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The shadow of the Lonely Mountain loomed over the company.
The air was cold, colder than usual, and the end of autumn was quickly approaching. Lake-town and its people’s hospitality still lingered fresh in the minds of the dwarfs, making the search for the hidden door even more excruciating. Bilbo would be lying if he said he didn’t miss it, too. The warm bed of his temporary quarters was shockingly reminiscent of his bed back at Bag-End, and the many meals he had eaten there were nothing less than exquisite. Despite his cold, he enjoyed the normalcy very much. It helped to clear his mind of the goblins and the wargs.
And the creature Gollum. And the Ring.
As if he wasn’t frigid enough, a shiver ran through him.
“D’ya need a hood?” He heard Fíli ask from behind him, who had been tasked with carrying a generous pack full of clothing.
“No, no.” Bilbo insisted, “I’m quite alright.”
“Suit yourself.” Fíli responded.
Bilbo quickly regretted it.
As they continued, the night only grew nearer. An afternoon haze consumed the surrounding forest. Slowly, it grew thicker, and their senses were taken over. The mist muffled their ears and ailed their vision. The cold humidity of the air left an unpleasant film on their skin. It was as if the company had been suddenly taken away from the foot of the mountain and raised up into the clouds. The hobbit found himself teetering. A large, rough hand caught his arm and forced him to steady.
“We will continue.” Thorin said, loud enough for everyone to hear, his grasp still firm on Bilbo’s coat. He looked down at the man and scanned his outfit. Bilbo’s gaze nervously followed. His eyes traveled to the sword on Bilbo’s waist. Sting.
It had a faint glow.
They locked eyes, a grim and knowing look placing itself on Thorin’s face.
“Keep your guard up!” He yelled behind him, though he could see no one. The only hint of the dwarves obeying him was the rustles of clothing and clanks of metal that erupted from the forest. Bilbo unsheathed Sting, holding the blade in front of his face. He squinted from the light.
From their right, an ear-piercing scream ripped through the air. Heavy footsteps rapidly approached them, until a pale orc stood face-to-face with a shocked Bilbo. He yelped, slashing Sting in front of him. The orc’s head fell like a sack of gold onto the ground. He cringed at the sound, staring at the black sludge that covered his sword. The light had disappeared, and once again they were lost in the fog. Something about the whole endeavor made the group sick. orcs never traveled alone, but Sting’s darkness suggested otherwise. At times like these, they wished for Gandalf.
The dwarves crowded around the corpse. They stood frozen until Balin kneeled down and rummaged through the orc’s sorry excuse for pockets. He pulled out a wrinkled note hastily scribbled in Black Speech along with a map. In the heavy silence, he spoke.
“He’s a messenger and, by the looks of it, a lost one. He’s way off his course.”
“Let me see that.” Thorin said, frustrated. How Balin could understand Black Speech, Bilbo had no idea, but it seemed to him that Thorin couldn’t. His brows furrowed, and he shoved the foul paper into the pocket of his coat. He took a deep, exaggerated breath, and continued on. The rest of the company fell into their places and followed.
The afternoon eventually turned to dusk, and the colors of the sunset lightly shone through the fog. They set up a makeshift camp where the trees began to give way to rock at the slope of the mountain. Their food and blankets were fresh, but their spirits were lower than ever, especially after their earlier bout with the orc. Bilbo, on the other hand, felt rejuvenated. An air of confidence settled comfortably within him. If he had any pipe-weed, he would have put it to good use.
He was restless, though. Most of the dwarfs, despite their new superstitions, slept comfortably under the trees. Bilbo paced back and forth, twiddling his thumbs, kicking rocks, and counting heads.
One dwarf was missing.
It was Thorin, obviously. He usually slept alone, set apart from the group, yet still close enough to watch over them. Bilbo doubted he ever got more than a few hours of sleep each night with how much he worried.
He’d never admit it, though.
