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Chapter Text

‘No, wait, wait, I’ve got one,’ Fíli wheezed, looking over his shoulder at his brother. The sun was shining down on the company as their ponies trotted along the East Road. They were in a single file, except for Gandalf and Balin, and Thorin and Dwalin who were riding two abreast at the head of the party and talking quietly. Bofur rode ahead of Bilbo, and Fíli and Kíli behind. Bombur, Nori, Dori, Ori, Bifur and Óin followed, with Glóin bringing up the rear. The road was well travelled, which made for an easy journey, if a dull one. Fíli and Kíli had taken to exchanging dirty limericks to keep themselves entertained.

‘On a maiden a Dwarf once begat,’

 cute triplets named Nat, Pat and Tat,

T’was fun in the breeding,

but hell in the feeding,

she hadn’t a spare tit for Tat!’

Kíli threw his head back and brayed with laughter, dark hair flying. Bilbo found himself chuckling along – half at the limerick and half at Kíli’s reaction.

‘Me now, me now,’ Kíli insisted when he’d regained his breath.

‘In Ered Luin was a lass,

who had a magnificent ass,

not rounded and pink,

as you’d probably think,

it was grey, had long ears and ate grass!’

Bilbo outright laughed and Fíli could barely stay astride his pony as doubled over, gasping. Even Bofur’s shoulders were shaking, his hat trembling atop his head as he tried to smother his laughter. Their merriment was cut short by Thorin’s dry voice.

‘And what kind of behaviour is this for Princes of Erebor?’ He had turned in his saddle to cast a judgemental eye on his nephews. They sobered under his gaze, Fíli righting himself and taking a proper hold on his reigns. ‘Where did you even hear such filth?’

The brothers exchanged a quick glance before shrugging. ‘Dwalin,’ they admitted in unison, and Thorin’s shrewd glare shifted the dwarf at his side.

‘It’s just a bit of a lark,’ Dwalin huffed, put out at being so easily given up by Fíli and Kíli. Thorin turned wordlessly back to the road ahead, although Bilbo’s keen ears picked up his aside to Dwalin; ‘their mother will have your beard.’ He didn’t sound terribly upset, Bilbo thought, perhaps even a little amused.

‘Only if she finds out,’ Dwalin replied with a cocky tilt of his head. ‘Besides – you taught me the first one.’ Bilbo ducked his head in a secret smile.

‘All right, no more limericks,’ Bofur declared with a clap of his hands, ‘lets have a proper travelling song then. See if we can make these miles go by a little faster.’ There was a general murmur of agreement, and Bofur produced his flute from the depths of his travelling cloak. Bilbo found he was rather excited to hear a Dwarven travelling song; the solemn lament for Erebor had been beautiful and profound in a way he’d never expected, and he was keen to something more lively. Bofur turned to him and gave a cheeky wink, ‘try to keep up.’

He played a jaunty tune on the flute to set a rhythm, and then began to sing. His voice was high and hearty, and soon all the other dwarves were singing along and Bilbo could only listen and grin.

We’re on the one road

Sharing the one load

We’re on the road to who knows where

We’re on the one road

It may be the wrong road

But we’re together now who cares!

North, South, East, West, comrades still

Dwarrowdelf, Erebor, and the Iron Hills

We’re on the one road swinging along

Singing a traveller’s song

Though we’ve had our troubles now and then

Now is the time to make them up again

Sure aren’t we all Dwarven anyhow

Now is the is the time to step together, now

Miners, smithies, paupers and great Lords,

Jeweller, mason, shouldering their swords,

Old dwarves, young dwarves, every dwarf in line,

All together just like Mahal’s design

By this point Bilbo had picked up enough to sing haltingly along with the chorus, his voice rising rich and clear amongst the Dwarves’. In the brief breath after the chorus, Thorin’s voice boomed out, singing alone. It quickly became clear to Bilbo that though the song was old and well known, these words were new, and no others in the company knew them to sing along.

Night is darkest just before the dawn

From the ashes our home will be reborn,

Soon we’ll drive the great worm from its den

And make Erebor a kingdom once again!

A rousing cheer went up from the company, and they launched into the final chorus with such vigour that Bilbo was swept up entirely. For the first time, he truly felt like a part of the company.  

We’re on the one road

Sharing the one load

We’re on the road to who knows where

We’re on the one road

It may be the wrong road

But we’re together now who cares!

