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There are bruises stretching out across Thorin’s stomach, shallow cuts curling along his sides and a deep break in the skin between two ribs where the warg cracked through his armour.

Gandalf clicks his tongue, frowning as Oin cleans the open wounds the best he can with the water and salve they have to spare. He kneels close for a better look after Oin has finished with the stitches, gazing at Thorin from beneath his heavy brow. He says that warg bites often fester, turn dark and hot as red lines branch outwards from the wound beneath the flesh. Bilbo shifts on his feet over Gandalf’s shoulder as he speaks, his mouth twisting, and Thorin only spares him a quick glance before looking away.

“A disappointing end, that.” Thorin shakes his head, his hair shifting over his shoulders. And then, for the sake of his eavesdropping nephews: “I will have to avoid it.”

Erebor is little more than a dark shape on the distant horizon. But Thorin knows well enough the great statues carved into roots of the Lonely Mountain, the high gates crafted of stone and steel, the hidden balconies and alcoves towering above. He knows the scent of pine that billows upwards from the trees, the subtle whiffs of grass and dirt that come when the wind rushes over the small, green hills in the distance, and the way the smell only grows sharper when the sky clouds over and a storm looms above.

(Thorin also knows the black char of rock and the taste of ashes in his throat. He knows that pine needles crackle when the air turns hot enough and how distinctly unpleasant quaint little hills look when the grass is burned away.)

Twice, Thorin has survived the white orc. He has escaped trolls and burst through goblin lairs. He has been saved by a small, surprising creature that goes by the name of Bilbo Baggins, and he will take this hobbit with him the very heart of Erebor.

Thorin will die a proper death, by either the sting of steel or the onslaught of age. He will not be killed by a monster’s pet.

Gandalf raises both of his bushy eyebrows and says, “Indeed,” before heaving himself up to his feet. Thorin follows his example, clenching his jaw, but he is careful not to wince with the whole of the Company watching him.

“We need to move on,” he says.

While the others gather up their packs and supplies, Balin steps close to his side.

“Perhaps you should rest first,” he offers.

Thorin shakes his head. “We’d all rest better by a fire after a cooked meal, neither of which we will have while staying here.”

The trek down to the forest is long and slow. The cliff where the eagles have left them is very high indeed, and the steps carved into the rock are old and narrow, threatening to crumble beneath each new foot set upon them. Thorin walks without assistance, very aware of Dwalin’s constant presence at his back and the quick, frequent glances cast from his nephews. Gloin catches his arm once when he stumbles and Dori again, and Thorin’s pride would be stung if not for the pounding ache behind his eyes and the sharp pinch at his chest. His palms are clammy, strangely cool and damp, and though he drank his fill of water before they departed his mouth still tastes of blood and soil and ash.

As the party nears the halfway point, Bilbo slips. He makes not a sound but for a quick, tight gasp, his arms pin-wheeling outwards as he tries to retake his balance.

It’s Thorin who grabs him. He snags the back of Bilbo’s jacket and hauls him to his feet in one smooth, fluid motion, done so thoughtlessly and with such ease that Kili and Fili nearly start laughing at the sight of it.

Thorin doubts that Bilbo would have tumbled over the edge of the cliff, thinks it more likely he’d have only stumbled forward into Bofur’s back. But Bilbo still shudders, still winces when he peeks over the ridge of the rock at the ground and speckled trees below.

He turns to Thorin with a small, uneasy smile on his lips, both grateful and apologetic.

Thorin inclines his head, and the Company moves on.

There is a saying amongst men that to save a life is to become responsible for it. Twice, Thorin has rescued their burglar. He has dropped his sword at the feet of trolls to prevent him from being ripped in half and flung himself over the edge of a mountain in order to lift Bilbo back up to safety. And in return, Bilbo has bought them time by spinning lies for the trolls to scowl at and bicker over. He has tackled an orc to the ground and buried his sword into its chest, straight down to the hilt.

By all accounts, they should be even. Thorin knows this, but he looks at the back of Bilbo’s neck, the small square of his shoulders, his thin calves and his mud-spattered heels, and he feels as though a great debt still sits between them, an untied string, hanging loose and unravelling.

 

It takes the better part of the day for them to make the climb. They set up camp at the base of the cliff once they reach the bottom, keeping stone at their backs for protection against the night and to block out the wind.

Thorin goes to scout out the area ahead, though it makes Balin sigh and Dwalin frown at his retreating back. The forest grows steadily thicker the further away he travels, and Thorin finds a small stream less than a half-mile from their camp. He allows himself a moment, kneeling at the water’s edge. He curls his palms into a cup, splashing water over his cut and battered face before drinking. The wavering reflection that stares back at him from the river looks bruised and tired, but not unrecognizable.

When he returns to camp Fili and Kili are gone, either gathering firewood or looking for game. Bombur is laying out his pots and picking through their food stocks with Bifur at his side. Thorin tells Nori of the stream and leaves him to gather a few of the others to collect water.

Dwalin is just beginning to dig out a pit for the fire. He stills, and then straightens to his full height when Thorin approaches to help.

“Thorin,” he says, his tone low and clipped. It’s not meant to be a greeting.

Dwalin had been something closer to a teacher before he was a friend, an older dwarf that Thorin had been partnered off with as boy to swing swords and –occasionally– fists at. Dwalin very quickly developed a particular way of saying Thorin’s name. Quiet and sharp, reserved for occasions when he thought Thorin was pushing himself too hard, when he wanted Thorin to yield and choose his loss rather than be forced into accepting it.

Thorin had, nearly always, ignored Dwalin’s unspoken request. He does the same now, staring at him for a long moment before opening his hand for a shovel. Dwalin passes him one without another word, and that should be the end of it. But once they both finish and kneel to arrange the ring of stones, Dwalin knocks his shoulder hard against Thorin’s when he moves to stand up again.

Years ago, Thorin would have sneered and kicked his feet out from beneath him for that. Perhaps he would have even made some scathing remark about Dwalin’s lack of proper respect for royalty that would have had his friend throwing back his head and howling with laughter.

From the look on Dwalin’s face, his thoughts are of a similar nature. He taps the toe of his boot against Thorin’s ankle, as if inviting retaliation, but when he speaks again there’s no smile in his voice.

“Rest a moment, even if it’s only to humour us.”

Thorin sighs. He crosses his arms and closes his eyes, settling his back against the wall of stone behind him. He says, “Weren’t you tending to the fire?”

He dozes for some time, listening to the heavy thump of baggage being dropped and the clacking of pots and pans, sighs of exhaustion and relief, the quiet hum of familiar songs.

A blanket is laid out across his lap, and Thorin blinks open his eyes just as Balin pushes a bowl and spoon into his hands. The soup is watery and bland, but it’s hot on his tongue and in his stomach. As he eats, Balin touches the back of his fingers to Thorin’s face, which earns him a displeased sound and a quick twist of Thorin’s head, but no reprimand.

