why the humans call strange things as we pass.” He unfurled one fist and held it, palm-up, before Bilbo’s eyes. “I could not work the metal their way when I knew their ways were wrong, and so I carved calluses from their inferior equipment into my skin.”
He stared at his own hand, worn and weather-beaten. The hand of a laborer, not a king.
A small, soft touch startled him; Bilbo curled his small soft fingers around Thorin’s and tipped his face up to look Thorin in the eyes.
“I think there is a kind of glory in that, too,” the Halfling said quietly.
Thorin curled his fingers over Bilbo’s and smiled at him as best he could.
“Perhaps,” he said, “but if there is, it is not a useful kind.”
And then from somewhere down the hall, there was the noise of Dwalin shouting his name, and the quiet was over.
The day passed from one crisis into another, and soon it was time for the banquet, and Thorin had thought no further about Dain Ironfoot. As he walked into the great hall, he felt a little as though he walked toward his execution. He could not stop this; could not naysay it. This would not be the killing blow, no, but it would be the first one many that led to that fatal strike.
Thorin did his duty; he announced a toast to Dain and hailed him, and they ate. He kept one eye on Dain all the while, and toward the end, he saw the dwarf push his chair back and slowly start to rise.
“Hear, hear!” a thin but loud voice fairly yelled into the silence.
Dain paused, and everyone looked around at a pale but determined Halfling climbing onto his seat to speak.
Thorin resisted the urge to cover his face with his palm. It would not be charitable, he thought.
“If you’ll excuse me a minute, er… I would like very much to introduce Master Floi, son of Noi, Chief Waterwork Engineer of the Iron Hills.” Bilbo swept an arm over to indicate a thin-nosed dwarf who stood and nodded to the hall.
“You see, we - that is, er, well, we - are able tonight to announce that Erebor and the Iron Hills have joined their might to create a waterway between the two.” There was a noise as if every dwarf in the hall drew in breath at the same time. Bilbo smiled. “Yes, it is an astonishing feat to attempt to be sure, but between the genius of Master Floi and Mistress Shae of Erebor, the calculations seem certain that it can be done. I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you all of the benefits this will bring both of our lands…”
At that, Bilbo’s voice was lost in the ensuing roar of exclamations, but he didn’t seem to mind; when Thorin craned his neck he saw Bilbo clamber down and flop into his seat with a smile still on his face.
“He’s a surprising lad, isn’t he?” Balin said in his ear.
Thorin whipped his head around so fast that his neck twinged. He ignored it. “You knew?” he demanded.
Balin’s eyes twinkled. They reminded him of Gandalf’s.
“I had a notion,” Balin said. "Bilbo might have asked if there was any big announcement we could... tease out. Floi was a bit reluctant at first, but he's been ignored for years; a bit of attention was difficult for him to resist. And Mistress Shae, well, wild ponies couldn't have held her back." He chuckled.
Balin glanced over in Bilbo’s direction, and then gave Thorin a long look. “I believe you had only to say the word. In spite of - well, everything - it seems our lad would do anything for you. Most extraordinary.”
The words struck him like a blow; Thorin dropped his gaze to the table, ashamed. He had done many things wrongly. How could he ask Bilbo for loyalty after that? How could he, in good conscience, accept it?
A gentle hand settled on his arm.
“It’s even more remarkable that the lad can convince you to let him,” Balin said quietly.
In the din, Dain never managed to say a word.