North, South, East, West, comrades still

Dwarrowdelf,

‘Hobbiton!’ Bombur shared a laugh with Bilbo,

and the Iron Hills

We’re on the one road swinging along

Singing a traveller’s song

Even as their voices faded, there was a new energy thrumming through the company. Bilbo’s spirits were so high that he nearly felt as though they could ride all the way to the Lonely Mountain before dark and in time for supper, if their ponies were only a little faster. Their fervour lasted them the rest of the day, and as they lay down to their bedrolls that night by the crackling fire, more than a few of them were still humming cheerily.

Chapter Text

Bilbo puffed on his pipe, gazing up at the dark shape of the Misty Mountains. They were camped in view of Hithaeglir, as they had been for many nights past. At a distance Bilbo had thought them impressive, but each day it dawned upon him anew just how vast and imposing the mountains were. He exhaled a shaky smoke ring, closing one eye so that it looked like a halo atop the distant mountain peak.

It had been a long day of riding, and a hard one. The Dwarves had been unsettlingly quiet as they moved about the camp, weariness in their every step. Bilbo himself was tired, saddle-sore, and awfully homesick. He found himself thinking fondly of the Green Dragon Inn in Bywater, and felt a sudden and desperate need for company, companionship, liveliness. He glanced around the fire, seeing long face after long face, eyes lost in the dancing embers. Ori sat opposite him, across the flames. The young dwarf was sitting facing outwards from the fire, using its dancing light to illuminate his work.

‘Master Ori,’ Bilbo asked, ‘what are you writing?’

The young dwarf startled at the abrupt question. ‘Oh, er, just mapping the journey of the last few days. Making notes, and such. Not very exciting, I’m afraid,’ he gave an awkward shrug.

‘Do you ever write songs?’ Bilbo asked, curious.

‘Not me!’ Ori rushed to exclaim. ‘Begging your pardon, but I’m a scribe, not a bard.’

‘Pity.’ Bilbo took a deep pull on his pipe, shaking his head. ‘I enjoy Dwarven songs, or what I’ve heard of them leastways.’

‘Do Hobbits not have songs, Mister Baggins?’ Kíli piped up from Bilbo’s left.

‘Oh, yes,’ Bilbo nodded, ‘many. Collecting them has become rather a hobby of mine, and I’ve been known to write a verse or two myself. But we don’t have great warriors or battles, or journeys of which to sing.’

Dwalin was squinting at him, mouth turned down in a frown. ‘Well, what’s left to write about?’

‘Nothing that’s of much import to Dwarves, I’d imagine!’ Bilbo chuckled. ‘We have a great many songs about food, and ale,’ he tapped the mouth of his pipe against his chin, thinking. ‘Bath songs.’

‘Songs for baths?’ Dwalin scoffed, ‘It’s a comfortable life indeed that a Hobbit lives, when baths are worthy of song!’

Bilbo laughed, quite unable to disagree. ‘We do take pleasure in the simple things, Master Dwalin, I make no bones about it.’ Balin snickered and cast Bilbo a fond look from where he sat at his brother’s side. ‘Love songs,’ Bilbo said suddenly, ‘we write love songs. Odes and laments.’

‘Well there’s one we have in common,’ Bofur smiled reassuringly. ‘Go on then, Bilbo. Give us a Hobbit love song.’

‘Oh, er,’ Bilbo hesitated, his pipe halfway to his mouth.

‘Go on!’ Fíli encouraged. Even Oin was nodding along.

‘All right,’ Bilbo agreed at last, tapping out his pipe, ‘why not?’ He sat back for a moment, then cleared his throat, let his eyes slip shut, and began to sing. The Dwarves sat, rapt, in the firelight.

Come over the hills, my handsome Hobbit lass,

Come over the hills to your darling

You choose the road, love, and I’ll make the vow

And I’ll be your true love forever

Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows

Fair is the lily of the valley

Clear is the water that flows from the beck

But my love is fairer than any

Twas down by Deephallow’s Green woods that we strayed

When the moon and the stars they were shining

The moon shone its rays on her locks of golden hair

And she swore she’d be my love forever

Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows

Fair is the lily of the valley

Clear is the water that flows from the beck

But my love is fairer than any

It’s not for the parting that my sister pains

It’s not for the grief of my mother

‘Tis all for the loss of my handsome Hobbit lass

that my heart is breaking forever.

Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows

Fair is the lily of the valley

Clear is the water that flows from the beck

But my love is fairer than any

The last note rang out clearly, fading into the night. Bilbo let his eyes flutter open. The Dwarves were quiet, but it was not like before; the silence was heavy, as if laden with unspoken thoughts. They were all still, some looking down into the fire, some out into the woods, others up at the stars. With a start, Bilbo realised that one Dwarf was looking directly at him. From the other side of the fire, Thorin’s gaze was boring into him; Bilbo felt it like pinpricks on his skin. He suddenly felt sure he had committed some horrible gaffe.

