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Chapter Text

“So. How long until Bilbo leaves us?”

“A month, he said the last time we talked. But it’s really whenever Gandalf makes an appearance.”

“Which doesn’t mean much. Wizards come and go as they please.”

“And are you sure this is what Bilbo wants?”

Such it is Balin opened the conversation all the Company have been waiting for since the Quest ended and their burglar was welcomed back into Erebor. It’s high time to do something about those things (which, incidentally, are called feelings) their king never talks about. How they could flat out bring up the subject, no one knows; nor could they predict that Thorin, of all people, would speak so directly tonight.

“I am sure,” the king says, though the question was not directed at him.

This is how he knows: at Beorn’s house, Bilbo picked up an acorn. He carried it all this way, and wants to plant it in his garden, in Bag End. Words spoken loud and clear as the hobbit held the seed in his hand, which was when they were still friends, before Thorin did all those horrible things, and if Bilbo didn’t like Erebor then, how could he now, after almost losing his life? Whatever chance Thorin had to ask Bilbo to stay was lost on the ramparts that day, when Thorin placed the Arkenstone above his own heart.

What is done is done: no one can change the past. He will honor Bilbo’s wish, secure him safe passage to the West, and bury his feelings deep in a place where no one will ever find them.

No one, except his faithful twelve, always ready to serve him, who identified said feelings and are for once less than discrete about it. And who, it appears, are questioning Bilbo’s statement re: the acorn is evidence that he wants to leave.

“I’ll wager there are ways to grow that acorn here,” Balin says.

Oin and Gloin immediately jump in.

“All you need is the right weather conditions.”

“And the right soil, and the right time of year.”

“To do what?”

“To grow the oak tree Bilbo wishes for. What else?”

“Except he said he wants it in Bag End. Am I missing something?”

“Evidently,” Balin replies. “Let us examine what we know. Bilbo didn’t state he wants to go home. He only declared he wants to plant this seed; mentioned Bag End just because to his mind there’s nowhere else to plant it. Who can blame him? He cannot fathom the tree can be grown here.”

Kili’s eyes twinkle with excitement. “That’s where you, Uncle, come in. I say plant it without his knowledge. Make it a surprise.”

“Plant it without his knowledge, as in, steal the acorn from him?” asks Thorin menacingly.

“That’s not such a bad idea,” Dwalin grunts. “He wakes up in the morning, finds it gone, naturally comes to you for help. You tell him the truth, that you’re trying to stall his plan of leaving, while you’re at it confessing your love for him, and then we can move on with our bloody lives.”

“Thorin stealing is not exactly a courting statement,” counters Balin. “That’s sure to open a can of worms. Have you forgotten Bilbo stole from him?”

The dwarves clear their throats amid awkward silence, and Balin gets the message: he is opening a can of worms.

To everyone’s relief, Thorin is eager to get back on track.

“How am I supposed to get hold of Bilbo’s acorn, then? And how is planting it going to stall his plans of leaving?”

“You get an acorn just like Bilbo’s, I’m sure is what Balin means,” says Kili. “That will impress him, you see? To come across the very thing that would bring him peace and comfort, right here in Erebor, under his very nose. It will put in Bilbo’s mind: My wish is already fulfilled. I don’t have to go anywhere.”

“And then, when he finds out it was done by the king’s command...”

“Hold on. This it you’re talking about: you mean the oak tree that would grow out of said seed, in a matter of... years?”

“Right,” mumbles Kili, turning pink. “It does need quite a while to grow. I forgot that.”

“There you have it,” says Fili with a satisfied grin. “It is just as I always suspected: my little brother never paid attention in botany class.”

“Yeah, like you have a green thumb, of all dwarves.”

“I have a green thumb,” Oin jumps in. “I know health remedies made of plants.”

“I have a green thumb, and can do math besides,” doubles Bombur. “Enough to know, if you’ll indulge me with a pun, that the difference between months and years lies at the root of the present problem.”

“Let’s not get distracted,” Bofur steps in. “Kili and Balin are on to something. When Bilbo finds out the tree was planted by the king’s command, he’ll melt like gold in the forge. Is it possible? How come he never knew Thorin treasured the same thing? will be questions filling his mind with intrigue.”

“For a start, he will see Thorin no longer values gold above all else,” Gloin chimes in.

“No, no! It was never like that! Bilbo just caught Thorin at the wrong time!” shouts everyone else, jumping out of their seats. They are slightly afraid. Even though Thorin did overcome gold sickness, the Company don’t forget how volatile he was a mere few weeks ago. Gloin should know better than to stir him.

Yet once again, Thorin doesn’t mind.

“He would see that I was listening when he showed me the acorn. That I care about what’s important to him,” he says wistfully, for a moment forgetting the absurdity of this plan.

“You’re starting to catch on, my lad.”

“Maybe I should write to Beorn. Ask him to send an acorn my way.”

“Leave it to me, my King,” Ori says. “I’m going to write to Mister Beorn on your behalf. Tell him after reclaiming his home and purging it of the evil beast the King Under The Mountain had a vision. A splendid oak tree planted firm, standing proud at the gates of Erebor, a symbol of protectiveness and strength, and on a more personal note, reflecting the majesty of King Thorin himself...”

“That’s gold, brother,” Dori beams with pride.

“...and that none other than one of Beorn’s acorns, which our king noticed during our stay there, is fit for the job of growing into such a tree.”

“Now, now, my lad,” Nori says. “You should not lie, least of all on your king’s behalf.”

“I’ll say,” agrees Dori. “If Thorin actually paid attention to acorns at Beorn’s hut, I’ll shave my beard.”

“We can make it only half a lie. We can say Uncle noticed Beorn’s acorns hold special beauty, without mentioning when; because he did notice the one Bilbo found, albeit after the fact.”

“If you ask me, it’s not a lie at all. If Bilbo is Uncle’s One, if they are soulmates, whatever each perceives, the other can perceive too. Each experience is felt in both of them. Which means, if Bilbo noticed one acorn, Thorin did also, never mind when.”

Thorin’s eyes shift from one nephew to another in puzzled admiration.

“I’m not going to argue with this reasoning. Now if you guys are actually serious about this, can someone tell me how to grow an oak tree in a month?”

“Let’s not worry about that, laddie. Have Beorn send an acorn back with our raven ASAP; we’ll figure out the how-to-grow-it part later.”

Three days later, the raven brings a response.

Greetings, King Oakenshield,

I am glad to hear you are well. I enjoyed seeing our combined efforts wipe our lands of the filthy stench of orcs.

I’m sending an acorn back, with instructions on how to plant it. Be advised, though, that the soil around your mountain doesn’t work for my kind of oak. The closest kingdom in possession of decent soil is Mirkwood. If you ask him nicely, King Thranduil may give you some.

If by chance my instructions should get lost, I trust you know sun and rain are essential for growing oak trees.

Good luck with your project. You’ll need it.

Beorn

P. S. What happened to the horse I loaned to Gandalf? He has still not returned it to me. I don’t care for this kind of neglect.

“Oh. You can tell him he’ll return it on his way to the Shire, when he accompanies Bilbo home,” Bofur offers, his mouth opening without his accord.

Bombur kicks him firmly in the leg.

“Ow- no, that’s not what I meant to say. I’m sorry, Thorin.”

“I guess that leaves me with the task of writing to Thranduil. I will get to it,” says Thorin with a majestic sigh. So much to do, so little time. If only everyone could focus on the task at hand.

Balin clasps his shoulder as the dwarves exit eagerly before anyone could commit another blunder. “Diplomacy is key, laddie. You can do it.”

It is with no small amount of apprehension Thorin sits at his desk to compose a message to the Woodland Realm. Thranduil will not readily buy the reason for planting a tree at the Mountain’s gates is something so official and grandiose. No, Thranduil will know it is personal. He may have read the mithril’s meaning when Bilbo showed up in his tent with the Arkenstone; may have read Thorin’s tear-stained eyes when Bilbo said I gave it to them. As one king to another, Thranduil may understand Thorin’s predicament: enough to help him, or to laugh at him.

All the same, the letter is completed, and Thorin ignores the uneasiness with which he hands it to the raven for expedited shipping. Of course, there’s the chance Thranduil will accept his generous offer of silver and gold in exchange for soil, and leave it at that.

How differently Thorin imagined life after taking back Erebor! In his dreams, he would find out what Bilbo treasured most and give it to him: little things, big things, one by one a means of courting him. And even if no gift was good enough Thorin would still dare say I love you, if nothing else could say it for him. Yet How can you court the one you tried to kill has settled between then and now, with no answer in sight. Courting is out of the question: to do so now, Thorin would only insult him.

And as he holds his newly received acorn in his hand, Thorin wishes there was an easier way. More than anything, he wishes he could see the world through Bilbo’s eyes. That he could appreciate such a thing as a seed, and genuinely want to plant it, watch it grow. By himself he does not have the inclination, but maybe Bilbo will teach him one day. Or maybe in his absence Thorin will learn to care for this little thing.

Or maybe, as Thorin will soon realize, it is not a little thing after all.

Chapter Text

Bilbo interacts with dwarves regularly; just not with the one he has set his heart on. And that’s fine, it’s not like his affections stood a chance to be returned, though Bilbo still remembers the Carrock, when he watched Thorin change from a fearsome look that could pierce dragon’s scales to I’ve never been so wrong in my life. He gets it, Thorin is passionate in everything, that hug was just his way of saying I approve of you now; no need to read more into it. But when Bilbo vouched for him in Laketown, Thorin’s eyes enveloped him with the warmest gaze; and when he found the answer in Thrór’s map at the Hidden Door, Thorin’s eyes seemed to ask more than loyalty, honor, a willing heart. Bilbo may be inexperienced in romance, and severely unqualified to date a king, but he is not a fool. What they had was the start of something real, that did not seem like a passing fling.

And yet, pass it did, as soon as Thorin entered the Mountain and shattered those great expectations Bilbo had foolishly formed - yes, he imagined a confession of feelings, possibly a night together, or hey, at least spending an evening as friends. Instead of that, gold beyond measure was all Bilbo got, from one who’d rarely cast a look in his direction.

What went on after... let’s just say he never believed they would get close again; yet they did when Thorin almost died, and by the way, since he did almost die, who could complain he doesn’t have romance in mind? Who could expect him to, when it should be enough he survived?

Such it is Bilbo meditates by candle light in his lonely room, on that blasted wall, or walking on Erebor’s barren land. If he and Thorin could talk, would he find the words to say what his mind tried to block? That chance may never come. The only way to get Thorin alone is by appointment, which so many urgently schedule each day: it would feel like cheating if Bilbo attempted it. Yet maybe he should, before calling “a lost cause” something that could have been love.

* * *

“We did not expect to see you in person, my Lord,” Balin says as he watches the Elvenking dismount his majestic elk, followed by a dozen caravans that appear to be carrying a heavy load.

“I heard His Majesty needed aid,” Thranduil says. “Trees are a treasured hobby of mine; I thought I’d lend him my own hand.”

There’s something shady about the elf coming all this way, Thorin thinks, but decides not to dwell on it. He shows him the intended planting site, and offers him chests of gold. Thranduil accepts, but has a further request: he’d like to stay in Erebor for a few days.

“To oversee the digging and replacing of soil,” he clarifies. “To offer advice, if needed.”

Right. The elf doesn’t trust dwarves know how to handle his soil. “You are welcome, of course,” Thorin magically produces instead of Why should I trust your advice. Then he is called to a court meeting, leaving the Company to attend to their guest.

The dig begins, old soil replaced by new, and soon it becomes clear Thranduil brought more than necessary for planting a single tree. The elves encourage the dwarves to use all of it. After all, there is plenty of land. Why not have a wide-stretching patch of fresh soil?

“Yeah, whatever,” Dwalin shrugs. In his absence Thorin left him in charge.

After dinner, Thranduil excuses himself from the king’s table and draws towards the Company’s, where the hobbit sits with his friends. He waits for Bilbo to finish eating and asks, “Would you like to go for a walk?”

Bilbo regards him in confusion. “Me?”

“I have something to show you,” Thranduil quickly adds. Bilbo has no choice but to join him.

Outside the gates of Erebor, the land breathes with fresh soil spreading in all directions.

“So that’s what the commotion was about,” Bilbo says. “I’m not sure what they’re planning to do with this land.”

“Oh, nothing of significance. It’s just, as I understand, the dwarf king wants to plant a tree out here.”

Bilbo’s eyes widen in shock. “He does?”

“Indeed. Something to reflect how great His Majesty is. He has a power complex, you see; and very little besides. I mean, come on. It’s not like he vanquished the beast that inhabited these halls.”

Thranduil doesn’t need to say it: Bilbo can hear the silent All Thorin did was lose his mind as soon as he walked in here.

“I’ve wondered why you still linger here. After how he treated you.”

