Chapter Text
It was after dinner a few days later that Gandalf said the last thing Bilbo expected to hear. With Thorin and the Company still in the next room, laughing over dessert, they sat on the bench, blowing smoke rings, and Gandalf told him, “You will have to carry the Ring.”
“What? I can’t do that? The Ring holds sway over me. Who knows if I’d be able to throw it into the fire? I might decide to keep it for myself and become Dark Lord Bilbo?”
Gandalf huffed. “That is not even the slightest bit amusing.”
“Which is exactly my point.”
“Well, as great as your chances are of becoming a Dark Lord, greater still are the chances that you will corrupt one of your dearest friends by keeping the Ring in arm’s reach, or that you will bring another war upon Erebor.”
Bilbo guffawed. “You make it sound like the first one was my fault. And, since when do you resort to guilting people into doing impossible things.”
“It’s not impossible. The road is yet clear. The enemy does not know the whereabouts of the Ring. Even if Saruman suspects, he won’t understand a hobbit’s desperation to rid the world of an evil trinket. He can’t imagine someone willingly parting with all that power. And, for now, Sauron yet sleeps. But if that Ring is returned to him, he will emerge again to terrorize and bloody this world. You know I’m right about the danger of keeping the Ring. They will come looking for it. If it does not walk out of this mountain altogether, worn on the finger of one of your beloved dwarrows. Do you think Oakenshield will not begin to hear its call in earnest, now that the trinket has been noticed?”
“You make it sound as if the Ring is alive.” Bilbo shuddered. The thought was rather unsettling given how many times he’d worn the Ring.
“It is not alive as you and I, and yet it has a will and a limited consciousness. And it will use those to find its master once more.”
It was a horrible thought, destroying the Ring. He’d had a gander at a map. The distance from the Lonely Mountain to Mordor was greater than the quest had been. Emptier too, since most of their travel would be south and through the Brown Lands. How long would he be gone for? How long before he’d see Thorin again? Would he ever be back?
But the Ring was one of the few things none of the free peoples of Middle Earth had any right being selfish over. And if a hobbit was most likely to succeed, a hobbit would have to go. “Fine, I’ll carry the Ring,” Bilbo said, in a hush, eyes on the entrance to the next room, “But only if we leave immediately. Gather whatever you need and I’ll meet you at the secret entrance into the mountain before dawn. I can’t afford to tarry. There’s too much here to change my mind.”
Gandalf nodded understanding. It suited him well to be off. He didn’t like leaving such things to chance. They’d tested the Ring in the fireplace and he’d read the ancient script, the words like a curse, promising destruction the longer the Ring survived.
Bilbo didn’t bother sleeping that night. He searched his room, gathered the mithril shirt, Sting, and some of the more recent of Thorin’s gifts like the small vambrances and leather helmet. They’d had an epic argument as Thorin had tried to insist Bilbo walk around in full armor whenever he left the mountain to visit Dale or even just to see the jeweled flower garden. Now, at least, Bilbo could appreciate the usefulness of the gifts as he prepared them.
But once that was done, with Gandalf in charge of food and transportation, there was nothing left for Bilbo to do. He’d made his paltry goodbyes, not that any of the Company knew that’s what they were. He’d went around to each of his friends, inserting a comment here, a joke there, feeding Dwalin a cookie when he tried to call him fussy again and asking Gloin for a story about his son Gimli while the boy was in earshot. His blush had been bright as his hair, hearing his father expound on all his great deeds, such as guard duty or message delivery.
But now there was one last goodbye to make and it was the most important of all. Because Bilbo knew he’d have to manipulate his beloved King. And he wasn’t sure how to do that successfully. He needed Thorin to accept Bilbo going on this quest while he stayed to be King of Erebor. He needed Thorin to hold the more hotheaded of the Company back, keep them from running after Bilbo. And most of all, if anything happened to him, he needed Thorin to live on and continue, as he had after the death of his first Consort.
Of course, it wasn’t fair to Thorin, having to survive the death of his One twice in a lifetime. His time here had been so short that the heartache he’d leave behind was disproportionate to any relief his short stay may have given Thorin. But, hard as Bilbo had thought during his packing, no right way to do this came to mind.
