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Blood boils, and dark beasts fall beneath the glint of steel and the weight of iron. He hacks and slashes with vicious satisfaction, already envisioning the utter satisfaction he will feel when a paler creature will suffer under his blade. He had failed once, when he had been young and inexperienced; he had failed again, when disbelief and hatred had blinded him; but he will not fail, not this time.
With a sweeping arc of his blade, the last of the Orcs falls. The Hill becomes quiet, the eerie stillness broken only by his kinsmen’s breathing. The icy mist across the falls has cleared, giving Thorin a clear view of the perch on which Azog stands as he directs his armies. He looks up --
Nothing. The top of the rocky outcropping is utterly devoid of life, and the Orcish banner flaps, abandoned, in the chilled breeze.
He turns to send Fili and Kili to scout the ominous outlook, but then-
“Thorin!”
That voice, that beautiful, crystal clear voice, unmistakable and inimitable; a sound he had never thought to hear again. He spins around, disbelief mounting to see him, grimy and pale, looking every inch a warrior and very little like a Hobbit.
“Bilbo,” Thorin breathes, moving closer without really meaning to. How can it be you? He wonders, awed.
“Thorin, you have to get out of here. There’s another army, coming from the North. It’s a trap.”
Then why are you here, Thorin wants to ask, though already he knows the answer. Because Bilbo, wonderful, brave, loyal Bilbo, always comes back.
But now is not the time for chastisement. If what Bilbo says is true - of course it’s true - then Ravenhill will be overrun within minutes. He turns back to look at the outcropping, still devoid of any movement. Frustration rushes over him - how many times will he fail to kill the bane of his line?
“We move quickly,” Dwalin growls. “Take Azog out and then leave before they come.” Already he moves towards the ice.
“No,” Thorin places a hand on his friend’s chest. “We don’t know their number, nor where they are. Bilbo’s right - this is an ambush.”
He looks at Dwalin, recognizing the same frustration that he himself feels. But he maintains his decision. “We live to fight another day.”
A screech interrupts whatever Dwalin might have said, and five figures turn to face the North as Goblin mercenaries leap down from the rocks. They are quickly engaged, and Thorin does his best to keep himself between the filthy creatures and Bilbo. Dispatching them is quick work, but a wave of Gundabad Orcs follows, and Thorin recognizes the one with metal imbedded in his head.
There is quite a tricky bit where the fighting is taken onto the ice. Fili and Kili have engaged Metal Head, and two Mirkwood Elves have joined the fight - the red-headed guard works with Thorin’s sister-sons, while the blond that he had saved on the river uses his arrows and impeccable Elvish aim to fight from afar (and how the Elf had managed to climb up the abandoned post, Thorin will never know). He has lost sight of Bilbo, which concerns Thorin; yet at the same time, he recalls seeing the Hobbit’s startlingly accurate rock-throwing skills. He will be alright. (He has to be).
Metal Head goes down, and suddenly Azog is there, snarling and angry - it is quite clear that the battle is not going the way he had hoped. Thorin can see that Fili and Kili have moved off the ice with the redhead Elf following them, the three working as a unit as they move forward, slaughtering the arriving Orc ranks.
And for a third time in his life, he engages Azog. He is not alone, though - Dwalin now joins the fight, and between the two of them, the Pale Orc does not know which way to turn. They have the upper hand, and Thorin thinks, this is it--
Dwalin goes flying, Azog’s weapon catching him straight in the stomach and sending him crashing into the rocks that line the falls. Thorin freezes; Dwalin has never faltered, never failed to avoid or block a blow, so how did he manage to do so just then?
His moment of shock costs him dearly. The chain of Azog’s weapon knocks him off his feet, and he manages to stand only long enough to fly through the air as his cousin had, not moments ago. Everything is a blur of grey and blue and white, and then, before he can even register the sound of his head hitting stone, the world turns black.
Thorin wakes to the sensation of several tons of stone lying directly on his torso. He emits a groan, which only worsens the pain, and clenches his teeth as he wills it away.
