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Thorin was awakened from a nap by the scrape of the wooden door of Oin's makeshift healing room being flung open. The attendant Byrngja was nowhere to be seen, atypically, but he barely had time to wonder she was before a fuming Bilbo entered. "Confound the dwarf, nothing suits him!" Bilbo raged, though even in his fury he merely pushed the door shut behind himself rather than slamming it. Thorin's eyebrows were almost at his hairline, so rare was it to see the hobbit in such a state. Thankfully Oin was out as well, or there might be a proper shouting row, given the mood Bilbo seemed to be in. He suspected his hobbit might not welcome any dwarven rudeness at this point, no matter how well-intentioned. Thorin shifted himself awkwardly in the hospital cot, cursing again the cruel fate that had left him wounded and prone while his - well, whatever they were at this point, after long-overdue confessions and a tender kiss cut short by a dead orc's legacy of wounds - suffered such indignities. In the month since his deathbed (or so he thought) words of love and Bilbo's tearful but positive reception, he had learned more about the hobbit's real thoughts than he had in the entire journey. He had wondered throughout their journey what the hobbit really thought beneath the impenetrable mask of manners and politesse; finding out was a shock to be sure, but often a delicious one.
"I assume this is Borag again?" he asked, wincing at the glare he received in return. Well, mostly at the glare; his bandages were pulling. "What did he do now?" Thorin was well aware that Lord Borag, formerly of the Iron Hills, was enough to make anyone glare though, so he didn't take it particularly personally.
With a final furious huff, Bilbo threw himself into the rickety chair by the bed salvaged from who-knew-where, making it creak alarmingly. A dusty hand was pressed to the hobbit's pale brow, making Thorin itch to take it and rub it clean. "I... to be honest, I don't even know. He seems to think I've had a life of nothing but honey and roses. Today he was so crashingly rude to me he even managed to offend Bofur." Thorin's face fell into a scowl. While he could imagine any number of things Borag might have said or done, the list of what might offend the renowned good humor of the cheeriest member of the Company was rather shorter. Not for the first time, his hands itched for his sword. If he could rise from this bed, he would settle the matter himself. Still, with another wince, he had to admit even to himself that at the moment that wasn't an option. Bilbo sighed deeply, though he seemed unbothered about telling the tale. "Well, as you know, I went with Bofur to look for a storehouse of mirror parts in a neighborhood known as the Roots - which I would never have understood before seeing it, but Thorin! All those carved roots swirling over the lintels and walls, such a lovely place! - but anyway," Bilbo took a breath, "Borag came along as we were planning the visit, said his family had once lived there, he'd grown up on stories of it, etcetera, and that he would send a detail of his workers to clear it if it was usable." Thorin nodded; Borag certainly had enough of his retinue here with the army to offer that, and rude or not, as king he wouldn't turn down any help that was offered. Bilbo heaved a great sigh and then continued. "I'm not sure why he came along with us in particular since he thinks so little of me it seems, but anyway... he was being snide and dismissive as he always is around me. I noticed things had gotten a bit quiet, then Bofur told him... let me think. He said 'given that a dwarf would have called you out three insults ago, I'd suggest that you stay silent. And if Master Baggins stabs you with his Elvish knife there, I'll be the first one to say it was honorable.'" Thorin's glare seemed to annoy Bilbo, for all that it was met with an answering smile. "Really! As if a Baggins of Bag End would just go around stabbing people!" The dwarf strongly suspected he wasn't intended to hear the muttered "no matter how tempting."
"Well," Thorin replied, fighting an unhelpful desire to get out of bed and go thrash an important noble, "among your people I am sure that is considered beyond the pale. You are now in Erebor, though, where rudeness is taken seriously and punished more directly." His face sobered, fingers fisting in the ragged old motheaten quilt that had been draped over him. "You must understand, Bilbo. Dwarves are very... straightforward." He ignored the very undignified snort of laughter he received in response to this, though his lips tightened a bit under his beard. "I'm not joking, I'm afraid. Someone offering you disrespect in public is considered the equivalent of a challenge; I'm not sure how things worked in the Shire, but..."