“You feel warm,” Balin tells him. His expression always seems strangely impassive when he’s not smiling.

“I feel fine,” Thorin replies.

He finishes the meagre meal and nods his thanks. Balin takes the bowl from him, but doesn’t move. Thorin tips up his chin to meet his gaze.

“That was foolish” Balin says. His mouth still doesn’t curl but there’s a weariness to his face now, pinched tight in the corners of his old, blue eyes.

The look Balin offers is one Thorin had known better as a boy. He had not been a glib child or frivolous prince, but Frerin always had a penchant for trouble and no qualms about dragging his solemn, older brother along with him on his escapades. Once caught, Balin would stand over them with his arms crossed, seeming more disappointed than angry at their neglected studies or the fresh bruises painted across their knuckles.

And that is how Balin seems to Thorin now: disheartened without the simmer of rage. Unbidden, Thorin thinks to respond, we would of had to climb down eventually, but they would be Frerin’s words far more than his own.

So Thorin stays himself. He says, “There was nothing else to be done. Were we to perish, that foul creature should have left the world with us.”

Balin seems understanding, but not comforted. He presses a hand to Thorin’s arm before moving on.

Dwalin glances over from where he sits nearby, shrugging when Thorin catches his eye.

“He worries,” Dwalin says.

Thorin sighs, rubbing gingerly at his face. The cuts sting faintly. “He always has.”

Dwalin grunts his agreement. Thorin keeps his hand over his eyes to blot out the setting sun, and there’s the sound of rustling fabric, the sharp ring of steel being drawn from the sheath and the grate of a whet stone over a blade.

“I noticed you did not leap to my defence,” Thorin says.

Dwalin snorts. “I’ve been calling you a fool for years.”

A lie, that. Dwalin has never been anything but resolutely faithful to Thorin since Erebor’s fall.

“Hm.” Thorin drops his hand. He plays the game. “What does that make you, I wonder, following me about as you do?”

The response this earns is a good one. Dwalin looks up at him quickly, a sharp smile curling along his mouth. It has been some time since Thorin has spoken to him in such a way, baited like he would when they were much younger and wilder.

“Someone had best make sure you don’t lose your fool head. We don’t always have a hobbit so close by, after all.”

Thorin doesn’t laugh, but it’s a near thing. Perhaps it was escaping death or seeing Erebor again, but he suddenly feels lighter than he has in weeks.

Dwalin says, “But we will need to do something about the halfling. Teach him how to use a sword properly. You should have seen him, swinging that dagger of his about.”

“Are you offering?”

“Oh, Kili and I were going to do that,” Fili says, emerging from the trees. He drops an armful of firewood and dried, withered vegetation to the ground, hunkering down to arrange them into a neat pile.

“Oh, were you now?” Dwalin says.

Fili nods, not looking up, so casual in his resolve that Thorin is certain he had been planning nothing of the sort. He is proven right when Kili bounds over to his brother, crouching down and knocking their shoulders together. In his hands are three small apples.

“What’s this? We’re teaching the hobbit to fight?”

Fili sighs, and misses just barely when he tries to stuff his elbow into Kili’s side.

“I taught both of you, I recall,” Dwalin says.

Fili takes an apple from Kili and falls back onto the ground, folding his legs beneath him.

“We recall as well,” Fili says.

“All too clearly, I think,” Kili adds.

“I do remember some incidents,” Thorin says. Kili holds up an apple, offering, and Thorin extends his hand to take it. “Two frightened young dwarves, hiding from their sword-master behind their Mother’s skirt.”

Kili shifts his weight, his throat turning a deep scarlet. Fili grins, bright and bold.

“You were a far better shield, Uncle,” he says. “Mum always gave us up.”

Dwalin laughs, slapping his hand against his thigh. Kili even risks a smile when Thorin only pulls free his knife and slices at the apple in response.

Fili chuckles, pleased with himself, and it makes Thorin think suddenly of Dis. As much as Fili looks like his Father he is nothing less than his Mother’s son, unflappable and steadily self-assured when he is not riled up and seeking out mischief. In a few years he would settle, keep his easy humour but temper it with a new experience of the world.

One day, he would make a proud King.

“Here, let our good burglar have a say,” Kili says, hopping to his feet and catching Bilbo by the arm as he wanders by. “Who would you rather, Master Baggins?”

“Erm…” Bilbo looks between the group. “Rather for what?”

“To teach you to fight, of course! Us—” Kili spreads his arms wide and offers Bilbo a low, mocking bow while Fili chuckles behind him “—or Dwalin?”

Bilbo blinks. His lips form into a tight line as his eyes flicker towards Dwalin, who is now sharpening his dagger with a renewed vigour.

“I—well, that is to say—“

Thorin takes pity, motioning towards his nephews.

“Go with these two. It would be best to have some hobbit left over after the lessons finish, rather than beaten to a pulp.”

Dwalin nearly looks offended, for all that he is capable of it. “I would do nothing of the sort.”

“You ran us off a cliff once,” Kili says.

“It was a hill.”

Fili rolls his eyes. “A mighty large hill.”

“Did you now?” Thorin says, allowing his voice to drop low. Dwalin clears his throat and looks away, and Kili snickers as Bilbo tries to stifle his own laughter.

Gandalf approaches and settles into their increasingly widening circle, shifting his robes about himself as he sits. He tells them that the cliff they had stood upon was known as the Carrock, and that the steps that took their party downwards were carved by an associate of his, one he thinks they should seek out.

“I question your taste in friends,” Thorin says. “The elves sought to stop us.”

“And yet without Lord Elrond your path would still be blocked by an unreadable map,” Gandalf says. “But no matter. The one I speak of is no elf, if that pleases you.”

At this, Bilbo’s posture shifts, slinking downwards in apparent disappointed. Thorin had thought his fondness of the elves to be strange and somewhat irritating, yet he finds himself unable to stir up any of his previous displeasure now.

Gandalf continues, “He is someone with supplies, which we are in need of, and could perhaps even be a reasonable host, should the mood strike him.”

That, Thorin finds, is far more difficult to argue against.

More dwarves join them, shaking out blankets and unrolling bedrolls closer to the fire. Bilbo is left to settle beside Thorin or be without a place to sleep. He sits with a yawn, and looks sheepish when his stomach rumbles.

Thorin still has the better part of an apple left. He cuts what remains in half and offers the larger slice to Bilbo from the edge of his knife. Bilbo’s hand moves, but he hesitates in accepting.

Thorin does not snort or smile. He does not coax Bilbo into taking the fruit. He lifts his eyebrows very slightly, and holds Bilbo’s gaze until he relents with a sigh.

