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The first time Thorin felt desperation was not when Smaug broke through the front gates of the mountain, certainly not when he had to pull his grandfather from all that gold, no.
Thorin first felt desperation when he could not find his mother amidst the chaos of Smaug’s attack, when he found his siblings and had to bring them out of the mountain screaming and crying. He felt desperation when he had to shout commands for soldiers he led to attack to pull back instead, when he had to urge their people to leave their mountain with almost nothing save for the clothes on their backs. There is no other word to describe what he feels but desperation when he has to force his kin to leave their home and their dead behind, his words drowned by the dragon rolling in the treasury—gold and jewels and precious stones clinking as the dragon croons in delight as if mocking the crescendo of screams and anguished cries of the dwarves.
But he does not feel desperate when Thranduil turns away from them. He can feel it in others though, in Father and Fundin—that deep, cloying feeling of everything closing in—when they were refused passage in Greenwood.
The diplomacy pours like blackened oil in his ears; the measured words, the careful way with which the Elves are refusing them any form of help. As if Thorin needed any more confirmation when he saw Thranduil take one look at Erebor being ransacked by a dragon and command his army to turn back.
And Fundin must have seen that too, he must have. The elves turned their backs on the dwarves of Erebor yet he still advised them to go through this path. Thorin wonders if desperation has finally pierced through Thrór’s gold sickness that he willingly followed such advice.
But he sees before he hears his grandfather’s demands from the elves, sees it in the way he squares his shoulders and the way he raises his chin.
Not desperation, then, but arrogance.
Elves lined along the trees, a couple of meters from the edge of the forest. Strictly within their domain, Thorin observes, and the distance between them is too wide for a proper discussion of matters as sensitive as this. But there must be some desperation in Fundin and Thrain for them to resort to this, for them to let their people hear what the elves would say. Either that, or to let the dwarves see how arrogant their own King could get.
“King Thranduil has issued the command,” the elf says again. Thorin turns to him again—it is a male elf, he thinks, but then again he hasn’t seen much of the elves to know the difference. It also doesn’t help that his vision is blurring from exhaustion. “No dwarves from Erebor may pass through the forest of Greenwood.”
His stomach rumbles again, distracting him from the discussion. It’s been going on and on in circles, with Thrór’s demands being refused over and over in different words, Fundin scrambling to repair whatever political issue Thrór’s words are causing while the elves remain impassive and unyielding. They must know there is no longer a point in going through this over and over, no point in maintaining a political balance when everything has been upturned by the dragon’s attack. Elves may be of grace and immortality, but that is not to say that they cannot be vindictive, even over some jewels. But then again, what can he say about the obsession with things that shine when his own king and kin are even more susceptible to it?
Time wasted here could’ve been time used to assess their people, see to the injury, account for the names of the dwarves with them, and take stock of what they have even when Thorin knows all his people can think about is what they lost.
A small noise catches his attention, and Thorin turns to see Frerin clutching at his tunic, peering at him with teary blue eyes, “‘rin…”
“I’m here, targ mim, do not be afraid.” Thorin feels the fabric bunch where his brother is holding it with tight fists, the collar digging at his neck. Putting a comforting hand between Frerin’s shoulder blades, Thorin glances at Mother who is holding a fretful Dís in her arms. Their gazes meet, and whatever it is that he sees makes Thorin pull away first.
His attention is then captured by the elf’s next remark, “You cannot pass through the Old Forest Road or any part of Greenwood. That is King Thranduil’s mandate.”
Thorin closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then steers Frerin away from the conversation. He asks Balin to accompany him as they go around their scattered people, taking down names in battered parchment, ink spilled in already dirty clothes.
At some point, Frerin moves from his hiding spot behind Thorin’s leg and talks to their people too. Frerin’s good at this, Thorin thinks while half his attention falls to his little brother gently asking a family how many of them were able to get out of the mountain.
When Frerin returns to his side clutching three sheets of parchment filled with Khuzdul, Thorin tries not to see ash borne from dragon fire in his brother’s ink-stained hands.
***
“Thorin?”
He blinks and then sees his own ink-stained hands before his focus shifts to the sketch before him. It is one of Bilbo, and Thorin lets himself smile at the image.
“I’m not that good at this,” their gazes meet and Thorin thinks he didn’t quite capture the way Bilbo raises his eyebrow. He shrugs, “Close enough.” but picks up another sheet to do it all over again.
Bilbo smiles at him then, one of his quiet ones that carries more in his eyes than the corners of his lips. That, Thorin wants to capture that. “You should rest. Óin would have my hide if I keep you up any longer.”
The night is still young, Thorin wants to insist, despite the cold seeping into his bones. Outside, he can hear the quiet murmur across the camp, can see Dwalin’s silhouette guarding the entrance to his tent. In here though, the soft glow of the candlelight turns Bilbo’s hair a molten gold on the edges. He adjusts in his seat, pain shooting in his back and chest at the movement. And in an instant, Bilbo is closer to him, hands reaching out—not yet touching, but close enough that Thorin wants to lean into him, wants to feel the warmth of his touch, wants to brace himself against his solid albeit smaller form.
“I’m fine.”
“Thorin,” Bilbo sighs, but his gaze remains soft and finally, finally, his hand touches Thorin’s arm. “Rest now, you can continue tomorrow.”
