Chapter Text
Thorin has been more miserable than this. It is factually true, and even at the height of his misery as he trudges away from Bilbo’s door, he does not forget. He has found the bloated corpse of his brother’s body; has watched his grandfather die and his father turn tail like a gutless coward, only to die as well. He has seen expectant lust in men’s faces as they offered him coin they knew he could not afford to refuse. He has watched his boundaries pushed wider and wider as the luxury of choice ran out - a jerk with his hand, a mouth. He never let any of the men take him, but for better or worse Thorin knows now that he would sell every piece of himself away if he had to; if it was that or watch his kin starve. He has seen a kingdom turn to ash, and the face of betrayal as it turned from him.
He has lived through enough tragedy for a dozen lifetimes, and yet this one small loss still hurts. Thorin curses himself as pain grips him. No matter how many times he cares or trusts and is broken by it, he cannot seem to form the smallest callus over his heart; cannot seem to remember his hard-won lessons and only give his heart in measure.
The only comfort lies in duty. Gladly Thorin would rush after Bilbo; would let all else slip by in order to hold on to this one odd, imperfect thing that brings him joy. But he cannot. The dwarves who put their trust in him must always come before Thorin’s own desires.
He was born too serious, he’s been told, even for a dwarf. Your life will be one of many tragedies and few joys, Thranduil told him once before their thin friendship was severed forever. The elves see truth as a gift, no matter what it holds. Thorin had been young when he heard those words, and yet even then they rang true. You will be alone among your kind; even your dour kin care for some merriment.
That was true as well; Thorin cared for his people and they respected him, but he did not make friends. He did not know how, and in any case they were a luxury he could ill afford. Over time he collected to him a small band (such a small band for a king; in the whole of dwarfkind, only eleven dwarves were willing to follow him) of loyal dwarves who loved him as their leader. But even they were not friends. Even old Balin and his nephews would not dream of confiding in him their private plans or family news.
Then he meets Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. When Thorin first meets the hobbit he is so scornful of the soft little creature that later, when he knows better, he cannot bring himself to use that name anymore. He calls Bilbo by “halfling” and is silently delighted when the hobbit seems to enjoy the nickname, which only comes from Thorin’s lips. A few of the others try to use the name, but Bilbo scowls at them and says, “Bilbo’s fine, thank you.” When Thorin uses it, Bilbo smiles at him.
It is perhaps a sad commentary on his life that those smiles are momentous enough for Thorin to remember every one. He doesn’t worry over it - there’s little enough happiness in this world, and less still for him. Thorin will gladly hoard all the small shining moments he can find and keep them in his memory.
It somehow becomes a delight to him when the halfling shows his worth. It is not so much because Thorin cares for him as it is that someone as worthy as the halfling cares for Thorin. And the halfling cared first. Thorin never forgets that. He cannot regret misjudging the hobbit, because in his darkest moments he can remember that a creature not of his kin, who Thorin had shown no favor to, was willing to die for him. That realization is the happiest moment of his life; that memory is his most treasured possession, beyond any of his armor or jewels.
So of course, because Thorin is weak and vain and greedy, he throws it all away chasing after the Arkenstone.
He gains his kingdom back when none thought he could do it, and it immediately goes to his head. He is sure that whatever he says must be right - after all, they’ve gotten this far under his command.
Thorin is wrong. He is already starting to realize it himself when Bilbo, always a step ahead, betrays him.
Thorin had thought he loved the hobbit as much as it was possible for one body to love another. But on that day he discovers that he loves himself more. He dangles his halfling over a stone precipice by the throat. Voice stolen by his iron grip, Bilbo can only stare at him in terror, and somehow that fear angers Thorin further.
Had he killed the halfling, Thorin would not have done anything so foolish as to off himself - he is the king, and his people need him - but he would have had to live with that act every day of his life, and so he is exceedingly grateful that he came to his senses in time.
