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The fire in Beorn’s great hall crackled low, casting long, dancing shadows against the timbered walls. The rest of the Company had long since succumbed to the heavy sleep brought on by the skin-changer’s honey-cakes and the safety of his roof.
Thorin sat on a low bench, his hands clasped between his knees, staring into the embers. Bilbo stood a few feet away, idly smoothing the front of his travel-worn waistcoat, his auburn tail twitching with a nervous energy that he couldn't quite suppress.
"The Halfling who ran from his front door without a handkerchief," Thorin said softly, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "You have changed, Master Baggins. Or perhaps I am only just now seeing you clearly."
Bilbo turned, his green eyes reflecting the firelight. "I think we’ve both had our eyes opened, Thorin. It’s hard to keep up pretenses when you’re nearly eaten by trolls or chased by Orcs." He hesitated, then took a bold step closer. "And it makes one realize that life is too short for... well, for not saying what one means."
Thorin looked up, his gaze heavy and sincere. "I am a Dwarf of the line of Durin. We are not known for our brevity or our ease with words. But if I am to be honest... I find I do not wish to imagine the journey ahead without you by my side. Not just as a burglar. But as something more."
Bilbo felt the breath hitch in his throat. There was no miscommunication here. No riddles in the dark. Thorin was laying himself bare.
"Well," Bilbo squeaked, then cleared his throat. "That is... quite a coincidence. Because I find I feel much the same. In fact, I’ve felt that way since you pulled me onto your pony after the goblins."
Thorin offered a rare, small smile. "Then we have a problem of custom, Bilbo. Dwarven courting is a ponderous affair. It is built on the making of things. We give gifts, jewelry, weapons, intricate carvings, for years, sometimes decades. We prove our worth through the labor of our hands before a marriage is even whispered of."
Bilbo chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, goodness. A Hobbit would find that exhausting. We are far more... let’s say, 'efficiently secretive'."
"Secretive?" Thorin asked, tilting his head.
"Hobbits don't announce their courting," Bilbo explained, moving to sit beside him. "We don't talk about it at all. If I were courting someone, I might bring them a nice vegetable marrow or fix their fence, but we’d never mention the 'm-word.' We just... spend time together. And then, one day, we go for a long walk with a witness, usually a distant cousin who can be bribed with a pie, and get married in a quiet grove."
Thorin’s eyebrows rose. "No feast? No public vows?"
"Oh, we disappear for a fortnight," Bilbo continued. "A 'honeymoon' in the woods. When we come back, we just move into the same smial. We change the name on the mailbox, and that’s that. Sometimes, Hobbits get so used to living together that they forget they haven't actually had the ceremony yet! It’s all very casual."
"And the gifts?" Thorin asked.
"One big thing," Bilbo said softly. "My father built Bag End for my mother. It was his way of saying his heart was hers. We don't need a thousand trinkets when we have a home."
Thorin sat in silence for a long moment, the cogs of his mind turning. He thought of his Company, of Balin’s constant prodding, of Kíli and Fíli’s incessant whispering about when their uncle would "finally make a move." They were all waiting for the grand Dwarven spectacle. They expected Thorin to start smithing a masterpiece.
A slow, dangerously mischievous glint appeared in Thorin’s blue eyes.
"So," Thorin murmured. "If I were to court you the Hobbit way... we would simply say nothing? We would let the others wonder and wait for a ceremony that will never be announced?"
"Exactly," Bilbo said, a grin tugging at his lips.
Thorin let out a low, dark chuckle. "I like this. Balin has already prepared a lecture on the proper etiquette of presenting a courting-braid. Dwalin has been eyeing my gold reserves to see what I might melt down for a ring."
Thorin turned to Bilbo, his expression turning intense and tender. "Let them wait. Let them look for gold and grand gestures. I would much rather build you a home, Bilbo Baggins. I would much rather spend my months in silence with you, until one day they realize you have simply moved your chair next to mine and changed your name."
Bilbo reached out, his small, warm hand finding Thorin’s calloused one. "Is that a proposal of courting, Thorin Oakenshield?"
