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Over the past weeks Bilbo had been feeling like the weight of the mountain was pressing in on him more and more. While, yes, technically Hobbits do live in holes in the ground, he'd never been unrelentingly underground for quite this long. He hadn't seen the sun for 21 days. Granted it is the middle of winter and there's not much sun to be had, but under a mountain there is no sun. This is an experience that Bilbo has never had before and he finds he does not care for it.
It was almost three months now after the Battle of Five Armies and Erebor was in the full grip of winter. Soon after the battle, snow had begun to fall. The light, swirling flakes were a delight at first and a fond reminder of the typically gentle winters of the Shire. To Bilbo's surprise and dismay it had continued to fall, almost without ceasing, for weeks, bringing to mind the rare and deadly winters that came to his home just once in a generation. His friends had continually assured him that this was perfectly normal for a Rhovanion winter, however. Thankfully, it had only really started to pick up well after they'd gotten Thorin, Fili, Kili, and the rest of the injured and displaced, safely into the mountain.
Settling in had been made much easier by unexpected aid. Thranduil had sent an elven healer and her assistant, along with ample supplies, to see them through the coldest months. Good food and good care had gone a long way towards healing all of their wounds. It seemed as if the Woodland King may have felt he had something to make up for. Bilbo was just glad he hadn't had to drag concessions out of the conceited git, after all.
Once the memorials, major cleanup, and basic settling in was done, Bilbo found himself at loose ends, not able to do much to aid the surveying and repair efforts that so occupied everyone else. Each member of the company had thrown themselves wholeheartedly into their respective jobs as only a dwarf can do.
Thorin, as soon as he had been able to sit up in bed for more than a half an hour at a time, had Balin piling him with reports and other paperwork for his approval. Even the kitchens were well-staffed between the dwarves from the Iron Hills who stayed behind, and the women from the Laketown refugees that were sheltering through the winter in the mountain. The communal morning and midday meals had been the only time Bilbo could reliably see his companions for weeks. There was just not much call for the skills of a gentlehobbit. He was a dab hand at mending and cooking, but any time he attempted to pitch in with those tasks he was assured that the job was in hand and surely he had more important things to do? But, no, there certainly was no great need of a landlord or a translator of Elvish poetry.
Most days he ended up spending an inordinate amount of time in his "quarters", which were really just a large supply closet in the Royal Wing that had been outfitted with rare ventilation to the outside. His dwarrow had balked at first at the little corner he’d chosen for himself, but, he had argued, he was just a little hobbit after all, and needed less space than most, and more fresh air and more sun than most. His friends had made every effort to make him comfortable, fitting it out with tapestries and a small stove, and all the comfort that a bare and abandoned mountain could provide. Bilbo was quite pleased with his little home. If only the adjustment to his adopted homeland was progressing as smoothly.
Every day the weak, gray sunlight would filter in through the vent, and every day he'd grow a little more forlorn. But now, Bilbo could see that the sun was shining brilliantly off the snow outside his tiny window. The thought of all that snow over all that stone felt like it was pressing into his mind, making him just a little stir crazy. The brilliant light beckoned him like a siren. He paced back and forth in his cosy room, muttering to himself, making plans to slip on his little ring and find a way to nip outside for just a bit and–
"BILBO!"
"Green goddess, Thorin! Must you shout so?" Bilbo scolded, clutching his chest in shock.
"I must, when I've called your name several times and you do not respond." The dwarf king grumbled.
“Yes, well, I've rather got a lot on my mind, I suppose,” he muttered. “Did you need me for something?”
Thorin paused, a ghost of a smile came and went so quickly Bilbo thought he must have imagined it, before his customary scowl took its place. “You were not at the midday meal and many were concerned that you might have fallen ill. Are you?”
“Am I? I am? Missed lunch! Oh, dear,” he whispered to himself, wringing his hands. “Oh dear, oh dear that's not good…no, no this can't go on. Something must be done. I can't stay here, not anymore.”
Thorin was suddenly there, wrapping his large hands around Bilbo's, separating them with gentle care. “Are you ill?” His brow now was furrowed in concern. “Oin should take a look at you. And maybe the elf.”
