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The past week served as a brief respite, a moment of stolen peace from the loud thrash of their journey so far, masking the ever-present dread of the journey to come. The isolated landscape of Beorn’s home gave Thorin a chance to rest, to ruminate over other things. Trivial, nonsense things.
Things in the shape of one Bilbo Baggins.
Beorn was a generous host, and Thorin accepted this generosity with endless gratitude and humility, as was befitting of a Dwarven prince. That did not mean, necessarily, that Thorin had to like him. And, oh, Thorin did not like Beorn! In truth, he was rude and brutish, with a smell as foul as his temper. He was large. Much, much too large. Close-minded and unabashed in his hatred for his Dwarven guests. And, perhaps most damning of all, he was utterly besotted with Thorin’s halfling.
Always insisting Bilbo scamper after his gargantuan frame, as he tended to his chores. Asking Bilbo to tend the garden with him, shear the sheep, milk the goats. Beorn was unashamed and outrageous in his affection, calling Bilbo foolish, doting names like little bunny - Thorin was still reeling from that latest development. He was entirely too free with his hands, always descending those great, trunk-like fingers into Bilbo’s crown of curls, grazing them as though they were his to touch.
It was this grim display that Thorin observed through gritted teeth. The two of them, in the garden. Bilbo laughing good-naturedly, as was his way, and swatting Beorn’s palm. All the while the skin-changer watched him with this bemused, stupid smile, as though he really were some little bunny, or a new foal, born on the first morn of Eostre.
But Beorn had indeed done one thing right. For Bilbo, he’d provided a setting so congruous, so fitting for his nature that Thorin’s halfling-shaped issues were becoming harder and harder to ignore.
Because here, in this idyllic expanse of land, the rustic peace of Beorn’s home. Here, Bilbo thrived. Where his voice, soft and melodic, rang clear with the birds overhead, and the morning grass reflected through the emerald of his eyes, and the sun gleamed down on his golden-brown curls, glinting them almost copper. Beorn had taken to weaving these ridiculous flower crowns, and insisting Bilbo wear them. And though Thorin glowered at each Mahal-forsaken daisy and dandelion, he could not deny Bilbo’s beauty among his adornments. He had been born a child of the Shire, with its rolling-green hills, and colourful arrays of flora, and Bilbo bore it all so very well.
It made Thorin think even more, if possible, of Erebor. His home, so congruous to his own nature, with its sturdy walls of stone, and mines of treasures. The clangour of pickaxe against stone, of hammer against metal. The heat from the forges and the low chants sung with the bellows. Passed down from dwarrow to dwarrow, passed down from Mahal himself. Thorin wondered, if – when, they reclaimed Erebor, if Bilbo, too, could find home in such a place.
Thorin was thinking of this, and berating himself for the selfishness of it, when he noticed that Bilbo had sidled up to him, settled down next to the log he’d been sitting on. Thorin jumped. He’d never get used to the halfling’s ease at eluding notice.
Bilbo was oblivious to this. He only huffed, and raked a hand through the same reddish-gold curls that caused Thorin such turmoil. The months passed on their journey were several, and Bilbo’s hair had grown fast, reaching almost to his shoulders. He sighed and huffed again, and fussed with his hair some more.
Thorin cleared his throat. “Does something trouble you, Master Baggins?”
“Hmm?” Bilbo turned to him, and sighed, “Oh, it’s only my blasted hair! It’s getting far too long. I think I should like to cut it.”
“No!” Bilbo jumped. Thorin cringed. He had spoken far too loudly, more forceful than he had expected. He sighed, and said, gentler, this time, “for dwarrows, hair is quite a sacred thing. Each strand is woven by Mahal himself. To cut one’s hair… Well,” Thorin frowned, “it is not usually done.”
Bilbo huffed again, “by that logic, Yavanna has quite the claim over my own,” he fiddled absently with a stray curl, “and, so it seems, all my life I have been doing her a great disservice.” Bilbo shook his head, “no, hobbits do not care so much for that kind of thing.”
