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Gold. Gold beyond measure. Beyond sorrow or grief.
Thorin had felt such sorrow and such grief. He was so tired, tired in his stone-like bones. The gold invigorated him, reminded him that he had a greater purpose other than to rest. He needed to be strong and forbidding and protect the treasure of his people.
He could not remember the last time he’d been surrounded by so much dwarven culture, so many dwarven crafts. He’d been so long in the outside world, particularly in the world of men, that it was like rediscovering a secret part of himself, one hidden deep in his skin. When he let the golden coins slip through his fingers, or held the jewels up to the light to admire their radiance, he could feel a deeper part of himself come to the surface, and he could not stop himself from smiling, feeling a peace that bordered on euphoria.
The feeling drove him to seek out the treasure at all times. At first it was just to admire the wealth of his people, denied from them for so long, or at least that was what he told himself. But as the vultures (for that was what they truly were) began to circle, began to threaten them all, Thorin sought out the gold more and more often. He bundled himself in the garb of his grandfather, thick fur and rich material, a heavy crown that kept him grounded, and he went to the treasure rooms, the counting halls, and even the enormous pile of coins that Smaug had made his bed. There he would stare at the treasure for hours, keeping it safe, committing it to his memory. It gave him great joy, and hadn’t he been denied of joy enough? Hadn’t he suffered and bled and done his all to reclaim his home? Now it was time to enjoy the hard-earned reward!
He could barely close his eyes to sleep. He feared that if he did he would wake up to empty halls, the riches ransacked as he rested. He did not need to sleep as long as the gold was nearby, it took away his tiredness as nothing else did. It filled his belly with warmth as no food would. It nourished him, his very spirit, and as the days wore on it was harder and harder to stay away. If he kept away for more than an hour or two he grew more tired, that bone-weariness returning. He grew angry and snapped at his kin, suspecting them of sneaking away the gold. He was happiest when the gold was near, even more so when it was on his skin, touching him in some way. The gold was cool, but he was often feverish these days, warmed as he was by the fur of his grandfather’s robes and the memory of dragonfire.
Still, there was another that pervaded his senses, gave him strength as the gold did. The Halfling that had journeyed with them, Bilbo. Thorin’s love of the treasure had pushed all away, made the figures of the Company blur into one huge group. They were friend and they were foe, they were kin and they were strangers to him, they could not understand how he felt now, even Balin did not know why Thorin sought out the gold. But there was Bilbo. Bilbo often went out on his own, but the first time he did so he explained to Thorin why.
“I can’t quite pin down the nature of it, but being so deep beneath the earth makes me uneasy. It must be something in my nature, or the nature of hobbits, that makes me desire the feeling of cool air and sunshine on my skin. I just want to walk the battlements. Alone, if you don’t mind.”
So Bilbo would wander around and in a way it comforted Thorin, knowing that there was always a lookout on the high walls. But when he was tired of wandering Bilbo would often stray to his side. It felt right to Thorin, it felt meaningful. Bilbo had often irritated him in the past, a fussy little person through and through. Now though, now he was a steadying force to Thorin. No matter how Thorin changed in temperament or how the faces of his very kin twisted into those of cutthroats and thieves, Bilbo stayed the same, stayed beside him, and oftentimes was the only one who worried about Thorin’s comfort. Thorin would not have eaten or slept at all had it not been for Bilbo begging him, Bilbo asking him to “just try a little bread, Thorin, I baked it special with the last of the flour from Lake-town” or “just rest for a small while, Thorin, I’ll keep a lookout for you” or “drink a measure of water, Thorin, I saved some in my canteen for you.”
Thorin would do as he was bid—except when it came to the treasure. Bilbo only voiced the idea once before he learned his lesson.
“Come away from the gold, Thorin, you must be weary of looking at it for so long.”
Thorin’s face shot up and he scowled fiercely at the hobbit before him.
“You would have me leave the legacy of my people so you can help yourself to it, is that right?” he shouted, the rage in him rising quickly, the paranoia that Bilbo would steal from him breaking upon him like falling stone.
“What? No! No, no, Thorin, I know how important the wealth of Erebor is to you! I would never—! I could not even begin to—!”
Bilbo was so flustered and shocked, and his words did much to placate Thorin, his anger cooling as quick as it had heated.
“Peace, Master Baggins, peace. I see that you are in earnest.”
“Well, good. Because I am. I do not wish to hurt you Thorin, just the opposite in fact.”
Thorin saw how small Bilbo looked in that moment, and something like pity welled up inside him. He took two strides to Bilbo’s side and placed a hand softly on his shoulder so he wouldn’t startle him. Bilbo looked up at him and Thorin found himself looking deep into those changeable eyes, some mix of light brown and dark green, eyes that reminded Thorin of Bilbo’s home, the home he was now half a world away from. Thorin leaned down so his forehead was touching Bilbo’s and Bilbo gasped as their skin touched.
“Never betray me, Bilbo Baggins. Never.”
Thorin’s voice was like iron, even he could sense the immense weight in the very words. They fell like steel ingots between them. Bilbo shook slightly in Thorin’s grasp, and Thorin could only smile. Bilbo’s nervousness reassured him. He would not worry while Bilbo was around. Bilbo, despite his official title within The Company, was no thief.
“Never,” he whispered one last time, and he released Bilbo from his grip. Bilbo rubbed at his shoulder and Thorin felt another stab of pity. He never meant to be, but he was always rough with the poor creature, always grabbing him with rough hands, even if he tried to gentle his touch. He could not help himself. He always wanted to touch Bilbo, almost as much as he desired to touch the treasure. Bilbo was as good as gold anyways, and his very hair shone in the torchlight.
Bilbo never again bothered him about staying too long in the presence of Thror’s hoard, never tried to keep him away from it, but from then on Bilbo could usually be found on hand. Thorin knew the hobbit worried for him, but he was fine, truly! The gold made him fine, made him everything he was not.
What use was an oaken branch when gold-plated armor could be found?
—-
When I was a man I thought it ended
When I knew love’s perfect ache
But my peace has always depended
On all the ashes in my wake