Chapter Text
A tuft of honey-brown curls peeked from beneath the blankets on the daybed in the corner of Thorin’s darkened chamber. Gentle snoring was enough to indicate that Bilbo was still fast asleep, peacefully. The sight made Thorin's chest tighten.
Over the past month, when Bilbo had spent increasingly more nights at Thorin's residence, their sleeping arrangements had settled into something slightly unusual, but functional. After a brief and pragmatic negotiation, they had agreed that should Thorin’s nightmares prove too intense, the daybed allowed Bilbo to sleep comfortably while remaining nearby. Neither of them wanted to risk a repetition of what had happened on their second shared night.
But just then, Thorin needed reassurance of Bilbo's touch so badly it made his ribs ache. He walked silently to the daybed, knelt on the hard stone floor, and reached out, touching Bilbo's hair as softly as his scarred fingers allowed.
“Mmh?” Bilbo barely lifted his head from the pillow, his sleepy eyes hazy and unfocused in the dark.
“Are you alright?“ Thorin rasped.
A warm, small hand snuck out from beneath the blankets and covered Thorin’s larger knuckles, squeezing gently. “Mm. You?”
Thorin couldn't bring himself to answer.
“Want to talk about it?“ Bilbo murmured softly.
Thorin shook his head, his jaw tight. “It didn't happen.“
“Want me to move back?”
Thorin let out a low, rough sound that could reasonably be interpreted as an affirmation. Without another word, Bilbo gathered his blanket and pillow, carried them over to the large bed, and crawled in beside him, settling into Thorin's arms.
The nightmares, Bilbo knew by now, were always worse when Thorin was under heavy stress.
The last time it had been this bad, Thorin had been barely able to conceal a frantic, desperate need to prove Bilbo was there, real and alive. It had resulted in hands running over skin in the dark, checking for wounds that had never been there, and making love with a fierce, almost terrifying intensity, as though touch could silence memory. Bilbo hadn’t had the heart to ask what Thorin had seen in his sleep.
Tonight was vastly different. Thorin was quiet, resting his face against Bilbo's shoulder, taking long breaths as he tried to anchor himself to reality. Bilbo steadily combed his fingers through Thorin's dark, tangled hair.
Finally, Thorin whispered into the dark, his voice barely audible. “I couldn't protect them. Couldn't save them.”
A heavy pause hung in the air.
“The boys.“
Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut, his heart breaking in the dark, but his fingers did not stop their soothing rhythm in Thorin's hair. It was precisely the kind of nightmare that would linger for months, the alternate reality where Ravenhill had claimed his nephews.
“It didn't happen, Thorin,” Bilbo whispered back softly, pressing his forehead against the dwarf's temple. "They are safe. You brought them home.”
He didn't bear to think how close to reality Thorin's nightmare had been, and he wasn't foolish enough to entertain the belief that Thorin wasn't thinking of the precisely same thing as he spoke.
~~~~~~~~~~
Dawn was inevitable. Yet, they had managed a few hours of dreamless sleep, wrapped in each other's arms before morning arrived with its usual demands.
Thorin ran a horn comb through Bilbo's curls, his heavy fingers surprisingly delicate. It had become their quiet morning ritual. After dressing and breaking their fast, Thorin smoothed Bilbo's curls, and Bilbo returned the favour, patiently combing open Thorin's thick mane. A lingering kiss against the side of Bilbo's neck completed the ritual before they stepped back into the world.
It was a final moment of quiet tenderness before stepping back beneath the public gaze. Officially, nothing had changed. Unofficially... Bilbo rather suspected there wasn't a soul in the Mountain who hadn't already pieced things together. Erebor, it seemed, guarded secrets about as well as the Shire.
But for a few moments more, the rest of the world was not their concern. Bilbo leaned back, resting his head against Thorin's broad chest.
“What do you have on your slate for today?”
Thorin's voice was a soft rumble against Bilbo's back; like this, he felt the words as much as heard them.
“The Council, the guildmasters, and reviewing the petitions for tomorrow's court. I wouldn't dream of standing between you and your books.” Thorin smoothed down a final stray curl behind Bilbo's ear, his thumb brushing the skin. “And somewhere in the middle a meal with the boys.“
"Do try to let them breathe today."
There was a faint puzzlement in Thorin’s voice. "They have always had room enough to breathe."