‘Was – was that all right?’ He asked. His voice, steady and confident while he sang, was quiet and quavering.

For a long moment no one said anything. Suddenly Gloin spoke up, still staring into the fire, his thick fingers idly stroking the locket around his neck. ‘Aye lad, it was fine. Just fine.’

Bilbo stepped out of the trees, heading back towards the firelight as he refastened his breeches. After Bilbo’s song, the company had silently decided to settle in for the night; the fire had been banked and the ponies secured. It was time for sleep, at last. Bilbo was heading for his beadroll when a voice made him jump.

‘Get some rest, Master Burglar. It’s another long ride tomorrow.’

‘Thorin!’ Bilbo gasped, putting his hand to his heart. ‘You gave me a fright.’

‘You’d do well not to startle so easily,’ Thorin advised haughtily. ‘Keep your wits about you.’

‘Yes, yes. I’ll make a note,’ Bilbo turned back to the fire, put out at being chastised like a child.

‘You must care for her deeply,’ Bilbo turned back at Thorin’s voice, his brow furrowing in confusion. ‘The lass in your song,’ he clarified, and Bilbo’s frown cleared into a chuckle.

‘Oh, that’s just an old Hobbit ballad,’ he shook his head, curls bouncing. ‘Not one of mine, I’m afraid. And you should be glad of it! It was hard enough convincing me to leave home and hearth, and it’s just my armchair waiting for me.’

Thorin nodded, understanding. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then pressed on, ‘do Hobbits love strongly, then?’

‘Yes,’ Bilbo replied, caught off guard by the surprising question. ‘That is, I believe so. I, um,’ he swallowed, glancing away, ‘I’ve not been so lucky as to have first hand experience in the matter.’ He looked back to find Thorin’s eyes still on him, gaze unwavering. ‘And Dwarves?’ He asked without thinking, feeling more than a little uncomfortable but curious nonetheless. ‘How do Dwarves love?’

Thorin lowered his head, his hair falling forward to cover what might have been a smile, or a grimace. When he spoke his voice was a low rasp. ‘Desperately. And deeply.’

Before Bilbo could even consider forming a response Thorin was gone, his dark figure melting into the trees. Bilbo frowned, shaking his head as if to clear it of the bizarre conversation.

Chapter Text

Beorn’s home, after the hard road they had trod on hoof and foot, was like a clear oasis in a vast, unyielding desert. Despite the imposing manner of the host, Bilbo felt safe there - safer than he’d felt in a long while. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop the dreams. The snarling goblins that lurked behind his eyelids, the wretched voice crying out in the dark – these thoughts haunted him still. He slept fitfully, tossing and turning, until he gave up on sleep entirely. For a while he lay in silence, thinking of his home and his journey, and melody rose from the depths of his mind.

Soon though, his thoughts of home turned bittersweet, and he wished for nothing more than to sit on a cool hillside and take a long pull on his pipe. He went so far as to dress and make his way to the door. His fingers were just reaching out for the handle when there came a mighty growling from outside, and a snuffling-scuffling sort of sound; like an animal nosing about for a way in.

Bilbo snatched his hand back lightning-quick, as though the great beast might chomp through the door and his hand in one bite. He wondered if it was Beorn, and if it was, whether he knew friend from foe when his shape was changed. Deciding he would rather not find out, Bilbo scurried away from the door and towards the fire. When he looked up through the smoke hole he could see a smattering of stars and a pale slash of moon in the inky sky. He sat right at the edge of the pit, letting the soothing warmth creep up his toes and through his clothes until he was warmed through. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of wood-smoke mingling with cool, fresh air. The world was quiet and still, and for a moment he almost felt as though he were back at Bag-End, warming his woolly toes by the fire.

Hearing the creak of a board, he looked up just in time to see a Dwarf emerging from the shadows. ‘Thorin,’ Bilbo greeted.

‘Bilbo,’ Thorin returned, wincing a little as he settled on the edge of the pit. ‘The hour is late, my friend.’ It wasn’t an endearment he would have used before the Misty Mountains, before the goblins and the wargs and the great, white Orc. But Bilbo was finding a lot of little changes in Thorin since that night, in a lot of little ways.

‘Quite,’ Bilbo agreed with a sigh. ‘My body is aching for a rest, but my mind isn’t having a bar of it, I’m afraid.’

