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It was a well-known fact that Thorin played the harp and played it well. The one that he brought about his travels was an heirloom, so ancient that no one really knew its origins. It is made of a gallant white wood, rumoured to be finely carved mallorn from the realms of the Elves.
Wherever the wood came from, the handiwork was undoubtedly dwarven — there were runes crafted along the pillars of the instrument in Khudzul, and the shoulders of the harp were adorned with carvings of gold. It sang with a tender resonance, like water in the mountain, and without words it told tales of lands carved by dwarven hands, and loved by dwarven hearts.
It was a lesser-known fact, however, that Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, the appointed burglar of the quest, could play the flute.
It was a small thing to a dwarf’s hand, hardly larger than a pen in their eyes. It was fashioned from rich walnut wood, with trails of flower-carvings running down the length of it. It had small finger-holes and was held sideways when played, and it had the voice of a songbird, singing songs of lush, green mornings and sun-dappled water on the lake.
Huddled by the fire, the company watched as Thorin strummed a string of notes on his harp, a tune that took no direction, but hung upon the air like speckled stars. For a while Bilbo listened, his flute lying on his lap, and when he seemed to understand the music he took up his instrument and began to play alongside the dwarven-prince.
As the notes soared into the air all grew silent, for a great story had begun to take shape between the harp and the flute, and the dwarves listened in wonder. The world began to fade away, and a new vision began in the mind’s eye, of great, and beautiful, and sorrowful things.
In their minds, the dwarves saw themselves enter the lost halls of Erebor after the dust had settled, and all was peaceful once more. They saw the statue of old kings, unharmed by dragon-fire, and within them came a bittersweet pride for the place they had once fled. They thought of long, gleaming banners soaring down the highest ceilings, they felt the churning fires of the forges, and suddenly when they thought of Erebor they thought of home. It was the sort of homeliness you felt when you sat on a rocking chair by the fireplace, or when you brushed your hands on your apron after setting dough in the oven, and it was the sort of homeliness that only a hobbit could make you feel.
And deep within their hearts longing was stirred, for feasts by the fire, and for family and fellowship, and they thought of their own kin, hidden in blue mountains far away, safe from danger.
Yet when the music grew melancholic and heavy they opened their eyes and watched the music makers, who seemed lost in the world they had created between themselves. First was Bilbo, his eyes trained onto the fire as he breathed life into his flute, letting the music soar and sediment in the air. Then they saw Thorin, with his brow furrowed and his eyes closed, his form like a mountain over the vale. Between the two now came a desperate motion of push and pull, of untold longing beyond that of dwarven halls. And for one brief and fleeting moment when the music reached its fever pitch it felt like the very moment when the hammer met the anvil, its crushing heat and force enough to break bonds of gold with a brilliant spark, brighter than fire and sun.
But it was a dream. It was a dream, a fleeting moment, and even now it began to slip from between the fingers of those who made the music. Slowly it died, like fire as it melted into wood, and then there was a sweet, long note, a final whisper of an unspoken promise, and then there was silence.
As the dwarves murmured their appreciation Bilbo set down his flute and cast a glance at Thorin. For a moment he sat there unmoving, his hands holding onto his harp, but then from under the curtains of his hair he looked at Bilbo, and when their eyes met they knew that they had begun something quite beautiful, something that did not find its end when the music stopped playing.