Chapter Text
The cold had settled deep in the stone walls of the mountain overnight. Thorin first felt it in his foot.
The pain had become familiar, lodged deep within his bones like a glass shard. His boots hit the stone floor with a steady, measured rhythm, each step a negotiation with the insistent, deep ache that pulsed across his sole and shot up his calf. Thorin scowled and reached for one of the many grey pillars that lined the vast halls of his home.
His home.
The words were sweet, and he rolled them around in his mind. There was a time when he believed he would never again have the privilege to call a place home and feel it.
In the year that had passed since the mountain was reclaimed, the industry of each day brought them closer to the Azsâlul'abad he remembered of his youth. Once the caravans arrived and hundreds of home-bound dwarves had poured back into the mountain, it had taken only a few weeks to clear the debris of the dragon’s damned occupation. Another month for laughter to echo through the long-empty halls and only five more months after that until wisps of smoke stretched into the air from the markets, alive with merchants, guild workers and travelling Dwarves selling their trades.
Thorin only wished he could enjoy the feeling. His foot had other ideas.
When he lifted his weight off his right leg, the relief was immediate. Thorin sighed and rested his forehead against the cold stone of the pillar. A dull ache remained, plaguing him as it always did, but retreated to the sole of his foot. He had pulled his laces as tight as he could when he dressed, and while its grip had been a welcome support for the first hour of the morning, it had waned steadily throughout the day.
He turned and caught the glances of the two guards a few paces behind him.
“There’s nothing to see here.”
The intended effect was immediate. Both guards quickly looked ahead, their backs straightened and whatever concern for their king may have flashed across their faces quickly withdrew. Thorin’s jaw tightened and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the stone. He could imagine what they saw, their King pressed against the wall like a pebble with a splinter. It was enough to inspire concern, he was sure, and worse, pity.
This was a sad show he was putting on display for his sentries. He could only thank Mahal that there was no one else in this hall to witness.
Óin’s attempt to put a cane in his hand struck deeper than he had cared to show. It carried an unspoken assumption, that he would have to move slowly. Limp behind these walls while his people laboured to rebuild their home. At the time, it had seemed accepting Dwalin’s insistence a pair of guards to follow his every step while he recovered was a lesser evil. He had privately hoped it would be enough to get his sister and disgruntled healer off his back.
It was now feeling more like a defeat than a hard-earned compromise.
Thorin pushed his lips into a grim line as he shifted back onto his offending foot, biting back a hiss. The pain coiled back up through his leg. Its icy tendrils splitting his flesh. He inhaled sharply. Nausea gripped his stomach. Thorin screwed his eyes shut as the sharpness of the pain transformed back into its familiar, almost bearable, manageable, throb.
The Council Chamber was only a few paces away. Once he made it through those great, metal doors, he would find a table to lean on, or a chair to sit in if the other council members were seated.
He gritted his teeth and walked, keeping his mind blank until he reached those heavy doors and pushed them open. All eyes were set on him.
He pulled his back straight and cast his eyes across the members at the table. Warmth settled in his chest as he counted all members of the Company present and supressed a smile as Kíli whispered into his brother’s ear, receiving a scowl and kick under the table for whatever was said. Perhaps a year ago he would’ve scolded them in private for such childish behaviour, but now, he was just grateful to see them alive. He would have to be careful that his gratitude would not slip into coddling. An issue for another day.
Next to them, Bilbo. His brown hair had an auburn glow in the firelight, like a precious jewel held close to the flames. The waistcoat he wore was new, Thorin recognised Dori’s craftwork. The fabric was high quality and a rich, dark green that clung to his body, filling out perfectly after their more comfortable months since the rebuilding begun. For one, beautiful moment, the pain dissipated as his heartbeat throbbed in his ears.
The pain returned. It always did. Thorin felt his muscles stiffen as he crossed the room to sit at the head of the table, careful to avoid the stones on the floor that had grown uneven with age. The lords and ladies of the mountain, and the representatives of the major Guilds, straightened their backs without thinking. He was keenly aware of their stares. He did not hurry. He refused to limp.
Thorin took his seat at the head. He kept his expression neutral as he lifted his leg and rested it carefully against the legs of the table.
No one would know. Especially not Bilbo.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Bilbo Baggins knew he was many things; a (newly) wayward hobbit, a booklover, a surprisingly good burglar when he put his mind to it and the creator of, perhaps, some of the best rhubarb pies to have ever graced the Shire (if he didn’t say so himself).
One thing he was not, that he knew with certainty, was an idiot.
Thorin did not have him fooled. No matter what he was sure that pig-headed Dwarf had told himself.
Bilbo drummed his fingers lightly on the wooden armrest, though his mind was elsewhere. Step after careful step, Thorin walked to the head of the table and kept his eyes fixed in front of him as the members of the council rose respectfully, before taking their seats once again. To anyone else, his slower pace would have been commanding, steady, but Bilbo noticed the faint stiffness in his stride, the grit in his teeth and droplets of sweat building on his forehead. He also did not miss the flicker of relief in Thorin’s eyes, the subtle favouring one foot over the other and the brief hesitation before he guided himself down into his own chair.
