Chapter Text
A ragged breath tore out of his chest.
Thorin stumbled, the sudden cold air throwing him out of balance. He heaved for breath, the perplexity of standing on his feet enough to make him unable to comprehend the situation. His hand reached for his sword, fingers clenching on nothing, and only then his eyes snapped open to make sense of the violent wake up.
He wasn’t welcomed by walls of stone, as he always imagined the Halls of Mahal to be, but he wasn’t on the battlefield any longer, too – there were no wounds to pain him. No, the road he was standing on was familiar in another way, one he couldn't bring himself to recall in the chaos of his screaming thoughts.
He was dying, just a moment ago. He died. He felt his voice escaping him, he remembered Bilbo’s fingers clutching onto him desperately, the pleas for him to wait, wait, hold on for a moment longer. The intensity of that experience rendered him helpless to the predicament he found himself in.
He collected himself slowly, piece by piece. He tucked away the pain. He hid his trembling fear deep inside him. He let the image of Bilbo linger, turning it around in his mind, but ultimately, he let it go, the guilt of harming him still fresh.
Thorin looked around, letting reality sink in and separate him from that inner turmoil. He knew this place. He had been here before.
His eyes stopped on a familiar, freshly painted door with the wizard’s mark perfectly visible on them.
It was like a punch – air left him once more as he blinked, trying to chase that cruel image away. To no avail – no matter how hard he tried, it was still there, still right in front of him, like a mockery of his greatest sin.
Bilbo’s home.
But it couldn’t be.
For the first time, he looked down on himself. The clothes… just the same. Even his body seemed different, when he paid it closer attention, not so worn out, the tiredness in his bones not quite as heavy. Impossible, he thought frantically, trying to guard himself against the very possibility that this was real.
But it felt real. The wind, the choking guilt, the lights before him. Real.
He thought about Fíli and Kíli. Even if it was just a dream, nothing more, they were in there, with their bright faces and glistening futures. He could see them again.
That hope, as always before, was enough to drive him forward.
***
The warm air that hit his face right as he entered was a stark contrast to the cold wind he left behind himself. He blinked, his mouth slightly ajar, at the sight of his Company before him – just as he remembered, smiling, excited, looking at him with their sparkling eyes.
And there they were, his sister’s sons. The sight of them was almost Thorin’s undoing, the memories of their bloodied, grim faces crashing into him with force.
It was a split second, the urge to rush towards them and the sudden halt when he realized he couldn't. If it was truly real, it still was just him who knew. The looks on their faces was confirmation enough. They wouldn’t be looking at him like that, with such respect, if they remembered what he had become at the very end.
He was alone in this – it was his burden to carry. But he could prevent it, he thought, his fingers flexing at his side. He could try.
He composed himself once more and turned to Gandalf, recalling his exact words from the first time around. “Gandalf, I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. I wouldn't have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door.”
Seeing Gandalf hadn’t done much to improve his sour demeanor. The wizard still made his blood boil.
He let himself smile at his nephews, aware that they were seeking his attention. All of that stopped being of any importance, though, when he heard familiar footsteps approaching.
“Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield,” rang out Gandalf’s voice. Thorin almost didn’t hear it.
He involuntarily took a step towards the hobbit, his heart in his throat. Bilbo looked just the same, yet so different. Something about the way he carried himself… he couldn’t take his eyes off him. In his memory, that evening in Bag End gave a rather negative impression of Bilbo, mostly fainting and incredulous remarks. This time, he noticed more: a steel determination he wasn’t sure was there before, a tired softness.
“There’s no mark on that door, it was painted a week ago,” Bilbo said weakly. That snapped Thorin out of his trance.
“So, this is the hobbit.” The remark came out less biting than he intended it to, but he just couldn’t bring himself to put venom into his voice. After everything he’d done, Bilbo still managed to soften him.
Bilbo’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Pardon me?”
