Chapter Text
Thorin’s oversized coat hung heavily from Bilbo’s shoulders, trailing over the stone behind him, its metal clasps clicking softly against the floor. Cold air slipped through the open front and brushed his bare legs.
Several paces ahead, Thorin walked with his arms folded loosely across his bare chest, unhurried and almost offensively self-satisfied. Bilbo’s patience was wearing dangerously thin.
“Thorin, I think you’ve rather proved your point by now, don’t you?”
His voice carried through the corridor and returned to him in a faint echo. Thorin glanced over his shoulder just long enough for Bilbo to catch the smug curve of his mouth before facing forward again.
Bilbo curled his hands into fists inside the sleeves that hung far beyond his fingers. He had hidden from Thorin for three days, at first hoping some distance might ease the sickness, and then, admittedly, because he had rather enjoyed how desperate Thorin had become to find him. Now Bilbo was the one trailing after him through his Mountain, naked beneath his coat.
“Taking me on a tour, then?” he called after him. “Showing me your kingdom? Rather dusty. And cold, actually.”
“Cold, amrâlimê?” His answer came without another glance. “Better keep up.”
He continued at the same leisurely pace, turning another corner, but this time he disappeared from sight completely. Bilbo stopped short. For several moments, he could neither see nor hear him.
Then, somewhere along the corridor, came the faint crackle of a flame. A warm golden light appeared farther ahead. Another flickered to life beyond it, and then another, each separated by several long seconds.
Bilbo followed.
The lights came from lamps set into the walls, their casings fashioned from great pieces of crystal. Bilbo slowed as he passed the first one. Deep within the crystal, a small golden flame swelled and shrank. There was no opening through which air could reach it.
How can a flame burn inside solid crystal?
Another lamp awakened farther ahead, and Bilbo continued through corridor after corridor, following the strange trail of light. By the time he reached the end of the last passage, fiery motes were drifting through the air before him. They rose and fell through the darkness like fireflies over the hills of the Shire at this time of year. Bilbo watched them float past, smiling at the memory, before he stepped out of the corridor and saw the vast hall opening before him.
Far across it, between enormous stone pillars, he caught sight of Thorin’s shadow appearing and disappearing as he moved. Fiery motes drifted after him. Bilbo stepped among them and stopped to watch one as it wandered close to his face. It settled briefly on his cheek, so lightly he barely felt it. Warmth spread beneath its touch. By the time he raised his hand, it had drifted away.
Bilbo made his way towards the pillars, but Thorin kept slipping out of sight just as he drew nearer.
“Really?” Bilbo called, irritation creeping into his voice.
Thorin showed no sign of slowing. When he appeared again, the satisfaction on his face was almost unbearable.
“Have you lost patience already?” His voice reached Bilbo from the next opening. “You made me wait for three days. Surely you can endure a few more steps.”
Bilbo stared after him in disbelief. “Insufferable dwarf,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
This time, he refused to follow. He stopped between the pillars and folded his arms, determined to let Thorin walk as far into his ridiculous Mountain as he pleased. Thorin continued for several more steps before stopping as well. Slowly, he turned, leaned back against one of the pillars and simply watched him.
Most of his body remained swallowed by the darkness. Only the occasional fiery mote drifting between them caught him in flashes of gold: the edge of his crown, the sharp line of his cheek, the sweat running down his bare chest. His eyes caught the light whenever he moved his head, seeming to glow for an instant before the darkness swallowed them again.
Bilbo’s irritation faltered. Thorin made no attempt to come closer. He remained perfectly still, his gaze fixed on Bilbo with the patient attention of a dragon watching something that had wandered into its hoard.
Bilbo swallowed. Suddenly something deep in his gut urged him to put distance between them. Instead of following him between the pillars, Bilbo turned towards the edge of the platform, where narrow stone walkways stretched over the darkness. There were no railings. Nothing between him and the drop.
He could no longer see the passage through which they had entered. Across the nearest walkway, he could just make out an archway between the pillars. Perhaps it led back to the corridors.