Frustration surged in his chest. He could see it. Yet, Thorin did not look weak. Still a King, still a warrior and still impossibly…him. Stubborn. Proud. Most of all, infuriating. He wanted to shake him, knock some sense into him, just accept some bloody help. Just use the damn, bloody cane.
But he couldn’t. Not here, not now. Soon.
Dwalin met his gaze from across the table and shook his head. At least there were others to commiserate in his annoyance with the King. Óin grumbled under his breath, and though his words were unheard, the warning look Thorin shot him was more than enough to determine what it was about.
The guards that had arrived with Thorin stood on either side of the closed door. Bilbo glanced at the once, but they looked away. He didn’t need confirmation. He saw.
“Lord Balin,” Thorin said, his steely eyes turning towards the old Dwarf, who stood once addressed, “Have the ravens returned with news from Dale?”
Bilbo’s fingers itched to reach out and clasp his hand, to feel the callouses rough on his palm. Balin began to speak, confirming that they’d heard from the newly appointed King and received a response about the proposed trade agreement. Whatever the answer was, it was not good, Bilbo guessed from the groans and mutterings that erupted from the Guild representatives. He was, admittedly, still not paying attention. His focus was elsewhere, on Thorin as he adjusted his leg and winced. Almost imperceptibly.
For a heartbeat, their eyes met from across the table. Thorin wore an unreadable mask, guarded as always. However, he caught the brief flicker in the corner of his eye, frustration, discomfort and… vulnerability. Bilbo’s chest tightened, Yavannah, he would give up all the doilies, armchairs and soft things in the world to make that pain go away.
He felt his lips soften into a smile, but it faded as Thorin abruptly turned away and refocused on two Dwarven Lords, who in the space of a minute had found some slight with each other that, allegedly, required a duel to settle.
Dwarves and their duels. This was a practise Bilbo doubted he would ever get accustomed to. They were discussing trade agreements, not bloody murder! There was nothing in this document, he was sure, that could not be solved with a good tea and a nice smoke.
The thought settled quickly before slipping away. His gaze strayed back to Thorin as he leaned back into his chair, his mind turning back to matters that parchment or ink could not resolve.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Óin pulled Bilbo aside once the meeting had concluded, steering him gently from the ebbing tide of councillors. The chamber still hummed with lingering arguments and scrapping chairs. It had gone on for a torturous amount of time, long enough for petty disputes to be dressed as policy and for tempers to fray into sharp words and the uneasy sense that one wrong glance could unsheathe weapons.
Lords muttered. Guild representatives gathered their papers with stiff, offended movements. No doubt rehearsing arguments for the next hearing. Bilbo watched them leave, and sighed as he saw Thorin pull himself up, slowly. The effort of holding himself rigid melted away, and for a second he saw a wince slip from beneath the mask as stood.
Thorin caught his eye again, and the expression shifted quickly. He gave Bilbo a firm nod, face blank and eyes as piercing, unyielding as ever.
Óin followed his gaze and shook his head. They watched as Thorin caught up to his sister-sons and pulled them both close, one under each arm, and knocked their foreheads together. Both princes let out a sharp, surprised laugh and broke free from his grip. Their smiles were bright and cheeks red, a welcome sight after seeing their weak, pallid bodies on canvas for so many weeks after battle. Kíli flicked Fíli on the ear and was quickly pulled into a headlock by his older brother. Thorin’s laughter echoed throughout the chamber as they left, as thick and sweet as tree sap.
Bilbo’s heart fluttered.
He wondered if this is what he had been like with them when they were young. Somehow, he doubted it. The sorrow Thorin had worn since he had arrived at Bag-End was a decades-old cloak, worn thin at the edges. It was hard to imagine him without the silver streaks through his hair, or the weight behind his eyes, chasing two giggling younglings without counting every second slipping past him, taking him further from reclaiming his mountain home.
Óin coughed, and Bilbo was pulled back to the present moment. The old dwarf raised a thick, grey eyebrow, and he felt his face flush.
“Uh, yes, sorry for that, Óin. I was terribly lost in my thoughts. I suspect I’m in dire need of my elevensies.” Whether or not Óin believed him, he did not say. Bilbo rocked back on his feet and swallowed uncomfortably, “What can I do for you?”
“I need your help lad,” Óin said firmly, accepting the subject change, “with Thorin. Ideally, before he makes a permanent mess of himself.”
Bilbo snorted before he could catch himself. “Thorin? I’m afraid he’s well beyond my areas of expertise.”
Óin huffed a short laugh.
“Aye. Getting Thorin to listen to common sense is above most of the kingdom’s paygrade,” he said, running his hand through his beard. There was a twinkle in his eye, betraying the frustrated furrow of his brows, “He’d run that foot of his into the ground if I let him. I’ve tried reason, orders, threats…and yes, even shoving the cane into his hand. Nothing sticks.”