Thorin hummed, “for a dwarrow, hair means everything. Each plait, its weave, its placement, the bead it is fastened with - all tells a story. Family, lovers, feats in battle, your craft, or trade – all of these, and more, can be discerned from a dwarrow’s braid.”
Bilbo watched him carefully, “that’s — that’s quite beautiful.”
Thorin turned away and fiddled with his pipe, “Aye.” Then, feeling bold, “It would please me greatly, if you were to plait your hair, rather than cut it.”
Bilbo’s eyes widened, “You mean — it’s not—,” he exhaled, “you wouldn’t mind? But… I am not a dwarf.”
Thorin held his gaze, “you are one of us. That is more than enough.”
The colour in his cheeks darkened, and Bilbo ducked his head. Thorin wondered if it was the heat.
“I’d be honoured— truly— It’s just… I don’t know how to braid.”
Thorin was flummoxed at his, “you do not?” The halfling’s cheeks reddened, he shook his head further. And something hot-blooded and reckless seemed to take hold of Thorin, for he found himself saying: “It would be an honour… That is, if you would permit it… that I may plait your hair for you.”
Under the harsh. glare of sunlight, Bilbo squinted up at him, “well, if you don’t mind.” He cracked a grin. It was staggering. “This isn’t some dwarvern proposal ritual or anything, right?”
Thorin’s heart hammered in his chest. It’s the heat, he chose to believe. “No, no, of course not.”
“Uncle!” Kíli’s eyes were wild, “Bilbo’s wearing a braid!”
”Peace, nephew,” Thorin groaned. It was late, and he was just about to retire for the night, “the halfling may wear his hair however he pleases.”
”But you don’t understand, uncle,” Kíli hissed, “it was a dwarvish braid! A marriage one!”
”Say, uncle,” that was Fíli, behind him. Thorin jumped. If everyone could stop creeping up on him all the time— “You seem to be missing a plait.” Fíli tugged gently on the loose strands. Thorin could hear the smirk in his voice, “and what’s this? Your bead is nowhere to be found.”
Kíli frowned in mock-confusion, and Thorin knew his sister-sons well enough that he was about to be at the butt-end of a very sly joke.
“Was that not your bachelor’s braid, uncle?”
Thorin suddenly wished he were back in the goblin caves. Anything but here.
”Aye.”
”Did you not say you had forged that bead yourself, in the forges of Erebor? That you had cast the molten silver with your own hands? Mined the diamond yourself?”
”…Aye.”
“Say, Fíli, did the bead in Mister Boggin’s hair not look quite similar?”
”Now that you mention it, Kíli, I do think—“
”Peace, my sister-sons.” Thorin rubbed his temples and sighed. When he opened his eyes, Fíli was looking at him with a suddenly sober expression.
“Uncle,” he said slowly, “you know that this means…”
”I know,” Thorin sighed. “I know.”
He thought of the way Bilbo had smiled when he thanked him, the crinkle of sun wrinkles. His red-gold hair, sparkling with silver and diamond curled under his left ear.
He closed his eyes. “You will allow an old dwarf just one minor indulgence, won’t you?”
Now, in Mirkwood, Thorin could not know peace. All thanks to the generous hospitality of elves, he’d been driven from the rest of his company, kept in isolation. In this prison, he felt only coldness, saw only darkness. His throat was dry and aching, his body kept alive only from the few drops of water he’d afforded himself. But he starved because, Mahal save him, he’d sooner be dead than accept anything, if he could help it, from a gods-damned elf. But aside from the soreness of his throat, the growl of his stomach and the weariness of his bones, nothing could truly compare to the hollowness he felt, deep inside of himself - this cavern of fear. He knew not what had become of his company, of his sister-sons, of Bilbo. He remembered only the great, luminescent pincers of a spider, the silver flash of an elven robe. And this uncertainty, this fear, tore him inside more than any cruel death by arachnid, any cruelty from an elf.