Bilbo hesitates. Could he open up to Thranduil, of all people, to tell him Thorin’s madness only managed to change his hope, not his heart.

“You said you had something to show me.”

“In my kingdom, there are many things I could show you,” Thranduil replies dreamily. “Here, there is nothing. Which is why I thought I’d impart some of the splendor of my Realm onto this place.”

He takes a notebook out of his coat and flips through its delicate pages, revealing elaborate sketches of flowers. Bilbo can almost breathe their fragrance, so beautifully they are drawn and colored.

“I was thinking of a mix of perennials and Spring flowers. What do you think?”

“For what? What do you mean?”

“I think flowers would compliment the dwarf’s upcoming tree.” Thranduil gestures casually to his superb drawings. “Which ones do you like best, by the way? Lily of the valley? Hyacinth? Anemone?”

“I... my favorites are violets and forget-me-nots,” Bilbo says, unable to take his eyes off the notebook’s bewitching pages. “I am sure anything in here would look gorgeous. But... does Thorin like this idea?”

“The question is, rather, do you like it. Would you take pleasure in such a sight?”

“Of course I would. But surely they are not for me, are they?”

“I thought they should be.”

Is it possible the Elvenking has a thing for me? Bilbo wonders in disbelief. In the Shire this would be considered courting. But they’re not in the Shire. He probably doesn’t mean anything by it.

Perhaps he shouldn’t confide in Thranduil after all; yet Bilbo does need to make one thing clear.

“What you saw on the wall that day... that is not the Thorin I know.”

“If you say so. I certainly hope he has made it up to you.” Thranduil gives a slight bow and departs with an easy smile.

Bilbo never thought about it this way.

He almost shouts Thranduil’s name, urging him to stop and listen because no one else will, because he never has the guts to talk about it: how Bilbo wishes he’d done one thing differently that night when he visited the Elven camp. After giving the Arkenstone to Bard, he could have come back and told Thorin what he’d done, in private, not in view of a foreign army at the gates. Or, if Bilbo had been too scared to face him, he could have left Thorin a note before going to see Bard and Thranduil, and not come back to Erebor at all. You are changed, Thorin, he could have written there, and I’m leaving because I want to save what can be saved. Thus Thorin would have had a chance to be prepared; would have been spared the tearful shock at the sight of foreign hands holding the Arkenstone.

Either would have been better than Bilbo standing beside his friend the next morning, part of the Company still but not really because he betrayed him, witnessing Thorin’s humiliation when he knew it was going to come.

When he caused it.

When Bilbo thinks of it now, this part deems him more cowardly than if he’d run away; although, he supposes, the threat of war blurred the edges of right and wrong that day.

Only after Ravenhill, only after Thorin apologized did Bilbo see there was something missing on his end, too heavy to mention when he thought they would part forever and too difficult, too in-the-past to bring up now to this person who in the meantime broke free of madness and acts like a true king, who doesn’t seem to care about gold anymore.

No. Thorin doesn’t need to make it up to him.

* * *

Back at the Company’s table, Bofur has rapidly nailed the situation.

“They’ve been gone for a while.”

“Who?” Ori asks.

“The elf and the hobbit,” Balin answers. “He was pretty smooth, that cunning sly fox. He just slipped in here and before we knew it, snatched Master Baggins away.”

“If Bilbo likes his company, that is not our concern,” Thorin grumbles, beginning to regret he joined his friends. The conversation is cut short, though: Thranduil returns alone.

“King Thorin. If I may be allowed to offer a small suggestion. Concerning your... botanical project.”

Did he walk Bilbo to his door, Thorin wonders as he tries to remember his manners, and not jump out of his seat to go after Bilbo at once. He invites his guest to sit and does his best to appear at ease.

“I wonder if I might suggest the addition of flowers in proximity to your tree,” says the elf. “I understand the halfling would like that.”

“He does? Master Baggins said that?”

“He did. He said they would bring him much pleasure.”

“Then by all means,” says Thorin, briefly forgetting he has no clue where to get flowers or how to plant them.

“As it happens, I have some flowers with me in seed form. If your Highness allows, I’ll be happy to plant them.”

“I will allow it. Thank you,” Thorin says, in his hope flowers will soften Bilbo’s image of Erebor totally missing the I in I’ll plant them. Then he excuses himself and dashes out of the dining hall.

Bilbo is not in his room. And that is not good, because now Thorin actually has time; as in, time to think he has no right to be anywhere near him. He wanders around the halls, not looking for anyone, of course not, in fact perfectly meaning to go back to...

He spots Bilbo on the ramparts, at the scene of Thorin’s crime; his heart sinks.

“Master Baggins. Is everything all right?”

Bilbo turns to him. He doesn’t look affected or sad, just deep in thought.

“Thorin. It’s good to see you.” There is relief and apprehension in Bilbo’s voice.

“You should not be here.”

Bilbo doesn’t move; it’s clear he intends to be here.

“The Arkenstone... we never really talked about it.”

Perhaps he means to let Thorin have it.

“We can, if you wish.”

Then Bilbo is silent for a long time, and Thorin doesn’t know if it’s just him composing his thoughts, overwhelmed by anger or fear of having this conversation.

Perhaps all can be made easier if he started it.

“I am so sorry about what happened here that day. The things I did...”

“I won’t hear it.”

Thorin stops. Bilbo is right to silence him: I am sorry will not solve anything.

Then Bilbo speaks. “I am the one who should apologize.”

“No.”

“Yet I never got a chance to speak my mind. Let me do so now. I would give anything to be able to go back in time and change some of the things I’ve done. I shouldn’t have stolen from you in the first place.”

“You have not stolen anything from me,” Thorin says, realizing he’s distorting what counts as real; but he has come to feel like that for a long time.

“I betrayed you. And I went about telling you the truth in the worst possible way. At the worst possible time.”

It’s true, Thorin was hurt; the only way to make it hurt less was to weigh it against what he did. Bilbo’s betrayal was nothing compared to what he did.

“I know you did not mean to hurt me.” And you did not know how it could hurt me.

“You trusted me. And now you can’t... you can’t do so anymore. It’s something I cannot stand.”

“Bilbo. When it comes to trust, I would not put anyone above you,” Thorin says, wishing he could do something, a small gesture, clear and tender, that won’t cross the boundary of friendship but show Bilbo he still holds him in the highest regard.

Bilbo appears appeased by his words alone. “So that means we can still be friends?”

“Always.” Though Thorin knows he needs to apologize too, more properly than he did before. But not today. Let this moment be Bilbo’s alone, forgiveness and trust regained; and anyway, until Thorin can find the right words what he did is unspeakable.

“King Thranduil mentioned a tree. Are you really...”

“It’s nothing,” Thorin waves it off, because all things considered the alternative would be cheesy, to pull out the acorn from his coat and present it.

“It’s a great idea. I think it would suit you. And your kingdom.”

Then Bilbo says good night and leaves, though appears to regret doing so. And Thorin wonders why; he cannot know Bilbo is afraid to stay longer, for if he did he would say it, everything that can make this renewed friendship go down in flames again. Friends is good for today: it will hold until Bilbo can find a way to say more, to ask Thorin to be more.

...For what it’s worth: if he knew Thorin is kneeling outside the gates right now, mysterious and majestic in the torches’ gleaming light, his hands burying an acorn in the elven soil, praying this perfect little moment will endure, Bilbo would find the courage to talk to him again.

Chapter Text

“All right, lads,” says Bofur after his friends finished an epic battle board game and a round of drinks, their usual pastime on a Friday night. “It’s been a week since Thorin planted Beorn’s seed. Nothing has come out of the ground. Shall we take bets on how much longer it will take?”

Ori and Gloin are in.

“I say the acorn sprouts tomorrow morning!”

“My money is on three days from now!”

“How about never,” Dwalin interjects. “Obviously it should have happened already. So you guys might as well turn out your pockets now.”

Balin is of a different mind. “I say when in doubt, consult Beorn’s instructions. They should spell out every step of this mysterious process.”

“Yes, they should,” says Kili. “Only, there’s a slight problem: we lost them.”

Balin is outraged. “Well, what happened? Who had the paper last?”

Eyes turn straight to Dori, who says: “Don’t look at me. I thought it was with Nori.”

“Somebody must have taken it from my desk,” says Nori.

“I have a feeling whatever it is we’ve missed is on that paper,” mutters Fili, hit by a realization.

The dwarves become seriously agitated. Has nothing been done to recover it? Are they supposed to just sit here while a thief roams freely in Erebor?

“Let’s not lose hope. We know Beorn’s letter to Thorin mentions two simple things: sun and rain. Now, sun we’ve had plenty, but...” Bofur’s eyes turn to the meteorologist under the Mountain. “Oin, what say you?”

“This place hasn’t seen rain for a while. If you ask me, when we drew Smaug out of Erebor, he used his hurricane wings to blow a high-pressure system over it. That system stays parked there with no change in sight. So, prognosis for precipitation is negative, I’m afraid.”

“Then how come Thranduil’s flowers emerged? Surely violets and forget-me-nots need rain too?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dwalin sighs, tired of waiting for this point in the conversation. “Maybe it’s because he has heard of... irrigation?”

Irrigation, the dwarves repeat, thoroughly fascinated. You can actually manually water land to help stuff grow? Aye, you can, Dwalin condescends. Being project manager of tree planting has taught him a thing or two, in large part thanks to the presence of elves.

“And why has nobody brought this concept to Thorin’s attention?”

“Because Thorin, once known as a go-getter, is quickly turning into the most passive bloke I’ve ever seen. He spends hours just standing near the planting site, as if his stare alone could make that blasted tree come out. Which, by the way, at this early stage would be called a sapling,” Dwalin says authoritatively, scrutinizing the inquisitive eyes and beards before him.

“You’d think he would have made a move by now,” Dori says. “If not on the tree, then on the... other object of his affections.”

“Meanwhile the elvenking seeks Bilbo’s company at every turn. They walk every morning after breakfast: Thranduil inspecting his flowers, Bilbo admiring them.”

“And I’ve seen them take afternoon tea together,” puts in Bombur. “Every time Bilbo stops by my kitchens in search of a snack, Thranduil is with him.”

“Could the elf be courting him, then?”

“Nah. He’s probably just amusing himself. Must have guessed Thorin wants to court him, and is trying to nip that in the bud,” muses Kili. “Probably gets a sick, twisted pleasure out of it.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Fili says. “But if the elf is actually interested in Bilbo, I’d say Thorin has some serious competition.”

“Would Thranduil court someone on foreign land, though? I would think he’d try to lure Bilbo into Mirkwood first, then sink his claws into him.”

Balin has got it. “I’ll wager that’s why he brought his own soil. He wants to court Bilbo on elvish ground. By my beard, that sneaky fox thought of everything.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Dwalin spits with disgust. “Maybe noticing what’s going on under his very nose will induce Thorin to actually make a move.”

* * *

Thorin has noticed. On the day he arrived with the soil, Thranduil figured out something the hobbit likes, gave it to him, and has spent no shortage of time in Bilbo’s company ever since. He has noticed the glow on Bilbo’s face, sometimes when accompanied by the elf king; who, by the way, is unusually relaxed and at ease these days. If Thorin has never understood the appeal of flowers, he does now: it’s clear how happy Bilbo is around them. Yes, Thranduil is likely courting him.

If Bilbo would allow such a thing... Thorin’s mind stops here, lest he slip into madness again. He’s painfully aware of how thin the line is, how easy it would be to cross it if he wondered who is more right for Bilbo: between himself and Thranduil, it is not Thorin who deserves him.

Thus his focus remains the tree, which is not growing yet, but Thorin is determined to be patient. The skinchanger’s instructions were lost soon after they arrived; he turned the Mountain upside down looking for them, then asked Erebor’s librarian for help. But the library doesn’t hold any information on planting trees or making it rain. The best Ori could find was that a king’s prayer, when said with a contrite heart, can do much for the good of his land. So Thorin composed one and offered it to Mahal. Mahal responded: I don’t do trees, my child. Seek my wife.

So Thorin wrote to Yavanna next, trying to explain the reason behind the tree, how he wronged Bilbo and nothing can make up for it, you can’t court somebody you tried to kill, but a tree could at least show Bilbo Thorin listened, and match something that matters to him.

He could have expressed himself more clearly, Thorin thinks as he reads the prayer: it’s all over the place. He offers it anyway. The paper burns on the altar deep beneath the Mountain. Thorin’s eyes close, and a vision takes him.

...Many years have passed. The tree has grown. Bilbo saw it, or maybe he didn’t, a long time ago, before he left Erebor never to return. Thorin remained to fulfill his duty as king, though his heart is fading without his love; the tree, once tall and vigorous and filled with hope, is fading with him.

“Why do you want to plant this tree?” a snappy voice transports him back to the present day. But the vision remains, a once majestic, glorious tree subject to Thorin’s horrible neglect. “Do you truly wish to grow it, cherish and care for it until the end of your days?”