So Bilbo set out in search of him. He circled around the sleeping dwarfs, being careful not to trample on them. His steps were silent, as most hobbits’ were, and he soon heard a faint sound coming from the denser part of the forest. It was humming. A low and melodic humming, unlike the dwarven chants he often heard. He followed the noise, eventually coming to a small circular clearing of trees away from the rest of the company. There, against a stump, sat Thorin. His coat had since been cast to the side, and in his hand, he examined his sword.
“Thorin.” Bilbo said, and the dwarf tensed, ever-so-slightly. He hadn’t heard Bilbo coming.
“Master Baggins,” He replied, standing up as Bilbo met him, “I figured you were sleeping.”
The hobbit shook his head. “Can’t get a wink in this fog. Makes me rather nervous.” He half-lied.
“Fog?” Thorin questioned, a hand on his hip, “You’ll find that it’s steam.”
“Steam?” Bilbo reiterated.
“A product of Smaug. It came up from the river.” He said matter-of-factly.
Reality dawned. Bilbo had been caught up on their travels: Esgaroth, Mirkwood, Beorn’s house. He had almost forgotten the perils that lay at the end of it all. Suddenly, his confidence vanished. He realized why the rest of the dwarves felt so abysmal. He felt small again. A deep voice broke his thought.
“Quite the feat earlier.”
“Oh, well, I,” Bilbo started. He scrunched his nose. “Er, I did what I had to.”
“You’ve gotten better with your blade.” Thorin remarked, now leaning on his own.
“I had practice while you were holed up with the wood-elves,” He said snarkily. “I hope not to see a spider ever again.”
“And I hope not to see an elf ever again.”
They laughed. Just a bit.
“If you’ve had so much practice,” Thorin said wittily, raising his sword and pointing it almost threateningly towards Bilbo, “Could you take me?”
“What?” asked the hobbit rather quickly.
“Sword to sword. A spar.” He said.
“Oh, no, no.” Bilbo waved his hands in front of his face before sticking them back into his pockets. An awkward silence hung in the air for a moment. “Right now?” He asked.
“I may be out of practice. Perhaps you could teach me a few things.” Thorin said. He could not tell if it was sarcastic or not.
“Perhaps not.” Bilbo responded. At that, he took out Sting, examining it as much as he could in the dim sky.
“Show me your worth, burglar.”
That was all it took for Bilbo to jump forward.
The strokes of his sword were no doubt cleaner than they were before, he observed. They had become more straight and confident, unlike his sloppy slashes from the beginning of their journey. He no longer tripped over himself and found his footwork akin to dancing rather than fighting. There was something quite elegant about it.
“Back to that now, aren’t we?” Bilbo huffed.
A clash. He felt almost pathetic. Sting truly did look like a letter opener against the regal sword of Thorin Oakenshield. There was no doubt he was more experienced. He had been through countless battles and slain countless foes. Play-fighting a halfling was nothing to him. Bilbo raised his sword but was stopped by the wide swing of Thorin, who caught the metal with his own and twisted it downwards, taking a wide step towards him. They were waist to waist, the dwarf’s head positioned just past Bilbo’s shoulder and the sharp tip of his sword pointed at his velvet waistcoat.
Thorin leaned down, ever so slightly, and spoke into his ear, “That would have been it.”
And it would’ve. If Thorin were an enemy, Bilbo would have been skewered.
“Round two?” Bilbo asked. He’d be embarrassed, had his opponent been anyone else, but Thorin seemed expectant of the outcome. They stepped away from each other and returned their swords to their sides.
“Take note of your opponent’s advantages as well as your own,” Thorin said. He graciously accepted the critique. “My sword is larger. I’ve got height on you. I’m sure I can move better in my tunic than you in your tailcoat.” He paused, “Yet you may still outwit me, Master Baggins. You’re quicker and quieter. And more clever.” Bilbo certainly did not expect the praise. He also did not expect Thorin to be so talkative. Despite this, Bilbo shed his tailcoat. He took off his waistcoat as well, feeling more mobile as his accessories fell to the forest floor. Once again he became aware of the autumn’s chill.