‘I’d never have guessed,’ Thorin murmured, his eyes on the fire. ‘You looked perfectly content when I came to sit by you.’

Bilbo chortled. ‘Ah. You see for a moment there I was back home in the Shire. The fire was warming me to the bone, the kettle was beginning to sing, and I had a nice stew on the hob.’ He paused, sobering. ‘Though I suppose that’s nothing more than a dream, now.’

‘Better dreams than nightmares,’ Thorin laid a consoling hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

Bilbo turned to glance at him, ‘is that why you’re up? Nightmares?’

‘Would that it was that,’ Thorin grimaced, putting a hand to his ribs. ‘My injuries are paining me.’

‘Oh dear,’ Bilbo tutted, wincing in sympathy. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Distract me,’ Thorin suggested. ‘Tell me about the Shire.’ Bilbo cut a sharp glance at him, looking for signs of mocking. He found none. Thorin’s face in the firelight was a study of shadow and luminosity. His profile was so still, so solemn and beautiful it could have been cut from stone. The grey in his hair glittered like silver in the dark, his eyes shone, and Bilbo suddenly had a greater understanding of the Dwarven delight in all things bright and beautiful. He lowered his eyes, humbled.

‘Beautiful,’ Bilbo breathed, when it became clear Thorin was waiting for a response. ‘The Shire is beautiful in ways I don’t have the words to describe. It’s small, I suppose, but it always seemed like enough. More, even, than any Hobbit could ask for.’ He trailed off, becoming lost in his thoughts. In his mind he was walking the old trails, the sun on his face and the grass whispering against his ankles. Beside him Thorin grunted, his grip on the edge of the fire pit going white-knuckle tight as he rode out a stab of pain. Without thinking, Bilbo reached out to cover Thorin’s hand with his own, and in a hushed voice he began to sing.

So, fare thee well

My own true love

I think of you night and day

Fare thee well to old Hobbiton

Goodbye to you Branduin

No time to look back

Facing the wind

Fighting the fear

May the heavens protect us all

From cold, hunger, and angry squalls

Pray I won’t be lost

Wind at our backs carry me safe

So fare thee well

My own true love

I’ll think of you night and day

A place in my mind

You will surely find

Although I am so far away

And when I’m alone

Far away from home

I’ll think of the good times long gone

Until I can make it back some day

To the Shire’s jewel, Hobbiton

Out now on the road I ride

Brave companions by my side

Tears fill my eyes

The image of you

Won’t go away

Erebor is in sight at last

My heart is beating fast

Trying to be brave

Wishing my home

With me now

Once more

So fare thee well

My own true love

I’ll think of you night and day

A place in my mind

You will surely find

Although I am so far away

And when I’m alone

Far away from home

I’ll think of the good times long gone

Until I can make it back some day

To the Shire’s jewel, Hobbiton

When he had finished, Bilbo found Thorin looking at him with something akin to wonder. ‘I thought Hobbits did not sing of great journeys.’ There was a tease in his voice, Bilbo thought, but a kind one.

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I am the first. I’ve been writing it almost since we left, though I only really finished it tonight. Did you like it?’

‘Very much,’ Thorin nodded. His face was lax and unburdened in a way Bilbo had never seen. During the song, he had turned his hand beneath Bilbo’s until their fingers were intertwined. Upon noticing, Bilbo didn’t feel particularly inclined to move. ‘I would suggest a correction,’ Thorin said softly, his eyes on their clasped hands. ‘You may be far from home, my friend, but you are not alone.’ He dragged his gaze up slowly, until it was level with Bilbo’s. ‘I would see to it that you are never alone again, if you would allow it.’

He leaned forward, and Bilbo’s breath caught as he felt Thorin’s forehead touch his own. He leaned into the gesture, pressing back gently as Thorin’s fingers curled in the hair at the nape of his neck. ‘Doesn’t it feel sudden?’ Bilbo’s whisper was scarcely more than a breath. ‘Doesn’t it feel awfully sudden?’

‘Yes,’ Thorin’s voice rumbled, and Bilbo felt it through his whole body. ‘But it also feels as though we have been waiting a long, long time. Doesn’t it?’

Bilbo closed his eyes, his skin aflame. ‘Yes.’

Chapter Text

The company had been in Lake-Town for a full week before Bilbo felt recovered enough from his cold to join in the festivities. And what festivities there were! The coming of the heirs of Durin had turned from a piece of a gossip into something of a holiday. There was food and drink and songs – oh the songs! And all Bilbo could do was nurse his hot whiskey, rub at his nose and look mournfully at the beautiful food that tasted like wood-chips to his sickly senses.

