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T.A 2941
October 19th.
“I'm not wearing that,” said Bilbo flatly. He crossed his arms, doing his best not to glower at Thorin.
In the grim shadows of Erebor, the raven crown on Thorin's head gleamed with the same malicious light as Smaug's eyes. The warmth of the Arkenstone, wrapped in a rag and hidden deep in a pocket of his trousers, tingled against his thigh.
He knew magic when he felt it, and this stone had something in its depths. Something between the bristle of Gandalf's staff and the babbling brook of Rivendell. Thankfully it was nothing like the oily slick of Mirkwood – though he didn't like the feel of some of the gold under his feet. Nasty dragon-warmed stuff, and far too much of it in this sprawling chamber. Far too much for any one person.
Thorin looked from Bilbo to the tunic he was holding out.
“This, Master Hobbit, is woven from strands of gold and the softest wool. These are no crystals or coloured glass,” he continued, pointing to the overwhelming amount of gems attached to the front. “These are emeralds, sapphires, diamonds. Moon-stones and fire-stones. This is worth more than all the clothes you have ever worn.”
“And very lovely it is, too. For a dwarf. Which, you might remember, I am not. Thorin, for goodness sake, I doubt I could stand in something like that!”
Anger touched Thorin's features. Bilbo squared his jaw, putting his hands on his hips. It was an expression he'd seen more these last two days in the ruined tomb of Erebor than during the entirety of the quest.
Something here was making Thorin sick. Very, very sick.
“You do not know what you spurn,” Thorin said, pitching his voice lower.
“Save me from the pride of dwarves, as Gandalf would say!” Exclaimed Bilbo. “Thorin, that is a lovely shirt. It’s beautiful. Though you might scoff at hobbit fashions, I have a fine eye for good crafts, and I can see what you're offering me is of the very highest quality. I am truly, honestly, very grateful for that, I am.” He reached out, putting his hands over Thorin's, where he was still holding the tunic out. “But if I put that on, I shall fall over. It is too big and too heavy for me. All I need is another tunic to wear under this coat, not something as fine as that.”
Thorin frowned deeply, looking from the shirt to Bilbo. It was as if he wasn't hearing all the words Bilbo was saying, or they were being understood in the wrong order. His mind was clouded and confused, and as he slowly brought the tunic to himself, he didn't seem able to take his eyes away from the gold woven through the pale cloth.
Bilbo shivered. He'd already discarded the tunic he’d been given in Laketown. Ruined by water, flame, and sweat, it was crusted with filth and stank to the heavens - even after a wash. The seams had come apart quickly under his scrubbing, as it had been cobbled together overnight for no reward save the promise of gold.
“Thorin,” he said.
The dwarf jerked from his reverie, looking up at Bilbo as if he'd forgotten he was there, or what they were doing. Fear clutched Bilbo's heart. This wasn't the Thorin he knew. The one he'd followed across Middle Earth.
“Can't you think where there might be any undertunics? Just woollen ones? No gold, no gems? Please?” he added softly, clasping his hands together in front of him. He felt one step away from wrapping his arms around himself and shoving his cold fingertips into his armpits. His blue coat was thick, but it was stiff and didn’t wrap well around his body without being held in place, and drafty right up the middle.
The coat was of much better make than the tunic. Even after a thorough wash in some water which Bofur had brought up from the depths of the mountain, it had managed to stay in one piece. But it was hardly warm enough with no shirt beneath it.
Thorin's gaze dropped to Bilbo's bare chest. He still looked confused.
Lost.
Just as Bilbo was about to tell him to never mind, that he'd ask Balin or Óin, Thorin nodded sharply.
“Follow me,” he said. The golden shirt dropped from his hands, quickly becoming just one more item in a pile too vast for Bilbo to really comprehend, even while looking at it.
Thorin strode from the treasury, Bilbo almost jogging to keep up. He held his coat tighter around himself, the edges flapping, as Thorin snatched a burning torch from the wall, using it to light their way.
Erebor was shrouded in shadows and grief, the single bobbing torch in the blackness no more a beacon of hope than the golden crown glinting under the light.
Was it selfish, to loathe the crown sitting on Thorin's head? Hadn't Thorin earned it? Didn't he deserve to be King?
Yes, yes, and again, yes. He was selfish, and Thorin had earned and did deserve the crown, but… Not like some fugitive in a hole, like a wight in a barrow. He should be splendid under such a fine crown.