Thorin didn’t expect it to hurt this much, that gentle confusion. It was Bilbo, but Bilbo before Thorin had any chance to ruin him – Bilbo before Thorin lost himself to greed, lost sight of something more important, something he realized with his last breath escaping him.
It was too much. Still, he had to endure.
He opened his mouth, scathing words about fighting and grocers and burglars at the tip of this tongue.
But couldn’t it be different this time around?
His mouth snapped shut, the gravity of the situation properly sinking in. There were changes he could make. He didn’t have to mindlessly play along, aware of the end but unable to do anything about it – endless possibilities laid open before him.
“You have chosen him for our burglar.” He turned to Gandalf. Careful. “I cannot say there is always sense to your reasoning, but I have trusted you this far. I suppose I have no choice but to continue doing so, for the sake of the quest.”
Gandalf had a look of faint surprise, which he hid quickly behind a solemn nod.
“Well, I…” Bilbo broke off. That reminded Thorin yet another reason why the wizard was insufferable: always leaving explanations for the latest possible moment.
“Uncle, what news do you bring?” Kíli asked, stepping forward, visibly eager. They were waiting for him, Thorin realized.
Of course, he was coming from a meeting in Ered Luin. The first of many disappointments. He had forgotten that, in the whirlwind.
“Let us sit down first,” Gandalf interjected, ushering them down the hall, to the table. Thorin gladly settled on a nearby seat, too aware of Bilbo hovering in the doorway behind him.
“What news from the meeting in Ered Luin? Did they all come?” Balin leaned forward, a glint in his eyes.
“Aye,” Thorin sighed. “Envoys from all seven kingdoms.”
“What did the dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Is Dáin with us?” Dwalin asked. Thorin knew him well enough to hear the hope contained in his voice.
He gritted his teeth. It wasn’t easier, telling them that they were alone for the second time. Not when the outcome of that was so terrible.
“They will not come.” He ignored the disappointed gasps. “This quest is ours and ours alone, they say.”
This was the moment, he thought, when Bilbo finally started asking questions he did not like the answers to. But the silence prolonged, and even the frantic whispers of the dwarves died down when Thorin finally turned to look at the hobbit – only to find him looking back already, seemingly lost in thought.
Bilbo blinked. “Oh, you’re going on a quest?”
There was something different about him. That thought struck Thorin as he struggled to take a closer look, the stinging in his heart strengthening. It wasn’t his Bilbo yet, but he was certain that it wasn’t the hobbit from that first night at Bag End.
Or perhaps it was just him, with his new perspective, noticing things that should have been obvious from the very beginning. Bilbo had never been completely helpless and daft, it was just Thorin’s blindness. He saw more clearly now – and his actions had to trigger different responses. He couldn't expect everything to be just the same, when his goal was to change everything. This time…
But no. He couldn’t let himself get carried away with hope for redemption. He tore his gaze away.
“Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light,” Gandalf said, tapping the hobbit on the shoulder.
Bilbo left the room without further questions and came back with a candle, which he then placed near Gandalf, who in the meantime pulled out a map and spread it across the table, and then placed his finger on Erebor.
Thorin’s stomach lurched. His home.
His damnation.
He couldn't bear to look at it. He felt sick. Tainted with the remains of a sickness that resided deep within his mind, ready to strike when he least expected it.
“The Lonely Mountain,” Bilbo read, his voice strained.
“Aye,” Glóin confirmed, the pride in his voice evident. “Óin has read the portents and the portents say it is time.”
Groans filled the room.
“Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain as it was foretold,” Óin added. “When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end.”
“The dragon,” Bilbo said, unimpressed.
Glóin sputtered. “How…”
“There’s a drawing, right next to the mountain.”
Thorin was surprised to find himself suppressing a smile.
“Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age,” Bofur announced, smug. “Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meathooks. Extremely fond of precious metals.”
Thorin wished he would refrain himself from such comments.