“Lady Yavanna.” It must be her, putting him on the spot. Thorin has no idea what to say. His friends suggested the tree; he just went with it.

“Growing a tree begins with a commitment, much like when one wants to have a child: to raise it, cherish it, bond with it. Can you make that commitment, Thorin Oakenshield?”

“I can.”

Every time I’ll look at it, I’ll remember. Remember everything that happened. The good, the bad... and how lucky I am that I made it home.

This could be me, Thorin thinks. I can do this. I will live by these words.

“A tree will not be a means to an end,” says the voice firmly; it will not be fooled. “And it will most certainly not be subject to your fickle moods. Are we clear?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Promise you will care for it no matter what. Even if things don’t work out with your hobbit.”

“I promise.”

“Even if he shows no interest, no appreciation for that tree, you will.”

“I will.”

“By the way, your prayer is missing something. And it’s not the amount of guilt you’re feeling.” The voice fades before Thorin can get an answer to how in the world can anyone grow said tree.

You need to learn to articulate your feelings, Balin had told him some time between Laketown and Dale; that was when Thorin still had hope, before the ramparts occurred.

Now he can’t separate his feelings from his guilt.

Maybe the tree is not growing because he feels too much guilt.

A high-pressure system is parked over the Mountain, Oin said. I have seen no clouds, measured no wind. I’m afraid there’s no chance for rain...

Not a prayer. Something that will cement the link between his feelings and the tree. So Thorin writes again, and tries to perform what he has never been good at, putting his feelings into words. He manages, sort of; then goes to the planting site and speaks to Beorn’s acorn in the ground, while clutching the new piece of paper in his hand.

“You will not be a means to an end. You will be a symbol of my love. If my love is endless and strong, so you shall be. Which is to say: you shall be. And I will grow you, cherish you, and take care of you. I will not let you fade, no matter the weather conditions or the state of my heart.” Even if Thranduil steals my heart from me, and I remain here alone like a fool, with these cursed flowers for a daily reminder, a nasty thought quips in his mind, with zero good intentions. Thorin will ignore it: this is not about him.

* * *

Ever since he and Thorin talked on the ramparts, Bilbo has contemplated his next step. Thorin forgave him: is there anything that can stop him from confessing his feelings now? Nothing, except his own apprehension, and that he’s not used to making the first move on a king. But he just ran into Bifur today, who remarked casually he’s seen Thorin outside and Thorin didn’t look busy with anything, in fact, he’s more of a dreamer nowadays, and somewhat lonely, too, Bifur said; does Bilbo have anything planned right now? Yes, he does, but he’ll gladly skip elevenses if that means there’s a chance.

By Yavanna, there is. Thorin is kneeling at the planting site, where his tree is supposed to sprout, his face lifted toward the sky.

“Any news about your planting project? Kili mentioned the tree is supposed to come out these days.”

“It will,” Thorin says, a bit forcefully, like he’s willing himself to believe it. And then Thorin looks him fiercely in the eye, takes a warrior-like stance, and something urgent and entirely unexpected ensues.

“I need to speak with you. About what happened that day. Bilbo... All the time, during our quest, I knew what awaited me here. I didn’t need Gandalf or Elrond to express their concern when I had seen my grandfather succumb to madness before my eyes.”

“What?...”

“I could feel the change as soon as we entered the Mountain. I knew exactly what was happening to me. I just couldn’t stop it.”

“I’m... not sure where you’re going with this.”

“It was an inner fight, from the moment I ran in to when I emerged on the battlefield. I wrestled constantly with the madness, knowing it was about to take me. And it would have, if it hadn’t been for two things. One was the fact that I was needed in the battle. The other was you.”

“I don’t see how...”

“You saw the madness for what it was, and were not afraid. You made me see what I stood to lose because of it. To feel you turn against me... that was the ultimate sign that something was very wrong.”

Bilbo raises his hand in protest: that’s not how he would put it, though he does understand how Thorin felt this way.

“I do not think I can properly show you how much I regret my actions that day. But one thing I can promise you: I will never be like that again.”

Why are you telling me this? You think I do not see that you are healed, really, more than healed, you are majestic, and glorious, and ever so reliable now, to the point where I almost resent it because it probably means you don’t need me anymore

“Bilbo... what I did was unforgivable. I am sorry, more than I can say.”

“Thank you. I was not holding anything against you, but it’s... good to know,” Bilbo says, the forgiveness part already resolved in his mind, yet afraid to switch the subject too soon.

“So... I hear things. About what this coming tree is supposed to represent. A symbol of your power, your greatness, or your success in retaking Erebor?”

Thorin looks at him, positively afraid, as if he doesn’t have the courage to answer. “Redemption,” he says after some hesitation.

Thorin is more of a dreamer nowadays... No kidding, Bilbo thinks; redemption doesn’t exactly spell action.

“Thorin,” he says, timidly reaching for the dwarf king’s hands. They are shaking, and Thorin drops something, a piece of paper he must have forgotten he was holding. Their hands join over the earth where the acorn lies, and Bilbo thinks of something to say, but you’re being too harsh on yourself sounds too plain, and I forgave you long time ago is too much about the past. “Do you ever think of happiness?” he asks, suddenly struck by the heat of Thorin’s hands. Through them he feels the release of pressure, energy long held, somewhat akin to what Bilbo felt at the Carrock. Thorin had apologized then... Bilbo had been overwhelmed, because to get close to Thorin was to feel that passion, given in equal measure to retaking the Mountain and to something as small as a hug. Unlike then, Thorin is holding back now, but Bilbo can feel the same passion, a searing heat encircling his wrists. If they could put a name to it... but how to get from redemption to love is not something Bilbo thought of, even as he took all morning to work up the courage to talk to Thorin again.

“I do not think of happiness,” Thorin says. “But I can still feel it, from time to time.” Bilbo’s eyes look to the sky, suddenly darkened by a gathering of clouds. A sound of thunder is heard in the distance; a fierce, strong wind is felt in the air. Could it be?... A few drops drizzle his fingers tentatively, as if asking for permission, and Bilbo is overcome with the feeling of the first Spring rain. Can you feel it too? He searches Thorin’s eyes. Thorin looks really happy; by Iluvatar, there’s a smile, and it’s as if that smile is enough to let the rain come down. It comes as a blessing, a promise that the past is now over and done, and Bilbo feels the heat and pressure dissipate, and happiness take their place. It’s quiet now, this unnamed feeling between them, save for the sound of rain falling on the elven soil.

He doesn’t need anything more than this moment. It’s perfect: it gave Bilbo more than he hoped for. He doesn’t need to wonder how this rain feels, whether they read into it the same thing. To Thorin, it may feel like redemption; to Bilbo, it feels like love.

Chapter Text

“Pardon me, Your Majesty. Lords Balin and Fili are waiting for you in the Treasure Hall. It appears a dispute has arisen over some misplaced gold.”

Bilbo looks up from his and Thorin’s joined hands. It’s Thranduil, waltzing toward them. He may be addressing the King under the Mountain; but the elf has eyes only for him.

“Ah. Mister Baggins. I have been looking forward to spending elevenses with you.”

“I... Thank you. But I am not taking elevenses today. I’d much rather stay out here and enjoy the rain.”

“Oh. In that case, perhaps I can enjoy it with you?”

Bilbo looks at Thorin uncertainly, hoping against all odds that somehow he can forgo duties and remain outside with him. Thorin regards him fondly; says Thank you for this moment, and wishes Bilbo a pleasant day. Then, blast it, inclines his head politely to Thranduil, and leaves.

He looks happy, still.

Bilbo stares dejectedly at the Elvenking, forcing a smile. “All right.”

“Ha,” says Thranduil as soon as they are alone. “Still no tree for the poor dwarven king. It boggles the mind, how despite his professed nickname, an actual oak refuses to grow on his land.”

“Thorin wants to plant an oak tree?” It makes sense. Bilbo should have known.

“Many of us want. Few actually go for what they want,” says Thranduil, enveloping him in a seductive gaze, though Bilbo could be mistaken. It’s probably just part of the Elvenking’s “charming” act: theatrical and exaggerated, as always.

“What’s this.” Thranduil picks up a wet piece of paper from the ground and proceeds to read. “The tree will not be a means to an end. The tree will be a symbol of my love. Awww. In King Thorin’s handwriting, no less: who would have thought?”

“To me he said the tree stands for redemption,” Bilbo says.

Thranduil laughs. “He told that to you, of course. His heart’s secrets he obviously keeps for himself, and perhaps for the person he deigned worthy of them. Oh well. We can allow a nonexistent tree to hold multiple meanings, I suppose.”

He curls the paper into a ball and looks contemptuously around, expecting not to find what he’s looking for.

“Insufferable dwarves. They don’t even know how to recycle. I guess I’ll just leave this here, since they don’t mind littering their own ground.”

He discards the paper and extends his arm. “Shall we? I have missed our walks.”

Bilbo picks up and unfolds the paper. He needs to see for himself.

It turns out: those are Thorin’s words.

A symbol of his love.

Bilbo sees Thranduil’s point. Clearly the “love” part is not for me, or else Thorin would have indicated that much; would not have left things at “redemption”. No, Thorin wanted only forgiveness from him. Love must be reserved for someone else.

This is why Bilbo hates hope; why he tries to stay grounded and set realistic goals. There’s a soft, maddeningly attractive quality even to his dismay, Thranduil will observe, at a loss as to what could have caused it, but it renders this creature even more intriguing. Alas, the hobbit does not appear eager to take his arm; he just stands there looking down, caught between defeat and a just-in expression of surprise. It will take a while for Thranduil to interpret it: to notice that sometime between now and when Thorin left, a small oak shoot has sprouted at Bilbo’s feet.

* * *

Three days later, the Company are all in uproar. Not just because there is an actual sapling at the gates of Erebor that has been growing at lightning fast speed.

Nori finally found Beorn’s instruction sheet. It appears that, in an overzealous effort at safekeeping, he concealed the paper so well even he couldn’t remember its location. Until this morning, when Dori pointed out one of his braids looked a little off. It turns out Nori had folded Beorn’s sheet origami-style, turning it into a mini diamond shape, and smuggled it into his own hair.

“So what does it say??”

“In a nutshell? The acorn is magical. It can grow into a tree super fast. Just needs a crap ton of rain; seven straight days, to be precise.”

“How about that for a good omen,” says Gloin. “Since the seed sprouted, it’s been pouring non-stop, and the sapling grows bigger with each day. Fate seems to be with our Thorin Oakenshield.”

“But can anybody explain this rain? What say you, Master “prognosis negative” Oin?”

Oin has no theory on what could have caused this overflow. But a natural phenomenon, it is not.

Balin sighs. “Honestly, lads, does it even matter anymore? The elf king is taking things so fast with Bilbo lately, with no opposition from the hobbit’s end, I don’t see what difference a tree can make. Clearly asking Thranduil for soil backfired big time.”

“What are you saying? Bilbo and Thranduil are a couple now?” Bofur asks.

“Not quite. But the elf’s gallantries around our burglar have grown exponentially,” says Bombur. “Just this evening I spotted them having a candlelit dinner, complete with Thranduil taking Bilbo’s coat, pulling his chair out, pouring wine...”

“That’s nothing compared to what I have to witness each day,” groans Dwalin.

“You mean Thranduil’s flowers?” Bofur pats him on the back. “Surely Bilbo must have grown tired of violets and forget-me-nots by now.”

“It is not of violets that I speak. The elf’s treachery runs deeper than you think: he has crossed gardenias with daffodils into some wild mutant aphrodisiac. Planted these new flowers in a separate, more secluded spot that has nothing to do with “beautifying the oak’s surroundings”. Every time I walk by I’m treated to their pungent stench. It triggers my asthma, for Mahal’s sake!”

“You have asthma?” asks Balin. This is news to him.

“It’s probably just allergies,” says Oin. “I would advise you to stay away from that spot.”

“I can’t. I have to make the rounds every day: measuring Thorin’s tree, inspecting the surroundings and talking to “expert” elves. That’s my #$@#ing job. Thanks to which yesterday I saw Master Baggins and Thranduil having a picnic in said new flower spot.”

“Ugh. That is gross,” laments Kili. “But who has a picnic in this heavy rain? That reeks of desperation if you ask me.”

“Believe it or not, Thranduil had a huge umbrella installed. They looked quite comfortable.”

“You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if Thranduil himself caused this deluge,” Dori says. “Just so he could offer Master Baggins shelter in a romantic setting. Mark my words: tacky or not, the kiss under the umbrella is next.”

Fili shakes his head. “I just don’t see Bilbo falling for this crap. If this is how hobbits court, I feel doubly sorry for him.”