“It might not be the same.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Their gazes meet, “Have I told you—” a pause, and Thorin smiles when Bilbo quirks his brows and his mouth does that thing. “Your hair doesn’t quite fall the same way as the others, here.”
“And how would you know?”
“Because I’ve been looking,” Thorin replies, short and simple — Bilbo has always been better at words than him. “That, as well.”
“And what is ‘that’?”
Thorin chuckles, “That twitching you do with your mouth, and when you smile… I don’t think I have told you.”
“Told me what?”
“How much I like it when you smile.” Gently, he lets the back of his fingers follow the curve of Bilbo’s cheek when he smiles.
“I don’t think you have, Thorin.”
“I should have,” his voice came out pained, a lump of all his regrets and what-ifs lodging at his throat. Thorin closes his eyes then, escaping even in the comfort and safety of Bilbo’s stare.
“Since when?”
Thorin huffs a laugh, looking down and away from Bilbo. And when their gazes meet again Thorin dares— dares to run his fingers through Bilbo’s hair, dares to feel the softness of the strands between his touch. He dares to brush them away from Bilbo’s face, and when his thumb grazes the point of Bilbo’s ears, is rewarded with a light shiver.
Thorin smiles again, “Since Bag End.”
***
Hunger sets in too easily.
The dwarves of Erebor fractured. Most of the dwarf lords going to the Iron Hills while most of the population has nothing left but to go on. Most don’t even have anything but the clothes on their backs. What little possession their people have, Thorin fears may not be enough.
Balin sits beside him, reviewing supply reports over and over.
“Supplies will not magically appear no matter how much will you put into it, cousin.”
“Aye. But what else is there for me to do?”
Sighing, Thorin silently asks for some of the papers. He reads through the numbers and comprehends countless losses instead. This will not be enough no matter how much they’d be able to forage while they go around Greenwood. Even now, he can see his siblings hunched over, arms covering their stomachs as if that will stave off the hunger. Cries erupt from different parts of the camp as starvation crawls through their population, beginning with the young.
Dís curls into Frerin’s arms, and Thorin feels his chest constrict at the sight.
“There must be something we can do.”
“The men of Dale were also gravely affected,” Balin shakes his head, “I fear there is no more help that can immediately be extended to us on this side of the Misty Mountains.”
“Lord Náin—”
“—have probably received your grandfather’s letter,” another shake of his head. Thorin meets Balin’s gaze and sees tiredness and desperation reflected at him. “Rest, Thorin. Be with your siblings. There is nothing more we can do for now.”
No, Thorin grits his teeth. “Rohan. We travel light, and quickly. We can seek aid, and work. Find a settlement ahead of our survivors.”
“We’ll lose a lot on the way, with or without separating. The young ones may not endure the journey, the old ones even more so.” Balin whispers, not quite disagreeing with the plan yet not too agreeable either.
“We’ll just have to try harder.”
Thorin stands and carefully picks his way through the camp toward his father and grandfather. He sees ‘amad beckon his siblings to her arms for the night, and Thorin walks to them instead, laying his coat on the ground for his siblings to sleep on.
He can wait to tell his grandfather of his plan tomorrow.
***
Thorin stares at the hills of gold before them. Days later and still nothing: no King’s Jewel, no Arkenstone. A fell voice telling him that someone has taken what is his and Thorin is—
“Thorin.”
Thorin is… almost inclined to believe.
He would recognize that voice anywhere, by the way he speaks his name; and here inside his mountain even more so. “Bilbo,” Thorin glances at the hobbit in acknowledgment. Gently, he feels himself uncoiling, fists loosening in his sides.
“Can’t sleep?”
Thorin hums and turns towards him, “How are you faring?”
“I’m fine. Thorin…”
“Yes, Bilbo?” Thorin prompts, watching the glint of the gold reflected in Bilbo’s eyes. Beautiful… amrâlimê.
A beat, and another… and another. Thorin waits and he would have kept waiting even if Bilbo didn't ask, and would give anything to the hobbit before he even had the mind to ask for it. Books, armchair, he would have all of his pottery and doilies transported with the utmost care from the Shire to Erebor. He would even let elvish literature inside his mountain if that is what Bilbo would enjoy.
And a garden… Thorin will carve him a garden with his own hands.
“Thorin, walk with me?” Bilbo asks with a smile. “You haven’t shown me where you saw the fireflies yet.”
Thorin watches him pat his pocket—a habit he has formed since the Misty Mountains—before offering him a hand, the same one that held the acorn days ago. Before them, the company continues searching for the Arkenstone, but the slow clinking of gold tells the king they might as well be listening to them.
But with no hesitation, Thorin takes Bilbo’s hand and pulls him to his side; the fell voice quietens, replaced by the chimes of Bilbo’s chuckles reverberating through the halls and a smile given to him—one that Thorin would give anything and everything to keep.
So when Bilbo shivers as they delve deeper into the mountain, Thorin sheds his coat and carefully places it on Bilbo’s shoulders.
***
As craftspeople, dwarves are skillful and experienced. Using their body, not just their hands, as an instrument in creating objects of beauty. Where other races see a slab of stone, dwarves see the gems beneath and the images waiting to be carved. Their craft is performative, and the materials they work with are life itself. The meeting point where their hands touch the stone is a gift from Mahal Himself.
