Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I: Erebor

He should be dead.

He deserved to be dead. And yet, against all reason and expectation, he still lived and had to deal with the consequences of his crimes.

And crimes they were, crimes against decency, against morality and against the laws of his people. Crimes that had threatened to condemn his loyal followers to death by starvation or on the hungry blades of his foes and those who should be his allies. And the worst…that moment of searing shame when the madness, the anger allowed him to shatter what Mahal had given him and his hand had closed around the throat of the Halfling, holding him over the lethal drop and spitting such poison at one whose only desire had been to save them all from his madness. The Hobbit whose actions had managed to avert the attack by Men and Elves and make them amenable to being allies when the real enemy attacked.

The madness had lifted as the Battle broke out and he had known, as he looked down on the charnel field, that there was only one option He could not be King if all he did was sit in his mountain and gaze upon his cursed treasure while others died. So they broke down the barricade and fought and he had expected to breathe his last as they had charged into the fray. Thirteen against an army, all brave dwarrows who had followed him halfway across Arda to this most desperate end.

And he had fallen, appallingly wounded. His sister-sons had been cut down also, their fall dragging him the last few inches back to cold sanity. The accursed shape of Azog had faced him, the battle to the death with no quarter possible and he had finally ended the pale orc, expecting his own death to shortly follow. 

Somehow, he had been found and carried, broken, to the healing tents. And amid the pain and the blood and the impending darkness, he had made his peace with Bilbo, begging for forgiveness and offering his friendship to the Hobbit who had made everything possible. The gentle words of absolution had echoed in his ears as the world had finally faded to black and he expected death.

Yet he had woken apparently many days later, in agony and alone…but alive. And when Oin had bustled into the tent, his lined face lighting at the sight of his King’s eyes desperately searching for anyone. Suddenly, the tent was filled with healers, words flying above his muddled head and water being forced over his cracked lips. Yet all he could do was repeat the names of his nephews, hoping against hope that they still breathed.

They lived, both sorely wounded but alive and healing. He had lingered in the twilight the longest, unable to be moved to the mountain while the habitation areas were being cleared of debris, rubble and the bodies of the dwarrow who had fallen over a century earlier when Smaug had taken Erebor. Dain had been acting as King, ordering the clearance and brooking no argument. The Company had clung to the camp, unable to assert any rights without the Durins and as his mind cleared, he had wondered how he could deal with this latest challenge…one he had never imagined because he had expected to be dead. In his heart of hearts, he had always expected the Quest to end in failure and fire and his continued existence was a boon-though maybe not such a welcome one. He had been a King for over a century, ruling Durin’s folk in Ered Luin and supporting his kin, but he had never in his mind truly believed he would sit on his Grandfather’s throne in the Lonely Mountain. But the Mountain was Fili’s birthright and he would fight once more for the golden Prince’s right to sit on the throne, even though he had shamed it during his brief tenure.

His reverie had been interrupted by the arrival of his sister-sons, escorted into his tent by Balin and Dwalin and he forced his expression to approximate that he had always worn-that lasted for a few seconds before the relief at seeing nephews overtook him. And then they flung themselves on him and all he could do was close his arms around them, biting back moans of pain as they jostled his broken body, straining stitches and bandages that held his innards in. Both the boys were talking over each other and his head was spinning before Balin finally called them off. He looked at the older son of Fundin.

“The Company?” His voice was croaking from lack of use and weariness but residual anxiety was eased by the knowing smile on Balin’s face.

“They all live,” he reassured his cousin. “A few scrapes and minor injuries-the odd finger lost here and there, some sword and arrow wounds and warg bites-but considering the odds, it was nigh on a miracle. You and the laddies were the worst injured.” Thorin gave a shuddering sigh.

“And Bilbo?” He almost cringed at the pathetic edge of hope on his voice but the fall of Balin’s face turned his stomach to knots.

“He’s gone,” the white-bearded dwarrow told him. “Left with the wizard soon after the battle. The Company was disconsolate but he couldn’t be dissuaded.” Thorin closed his eyes and lay back on his pillows.

“The first time we met him, Dwalin said the wild was no place for gentle folk who could neither fight nor look out for themselves,” Thorin murmured gruffly. “And he ended up in the midst of the worst battle for a century. He was not trained for battle nor ready.” He sighed. “And he did as he promised. He helped us to regain our home. He deserves to return to his own.” He saw his friends appear cynical, the folding of Dwalin’s arms a sure sign he was unimpressed by the facade Thorin had affected. 

“I think…he thought you were dead,” Fili said slowly, leaning hard on the crutches he needed to move around on his shattered leg. “And he believed we were gone too.”

“Not too far off the truth,” Dwalin growled. Kili winced, shifting in the seat he had occupied. 

“Can’t we call him back and let him know the truth?” he asked but Balin and Thorin both shook their heads.

“Two weeks have passed and he will be beyond Mirkwood,” Balin sighed. “Gandalf is with him and he will protect his friend. I think…” He cast a sideways look at the King, lying bandaged and broken on his sick bed. “I think he is loath to trust his friend to our care once more.”

“That’s hardly fair since it was Uncle that tried to kill him!” Kili protested.

“But none of us tried to stop him!” Balin snapped, his eyes also expressing his shame. “We were all affected by the gold-Thorin was just far the worst.” Fili snatched a look at Thorin’s face and caught the brief stricken expression that crossed his face before his mask was back in place. “And though Thorin is now free of the gold sickness…”

“It could recur,” the King said bleakly. “The dragon sat on that gold for well over a century and his evil has leeched into the metal. Much will have to be melted down and remade to purge it of the curse. One fourteenth can go to Dale as agreed for the Arkenstone. Thranduil…” He gritted his teeth. “He can have the gems he requested and any other trinkets by negotiation.” Balin frowned but nodded. 

“And Bilbo?” Kili’s voice was desolate and though Thorin shared his despair, he forced himself to speak evenly.

“He must make his own choices,” he said. “I recall him forgiving me when I had accepted I was dying. And though I would hope that his words were genuinely meant, it is perhaps easier to forgive one who is dying than to give such cheap absolution to a dwarf who has wronged you so badly.” He paused. “Write to him. Tell him you yet live. Tell him that he is always welcome in Erebor and that his banishment has been rescinded. Tell him that he is still your friend. And maybe one day, he will return.”

He closed his eyes then, his heart weighed down by the grief and guilt that his actions had driven Bilbo away and his body exhausted by the efforts of conversing for a mere few minutes. Soon, he was asleep.

He was moved inside Erebor once more and continued his recuperation within the Halls of his line once more. The Royal quarters had been cleared and he found himself attended by Oin and his little band of healers, ruthlessly confined to bed when necessary and then dragged up and rehabilitated when the healers deemed it time. As soon as he was back in the mountain, Dain came to see him and updated him on progress and offered to leave as many men as he needed while the worst of the mess was cleared up. And though he was an ambitious dwarf, the Lord of the Iron Hills confessed that he had no desire to steal Thorin’s throne. The King was already a legend for reclaiming one of the dwarf Kingdoms and Dain did not want to be the dwarf who stole his legacy.

Time passed and Erebor was cleared. The displaced people of Laketown were given shelter during the worst of the cold and the gold handed over as promised to Bard, who was being pressed to accept the throne. The White Gems were handed over to Thranduil-in a ceremony that personally caused Thorin immense pain on viewing the smug look of triumph in the Elvenking’s eyes-and the three Kings had begun the long process of negotiating treaties and working together. Long before he was fully healed, Thorin was back in control, taking charge in the rebuilding of Erebor and ensuring that the dwarrow who had come on the Quest were rewarded for their efforts.

Loyalty, honour, a willing heart. I can ask no more. I would take every one of these dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills because when I called, they came.

And they had stuck by him, through thick and (mostly) thin. Through wargs and orcs, trolls and stone giants, goblins and skin changers and elves. Through the dragon, despair and cold and madness and war. They deserved whatever they desired and he rewarded them richly with responsibility, titles and the honour they deserved, even though some were of less than noble blood. And he would not allow one single word to be spoken against any of them.

But Bilbo’s absence was a gaping wound, an open sore that still earned him the occasional filthy look and muttered grumbles when the Company met. Everyone blamed Thorin for the continued absence of the Hobbit and the King couldn’t say he blamed them. Balin’s mild defence-that they had parted as friends and that Bilbo’s banishment had been rescinded-didn’t silence the mutterings or the fact that Thorin blamed himself anyway. He knew that all of the Company had written to the Hobbit but it was too soon to receive any replies. Thorin, though, had paused before writing. Bilbo would be on the road and he doubted that the Wizard would allow any letter of his to get through. And perhaps it was too soon to pour his heart out, to repeat his apologies to the Hobbit he cared for and had wronged so desperately.

So instead, he wrote to the Thain of the Shire. Carefully, he explained how Bilbo Baggins had accompanied the Company of Thorin Oakenshield and had assisted the dwarves of Erebor in reclaiming their Kingdom. He named Bilbo a dwarf-friend and a hero of Erebor. And then he explained that Bilbo was travelling home and that he would return in the summer. But in the meantime, he requested that the Thain ensured that Bilbo’s home-Bag End-was safe and that no one tried to steal it on the presumption that Bilbo was dead. Shamelessly using his name and titles, Thorin requested in the name of friendship that the Thain protected Bilbo’s possessions and home until he returned, since it would be a travesty if Bilbo travelled halfway across Arda to help the dwarves reclaim their own home while losing his in the process. Finally, he requested that the Thain conceal his request from Bilbo if asked, since he owed the Hobbit his Kingdom and he deserved no thanks for merely doing what anyone would to protect their friend.

He sent the letter by Raven and was heartened to receive a reply three weeks later, carried by an Elf from Rivendell. The Thain, Fortinbras II Took, had written back swiftly to allay any concerns that Thorin may have harboured. In fact, Fortinbras had travelled to Hobbiton himself and had checked Bag End out. Apart from dust, all seemed intact and the neighbour and Bilbo’s gardener, Hamfast Gamgee, was relieved to hear that his friend was on his way home. Of course, there was worrying news that Bilbo’s cousin, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, had been visiting and spreading rumours that Bilbo was dead but the Thain had issued documents declaring Bilbo to be very certainly alive and that Bag End was currently in the care of the Thain pending Bilbo’s return. Any attempt to change the status of the smial or its inhabitant would have to go through Fortinbras who gave his word to consult with Thorin before he would contemplate such a declaration-and only if there was proof that his cousin was no more. Gratefully, Thorin had welcomed the messenger and had allowed him to rest and recuperate from his journey. He had also informed the Company and prevailed upon the Elf so that he agreed to carry any letters back to the East with him when he left so they could travel the shorter and less dangerous portion of the journey by conventional means.

Winter slowly passed and eventually, Spring began to encroach on the Desolation. The mountain slowly came back to life, still echoing and in need of repairs but as the first caravans from the Blue Mountains arrived, Thorin saw his people slowly coalesce back home. The first caravan included the familiar and stern shape of his sister, Dis. Fili and Kili had scrambled down the steps to intercept her and flung themselves on her as soon as she dismounted while the King hung back. Dis was proud of her sons and delighted that they lived but she was clearly upset at their injuries. Both bore scars and Fili was still using a crutch as his leg was still weak and healing from the multiple breaks. As he watched, Thorin saw other families reunited, watched Bombur and Gloin greet their wives and children and his heart warmed at the sight…while all the time being aware that he would never experience the joy and love those couples shared.

He watched from the ramparts as the last of the returnees filed into the mountain, as the wagons and horses were taken away and as the entranceway was closed for the evening. And then finally, he headed slowly back for the Royal Suites to catch up with his sister. He knew that Dis would be unhappy with his handling of the Quest, his gold sickness, the injuries her sons had received and the Battle and he was trying to put off the encounter as long as he could. But his feet took him back to the rooms and he let himself in to face his only living sibling.

“You idiot!” was her opening gambit, followed by a hard slap to the face and finally, a hug. Her eyes scanned his face and then she sighed. “They nearly died so many times…” she told him. “But I would not have stopped them from coming. They would have followed anyway. It was something they had to do.” Then she looked into his face and gently stroked a stray lock of hair off his face. “They’ve grown up. And I am proud of them.”

“They earned great honour for their conduct and bravery,” Thorin said as she made an exasperated noise.

“And what’s this I hear about a Halfling?” she asked him bluntly. He flinched.

“He was the reason we succeeded,” he confessed. “I harmed him. He left. Maybe he will come back-but I doubt it. He has too many bad memories.”

“Of you.” The words were not a question and he didn’t bother to answer. 

“He forgave me when we both thought I was dying but I lived,” Thorin said quietly. “I cannot assume he really forgave such heinous crimes had he known my existence would continue. He has every right to be furious with me.”

