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The first time Dwalin set eyes on one Bilbo Baggins he had been thoroughly disappointed. Such a soft creature, so bewildered, so unprepared. The wizard had claimed that their Burglar would be well versed in his duties and the Quest. Instead what Dwalin had seen was a fussy mouse who flinched whenever Dwalin so much as grunted at him. That jumpiness only got worse once the rest of the Company arrived, turning this so-called Burglar into a Bungler instead, as Bifur had grumbled into his ale as the night wore on.
None of them had expected to see the hobbit once they'd left that strange hole in the ground that next morning. But when he'd shown up, when this Bilbo Baggins had joined their Company, Dwalin had felt some strange pain pierce through his chest. There and gone, it had startled a breath out of him, causing Thorin to glance over with worry. But Dwalin did not know what to say. Surely it was just some strange, little thing. Nothing important. Nothing so great as to warrant a look over by Óin.
And then, when Azog had them cornered on the cliff, when all had seemed lost, this Burglar, this Bilbo, had jumped down and stood before the White Orc, defending Dwalin's King and partner...Dwalin had felt that pain in his chest once more and in that moment, seeing Bilbo stand, trembling, before their enemy, that was when Dwalin had known.
Bilbo Baggins was his One. Was Thorin's One. Was their One.
Dwalin had not needed to tell Thorin when they'd landed at the Carrock. Thorin had known, just as Dwalin had, what Bilbo was to them. It had burned, a little, to think about how they had been so rude to him at first, not knowing hobbit culture and their ways. Bilbo's little comments about disliking ponies...they'd just taken it as the hobbit being fussy or afraid yet again. Later, at Beorn's, Dwalin had tucked their One between them and gotten Bilbo to talk a little about his people and their history. About how ponies were to be used to move things , not hobbits, though the why of that Bilbo had not explained. About how hobbits had seven – seven – meals a day and how each of them meant certain things and if the rules of such order were upturned then there would be Consequences to be paid. All of them had heard the capital letter there. It reminded Dwalin a bit of how the deep-cave dwarrow lived, with the rules that seemed strange to most of the rest of the dwarven clans but which made sense and were there for reasons they who lived in the upper levels could not understand.
It was at Beorn's that Dwalin had first been able to corral their Burglar, their Bilbo, into a spot between him and Thorin, tucked safe, just where he needed to be. And then later, at Lake-town, when Bilbo had been so ill, it had been their responsibility to keep Bilbo safe and warm, though the hobbit had not seemed to know or remember much of that. Dwalin had wanted to make their first formal Courting gesture there, but Thorin...Thorin had disagreed and at the time his argument had seemed valid. They were dwarves without a home, in the middle of a dangerous Quest to regain their homeland. Wouldn't it be better to make this gesture in Erebor's great halls, where they could take their pick from the treasury and place them upon Bilbo's fair skin, to adorn him in the bright gems of their people so that they could Court their Burglar with the richness he deserved?
Dwalin had never said it – would never say it – but he cursed himself for not saying something to Bilbo then. But perhaps it was for the best. How much worse would it be for their Bilbo to have them turn from Courting loves to bitter enemies when their Bilbo was being tormented like this when they were not so tightly bound together?
And now, here, watching their Bilbo fall once more, as the whole battlement seemed to be swallowed up in shadow as something dark moved over the face of the sun. Dwalin felt a cry leave him as his Bilbo – their Bilbo – disappeared over that wall and vanish into the darkness below.
Just as he had before.
Dwalin watched as Thorin's face lost all color. As Thorin took one staggering step back. As Thorin fell to his knees, gaze not moving from the crimson blood coating his hands. A bitter gust of wind slid over the battlements, whistling and high, so much like Bilbo's scream it was hard not to think of it. Hard not to think of the first time, when Bilbo's face had been bright red from Thorin's hold about his neck. How Bilbo had clawed at Thorin's hands, lips moving in words he could not speak. How Thorin had simply let Bilbo...drop. As if Bilbo was less than a piece of trash in Thorin's hands. How Dwalin had watched it happen, some hot, angry kernel in his chest bitterly bright and joyful as he heard Bilbo scream. As he heard that scream cut off and the wind take over.
