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Since the beginning of the great adventure to reclaim Erebor, Bilbo had dreamed of hearing Thorin play a great harp again, admiring it in all its splendor. The memory of the King of Erebor playing his harp, accompanied by the company's other instruments, remained engraved in his brain forever. He still remembered how precious the portable harp was in terms of wood, maple, and decoration, ivory, ebony and various precious stones. Above all, that evening in Bag End had forever sealed his fate and bound his heart to the dwarf. He could clearly see his face illuminated by the light of the hearth before he began to play his instrument and sing the song of the Misty Mountains, still echoing in his mind. The echoes of this song kept coming back to him like strong emotions surging once more. Thorin's voice had been so deep and solemn, but at the same time gentle, in perfect harmony with his instrument. That night, Bilbo had been lulled to sleep by the whispers of the dwarf beside his room, even if his dreams had been dark that night.
Music was a very important part of dwarf culture, and no matter what the circumstances, melodies always accompanied the people, even for the simplest and most thankless tasks such as tidying up and washing dishes. Their journey had also been punctuated by songs and music all the more interesting than the last. His favorites were the meaningful ones, and the heritage of dwarf history. After all, every event in their history was passed down in song and epic poem. Bilbo knew that Thorin composed a great deal of music and song, but he never had the opportunity to see him at work. Did he have any fears about playing the instrument again? Was he afraid he wouldn't remember how to pluck the strings? Or was he afraid of playing in front of an audience? In front of him? Playing in front of Bilbo alone was of great importance, especially for Thorin and the dwarves.
The harp in the royal apartments was nothing like the one on their adventure; it was a true king's instrument, and so luxurious. Most of the harp was made of cherry wood, with its reddish aesthetic, rather like dragon flames. The column was made of ivory with precious stones such as emerald and sapphire inlaid. All along the wood, geometric carvings were integrated into precise interlacing patterns who’s meaning only dwarves knew, as were the runes painted directly onto the wood at the resonance box. The place was peculiar for runes, as if the instrument were enchanted by some ancient magical conch shell. Bilbo himself was letting his imagination run riot, leading him into intense reflection. He even had the idea of searching for texts in the royal library of this precious artifact, even more precious than the Arkenstone in his opinion.
Thorin admired it for hours without ever touching it, memories surely tormenting him, perhaps even songs. He came to contemplate it every evening by candlelight and the hearth, but each time the dwarf refused to pluck the strings and try out several pieces. Nevertheless, he could see the desire to play in his bright eyes, with the flames dancing in his face and the curves of the harp.
Even tonight, their little moment by the fire was eclipsed by the harp's aura. But one evening too many, Bilbo was determined to know the history of this harp and finally hear the songs composed by the king since the end of the War of the Five Armies. He approached Thorin and touched his left arm, at least to signify his presence and not to frighten him:
“Thorin? What's the story behind this harp? I can see how it attracts you, but in a good way - not like an obsession with gold, but an irrepressible desire to play it. But is something holding you back?”
Finally, the dwarf allowed himself the pleasure of tracing every detail with his fingers, every carving in the wood, as if he were happy to be reunited with an old friend.
“I've never played this harp,” he confessed. “It belonged to Thráin.”
“Your father's,” repeated the hobbit.” I understand better the hesitation of plucking the strings.”
“I doubt you understand, Master Baggins.”
And without a word, Thorin turned his face back to the flames of the fireplace. His hair concealed any reaction to Bilbo's concern.
“The songs of Thráin still echo in your heart, don't they?”
“I'm afraid my father's soul will leave if I take possession of the instrument and the memories of those songs with it, his music so soothing even the heaviest of hearts.”
“Don't you think that, on the contrary, not taking over your father's tales could cause his memory to fade? It's up to you now to perpetuate the songs that bring people together, Thorin, to gather your people under your banner in Erebor.”
“I know, but...”