“Is that why you haven’t written to him?” she asked him shortly.

“He hasn’t even reached the Shire yet,” Thorin corrected her. She frowned.

“How…?”

“I may have checked…though I would be grateful if you did not tell the others…” he told her quietly. Eyes glittering, she shook her head, beads gleaming in the light of the lanterns.

“Why?” she demanded. “Are you ashamed?” He shook his head.

“Leave it,” he warned her, resorting to anger to ward her off his wounds. Dis was his sister but she had never been soft and her brand of tough love was the last thing his guilt and misery needed. 

“Nadad-it would only be expected after…”

“Leave it!” he roared, turning away. She stared at him. “It’s good you’re here, Dis,” he added bitterly and then he left, stomping out with his cloak flying behind him. Fili and Kili stared as her face darkened with anger.

“Has he been like this since…?” she snapped as her sons winced.

“Ever since Bilbo left and he woke up,” Fili confirmed. “He’s done his job as King but he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t really smile. He spends most of his time alone when he’s not working-and he works all the time. It’s as if he punishing himself…” Dis stared at the closed door and exhaled through her nose.

“That’s exactly what he is doing,” she sighed. “Now exactly what he’s atoning for is a different matter. Because from what you told me in your letters, there are rather a lot of possible reasons why he would castigate himself.” But it was Kili who shook his head and walked to stand beside his mother.

“No, Amad,” he said softly. “There’s only one. Bilbo.”

He consciously distanced himself from them after that, shying from communal meals and family gatherings by citing work commitments. He ate in his rooms, working late into the evenings and walking the ramparts, come rain or hail or sun, to survey his kingdom. To his people, he was the King they expected: stern, even-handed and hard-working. He did his duty with the diligence he owed them but every day, he looked around the vast expanse of Erebor and realised that there was something missing. He had given everything for Erebor and he would spend the rest of his life in service to his people…but it felt as if he was serving a sentence in a jail of his own making, haunted by memories of curls and hazel eyes and hairy feet and a brave, good-hearted and decent Hobbit who he had betrayed in the worst way possible.

In truth, though he worked at his job, it was still too comfortable. He was warm and well-fed. His quarters were elegant and graciously-appointed and he had family and friends around him. And he supposed that Bilbo did too-except that Bilbo was half a world away and his absence was breaking Thorin’s heart. Since the rather rocky start to their acquaintance, Thorin had accepted the Hobbit as a comrade, a confidante…a friend, someone that the dwarf King could rely on. Not to kowtow or agree with him…Mahal, Bilbo was as stubborn and argumentative as a dwarrow when he wanted…but he would always help as much as he could and if he promised to do something, he delivered…even if it risked his life. The only time he had not done as asked was when Thorin demanded everyone seek the Arkenstone, though now the King understood perfectly why Bilbo had failed to do as asked. The gold sickness had been terrible and adding in the lure of the Arkenstone and it was unlikely that Thorin would ever have recovered…or had enough awareness in time to make any difference in the Battle.

It was stupid. He had only known the Hobbit for a just over half a year-and a few months as a close friend and yet…Thorin felt his absence most keenly. It was as if part of him was missing, a hollowness in his chest where the warmth he had felt for Bilbo had nestled. It was stupid because he had not said anything, not acknowledged anything but somewhere in the deepest recesses of his heart, he had known. And even amid his madness, he had wanted Bilbo near him. The Hobbit had come seeking for him as he sunk deeper and deeper into the gold sickness and in his befuddled state, he had known that he had to protect Bilbo. So he had gifted the Hobbit the mithril vest that was worth more than the entire Shire, worth a dozen Kings’ ransoms as a skewed gift to his friend.

Beloved.

And then he had ruined it all when he had learned of the Arkenstone. He could still feel Bilbo’s neck under his hands, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh. He could see the fear in those so-familiar eyes, as Bilbo realised that his friend was no longer facing him, that the dwarf who held him over that lethal drop had no mercy, no compassion, nothing but fury and rage and hatred. And he could recall his own emotions, that toxic cocktail of blackness that had him an inch from dropping Bilbo to his death and only the voice of the Wizard had saved the halfling. Now, every detail of the horrific encounter filled him with utter shame and the images haunted his nightmares. How could be a King when he had betrayed one of his most loyal followers, the being who had been pivotal in regaining Erebor? How could he be a King with no honour?

How could he be a King when he had tried to kill Bilbo?

He couldn’t claim the Hobbit as his heart because there was nothing spoken but there had been something there, beyond friendship, that had Thorin stealing glances at the Hobbit, ensuring he was safe no matter what else was going on. 

A bitter laugh sounded in his throat. How had it come to this? From barely tolerating the creature to seeking his shape out even before his sister-sons? Mahal, he should never confess that to Dis! But it was futile because his actions had shattered whatever there had been between them and it was only Thorin’s desolate, foolish heart that clung to the echoes of what might have been rather than accepted what was. The life he had created and earned through his actions.

The Lonely Mountain was truly named indeed.

Time passed and finally, letters came from the Shire. Bilbo had made it safely home and was happy to hear that Fili and Kili and Thorin had survived. His home had been waiting for him without any dramas and he was happy to report his cousin the Thain had kindly kept an eye on it. He was interested to hear that his friends were all prospering and how well the restorations were coming along…and reported that his journey home had been uneventful and steady, staying with Beorn and at Rivendell on the way back to the Shire. He reminded them all that tea was at four but that they were welcome any time. And he said nothing about ever returning.

Of course, this had prompted a flurry of return letters, even some from Dis to the Hobbit who had befriended her sons. There wasn’t a week when a Raven wasn’t sent, heavily weighed-down with missives, on the long haul to the Shire, only to return with letters back from Bilbo. And though he hadn’t written to Bilbo, Thorin had heard how the Company’s Hobbit was getting on. Bilbo spoke of reintegrating into Shire society, of keeping himself busy and attending dinners and parties. Of his younger cousins who loved his stories and certain older relatives who were almost shunning him for running off with thirteen dwarrow and a wizard. Of missing them all and sending his best wishes. And inviting them to visit, even though he knew they were busy.

Alone in his rooms at night, Thorin agonised over a thousand sheets of parchment, of hundreds of letters started then crumpled up and discarded. In his head, he could always manage to find the first line but the moment he dipped his quill into the ink, the words evaporated and he faced the sheet with blank panic and only the gleaming words Dear Bilbo to give him any clues. So he had crumpled up the paper or maybe torn it to shreds and cursed and raged and then collapsed to his knees in a fury of self-recrimination and desolation. And those nights, as so many, sleep would prove elusive.

Balin and Dis cornered him as the celebrations for Durin’s Day approached. The Kingdom was functioning better than anyone would have guessed. Dwalin had whipped the guard into shape, Ori was Head Librarian and was still cataloguing the volumes that had survived the dragon, Oin was head of the Healers and Bombur was Head Chef. Gloin had been appointed King’s Treasurer, Balin was Chief Adviser along with Dis who was also acting in the post of Consort and Nori was unofficially officially the Chief Spy. Fili and Kili were helping Dwalin in the guards but Fili had to attend court and many meetings to learn how to rule the Kingdom while Kili was the head of the small but highly effective group of archers that Thorin had encouraged him to set up in the defence of Erebor. And among their number was Tauriel, exiled from Mirkwood and in a tentative friendship with Kili. Certain that keeping her in Erebor would annoy Thranduil, Thorin had approved it, reminding himself every time he saw her that she had saved Kili’s life and as such, she had earned his gratitude and a home, if she wished one.

Like Bilbo. Except Bilbo would never return.

“Nadad!” Dis’s words were sharp and bit through his reverie as he sat at the Council table, aimlessly flicking through the notes from the last meeting. The Guild Masters were jockeying for position, the Lords who had come in from Ered Luin and the Iron Hills were trying to scour up what power they could and marginalise the Company and he honestly wanted to axe their heads off with Orcrist, which Thranduil had returned to him while he was still recuperating. As it was, Dwalin had been listening to him grumble for the last ten minutes but all heads remained on necks…for now… But hearing the tone of voice, Thorin had looked up.

“Dis.” The word was guarded because she was wearing the face that promised a scolding at best and a thrashing at worst-his sister had never been shy in her interactions with her brothers. She sat next to him with Balin pulling up a chair from behind her.

“You have to stop this,” she snapped as he inspected her mildly.

“Stop what?”

“This…” She gestured to him. “Self-flagellation. This moping. Call it what you will. It needs to end. The people need to see their King regal, looking forward and representing a strong, confident Kingdom.”

“I don’t…”

“You’re cutting your beard!” Dis hissed at him, gesturing. He swallowed. Since the fall of Erebor, he had cut his beard to maintain a very short beard in remembrance of those lost in the fall of the mountain. Yet since the return, his beard had remained short as it had on the Quest. Then he nodded. Balin leaned forward.

“In Mahal’s name-why?” Balin asked him, his tone concerned. Thorin lifted his chin, his voice bitter.

“You know why,” he said and then looked away. Balin blinked.

“You cannot be serious about this, laddie,” he chided gently. “You were sick. The gold sickness was terrible but you fought it off. And you have righted every wrong you did and have melted down much of the gold and traded a substantial portion to ensure that it cannot have such a hold over you again. The lessening of our treasury has also alleviated the risk of further dragon attack! You have done well and many of our folk are safely here for the first Durin’s Day celebrations in the mountain.”

Thorin stared at the council table.

“One year ago, we were in Laketown. We had lost almost everything but we had each other.” He gave a thin smile. “We tried to rob the armoury and we were hauled before the Master-and Bilbo vouched for me. He spoke up for the dwarf who would try to kill him.”

“Ah.” Balin shot a look at Dis.

“This has to stop,” the Princess told him bluntly. “You barely wear your crown, you wear no gold at all and only silver beards in your hair. You trim your beard, wear furs and leathers and armour but nothing like a King should wear to advertise his status and you’re acting like you are mourning…”

“I’m acting like I am shamed! Because I am!” Thorin growled back, his face twisted in anger. “I broke my Oath to Laketown. I fell to the Curse of our line. I tried to kill my friend…”

“For stealing the Arkenstone,” Dis pointed out.

“He was the only one who saw what had to be done,” Thorin said awkwardly. “The only thing I would be willing to trade for, the only thing that could avert a catastrophic war between neighbours over broken Oaths and metal and crystals…”

“Gold and the White Gems,” Balin breathed, shocked at the dismissal of all a dwarf should value in such bland terms. Thorin squeezed his eyes closed.

“I cannot wear gold,” he admitted softly. “I cannot visit the Treasury. I will not go back there. I will not risk becoming the monster who tightened his hands around his friend’s throat and held him over a lethal drop onto jagged rocks below. I cannot be the monster who spat such poison at the one being who had touched my heart and earned my trust after so many years. I cannot risk ever falling again…”

“But you have a Hall that has an entire floor made of gold…” Balin pointed out.

“And I will never set foot in the Gallery of The Kings until every last drop of the gold is scraped up…or until the day I die,” Thorin swore. “I recall the plan. I felt so alive, using the resources of Erebor against the dragon and trying to kill it. And I have never been so proud how the Company responded. Every man of them risked his life to ensure I was in the position to drown him in molten gold…but he escaped. And from there, he went and attacked Laketown. Had I been smarter, had our trap been better, those lives would not have been lost.”

“Bilbo told us that he mentioned barrels, that he was the one who betrayed the people of Laketown,” Balin reminded him but the King shook his head slowly.

“I was the leader of the Company and I sent him in,” he murmured. “Even then, I could feel the pull, the metal bending my mind. When I ran in to find him, he came scampering up the stairs…but I blocked him. I demanded the Arkenstone. Nothing else mattered…including the dragon that was bearing down on me. I should have felt it then but it passed in the adrenaline of escaping without being incinerated. I should have killed Smaug.”

“You cannot blame yourself for everything,” Dis told him practically, but Thorin only smiled bleakly, despair singing through his heart.

“Lord Elrond warned me,” he revealed. “Thranduil warned me. Bard warned me. But I was determined. We woke the dragon and hundreds died in Laketown as it attacked and fell. And then thousands more in the Battle afterwards.” He took a breath. “My folly. My pride. Gandalf told me it would be my death. Instead it was the deaths of hundreds of innocents.”

“Thorin-we both know the wizard urged you to go on the Quest,” Balin told him wryly. “He manipulated you. He intercepted you in Bree. He diverted Elrond in Rivendell. He gave you the map and key. He used you to remove the dragon. You agreed-because what Prince of the Line of Durin would not? But you felt, the moment he handed you the key, that you had no choice. He used you, Thorin! He knew that you were at risk of dragon sickness, he knew you were proud but he sent you here anyway-along with his friend, Bilbo! So while you bear some blame, the ultimate blame lies with the one who instigated the whole mess.” The older dwarrow’s voice had risen and even Dwalin-standing guard behind Thorin with arms crossed across his broad chest-raised his eyebrows in shock. Dis stared at her brother.

