Chapter Text
Relations with the elves really were very poorly.
Thorin rose from his chair - not a throne, for Thror’s throne had long since been destroyed, and Thorin had been oddly reluctant to build another - and gave the Prince of Mirkwood a small, stilted bow.
“Welcome to Erebor,” Thorin said, sounding about as welcoming as cat to a bath. “We hope that you will enjoy your time here, however short it may be.” Bilbo winced a bit. Thorin looked very regal with his silver-threaded hair spilling full over his shoulders, in all his furs and finery, sitting on the grand chair a determined dwarf dug out of the wreckage weeks back. And yet Bilbo found he desired this Thorin less than the bare-sleeved one with the harsh tongue and constant glower. Perhaps it was just that this more kingly Thorin was less honest. Bilbo did not know what Thorin could do about that, but he was sure that Thorin could at least be slightly more diplomatic.
“Thank you for your great generosity,” the blond elf drawled, looking around with one eyebrow raised. Bilbo quickly developed a desire to kick him.
The prince and the king glared at each other, and the scene hovered on the precipice of disaster until a joyous voice called, “Lady Tauriel!” from behind the throne.
All eyes turned to Kili, who trotted up to the elves with a grin stretching across his handsome face from ear to ear. The elf prince gave Kili a look that could melt glass, but Kili took no notice, and the elf maid that stepped forward ignored her prince just as entirely. She was tall and fair and stern, but when Kili took her hand and bowed over it, the ice melted a little, at least enough for her to smile.
“You look well,” she said in a low tone, and then jerked her head up to glance around like she’d forgotten they were surrounded. There was something very straightforward about her that reminded Bilbo of Thorin himself.
Amusingly, both Thorin and the elf prince looked impotently furious. Bilbo actually saw them glance at each other and mirror looks of frustration, only to realize who they commiserated with, and swiftly look away.
Bilbo shook his head and someone nudged his shoulder. He glanced up at Bofur and gave the dwarf a quick smile. Bofur nodded toward the scene in front of them, made a face, and winked. Bilbo smothered a laugh. He nudged Bofur back. His lack of time and attention for such a good friend was a near-constant regret for him, one in a string of many. Bilbo had long ago given up hope of being without regret for one thing or another.
When he turned his attention back to the elves, they were already leaving the room. He glanced around frantically, looking for clues about what he’d missed.
“Time for dinner, lad,” Bofur whispered in his ear. “Even elves eat. Though maybe not that poncey one.”
Bilbo slapped a hand over his face to stop a giggle and felt an answering rumble in Bofur’s shoulders, close to him as they were. The laughter loosened something inside of him that he hadn’t realized was tight; he hadn’t known how much he’d needed a laugh until he had one again. Hobbits weren’t meant for this sort of serious business, or the nearness of kings, no, they most certainly weren’t. Bilbo didn’t know what he was thinking.
He cast a doubtful eye at the stone rising up around him, and at the swarthy, hairy friend at his side. For the first time in a very long time, Bilbo thought that perhaps it might do him good to leave. To not be a stranger amongst company, to smell the fresh air and see the sun, to strike out towards new ventures that he might hope of measuring up to.
“I was wondering,” Bilbo began, and Bofur immediately turned to look at him, “if perhaps you thought…”
A familiar heavy hand settled on his shoulder.
Bilbo felt the weight of it and saw Bofur’s smile fade and turned to see Thorin scowling down at him as if they were all of a piece. The words turned to dust in his throat.
“Master Bofur,” Thorin said, cold and removed as if they had not fought side by side for months. It was a dismissal.
Bilbo opened his mouth to protest but Bofur caught his eye and shook his head, so Bilbo closed it again. The fingers on his shoulder squeezed tighter.
“Your Highness,” Bofur said, the very barest hint of mockery in his voice, and turned away with a bow. He didn’t look back, so Bilbo just gazed unhappily after his stiff shoulders, proud for all their lack of adornment.
When Bofur slipped out of sight Bilbo turned around, dislodging Thorin’s grip of his shoulder in the process. He glared up at the king, who looked less angry than he had a second ago, though still dissatisfied.
“That was unkind,” Bilbo snapped. “I’ve no idea what your trouble with Bofur is, but there’s no need for… that.”
Thorin’s scowl deepened, the way it always did when he was scolded. Bilbo couldn’t help picturing him as a child, face bare and open, terribly stubborn, planting his feet and refusing to give way. He must have been a terror; heaven knew he was one now.
“You do have an idea.” Thorin’s deep voice rumbled through him even as those piercing eyes dropped away to look down at the stone floor.
And - oh. Well. Bilbo supposed he had known, at least a little, he just hadn’t wanted to.
The thought of Thorin jealous over his small heart warmed him, but Bilbo steeled his gaze to steadiness when he met Thorin’s eyes.
“No matter your reasons, it is not your place to drive him off,” Bilbo said, as sternly as he could manage, though his voice wanted to be gentle.
Something very like hurt flinched across Thorin’s face and disappeared. In its wake, Thorin’s expression was reminiscent of the one he used to wear when he thought Bilbo worthless, so long ago that back then Bilbo had been able to ignore it, even as he’d craved something more.
Thorin stepped back; with all his finery, the movement echoed in clinks of armor and whispers of fur. For the first time Bilbo noticed dwarves around them staring. Luckily many of the dwarves had left for the Great Hall already, but the few that remained were none too subtle with their stares.
“You are right. I will… endeavor to correct my actions in the future. You may go after him, rather than accompany me to the Hall, if you would like.”
“A grand offer,” Bilbo bit out before he could stop his tongue. He watched Thorin wince, saw those broad shoulders droop.
“I am sorry,” Thorin muttered, his voice inching toward weariness. “I only meant…”
A hopeless sigh rushed through Bilbo; he fought the urge to hurry to Thorin’s side, and lost. The king under the mountain gave him a look of tired surprise, but also a small smile with a hint of real apology in it. Bilbo mirrored it.
He was sorry. He was sorry that they’d come this far only to end up here, cruelly close and never quite close enough. He was sorry that Thorin’s heart, traitorous as his own, seemed to have chosen him, who could not be all the things Thorin needed, who could not be a fine lady dwarf, or even the sort of hobbit to be stern enough when warranted.
In some ways he wished to turn away, to leave Thorin behind and run after his friend, who undoubtedly needed him as well. It would be wiser for all of them; Bofur did not have the burdens that trapped Thorin, and Bilbo was a clearer-headed judge and jury around Bofur.
Rough skin brushed Bilbo’s hand; he looked up at Thorin’s long-nosed face, more tired than regal in this moment, the silver in his hair a gleaming reminder of the color that had been washed out of him with the many years he’d seen.
“Will you come?” Thorin asked, demanding and cross even when he knew himself not to be in someone’s favor.
Bilbo wished to turn away, to teach Thorin a lesson he knew that Thorin needed. He did.
But he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, and it all amounted to the same thing. Bilbo wished to be the sort of hobbit who could overcome his foolish fancies and leave behind things which would only end in sorrow. But he wasn’t. He might think to leave Thorin’s side on occasion, but then Thorin would snap at him, or glare at him, or leave bruises on his arm from forgetting his strength compared to the skin of a hobbit, and Bilbo would know over and over again that he could not leave, that he never would.
He was thrice-damned fool, but a constant one, he supposed.
“I will come, of course, as I always do,” Bilbo said, and pretended not to despair when he saw happiness, ill-fated as it might be, warm Thorin’s icy stare.