That same wind made a shudder work its way down Dwalin's back as he went to his knees next to Thorin, taking hold of his partner's wrists, careful not to mar the blood on Thorin's hands.
“No,” Thorin whispered, barely loud enough for Dwalin to hear. “No. No. Please, this can't –”
“He's here,” Fíli said, shivering next to his brother, both of them staring with wide, bruised eyes. “Bilbo's really here. He's still...”
“Thorin,” Dwalin swallowed against a hard lump in his throat. His eyes burned. “Thorin, take it back. We'll all take it back,” he cut a look to the rest of the Company, who all nodded in agreement. “Say it now, Thorin. Say it.”
“I...” Thorin's voice broke as tears streaked down his face. “I, Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, lift the judgment of Outcast, of Betrayer, of Thief on one Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, a hobbit of the Shire. Bilbo Baggins is forever now to be named a dwarf-friend, as are all his people, welcome in Erebor's halls from here and forevermore.”
The shriek of the wind vanished. Dwalin felt something in his chest ache. Then he, along with the others, echoed Thorin's words, one after the other, a quiet chorus on the battlements. The shadows on the battlements lifted, a thick warmth beating back the chill of an early fall. It should have felt like a blessing. It should have felt like forgiveness. But to Dwalin it just felt hollow. Would the last they saw of their Bilbo be his fall? Would he not return, just once more, to forgive them in turn? Had they...had they not done this right? Had they bungled it all again?
But there were no answers for his questions. Just the silence of the battlements and nothing more.
The sound of boots on stone turned Dwalin's head. He saw Gandalf step from the shadows and out into the light, hat and pipe gone, and looking far older than Dwalin could remember seeing him look. Dwalin turned to him, Thorin as well, both of them looking to the wizard to see if they had failed their Bilbo yet again. But Gandalf was not looking at them. His gaze was for the blood on the battlement walls, where it was drying in the sun and the wind, going from crimson to brick red to brown as it dried. The wizard stopped just shy of the wall, one hand hovering over where Bilbo had stepped.
“Oh my boy,” Dwalin heard Gandalf murmur. “Oh my dear boy.”
“I took it back,” Thorin said, voice thick as he broke the silence after Gandalf's words. “I swear to you, I took it back. I named Bilbo a dwarf-friend of Erebor, welcome in Erebor from here and forevermore. All of the hobbits of the Shire, should their spirits need someplace to rest are welcome here. I – I – did we –”
“Then you did well, Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf said. He did not look at them. His hand continued to hover over that drying blood. Even as Dwalin watched that liquid seemed to...fade, to flake away in pieces, far too fast for any normal blood to dry and be carried away by the wind. “Strange,” Gandalf murmured as the blood vanished bit by bit as they all stared. “How very strange.”
“Gandalf?”
The wizard gave himself a shake, his hand dropping as the last of the blood disappeared from the wall. All that was left was on Thorin's hands. It was still wet and clinging, not fading in the least. What did that mean? “I need to speak to Elrond of this. He is but a day behind me. I have not –”
Dwalin looked up to see Gandalf staring at Thorin's bloody hands. Those bushy brows came together. Gandalf stepped before them, going down to one knee before them, staring at Thorin's palms.
“Gandalf?” Dwalin said.
“That should not be,” the wizard murmured. Then his hands reached out to cup Thorin's, but when he did the blood on Thorin's palms blazed, strangely blue and purple, crackling like a tiny storm between their fingers for one bright moment...
And then it was gone. There was not a single trace of Bilbo's blood left on Thorin's hands.
“What was that?” Dwalin heard his brother ask. Dwalin could not find a single word to say.
Gandalf continued to stare, hands hovering over theirs for a long, long moment. Then he let out a breath that seemed to echo against the very walls of Erebor as he sat back. “I do not know,” the wizard said. “I do not know,” he repeated, still staring.
“Does he...does Bilbo not forgive me? Forgive us?” Thorin was the one to ask.
Gandalf's gaze did not lift from Thorin's now-clean hands. His answer was the one Dwalin feared.
“I do not know.”