“Really now, Thorin. I'm not dying.” His mouth twisted with humor as he patted Thorin’s hands. “Do I really look so poorly that even you would recommend an elven healer?”
“I would spare no effort to ensure your…everyone's, my people's health.” Thorin said stiffly.
“Well, perhaps there is something you can do for me, then.” Bilbo said sweetly.
“Name it and it shall be done,” Thorin vowed.
“Let me go outside.”
“Outside of what? Your rooms?”
“No, outside!” He pointed emphatically to his tiny window. “It's not snowing and I need to see the sun, Thorin. A hobbit is not meant to be locked away for so long. All this stone is driving me spare.”
“You wish…to go outside…of the mountain?” Thorin repeated slowly.
“Yes, just for a bit. Surely someone can just prop open a door for an hour or two and I'll nip right out and back.” Bilbo said in his most practical voice, though he couldn't help grumbling a bit. “It’s beyond me why the matter is such a fuss. When I mentioned it to Ori the other day he laughed and said my Shire humor was so odd, can you imagine?”
“You may not be aware, Master Baggins, but it is quite cold outside.”
“Yes, Thorin, I do know what winter is! You lived in Eriador for many years, you know it snows there!”
“Winters in the kindly West are hardly worth the name,” he snorted. Bilbo’s eyebrows remained expectantly risen and he sighed, “You really wish to go outside of the mountain?”
“Well, it never really occurred to me that I might have a biological need to feel the sun on my face, but that does appear to be the case. I’m …not doing well, if I must be honest.” He sighed and pursed his lips ruefully. “I'm just not suited to this place, I fear.” A little of the bitterness he felt over his lack of meaningful work crept into his tone.
Thorin's frown deepened as Bilbo spoke. “Oh, it's not like a fussy old Hobbit can cause too much trouble around here anyway. I can take care of myself!” he quickly amended, fearing anything that might make Thorin see him as a burden on the mountain’s resources.
“You are not trouble, but you do seem to attract it, my burglar. You will require an escort.”
“Surely no one need bother escorting me just to get a little air.” Bilbo flapped his hand airily.
“I would insist anyone venturing outside of the mountain have at least one well-armed companion, but you, especially.”
Bilbo despaired that Thorin still saw him as weak and incompetent. “Well, I've got my sword, you know, and I am very good at hiding...” Thorin just continued to look as resolute as ever. “Very well, then perhaps I can find…hmm no, oh everyone is so busy.”
“I happen to have leave of the afternoon,” the dwarf grumbled. “I've been informed that exercise would be a benefit.”
“Balin kicked you out, eh?” Bilbo snorted.
“He has the audacity to tell me I am working too hard when he is already in his office when I arrive and remains after I leave!” he glowered, then looked a little sheepish. “I may have kicked in his waste paper bin out of frustration over the latest trade proposal from the Elven Kingdom. That pompous leaf-eater seems determined to gain a boon for every concession on his part, which rather negates the value and…”
Bilbo could tell that Thorin was working up a head of steam, so he cut in, “Surely we can find a better outlet for that frustration than the poor waste bins! Er, a bit of fresh air is just the trick!” Bilbo added with a snap of his fingers.
Thorin hummed. “If we are to venture out Master Baggins, we must have the proper gear.” He was regarding Bilbo’s attire thoughtfully, clearly sizing him up for something that would likely be far more excessive than the situation called for.
“Gear? It's not as if we'll be scaling the mountain,“ he scoffed. “Will we?” he added weakly.
“No, nothing so strenuous.” Thorin waved off his concern. “Just to the vale north of Ravenhill. It should be well-sheltered from the winds.” He eyed Bilbo’s threadbare coat and thin pants. “Let's see Dori about getting you outfitted.”
Bilbo raised an eyebrow. "I assure you, I'm quite capable of managing my own wardrobe, thank you very much."