"We certainly didn't flail away at each other with weapons every time someone had something snippy to say about someone else's china patterns or what their children had got up to, I can promise you that," Bilbo chirped, still grinning for some reason. "Generally, nobody got too out of line because most of the Shire could give as good as they got when it came to insults. If someone truly lost their temper, they..." Bilbo's good humor quieted noticeably. "Well, if they really lost their temper they would just go away and calm down, mostly. The more rustic sort might resort to fisticuffs, you understand, but that sort of thing wasn't done in Hobbiton, I can assure you of that! No, the usual outcome was often a grudge that could, erm, linger." The hobbit bit his lip. "For quite a while, really."
"I assure you in turn, Master Baggins, that hobbits could not possibly compare with my kin when it comes to holding grudges," Thorin snickered at the very idea. "Even so, if Bofur thinks Borag is offering you insult, that is serious business. Borag is a lord, like it or not; his followers are numerous, especially in the mountain at the moment before our own folk arrive from the Blue Mountains. How Bofur stated the matter was designed to bring it to your attention as well, and also to tell that purg-khumrûn Borag that he would be on his own against the two of you if it came to blows." Thorin tried to force himself further upright in bed before wincing, provoking a sharp exclamation from Bilbo as he hurried over to help prop up the king.
"Stop that, you'll pop your stitches and Oin will kill us both!" the hobbit fussed, examining the bandages for any sign of fresh bleeding before taking a moment to slide Thorin's hair back from his face, rearranging his braids and feathering his fingers through the loose strands. Two matching shy smiles were the result. Bilbo leaned forward almost furtively, dropped a kiss onto the tip of Thorin's nose, and then sat back with the air of satisfaction usually associated with children successfully stealing sweets. "I know what I want in this mountain," the hobbit murmured, "and Borag has nothing to do with it."
"And glad I am to hear it," Thorin replied in an equally quiet voice, though his smile was a bit more restrained. "But treat it seriously, Bilbo. Ignored challenges tend to escalate among dwarves."
"I will be careful. In many ways." And with that, the conversation turned to other things... other things which shocked a yelp from Oin who bustled through the door without knocking, and sent a blushing Bilbo out with tousled hair and left Oin shouting at a scowling Thorin who was shouting back in Khuzdul that the hobbit was delighted not to understand. Passing a snickering Byrngja in the hall didn't help at all.
=
Bilbo had never imagined that Erebor would be so overwhelming. He'd heard stories, of course, and it was all fine and good, but stories were just that... stories. After all, listening to Fortinbras describe the Great Smials would make the unwary and untraveled listener think more in the way of an underground palace than the comfortable, homey, sprawling hobbit dwelling that it was. He had suspected throughout the journey that Thorin was polishing and inflating the city in the same way. That had proven... not to be so in this case. If anything, Thorin's (and the others') stories had hardly done the place justice. Erebor was vast and more than a bit unnerving.
When the hobbit first passed within the mountain, his attention was less on the halls and more on the giant firebreathing wyrm at the end of the undecorated hallway in which he walked. He thought that quite understandable, thank you very much. In much the same way, when Thorin had been... ill... it was difficult to pay attention for a different reason, and it certainly hadn't been as though any of them had the leisure to go wandering about taking in the sights, now was it? Beyond the Treasury and its geological formations made of coins and gems, the Royal Armory attached thereto, and the area around the gates where they camped, there had been neither the time nor inclination for exploring. Besides, if Bilbo were being truthful, there was something horrid and eerie about the empty halls... a lingering, watchful sense of malice that Gandalf had said would fade with time and use, some effluvium of draconic origin. Malice or not, though, in the end he thought Erebor's story tragic as well.
The halls were vast and seemed unknowable. Corridors went this way and that, and hobbit feet did not feel whatever secret guidance the earth's vibrations gave to Aulë's children. Worse than that was that everywhere he looked, a thick rime of dust lay coating everything; any objects not flung about by the panicked evacuation (or the dragon) were still filthy, obscured, and sitting in the dark of what was essentially a giant tomb. Not, the hobbit reflected, the sort of place that gave one pleasant surprises when wandering about in the gloom. Even with his quite limited travels within the halls, he had come across more than one mummified body, still lying where it had fallen over a century ago. That was another thing that added to the crawling horror - nothing had decayed in Erebor while the dragon was in residence. Shriveled, eyeless bodies lay strewn, some burned, some not, but all desiccated and mummified; in one hall Bilbo had found, the remnants of ancient food still sat on a wooden plate - dried into a vile crust, yes, but no trace of mold grew on it.
