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For as long as Thorin can remember, the Durinsons are a well-to-do middle-class family. They aren’t rich enough to buy the most luxurious things, but they never struggle with the essentials either. In his eyes, they are perfectly normal, comfortable, steady, whole.
He sees his grandparents most clearly in these memories. Thrór and Hrera, despite their age, move with surprising energy. They dance in the living room when music plays, laughing as if they are still young. “Come, Thorin, dance with us!” his grandmother calls, clapping her hands as her beads click together in her elaborate hair. Thorin and his siblings join in, stumbling over their feet, and the room fills with laughter.
Thrór, with his silver-streaked raven hair and sharply trimmed beard, looms like a mountain. His muscles ripple when he hefts even the simplest tool, and his piercing blue eyes catch every mistake. “Hold the hammer tighter, boy,” he instructs, guiding Thorin’s small hands around the handle. Together, they shape metal in the family’s smithy. Later, Thrór kneels in the hallway, showing Thorin how to change a lightbulb. “See? Even small tasks keep the house standing.” Thorin beams with pride, holding the bulb like it’s a precious jewel.
Grandmother Hrera balances Thrór’s seriousness with warmth and stories. She settles the children at her feet, her beads swaying as she leans forward dramatically. “When I was your age, I once outran a goat down the mountain!” she declares, then throws her arms wide, pretending to sprint. The children erupt with giggles, clutching their sides as she reenacts her youthful escapades.
His parents are happy in these days, rarely raising their voices except to call the children for supper. His father, Thráin, mirrors his own father, long raven hair, trimmed beard, sharp nose, and those unmistakable blue eyes. Though strict, he is fair. “Rules keep you safe,” he reminds them, though he always lends a hand when Thorin or his siblings falter.
His mother, Fris, balances Thráin’s sternness with her golden hair and golden laughter. She cracks jokes whenever tension rises. When Thráin scolds the children for muddy boots, Fris leans in with a grin. “Don’t glare too hard, love, or your face might freeze that way.” Thráin’s stern expression softens, and soon they are all laughing, mud and all.
Thorin’s siblings live wildly, a whirlwind of energy. Dís, the youngest and only girl, inherits their mother’s golden hair but their father’s sharp features. She is quick-witted, her tongue sharper than any blade. When a neighbor boy teases her, she fires back without hesitation. “At least I don’t look like a goat trying to walk upright!” The boy sulks home in tears, while Thorin and Frerin roar with laughter.
Frerin, with his raven hair and softer features from their mother, grows into a shameless flirt during his teenage years. He winks at every girl who passes, though his bravado shatters the moment one shows genuine interest. “She smiled at me, Thorin! What do I do?” he hisses in panic. Thorin only laughs, clapping him on the back.
And then there is Thorin himself, the eldest. He resembles his father and grandfather most strongly, already wearing a beard before his age suggests he should. Responsibility rests on his shoulders, though mischief still sparks in his eyes. More than once, he helps Dís and Frerin hide broken vases or misplaced tools. But no matter how clever he thinks he is, their parents always discover the truth. “Thorin,” Thráin sighs, shaking his head, “if you’re going to lie, at least try harder.”
Thorin laughs at the memory now, remembering the warmth of those days, when the house is always alive with noise, arguments, and love. Yes, the Durinsons are happy then. He has just graduated high school, brimming with excitement for college, when everything changes.
The fire.
No one truly knows how it starts. The investigators later say it must have been a faulty wire, some spark in the dark hours of night. All Thorin remembers is the choking smoke, the burning heat, and the instinct to get to his siblings.
“Dís!” he shouts, coughing, stumbling through the smoke. He finds her in her room, trembling, tears streaking her soot-stained face. He pulls her into his arms, shielding her with his body. “Hold on to me, don’t let go.”
He rushes down the hall, kicking open Frerin’s door. His younger brother is huddled in the corner, shaking. “Come on, Frerin!” Thorin yells, reaching through the haze. “We have to go!” Frerin hesitates, frozen by fear, until Thorin grabs his arm and drags him out into the night.
The three of them stumble into the street, gasping for air. Only then does Thorin realize, with horror, that their parents and grandparents aren’t outside. He turns back toward the burning house. “I have to go back!” he cries, trying to wrench free from his siblings.
“No, Thorin!” Dís sobs, clinging to his arm with surprising strength. Frerin adds his weight too, dragging him down. “You’ll die! Don’t go back!”
Before Thorin can break free, neighbors arrive, shouting, calling emergency services. Soon, the night blazes with the flashing red and blue of fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars.
It’s chaos. Firefighters storm the house. Medics tend to Thorin, Dís, and Frerin, wrapping blankets around their shoulders. At last, their parents and grandparents are carried out, alive but broken. Thrór and Hrera are weak from smoke, their bodies battered. Thráin and Fris, desperate to save them, are injured as well.
The fire is put out, but the damage is irreversible. The house is gone. And though everyone survives, the price is steep.
Weeks pass. Thorin sits in the hospital waiting room, the weight of the world pressing on him. His grandparents remain bedridden, their health crumbling. His parents, once so strong, cannot work the way they used to. Bills pile up, hospital fees, medicines, food, and now the cost of finding a new place to live.
Relatives step in, offering money, shelter, kindness. Thorin smiles, thanks them, but inside he feels like a burden. Charity. Pity. He can’t stand it.
“Don’t worry about us,” Fris tells him gently one evening, patting his hand. Her golden hair, once so bright, is dulled by exhaustion. “Go to college, Thorin. Live your life as you planned.”
Thráin nods, his voice hoarse but firm. “Your mother’s right. Do what you want, son. We’ll manage.”
But Thorin looks at Dís, curled up on the couch, eyes wide with fear that never leaves her. He sees Frerin staring blankly at the floor, guilt etched on his face. Thorin shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. “I’m not leaving you. Not now. Not ever.”
So Thorin works. Any job he can find, he takes. Construction. Heavy lifting. Odd shifts. His body, strong from years in the smithy with his father and grandfather, adapts easily. But no matter how much he works, the money is never enough.
“I need more,” he mutters one night, staring at the cracked ceiling of their rented flat. “I need to give them back everything they lost.”
That’s when the idea comes. Start his own company. Build something lasting. But where could he ever find the money to start? Who would invest in someone like him, burned out, desperate, clinging to a dream?
The answer arrives in the form of a meeting arranged by a family friend, Gandalf.
“This is Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf says with a knowing smile, as if introducing destiny itself. Bilbo is small, polite, with sharp eyes and an easy smile. He comes from a family of old money, though he wears it lightly.
At first, Thorin is cautious. He doesn’t want to lean on Bilbo, doesn’t want to taint their growing bond with money. But Bilbo insists. “I believe in you, Thorin,” he says, pressing the contract into his hand. “And I know you’ll pay me back.”