“Thorin, I've lost count of the times you've sung the late-night compositions about our adventures to claim the Lonely Mountain. This harp is far more precious than any other instrument. It's the harp of your family, of the oral traditions of your legends. Music is part of your culture. Bring back the joy in the hearts of dwarves of seeing their king play this harp in the common room, of spending their evenings in the company of music that soothes all ills, even the most stubborn of resentments.
“If only I still had my traveling harp...”
Narrow-minded as he was, the king couldn't see the instrument's full musical and therapeutic potential, fear eating away at him, nipping at his heels for fear he'd never be able to match his father's and even his grandfather's ability to convey soothing messages and connect with his people through music.
“This harp stands here for a reason, not your harp that accompanied us on our adventure. Thorin, you can do it. This harp is waiting for you and your incredible compositions.”
“It is said that you must play and find in your innermost being the last music played with this harp before playing your own pieces, like finding a connection with the former owner, paying homage to him.”
“Does it have a specific power?”
Still attracted by the instrument's beauty and reflections, Thorin continued to trace its contours with his index finger, as if hypnotized. He also avoided looking at Bilbo or cracking up in front of him. Was there a word that defined their relationship? Impossible to define. Never had he felt such gentle, comforting warmth with Bilbo at his side, he could trust him completely, and even during the Golden Sickness, Thorin had always had faith in him, he had never thought of his guilt and had long since forgiven him. He himself was wracked with regret at that trying time. He still had nightmares about the gold, the greed and the avarice of that curse, about its gold-filled halls, but also about the Arkenstone, which he had refused to see again, like re-entering the treasure halls. Bilbo always stood by his side to support him in his new role, as a king consort would...What a strange thought! Bilbo his One? What an absurd thought! The dwarf king concentrated on the harp and what it wanted to convey to him, to bury a little more that strange feeling coating his heart in the presence of his burglar.
“Some call it Durin's harp. It is said to have belonged to our distant Longbeards ancestor. It is said that this harp was used to soothe many conflicts... But also, to produce them. The harp merged with the spirit of its player, enabling it to sow discord or soothe hearts with its melody controlled by the holder. This harp would also close all the songs and music composed by the ancient bearers, and even contact them through it and certain sounds.”
“Oh, I understand even better your hesitation, Thorin.”
Thorin didn't need to implicate why playing the harp terrified him to the depths of his soul; Bilbo understood, especially when it came to his friend's dark thoughts and strong emotions. He trusted himself not to be drawn in by the artifact's dark side and wanted to retain only the good things. Once again, the hobbit approached the king to offer support and comfort. With a tender gesture, he found Thorin's hands on the harp, taking care not to touch it, understanding the sacredness of the object for the dwarves of Erebor and even more so for the new king. He understood the weight of this musical heritage. The dwarf didn't really react to the contact, too focused on trying to approach the instrument.
“I believe in you, Thorin, you will make the strings of this harp resonate to soothe hearts. “
Bilbo was still watching Thorin, far too absorbed by the beauty of the instrument, and he was certain that the artifact spoke to him if it was indeed a mystical harp. His gaze was changing too, almost determinedly tired than the one he'd abhorred of late. The dwarf king had rediscovered a certain determination since his adventure to retake Erebor. A new purpose kept him awake and curious. Bilbo smiled at finding his dear friend before the gold disease and, above all, before the burden of becoming a king and ruler. It was only a matter of days before soft, melodic notes would once again echo through the royal apartments, he was sure.
“It's getting late, Thorin, have a pleasant night,” said Bilbo.
He barely responded with a nod. The hobbit wondered what kind of hypnosis his friend might be under. Despite his complete self-confidence, his stomach twisted at the possibility that Thorin's soul might once again be tormented by an artifact, hoping that something positive would come out of it and not greed and violence, but rather compassion, regret and empathy. Bilbo truly hoped that the harp would become the medicine for Thorin's spirit, soothing him in the moments when he was unable to do so.