“Is this true?” she asked sharply.

“I am King and my actions are my responsibility,” Thorin insisted. “As are my crimes. And though our allies have moved on, there are some crimes that cannot be brushed aside.”

“He forgave you, laddie!” Balin said, exasperated. But Thorin shook his head and rose. 

“He forgave a dying man,” he told his friend, glancing at his sister. “Who wouldn’t absolve a dying man to ease his passage to Mahal’s Halls? But finding out the monster who tried to crush your throat or drop you from the ramparts of Erebor still lives will negate such forgiveness. How could he forgive such a betrayal?”

Balin’s jaw dropped and Dwalin shifted on his feet.

“That’s why you haven’t written,” he realised. Thorin sighed and shook his head.

“I have no right,” he mumbled. Dis lurched to her feet, crystal blue eyes flashing with anger.

“Write to  him,” she snapped. “Stop moping, behave like a King and write to your Halfling. Or I may have to kill you and steal the throne!”

But her joke fell flat as Thorin walked to the door.

“You’re welcome to it,” he murmured. “Because I don’t deserve it.”

That night, nightmares rent his sleep, images of Bilbo’s eyes widening in horror as the grip on his throat tightened inexorably until the crunch of vertebrae sounded and the light faded from that hazel gaze…images of Bilbo’s frantic eyes widening in a silent plea as Thorin shoved him backwards and watched the small body pinwheel away, dashed to ruin on the rocks below, the smear of red marking the end of the Company burglar…

Sitting up, gasping, Thorin felt his heart would hammer its way through his chest, his breath caught in his throat. The images ceased at that point but the guilt and shame continued to whirl around him, sending him to the fireplace where the banked fire was still glowing and dipping a fresh candle into he flames. And then he walked to his desk, aftershocks of the nightmare shivering through his solid shape. And there, dressed only in his sleep breeches and tunic, he sat down and pulled up a fresh sheet of paper. And finally, there was no hesitation as the quill scratched across the parchment.

My Dear Master Baggins…Bilbo…

I am not sure that I still have the right to use your name but I am hoping that you will allow me that pleasure one more time.

By now I am certain you are aware of my continued existence and I apologise that I have been too cowardly to write until this time. I cannot blame pressure of work or time because I can always make time for those things that really matter. And this matters to me: more than anything. I have tried to put pen to paper so many times but every time, I have failed. The truth is that I cannot find the words but now I know that I will know no peace if I don’t at least try.

I am sorry. 

The words are simple yet the meaning is not. I am sorry for everything: for how I treated you when you first joined the Company. For my harsh words and cold treatment. For not welcoming you though you agreed to trek halfway across Middle Earth to help a group of assorted dwarrow try to reclaim their mountain from a dragon. I am sorry your life was threatened so many times. I am sorry I did not come rushing in as soon as we heard the dragon waken. I am sorry I failed you, not killing the dragon and letting him go. And I am sorry I succumbed to the gold, to become a creature I shudder to remember. I am sorry that I failed you when you vouched for me.

I am sorry I tried to kill you on the walls of Erebor. You did not deserve such treatment for being the only member of my Company with the courage and clear vision to keep the Arkenstone away from me. You alone tried to prevent the bloodshed and you were repaid with foul threats and violence. I know that when we last met, you said you forgave me but I know that was only kindness to a dying man. You were traumatised by the Battle and the losses and I know in my heart that you cannot have excused such heinous acts on my part. I can only beg forgiveness and hope that one day, you will regain your peace of mind that my actions robbed you of. 

Your banishment of course has been rescinded and you have been named dwarf-friend and Hero of Erebor. You are of course welcome back to Erebor and I know all the Company would dearly love to see you once more.

It is possible that you may not even read this letter. If you throw this letter into the fire, I hold no ill will. I understand. But know that you are ever in my thoughts and I think of you as the dearest and truest of friends

Thorin Oakenshield.

The letter was sent by Raven the following dawn, after a night where sleep completely eluded Thorin and he appeared weary and downtrodden. The nightmares worsened as he closed on Durin’s Day and his exhausted appearance was not missed at the Durin’s Day celebrations, Nevertheless, he stood forward, dressed as a King-though devoid of any gold-and gave a powerful speech about the efforts all had put into rebuilding Erebor and how the next year would bring even greater success and prosperity to the reclaimed kingdom. There were cheers and food and drink were supplied to all in abundance. Men from Laketown and the Elves were invited but while the Men attended, the Elves declined, for which Thorin was grateful. The mood in the Kingdom was merry and for once, the place resembled the Erebor of Thorin’s memory as a child, filled with light and joy. Until he realised those who were missing-his parents, his brother Frerin and of course…Bilbo. Of all of them, the Hobbit would have relished the feasting, the music and dancing and drinking of the celebration. But Bilbo was in the Shire, alone and separated from those who owed him so much…all because of the actions of one dwarven King.

The anniversary of the confrontation on the ramparts struck Thorin even worse, nightmares permitting a scant hour or so of sleep each night until the day itself. On that horrific night, the King didn’t even attempt sleep, staring into the fire all night, drinking because there was nothing else to do. And quietly, wracked by guilt, he talked to the absent Bilbo as if he had still been there.

He sleepwalked through the celebrations for the anniversary of ‘the Battle of Five Armies’ as it was being called, memories of the day fractured by lingering gold sickness, anger, guilt and the after effects of injuries. But some things were clear: the brilliance of the sun on snow, the face of Azog, the screams of his sister-sons, the cold of the ice underneath his back. And the peace as he had looked up into Bilbo’s face and made his apology.

But there was no peace for him. And no reply as well, for Bilbo never wrote back. Every other member of the Company received a reply except Thorin and it only highlighted the fact that Bilbo hadn’t forgiven him in truth. But he found that he couldn’t stop himself. Now he had written to Bilbo, he found he couldn’t stop and every week, he dispatched another letter. In each, he repeated his apologies, begged for Bilbo’s forgiveness and updated him on the latest news from Erebor. Somehow, it gave the King some small reason to push on, enduring days and nights wracked by his grief and shame, sleep riven by nightmares and days wrapped in the fear that he would relapse, would succumb once more to the lure of gold. But around him, Erebor prospered. His nephews recovered fully from their wounds and moved on. Kili began to court Tauriel, with Dis’s approval and to the amusement of the Company, who expected their King to throw a majestic sulk…but Thorin gravely approved of the courtship and waved them on. Fili flourished and the King became more happy in delegating tasks to his Heir.

The Company flourished. Dori began a courtship with a fine dwarrowdam who ran the best tea emporium in Erebor while Dwalin and Ori began to dance around one another so that the rest began to place bets on the outcome. Bofur and Bifur opened a toy store though Bofur was always willing to lend his surprisingly strong stone sense when required to assist the miners. Bombur’s wife had another child, a daughter, which everyone took as a good omen while Gloin’s son Gimli continued to grow and give his father more proud stories to share at their communal meals. 

Time passed and Erebor was restored to its former glory. There were still areas damaged by the dragon but all shared in the prosperity, as Thorin had promised when he had spoken in Laketown. The King still performed his duties with solemn diligence, though he frequently looked tired with dark shadows under his eyes. After the nights when his dreams were especially bad, he was always to be found early on the training grounds, swinging Orcrist with skill and precision. Dwalin usually sparred with his friend, grim-faced at the singular dedication the King showed when he was trying to stop himself thinking of anything but the battle and the necessity to stay alive. And though Thorin was an excellent swordsman, Dwalin knew he beat him more than he should and injured him more often than he ought.  Yet the King waved off his concerns and went back to his duty without delay, causing Dwalin to have to send Oin to tend his stubborn friend.

Bilbo continued to write back to the Company but there was not one letter for Thorin and as time passed, the King began to lose hope. He still wrote but his letters became darker and more desolate. At some point, he confessed that his feelings for Bilbo had been more than simple friendship and he apologised for that as well. He assumed that Bilbo would have his eye on some cheerful Hobbit lass and maybe he was already wed or planning it: he guessed his confession was as unwelcome as his apologies. But the pain in his heart was already becoming an old friend, a nagging ache that was with him every day, eased only when he thought of their friendship and of the times he should have confessed his feelings. He had hoped that the Hobbit would understand the implications of the princely gift he had given Bilbo but of course, the subtleties of dwarfish courtship would be lost on a Hobbit…even if Thorin had been well enough to confess his desires amid his gold sickness.

He still wrote but he guessed that the silence meant that he would never be reconciled with Bilbo. That his crimes against the Hobbit were beyond even the capacity of a Baggins of Bag End to forgive. It was as he had feared all along: he had been a fool to hope that the friendship the Hobbit showed to his fellows would extend to the King who had threatened his life. Would a dwarf forgive such a base betrayal? And his heart supplied the answer, shattering the last shreds of his hope. There was to be nothing more for him, save the memories of their brief friendship, a time that seemed to mean so much more to Thorin than it ever would to the Hobbit. It was doubtful Bilbo had ever felt the same that the King realised he had-and it was certain that the burglar would never understand to implications. And as time passed and the years rolled past, the hollowness in Thorin’s heart just grew more and more difficult to ignore. 

By the time five years had passed since Erebor had been reclaimed, the Kingdom was back how Thorin recalled it from his childhood. Treaties were in place, the Guilds were mostly functioning smoothly and the mines and forges were productive. Fili had started courting Engarad, a dwarrowdam from the Grey Mountains, a feisty lass with sparkling grey eyes and ash blond hair who had as much spirit as Dis. Thorin had watched, aghast, as the two had clashed on their first meeting, almost coming to blows requiring Thorin and Kili to separate the two before finally reaching an understanding. In fact, this state of affairs had proven much more disturbing as the two women had settled their differences and now were fast friends, leading the King to envisage years of being ganged up-upon by his sister and Heir's wife. The image had caused him a sharp pang of regret, the absence of a shape at his side only emphasising the sensations of isolation and shame he felt. And the feeling was only intensified when Kili finally proposed to Tauriel. 

Bilbo was invited to Kili’s wedding along with all the Company and the dignitaries of the neighbouring Kingdoms but the Hobbit declined due to responsibilities back in the Shire. Even though Thranduil also refused to come, sending his son Legolas in his stead, Thorin felt no relief because, officiating over the ceremony where his younger nephew bound his life to his One, he felt a powerful pang of envy, of jealousy that both the boys seemed destined to enjoy the one adventure he never would. As a younger dwarf, he had dedicated his life to his people, eschewing all thoughts of any personal relationships in favour of duty…but by now, as he finally considered his own needs, he had accepted that the only person his heart seemed to see as his One was the one person he had wronged beyond forgiveness. His destiny and penalty would be to live his life alone…and as he slipped out of the back of the celebrations to walk the ramparts, he knew now that the Kingdom he had fought so hard for and risked so much for was no longer enough.

The truth was that they no longer needed Thorin Oakenshield. After Azanulbizar, when his people were diminished and shattered, when so many had died and the King and Crown Prince as well as countless others had had been lost, he was the only option. Without Thorin, the refugees of Erebor would have perished or scattered, lost to the mists of time and spread across Arda to fade into dust. And he had done everything to protect them, working in the towns of men and being abused and cheated to garner a few coins to ensure his sister and sister-sons were fed, to keep them warm and safe and finally, reaching Ered Luin. It had been a struggle, taking what scraps the other dwarrow in the mountains would permit, working hard every day of his life to ensure that his people were housed and warm, fed and safe and that they had a life they could be proud of. Dis and the boys had always been his priorities and now they prospered, now his people were home, what more was there to do? He knew he was not the most diplomatic-Fili and even Kili were much more skilled in negotiating and Dis was able to support them with her acid wit and quick mind. Balin could provide the necessary experience and voice of reason-but Thorin, the hero of Azanulbizar and victor of the Battle of Five Armies, was too quick to anger, too impatient and grumpy to negotiate and too tired to change now. He had lived two centuries, most in exile and most as King and the weight of his crown (which he wore only under sufferance for the most formal of occasions) was growing far too heavy.

He knew his family and friends were worried and they began to visit him in his rooms more regularly than every before. Dwalin was a daily visitor as were Dis and Fili. Balin and Kili as well as the other members of the Company dropped in less often so he reluctantly continued attending communal meals to defuse their concerns. He knew that he had started to neglect himself but he no longer had the heart to struggle. What was the point in carrying on if he would never be forgiven. Bilbo had made it perfectly clear: Thorin’s efforts in ruling Erebor, his apologies and everything he had done would never be enough to erase the shame of his guilt. In fact, there was only one thing he could do to atone. So he prepared Fili for the throne and put more and more responsibility into his nephew’s shoulders until his sister, Balin, Dwalin and Fili arrived at his rooms one evening and walked in without preamble.