This is also why the disregard and blatant insult they receive from Men in the form of the small remuneration they receive daily grates on Thorin’s nerves. It matters not that he is of royal blood toiling in the low-quality forges of Men, but the disrespect of their skills and talents, of the years dedicated to learning and improving their crafts, of the time and effort his people gave and continues to give to be able to do what Men see as ‘simple’ and ‘easy’ work — such exploitation is what pierces through Thorin’s armor. It seems the dragon is not the only one determined to put their people low.
Balin is waiting for him outside the forge, and Thorin returns his nod as he receives his remuneration for the day. “Good day?”
“Barely enough,” Thorin replies, the weight of the coins in the pouch is telling even without him counting.
They walk together to the barracks the king of Rohan lent to them. Almost a year of staying among men and they are still earning looks and whispers.
“Dunland,” Balin says out of the blue.
“What?”
“I received word from ‘amad, we will settle at Dunland as your grandfather decreed. The letter you received should outline more.”
Thorin looks at him then, notes the spring in his steps and the twinkle in his eyes. “And?”
“‘amad and Dwalin are both healthy,” Balin chuckles, shaking his head, “My baby brother is almost here. Can you believe how lucky we are, Thorin?”
“Aye, ‘tis a good day.” Thorin returns with a smile. The rants his grandfather no doubt has written to him pale in comparison to Balin’s news. “He’d be the strongest pebble of them all.”
“Aye, no doubt.”
***
Thorin watches as Bofur attempts to teach Bilbo how to carve on wood.
“Yer grip on the wood is too stiff,” a light tap on the hand, yet Bilbo doesn’t loosen his hold any better. Bofur laughs, “I ain’t taking the blame if ye lose a finger.”
Several inputs erupt among the dwarves, with Bifur actively demonstrating before the hobbit. The Company is happy that their hobbit has recovered from the cold, and he can tell they are eager to leave Laketown as soon as possible. Sighing, Thorin picks his way toward the room given to his nephews.
“Kíli, how’s your wound?” He pats Fíli on the shoulder in greeting, “Any better?”
“’m fine, uncle.” Kíli tries to smile but ends up grimacing instead. “We do not have to dally at my expense.”
“His fever keeps coming back,” Fíli says, brushing his brother’s hair away from his face. “Óin fears it is more than an infection.”
Moving to kneel beside Kíli’s bed, Thorin carefully holds his nephew’s hand in his—once again struck by how much they have both grown. “Your well-being is important, Kíli. Yours as well, Fíli. We will postpone reaching the mountain as much as we can, if it means you’ll get better.”
He stays until both fall asleep sharing the same bed and comforting one another. And Thorin stays longer, painstakingly parting their hair away apart, even if they will eventually get tangled in the morning as they are wont to do ever since they are children.
When he returns to the sitting room, most of the company is already snoring, leaving Bofur and Nori quietly smoking a pipe by the window, Dwalin maintaining his weapons, and Balin and Ori poring over some documents.
“How are the boys?” Bilbo asks, still attempting to carve at the piece of wood.
“Kíli is still unwell, they are sleeping now.” Thorin sits beside him, “Here,” he carefully directs Bilbo’s hands, “more than the technique and rather than getting stuck on issues of power and control—one must understand that the act of creating is an embodied relationship with things outside of ourselves, things that can be larger and more significant than we could ever hope to be.”
“We will not leave without them, right?” Bilbo allows him to maneuver his hands, and Thorin silently marvels at the softness of the hobbit’s hands. “I did not know that is how dwarves view their craft.”
“I hope not,” there are calluses now in Bilbo’s hands, from holding Sting more than gardening. “Not all of us. But that is how I like to think of my craft. Did you wish to carve a pipe?”
“Yes,” Bilbo directs his smile to the wood before them and their adjoined hands. “Tell me more?”
“Other races will look at our craft in terms of the objects we produce, or what they could mean or represent. But often, the action itself—in this case, the actual touching of the blade against the wood—is overlooked.”
“It’s like gardening.”
Thorin hums, and slowly, a pipe comes out of the wood in their hands. “Tell me more?”
“Similar to what you said. Others would see the flowers, but not the hours put into weeding, watering, or perhaps even the mere act of planting. It is more than the technique, more than angling the watering pot a certain way to not let the plant drown; it is recognizing life, nurturing, and giving it a safe space to flourish.”
“Hm. And it is not always about working with a material for the first time,” Thorin cradles Bilbo’s hand and directs the other to work on the curve of the bowl, “Rather, it is about working as if each time was the first. We are skillful and experienced, knowledge embodied, but never used in a consciously controlling way.”
“That is not what one would usually hear of dwarves.”
“Yet one does not often discuss craftsmanship with dwarves,” Thorin replies, a little too harshly perhaps, if the way Bilbo stiffens tells. “I’m sorry.”
Bilbo shakes his head, “But you’re right. Go on?”
“My master used to say that true workmanship only happens when the quality of the result is at risk during the process of making. We work with dexterity and continuous exercise of judgment—but in the end, we all have to let go of the will to control, to step into the unknown and let go of everything you know.”
The consistent slide of the blade on wood seems to echo in the space between them, and Thorin can feel Bilbo’s gaze on him. He puts extra care on where the blade meets the wood, shielding Bilbo’s fingers with his.