“We need not assume he’s into Thranduil,” puts in Ori. “I talked to Bilbo the other day. Asked him if he enjoys the Elvenking’s company. He’s a good conversationalist, he replied. Engaging with him keeps my mind occupied, which I badly need right now. But didn’t mention courting, and didn’t seem particularly enthused.”

“That doesn’t mean much. Bilbo can keep a lot to himself,” says Bofur.

“And Thorin? What does he say? Surely he’s happy the tree is growing?”

Balin looks resigned. “Alas, Thorin is not good at expressing himself these days. He’s been awfully quiet. Other than yes and no, I haven’t heard a word from him all week.”

The quiet before the storm, Oin thinks. Something serious must be happening with him. Thorin is not one to sit and take it. Perhaps seeing Thranduil put the moves on Bilbo finally got to him.

As soon as this thought crosses Oin’s mind, he has it. It’s not the quiet before the storm. The quiet is the storm.

* * *

Thorin should be happy, indeed.

Except he can now be in no doubt of what Thranduil is doing. He has heard Dwalin’s daily reports about the new patch of flowers that the elf planted just for Bilbo. There Thranduil takes him each day, and with great pleasure watches him bathe in their intoxicating fragrance.

There is not much Thorin can do. Dwarves are a private race. If someone is on the receiving end of courting overtures, you’re not supposed to figure out their feelings: that is between the pursuer and pursued. You can just assume, if such efforts are allowed to continue, that the courted one does not disapprove of them.

But to be Thorin is to act, however repressed or constrained.

Before the acorn sprouted, he boiled with jealousy inside.

Then, a short moment of peace arrived. Simply being in Bilbo’s presence at the tree site, so close to him as to feel forgiveness he’d never hoped for, was a beautiful thing. In wonder he watched the rain materialize out of a clear blue sky - it was a light, soft rain that induced a feeling of calm over the land. And great was Thorin’s delight when he returned, and saw that his little oak had emerged.

As the day went on, Thorin heard about the new flowers, the picnics, the dinners by candle light. His jealousy returned. And as the jealousy turned to rage, he watched the soft drizzle turn into a violent storm.

With each day, both storm and Thorin’s rage intensified.

Five days into it, he wonders at the sheer magnitude of this rage: it should not be able to be contained.

Then it occurs to him: it is possible it is not contained.

Your feelings can produce rain, confirms Oin. Your rage is literally overflowing; it's working miracles for the tree. Keep it up. Two more days, and the oak will be fully grown.

It does not feel right. Thorin preferred the peace that created the first rain. It is your rage, not peace, that produces the ideal weather conditions your tree needs, replies Oin. Let Thranduil keep up his stupid act; trust me, you will have the last laugh.

Thorin should be happy. The tree grows.

What’s more, per Dwalin’s latest report, the new weather has started to affect Thranduil’s new flowers. The brutal downpour must be more than they can withstand. Thorin can’t resist a surge of triumph: his rage, his rain. Perhaps he really has the weather under control. Yet control is an elusive thing.

Every day, Thorin takes time to visit his tree, hoping to avoid crossing paths with Bilbo and Thranduil. Today, however, he spots Bilbo standing alone in the “picnic” area, watching the delicate flowers getting crushed by the rain.

“Master Baggins.” Thorin approaches unthinkingly, forgetting about his tree. “Is something the matter?”

“These flowers. They are dying,” says Bilbo sadly. “I’ve grown very attached to them.”

Thorin takes a resentful look at the infamous daffodenias. Their sensual perfume must have died down; he can’t smell anything.

“I am sorry.”

“Well, it’s not your fault. It’s just... this rain. It’s too much for them.”

As it turns out, Thorin has some form of control. Not constant or reliable by any means, but volatile as he is; nevertheless, control. For as soon as he sensed Bilbo’s sadness his internal rage ceased. And Bilbo felt the change, turned his face to the sky, and saw the rain stop before his eyes.

* * *

“We need a word alone with you, my King.”

It’s Dwalin and Oin. They don't seem to care that Thorin is having a private moment. They whisk him away as the clouds lift, making way for the sun. Bilbo remains behind, struck with amazement at the sudden and utterly coincidental weather change.

“The rain has stopped,” begins Oin. “What in Durin’s name have you done?”

“It was killing the flowers.”

“Come again?”

“Bilbo likes those flowers. The rain was destroying them.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“I don’t want to deprive him of his pleasure.”

“Just to be clear, we’re talking about the flowers Thranduil planted without your consent, for the purpose of seducing your One.”

Yes, Thorin knows. Mahal, there are times when subtlety would be a blessing to the dwarven race.

“Anyone in their right mind would want to halt the elf’s wretched attempt.”

“Then I must not be in my right mind.”

“So you’re going to let this tree-shagger steal Bilbo from you?”

“Bilbo is not mine.”

“At this rate, he’s not going to be.”

Thorin knows this too, just as he knows love is all-powerful; it cannot be stopped. If Bilbo has feelings for the elf, there is nothing anyone can do.

“I’m only going to point out,” says Dwalin severely, “that by stopping the rain, you’re neglecting your magical tree. Which you were, as I recall, supposed to care for like it’s your baby.”

“Bilbo likes the flowers,” Thorin repeats, and walks away from them before he will properly go mad, and then there’s no telling what the weather will be like. Also, Dwalin has a point: he’d better attend to the tree.

* * *

To his surprise, Bilbo joins him.

“I just wanted to say, your tree reminds me of something. That hasn’t happened yet, actually. It’s just how I imagined the oak I would plant in my garden, in Bag End. But watching a tree grow so unnaturally fast, in real time...” Bilbo laughs. “Didn’t expect that. Of all places, in Erebor.”

When are you going to tell Bilbo it’s for him, the dwarves’ voices stir in Thorin’s mind.

“The tree looks gorgeous, Thorin, by the way.”

At the right moment, I will.

“Thank you.”

“Still. You cheated,” says Bilbo with playful reproach in his voice. “No doubt for some honorable reason that shall not be disclosed.”

“I have a problem with time.”

Maybe Thorin can attempt to explain. Maybe this is the right moment to reveal what the tree is for.

“Time? I see. Oh, well. We all have our problems.”

“I have a problem with deadlines that are impossible to meet.”

“Surely there can be no deadline for redemption,” Bilbo says, looking suggestively at the tree. “Especially when you already have it.”

“No,” says Thorin. “But there can be a deadline for love.” Then he completely abandons the privacy rules of his race and plainly examines him, searching for a clue as to whether Bilbo is in love, or that Thranduil has taken the next step with him. Nothing stands out; Bilbo appears subdued, and careful not to move the conversation too far.

“I can’t imagine anyone imposing such a deadline on you,” he says, and then quickly changes the subject. “Thorin. I wanted to ask, about earlier. Do you not wonder how it is possible the rain stopped the very moment I complained about it?”

“I do not.”

“There is a saying, a sort of joke among Hobbits. That if you can stop rain with a comment, your next challenge should be to come up with a comment that will bring it back.”

“It’s not a comment. It’s a state of mind.”

“I felt it,” says Bilbo unexpectedly. “Five days ago, here, I... I could have sworn. The rain... it’s like it mirrored your state of mind.”

“Did you truly feel so?”

“Yes. But later, it turned into something obnoxious and loud, and...”

“And...?”

“I wondered if someone sabotaged that peaceful rain.”

“No,” Thorin says. “It’s possible somebody sabotaged my state of mind.”

Then Thorin regards him very seriously and says:

“It is the hardest thing you’ll ever learn, Bilbo. How not to let your internal state be swayed. By your own thoughts, by what happens around you. That stillness... it cannot be bought with a million diamonds. I wish I could learn it. But I am not known for such self-control.”

“Neither am I,” says Bilbo lightly. “But. I kind of like you lacking self-control.”

He makes to leave, with again that worriedly annoyed look as if he’s said too much but what the hell, and Thorin wonders at the carefree way Bilbo talks, despite appearing nervous and reserved; it’s the second time he complimented him.

“Master Baggins. Before you leave...”

Bilbo turns to him.

“I was thinking about taking the day off today.”

“Really? You can actually take a day off?”

Thorin smiles. “I guess I shall find out. My wish is to spend some time outside. And I would love to have your company.”

Bilbo hesitates. “Thranduil and I are about to go on a horse ride. After that’s done, if it’s not too late... yes, I would love to, Thorin.” Then Bilbo’s face changes rapidly to wow, what was that. A bolt of lightning just struck extraordinarily close, followed by the loudest thunder.

Thorin inspects the sky with a frown. He will remain calm.

“Very well. I will be here, Bilbo. Enjoy your ride.”

The tree will not be a means to an end.

The tree will be a symbol of my love.

And my gift to you, my other soul-part, my Heart. Two days from now, I will present it to you, no matter what.

“I promised to take care of you,” he whispers reassuringly to the tree. “I am going to find a way. You will continue to grow, rain or not.”

And Thorin can hear a deep humming sound ranging from middle tones to very low, coming from underground and rising slowly to the tree top. The young oak is talking, in a language no hobbit, elf or dwarf can discern. Long will the king remain by its side: the tree has responded to him.

Chapter Text

The horse ride didn’t happen after all; for soon Thranduil discovered the kaput status of his daffodenias. It’s only a formality, he told Bilbo, trying to hide his meltdown. Before their day can proceed as planned, he needs to have a word with the dwarf in charge.

“I don’t have the pleasure of following you,” Dwalin counters the torrent of insults levelled at him. “What are you saying?”

Thranduil points emphatically to the puddle of mud that was previously a romantic site.

“That you - or your moronic colleagues - must have caused these droopy flowers! What did you do, stomp your inelegant boots on them?”

“I didn’t touch your piss-poor flowers. Unless you’re accusing me of engineering rain...”

Thranduil grimaces in disgust. “Only a coward would blame it on the rain. Like I’m one to be fooled by your games! If you’re trying to make a laughing stock out of me, you’ve got the wrong elf!”

“I wasn’t trying,” says Dwalin, unable to contain his amusement. Which is enough for Thranduil to reach his boiling point.

“That’s it! You want botanical warfare? You got it!”

“Huh?”

“If you’re going to sabotage my flowers, I’m going to sabotage your tree!”

Thranduil draws his bow and points an arrow at Thorin’s oak standing just feet from them.

“You’re going to shoot an arrow at the tree?”

“These are fire arrows,” says Thranduil menacingly.

Dwalin feels shortchanged: he has only two daggers on him. He places himself in the arrow’s way and prepares for the worst. Luckily, in the meantime more dwarves have gathered to watch the juicy spectacle. Mahal’s blessings, Bofur is quick to throw Dwalin an axe.

“Get out of the way, you incompetent dwarf!” Thranduil shouts.

“STOP!”

Ah, Bilbo. It’s a mercy, Dwalin thinks, that nowadays he seems to be hanging out perpetually outside. Bilbo rushes towards the elf and raises his hand in a plea. “Thrandy, please. There’s no need for this. The flowers... I think they’re starting to come back to life.”

The dwarves gasp in horror, while Thranduil looks positively bewitched at hearing the cutified version of his name. He lowers his bow. “What did you say?”

“They’re... they seem to be fine now. Why don’t we...”

but Bilbo doesn’t have a chance to finish. In a split second, Thranduil forgets about flowers, tree or pesky Dwalin and closes the distance, capturing the hobbit’s mouth in a kiss - half anger, half enraptured by Bilbo’s intervention. “Boooo,” is heard from the horrified audience. The elf cares not. His anger is rapidly melting now, lighting another form of passion in its wake, that no dwarf must have seen coming; the question is, did Bilbo. Thranduil holds him firmly in his clutch, one hand on his back, the other one pressed on Bilbo’s cheek; his bow lies forgotten on the ground. From Dwalin’s vantage point it’s unclear if Bilbo returns the kiss or if the elf’s impoliteness has simply silenced him. As much as there’s outrage, and jealousy to be felt on Thorin’s behalf, Dwalin admits: that was pretty smooth, and spontaneous to boot.

Where could Thorin be? Dwalin can only hope he didn’t see.

* * *

First they hear a noise, like a hurricane. Then ball lightning shoots from behind the oak tree and strikes dangerously close to Thranduil; it explodes, barely missing him. More follows, and in the next second his bow is on fire; and that’s what gets the elvenking to let go of his crush. As Bilbo immediately pulls away, a look of utter shock on his face, ball lightning continues to fire rapidly around the elf king, some exploding, some fizzling out: always, almost hitting him. Then a flame ignites from behind the tree. It travels in swirls, threatening to capture Thranduil, yet never quite reaching him. The dwarves don’t stand around to analyze: they rush towards Erebor, sweeping Bilbo away with them.

