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After the death of one Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thrór, called Oakenshield, exiled King Under the Mountain—and never more than that, mind you—Bilbo simply could not stay in Erebor.
Not with all the somber and pitiful looks that the Company would send him as he padded forlornly through the halls.
Not with how quiet and dark Erebor felt without Thorin—dragon sickness or no.
Not with seeing Balin and Daín direct tired but hearty Dwarrow in removing old stone and setting up supports for rebuilding great statues and structures.
He simply could not stay.
So, he left. Three days after the Battle of the Five Armies, as it came to be called, he pulled Gandalf aside and insisted that he must return Bilbo to his smíal at once. It had been too long, and he missed his armchair, and his books, and his fireplace. Erebor was no home to him.
Not anymore, he didn’t voice, but Gandalf heard it all the same. So, they acquired a pony and a horse from the worn groups of elves not yet returned to their wood, a small sum of rations—just enough to get them to the Elvenking’s Court—and they were off.
It was a harsh journey, travelling in the high of winter, but the two seemed to manage it. Bilbo felt much safer with Gandalf by his side and the knowledge that the Orcs and the Wargs, with their severely depleted numbers, had run back with their tails between their legs and likely would not have the strength to attack them. It took until well into spring for them to finally pass over the Misty Mountains, but Elrond greeted them fondly once they reached the Last Homely House, and Bilbo could heave a sigh of relief. They were in the final leg of the journey now, and, while Gandalf was going his own way from there, Elrond sent a small entourage with Bilbo to travel with him until the edge of Bree. By the time he was finally left alone, Bilbo was oh-so-tired. The weariness from his travels and the emotional turmoil of, well, everything, was finally setting in.
All of that to say, Bilbo was quite displeased to find his personal belongings being auctioned off to his cousins and neighbors. He was allowed a bit of snappishness. It took him at least three days to reclaim all of his furniture and trinkets, some even bought back at a higher price than they were sold.
It was with a heavy sigh that he finally, finally slumped back into his cozy armchair, completely and utterly exhausted.
Despite everything, though…after all that, Bilbo couldn’t hide from the ache he felt in his chest.
Still, he tried to go about his days as normal—working his way back up to a healthy number of meals, going to the market, ignoring all of the whispers that trailed behind him and the carefully polite smiles from anyone other than Hamfast and maybe Drogo, reading his books, and gardening. He very primly ignored the ravens that passed overhead and occasionally landed upon his fencepost to caw and speak to him. Nothing good would come of those.
He planted the acorn, and it sprouted into a small sapling.
Spring came and went, and before Bilbo knew it, so had the high of summer, and the Solstice Festival had very well been another showstopping party, as far as Bilbo heard. Summer was nearing its end, and Autumn was meandering its approach. He was in his study, trying to work out a scene in his book, when he heard a knock on the door.
With a glance up at the clock, he did note that it was just about four, but he couldn’t recall inviting anyone for tea. It was likely Drogo or Prim, as they often appeared at his door with little warning.
“Just a minute!” He called. “I hope you do know how rude it is, inviting yourself over for tea without even letting me—know…”
It was not, in fact, Primula or Drogo, nor any other one of his cousins, for that matter.
It was a Dwarf.
But it was not just any Dwarf. It was not Ori, or Nori, or Dori. Nor was it Dwalin, or Balin, nor Bifur, Bofur, or Bombur. It was not Óin or Glόin, and it was not Fíli or Kíli, whom it really couldn’t have been, since they were both dead.
Just like this Dwarf was supposed to be.
Just like this particular Dwarf ought to be, if he knew what was good for him.
So, as any sane Hobbit would—Bilbo slammed the door in his face. It rattled quite uncomfortably on its hinges, but he really wasn’t paying attention any which way.
Because.
Because, there just so happened to be a ghost standing in his doorway.
There came another polite knock.
‘Oh, this truly cannot be happening,’ Bilbo thought. ‘Of course it’s not! I am simply imagining things, and it was actually Drogo, who I imagine is wondering what is going on now.’
“I deeply apologize, my lad, I’m not sure what came over—”
“Bilbo, I—”
“You are dead! I’ve finally done it! I’ve gone mad, everyone was right, I truly am the Old Mad Baggins, and now I’ve finally snapped and ghosts are appearing in my doorway! Dear Lady Yavanna, please spare me from this, I have gone through enough trials!” Bilbo threw his hands into the air and turned away, walking back into his smíal.