And yet. Once the battle was won and Bilbo began to help with the process of clearing and settling some of the halls, there was beauty to be found, a startling amount of it. Even in the ruins and the filth, there were flashes of the astonishing masterpiece the mountain had once been. A small market would grow out of a nondescript corridor, vaulted ceiling high above carved with elegant runes and decorations and hanging with darkened crystal lamps of bronze. A mosaic covered the entire floor depicting the foodstuffs once sold there - delicious looking bread of all sorts and sizes in a pile picked out in chips of stone, fresh fruits and vegetables, meat and fish... Everywhere the hobbit looked, there was loveliness created for no purpose other than being beautiful. Statues and mosaics were everywhere; now-dry fountains shaped of polished stone and tarnished metal, decorated with uncut crystals of varied hue; great hangings which were magnificent even in their ruin, brilliant gemlike colors shining through the dust and grime of centuries. Looking at what was left of these halls, now dark and brooding, elaborately carved walls filthy and rimed from trickles of dirty water from some burst channel far above... for the first time, Bilbo could truly say that he understood Thorin's agony and rage at the loss of this place. For the dwarves to go from this to being penniless refugees... well. And when Borag or someone who thought like him was rude, or dismissive, or offered him insult, Bilbo supposed he could understand, if only just a bit. This had been a tremendous loss, and those sorts of wounds took a powerful lot of getting over, as Hamfast Gamgee's own gaffer had been wont to say.
The Company wouldn't tolerate any rudeness to 'their' hobbit; Borag had been lucky that it had been Bofur who had seen him being a challenge, as someone like Dori would have called him out on the spot, and Thorin... well, Thorin would have killed him, the hobbit suspected. Thinking of the king made Bilbo smile. Ridiculous, he knew, to be a hobbit squarely in middle age and still grinning like a faunt at the thought of someone else, but there he was, and he could do no other. As they said in the Marish, 'twas nowt for it but killin'. The King Under the Mountain he could take or leave for sure, but Thorin... well. Thorin was not only quite as lovely as the best visions of beauty Erebor had to offer, he was also the only treasure under stone that Bilbo truly desired.
=
As the weeks passed, Thorin fought his slow way out of his sickbed, at first for short trips but soon enough for getting around well enough to begin his duties as king. The boys had recovered before him, though Fili was still unable to walk any long distance without a crutch on his shattered leg. Byrngja attended the royals closely, though she was so helpful to Fili that Bilbo was forced to raise an eyebrow now and then. Surely he was imagining things. Even so... Bilbo had never seen anyone heal so quickly as these dwarves! He had gotten used to checking in with Thorin every morning and night when the king was trapped abed, but now he was lucky to spend an hour a day in his presence, often with Balin there pressing Thorin for this or that necessary business. The latest bee in the old advisor's bonnet was some sort of grieving ceremony that the dwarves expected for the dead from the recent battle. Bilbo supposed that was all very honorable and such, but it seemed to him (and apparently to Thorin) that they had bigger problems. Surprisingly the king had been worn down enough that he had finally agreed. Thorin was working himself dangerously hard; the king had even told him that he wished to wait for their formal betrothal and marriage until Erebor was on more solid footing which... well, no matter his personal desires, Bilbo supposed this was what it meant to love a king.
Still, Bilbo was forced to admit in the privacy of his own mind, a visit of an hour a day seemed barely enough. While Thorin had been very clear that it wouldn't be proper for them to share a room before their wedding, and every hobbit ancestor Bilbo had agreed in his mind... well. Things were what they were, he supposed. Burglar or not, he reckoned he had gotten quite good at stealing kisses. Giggling at his own silliness, he made his way down a poorly lit hall to the minor storeroom that had become the primary storage location in the current repairs; supposedly there was cloth that someone had found that...
"Well. Halfling. Seems you're everywhere," came a harsh, sneering voice.
Bilbo looked around in surprise, hiding his distaste at the term. "Lord Borag, always a pleasure," he replied politely. Perhaps with more politeness than honesty, but even so. He hoped his face was more pleasant than his feelings in the matter.
"Pleasure for you, maybe," came the brusque reply. Bilbo paused, taken aback; this was quite a bit more rude than Borag had been before. The dwarf approached, guard at his back, and some sense of caution made Bilbo step back and place his back to the wall. "Worried?" Borag asked, smiling. "Not a safe place for soft little things, down here in the stone."
"I... no, not particularly worried," Bilbo replied, hating how his breathing sped up and made his voice squeak a bit. "The King has guaranteed my safety, after all. It is his mountain, and..."