By the time he opens his eyes, two pale, worried faces, one surrounded by a halo of gold, the other framed dark against the white background, have appeared in his vision.
“Uncle?” Kili asks, voice shaken and strained.
Thorin grunts and tries to prop himself up, ignoring the black spots that fill his vision and the overwhelming pain in his chest. Fili and Kili quickly move to help him, and so injured is he that, even if he had the strength to muster protest, he would not have been able to stop them. After what seems like several agonizing minutes, he lies back against the pillows that have been placed behind him.
Dwalin, he sees, lies on a cot to his left, torso bare except for the bandages that peek out from beneath the covers. The sight of him completely oblivious to the world is unnerving, and Thorin elects to pay attention to his nephews instead.
Fili has bandages wrapped around his head, and Kili appears to be favoring his right leg, but the injuries seem minor and they seem otherwise healthy, though shadows darken their eyes and make the both of them look far older than they are. This battle - no, the past week, overall - has caused great distress.
“How long have I been out?” Thorin asks, voice painfully rough. Kili hands him a cup of water while Fili answers.
“A day. You could have woken up earlier this morning, but Oin wanted you to rest a little while longer. You really took it hard, though not as hard as Dwalin,” Fili glances behind him at the warrior, and Thorin can see that he, too, is discomfited by the sight.
“Cracked ribs, bruised ribs, broken ribs, probably some bruised organs, and, of course, a lot of bruises,” Kili rattles off helpfully. “Oin says you were lucky to avoid broken skin - probably the armor - but he still thinks it’s possible that you have internal bleeding.”
“I’m fine,” Thorin grunts.
“Really? Because you look like an oliphaunt stepped on you,” Fili points out. Thorin glares but changes the topic.
“And the others? How do they fare?”
Fili and Kili settle back, though they still hover. “Bruises, cuts, scrapes, some fractured bones, some concussions. You and Dwalin took the worst of it.” Fili announces.
“And B--Master Baggins?”
“We haven’t seen him,” Kili supplies readily; too readily, for such a weighty statement. Thorin opens his mouth, but his youngest sister-son continues before he can speak. “Balin thinks he’s staying with the Elves or the Men, since that’s where he was during most of the battle.”
Thorin grits his teeth, picturing the look of fascination that he is sure has crossed Thranduil’s face upon seeing the Hobbit. The idea of Bilbo setting up with tree-shaggers is not a pleasant one, and yet he knows why Bilbo would do it.
Never again will I have dealings with Wizards, or Shire RATS.
Yes, it is all too easy to see why Bilbo would prefer to stay away from the Dwarves - away from him.
“Tell Balin to gain an audience with Gandalf, or with Bilbo himself, if he can manage. I would like to speak with him, to formally apologize, if he is willing to listen.”
He misses the look that Fili and Kili share, too busy staring at the hands that had threatened Bilbo’s life.
“Yes, Uncle,” Kili says, rising to exit the tent as Fili produces dried meat from somewhere on his person for Thorin to eat.
It takes far too long for Thorin to realize that something is wrong.
For a week, Thorin slowly recovers, allowed to move around a bit before ordered back onto his cot by a rather irate Oin. Dwalin awakens, complaining about old bones and thrice-damned Orcs and by Mahal, Thorin, you didn’t even manage to off the bastard?
Thorin ignores Dwalin’s barbed comments, though he does take the time to mention that, had he not been so surprised by Dwalin losing a fight, he might have been able to finish the job. Dwalin, rather than rising to the bait, asks what had happened to the Pale Orc, and Thorin can only give the answer he has received - no one knows.
So yes, between trying to breathe without his ribs protesting, wondering where in Durin’s name Azog is, dealing with his grumpy tent mate, and doing whatever he can to avoid Oin’s wrath, Thorin thinks that perhaps he can be forgiven for the oversight.
He has not heard from Bilbo.