He was well tended to, at least. His companions stopped in on him often; especially Thorin, who soothed him with kisses to his forehead and rubbed his sore joints. The two of them were not fully recovered from being kept apart in the Wood King’s halls, and little touches and gestures reassured them both greatly. The day that Bilbo declared himself well again, Thorin gifted him with a kiss so tender he thought the hair on his toes was curling anew.

And so Bilbo’s part in the celebrations began – with mugs of ale and great piles of food, and the merriest company he had had since leaving the Shire. He listened with joy to songs about the King Under the Mountain, and watched as his friends walked taller with pride. A week’s rest had served them well; they were clean and comfortable in fine new clothes, and their hair and beards had been washed and re-braided, their beads polished until they shone. Bilbo watched Thorin as he watched his company, his kin, and smiled at the fondness he saw there.

Three days after Bilbo’s recovery, well into the evening’s feasting, Dwalin stood on his stool and waved his mug wildly towards Bilbo. ‘A song! A song from our Hobbit!’ Bilbo tried to wave him away, but soon the chant was taken up throughout the hall – ‘A song! A song!’ – until Bilbo was obliged to stand up and say something, at the very least.

‘This is no place for Hobbit songs!’ Bilbo laughed as Dwalin swayed where he stood. ‘Hold your tongue, Master Dwarf, if you cannot hold your ale!’ The hall erupted in laughs and good-natured cheers until Dwalin spoke up again.

‘Nonsense! I’m sick of hearing Lake-songs and mountain-songs and river-songs. I want a Hobbit song!’ He declared loudly, ‘Sing us one of your bath songs, Bilbo!’ The Dwarves, being in on the joke, laughed riotously. Dwalin almost fell over his own feet clambering off the stool, and Bilbo laughed.

‘Very well, very well. I have a song – it is not a Hobbit song, but it a song about Hobbits. That will have to satisfy you, Dwalin!’ He stood on his stool and then – finding it did not much improve his position – stepped on to the table. He stood steadily, despite having downed his fair share of ale and more besides, and lifted his voice in song.

Don't go drinking with hobbits. 
Sure you'll have a grand time all night long 
But if you're not used to drinking with hobbits, 
You may not want to wake up at all 

They were thoughtful and kind when they invited me to drink, 
A lone human among hobbitkind. 
They bought me a half, 
then another and one more
And told stories of days long gone by 

The brew was strong 
My glass never empty, 
As if time stood still and bare 
But when I awoke the next morning 
T’was to pain that I hardly could bear! 

You may wonder how it all happened 
Well, I'm still wondering what happened too 
I had tea, dinner, and supper 
Quite full, I thought I was through

They insisted I come to the Flagon 
And drink to the health of new friends 
But when I got there, I met more hobbit friends 
And the toasts, they seemed never to end 

When the sun it rose the next morning, 
And I lifted my head from my drool, 
There were beer mugs spilled on the tables 
And hobbits lying next to their stools.

A young hobbit lass grinned cross the barroom 
And nudged each of my new hobbit friends 
Then sometime after second breakfast 
We all started drinking again 

I left Hobbiton a few days later 
My head it was swollen and sore 
It felt like a Dwarven anvil 
After a terrible war 

I don't think I'll ever recover
From the food, the drink and the cheer 
Now I swear I'll never drink with hobbits again 
At least, till I see them next year!

 There was such cheering and laughter that it felt as though the hall might come down around them. Bilbo stepped down from the table and found himself swept up by Fíli and Kíli and held upon their shoulders as they paraded him about the room. He didn’t think he had ever laughed quite so long or so hard in his entire life. He caught Thorin’s eye; the Dwarf was watching him with a look that was both fond and heated, and Bilbo felt such a wave of affection for his company that it made him light headed. For the first time in a long time, perhaps since leaving the Shire, he was truly, inescapably happy.

It was almost time to leave. Autumn was wearing on and, loathe as they were to admit it, the company’s time for merry-making was over. The master of Lake-Town had granted them supplies, boats, and ponies. Everything was arranged and it was decided that at first light the company would leave Esgaroth and make for the ruins of Dale. Bilbo had fond thoughts of Lake-Town and the people that dwelled there. He would be sad to say goodbye to the town on the water.

