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Over the course of several months living under a mountain Bilbo Baggins had been forced to make his peace with the many and varied differences between dwarves and hobbits. It could not be denied, he thought, that hobbits had their quirks. Nevertheless, there were days when he had learned to take a deep breath and just accept that sometimes dwarven customs were strange.
Today was stranger than most.
“It’s a fish,” said Bilbo blankly as he stared down at the object in his hands, thankfully buttressed by several layers of paper.
“Aye,” rumbled Dwalin. “Caught it m’self just this morning.”
Bilbo suppressed a grimace. That probably meant that Dwalin had been fishing in the lake again. Goodness only knew what was in that water, besides the carcass of a defunct dragon. He looked up. Dwalin looked back. There was an odd, anxious glint in his eyes, belying his typical gruff demeanour. Bilbo swallowed.
“Thank you?” he said.
Dwalin’s face resolved into something that could almost be called a smile.
“At your service,” he replied. He bowed deeply, before turning on his heel and striding off down the corridor, leaving Bilbo with a fish and a puzzled frown.
Bilbo regarded the fish with confusion. The dead, black eye of the fish appeared to regard him back. With a sigh Bilbo shut the door to his rooms behind him and trotted off towards the kitchens to make appropriate arrangements for the storage of his fish.
He would never understand dwarves.
********
The day did not become much more comprehensible from there. Bombur cheerfully accepted the fish, promising faithfully to grill it for Bilbo’s supper before offering him a bag of dwarven spices, bowing and disappearing into a pantry. Bifur, who had been sitting quietly by the enormous kitchen hearth, sidled up to Bilbo, shyly handed over a packet of tea, bowed low and vanished. Gloin, happening across Bilbo as he made his way back to his rooms, proudly presented a portrait of his beloved Gimli, bowed and strode away before Bilbo could gather his wits.
Perhaps the strangest was Bofur, who turned up waving a sun hat of all things.
“I remember how red you were,” he announced cheerfully, if obscurely, presenting the hat to Bilbo with a small bow.
“Bofur, what in the world...?” spluttered Bilbo, but it was too late. Bofur was already halfway down the hallway.
Dwarves!
********
Bilbo repaired to the library shortly thereafter on the grounds that he might be safer from interruption than in his rooms. He was almost correct; as he passed the infirmary Oin had darted out and pressed a jar into his hands (“saddle sores,” Oin had muttered mysteriously, before darting away). However, once ensconced at his favourite desk he was in luck and enjoyed an uninterrupted hour translating elvish trading dockets from before the Fall. After several weeks of this work, it was his considered opinion that the elves had a long history of baiting dwarves in every possible way, which apparently included writing their receipts of goods in ancient Quenya to make them more difficult to read. He was just debating whether to inform Thorin of this fact when a shadow fell across his desk.
He looked up. “Balin,” he said happily. “Did you know that Erebor used to order 70 pounds of fish eggs from Dale every year?”
Balin smiled. “Aye,” he said. “’Twas for the Durin’s day feast. The cooks made small pastry pillows and topped them with soured cream and fish eggs.” He sighed, eyes turned slightly misty. “I’ve not had anything like it since the dragon came.”
“Perhaps you’ll have some again this year,” Bilbo said gently.
“Perhaps,” Balin agreed. He seemed to shake himself slightly out of his revere and reached into the pocket in his tunic. “For you,” he said, passing over a small book with a bow.
“Oh, not you too Balin!” protested Bilbo. “What is this for?”
Balin chuckled. “I take it they didn’t tell you then. ‘Tis your anniversary, lad.”
“Anniversary?” asked Bilbo, still none the wiser. “Anniversary of what?”
“Anniversary of us,” said Balin, smiling kindly at Bilbo’s dumbfounded expression. “A year ago today we knocked on your wee green door.”
“A year!” Bilbo exclaimed. “But it can’t be! It was spring when you came; I’d just been planning the planting of my carrots and leeks. It’s still winter.”