“What are you doing?” Dis demanded, taking a seat by the fire. The others spread themselves around the room, all eyes on the proud shape of the King. Thorin schooled his face.

“I was working through my papers from the day,” he explained, gesturing to the loaded desk by the far wall. She snorted loudly, her face exasperated.

“You know what I mean, Nadad,” she snapped as he folded his arms. Fili inspected his face with unnerving intensity.

“Perhaps you should be more clear in your questions,” Thorin replied, feeling uncomfortable under such close scrutiny, almost as if he were that young Prince back before the dragon came, facing the disapprobation of his father and grandfather.

“You are existing, not living,” the Prince told him. 

There was a shocked silence across the room and Thorin stiffened, his eyes falling on his nephew. Even Dis seemed completely winded by the succinct and accurate assessment of their King. Turning away to look at the flames leaping in the hearth, Thorin gave a single nod. 

“How…?” Dwalin’s gruff voice was shocked.

“These quarters contain the minimum required,” Fili said. “No luxury. Barely even comfort. And no ornamentation. And while I can understand Uncle’s issues with gold, there are many other spectacular creations by the smiths of Erebor that a King could claim for his own comfort. A single rug-that is almost plain-and a simple table with two chairs. Your clothes are without ornament. You barely wear the crown and you barely wear any jewellery. You socialise reluctantly, you clearly don’t sleep enough and you spend most of your time alone. You never look happy-even when Ki wed Tauriel.”

“I was happy then,” Thorin protested defensively. “The happiness of my family has always been my priority…” He paused. “Even if one of them marries a tree-shagger…” he added dryly, hearing Dwalin snigger. Tauriel and Thorin had reached an understanding during Kili’s courtship but there was an agreement that both were permitted a single insult in any social gathering. Dis snorted as well.

“Who may in the near future be the mother of your grand-nephews and nieces,” she pointed out. 

“Thorin-what’s on your mind?” Balin asked, his tone clipped. He had known the King for almost all his life and he agreed with Fili’s assessment. Finally, the King turned to face them.

“I am going to abdicate,” he told them.

There was another, stunned silence before everyone spoke at once…but the moment the words left his mouth, the rightness of the decision struck him. He breathed quietly as the chaos quietened down and Dis rose. Walking slowly to face him, she looked him up and down and then gently laid a hand on his cheek.

“Why?” she breathed. “Why would you abandon your people and leave the responsibility to my son? Why would you weigh him down with the burden that you struggled with so suddenly when the King was slain and Adad went missing?”

“I was much younger than Fili when I became King and far less prepared,” Thorin told her simply. “Fili is ready. He has been trained and tested and this time, the handover will be orderly and planned. And he is far more suited to the Throne of Erebor than I am.”

She slapped him, the blow hard enough to snap his head around and he flinched then returned his impassive gaze to meet hers.

“You would ruin his life when he is still young, still courting,” she snapped, her tone furious.

“Believe me, I only think of the future of Erebor,” Thorin told her quietly, the defeat in his tone painful to hear. Balin leaned forward.

“You’ve done a fine job in rebuilding the Kingdom, in making sure that the dragon’s influence is removed from he treasure and that everyone shares in the prosperity of Erebor,” he said. “You should not be so hard on yourself, laddie…” But Thorin gave a small, bitter smile.

“Before we left on the Quest, on that night at Master Baggins’ home, you told me that I need not go on the Quest. That I had done well for our people, that I had built a life of peace and prosperity in Ered Luin. But I insisted on the Quest and against all odds, we succeeded. So now Erebor is rebuilt and the life of peace and prosperity that I envisaged for our people has come to pass-but in our ancestral Halls, our true home. But I find no peace here because every inch of the mountain reminds me of the sins, the crimes I committed here.”

“Not this again,” Dwalin muttered under his breath.

“You were forgiven…” Fili began but Thorin raised a hand sharply. 

“Maybe I have not forgiven myself,” he said flatly. “Maybe Mahal has not forgiven me, for my nights are torn by visions of my crimes, over and over. And my heart is rent in two. There is no peace for me here, no forgiveness that I can accept.” Dis stared at him.

“Thorin…no one blames you for your illness, for your actions in your dragon sickness…” Balin began.

“I blame myself,” the King interrupted. “I broke oaths, betrayed allies, almost caused a war…and almost killed our burglar. I suspected every one of my Company, though none had done a thing to warrant such treatment. I am an unfit King. And while there remains any gold in Erebor, I am a risk to those who look to me.”

“You have a duty…” Dis began but her brother bowed his head.

“Namad, I have fulfilled my duty,” he said. “I risked everything…and I won. But in doing that. I sacrificed my heart. The guilt of what I have done haunts me every waking hour.”

“You have been forgiven,” Fili repeated.

“Not by Bilbo,” Thorin finally told him, his voice gruff with pain. “I have been writing to him every week since the first Durin’s Day in Erebor. And not one word in reply. I have apologised, explained myself, called him friend…but never once has he acknowledged me. So I can only conclude that the one person whose forgiveness  I seek, whose forgiveness I most desire…has not and never will offer it to me. And thus I remain shamed and guilty of my crimes. I have served my penance here: now I can leave the daily reminder of my crimes.” 

The others stared at him.

“I didn’t know Bilbo had never written to you,” Balin murmured. “He writes to everyone-even Engarad and Tauriel.” Thorin looked away to hide the pain in his eyes, the pain that jabbed through his chest at the confirmation of his disgrace.

“Proof, if any was needed, that I am unforgiven,” he stated flatly. “The only being whose approval I need on this Middle Earth…and the one who will not forgive me.” His sister stared at him in shock.

“Thorin…you cannot mean…” she snapped. He stared at her and then walked to the door.

“Since you will clearly not leave me to any peace, I will go and seek it for myself,” he told them flatly. “I expect you will have left by my return.” And then he walked from the room, the heavy door slamming loudly behind him as his steps receded in the quiet. Dis shook her head.

“My brother has always been over-dramatic,” she said and sat down, worrying a nail as she stared at the flames.

“Did he say what I thought he did?” Dwalin asked, walking to stand by his brother, his arms folded. 

“He never said anything, either during the Quest or after,” Balin confirmed.

“Though he certainly looked at Bilbo…after Azog had nearly killed him and Bilbo raced down to save him, of course…like he was a piece of treasure rather than a Hobbit,” Fili commented. The others looked at him. “Ki noticed it as well. It’s not our fault the rest of you aren’t as observant as we are.”

“It would explain the Mithril vest,” Balin mused. Dis grabbed his arm.

“Thorin gave the Halfling a Mithril vest?” she repeated. He nodded.

“I think, even amid his madness, he was trying to protect Bilbo,” he murmured. 

“But even since…he’s never said anything…” Dwalin protested. “Are you sure or…”

“Or you think my brother has brooded so much on the Halfling that he imagines himself in love with him?” Dis asked and then she shook her head, dismissing the notion. “I am sorry. I do him a disservice. Of one thing I am sure-which you should know, since you are also with your One-is that the call of your other half is unmistakeable.” Slowly, the warrior nodded.

“Every day, he walks the ramparts, standing there and staring across towards Dale,” he murmured. “Every day.”

“He revisits the scene of that day,” Fili murmured. “The place that cost him…” He sighed. “Amad-what would he do when he abdicates? What purpose will he have if he doesn’t have the Kingdom?” Dis looked over at her son and sighed.

“Thorin is two hundred years old and he has been caring for our people for much of his life,” she reminded him. “His entire life has been duty. No matter how much we care for him, how can we deny his wish to finally have something for himself? And even if that means leaving, maybe it is for the best. He has no peace here: perhaps leaving the home he fought to reclaim for us will gain him what he seeks.” 

The Crown Prince looked up at his cousins and mother and felt his heart constrict.

“So this is really happening?” he asked. “He’s really leaving?”

Balin nodded.

“Yes, my King,” he said.

The ceremony and the crowning of King Fili I by Thorin went smoothly, though the people of Erebor were stunned and shocked at the departure of their King. Kili was installed as Crown Prince and Heir and Tauriel crowned as Princess, much to Dis’s amusement. The entire Company was in attendance and Bilbo had sent best wishes, though he cited the distance and short notice as reasons not to make the journey. Some were disappointed and there was talk of maybe setting up a journey across to the leagues to visit their burglar but everyone had heavy responsibilities and it was clear that any travel would need some serious planning and co-ordination.

After the ceremony, Thorin had excused himself from the feast and returned to his rooms, staring at the pack leaning against the now-empty desk. He removed his rich robes for the last time, folding them neatly and leaving them on the desk before he changed into new clothes that Balin and Dis had provided for his travel. He still kept his old mail from the Quest and his comfortable boots but he once he had shed the trappings of royalty, he donned a fresh Durin blue shirt, black tunic and breeches and fastened a wide belt around his waist. Reverently, he glanced over at Orcrist, the weapon that had served him so well before he dropped to his knees in front of the fire. He couldn’t put this off any longer, for he was no longer a King, no longer a hero or a symbol of his people. No, he was simply a shamed old dwarf who could never be forgiven for the attack on the being that he now knew for certain was his One, the only person he was ever permitted to love. Now he could finally admit his guilt, his desolation and his utter hopelessness. And though he felt hollow, the pain in his heart a constant companion, he still felt his throat tighten as he lifted the knife. 

He hoped that Bilbo would understand. 

Chapter Text

II: The Shire

Bilbo Baggins, respectable Hobbit of the Shire, bustled around his kitchen when he heard the familiar tapping at the window. Looking up, he spied a Raven, as he had been expecting. Communications across half a world were not easy but the dwarves of Erebor had an efficient Raven post and over the years, Bilbo had befriended most of the birds. He had learned to be cautious but respectful while ensuring he had suitable scraps available in the cold store for any hungry messenger who may arrive. This one was an older Raven-Roac-favoured by Thorin so the Hobbit carefully unlatched the lock and opened the window to allow the bird to bounce in. This time, the bird had a bulky letter wrapped up in oilskin that it seemed grateful to be freed from the weight. It pecked half-heartedly at Bilbo and then flapped over to the counter where the bowl of beef scraps was waiting while the Hobbit made his way to the table to read the missive.

He sighed. Thorin had written to him every week since the anniversary of the day they entered the mountain, including that first letter where the dwarf had poured out his heart and begged for forgiveness. But what could Bilbo say? He had forgiven Thorin when he had thought the dwarf King was dying because it would be churlish to deny a dying man absolution but he had been grieving, traumatised, wounded and desolate when he left the mountain. Nightmares had plagued his nights, seeing the Line of Durin dying in the battle he had tried to avert but which had happened anyway. In his mind, he had seen them die in a variety of ways, some of which he had never viewed and all of which were more horrific than what had actually happened. Sometimes, the entire Company died…or Bilbo perished…or Yavanna forbid, Azog won…but mostly it was the three members of the Company he cared for the most who had closed their eyes on the world and who had been buried in stone.

Gandalf had been concerned for him and even though the Hobbit was certain that the wizard had far greater concerns than one small Hobbit, Gandalf had not left him. All the way on the journey, through a week in Mirkwood as the honoured and feted guests of the Elvenking-and hadn’t that been the most ironic happenstance ever?-and on to Beorn’s until the snows settled. The peace of the skin changer’s home had helped settle some of the nightmares but Bilbo was still wracked by guilt, feeling that he had betrayed Thorin’s trust and friendship in the attempt to prevent a battle that was always going to happen. But there were other distractions and the calm and peace had gradually soothed his soul enough to allow him a small measure of equilibrium as the winter had come to an end. As soon as it was possible, they headed out and crossed the Misty Mountains without any incidents-not that Bilbo had expected any trouble accompanied by a wizard. And then they had finally come to Rivendell.

It was only when they had crossed the river and entered the peaceful aura of the Elven city that Bilbo had felt the weight of his grief lessen. Rivendell was miraculous indeed and as Lord Elrond welcomed them and offered them his hospitality, he felt as if he had come home. The tall elf had leaned forward to greet the Hobbit and a small smile had lifted his face.

“I am glad you have returned, Master Baggins,” he said gravely. “I know of the success of your Quest and I hope you will share with me the take of your adventures.” A blush had warmed his cheeks as Bilbo had smiled at the Eldar.

“I would be honoured, Lord Elrond,” he said honestly. “Though some of the tale is painful to recall.” The smile that had crossed Elrond’s face was melancholy.