Thranduil and Dwalin remain, the former continuing to dodge the flame, the latter inspecting the surroundings carefully. The flame flows swiftly and deceptively in the air, chasing its victim yet eluding him, never mistaking who its target is. In this ambivalent dance pattern it holds, as if struggling against itself, until at last it retreats, in agony, and runs into the most welcome object it could meet. And Dwalin sees, horrified, how the fire splits into multiple flames, and settles on the branches of the tree.

“Joke’s on you,” smirks Thranduil wickedly. “It turns out I didn’t need fire arrows. It seems you dwarves can manage just fine.”

He starts walking towards the Mountain in semi-rush. Dwalin remains at the tree site, searching worriedly with his eyes.

* * *

Thorin was there; he had been there all along.

The tree has grown so much, it hides him pretty well. Only when the fire attacked it, Thorin revealed himself. He stood under the tree with arms lifted, as if summoning the flames to come to him.

Dwalin tried to approach him, joined by a concerned Oin. Get away from me! Thorin wailed in anguish, face unrecognizably dark, his body surrounded by flames. Why? So you can be burned alive? said Dwalin; then realized the fire was not directed at his king: it was coming from him. You just need to control your temper, said Oin, or at least try to switch to rain mode. The flames rose higher, as if both enhancing and magnified by Thorin’s state, and once again they reached the oak tree. LEAVE ME! NOW! Thorin cried...

The two dwarves left, and joined the Company on the ramparts, where all watched what essentially looked like a madman trying to put out the fire he caused. For a while they abstained from speculating how Thorin materialized it; but the scene was enough to elicit mention of what was on everyone’s mind: I guess Smaug 2.0 has not been completely vanquished.

The struggle lasted for about an hour. The fire targeted Thranduil’s picnic site for some time, while Thorin worked desperately to save what he could of the tree. He could not redirect all the flames; so they consumed parts of it, while other parts remained untouched.

The fire did not cease then; it returned to its originator, this time as if determined to strike him. And no one could distinguish what went on, save that the fire continued to chase, teasing and tormenting their king; and it seemed this was a phenomenon Thorin could not control.

It is over now. The fire died out when a peaceful, soft rain began.

Both Thorin and the tree seem to have survived. Yet the oak is reduced to about half its size.

Bilbo watched it all; and more than once did he make to run towards the tree site. But the dwarves pulled him back and restrained him every time. It’s not safe, not even for you, they said. I don’t care! Let me go to him! And only being told he would cause Thorin more harm stayed him.

Bilbo could go to him now. After all, Thorin proposed they spend the day together, and assured him he’d be waiting outside. Yet perhaps this is not the time: right now Thorin appears to be locked in a fierce embrace with his tree.

“And they call us tree-shaggers,” a suave voice sidles up to him. “Yet look at their own king.”

“Can I help you?” Bilbo addresses the elvenking.

“I was hoping...” Thranduil’s voice trails off vaguely as he inches closer, albeit appearing resolved to control himself. “I’m here to finish what we started.”

Bilbo’s look changes from apprehensive to scandalized.

“Or apologize for my heated gesture,” capitulates the elf king. “Though I can’t apologize for falling in love with you.”

You know where you can stick that, Bilbo hears faintly from inside the walls - not far from what is on his mind.

“Your gesture was totally uncalled for.”

“You called me Thrandy,” says the elf sheepishly.

“That’s because you kept insisting on it! What better time to try it than to appease your anger?”

“You appeased it, all right,” says the elf with enamored eyes.

“Really, I thought you were just looking to pass the time with a friend until going home. I never expected...”

“You are gorgeous,” Thranduil forgets his resolve and steps closer. “Even more so for not knowing you are.”

“So with all that... the flowers, the picnics... you were courting me?”

“I was.” Thranduil grins. “I am.”

“All right. Here’s the thing,” says Bilbo, forcing himself to be polite to the end. “It’s been nice to spend time in your company. But I’m afraid I can’t reciprocate your feelings. And I’ll say it again, what you did earlier was unacceptable.”

A sigh of major relief is heard from inside Erebor’s halls. Thranduil ignores it. “Your heart belongs to someone else. I understand.”

He does more than understand. He takes pleasure in wanting this thing he apparently can’t have. “Whoever that is, they’re a fool to let you out of sight. To neglect the privilege of being in your presence.” He makes a gallant attempt to kiss Bilbo’s hand, lingering on every movement, studied and controlled, like it’s another opportunity to seduce. The effort fails; yet Thranduil goes on. “To not have returned your love by now.”

“They will never return it.” Once more, Bilbo wishes he had someone to talk to about the one he fancies, who recently planted a tree he called symbol of my love while treating Bilbo as a mere friend.

“Is it Thorin??” a euphoric Fili shows himself.

“Tell us, Bilbo! Is it?” follows a giddy Kili.

If the eavesdropping dwarves were initially going to give hobbit and elf private space, they can’t take it anymore. Someone better be spilling the tea: they just hope it’s not one of them.

“Why?”

“No reason. None,” say Dori, Nori and Ori in unison, looking in alarm. Fili and Kili give an encouraging grin.

Balin fixes Thranduil with a not-so-subtle, boy it’s getting cramped in here gaze. The elf takes the hint. He bows courteously to Bilbo and sends a displeased grimace to the dwarves. “Your perpetual lunch break is over, I believe,” he says on his way out.

Bilbo is grateful for the interlude.

“Could you guys tell me one thing? Why is Thorin so obsessed with that tree?”

The dwarves exchange diverse glances again.

“Let’s just say Thranduil is not the only one who’s been... courting,” says Fili.

“With subtlety, no less,” puts in Kili.

“For answers, I’d look no further than that tree,” offers Bifur.

“You see, it was meant to declare his feelings,” says Bombur.

“I see. And has it... um... declared anything?” asks Bilbo.

The dwarves chuckle. “It has, if you know how to look at it.”

“I’d say it makes a loud and clear statement, laddie,” says Balin.

Bilbo stares at them, petrified. Of course, this has nothing to do with him. If it did... well. Let’s just say Thranduil had a point.

“Makes you wonder,” he remarks coolly, “why Thorin would choose to spend so much time with that tree instead of with the person he loves.”

“That is an excellent question.”

“We were wondering, too.”

“He seems to be better at making it rain.”

“And breathing fire,” Bofur gets carried away.

“He wasn’t breathing fire,” scoffs Oin. “That was just one of the many weather irregularities he caused.”

“Like, what? A firenado? Come on, Oin. He was breathing fire, as roses are red and violets are blue,” says Dwalin. The dwarves regard him in half admiration; he has become quite the flower connoisseur.

“Fire tornado, fire whirl... you name it. What we witnessed is a weather phenomenon, nothing more.”

“That’s right. Complex feelings result in complex weather,” Balin seconds Oin. “And Thorin has complex feelings.”

“Hold on,” says Bilbo. The dwarves forgot about him. “Thorin caused weather irregularities?”

“I doubt he meant to cause half of them,” says Oin.

“And you’re saying... his feelings started it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Who said that??” asks Kili, as if it’s the most absurd thing.

“Nobody. Absolutely nobody,” Fili replies. The dwarves join in, shaking their beards vigorously.

Bilbo loses his patience. “You did, Balin! I heard you!”

“Dealings,” interjects Gloin with a pacifying smile. “Balin said complex dealings result in complex weather.”

Balin nods. “Exactly.”

“All right, lads. Show time is over. Everybody back to work,” orders Dwalin, suddenly in a hurry. Without further comments, the dwarves follow him back inside.

Bilbo is not done. “Wait. Oin. May I have a word?”

Oin stops and turns to him. “Sure.”

“Do you think... did Thorin...”

“Yes?”

“Do you think it’s possible his madness has returned? I heard a reference to Smaug earlier - didn’t care for it, to be honest, but...”

“Madness? Absolutely,” says Oin.

Bilbo looks down in helplessness. “Did... did something give it away? I mean, I know some of you said he was breathing fire, but I don’t believe it. To my mind Thorin is just a victim of a dangerous weather phenomenon, regardless if he caused it or not. You seemed inclined to agree, right?”

Oin stares at him.

“Did something give it away?” he repeats incredulously. “Yes, something gave it away. Thorin stopped the rain - which, by the way, was helping his oak grow - to save the flowers Thranduil planted for you. If that’s not madness, then I don’t know what is.”

He turns and leaves, disapproval visible on his face. And these words alone, more than the info overload of today, make Bilbo pause for a long while, and think. Think.

Chapter Text

Thorin thinks and feels in few words. There are none to process what he witnessed, a shift in him that all Erebor’s gold couldn’t account for, his own reaction more shocking than a measly kiss.

What followed was not rage. Not sadness, anger, jealousy, not hate. It was madness - not as a consequence of craving gold, but as a consequence of his love. And the only hope to stop it was to let it have its way. To give in to the urge to smite Thranduil then and there; to discover that, when manifested, said urge put in danger more people than just Thranduil. He fought it, on and off, and would have called it a win, if the fire hadn’t turned against the tree.

Seeing the fire’s treachery helped Thorin regain some self-control. He directed some of the flames to wipe out Thranduil’s flowers: for they were never a symbol of his love, they were only a means to an end; and oh, how quickly did the elf seize that end! As for the remaining flames that continued to assault his tree... Thorin will not speak of how he managed to suppress them. Suffice to say neither that, nor killing the flowers solved anything. Love is madness, still; when he thinks of his One in the arms of the elvenking, Thorin feels the fire return.

How did he get out of madness last time? The battle... Bilbo. Neither is here now. Yet his sense of duty remains, as does the small promise he made: You will never see me like that again. Thorin has to find a way, now, before he, once more, endangers people and innocent things.

If love leads to madness, then maybe he should not be in love.

...Years have passed. Healing takes time, but in the end the oak has fully grown. Bilbo left a long time ago; he never reached home. He wed Thranduil in the Woodland Realm; there the two live now, by all accounts happy and in good health.

Thorin’s face has become a mask. It took years to master self-control; to internalize that he could go off at any time, like a ticking time bomb. No one knows if he loves Bilbo still - sure, dwarves generally stick with their Ones, but not with a dude who has joined “the dark side”. But Thorin found a way to keep love intact, in a place where no madness can touch it. That took practice, and sacrifice: hiding his heart, pretending there’s nothing there; diminishing it to the madness’ evil eye. Love is a secret only the oak tree now can tell. When he visits it, Thorin returns to his heart. There, for a rare moment, he connects with his love, away from madness, free from causing harm.

“You will not be diminished,” Thorin speaks to the tree. “So long as I keep my love clean, you will endure. I do not know how to do that - but I will, in time.”

...and the dam finally breaks, and Thorin cries. Through his tears pours a soft rain, a frail peace born of torment, doomed to fail. For the level of self-control his vision showed can be achieved in five, ten, twenty years. Not now, when the fire roams free inside him, unchecked, ready to strike any time. It will strike, when he runs into Thranduil again.

“YOU... DON’T.... EVEN... KNOW... IF... HE... HAD... PERMISSION,” speaks a slow rumble deep within the earth, as if a voice is trying to dig its way up to the surface.

“What?...”

“THAT... ELF. YOU... DON’T... EVEN... KNOW... IF THE HALFLING... CARED... FOR... WHAT... HE DID.” The ground shifts with the voice, which draws nearer; now it’s right next to him.

The tree is talking. And that’s not the most surprising thing.

“You saw that?”

“I DID.”

Thorin pauses, dumbfounded. The thought that Thranduil may have kissed without consent never occurred to him. “The elf would not have dared.”

“YOU... DON’T... KNOW. YET HERE YOU ARE.... SUBMITTING... YOURSELF... TO A LIFE... OF MISERY.”

On second thought: self-control has never been Thorin’s strong suit. To act, that’s the only thing that, for good or for evil, stands a chance. Will he avoid the danger, or walk right into it.

Bring it on.

* * *

“THRANDUIL! WHERE ARE YOU?”

It takes a few minutes, but eventually the elvenking comes down to meet Thorin at the gates.

“You know, this is your kingdom,” says he lightly. “You could walk right in.”

“I killed your flowers,” Thorin replies. “This time, they are not coming back to life.”

Thranduil dons his I’ll be the bigger person smile. “Why? Was I stealing your thunder?”

“You’ve taken a lot of liberties on my land. But I am not here to talk about flowers. I’ve come to tell you: if you kissed Master Baggins without his permission, I am challenging you to a duel, right now.”

Thranduil is taken aback. Literally. He can feel heat emanating from the dwarf king; and, yes, incidentally, the Smaug 2.0 rumor has reached him.

“And if I kissed him with permission?”

“Then you will remove yourself from my land.”

“You are aware,” says the elf, “that in that case, Bilbo will be asked to join me.”

Thorin is aware, which he tries his best to brush aside. Suit yourself, he intended to say; what comes out is a noisy growl. The fire... no, now is not the time. Thorin doesn’t need it to win this fight. He covers his nose and mouth. One more noise, and he will turn around.

“I should challenge you to a duel,” says Thranduil. “You killed my flowers.”