“I was planning to head to the library anyway,” Bilbo murmured, turning in his seat to face him. "The copying work isn't going to finish itself. Though it sounds as if you’ll be in dire need of a proper cup of tea after all those meetings."
“I will send word the moment the guildmasters are dismissed,” Thorin promised softly, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
They brushed their knuckles together briefly before Thorin opened the heavy front door, and the world came rushing back in.
~~~~~~~
The Great Council Chamber was carved deep into the living stone, illuminated by high iron braziers that threw long, dancing shadows across the massive granite table. It was a weekly ordeal, a necessary gathering where the realm's highest officials brought their ledgers, complaints, and logistical headaches before the King.
Dwalin and Fíli arrived together, the last to enter the chamber. Fíli pulled the heavy oak door shut behind them, the latch dropping with a heavy thud.
They took their seats, heavy stone-bottomed chairs scraping across the polished floor. Thorin sat at the head of the table, flanked by Balin on his right. Fíli sat to his left, smoothing down his tunic and trying to hide his fatigue.
Thorin ran a slow, assessing gaze around the room before nodding to Lord Brundar, an Iron Hills official who had taken charge of the overwhelming housing logistics without needing to be asked twice.
“My Lord, if I may?“ Brundar began, unrolling a cramped parchment.
“Lord Brundar. What news of the arrivals?“ Thorin asked, his voice low and gravelly.
“Two new caravans have cleared the gates since our last session. Forty-seven souls in total, five of whom have yet to reach their majority. Those with living kin in Erebor have been reunited, and the rest have been temporarily quartered in the lower halls.”
A brief, telling pause followed. Around the table, everyone knew what it meant. The easy news was over. Brundar’s expression hardened.
“However... Lord Gorvak of the Iron Hills, who arrived last month, has set his sights on a residence in the second tier. The difficulty is that the home is already occupied by Ulfrin, son of Gimrin. Ulfrin is of common birth, but the deed was granted to him by royal decree for exceptional valor at the Mountain's gate. We offered Lord Gorvak a comparable site on the second level, or a far larger estate on the fourth.”
Brundar winced slightly before continuing. “Gorvak refuses both. The second-tier option requires masonry repairs he deems beneath him, and he claims the fourth tier is fit only for tradesmen. He has attempted to bribe two housing stewards and refuses to vacate his temporary quarters until he gets his way. He insists he has no interest in sharing a hall with common veterans.”
Thorin let out a low, dangerous groan and ran a broad hand down his face, muttering something under his breath. Dwalin could have sworn Thorin had just suggested Lord Gorvak go live in an abandoned mine shaft.
When he lowered his hand, his eyes were cold, his patience clearly stretched thin from a night of poor sleep.
“Failing to comprehend that the Mountain did not sit in stasis waiting for his grand arrival speaks poorly of Lord Gorvak’s intellect,” Thorin said, bringing his palm down against the tabletop with a sharp crack. “None of our stonemasons are sitting idle. Ulfrin stays exactly where he is. Gorvak can wait his turn for repairs, pay out of his own coin for private masons, or move to the fourth tier.”
Thorin leaned forward, his glare sweeping the table. “In any case, this council will not be bothered with his pride again. Ever.”
A quiet silence fell over the lords. Thorin straightened his posture, shaking off the annoyance. “What else?”
Dwalin leaned his heavy elbows on the table. “Defence logistics, Sire. As requested, His Highness—” Dwalin gestured toward Fíli “—completed the detailed inventory of the third and fourth lower armories. They’re in a sorry state, if I’ve ever seen one.”
Fíli spoke up, his tone clipped and precise. “Left untended for a century and a half, the gear is useless to a standing army. Most of the mail is rusted through, and the blades are brittle. I’ve compiled the exact count of what can be salvaged and what needs to be sent straight back to the smelters. Dwalin has the main report, but I have the itemized breakdown here.”
Thorin nodded, his jaw set. “Thank you, Fíli. That won't be necessary. Dwalin, take the totals to the Armorer’s Guild and request a cost estimate. Next?”
Fíli lowered his eyes.
So, that was it, just waiting for another assignment. Another inspection. Another inventory. Another task that could be completed well without risking anything.