Heavy bootsteps followed behind him, Thorin’s deep voice stuttering and trying to cut into Bilbo’s ramblings.
“—And you!” Bilbo spun back around suddenly, pointing an accusatory finger at Thorin, “You’re dead, and yet! You come knocking, polite as anything, without a single word!”
“I did try—”
“You go off about forgiveness and merrier worlds while bleeding out in my arms, and you expect me to just forgive you, and welcome you home with open arms? Unbelievable!”
“I would at least hope you’d—”
“You-you ridiculous, stubborn Dwarf! I cannot believe that I am even entertaining this fantasy, I’m yelling at a ghost, because you are well and truly dead, I was there, you died in my arms!”
“Bilbo, listen to me.” The ghost of Thorin Oakenshield grabbed Bilbo by the biceps and stared deeply into his eyes, effectively cutting him off. “ Please, listen to me.”
Bilbo swallowed hard and blinked once, twice. The hands on his arms felt awfully warm and solid for being those of an apparition, and with those blue, blue eyes staring deep into his, how could he not pay attention?
“I was…healed. By the elves, by Kíli’s One—the guard’s captain, Tauriel.” He began, and when appeared sufficiently sure that Bilbo wouldn’t bolt as soon as he let go again, Thorin released him from his grasp. “I was in a deep, deep sleep for quite some time. Kíli and Fíli were as well, but not nearly as long as I. We did send ravens, Balin tried to reach you when it was sure that I would not pass into the great Halls of our Maker, and then again when I finally awoke, but we received no response. Fíli lost the use of his eyes, but with Kíli’s and everyone else’s aid, he efficiently ran the kingdom in my…absence. The same is true now.
“They…” At this, Thorin paused and sighed heavily, filled with the exasperation of a long-suffering parent watching their child cause unstoppable mischief. “Fíli, Kíli, and the rest of our—my Company…Grew tired of my ‘longing sighs,’ as they put it, and-and tasked me with finding you, in person, and telling you that I am here, and I am still alive. And…that I would—we all would welcome you in Erebor, should you choose to join me on my return trip.”
Bilbo stared at him with his big, Hobbity eyes. They shone with unshed tears, but also sparkled with a faint, faint glint of hope.
Hesitantly, carefully, as though he feared Thorin would disappear as soon as he acknowledged him, Bilbo reached his small hand up to touch Thorin’s face. Thorin did not flinch nor pull away as Bilbo traced the line of his nose with a finger, ran a hand down his beard—grown longer in the past year, no longer shorn close—and trailed further down until it settled on his chest—right above his heart.
He was no longer looking up into Thorin’s eyes, but instead watching the back of his hand, under which pulsed a strong heartbeat.
Ghosts didn’t have heartbeats.
Bilbo’s breath shook as he sighed softly, then looked back up at Thorin, searching, searching his Durin blue eyes for any sign of dishonesty or falsehood as he breathed, “Is…is it really and truly you? You are here, with me?”
Thorin smiled softly, his eyes crinkling just so at the corners, and reached his hand up to cover Bilbo’s, still resting on his chest. He curled his hand over Bilbo’s and gently, slowly, tenderly, brought his other up to cup the curve of Bilbo’s neck. As though he still wasn’t quite sure if it were welcome, Thorin oh-so-slowly inched his head forward until his forehead rested upon Bilbo’s, never breaking eye contact.
“I am here, amrâlimê. With you. And I will never again leave you until the end of my days, should you permit it.” His voice broke with the tenderness of the gesture and the emotion on his breath.
All of a sudden, the spell was broken, and Bilbo shoved Thorin away from him—as much as he could, at least. Thorin let the movement carry him. Bilbo was once again glowering at Thorin, every ounce of fury imaginable in his tiny body poured into that glare.
“How dare you! You let me believe you were dead!” He yelled, his voice wobbling with the tears now falling down his once-again round cheeks.
“We did try to tell you, dearest One, but you ignored our ravens!” Thorin defended.
“I ignored them because they reminded me of you, you oaf!”
“Ah—right…” Thorin paused, then tapped his chin and muttered, “…didn’t think of that…”
Bilbo snorted and shook his head fondly. “You ridiculous, ridiculous Dwarf. It’s a wonder I ever fell in love with y—”
A small gasp sounded between them simultaneously.
Bilbo had never fully admitted that to himself.