But Thorin was already striding purposefully down the hall, leaving Bilbo no choice but to trot after him. They stopped so that Bilbo could make a quick sandwich from the remains of lunch and soon arrived at the workshop where Dori and Nori had been busily re-establishing the Weaver’s and Tailor’s Guild hall. Nori was up on a ladder pulling dusty bolts of fabric out of a massive wall of shelves and tossing them down into a huge, musty pile while Dori tutted and fussed over all the ruined material.
"Ah, perfect timing!" Dori exclaimed. "We've just finished the last adjustments and were planning to deliver them later today."
Nori hopped down and grinned mischievously. "Aye, a right challenge it was too, crafting for such wee proportions."
Bilbo huffed indignantly, but his retort died on his lips as he took in the array of garments that Dori produced from a nearby chest. Rich fabrics in deep jewel tones, trimmed with intricate embroidery and subtly blending Hobbit and Dwarrow style - even just these few pieces were already a far cry from what he had once thought of as his rather sophisticated Shire wardrobe. The Shire had never seen anything like these! He was so instantly enamored with the clothes that he couldn't even bring himself to voice any protest at the extravagance.
Thorin began methodically sorting through the stack as if they were nothing but burlap sacks, setting some aside and shuffling past others. "You'll need several layers to keep out the cold. Start with this.”
He thrust a bundle of fabric into Bilbo's arms. The hobbit ran his fingers over the material, marveling at the softness of a heavy coat of deep blue, trimmed with silver fur. Thick green trousers with vines along the outside seam paired beautifully with the russet doublet that had a similar pattern along the hem, and the cream-colored shirt with a padded woolen under tunic felt sturdy and warm. Why, he'd look as bold as a robin in spring! He couldn't wait to try them on.
Thorin also set aside sheepskin mittens that would surely engulf his hands, and a fur-lined cloak that appeared to be the perfect length to swirl around his ankles becomingly.
"It's all so lovely," Bilbo admitted grudgingly. "Though I'm not sure all this fuss is entirely necessary." His heart was clearly not invested in his token protests.
Thorin's lips quirked in a rare smile. "Indulge me, Master Burglar. I'll not have you freezing on my watch.” His expression dropped. “Are you…do you…have your armor?" He asked in a suddenly strained voice.
“Ah, yes,” Bilbo cleared his throat, pulling aside his collar to reveal the distinctive glint of mithril. “Yes I, uh, I wear it every day, in fact. It seemed the right thing to do.” He added quietly.
Thorin’s gaze met his searchingly before he nodded abruptly. “Good. That's…that's good. I–”
He broke off as Bilbo's eyes widened in alarm. Atop the dwindling stack of clothing sat a pair of long boots made from soft leather.
"Oh no," Bilbo said firmly. "Absolutely not.” He wagged a finger at Thorin, who was suddenly turning rather pink. “Hobbit feet are perfectly hardy, I'll have you know. Just look at my soles! We don't need boots, even in the coldest weather."
Thorin frowned. "Surely you…” he trailed off, staring at what Bilbo realized was his unbrushed foot hair! He really was in a poor state. If only his father could see him!
Bilbo replied primly while casually smoothing out an errant foot curl, "Surely I'll not be cramming my feet into those contraptions. A hobbit's foot-hair is his pride, as my father would say."
Bilbo assumed that Thorin had caught on to his dilemma and kindly fixed his gaze on a dusty loom in a far corner of the room, his cheeks flushed a deep crimson. His friend was showing admirable sympathy, and it gave Bilbo a mortified moment to finger comb his curls and try to return them to order.
"I... see," Thorin mumbled, his usual commanding tone reduced to a low rumble. "If you insist. We'll speak no more of it."
Bilbo blinked, surprised by Thorin's sudden change in demeanor. He'd never seen the stoic dwarf so flustered. He turned to Dori and Nori for a clue as to what happened, but his friends were suddenly intently focused on a fabric sample on the worktop. Curious, but not wishing to cause further discomfort, Bilbo turned his attention back to the clothing, trotting off to a partitioned changing area to try it all on.
Layer by layer, he worked through the pile, lovingly stroking each garment before putting it on and thrilling at the comfort and quality. Bilbo found himself swathed in more clothing than he'd ever worn in his life, and perfectly comfortable with it. He even felt that the under tunic’s rather plunging neckline displayed the sparkling gems on the collar of his mithril shirt rather nicely.