"It is," Thorin said, squeezing his hand. "Under the Hobbit rules. From this moment on, I shall not say a word of it to anyone else. I shall simply... fix your fence. Or perhaps, in this case, make sure you have the best cut of meat at every meal."
"And I," Bilbo whispered, leaning his head against Thorin’s sturdy shoulder, "shall keep your secrets. And perhaps steal you away for those two weeks when we finally reach the Mountain."
Thorin leaned down, pressing his forehead against Bilbo’s. "It is a deal, my Burglar. Let the Company wait for a parade. They shall have to settle for a mystery."
In the morning, when the Dwarves woke up, they found Thorin and Bilbo sitting by the fire, sharing a plate of bread. They looked perfectly normal, except for the way Thorin subtly moved to block the wind for Bilbo, and the way Bilbo had already started mending a small tear in Thorin’s cloak without being asked.
Balin leaned over to Dwalin. "See? Nothing yet. He hasn't even offered him a bead. This is going to take years."
Thorin caught Bilbo’s eye and winked. Bilbo’s tail flicked with delight.
The journey continued through the darkening eaves of the world, but within the small, private space between the King and the Hobbit, it was the brightest season of their lives.
Thorin Oakenshield had discovered a new kind of gold, one that didn't clink in a chest but hummed with a soft, hobbitish warmth. However, being a Dwarf of ancient lineage, the instinct to shower his intended with gems as large as hen's eggs was a physical ache in his chest.
"I feel as though I am a pressurized steam-valve," Thorin whispered one night behind a screen of ferns. "My hands itch to forge you a crown of mithril, yet I am handing you a particularly nice piece of dried apple."
Bilbo giggled, leaning back into Thorin’s furs. "And it is the best piece of apple I’ve ever had, Thorin. The prank requires sacrifice."
The forest was a nightmare of spiderwebs and choking air, but Thorin was on a mission. While the rest of the Company grumbled over their shrinking rations, Thorin was a shadow in the dim light.
He would find a cluster of edible berries or a clean spring of water, and instead of announcing it, he would wait. When the Company was distracted by Bombur falling asleep or Dwalin cursing a tree, Thorin would slip the prize into Bilbo’s pocket.
Once, under the cover of a thick fog, Thorin pulled Bilbo behind a massive oak. He pressed a small, smooth wooden carving into Bilbo’s palm, a tiny, perfect acorn.
"I found the wood near the edge of the path," Thorin murmured, his eyes soft. "It isn't a diamond, but it is yours."
Bilbo stood on his tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss to Thorin's nose. "It’s perfect. Now, go back to looking brooding and miserable, Balin is watching."
Thorin immediately dropped his face into a thunderous scowl, stepping out from behind the tree and barking at Kíli to pick up his pace. Bilbo followed, his tail twitching with silent laughter.
In the dungeons of the Elvenking, the prank reached a masterpiece level of difficulty. Thorin was in his cell with bilbo on the other side sitting against Thorin's cell, taking a small break from being invisible. At night, when the guards were drunk on forest wine and the other Dwarves were snoring, Thorin would reach through the bars, and Bilbo would press his back against them.
It was here, in the cold damp of the cells, that Thorin finally cracked. He couldn't give him gold, but he could give him a mark.
With nimble, shaking fingers, Thorin reached into Bilbo’s auburn curls. He worked at the very base of Bilbo's neck, hidden beneath the collar of his shirt and the thickest part of his hair. He wove a tiny, intricate courting braid, the kind that traditionally required a ceremony of state.
"There," Thorin whispered, his voice thick with a giddy, boyish delight. "No Elf or Dwarf shall see it. But I know it is there. You are marked as mine, Bilbo Baggins."
Bilbo reached back, feeling the tiny, tight weave. "You’re a terrible trouble-maker, Thorin Oakenshield. The Company thinks you’re pining, and here you are, practically married to me in the dark."
By the time they reached the wooden piers of Lake-town, the Company’s obsession with "The Great Courtship" had reached a fever pitch.