“‘I am only a workman. I have no secret.’” Thorin recites quietly in the small space between them, “‘When I began to think about the work you commanded, I guarded my spirit, did not expend it on trifles that were not to the point… Then, my own collected thought encountered the hidden potential in the wood.’”
Between them the pipe is brought to the light, “And there it is,” Bilbo picks up after him, “There is a pipe in the wood all along.”
“Not quite done yet.”
“But almost there.” Bilbo smiles up at him, “Who was your master?”
Thorin huffs, leaning back a bit, “You wouldn’t believe it.”
Bilbo merely raises an eyebrow, and it does not escape Thorin that he is yet to pull away. “My grandfather, Thrór.”
“That is not difficult to believe at all,” Bilbo says, short and simple.
Around them, the dwarves seem to take a pause, then quickly resume what they are doing. Maybe Bilbo is onto something when it comes to their stealth after all.
“Why is that?”
“He had a great kingdom—one that is the envy of a dragon, apparently. He is more than what others speak of his greed… or sickness.” Bilbo meets his gaze, and Thorin does not pull away when Bilbo shifts to hold his hand. “Just like all of you are more than your gruff and cold exterior.
“When hobbits work with a seed and with the earth, it is an opening to the life within and around it. To some extent, we like to think we know the nature of things and of the world, yet we still choose to nurture. And that, above all else, is something we can both understand, don’t you think?”
Yes, Thorin wants to say, wants to hope. But he fears, above all else, that nature would win the war inside him.
Instead of letting go, he pulls Bilbo’s hands close to him and resumes carving his pipe. For his adoration is like a song, and when you feel the song within, you sing.
***
Life in Dunland will not satisfy his grandfather. This much, Thorin knows.
It has been a long time since anything has satisfied Thrór, and the young dwarf prince fears his siblings have not known their grandfather before what others call now as dragon sickness. And now in the throes of poverty, Thrór is not faring any better.
So when he sees his grandfather’s ring on his father’s finger, Thorin takes one last look and turns away. Dís’ birthday is coming up after all, and he will work as much as he needs to give his sister a celebration worthy of her.
***
“Thorin.”
“Bilbo.”
An elvish cell door separates them, but Thorin pushes himself as close as possible. “Bilbo. I’m sorry. I should have—”
“You don’t have to explain. You have your reasons,” Bilbo shakes his head, looking away. “Do I wish your meeting with the Elven King went differently? Yes. But that is not—”
“I should’ve thought of the Company, of you. My pride…”
“Would doom us all? Perhaps.” Bilbo chuckles, “It’s good of you to realize that. You’re also lucky you have me.”
The hobbit smiles at him, and Thorin can’t even muster an ounce of doubt for his next words.
“We’ll get out of here, Thorin, I promise.”
***
Nár returns with the news of Thrór’s beheading in Azog’s hand.
Thorin watches as thousands of dwarven armies pour into their settlement in Dunland. Dwarves, including those from the Iron Hills, and the Firebeards and Broadbeams of the Blue Mountains mobilized faster than any of their kin did when Smaug attacked Erebor, and even after when they were homeless and wandering. Bile rises in his throat at the realization.
“Don’t,” Dwalin warns beside him. “‘tis a treason.”
“It is not treason to preserve the lives of our kin,” Thorin snarls, turning away from the army at their doorstep and towards where his father is no doubt strategizing with the lords and generals.
He passes by Dís and carefully notes Frerin’s absence by her side. ‘amad too, Thorin realizes. Even years after settling in Dunland, their ‘amad barely lets Dís or Frerin out of her sight, Thorin would have received the same attention had he not insisted to work in the nearby settlements of Men. Anxiety crawls into his heart, they already lost too much to the dragon, and they cannot afford to lose more to a war caused by a dwarf who cannot accept what his own greed dealt him.
Balin intercepts him a couple of meters away from the tent, “Calm down, laddie.”
“This is unacceptable, Balin! We cannot afford war.”
“Yet it is the only choice we ha—”
“I swear to Mahal, Balin, if you say it is the only choice we have…”
A moment passes by, and Thorin feels shame surround him at his outburst. He feels Dwalin pull Balin’s hand away from his arm, and he looks down, blinking rapidly before looking back up to his cousins… and friends, both loyal to a fault.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I understand,” Balin pats his arm, “And we are with you, laddie.”
“Aye,” Dwalin agrees. “Looks like Dáin’s here, that war-hungry bastard.”
Thorin pulls away from the brothers and pushes forward inside the tent, sparing Dáin a nod and a quiet ‘cousin’ in greeting—definitely less than what his cousin deserves and is probably expecting.
Inside, he is met by much shouting as each dwarf convinces the other of the effectiveness of their plan. In one corner, he sees his parents furiously discussing, with Lord Náin affording them a semblance of privacy by glaring at anyone who so much as attempts to listen in.
“Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, Prince Under the Mountain,” Lord Náin announces. And the coil of insecurity at the title tightens a little more.
At this, he sees Frerin’s head pop out among the other dwarven lords and generals, “‘rin, you’re finally here.”
Thorin nods at his brother before turning his attention to his parents, “May I speak with you, Father?”
“On what matter, my son?” Thráin seems to take the opportunity to pull away from his still furious wife, “Would you like to contribute to our planning? You have a great mind for strategies such as this, after all.”
“No,” Thorin snaps, and he has half the mind to bother with the way all of the heads inside the tent turned to him. “And that is exactly what I would like to talk about. We cannot afford a war, ‘adad.”
