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Thorin knew he wasn’t good enough for anyone.
He was too tall, with small eyes and sharp features. His nose was thin and tall, his hair too soft and his beard too short.
The only thing he could do about his appearance was to make his beard grow again, now that Erebor was once again of the dwarrows.
His eyes fell on the little hobbit that made everything possible.
His jade eyes were focused on some documents, an alliance in making between Erebor and Dale. Sometimes, one of his hands passed through his golden-copper hairs that were tied in a sort of bun, probably to avoid having their view covered.
Thorin had no idea how much Bilbo’s hair had grown since the beginning of their journey, as the hobbit had never left it loose for a moment, complaining in that uniquely hobbit way of his— muttering and grumbling —that his hair was far too long to be considered respectable . He often wondered when Nori would finally stop hiding the scissors and allow him to cut all the unruly mess atop his head.
Thorin did not understand why hobbits did not keep their hair long, as even Men and Elves did (and it pained him deeply to admit that Elves possessed certain qualities that hobbits lacked—especially in something as important as hair ).
"Thorin, are you all right?"
Thorin blinked rapidly, only just realising that he had been staring at Bilbo in a trance, completely motionless.
"Yes, I am fine," Thorin murmured. "I was just thinking."
"About Thranduil’s demands?" Bilbo asked, frowning as he leaned in to read the documents Thorin was studying.
Bilbo’s proximity distracted Thorin, yet he still managed to reply. "Among other things."
Bilbo smiled at him gently.
“Well, if Thranduil’s demands are too extreme, you can always ask Legolas to curb his father’s more indulgent impulses,” Bilbo murmured. “He was quite helpful during the battle… what do Men call it now?”
“The Battle of the Five Armies,” Thorin said curtly. “Though I fail to see how the Eagles count as a separate army.”
Bilbo laughed, a sound like the small bell used in the forges to signal breaks and the rise of the fire.
“Perhaps they were referring to me ,” Bilbo said in amusement, leaning over to nudge Thorin before settling back in place.
Thorin’s gaze fell on the mithril shirt Bilbo was still wearing from the battle.
“In that case, I would have no complaints,” Thorin said seriously. “You are brave enough to be an entire army on your own.”
Bilbo blushed, shaking his head with an ironic laugh. “Oh, come now, Thorin, you can’t seriously believe I was more useful than the Eagles themselves.”
“It was not an Eagle that stood between me and Azog, nor was it an Eagle that saved my nephews’ lives.”
“ An elf saved Kíli’s life,” Bilbo pointed out. “Are you planning to offer her the same compliments?”
Thorin pressed his lips into a thin line. “The elf is lucky…”
“Tauriel,” Bilbo corrected. “Her name is Tauriel.”
Thorin huffed. “ Tauriel ,” he repeated, stressing the name and throwing an irritated look at Bilbo, “has been granted shelter within my halls, and that is the most she will receive from me.”
“Well, as you wish.” Bilbo rolled his eyes, muttering something that sounded very much like ‘save me from dwarrow stubbornness. ’ “Anyway, Bard sent this, and it seems fair enough, all things considered.”
Thorin took the parchment Bilbo handed him, his eyes catching on the golden curl that had slipped loose from the hobbit’s bun.
“He asks for a great deal of gold,” Thorin grumbled.
“If that bothers you, feel free to take it from my share,” Bilbo shrugged.
“What did you just say?” Thorin asked, blinking as he stared at Bilbo in shock.
“I said, use my share to pay Bard,” Bilbo repeated, speaking slowly as if Thorin were the one struggling to understand. “I have no use for gold, anyway. It’s not what’s important here.”
“Gold is important to dwarrows, Master Baggins,” Thorin could not help but say. “Very important. It is part of our heritage.”
“I don’t mean to diminish gold’s value, Thorin, I’m simply saying that it is far less important than you and the dwarrows themselves,” Bilbo said. “It’s not gold that makes a home , Thorin.”