As he came around the partition he marveled at the care and craftsmanship of his friends. "These fit remarkably well," he said, adjusting a sleeve. "I daresay better even than some of my clothes back in Bag End. Dori, Nori, you are a marvel!"
Thorin's posture had relaxed slightly, though a hint of pink still colored his cheeks. "Dori and Nori are skilled tailors. I... may have provided them with your measurements."
Bilbo raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And how did you come by those, pray tell?"
"I have a keen eye," Thorin replied, a hint of his usual confidence returning. "For... battle strategy, of course. Assessing one's troops is crucial."
"Of course, my king," Bilbo bent his head, fighting back a grin. As he fastened the stunning topaz acorn that served as a cloak pin, he felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the layers of clothing. Thorin's thoughtfulness, his attention to detail – it spoke volumes about the dwarf king’s great heart, and the care he showed to his friends and subjects.
Bilbo wriggled his toes against the stone floor, reveling in the contrast between the chill beneath his feet and the cozy warmth enveloping the rest of him. He felt rather like a well-wrapped package, layers of wool and fur transforming his currently slight hobbit frame into something more respectably plump, and perhaps just a bit like an overstuffed cushion.
"Well," he said, stretching his arms experimentally, "I may look a bit like a rolled-up sausage, but I can't deny I'm blessedly warm." He cast a sidelong glance at Thorin, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Though I daresay my feet will manage just fine without those monstrous boots, thank you very much." Thorin’s blush returned in a rush at that. Curious and more curious, Bilbo thought.
Thorin's lips twitched, almost a smile as he busied himself fitting his own final layer over his shoulders. "As you wish, Master Baggins. Shall we venture forth before you overheat?"
Bilbo parted from their friends with more thanks and promises to dine together soon. As they made their way to the gates he noted all the new stonework and projects underway, evidenced by scaffolding almost everywhere he looked. He really had been too mired in his little room if he'd missed all this. As they walked, Thorin was particularly animated in his descriptions of the impressive repairs that had already been accomplished in such a short time. He practically glowed with the pride he felt for his people and their efforts, and Bilbo’s heart glowed to see it.
As they stepped out through the fully repaired gates into the crisp mountain air, Bilbo's breath caught in his throat. The world outside was a canvas of white. The familiar contours of Erebor's surroundings were transformed into something alien and beautiful. Snow blanketed every surface, softening the harsh edges of the once battlefield, and muffling sounds.
"Oh my," Bilbo whispered, his eyes wide. "It...is rather different from a Shire winter, isn't it?"
Thorin nodded, his own gaze sweeping across the landscape. "Aye, the mountain winters are fierce. I'm glad you heeded my advice about proper attire."
Bilbo had to admit, as a particularly biting gust of wind swept past them, that Thorin's insistence had been well-founded. The cold nipped at his exposed face and the tips of his ears, but the rest of him remained snug and warm within his sturdy new garments.
"Yes, yes, you were right," Bilbo conceded, turning to Thorin with a grateful smile. "Though I'd appreciate it if you didn't let that go to your head, Your Majesty."
Thorin chuckled, a low rumble that sent a thrill of warmth through Bilbo entirely unrelated to his fine winter attire. They set off together, boots and feet crunching through the fresh snow. The silence of the winter landscape enveloped them, broken only by the occasional whisper of wind whipping through the narrow valley.
As they approached a cleared path that led up the hillside, Thorin explained that the footpath was kept cleared for patrols and communications all the way to Ravenhill, but that they would turn before reaching the outpost and head down into a vale sheltered by the great spurs of the mountain. The snow was thankfully not as deep in the lee of the hill. Bilbo could see a somewhat meagre copse of trees ahead that must have been somehow spared the dragon's wrath.
As they wandered beneath the trees, boughs heavy with snow, Bilbo found his gaze continually drawn to Thorin. The dwarf king seemed at peace here, his typically furrowed brow smoothed by the quiet beauty surrounding them. Bilbo's heart swelled with joy, thinking it a great privilege to see him gain that peace.