“All great tales have their moments of light and their shadows,” he reminded the Hobbit. “Every victory carries a price and sometimes, we who survive may count that cost too high. But for those who no longer see the sky and stars, we must endure and make the most of the life they no longer  share.”

Moved by the words of the immortal, Bilbo had managed a wan smile of his own and followed his host into the house for a well-needed snack and a good bath. Somehow, everything felt better on an full stomach.

The time in Rivendell had been bittersweet for though Bilbo had loved the Library, the peace of the grounds and the opportunity to converse with the other inhabitants-and practice his Elvish-every inch of the place reminded him of the dwarves and their brief stay in the hidden valley. He could still recall their suspicions, their grumbles and their frankly appalling behaviour, with raucous singing, food fights, insulting their hosts and the food, skinny dipping in the fountains, raiding the larders and the wine cellars and destroying furniture to make a fire over which they had cooked their stolen steaks and sausages. He shuddered. Thorin could have stopped them if he had wanted to but his own suspicions and prejudices against all elves had led to the traumatic experience. In fact, Bilbo was immensely grateful that Elrond had permitted him to even pass his borders and was careful to ensure that his host was aware of his gratitude for his hospitality.

Telling his story was cathartic-though he did edit it a little. He carefully removed any reference to the Ring, though he did mention Gollum and skimmed over the riddles, mentioning he ran when Gollum reneged on his deal and stumbled across the way out by chance, fortunately only moments after the dwarves had made their own escape. His description of the Elvenking’s dungeons and the escape was similarly modified though Elrond’s eyes glittered with anger at the tale of the imprisonment of the dwarves for nothing more than getting lost and attacked by spiders. And his voice faltered as he recounted his theft of the Arkenstone and the events that followed.

Elrond leaned forward and gazed at the slumped shape of the Hobbit, who was sipping his wine using both hands because he was shaking.

“You still feel guilt for that action,” he said, his dark eyes knowing. “I warned Gandalf before you left that madness ran through Thorin’s line. I believe you overheard us?” Ashamedly, Bilbo nodded. “It was inevitable that Thorin Oakenshield would fall to the same sickness that consumed his grandfather-but it was certain that the Arkenstone would worsen his condition to the point where maybe, he would never be able to be reached. Your actions ensured that did not happen and you prevented a conflict that would have left the survivors so weakened that the armies of Azog and Bolg would have overwhelmed them. You saved many lives, Bilbo Baggins-even though you believe that you did not save those you sought most dearly to preserve.”

“I saw him die…and he forgave me,” Bilbo said brokenly. “I forgave him…but how could he forgive me for such a betrayal?”

“Because the madness had left him,” Gandalf put in. “A gold-sick Thorin would never have left his mountain for fear someone would steal the gold. But he regained his mind and led his Company out in a charge that is fully worthy of the most raucous song the dwarves could muster. And when he shook off the malady of his Line, he was the King he always had been and he knew what you had done, that what you did was to prevent deaths and to save him.” Elrond hummed quietly.

“And did you truly forgive him?” he asked. “You described his reaction to you in most traumatic terms. It was clearly a moment that is foremost your memories. You told him you forgave him as he was dying…but did you truly absolve him of blame. Or did you say what you thought he needed to say to ease his passing?”

Bilbo stared into the ageless eyes for a long time and then he sighed.

“I don’t know,” he said.

He spent nearly three months in Rivendell, reading, writing and coming to terms with his memories. Elrond’s words haunted him and he found himself sitting out in the gardens in the evening, smoking some pipeweed that Elrond had generously supplied and considering his emotions. And maybe he didn’t fully forgive Thorin but what could he say? Thorin was gone, paying for all his sins with his life in that heroic battle and Bilbo’s forgiveness was irrelevant. Maybe it was only for his peace of mind that he needed to forgive Thorin…but if he searched his heart, there was still some anger and fear there, the memory still flashing up occasionally in his nightmares, though less frequently since he had been in Imladris. And recognising that, he knew that he could not offer forgiveness until he finally came to terms with that moment. Neither of them would truly be at peace until then.

They left in High Summer and Elrond had offered an escort to the Shire but Gandalf had promised to see him back to the borders before he finally headed off on a mission of his own-which Bilbo hoped hadn’t been too long delayed by his kind chaperoning of the Hobbit on his journey. Laden down with supplies, gifts and a standing invitation to return as Elrond’s guest any time, Bilbo had left Rivendell with a much lighter heart and more at peace than he had been for some time. But it was only when Gandalf left him at the borders of the Shire that he finally felt like his adventure was coming to an end. But how would his fellow Hobbits respond? He had run off without a word and it would be well within their rights to have declared him dead, for it was comfortably after Lithe and a good year and a quarter since he ran out of his front door. Yet when he rode up the Hill, his house seemed singularly devoid of anything extraordinary, save a notice tacked to the door advising all traders to contact Hamfast Gamgee on Bagshot Row with queries or the Thain for any other matters. 

Walking into Bag End, Bilbo had felt both relieved and on edge. The place was as he had left it-though dustier. The pantry had been cleared (Yavanna bless Hamfast and Bell Gamgee) so he didn’t have rotten food to deal with and even all his silver spoons were still in their place (though he had been almost certain Lobelia Sackville-Baggins would have taken them the day after he ran off). All that was out of place was a pile of letters laid on the kitchen table, all on heavy parchment and addressed with angular writing typical of those who usually wrote in dwarfish runes. Pushing his curiosity aside for a moment, he had settled in, unpacked, bathed, redressed in fresh clothes and gone shopping. Finally he had visited Hamfast and chatted, thanking him for looking after his home and being shocked that Fortinbras had personally ensured his home was protected in his absence. Then he had brewed a nice pot of tea, made a walnut cake and finally sat down by the fire to attack his pile of letters.

Finding that the Durins were alive was a shock but not a bad one and something in Bilbo twisted that he had missed being there for his friends. He had been given to understand by the Elves he was staying with that they had perished and he cursed himself that he hadn’t checked himself…but he freely admitted that he hadn’t been in the best shape emotionally, physically and mentally. And now, they were half a world away and there was no way for Bilbo to return. Not that he wanted to leave his home mere minutes after returning but there was a pang of regret that maybe he should have stayed a little longer after the battle with his friends. Yet it stirred other emotions in him and the news that Thorin lived, in particular, revived the confusion he had felt after the discussion with Elrond. Did he truly forgive Thorin for the events on the ramparts or…? He sighed and sipped his cooling cup of tea. It was not something that needed answering now.

But he had written back to all those who wrote and it was only when Thorin had finally written to him that he had a decision to make. He had read the words, felt the emotion in the letter that had clearly been written from the heart…but when he had reached for the paper to reply, as he had for every other letter, he found himself unable to write. Because, in that moment, he realised that he hadn’t forgiven Thorin: at least, not fully. And while he knew that the dwarf had been sincere in his apologies, there was something in Bilbo that clung to his anger and his fear and in that moment, he knew he couldn’t reply. There needed to be something more, something intangible that was missing. So the letter went unanswered. And the next. And the next. And then it became impossible to reply, even had Bilbo wanted to, because in honesty, what had changed? Thorin always offered apologies and news, writing to the Hobbit as a friend and confidante as if he had no one else to fulfil the role. Every week, without fail…except the last week when he had missed. And Bilbo had been concerned. But now Roac was back and the letter was thicker than usual. So he broke the seal and opened the rolled parchment, frowning as two objects fell out.

His eyes widened in shock and he laid the letter down.

Before him lay Thorin’s braids, the cut end uneven, as if hacked off with a blade. The beads were still in place, the long surprisingly soft hair still in its intricate pattern, a few silver hairs caught by the light amid the raven locks. Quietly, the Hobbit closed his hands round the braids and held them, automatically rising them to his nose to catch a faint hint of the scent that was uniquely Thorin, familiar from months of sleeping alongside the King on the road and a number of very warm nights snuggled against the regal dwarf when it was particularly chilly. With a sigh, he laid the braids down and lifted the letter.

My Dear Bilbo,

I write this letter with a heavy heart. For over four years, I have written to you begging your forgiveness for my terrible actions during the Quest. Every syllable of my apologies and every plea for forgiveness was made with the utmost sincerity. I consider you a friend and I always have but I see now that my actions were irredeemable. I can never express to you my utmost shame and horror at my actions during my gold sickness. I am sure it is not of any interest to you but that image wracks my nightmares, night after night. I feel such grief and guilt that I laid hands on you, that I could have killed you had I not been stopped by Gandalf. And that guilt, I fear, will never leave me.

I can only conclude that your silence means that you will never forgive me for my actions. I understand that: I can never forgive myself either. But now, I cannot go on. I have overseen the rebuilding of Erebor and my younger nephew has married his One. Fili is courting a feisty dam who he feels is his One and Dis is delighted. But I see no future now. I have served my purpose and Fili is already much more suited to leading the peaceful Kingdom than I ever have been. He will be provided with skilled advisers, Dis and Balin chief among them and I have handed the throne over to his hands. It is now time for a change.

I have stepped down from the throne and in recognition of the fact that I have wronged you and have not been forgiven, I have cut off my braids. I am sure you understand the importance of braids to dwarves and that the cutting off of braids is a sign of grave dishonour and shame. They are yours as the wronged party and the shame is mine, for attacking one who I call friend. One who my heart…would once have called more. And from this day, without braids or beads, I am shamed and dishonoured for my crimes. I cannot remain in Erebor without honour so I will leave and hope that somewhere, one day, I can find peace.

I offer my wishes for nothing but good fortune to you. Your courage and steadfastness…yes, and loyalty…was the reason why my people live in our home today. I can never thank you enough for your determination in the Quest. And please be assured: I bear you no ill will for your actions in taking the Arkenstone. The fault was entirely mine and your actions saved us many lives. It was my conduct that shamed Durin’s Line and Erebor and I thank Mahal that I was saved from irrevocably harming you. And hope that, one day, you will find peace with my actions.

May Mahal protect you in all you do

Farewell

Thorin Oakenshield.

Bilbo lowered the letter and felt his eyes sting. 

“Thorin,” he breathed, staring at the braids once more. “What have you done? Handing over the throne? Leaving Erebor? Cutting your braids?” He glanced at the letter and the realisation hit him. “You gave up hope, didn’t you?” And in that moment, he finally saw into the mind of Thorin Oakenshield, King Under The Mountain, Hero of Azanulbizar, that proud and unyielding dwarf who had gone to slay a dragon with only thirteen dwarves and one Hobbit and who had defied the Elvenking for wrongs over a century distant, no matter the consequences for his Quest. Thorin who loved his sister and her sons above all, whose gaze silently counted the entire Company-even Bilbo!-at every stop and whose tension only eased when all were safely accounted for. Thorin who almost lost his life saving a Hobbit he vehemently believed never should have come and who was brave and honest enough to admit his error in front of the whole Company. Thorin who commanded respect and obedience from his followers, even when he was in rags or at his worst-because he had shown (probably over many years to some of them) that he would do anything for his people. Thorin whose honour was more important than almost anything…

Thorin who had obliquely (but never so overtly) declared his affections for Bilbo so many times over their correspondence. And who had almost certainly given up hope not only of forgiveness but that his friendship…or more…would ever be returned.

The Hobbit looked over to the Raven.

“Can you stay tonight and carry a letter back in the morning?” he asked and the corvid gave him a jaundiced look. Over the years, Bilbo had learned that Roac could speak Westron if required but the look he granted his host spoke volumes. Then he fluttered up onto the kitchen cabinet, tucked his head under his wing and went to sleep. Bilbo smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he muttered and sat back to re-read the letter…before composing his reply.

Roac flew off the next morning carrying letters for Dis, Balin, Fili and Kili. It was the first time that Bilbo had actually felt anxiety about writing and an urgency to receive replies because he was worried about what had happened to Thorin. He had felt concerned when Thorin had missed his weekly letter and it was only then that he had realised that he had come to rely on Thorin for news of the mountain, cherishing his letters. And every time he read the words, he could hear the familiar baritone voice speaking the words, adding the intonation in his mind and taking him back to those days after the Carrock when Thorin had sought him out and spoken to him when they camped…or those long days in the Elvenking’s dungeons, when he had sought out the isolated dwarven King and chatted with him for hours to lighten his despair amid the cold and darkness of his miserable cell.

He missed Thorin, his friend, he realised with chagrin. He had got too used to receiving the letters and reading the words, knowing the letters were always sent singly using a separate Raven and felt all the more special for it. And perhaps he had been cruel, never replying and allowing Thorin to believe that he was unforgiven…

He blinked. 