Not directly, at least. At first he had been informed that the Elves and Men were reluctant to allow Thorin to speak with him, and then that Bilbo himself was reluctant to speak with him. Fili and Kili fill him in on their attempts to speak with Bilbo, yet Thorin notices something off about their interactions, as if they are repeating rehearsed lines. Balin is far cleverer in his deception, but Thorin’s suspicions have been raised, and he recognizes the older Dwarf’s signature evasion tactic.
So when he brings Thorin soup on the eighth day after the battle, he is rather roughly dragged in by the front of his tunic.
“Where is Bilbo, Balin?”
Balin stares at him, expression impassive. Unreadable. He looks down once, pointedly, and after a moment of deliberation, Thorin releases the tunic from his grasp. Balin smooths it down and takes a seat in the wooden chair that rests by Thorin’s cot.
“We have told you, laddie - he is staying with the Men and Elves and refuses to see you.”
That hurts, and Thorin does his best to ignore the sting. “Is that so? He cannot be staying in two places at once, and if I recall correctly, the Men are staying in the remains of Dale, while the Elves are still camped out in front of the Mountain,” a fact which irks Thorin to no end, though he has so far prevented himself from issuing an edict. There are other matters at stake.
Mostly that Bilbo does not refuse to see people. Angry he may be, but he had also risked his life to warn Thorin during the battle, and then stayed to fight; if Thorin knows anything about Hobbit propriety, then surely he is not in such bad graces that Bilbo would not at least accept a visit, however brief it may be.
Balin’s eyes flicker away for a fraction of a second, almost unnoticeable, but Thorin knows he has him. “Balin,” he says warningly.
The old Dwarf sighs. “Thorin, you must trust me when I say that we are doing everything we can to--”
“The TRUTH, Balin,”
“--to find our beloved burglar.” Balin had continued as if Thorin had not spoken.
The Dwarf King stares.
“What.”
Another sigh. “The Elves and Men do not know where Master Baggins is. Gandalf does not know where Master Baggins is. And I, Thorin Oakenshield, I most certainly do not know where Master Baggins is. No one has seen him since Ravenhill - Fili and Kili lost sight of him before Azog appeared, and you and Dwalin were the only other ones up there. Our burglar is missing.”
Thorin stares. And stares. He is vaguely aware of his mouth opening and closing, and then again. He blinks once, twice.
“And have you…” his throat tightens, no, it can’t be. “Have you checked...on the Hill, have you looked…”
Balin shakes his head. “Yes, we’ve searched among the bodies. Only Orcs perished on Ravenhill; that, or Bilbo is excellent at hiding, even…” he does not finish the sentence, and Thorin resolutely ignores the shining in Balin’s eyes.
“Tell the others to keep looking. Ask Dain for help, the Men and Elves too, if they are willing. I wish to speak with Gandalf.”
Balin bows his head. “Aye, already done. We will find him, laddie. I’ll bring Gandalf.”
A month passes. The dead are buried, and Thorin and his nephews, after waiting for as long as they can, accept the crowns upon their heads. Thorin tries to pretend he does not see the empty spot among his Company, tries to pretend that there are thirteen familiar heads standing next to him rather than twelve.
The restoration for Erebor has begun. Half of Dain’s army stays behind to help, and more also remain in Dale to aid the Men. Bard has been crowned King, much to the Man’s disgruntlement.
The roads are watched. The Men and Elves have promised to report sightings of Bilbo, and to bring him to Erebor, if at all possible.
The Company says nothing. There is a lingering doubt, ever-growing in their mind, but they remain steadfast in their denial. Instead they grasp hold of hope and do not let go.
They cannot let go.
“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” A demanding female voice calls after them, and Thorin and Bard stop their walk through Dale to turn at the voice.
The red-headed Elf, the one that had aided his nephews in the Battle of the Five Armies, stops in front of him, sketching a bow. “Your Majesty, I must speak with you,” she says insistently.
Thorin examines her with some suspicion. “Make an appointment with my advisor; I will speak with you then.” he turns to continue, but a hand tugs sharply on his shoulder.