“There is no hate quite like love betrayed,” Gandalf mumbles in the healer’s tent after the battle as Thorin lies there slowly bleeding to death.
“Is that meant to be comforting?” Thorin’s voice sounds even worse than the old wizard’s.
Gandalf scowls at him. “It is not,” he says. “If you die, that poor lad will never be the same again. He will believe he killed you.”
Thorin likes to think that if Gandalf had not said that, he still would have grudgingly allowed the elven healers to work on him, for the sake of his people. He likes to think that.
Before the elves begin their sneaky witchcraft on him Thorin asks to have Bilbo brought to the tent that he might apologize.
The hobbit comes in stumbling on those overlarge feet of his; he is dusty and bloody and there is a stained bandage wrapped around his head. There is a grim expression on his face that Thorin has never seen there before; Bilbo Baggins now looks like he has faced war, got the best of it, and come out the other side sadder and wiser. In that moment he looks strong, even dangerous.
Bilbo takes one look at Thorin and bursts into tears.
Even now he is not sure how it happens, but Thorin reaches out and his halfling comes toward him without question. When Thorin awkwardly wraps his one functional arm around the small warm body and tugs it close, the halfling presses his face into Thorin’s chest and buries a hand in his grimy hair.
Thorin is half-dead and every glancing touch is agony, but he presses Bilbo tighter against him, desperate for a few last scraps of affection he doesn’t deserve.
“I am sorry. I am so sorry. I did not - I would not - you did not deserve that; it was wrong of you, but my actions were the more wrong, please, know that I take back my words at the Gate.”
He is not sure how much of that he really gets out; at the sound of his halting voice Bilbo weeps harder and shakes his head so that dust-covered curls bounce against Thorin’s chin.
“Don’t talk, it’s fine,” the halfling sobs. “It’s past; please, Thorin, please don’t go to your forefathers. They don’t need you like we need you.”
Thorin laughs, or tries to, but his chest seizes up and long-fingered hands pull the halfling away from him. Thorin just manages to press a kiss to the crown of the halfling’s head before he is gone - or maybe he only thinks he does, because nobody ever mentions it.
When he wakes up, the first thing he sees is Dwalin scowling. The second thing is the halfling, sleeping at the side of his cot.
As soon as Thorin gulps down water to wet his throat he croaks, “I do not…”
“I will not order him to leave,” Dwalin says, comfortingly obstinate. “He has earned the right to stay where he wishes.”
Thorin shakes his head. “I did not mean to ask it.”
Dwalin nods, but looks no more satisfied. “Then there is most likely nothing more you should say.”
“Are things so…” Thorin begins, imagining a horrifically precarious political situation awaiting him outside the tent.
Dwalin shakes his head, thankfully.
“It is no worse than it ought to be, and a little better than that. My brother is as good as a king himself, Ori deals well with the Men, and your little lad here is oddly beloved by the elves.”
Thorin lifts his lip in an instinctive sneer. Dwalin looks grave.
“He went begging for you,” Dwalin says in a low voice. “He went among the elves and pled your case; brought them back one by one to help you.”
“Half- Master Baggins must have told them quite the tale,” Thorin says weakly, trying to process this all at once in his illness-addled mind.
Dwalin’s eyes narrow. “Do you know what the elves said to me when I asked?” Thorin just looks at him. “They told me that they did not believe a word of it, but they could not stand for their little friend to be heartbroken should you die.”
Thorin’s gut twists. He isn’t sure if it’s pleasure or pain.
Dwalin leans closer, voice still low, one eye on Bilbo’s sleeping form. “So I find myself needing to ask you, Thorin… what exactly does Bilbo Baggins think he is to you?”
It is too much all at once. He has just awoken after days… weeks…? His body aches worse than it did at the edge of death, and his head is throbbing in a way that makes it difficult to think. He does not even know if all his company are safe, and yet this is important enough for Dwalin to throw at him before he’s barely awake.