Thorin swallows hard, the weight of both fear and gratitude pressing on him. “I swear to you, Bilbo, I will.”
And he does. With Bilbo’s support, Thorin’s company rises from the ashes as if forged by fire itself. Erebor Corporation becomes a sensation in record time. With its success, Thorin rebuilds what the flames once stole: a new home for his family, hospital care that restores his grandparents’ health, stability for his parents, and, most unexpectedly, a new husband in Bilbo Baggins, the man who believed in him when he couldn’t believe in himself.
To tell the truth, Thorin never thinks he will fall for Bilbo. Bilbo isn’t what most would call striking, his copper curls are unruly, his hazel eyes warm but ordinary, his round face dotted with freckles. A button nose and a small frame make him look softer, gentler, than the people Thorin is used to. And then there are his manners, so very posh, so insistent on politeness, that they nearly drive Thorin mad at first.
Yet, slowly, things change.
Bilbo listens. He believes in Thorin when few others do. He shows up, patiently, steadily, without fail. Over time, Thorin realizes that Bilbo’s constancy is exactly what he has been craving. By the time life finally settles after the fire, Thorin knows he can no longer imagine a future without him.
After their wedding, they move into a tidy house only a few hours away from Thorin’s family and close to his work. Domestic bliss follows. Every evening, Thorin returns home to Bilbo’s soft smile and softer kisses.
“How was work today, love?” Bilbo asks, pressing a cup of tea into his hands.
“Busy,” Thorin admits, loosening his tie, “but worth it. I’ve got a new project lined up.”
“And I’ve finished another chapter,” Bilbo says proudly. “The neighbors stopped by, too, Mrs. Gamgee says hello. And your mother rang. She says to stop working so much.”
Thorin chuckles, tugging Bilbo close. “I’ll slow down… eventually.”
Evenings are filled with their voices, Bilbo’s gentle chatter about novels, neighbors, and family, Thorin’s steady rumble about contracts, plans, and dreams. They laugh, they share meals, they argue lightly about trivial things. Life feels whole.
It gets even better when Dís marries Víli, a man with golden hair and a grin so charming Thorin first mistakes him for a flirt. But Víli proves himself loyal, tender with Dís, a devoted husband. Soon, Thorin becomes an uncle. Fíli, with his father’s golden hair, and Kíli, with his mother’s dark locks, fill their lives with laughter and chaos. Thorin holds them for the first time and thinks, Life is happy. Life is whole.
But fate has a way of striking twice.
The accident shatters everything. Víli is on his way to work when a drunk driver collides with his car. He barely survives. The doctors say the word Thorin dreads: coma.
Dís is inconsolable. Days pass with her refusing to eat, refusing to leave the hospital. Fíli and Kíli cling to Thorin’s trousers, eyes wide and frightened. Frerin is overseas, their parents and grandparents too frail to shoulder the weight.
Bilbo steps in. He kneels before the boys, brushing curls from their foreheads. “It’s all right, my darlings. Uncle Bilbo is here.” His voice is steady, calm, the same tone he once used with his younger cousins. Thorin watches him soothe them, wrap them in safety, and something in his chest aches with gratitude. Together, Thorin and Bilbo become a second set of parents to the boys.
Thorin covers the hospital bills, working harder than ever. Each drained account leaves a mark on him, a scar of fear etched deeper. He vows never to let them fall so low again.
Even after Víli wakes, even after Dís steadies herself, even after Frerin comes home for good, Thorin keeps working. Harder. Longer. Too much. Erebor Corporation grows, but Thorin’s nights shrink into slivers.
He eats alone, often greasy takeout, hunched over paperwork. He comes home late, collapsing into bed long after Bilbo is asleep, or worse, when Bilbo is waiting in the living room with tired eyes.
“Thorin,” Bilbo pleads one night, voice breaking, “please. You’re killing yourself. Look at you, your eyes, your weight, the way you drink to stay awake. I don’t need more money, the boys don’t need more money, we need you.”
Thorin snaps back, frustration flaring. “You don’t understand! This is for the family. For Fíli and Kíli’s future. For all of us. Don’t you see?”
“I see you tearing yourself apart!” Bilbo’s hands tremble as he clenches them into fists. “And I see you leaving me behind!”
But Thorin doesn’t listen. He can’t. In his mind, to stop working is to risk everything again. So he pushes on.
Until, one night, the house is quiet in a way that chills him. He finds Bilbo’s side of their bed empty. Instead, Bilbo’s blanket is folded neatly, untouched. The guestroom door is shut.
Thorin freezes in the doorway, the truth pressing on him like a weight. Bilbo has given up begging.
Stunned, hurt, yet too stubborn to admit it, Thorin retreats to their bed alone. He pulls the blanket over his chest, eyes squeezed shut. He’ll apologize in the morning, Thorin tells himself. He’ll come back. He’s just being clingy.
But the emptiness beside him feels colder than anything ever did.
Thorin opens his eyes and finds himself standing in a place he doesn’t recognize. Cold air cuts at his skin. Ahead, a small figure stumbles toward the edge of a frozen waterfall, where the cliff overlooks a battlefield littered with broken weapons and retreating, twisted creatures.
Confusion grips him, until he sees the figure clearly. It’s himself. Smaller. Shorter. His body lies sprawled on the ice, blood blooming dark against his clothes. Thorin’s stomach lurches.
The smaller Thorin stares upward, lips moving faintly, as though in prayer. That’s when another figure comes rushing across the ice, also small, even smaller than the version of himself. Familiar.
“Bilbo…” the wounded Thorin whispers, voice faint but tender.
Thorin’s breath catches. Bilbo.
“Don’t move! Lie still!” the tiny Bilbo scolds, voice trembling as he falls to his knees beside the dying dwarf. His small hands press frantically against the wound. “Oh! Oh, no…” He recoils for a heartbeat at the blood before forcing himself forward again, desperate, determined.
The wounded Thorin smiles weakly. “I’m glad you’re here…”
“Shh.” Bilbo presses harder, his hands slick with blood, tears already brimming in his eyes. “Don’t you dare talk like that.”
“I wish to part from you in friendship,” Thorin murmurs, coughing, his voice breaking.
Bilbo shakes his head violently. “No. No! You are not going anywhere, Thorin. You are going to live.” His voice wavers, fierce but fragile.
But Thorin knows. Watching from outside himself, he knows how this ends.
“I would take back my words… and my deeds at the Gate,” the smaller Thorin rasps, choking. Blood flecks his lips. “You did what only a true friend would do. Forgive me. I was too blind to see… I’m so sorry I led you into such peril…”
Bilbo’s tears spill over, running freely down his freckled cheeks. “Don’t you dare say that. I’m glad to have shared in your perils, Thorin, every last one. And it’s far more than any Baggins deserves.” His lips tremble, but he manages a smile, as though sheer hope can anchor Thorin to life.