He stepped onto the nearest one. Thorin remained beside the pillar, little more than a shape from that distance, but as Bilbo turned away, he could almost feel that piercing stare against his back. The warmth on his cheek had faded, and his bare feet were beginning to ache against the cold stone.
A few fiery motes drifted lazily around him, and Bilbo watched as they wandered over the edge and disappeared into the darkness below. More followed. One after another, tiny golden lights sank into the depths of the Mountain.
The farther Bilbo walked, the more seemed to follow him. His heart began to race. He quickened his pace, but the lights drifted around him and past him until he had the strange, horrible feeling that they were chasing him. Then something below caught his eye and stopped him dead.
The lights had not disappeared. Far beneath him, hundreds of them had gathered in the darkness. They rose and sank together, all following the same slow rhythm.
As though the darkness beneath him were breathing.
Bilbo dropped to his knees and pressed both hands against the freezing stone. Only then did he see how the lights had arranged themselves. In pairs. Hundreds of fiery eyes stared up at him.
“Thorin...” Bilbo’s voice caught. “I—I cannot go any farther. I...”
He pulled Thorin’s coat tighter around himself. The lights below rose and fell again.
“What is happening?” His voice echoed through the vast hall. “Thorin!”
His fingers clawed uselessly at the smooth walkway, searching for purchase. He did not dare move another inch.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
Bilbo turned his head. Thorin was walking straight towards him. As he passed beneath one of the ancient lamps, it awakened in a burst of golden flame. Then another. And another. Thorin neither touched nor even looked at them. They simply came alive as he passed, casting his approaching figure briefly into the light before surrendering him to darkness again.
How is he doing this? What is this?
“Well. I had forgotten how delicate my little Shire hobbit is.” Thorin’s deep voice cut through Bilbo’s thoughts.
Bilbo’s heart pounded harder with every step Thorin took towards him. But Thorin’s expression had changed: there was now an almost pained tenderness in his eyes.
Thorin caught him beneath the arms and lifted him to his feet. Before Bilbo could find his balance, Thorin slipped his hands beneath the coat and drew him against his bare chest.
Bilbo buried his face against him and breathed in the familiar scent of his skin. The cold that had followed him through the hall gave way beneath Thorin’s hands, and Bilbo pressed closer.
“Better?” Thorin murmured, lowering his face into Bilbo’s hair and drawing in a deep breath of his own.
Bilbo welcomed the warmth of him, but his eyes strayed past Thorin’s shoulder. Far below, thousands of fiery eyes rose and fell in the darkness, their gaze still fixed on them.
“Thorin...” His fingers tightened against Thorin’s skin. “I want to go. Something is not right.” He swallowed. “I am—I am afraid.”
Thorin went still. Keeping his hands at Bilbo’s waist, he sank to his knees. When Bilbo looked down, there was nothing of the creature he had imagined between the pillars left in Thorin’s face. Only a softness that made something inside him loosen.
“Afraid of me?” His voice caught on the last word.
Bilbo stared at him for a moment. His hand rose almost without thought and settled against Thorin’s warm cheek. Thorin leaned into his palm, just slightly, and Bilbo’s thumb brushed beneath his eye.
“I am afraid for you, Thorin. Not of you.”
Bilbo traced the curve of his nose all the way to its tip, then slipped his hand behind Thorin’s neck and drew him into a kiss.
Thorin answered the kiss gently. His hands eased at Bilbo’s waist. For a moment, Bilbo could feel him relaxing beneath his touch.
“Come with me,” Bilbo murmured against his mouth. “Back to your rooms.”
Thorin opened his eyes.
“Look down there. Please.” He could not bring himself to point over the edge; he merely turned his head, and after a moment Thorin followed his gaze. “Those lights. They are watching us.” Beneath the walkway, the golden pairs rose together through the darkness, paused, and slowly sank again.
Thorin’s gaze lingered there for a moment. When he looked back, everything Bilbo had sought comfort in was still there: the warmth, the familiar scars, Thorin kneeling before him with his hair loose over his shoulders. Yet he watched Bilbo as he had watched him from beside the pillar, with an attention so complete that the smallest movement seemed certain to be noticed.