"Hard for the King to see everywhere, isn't it?" Borag replied brusquely, interrupting Bilbo. "Seems to me..." Bilbo began to back away, feeling properly worried, but a familiar voice sounded from the storeroom and interrupted the suddenly dangerous-seeming noble midspeech.
"A bold statement, that," came a laughing voice from the shadows of the door. "Who knows where the King's eyes might roam?" A dwarf with an elaborate coif braided up like a star-shaped crown appeared out of the shadows, watchful dark eyes intent and teeth bared in what could best be described as the feral imitation of a smile. "Speaking of seeming, it seems to me that a dwarf from the Iron Hills would be brave indeed to come into a city ruled over by the cousin of his own dear, sweet lord, only to question the ruler. And in that ruler's absence, even. Quite brave." Bilbo, seeing an opportunity and not being a total fool, slid along the wall to stand next to, and a bit behind, his friend Nori who had never had better timing. "Brave or foolish."
"Speaking of brave," Borag blustered, "brave of a commoner to speak so to a lord. It wouldn't be tolerated in the Iron Hills, I promise you that." Despite the brave words, Borag's fingers flickered and his guard stepped up beside him as the two of them walked away.
"Perhaps not," was Nori's parting shot, still wearing that wolfish almost-grin. "But we aren't in the Iron Hills, are we? Might be good to remember that before something unfortunate happens. Don't you think?" And with that, leaving a fuming noble and his guard, Nori took Bilbo by the shoulder and walked him inside the storeroom. His whispered warnings were unnecessary; Bilbo's stomach had already begun sinking with the knowledge that walking alone wasn't a good idea in the current environment.
=
Thorin was incandescent with rage. Ignoring the protests of his recent wounds, he was shouting at the top of his lungs for Balin before Nori even finished his story. Bilbo had stepped away rather than hear the story be retold, it seemed, and Thorin almost sent a guard for him just to reassure himself that the hobbit was alright. Before he could do so, or through some intuition that his presence was desired, he came through the door - almost running into Byrngja, who leaped back as the door opened before bobbing a bow and going through it.
"I'll have his beard and his head," the king thundered as soon as the older dwarf had bustled through the door carrying a wrapped bundle. Balin's face soured. "This is an outrage!"
"Whoever we are speaking of," Balin sighed, eyeing Nori who shrugged from where he stood behind the king, eating a handful of nuts from gods alone knew where, "and I'm assuming it isn't Master Nori there..." he ducked a thrown nut without missing a beat, "we can deal with it tomorrow. Nori, your brother is looking for you, and isn't in the finest mood; be told. Tonight is the ceremony of remembrance for the fallen, as I'm sure you recall. Master Dori has sent us the best cloaks he could make from what he has found," he threw the bundle to Thorin, who caught it despite still appearing furious, "along with a smaller mourning robe cut down from who knows where in case Bilbo..."
"Yes!" Thorin shouted, interrupting and making Balin wince involuntarily. "Bilbo will definitely be attending, and I would like Dori to receive a very large gift with my thanks for thinking of him!" He passed the bundle of cloth to Bilbo, whose face was watchful but the tension around his eyes and mouth was evident. "For you, azyungel," the king said gently. "Tonight you will see your first true ceremony of the dwarves. Normally you would never be permitted there, but..."
"I can stay here," Bilbo said immediately, voice a bit rushed. "Really I don't think..." Thorin kissed him, producing a hoot of laughter from Nori and a scandalized tutting from Balin.
"You are to be my consort," Thorin said, grinning at how breathless and flustered Bilbo was, "and this will show that to all. If you truly don't wish to attend, I understand, but I would like it if you were there."
"I... well... of course," the hobbit stammered, still flushed and breathless. Fili grinned at him from across the room. Good heavens, he thought to himself. What have I gotten myself into now?
=
Bilbo felt rather stupid and odd in the heavy grey woolen robe that had been provided, but given that Thorin and the rest of the group were wearing similar, he supposed it was normal. The color was an unpleasant one on him, he suspected; Thorin had told him that it was the color of the mountain granite from which the fathers of the dwarven race had been carved, which made sense in a peculiar way he supposed. Even so, hemmed in by an overprotective Thorin along with Fili, Kili, Dwalin, Balin, the guards... it wasn't a very pleasant experience. Fili was struggling to walk down the ramps with his cane, bracing himself against his brother and making Bilbo wish for the thousandth time that there was something, anything, he could do to aid the young dwarf. A cloaked shape next to him seemed to be helping, oddly enough; when Bilbo drew near, he recognized Byrngja's distinctive braids and beard and smiled to himself.
