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The journey around the northern side of Mirkwood had been long and cold and arduous, if uneventful, and Bilbo was more than glad of the chance to stop and rest. Even after all that had happened, and the inexplicable sadness that often plagued him, it was difficult not to be merry in the house of Beorn. The great bear-man had accompanied him and Gandalf back from the newly reclaimed Erebor, and was delighted to host them. There they passed the worst of the winter, in spite of Bilbo’s antsy feet that set him constantly to pacing. But the Misty Mountains were treacherous at the best of times, and trying to find an open pass in the middle of the winter was a fool’s errand.
Gandalf had never asked what passed between Bilbo and the King Under the Mountain in that dingy little tent on the corner of the battlefield. For that, at least, Bilbo was grateful. He kept it to himself, as jealously guarded as a dragon’s treasure, and ignored the occasional looks the wizard sent his way, sharp and shrewd beneath bristling brows. Gandalf could deduce whatever he liked. Bilbo would be taking that conversation to his grave.
“You are called for,” Gandalf said, and then left him, abandoned him to the autonomy of a ragged square of tent whose only claim to singularity was the dwarf within it. Thorin lay upon the cot, covered in furs, his breath coming shallow. The floor was littered with his abandoned armor, almost unrecognizable from battering and bloodstain. The surgeon – a dwarf of the Iron Hills, by that beard – slipped out of the tent flaps without a word.
“Burglar.”
“Milord,” Bilbo squeaked, but his voice was dry as a bone and nothing came forth. He walked as quietly as he could to the edge of the cot, trembling uncontrollably.
Thorin’s hand lay upon the fur, black with dirt and blood, his two forefingers splinted and wrapped in new bandages. He gestured with it, and Bilbo lay one shaking hand upon his scraped and bleeding wrist. “I fear I am death’s door, Master Baggins,” he rasped. “I would take these last moments to repair what was broken between us. I wish to part in friendship from you, and take back my words at the Gate.”
Bilbo’s heart clenched within him, and he was overcome with sorrow. Now he found his voice, though it cracked and broke as his cheeks grew wet with tears. “Farewell, King Under the Mountain! Our score is settled. I am honored to have shared this adventure with you, though it is more than any Baggins deserves.”
“No,” said Thorin gently, and there was a trace of a smile around his weary eyes, blazing bluer than an autumn sky from his grimy face. “There is more to you than you know, kindly child of the West. Perhaps you deceived me once, but it was of good intent. You are honorable, Bilbo, and more loyal than I ever gave you credit for. I thank you for your service, and your willing heart.”
Vision blurred with tears, Bilbo bent and kissed the back of Thorin’s hand. “I pray you find peace, Thorin Oakenshield. Surely you above all others deserve it.”
Weakly, Thorin’s fingers clasped Bilbo’s own, and as he waited there with him the king passed into a shallow slumber. Suddenly Bilbo felt he could not bear to stay. To know Thorin in life had been an adventure – to know him in death would be excruciating. Timidity fled him as he leaned forward once more, resting his lips momentarily to that stately brow. Then, with one soft pat against Thorin’s mangled hand, he fled the tent.
His sorrow was not ended that day. Later he learned that Fíli had fallen in battle, head nearly cloven in two in an attempt to spare his brother the same fate. He lay now in what had once been the great feasting hall of kings, and was now an infirmary, taking in the dying and the wounded from the battlefield, elves and men and dwarves alike. Bifur tended him, for he had knowledge of such wounds, but no one – not even Gandalf – could say whether the young dwarf prince would wake from his heavy slumber.
Compared to his kinsmen, Kíli had gotten off lightly. He sat at his brother’s bedside constantly, ignoring his own multiple wounds, and he was there when Bilbo came to make his last farewells.
“Mister Baggins,” he said, weary but fond, and stood to greet him, leaning on a cane to support his injured leg. “Gandalf says you are leaving.”
Bilbo nodded, strangely timid in Kíli’s presence. Now more than ever he saw Thorin in him – in his dark hair, finally braided back from his face, and in the set of his shoulders and jut of his chin. He felt a bit as if he were standing in the presence of the King Under the Mountain. “I only wish to say that I am – grateful to you, for your friendship, and I wish the best for you. I am sure you will make an excellent Lord Regent.”
“I pray to the Valar that is the case,” Kíli answered, looking to where his brother lay ashen, his head bound thick with blood-spotted linen. He rested a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Safe journey, my dear friend. May you see far less adventure on your return than you did coming here.”
Bilbo had bowed low and taken his leave. And now he was here, feasting and making merry before a roaring fire, in good company, with servants to tend his every need. He thought of Thorin wasting to death on a bloody battlefield, of Kíli waiting weeks and months for his brother to either wake up or die, and found the food and merriment stuck in his craw.
Gandalf tried to broach the subject once, over an after-dinner pipe. They were alone in the great hall, their toes and faces toasty red from the fire as he murmured in his aged voice, “You are not the same, Bilbo. Something is different about you.”
Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh. “Well that is what you said would happen, isn’t it? I suppose I am cursed to be ‘not the same’ for the rest of my life.”
And that was that.
The rest of their return journey was fairly uneventful. As the days went by Bilbo grew more peaceful, and even began smiling more, telling jokes and stories with Gandalf to pass the time. Their way was leisurely, and whenever they passed a well-remembered spot they would set up camp, smoking their pipes and telling tall tales far into the star-studded night.