On their last night, Bilbo wandered out on the balcony of their accommodations. It was a wide wooden deck, littered with chairs and surrounded by railings, and it afforded a very good view of the Lonely Mountain. It was here he found Thorin in quiet contemplation. Silently, Bilbo sat down, leaning into Thorin’s warmth. He lifted an arm to encircle the Hobbit.

‘I will always have fond memories of this place,’ Bilbo said softly, ‘whatever is to come.’

‘Good,’ Thorin said, his voice muffled in Bilbo’s curls. ‘Fond memories are helpful on long, dark nights. I fear we may yet have some ahead.’ Bilbo shivered and curled further into his side.

‘Hey, you two,’ Bofur spoke up behind them. ‘First light will come sooner than you think. To bed.’ Even as he spoke, he sat down beside them, staring up at the mountain. ‘Cuts an impressive figure,’ he mused, stroking his beard.

‘Indeed,’ Balin agreed, coming to stand behind Bofur. ‘But it’s cold, and dark. You will be truly impressed when you see it full of life and light again.’ Bilbo heard footsteps and creaking boards as the rest of the company found their way onto the deck. There was a strange and sober apprehension in the air, as if they were all holding their breath together before taking an icy plunge into the deep. Bilbo looked at each of them in turn, considered the dangers they’d been through, and those that still lay ahead. Suddenly, and entirely unbidden, came the thought that not all of them would see this journey to it’s end.

‘Bilbo,’ Kíli looked up from where he sat at their feet. ‘Sing us a song. Chase away this awful chill.’

Bilbo opened his mouth to sing and found that every cheery tune he ever knew had fled his mind. Instead, he began to sing:

Of all the money that e'er I had
I spent it in good company
And all the harm I've ever done
Alas, it was to none but me

And all I've done for want of wit
To memory now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be to you all

So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate'er befalls
Then gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be to you all

Of all the comrades that e'er I had
They're sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e'er I had
They'd wish me one more day to stay

But since it fell into my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be to you all

So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate'er befalls
Then gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be to you all

It was not a happy song, nor necessarily a sad one. As it ended the feeling of apprehension left with it – as though they had all exhaled at once and felt the better for it. Oin was the first to leave, shuffling off in silence, and the rest followed soon after, muttering goodnights as they went. Soon it was Bilbo and Thorin alone once more.

Bilbo stared up the mountain. ‘Thorin?’ The Dwarf hummed a reply. ‘Come to bed with me. Please.’

Thorin leaned down to press his forehead to Bilbo’s. Then he took his hand and, together, they turned their backs on the night.

Later, as they lay naked and sated on the edge of sleep, Bilbo mumbled, ‘I’m writing you a song, Thorin.’

Thorin nestled his nose against the back of Bilbo’s neck and hummed. ‘When shall I hear it?’

‘When it is finished,’ Bilbo murmured, ‘when it's done.’

Chapter Text

‘Gandalf. Gandalf!’

‘Hmm?’ The Wizard looked around, one bushy eyebrow raised. ‘Who is that, then?’

‘It’s me, Gandalf,’ Bilbo slipped the ring from his finger and stepped out from behind a crumbling wall.

‘Bilbo!’ Gandalf exclaimed with delighted relief. ‘You are a sight for sore eyes. And if they are sore it is from searching so long for you! Where on earth have you been?’

‘I took a knock to the head,’ Bilbo explained, rubbing at the spot gingerly. ‘I’m afraid I slept away most of the battle. Tell me, what news?’

‘We are victorious, my friend.’ Gandalf leaned down to settle a large hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and lend him a kindly smile.

‘And Thorin? What of Thorin?’ He could barely stand to ask, for he did not know if he could stand to hear the answer, whatever it may be.

‘He lives. Him and all his company. But, Bilbo,’ Gandalf’s face betrayed the words before he could speak them. ‘He is very near to death. Come. I will take you to him.’ He turned away and was a good few strides ahead when Bilbo cried out.

‘No! No Gandalf I can’t, you mustn’t ask it of me!’ Bilbo had fallen to his knees, his aching head held in his hands as he tried not to weep.

Bilbo!’ Gandalf exclaimed, perplexed. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

Bilbo moaned miserably. In his mind’s eye he saw Thorin raging on the wall. Miserable Hobbit! He had spat. Descendants of rats! The hands that had once held him so tenderly had looked fit to tear him asunder. May we never meet again. It pained Bilbo to think of it, but if that was Thorin’s wish then he would honour it.

‘Gandalf! I have not acted as a friend should. If Thorin will pass to the halls of his fathers, then he will not have to suffer me in his sight again before the end.’