As they descended ramps into the depths of the mountain he felt again that queer watchful sense of malice that Gandalf had said was the residue of the dragon's habitation. Soon enough, though, worrying about Fili was replaced with worrying about himself. White-faced and panting, the young dwarf stepped along on his cane, but the grace had gone from his movements. Bilbo also had to pay close attention to his own feet because there were brief intervals of steps set into the ramp spiraling down into the depths and despite the lamps carried by many of the dwarves, it wasn't the easiest thing to see where he was going. Hallways opened off the ramp at odd intervals in diverse directions, but always they went down.
The procession was a silent one, though some of the dwarves seemed to be humming under their breath. "Sounding the stone," Thorin whispered, though that phrase meant nothing to Bilbo. Finally the ramp disgorged them into a giant cavern which had been left in its natural state. By the time they reached the bottom, Fili had surrendered his pride and was leaning heavily on Byrngja. The scattered lamps didn't show the ceiling far above, but stalagmites rose like natural columns here and there and the wave of dwarves flowed around them in an eerie river of grey. The hobbit couldn't help a brief frisson from how much the sight reminded him of the caves where Gollum had lived; there was no pool here, though, no fish and no dripping, only the curiously insistent echoes of the low humming from the other dwarves.
"Thorin," he whispered suddenly, causing the king to glance over. "Please tell me what's going on. If, you know, if it's permitted." A small smile lit up the king's face as he nodded hesitantly, but Fili leaned in, smiling despite the lines of exhaustion bracketing his mouth.
"I can do it," the younger dwarf murmured, receiving a clap on the shoulder from his uncle in thanks. "Uncle has duties as the king." While they were speaking, the dwarves had spread into a wide circle around a raised area that seemed naturally occurring in the uneven cavern floor. "This cave is the deepest point of the mountain... in theory anyway. It's called the Womb, where the seven lords were kept waiting to be born in the world. That is the Anvil of Mahal," he whispered. "That's where the chosen will dance." A flash of bitterness crossed his young face, making it look eerily older for a moment. He waved his cane demonstratively. "I was learning this dance, but now with this leg... well, I will never dance to our Maker."
"Fili..." Bilbo said, turning in concern to the young prince, but the dwarf shushed him with a clearly manufactured smile.
"We should be silent as much as possible, lest others take offense," the prince murmured apologetically. Chastened, Bilbo nodded as Thorin began to move towards the raised empty area.
"This cannot be endured!" A loud, grating voice came from behind the hobbit. Bilbo was frightened to feel someone shoulder into him before realizing it was Dwalin moving between him and Borag. Of course it's bloody Borag, Bilbo thought grimly. The noble stood only a short distance away, glaring daggers at the hobbit. "This is a place for dwarves, halfling. You are no dwarf, and you defile this place and this ritual with your presence. You..." Dwalin stepped forward menacingly but Bilbo raised his hand.
"No, let him speak," the hobbit said, squaring his shoulders. "He has a problem with me, clearly, but I don't know what it is. And if I shouldn't be here..." Thorin appeared out of the crowd, face taut and furious.
"You belong here if I say you belong here," the king rasped. "Borag seems to think he is king instead of me. You are my intended, and my betrothed, and you will be my consort. You are, by this reckoning, a dwarf. And Borag is no Scribe, just a soft noble from the Iron Hills with too high of an estimation of his own value."
"With all respect, my king," Borag sneered the word in a way that was a bit shocking to Bilbo, "you are deceived if you think this halfling can be a dwarf. Further, he cannot be here, not at this ritual. Which Clan does he claim? But setting even that aside. Look at him, soft little thing that he is. This is a mourning, a ceremony of loss. What can this creature possibly know of loss?" Thorin opened his mouth to reply, but Bilbo stepped up beside him furiously and held up a hand before the king could speak (which embarrassed him later when he thought of it, but some things simply aren't to be borne).