“You wish to leave me?”
“No. Thorin—” Bilbo drew back a little, confused. “I said this place. Both of us. We can go back together.”
Bilbo drew one of Thorin’s hands from beneath the coat and held it between his own. When he stepped back, Thorin rose with him. The relief was so sudden that Bilbo almost smiled.
He turned towards the pillars and took a step.
Thorin did not follow.
“For three days,” he said quietly, “I did not know where you were.”
Bilbo looked back. “And I am here now. We can go together.”
Thorin’s gaze moved past him, towards the passage beyond the pillars.
“Stay.”
“Not here, Thorin. Please.”
Bilbo waited, still holding his hand. At last, he eased his fingers loose, but Thorin caught his wrist before his hand could fall.
“Thorin?”
Below them, the lights stirred. One golden pair broke apart, then another. A low hum rose from the depths.
As Bilbo tried to draw his hand back, Thorin’s fingers tightened.
“Let go.”
He put his free hand over Thorin’s, trying to ease the fingers apart. Thorin stared at him without looking down. When Bilbo pulled again, the grip tightened further, pressing into the narrow bones of his wrist.
Pain shot into his hand.
“Thorin. You’re hurting me.”
Thorin’s eyes dropped to his wrist and widened. His fingers opened immediately.
Bilbo drew his hand against his chest. Thorin reached towards him, and he stumbled back before he could stop himself. Several fiery motes rose over the edge of the walkway and circled Thorin’s shoulders. The humming grew louder.
Bilbo turned and ran.
He did not look back. The coat dragged at his shoulders, its metal clasps striking against his legs as his bare feet slapped over the freezing stone.
He fled back across the walkway. The pillars flashed past, and he plunged into the first passage he found.
His wrist throbbed where Thorin had held him. The low hum followed him into the passage, growing louder until he could feel it behind his eyes.
Every turning opened onto another passage lit by the same crystal flames. He thought he recognised one of the lamps, only for the corridor beyond it to divide in two. Neither path looked familiar.
When his foot caught against the uneven stone, he went down hard. He threw out his hands, and pain tore through his wrist as his palms and knees struck the floor. Before he could rise, the motes descended upon him.
They swirled around his head and bare feet, catching in his hair and darting into the heavy folds of Thorin’s coat. Their humming sharpened into a high, rasping whine that made him duck his head and strike wildly at them. His palm connected with one of the lights, and he screamed.
Pain flashed across his hand, and the sharp smell of burned skin filled his nose. He jerked it against his chest, staring at the angry mark across his palm. Every movement seemed to rouse the motes further, their shrill cries rising as he fought them off. Soon the smell of singed hair and scorched fabric joined the first. The lights struck his ankles, his hands, his face, any part of him the coat failed to cover, leaving small burns wherever they touched.
At last, he curled himself against the stone, dragged Thorin’s coat completely over his head and stopped fighting.
His ragged breathing sounded loud beneath the heavy fabric. Gradually, the shrieking outside was fading. The buzzing dwindled with it until only the faintest hum remained. He lay perfectly still, waiting, but nothing struck the coat again.
After several moments, he dared to lift one edge and peer out. His breath caught. The few motes he could see were drifting lazily through the darkness around him, rising and falling with the same gentle, almost enchanting innocence they had possessed when he first followed them into the Mountain.
Bilbo slowly pushed himself to his feet, keeping Thorin’s coat wrapped tightly around him. He watched the lights as he rose, afraid that any sudden movement might send them into another frenzy. Small burns stung across his exposed skin, the scrapes on his palms and knees were bleeding, and his wrist still throbbed.
“Why are you running, givashel?” Thorin’s voice carried through the darkness behind him, and Bilbo froze. There was such desperation in the words that for one terrible moment he almost turned around. Instead, his heart began to race again.
There had to be a way out. Bilbo took one careful step forward, then another. The motes continued to drift peacefully around him. He forced himself not to run, moving as quickly as he dared without disturbing them again.
Thorin’s voice came through the darkness once more, closer this time.
“You belong here.”