“Aye, ‘tis winter here. We’re a good sight further north than your Shire, you see. You can trust a dwarf to know the calendar. It’s been a year to the day since we met.”
“Goodness,” said Bilbo, for want of anything better to say. He’d had no idea so much time had passed, though after some thought, he had to admit it made sense. Their journey had been long as had the reclamation of Erebor once the fighting was done. Part of his mind shied away from the obvious corollary and so he focussed his attention back onto odd dwarfish customs.
“Is this something dwarves do every year? Give each other presents on their meeting anniversaries?” He was sure he hadn’t seen any such thing on the quest but perhaps he hadn’t noticed amidst the trolls, orcs and spiders.
Balin chuckled again. “Not really, no. We usually exchange gifts with family and loved ones on Durin’s day. But we were a mite busy on Durin’s day last year, if you’ll recall.” Bilbo nodded automatically. They were, indeed. “And, to be honest with you, lad… well, we weren’t sure that you’d be with us on Durin’s day this year either. With spring on its way, we thought you might be thinking of heading out soon.”
“Oh,” said Bilbo, nonplussed. “No, of course, if spring is on the way I suppose I should start planning my journey.”
“You’ve been away from your home a long time,” added Balin, a curiously penetrating look in his brown eyes.
“I suppose I have,” said Bilbo, vaguely. “Odd, before I could not imagine being from home a full year but now it does not seem so long.”
“Home is a funny thing in my experience,” said Balin reflectively. “We wandered long after the dragon came, and all our thought was for the home we had lost. Erebor. But before this quest, if you should have asked me, I would have said that Ered Luin was our home. A poor place in comparison to Erebor, but forged from determination and years of toil, and as worthy of the term as any kingdom. Now we have reclaimed Erebor and she is home again, though not the same as before.” He glanced at Bilbo. “It occurs to me that home can be as much about people as it can be about place.”
He straightened. “Well, I see you are busy and must not occupy any more of your time.” He bowed. “At your service, Master Baggins.”
Bilbo watched him go and when he turned back to his translations, he found himself no longer able to concentrate.
********
Dori, Nori and Ori turned up in rapid succession. Armed with his conversation with Balin, Bilbo could clearly see the theme behind these gifts: a warm cloak from Dori; a quill from Ori, beautifully made from a raven feather; and a cloak clasp from Nori, who had thoughtfully wrapped his gift in the bill of sale and smirked at Bilbo’s ill-concealed look of relief.
It was true he had always planned to return to the Shire when the weather improved—he had said as much to any that had asked—but he had not ever envisaged the actual leaving. Now he wondered what it would be like to walk away from these dwarves who had become such friends, closer even than family, much as his Baggins side might like to bridle at the thought.
But first, his much-tried Baggins side had an important task. No hobbit worth his waistcoat would accept such gifts without at least a token of thanks. A cake, Bilbo decided. That should do the trick nicely.
********
Bilbo left his cake well hidden in the pantry and was readying himself for dinner when he heard a knock on the door. Laying down his brush, he opened the door and found Fili and Kili on his doorstep.
“Goodness, I haven’t seen you two for ages!” he exclaimed. “Come in, come in.” He opened the door wider and stepped back to usher them in.
“Thorin has been keeping us busy,” Fili explained. “I have been overseeing the clearing of the most damaged mine shafts.”
“And I have been seeing to Erebor’s external defences,” said Kili. “If there is ever a dragon to come again, we will not wait until it bursts through the front doors to fight back.” His face lit up with enthusiasm. “There is a Man in Dale who knows of machines that can fling boulders at a target a quarter of a mile away. Surely dwarven engineers can build something a machine better than that.”
“Gracious!” said Bilbo, taken somewhat aback. “Well, come and sit and tell me about it.”
Fili shook his head. “We cannot stay; we must see Amad before dinner. But we wanted to give you this.”
Bilbo took the carefully wrapped present. He opened it and started to laugh.