"That's quite enough, thank you very much. Well," he said in a louder voice, "I'm certainly no dwarf, well spotted! I don't think I ever claimed or pretended to be, but thank you for keeping such a keen eye out for my race, I'm sure we all appreciate it." Fili's snort was loud in the stillness. "And I'm sure I haven't experienced the loss of anything so altogether grand as this mountain, since there is only one of it and you might notice if I'd been living here." At this point Borag bristled and looked as though he was about to interrupt and Bilbo said sharply "Steady on, I'm speaking! You had your say, sir, now I shall have mine!" A rumble of approval came from the watchers along with a stamping of feet. The sound seemed to shock Borag; Bilbo began to hope that perhaps the noble's position wasn't as popular as he might have thought. "Now, that being said, perhaps I haven't lost as much as some of the dwarves gathered here..." his voice faltered a bit. "But it so happens that I know a great deal about loss. I have lost my parents, I fear, in very sad circumstances which there is no need to go into here, no matter how prurient and ghoulish your interest. I lost the only two hobbits that I gave two figs for, and with them I... I lost my peace of mind. There is no comfort to be had in an empty house, sir." Complete silence filled the cavern to an almost deafening degree. With a shuddering breath, Bilbo drew himself upright. "That misery was with me for years, and bitter years they were. I only lost it because..." his eyes cut to Thorin and he was quite sure everyone could see him change the words he was about to say, "well, thanks to my dear friends who you see about me. I have lost weight, shameful though it is to admit, from lack of food to eat. I have lost time, spent fighting to save the throne of a king not yet on it - and if I were the petty sort, I could point out that you yourself were not there to fight nor help. Worst of all, I came closer than I care to think to losing these companions along with... with my own heart, so recently found," he glanced at Thorin who was standing as though transfixed, "and I assure you sir, I don't think I could have survived that. If such an admission makes me weak, then weak I am, and feel no shame for it. And most of all, in my various losses, I have lost patience. Patience with you, sir, who insist on judging me without knowing me, who was not present when any of the deeds that reclaimed this mountain were done, and yet who has been a thorn in everyone's side and a help to practically none. These are my losses, and I invite you to judge them!" A thunderous stamping filled the cavern. Breathing hard, Bilbo barely noticed Thorin's arm go around him, but he felt the comforting pressure and warmth along one side as Borag looked to the right and to the left, belatedly seeing only unfriendly faces under the grey woolen hoods. He drew himself up as if to speak again but was interrupted.
"Khrish," came a voice Bilbo half recognized as Bofur's, but the call was taken up by Fili and Kili, then Thorin, and finally by dwarves right round the ring of raised stone. "Khrish, khrish," came from all sides. Borag drew back as though to storm off but his entourage hadn't moved and he bumped into the dwarf who had been standing behind him. The dwarves in his little group weren't chanting, but they seemed to be the only ones who refrained. Even so, they stood still and refused to move.
"What's happening?" Bilbo murmured behind his hand to Fili, who grinned fiercely.
"You'll see," was the cryptic response.
"I refuse to offer honor to that creature," Borag shouted, face apoplectic with rage, but Balin stepped forward. The old dwarf's hood was up but his white beard was unmistakable. In his left hand, he proffered a knife.
"Borag, you chose to raise this challenge in this place, at this time. Honor or blood, you know the choice," the old dwarf said. In shock at the old advisor's words, Bilbo noticed with a sense of amazement that Balin's almost constant smile was completely missing. Cursing under his breath, Borag took the knife and cut off a small swatch of hair from the side of his beard. Stepping forward, he bowed (face a moue of distaste) and offered the cut off hairs to Bilbo on his hands.
"What..." the hobbit stammered, "what do I do?" Fili leaned over his shoulder.
"Take his beard. If you acknowledge his insult to be redressed, keep it. If you wish to insult him, which none here would fault you for, drop it on the ground." He paused, then sighed. "Of course, if you forgive him, which I wouldn't, you can hand it back, but..." Bilbo had already taken the crisp strands up and immediately pressed them back into Borag's hands. Fili grunted sourly, exchanging a look that spoke volumes with his brother.