“I have tried,” she stresses, her hand retreating as she voices her exasperation. “Your Dwarves will not let me through the front gate, let alone close enough to seek an audience.”
Thorin still hesitates, until she speaks again, voice lowered. “It is about the Halfling.”
Glancing at Bard, he comes to a quick decision. “Wait for me at the main gate. I will meet with you as soon as I am done here.” She nods and disappears into the crowd.
Bard keeps him only a little while longer, discussing the locations for forges and strategic enhancements that can be made to the outer defenses. Thorin pays attention to the best of his ability, then quickly excuses himself. As he reaches the outer gate of Dale, he forces his gait to slow, and he soon sees the bright red hair of the she-Elf waiting by the bridge.
“My people are ordered to allow any of Mirkwood’s people to enter with news of Master Baggins.” He informs her, still wary.
“I am not of Thranduil’s guard; not anymore. I believe he saw fit to inform your people of this, and so I am regarded with distrust and suspicion. Last time I approached your gates, I was warned away with a nocked arrow.”
Thorin faces her, leaning subtly against the opposite side of the bridge. “But you do have news of him?”
“You forget I was there on Ravenhill that day,” she points out. “I saw what happened, even though your nephews didn’t.”
“And you didn’t think to tell them?” Thorin queries.
The she-Elf hesitates, and her eyes become shadowed with a strange look. “No, I did not want to tell them.” She looks up at him. “I do not want to tell you.”
He inclines his head. “Then why are you here?”
She turns her head, staring in the direction of the Mountain. There is some sort of internal conflict presented in her posture, and when she turns to look back at him, there is no joy in her eyes; only a terrible grief.
“Azog the Defiler is dead.”
Thorin frowns, startled.
“After you were thrown, the Halfling charged the Defiler. He caught him by surprise, managed to strike him in the chest, but Azog threw him off. Started going after him, and the Hobbit just kept backing up, luring him towards the edge. Then the Defiler fell...and dragged him with him.”
Her eyes had dropped, but now she meets his stunned gaze. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” she whispers. “The Halfling is dead.”
Thorin stands mutely, not noticing that his head has started shaking in denial. “You lie,” he growls lowly.
A tear slips from her eye. “I wish I was.”
She turns away, ready to leave.
“Why didn’t you find him? Why did you leave him to rot?” He shouts, startling both of them. Now he shakes with anger, hands fisting. Explain, explain, explain, he wants to demand.
The Elf bows her head. “I tried. I looked everywhere, and found no sign of either of them. I’m sorry.”
And then she does leave, while he remains motionless in the bitter winter wind, staring into the distance long after she has disappeared from sight. For a long time, he stands there, feeling the lie that he had built himself crumble and wash away with the river.
A troupe of Dwarves comes after him eventually, and they lead him back to the Mountain. They probably assume he suffers from the cold, and he finds himself covered in blankets and placed in front of the fire in his room, a warm mug of something in his hand.
He stares at the flickering flames, and does not sleep.
The months of winter pass slower than ever. Thorin feels time drag by like a blocked river; the hours in council and meetings, in eating and writing, in all waking things draw themselves out and torment his numbed mind, and only blessed sleep passes quickly, or is punctured with nightmares and visions his imagination creates without bidding.
The Company is worried, he knows. Many times he startles out of a daze to realize that one member or the other is attempting to speak with him. Dwalin attempts to bring him to the training fields, Bombur cooks magnificent meals to get him to eat (they taste like ash and blood in his mouth), Bofur frequently drops in with some form of entertainment, Dori makes copious amounts of tea, and Balin attempts to distract him with paperwork and news of the Mountain’s restoration. Nothing lasts forever, and every time he looks upon one of them, he feels the terrible weight of the she-Elf’s words - words that he had not deemed to share with the others.
He has no proof. He has the words of an Elf. He has the unavoidable fact that Bilbo has not been seen since the battle. But there is no body, no blood, and no account that he can trust with absolute conviction. Why burden his kinsmen, his greatest friends, with words that could be false? That they feel truer with each passing week means nothing, and he will not destroy their hope. Let them believe that he had gone back to his smial, as it most likely seems. Let their dreams be of their burglar, alive, and not left out to decay beneath the wind and water and cruel creatures of the soil.