Thorin stood on a balcony, watching from a distance as Fíli, Kíli, and Bofur sat around a crate, passing around a pouch of silver coins.
"I’m telling you," Fíli whispered loudly, "Uncle is going to snap by the time we see the Mountain. He’s going to forge a ring out of a dragon-scale and propose on the front steps!"
"Ten gold says he waits until the coronation," Bofur countered. "He’s too traditional for a mountain-side proposal."
Thorin felt a surge of pure, mischievous joy. He turned to find Bilbo standing in the doorway, wearing a new, soft blue tunic Thorin had "found" (haggled for in a back alley) and hidden under Bilbo's pillow that morning.
"They have no idea," Thorin rumbled, pulling Bilbo into his arms for a rare, stolen cuddle. He buried his face in Bilbo’s neck, his nose brushing the hidden braid.
"Not a clue," Bilbo agreed, leaning into the King's strength. "They think you’re a stoic statue, and here you are, giving me silk handkerchiefs and secret braids. I think this is my favorite adventure yet."
Thorin squeezed him tight, already planning the next "small" gift, a silver ink-nib he’d spotted in a shop window. The prank was hard on his Dwarven instincts, but the look in Bilbo’s eyes was worth more than the Arkenstone itself.
……
….
.
The gold was not a treasure; it was a fever. It hummed in the air of Erebor, a low, pulsing vibration that seemed to sync with the frantic beating of Thorin’s heart. He stood in the Treasure Hall, his eyes glassy, his fingers twitching toward the heavy gold chains and the glimmering emeralds that lay like spilled blood across the floor.
But every time his hand reached for a crown to place upon Bilbo’s head, a sharp, cold clarity would pierce through the golden fog.
"Bilbo," Thorin rasped, his voice sounding like grinding stone. He held up a collar of diamonds, each stone the size of a Hobbit’s fist. "You are the Halfling who walked through fire. You deserve to be draped in the light of a thousand stars. Take this. Let the world see your worth."
Bilbo stood a few feet away, his auburn tail tucked tight against his leg, his green eyes filled with a heartbreaking blend of pity and resolve. He didn't reach for the diamonds.
"Thorin," Bilbo said softly, stepping into the circle of the King’s shadow. "Do you remember what we said at Beorn’s? About the one big gift? About the silence?"
Thorin flinched as if struck. The gold sickness roared in his ears, telling him that more was better, that wealth was love. "This is a gift! It is a King’s gift!"
"It’s a mountain’s gift," Bilbo countered gently, placing a warm hand on Thorin’s trembling arm. "And I don't want the mountain. I want the Dwarf who gave me a particularly nice piece of dried apple in Mirkwood. I want the trouble-maker who hid a braid in my hair when the Elves weren't looking."
Thorin’s breath hitched. For a moment, the gold dimmed. He looked at the diamonds in his hand and felt a wave of sudden, violent loathing. He dropped them. They clattered onto the stone, sounding like breaking ice.
"I am losing myself, Bilbo," Thorin whispered, collapsing onto a nearby chest of coins, his head in his hands. "The gold... it speaks. it tells me I am nothing without it. It tells me you are nothing without it."
Bilbo moved closer, kneeling between Thorin’s boots. He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small, brown, and decidedly not made of gold.
"I found this in Beorn’s garden," Bilbo said, pressing the acorn into Thorin’s palm. "I’ve been saving it. I thought... well, you’ve been giving me so many small, wonderful things in secret. I thought it was time I gave you one."
Thorin stared at the seed. It was light. It was living. It was the antithesis of the cold, dead gold surrounding them. His fingers curled around it, and for the first time in days, his pulse slowed.
"An acorn," Thorin murmured, a ghost of his true smile appearing behind his beard. "A gift of the earth."
"It’s a promise, Thorin," Bilbo said, leaning his forehead against the King’s knee. "One day, we’ll plant it. And it will grow into a home. Not a fortress, not a hoard. A home."