For a moment, Thorin’s battered self smiles back. His hand shifts, reaching faintly toward Bilbo’s. His voice is barely a whisper. “Farewell… Master Burglar. Go back to your books, and your armchair. Plant your trees, and watch them grow. If more people valued home above gold… the world would be a merrier place.”
His chest rises once more, then falls. Stillness spreads over him, heavier than the snow. His glassy eyes stare past Bilbo, unfocused, as though fixed on something beyond this world.
“Thorin?” Bilbo whispers. Then louder. “No… no, no, no, no!”
He seizes Thorin’s shoulders, shaking him as though he can rattle life back into him. “Thorin! Thorin, please! Just one more moment—please, just wait one more moment…” His voice cracks into sobs. “The eagles are here, Thorin, do you hear? The eagles are here!”
He bends over the still body, forehead pressing against Thorin’s chest, his cries muffled against cold armor and colder skin. Thorin, watching, dreaming, remembering, feels the words pierce through him like the blade that once felled him.
Bilbo clutches the body tighter, whispering brokenly, “Please, come back… come back to me…”
And Thorin can do nothing but stand there, powerless, forced to watch himself die all over again, while the only soul he ever truly loved shatters beside him.
Thorin gasps and snaps awake on a bed that is too small, too stiff, and not his. The blanket smells faintly of flowers and the room feels too close, like the inside of a glove. This is not the king-sized bed he shares with Bilbo, nor their bright, modern bedroom. It is a cozy, cluttered hobbit room, Bag End, his mind supplies before he can stop it, full of knickknacks, crooked shelves, and potted plants that look politely neglected. Everything here has Bilbo’s fingerprint, but everything also seems tired, dry, as if someone has stopped watering the place and the color has leaked out.
A muffled sound pulls him up. He pads into a winding hallway, hair prickling with cold. Passing a mirror, he freezes: he looks like his dwarven self, mail shirts, fur-trimmed coat, beads at his collar, oddly familiar armor hanging off his shoulders as if he’s borrowed a body from another life. He touches the metal at his chest and the cold feels real enough to sting.
The noise, soft, rhythmless, comes again. He follows it down toward the kitchen. Through the doorway, Bilbo stands at the counter, chopping with a violence that makes Thorin’s heart lurch. Vegetables fly; juice strips the wood of the board. Bilbo mutters a string of curses, some old family quarrel with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins taking center stage.
“You clumsy thing,” Bilbo snarls at a stubborn carrot, pressing the blade harder. “If you keep that up, you’ll slice a toe off on me, you will!” He is far angrier than Thorin has ever heard him be in the quiet of their home.
Thorin’s hand shoots out to take the knife away, instinct overriding everything, but his fingers pass clean through Bilbo’s arm as if the man is made of smoke. He jerks back, breath caught in his throat. Bilbo startles, blinks, and takes a deep shuddering breath. The sound should be a relief, but it’s a cracking thing, like ice under too much weight.
“I’m back,” Bilbo says aloud, voice ragged, as if to himself. “I’m back at Bag End… and everyone treats it like a crime.” He slams the knife into the board but keeps cutting, greasy hands trembling. “As if Lobelia should sit on all the chairs. As if that’s what matters.” He laughs, an ugly, broken sound, and then, whispering, “Maybe I should have been dead. Then it would have been simpler. Then I’d be with you, Thorin…”
Thorin wants to shout, to throw his arms around him and tell him it isn’t true. He screams, a raw sound ripped from his chest, but Bilbo does not hear. Bilbo finishes the stew as if by rote. Thorin watches the hobbit ladle it into a bowl with the same ritual care Bilbo uses when writing a letter, and something inside him splinters; he knows Bilbo wouldn’t stop at stew when he’s making a meal, there would be a pie, or biscuits, or a pot of something sweet simmering too. Not tonight. Tonight it is just stew and bread and the hollow clink of a spoon against ceramic.
Bilbo sits at the little table and eats slowly, lips moving but not forming words. Thorin studies him: the redness ringed around warm hazel eyes, the deep bags as if sleep is an enemy, clothes that were once tidy now wrinkled and smelling faintly of stale ale and mud. Dishes pile in the empty sink like quiet accusations. Dust gathers on the mantel where laughter used to live.
A sharp tap at the window stuns them both, an old raven drops in and flutters, black feathers ruffling. It perches on the sill with the arrogant grace of a messenger and bows its head. Bilbo reaches out with something like a reverent hand and strokes the bird’s neck before taking a folded letter from its beak.
He opens it with hands that shake. His eyes scan, narrow, and the color drains out of his face until his freckles look like a constellation left on old parchment. “King Dáin sends his regards,” he reads aloud, voice thin as thread. He swallows. “King Dáin… It should have been King Thorin.”
The words break something fragile in him. Bilbo collapses to the floor, the letter dropping from limp fingers. He grips his knees and crumples into himself, screaming and sobbing in a single ragged breath. “No—no—no—no—Thorin!” he keens, and the sound fills the smial, ricocheting off jars and the clock’s face until the whole house seems to weep with him.
Thorin moves toward him on instinct, arms reaching, but they pass through Bilbo like breath through mist. Bilbo’s hands clutch at empty air as if he imagines a shoulder there; his whole body trembles with a grief so enormous it seems to bend the room. He presses his forehead to his knees and keeps repeating, “It’s not fair. It is not fair. Come back. Come back to me, you stubborn dwarf.”
Thorin wants, needs, to tell him he hears him, that he is here, that he will be all right. He flings himself at the dream, thrashes, tries to hug Bilbo, to anchor him, to wake himself from whatever cruel pattern this is, but his arms pass through and through, and he merely feels colder for the effort.
“Wake up,” he begs aloud, the plea jagged with panic. “Wake up—Bilbo—waken—please—”
He closes his eyes and squeezes them shut as if that could break the spell. He doesn’t want to watch this. He doesn’t want to witness what his death has done to the small, brave hobbit who kept his hearth warm. But even with his eyes shut tight, Bilbo’s cries echo in his bones. The name, Thorin, tumbles through the room and finds him, and Thorin cannot hold himself together against the weight of being loved and lost both at once.
He forces his hands against his eyes until the dark blinks to white behind his lids, and then he thrashes, desperate to wake into their bed, into Bilbo’s arms, in a world where Thorin can comfort the love of his life.
Thorin opens his eyes again to the kitchen in Bag End, and his breath leaves him. The house is worse this time, not merely untidy, but abandoned to neglect. Dishes teeter in a greasy tower not only at the sink but on table corners and windowsills. Clothes crumple in sad little hills across the floor. Notes and scraps of paper litter the hobbit-sized countertops, pins of ink and unfinished lists. The warm, well-loved clutter that used to make Bag End feel alive now reads as accusation: every unattended thing shouts Bilbo’s absence.