There was still a frisson of lingering resentment in his breast but how long had it been since he had the nightmare? How long had it been since he had even considered that day? And even though his mind intellectually reminded him that he was still equivocal about that incident, about the attempt on his life, how could he yearn to read Thorin’s words and imagine the dwarf speaking them? How could he recall earlier times with such warmth if he had not forgiven Thorin? And why did he never tell the dwarf of his thoughts? Why had he never offered the dwarf the smallest crumb of reassurance, of hope?

Now it may be too late. Thorin had left Erebor and his words indicated that he intended to wander, shamed and braidless, certainly never to be welcome in any other dwarfish settlement. He cringed: he could not see Thorin ever seeking refuge with the Elves and the few tales that he had heard of the dwarves’ interactions with Men during their wandering gave Bilbo little comfort either.  Isolated from his people, how would Thorin manage? Always the outsider, muttered about and treated badly with no one to speak up for him, who would care if he fell to sickness or hunger or injury? Would anyone care that Thorin Oakenshield, former King Under The Mountain, was in need when all they saw was another nameless dwarf? Images reared their heads-not the nightmare on the ramparts but that other day, after the battle where a bloody and torn Thorin lay dying on the ice, using the last of his strength to make his peace with the Hobbit. Thorin had forgiven him: was it so hard for Bilbo to let go his lingering anger when Thorin had now given everything up to atone?

I never wanted him to give up his throne and his life for me, he thought suddenly. I-I don’t know what I wanted but not this. Not this.

Waiting for the replies from Erebor was a torment all of its own but the replies came by return of Raven-though Bilbo was pleased to see that Roac was spared the burden of yet another flight halfway across the world. Two further Ravens arrived later that afternoon and after he had fed the Ravens and set a casserole cooking for dinner, he sat down to read his letters. All four of his correspondents answered his questions fully and honestly, each putting his or her spin on Thorin’s actions. All were surprised that Thorin had been writing to the Hobbit so regularly and moreso that Bilbo hadn’t replied. But everyone was in agreement that Thorin shearing his braids was a very worrying development. When Thorin had left, he had already raised his hood and Dis’s letter cursed her stubborn and rock-headed brother for his over-dramatic antics and determination to make himself suffer. Balin tried to reassure him that Thorin was a strong and determined warrior and he had travelled all over Middle Earth for two centuries without incident. But Fili’s words struck Bilbo the most.

My Uncle blames himself for his actions against you and mercilessly ensures that he suffers for his crimes. He walks the ramparts daily to remind himself of his crimes, he wears no gold or any finery, he shies from any trappings of wealth and he works himself into the ground. He still cuts his beard, keeping it as short as it was on the Quest as a sign of his shame. He is loved and respected by his people but even that is not enough for him. The only opinion he values…is yours. And the absence of your forgiveness is too painful for him to endure.

May I be blunt? Why did you never write back? Is it because you do not forgive my Uncle or because you had no words to answer those he sent you? I know you are a generous and effusive correspondent, even to those you have never met but I wonder why you never wrote back to the King who led you on the Quest and with whom you have shared so many adventures and such friendship. I think that eventually broke Thorin’s resolve and removed his last shred of hope. I know from watching him that he has been going through the motions of ruling for the last year and only abdicated when he was certain that I was ready for the throne. I fear for Thorin, devoid of his hope and his honour, which is so precious for him. 

If he does contact you again, I would beg you treat him kindly. I do not ask for forgiveness if you do not feel it but I would ask for compassion for my Uncle. It seems the prison he has made himself has no parole and will never release him until he can forgive himself. And as of now, I can never see him reaching that place.

Bilbo stared at the words and felt tears on his cheeks. He knew that he hadn’t truly forgiven Thorin when the dwarf King started writing to him and at that time the decision not to reply had been a conscious one but he wondered when he had come to terms with the incident. Sometime, he had realised that the Thorin from the ramparts was not the dwarf who wrote every week, the dwarf who spoke of his family with such affection and his Kingdom with such pride. Feeling ashamed, he covered his face with his hands and felt his breath shudder through him.

Oh Thorin, he thought. Please be safe. Don’t do anything reckless. And let your family know you are safe.

Months passed and Bilbo had no option but to carry on with life. Guilt wracked him that he had not assured Thorin that he had probably forgiven him…but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly when that happened. But he knew he could have written to let Thorin know that Bilbo considered him as a friend…because he had. So he carried on, writing to his dwarrows and working through the landmarks in the Hobbit Year: Lithe, Harvest, Weddings and even his birthday, though he did not feel like celebrating. Every day, he scanned the road, hoping against hope that a familiar sturdy shape would come stomping up the Hill and to his door once more. But every day, he was disappointed and his guilt grew just a little worse. He ran the conversation he should have had through his mind over and over, perfecting what he should have said…but every time, Thorin reacted differently. Anger, disdain, hatred, disinterest, relief…in his mind, his apologies were rejected and he was subjected once more to the hatred and anger of the King, his powerful shape rising above Bilbo and this time, there was no one else there to stop him. This time…

He shook his head and mentally slapped himself. Maybe five years earlier, this would be a viable scenario but he knew now from Thorin’s letters and the copious correspondence that he had received that Thorin was no longer in the grip of gold sickness and was in control of his mind. And  of one thing he was sure: Thorin Oakenshield was an honourable dwarf who had surrendered his Kingdom and his visible trappings of honour and family out of guilt and grief at the wrongs he had committed while not himself. And though Bilbo had struggled with his own memories and feelings about the incident, he had finally made his peace and had forgiven Thorin. If only Thorin would believe him.

Autumn closed and the weather abruptly deteriorated. The winds changed and the sky was filled with lowering grey clouds that lashed rain on the Shire. Winds whipped up and down the lanes, snatching the rusty leaves from the trees and spinning them along the lanes and gardens of the Hobbits. Mud was everywhere and everything was damp and miserable. And it was on one such day, as the curtains of grey rain obscured everything beyond the Party Tree that Bilbo heard a firm knock at his door. Sitting by the fire, he sighed and laid down his book, glancing at the window but seeing no one. He wasn’t expecting visitors for Hobbits tended not to go out in poor weather except of necessity and his pantry was full so there were no deliveries scheduled. Sighing, he pattered out into the entrance Hall, feeling the cool stone under his feet. The nights were getting much colder and that tended to keep the ground temperature lower. Then he opened the door.

Framed in the doorway and hunched under the porch was the shape of a tall dwarf, his hood obscuring his face but his entire shape sodden. Bilbo frowned as he lowered himself to his knees and knocked his hood back, revealing the familiar and much-missed features of Thorin Oakenshield. For a second, he stared dumbly at the former King kneeling in the pouring rain in his porch, the water running down his proud features and dripping from his nose. Piercing blue eyes stared into Bilbo’s face for a long moment before he fumbled at his belt and drew out a wickedly sharp dagger, cradling it in his hands and offering the pommel to the shocked Hobbit, who instinctively backed up a pace. Thorin’s throat worked and there was an expression in his eyes that looked as if Bilbo had just wrenched his heart out but he took a shuddering breath and bowed his head.

“Master Baggins,” he said, the deep voice so familiar but rough with emotion. “I have wronged you. I offered you apologies but I see now that there is no apology on this world that could atone for the cruelty I offered you. I had treated you poorly on our Quest and you proved me comprehensively wrong by saving my life and that of my Company, again and again. I offered you friendship and hoped…hoped that there could be more. I believed…that there was more between us. I was astonished and proud at your courage in facing the dragon and in reclaiming our home. But I failed you and my people by succumbing to the madness, the dragon sickness that has plagued my line for generations. I broke my Oath to the people of Laketown and shamed you in the process, you who vouched for me before the townsfolk and Master. I shamed my forefathers by behaving like a tyrant and I see that your actions were solely designed to save our Company and prevent bloodshed. There was no future in remaining trapped in the Mountain like rats in a hole, out of food and under siege: you saw that when I could not. And you had the honour and courage to own your actions and beg me to honour my obligations. In response, I behaved like a wild beast, like every bad caricature of a dwarf that the other races cruelly use to denigrate my people. And that was my fault. I tried to kill you and would have, if the wizard had not intervened. And I cannot tell you how that moment has haunted my nightmares, envisaging what would have happened had Tharkun not stepped up when he did. I-I lost every chance of redemption then and though I received absolution from you as you thought I lay dying, I know now that was a simple kindness for a dying man.”

He took a shuddering breath.

“Erebor prospers and my sister-son, King Fili, now sits on the throne. I have surrendered my Kingdom, my family, my people, my honour because I do not deserve them. But I can find no peace because I know that my crimes are too egregious. So I come to you, whose life I tried to end, to offer my own.”

He extended his arms a little, offering the dagger to the shocked Hobbit.

“Take my life, Master Baggins, in exchange for the terrible insults and wrongs I offered to one who only acted with courage and honour to save my Company and myself.”

Bilbo stared, his breaths heaving through him. A rather large part of him had really hoped that Thorin would visit after his abdication and that he could assuage his own feelings of guilt while finally talking to the dwarf without any pressure. The last thing he had anticipated was that Thorin would arrive on his doorstep and ask Bilbo to murder him him recompense for what had previously happened. Thorin who was now looking like a totally drowned rat, his sodden hair stuck limply to his head and shoulders, his tunic drenched and sticking to his powerful frame. Internally, a frisson of annoyance rose at the dwarf’s propensity for grand dramatic gestures-so typical of him. After all, he had seen the King’s love of speeches, his fearless grandstanding in Laketown, the manner he had thrown back Thranduil’s deal in the Elvenking’s face despite being a  helpless prisoner at the time… Huffing, he took the dagger from Thorin’s drenched hands and weighed it in his hands, seeing Thorin’s shoulders tense at the action. For a second, they slumped and the dwarf looked utterly defeated before the former King drew them back and lifted his head, exposing his throat for the deadly blow. And then he closed his eyes.

Silently, Bilbo walked round the corner and put the dagger in his mother’s Glory Box, fuming. As if he, a respectable Hobbit of the Shire, would be involved in such nonsensical dwarven shenanigans! No Hobbit would ever kill a guest (not even if they were a Sackville-Baggins!), especially one who turned up in such appalling weather and clearly needed a seat by the fire, a hot cup of tea and a severe talking-to. And particularly if said guest was a handsome and clearly deranged dwarven King prone to excessive drama who was offering his life up as some form of twisted apology. So he walked back and folded his arms, glaring at the motionless Thorin.

“Oh do get up!” he said impatiently, seeing Thorin start and open his eyes warily. The King had lost weight and looked travel-worn and exhausted. “You’re soaked to the bone. If we don’t dry you off, you’ll catch your death!” The dwarf frowned, looking unnerved before nodding silently and rising slowly to his feet. Grabbing his pack from his side, he walked into Bag End once more. Obediently, he removed his cloak, weapons, coat, boots and outer tunic and then padded into the parlour. Sternly, Bilbo made him sit on the couch by the merry fire before wrapping a fluffy blanket around him and heading off to get a towel for him to dry his hair. He bustled back and handed the towel to Thorin, who was staring at him as if he was a complete stranger, not someone who had travelled with him halfway across Arda. The Hobbit gestured.

“You’ll catch your death,” he repeated sternly. “I’m going to get you a nice hot cup of tea and then we can talk, Thorin Oakenshield.” Silently, the dwarf just nodded, his head bowed as if all the fight had left him, though Bilbo noted that he was shivering slightly. Trying not to focus on the strangeness of the whole situation, he boiled the kettle, brewed a nice large pot of tea and fished out a selection of biscuits and cake slices which he carefully laid out on the tray. Finally, he knew that he couldn’t put off the conversation any longer and carefully brought his tray into the parlour, placing it on the side table and carefully pouring the dwarf a nice hot cup of tea. 

Silently, Thorin took the tea, nodding thanks and cupping the china in both his hands. Quietly, he sipped the hot liquid and watched as Bilbo poured himself a cup, took an oat and raisin biscuit and sat in the armchair by the fire. Bilbo sipped his tea, munched his biscuit and then turned his exasperated look on the dwarf.

“You do realise your entire family are worried to death about you?” he asked pointedly. Thorin flinched.

“That was never my intention,” he finally said in a subdued voice. Bilbo sighed.

“Then what was your intention?” he asked calmly as Thorin finally looked up.

“Master Baggins…” he began but Bilbo interrupted him.

“Bilbo,” he said shortly. “My name is Bilbo and I think we have been through enough together for you to use it!” Nodding, Thorin conceded.

“Bilbo…” he continued, looking up at the Hobbit. “When I woke after the Battle, after many days hovering between life and death, I found you gone. I guessed you thought me dead and that your forgiveness was a kind gesture to a dying man. But as I recovered and the effects of the dragon sickness faded, I realised how appalling my treatment of you had truly been. I was ashamed that the Company were able to write to you so easily but that I…could not. My guilt still wracked me. I also feared that you believed you were still banished from Erebor. So I wrote to you and offered my apologies…but when I received no reply I guessed that I could not be forgiven. So I made the Kingdom secure and surrendered my honour and my home to come and offer you all I could to either earn your forgiveness or surrender what I had left.”