Thorin is hardly himself yet, but he sees Dwalin’s fingers thrumming against his axe and knows that it spells danger for Bilbo should Thorin give the wrong answer.
It is not that Dwalin is evil or cruel. But there are rules, and their kind is a great believer in these rules. There are tales of elves and men and wizards all mingling their blood together, but none of dwarves doing the like. If Thorin were to indulge in such a thing, the least of the consequences would be the loss of his crown and the shame of his entire family. Without a leader their newborn kingdom would divide itself into factions and collapse.
To Dwalin, the life of one small hobbit is nothing compared to the security of the kingdom. Truthfully, Dwalin is right.
That does not meant Thorin will allow the halfling to be touched so long as he draws breath. Thorin loves Dwalin like a brother. But if Dwalin hunts the halfling, Thorin will kill him.
“You should be kinder to him,” Thorin scolds, feeling what little energy he has ebb away into the charade. He never was a good actor. “The poor creature is alone farther from home than he knew existed, and he has obviously taken to us as family. How are my nephews?”
He pretends not to see Dwalin’s shoulders sag in relief; pretends not to notice when Dwalin sets the axe aside. Soon he is too grateful for the Company’s miraculous escape to even dwell on the halfling… much.
Slowly his wounds heal and the very barest foundation of a kingdom rises around him. One day he goes to stand and realizes that he can. It is time for him to assume the throne once again.
His knees buckle; he falls back into the chair. How can he stride back into the center of things and take over, when he has shown so clearly that he is in every way unfit to be their leader?
Thorin is wrathful and prideful and stubborn as a mule, but he is at least under few illusions about the quality of his leadership. In moments of crisis he makes the decisions that he would make for himself - brave decisions, but foolish ones. A leader should be able to plan and strategize and account for every strength. Thorin has never been good at chess, and there are only so many times that you can win by knocking over the board.
Only these few dwarves of his Company were loyal and foolhardy enough to follow him, and he has rewarded them by nearly killing them all a dozen times over. They have only been saved by the hobbit he ridiculed, who is now in danger, again, because of Thorin.
It is the halfling who finally rouses him from his despair; it is the halfling at his back when his words run dry. Of course it is. When Thorin feels as though his footsteps are so heavy that he will sink into the mountain and disappear, the halfling reaches out a hand and smiles at him, though Thorin does not deserve it.
Thorin has never cared for anything but his duty; has never spent a moment attempting to be likable. He knows that he is hardly a diverting companion. Thorin is brooding and sullen and cannot hold a conversation to save his life. Thorin knows this, because Bilbo tells him these things. And yet, it was also Bilbo who sobbed at his deathbed like his heart was already broken, who told him in a broken voice And yet I love you best, Bilbo who reached out to touch Thorin’s face like you would touch some beautiful, fragile, easily broken thing.
Thorin is not a remarkably subtle dwarf, but even he can understand that this means Bilbo sees enough good in him to make up for his many faults. Thorin suspects the halfling suffers from a lack of good judgement (he associates with elves after all), but the disinterested affection Bilbo offers is the only of its kind Thorin has ever received, and it soothes him like nothing else ever has.
All these things the halfling does for him, and Thorin is still too selfish to let him go.
He does not expect the reckoning when it comes. The kingdom is almost quiet, busy rebuilding itself. Dain’s interest has subsided as Erebor has proved that it can thrive under Thorin’s rule. Relations with the Men are as good as they will be, and relations with the elves are better than that.
So Thorin is not prepared when Dwalin bursts into his private rooms without knocking.
“I did not realize I had invited you in,” he says, irritated. He shifts a stack of parchment aside so that he can glare at Dwalin properly.
Dwalin barely seems to hear him. He storms across the room and slams his hands down on Thorin’s desk, which is farther than even he has gone before, very nearly a threat. Thorin bolts to his feet and fists his hands ready at his sides.