He tastes copper in his mouth, a panic rising. This is not Bilbo’s order; Bilbo keeps things with a careful, almost maternal pride. He would never let his home slide into this. Thorin remembers the raven letter, the collapse, the keening, and his throat tightens until he can’t breathe. He moves toward the sound of voices in the hall, heart pounding.
At the doorway, Holman Greenhand and Hamfast Gamgee stand like two small, worried pillars. Holman’s hands twist together; Hamfast wears the desperate, practical face of someone unused to helplessness. Bilbo stands between them, but he looks hollowed out, the roundness in his cheeks gone, clothes hanging loose, hair unbrushed. His hazel eyes are raw and distant, like embers gone cold.
“Bilbo,” Holman says gently, stepping forward, “you ought to get out a bit. The market’s full of fresh bread and gossip. It’ll do you good.”
Bilbo snorts, cutting like a blade. “I don’t need to get out, Holman. I’m quite fine.” His voice is flat, brittle. He clutches at the edge of the table as if it keeps him upright.
Hamfast tries a brighter tone that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Master Baggins, come with us, there’s a stall with new potatoes and Mrs. Bracegirdle’s scones. You love her scones.”
Bilbo laughs once, a sound like a cracked teacup. “Send them to me if you must. I have no appetite for crowds.” He lets the words fall like stones between them.
Holman glances through the open door and recoils. “Master Baggins, we your gardeners could cook for you, or we could bring a pie—”
“Why would you do that for me?” Bilbo snaps, sharper than Thorin has ever heard him. “You are my gardeners, not my housekeepers. Do not trouble yourselves.”
“It’s just—” Holman begins, shame flaring on his ruddy face.
Hamfast's voice turns blunt, edged with fear. “Master Baggins, you are ill. You are hardly standing. Let us help.”
Bilbo’s face changes; anger and grief collide there until something unreadable hardens his gaze. “I do not need help,” he says, but the tremor under the words betrays him.
A beat of desperate pleading hangs in the air, and then Bilbo’s words drop like a stone. “And if I do need help, it will be to make the end come quicker. I have nothing left to live for.”
The door slams so hard the frame shivers. Holman and Hamfast rush to the latch, knocking, begging through the wood. “Bilbo! Open, lad! Don’t speak like that—” Their voices fray and break into a chorus of helpless entreaty.
Bilbo stumbles outside instead, tears carving clean tracks down his face. He bolts to a waiting coach, pressing his palms to his eyes as he shudders with a sob that sounds like it will tear his chest apart. “Thorin,” he wails into the cold air, voice raw, “come back to me. Come back—” He folds against the carriage and weeps like a storm.
Thorin can do nothing. He reaches for the hobbit and passes through him, a cool, implacable barrier between dream and waking. He wants to grab Bilbo, to drag him back to warmth, to tell him he is here, he is alive, but the dream keeps them apart. The neighbors pound on the door; Bilbo’s cries thin and distant. Thorin turns his face away, blood hot in his ears, and stares at the cluttered table until the world tilts.
He tries to tell himself it’s only a dream, that when he opens his real eyes he will find Bilbo asleep beside him, the steady rise and fall of his chest a proof of waking life. But the sound of Bilbo’s sobs follows him even as he forces his lids shut, and he cannot help feeling that every second he does nothing, the house grows colder still.
When Thorin turns back, Bag End has changed. It is clean in the way of things freshly arranged by a loving hand: the potted plants stand upright, leaves glossy and bright; the brass on the lamp gleams; the woven rugs look dusted and plump. A floral scent, lavender, rosemary, something homely and sun-warmed, drifts through the air. The smial is pristine in that particular, beloved way Bilbo keeps his home, and for a second Thorin’s chest unclenches.
Then panic snaps back. If Bag End is breathing again without Bilbo in it, the thought slides cold down his spine. He runs, passing through walls like a man thrown against a tide. He ransacks rooms he cannot touch, eyes darting into cupboards, under tables, into the little study where Bilbo keeps his papers.
At last he finds Bilbo in the study, seated at the small oaken desk, pen in hand. The sight steadies him: Bilbo’s cheeks have returned to their soft roundness, his clothes sit properly, and color tints his face. Relief blooms, so huge Thorin almost laughs. Bilbo hums as he writes, a little tune Thorin remembers from their mornings with tea.
Curiosity draws Thorin closer; he hovers behind Bilbo’s shoulder and leans to read the page. His stomach drops. It is not a chapter of adventure but a legal note, the deed to Bag End, plainly written: should Bilbo die, the property and its contents shall pass to his cousin Bungo Baggins. The paper looks ordinary enough, the words sensible, but Thorin stares at them as if they might burn. The sight means that someone is already planning for Bilbo’s absence. The simple practicality of it makes panic rise in his throat, paper that acknowledges an end feels like a blade.
Bilbo rises and hums on his way to the kitchen, oblivious to Thorin’s turmoil. He sets a kettle on the hob and reaches for a tin of leaves without looking, bright green, finely divided, triangular like parsley tops. Thorin’s heart stutters. The leaves are unfamiliar; they smell faintly sweet and bitter at once.
Bilbo preheats a mug, tosses the water, sprinkles the leaves in, pours boiling water over them and watches them unfurl. He strains the tea, spoons in a pale grain of sugar, and lifts the mug to his lips. Thorin lunges, silent, invisible, the urge to stop him a raw ache, but his hands fall through Bilbo as if through mist.
Just before the rim touches Bilbo’s mouth, the kitchen door slams open and Gandalf appears in a whirl of grey-blue cloak and sharp eyes. He flings the mug aside as though swatting away a poisonous fly. Tea splashes in a steaming arc across the table.
“Bilbo Baggins! No! Why in Arda would you make tea of hemlock leaves? Do you know how poisonous those are?” Gandalf’s voice is a clap. His eyes blaze with that terrible kindness he reserves for those he loves.
Bilbo stumbles, hand frozen midair, his lips trembling. He laughs, half hysteric, half exhausted. “Exactly, Gandalf. I have done everything I can here. I have written my book; Bag End is set to go to proper hands when I’m gone. I have made peace with everyone. I have nothing left to do in this world, so let me go see Thorin, please.” His voice breaks like a tiny branch.
Gandalf’s face flattens into grave firmness. He crosses the room in two strides and catches Bilbo by the shoulders, steadying him. “Thorin will not be pleased to have you early,” he says quietly, anger layered under sorrow. “I will take you to Rivendell for a time. You need it, Bilbo. You need other hearts, and time to grieve without tearing what you have left.”
“No!” Bilbo struggles against him, a small animal fighting a net. “I need Thorin. I can’t wait. I can’t—please, Gandalf, let me go—he is my heart.” Tears spill hot down Bilbo’s face as he reaches for the discarded mug. “I cannot stand being here without him.”