“No, it isn’t.” Thorin sighed, forcing himself to remember that while he always wanted more , Bilbo sought only friendship .
He was not a dwarf, as he had just pointed out. He did not see gold the way Thorin did.
To him, offering gold in exchange for an alliance was not a courting gift. It was simply the way hobbits behaved.
Thorin himself had told him so, when he had murmured what he had believed would be his last goodbyes.
“If more people valued home above gold, this world would be a merrier place.”
Thorin sighed.
He was already fortunate not to have lost Bilbo’s friendship.
It was foolish of him to hope for anything more from the hobbit—not when Thorin was so wretched, and Bilbo was so very beautiful .
***
Thorin was walking quickly—at least, as quickly as he could, considering Azog had driven his sword through his foot.
The sound of his own boots against the stone floor seemed distant, muffled, as if the world around him had suddenly slowed. He had just turned the corner when he heard them speaking.
Not about him.
About him .
It had started with a laugh. Then, a comment. Light, almost absent-minded, but enough to make him stop in his tracks.
" Honestly, I don’t understand how he’s always so… captivating . "
" And those smiles? I swear, if he ever looked at me like that, I think I’d melt on the spot. "
" His voice is incredible, don’t you think? I could listen to him talk for hours. "
" His eyes look like gems, freshly dug from the most underlooked mine. "
" His nose is like a mine. "
" His hair is wavy and golden. "
Each word was a thin needle , slipping beneath his skin and driving deep.
Stupid.
Ridiculous.
He knew perfectly well he had no right to feel this way.
And yet, his chest tightened painfully, a toxic mix of jealousy and insecurity leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
He was used to hearing him praised.
Thorin knew Bilbo was special, that he drew attention effortlessly , that he was the kind of person others admired and longed for .
He knew all of this.
But hearing it spoken aloud , by someone else , with that shade of longing in their voice…
Thorin clenched his teeth.
He knew he had no claim over Bilbo—despite the mithril, despite the fourteenth share that had secured alliances for Thorin and no one else.
He forced himself to keep walking, his expression impassive, but his hands curled into fists.
Then, he heard a sigh behind him.
"You’re unbelievable, you know that?"
He turned sharply.
Balin was watching him with an expression hovering between exasperation and amusement, arms folded over his chest.
"I don’t need—" Thorin started, hoping he could at least be spared one of Balin’s lectures.
His friend had always scolded him when he thought Thorin was being too possessive and stubborn—especially over things that weren’t his.
Or people, in this case.
"Yes, you do. You need to hear it." Balin shook his head, then stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly. "Everyone looks at him, but he only looks at you ."
The words struck him with the force of a punch to the gut—and a caress all at once.
Thorin lowered his gaze, his fingers slowly loosening.
He wanted to believe it. Truly . With all his heart .
With everything he had, he wanted to believe that Bilbo could ever look at him and find him desirable .
But all his life, he had only heard how undesirable he was. A beard too short. A nose too straight and upturned. Delicate features, with high cheekbones, almost elven in a way. Hair too sleek and silky. Eyes that resembled no gemstone, and hair that was nothing special.
His insecurities ran too deep.
Balin clapped a hand on his shoulder, gentler than usual, noticing Thorin’s hesitation.
"If you don’t believe me, try looking at him next time," Balin nodded, his tone serious. "Really. And then tell me who’s looking at whom."
Thorin bit the inside of his cheek.
Perhaps, next time, he would.
Perhaps Bilbo did look at Thorin’s very soul , ignoring the many dwarrows far more desirable than him.
Perhaps Thorin could do something to win Bilbo over.
***
Thorin cared for his cousin.
Dain, after all, came when Thorin called him, to protect him from elves and men, and from himself.
He was a loyal and good relative, and Thorin was proud to call him his family.
In that moment, though, Thorin hoped Dain would have left as soon as he could, leaving Erebor and Thorin’s hobbit right away.