“On guard!” Bilbo yelled, jokingly, though it sounded more like a question. They both readied their swords, and before he could make the first move, Thorin cut him off. They stood parallel to one another before Bilbo escaped behind him, Thorin turning his body to meet Bilbo’s own. They danced in a circle for a moment, like wild cats about to pounce, until Bilbo did. He wielded Sting like a kitchen knife and slashed toward Thorin’s legs, who blocked it and spun his sword. This time, the hobbit did not falter, instead leaping back to avoid an oncoming attack. He thought he saw Thorin smile.
“You learn quickly.” He spoke.
And in a flash, Bilbo found himself at the end of a sword.
“Do not let me distract you.” The dwarf said.
“That’s a difficult request.”
“Again.” And Thorin stood down.
Soon enough they were battling. It was quicker now, more aggressive, but Bilbo felt good. He stopped Thorin’s advances. He watched his surroundings. He played offense. It was no use. Thorin was good. Too good for someone like Bilbo. He was a king, a warrior, and a wanderer, but never one to take his own advice. Distraction was a viable tactic.
He waited for Thorin to attack, and he swept his legs out from under him with a sweeping kick. Thorin tried to catch himself, but to no avail, and his sword clattered just out of his reach. Before he could get up, Bilbo straddled him, squatting down onto his knees and holding the tip of Sting to the tip of Thorin’s nose.
“I win.”
“You play dirty, Bilbo.”
He raised his eyebrows at the use of his first name, letting his guard down just long enough for Thorin to catch him by the shoulders and roll him into the ground. He was lain flat on his back with a hand on either side of his head. Sting separated them, acting as an iron curtain between Thorin’s space and Bilbo’s own. Black hair trapped them in a dark box. A small amount of light shone between their foreheads, just enough to illuminate Thorin’s eyes above him.
“I win.” It was now Thorin who said it.
“I’d say it’s more of a stalemate, wouldn’t you? A tie?” Bilbo said nervously. He stared, becoming increasingly aware of the strong legs that trapped his own and the shrinking space between him and Thorin. One of his hands moved from the hilt of Sting to the wrist of the shadow above him.
“There must be a winner. One can’t get their spoils without a winner.”
Another hand moved. This time, to the back of Thorin’s neck and into his hair. He was pulled down.
It was Bilbo who kissed first. He started slowly, gently, but grew more feverish as Thorin leaned in. The wrist his hand was attached to moved away and Bilbo felt a hand in his. The chill in his bones grew to fire.
As soon as it began, it was over, and a thin string of saliva was all that attached them. Thorin sat up on his heels and stared down. Mirroring him, Bilbo moved up onto his elbows. The same hand now found a place on his chest, where his waistcoat once was, and moved Sting to the side. He gripped the loose tie around Bilbo’s neck lightly, just enough to pull him up to meet him and catch his lips again. It was longer now. Desperate. Something they had both wanted, only acting on it in the protection of the fog around them. They weren’t completely alone together, but for the first time, they felt like they were.
Bilbo was pulled into a lap. Hands found ground in Thorin’s curls. Bilbo gripped them tightly, allowing himself to be handled by the dwarf, whose hands were on his waist. They fiddled with an off-white, linen shirt. Rough thumbs carved gentle circles into flesh. Bilbo found his mouth opening, allowing for a wandering tongue to make its way inside. A small noise echoed between the trees. Neither man had any idea who it had come from, but they didn’t stop to ask. Stopping would mean they’d be thrust back into their journey, back into the choking air and the guarded gold and the damp coldness that surrounded them. For now, it was just them. They were warm, presumably safe, and aroused, Bilbo had noticed. He pulled away.
They sat, foreheads together, in comfortable silence. Bilbo’s hands moved to Thorin’s shoulders.
“If I won,” Bilbo said, two hands squeezing Thorin, “I think I’ve chosen my spoils.”
“As have I.”