Gandalf’s hands are gentle but relentless. “You will not leave until I have seen you fed and seen you safe. You will not go alone to find what he is. Go with me. Let Rivendell mend the first edges; then, then you may go if you must.”
Thorin can hear everything as if through glass. Each plea from Bilbo falls into him and splits him into smaller, sharper pieces. He wants to scream that he is here, that he needs Bilbo too, that to draw a breath without Bilbo beside him is to inhale glass. He reaches out and knocks against the room’s air so hard his ribs ache, but Gandalf only smiles that sad, knowing smile and leads Bilbo away.
As Gandalf shepherds Bilbo from the room, Bilbo's voice raw and small. “Thorin, wait for me. I’ll come—” His words hang on the threshold, and Thorin, left behind like a ghost, closes his eyes until the room blurs. He cannot follow, cannot touch, cannot tether Bilbo to him. All he can do is watch the man he loves carried away, feeling the impossible weight of being loved beyond reach.
Thorin opens his eyes once again to the smial of Bag End. It is warm, cozy, and quiet, too quiet. The memory of Bilbo’s last despairing scene claws at his heart, and fear drives him to search the halls at once.
He finds Bilbo in one of the back rooms. The hobbit moves slowly, broom in hand, sweeping the floor with deliberate strokes, pausing to dust each shelf as if the work alone keeps him tethered. Thorin halts in the doorway, struck by how much older Bilbo looks now. More wrinkles mark his face, his copper curls are laced with silver, and the spring that once carried his step has dimmed into weariness.
Bilbo sighs as he shifts boxes and crates from the corners, clearing the space as though preparing it for someone new. Thorin frowns. Why this room? Who for?
Bilbo bends over one chest, familiar to Thorin the moment he sees it. His breath catches as Bilbo kneels, fingers trembling over the latch. The lid creaks open, and within lies treasure: gold, gems, and relics from far-off days. Yet Bilbo’s eyes pass over the wealth without a flicker of interest. His hands reach instead for a glimmer of silver, an impossibly light shirt, shining as though woven from moonlight.
The mithril shirt.
Memory sears Thorin’s chest. He knows it instantly, knows the moment he pressed it into Bilbo’s hands. One of the last gifts he ever gave.
Bilbo clutches the shirt against his chest, eyes closing, shoulders shaking. A single tear slips free, falling onto the shining mail. “I still miss you,” he whispers, voice breaking, as he hugs the shirt like a lifeline.
Thorin aches to answer, to say I miss you too, amrâlimê, but his throat tightens with silence.
At last, Bilbo lays the shirt aside and pulls something else from the chest. A small blade, simple but deadly, its elvish runes glowing faintly even in Bag End’s soft light. Sting.
Thorin’s blood runs cold as Bilbo stares at the blade, grief hollowing his face. His hand trembles as he lifts it, slowly, almost reverently, until the point hovers near his own throat.
“No,” Thorin breathes, surging forward. His hands reach for Bilbo’s wrist, but they pass through like smoke. “Bilbo, stop! Please—don’t!” His voice shatters in the air, unheard.
Bilbo closes his eyes, steadying his grip. Thorin screams, begs, claws at the empty air, powerless to do more than watch the man he loves inch toward death.
A knock rattles the front door.
Bilbo jolts, nearly dropping the blade. With a strangled gasp he shoves Sting back into the chest, slams the lid, and drags a sleeve across his eyes. Thorin slumps, weak with relief, as Bilbo composes himself and shuffles to the door.
When it swings open, Thorin blinks. On the doorstep stands one of Bilbo’s many relations, a polite smile masking impatience. Beside him, half-hidden, is a boy. A fauntling by hobbit reckoning, gawky and uncertain, hovering like he wishes he could vanish. But what steals Thorin’s breath is the boy’s face. Raven-dark hair. Blue eyes. A sadness far too heavy for someone so young.
“Hello, Frodo Baggins,” Bilbo says with a soft smile, holding out his hand. “I’m your cousin, though you may call me uncle if you like.”
“H-Hello,” Frodo murmurs, his voice small. He shakes Bilbo’s hand as if it might vanish.
When the other relative leaves, Bilbo ushers Frodo inside, showing him the smial with a forced cheer. His voice lifts, pointing out cozy rooms and cupboards of food, speaking as though he is glad for the company. Thorin notices the brightness is brittle, a mask stretched thin. Frodo, for his part, nods politely, answering in brief murmurs until he excuses himself to unpack in the very room Bilbo prepared.
Bilbo lingers in the hallway until Frodo disappears behind the door. Then the smile falls. He turns, slow and heavy, retreating to his own bedroom. Thorin follows, dread thick in his chest.
The moment the door clicks shut, Bilbo collapses onto the bed. His hands twist into the coverlet as he buries his face, muffling the sobs that shake his frame. “He looks so much like you, Thorin…” His voice is broken, childlike, raw. “I had to adopt the lad. He’s lost his parents so young, and—” Bilbo’s breath hitches, tears soaking the sheets. “But it hurts… it hurts so much to look at him. He reminds me of you in every way…”
Thorin kneels beside the bed, reaching out though he knows it is useless. He longs to cradle Bilbo, to whisper that he is proud, that Frodo will save him from the dark. But his hands pass through, his mouth makes no sound, and so all he can do is close his eyes, praying for this dream to end before it kills him too.
Thorin opens his eyes to Bag End’s kitchen. The morning light is mellow through the round window, and the kettle hisses softly on the hob, but the room feels brittle with quiet. Bilbo stands at the chopping board, cutting vegetables with a slow, methodical rhythm that looks more like ritual than meal prep. His copper curls are threaded with silver now; furrows crease his brow. Every motion carries the weight of sleeplessness.
Thorin watches him until Bilbo pauses and stares out the window. Down on Bagshot Row, neighbors trade greetings and baskets, children dart between legs, someone’s dog barks happily. Bilbo follows their laughter with hollow eyes, then looks back at the carrot on his board. He lifts the knife.
Thorin’s stomach drops. On Bilbo’s wrist, thin pale scars shine like abandoned roads. Memory queues up the scenes Thorin has already seen, Bilbo at the edge, the letter, the collapse, and a cold tightness clamps his chest. He moves toward Bilbo, the reflex to stop him brutal and immediate, but his hand slips through the hobbit like mist. He can’t touch him. He can’t make him hear.
Bilbo brings the blade toward his wrist. For a second Thorin closes his eyes, unable to watch. The blade hovers; Bilbo is so tired the motion feels inevitable. Then a soft voice, young, steady, cuts across the room.
“Uncle Bilbo, let me cook. You rest in the living room, please?” Frodo stands behind him, taller now, no longer a gawky fauntling; he is a man grown in hobbit terms, with a gentleness that steadies the air. He reaches out and takes the knife away, easing it into his own hand as if it were nothing heavier than a spoon.