“Go ahead.”

Thranduil scrutinizes him. Among the two of them, the one bluffing is not Oakenshield; he’s actually in the mood to fight. On a good day, Thranduil wouldn’t mind. Except he can feel the fire that’s waiting to arise out of the agitated dwarf.

“I shall trespass on your kindness no longer. My company and I will be leaving within the hour. Thank you for your hospitality, King Thorin.” With that, Thranduil disappears back into Erebor.

Thorin breathes - relieved to find it’s just air - then realizes: Thranduil did not accept his challenge. Would the elf flee from a fight? If he’s trying to impress the one he’s courting, perhaps not. So then, he most likely did have Bilbo’s consent when they kissed. If that is true... Bilbo may well agree to leave with him.

Thorin has one hour.

He was going to see Bilbo anyway. When Thorin asked him to spend the day together, the hobbit seemed like he wouldn’t mind.

He could go to Bilbo. Ask him to stay. Tell him...

The image of Thranduil, lifting Bilbo and placing him on his elk as they depart -

The flames rise again. They will not discriminate between foe and friend.

You will never see me like that again.

It may look like a cowardly move, but Thorin is not going through this today.

He retreats into the Mountain instead, making straight for his office, where he will remain for the rest of the work day. If anyone should rub him the wrong way, it is his sense of duty, he hopes, that will save Erebor from the flames. Also, the dwarves of Erebor are decent folk: they’ll probably just leave him alone.

And so, it’s established: Thorin II Oakenshield can’t take a day off, not even to go on a date.

* * *

“Can you believe he stood me up? If you want any more proof I have zero chances with him, there it is. He said he’d be here. Well: do you see him?”

For a nice few minutes, Bilbo was on a mega high. He got this much from his dwarf friends: Thorin expresses his feelings (“dealings” - nice try, Gloin!) through weather, which sometimes takes a wacky or unusual form. Now, about those feelings, Bilbo has a theory. Is it a coincidence that a deluge prevailed during Thranduil’s courtship of him? Bilbo melts at the recollection of sun cutting through clouds, which, according to Oin, was meant to save the flowers that pleased him. He shivers with pleasure at the thought that witnessing the elf’s kiss stirred flames of fury in the dwarf king. Also: Thorin asked to be in his company, today. Last time Bilbo was asked to “spend time”, it turned out Thranduil was courting him! Is it, then, so wrong to presume that today, Thorin, too, has more in mind than just “spending time”?

The idea that Thorin was courting him... possibly loves him... Bilbo wants to see it unfold. So much more now, when he contemplates Thorin’s powers. To control the weather is attractive enough; now, Bilbo doesn’t know what the fire was all about, but if it was due to jealousy that Thorin’s control failed... excuse me, but that is downright flaming hot. The anticipation of Thorin revealing such passion to him, of seeing Thorin positively in action, is everything.

It was this combination of wild emotions and rock-solid reasoning that made Bilbo decide to meet Thorin outside. He stopped by his room first, to prepare for a proper date. Upon stepping out, he ran into Bofur, who said: Can you believe this? Thorin has gone back to work! He has superdwarven strength. I’ve always said he’s not made like the rest of us. Bilbo deflated instantly. So... Thorin is not taking the day off? Bofur shook his head. Nope.

So Bilbo is now at the oak tree site, alone.

“You know, I’m not even one to read much into things.” He lifts his head and gazes at his companion. “Why am I telling you this? Right, because I need someone to talk to. And those dwarves, bless their hearts... they blurted out personal stuff about Thorin like it was nothing. As much as I’d like to confide in them, how can I trust they won’t divulge my stuff?”

The tree makes no reply. Not that Bilbo expected one; not at all.

“But just because I’m not the one he loves, I can’t turn a switch and stop loving him. Like, right now, I don’t even care that he’s not into me, that is how much I wish - I need -”

He looks around to make sure no one can hear, and lowers his voice. “So Thorin uses weather to express feelings. I can’t help wondering if, of all those patterns... thunderstorms, sun, ball lightning and that firenado thing... if he used any of them to express love. I guess I’m curious what it’s like, meteorologically, for Thorin to be in love.”

What was that? It sounded like a super slow, deep chuckle. Bilbo is probably wrong. It’s possible, though, that a branch of the oak tree moved.

“I mean, weather is something universal, available to everyone. We can all partake in it. So if Thorin expressed love, maybe I, too, could have got a taste, even if it’s not meant for me. A taste of what it’s like to feel Thorin’s love.”

Now the tree is definitely moving. Its trunk rotates until the sturdiest branches are right above him. The tree lowers and places Bilbo on them, then lifts the branches back up. More gather to cradle him with comfort and shelter him, and in a minute all Bilbo’s cares are forgotten: his body unwinds, his mind starts to relax. The sun filters through the oak leaves, a rainbow in the sky, a pleasant breeze... When did the sun come out? Since the fire incident earlier, you could cut the clouds with a knife. A sudden winter chill, then warmth like hot chocolate after a walk in the snow envelops him, and that warmth turns into something Bilbo has never felt before. Where is it coming from? Is it in the wind, in the rays of the sun, in the magic of this otherworldly tree... Bilbo closes his eyes. It penetrates him - a feeling, beautiful like the one Bilbo loves, whose presence he feels in all these things. And he doesn’t know how to name it; it’s not something he expected or can even recognize, something he only heard of or read about -

Loved. He feels loved.

“Thorin,” he calls in a whisper, as if trying to put his theory to the test; if it passes, maybe he can get more of this.

Thorin fought through something today. It is not known whether he lost or won. What is known is that his tree, a symbol of Thorin’s love, has survived. If so, then love itself must have survived. Yet it is possible Thorin feared for his love, and had to hide it away, and perhaps hid it here, in this place. And this is how Bilbo knows, though he tends to second guess himself a great deal: because today, this tree, to him feels like home.

Chapter Text

Bilbo waited outside for the rest of the day. And at length, after work hours, Thorin came.

His astonishment was impossible to hide. “I thought you left with the elves.”

“Was I supposed to?”

Thorin shook his head. It took a while for him to speak again.

“Bilbo. About the flowers. I...”

“Nah, don’t bother. If I had known they were a courting gift, I could have saved Thranduil some trouble. You see, based on the fact that I liked those flowers, he probably thought I liked him.”

“Are you saying... you’re not interested in him?”

“No - I mean, yes. That is what I’m saying.”

Bilbo looks to the sky. If his theory is correct, something like a second sun should appear, to spell out Thorin’s relief.

Instead, Thorin’s face becomes murky and grim.

“The coward. I’ll have his head.” He moves past Bilbo and proceeds to examine his oak. It will comfort him to see it’s all right, Bilbo thinks, though he can’t miss Thorin’s terribly unsettled look as he circles around, concern only deepening on his brow.

Perhaps Thorin came here for the tree, not for him.

“So. Did you end up taking time off?” asks Bilbo, determined to cut to the chase.

Thorin catches on immediately. This is about him ditching what could have been their first date. “Mahal. You waited for me all this time?“

“Oh. I had a book, you know. Brought lunch, afternoon tea... And” - Bilbo points to the tree - “I had Mister Redemption here for company.”

“Redemption,” Thorin repeats in a self-deprecating tone. “I spoke too soon.”

All right. Thorin won’t explain why he didn’t come, nor will he apologize. Bilbo can try to be patient, as much as he’d like some things clarified.

“So how did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“How did you save this tree?”

Thorin regards him quietly. He’s not in a hurry to give away anything.

“I watched you fight the flames. They ruined some branches, but not all of them. The ones that didn’t burn... I wonder how you managed to protect them.”

Thorin’s silence gives off a secretive vibe. If Bilbo didn’t know him, he would say he’s afraid.

“You... seem to control the weather as of late.”

“I froze them,” Thorin says, and it’s like a block of stone heavier than a mountain moved. “I froze everything that had a chance to survive.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“It was. The most difficult thing I have done.”

“How...” The question begins, and pales, inhibited. But Thorin means to be honest with him.

“The tree... was formed of something that started out good, and pure. Feelings,” he intones insecurely. “I poured my feelings into planting that seed; I don’t believe the tree would have grown without them. When the fire came, I knew that what started it was the very thing that gave this tree life.” Thorin pauses, clearly in a struggle with himself. “To freeze this being... required freezing my own feelings.”

Suddenly, whatever reassurance Bilbo may have received re: feelings is rendered futile. He could excuse himself right now, if not for the fact that Thorin is going through a lot, still. He looks pale, tired and not himself; something is off with him.

“I can’t begin to think how you did that.”

“It was my feelings that caused the fire, Bilbo. That led to madness, which endangered the safety of my loved ones. So I thought, if love can be destructive, then it should be restrained.”

Bilbo feels the ground shatter beneath him. The feelings have been named.

“I told myself love is a choice. That I can unlove, if I want to.”

On second thought, here’s hoping they weren’t for him.

“That must be the ultimate form of self-control.”

“No. It was a desperate measure,” Thorin says with great pain. “The tree was burning; I had to act fast. I had made a promise, to put this being above my own needs; to take care of it no matter what happens to me.”

A dwarf putting a tree first... Hmm. Would a hobbit have done the same? Bilbo isn’t sure. But that a hobbit - granted, a less emotionally invested one - would be impressed by this, he knows.

I told myself I can unlove, if I want to.

It’s a small observation, but Thorin said if; he didn’t say I want to.

“I actually had a close view of the tree earlier,” Bilbo says. “I didn’t notice any ice. I wonder what could have melted it. Perhaps the freeze was a temporary thing?”

“For the tree, yes. It was a temporary thing.” Bilbo can hear the unspoken in the embarrassed silence that ensues. The oak regained its vitality in the meantime, but Thorin... frozen doesn’t describe him, not quite. He just seems... numb.

“So what are you saying? That just like that, feelings can disappear?”

“I don’t know. In that moment, I didn’t feel any change. There was no time. As soon as the tree was safe, the fire turned against me; after I put it out, all I could do was worry about it coming back. For it was plain that freezing my feelings did not put out the fire within.”

A friend, Bilbo thinks; this is what Thorin needs. He wants to be that friend; even now, when it appears Thorin froze something that...

No. It couldn’t have been for him.

“But later, when I calmed down and went into the Mountain, I did notice a change. My heart... I cannot...” And just like that, Thorin loses his train of thought. “Excuse me,” he says, suddenly distracted, and Bilbo abandons patience and any hope this guy ever wanted to court him. Because if there’s one thing he cannot stand, it’s Thorin addressing a serious topic that five seconds ago had him look dejected as hell, only to now give Bilbo a royal ignore. Because as of now, believe it or not, Thorin entirely forgoes their conversation and starts circling the tree again, looking up and down, inspecting every ridge in the tree trunk. What are you doing, Bilbo wants to ask, but there is no point: it’s clear Thorin didn’t come here for him.

“Unlove,” he mutters bitterly. “Not bad. That certainly can lead to a decrease in broken hearts on this earth.”

No courage would have been needed to tell Thorin everything. How Bilbo would have wanted to be courted by him. No, it turns out courage is reserved for this super lame, anticlimactic end, where Thorin treats his feelings as an afterthought, while coddling the tree like a baby.

“Hey. I just remembered. Gandalf should be here any time, to take me home. Ori offered to help me with packing; I’d better get to that. See you later.” Bilbo leans over his blanket, rolls it up and leaves, careful to avoid Thorin’s eyes.

* * *

Thorin remains there, eyes fighting to stay focused, his body to hold his balance. Everything is happening too fast. So traumatized by today’s events, his processing is severely delayed; only now he fully registers Bilbo is still here, safe from the disgraceful elf.

But one thing he did notice, as soon as he found Bilbo outside. That warmth that accompanies every thought of him, that happiness Bilbo’s presence ignites, that mind-blowing feeling that has unrivaled worth and yet comes at no cost, that life is just wonderful now that he is in the world, is gone. There’s an emptiness where his heart used to be. This is how Thorin knows something is very wrong. The tree mirrors his feelings: if the ice in the tree melted, he should be able to regain them in their true form. Yet he cannot find those feelings at all. Which must mean they are now worse than frozen; they’re lost.

This is why Thorin didn’t say anything, as much as he would have wanted to tell Bilbo who those feelings were for.

It’s a good thing Bilbo doesn’t know.

He could have said it, though. Thorin’s mind may be a poor substitute for his heart, but it holds the certainty of that love: it knows he loves Bilbo, and will love him, always.

He could say it, still. If Bilbo were still here...

Did Thorin upset him? Probably. That’s how it always ends: in the visions he’s had, the tree thrives for a while, but Bilbo...

Bilbo is -

The mind can’t meet reality; can’t cut through the numbness, the fog. His eyelids drape heavily over his field of vision, and Thorin’s head drops. He ponders absently, was it fighting the fire that exhausted him, or that the fire is not there anymore.