One day they turned along a narrow stone path and the Hidden Valley opened up before them, its craggy cliffs swathed in bright spring colors. Bilbo’s heart eased a little more, and he smiled the whole ride down. Elrond himself met them at the far side of the bridge, and if he looked a little long on Bilbo he could be forgiven. He was not the same hobbit who had come stumbling and bumbling into Rivendell behind a crowd of dwarves more than half a year ago. When Elrond said as much to Gandalf, as Bilbo was being led away to his guest quarters, Gandalf only nodded, something sad and grim around his eyes.
“Our burglar has known loss – greater loss than he may ever recover from, I fear. Only time will tell.”
*
Time did tell. The extended stay at Rivendell was good for Bilbo, and by the time they departed, laden down with fresh supplies and a new, bright red handkerchief, there was little trace of the sorrow that had lingered in his countenance for so long. By the time they rested in Bree, he was more anxious to get home than melancholy about the past.
That was when the messenger came. A swift white hawk, with large golden eyes and icy white wingtips laced with charcoal, bearing a silver capsule on its ankle from Erebor by way of Imladris. Gandalf let it in through the window and let it perch on his shoulder while he unlocked the capsule with a few muttered words and unrolled the tiny paper inside.
“Get me my glass, Bilbo, if you would be so kind.”
The hobbit, who had been watching the procedure with wide eyes, picked through Gandalf’s pack until he found the little eyeglass, a gift from old Balin at their parting. It was tiny in Gandalf’s fingers, but it worked well enough. A moment later the wizard let out a cry, and he flourished the slip of paper with delight.
“Good news from the Mountain!”
Bilbo jumped up. “Is it Fíli? Is he awake at last?”
“There is no news of Fíli,” Gandalf said, “but there is news of an equally miraculous kind. Thorin Oakenshield has been crowned King Under the Mountain at last.”
Something in Bilbo gave a little twitch. “Thorin? But he was dying, I was at his bedside –”
“He was very close to death, my dear Bilbo, but death did not claim him. Balin writes that after long months of fighting infection, he took a turn for the better – while we were in Imladris, I imagine – and is now up and about, and is taking over duties from Dain of the Iron Hills.”
Bilbo sat down hard on the bed, hands fisted in the sheets. A year ago he might have fainted clean away at such news, but he was made of stronger stuff, now. Instead he simply sat and stared unseeing, flashing through emotions faster than he could name them, as Gandalf left him to his thoughts in favor of supper.
The rest of the journey passed in a haze. Suddenly Bilbo had no desire to return to the Shire. All the hard work of the past few months was undone, and he wanted nothing more than to turn tail and ride back to Erebor as fast as his sturdy little elven pony would allow. But it was too late for that. He was almost home, with months of travel behind him, and what would he do if he were to return, anyway? What use would a Dwarf King have for a lowly halfing, now that the burglary had been accomplished and the contract fulfilled? None, was the simple answer. So Bilbo rode miserably into Hobbiton at last, threw the auctioneers out of his home, and sat down for a cup of tea, feeling firmly that he was on the wrong side of Middle Earth.
Gandalf didn’t stay long. He had news to carry and business to take care of, and so he departed one morning while Bilbo was off begging and buying his own belongings back. Bilbo didn’t hear from him again for quite some time.
A handful of years came and went. By the time he had rounded up all his spoons, Bilbo had gained a nephew and lost more sleep than he cared to remember, sitting up by the fire and aching in his heart for faraway lands, and kings that no longer remembered him. Frodo was young and precocious, rebounding quickly from the tragedy of his parents’ death, and Bilbo took pride in raising him up right, part respectable Baggins and part disreputable, adventurous Took.
It became easier with time, managing the heartache. It was helped by the occasional visitors he received. With so many foul folk taken care of in the Battle of Five Armies – at it had come to be called – passing over the Misty Mountains and through the Wild wastelands had become easier and easier. Ori and Balin stopped by one bright autumn afternoon, just in time for tea, and Frodo sat eagerly at Ori’s knee, hearing all the magnificent tales the dwarf-bard had to tell. Bilbo made polite conversation with Balin about the doings at Erebor, and very carefully did not ask after its king. Balin, for whatever reason, did not speak of Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, though he did bring good news of another sort: Fíli was awake at long last, after two years in a coma.
“His memory is very poor,” Balin said, sipping from a tankard of good Shire ale. “An’ he can barely walk on his own legs, poor lad, but he has his brother. Those two are more inseparable than any pair o’ kin I ever saw.”
Balin and Ori didn’t stay long – they were seeking out any kinfolk who wished to join them in a new quest, hoping to retake Moria – but before they departed, Ori left Bilbo with a small gift. “It’s not much, after all you did for us, Master Bilbo,” he said, flushing as red as his hair. “But I hope it will be acceptable to you.”
It was a drawing, on a page torn from Ori’s scribing book. Done in ink, it depicted Bilbo with his head high, smiling slightly - proudly, even - from the paper.
“You make me look far grander than I really am,” Bilbo said, though he couldn’t quite keep from smiling. “I like as if I ought to have a crown upon my head!”
“Perhaps you ought,” Ori murmured, just low enough that Bilbo could pretend he hadn’t heard.