It takes a while before anyone recovers, but when they do, Thorin is bombarded with accusations of treason, that he does not value his grandfather’s life, and that he does not think highly of the value of Moria for their people.
“It is exactly because I think highly of my grandfather’s life and the work he did as king that I would like to preserve the lives of our people!”
He meets his ‘amad’s approving gaze and continues, “We could do more with what we have now. The people of Erebor deserve a life of peace and plenty, even without a mountain full of gold that is now infested by a dragon. It is our right to live, and retaking Moria is—”
“—is what Thrór intended for us to do. To reclaim what we lost!” Thráin interjects, pointing at his son. Clearly, Thorin’s words touched a sensitive spot, and with the way his ‘amad is looking at him, is also probably what they were fighting about. “Now Thorin, either you are with us and put your head into planning this war, or you can leave and never return.”
“Thráin!”
“‘adad!” Frerin stands with a gasp. Thorin meets his brother’s fear-stricken gaze and turns his glare to their father. Frerin is so young, too young, too gentle, to be in a war room. “Thorin means well, and you know it! It is as you said: he is a good leader and strategist, of course, he would put our people above all else!”
“There is no turning back from this,” Thráin declares, “We will wage war against the orcs and reclaim Moria!”
The dwarves inside the tent followed their king, shouting and thumping at the table. Thorin meets his ‘amad’s gaze and he has never felt so powerless his whole life—not even when the dragon attacked.
***
Bilbo hesitates at the edge of Mirkwood.
Thorin watches him, patient amidst the discontent mumbling of the dwarves walking further into the forest. It is as though Bilbo is passing the point of no return.
“This forest is sick,” Bilbo announces to no one in particular, and Thorin lets him have his moment. “Something foul and evil has taken root deep into the earth.”
“How can you tell?”
“Hobbits are children of the Green Lady, Yavanna,” Bilbo sighs, then takes a deep breath before letting one foot step into the forest. “Oh, She is so disappointed with the state of living and growing things here, I am sure.”
Thorin looks down, hiding a smile, and when he looks up Bilbo is waiting for him.
“Shall we?”
***
The war raged for years, and Thorin lost count of their losses too early.
The final battle began on a bleak winter day, the sun hiding behind the clouds. Dwarves marched into Dimrill Dale where they found the East-Gate and sent up a great noise. Thus, the Battle of Azanulbizar commenced.
***
“Why did you save me?”
Bilbo places a small violet flower he picked up in Beorn’s garden in his palm, guiding Thorin’s hand closed around it as if asking him to keep it safe.
“Because I decided that I quite like being with you. It will be this, for as long as you let me.”
***
The failure of reclaiming Moria led the remaining dwarves of Erebor to the Blue Mountains.
Their parents barely talk, and Thorin can pinpoint the time Dís decided to build a wall around her. He sees ‘amad begin to fade at Frerin’s death, and Thorin fears he would follow if he falters even for a split second.
And so he puts his back onto working; toiling in the forges of Men in Bree and the occasional invitation to stay a couple of months in Michel Delving whenever the hobbit keeping the forge there grows too old.
The dwarves of Erebor prospered as much as they could. It is a life of peace, but not yet of plenty. There are no veins of gold or mithril in their new mountain, and not a lot of iron or gems sleeping beneath the stone. But they are safe, and recovering. There is a chance to prosper, and hope lingers even after a harsh winter.
***
The erratic beating of his heart is louder than the clap of thunder when he sees the hobbit hanging by the mountainside, and he is jumping down to catch him before Dwalin could ensure he will not fall.
And his heart continues to beat louder with Bilbo safe and surrounded by his dwarves, so loud that he could barely hear his own words.
“He's been lost ever since he left his home. He should not have come—” Fear, that what it was, Thorin realizes, he’s terrified of losing the hobbit.
“—he has no place amongst us.”
The words feel odd and misplaced coming from his lips, leaving a vile taste behind, even more so because he knows that he did not mean it.
***
‘Amad dies a month after Dís introduces Víli to the family.
The burial is a small and quiet affair, and it was the first time Dís held his hand after a long, long time. Thorin did not cry, doesn’t think he knows how, after all these years. His ‘amad was a pillar, and he fears they would crumble sooner rather than later.
And so when Thráin calls for the reclamation of Erebor and is met with disapproval from their kin, it did not surprise Thorin that his father would set out alone and with a company of a mere handful of dwarves.
The night before the expedition, Thorin sits with Balin and Dwalin in the tavern. “Be careful.”
“Aye,” Balin nods, taking a sip of his ale. Thorin wonders if Balin is doing this for his father, Fundin, following his steps even if it is after a king who yearns for gold more than home.
“I thought ye would be stopping us,” Dwalin comments, raising his mug for another.
“I have half the mind to do it,” Thorin admits, peering at the ale inside his mug—half-empty. “But I wasn’t able to stop him from waging war, how likely do you think I’ll succeed in stopping him from reclaiming Erebor with an emissary of six dwarves?”
Dwalin barks a laugh, “Aye, and Óin says no portents are marking the success of the mission, yet he will still come.”
“Óin is a great healer, he will be an asset to the mission, brother.”
“Aye! I mean no offense on that matter, he is sacrificing a lot by not being with his brother as Glóin courts his One,” Dwalin retorts, “And I quite agree with him that we are unlikely to succeed.”