It seemed that Thorin had barely entertained the idea of his feelings being returned at all.
The two of them looked up at each other with such fondness and relief that it was no question of falling into one another’s arms holding on with the might of that incomparable even to the Valar. It was the might of lost, and then yet found, loves.
After a long moment, they pulled apart just enough to look at one another, and Thorin spoke. “Would you…Would you join me on my trip back to Erebor? The kingdom awaits its great hero, the burglar Hobbit who would free our home from a great dragon.”
Bilbo looked up at him with mischief in his eyes and mirth in his smile. “The kingdom awaits, does it? And what of exiled, former kings? And perhaps his now ruling nephews?”
Thorin huffed a laugh, a beautiful, beautiful smile spreading across his face. “Your king awaits eagerly, my One, with open arms and an open heart. He would fight ten dragons if it meant getting to bring you home.”
“Ten dragons? That seems a mighty amount. What say he to staying in a cosy smíal for a time while I gather my affairs in preparation for joining him on this journey?
“He would…” Thorin breathed, barely believing a word his Hobbit was saying. “He would be honored to spend his days with you, and ask if you would be comfortable with him kissing you now, as he has been waiting for a long time.”
Bilbo hummed gently as Thorin used his first finger and thumb to hold Bilbo’s chin and tip his head upwards as he spoke. “…I would be wroth with my king if he did not.”
And with the grace of a king, Thorin did.
/ / / /
Several weeks passed in Bag End. Bilbo took the time to ready his affairs. Their evenings were spent in the living room by the fire, simply talking and being near one another.
Sometimes, these talks devolved into less speaking and more kissing, but could they really be blamed? As much as Bilbo enjoyed it, he feared that anything…more, would require a conversation that he was really not prepared to have again. He’d had it before, with other Hobbits, and none had turned out well in the slightest. Bilbo had questioned his dear Yavanna many a time as to why he’d been created this way, why he, specifically, was broken and did not feel the same pleasures of the flesh as his brethren.
He’d spent months and months on the road with the Company, he knew what Dwarves got up to, and that bedroom activities were just as much of a topic amongst Dwarves as they were gossiped about by Hobbits.
Bilbo feared Thorin’s reaction to his…condition.
It was on one such evening by the fire that Bilbo got his answer.
Bilbo had found himself drawn up against Thorin’s chest, his hands pressed palm-flat against Thorin’s broad chest, and Thorin’s hands running up and down Bilbo’s back, his sides, anywhere they could reach. Thorin had even untucked Bilbo’s shirt, pressing his large hands against the soft skin of Bilbo’s hips and back, rucking up his shirt.
It was just as Thorin’s hands began straying below Bilbo’s belt that Bilbo suddenly and sharply pulled away, practically flinging himself to the other side of the couch, his heart racing and his breaths coming in sharp, fleeting gasps.
Thorin looked at him, startled. “Bilbo? My One, I—”
But Bilbo shook his head and heard none of it, because he decided that then would be the best moment to stand up and run off into the depths of his smíal.
He found himself hiding in a closet of one of the guest bedrooms. It had been many, many years since he had hidden in a small, dark place like a scared faunt, but Bilbo felt he had earnt a bit of comforting space.
Plus, maybe this way, it would take Thorin longer to find him, and then he could put off this horrible, dreadful conversation for longer.
Unfortunately, it took Thorin less time than Bilbo had thought it would take to find him—he was afraid that his half-gasps, half-sobs had given him away.
Bilbo jumped when he heard a soft knock on the door of the closet, followed by Thorin’s deep voice speaking gently.
“Givashel, treasure of all treasures, I apologize for any discomfort and distress that I caused you. I will not press an explanation, but I am here to listen when you feel comfortable speaking about it.”
Bilbo’s shuddering breaths filled the following silence. He ran his hands back and forth over the legs of his soft, wool pants, but found little comfort in the gesture’s familiarity. Bilbo knew with utter certainty that if he told Thorin about his peculiarity that Thorin would be furious with him. His face would twist from that beautiful, gentle smile that he’d so often graced Bilbo with in the last weeks into a scowl, and he would rage and shout and leave Bag End for Erebor without Bilbo, and once again, Bilbo would be left all alone in his huge, empty smíal.
With that thought, a new round of heaving sobs wracked through Bilbo’s frame.