Bilbo drags the wedge apple off the blade. It leaves behind a thin trail of watery juice that Thorin wipes away rather than licks.

 

Thorin wakes in the dead of night, not cold but shaking as though he is, lying half off his bedroll with his head in the dirt. He finds his flask by touch and drinks heavily, his mouth gummy with his tongue sticking to the back of his teeth. The warg bite aches sharply, and though Thorin thinks of peeling back the dressings to examine the wound, the fire has nearly burned itself out, and he is loath to touch the bandages with his hands still coated in filth.

Pushing himself up, Thorin reaches towards the small heap of kindling and dried leaves. He piles them into the pit before gathering back his hair, leaning in close to the glowing coals and blowing on them until the flames reawaken. It’s only when he feels heat against his face does Thorin realize that the bedroll next to him has been abandoned.

When he finds the hobbit it’s thanks to the dim glow of Bilbo’s pipe. Bilbo is sitting on a low rock on the outskirts of their camp, his back facing the sleeping company. As Thorin nears he can hear the quiet mumblings of a soft song. The tune is unfamiliar, the words mostly incomprehensible when spoken so low.

“Halfling.”

Bilbo starts and turns, pulling his pipe from his mouth. His eyes are large and black in the dark.

“Oh, Thorin. Good evening.”

Thorin nudges a short log closer to Bilbo’s sitting stone with his foot and settles down onto it, hitching his blanket further up and around his shoulders. Bilbo turns away and coughs, smoke skimming pass his lips in little bursts.

“Why are you awake?” Thorin asks.

“It’s my turn to stand watch.”

Thorin lifts an eyebrow. Bilbo puffs up slightly, his pipe clicking loudly between his teeth.

“Is that so,” Thorin says. He suspects that Bilbo has joined Bofur or one of his nephews during their own shifts, but knows the hobbit has rarely been left to stand guard over their camp alone.

“Yes.” Bilbo says, punctuating the word with a firm nod. “Yes it is so. I wanted to. And I can yell quite loudly, should there be any trouble.”

“Now that I do not doubt.”

Bilbo twitches and glances at him quickly. Thorin doesn’t look away from the forest, but the corner of his mouth tilts upwards, and it takes Bilbo only a moment to realize that there’s no bite behind the words.

“Oh. Well ha.” Bilbo says, but beneath the sarcasm there’s laughter in his voice. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“I have slept.”

It’s difficult to see Bilbo’s expression in the dark. His shoulder rolls and his mouth seems to twist as it does when he’s ill at ease, as though he wishes to say something but thinks it wiser to swallow it down. He exhales a wavering ring of smoke, and Thorin curls his fist beneath his chin as he watches it dissipate on the air.

“The orc,” Thorin says, and next to him Bilbo stills. “Your first kill.”

It’s not a question, but Bilbo makes a soft, agreeable sound.

“How does it sit with you?”

Bilbo fiddles with his pipe, taking another long pull as he rubs the heel of his foot against the ground. Thorin watches him, thinking of the way Bilbo had plucked at his suspenders in Bag-End, his tendency to drum his fingers against his waistcoat when nervous. He wonders if Bilbo can remain still at all, if this twitchy energy is to be found in all hobbits or is something particular to him alone. In the world of Men dwarves are often compared to stone, unyielding and steady --more willing to break than they are to bend. If that is true, Thorin wonders what then a hobbit (tiny and fragile, easily overlooked, yet capable of great strength) is meant to be.

“Not something I care to repeat, I think,” Bilbo says. He clicks his pipe once more and then quickly pulls it from his mouth, his fingers fumbling against the bowl. “Not that I regret it!”

Thorin nods. He huffs out a soft breath when Bilbo sags with relief beside him.

“Something funny?” Bilbo asks after a moment’s pause.

“More curious. Are all hobbits like you?”

“Er, in what way?”

“Excitable.”

“Under the right circumstances.” Bilbo turns to him. “I’ve seen a few excitable dwarves.”

“They enjoy their merriment.”

“Do you ever join in? With… the merriment?”

Thorin stares out into the dark.

“Perhaps when the celebration is large enough,” he says.

With that, a silence falls between them. Bilbo resumes smoking, not so at ease anymore, until he clears his throat and braves humming out the tune he had been singing just a few moments ago. After the first verse he pauses, perhaps waiting for a reaction, and when Thorin gives him none he continues on, becoming louder as his confidence grows.

How long they sit together Thorin is not able to say, but it is enough time for the necessity of rest to again make itself known in the dropping of eyelids and the slowing of his breath. It is strangely comfortable, to remain there in the wild with the smell of smoke on the air and Bilbo’s song in his ears. Later, perhaps, he will ask for the words.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says softly. He has stopped humming, has maybe been done for some time.

“Mm?”

“You’re falling asleep. And squishing me, incidentally.”

Bilbo doesn’t sound much at all like he’s being squished. His voice is quiet and amused, a thin giggle hiding behind the words, but Thorin stirs all the same. A headache threatens to split is skull in two, and when tries to stand it feels as though a knife is being twisted between his ribs.

“Oh! Um. Well, all right then, let’s just—”

Bilbo scrambles to his feet and catches Thorin’s arm, dragging it over his shoulders as though he means to take Thorin’s weight. And Thorin cannot stop himself from laughing now, a sound that rolls deeply in his chest before the breeze sweeps it away from his lips.

Bilbo stills beside him in the dark, his head ducked and his face shadowed.

Thorin peers down at the back of his neck, the soft curl of his hair, and says, “If you had been worried about being crushed a moment ago…”

Bilbo only tightens his grip on Thorin’s forearm. “I never felt quite this small in the Shire, you know.”

“You are small.”

“Yes, well. But now I feel like it. Bit different.”

“You seem taller, as of late.”

Bilbo tilts his chin up, his expression soft, eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

Thorin says, “Though perhaps I was only slow to notice.”

“It’s fine. I said it was.”

“Hmm.”

The walk back to camp is not far, but they move slowly with Bilbo fitted against Thorin’s side. He helps only a little but hinders not at all, and Thorin doesn’t mind the jut of Bilbo’s hip against his thigh, the warm press of his palm at his wrist.

 

When Thorin sleeps again he dreams of the bright, yellow flash of gold and fire-lit jewels, the clear colour of the arkenstone with his own reflection shattered against its surface.

He wakes with a fever, thinking of his Grandfather and the glassy gleam of his eyes, the way his strong fingers trembled when gripped around a fistful of coin.

 

In the morning there is time enough for a quick breakfast of apples and the rest of their salted beef before they march on. The day is warm, growing sticky and humid as noon approaches, and if anyone thinks that the flush on Thorin’s cheeks has any other cause than the rising heat, they are wise enough to stay quiet about it.

Once they move into a clearing where the creek has widened out into a full river, Thorin motions to the others to halt for a quick rest.