Bilbo blinks, shamed and startled, then nods in a small, broken way and shuffles toward the living room. Thorin trails him, wanting to collapse into Bilbo’s arms and never let go, but he knows the rules of this dream. He will watch and be powerless.
In the sitting room Bilbo folds into an armchair and covers his face with both hands. The sound he makes is not a sob so much as a raw, animal sound, grief stripped of decorum. Frodo slips in beside him and simply holds him. The silence they share is intimate and terrible.
“Uncle…” Frodo murmurs, voice small and fierce.
Bilbo’s hands are wet when he lowers them. “I’m sorry, my boy. I miss him so much. I—can’t I go to him? I want to go see Thorin. I have nothing left here.”
“Uncle,” Frodo says, fingers on Bilbo’s sleeve. “You are not nothing. Don’t say that. I need you. I—” He breaks off, swallowing, then finds the words again. “I don’t know what it’s like to be an adult without you. You taught me about maps and tea and how to hide the best muffins. Please, stay awhile longer.”
Bilbo sniffs, a cracked little laugh. “You lie well, Frodo. That’s a fine lie.” His voice softens to a whisper. “But it’s a good one. I will try. Forgive your foolish uncle.”
Frodo’s hand tightens. “It’s not foolish. You are all I have that cares like family does. Stay.”
They rise together; Frodo fusses as a host, pouring tea with a practiced hand, laying plates, serving a modest but warm meal. The clatter of crockery sounds absurdly ordinary in a house that feels like it is falling apart inside. Thorin watches Bilbo eat, small bites, eyes flitting to the doorway, as Frodo chats about a stubborn rose in the garden and a market seller with too many hats. Bilbo smiles sometimes, but it never reaches his eyes.
When the plates are cleared, Bilbo rests his head against Frodo’s shoulder for a moment, and Thorin’s throat tightens until it hurts.
He closes his eyes against the sting of helplessness. When he forces them open again, the room is bright as ever, the tea steam curling like a promise. Bilbo laughs at a small joke Frodo makes, and Thorin feels both immense relief and a cold dread. Relief that Bilbo is held, dread that it took so little to almost lose him.
Thorin presses his palms to his eyes until the dark blooms behind his lids. He begs whatever dream god governs this place to let him wake into their bed, to feel Bilbo’s breath on his neck, to hear the steady beat of a life they still share. He will not watch Bilbo break again, not if he can help it, and not if waking can change the world.
Thorin opens his eyes and jolts, this is not Bag End.
He stands in a room of luminous white, walls curving and flowing in graceful arcs like frozen waves. The carvings breathe with leaves, vines, and flowers; everything glimmers with an otherworldly sheen. Elven, the word slides into his mind like a stone in his gut, and fury rises unbidden in his chest.
Tall figures move quietly around him, their hands full of linens, herbs, and crystal basins that smell of lavender and sage. Their robes whisper across the polished floor. They do not notice him.
At the center of the chamber, beneath light that falls like liquid silver, lies Bilbo.
Thorin freezes. His hobbit, his heart. Bilbo’s curls are entirely white now, his face deeply wrinkled, his chest rising and falling with fragile, uneven breaths. Frodo sits beside him, clutching his hand, tears running freely down his cheeks. Gandalf stands nearby, robed in white, staff in hand, his expression both kind and unbearably sad.
“Frodo, my boy,” Bilbo whispers, voice thin as paper. “Do not cry. I am only… finally going to my dear love.”
Frodo shakes his head fiercely, his voice breaking. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you, Uncle. I… I can’t—”
“Shh,” Bilbo soothes, though his voice trembles with the effort. “I know. But you won’t be alone, Frodo. You’ll wait for Sam. Gandalf will be here for you. You still have your road ahead.”
His eyes, clouded but still warm, turn toward the wizard. “Gandalf… tell me, old friend. When I close my eyes, will I be with Thorin? Will we finally be together?”
Gandalf’s hand tightens on his staff. His reply is steady, though sorrow lies heavy in it. “Bilbo, my dear old friend. I will make certain you two find each other. And when you do, your time together will be long.”
“Good…” Bilbo exhales, almost a laugh, almost a sob. “I waited so long. I would hate for it to be cut short again. I only hope… he still loves me…”
Thorin’s heart shatters. He drops to his knees beside the bed, reaching for Bilbo’s hand though he knows he cannot touch him.
“Of course he does,” Gandalf answers gently.
Bilbo closes his eyes with a soft smile. His chest rises, falls, rises… then stills.
“Uncle!” Frodo wails, collapsing forward, clutching the now-limp hand. Gandalf places a steadying arm around him as the boy sobs into the fabric of his robe. Thorin presses his fists to his eyes, choking on grief, the world swimming with tears.
And then, he feels it. A gaze.
He looks up. Gandalf is staring directly at him.
“Thorin Oakenshield,” the wizard says softly, though Frodo hears nothing. “will protect your uncle. You need not fear, he will never be alone again. And Thorin… he will not make the same mistake twice.”
“I hope not…” Frodo whispers through his tears, rubbing his eyes. He seems unaware of the true addressee.
“Oh, he will,” Gandalf replies, his lips curling into the faintest smile. His eyes flicker with the weight of hidden knowing. “Thorin only needs a reminder, that every moment with our beloveds is precious. A gift. And gifts must never be wasted.”
He lifts his white staff. Its light catches Thorin’s eyes, piercing through him like truth itself.
“It is time,” Gandalf says, voice low and resonant. “Bilbo Baggins will go to his beloved Thorin. And may that confounded dwarf lose his stubbornness in the life to come.”
The room flares with white, and Thorin’s vision floods with light.
Thorin jolts upright in bed, chest heaving, skin clammy with sweat. His heart races as though he has run a great distance. Shadows of dreams cling to him, fragments of battles, tears, farewells, but the sharpest memory is the ache in his chest, the hollow pain of loss. He can’t name the details, but he knows what it felt like: despair.
And then he realizes.
Bilbo is not beside him.
“Bilbo?” His voice cracks. Panic surges through him like wildfire. He leaps out of bed, throws open the bedroom door, and storms through the house. Doors slam against the walls as he tears them open one by one. His throat tightens with each empty room.
When he flings open the guest room door, Bilbo jerks upright in the bed, startled. His curls are mussed from sleep, his eyes wide. “Thorin, what on earth are you—?”
Thorin doesn’t let him finish. He crashes into Bilbo, arms wrapping around him in a desperate embrace, clutching him as if he might vanish into smoke.
“I will never leave you,” Thorin gasps, his voice breaking. “Never again. I will not let our time be cut short. I swear to you, I’ll do better.” Tears sting his eyes and spill hot down his cheeks.
Bilbo blinks, utterly bewildered, but his arms come up to hold Thorin back, gentle and steady. “My love,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across Thorin’s damp cheek, “did you have a nightmare?”