Thorin let out a ragged sob, reaching down to pull Bilbo up into his lap. He held the Hobbit with a desperate, crushing strength, burying his face in Bilbo’s neck. This was the only time Bilbo allowed the closeness now, in these fractured moments when the King was stronger than the Sickness.
Days later, the fever gripped Thorin again, but it was different. He was pacing the armory, his eyes searching. He wasn't looking for gold coins or heavy statues. He was looking for protection.
"Bilbo," Thorin called out. His voice was steadier, though still edged with the metallic tang of the hoard. He held a shirt of mail, so light it shimmered like moonlight on water. "Mithril."
Bilbo paused. He saw the way Thorin was looking at him, not as a treasure to be displayed, but as a person to be kept safe. The gold sickness was still there, a shimmering veil, but underneath it was the Dwarf who worried about Bilbo’s safety.
"It is a gift of friendship," Thorin said, his voice pleading. "Not for the world to see. For you. Beneath your clothes. A secret between us."
Bilbo looked at the mail, then at Thorin’s eyes. This was the bridge. It was a Kingly gift, yes, but it served the prank and the heart. It could be hidden. It was a secret.
"I will accept this," Bilbo whispered, stepping forward.
Thorin’s hands were surprisingly gentle as he helped Bilbo pull the shimmering silver over his head. It sat against Bilbo’s skin, cool and reassuring. Bilbo tucked it carefully beneath his linen shirt and waistcoat, smoothing the fabric until the mithril was invisible to any outside eye.
"Thank you, Thorin," Bilbo said, reaching up to touch the hidden braid at the nape of his neck.
Thorin pulled him into a brief, fierce cuddle, his heart beating against the mithril. "It will keep you safe," Thorin breathed. "When the madness takes me again... remember the acorn. Remember the mail. Remember I am trying to find my way back to the garden."
Bilbo squeezed his hand, his tail flicking with a determined spark. "I’m not going anywhere, you stubborn Dwarf. We have an oak tree to plant."
The ice of Ravenhill was slick with blood and frozen mist, the air thick with the metallic tang of slaughter. Thorin Oakenshield was flagging, his breaths coming in ragged, white plumes. Azog the Defiler loomed over him, a monstrous shadow of pale flesh and jagged steel.
Thorin’s foot slipped on a patch of gore. He went down on one knee, Orcrist heavy in his hand, as the Pale Orc raised his massive stone-mace for the killing blow.
"Thorin!" a high, desperate voice shrieked.
A small blur of silver and brown launched itself from behind a jagged rock. Bilbo Baggins didn't have a broadsword or a shield, but he had a heart of pure, stubborn Shire-oak. He threw himself at Azog’s leg, his small elven blade, Sting, glowing with a fierce, sapphire light.
The blade bit deep into the Orc's calf. Azog roared, his aim faltering. The mace crashed into the ice inches from Thorin’s head, sending lethal shards of frozen water flying. That split second was all Thorin needed. He surged upward, his blade finding its mark in the Defiler’s chest.
Thorin collapsed as the beast fell, a jagged wound in his side spilling crimson onto the white ice. Bilbo was there in an instant, his small hands pressing against the King's tunic.
"You stay with me, you hear?" Bilbo sobbed, his auburn tail lashing frantically. "We have a tree to plant! You promised!"
Thorin looked up, the gold sickness entirely vanished, replaced by a clarity so sharp it hurt. "The acorn..." he wheezed, his hand feebly clutching Bilbo’s. "I have it... still..."
The aftermath of the battle was a blur of shouting and the smell of herbal poultices. Thorin had been carried to the royal tent, his life hanging by a thread of Dwarven stubbornness and Hobbit devotion.
For three days, Bilbo did not move. He refused a proper bed, refused to leave for more than a moment to wash his face, and ate only what Bombur or Bofur forced into his hands. He was a permanent fixture at Thorin's bedside, his eyes red-rimmed and fierce.
On the fourth morning, Oin stepped into the tent to change the King's bandages. The brazier was low, casting a soft, golden glow over the scene. Bilbo had finally succumbed to exhaustion. He was slumped in a chair, his head resting on the edge of Thorin’s cot, right next to the King’s hand.