“Just how far away is this someone?” Thorin asks, coming to a stop at Gandalf’s side. He crosses his arms and ignores the tight pull beneath his bandages. Most of the party has gone straight to the river’s edge, and he watches as Kili does a handstand by water. Slowly, Kili pulls his fingers up one by one, showing off until Ori snickers and gives his ankle a hard shove.

“Far enough,” Gandalf says, lifting an eyebrow as Kili tips into the water with a yell and a splash. Laughter and jeers follow.

“Well, what did you think was going to happen?” Fili calls out.

Thorin sighs, long and slow out his nose. Gandalf chuckles behind his pipe.

“Perhaps not the worse of ideas, on such a day.”

Thorin looks up at Gandalf, just barely lifting an eyebrow. “Will you be joining him, if that is the case?”

Gandalf doesn’t laugh again, but looks at Thorin as through he has said something rather funny indeed. Thorin is unsure if the wizard even needs to bathe –though often mud-splashed and dirty, Gandalf never smells of anything more than pipe weed and soil, even after days of travel.

“I think not. You, however, should take some time to clean your wounds a little more thoroughly,” Gandalf says. “We’ve some distance to go yet.”

With that, Gandalf disappears into the forest, and Thorin is left to watch as most of the remaining dwarves pile into the water. Bilbo steps up beside him, hands tucked into the pockets of his waistcoat.

“Not, er. Not a shy bunch, are you?”

Thorin glances down. Bilbo is looking away from the others as they take off their armour and leathers, leaving most, if not all, their clothes in a heap by the shore.

Bofur claps Bilbo’s shoulder as he passes by, making the hobbit jump.

“Well, come on then,” he says.

“Aha, thank you, but no. Hobbits don’t swim.”

“Then don’t swim,” Kili calls to them, shaking the hair from his face like a dog might shake its wet fur. He peels off his tunic and flings it to the rocks, where it lands with a damp smack. “Stay in the shallows!”

Bilbo remains where he is, smiling slightly and shaking his head, waving Kili off. Thorin begins to unlace his bracers.

“What point is there in shyness?” He asks. “There are no women here to see.”

“Still plenty of fellows around with eyes.”

Thorin snorts. “They have nothing that you do not.”

Bilbo’s expression goes tight. “I’m aware of that.”

Bilbo crosses his arms over his chest, offering nothing more. Thorin drops his bracers and steps away as he unlatches his belts and shucks off his furs, seeing no reason to push Bilbo’s discomfort, strange though it may be. Bilbo blinks at Thorin owlishly, turning quickly away when Thorin begins to remove his boots and breeches. When Thorin takes a moment to look back at him, Bilbo’s ears and the back of his neck have gone red.

Thorin steps into the water a fair distance away from the rest of the Company, uninterested in the roughhousing that is sure to follow a group of dwarves into a river. He wades in up to his waist, the clear surface of the water just barely lapping at the edges of his bandages. Kicking aside a few small stones, he ducks down, pulling up handfuls of sand from the river-bottom and scrubbing at his scalp and the back of his neck, over his shoulders and throat. Twice more he does this, dragging his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to tease out the knots.

After Erebor fell and the attempt to reclaim Moria had failed, he had set Dis up in a small cottage outside of Dunland. She had fretted about the state of him each time he visited, sat him down like he was one of her boys and took a comb to his hair, asking what was so hard about brushing it while on the road, or even taking the time to braid it back.

(“I could cut it,” she offered.

“You would not dare to try.”

“Keep one eye open while you sleep, brother.”)

As Thorin attempts to untangle his fingers he catches a glimpse of Bilbo sitting at the shore, his toes curled into the river mud. Bilbo rubs the back of his fingers across his mouth as if to hide a smile, his shoulders hitching upwards in jerky little movements. A silent laugh.

Thorin gathers his hair in his hands, drawing it over his shoulder and twisting the water from it. He watches Bilbo until the hobbit realizes he’s drawn Thorin’s attention. He clears his throat and blushes anew.

“Do you have something to say?” Thorin asks. His tone is dry and serious, but Bilbo’s amusement, though dampened, fails to entirely fade.

“Me? No. No, not at all.”

“It seems as though you did.”

Bilbo only shakes his head, holding up his pale, open palms.

Thorin taps at the bandages spooled around his chest with his damp fingers, wetting them enough so he can pull them away from his skin without having the cloth stick against dry, crusted blood. The scrapes have scabbed over. The deeper cuts held together by Oin’s small stitches.

The gash dragging across his ribcage has coloured darkly, and feels hot and painful to the touch.

Oin has opted out of stepping into the river. From the shore he throws Thorin the last sliver of soap that has survived, telling him to clean what he can the best that he can.

Thorin does, and he takes a moment to trail his fingers along the bruises the goblin’s whips and clubs have left behind on his shoulders and back. No broken skin, thankfully, and there is only an ache where Thorin makes one, digging his fingers into the muscle too deeply or sharply.

The soap is less than a quarter of its original size by the time Thorin finishes. He stays in the water a moment longer, still enough for a curious fish to risk swimming around his ankles.

When he turns back towards the shore, Bilbo scrambles quickly to his feet, coughs and averts his eyes as the water falls below Thorin’s waist.

Kili finds this modesty hilarious, and yells out to them: “Who would have thought our burglar would be so bashful?”

Bilbo mutters something about manners and the Shire as Thorin tugs back on his breeches and boots. He passes off the soap to Oin and waits for him to wash his hands, stays standing when Oin returns and moves in close to inspect his chest, a deep frown folding his brow.

“Out with it,” Thorin says.

“Infected,” Oin grunts with a shrug. “But you knew that. It will need to be drained, but I won’t do it unless I have the means to see it properly cleaned afterwards.”

Thorin nods. “Gandalf says his companion will have provisions.”

Though he says the words easily enough, they do not sit lightly on Thorin’s tongue. Thorin dislikes the idea of taking without payment, of owing and not earning. Soon he will be rich enough to pay Gandalf’s friend back with interest, but that does not change his presently empty pockets.

Oin wraps fresh, white bandages around Thorin’s chest and drops a pouch into his hand, telling him to take the root that’s inside with a mouthful of water should the pain grow too great. Thorin doubts it will come to that, but pockets the medicine anyways.

Thorin looks back out over the river, surprised to see that only now has Bilbo dared to venture into the creek himself. He’s dressed down to his shirt-sleeves, but is still wearing those strange, cut-off trousers that hobbits seem to favour. Thorin sits, pressing a naked shoulder against a tree. He knits a new braid into his hair as he watches Bilbo wade a little deeper, though never allowing the water to go over his knees. In the distance, Fili and Kili are wrestling, trying to shove each other’s head under the water until Gloin grows tired of their antics and pushes them both down together. They come back up sputtering and laughing, and Bilbo seems content to watch it all from the sidelines, standing for a moment with his hands placed firmly on his hips, his shoulders quaking once more with amusement.