“Why is that?” Thorin asks the captain of the guard before chugging down the rest of his ale.
Dwalin grins, “There are no portents,” the two snicker at Dwalin’s guffaws at his own joke.
A little over a year later, the emissary returns with no sign of his father. Thorin silently accepts the hug and apology from his cousins.
Later, Dís cries herself to sleep in his arms—another first since their ‘amad’s death. Much later, he would read through the reports and refuse to believe his father is dead, only missing.
And when Dís finally marries her One, it is Thorin who escorts her before the King, and blesses their union as King Under the Mountain.
***
“Oh! I’m—” Thorin raises an eyebrow at the hobbit who is carrying a couple of tangerines in his hands, “I didn’t realize this space was taken. I’m sorry.”
“Peace, Master Burglar,” he gestures with the pipe in his hand, “You can sit if you like.”
The hobbit stutters, hesitates, then nods as if mentally preparing himself for a fight. Thorin huffs a laugh.
They sit quietly for a long while, enjoying the quiet of the night—in an elven garden of all places! Yet Thorin is humble enough to admit to himself that this was a much-needed reprieve, even if his nephew continues to mask his fascination with elves.
Beside him, Bilbo is looking up at the sky, the stars reflecting in the green of his eyes, like flowers in the gardens of his beloved Shire. “Do you—”
Thorin waits, and when the hobbit seems to lose momentum, prompts, “Hm?”
But Bilbo refuses to resume, peeling at his tangerine instead, “How can you see the stars, when inside the mountain?”
Thorin laughs, surprised at the question. Beside him, Bilbo flushes furiously and Thorin scrambles to not offend the hobbit, “I wasn’t laughing at you, Master Baggins. Your question merely surprised me, because I wondered the same thing when I was a pebble.”
“Erebor… runs deep beneath the earth, and young dwarves are not easily allowed outside,” he watches Bilbo split the orange in half and offer one-half to him. They engage in a silent question and answer as Thorin tilts his head at the hobbit—confused by the act, especially with the little knowledge he has of hobbits. But Bilbo merely raises the fruit, as if insisting he wants them both to eat well.
With a smile, Thorin accepts. “We do not see stars until much later, and most dwarves prefer the shield and darkness of the mountain.”
“And you? What do you prefer?”
With a shrug, Thorin places his pipe down and strips a piece of tangerine from his half. He eats slowly, savoring the juices and flavor, while thinking of his answer. Even if he already had one a long time ago.
“It can be… claustrophobic inside,” Thorin replies, and his attention is captured by the fireflies venturing out into the open area around them. The dwarf smiles again, looking at the sparks of light flying so close to them, “Once, inside Erebor, I saw fireflies and thought they were stars.”
“Then you have a much more optimistic view of stars than I do, Master Oakenshield.” The hobbit says softly, and Thorin would not have heard if he hadn’t been paying attention.
“‘Thorin’… just— you can call me ‘Thorin’, like everybody else.”
Bilbo hums, giving him a smile. “It is ‘Bilbo’ for you, then.” Slowly, the hobbit lifts his arm until a firefly lands on the back of his hand. Thorin watches him carefully move closer to him, as if to show him more of his star.
“My stars in the sky might as well have been long-extinguished, they’ve been up there for a long time after all.” Bilbo meets his gaze, “But yours, Thorin… yours is alive, and it persists even in the darkest of places—even beneath a mountain.”
A moment passes by with them just looking at each other, and Thorin wonders if the hobbit can hear the thudding of his heart like miners hammering into stone. Bilbo is still smiling, and this close to him under the shelter of the night, Thorin can see him better—see the way his curls fall onto his ears and forehead, the green of his eyes, the gentle slopes of his smile.
And then the firefly moves away from Bilbo’s hand, “It was your singing, you know?”
“What?” Thorin says, not quite hearing just yet.
“You sang, that night after your dwarves raided my pantry and ate me out of my home,” Bilbo looks away, chuckling good-naturedly. And Thorin wants. Wants to run the pad of his thumb along the curve of his cheeks, wants to see that smile and hear that chuckle and make him laugh.
“You sang, and I felt longing for a home I never knew.” He watches the hobbit fidget with his thumb, and that twitching with his mouth. Thorin wonders where he gets the courage to speak of such words, where he would’ve kept his buried so deep inside of him it would never be spoken even in the blanket of moonlight. “It was so intense I felt it until the next morning… until now.”
“You sang, and I thought… I could listen to you over and over…” Bilbo meets his gaze again, “even if it would be painful.”
***
The day Fíli is born, several things happen, almost all at once.
Glóin declares his intent to marry his One before the King, and Thorin happily grants the couple his blessing. Dwalin marches into the King’s Hall before the court breaks for lunch with the news that Nori has escaped, again, to which Thorin merely shakes his head while Balin hides his amusement behind the reports he has probably already memorized.
Bombur personally serves lunch, with the news that his fourth son had broken through his fever thanks to Óin’s help. Thorin and Balin take their lunch with Dís and Óin who would not let the dam out of his sight. Dís grumbles the whole time, eating with one hand while the other is set firmly on her stomach. Thorin cannot help but smile at the image she paints.