The Master of the Forges raised a scarred hand. “Sire, the frost is settling early. The water channels feeding the forge district froze on the outer mountainside last year, causing massive delays. If we don't execute emergency masonry on the upper sluice gates before the deep freeze, we risk ice dams, and severe flooding in the lower foundries.”
Thorin’s brow furrowed. The great forges were the beating heart of Erebor’s economy. He turned his head toward his nephew.
“Fíli. Since you’ve finished the armory counts, you are clear to oversee the stonemasons at the sluice gates. We cannot afford another shutdown like last winter’s.”
Fíli kept his face entirely blank. He bowed his head just low enough to hide his eyes. “Yes, my Lord.”
The words were polite, but the stiffness in his shoulders spoke volumes.
From counting rusted helmets to supervising ditch-diggers.
Thorin didn't notice the tension. “Right. Is that all?”
Balin cleared his throat, adjusting his spectacles as he brought forward a fresh, sealed scroll. “That brings us to the final item on the slate, Sire. A raven arrived from the eastern roads at dawn. An envoy from the Stonefoot clan has crossed the Running River. Prince Vard, nephew to Queen Fraela, requests an audience before the week is out.”
Thorin perked up slightly, nodding. “The eastern delegation. I assume the royal suites are prepared? What do we know of him?”
The High Envoy chimed in. “Prince Vard, son of Durga, known among his kin as Cindergrip. Prince Durga served as a long-term ambassador to the Blacklock courts, so Vard was raised largely in the Red Mountains. He is young, yet to reach his first century but highly educated in inter-clan law.”
Thorin considered this for a moment, recalling the distant eastern lineages. “Queen Fraela wouldn't send a fool to negotiate iron tariffs. If he was trained in the Red Mountains, he knows his business.”
“It would seem so, Sire,” Balin agreed.
“Good,” Thorin concluded, pushing back his chair. “Make sure the guards at the gate show him due honor. Meeting adjourned.”
As the lords began gathering their parchments, Fíli stood quietly in the shadow of his uncle’s chair. He looked down at his own clean, unused hands, then over at the doorway where Prince Vard would soon enter. A prince scarcely older than himself had crossed half the continent to negotiate trade between kingdoms. Fíli had just been assigned to supervise drainage repairs.
~~~~~~
An errand boy arrived at the library, informing Bilbo that the King had dismissed the guildmasters and was waiting in his office. About time, Bilbo thought as he thanked the young dwarf. He had half-seriously considered the possibility that Thorin had simply forgotten their morning arrangement.
Then again, Thorin had a habit of becoming entirely absorbed in his work—and Bilbo was hardly one to talk on that front. He carefully wiped his pen nib, corked his ink pot, and padded off toward the royal quarters.
He wished Thorin's guards a pleasant afternoon in passing, receiving a cautious, formal "Good afternoon, Master Baggins" in return. After more than a month of staying in the Mountain, the guards didn't look nearly as bewildered by his cheerful greetings as they used to, a fact Bilbo found quietly amusing.
The guards gestured for him to enter. When the heavy door clicked shut behind him, Bilbo found Thorin pacing aimlessly across the room. He was rubbing his temples, a tall stack of petitions and official judgments sitting entirely untouched on his desk.
Hearing the door, Thorin lifted his head and lowered his hands, straightening his posture. As his eyes fell on Bilbo, the sheer exasperation in his face softened, if only a little. Bilbo offered his hand, and Thorin took it, holding it tight for the few quiet steps it took to cross the room, back to the door where he let it go. And there he was, the King Under the Mountain again, all formal, without a trace left of whatever had bothered him.
As they crossed the square from Thorin’s home to Bilbo’s, Thorin asked after Bilbo’s day so far. And the hobbit beamed as he spoke, chatting happily about how the manuscript he was copying was nearly one-third complete, how much he was learning about the ancient realms of Nogrod and Belegost, and insisting that Thorin simply had to tell him about the millennia-old ruins scattered across the Blue Mountains later.
Bilbo kept up the pleasant chatter while preparing tea and laying out a spread of fresh bread, cold meats, and cheese, proper Shire hospitality. Yet, it didn't escape his notice how unnaturally quiet Thorin remained, staring blankly into the hearth.
“Did the guildmasters give you a hard time?” Bilbo inquired gently as he poured, filling Thorin's cup first before his own.