Thorin swallows hard. Nightmare. Yes, yet no. More than that. He cannot explain the rawness clawing at his heart. “Just… a reminder,” he manages hoarsely, “of what truly matters.” He presses his forehead to Bilbo’s temple, refusing to let go. His lips scatter frantic kisses along Bilbo’s cheek, his hair, the corner of his mouth. “I’m calling in sick today. No office, no meetings. I’ll spend the whole day with you. Only you.”
Bilbo stiffens, stunned. “What? Thorin Oakenshield, you cannot just, skip work? You? Of all people?” His voice rises in disbelief.
“I’m the CEO,” Thorin answers roughly, clinging tighter. “I can do anything.”
Bilbo stares at him, exasperated, but there’s a glimmer of tenderness in his eyes. “Valar save us. Balin and Dwalin will chew you out,” he mutters, though his arms tighten around Thorin all the same. He leans into the embrace, a small smile softening his features. “But… this is nice.”
“Come,” Bilbo whispers after a long pause, brushing Thorin’s hair back from his damp brow. “Let’s have breakfast together.”
They shuffle toward the kitchen, Thorin still wrapped stubbornly around Bilbo as though he’ll disintegrate if he lets go. Bilbo chuckles when Thorin refuses to release him, even as he tries to crack eggs. “Honestly, you great lump, how am I supposed to cook like this?”
“You’ll manage,” Thorin mutters against his curls, his arms locked firm around Bilbo’s waist.
Bilbo sighs, amused, and tilts his head back just enough to brush his lips against Thorin’s cheek. “Then at least tell me what you dreamt of. Something dreadful, judging by the way you’re clinging.”
Thorin stills. His throat works before words come, heavy and raw. “I don’t remember the details. Not clearly. Just that I left you behind. And you—” His voice cracks. He buries his face against Bilbo’s shoulder. “You weren’t yourself. You broke. And I broke you. I don’t ever want to do that to you.”
Bilbo’s hands still on the cutting board. He leans back into Thorin’s chest, frowning softly. “Well,” he says gently, “we’re together now. You and I haven’t been… as close as we once were, true, thanks to your job. But I’m not exactly broken, am I?”
Thorin shuts his eyes, because his mind whispers traitorously: Not yet.
As the thought enters his mind, Thorin tightens his arms around Bilbo, as though sheer force can keep the world from taking him away. Bilbo inhales slowly, steadying them both. Whatever Thorin dreamt, it frightened him deeply, and Bilbo hates seeing his husband afraid.
“Shall we go on a date today then?” Bilbo asks gently.
“Yes,” Thorin replies without hesitation, nodding quickly. “Anywhere, so long as it’s with you.”
Bilbo’s cheeks flush, warmth creeping across his face. “Oh, you’ve suddenly turned romantic, have you?” he teases, chuckling as he stirs the pan. “Well then, my gallant husband, would you mind getting the plates ready, love?”
Thorin hesitates. A shuddering breath escapes him before he presses a lingering kiss to the curve of Bilbo’s neck and, with visible reluctance, lets go. He makes his way to the dining room, setting the plates down one by one. As he does, an unfamiliar weight settles in his chest. When was the last time he helped with such a simple, domestic task? He glances around their tidy home, the gleaming wood, the neat shelves, the sunlight pouring across Bilbo’s careful touches, and guilt burns inside him. He’s left Bilbo to shoulder the weight of their life together while he buried himself in work.
Moments later, Bilbo arrives with the food: golden pancakes, crisp bacon, perfectly cooked eggs, and a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice. Thorin catches himself frowning, lost in thought, until Bilbo leans down and brushes a soft kiss against his lips.
“Are you alright, Thorin?” Bilbo asks quietly, eyes searching his.
“I’ve neglected you…” Thorin admits, his voice low, almost ashamed.
Bilbo opens his mouth to deny it, but the truth hangs between them, undeniable. Thorin has neglected him. Instead of soft lies, Bilbo places his hand over Thorin’s and smiles gently.
“You did,” he says honestly. “But you’re here now. You’re listening to me. And I think… that’s worth a great deal.”
Thorin exhales, a tremor of relief and guilt mingled, and cups Bilbo’s cheek. He kisses him softly, tenderly, before sitting down. For the first time in far too long, they share breakfast together, not Thorin rushing with a mug of coffee in one hand, papers in the other, already halfway out the door.
It is… nice. More than nice. It feels like healing.
Thorin eats slowly, savoring every bite. The pancakes are fluffy, the bacon perfectly crisp, the eggs rich with flavor. Fresh, real food, something he hasn’t tasted in too long, dulled by months of greasy takeout and hastily swallowed sandwiches. He closes his eyes, almost overwhelmed.
“Bilbo…” Thorin says after a pause, setting his fork down. “I’ve been thinking of going back to the gym. I can’t… I won’t allow myself to fall apart. If I die too soon, it would destroy you.”
Bilbo stills, his eyes softening. Then he smiles, warm and bright, a spark of his old cheer breaking through. “Then I’ll join you. I think it’ll do us both some good.”
A genuine smile spreads across Thorin’s face, the kind that reaches his tired eyes. “I’m glad to hear that.”
They finish their meal in comfortable silence, the air filled with clinking cutlery and the scent of coffee. Thorin leans back at last, watching Bilbo clear the plates, and his heart swells with a fierce, protective love.
“For our date,” Thorin says, his voice lighter now, “I was thinking of a picnic in the park. It’s been too long since we enjoyed one.”
Bilbo looks up, surprised, and then smiles, his eyes crinkling in delight. “A picnic? I love that. It sounds wonderful.”
Thorin reaches across the table, taking Bilbo’s hand in his. He gives it a firm squeeze, as if to anchor himself in this moment. “Then a picnic it shall be. Just the two of us.”
Bilbo nods, cheeks warm again. For the first time in a long while, he feels like they are walking forward together.
The day drifts by in quiet, ordinary tasks that feel extraordinary simply because they share them. Bilbo hums as he sorts the laundry, folding shirts into neat piles, while Thorin sweeps the hardwood floors with methodical strokes. The hush of bristles against the boards, the gentle slosh of water in the washer, the scent of soap, it is all so simple, yet Thorin finds himself aching with contentment. This, he realizes, is the kind of life he has been starving for without knowing it.
When his phone buzzes on the counter, Thorin wipes his palms on his trousers and answers. The voice on the other end begins rattling off updates, but Thorin cuts them short with firm finality. “I told you, I’m calling in sick. Handle it without me.” And with that, he powers the phone off completely, the silence afterward feeling almost sacred.
Bilbo glances over with one eyebrow arched, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You, ignoring work? I’ll have to write today down in the calendar.”