And so, Bilbo decided to do something…selfish. If he didn’t survive, he wanted his last moments with Thorin to have been special. If Thorin would miss him anyway, what could be the harm of taking a shining memory with him on his quest? Wouldn’t it just help the quest succeed if he had a real reason to come back?
So, entering Thorin’s office by way of the tapestry, he searched the wall until he came upon the suit of armor standing in an alcove. The floor here as dusty, since Thorin preferred to go around rather than enter his rooms through this secret passage, but now, Bilbo knocked against the wall, hoping Thorin would hear and open the passage from his end. One of the stones was supposedly a button, but even if he knew which one, he doubted anything less than dwarf strength could press it.
A long moment passed, but just as Bilbo was getting disheartened, the passage swung inwards. Stepping through, Bilbo found himself for the first time in Thorin’s bedroom, facing a startled Dwarf King dressed in his nightclothes.
“Bilbo, what’s wrong?” Thorin asked, with concern.
“You asked me once, a few weeks ago, about my answer. To the mithril shirt.”
“Aye, that I did.”
“Well, I figured you deserved an answer,” Bilbo said, stepping in close and raising himself on his toes. To keep himself steady, he fisted the front of Thorin’s shirt, blushing at his own daring, and tilted his head sideways so that their lips slotted together unhindered.
Thorin hummed in surprise, eyes dark. “You come to me at a terrible time.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Bilbo fretted. “I thought this would be alright, but if you’re busy or heading to bed – ”
“Well, whether you should be sorry or not depends on what you meant by coming here, with night upon us, and both of us in our sleepware.”
“Ah,” Bilbo caught Thorin’s meaning. And yes, suddenly this seemed like a terrible idea. But at the same time, he considered again, what if he died during this new venture? How long had it been since he’d shared heat with someone? Why not have his fill for one night of the person he’d loved most in life? The person he’d lost before anything had come of it? “In that case,” Bilbo slotted their lips together again, “this seems like the perfect time.”
Thorin growled low, his voice full of warning. “It’s been a long time, Bilbo. When I first took my Consort, I was capable of some measure of gentleness. We were both shy and things didn’t seem so dire. Now, however, I lack patience. If you’d warned me sooner, I could have tired myself on swordplay. There’s too much desire in me. I caution you, if you still choose to stay, it won’t be temperate. You will be covered in bruises on the morrow.”
And indeed Bilbo didn’t doubt him. Thorin’s hands were shaking, fingers spasming with the urge to grab, and eyes dark as mine shafts drinking in the sight of him.
“It’s alright, Thorin,” Bilbo soothed. “We hobbits are heartier than we look. I want you this night, so take me as you wish. And don’t hold back.”
Those words broke the last of the king’s restraint. Scooping Bilbo into his arms, he carried his hobbit through his rooms and pushed him down on the bed, mouth already tracing the column of his throat with nipping teeth. He sucked small hurts into place before soothing them away with hungry licks.
“Your taste alone drives me mad,” Thorin said, low like rolling thunder. “It’s a true struggle not to bite.” He nuzzled at Bilbo’s collar as surprisingly nimble fingers tempted buttons out of their holes.
Biblo felt the clasps of his suspenders release and the rest of his clothes came away. “You know, I’m starting to feel underdressed,” he said, gently tugging at Thorin’s sleepwear.
“I have not the patience,” Thorin whispered into his skin between kisses, already sliding down, further and further.
As Thorin’s tongue traced a particularly sensitive patch of skin, Bilbo couldn’t hold in a groan of a laugh. It was all happening so fast. Too many nerves were being stimulated at once. Bilbo felt as if he were dying of pleasure. “I-is this whole night going to be like s-starving m-men at a feast?” he wondered, aloud.
“Yes,” Thorin growled, and spent hours making good on his promise.