"I must say," Bilbo ventured, breaking the companionable silence, "this is quite different from my usual winter walks in the Shire. Though I do miss the way the snow would dust the hedgerows, like a baker had gone mad with powdered sugar."
Thorin raised an eyebrow. "You Hobbits and your food," he said, but there was fondness in his tone.
Bilbo grinned, then stooped to scoop up a handful of sticky snow in his leather mittens. "Well, I seem to recall it was a great benefit to the Company that I had such a well-stocked larder," he teased, beginning to pack the snow into a tight ball.
As his hands worked, Bilbo's mind drifted to winters of his youth, to snowball fights with his young cousins and the simple magic of creating something from nothing but frozen water. Instead of the melancholy that could have overtaken him, Bilbo felt only gratitude to be right here, right now.
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Thorin watched Bilbo's deft movements with fond curiosity. The Hobbit's cheeks were flushed from the cold, his eyes bright with childlike excitement. Seeing Bilbo's smile again eased something in his chest, warmth blooming at odds with the frigid air.
"What are you doing?" Thorin asked gently, his deep voice tinged with amusement and genuine interest. He'd never seen anyone so enthralled by a simple ball of snow.
Bilbo looked up, surprise flitting across his face. "Haven't you ever made a snow hobbit?" he asked incredulously.
Thorin frowned. He’d seen the children of Men play at building crude figures in the snow. Dwarrow children did not play as such, yet he found himself captivated by Bilbo's enthusiasm. He watched as Bilbo's nimble fingers continued to shape the snow, marveling at the hobbit's ability to find joy in something so simple.
"I cannot say that I have," Thorin admitted with a hint of bemusement.
Bilbo paused, his hands full of snow, as a thought struck him. "Oh well, of course that is, a snow dwarrow," he amended, offering Thorin a warm smile.
“And why would I make a dwarrow out of something as impermanent as snow? We are of the stone," he stated resolutely. His low rumble seemed to vibrate through the crisp winter air.
Bilbo paused in his snow-rolling efforts, a scoff puffing from his lips as he turned to face his friend, amusement and a hint of exasperation sparkling in his hazel eyes. "Oh, come now, Thorin," he chided gently. "Not everything needs to last an age to be worthwhile."
The hobbit's words plucked a string in Thorin’s heart, reminding him of the fleeting nature of their time together. Indeed, even if all the time he had left with Bilbo were these precious weeks of winter, Thorin vowed to himself not to continue to waste them in distant yearning.
"Besides," Bilbo continued, his breath forming small puffs of clouds in the air, "it's about the fun of making them, not the longevity of the result." He gestured to the partially formed snowballs at his feet. "Now, come here and help me roll up a big section of snow. It'll be the base of our... snow dwarrow."
Thorin hesitated. The concept seemed foolish to him, yet Bilbo's enthusiasm was infectious. "I'm not sure I understand the purpose," he admitted, even as he took a step closer.
Bilbo's laughter rang out, clear and bright in the winter stillness. "The purpose, my dear Thorin, is simply to enjoy oneself. Now, put those strong dwarf arms to use and help me with this snow!”
As he set to the task with the focus of a master craftsperson, Thorin was gripped with thoughts of how this small creature had come to mean so much to him. Bilbo's presence could make even the coldest day feel warm and full of possibility, and he was just not ready to let that go without making sure Bilbo knew how treasured he was.
Thorin bent over to scoop up another handful of snow when a stinging splat struck him squarely in the behind. He whirled around, incredulous, to find Bilbo cackling and darting between the snow-laden trees, already gathering more ammunition.
"You little burglar!" Thorin growled, though a smile tugged at his lips. He'd never seen Bilbo so playful, so... free. It stirred a nostalgic joy within him that he hadn't felt since playing in these same hills with his siblings, although they certainly never played outside the mountain during winter.
He dodged Bilbo’s next volley and began to carefully pack snow into balls for return fire, when again he was pelted, this time against his back. He could feel snow clumping in his hair.