“Handkerchiefs!” he exclaimed, holding one up.
Fili smiled. “We had them made by a tailor in Dale,” he said.
“But half the size,” interrupted Kili with a cheeky grin.
“And we sewed your initials on them, like you said you had at home.”
Bilbo looked and, sure enough, there was a tiny BB embroidered in the corner in remarkably delicate stitches. Kili correctly read the surprise on his face.
“We can sew. We’ve helped make our own clothes since we were old enough to hold a needle steady.”
Bilbo was reminded once again that the history of these princes was not the pampered existence of his childhood fairy tales. He felt an unexpected prick of tears at the wash of pride he felt that he could call them friends.
“This is very fine work indeed,” he said, holding the handkerchief higher to hide his rapidly blinking eyes. “And I thank you most kindly for them.”
They bowed in unison, each smiling with pleasure. “At your service,” they said, just as they had on that fateful first night. Bilbo smiled and half-bowed in reply. The princes turned to leave.
Just as they reached the door, Bilbo was struck by a question.
“Fili?” he called. “Why handkerchiefs?”
Fili turned. “It was the thing you seemed to miss the most on the journey,” he said.
“Oh,” said Bilbo, touched by the thoughtfulness.
“We thought that if you had some, perhaps you might feel that you could stay,” added Kili.
Bilbo stared at them, bereft of words. After a silent moment, they both bowed slightly again and went quietly out the door. Bilbo was left staring at the closed door, his thoughts in a whirl and his heart heavy.
********
The cake was a great success and vigorously enjoyed by the Company. If Bilbo had hoped that Thorin might join them, he kept his disappointment carefully hidden. Thorin often worked through his meals. According to Oin, he was healed and healthy but still Bilbo quietly worried. He knew Dis ensured that Thorin ate a good breakfast and Bilbo himself had worked with Bombur to identify a range of nutritious and delicious treats during Thorin’s convalescence that he knew Bombur still delivered regularly to the King’s study. But it seemed absurdly little food for a grown dwarf to survive on, let alone a dwarf as busy as Thorin. But as he made his way back to his rooms after dinner, hurried on by the hearty back-claps of happy, caked-up dwarves, he had to admit that there was more that worry for Thorin’s health behind his disappointment.
He missed Thorin.
There was so much work to do and Bilbo begrudged none of it. All the Company had thrown themselves into the effort of making Erebor their home again. As the news of Thorin’s victory had spread, a steady stream of dwarves had begun to make their way back, some travelling through the depths of winter, not willing to wait even until the milder weather of spring to see their ancestral home. With every new arrival Thorin became busier and try as he might, too often he was embroiled in business and not able to meet with the Company for their regular meal.
Hobbits were a generally well-behaved group; so much so that they had few laws and little need to police those they did. At most, there might be a small scuffle at the Green Dragon at closing time, for which the shamefaced perpetrators would make apology the next day while their spouse looked on with folded arms and rampant disapproval. So it had never occurred to Bilbo what might be involved in administering a slew of hot-tempered, thick-headed dwarves, each intent on staking their claim to the riches of the mountain. The list of disputes for Thorin’s attention only grew longer and the demands of his time more until Bilbo woke up one day and realised it had been an entire week since he had last seen Thorin.
They had, of course, apologised to each other. Even after the agony of the deathbed confession, which Bilbo still sometimes saw in his nightmares, they had still had much to say to each other. Once Thorin’s recovery was certain, Bilbo had orchestrated a full and frank discussion. Neither left the room entirely dry-eyed but it had cleared the air. Afterwards, they had fallen back into the easy friendship of the days after the Carrock. But gone was the tentative rapport that might have built in time to something more. Indeed, Bilbo might have thought that he had imagined it if not for the way he had occasionally caught Thorin looking at him on the quest, a look that would make Bilbo’s stomach turn over and his heart thump in a very distracting way.