They were not the only visitors Bilbo entertained from foreign lands. Dwarves were the most likely, but occasionally an elf or two dropped by. He even housed the son of the Woodland King, who he remembered vaguely from his burglaring days, and who was delighted to tell him all about the Greenwood – for such it was again, or so it was to the elves, after the Necromancer had been driven off – and the goings-on of Laketown and the resurrected Dale.
“I should like to visit someday,” he confided to Bofur, who had come to stay a few weeks while overseeing the new pipeweed trade between Erebor and the Shire.
“Then come!” Bofur exclaimed, toasting him with his pipe as they sat smoking in the twilit garden. “You’ve been greatly missed, Bilbo Baggins. Even poor young Fíli has asked about you now and again.”
“It’s just that it’s such a long way,” Bilbo lamented, “and I can’t leave Frodo here. The Sackville-Bagginses are hardly worthy guardians.”
“Take him to Rivendell,” Bofur suggested. “I’m sure Elrond would be happy to take him under his wing for a bit. It’ll do him good to get a little traveling under his belt. He’s not that young, even by hobbit standards surely.”
It was a tempting notion, but… “I’ll consider it,” he said, knowing that he most likely would, and then drop the subject as quickly as possible. He had other things to think of now. He wasn’t a single hobbit anymore – he had Frodo to think of first and foremost, who was very much a child still. He diverted the conversation by asking about the roads East, and Bofur didn’t bring it up again.
Then there came a period of several years where Frodo began to shoot up like a weed, and visitors from the East grew few and far between. Bilbo donated his mithril mail to a museum – temporarily, he told himself, though he could think of no reason he would need it again – and started raising his own bees, using the same sort of enormous clover that Beorn grew in his fields. Life was good, or as good it can be when the other half of your heart lives half a year away without even knowing he had your heart to begin with.
One sunny morning about six years after his adventures, Bilbo was in the kitchen chopping apples and walnuts when Frodo burst in the front door. The giant green circle – freshly painted – slammed shut behind him, rattling the windows, and Bilbo could hear his young feet pattering down the hall.
“Don’t slam the door, young hobbit!” he shouted. “And I hope you wiped your feet!”
The pattering grew quicker, and suddenly Frodo threw himself into the kitchen, brown curls flying everywhere (dear me, he needed a haircut) and blue eyes wider and bluer than robin’s eggs. It is worth noting that his feet had not been wiped. “Uncle Bilbo, there’s someone coming up the lane!”
Just for a moment, a wee short moment, Biblo’s tired heart gave a little leap. Then he took up his knife again and grumbled, “Someone’s always coming up the lane, Frodo my lad. And back down it too, more often than not.” Not many people stopped in to Bag End anymore. They walked on by, some trying their hardest to ignore it, others giving it a curious side-eye as they passed on quick feet.
“Not a hobbit,” Frodo pleaded, annoyed at being dismissed. He hung off the counter by his elbows, feet kicking at the cupboards with rambunctious energy. “A dwarf. And it’s not Ori or Balin or Bofur or any of the others!”
“Hmm.” Bilbo knew at this point that there was a very high chance Frodo was having him on. The boy had so much energy – too much, sometimes – and a wilder imagination than Bilbo had had at his age. He decided to play along. “What’s this dwarf look like, then?”
“Scary,” was the immediate response, the syllables thick with relish and boyish enthusiasm. There was nothing more exciting to a young Frodo than something scary. “He’s all scarred from battle, and he’s got long dark hair and a dark beard and he’s got a sword! A real big one!”
“And he’s coming up the lane, you say?” Bilbo asked, knife slowing right at the core of an apple. It couldn’t be, surely. He wouldn’t leave his kingdom, come all this way for –
“Yes! He’s coming this way, I’m sure of it!”
As if to confirm Frodo’s words, there came a heavy knocking at the door. Bilbo set down the apple – knife and all – and braced his hands on the countertop. “Go and see who’s at the door, lad.” He feared his knees wouldn’t support him far enough to do it himself.
Off Frodo scampered without complaint, high voice piping along the passages of Bag End as he chattered excitedly to himself. Bilbo followed more slowly, keeping close to the curving walls as he listened with sharp ears for the door.
“Hullo!” Frodo squeaked, as Bilbo edged along the parlor. The window that looked out over the hill didn’t afford him a view of the front door, but he didn’t really need one.
“Good morning, young master,” rumbled a very familiar voice. “You must be Frodo. Thorin Oakenshield, at your service.” There was the clink of metal and the rustle of a fur-lined cloak – bowing, no doubt. Bilbo covered his smile with one hand, picturing it: a Dwarf King bowing to a young hobbit lad. Surely Frodo’s eyes were as big as river stones by now.
“Frodo son of Drogo Baggins at yours!” came the correct reply, formulated after years of hearing dwarves introducing themselves at this very door. “Do come in, Uncle Bilbo is just…”
“Is just here,” Bilbo interrupted, striding out into the entryway. His knees had never felt stronger. He laid one hand on Frodo’s slight shoulder and looked up, over weathered traveling gear and a long fur-lined cloak, up to the weathered, battle-scarred face of the King Under the Mountain. “Thorin,” he said, and it was all he could say, a wide grin preventing any further utterance.
“Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin murmured, sharp eyes scanning him as piercingly as they had seven years ago. “You haven’t aged a day.”
“Nor you,” Bilbo answered, though it wasn’t strictly true. Thorin’s eyes were set a little deeper, the lines around his mouth a little sharper, the gray in his hair and his beard a little more prevalent. But he stood as straight and true as ever, shoulders still broad and strong. The only real difference Bilbo could mark was the ragged pink scar at his temple, curving down around his left eye – a very near miss, that – and carving a small pointed furrow in his beard.