Winter passes, and spring arrives. Birds sing, ice melts, and the wind warms from icy and bitter to chilly and fresh. The sun shines weakly, but grows with strength each day, and the River Running gorges itself on melted snow and springtime rain.
Bilbo would have loved it.
Thorin stands on a ledge, one of the many rocky outcrops that, as King, he has access to. This particular one faces the West, and he can see Mirkwood, and beyond that, the Misty Mountains. If he squints, he imagines that he can also see the Shire - ah, but that is a fantasy, nothing more. Not even an Elf’s eyes could see that far.
His wistful musings are interrupted by a messenger, a lad who, it appears, has run quite some distance to reach him.
“Your Majesty,” he pants, “Captain Dwalin has asked for your presence.”
The young Dwarf leads him out of the Mountain, and Thorin wonders if this is another attempt to shake him out of his gloom. But when he reaches Dwalin, the warrior’s eyes are only grim. Without a word, he looks down, at his feet, where the River Running laps at its bank. Thorin follows his gaze.
Two pieces of metal lie tangled together, covered in dirt and river algae. To the untrained, inexperienced eye, they are nothing more than that, but Thorin knows differently. One is long and thin, the blade curving in at one end to form a trap for the foe unlucky enough to get it caught in their own sword. The other end is blunt, with no hilt - it resembles a long prong, tapered at the tip, as if used to force itself through its wielder’s hand rather than be held by it. Thorin can clearly recall the Orc that had once borne it.
The other piece of metal bears the telltale curve and inscriptions of an Elvish dagger.
There is no sign of the one who once wielded it with a fire and determination that far outweighed his skill.
The Mountain is filled with haunting melodies, reaching every crevice and making the very stone shake with grief. The procession moves slowly. Many Dwarves around them have no memory of the one they now put to rest, but bow their heads all the same.
There is no body. The Falls of Ravenhill have melted and washed away all traces of hero and foe alike; now only a statue remains, commissioned to wield its blade - the true blade - for all of time.
The Company stays after everyone leaves, heads bowed, tears falling unchecked onto the stone floor. Only Thorin does not cry.
He cannot find it within him. Perhaps it is the horror of learning that the she-Elf had been right; perhaps it is the finality with which his fears had finally come true. Perhaps it is because, while his companions have spent months believing that Bilbo had simply left without saying goodbye, he had dreamt of ice and blood and death.
Perhaps it is because he knows that ultimately, it is his fault that Bilbo had died; his fault that the gentle-Hobbit had even left the safety of his home. Perhaps it is because he does not deserve to mourn a death of his own making.
Stepping forward, he kneels to retrieve a bundle from his inner pocket. A gentle press of fingers, and the hidden compartment on the statue’s pedestal slides open. It contains some things already - Bilbo’s pack, his pipeweed, the ruined waistcoat he had refused to part with; all the things that he had left within the Mountain after hastily escaping Thorin’s wrath on the battlements that terrible, terrible day.
There is just enough room for the cloth-covered item, its glow hidden from sight even as he places it in the care of their burglar. The compartment shuts with a deafening click, and Thorin keeps his hand on the stone, unwilling to rise.
There are hands on his shoulders as he bows his head, whispering things to himself, to the statue. I’m sorry, I never meant for this to happen, I never meant for you to die. I’m sorry for bringing you into such perils, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…
A month passes, a year. The second summer in Erebor arrives with warmth and light. The Men have begun to plan and hold festivals for people of all races.
The Company visits the statue occasionally, Thorin more so than anyone. Flowers have been placed at its feet; some old enough to be completely dry, others as fresh as the air after rain.
It has become easier, Thorin thinks, to look upon Bilbo’s face. There was a time when he could not even glance at the furry feet. Now the image of Bilbo, forever poised to defend Erebor and her inhabitants, is bittersweet but bearable; a pain that has slowly dulled with time and acceptance.