But Thorin wasn't splendid, not like this. When he'd stood on that burning tree, his sword in his hand as he moved to face Azog after the Goblin tunnels, oh, he'd been splendid then. He'd been splendid on the Carrock, and in Laketown, addressing the people. He'd been splendid as he faced down Smaug, and then...
He’d shrunk. Wizened. Something was crushing him, crumpling him into this skulking, hollow creature.
Thorin shoved his shoulder against a door, half jammed with fallen rubble. It groaned with the indignation of something which had been quite happy to be still for a long time, and swung open.
“Where is this...?” Bilbo asked, looking around the little room with wonder. It had stone chests stacked on top of each other along the walls, but their lids were facing outwards, held together with a little catch on each.
“This is one of many rooms around a training arena. These are for storing your clothing and items while you train,” explained Thorin as he set the torch into a bracket, approaching one of the chests.
This one, Bilbo noted as he stood beside Thorin, was inlaid on the front in swirling patterns of silver and some milky, shimmery white rock with a hint of fire in its belly, and runes in the middle.
Thorin reached for the clasp, but he suddenly dropped his fingers, running them over the inscription.
“You cannot read this.”
“Er, no. Though I feel like I've seen that one before,” said Bilbo, pointing to the first.
“You should, as you've seen it often enough. We call it 'thorn', and it is the first rune of my name. The 'th' in Thorin.”
“Oh!” Bilbo said in delight, tapping the rock next to the letter. “Oh, of course it is. This was yours? Well, I suppose it still is, isn't it?”
Thorin nodded. He undid the little clasp, opening the two doors.
Inside the chest were little shelves and drawers, cleverly constructed to utilise the space to the fullest. Several of these in Bag End certainly wouldn't go amiss, though how he'd get even one back to the Shire, Bilbo didn't know. Maybe he could buy some blueprints, and get someone to make it – perhaps even outsource it to Bree, if no one in Hobbiton would look twice at dwarven patterns.
He realised, belatedly, that Thorin had frozen.
“Are you alright...?” Bilbo asked, gently touching the dwarf's armor-clad elbow.
Thorin exhaled suddenly and nodded, looking over to Bilbo.
“I have not seen this in a long time,” he said. There was sadness in his tone, but lightness too – a lightness Bilbo hadn't heard in days. He smiled, hope plucking at his heart as Thorin gave one back. “I was a smaller dwarf, then. Perhaps one of these will suit you better,” he continued, reaching into the shelves to pull out a dark blue tunic.
The cloth was finely woven, but free from any gold or jewels or sparkles. Clever little patterns were pressed into the material. It was clearly a tunic made for a prince, but it looked warm and comfortable, and that was all Bilbo cared about right then.
“Ah-hah! This looks perfect!” Bilbo beamed. “A little long, but I can roll the sleeves up. May I...?” he asked, reaching for the tunic.
Thorin handed it to him. Bilbo wasted no time in shucking off his coat and tugging the tunic down over his head. It, like most things in Erebor, smelled of ash, smoke, and dragon, but only very faintly. Certainly much less than anything else Bilbo had on.
“I can feel myself warming up already,” he said happily, dragging his coat back on and brushing the tunic down. It hung to his mid thigh – closer to the knee, really, but again, he wasn't complaining. “Much better. Thank you, really. It's perfect.”
Thorin closed the doors to the chest, dropping the little catch to keep them closed.
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose it is, to you.”
“We hobbits appreciate the finer things in life, like a simple, warm tunic after a long quest,” sniffed Bilbo as Thorin took the torch again.
“Perhaps you have not yet seen enough of the treasure we have here.”
“What? No, no. I've seen quite enough, thank you, it all starts to look the same after the first few pieces, don't you think? Look, I'm much more interested in rooms like this,” Bilbo said, a touch of desperation in his voice. The lightness in Thorin was fizzling out, and shadows were creeping over his face again. “Won't you show me more of this area? What do these runes say?”
“It does not matter, the ones who bear these names are long dead. Come with me. We will search for the Arkenstone, and I will show you the beauty in my gold.”
Thorin stormed from the room, his cloak dragging behind him and sweeping through the ash on the floor.
All Bilbo could do was hurry after him, disappointment welling up in his throat like hot coals.
Thorin would get better. He had to.
The weight of the Arkenstone in his pocket knocked against his thigh like a drum, beating out a warning.