Work Text:
Look but don’t touch.
Touch but don’t feel.
Feel but don’t linger.
Linger but don’t last.
Bilbo was a pale creature, small and alone, fragile and yet already broken. His cold, dead hands covered Sting, the thing he would die buried with. All dwarves were buried with something, be it gold or jewels, a loved item, or even something small, like a piece of metal. Thorin didn’t know why his people did so, but he followed the tradition none the less. It was just something his people did and still did without question.
He was never much of a man with wood. He knew very few dwarves who were skilled with it, save Bifur (whose toys looked like something out of a nightmare), and Bofur (whose toys were normal, contrasting heavily with what his brother made).
Bofur had tried to get Bilbo buried with his hat, but Thorin told him not to. It wasn’t that Bilbo didn’t deserve to be buried with it, but he knew that Bofur almost never separated himself from that hat. Thorin honestly couldn’t remember not seeing the toymaker wearing it. It was a part of himself. Thorin knew that whenever he’d see Bofur next, this time hatless, then he’d be reminded of Bilbo’s death and the fact that he caused it.
Instead, Bofur made the coffin. Bifur tried to help, but Bofur said that he wished to work alone. Whenever he worked, he did it away from the others. Thorin rarely got to see it because Bofur wouldn’t allow anyone else to see it.
Whenever asked why, he would just say he wanted to work free of scrutiny.
Thorin respected his wishes.
Bofur worked day and night, making the coffin to the best of his abilities. He spent the most time with Bilbo’s body, and Thorin felt jealous. But in the end he knew that jealousy would get him nowhere. He had duties now as king of Erebor, and that meant making sure his people were safe. His nephews were recovering from their wounds, and soon were able to crack jokes. They knew not of Bilbo’s demise-Thorin had made sure that no word got to them from any members of his company. Still, this could not last forever; but at least they had a little longer to live in ignorance.
You are so lucky, Thorin thought. I wish I did not know of Bilbo’s death.
When Bofur finished the coffin, he placed Bilbo in it. Once that was done, he came to Thorin. His face was grim, bags under his eyes from all the work he did. “I have made it,” he said. “It is done.”
Bilbo lay before him, dressed in his Shire style clothing. His hair was neatly made, though now it hung limp to the sides of his face. Bofur had clearly tried to make the body look its best, but there was no denying that he was dead.
His fingers clutched Sting, as if somehow that could save him. It hadn’t, and it never could.
“Before we bury him,” Bofur said, “at least give me a few minutes longer to be alone with him.”
“Why?” Thorin asked. “I thought our rivalry ended with his death.”
Bofur scowled. “You got him killed. He tried to save us and you got him killed.”
And Thorin left Bofur alone, knowing the words were true. Now there was no hobbit to fight over which of the two gave their affections. All they had now was a body, for surely Bilbo’s spirit surely did not cling to this world. What was there left of it for him?
When the coffin was finally lowered in the ground, the company standing over him, all in tears, did Thorin finally see how small Bilbo was. They placed the coffin in the ground still open, only so the mourners could see Bilbo one last time. Even Fili and Kili were there, crying their eyes out. Thorin had robbed them of him. They could live in ignorance no longer.
Bilbo was so small for someone who saved their lives many times before. He was so small for one of the most courageous people Thorin had ever met. It was as if Thorin had spent all his life looking at a distorted image of Bilbo and only now was seeing the truth. Bilbo had a way of making himself the largest and loudest person in the room, but now all that was left of him was a small, pale, and fragile body.
The tears fell down the toymaker’s cheeks, and soon they fell down the king’s as well. They both took one last look at the hobbit, forcing themselves to memorize his features before his body became dust. His eyes were closed and never again would they open.
Bofur reached down and moved a curl of orange hair away from his eyes. Thorin touched his ice cold cheek that could rival even the fiercest winter.
Around his neck was a gold ring, hung on a simple chain. It did not gleam gold or silver. On his large feet was nothing but dark hair. His clothing covered him and yet did nothing to warm him.
Bofur was the one to close the coffin, and Thorin was the one to bury him. As much as it pained them both, it was not nearly as painful as taking their last look at Bilbo Baggins, formerly of Bag End. Then they left, leaving him forever in the halls of the kings of Erebor’s past, where maybe he could rest in peace.
Thorin didn’t count on it.