“Thorin?”
Thorin froze. Even now, dizzy with thirst and hunger, his head pounding as though worn by a thousand hammers, he’d know that lilted voice anywhere. He groped through the darkness, blinking and scrubbing at his eyes, hoping to discern anything, anything, from the cold pitch.
“Bilbo?” His throat was ragged and hoarse, and his voice showed it.
“Thorin!” There was some scuffling, light-footed and nearly indiscernible, and then warm, soft hands enclosed over his own. So small, rubbing circles over his bruised knuckles.
“It’s alright, Thorin.” Bilbo whispered. His breath was warm, ghosting across the corner of his cheek.
”My sister-sons, the company — are they?”
“They are here,” Bilbo soothed, “and doing a great deal better than you are — what is all this nonsense? What has Thranduil done to you?”
”A deal,” Thorin rasped, “he sought to bargain with me. But I will not, for as long as I may draw breath, ever stoop so low as to deal with those traitors.” He glowered into the darkness, then frowned, reaching out, “Bilbo, where are you?”
”Right here.” There was a moment of fumbling, and then the darkness seemed to gather and then recede, delineating some small figure knelt before him.
Bilbo leaned in closer through the bars. He carried a dim lantern, and through it, Thorin could just make out those same auburn curls, threaded with gold. And one braid curling just below the ear. Thorin caught it between his fingers, threading them through the soft plait. A little disheveled now, after all they’d been through. It would have to be redone. He rolled the bead in his palm. The coolness of the silver and diamond was soothing, comforting in a way the cold had not been before.
Bilbo did not pull away. The excuse of delirium, Thorin mused, had afforded him this small indulgence.
“I am glad,” Thorin croaked. He slid his palm to the edge of Bilbo’s cheek, warm and alive, and drawing breath, “that you are here.”
He felt the muscles in Bilbo’s face contract into a frown. “You must be starving. Surely they have not left you here to-”
“They have provided me with some food and drink, but it is insubstantial.” Thorin scowled. “And I will not take my share. They may rob me of my people and my sword, but not of my dignity.”
Bilbo groaned and pulled away. “Confounded — Oh, curse the stubbornness of Dwarves! If you do not eat, you will die, Thorin! And where will that leave us? Gone before I can figure out a blasted plan for us to escape!”
Thorin’s eyes widened. “yYou know a means for us to escape?”
Bilbo scowled. “It is a work in progress!”
Thorin smiled at this. He brought an arm to rest over Bilbo’s own. “You will find a way. I put my faith in the cleverness of Hobbits.”
Bilbo huffed, “and I had stolen you food from the kitchens as well! To think, I’d been lugging an entire roast chicken all this time-”
“Roast chicken?” Thorin closed his eyes. Oh, how his stomach ached! Then his eyes snapped open. “You are carrying this on your person?”
Bilbo flushed, “I was worried.” He unrolled something from underneath his shirt. a round bundle, hastily wrapped in brown paper. Thorin resisted the urge to snatch it through the bars like an animal.
“A fine feast you have provided me with,” he said reverently, mouth near-watering as he unwrapped the paper. Then, a thought crossed his mind, wicked and salacious. “Alas, I am tired and weakened. Would you, perhaps, feed it to me?”
Bilbo spluttered, “I… well— I…” Then he leaned in, whispered, “is that appropriate?”
“Aye.” And suddenly, Thorin’s heart was beating very, very fast, “our hands are sacred. They are the hands of the maker, fashioned by Mahal. They are the instrument of our craft. To feed another by your own hand… well. It is a sign of immense. trust, and of… friendship.” He cringed, hoping that last part did not seem too stilted. “You are dear to me, Master Baggins. It would please me greatly if you were to accept this offering.”
In the weak light of the lamp, Bilbo’s expression was indiscernible, but Thorin swore he saw a smile.