He goes now to see it, heart lighter from the sight of Dwarf children dancing in the streets of Dale, of them running alongside their human counterparts, playing games as once happened before the fall of Erebor. The Mountain is slowly becoming home again, and Thorin is glad of it; so different had it seemed when he had stepped foot in it, so full of death and decay, that he had wondered if it would ever feel as it once was. Now it glows with the light of the forges and the lanterns; its halls are filled with the clanking of laughter and the chatter of its people returned home. It is, Thorin thinks, as close to home as it will ever be for him, as changed as he is by time and happenstance; and so he is content.
He is surprised out of his musings by a short, cloaked figure staring up at the statue, the light shining upon it making it difficult for Thorin to see who stands before him.
“Where is your family, little one?” he asks, for only a Dwarfling could be of such short stature.
“I have been mistaken for a child many times, Thorin Oakenshield, especially on this side of the Mountains,” a voice of his dreams says. “But I would have hoped that you knew better.” The figure turns, his face cast in shadow, and Thorin stands frozen, disbelieving. But he looks down, and, yes, no shoes adorn the large feet.
“It cannot be,” he whispers, transfixed.
“It’s a very good likeness,” Bilbo’s voice continues. “Though a bit larger than life, wouldn’t you say?”
“You perished,” Thorin murmurs, shaking his head. “In the battle, you fell.”
“Apparently,” the voice responds, clearly unimpressed, and oh, how Thorin has missed that wit, that deadpan sarcasm that had always rolled off of Bilbo’s tongue like quicksilver.
He continues to shake his head, continues to disbelieve. He dares not hope; how can he? When everything had seemed so final, when all their wishes had turned to dust.
The figure steps towards Thorin, out of the light. The hood is removed, and there is the familiar mop of gold-tinted curls, illuminated by the light behind them. There are the cool blue-grey eyes, glinting with hidden mirth; the familiar, upturned button nose. The apparition before him (he dares not believe) wears the same fringed, blue coat given to Bilbo in Laketown, and a scabbard rests at his hip, conspicuously absent of its sword.
Thorin remains frozen and staring, wide-eyed, as Bilbo continues to step closer, carefully, as if approaching a spooked animal. The analogy is accurate; Thorin feels as if he will bolt at any second.
A hand reaches out, gently, resting soft on his arm as concerned eyes look into his. The touch is light, but there, and Thorin subconsciously brings up his own arm, grasping Bilbo’s elbow.
Solid. Present. Real.
“Thorin--”
Whatever Bilbo has to say is muffled as Thorin throws his arms around the Hobbit. Real. Here. Alive. Present. Here. REAL. He buries his nose in Bilbo’s curls, taking in the scent of earth and grass and sunlight, smells that all Hobbits may share but that Thorin will only ever associate with Bilbo.
Arms wrap around his body, barely reaching past his sides around the furs that he wears. He can feel the gentle pats on his back. His next inhale is shaky, and he realizes belatedly that tears are falling into Bilbo’s hair.
He steps back after an eternity, unwilling to put much distance between them. His hands stay on Bilbo’s arms as he stares at the ex-burglar.
“I am glad you are well,” he manages to say. The roughness in his voice and the wetness in his eyes are unmistakable, but Bilbo does not mention them.
“Likewise, Your Majesty,” he returns, offering a tentative smile.
Thorin makes a noise of discontent. “I am not that, Master Baggins, at least not to you. I would much prefer if you called me Thorin.”
“And I would much prefer if you called me Bilbo. I think we know each other well enough, do we not?”
“Very well,” Thorin concedes, “we have much to speak on, the least of which includes you leaving without a trace, but for now, there are twelve Dwarves who would very much like to see you.”
“Well, then,” Bilbo says, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “We’d best not keep them waiting!”