Bilbo barely registered the shuffle of cloth from outside of the wardrobe, but when the door opened, the gentle light emanating through the bedroom door from the hallway lamps stung his eyes and made him blink and squint. Great, rolling tears fell down his round cheeks.
Through his tear-blurred gaze, Bilbo recognized Thorin’s silhouette kneeling in front of Bilbo’s hiding spot. He scrubbed at his face, trying to clear his vision enough to see his beloved. It was the very least Bilbo could do to look Thorin in the eye before he ripped both of their hearts out.
“My dear Hobbit, I am sorry,” Thorin said, then he swallowed and glanced away, looking uncertain, “I…I do not mean for you to be afraid of me. I regret every action I took against you in my madness, but I understand if…what I did…still haunts you.”
But Bilbo would hear none of it, already shaking his head as Thorin spoke. “No, no, Thorin my dear,” He said with a quivering voice. “It has nothing to do with your actions and entirely to do with my own…” Bilbo trailed off.
After a pause, Thorin tilted his head quizzically and asked, “Your own what?”
Bilbo opened and closed his mouth a few times, taking a breath as if to speak each time, but he couldn’t find the words. Eventually, he mumbled, “I cannot please you.”
Thorin’s confused frown deepened, “’Ibinê, my gem, what—”
But Bilbo shook his head sharply. If he did not get the words out now, he would never be able to. “I am unlike most Hobbits. All Hobbits, as far as I am aware. While my kin find delight and fulfillment in-in pleasures of…the physical aspects of ah, relations, I…” He took a deep breath, “I do not wish to take part in those things in any which way. If…I will not be upset with you if you do not wish to continue our courtship, knowing this.”
Bilbo, who had let his eyes wander anywhere but Thorin’s face during his declaration, glanced back at his beloved as he finished speaking.
And then Thorin had the most bizarre reaction Bilbo could ever think of. Thorin’s shoulders slumped, as though a great weight had been lifted off of them, and then he breathed out, his face breaking into a wide smile. He looked relieved. He brought a hand up to cup the back of Bilbo’s neck before pulling Bilbo into a strong embrace.
This reaction was nothing like what Bilbo had been expecting.
Bilbo blinked several times, his chin tucked over Thorin’s shoulder, before wriggling his arms in between the two of them and pushing back to hold Thorin at arm’s length.
“I’m sorry, what?"
“Is something else the matter, amral?”
“Well–no, but—you’re not furious? Not upset with me at all? I have led you to believe that-that I would…do that with you, up until now. You do not feel deceived, or wronged, or strung along or any of those other things?”
Thorin chuckled, deep and low in his chest. His eyes crinkled at the corners as his smile widened at Bilbo’s words. “Bilbo, my Bilbo. You are not so singular in your tastes. There are many, many dwarrow who take no pleasure in the physical, some even who take no pleasure in the romantic. We call them craft-wed, and they are as important to our society as those who would take a partner and bear children or simply take comfort in one another's bodies.”
“But you are not-not craft-wed.” Bilbo mumbled, drawing his hands away from Thorin’s shoulders and curling them into his chest.
Thorin’s smile did not dim. “I am not, you are correct.” He huffed a small laugh, “But nor am I a young dwarrow. Long past are the years in which the flesh drew me to others, and I have taken care of my own business for a long time. I care more dearly for you, and wish you to be by my side for the rest of our years, should you accompany me back to the Mountain. I would shower you with riches and precious crafts to show my care for you, if that would please you, givashel.”
Bilbo scoffed wetly and rolled his eyes, but a wavering smile pulled at the corners of his lips. “I’ve no need for precious things, daft Dwarf. Just give me a small plot where I may develop a garden and introduce you lot to proper Hobbitish meals and I will be content to stay by your side.”
Thorin cupped Bilbo’s damp face and brought his head up to press a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead. “I would give you the whole mountainside to cultivate if it would keep you with me, my dear One.”
Shaking his head fondly, Bilbo laughed, “Once again, I need nothing so grand as that. I am a simple Hobbit, Thorin, nothing so great as a king.”
“But I would have you as my Consort, if it would please you.” Thorin stated, then picked Bilbo up—making him yelp and squeak Thorin’s name, wrapping his legs around Thorin’s waist and clinging to Thorin’s shoulders.
It took a moment for Thorin’s words to register in Bilbo’s mind as Thorin carried him out of the guest bedroom, but when he realized what he had said, Bilbo yelled, “CONSORT?”