When Bilbo turns back towards the forest, Thorin is just reaching for his shirt. Bilbo steps onto the shore, shaking water from his feet and rubbing his toes on the grass.

“You did not drown,” Thorin says.

Bilbo’s smile is thin. He asks, “Does it hurt?” in a very shy manner, gesturing towards Thorin and looking at the ground rather than his eyes.

“There is some discomfort. Nothing more.”

The worst pain Thorin has ever known came not from battle but childhood carelessness, when he and Frerin had decided to scale up the highest tower of Erebor to reach the balcony that overlooked Dain. Thorin slipped and fell and landed on his arm. The bone snapped, splintering through the skin in two different places, and the very sight of it had made Thorin sick.

The warg bite itches and burns straight through his chest. Thorin longs to dig his fingers beneath the stitches and scratch his skin raw. Soon it will be wedged open with a knife and flooded with salves and ointments, and cleaning it will likely be more painful than the bite itself.

But Thorin will endure, and Thorin will live, and there is nothing more to be concerned with on the matter.

Bilbo seems to disagree, watching Thorin as he shrugs back into his ruined waistcoat. The buttons are gone, Thorin notices, and there are frayed threads hanging from the hem. Bilbo has splashed his face with water and the ends of his curls are dark and damp. There is some anxiety to be found in the narrow press of his mouth and the slow flicker of his eyes, but Thorin has no idea what to do with the worry of a hobbit, and says nothing of it.

“Enough,” he calls to the rest of the party, still in the river. “We need to move on.”

 

They reach a small cabin before nightfall. Gandalf’s companion greets them with crossed arms and suspicion, but seems to grow steadily more welcoming as Gandalf recounts their journey to him.

Beorn is a towering man with wild, brown hair and a loud, booming voice. His beard is full and thick —impressive, for a man— and the laugh lines at his eyes are deep, trailing so far along his face they nearly meet his mouth. Thorin notices them more and more as Gandalf speaks on, standing stiffly by the wall with his hands folded into fists to hide the occasional tremble of his fingers. His headache has returned, and sweat drips in beads down the back of his neck.

Once the story has finished and Beorn is satisfied with their tale, inviting his new house guests to sit, eat, and be waited on by his strange cluster of animals, Gandalf takes their host aside. Though Gandalf does not turn towards Thorin at all, Beorn’s gaze briefly flickers over him as they speak, his eyes narrowing in contemplation and study. This lights a spark in Thorin, igniting a fire that had been quelled for the past two days. He does not need Gandalf to speak for him, Wizard or no, nor does he care for whispers of his sickness or injury to be passed about while he stands at the sidelines, waiting for decisions to be made on his behalf.

The conversation is over a mere moment after it has started, put to an end before Thorin has a chance to intervene. Beorn nods firmly and offers the dwarves the main floor to sleep on, adding that there is an extra bedroom down the hall that will fit one. He advises them not to leave the house after dark, but to also take no notice if their host does differently.

“The wild here is a little more accustomed to me. Don’t trust it to treat you the same.”

While his companions eat their fill Thorin’s stomach rolls at the very idea of food. He refuses the beer, drawing a long and worried look from Balin, but forces down some of the bread and fruit. He catches Oin’s eye when he stands to leave. Beorn too pushes himself to his feet and guides Thorin to the back room, pulling a heavy animal skin from a high cupboard and dropping it onto the bed. He leaves a full pitcher of water on a table in the corner, along with a stone basin and fresh bandages.

Thorin feels no less than a beggar, pleading for scraps. The hospitality of the elves had been unwanted, yet long overdo since his Grandfather had extended a hand of friendship to Thranduil. This man owes Thorin nothing.

He thanks Beorn, promising to pay back his kindness in full when he has the means. Beorn lifts both of his thick eyebrows in response, his mouth twisting as though he cannot decide whether he wishes to be baffled or amused.

 

Thorin sheds his tunic as Oin holds the tip of a thin knife to a candle’s flame. He drags the blade along the hot, angry edges of the infected wound once cooled. Afterwards, he bathes it in vinegar. The sting is sharp enough to make Thorin twitch and clench his jaw, but no sound escapes him.

When finished, Thorin nods his thanks. Oin bows slightly and tells him to sleep well.

His rest is fitful at best. Thorin turns about in the bed, too hot with the blanket pulled up and too cold without it. He sweats and shakes and longs to roll over and settle onto his stomach, but the raw pull in his chest deters him. For a time he manages to drift, half-dreaming of the near-silent song of the Lonely Mountain.

It’s the growl that wakes him.

Thorin opens his eyes, thinking that the sound had been merely a part of his dream when another low rumble reaches his ears.

Orcrist is within reach, propped up against the side of the bed. Thorin touches the cool hilt of the blade for assurance, his eyes flicking towards the shuttered windows.

An animal, drawn close to the house by the scent of Beorn’s dogs or snuffling around outside for scraps of tossed food. Nothing more. No concern, especially with thirteen dwarves, a wizard, a hobbit, and a beast of a man sleeping just down the hall.

Thorin nearly fades back off into sleep, but a soft thump outside his door followed by a hushed curse, causes him to stir once more.

Thorin rubs at his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Master Baggins,” he says.

A pause, and then the slow creak of a door being opened.

“Thorin?”

“What are you doing?”

“There was a noise outside. Did you hear it?”

“I heard it.”

As if on cue, another growl followed by the scratching of claws against dirt. Bilbo jumps and spins towards the direction of the window.

“That… does not sound friendly.”

“Beorn warned against leaving the house.”

“And that does not strike you as worrisome at all?”

“We slept the previous night in this forest without the protection of walls and a roof, and you awoke unscathed.”

Bilbo opens his mouth and closes it again. Another noise from outside makes him flinch, and he takes a step further into the room. He freezes quite suddenly, much like a deer would when spotted by a predator, one foot lifted off the floor, looking at Thorin as though he’s been caught in the midst of some embarrassing act.

Thorin rolls onto his side.

“I doubt you will see anything in the dark, but go on. Take a look if it will put you at ease.”

Bilbo swallows, nodding stiffly before continuing on his path towards the window, rocking up onto his toes to peek between the shutters. Thorin wraps an arm around his pillowing, watching.

When Bilbo glances at him from over his shoulder, he does a double-take. “What?”

“I was told you killed a warg.”

“Yes well, that sounds a great deal bigger than a warg, now, doesn’t it?”

Thorin does not particularly think so. It must show on his face because Bilbo huffs out a thick sigh before jumping again as something rattles beyond the wall.

Had Bilbo flinched before tackling the orc? Had he shrunk back after his kill and hidden away from Azog’s gaze? Thorin doesn’t know, wasn’t looking, but he thinks surely not.