Bilbo was far too kind to turn away the dwarrows who were eager to meet the hobbit who had done everything he could to protect the line of Durin.
And Dáin was among the most curious, keen to see the hobbit who had twice placed himself between Thorin and Azog.
Not even dwarrows would have done such a thing, but Bilbo was different . He wasn't a Dwarf—he was a hobbit.
And he was the best they could have chosen for the quest.
Thorin snapped the quill between his fingers, his blue eyes fixed on Bilbo and Dáin.
At some point, Bilbo had stopped using a wooden stick to keep his hair tied back, letting it fall freely over his shoulders in golden curls that made Thorin’s fingertips itch with the desire to touch them, to run his hands through those golden locks and weave his beads into the curls.
To braid their bond into both of their hair, placing it in plain sight for all to see .
But how could he ever compete with Dáin—noble, handsome, and powerful—not tall like the Elves, not with Elvish features, and not with a short beard like Thorin’s.
There was nothing unseemly about Dáin.
Not like there was about Thorin.
At that moment, Dáin had cornered Bilbo, speaking in hushed tones and murmuring a stream of compliments and tales of the Iron Hills.
Perhaps Bilbo would go with him.
After all, Dáin had never tried to kill Bilbo.
Not like Thorin had.
Thorin was not only lacking in beauty—he had also been violent towards Bilbo.
Bilbo would be well within his rights to ignore Thorin forever and leave with a Dwarf worthy of his love.
As Dáin might be.
***
"Thorin!"
Thorin looked up, blinking at Bilbo with confused eyes.
The hobbit had entered the room, a braid in his hair.
"They’ve given you a braid?" Thorin asked, not even greeting Bilbo, his focus entirely on those curls.
"Kíli made the bead, and Fíli did the braiding," Bilbo said with a smile, turning so Thorin could see the style and placement of it.
"You’re wearing the braid of loyalty to me ," Thorin noted, blinking slowly. "I… didn’t think you would wear one like that ."
"Well, everyone we’ve spoken to knew it already, didn’t they?" Bilbo pointed out. "Bard, Thranduil, Gandalf. They all knew my loyalty lay with you . But the dwarrows who are arriving, or those who are already here—the future guests… They might have doubts . At least this way they’ll know why I’m here."
"They couldn’t possibly know the full story ," Thorin protested, a dull ache rising at the thought of people unaware of Bilbo’s worth—his courage, his generosity, his loyalty, and the risks he had taken to ensure the success of the quest to reclaim Erebor.
"Given the mess made by the ones who do know," Bilbo said, wrinkling his nose, "I’m not too opposed to them staying ignorant."
Thorin barely restrained a smile.
He had seen Bilbo fight in a war, place himself between Thorin and Azog with no hesitation, and throw a dagger at Azog and Bolg to save Fíli and Kíli. And then he had watched him crawl under a table t o avoid hearing The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins , which some overexcited dwarrows had composed.
After all, they had all been ready to praise Bilbo and his deeds.
Even the Arkenstone had been viewed as an act of the highest devotion, loyalty, and courage.
Bilbo hadn’t fled after offering the Stone to Thorin’s so-called enemies—the enemies in his dragon-sickened, poisoned mind—he had stayed and come back. He had faced the consequences of his actions.
Even knowing Thorin would be cruel .
Shameful and brutal. Violent.
A danger to his Bilbo.
“Bofur was far too enthusiastic to stop the musicians from singing their song,” Thorin said. “And none of us would dare challenge the part you played in helping us reclaim our home.”
“I gave my word,” Bilbo said, frowning. “Honouring it was the least I could do .”
“Many dwarrows didn’t even dare offer their word—and we were talking about reclaiming our home ,” Thorin replied, raising an eyebrow. Bilbo flushed faintly.