"Borag, son of Khirag," Thorin said, cutting off what Bilbo was about to say. "My One has forgiven you. As his mashahnen, I rejoice and forgive you as well." A mirthless grin spread across his face. "However, as the king of this mountain, I cannot be as kind as my chosen. You have disgracefully raised a challenge of honor during a sacred ceremony. You have insulted Mahal and Erebor both by doing such a thing in the Womb of the Mountain. Further, you have challenged my consort-to-be, and by doing so, you have challenged me. My patience with you is gone. If I were my grandfather, I would have your head... but I am not Thror. Instead I say this: you are not welcome in my mountain. By sunset tomorrow, you will depart, and not return. I cannot tell you where to go, but I will tell you that King Bard of Dale thinks more highly of my consort-to-be than he does of me by far; I doubt you will find a home in his city, though that is his to decide. And since I am not my grandfather," he said, raising his voice slightly, "I will not blame those who follow you for your deeds. If they wish to go, then go they may with all they own. If they wish to stay, they must leave your service, but places will be found for them. Your inability to behave properly does not reflect on them." Borag bowed, face grey and furious under his now-misshapen beard, and his followers bowed with him. Bilbo wondered how many would stay and how many would go with their disgraced leader. Thorin scowled, face dark with displeasure. "This ridiculousness ends here; we have wasted too much time on this already. Let us not forget, we are here for a purpose."
Pulling up his hood once more, the king stepped away to the raised stone area Fili had called the Anvil of Mahal. From somewhere, at his signal, a drumbeat began, slow and pounding, and a horn called once. Thorin raised his arms. "Remember those who fell. Honor the fallen, who have passed to the stone. Irgód, son of Bogród. Mur, daughter of Mavur. Bûri, son of Bûkri." Each dwarf present began to murmur, producing a susurrus of whispers that the hobbit found eerie in the extreme, especially combined with the slow beat of the hidden drum. The whispering went on and on, each dwarf listing those they knew, and Bilbo suspected that Thorin and the dwarves who remembered Erebor in its prime were listing the fallen from Smaug's attack as well. Silence finally fell slowly as voice after voice faded, though the drum's pounding made the air throb in his ears. Finally, when the drumbeat had become as familiar as his own heartbeat, it stopped. The silence was shocking for a moment, then dozens of deep voices raised in an ululating cry that raised the hair on the back of Bilbo's neck. Fili and Kili made the same sound from either side of him, startling him terribly, but after a moment it was over. The horn blew again and the drum sounded a sprightly rhythm and seven dwarves leaped onto the raised empty platform and spread into an evenly spaced ring.
Each of them moved in perfect synchrony with the others, each dancer making the exact same movements facing inward, then spinning in a full circle before raising one arm, then the other, bending and whirling at the exact same moments. The hobbit had never seen anything like it. After the third spin, all seven fell at once to their knees with a shout, raising their arms at once in supplication as the crowd hummed a deep note and each dwarf removed their cloak. Belatedly fighting with his own cloak, Bilbo glanced over at Fili to ask for an interpretation and was startled when he saw tears in the young dwarf's eyes. He slid an arm around the prince for comfort, but Fili smiled at him through his tears, shaking his head. Looking back, he saw that each of the dancers had cut themselves somewhere and were showing the blood to the audience; Bilbo had to stifle a cry of shock, though it didn't seem to bother them. With a shout, the dancers smeared the blood on themselves, each on a different area of their body, and then the seven began dancing individually, each making their own show of mastery - this one leaping high, that one bending almost to the floor while his feet were flying, another spinning in perfect time with the drumming on just the toes of one foot... before Bilbo could take in the whole spectacle the horn sounded and all seven fell effortlessly back into perfect unity, stamping their feet and shouting as they raised their hands and froze into immobility. The dance was over.
"What...! That was amazing!" the hobbit whispered in astonishment. Fili nodded, still smiling and leaned over.
"That dance is called the Sevenborn, the dance of our making by Mahal. Each of the seven dancers represents one of the dwarven fathers. They move together at the beginning because they were only the toys of Mahal, not alive in the proper sense. They begged for their continued life when he raised his hammer to destroy them, then celebrated the gift of independence given to us from Mahal's own Maker. They cut themselves to show they can bleed - to bleed is to live, you see? It is a triumph. The last bit of the dance is to show they have the ability to move separately, but then each of them moves to honor him as one, to show how the clans are bound together by their Maker above all. It is the essence of us as dwarves, if you understand it," Fili murmured into his ear.