Bilbo looked exasperated and took another sip before resting his cup on the side table.

“So let me be clear,” he said carefully. “You disbelieve me when I forgave you after the Battle. You torment yourself for years over your actions and base that on my lack of letters. So you give up your throne, cut off your braids, exile yourself and turn up on my doorstep asking that I take your life in recompense for the wrongs that you did me.”

“That is correct,” Thorin said uncomfortably. Bilbo sighed.

“I am sorry,” he said quietly. Blue eyes focussed on him in shock and Thorin almost dropped his cup.

“You should not be apologising…” he began but Bilbo shook his head immediately.

“Please hear me out-as I listened to your frankly insane explanation,’ he said firmly. He clasped his hands and sat up straight. Defeated, Thorin accepted and quietly placed his cup on the floor. “You are right. I forgave you after the Battle because I thought you were dying and I didn’t want you to pass to Mahal’s Halls burdened with the guilt of your actions.” He sighed. “I thought I had lost you and the boys and my heart was broken. I was also wounded and traumatised by all the death-because Hobbits aren’t meant to be in battles and see so much death and suffering. And despite everything I went through, that was just one step too far. So Gandalf took me home. And I never knew that you had all survived until I got home, nine months later when I found letters from the Company waiting for me.” He sighed but pressed on.

“There was a small part of me that wanted to just run out the door again and go back to see you all-but I knew I was spent. Exhausted, still dealing with all that I had endured and still adjusting. I had nightmares and flashbacks to some of the things I saw-mainly you and Fili and Kili falling…but also that time on the ramparts. And as I settled back in, I began to understand that I hadn’t forgiven you completely. That there was more to say. And yes, I know what I said when we last met but I also recognised that my nightmares about that day, the fact they never settled and kept haunting me meant that some part of me wasn’t alright with what happened. And then you wrote, pouring out your apologies and treating me once more like the friend I had cherished, the friend I had lost to the gold and madness of Erebor.”

He looked up and saw Thorin looked stricken and utterly defeated. In fact, it was the same look in those haunting eyes that Bilbo had seen on the doorstep on Erebor, when the sun set and there was no keyhole. It was the look of a dwarf where every last hope has been lost and it broke Bilbo's heart a little. So he got up and sat next to Thorin on the sofa, peering into the hopeless features.

“I’m not saying this to hurt you, Thorin, but to be honest to my friend,” Bilbo told him softly. Stiffly, the former King nodded.

“I understand,” he said gruffly as the Hobbit sighed.

“When you wrote to me, I realised I still harboured some resentment towards you for how you treated me and tried to kill me,” Bilbo sighed. “It is not something I pride myself on, because I always believed that I was a forgiving, decent Hobbit. But after you first wrote, I kept seeing you lunging at me, every night. I felt your hands on my throat every night. And most nights I woke with a shout of fear as you threw me to my death."

Thorin buried his face in his hands and groaned, curling up to try to make himself look as small as he could. His breaths hitched and Bilbo felt his brow furrow as he inspected the dwarf. Quietly, he rested a hand on the hunched shoulder and felt Thorin stiffen under his touch.

“I am sorry,” the former King mumbled brokenly.

“You see it too,” Bilbo told him gently. “A moment of madness, of anger and stupidity and hatred fuelled by the sickness of your line and the tainted gold that had laid under a dragon for over a century. A moment provoked by my theft of the Arkenstone.” Thorin stiffened to protest but Bilbo tightened his grip on the dwarf’s rigid shoulder. “No, let me take some blame for this. I knew how desperately you sought the Arkenstone and I knew how unstable you were, how your moods were erratic and that you were talking viciously about traitors and betrayal. They asked me not to return after I had handed it over because they feared how you would react but I foolishly thought that I owed you an explanation, that the Company would protect me…that in the end, you would never harm me. I was wrong…because I overestimated what I meant to you and underestimated how strong the sickness was.” Thorin groaned again. “I am sorry.”

“You are forgiven,” the dwarf said automatically, his words muffled by the hands still covering his face. “As soon as I woke and learned that the Company, that my nephews lived, I knew you were forgiven because you saved them. Everything you did was there to protect me from myself and protect the Company from me. You were the only one who would: the rest had sworn loyalty to me and could not betray me by taking the Arkenstone, no matter their own thoughts. Tharkun chose wisely when he chose a Hobbit for our fourteenth member-and doubly so when he chose you, Bilbo Baggins.” The Hobbit blushed but then pulled himself together.

“Thorin-when I received that first letter, I was conflicted and didn’t know what to do. I knew I should respond but honestly, I didn’t know what to say, how to put my conflict into words. Part of me felt terrible and ashamed that the words I had said to you when I thought you were dying seemed no longer to be true…while another part was angry that you all seemed to be prospering while I was alone here with my nightmares. So I delayed, hoping time would allow me to process the thoughts and come up with a way of putting my feelings into words without hurting you…but as I considered, another letter arrived. And another.” He sighed. “A part of me resented you for assuming that it was behind us but a much greater part welcomed the words and looked forward to every new letter. But the longer it went, the harder it became to write to you and tell you that I was struggling in completely forgiving you, no matter what I had said on the battlefield. And I felt ashamed that I couldn’t when you had forgiven me…”

“…I understand…” The words were gruff and miserable.

“But then I realised finally that hearing from you, having you treat me like the friend from the end of the journey eased my resentment and my fears,” Bilbo sighed. “And somewhere along the way, my nightmares eased and I came to accept what had happened. Having Thorin Oakenshield, my friend, writing to me like an old friend, having my friend from the journey sharing news and talking to me…it reassured me that the man who tried to kill me was gone.”

Thorin made a small, broken noise and dropped his hands into his lap, his cheeks damp with tears.

“I cannot guarantee he will never return,” he murmured despondently.

“I can,” Bilbo told him with absolute certainty. “Because I will be there. I will not allow you to go near hoards of gold or anywhere a dragon has recently used as a bed chamber. I will not allow you to lose yourself in that madness again.” He dropped his hand and tentatively grasped one of Thorin’s broad hands. “Thorin. I am so sorry. I should have written back because even though it was not intentional, what I did was cruel. I let you lose hope. And though I was initially suffering, your words, your persistence helped.  It showed me you were sincere and though I cannot pinpoint the hour when I finally forgave you, I have. But you need to forgive yourself as well. And maybe…now you know that I have forgiven you…you can accept that what you did has been forgiven.”

Numbly, Thorin shook his head and Bilbo exhaled, frustrated. And then he frowned, raising a hand to gently stroke a hank of raven hair that stood out because it was much shorter than the rest. Deliberately, he wound the truncated lock around his finger, aware that the dwarf had stiffened.

“And cutting your braids, your beautiful hair…” the Hobbit sighed. “What madness…”

“It was the only penance I could offer, short of my life,” Thorin told him slowly, his voice still gruff with misery. “I had to wait until I had abdicated because a King could not sit on the throne devoid of honour. And a dwarf’s braids are the symbol of all he is: his honour, his family, his allegiances, his skills…it was only right I surrendered them when I had behaved with such utter dishonour towards you.” Bilbo stroked the damp mane and sighed. Even wet, Thorin’s hair was soft and sleek and the Hobbit felt a deep desire to run his fingers through the soft mass. 

“There will be no more hair cutting or asking me to stab you or any such nonsense,” Bilbo told him firmly, reluctantly withdrawing his hand from Thorin’s hair. “I must insist you stay here with me as my guest if you are insistent on being miserable about something I have forgiven you for. And I am so sorry that you took my silence as you did. I should have written…” But then he felt a strong, warm hand wrap around his and Thorin raised his cerulean gaze to meet Bilbo’s.

“No,” he said slowly. “I understand. And I think I understand why you couldn’t forgive me so easily as well. Some crimes are so heinous that…time and distance is needed.” He sighed. “I am grateful for your offer and your kindness Mast…Bilbo…” He took a shuddering breath. “I was grieved and hurt that you never responded but I understand your conflict, for I have been struggling for as long as well…and I am grateful you did not slam the door in my face…and that you declined my offer…” He managed the slightest of smiles.

“Oh Thorin,” Bilbo sighed. “You are the most ridiculously dramatic dwarf on Arda.” There was a slight stiffening of Thorin’s body and he drew himself up slightly, as if in righteous annoyance. It somehow gave Bilbo heart that his friend perhaps would forgive him. “You know me. And do you believe that I, having never used a sword before the Quest, having leapt between you and the Pale Orc, would now kill you myself? After all my efforts to try to keep you alive?” Thorin gave a small snort and a small shake of the head. 

“Then what would you have me do, Master Burglar?” he asked dryly. Bilbo inspected him.

“I suspect you need a nice warm bath after your antics on my doorstep and then I will fix us a nice roast, since I am certain you will not have enjoyed halfway decent food on the road,” the Hobbit decided. “Afterwards, we can talk some more and I can write to your poor family and let them know you are alive and well.”

“And then?” Thorin’s voice was laced with a treacherous thread of hope. Bilbo smiled.

“Then we decide what to do with you,” he said with emotion. “I think you need to learn to forgive yourself and I am here to help you with that. And when you finally accept that you have been forgiven, you will put those braids back in and accept who you are-the good and the bad. I know you have some bad experiences in your past, Thorin Oakenshield: a dragon attacking your home, the battle of Azanulbizar, the deaths of your family, the hardships your people faced, the madness of your line, all those fun times we had with trolls and stone giants and goblins and elves…” He took a deep breath as Thorin managed a small smile. “My point is that we all have good and bad in our pasts and until you accept that, Master Dwarf, then I shall have to keep you here.”

Thorin managed a slightly more genuine smile.

“So I am a prisoner of Master Baggins?” he asked, his tone a little lighter. Bilbo nodded firmly.

“Completely…until you have forgiven yourself,” he insisted. “However long it takes-I am here for you.” Thorin sighed.

“And then…?” he asked. Bilbo smiled.

“Not being a High Elf, I can’t see into the future so I cannot predict what will happen,” he said and then rose. “But some of those words you wrote-which were clearly dwarfish…”

“Khuzdul,” Thorin murmured.

“I suspect they were terms of endearment,” Bilbo said pointedly. Thorin inspected the rug again.

“Azyungel, amralime, ghivashel?” he muttered in a quiet voice. Bilbo nodded.

“Now I presume in a letter where you have offered apologies for past wrongs and proffered your affections that you wouldn’t be insulting me so terms of endearment make sense. And I will tell you now…Thorin, I am not opposed to finding out what those mean,” he said as Thorin looked up sharply. “But first-get cleaned up while I start dinner…” Thorin rose, standing by the Hobbit and giving him a chance to back up if he felt any wariness in the presence of the dwarf. But Bilbo smiled up into his face.

“Thank you, Bilbo,” he said honestly. “You are Urzudel, a sun of suns in this cold, grey world.” He laid a hand across his chest over his heart. “You have given me hope amid my despair and warmth in the cold. You have forgiven me and that, to me, means the world.” The Hobbit gave a genuine smile.

“The fact that you feel such remorse and grief at your actions shows that you deserve forgiveness,” he said. “My heart knew it and has forgiven you. You need to forgive yourself, my dear friend…and then maybe…we can learn what the future holds.”

As he watched the dwarf head into the bathroom as directed and then busied himself with spatchcocking a chicken and peeling some potatoes for roasting, he found himself smiling. He still felt guilt that Thorin had taken his silence so badly but both understood the other better now and he knew that he could help Thorin find the absolution he needed. Maybe he would finally find out what the words meant and the proud dwarf would feel able to regain his sense of self-worth and honour. Maybe their friendship could become more…as Thorin had wistfully written and Bilbo had secretly hoped (before the Arkenstone, of course). And perhaps one day, he could persuade Thorin to go home to see his loved ones in Erebor…maybe when Fili wed or Kili and Tauriel had their first child…and, Yavanna willing, Bilbo would finally go with him and see his friends once more…

Smiling he turned back to the carrots and began to peel them as well.