“I’m not afraid, I’m up for it. I’ll give him a taste of the dwarvish iron right up his jacksie!” Ori stood up, his eyes gleaming.
“Good lad, Ori!”
“Sit down!” Dori scolded.
“I know what a dragon is, thank you very much,” Bilbo muttered.
“The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us, but we number just thirteen, and not thirteen of the best, nor brightest,” Balin reminded grimly.
That caused quite a commotion.
“We may be few in numbers, but we're fighters. All of us, to the last dwarf.” Fíli, still, seemed to be full of faith.
“And you forget,” Kíli interjected with misguided enthusiasm, “we have a wizard in our company. Gandalf must have killed hundreds of dragons in his time.”
“Well, no,” Gandalf protested, caught off guard. “I wouldn't say that I…”
Thorin just shook his head. Wizards. They were good for cryptic riddles and storming off when needed most, nothing else.
“How many then?” Dori challenged.
“What?”
“How many dragons have you killed? Go on, give us a number!”
Gandalf, clearly embarrassed, started to cough on his pipe smoke. The dwarves just groaned, hopeless. That was his moment, Thorin realized. He needed to give them hope, some semblance of stability. He was their king, and it was him who drove them forward, even when, in the end, he didn’t deserve their reverence.
He rose to his feet, the words already forming themselves. “ If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too? Rumors have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look east to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people,” he swallowed the bitter taste of those words on his tongue, “now lies unprotected. Do we sit back as others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?”
Balin raised his voice above the commotion his speech caused. “You forget, the front gate is sealed! There is no way into the mountain.”
“That, my dear Balin,” Gandalf said, “is not entirely true.”
Now he speaks.
With a twiddle of his fingers, Gandalf produced the key to Erebor. Thorin stopped himself from biting his lip to blood. The key to Erebor. He wasn’t so certain, now, if he wanted to take it, with the knowledge what the wealth it unlocked would do to him.
It didn’t matter. It wasn’t his choice.
“I recognize this,” he murmured, his mind suddenly empty. Was this what he said back then? Was it so important, to recreate the scene, when he already felt as if his control was slipping?
It wasn’t slipping. It wasn’t. He was in Bag End, Bilbo was standing right behind him, and the gold was locked far, far away. He was safe.
“It was given to me by your father, by Thrain, for safekeeping. It is yours now.”
Thorin refrained from a pointed remark at that. He focused on breathing, instead, slowly calming himself.
"If there is a key, there must be a door,” Kíli said in an extraordinary display of cunningness.
"These ruins speak of another passage into the lower halls," Gandalf agreed and pointed to runes on the map.
"There's another way in," Fíli deduced. Thorin barely kept himself from sighing.
"Well, if we can find it, but dwarf doors are invisible when closed. The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map and I do not have the skill to find it. But there are others in Middle Earth who can.” The dwarves listened to the wizard carefully. Thorin almost rolled his eyes. He was well aware of those who would lay their fingers on the map. "The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth, and no small amount of courage. But, if we are careful and clever, I believe that it can be done."
"That's why we need a burglar.” Óin looked at Bilbo expectantly.
“And you want me to help you, of course,” Bilbo replied dryly.
The company seemed unconvinced. Thorin, on the other hand, started wondering if his memory was failing him. He remembered quite a lot more protesting from Bilbo. But he made sure to stay close to the original outline of this meeting – it wasn’t possible that just a few gentler remarks made the hobbit less terrified of going out into the wilderness, was it?
Or perhaps…
He narrowed his eyes, his lips suddenly dry. He hadn’t considered the possibility that Bilbo could have been in the same situation as him.
Impossibly, at that moment Bilbo’s eyes met his. There was a challenge in them, and a quiet sadness, but no blame. No anger. No resentment.
He couldn’t look at me like that, Thorin realized, guilt gnawing at his throat. He couldn’t look at me like that while knowing.