“The guildmasters? No, that was straightforward enough,” Thorin answered curtly. He stared down at his cup, making no move to touch it.
“Oh.” Bilbo paused, teapot in hand. “Surely not your nephews, then? Is something troubling them?”
Thorin let out a long, heavy sigh.
“I do not understand what has come over Fíli,” he finally muttered, his voice gravelly with exhaustion. "He barely spoke three words to me during the midday meal. He sat there staring at his plate, and when I asked him about the armory reports, he gave me the shortest possible accounting and excused himself."
Bilbo frowned gently in thinking. "What have you had him doing recently?"
A few possibilities already sprung into Bilbo’s mind. Perhaps he’d been tired, or maybe there was something beyond his duties as a prince that distracted him… Not as if he was familiar with all that was going on in Fíli’s life but as far as he knew, neither of those really fitted.
Thorin looked up, questions in his eyes. “Doing?”
His mouth pressed into a tight line as Bilbo set the teapot down.
“The last he finished was the armour inventory. Today, I assigned him to supervise the repairs on the sluice gates. Before the armour inventory he oversaw the food deliveries for the Durin’s day festivities,” he shrugged and continued, “Earlier this year he went through the reports on the repairs of the guards housing area and training halls. Good, foundational tasks.”
Bilbo nodded and stirred his tea. There was a moment of silence. “Right, yes. What else?“
Thorin’s hand was on his temple again.
“Escort duty, several times. Our most important guests. And there's the export-import storehouse. And he has his studies. You cannot possibly find fault in those.“
Bilbo didn't look up from his teacup, but worried his lower lip when he listened. "Well, can you blame the boy?"
Thorin’s hand dropped from his forehead, his brow furrowing instantly. "He is not a boy. He is the Crown Prince of Erebor. And he is showing a distinct lack of interest in the logistics of his own kingdom."
"Oh, Thorin," Bilbo sighed, setting his cup down with a soft click and meeting the king's defensive gaze. "Has he led a delegation? Or handled a dispute? He has a distinct lack of interest in being treated like a pageboy. There is a difference.”
Thorin stiffened, his broad shoulders squaring instinctively. "There is very little in the whole Mountain more critical than the forges, Bilbo. These are the same duties I performed myself under my grandfather's eye!"
"Yes, when the Mountain hadn't just been reclaimed from a dragon, and if I'm not mistaken, you also were fifty years younger," Bilbo countered gently, leaning forward over the table.
"Thorin... look at the tasks you're giving him. You’re giving him the work that keeps him strictly inside the safe zones. You’re giving him the work where he cannot possibly make a mistake."
Bilbo remembered seeing the young prince in the library earlier that week, quietly poring over defense plans with an intense, desperate focus. Trying so hard to find a way to contribute something that mattered.
A heavy, defensive silence fell over the stone room. Thorin’s jaw clenched tightly.
"He is young," Thorin rasped, his voice dropping into that stubborn, protective register. "He does not know the teeth of the world as I do."
"He is a grown dwarf, you just said it yourself. He stood beside you in battle, Thorin, and he has the scars to prove it," Bilbo said softly, his words cutting straight through the King’s armor of stubbornness. "He knows the teeth, he met them on Ravenhill. But right now, you aren't protecting him from the world. You're keeping him from growing into the man who is supposed to succeed you. He wants to help you carry the weight, but you won't let him anywhere near the straps."
Thorin looked down at his large, scarred hands resting on the tabletop. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the steady crackle of the fireplace.
There was no fire in his voice as he spoke, quietly.
"If I put those straps on his shoulders too soon..."
Bilbo gave him time to process, choosing his next words with deliberate care.
“He might make mistakes,” Bilbo offered quietly. “Of course he may. But that is how one learns, isn't it? One day you'll wake up and wonder when he stopped being the lad following after you and became the man walking beside you."
The look on Thorin’s face told Bilbo, clear as day, that he’d hit something in there. And true enough, even in the beginning of their journey Bilbo had seen how the brothers looked at Thorin, and it hadn’t been hard to imagine them as small pebbles with the similar adoration for their uncle.
Thorin traced the rim of his teacup as he stared into the fire.
“A peer.”
Quietly, it was as if the word had felt strange on his tongue.
Bilbo did not want to press further. Instead he lifted the teapot from the table.
“Care for another cup?”