Bilbo's laughter echoed through the crisp air. "Come now, O King Under the Mountain! Surely you can do better than that!" He ducked behind a tree trunk, eyes glinting with mischief.
Thorin’s grin split his beard as he scanned for an opening, thinking of the fussy hobbit he'd first met in the Shire. Here, amidst the snow and trees, Bilbo seemed to come alive in a way Thorin had never witnessed before. He was magnificent.
Thorin’s competitive spirit kicked in and he set to quickly forming snowballs, moving, and hurling them towards Bilbo's last known position. His missiles went wide, splattering harmlessly against branches or whizzing past honeyed curls. "Durin's beard," he muttered, squinting against the dazzling sunlight reflecting off the snow.
"You'll have to be quicker than that!" Bilbo taunted, popping out from behind an evergreen shrub to lob another perfectly aimed snowball at Thorin's chest.
"I fear I am outmatched," Thorin admitted, chuckling as he wiped snow from his beard. "You have a keen aim, Master Baggins. Perhaps hobbits are simply more suited to winter warfare than dwarrow."
Bilbo grinned, "Oh, we're full of surprises, us hobbits. Though I daresay it's less about warfare and more about having a jolly good time."
Bilbo was still giggling as he pranced closer, cheeks flushed with mirth. Thorin, seizing the opportunity, lunged forward and tackled the hobbit, strong arms wrapping around Bilbo's smaller frame. They tumbled together through the snow, a tangle of limbs and laughter.
As they rolled to a stop Thorin winced, his recently healed wounds protesting the sudden exertion. He braced on his arms, hovering over Bilbo to avoid crushing his smaller frame. The dwarf king's long, dark hair, flecked with snow, cascaded around them like a curtain as he coughed and winced again.
"Thorin!" Bilbo exclaimed, his laughter subsiding to concern. "Your injuries! I'd quite forgotten. Are you alright?"
Thorin's lips quirked into a small smile. "I assure you, I'm fine. A bit of play is hardly going to undo Oin's handiwork."
Bilbo's brow furrowed as he reached up, plucking a twig from Thorin's hair with tender familiarity. "Still, we should be more careful. You're not fully healed yet, you great lump of a dwarf."
As Bilbo's fingers gently brushed through his hair, Thorin felt as if a forge had been lit in his chest. He gazed down at the hobbit’s wide eyes, struck by how perfectly Bilbo fit beneath him, how right it felt to be here together in this moment.
"Your concern is touching, Master Baggins," Thorin murmured, his deep voice soft. "But I assure you, I've never felt better."
Bilbo's hands lingered, gently petting the tips of Thorin's hair where it spilled over the fur of his coat. His gaze remained fixed on his fingers, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. "I'm glad you took the time to come out with me today," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "With everyone so busy with the reconstruction, I've... well, I've missed you, Thorin."
The admission hung in the crisp winter air between them, as delicate as the snowflakes that had begun to fall once more. Thorin's breath caught in his throat, his heart thundering in his ears. "Bilbo, I—" Thorin started, then faltered. He swallowed hard, steeling himself. "If I could, I would never want us to be parted again," he blurted out, the words tumbling from his lips before he could stop them. His eyes widened, surprised by his own boldness.
Bilbo's hands stilled in Thorin's hair, his hazel eyes finally lifting to meet the dwarf's intense blue gaze. "What are you saying, Thorin?" he asked, his voice trembling with hope and uncertainty.
Thorin took a deep breath, the scent of pine and snow and Bilbo filling his lungs. "I'm saying that I want you to stay," he said, his voice low and fervent. "I want every moment I can get with you, Bilbo Baggins. Not just stolen moments between meetings and rebuilding, waiting for the day I watch you ride away forever. I want... I want to court you, properly, if you'll have me. I want you to stay, with me." His voice dropped to a rumble, “I want to kiss you,” he whispered, like a precious secret.
The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Bilbo's response. He searched Thorin's face, looking for any sign of jest or uncertainty, but finding only an earnest blue gaze. A brilliant smile bloomed across his features, as warm and bright as the sun breaking through winter clouds as he yanked his love down to demonstrate yet another skill that Hobbits excelled at.
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