“Well, alright then.”
Thorin glowered under the light of the forge. His own mind felt cloudy, his own thoughts impossible to distinguish. The only thing beneath the fog that rang clear seemed to be his own anger. Hot, hot, anger, and an uncontrollable desire to covet, to keep, and protect. He resisted the urge to groan. His own mind was at war. He knew not what of, or who with.
Curse the fiendish greed of Men! Curse Bard, and the wretched nature of his kind. To think - to pull the rug out from under them! Deprive Erebor of its riches only when they had just been reclaimed! No, Thorin did not owe him a thing. The gold was his birthright. He delegated it in whatever manner he saw fit.
“Thorin? You called for me.”
Bilbo’s soft, lilting voice. His warm skin, caught under the glow of firelight. Thorin watched him carefully, swallowed in a threadbare coat, torn and rolled to accommodate his size.
And he was only a small thing. Inured to the weariness of travel, he may have lost some of the roundness in his cheeks and belly, but still soft, small, and innocent in the way one could only be when raised in the fragrance of flowers and rolling green hills. And that same desire filled him - to covet, to protect, to keep. There was treasure in this mountain that was not gold. And he would let no one - not Man, not Elf, not even Dwarf, take it from him.
“Put this on.” The gentle chime of Mithril chain echoed as he passed it, from Dwarf-king to Hobbit. Under the firelight, the chainmail shimmered in waves of colour - here a green, then a purple, then Durin-blue.
Bilbo watched it carefully, his eyes skimming over the exquisite craftsmanship, no doubt, of the pride and joy of dwarvern smithing. Thorin preened under the clear praise, but frowned when the Hobbit remained stationary.
“This is mithril. When you wear it, no blade shall pierce your skin. Put it on.” He said, louder and more forcefully this time. No dwarrow would say no to such a kingly proposal. Save for his Arkenstone, there could be no doubt that this was the most precious of treasures. And Thorin would like to keep his invaluables all in one place, where he could hold them close, and keep them safe.
With the mithril on, Bilbo was truly a sight to behold. The shimmer of green reflected in his eyes, the shifting colours much like the vast array that laced his hair. Thorin smiled at his burglar, true and steadfast.
“It suits you.” He said.
In the wake of battle, Bilbo had buried himself in the profession of healer - flitting between tents, tending to a dwarf here, a Man there - all of it to distract himself, to shelf away in some faraway corner of his brain, this underlying sense of dread. The three dwarvern royals, burrowed away in Óin’s healing tent, with breath still drawn from their wearied lips. But shallower by the second, and even then, only barely. Bilbo knew now what it was like to feel Thorin in his arms, to feel his life’s blood, his life’s warmth pour out of him. To watch the colour drain from his face, the light in his eyes flicker. A weak candle, ready to be snuffed.
He shuddered. They were alive now, Thorin and his sister-sons. And they would see it through, he told himself. They were dwarves - strong and sturdy, and stubborn to the last breath. And they would hold on. He buried himself with work, to distract from the fact he did not quite believe it.
But hobbits were weaned on the knowledge of all things Yavanna had sprouted from the ground. Bilbo knew well what to and what not to cook, which herb was used for which ailment and why. Save for the elves, who were loathe to serve the dwarves anyway, they were all short of healers, and so Óin had taken advantage of Bilbo’s upbringing, and put him to the test to provide any herb he so desired, or else, scrounge for its substitute.
Its was as he approached the healing tents, his fingers red and winter-bitten, hands full of soil and such herbs for healing, that Bofur ran up to him, eyes gleaming.
“… Awake!” His voice was slightly muffled by layers of scarves, the ever-howling of the ice-wind. He grabbed the hobbit by the shoulders, and shook him, “Bilbo! They’re awake!”
So Bilbo took off, stumbling against the battle-riven earth, his heart miles away from the confines of exhaustion, or hunger.