Thorin chuckled. “You are too kind, as always. I fear time has not been as kind to me as to you.” He looked down to Frodo, who was staring between the two of them with new amazement. His old uncle, friends with his magnificent dwarf warrior? It was almost unbelievable. “I’ve heard much about your nephew. He’s quite a promising lad.”
“He is.” Bilbo smiled proudly, and then remembered his manners. “Please come in! Come in, you’re just in time for second breakfast.”
“I hope we’re not too many for you – you can’t have been expecting us,” Thorin said, and Bilbo sudden realized there was someone else at the door, a little behind Thorin, looking out over the vale. “Bilbo, this is Dís.” The person turned, and Bilbo’s heart dropped to his shoes. It was a dwarf maiden, nearly as tall as Thorin, with long dark brown hair in braids upon braids, falling over one another down her back and shoulders. Her beard was neatly trimmed and oiled, braided back into the thinner plaits falling around her face, and adorned with silver beads. She was quite beautiful (for a dwarf), and Thorin’s hand rested proprietarily upon her shoulder.
“Dís, this Bilbo Baggins, who was with us on our many adventures to reclaim Erebor,” Thorin said, and she bowed low.
“At your service, Master Burglar,” she said, and her voice was low and pleasant. “My brother has told me much of your great deeds.”
“Your… your brother,” Bilbo echoed, and then looked between them again. Suddenly the resemblance was obvious. “Oh! Yes, yes of course.” He laughed awkwardly. “Well I’m sure it’s all been greatly exaggerated. I didn’t do all that much. Please, come in, I’ll have the food ready in a jiffy. Just hang your cloaks and things here.”
In the kitchen once more, Bilbo’s hands shook as he prepared the last apple-walnut tart and crimped the edges of the crust. Three were in the oven already, baked to perfection, and three waited their turn on the counter. The finished ones he laid on platters, adding cold ham and sausage from last night’s dinner and slices of new pear drizzled with honey from his hives. Then, with Frodo’s help, he laid the table and the four of them feasted together, as if nothing strange had ever passed between them.
Later that evening, Bilbo and Thorin wandered the top the Hill, watching the fireflies come out among the clover. It was early summer, and there was still a slight bite in the air that lingered after winter. That must be the reason Thorin lingered so close – or so Bilbo told himself. Not that he was doing anything to dissuade him. They wandered around the beehives close together, arms brushing with every step, and Bilbo felt the cracks in his heart filling for the first time in many years.
“This is not just a… casual visit,” Thorin said at long last, breaking their on-and-off discussion of beekeeping. He stopped to look down at Bilbo, who returned his gaze steadily. “I was hoping I might convince you to return to Erebor with me, at least for a little while. But the others say you will not be budged.”
There it was. An invitation from the king himself. Surely he had no right to refuse this time. “It’s Frodo,” he said, nearly tripping over the words. “I don’t feel I can safely bring him East, and he’s too young for such a journey.”
“He’s a bright lad, Bilbo, any fool can see that. You’ve done well,” Thorin told him, overriding his blushes and stammering protestations. What was it about this dwarf that made him fall over himself like a fool? “Perhaps he’s a little young, but in a few months it will be his birthday, as he told me. Fourteen is young for a dwarf, but for a hobbit I believe it is the perfect age.” His mouth was flat and featureless in the shadow of his beard, but Bilbo could see a smile creased around his eyes. “As for bringing him East, well, with two dwarven warriors of the line of Durin to protect you, I doubt you will face much trouble.”
Bilbo stared at him, realizing what he meant. “You will accompany us?”
“Well certainly. I see no reason to depart so soon. It is a fine summer we are having, and what better way than to spend it in the Shire?”
“What about your – your kingdom? Aren’t you needed back at the Mountain?”
“Kíli makes a perfectly adequate Prince Regent while I am away,” Thorin said, waving off his protests. “And he has Balin to advise him, and Fíli to keep him out of trouble.”
“Fíli is no longer the heir?”
Thorin’s face darkened slightly. “He is. He and Kíli will rule together, once I am gone. But I fear he will never be quite the king he ought to have been. But I am grateful he is alive, after all this time. I can ask no more than that.” He stirred, shaking off the grimness, and laid one hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “What say you?”
Bilbo licked his lower lip, staring down at Thorin’s belt instead of his face, coward that he was. “I must ask one thing, first: do you ask this of me as a King, or as a friend?”
There was a soft exhalation somewhere near his forehead, and his fringe stirred in the cloud of warm, smoky breath. “As your friend, Bilbo, of course. I have no right to ask you as a King. I proved that long ago.”
“You proved only that you are a ruler who would see justice done.” Bilbo’s hand lifted almost of its own accord, crossing to the opposite shoulder to rest upon Thorin’s hand. “I cannot fault you for it.”
“I treated you far less than you deserved. But I will accept your forgiveness, as I am a selfish man.” His thumb lifted, catching the back of Bilbo’s knuckles. “I find your friendship is of more worth to me than such petty arguments.”
Bilbo smiled. “I will come. But you and Dís must stay here, at Bag End. I won’t have you staying in some ramshackle inn for months on end.”