“Hobbits are remarkably light in their feet, and can go unseen by most if they choose,” Gandalf took to explaining, determined to convince the dwarves. “The dragon won’t know the scent of a hobbit, to that. It gives us a distinct advantage.”
“If Master Baggins wishes to come, I will not forbid it,” Thorin said curtly, tired of the conversation already. There was no point in defying the wizard when it was the right thing to do, let alone when it wasn’t. “Balin, if you would give him the contract…”
“It's just the usual summary of out of pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements and so forth,” Balin explained, handing Bilbo the parchment.
He spared a quick glance at Gandalf. I cannot guarantee his safety. Nor will I be responsible for his fate. And the wizard agreed, back then, not a hint of hesitation.
As Bilbo started reading, his eyebrows rising steadily as he got further, Thorin vaguely recalled a fainting that took place after some off-handed remarks from his nephews.
But it seemed that his clouded mind played tricks on him again, as Bilbo only sighed and put the contract down, shaking his head. “I need to think.”
The air around Gandalf suddenly took on a rather disappointed feeling. Thorin, on the other hand, started wondering if being polite really did as much as turning an outright refusal into a hesitant maybe.
Before he could inform Bilbo that they were leaving in the morning, the hobbit turned on his heel and abruptly left the room. Gandalf, of course, followed immediately, presumably to meddle more.
The dwarves took to quiet whispers. Thorin looked at Balin, who nodded slightly towards the corridor.
“I remember a young hobbit who was always running off in search of elves in the woods,” came Gandalf’s voice, low and chastising. “He'd stay out late, trailing mud and twigs and fireflies. A young hobbit who would have liked nothing better than to find out what was beyond the borders of the Shire. The world is not in your books and maps. It's out there, Bilbo.”
“I said I needed to think, yet you still keep pushing me,” Bilbo replied irritably. “Perhaps if you thought to inform me at least fifteen minutes before an army of dwarves crashed upon my doorstep, I’d have more time to consider, and there would be no need for you to sit here and lecture me as though I were still that young hobbit, chasing elves, unaware of wolves that were far easier to run into.”
“You are not what I expected, Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf said. Thorin could picture his piercing eyes. “Still…”
“Still, you already know what my answer will be. Now, goodnight.”
Thorin let himself watch Bilbo heading for his bedroom before Balin’s voice brought him back to reality.
“It appears we have lost our burglar,” the dwarf said, smiling sadly. “Probably for the best. The odds were always against us. After all, what are we? Merchants, miners, tinkers, toy-makers; hardly the stuff of legend.”
Thorin turned towards him. “There are a few warriors amongst us,” he reminded him softly.
“Old warriors.”
“I will take each and every one of these dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills. For when I called upon them, they came. Loyalty, honor, a willing heart; I can ask no more than that.” Those words he remembered well, for he felt them every time he looked upon his Company – the bravest of dwarves, who would follow him into fire and death.
All the more shameful, his betrayal of their trust.
“You don't have to do this.” Balin put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, taking the surge of guilt for a wave of doubt. “You have a choice. You've done honorably by our people. You have built us a new life for us in the Blue Mountains, a life of peace and plenty. A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor.”
The sourness that appeared in his mouth took him by surprise. He couldn’t bear to hear one more word about the gold, the thrice cursed gold. It destroyed him – and in turn, he destroyed everything he ever dared to hold close to his heart.
But it was not his place to decide to throw everything away. It was about the people. His people. The truth was, he would ruin himself all over again, if it was the only way for them to find their home.
“From my grandfather to my father, this has come to me,” he said slowly, pulling out the key. “They dreamt of the day when the dwarves of Erebor would reclaim their homeland. There is no choice, Balin. Not for me.”
Balin just nodded, expecting the answer. “Then we are with you, laddie. We'll see it done.”
Even later, when the dwarves around him sang, homesick longings hanging in the air around him, the sickening sound of golden coins and jewels slipping between his ringed fingers wouldn’t leave his thoughts.