Not even thirty minutes after court resumes, Bifur and Bofur come running in with reports of new veins of gold found in the mines. “It ain’t much, King, but ‘tis a lot!” and Bifur agrees with his cousin, judging by his furious nods. Thorin smiles at his two best miners and cuts the court off for the day to visit the mines.
Víli stands waiting for him at the entrance, hands on his waist. “Afternoon, your Majesty.”
“Víli.”
Thorin hasn’t even stepped foot inside the mines when Dwalin comes running towards them, his momentum only breaking with Thorin catching him by the shoulders, “What in Mahal’s name got into you, Dwalin?!”
“Dís! She’s giving birth and screaming for both of ye!”
In a split second, both brother and husband are running towards their home, Balin and Dwalin following close to their heels. Dís’ shouts can be heard before they even turn the corner.
Inside, they are met with Óin’s commands and Dís’ demands. Thorin holds one of his sister’s hands, while Víli holds the other—both trying not to flinch at the strength of the dam’s grip.
“Make yerselves useful and grab the blankets and water, the lad is almost here!” Óin barks, and Thorin and Víli try to follow with one hand while Balin and Dwalin scramble to fetch the water.
“I swear to Mahal, Víli! Don’t you dare let go of my hand!” Another scream from Dís, which quickly dies down as the cry of a baby erupts in the room.
Óin carefully lays the babe on Dís’ chest, and they all stare at the little lad before them. Thorin belatedly realizes that he is crying too when Víli sniffles beside them, running a finger along his son’s arm.
“Ibrizbunt. Fíli,” Dís declares, placing a reverent kiss on her son’s forehead. “Son of Víli, Prince Under the Mountain.”
***
A shuffle at the edge of the camp makes Thorin grab his sword.
“Myrtle, hey,” the hobbit greets his pony. “Sshh, it’s just me. Easy now…”
Relinquishing his hold on the hilt of his sword, the dwarf king turns towards the hobbit. “Sneaking to feed your pony again?”
Master Baggins glances up at him, smiles, then resumes petting his pony.
***
When Kíli was born, Óin almost did not make it.
The healer is on the other side of the mountain, tending to young Ori. Thorin paces outside the room, flinching at Dís’ pained screams. Fíli is hiding behind his legs, staring at the closed door, and Thorin can see his nephew wants to come closer to his ‘amad but is scared of causing any more pain.
It is not as eventful as Fíli’s birth, if only because the young prince insisted they all stay home because his baby brother is about to ‘come out’.
“‘tis alright, bunnanunê,” Thorin urges, kneeling before his nephew, “Your ‘amad can use your comfort.”
“She needs Óin, not me, uncle!” Fíli replies, his distress showing in his voice and with how he fiddles with his hair. “And ‘adad is there already but she’s still in so much pain and when will Kíli come out already anyway! He’s taking too long!”
“Madtithbirzul,” Thorin sighs, pulling his nephew into a hug, “Your little brother will be here soon, I promise.”
Just then, Óin bursts into the house with Balin and Dwalin hot in his heels. Thorin follows the healer inside and sits beside his sister with his nephew in his lap. And they wait, with bated breaths, for Kíli’s cries.
And when he does, Fíli is shooting towards him, scrambling closer to catch a glimpse. Gently, Óin lets the golden pebble hold his baby brother, as he lays Kíli in Dís’ arms.
“Hello, Kee,” Fíli says, grinning at his brother while holding the babe’s fist in his own hands almost reverently. “We’re going to have so much fun together!”
***
They make it to Bree with no issues, and Thorin silently marvels at the way the hobbit seems so used to the hustle of the settlement of Men.
“I trust that you see the potential in my hobbit?” Gandalf asks, and Thorin tears his gaze away from the said hobbit.
“Not yours,” Thorin snaps.
“Apparently not.” agrees the wizard, puffing at his pipe.
“He is his own person.”
“Yes, yes, he is.” Gandalf peers at him with knowing eyes, “And he chose to follow you. That says something.”
***
Their settlement in Ered Luin continues to prosper. Not as much as Erebor did, but it was a life of peace and plenty—as Balin likes to say.
Yet decades after his coronation, Thorin still refuses to believe his father is dead. Often, he goes out to investigate even the vaguest of leads. Only to come up with nothing.
But when Víli dies, he ventures for his search less and less.
Dís carries her loss gracefully, too gracefully if one would ask Thorin. She cries in his arms for the second time, then raises her head high the following morning. She does not let her sons see her weep, and Thorin wonders if she thinks they would crumble if she falters even for a second.
He helps raise Fíli and Kíli, nurturing them in their crafts, and teaching them how to defend first and fight second. The brothers become nigh inseparable, and neither Dís nor Thorin can hardly find it in themselves to stop them in their little pranks and mischiefs. Let them be in their childhood, for as long as they can.
A couple of decades pass, before a lead forces Thorin to search for their father again.
“It is folly, Thorin!” Dís slams a hand on the table, “‘Adad is dead! Admit it!”
“He’s not, Dís! I can feel it!”
“You would believe in the words of a thief over the reports of your own kin!”
“Nori is more than that, and you know you’re being unfair, Dís. He has proven his loyalty—”
“—If only to keep his brothers safe.”
“—and that is enough reason to do so.” Thorin crosses his arms, “And I do trust the reports from the mission decades ago, but it also did not explicitly say that ‘adad is dead.”