It is very loud, and lasts a very long time, and Thorin is surprised that Bilbo still has breath in his lungs and the ability to hear after it is over. The only thing that settles the Company is Thorin’s demand to hear how Bilbo survived, and thirteen Dwarves settle closely to the Hobbit, all but sitting in his lap as they wait to hear his tale.
“Well, it wasn’t very grandiose, not for me, at least. After we went over the Falls - Azog and I, that is - I managed to catch hold of a ledge (I believe I managed to dislocate my shoulder, as well), and crawled onto it. Soon afterward a piece of ice fell and I was knocked unconscious. During that time Prince Legolas--”
“Who?” Dwalin growls.
“King Thranduil’s son, the blond Elf, you remember him. Took Orcrist (I do hope he gave that back). Anyway, Prince Legolas saw me fall and found me on the ledge; took me to the Elf encampment and had the healers look after me. I woke up a few days later with a nasty bump on my head, and I stayed with them for a few more days before I was allowed to walk around. I asked after all of you, and when I heard that everyone would recover, I decided to start heading to the Shire.” He shrugs. “That’s all there is to it, really.”
The members of the Company release strings of Khuzdul curses, directed at the Elves of Mirkwood, and Thorin seethes with anger.
“We were informed that they were clueless as to your whereabouts,” Balin explains grimly, once the shouting has died down. “It seems they kept your stay a secret, for whatever reason.”
Bilbo looks a tad uncomfortable, but Kili speaks before Thorin can question it.
“But Bilbo, why didn’t you come say goodbye?”
Their Hobbit hesitates, fingers drumming against the chair he rests in. “I considered it, I truly did. But the Elves were very wary of me going to the Dwarven camp - suspicious, most likely - and since there was one constantly with me, I found it hard to sneak away as I would have liked,” he shrugs. “Eventually I decided that as long as you were all going to be alright, then I could leave without saying goodbye.
“I didn’t want to say goodbye, Kili,” he adds gently, when the Dwarf opens his mouth to protest. Kili closes it and stares at Bilbo with large eyes before burying his face in the Hobbit’s leg, body shaking with sobs. Bilbo strokes through the Prince’s hair and pats his head, his expression contrite. “I am sorry, all of you. If I had known you thought me dead, then of course I would have told you otherwise. Hearing it from Bard’s mouth was quite surprising.”
Kili looks up at him, eyes red. “You can’t leave again, Bilbo. You have to stay.”
Bilbo’s mouth opens, and he looks up at Thorin, expression hesitant and uncertain. Thorin inclines his head.
“You are always welcome in Erebor, Bilbo. You needn’t ask.”
The sun breaks through the clouds. Bilbo’s smile, so rarely genuine, fills Thorin with an unnamable warmth. “Then I’ll stay,” he says decisively, and the room is filled with cheers.
“You kept his presence from me after you swore to inform us of any news of his whereabouts!”
“I made that promise after Master Baggins had already departed for Rivendell,” Thranduil’s voice is calm, but his words bear a cold undercurrent. Thorin opens his mouth to speak, but the Elven King beats him to it.
“The last time I saw you and Master Baggins together, he was dangling off the parapets by your hand,” Thranduil bites out. Thorin freezes, shaking with anger as he levels an icy glare towards the Mirkwood monarch. “You’ll forgive me if I did not find it in his best interest to allow him in your vicinity.”
Thorin’s mind swirls with guilt and shame, but he squashes them down. He leans forward, meeting Thranduil’s eyes with flinty determination. “That was not your decision to make,” he growls. Then he turns on his heel and leaves, gesturing for the guards to escort Thranduil from the mountain.
He goes to Bilbo’s rooms, knocking hesitantly. The door opens after a moment, and Bilbo inclines his head, welcoming but confused. “Thorin! I hadn’t expected you.”
He steps aside, allowing the Dwarf in; Thorin removes his crown as soon as he steps through the door and does his best not to fiddle with it. “I just pulled some scones out of the oven; they’ll be ready in a bit,” Bilbo calls, stepping into his personal kitchen. Thorin can hear dishes being moved around. “Would you like some tea? Or perhaps,” he adds, amusement in his tone, “something a bit stronger? I know you’ve been meeting with King Thranduil today.”