What did he do to himself? In his attempt to avert danger, he substituted one madness for another: one that appears to have claimed his heart.

Can he even function without his heart.

I am not thinking about that. I can function just fine, I-

What did Bilbo say?...

A loud, powerful THUD is heard, very much in Thorin’s proximity. Something rigid knocks him to the ground.

The tree smacked him.

It’s refreshing, for a minute, to lie there in a daze and taste this medicine, and thank Yavanna for letting him grow this thing. It absolutely was not a waste of time.

Thorin opens his eyes, and something, finally, clicks into place.

Bilbo is leaving.

He gets up, starts running and catches up with the hobbit in no time.

“Don’t go,” he begins - begs - trying to keep his body from advancing towards Bilbo and binding them together for eternity, because lack of feelings will do that to you: Thorin has never felt so bold in his life.

“What?...”

“Please, don’t go,” he tries desperately to articulate.

“Look, Thorin,” Bilbo replies in a friendly tone. “It’s getting late, and I don’t have much time left to pack. We can postpone our meeting for another time.”

“Not that. I mean... don’t go home. Please. Stay.”

“Stay? Where, exactly?”

“Here. In Erebor.”

“Um. I don’t mean to sound impolite, but Erebor is not my home.”'

“I understand. I didn’t think this Mountain had anything to offer you. Until-” Thorin takes Bilbo’s hand and walks them back to the oak. “Bilbo, listen. I planted this tree for you. Regrettably, it won’t be complete any time soon, and in my madness I destroyed some of it. But I can still offer it to you, and promise you it will grow again. I know it’s not enough, you deserve a lot more, a house like your Shire home, a proper garden, fifty shades of green, and... better weather than what you’ve seen this past week. But it’s a start. Please, consider it.”

Thorin is out of breath. How in the world could he get all of this out?

Bilbo, I care for you more than anything, he wants to say next. But the words won’t come out; it’s like a force prevents Thorin from opening his mouth.

It makes sense he can’t say it. Words getting anywhere close to love should come from the heart, after all; but as of now Thorin is still without one.

* * *

Bilbo listens with interest; he’s looking forward to hearing why Thorin practically begged him to stay. Take your time. But Thorin has other plans, it looks like. He approaches the tree again, who seems to have guessed his mind: it lowers its branches and invites its king to climb. And now Thorin is in the tree, poking frantically at every leaf within reach.

“What in Yavanna’s name are you doing?” asks Bilbo, exasperated.

Without a by-your-leave, the tree immediately drops Thorin to the ground.

“I thought maybe the tree had the answer.”

“To what?”

“To what happened to my feelings. I’m thinking they must be somewhere... in here.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t put it past it to play a prank,” says Bilbo. He meant it as a joke, though the same thing occurred to him while here alone, except he thought Thorin had done it, Thorin had hidden his love, who else could have tampered with such a personal thing.

“Earlier, I protected the tree; it’s possible it tried to protect me. Perhaps it saw what I was trying to do was dangerous, and decided to help. As in, literally, took my feelings and placed them somewhere safe. Here,” Thorin says, gesturing towards the oak but not knowing exactly where. “But I cannot find - I do not even know how to look for them.”

Who could have tampered with such a personal thing...

Bilbo may know something about this.

The realization is frightening.

“I think I know what happened,” he says in alarm.

“You do?”

“Yes. I. It’s possible your, um... feelings - completely inadvertently - ended up with me.”

And Thorin may be gazing at him with fondness, for once. It matters not; it does not calm Bilbo down. A second sun does seem to be emerging, though; or is it the same sun that has set in the meantime, and now reappears above the horizon line.

“My feelings ended up with you?”

“Y... yes - maybe,” says Bilbo. He’s absolutely terrified. “Thorin. I know it doesn’t look good. Please, bear with me. I didn’t mean to steal them.”

Thorin holds his arms firmly, steadying him. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Bilbo reaches in his pocket, then opens his shaking hand, revealing a tiny thing.

His acorn.

“Here.”

Thorin knows what he is looking at. What started it all, what set in motion his disaster of a courting plan, and the thing that still holds power over him. To make him forget what was once intoxicating lust and greed, for gold less than for him, resigned into submission to an inordinate amount of guilt that didn’t feel right either, and now - always - this. To take away the madness and let him come back to himself.

And there’s a way to tell Thorin Oakenshield has come back to himself.

His face relaxes into a smile: the most beautiful in Middle Earth, without a doubt. Bilbo has seen Thorin smile like this only once, when likewise he spoke about leaving Erebor and planting his acorn at home; in Bag End, he had specified. There were tears, too, then, in Thorin’s eyes; Bilbo didn’t understand why.

“Tell me.” Bilbo feels the heat in the king’s voice; it startles him. Is anger going to manifest in the fire within... if anger is something Thorin can still feel.

“All right. This is super awkward, but I’m pretty sure the... stuff you mentioned is locked in here.”

And Bilbo cannot think why Thorin regards him with adoration, cannot know: that warmth that is always present when Thorin thinks of his One, he regained it as soon as Bilbo opened his hand.

“Bilbo,” he says, thoroughly smitten with hobbit and acorn both.

“When I was here earlier, I had... an experience. You see - blasted inquisitiveness of hobbits: having understood recent weather events were caused by your emotional states, I got your tree - who was very kind, by the way - to show me a glimpse of one of those... states. It’s hard to describe what it felt like. Out of this world? I don’t really have a name for that emotion, but it was probably what you’re looking for.”

Bilbo pauses; prays he’s allowed to stop here. He’s grateful for the open air; much better than being confined inside, or worse, on Erebor’s wall, because he will look in Thorin’s eyes and confess it, as he should have done the first time.

He dares look up, only to find Thorin’s eyes rest in him, as if they would immortalize this moment if it weren’t for Bilbo actually being nervous out of his mind. “Please, continue.”

“Right. Let’s just say I enjoyed that experience so much, I made a wish. I imagine a feeling like that is vast, boundless, like... like the weather, so maybe it’s not much to ask... I asked if your tree could transfer a small part of that feeling to... to this.” Bilbo points to the acorn, in true bewilderment at his own action. “And I’m starting to think that it did,” and now he can really hear You would steal from me? with both ears. “And since you cannot find any of it, the tree probably transferred it all,” he completes with the absolute worst part.

“Anyway. You can have this.” He offers Thorin the acorn. “I am sorry to have intruded in your privacy.”

Thorin closes Bilbo’s hand around the seed.

“If your intrusion had been unwelcome, the tree would not have obeyed you.”

“No, really, Thorin. The tree was just being nice. There was an acorn involved; maybe they’re related, who knows? It is, of course, right that your feelings... your heart should return to you.”

“They already have.”

Bilbo breathes in relief - and disbelief. I guess that means I won’t get anything. Not even a fragment of that emotion he didn’t call by name, though Bilbo knows exactly what it is. It’s only fair, he supposes, to have lost his chance at getting the thing he craves most, considering he now managed to steal Thorin’s heart twice. Maybe Bilbo should just go ahead and admit it: he’s really going about love the wrong way.

He should. And yet... hold that thought. Because in the meantime, and more to the point -

There’s something to be said about Thorin’s smile. Especially when he’s overcome with happiness, and there are no tears in his eyes; more so when it distinctly appears this outcome is leaving him satisfied. Does this mean Thorin will forgive him, will there be another opportunity for a date, does Thorin still want him to stay. Bilbo would ask, but even that seems small and stupid and not worth fretting about. Not when all Bilbo can think right now is how in Yavanna’s green gardens can this dude get away with so much; not when his mind is irremediably stuck on Thorin’s smile. Love him or hate him, it’s an irresistible sight.

Chapter Text

“You froze your feelings.” Bilbo can no longer hide his shock. “Who is to say you won’t do it again?”

“Bilbo...” says Thorin gravely, “there is a part of them that will remain pure, always. I need to find a way to keep that away from madness. So it can never cause terrible things again. Until then, danger remains a part of me.”

Bilbo shoots him an are you through look. “If you are dangerous, Thorin Oakenshield, then I don’t want to be safe.” He says it lightly, casually, as if it could be said by anyone; not just by one who adores this infuriating dwarf.

But Thorin sees the difference. Once again, Bilbo pulls him out when he ties himself in knots. Bilbo doesn’t disentangle the knot; he cuts straight through it, letting in love and light.

Bilbo gave him his heart back. Yes, Thorin feels overcome. There’s an overflow of emotions; he doesn’t know where to start.

He pulls them closer, and now Bilbo feels arms around him, fingers stroke his hair delicately, still restrained, and in that gentle touch he feels what’s left of Thorin’s self-control. What was deemed important a minute ago, did Thorin exorcise the madness, did he put out the fire for good... doesn’t matter, because Bilbo will take it, that criminally illegal smile, even if it should turn into a declaration of war; for as long as he’ll have him, if Thorin should have him at all. But there is no if anymore. Because the hand that threads through Bilbo’s hair feels like it’s holding his whole being in its palm, and doesn’t seem to care that getting any closer could cause them to spontaneously combust. Thorin says his name... “You froze your feelings,” Bilbo insists, reproach gone but that’s still mental, you know. “Bilbo...” Thorin says with voice full of emotion, “your life, your safety mean more to me than anything I could feel.” “Perhaps that’s what melted the ice, then.”

As Bilbo says this, he starts feeling the weather change. The sun is setting again; he’s enveloped in the warmth of a bright summer day. But now there’s a chill in the air, and out of a red purple sky snowflakes begin to form. He follows them down; they melt as they touch the ground. Some land on Bilbo’s curls, his cheeks, his forehead, the nape of his neck, and he’d wish them to stay, to not yet feel their coldness dissolve in the heat of his skin. They don’t stay... New ones form, ever falling and swirling around the tree, and Bilbo is falling with them, sinking somewhere in the scorch marks of Thorin’s coat. And he sees the oak branches begin to move in the breeze, and it’s happening again, that sensation he had while alone... He feels it in the wind, but it is not the wind, he feels it in the sun, the snow, the movement of the oak leaves; but it is none of these. That presence - love, light as the air, weather-like, ethereal and yet strangely real, is everywhere, outside and inside. It will change again... no longer a feeling, a place, where snow has covered the ground while the leaves in the tree are still green, the sun shines and the birds sing, and how can a squirrel have picked up a ripe acorn from a tree branch and buried it in the snow, he never knew there was summer in Thorin’s love... And he thinks he knows why, Bilbo sensed it the first time: this love feels like something of mine, something I like...

He pulls away slightly from their embrace, searching Thorin’s eyes. They stand before each other, words escape them. Thorin’s eyes rest in him... He brings his hand to Bilbo’s mouth and the urge is made clear, to smite that moment when someone tried to have his way with him. It is undone: Bilbo seems to be over it, but Thorin may not fare much better than Thranduil. Not when he takes Bilbo in with such greed, every intent to devour him burning in the flow of his fingers as they silently trace those lips, considering; but luckily admiration wins over greed. Bilbo, so radiant, so full of life, unbelievably close, no longer nervous, has no more questions for him. Thorin does have one; he’s not about to do what Thranduil did. Yet Bilbo reaches closer, his hands seek him with so much tenderness, to caress his ravaged face and messy hair, savagely dark against the evening sun. “Yes, you may,” the answer will come, and self-control and madness will both give in, and Thorin will kiss him, is kissing him in the aftermath of fire and rain, of jealousy and rage. And it may be madness, that Bilbo will take him even with this questionably dark side, that he is still not afraid, even now when Thorin can overdo feelings by a long shot. Like a revelation, incredibly soft and pure, their lips meet for the first time, and carefully, one by one, the anguish, agony and self-doubt melt away, and Thorin is set free. Everything, everywhere, all at once - the need to see him as much as to kiss him, to taste him, to drink him, to drown in him... “Thorin. Thorin...” his name like air in this breathless moment, and it will never do, he’ll never make up for all the wrongs, the freezing and the loss, for everything Thorin’s heart couldn’t hold. It’s always the same, Bilbo’s love is what undoes him, over and over, how could he not have seen this before. At the sound of his voice Thorin releases him - a moment, a chance to soak in the light of his beautiful One - and Bilbo seems undecided whether to finish that thought, so Thorin kisses him again, and stays longer in it this time, tasting endlessly like it’s never enough, as if this is what peace could taste like. “Thorin, I love you,” and this may cause stars to explode, a volcano wiping the face of the earth, or just Thorin to face him, cease any movement just to let all the earth hear this, to allow himself to believe

* * *

And as Thorin lets go, lost, powerless to this moment where time forgets to exist, Bilbo peeks over his shoulder to take in their surroundings. The oak stands magnificent and proud in a sea of white, defying the elements; it never looked more alive. And as his gaze descends slowly on the tree, it meets a grayish surface that seems to have spontaneously appeared on its trunk. What do you see, Thorin’s touch wanders wordlessly on him, and without turning to find out he holds Bilbo above the ground and takes him there.