As Bilbo’s head was tilted forward in sleep, his messy auburn curls shifted.
Oin froze, his ear trumpet dangling. There, at the very base of the Hobbit’s neck, hidden beneath the shadow of his collar, was a tiny, expertly woven courting braid. It was a master’s work, tight, intricate, and pulsing with the specific symbolic knots of the Line of Durin.
Oin looked from the braid to Thorin’s unconscious, battered face, then back to the Hobbit.
"The sneaky, silver-tongued scoundrel," Oin whispered, a massive, toothy grin spreading through his white beard.
He didn't say a word. He didn't call for Balin. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small ledger, and scribbled a note. He moved his name from the 'Mid-Summer' column and placed it firmly under the 'Already Happened' column with a very large, smug circle. He was going to be the richest Dwarf in the mountain.
An hour later, Bilbo stirred. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and stretching his stiff back. His tail gave a weary flick as he looked at Thorin, who was breathing more deeply now, the color returning to his lips.
"Morning, lad," Oin said, his voice suspiciously cheery as he crushed some dried kingsfoil in a bowl.
"Morning, Oin," Bilbo croaked. He reached back instinctively to smooth his hair, his fingers brushing the hidden braid. He stiffened, shooting a quick, panicked look at the healer.
Oin was humming a jaunty tune, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. He didn't look at Bilbo, but the smugness radiating off the old Dwarf was thick enough to cut with a knife.
"You look like you've had a very... eventful journey, Master Baggins," Oin said, winking with his one good eye. "Lots of secrets kept in the dark, eh? Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. For a price."
Bilbo’s face went scarlet. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't," Oin chuckled, patting his ledger. "And neither does Balin. Yet. I’m going to enjoy watching him lose twenty gold pieces when the 'announcement' finally comes. You and the King... you’re a pair of real trouble-makers, aren't you?"
Bilbo looked at Thorin, who let out a soft moan and began to open his eyes. Bilbo reached out, taking the King's hand and squeezing it.
"The very best kind, Oin," Bilbo whispered, a tired but triumphant smile breaking across his face. "The very best kind."
….
………
….
The Great Hall of Erebor was usually a place of echoing dignity, but today it sounded like a disturbed hornet's nest. Balin was pacing so rapidly his robes were snapping at his heels, while Dwalin looked ready to tear the massive stone doors off their hinges.
"He didn't leave a map! He didn't leave a guard!" Dwalin roared, his garnet eye flashing with a frantic, protective heat. "The King and the Burglar, just... gone! Vanished into the mountain mist like two ghosts!"
Fíli, perched in his iron chair at the head of the council table, looked remarkably calm for a Prince-Regent who had been handed a kingdom on ten minutes' notice. "I told you, Dwalin. Uncle pulled me aside and said he had 'urgent business' in the West. He told me I was in charge, told me to keep the builders on schedule, and then he and Bilbo slipped out the postern gate at dawn."
"And Oin!" Glóin wailed, waving his hands in the air. "My brother is missing too! I went to his infirmary for a cough tonic, and the place was empty save for a note saying he’d be 'observing a private ritual' for a fortnight!"
"Two weeks," Balin muttered, his fingers flying over his abacus as if math could solve the mystery. "They’ve been gone twelve days. No escort. No fanfare. Just the King, a Hobbit, and a healer with a smug expression and a very full coin-purse."
The Company was in a state of absolute, high-alert panic. They had scoured the lower tunnels, sent scouts to Dale, and nearly interrogated the ravens. They feared a kidnapping, a relapse of gold-sickness, or worse, a secret quest they hadn't been invited to.
While Erebor was spiraling into a collective nervous breakdown, the atmosphere at Beorn’s homestead was significantly more serene.
The air smelled of clover, heavy honey, and the sharp, clean scent of a coming spring. In a quiet grove of ancient oaks just beyond the skin-changer’s timbered halls, the "urgent business" was reaching its conclusion.