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Deep in the night, when he was sure Bilbo was asleep, Thorin rolled out of bed. He found his closet in the dark and reached in, searching the hook where he knew his sashes to be. He pulled the long, blue sash, woven of spider’s silk. The material would not break under dwarven strength, and yet it was soft against skin. It wouldn’t leave marks if Bilbo should wake before he returned.
With careful hands, he tied the hobbit’s hands to the headboard and wrapped his legs in bedsheets before slipping out of the room. He needed to see Dis, and he didn’t care how pissy she’d be when he woke her this far from dawn.
With a nod to her guard, Thorin pounded on the door and he didn’t stop until it opened to a sticky eyed with mussed hair. She gave him the death glare that would have had her grown sons running for their lives. “What do you want?” she snarled, even as her calculating gaze swept his form, cataloguing details, such as his lack of panic, injuries, or formal attire.
“May I come in?” Thorin asked, mostly a habit he’d picked up from his consort. He didn’t, however, wait to be let in, shouldering through the entrance as Dis locked the door behind him.
“What is it, Thorin? You don’t look terribly upset, but something seems amiss with you.”
With a sigh, Thorin fell into an armchair.
“Do you want a tumbler?” she asked, motioning for the hard liquor from Nori’s stash that she’d managed to pilfer.
“Can’t,” Thorin said. “I’ll be traveling in a few hours. You shouldn’t either,” he told her, as she went to reach for a glass. “You’ll be running a kingdom on the morrow.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh? And why is that?”
“He truly underestimates me,” Thorin said, “if he thinks he can seduce me the evening after he’s spent a long, clandestine smoke with the wizard and we’ve just finished agreeing that the One Ring must be destroyed."
Dis frowned. “That’s ridiculous. You think he’s going to carry it to Mordor? Gandalf would never let him do that. He’s just one hobbit.”
Thorin laughed outright. “Since when does the wizard shy from sending his friends into peril? This is the same hobbit he manipulated into a grand quest. I’m not sure anymore what would have happened if he hadn’t been able to turn invisible. Isn’t it preposterous? Tharkun only helped us gain back the mountain because he wanted a stronghold here to pen in the enemy. Turns out, perhaps the Ring was the deciding factor in giving him this. Makes you wonder if we’ve really won anything at all.”
He wasn’t prepared for the solid fist that almost knocked his jaw out of place. “OW! What did you do that for?”
“Just listen to yourself,” Dis huffed, directing her angry scowl at him. “Pity, dark thoughts, negative feelings. Correct me if I’ve missed my mark, but you plan to go with him to take the Ring to Mordor. How exactly do you plan to help him if you’re already falling apart?”
A few years ago, he would have argued. He’d have raged at the strange nature of fate and the pit in his stomach when he now thought of this mountain tainted by such an evil power. And, worst of all, once upon a time, he’d have wondered if that Ring could not help him rule. The rush of relief and absolute gratefulness Thorin felt at that moment nearly stole his breath, because he wasn’t that dwarf anymore. And it shouldn’t have been a revelation. But knowing true disgust for the One Ring made Thorin finally feel more secure with the idea that he truly wasn’t gold made anymore.
“You’re right. If I’m to protect him, I must keep my thoughts bright, fill them with hope and fond memories.”
“And do you have a plan, in case the worst should happen?”
“I’m taking Dwalin. If ever there was a dwarf more incorruptible, I’ve never met nor heard tale of such. He’ll keep Bilbo safe, even if it’s me he’s protecting him from. Besides, we have the wizard. This time, he’s unlikely to wander. After all, what could be more important than the Ring the rules the fate of Middle Earth?” A silent, contemplative moment passed between them in which their gazes strained to memorize each other. In case it was the last time.
But all moments must end, and Thorin wanted to get back to Bilbo before the hobbit could wake. Admittedly, he likely wouldn’t enjoy finding himself tied to the bed. “Will you keep the kingdom from collapse?”
“Oh, dear brother, I’ll do a fine better job than you. You’ll see when you come back. There will be public outcry demanding I stay on the throne,” she joked, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
Thorin pressed their foreheads together and whispered a prayer, for Mahal to look after his family, his Company, his people. It was with heavy footsteps that he left to wake Dwalin and pack his own supplies.