Now Bilbo saw him only rarely and, if Thorin still felt the same way, he gave no sign of it. In the cold light of day, it seemed so unlikely; a gentlehobbit and the King of the Longbeards. Surely there were many here in Erebor who were fairer and more comely to the King than a small, beardless hobbit. Friendship was what they shared and Bilbo would not repine. My goodness, it was an honour to be thought the friend of a King, let alone one such as Thorin, who had endured so much and fought so many foes and triumphed over every one, even the evil legacy of his line.
Bilbo sighed.
Honour though it was, Bilbo could not help but mourn the demise of his dreams.
********
It was late in the evening when the final knock came. It was a tentative thing; had Bilbo not been listening out he might not have heard it. He jumped to his feet, tightening his dressing gown around his waist, and bolted to the door. Even so, he was just in time. Thorin was turning away from door as it opened.
“Bilbo,” he said awkwardly as he turned back again.
Bilbo smiled at him. “I’d wondered if I would be seeing you this evening. Come in.”
“I do not wish to intrude,” said Thorin, eyeing the dressing gown with a dubious look in his face.
“You are not intruding,” Bilbo assured him. “In fact, I was about to make myself a small evening snack— hot milk and a biscuit if you would like to join me.”
Bilbo turned towards his small pantry. Behind him, Thorin hesitated for a moment then followed him into the room.
“Sit down,” Bilbo called. “I won’t be a moment.”
When he returned, Thorin was seated in one of the comfortable chairs before the fire. Bilbo felt something warm in his belly at the sight. He shook himself, carefully as he was still carrying the drinks.
“Here you go,” Bilbo said cheerfully, handing Thorin his mug and placing the plate of biscuits on the small table. He settled himself into his own chair and took a sip of the warm milk.
Thorin was watching him. “Are you having trouble sleeping?” he asked, a frown of concern creasing his handsome face.
“No,” said Bilbo, confused by the direction the conversation had taken. “Should I be?”
Thorin gestured towards his mug. “Hot milk is a remedy for sleepless nights. I remember my mother making it for me as a child.”
“Did you have many sleepless nights when you were young?” asked Bilbo curiously.
“Occasionally,” Thorin admitted. “My mother used to say that I took all the cares of the world upon my shoulders and if I was not careful I would be the shortest dwarf ever to live, weighed down as I was.” He took a sip. “She stopped saying that after I had a growth spurt in my mid-thirties and she had to look up at me when I kissed the top of her head.”
Bilbo snorted a laugh. “That never happened to me. I was never more than average height for a hobbit, as were my parents. My mother said that I was like to walk straight off a bridge into the water if I didn’t get my head out of my daydreams and watch where I was going.” He smiled reminiscently. “She always laughed when she said it, so I never thought she minded. I think that’s the thing I missed most after she passed. She was the only one who understood that need to dream, to imagine oneself in a different life or a different world. Even my father, who loved me very much, could never understand why I would want to be anywhere but Hobbiton.”
“Balin said he spoke to you today,” said Thorin, looking intently into his mug. “You should know that you are welcome to stay in Erebor as long as you please.”
Bilbo laughed. “Surely your people are going to get sick of me sitting around eating them out of house and home!”
Thorin looked up at that. “Bilbo, you riddled with a dragon and reclaimed our home. Every dwarf in this mountain would lay down his life for you. You need do no more than wake up in the morning for them to be happy that you are here.
“Oh,” said Bilbo, a little taken aback. “That’s very....kind.”
“But if you feel you must leave, I hope you will take this.” Thorin put down his mug and pulled a small linen pouch out of his pocket. He offered it to Bilbo.
Bilbo took it. “What’s this?”
“My gift to you. For our…meeting anniversary I believe Balin called it.”
Bilbo shook the contents of the pouch onto his cupped hand. Two beads, similar to the ones Bilbo had noticed the Company wearing, fell out. These were intricately decorated with tiny patterns made of gleaming mithril and had dwarven runes carved into them. He rolled them carefully in his palm, watching them shine in the firelight.