Thorin stood beneath the dappled sunlight, looking more relaxed than he ever had within the stone walls of his kingdom. He wore a simple tunic of dark blue wool, devoid of heavy furs or gold filigree. Beside him stood Bilbo, whose auburn tail was twitching with a rhythmic, contented thrum.
Oin stood a few paces away, wearing a sunhat and looking profoundly satisfied. He held a small, weathered book, the legal record required for a Hobbit union.
"By the laws of the Wood and the Soil," Oin said, his voice unusually solemn, "and by the witness of the Stone, I mark this union. Two weeks of silence, two weeks of the Wilds. You’ve shared the bread and the salt. You’ve kept the peace."
Thorin turned to Bilbo, his large, calloused hands taking Bilbo’s smaller ones. He reached back and touched the hidden braid at the base of Bilbo’s neck, the one he had woven in the dark of a cell, now finally brought into the light.
"No crown," Thorin whispered, his eyes fixed on Bilbo’s green ones. "No throne. Just a garden and a name."
"That’s all I ever wanted, Thorin," Bilbo replied, his voice thick with emotion.
Oin cleared his throat loudly. "Right then. Done and done. I’ve signed the book. Now, if we could head back? I’ve got a betting pool to collect on, and I’d like to be there to see the look on Balin’s face when he realizes he owes me thirty gold pieces."
Three days later, the guards at the front gate of Erebor gave a shout that could be heard in the deepest mines.
The Company scrambled to the battlements as three figures emerged from the mountain pass. They weren't riding in a carriage; they weren't accompanied by a victory parade.
Thorin and Bilbo walked side-by-side, their shoulders brushing. They looked dusty, tired, and uncharacteristically happy. Oin followed behind them, whistling a tune that sounded remarkably like a victory march.
As they entered the Great Hall, the Dwarves descended upon them like a landslide.
"Where have you been?!" Dwalin bellowed, nearly lifting Thorin off the ground in a frantic check for injuries. "We thought the Orcs had returned! We thought you’d fallen into a crevasse!"
"Peace, Dwalin," Thorin said, his voice calm and leveled. He didn't offer a grand explanation. He didn't announce a wedding. He simply adjusted his cloak and looked at Fíli. "You kept the halls in order, I trust?"
"I did," Fíli said, his eyes darting between his Uncle and Bilbo. He noticed something then, Bilbo wasn't heading toward his usual guest quarters. He was casually handing his travel pack to a page and nodding toward the royal apartments.
Balin stepped forward, his eyes narrowed as he looked at Oin. "Oin... you look remarkably smug. What happened at Beorn’s?"
Oin didn't say a word. He simply pulled out his ledger, flipped it open to a page with a fresh, official seal, and tapped it with a gnarled finger.
The Company crowded around. Their eyes widened as they read the entry: Union of the Line of Durin and the Line of Baggins. Witnessed by Oin, son of Gróin. Date: Spring, Third Age.
"You... you got married?" Kíli squeaked, looking at Bilbo. "In the woods? Without a feast? Without a single firework?"
"It’s the Hobbit way," Bilbo said, reaching up to adjust his collar, finally letting the tiny, golden-threaded courting braid peek out for all to see. "We went for a walk. We had a witness. We stayed away for a fortnight."
Thorin placed a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, a gesture so possessive and tender it silenced the room. "And now," Thorin rumbled, a ghost of a trouble-maker’s grin touching his lips, "we are going to have a very long nap. Fíli, you’re still in charge until dinner. I believe my husband and I have some 'settling in' to do."
As the pair walked toward the royal chambers, Bilbo’s tail flicked a jaunty 'goodbye' to the stunned Company.
Oin began to walk among the Dwarves, holding out his hat. "Pay up, lads. Pay up. I believe most of you bet on a Mid-summer ceremony? Too slow. Much too slow."
Balin slumped into a chair, watching the King and the Hobbit vanish around the corner. "He out-maneuvered us. In our own mountain. He used Hobbit law to prank his own council."
"Well," Bofur laughed, tossing a coin into Oin's hat. "He did say he was hiring a first-class Burglar. I suppose we shouldn't be surprised when he steals the whole wedding right out from under our noses."