“You do understand that the dragon will be bigger still?”

“Right. Yes. I understand that very well, thank you. I also understand that Smaug is yet miles away, curled beneath a mountain, while whatever that is is currently lurking outside your window.”

“It’s leaving.”

“It is not— oh.”

Thorin lifts both his eyebrows and Bilbo shifts on his feet, taking a final peek out the window for good measure as heavy paws travel further and further away.

“I only hit the warg,” Bilbo says, his back turned.

“What?”

“With a sword, mind you. But I really don’t know if it died.”

“Your aim was true enough with the orc.

“Luck.”

“No doubt. You seem to carry an abundance of it with you.”

Thorin is unsure sure if that pleases Bilbo or not, as he then lapses into silence. Thorin turns his eyes to the ceiling, shifting against the sheets, and gives up. He rolls onto his stomach, wincing just slightly as he sinks into the mattress.

“You sleep on your belly?”

With his face pressed into the pillow as it is, Thorin only bothers with opening one eye. Bilbo is facing him again, having taken a step closer.

“I prefer to,” Thorin says.

Bilbo, it seems, finds such a thing quite funny. His jaw clenches, as though he is trying to fight a smile, and he turns his face away when one curves along his mouth despite his efforts.

Thorin says, “Fourteen.”

Bilbo looks back at him again, blinking. “What?”

“We were speaking on luck, were we not? Our party numbered thirteen before you joined.”

“Ah. Unlucky, that.”

“Yes.”

Bilbo lets out a breathy little laugh. “And to think, I wasn’t going to come. How fortunate, that I changed my mind at the very last moment.”

Thorin thinks of tree bark growing hot beneath his hands, of crackling pine needles. He thinks of Azog’s scarred, white face, the red glint of the creature’s sharp teeth, grinning at him through fire and smoke.

He says, again and much more softly, “Yes.”

Bilbo moves closer.

“You’re sweating,” he says. “And… shivering.”

Thorin closes his eyes. “Fever.”

“Are you—are you very sick?”

“It will pass.”

It should be a dismissal, but Bilbo does not take his leave.

Save a life and become responsible for it. Doubtful, that Bilbo would know the phrase. He has not spent time in the world of Men as Thorin has. And yet—

Thorin knows that Bilbo goes to the basin in the corner of the room not from the sound of his footsteps, but by the slosh of water. He shifts against his pillow slightly, so he can open both eyes instead of one, watching as Bilbo sets down the pitcher and reaches for a small towel that had been left draped over a chair. He folds it half, dipping it into the basin.

When Bilbo finishes and moves back towards the bed, he does nothing.

“Um,” Bilbo says. The cloth is dripping onto the floor, water pattering against his naked feet. It’s too dark for Thorin to tell whether not he is blushing, but the thought that he may be is strangely endearing.

“Do as you will.”

And so Thorin’s hair is brushed aside by uncertain fingers and a wet, cool cloth is pressed to the back of his neck. Bilbo drags the cloth down until it touches the collar of Thorin’s shirt, and then pushes it back up against the flat of his skull. He does this once, twice, and Thorin’s eyes flutter shut as water begins to trickle along his skin, catching in his beard and dampening the pillow beneath his throat.

 

In the morning, Thorin wakes to find Bilbo still in his room. He is slumped beneath the window, legs pulled up to his chest with his chin resting against his bent knees. A shaft of sunlight falls across his face at an angle, making his curls gleam red and gold.

Thorin neither sends Bilbo away nor wakes him. He turns over and goes back to sleep, opening his eyes again to find Bilbo gone and Kili standing at his bedside, a tray of food in his hands.

 

The fever grows worse before retreating. Oin again cleans the wound, dabbing away the pus and blood with a rag cloth before bathing the cut in vinegar once more. He pulls the blanket to Thorin’s throat despite his protests, saying that he needs to sweat the fever out.

Thorin sleeps throughout the day and keeps waking to new things. Food and drink on the side table, an extra blanket spread out across his chest. There is, at one point, a pitcher of water and bowl left out from him on the bedside table, and though he is shaking, Thorin fills it and drinks heavily, water dripping down his chin and into his beard, before he collapses back onto the mattress.

When he wakes again, the pitcher has been refilled. Beside it is a small plate of bread and the pouch Oin had given to him. Thorin digs out the root and takes it with a mouthful of water as instructed. He still has to chew for nearly five minutes before he can swallow it down.

At the very edge of the table someone has left him a small cluster bright, yellow flowers. He blinks at them sleepily, and thinks of reaching out to touch one without doing so.

Much later, he opens his eyes and Balin is sitting in a chair next to his bed. The light outside the window has turned warm and red, casting the room in shadow. In Balin’s hands there is a block of wood and a knife, and for a very long time he sits at Thorin’s side without saying a word, whittling an animal out of oak.

Finally, Balin says, “You may not remember it well, but there was a sickness spreading throughout the mountain while you and your brother were still young lads and Dis was not yet born. There is not a day I can remember of you falling ill, but Frerin? It hit him hard and it hit him true, and though he fought to shake it off, your Mother and Father began to fear that the fever would claim his life. He couldn’t go outside, couldn’t leave his room even to eat, and you were becoming angrier by the day because you were not allowed to see him. No one wanted you to fall sick as well, so of course, it made good sense to keep you separate. So you took matters into your own hands and snuck into Frerin’s chambers at night to stay with him.

“Your Father was furious when you were discovered the next morning, but you were always a stubborn child and did what you liked anyways, and continued on finding ways around your caretakers and passed the guards. Foolish actions, without question. But Frerin’s health returned to him, and you did not so much as catch his cough.”

Thorin hadn’t remembered this at all, but the story causes something long forgotten to stir in the back of his mind: an unfamiliar bed, Frerin’s warm face against his neck, small fingers tugging at his hair. Thorin’s stomach twists and his throat begins to ache, and though these are not agonizing sensations, both are somehow worse than the strike of Azog’s mace, the feeling of the warg’s teeth sinking through skin and muscle.

Thorin would just as soon not be told about such things, but it is difficult to ask Balin to stop. He feigns sleep halfway through the story, though he only truly falls back into slumber once Balin is finished and there is nothing left to fill the silence between them but the steady grate of his knife.

 

(And perhaps he has Balin to blame for it, later, when Thorin wakes again and doesn’t know who is in the room with him. There are booted feet hitched up on the edge of the bed-frame, the wood creaking as the new figure stirs in his chair.

“Frerin?” Thorin says, but no, that is not right at all. Frerin survived his sickness but died outside of mines of Moria. Did Thorin not spend hours digging through the hills of corpses to find his body? Did he not pull him from the ground, broken and bloody, to discover the shaft of an arrow sticking out from beneath his chin?