Thorin’s face broke out in a smile. “I was hoping you would say that. Dís is quite taken with young Frodo – you may have to watch out, she’ll be teaching him archery and swordplay before too long.”
“He would like nothing better,” Bilbo said drily. “Perhaps I shall let him, so he’ll be able to keep up with Fíli and Kíli.”
“He will need much practice for that,” Thorin laughed. “He ought to start right away.”
“Don’t tell him that! Perhaps I shall get him an early birthday present, if I can find a bow and arrows worth using around here that will fit him.”
“Dís is clever at weapons-building. If you give your consent, I’m sure she would be happy to make him such a thing.”
“Then I shall do that,” Bilbo said. “Speaking of Frodo, it is time for him to be in bed.” His hand still lingered over Thorin’s. “I will go and… arrange your rooms.”
Thorin nodded and released him, but somehow their hands tangled together and Bilbo couldn’t quite bring himself to let go. In the end, Thorin loosed their hold on one another, calloused thumb brushing the underside of Bilbo’s wrist as he bade him good evening. Bilbo blushed all the way back to his hobbit-hole.
The summer passed in fine, merry fashion. Most hobbits left Bag End well alone, but on Midsummer’s Eve Bilbo hosted a large celebration at the Party Tree that was well-attended. Thorin and Dís soon became a familiar sight around Hobbiton, dressed down to light summer clothing and their hair braided back off their necks and faces. They were particular favorites with the children, who would hang off their backs and arms as they performed feats of strength and agility, or raced with them up and down the narrow dirt lanes to “train.” Frodo, however, got the special treatment. Every morning after a light breakfast, he and Thorin would go out onto the hill and do exercises, practicing boxing and hand-to-hand combat. In the afternoons he followed Dís around wherever she went, learning how to fletch arrows and pull a bowstring. Afterwards, all tuckered out, he would sprawl in the heather while they took tea in the bright summer sunshine, beaming with red-faced pride as the two dwarves praised his efforts to Bilbo.
And Bilbo? He was happier than he’d ever been, or so it felt. The summer stretched away in endless days of green and gold, with the promise of an adventure at the end of it, all with Thorin Oakenshield at his side. If he wasn’t quite sure what that meant, well, they had time now to figure it out. Bilbo wasn’t inclined to rush. Falling in love with someone for the first time only happened once, and he was determined to savor it.
That’s not to say he tried to postpone it when it reached fruition. A few weeks from Frodo’s fourteenth birthday, they had a bonfire to celebrate news they’d had via Gandalf: Ori and Kíli were betrothed, and there was a dwarf king in Moria again, Dain of the Iron Hills. His folk had cleared the mountain of the last of the foul creatures, at least for a time, and there was peace in the Misty Mountains. They stayed awake talking long into the night, until Dís hauled a dozing Frodo off to bed. Gandalf disappeared as well soon after, making for his own bed in Bilbo’s last guest room. Only Bilbo and Thorin remained, their faces glowing muted red-gold in the light of the dying fire.
“I wasn’t aware dwarf men could marry,” Bilbo ventured, poking the coals with a stick.
“It is rare, but not unheard of,” Thorin acknowledged. “Generally it isn’t done, as heirs are important to carry the family name, but there are so few dwarf-women that we often fall in with one another instead.”
“But Kíli and Ori won’t be able to have heirs.”
“No. But Fíli is as handsome as he ever was, and he has a good heart and noble spirit. And the blood of Durin’s line,” he added. “I am sure he will find a lady to love one of these days.” He cocked an eyebrow at Bilbo. “Besides, I am not that old, Master Baggins.”
“I know you are not!” Bilbo protested, flushing. He repeated at a murmur, “I know quite well.” It was growing harder and harder by the day for him to ignore his attraction to the dwarf king. Tonight, it seemed, was the apex of it: in his worn linen tunic, skin warm and golden in the light of the coals, he appeared as a humble version of his usual stately self, and Bilbo wanted nothing more than to peel that tunic right off him and kiss all the spots the firelight dared not touch.
Thorin shifted under his scrutiny, and Bilbo flushed to tips of his ears as he realized he was being watched in turn. “You have a steady gaze on you, halfling,” Thorin observed, not unkindly. “Might I chance a guess at the reason?”
“You may chance whatever you like,” Bilbo answered, feeling brave in the dim light. “Chances are you may be right.”
“That is encouraging indeed,” murmured Thorin. His eyes gleamed sharp and black like the night sky, reflecting the fire’s coals deep within as hot as the belly of a dragon, and Bilbo shivered slightly. “Are you chilled?”
“If I say yes, will you sit a little closer?”
“I might be persuaded.” Mouth twitching with a suppressed smile, Thorin scooted nearer so that their thighs brushed and knees pressed hard to one another.
Bilbo felt exhilarated, like flying on an eagle without the fear of falling. It was more than the thrill of a tremendously good jig, or kissing cheeks with Daisy Cotton behind the Party Tree – more than stealing down a long dark tunnel to cross verbal swords with a dragon. Bigger than fear, warmer than sneaking unseen through goblin-tunnels with the aid of a magic ring, was this thing between them now, a handful of coals cradled close against the winter wind. Something precious, something lasting, if only they could take good care of it.
Thorin’s hand was at his back now, pressing the small of his spine. Bilbo leaned into it, breathless. The waiting was over.
“And what of the Shire?” Thorin breathed, his voice a dark shadow of a whisper as it rumbled through his chest. “Do men lay with men, among the hobbit-kind?”