Thorin frowned, then added, “Not to mention the vegetables and supplies you had sent from the Shire and from Rivendell.”
“Only because none of you would’ve ever thought to ask the Elves and Hobbits for help,” Bilbo retorted. “And we needed those supplies—and every bit of help we could get.”
“Not we,” Thorin said, shaking his head. “You could’ve gone home and spared yourself to endure Erebor’s winter. Yet you stayed .”
“Well, I promised I’d help you get your home back—and you can hardly call this a proper home yet, can you?” Bilbo huffed. “It’s improved, but there’s still a long way to go before it feels like a home.”
“And will you stay after ?” Thorin asked, daring to tempt fate. “Or has Dáin persuaded you to go with him to the Iron Hills?”
“He invited me to see his home,” Bilbo nodded, looking thoughtful. “It was a kind gesture.”
Kind.
Thorin snorted.
There was nothing kind about Dáin’s actions—only the desire to have Bilbo as his own consort.
“Though I must admit,” Bilbo went on, “Erebor has a certain charm to it. And Dale’s looking more and more like its former self—at least, that’s what Balin says every chance he gets.”
Thorin snorted.
Balin never missed a chance to speak of Dale, Erebor, and the past—especially to those in the Company who had never seen Erebor before its fall.
And Bilbo was far too kind to curb Balin’s enthusiasm.
“Well, I can admit…” Thorin smiled faintly, “Yes, it’s starting to feel like it felt in my youth again. I remembered the walls and the stone, but now my eyes see what my senses once perceived .”
And Bilbo had helped—using his magic to cleanse the area of Smaug’s lingering corruptive spellwork.
“And afterwards?” Thorin asked. “Would you stay? Or do you miss your armchair and your books? Your garden?”
“I do miss Bag End,” Bilbo said after a moment, brushing a golden lock from his forehead, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “It’s been my home since I was twenty, after the Fell Winter.”
“And the armchair, the books, the garden?” Thorin asked. “You once told me that was your place—your home.”
Bilbo frowned. “Thorin, are you trying to send me away from Erebor?”
Thorin paled. “I don’t want you to ever leave this place.”
The me was implied.
“Then don’t be afraid I will,” Bilbo said gently. “I want to stay.”
Thorin licked his lips, searching for the best way to ask.
“And... Well, are you at all interested in, you know, marriage?”
Smooth, Thorin. Flawless delivery.
“I never have been,” Bilbo shrugged. “I was always considered rather eccentric for a hobbit—and leaving the Shire suddenly only proved I’m far too Took to be a proper Baggins.”
“You’re the finest example of a hobbit,” Thorin said firmly. “And anyone would be honoured to have you as their companion.”
Thorin certainly would be.
“Dain surely would be,” Thorin murmured. “He’d be the most suitable match imaginable.”
“Dain?” Bilbo blinked. “He’s absolutely not interested in marrying me, believe me.”
“But he is,” Thorin replied. “And I can’t blame him. I would be too—if I weren’t so repulsive to look at.”
“Come again?”
Bilbo’s incredulous tone made Thorin freeze.
“I’m sorry even for assuming you could ever be interested in me…” Thorin began.
“You, repulsive ?” Bilbo shouted, stunned. “According to whom?”
“According to everyone . I can hardly blame them for judging me rightly ,” Thorin said.
“Then dwarrows clearly have no taste, ” Bilbo huffed.
Thorin stood frozen, stunned by what he was hearing.
“You think I’m attractive?”
“Anyone with working eyes would know the answer is yes ,” Bilbo snorted, folding his arms across his chest.
Thorin smiled, stepping closer to him.
“Then would you be pleased if I placed my bead in your hair?”
“Your bead?” Bilbo asked, blinking. “What do you mean?”
“Would you allow me to court you—and, in time, marry you —making you my consort and equal?” Thorin asked, his chest full of hope.
“Of course,” Bilbo smiled warmly. “I’d be honoured, Thorin.”