"Well danced," Thorin announced, now standing carrying his robe as all the others were, mithril and diamond circlet sparkling on his head. "Well remembered. Well finished. Children of Mahal, our work awaits. The rite is ended." And with that, the crowd which had been so solemn on its procession down began to trickle back up the ramp, chatting and laughing like any normal group of dwarves. Many of them had put their cloaks back on, Bilbo noticed, rather than carry them; he himself found these stairs quite challenging enough without the added fabric. Kili and a dwarf Bilbo was fairly sure was Byrngja (drat these long grey cloaks anyway! Everyone looked the same!) each went to one side of Fili to help him back up the stairs without making his issues visible to the others. When they got back to the royal sitting rooms, however, instead of settling himself to act as a chaperone for his uncle and the hobbit, the prince went directly to bed and (with a poorly hidden longing look at the door) Byrngja bowed to Thorin and left. Balin settled discreetly on a chair in the corner and pulled out paperwork to review as Thorin and Bilbo settled by the fire, each with a small cup of mulled wine.
"I worry about Fili," Bilbo said softly, sipping the spicy mixture. Thorin grunted, still staring into the flames, but a tiny smile appeared under his beard which seemed to irk the hobbit. "I'm serious, Thorin! He's done so well dealing with this injury but you should have heard him when he was talking about not being able to dance! It was the first I'd heard of him even wanting to dance, but..." he broke off as Thorin took his hand.
"I don't think it will be too bothersome," the king said with a grin that seemed to Bilbo to be quite uncaring. Brows knitted, the hobbit opened his mouth for a tart reply but the king continued. "Have you seen how he interacts with Byrngja? I suspect he will be thinking of other things soon enough, if he isn't already." Bilbo was forced to nod; even among dwarves, who were as different from hobbits in so many ways as chalk was from cheese, he would have been blind to miss that growing attraction. "I just hope she finds her confidence soon and speaks up; he'll be miserable until she does."
"Speaks...?" Bilbo was momentarily thrown off. "Why on earth would she have to speak to him?" Thorin grinned in apparent embarrassment.
"Fili is a prince; it could be awkward refusing him, so... she has to speak." Thorin's mouth twisted. "It has always been our way."
"But you..." Thorin's attempted scowl was ruined by a chuckle he seemed unable to contain.
"I had already made my intentions so plain with the mithril it would be folly to pretend you didn't hold my heart already, azyungel. Besides, I was..." Balin's soft chuckle reminded them someone else was present.
"Thorin created quite a scandal, if you'll pardon my interruption," Balin said with a twinkling smile from where he sat, pen in hand. "That's one of the reasons that Borag thought his opinion might be more popular. By dwarven standards, he bullied you into a relationship. Luckily for everyone, even the newest arrivals see how kind you are, how devoted to Thorin you are, and how you labor on everyone's behalf." Thorin looked ready to die of pride in his consort-to-be, but Bilbo felt a bit taken aback by this level of attention. "But I forget my role here. Your pardon, I will return to my papers." With that the old dwarf turned away and bent again over his reports; Bilbo was pleased to see Thorin too was a bit taken aback, as though he had forgotten the presence of his advisor.
"I... well... good heavens." Bilbo muttered faintly before remembering his point. "But Thorin, prince or not, dancing and being in love have nothing to do with one another! I still think that..." Thorin nodded along, but Bilbo broke off at the complex emotions shifting across the dwarf's face. "Alright, what? What makes you look like that?"
Thorin sighed and turned a singularly weak smile at Bilbo. "Fili is a prince. Even more, he is my heir," he said finally. "Even if he had come through the battle unharmed, he would never have had the option to simply be a dancer. His path has been set since his birth." Turning back to the fire, he took Bilbo's hand again, stroking the back of it lightly with strong fingers. "But you must also understand... the ritual we held tonight, that is the essence of being a dwarf. I do not know if your people have such things; the dwarves are a race apart, as we have always been. Every thing we cherish is taken from us in the end in this world; it is the nature of our existence. Loss is a constant, the one thing all dwarves know. We lose our homes, we lose our lives, we lose..." his eyes cut to Bilbo, and the hobbit was shocked to see tears in them before Thorin turned quickly back to the fire. "We lose too much. I took you to the ceremony because I felt you should be there, but what you said proved it. None who heard your speech doubt that you understand us; you feel the sorrow of my people, have felt it in your own life. You have lost things as well."
A memory of Ravenhill forced itself into Bilbo's mind. "Yes," he said faintly. "Yes I have. But," he lifted Thorin's hand with his own, kissing the knuckles, "what I didn't lose is more important." They couldn't kiss under Balin's watchful eye, Bilbo knew, but he thought the lovely expression on Thorin's face was almost the same thing. He did look forward to their marriage, though; he felt he had gone through quite enough loss, no matter what the dwarves might think. It was time to build something new.