“Sometimes,” Bilbo said, fighting to keep his voice level. “Though I am sure it would be quite scandalous were a hobbit to lay with a dwarf, no matter the gender.” He felt Thorin’s hand pause as it stroked up his spine, and he grinned. “Luckily I am already nearly as scandalous as it is possible to be. All that adventuring, and whatnot.” The hand resumed its path, and Bilbo nearly purred with delight.
“We are rather exposed, here,” came Thorin’s murmur in his ear, beard brushing the curve of Bilbo’s cheek. “Should we perhaps relocate?”
“That would be wise,” Bilbo agreed. His entire body thrummed as he pushed himself to his feet and kicked loose earth over the coals, leaving them to smolder and die amid the dew-wet grass. All the way down to the front door he could feel Thorin’s heat at his back. But the dwarf king was polite. He wiped his feet – almost always bare to fit in with the locals – on the front mat, and maintained a respectful distance as Bilbo led the way to the bedroom. Everyone else was asleep (Gandalf’s snores could be heard quite well throughout the hobbit hole), and they didn’t wish to wake anyone up.
In his room, Bilbo closed the door and latched it while Thorin built up the fire. Bilbo took a taper, and with perfectly steady hands, he lit several candles all around the room, until it was bright and warm and cosy, with the bedspread turned down and the pillows well-fluffed, awaiting them.
Thorin stood in the middle of the room, regarding him with an open fondness that Bilbo hadn’t yet beheld. “Come here, halfling.” The words may have been an order, but his voice was as gentle as he’d ever heard it. He stepped forward, close enough that his feet stood between Thorin’s. The dwarf lifted his massive hands and combed through Bilbo’s hair, still soft from the morning wash and a day spent out in the sun and wind. Then his thumbs settled in the barely-there hollows of Bilbo’s cheekbones, and drew his face up for a kiss.
All the expectation and dreaming the world hadn’t been enough to comprehend this. Thorin’s beard was bristly but soft against Bilbo’s chin, and his mouth was warm and inviting. When it opened against his, it turned hot, and the taste of summer pipeweed and firesmoke filled his mouth. A soft sound escaped him, and he pressed closer, weaving his fingers into the fastenings of Thorin’s tunic. The dwarf cupped his face with large hands, devouring his mouth with slow, spine-curling strokes of his lips and tongue, until Bilbo was ready to melt into a puddle on the floor. Then, with the ease ofsuch a strong-statured man, he scooped Bilbo up and bore him to bed.
The new terrain flooded them both with urgency. Bilbo’s knees fell open of their own accord, welcoming Thorin against his body, and the dwarf pushed him greedily into the mattress, smearing his lips over every inch of skin he could reach: jaw, throat, nape, and down into the V of Bilbo’s shirt to his collarbones. Bilbo was panting now, flushed and dizzy at the unfamiliar rushing in his body; still, he managed to fumble with his own buttons, allowing Thorin to spread his shirt open and kiss the curly-haired center of his chest.
“So your hair isn’t just on your feet,” Thorin rumbled, petting Bilbo’s sternum with light strokes that sent his skin to tingling. “I was wondering.”
Bilbo covered his mouth to keep from laughing. “You may see for yourself, if you wish – just get my breeches out of the way.”
Thorin smiled and bent, nuzzling the slight paunch of Bilbo’s belly with his long, straight nose. “Don’t mind if I do.”
He took his time about it, though, to Bilbo’s chagrin. When he satisfied himself with kissing every exposed inch of Bilbo’s torso, he reached up to peel the shirt from his shoulders, leaving Bilbo bare from the waist up and spread-eagled upon the mattress. Then he started again from the top, kissing his mouth soft and hard by turns, until they knew one another’s lips as well as their own. With a sigh, Thorin relinquished his mouth and moved south again, stopping to lick tenderly at each rosy-brown nipple and the occasional freckle that dotted Bilbo’s fair skin.
At last, at last he reached Bilbo’s waistband. The hobbit squirmed toward him, anxious, and the dwarf relented, undoing the fastenings with nimble fingers and opening the plackets of his breeches to expose his smallclothes. There he slowed again, taking the time to rub his wide thumb over the line of Bilbo’s erection through the cotton. Bilbo whined, shifting his hips.
“You certainly take your time about these things!” he gasped, and let out a startled cry when Thorin rubbed the damp spot of fabric that marked the head.
“Hush yourself,” Thorin cautioned him, even as he repeated the motion. “Do you want to wake the whole house?”
“We’re… mmm… well away from the guest rooms,” Bilbo breathed, cock pulsing up against Thorin’s fingers with every heartbeat. “And everyone else is asleep.”
Thorin sighed, and his breath was hot and tantalizing against the skin of his stomach. “Very well, master hobbit, but I’d advise you not to scream. That might bring Dís running, and I’d prefer that my own sister didn’t walk in on me fucking the respectability out of you.” As he spoke, he molded the shape of him under his smallclothes with one large hand, and Bilbo shivered.
“Whatever you want, just… come here, please.” He pushed himself upright, reaching for Thorin, and pulled him into another kiss. As much as he wanted to divest them both of their clothing and just have at it, Thorin’s lips were a wonder. Slim but strong, they pressed to Bilbo’s mouth with vigor so tightly that Bilbo had to breathe through his nose, which was pushed into Thorin’s mustache. He’d have beard burn in the morning, doubtless, but Thorin’s taste and touch were too good to pass up.