“Go back to sleep,” Dwalin tells him, his voice soft. He says Thorin’s name when he pushes himself up onto his elbow.

“Water,” Thorin says.

Dwalin hands him a glass, and it occurs to Thorin as he drinks that Bilbo has not visited since the previous night.

His presence is strangely missed.)

 

Thorin greets the morning with a dry mouth, a raging apatite, and the kind of restlessness that comes when the body is left sitting idle for too long. His room is empty but for himself, so he takes the opportunity to dress, cracking his back and popping his shoulders before climbing from his bed. Without the cover of the blankets he feels neither hot nor cold, and though the stitches tug tightly beneath his shirt as he reaches for his leathers, there’s no lingering pain.

Dwalin enters just as Thorin is fitting his belt.

“You could knock,” Thorin says without ire. Dwalin’s answering grin is slightly crooked.

“I did not want to wake you. Here.”

He tosses half a loaf of bread at Thorin, still warm from the oven and smothered with honey. Thorin bites into it greedily, raising a questioning eyebrow at Dwalin as he chews.

“I am half sick of bread and honey and cream,” Dwalin says, crossing his arms with a small shrug. “If our next host doesn’t serve meat, I’m against staying all together.”

“You should be pleased there is food at all, unless you truly prefer meals of salted jerky and nothing more.”

“’Least that came from an animal.”

“So does cream.”

“Cream is not meat.” Dwalin sniffs. “You seem better.”

Thorin makes an agreeable sound. “And the cost is a day of travel wasted.”

Dwalin frowns, but he offers neither comfort nor denial.

Instead, he says, “Our host has returned, if you’re well enough to greet him. He’s brought something back.”

Thorin nods. He does not remember being told of Beorn’s departure over the last day, but has no doubt that he was. “A moment,” he says, and Dwalin takes his leave.

Thorin is stuffing the rest of the loaf into his mouth before the door is fully shut. He licks a drop of honey from his knuckles but washes the rest of it away with water from the basin. Turning towards the door, he notices once more the flowers now scattered across the nightstand, wilted and beginning to brown.

A strange thing to be left, and not a very dwarf-like gesture at all. The knowledge makes something in Thorin’s chest grow warm, and he brushes a withered petal with the pad of his thumb. It crumbles beneath his touch, light though it is, but Thorin does not mind. The damage does nothing to ruin the sentimentality of the small and dying bouquet.

He finds Beorn and Gandalf together, standing outside the door to the house. Gandalf is just tucking away his pipe, smiling more with his eyes than he does with his mouth when he sees Thorin once again on his feet.

Beorn’s grin is far more broad.

“Well, it seems your fantastic story was indeed true, Master Dwarf,” he says, and then invites Thorin to come and see his new kill.

The warg is strung up from a tree around the house and behind a small shed. It hangs by its back feet, throat slit, black blood matting its neck and running down its snout. Beorn crosses his arms and rocks back on his heels, claiming it to be the last remains of a goblin scouting party that followed them from the mountains. He begins to talk about skinning the creature.

Thorin would sooner see the wretched thing burned and buried –warm hide or no. But it is not his kill and not his choice, so he stares into the warg’s cloudy, dead-eyed gaze, and says nothing.

 

Thorin takes time to walk around the property, simply pleased to stretch his legs and have the crunch of dried twigs beneath his boots. A sand-coloured cat follows on his heels from the house, and when Thorin begins to feel winded enough to take a moment’s rest, it trots over to him and begins looping around his ankles. Thorin bends, touches the back of his fingers to its cool, wet nose, and the cat mewls, butting its head against his palm before scampering off into the woods.

When he arrives back at the house he finds Fili, Kili, and Bilbo standing together in the front yard, the latter two with their swords drawn at the ready.

Still a distance away, Thorin crosses his arms and leans his shoulder against a tree.

Kili shifts on his feet, slashing his blade through the air in wide, lazy arcs, flippant motions that betray his boredom. Fili circles around Bilbo, nudging at his arms.

“You really don’t need to hold it with two hands,” Fili says. “It’s not a broadsword.”

Bilbo shifts his grip. “I’m worried I might drop it.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Fili says. “You also shouldn’t worry about being hit, or about dying, or about tripping over your own feet or any of that. It will only distract you.”

Bilbo very nearly smiles. “What should I be worrying about, then?”

“Your opponent,” Kili says, grinning. Bilbo looks down at the sword in his hand as though it’s disappointed him.

It begins harmlessly enough, Kili and Bilbo facing against each other while Fili stands aside. He halts them now and again to adjust Bilbo’s grip on his sword or to stand next to him and demonstrate where his feet should be, how he should be holding himself. The first time Kili’s blade crashes against his, Bilbo jumps at the sound. Both Kili and Fili start to laugh.

Soon enough, it dissolves. Kili strikes out too hard, and though his sword only meets steel and not flesh, Bilbo is flung to the ground all the same.

Thorin is already halfway across the yard when Bilbo sits up and proves himself unharmed.

“Sorry, sorry!” Kili drops his blade and rushes to Bilbo’s side, his eyes wide with alarm.

“It’s all right,” Bilbo says, a very slight waver to his voice. “I’m not missing any fingers, so no harm done.”

Kili’s face is still twisted, his eyebrows pulled up and his lips downturned.

“Really,” Bilbo says. “I—”

“Fear not, Mister Baggins, I will avenge you!” Fili says, flinging both of his sheaths from his back. He tackles his brother so suddenly and with such enthusiasm, that Bilbo can’t seem to stop himself from laughing at the absurdity of it.

Kili struggles away and Fili gives chase, leaving Bilbo in a heap on the ground, laughing with his head thrown back and his hands pressed flat to the dirt behind him. Thorin finishes his approach, and Bilbo looks up when a shadow falls across his face.

“Thorin!” Somehow, his smile seems to widen. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Thorin says, watching as Fili hooks an arm around Kili’s neck and throws them both to the ground. “Though not as well as some.”

Bilbo lets out another laugh. Thorin peers down at him, turning his head only slightly so he doesn’t lose sight of his nephews. There is dirt smudged against Bilbo’s jaw and crushed leaves in his hair, dust matted against the elbows of his shirt-sleeves. His pale throat gleams with sweat. Day by day he looks less and less like the grocer Thorin had placed him as. There is a new flash in his eyes, a sharp tilt to his smile that Thorin is beginning to like.

“You will still need to improve your skill with that,” Thorin says, nodding towards his small, fallen sword.

Bilbo continues to smile, squinting up at Thorin. “Well, as you’ve pointed out, I know of an orc and a warg who may think otherwise.”

“You said you were unsure of the warg.”

“I’m trying to think positive.”

Thorin turns his face away, a braid shifting across his collarbone. Bilbo next laugh is more of a giggle, so perhaps he sees the smile anyways.