“This ends now,” Dwalin snarls, and for a moment Thorin honestly does not know what he speaks of. Then Dwalin glares at him, and looking into those dark eyes Thorin realizes that this day has always been coming, maybe since the minute he stepped foot in the Shire, pain nipping at pleasure’s heels and demanding payment in double.
Dwalin seems to remember himself a little and steps back, but he does not back down. “This cannot continue, Thorin. I am wading through rumors like a bed of ash. There’s talk of gifts, and secret meetings in the shadows, and he is encouraging the young dwarves to mingle with elves.”
“Those things are not his fault,” Thorin replies, though immediately after he knows it to be unwise. Dwalin’s scowl sets firm.
“I did not say they were his fault, yet here they are, and if Master Baggins is gone then these things will disappear with him. He must go, Thorin. If you cannot do it, I will.”
Before Thorin can help himself he snarls at Dwalin and lunges across the desk. But he’s not the dwarf he was before the great battle. Dwalin easily avoids his reach and Thorin does not follow through, knowing he will lose the fight and likely forfeit something only just healed. The arts of the elves are undeniably effective, but the healing throughout his body feels frail, as though the elves are mocking him even with their gifts. He will never be able to forget these wounds, or how they were mended.
“So it is true,” Dwalin says. The disgust stays in his eyes and does not reach his plain voice. Thorin is not sure if it is shock or a concession.
“I care for the halfling. We all do. He has become a friend. Nothing more has happened between us than that,” Thorin says, stripped down to the truth, too weary to lie.
Dwalin nods. “I believe you,” he says, and there is a note of the old bond in it. Then his eyes harden again. “But if you could, you would have more of him.”
“I… have not thought of that,” Thorin tells his old friend. It is mostly true. Some thoughts are too risky to dwell on.
Dwalin’s lip curls and he bangs a hand on the desk. “By Durin’s beard and everything you would betray, just admit it!”
“It cannot be, so why does it matter?” Thorin shouts back. He hates confronting his despair; he would rather set it away forever or chase it into the very mouth of a dragon to fight it.
The anger suddenly seems to abandon Dwalin, leaving the doughty old warrior’s face sad and tired. Dwalin is a good, honest dwarf who has never asked for more than to be told where to point his axe. Thorin wishes desperately that the world had been kind enough to allow Dwalin to be remain uncomplicated; to make every decision in black and white. He watches Dwalin close his eyes and heave a huge sigh, armor surging over his breast.
“Because as long as you lie to yourself, you excuse your actions. You feign friendship while only you believe the falsehood.” Dwalin looks sick, and Thorin has to fight the urge to wrap an arm around the dwarf’s shoulders and reassure him, make all the promises he wants to hear. Dwalin backs away toward the door. “End it, Thorin, or I will, because by the Valar one of us has to. This kingdom has barely taken root in the ground. Do not allow it to be washed out to shore like rubble because we cannot stand together with our kin. Elves and men and hobbits will not carry us on their shoulders. If Erebor divides itself into chaos, our foundation will slip into the river and we will all be carried downstream again, to beg and whore and scrape our livings out of the ashes of men’s forges.
I swore to protect you, and I will protect you even from yourself.” The last thing Thorin sees before Dwalin slips out the door is the glint of candlelight on chainmail.
The stone door creaks shut. Thorin lets his head fall forward so that he stares down at the desk, though he does not see it.
Instead he sees his choices. He can allow the halfling to die. He can kill one who is as a brother to him. Or he can let Bilbo Baggins go, to seek a less dangerous fate. A better fate. Perhaps one that is not filled with hardship, and has no regrets.
Unbidden, words that his grandfather once spoke flit into his mind: Power is a trap, lad. The more you have, the more tightly shackled to it you are, until one day you realize you can do nothing but sit and watch the world go by.
Thorin has small fondness left for his grandfather, but he cannot dismiss the words from his head as he leaves the room to make the only choice he has.