Bilbo looked up. “Thorin, they’re beautiful.”
Thorin’s face was solemn. “They are Durin beads,” he explained. “They mark you as my kin.” He hesitated for a moment, and then added, “They belonged to my brother, Frerin. I made them for him when he was just a dwarfling. They are imperfect but I wanted to give you something of my own hand.”
Bilbo stared at him in shock. He recollected himself and held the beads out. “Thorin, I am very honoured but I cannot take these. They belong in your family.”
“You are in my family,” Thorin said, gently closing Bilbo’s hand over the beads. “They will help keep you safe on your journey. Every dwarf will recognise them and know what you have done for Durin’s line. They will be honour bound to aid you.” He cleared his throat. “You do not need to wear them in your hair; I know hobbits do not braid their hair as dwarves do. If you wish, I can attach them to a chain for you to wear around your neck, or Dori can sew them to your cloak, if that is your preference.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Bilbo.
Thorin smiled. “Then today truly is a momentous occasion.” He got to his feet. “But it is late and I have kept you from your bed too long. Goodnight Bilbo.” He smiled at Bilbo, a sadness lingering in his eyes, and then turned to leave the room.
Daydreams aside, Bilbo had always been solidly a Baggins. He had listened to his mother’s stories with enjoyment but never dared to follow her example; until a group of ragtag dwarves fell over his doorstep, and he had run out his door to the adventure he had almost forgotten he dreamed of. On that journey, he had discovered he was, in fact, a Took when it counted. So Bilbo stood up, gathered every scrap of his mother’s courage, and spoke.
“I didn’t do it for the line of Durin, you know. I did it for you.”
Thorin stopped but did not turn back. There was something vulnerable about the curve of his back as he hunched over slightly. Bilbo took a small step forward.
“You’ve told me what I am to the dwarves of Erebor. Will you tell me what I am to you?”
Thorin still did not turn. “I would hope I can call you friend,” he said, his voice gruff.
Bilbo took another step forward. “And you may. It is a greater honour than any Baggins deserves and I treasure it.” He took a breath and stepped forward again, until he was almost directly beside Thorin. “But I wondered if you wanted to call me something else. Something…more.”
Thorin took a shuddering breath and turned his head a trifle towards Bilbo. “I won’t deny that I had once hoped…” he said, and then looked away. “But now…I cannot.”
Bilbo felt his heart fall. “Well, I won’t tease you,” he said evenly. He saw how Thorin’s shoulders slumped further, grabbed on to the remnants of his courage and spoke the truth. “But I wish you would.”
Thorin turned to face him at that, incredulity writ clear across his face. “Bilbo, I held you over a wall!” he exclaimed.
“And you apologised,” Bilbo reminded him. “We all do things we regret. What matters is how we make amends.” Thorin gaped at him, apparently too dumbfounded to speak. “Don’t you think we’ve suffered enough?”
Thorin’s eyes widened. “We’ve suffered?” he said.
“Well, yes,” said Bilbo uncomfortably, as the last of his courage drained rapidly away under the weight of Thorin’s stare. “That is…you weren’t the only one with hopes mmph—“
The hands surrounding his face were overly warm—and, truth be told, a little sweaty—and the beard was frankly scratchier than Bilbo preferred, but none of that mattered because Thorin was finally kissing him. He let his own hands reach out and grab hold of Thorin’s lapels, using them to hoist himself further into the kiss. Thorin made a strangled sound, and freed his hands from Bilbo’s face to run them around his back and hold him steady.
All too soon, Bilbo’s legs started to hurt and he reluctantly lowered his heels onto the ground. Thorin loosened his hold and, oh, there was that look and even after all these months it still made his stomach turn over and his heart sing.
“Bilbo?” Thorin prompted after a few moments had gone silently past, his smile starting to fade into concern.
“Can we do that again?” Bilbo asked.
Thorin laughed. “Any time you wish,” he promised recklessly.
“Then I shall stay,” said Bilbo.
The End.