And inside Óin’s tent there was this sort of stillness, a sense of hushed stagnancy. It was not at all unpleasant, but rather some sort of sanctuary from the chaos and the misery that the wake of bloodshed often left behind. The rest of the company were there, likely had already gone through the motions of fussing over their Durins. Perhaps they’d been awake for some time now.
All eyes turned to Bilbo, and he knew he must have looked a right state. He wasn’t even sure when the last time he’d bathed was.
But no matter. As though in some trance, he treaded towards the three cots. Propped up by some pillows, a battle-weathered Fíli and Kíli grinned back at him.
“Mister Boggins.” Kíli’s voice was hoarse, gone in some places, as though to speak cost him a great effort.
“Baggins.” Bilbo corrected, as he always did. But he was smiling, too. It faltered a little as he glanced to the side, and found Thorin was still, very much, asleep.
”He woke earlier.” That was Balin, “Don’t you worry, laddie. He’s just resting now.”
Fíli reached up, and Bilbo obliged him, letting him feel his way through the Hobbit’s filthy curls. He seemed to be looking for something.
”You still have it,” Fíli whispered. Or slurred, rather. He enclosed his palm over the cool metal of the bead, weighted against Bilbo’s ear, “the braid.”
The air in the tent shifted, as all other members of the company seemed to adjust themselves, and share strange glances in some silent conversation. This irritated Bilbo immensely, who’d been having to endure such shady, furtive stares for some time now. It happened more, now that he thought about it, whenever someone mentioned Thorin’s bead, and the manner in which it had been woven into his hair.
At this, Kíli sat up further. His grin widened, “so it’s still on, then? Wonderful!”
Bilbo frowned. “What’s on?”
Balin started, looking very, very guilty. “Now laddie…”
”The wedding, of course!”
And suddenly, the world, which had spun around Bilbo - as dizzying and fraying as a leaf caught in a gale - all came to a blinding halt.
And things that did not before, were making much, much more sense. The callouses of Thorin’s fingertips, brushed against his scalp. His own fingers, pressed against the readiness of Thorin’s lips. And the mithril, glittering in a sort of splendour Bilbo was wholly unused to. The glances had been far more frequent, ever since Bilbo had put it on.
“Do you mean to say… That Thorin has— ”, he stifled a whimper, “that Thorin has been—”
A low rumble came from the right-most cot, and Thorin, voice laden with sleep and injury called out: “Master Baggins? Is that you?”
”Leave us” Bilbo snapped. His dwarvern company had the good sense to start, and look guilty. “Now.”
”You miserable fool,” Bilbo sighed, exasperated. All the while, Thorin looked back at him, smiling foolishly. His fingers threaded through that same blasted braid. “Why did you not just tell me?”
”I was afraid,” Thorin whispered. He gripped the braid tighter. “I did not think one like you could ever grow to love one like me.”
“So you sought to court me? Without my knowledge? Tell me Thorin, how exactly was that going to work? I don’t know how it is with dwarves, but usually both parties are aware of these matters!”
”It is much the same with dwarves,” Thorin flashed his teeth, “only, I did not think we would get this far. I treated it as a minor indulgence. Harmless, as long as the truth remained hidden.” At this, he glared at where his sister-sons were very ‘tactfully’ pretending not to be listening.
“Yavanna save me from the foolishness of dwarves!” Bilbo exclaimed.
Then he leaned in to kiss him, just the lightest application of his lips, breathing in the scent of him - medicine, yes, and herbs, but also that darker, smokier scent that was unmistakeably Thorin.
Bilbo could not help but smile into his Dwarvern King’s lips. “Yes, I will marry you. I know you were well aware, but I thought perhaps I, too, should agree to my own proposal.”
”And I am glad for it,” Thorin murmured. “But it would please me greatly if you should grace me with your lips once more.”
Beside them, exaggerated retching sounds could be heard, and then Kíli, lamenting: “Ugh! If this is how we should spend our recovery, Fíli, then perhaps death would be the better option!”