“Neither, thank you,” he manages. “I would like to speak with you, though, if you have the time.”
“Certainly,” the other calls, returning to the main room. Upon seeing Thorin - something in his expression, no doubt - some of Bilbo’s chipper mood drops away. “Thorin? Is something wrong?”
Thorin crosses his arms and frowns at the table, trying to decide how to say what troubles him. “Thranduil says that he kept you from me because he feared for your safety - because he believed that I would...hurt you.” He says, finally, closing his eyes against the image of Bilbo, frightened, beneath him as Thorin had held him against the ramparts.
“I’m aware,” Bilbo replies, voice tight with irritation. “It’s why I couldn’t go anywhere without some Elf tagging along. I was escorted all the way to Rivendell, just to make sure I wouldn’t double back and return like I had the last time.”
Thorin chooses his words carefully, fighting the growing guilt and hurt that threaten to block his throat. “You...managed to evade the detection of Mirkwood’s entire palace guard, and helped us escape beneath their noses. If you had truly wished, you could have slipped your guard to come...to see us.” He cannot look at Bilbo, cannot lift his eyes beyond the pattern on the table in front of him. This is it, he tells himself. The moment where Bilbo admits that he does not wish to be here, that he does not care for him.
Bilbo sighs, and Thorin does his best not to flinch. “What I told Kili was true, Thorin. I didn’t want to say goodbye. I didn’t want to...to make it final.” A hand gently pulls at Thorin’s chin, and he follows, helpless to resist, and stares into Bilbo’s saddened gaze. “And...I didn’t know...I didn’t want to assume that the banishment was lifted,” Thorin flinches again, more noticeably. “Between my doubts, and Thranduil’s suspicions, and Legolas’ assurances that you were all fine, I felt it best to slip away. I wanted to leave with the thought that there might be a chance we could have parted in friendship, rather than visit and risk knowing the opposite.”
Now it is Bilbo’s turn to look away, and Thorin’s heart clenches. “I thought perhaps, that you were...afraid of me.” Thorin admits, not daring to speak above a whisper. Bilbo turns back to face him, a half-smile flashing cross his face.
“No, Thorin. I was never afraid of you. Worried for you, yes, but it seems I no longer have need.”
Thorin looks down, unable to hold eye-contact. “What I did - to you, most of all - was inexcusable.”
“Yes,” Bilbo agrees, and Thorin’s head snaps up, hurt blossoming, threatening to overwhelm as Bilbo’s expression remains calm. “You’re right, of course; it isn’t something that should be excused. But Thorin,” he says gently, “it can be understood. You had your reasons, valid reasons, which prompted an inappropriate response. And I had my reasons, though there may have been a better way to act on them. Neither of the things we did are excusable, but that doesn’t mean they’re unforgivable.”
And he smiles again, gently, reassuringly, and Thorin exhales shakily, painfully. “I forgave you a long time ago. Before I finished climbing down that wall, in fact. And I think, judging by the rather impressive statue placed among your tombs, that you’ve forgiven me as well.”
Thorin’s head drops, and he feels a terrible weight lift off of him even as a hand comes up to rest softly on his head. He reaches for Bilbo, drawing him into an embrace for a second time. For a while they stand there, arms wrapped around each other comfortingly, and Thorin wishes he could never leave. But a thought strikes him, eventually, and he steps back far enough to look properly at Bilbo.
“There’s one thing I’ve yet to understand. If you were content to leave without saying goodbye, then why did you come back?”
“Because after months of retrieving furniture, and withstanding gossip, and telling myself that you were alright, I realized that I hadn’t come home at all. I’d only left it, and I was quite determined to get it back one more time.” Bilbo smiles then, and Thorin suddenly realizes that that blinding ray of sun is meant for him and him alone. He cannot help the answering grin, just as he cannot help threading his fingers through soft curls to create zân-marlel; the first of many, he hopes.