*
Thorin had been alone in the living room again for at least three hours; he hadn't even noticed it. He was absorbed by the beauty of the harp and soon, as he touched it, he began to hear melodies all around him. Some of the melodies he'd heard in his childhood or early adulthood, some of the music echoing around Erebor. Soon, the words came flooding back. With his eyes closed, the king recalled all the memories of his many enchanting melodies at banquets, evenings by the fireside or in the throne room. He could even hear his father's and grandfather's whispers, as during his madness over the gold sickness... Panic-stricken, he withdrew his hand from the wood and returned to the hearth to reflect, to try and forget the past experience. Then he realized how alone he was.
Bilbo...I'm sorry...
He'd been a lot not to think of him that way, totally absorbed in the harp and its enchanting song, while the hobbit was still at his side. Bilbo had even stayed behind in Erebor to support the company and him in rebuilding the kingdom beneath the mountain. Thorin didn't know how to show his gratitude to his former burglar. He was unaccustomed to showing this kind of sign, and especially affection... Perhaps he could try playing a tune on the harp and singing a song of his own composition? But what if he relapsed into absolute malevolence at the touch of this artifact? Since the Arkenstone and Smaug's smoldering gold, he'd kept as far away as possible from any magic or even a little too shiny gold.
The runes near the resonance box glowed blue, as if some kind of magic had been activated like Orcrist. Thorin approached again, intrigued by this part of the harp he hadn't yet considered. The runes reacting to his touch glowed even brighter. He couldn't even read them, as they belonged to a dialect too ancient for the Khuzdul currently spoken in Erebor. But he was at least certain that this sequence of symbols was an incantation. The king blew out his breath before stepping out of his thick woollen tunic and taking a nearby stool. Again, he closed his eyes before placing his fingers almost at random on the strings. Distractedly, he plucked them without aim or idea of the notes. He was thinking mainly of Bilbo at this moment, of their whole adventure and of all he could bring out for his hobbit friend, well, more than a friend... It wasn't just to a friend that one would offer a mithril coat of mail, the greatest jewel in the treasure apart from the Arkenstone...
At first, Thorin was reluctant to pluck the strings, but he became increasingly confident in his memories and emotions. In particular, he sang about the gold sickness, of their conversation with the acorn, and of his gift to him of the mithril chainmail. Note after note followed verse after verse. The dwarf king didn't realize what captivating music he was playing. Only a feeling of bliss enveloped him like the soft warmth of a blanket around him and the comforting scent of malted alcohol.
Bilbo's quarters were next to Thorin's, the king. Thorin had allocated him the rooms reserved for him. The latter had assigned him the rooms reserved for the comfort of the ruler consort. Bilbo's close relationship with Thorin had raised questions in his mind, especially about the distance he maintained from Fili and Kili, and from Dís when she visited them in Erebor. The whole company had wanted to drown the fish under Bilbo's questions on the subject. But he knew very well why. And that suited him. From now on, it was all a question of patience so that Thorin could open his heart more and vice versa. Durin's harp would be an excellent artifact for, Bilbo sensed, having seen how the dwarf was hypnotized by the harp and its beauty. He was convinced that his ancestors were whispering melodies to him from ancient times, or so he hoped.
As Bilbo settled into the warm woollen blankets of his bed, he heard a few timid harp notes and then some humming. He immediately recognized Thorin's singing, and also the kind of tuning so characteristic of the Dwarf King's compositions. The music kept him awake at first. He tried to understand some of the words: he knew some Khuzdul words from his months spent with them, but the language sung seemed much older, a language long forgotten. Nevertheless, the melody reached his heart and warmed him. He could almost understand the song, but at the same time he knew very well what it meant: the song was meant for him. He closed his eyes as he hugged a pillow to his chest and smiled. What a nice way to be lulled to sleep by such a sweet song full of emotion and, above all, sung by Thorin. He had succeeded and Bilbo was delighted, as was the confirmation of the King's budding love for him. The music gradually accompanied him into a gentle, restorative sleep. Thorin's music had fulfilled its very first objective, that of love and compassion.