-o0o-

‘Mr Baggins’ dwarf’ became a fixture round Hobbiton, always polite but reserved and perfectly willing to help anyone who asked. He spent much of his time in Bag End or helping Bilbo Baggins in the garden and there was no one who could describe their relationship as anything other than cordial, close or even affectionate. As time passed and he began to be known by the neighbours, Master Thorin was accepted and treated as anyone else, with close neighbours like Hamfast Gamgee or Widow Gobb having nothing but praise for the impressive dwarf. Of course, everyone else knew-or learned quickly-not to sneer at Master Baggins or call him ‘Mad Baggins’ at the risk of a long lecture on Mr Baggins’ decency, courage, intelligence, determination and above all, loyalty from the dwarf. After one such dressing down, Bilbo’s own cousin, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, badmouthed the dwarf at length to anyone who would listen but as Master Thorin was more than happy to carry heavy shopping, chop logs, mend minor problems for the neighbours and generally assist wherever he could, no one paid her complaints much heed.

By Spring, it was noticed that Master Baggins had taken to wearing a dwarf braid with a bright silver bead that matched the one Master Thorin was wearing and though no one was told what it meant, Hamfast Gamgee, the gardener at Bag End, looked particularly smug when asked if he had noticed anything. On reflection, most people realised asking Hamfast was not a wise move, since the Gamgees often dined up at Bag End and seemed friendly with the Hobbit and dwarf living there. Detractors of the dwarf’s presence were further disappointed for after an incident where Thorin had broken up a mass brawl in the Green Dragon and another where he saved little Primrose Proudfoot from drowning in the Water, he was named an ‘honorary Hobbit’ at the especially lively Lithe festivities that were held that year. 

But heads were turning and necks craning only a couple of weeks later when a group of dwarves-and one elf-rode up the Hill in the hot and sultry afternoon when all sensible Hobbits were indoors enjoying a nice nap or snoozing in their gardens, enjoying the scents of the flowers. The rather hot-looking party meandered along the lane and finally stopped outside Bag End, muttering amongst themselves. And they almost blocked the lane with their ponies as they all crowded the familiar green front door and pounded on it.

“I’m coming!” Bilbo called, wiping his hands as he padded from the kitchen and opened the door. And then he started as he faced Kili, an elegant and richly-garbed dwarf beside him who so like and unalike Thorin that it could only be his sister, Dis and the stern shape of Dwalin. He backed up a pace and gaped. Kili grinned and almost sketched a bow.

“BILBO!” he exclaimed and flung himself on the surprised Hobbit, wrapping him in a huge hug. There was the sound of running steps and Thorin burst round the corner, his face worried.

“Amralime, what…?” he said before he took in the scene and slammed to a halt. “Kili? Dis? Dwalin?” The female dwarf strode forward and slammed her head into Thorin’s, sending him swaying backwards before she wrapped a fierce embrace around him. Automatically, he wound his arms round her and crushed her in a mutually ferocious hug.

“Nadad,” she murmured. He buried his face in her shoulder. “We were so worried. When I heard you cut your braids, I could’ve killed you for stupidity…” He chuckled.

“I’m not sure that would have improved my decision-making capabilities,” he mumbled. “But I have them back now…”

“…because the Halfling has forgiven you,” she realised. He nodded and lifted his head.

“Hobbit!” Bilbo interrupted, causing her to look over at his irritated shape. Kili had finished hugging him and Dwalin had given the Hobbit a small, self-conscious hug of greeting before resuming his usual impressive stance, his arms folded over his chest with Grasper and Keeper, as ever, slung across his back. The Princess took in the Hobbit’s stature, curly hair-with braid and silver bead, shortened pants with suspenders, hairy feet and intelligent expression and blinked in surprise. “I am half of nothing, Madame!” Thorin drew back with a fond smile at his friend’s feistiness and walked to Bilbo’s side, taking his hand.

“Bilbo-this is Dis, Daughter of Thrain. My sister. And Dis-this is Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo, formerly Burglar to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield…”

“Your intended,” the Princess finished sharply, her eyes lingering on the braid in Bilbo’s curly hair. “I can recognise a courting braid when I see one.” There was a pause as Thorin glanced over to Bilbo and the emotion roiling in his cerulean gaze caused the Hobbit to blush. Kili stared at them and then whooped in excitement.

“Thank Mahal!” he exclaimed. “Tauriel!”

The elf popped her head round the doorframe and frowned, peering into the crowded entrance hall.

“Kili? Amralime?” Her clear voice sounded in the space, the dwarfish term of endearment sounding strange on her musical voice and Kili’s face lit with a huge smile that Bilbo had only previously seen for his brother. There was a marriage braid in her long fiery hair.

“Uncle and Bilbo are courting!” he explained as Tauriel gave a small smile.

“I believe that you and Fili owe Bofur for the wager,” she reminded him. His smile faltered for a second but then returned.

“It’s worth it,” he declared as the rest of the dwarves crowded the doorway. Ori, Nori, Dori, Bifur, Bofur, Gloin and Bombur all scrambled in and suddenly, the smial was full of greetings, hugs and a dozen conversations, all at the top of the speaker’s voice. 

“Fili remained in Erebor with Balin and Oin,” Dis explained as they settled in the largest parlour with Kili and Bofur helping Bilbo serve everyone with snacks and drinks. “Oin felt that he preferred to stay with the Healers since there are a lot of inexperienced new Healers on duty and Fili needed one level head with him so Balin volunteered.”

“Fi sulked for two days when Amad announced we were coming to see Uncle,” Kili told Bilbo with a grin. Tauriel was sitting cross-legged beside him on the rug by the fire, sipping a glass from a rather good bottle of the Old Winyards Red that Bilbo’s father had laid down some decades earlier. “I knew Uncle was training him for theThrone but I never realised there were sulking lessons in there!”

“I do not sulk,” Thorin told him grumpily, sipping his own wine. He was sitting in the armchair with Bilbo perched on the arm with a cup of tea. The Hobbit absently stroked the dwarf’s courting braid.

“I hate to break this to you, dearest, but you really do,” he said playfully. Thorin scowled.

“I brood. There’s a difference,” he grumbled. “Maybe I have some periods insightful introspection. Or private contemplation…”

“You do brood rather majestically,” Bilbo conceded. “But you also sulk. Especially when you don’t get your way…or didn’t…” he amended quickly, seeing the expression in Thorin’s eyes. “There was a fair bit on the Quest, my dear Thorin. Though, to be fair, you have been much better since you came to Hobbiton…”

“Did you always intend to come here?” Dis asked him directly, her piercing gaze nailing Thorin. He looked back for a long moment then nodded.

“I sent Bilbo my braids and then I intended to see if he had accepted them as suitable penance for my shame. If not…I would offer him my life,” he said reluctantly, unwilling to admit just how deep in the black embrace of despair he had been buried. He closed his eyes-and then felt Bilbo’s weight as he leaned against him, his hand sliding over Thorin’s tense shoulder. He relaxed into the gentle contact.

“He turned up on my doorstep, dropped to his knees and handed me a knife, asking me to kill him,” Bilbo said in a mildly exasperated voice. “Naturally I locked the knife away and got him to come in before he caught his death from the cold and wet.” There were sniggers as the Company and Dis envisaged the proud former King being scolded by the Hobbit. Thorin rolled his eyes.

“That would really have been an ignominious end,” he conceded. “Surviving Azog and being felled by a cold. But once we were inside and I was dried and warmed to Master Baggins’ satisfaction, we talked and Bilbo forgave me. He was determined that I forgive myself and he never let me forget that he was there for me, especially if I was feeling low or overcome with shame. He wrested me from despair and darkness and helped me recover from everything I gave to Erebor. He did more than forgive me. He welcomed me home.” There was uproar but Bilbo smiled as he felt Thorin take his hand. He looked over the Company, the dwarrow who had lured him from his cosy home that Spring day, years earlier.

“Sometimes, home is not a place but an idea…or a person,” he reminded them. “Erebor was your home even when it was a memory or a dream. Bag End was my home even when I travelled…but when I returned, I realised it was the idea, the memory of Bag End that had been my home. But it was not any more. I was alone, viewed with suspicion by most of my neighbours and missing my friends terribly. But at the same time, the memories of what had happened were too fresh to run away again. Until Thorin arrived on my door…” The former King looked up into Bilbo’s eyes and smiled, the expression loving. “He says I saved him but he saved me as well. I helped him find forgiveness…and he rescued me from a lonely existence, from my fears of wasting away alone here.”

“But now he has forgiven himself, he can come home…” Kili began but Tauriel took his hand as Dis sipped her brandy, carefully not meeting his eyes. The rest of the Company looked somber and Dwalin finally spoke up, his voice heavy.

“Fili is King now and though Thorin would not seek to undermine him, there would always be tension there,” he said.

“A focus for discontent and treachery, even though he would never seek to harm his nephew or reclaim the crown he renounced,” Ori added, leaning back against Dwalin. The warrior wrapped a gentle arm around him. 

“Our Kings do not resign,” Dis confirmed. “A King is a King until he dies.”

“Even if he is insane,” Thorin muttered.

“You recovered,” Bilbo reminded him softly.

“Which is why I won’t go back,” he murmured. “I lost my mind and the guilt and horror of that experience haunted me for over five years.” He looked up. “In my life, I was always the Prince, the Heir to the Crown Prince, from the moment I was born. My life was duty and expectation, honour and sacrifice. I watched Erebor fall, the Elvenking turn away and leave us to our fate, our people wander and suffer. I toiled in the cities of Men to provide for those I love. I fought battles and struggled against prejudice, hunger and cold to try to keep my people alive. I had to remain strong for my people even when life was bleak and I had to give hope to others where there seemed to be none for me. And even when we had made a new home, I gambled it all on a hopeless Quest. Against all reason, we won-though I almost lost my life and my nephews and I did lose my mind, my honour and my Hobbit. But there was no one else to rule after the Battle so I did my duty until finally, the burden of my sins became too heavy to bear any more. Now, I have handed the Crown on. No more duty or sacrifice, no more battles or fear or shame of guilt. Finally…here in the Shire, with the one being who completes my heart…I feel content.”

“Content?” Bilbo teased him and he looked up, his expression serious.

“I am happy beyond words,” he assured his betrothed. “I have served my people from the time my grandfather fell to Azog and my father vanished until I abdicated last Spring. This last year is the only time in my life I have ever done anything for me. And admittedly, my original intention was to surrender my life in penance for my crimes against Bilbo…but thank Mahal, he persuaded me that a better penance would be to live, forgive myself as he has forgiven me and remain with him. And, as I should have learned from our time on the journey, he was right.” The Company shared looks but Bofur raised his tankard.

“We wish you both nothing but happiness,” he said genuinely. “Without you both, none of us would be here, with Erebor reclaimed and family and friends prospering. I am glad from the bottom of my heart that you have found the peace and contentment you sought.” Thorin wrapped his arms around Bilbo and stared up into his eyes. 

“I have found everything I need here,” the former King said, smiling up at the Hobbit. “But if you wish to visit, maybe we can travel to Erebor for Fili’s wedding?” Bilbo leaned forward to rest his forehead against Thorin’s.

“I have everything I need right here…but a visit would be nice,” he admitted. “I haven’t seen Erebor since it’s been refurbished or Dale.” He glanced over to Dis. “Of course, Fili would have to ask his dwarrowdam to marry him first…”

“I’ll write!” Kili volunteered. “I can have a proposal in two days! Have you got a Raven, Amad?” Nori chuckled and leaned towards Bifur, murmuring quickly and knocking heads together to finalise a deal. Similar conversations were taking place between the other dwarrow as well.

“Oh dear-are they betting?” Bilbo murmured.

“Always,” Thorin breathed in his ear. “They wager on everything.”

“Even us?” The former King chuckled.

“Especially us,” he confirmed in a low voice. Bilbo chuckled and rubbed noses with his dwarf.

“So should we give them something to wager on?” he whispered.

“Too late. Far too late,” Thorin told him, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“And if I told you I would really like to travel to visit Erebor with a husband, not just a friend?” he whispered. 

“We have all the family we need here, if you wish,” Thorin said quietly, staring into Bilbo’s eyes.

“And do you wish?” the Hobbit asked him seriously, sitting up a little straighter. A smile spread over the dwarf’s handsome face.

“With all my heart, Ghivashel,” Thorin said honestly, his eyes filled with joy.

“Then marry me, Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo said, holding his hands and staring into his eyes. “Marry me while your friends and family are here. Stay with me in the Shire forever and be happy and loved and at peace.” 

“With all my heart, Ghivashel,” Thorin repeated and leaned in to kiss him. Around them, there were cheers and whoops and the sounds of various drinking vessels being clashed together in celebration. Pulling back to look into the smiling face of the Hobbit who had saved him, who had finally allowed him forgive himself and who had offered to love and be loved by him for the rest of his life, he felt the burst of joy and contentment in his heart and finally realised the truth. 

After years of despair, remorse, self-hatred and grief, he had finally been healed by the love and kindness of a Hobbit of the Shire. His One. His Heart. He had been forgiven.

For however long Mahal granted them together, he was happy to be alive.

The End.