Now noticed, Kili and Fili come rushing back to greet their Uncle. As children they would have been happy to plough straight into Thorin’s legs. Now, they stumble to a stop just in time.

Neither inquires after his health with Bilbo there, but they smile and ask about his walk, and Thorin allows his expression to soften when he answers them.

“I thought it best to check on your progress with Mr. Baggins.”

Kili flushes, but his voice is light enough when he says,” Only a little worse for wear, so far.”

Fili shrugs. “Sturdy little things, hobbits. Best not to underestimate them.”

Thorin has to stop himself from looking back to Bilbo. “Indeed.”

Bilbo clears his throat. “That’s all well and good, but I am still right here.”

“Why, so you are, Master Hobbit!” Kili doesn’t offer Bilbo a hand up. He hoists the hobbit to his feet by grabbing the back of his collar and lifting, and when Bilbo squeaks and stumbles, Thorin is quick to place a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

 

It’s Bilbo who finds Thorin sitting outside that evening, watching the sun sink into the curve of the earth from the steps of Beorn’s front porch. Bilbo’s hesitation in joining him is apparent, but brief. He sits a step above Thorin, perhaps in an attempt to match his height, and this draws an amusement from Thorin that does not show on his face.

“We leave tomorrow,” Thorin tells him around the mouth of his pipe. “You will need your sleep tonight.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“I have slept more than enough these past few days.”

Bilbo shrugs. “You were injured.”

Saying it so plainly, as if it were no sign of weakness, no inconvenience, at all.

Bilbo taps his fingers against his bent knee. He says, “You know, it’s a bit like the Shire, this place. The grass and hills. There are even gardens.”

“Mm. It has your home’s heat, at that.”

“Hobbiton isn’t that warm.”

“Warm enough.”

“Do dwarves prefer the cold?”

“Colder. Mountain homes rarely share the chilled bite of winter, there are fires lit year-round to stave off that. But the stones are never warm to the touch. The air is cool, damp. Comfortable.”

Bilbo nods, almost to himself. “The Misty Mountains were a bit chilly. More so when the floor gave out.”

Thorin looks at him, his eyes now sharp. Bilbo seems taken aback, and makes a sputtering noise.

“Well, that is to say, my only real experience of mountain homes happened to be the goblin’s, not that I saw much of it, but—”

“Erebor,” Thorin says, his voice dropping low, “is nothing like that.”

It’s a tone that has halted Bilbo in the past, made his jaw click shut and his shoulders fall, made his eyes seek out the ground or his own twisted hands.

Bilbo folds his hands together now, but doesn’t look at them. He continues to meet Thorin’s gaze, even tipping his chin upwards, brave and proud, his eyes unwavering and a bright, flashing blue in the fading light.

“I wasn’t saying it was.”

Thorin looks back at him evenly. On the slope of the Misty Mountain Bilbo had faced Thorin just as bluntly, acknowledged Thorin’s doubt of him and spoke longingly of home. And Thorin had looked away when Bilbo said he would help them take their mountain back. He had looked away because Gandalf had been right about the doubled-edged sword that was the pride of Thorin Oakenshield, and there Bilbo was, underestimated and firm, standing before him as living proof of his own folly.

They stare at each other for a moment longer, their shared silence filled by crickets beginning to chirp from the shadows.

This time, neither is forced to relent.

“Tell me more about it, then,” Bilbo says. “Erebor. I’d like to know.”

Now it seems that it is Thorin’s turn to be caught off guard.

“Gandalf has already told you much.”

“But it wasn’t Gandalf’s home.”

And for a long time, Thorin has no answer to give him. He does not say, it is a kingdom that was crumbling long before the dragon found it. He does not speak of the tunnels of gold that his Grandfather favoured, the height of the King’s empty throne or the hooded, knowing eyes of his siblings. These are the things that spring first to his mind, and Thorin hates it. He hates that Erebor feels, at times, like nothing more than a pit that’s been hollowed into his chest, or a boulder that he heaves about on his shoulders, slowly crushing.

Thorin takes a drawn out pull from his pipe, holding the smoke in his lungs long enough to feel the burn of it before exhaling. He settles. He forces himself to talk of better things, the beauty and grandeur of the Lonely Mountain, the long, polished hallways and the high arches of the marble ceilings. He talks of the ring of metal on stone, how it could be heard deep into the very heart of Erebor, how it would rumble up through your feet and into your bones when you stepped into the mines. He tells Bilbo of the dusty blue skies and the warm scent of a blacksmith’s forge, how it was to stand above the clouds at the very peak of the mountain.

When Thorin stops speaking, it is not for a lack of things to say. He finds that he cannot quite explain it, how the mountain knew him. Elves believe dwarves to be careless of living things, but stones hold memories in ways that the plants elves favour cannot. Thorin’s people did not destroy nor taint the mountain. They wielded it like a skilled smith would a strip of metal, made it their own, made it stronger, made themselves better in order to be worthy of it.

Thorin shakes his head. He admits, “I do not have the words.”

“Oh, no!” Bilbo says quickly. “No, that, not at all. It sounds lovely. All of it. I’m glad, that I’ll be able to see it.”

“And I to show you,” Thorin says. He offers Bilbo his pipe, and Bilbo takes it without a moment’s pause.

The crickets increase in volume. The last sliver of sun vanishes into the horizon. Bilbo yawns widely around a mouthful of smoke as weariness sets in. He begins to drift, leaning more and more into Thorin’s arm, his chin bumping against the curve of his shoulder.

“Who is being squished now?” Thorin asks, and though Bilbo huffs out a laugh against his furs, a tension suddenly coils through his small body. It’s a nervous, twitching kind of energy, as though he is bracing himself for a blow –physical or verbal. Thorin frowns, doesn’t shrug him away or ask him to move, and slowly, Bilbo’s weight eases once more against his side.

“We’ve come full circle,” Thorin says quietly. His breath ruffles Bilbo’s hair. “Is this to be a pattern between us?”

If Bilbo catches his meaning, he shows no sign of it. It’s difficult to tell with his face angled as it is, but Thorin thinks his eyelashes may have fluttered, that his mouth may have moved in an upwards slant.

“We should retire,” Thorin says, his voice dropping lower still. Bilbo nods against his arm, a lazy, slow movement. Neither of them stir.

And perhaps, that is just as well. Home lies beyond and tomorrow they will wake with the sun and set out upon the road, walking sticks in hand and their sacks heavy with supplies. They will sneak through the rot of Mirkwood beneath the noses of the elves, and who is to say that the goblin scouts Beorn found were the last, that Azog is not already seeking out their trail anew.

And there is still the matter of the dragon.

Home lies beyond, but for now Thorin is content to sit and smoke with Bilbo curled against his side. Unmoving, he waits to greet the stars.