Thorin watches his sister sigh as if all the fight left her body in one single breath. “That is too little to go on with, Thorin.”
“It is enough.”
The search proves to be futile, as Dís predicted. But when the wizard sits at Thorin’s table, he begins to hope.
***
“Wait!”
Thorin halts his pony far too quickly.
“Wait!”
It’s the hobbit.
The company turns towards their burglar—as Thorin is sure he now is—and sees a brilliant and proud smile on his face, even if he is panting and catching his breath.
“I signed it,” Master Baggins declares, meeting his gaze as if daring him, the leader of this company, to turn him away.
Thorin breaks his gaze, that smile is far too bright in the early morning light.
And when Balin notes the legitimacy of the contract, Thorin turns back towards the road to hide his own smile. “Give him a pony.”
***
None of his closest kin, save for his nephews, seem to support him. And no amount of Óin’s numerous declarations of portents seem to crack at Dwalin.
And Dís…
“Thirteen dwarves, Thorin! Thirteen!” his sister points at him, “And that already counts two of my foolish sons! How in Mahal’s name can you believe that such odds will win against a dragon!”
“‘Amad!” said foolish sons who have the gall to complain.
“Enough! I will no longer hear of your foolishness! And you—” Dís turns back to him— ”Oakenshield, I care not what Tharkûn has promised you, but you are smarter than this!”
“Dís, it is time to recl—”
“Time to what?! To die?!”
Fíli and Kíli gasp, and in his periphery, Thorin can see Dwalin raise a brow as if challenging him to refute his own sister’s claim. Balin’s only response is a sigh that is far too loud at the sudden quiet of their home.
“She’s right, Thorin,” Dwalin says, “Some of us may never return.”
“I am not—” a pause, and meets his sister’s gaze even if he has to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. “I am not doing this for myself. Everything I do, I do it for them,” he watches Dís glance at her sons, “For you, for our people.”
Dís merely shakes her head, “That is no use when you are buried back in the stone, Thorin. And I can only stay here, hoping that you do not bring my sons with you.”
That is the only approval he knows he will ever get from her. And Thorin is still grateful for the hug she gives him before they leave, and a new fur coat she wraps around him.
“Come back, just— come back, and bring my sons with you.”
***
Thorin spares the green door one last glance before it blends in with the rolling green hills of the Shire.
This is better, he thinks—convinces himself—the hobbit deserves a peaceful and gentle life, which is far more than what Thorin can give, exiled king or not.
***
Everything seems to be against him.
None of the other dwarves would support his mission. Dáin refuses to lend his army, and Thorin cannot find it in himself to resent his cousin who has supported them in more ways than this.
“Must you do this, cousin?” Dáin asks before Thorin leaves, holding him back by a hand on his arm, “Ered Luin prospers, ‘tis not the same as Erebor but—”
“—but my people deserve a better home, Dáin. And if I can give it to them, I will.”
Dáin lets go of his arm, “Between all of us, you are the only one who almost always gets what he wants,” he chuckles, and Thorin lowers his gaze at the remark. “Remember how your grandfather let you keep the war pig I sent you? No one could defy Thrór in those days.
“I will support you, but I cannot risk my people in the way you are asking, cousin. This quest is yours, and yours alone.”
“I understand.” Thorin bows, “Farewell, cousin.”
Thorin travels the same way back and counts himself lucky for reaching the Shire in good time. He tries not to entertain the thought of canceling the expedition too much, lest his courage fails him.
He walks through the Shire, and does his best not to doubt Tharkûn’s warnings, "Listen to me, Thorin Oakenshield! If this hobbit goes with you, you will succeed. If not, you will fail. A foresight is on me, and I am warning you." How can such simple creatures who always seem to be eating, only caring about gardening and farming, make or break the future of Erebor?
The suspicious glances thrown his way also did not help Tharkûn’s case. And Thorin settles himself into finding the right door, by thinking of how to best break it to the wizard that he is making the wrong judgment.
***
He lost his way, twice, before finding the right door. And Thorin can humble himself enough to admit that the ruckus inside the hobbit hole has clued him in.
Knocking in three quick successions, Thorin patiently waits outside, secretly marveling at the freshness of the air and the quiet on this side of the Shire. The door opens and Thorin peers inside, “Gandalf. I thought you said this place would be easy to find.”
The wizard ushers him in, “I lost my way, twice. I would not have found it at all, had it not been for that mark on the door.” Thorin smiles at his nephews and the rest of the company.
“Mark?” an incredulous voice pipes in, “There’s no mark on that door, it was painted a week ago!”
Thorin turns towards the owner of the voice and something calm settles over him.
“There is a mark, I put it there myself,” Tharkûn explains—far too proudly, judging by the set of their host’s shoulders. Thorin suppresses a grin.
And with a gesture from the wizard, he is turning towards him. Thorin can only hope that the wizard’s voice was able to mask his gasp, “Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield.”
Bilbo Baggins.
Thorin absently hands his cloak to Kíli. He can’t think of anything past the one before him—no quest, no mountain. He pays no mind to the heart beating wildly in his chest, his whole attention captured by the hobbit.
He needs to know, he has to—
Taking a step forward, Thorin lets himself smile, “So,” he raises both hands to gently hold him by the shoulders. And it was more than enough to confirm what he felt, what he can still feel coursing through his whole being… “This is the hobbit.”
My One.