‘Bilbo!’ Gandalf looked genuinely distressed. He lowered himself to one knee, leaning on his staff, to look Bilbo in the eye. ‘My dear Hobbit. You have acted in the best interest of your friends, and many more besides. I beg of you, come with me to the tent. If not for Thorin then for the rest of the company.’

Bilbo could only shake his head and moan, ‘I can’t Gandalf, you mustn’t ask it of me! I came on this journey as you asked, and I have seen it to its end. Now I ask of you this one thing – see me away from here. I never want to look on this accursed Mountain again!’

Gandalf stared at him beseechingly, seeming first angry and then unbearably sad. ‘Very well,’ he uttered, his voice weary. ‘This way, quickly. I will take you to Thranduil, and his folk will see you safely to the edge of Mirkwood. In the meantime I will speak to Beorn. Perhaps we can get you as far as Rivendell before winter is too deep.’

Bilbo stumbled after the Wizard, his vision blurred with tears. ‘Thank you Gandalf, thank you!’

Gandalf hurried on, his head down. He leaned heavily on his staff. ‘Do not thank me, Bilbo Baggins. Not for this.’

A small party of Wood Elves saw Bilbo from the Mountain to the wood and beyond - through Mirkwood, to its very edge. There Beorn met him and bore him swiftly to his hall, where he had the first good sleep he’d had in many days. On his third night there he dreamed of the last time he was in the hall; sitting by the fire with Thorin, singing and clasping hands. Suddenly he was on the wall, and Thorin was looking at him with ice in his eyes. I am betrayed. Bilbo awoke from the dream suddenly, drenched in sweat, and began to weep. ‘He is dead,’ he wailed, ‘he is dead, he is dead!’ And something in his heart told him it was true. That night, he cried until he could cry no more.

He spent another two days with Beorn, resting and preparing for travel. He also spent some time writing – writing a song that he thought he had finished, once upon a time. Beorn travelled with him to the Carrock, where he met with a party of Elves from Rivendell. They had been sent to hunt Goblins in the mountains, and had gladly assured Beorn that they would see Bilbo to Rivendell.

It was a healing place, Imladris, and healing was exactly what Bilbo needed. He saw out the winter there, and though he wrote, and listened to a great many Elven verses, not a single song passed his lips.

Bilbo was back in Bag-End by the middle of spring, and not a moment too soon. He quickly learned that he was almost unanimously considered dead, led into doom by that ne’er-do-well Gandalf. Bilbo swiftly dispelled the rumours – while accidentally starting a good twenty more – and then more or less disappeared. He was rarely seen outside Bag-End, and when he was he rarely spoke. Indeed, even inside Bag-End was remarkably silent. Letters came but they remained unopened and unanswered. It comforted Bilbo, in an awful, morose way, to have his surroundings mirror his feelings. He used to take such pleasure in song and music, collecting tunes from far and wide. But no more. Even what should have been the fondest of memories, memories of singing in the halls of Esgaroth, turned to ash when he thought of them. Ever since that fateful day in the shadow of the Mountain, when his world had gone utterly silent.

Chapter Text

Summer was at its height, and the Shire was awash with sunshine. The rolling green hills were dotted with flowers, and Hobbit children were wading along the beck to cool their woolly toes. Birds whistled in the trees, and even in his most desperate memories on the road to Erebor, Bilbo could not have conjured such beauty.

But Bag-End was silent. Bilbo sat by his desk and stared absently at the window, looking without seeing. He secretly longed for the end of the summer, prayed for the next month to pass swiftly, so that the cold that he felt in his heart would not seem quite so stark by comparison.

The kettle began to whistle, the sound harsh and jarring to Bilbo’s ear. He padded into the kitchen, poured himself a cup of tea and drank it without tasting. Many of his days had passed like this since his return from the Mountain, and he suspected he would see a great many more out the same way.

And then there came a knock at his door.

Most hobbits knew better by now than to try and come calling on Mad Baggins. However, every so often, someone would take a notion. A young cousin or a nosy neighbour would try to coax him out of the dark to no avail. The Sackville-Bagginses came by once a week to make sure he hadn’t died (or rather, to make sure they were first to know when he did). The knock came again, thump-thump-thump, and he sighed, rousing himself. The sooner he answered the sooner they would leave, he reasoned. That was the thought that sustained him, until he opened the door to Thorin Oakenshield.

Thorin seemed shorter, Bilbo thought; although perhaps it was that he listed a little to one side. His hair had more streaks of silver than Bilbo remembered, and he had a new, pink scar running from his hairline to just below his left cheekbone. He was dressed in many layers, as was the Dwarven way, and, absurdly, the first thing out of Bilbo’s mouth was, ‘you must be warm.’