Together they behold a smooth, circular surface that looks like it’s been carved in the tree bark. Bilbo pushes on it; it opens with a creaking sound - a door? At this rate he’s prepared to be startled by an animal who may live inside. Come in, a thick, imposing voice invites. Though familiar with it, Thorin appears as blindsided as he is. So Bilbo climbs in with not much to go on, as if guided by a surreal force, and there it is.

Inside the tree is mostly dark, but cozy and pleasant, if clearly uninhabited for a while. A small hallway with rounded ceilings, a dining room with a longish table on which sit a plate of bread rolls, a bowl of apples, a tea cup. At the other end opens a small room where an armchair looking a lot like Bilbo’s lies; a fireplace that feels cold to the touch - it hasn’t been used in a long time - and, oh hey, his parents’ portraits hanging on the wall, a desk with books, maps and sketches, a candle on the windowsill, and, whoa

A window.

And of course he can’t resist, even though by now Bilbo knows what this is, he must have fallen asleep waiting for Thorin outside, and why settle for dreaming about making out with the right guy when you can toss your home into the mix? Through the window he sees his garden in Bag End; his mailbox, the road, people walking by...

...and for a few minutes Bilbo loses himself in this scene, content to just watch the world go by, until, undoubtedly, he’ll wake up and find himself outside, because even a compact and downsized Bag End cannot fit inside a tree trunk. There is no other door, no exit to that world but it’s so beautiful to behold, the Shire’s rolling hills in the distance with their green that can’t be reproduced anywhere. Could Thorin have done this, Bilbo will wonder after some time, because he’s still not awake and he felt, earlier, that maybe what he loves is recreated in Thorin’s feelings... But this is no longer an emotional state, this is, unmistakably, home, yet Thorin never did anything by halves, and Don’t think, don’t try to explain

He finds his way back to the round door, and steps outside. Thorin is still there, regarding him dreamily.

“My home. My home is in there.”

It’s possible Thorin overspent his ability to look surprised; or maybe nothing can top Bilbo saying I love you.

“Bag End. My office, my dining room. My books and my armchair. Are inside this tree.”

Thorin nods with a not-super-puzzled frown, not denying the absurd, but loosely wondering how.

“You’re going to have some explaining to do.”

“I...”

“Not now,” Bilbo says, although he meant to have him try, but let’s face it, Thorin doesn’t seem terribly interested in the logistics of Bag End a stone’s throw from Erebor, then there’s the glorious figure he cuts against the orange-white background of snow and setting sun, completely undisguised in what he really wants -

Completely impossible to refuse.

“I don’t...” But before he can finish Thorin has already moved into his space, and pulled him into his arms again, closing the distance between them; in a second he seizes Bilbo’s mouth and fills it with desire, and Bilbo’s body burns. Their lips meet with a desperate need, a violence at being parted for too long, and everything Thorin has, mind, body and soul is lost to abandon. The kiss is all-consuming. And as Thorin claims what is his, fiercely and urgently, a new fire unfolds. It burns where his hand brushes Bilbo’s temple, where it grazes the tip of his ear, where fingers descend softly on the skin of his neck and collarbone, and in place of two people standing by the tree there is one flame... And if Bilbo should be spent, so be it; the pleasure and the privilege is mine, but the fire doesn’t consume them, somehow he’s still alive, maybe because summer gets lost in winter and snow keeps falling down, and Bilbo never wanted the fire fully gone. Because this fire is how Thorin wants, what his desire feels like...

“What did you ask for?” the king demands, and in an instant their roles are reversed, and now there’s something Bilbo must explain. “What did you really say to the tree while here alone?” For Bilbo’s nervousness did not fit the crime. “I said... if this is Thorin’s love, I want it. I want...” Bilbo pauses, his face all shades of the rainbow, glowing with pleasure and apprehension of the sorry-not-sorry kind. “Essentially, I asked the tree to give your love to me. Though I... may have forgotten to say thank you and please,” but Thorin is not going to start caring about manners now, is he. “One small part of it? Is that what you asked for?” Thorin continues mercilessly, and Bilbo is coming apart under his touch, “I did ask for one part. But I also said, I wish I could have it all. And if I did, I wouldn’t share it with anyone.” Maybe he’ll get a pass, for I didn’t think it would actually come true; or maybe it was dangerous to hope this fire will never die, but it’s too late to change his mind. “I would not part with a single piece of it,” says Bilbo decidedly, because the one who seems to be everywhere and in everything needs to know: this. is. serious. “You will not have to,” Thorin says. “For I am madly in love with you.”

* * *

“All right,” says Bilbo as they walk around, watching the weather return to normal, and evening settles over the land. “Now would you like to explain what’s going on in that tree?”

“Earlier, in the Mountain, I was scared out of my mind. Not just that you’d leave; that my feelings for you had left me. I asked myself, if I were to craft my love for you, what it would need, what it would look like. And I thought of things that make you happy. Like your home.”

Bilbo listens with a mesmerized smile. Really, Thorin should be encouraged to talk more often.

“I was also convinced that, if you didn’t leave with the elves today, you’d surely go back to the Shire soon. In my visions... you always leave. I didn’t want to lose what I had left of you: things that, despite my inability to feel, I could still hold on to. So I tried to recreate your Bag End, as best as I remembered it. I drew sketches of my memories of it, one by one: the shape of your home, things I had seen, inside and outside, when I visited you. My intention was to make a replica of it one day. So, in case you’d ever consider coming back, it would be here for you.”

“It sounds like this Bag End was just something on paper, and in your mind. How come it materialized?” Bilbo laughs. “Don’t tell me. The tree materialized it for you.”

“I think so too. A symbol of my love - such is the oak’s connection with me. It took my vision of your home as part of my feelings for you.”

“But the door in the tree only appeared after you joined me,” Bilbo says. “It wasn’t there while I was here alone.”

“Correct. It was there only after you showed me your acorn. Only when I could feel again.”

“The tree probably wanted to surprise us, too. But you know... it took some liberties with my home. Not to nitpick, but that fireplace will never work.”

Thorin is horrified. “Your fireplace is in there?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry, it didn’t look functional. I’m sure in there fire hazards are under a strict ban.”

Thorin laughs for the first time in years. “It seems that, while apart and almost at the same time, each of us made a wish. And both our wishes unexpectedly came true. I guess it’s not so bad I didn’t get any work done today.”

“That makes your tree pretty one of a kind,” says Bilbo, glancing wistfully at the oak, half-afraid to check if the door is still there. “I wonder if it will be gone in the morning.”

If it’s not there, I’ll make it for you, Thorin could say. Or he could, of course, be subtle to the end.

* * *

“Tell me, Master Burglar,” begins yet another interrogation, just when Bilbo thought he’d been cleared of all crimes. “You asked the tree to store my love in your acorn, and it did. May I ask, after all was said and done, what were you planning to do with your acorn?”

“I wasn’t sure anymore. If I planted it in my garden in Bag End, I was afraid the feeling would be lost. I didn’t want to risk it. So... I planned to keep the acorn as it is.”

“And now?”

“All things considered, I’d prefer to get that feeling from the source.”

“I was asking about the acorn.” Bilbo forgot the question didn’t concern him.

“Oh. It’s probably best I plant it here. So your tree won’t be alone.”

Bilbo hasn’t said - and of course, Thorin won’t presume - that to him home is where the acorn is. And he is still calling Erebor’s oak “your tree”. But it does feel, increasingly, that Thorin is winning comfortably on all points.

* * *

“So let me get this straight,” says Thorin the next morning as the Company take their seats in the meeting room. “Yesterday, after almost killing myself trying to extinguish that fire, I moped around for a considerably long time, thinking Bilbo would leave with the elf. Yet as I learned from Bilbo himself, not only was he not into Thranduil; he flat out rejected him.”

“Aye, we know that,” say the dwarves. “What is your point?”

“Exactly. You know that, because Bilbo rejected him in your presence.” Thorin paces menacingly around the room. “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?”

“Well... you went back to work. We didn’t want to bother you,” says Oin.

“Yeah,” seconds Bifur, “seeing as how you were a bit... enflamed, we didn’t want to rub you the wrong way.”

“How would this rub me the wrong way?”

“Well - just hearing a certain person’s name...” Fili trails off hesitantly. It’s true, not just of yesterday; the dwarves are still a little afraid.

Balin steps in. “Let me ask you this, my King. Would it have helped if we’d said he-who-must-not-be-named?”

“Wouldn’t have,” Kili puts his foot in his mouth. “It’s ambiguous. It could refer to Thranduil, or... you know.”

“No,” says Thorin with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Bilbo, duh,” Kili doubles down. “Maybe at that moment you had bad associations with him too. He and the elf kissed, after all.”

“Kili, don’t bloody remind him of that!” Dwalin shouts. His hand reaches inside that part of his coat where weapons hide.

But the only daggers that emerge are those shining like lightning out of Thorin’s eyes. “Are you suggesting Bilbo must not be named?”

The dwarves shake their heads rapidly, in full panic mode. From his coat Dwalin produces a fire extinguisher, presently the most coveted weapon in Erebor. They did secure the room with twenty of them, just in case. But their king hasn’t yet gone off the rails.

“Hey, Thorin,” Dori attempts some light chat. “Your attire looks gorgeous today.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hey, Thorin,” says Bombur jovially. “Want to eat some pizza?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Hey, Thorin,” Nori tries his luck. “We saw fireworks last night in the sky. Was that... you?”

The king blushes. “Yes.”

“It was a beautiful spectacle,” puts in Ori. “May I ask what you were doing at the time?”

“No, you may not ask,” says Thorin, and if they didn’t believe it before, they do now: he is actually in a very good mood.

* * *

“So did our plan work after all?” The dwarves don’t need to ask; by now it’s clear their king is not single anymore. “Planting a tree, did it help you with anything?”

“It did. When Bilbo mentioned going home yesterday, I couldn’t think anymore. I latched on to the first thing I could find. The tree was nearby, so I brought it up, which segued naturally into more personal things.”

Oin checks his trumpet. “That’s it?”

“The tree also talked to me,” Thorin explains. “And at some point it smacked me senseless. That was really helpful.”

All faces exude uniform approval. Who can argue with that? “Sounds like it was a great investment,” says Gloin. The dwarves exchange high-fives and fist bumps.

“But did the tree impress him,” Bofur says. “Enough so he’ll stay?”

“I think my magical weather powers made more of an impression than anything.” Thorin doesn’t elaborate, but last night he got to know Bilbo a little more. It turns out, Bilbo enjoyed this week’s weather. A lot. He liked the wild, passionate aspect of forces of nature unleashed. Even the fire; especially that. In retrospect, Thorin’s production of fireworks as a celebration of their first night seems a modest display. Bilbo must have wanted much more.

“In that case, he may expect you to keep it up.” Balin clasps his shoulder, waking him from reminiscing of last night.

“Yes. He might.”

Are you prepared for that. They don’t ask, though there’s a heaviness in Thorin’s voice, and occasionally dwarves can read between the lines. Maybe it’s nothing. Also, their burglar always managed to surprise them; with him things almost always turn out fine.

* * *

...Years have passed. Bilbo never went back home, except to get his things and stop by Beorn’s house and thank him: both acorns-turned-courting-devices ended up planted outside Erebor.

Bilbo’s tree will grow naturally, in years. For Thorin’s magical powers are lost; they worked only while his soul was in turmoil. Only once a year they return, on this day when the two most in love people on earth found their words. It may rain for a few hours then; summer and winter may meet again. The sun stays past its setting time, and Bilbo views the Shire through the window inside the oak’s trunk. All the while a real new home, Bag End style, is being built for him close to the tree site.

To Thorin’s surprise, of this week’s events it was not weather wonders that impressed Bilbo most. It was the king’s attachment to his tree: that Thorin grew to care for it, not just for what it’s meant to represent, and not as a means to an end, but as a beautiful living thing that helped him see the world through Bilbo’s eyes.

A month after this tale’s events, Thranduil received a festive letter bearing Durin’s seal: an invitation to the wedding of Thorin II Oakenshield. Irritated, he made to dispose of it, when his eyes fell on the not-so-discreet lines at the end: PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER, and EREBOR IS GOING GREEN! That got him sufficiently intrigued. So he attended, and brought new seeds of Bilbo’s favorite flowers as a gift, curious to see if his presence or said gift would trigger any irregularities in the atmosphere; he wouldn’t say no to any entertainment brought by his dwarf nemesis.

Erebor is happy to report the elvenking’s gift was accepted in good faith. Also, no weather disasters occurred on Thorin and Bilbo’s wedding day. Or ever since. For in time all flowers bend towards the sun, all trees grow tall, steadfast and strong, and all rivers of madness or jealousy drift into the sea of love.