This time he was flat on his back and moaning into Thorin’s mouth within a few moments as the dwarf king pinned him down, mouth hot and slick, hands on his shoulders and bent thighs forcing Bilbo’s knees up almost to his chest. If he pushed up in just the right way, he could feel Thorin’s hardness in his own trousers pushed hot and thick against Bilbo’s belly. The thought of it inside him was intimidating, but Thorin had proven already that he was a conscientious lover. Surely he had nothing to worry about.
Thorin was starting to rock against Bilbo’s stomach now, growling against his lips at the friction. The halfling’s fingers curled against the other’s broad back, tugging fruitlessly at the thin linen. Breathing hard and hot against Bilbo’s cheek, Thorin broke the kiss and pulled away enough to tug his tunic over his head and throw aside the belt. Then, tender in spite of the desire Bilbo could see trembling in every muscle and sinew, he gathered Bilbo up in his arms and sat back, letting Bilbo straddle his lap.
Bilbo sighed aloud with contentment. “Oh, this is nice.” His erection – nearly peeking out from his smallclothes – pushed up nicely against Thorin’s hard stomach, and he could feel Thorin at his back end, rubbing firmly where no one else had touched before.
Thorin chuckled, broad hands rubbing at the smoother skin on Bilbo’s back, and Bilbo could feel it reverberating through his entire body. “It will get quite a bit nicer, if you are amenable.”
“I am! Definitely. Ah - amenable,” Bilbo stammered, inhaling sharply as Thorin gripped his hips in his powerful hands and ground him down, right on the thick length of him under his trousers. “Oh! Oh goodness, yes…” He took matters into his own hands and set to pulling Thorin’s shirt from his belt, eager to touch the deep golden skin at last. Under Thorin’s smiling gaze, he fumbled it free and up over his head, tossing the material off the edge of the bed and onto the floor. Then, with a marveling sigh, he sat back and admired his handiwork.
Thorin was broad-shouldered and broad-chested, thick with muscle and fairly lithe for a dwarf. The path of his adomen cut sharply into his belly, halved directly down the center by a dark trail of hair leading straight to his groin. He was marvelous - yet it was impossible to ignore the evidence of battle drawn across his skin in rippling scars, the faint, smooth pink of new skin raised up like the ridges of mountain ranges on a map. Bilbo traced one of these: a starburst on Thorin's lower ribs that spiderwebbed cracks and thicker seams down around his ribcage and into his chest hair like the arms of some great sea creature. Thorin didn't so much as twitch. Either he had lost all sensation there, Bilbo mused, or he had anticipated the touch, perhaps even welcomed it. And just like that, Bilbo's reserve abandoned him, and he took to exploring Thorin's body with a will.
“Like what you see?” Thorin wondered, his voice low and amused as he stroked Bilbo’s flushed cheek.
“Very much,” Bilbo confessed. He set his hands against that broad chest, fingers combing through the thick tangle of black hair. “Why don’t you braid your chest hair?”
Thorin nearly shouted with laughter, just managing to hold it back. “It’s not nearly long enough, my impertinent hobbit. Besides, no one would ever see it but our partners.”
“Precisely,” Bilbo murmured, rather wickedly. “Ah, well – another time, perhaps,” and he pushed at Thorin’s chest until the dwarf succumbed and laid back, long hair hanging off the foot of the bed as he smiled up at his lover.
“Do you wish to be in command?”
“I wish to go a little faster,” was Bilbo’s tart reply. Experimental, he moved his hips and groaned in satisfaction as their erections came together. But alas, for their breeches were still very much in the way. Nimbly he set to Thorin’s laces, undoing the breeches and struggling to push them down. The dwarf lifted his hips, and together they managed to get him out of trousers and smallclothes alike.
Here Bilbo paused. Thorin was longer than him by only a little, but thicker he most definitely was. He could hardly imagine something so large entering his body, either by mouth or by (ahem) the back door, and this worried him, as those were the only techniques he was aware of in this type of lovemaking. But Thorin, shrewd as ever, stroked the small of his back and murmured comfortingly, “My dear hobbit, if you continue to make that face I fear you will put me right off. Don’t fret, we needn’t jump straightaway into buggery.”
“Into… what?” Bilbo ventured, earning an amused chuckle.
“Fucking, Bilbo. Anal penetration.” The words were said with such relish that Bilbo couldn’t keep a blush of mortification from creeping up his neck.
“I’m sorry that I am… not well versed in such encounters as these –” He stopped abruptly, mouth muffled by Thorin’s hand.
“And I said do not fret.” Thorin’s thumb moved slowly, stroking the soft skin beneath his mouth, and Bilbo kissed his palm in apology. “Now come down here, and I shall give you something worth remembering.”
Bilbo was hoping for another spectacular kiss, but was disappointed – though not for long – as Thorin turned him onto his side instead, his back to Thorin’s front. Together they wrested him free of breeches and smallclothes, leaving him exposed to the warm air of the room. There was a brief bristle of beard as Thorin kissed the back of his neck, and then nothing. Tempted as he was to make a smart remark, Bilbo kept his mouth shut, trusting that Thorin had something in mind.
He was well rewarded. The mattress shifted as Thorin leaned off the side of the bed for his belt and the secure pouch buckled to it. There was the soft scrape of a metal cap twisting off and back on again, and then he returned, fingers slippery with some kind of oil.
