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Thorin woke up.
Slowly he healed, mind and body, and, many months later, when he was finally well enough, he set out west, to find a Hobbit.
He knocked on the door of Bag End, chest puffed proudly and eyes shining, and when it swung open he released a shuddering breath he did not know he had been holding. The burglar was alright.
He did not know what reaction he was expecting from Bilbo in return - screaming, fainting, being swiftly drawn into an embrace - but it certainly wasn’t a nonchalant, “Oh, hello Thorin,” before turning back down the hall.
There was a pause, before Thorin entered and closed the door behind himself. He stood frozen in the corner, and silently watched the Hobbit potter around, completely calm, as if a dead Dwarven king appearing in his house was entirely ordinary.
He talked to Thorin quite the thing, not seeming to expect a reply. “Here’s your tea, Thorin, drink it before it gets cold.” “Hamfast’s rhubarb is coming in particularly well now the frost is gone.” “I wrote another chapter of my book yesterday.”
Thorin just did not understand, until Bilbo paused for a moment, looked at him with the tiniest frown on his face and said, very quietly, “You never usually stay this long.”
Realization fell on him like a war hammer, and Thorin's eyes filled with tears. "Bilbo..." he said, deep voice rough with emotion. “Bilbo, I am as real as you are.”
“You know, there are times when I think you take delight in tormenting me,” Bilbo said, slapping a spoon down on the kitchen table. “You’ve said that before, and almost had me believing it. You keep coming back day after day, stubborn old Dwarf, won’t leave a body in peace. Well, I have had enough. You needn’t stay this time, either. Go along to wherever it is you come from, and don’t come back.” Quieter, almost too low for Thorin to hear: “I can’t bear it any longer.”
Horror and pity raged in Thorin’s mind. How long had the gentle Hobbit lived like this, his heart held together with dreams and memories? “Bilbo, I give you my word, I am no spirit.” He ventured a step closer. “Look at me—really look at me.”
“You are, you must be,” Bilbo whispered. “I saw the wounds, the blood. You could not have survived...” Pale, shaking, he refused the evidence of his eyes, knowing they had lied to him before, knowing his mind would fracture beyond repair if this, too, turned out to be a phantasm.
Thorin smiled, tremulous but real. “It takes more than an Orc to kill one of Durin’s folk.” A large hand reached out, close but not quite touching the Hobbit. “See for yourself.”
Slowly Bilbo’s hand came up, nearly of its own accord, and Thorin stood like a statue, scarcely daring to breathe. Gentle, soft fingers touched ridges of callus, felt the heat of coursing blood, traced old scars and new. Then with a cry muffled by a fist at his mouth, Bilbo sank to his knees, tears pouring down his face as they had that day on the battlefield.
Strong arms wrapped around him, rocking him gently, and guttural Khuzdul washed over him. He couldn’t understand the words, but the deep voice uttering them was soothing, calming, and he buried his face against the broad chest, listening to the steady heartbeat.
For long moments they clung to each other, and the storm finally passed. Bilbo lifted his face, pale but now composed, eyes alight with joy and wonder. “How?” he whispered.
“They had given me up for dead on the field, all but Dwalin. He brought me back, bullied and swore and threatened until even the Elves could not listen to him any longer. They sent a healer and pulled me back to the living world.”
A chuckle tinged with the tiniest edge of hysteria escaped from Bilbo. “Oh, that must have been something to see, you finding yourself beholden to the Elves.”
“You have no idea,” Thorin said, grimacing. “At the time, I would have preferred death, I think. But then, I would not be here now with you, so I suppose gratitude is in order.”
“A grudging compliment if ever I’ve heard one,” Bilbo said, wiping away the last of the tears. “So, now what?”
“Well,” Thorin said, rising to his feet and offering a hand to help Bilbo to his, “first, I have come to tea. I’m told you did say it was at four o’clock and we were always welcome should we be in the neighborhood.”
“I did indeed.”
“And beyond that--well, I suppose that is up to you. Do you think a Dwarf will be able to find a place here in Hobbiton?”
“H-here? Do you mean to say...Thorin, what about Erebor? Her king can’t just up and leave!”
“Her king remains, two of them in fact. Fili and Kili are co-rulers; they were crowned before I left. Dis is with them, and Balin and Dwalin and the rest of the company. Erebor is in the best of hands. As for me...I think the further away from gold and greed I get, the better for all concerned. And I can think of nowhere better to do that than here...if you will allow it.” He smiled, full and bright against the darkness of his beard. “I would imagine a place like the Shire could use a decent blacksmith.”
“Thorin, are you sure?”
“I have not been so sure of anything in many a long year. Home is where the heart is. Mine was stolen by the most unexpected burglar, and if I know him, he will not give it up easily.”
“No, he won’t,” Bilbo agreed, one hand touching the bearded cheek. Thorin turned his head to plant a kiss on the soft palm.
“And I believe it will do me good to have a brave soul at my side that is not afraid to tell a ‘stubborn old Dwarf’ when he is being a fool.”
A laugh, real this time. “Well, let me make a fresh pot of tea; I did promise, after all. Sit down at the table.”
Bilbo bustled about, getting things ready. There would be much more to say, but there was no rush. For now, there was only warmth, and smiling eyes, and overflowing hearts that had finally come home.