‘Miserable Hobbit!’ Thorin growled, and the words calmed Bilbo. This was a nightmare then – familiar territory. He’d heard those words spat at him a thousand times, night after night. He was bracing himself for the rest – May we never meet again! – when Thorin’s arms closed around him not in anger, but in an embrace. ‘Miserable Hobbit, that you would leave me when I needed you most! Make me love you and then steal away in the night! Wicked creature!’ Thorin was crying, and Bilbo soon realised that he was too. He was keening, his voice rough and raw from disuse. It was a bleak sound and quickly ended when Thorin pressed their lips together fiercely.

‘You were dead!’ Bilbo said, when he had found words again, ‘you were dying and then I felt it, I felt it when you died.’ He was jabbing his fingers into the flesh above his heart, over and over again.

Thorin reached out for his hand, pulling it to his lips and kissing it. ‘I lived. I lived so that I might see you again, Bilbo. And then I heard that you had left. I sent Dwarves after you, but they were waylaid in the Mirkwood, and still I lived.’

‘I betrayed you!’ Bilbo moaned, clinging to Thorin’s furs. ‘I betrayed you and we parted as bitter enemies.’

With a growl of frustration, Thorin gripped the sides of Bilbo’s face, holding him still. Silent tears streamed down his reddened cheeks as he stared into the face of his bitter regret. ‘You acted as only a true friend would! Bilbo, I take back my words and deeds at the gate! I wish that I had never uttered them, the pain they have caused is so great.’ He kissed Bilbo’s tear-tracked cheeks and pressed their foreheads together. ‘We did not part enemies, for we have not parted. I told you, once, that Dwarves love desperately, and deeply. I would stay with you all your days, if you will have me.’ He kissed Bilbo again and again, upon his cheeks and his brow and his lips. ‘Say you will have me, Bilbo. Say we are not lost.’

Suddenly it was as though a dam opened within Bilbo, and a great flood of warmth and light and joy came rushing through his being. He gripped Thorin’s hands where they held his face, and smiled – though it felt so foreign he thought his cheeks might crack. ‘We are not lost, Thorin. We are not lost.’

‘You wrote me a song.’

Bilbo looked over at Thorin. They were sitting on a bench in the garden outside Bag-End. The sun was setting, the sky was filled with brilliant hues of blue and purple, and for the last two weeks Bilbo had felt like a parched man led to water. He never wanted the summer to end, but when it did he knew he would have Thorin’s warmth to see him through the winter. ‘I did,’ he smiled, and then faltered. ‘It’s changed a bit, since. Well.’

Thorin kissed his knuckles. ‘I should like to hear it all the same. It’s been too long since I’ve heard your voice in song, my Hobbit.’ Bilbo didn’t protest any further. The song had been weighing on him, truth be told. He held Thorin’s hand and began to sing into the evening air.

On Bagshot Row on a clear spring day

I saw him first and knew

That his dark hair would weave a snare

That I might some day rue

I saw the danger and yet I passed

Along the enchanted way

And I said let grief be a fallen leaf

At the dawning of the day

And I said let grief be a fallen leaf

At the dawning of the day

As we sped on to the Mountain

We tripped lightly along the ledge

Of a deep ravine where can be seen

The worth of passion’s pledge

The King of Stone still craved his throne

And I a gentler day

Oh I loved too much and by such by such

Is happiness thrown away

Oh I loved too much and by such by such

Is happiness thrown away

I gave him gifts of the mind

He gave me the secret signs

That are known to those who have known

The true gods of sound and stone

And word and tint without stint

I gave him poems to say

With his own name there

And his own dark hair

Like clouds over fields of May

With his own name there

And his own dark hair

Like clouds over fields of May

Here Bilbo’s voice faltered, wavering, and he bowed his head. He reached out blindly for Thorin’s hand and grasped it tightly.

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet

I see him walking now

Away from me so hurriedly my reason

Must allow

That I had loved not, as I should,

A creature made of clay

When the King he woos the clay

He’ll lose his crown at the dawn of day

At the dawning of the day

He’ll lose his crown at the dawn of day

At the dawning of the day

At the dawning of the day.

The first white stars were appearing above them as the sun sank lower on the horizon. Bilbo was crying freely, though from grief or joy he could not have said. His tears dripped from his chin on to Thorin’s tunic and he held him and whispered, ‘it’s finished. It’s done.’