“Safflower oil,” the dwarf informed him, reaching over Bilbo’s curled body to show him his glistening hand. “Just the barest hint of a fresh scent, and good for many things, including leather upkeep and… more intimate tasks.”
“What are you going to do with it?” Bilbo asked, heart pounding with both anxiety and anticipation in equal measure.
For answer, Thorin slid the flat blade of his palm between Bilbo’s thighs, brushing up against his bollocks. “I was considering fingering you,” he said softly against the back of his neck, and he slid his hand back up, high between his cheeks, to illustrate. Bilbo whimpered slightly. It was terribly intimate, and yet he wanted more of it. “And then, if you like, I will push between your thighs and fuck you that way.”
“But… did you want to put your…” His cheeks flamed, and he found he couldn’t make himself say it. “…in, inside me?”
Thorin didn’t even hesitate. “Someday. Perhaps tomorrow after second breakfast, when everyone else is out enjoying the sunshine, and you can shout to your heart’s content. But tonight…” Slowly he reached around, taking Bilbo’s half-hard erection in his large hand. “Tonight I wish to make love to you, Bilbo, if you will permit me.”
“Of course,” Bilbo whispered back. He pushed back against Thorin’s chest, and his thighs slid together easily in the most delicious way. “Please, Thorin, I want that.”
“Then you shall have it.” He set to kissing Bilbo’s nape again, the prickle of his beard scraping the tender skin, and Bilbo jumped as his forefinger slid up to find his hole, still tight against intrusion. But Thorin was patient. “Stroke yourself,” he commanded at a whisper, rubbing in small circles, and before too long he had breached Bilbo’s body, sinking in to the first knuckle.
Bilbo clenched around him instinctively, making a strangled noise. “Is it supposed to feel like that?”
“Feel like what?”
“Like… I don’t know. Odd. Like it’s not supposed to be – oh!”
Thorin’s finger moved in and out a little and then deeper, working up into the snug space until his finger was completely inside of him. “The answer is yes.” Bilbo could hear the smile in his voice. “Technically I am not supposed to be up here. However, it does feel quite lovely if you do it right.” His long nose brushed Bilbo’s nape. “You must tell me if it hurts.”
“I will,” Bilbo agreed, breathless with the complete strangeness of having Thorin’s finger inside his body. “It doesn’t yet, by the way.”
“Good,” Thorin rumbled, and began working his inner walls, sliding smoothly in and out until suddenly Bilbo flinched hard, yelping.
“What was that?”
“That,” Thorin said smugly, “was me doing it right.”
He set to with a will, leaving Bilbo to clutch the blankets and try not to make too much noise. Thorin was a master with his hands, of course, and nearly every move he made sent paroxysms of pleasure shuddering through Bilbo’s body. He hardly dared touch himself for fear of finishing too soon. Instead he reached back and clutched at Thorin’s hip as the dwarf teased him with his finger, occasionally dipping in with two until Bilbo was half-mad with it.
“Please,” he gasped finally, voice a dry croak. “Please, Thorin, I can’t bear it anymore.”
“Yes, all right,” Thorin agreed, his own voice strained. He slid his fingers out and moved them back between Bilbo’s legs, reapplying the oil generously. “Press your thighs together,” he instructed, and Bilbo cooed as he finally pressed his erection into the hot, narrow space. “How’s that?”
“Fine,” Bilbo croaked. “Can you… I need…”
“It’s all right, I’ve got you.” His hand still slippery with oil, Thorin reached over Bilbo’s hip and took his erection in hand again, firming his hold until Bilbo bucked into it, crying out in need. “Shhhh. Hold your tongue, love,” he cautioned, and finally began to move.
They were both too close to the edge for it to last long. Still, Bilbo tightened his knees together admirably, rocking back to meet Thorin’s thrusts until the dwarf was cursing in his own tongue, breathing hot into Bilbo’s hair. His hand on Bilbo was slick and fast, but practiced, tracing the underside and rubbing the sensitive frenulum and head in just the right ways. Bilbo had just enough presence of mind left to bury his mouth into the crook of his elbow as he came, shouting into his own flesh.
Thorin was quick to follow. He released Bilbo’s cock in favor of his hip, gripping tight enough to bruise as he reached orgasm, spilling his release in five thick spurts over Bilbo’s thighs and the bedspread. Finally sated, he sprawled over on his back with a groan.
Bilbo caught his breath and rolled over at last, resting his cheek on Thorin’s furred chest. “So that’s why you wanted me to come back to Erebor.”
Under his cheek, Thorin’s chest heaved with quiet laughter. “Only one of many, my dear halfling.” One hand was lifted, and sifted through Bilbo’s hair to coax him in for a kiss.
They slept soundly that night, curled up together in a tangle of limbs. The next morning they slept through breakfast. Bilbo woke first with a grumbling belly, and he climbed out of bed to put on new breeches and a shirt, hiking the suspenders up over his shoulders as he watched Thorin’s face, peaceful and soft in repose.
Out the window, the sun was brilliant in the blue sky. Frodo’s laughter was ringing out over Bag End, interspersed with Gandalf’s lower chuckles. Bilbo wrapped his dressing-down close around him and smiled as he began to tidy up the room, disposing of burned-out candles and piling dirty laundry in the hamper. It seemed his next adventure had begun sooner than he'd bargained for.