Thorin only grunts in amusement, setting the broom aside and coming over to kiss Bilbo’s temple. “Today belongs to us.”
They move to the kitchen, slipping into a rhythm as they prepare their picnic. Bilbo reaches for the knife to chop vegetables, but something twists sharply in Thorin’s chest. Before Bilbo can slice anything, Thorin gently takes the knife from his hands.
“I’ll do the cutting,” Thorin says, trying to keep his voice even.
Bilbo blinks in surprise, tilting his head. “Oh? And here I thought you avoided chopping like the plague.”
“I’d like to, today,” Thorin insists, already setting to work. His shoulders ease only when Bilbo steps back, chuckling and shaking his head.
“You’re acting strangely, my love, but I suppose I don’t mind being spoiled.”
Together they prepare everything: crusty bread, roasted chicken, fruits and jams, cheeses and wine. When the basket is packed and ready, Thorin feels an almost boyish excitement stir in him.
In a sudden whim, he scoops Bilbo up into his arms. Bilbo yelps in surprise, laughter bubbling out as he clutches at Thorin’s shoulders.
“Thorin Durinson! Put me down this instant, you’ll drop me!”
“Never,” Thorin says, grinning as he carries Bilbo out the door and sets him carefully into the passenger seat of their car. Bilbo is still chuckling when Thorin starts the engine, the sound like music to him.
The sun is bright and golden when they arrive at the park, the air fresh with the scent of cut grass and blooming flowers. Families sprawl on blankets, children chase dogs across open fields, friends laugh together under the trees. Thorin and Bilbo walk hand in hand, unhurried, soaking in the life around them.
Near the pond, Thorin buys a small bag of duck feed from a vendor. Together they scatter it across the water, watching the ducks paddle closer with cheerful quacks. Thorin slips his arms around Bilbo from behind, resting his chin atop the smaller man’s head.
Bilbo tilts his head back slightly. “You’re being awfully clingy today.”
“I know,” Thorin murmurs, his voice rough with honesty. “I just… need to be close to you.”
Bilbo’s smile softens. He rests his hand over Thorin’s, squeezing gently. “Don’t apologize. I don’t mind in the least. Only, promise me you know I’ll never leave you.”
Thorin chuckles low in his chest. “I know. And I will never leave you either.” He presses a kiss to Bilbo’s curls before pulling back with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Now come, I know you. You’re hungry without your constant snacking.”
Bilbo laughs outright, swatting his arm. “Cheeky man.”
They find a shady tree and spread out their checkered blanket, the basket soon yielding its treasures. Crusty baguettes and flaky croissants sit beside jars of jam and honey. A wooden board gleams with wedges of cheese, clusters of grapes, and plump olives. Strawberries, peaches, and slices of watermelon glisten in the sunlight. A pitcher of lemonade beads with condensation, joined by chilled sparkling water and a bottle of white wine. There is golden fried chicken, a crisp garden salad, and a tin of buttery cookies waiting for dessert.
They settle down side by side, shoulders pressed together as they share bites, laugh over old memories, and simply exist in one another’s presence. Thorin watches Bilbo’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, listens to the gentle cadence of his voice, and feels peace settle in his chest.
He swears to himself, fiercely and silently, that he will never again take this for granted. Not one second of it.
“You know, Bilbo… perhaps we should visit your cousins soon,” Thorin says after a moment of thoughtful silence. His arm rests warmly around Bilbo’s shoulders as the two of them watch the sunlight flicker through the leaves. “It’s been far too long since you saw your nephew Frodo.”
Bilbo blinks, turning his head toward him. “Why so suddenly?” His tone is curious, but there’s that same flicker of suspicion in his eyes, as though he’s still trying to unravel what Thorin dreamt that left him so shaken.
Thorin hesitates, then exhales slowly. “It feels… as though I should thank him. As if he protected you while I was gone. Maybe even give him a cat like he's been asking for...” His voice drops into a low sadness, and he frowns as though scolding himself for something Bilbo doesn’t quite understand.
“Oh, love.” Bilbo reaches up and touches Thorin’s cheek with gentle fingers. “I don’t know what you dreamt, since even you don’t remember it clearly, but it’s clung to you like a shadow. Still… yes. We’ll visit Frodo this week. He’ll be glad to see us.” He pauses, a little smile tugging at his lips. “And perhaps we can see your side of the family too. Make a whole outing of it, Fíli, Kíli, Dís, Frerin… wouldn’t that be lovely? If you can spare the time from wo—”
“I will always have time away from work,” Thorin cuts in, the words sharp with conviction. He grips Bilbo’s hand as though anchoring himself. “I promise you that.”
The stubborn fire in his eyes makes Bilbo’s chest tighten. He softens, squeezing Thorin’s hand. “Very well then. I’ll hold you to it.”
They lean into one another, voices weaving together as the afternoon drifts on. Bilbo speaks of the small things, what he does to keep the house tidy while Thorin is away, the neighbors’ gossip, the new recipe he’s been experimenting with. Thorin listens intently, for once not half-distracted by work, and in turn tells Bilbo how he will rearrange his schedule. No more endless late nights, no more letting projects swallow him whole. He even admits, quietly, that he’s considering retiring early, handing the reins to Fíli once the boy is ready.
Bilbo raises his brows at that. “Dís and Víli won’t be pleased, you know.”
“I know.” Thorin’s voice is steady, resolute. “But my time with you is worth far more than their disapproval.”
That earns him a laugh, warm and fond. They continue talking, about everything and nothing at all, their words tumbling easily like water over stones. Somewhere between planning family outings and confessing future hopes, Thorin mentions what else will change: fewer late nights, no more whiskey-soaked dinners, and an end to smoking.
“You should join me in that,” he adds pointedly. “Not the drinking, you don’t do much of that. But the smoking. You’re far too faithful to those wretched things.”
Bilbo sighs, looking sheepish. “A dreadful habit, I know. The patches itch something awful, though. I always end up tearing them off.”
A mischievous glint sparks in Thorin’s eyes. He leans in and nips gently at Bilbo’s ear. “I believe I can distract you from the itchiness. Maybe we can take on riding together?”
Bilbo gasps, a soft, involuntary sound escapes his mouth as he knows Thorin doesn't mean horse riding, before he shoves Thorin’s shoulder with mock outrage. “Not in public, you brute!”
“Then at home?” Thorin asks, utterly unrepentant, his deep chuckle vibrating against Bilbo’s skin.
Bilbo’s answering smile is tender despite the playful scolding. “At home,” he agrees softly.
Thorin presses a kiss to Bilbo’s temple, holding him close as though he never intends to let go. In his heart, he vows he won’t. Not in this life, not in any to come. He will stay with Bilbo until they are old and gray and unable to rise from their bed. And when this life ends, he will find him again, as many times as fate allows.
And when next he sees Gandalf, Thorin knows exactly what he will say: thank you.