“He won’t take it.” Bilbo remembered the second week after the battle for the mountain, when Thorin had pulled himself from the sick bed to oversee the rebuilding efforts. He had to half drag him back to the canvas by his sleeves and beg the fool to lie down before he pulled his stitches. Thorin had refused to even glance at the cane Óin had left by his bedside, arms crossed and jaw tight. It was a beautiful piece of work, pulled from the treasury, made of fine steel and adorned with hundreds of tiny, glinting jewels. Fit for a King. It may as well have been invisible.
“Not for a lack of trying on our part, mind you,” Bilbo exhaled softly, “He knows its sensible. He simply refuses to be sensible.”
He recalled the sick tent again, when Thorin had laid his hand on his own when he had first insisted on its use, the touch sending sparks across his skin. Upon his insistence, Thorin had promised him he would rest but made no oath to use the cane. Bilbo had wanted to argue, but had bit back his words, transfixed at the soft candlelight that swam across his rumpled tunic and dishevelled black hair. Thorin had pulled back his hand and stared intently at the fabric of the tent. Exhausted, he had quickly fallen asleep.
Bilbo pinched the bridge of his nose and brought himself back to their current predicament. “I could pull apart a dictionary and string a thousand words together about using that damn cane, but I doubt any of it would get through that thick skull of his!”
Óin hummed in agreement. “I know. But he hears more than he lets on.” He paused for a moment, his eyes flickering to the hobbits’, “Some voices carry further than others. He’d listen to you, lad.”
“Listen to me?” He scoffed, “I can count on one hand the number of times he has listened to anyone, and that’s being generous!”
An expression flashed across Óin’s face, so quick that Bilbo did not have the time to place it. Before he could ask, the dwarf clapped a strong hand on his shoulder, and he almost buckled under the impact.
“His majesty is a stubborn ass; you’re right about that much.” Óin met his gaze with a knowing look, “But I know you’d have a better chance of convincing him than the rest of us. You have a way of getting under his armour.”
Bilbo felt his face warm again and was certain the tips of his ears had gone red. His feelings couldn’t be that obvious. Óin smirked. Oh, he was sure that the double entendre was purposeful. Damn dwarves! What a world it would be if they would speak their mind clearly. A world in which his hair wouldn’t grey nearly so quickly!
“Give it a go, Master Baggins, as a favour to me.” Óin winked as he turned towards the door, ignoring Bilbo’s huff of indignation. “The stones suggest you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Thorin shut the door harder than he meant to.
The sound cracked and echoed through the empty royal chambers. He stood there for a moment, his palms pressed against the wood, breathing deeply through his nose. Screwing his eyes shut, Thorin allowed the familiar pain to catch up to him now that there was no one there to witness it.
This was the part he hated most. The silence. The accounting of damage.
The chambers were warm, a steady heat rising from the deep forges and threaded through the bones of the mountain. Low burning lamps threw shadows across the stone walls, lurching across heavy tapestries and pooling in the corners of the room like dark water. The air smelt faintly of stone, smoke, and the lingering tang of metal from the workshops below.
Thorin took a final deep breath, allowing the scents to take him back to childhood memories. To simpler times. The clang of hammer on anvil. Frerin’s laughter ricocheting between benches as he chased him through the old forges, Dis trailing behind them as she tried to keep up. The sparks from the metal. The sharpness of molten rock curling into the air. He could almost feel the vibrations under his feet. Turning back to Dis, wobbling but determined, tiny hands clutching at the folds of her dress. Frerin’s eyes full of mischief as he disappeared into the shadows.
The servants panting after them. Calling them back for dinner.
The pain in his foot stabbed sharply, unrelenting. The present intruded. He swallowed hard. Frerin’s laughter quietened in his mind, and the rough stone on his young feet faded away. It struck like a knife and twisted deep into his chest. Heart bleeding.
Thorin opened his eyes, allowing the warmth to ground him. The past could not soothe him now. It was best left alone.
He moved slowly across the room, each step deliberate. Thorin’s hand trailed across the edge of the oak table, gripping the wood for support as he shuffled across the deep, red carpet stretched over the floor.
The cane leaned against the armchair by the hearth, steel shaft glinting in the lamplight. Thorin scowled at it and turned away. It did not matter how many times he returned it, hidden in a sack, to the medical room. It always returned, propped up against one piece of furniture or another.
He blamed Óin. Maybe Dwalin, or Balin. It could even be the fault of Dain; this did have the makings of one of his cousin’s imbecilic jokes.
No, the blame was theirs collectively. It was an unspoken conspiracy.
Thorin sunk into the armchair and unlaced his boots. He hissed as he pulled out his right foot and gently placed it atop a wooden stool.
The returning cane could also be the work of Bilbo.
He stared into the lit heart intently, watching the fire dance. Unbidden, Bilbo’s face surfaced in his mind. He had not missed how he had looked at him since the end of the battle, the crease in his brow as he watched Thorin walk. The way his hands had hovered, as though he were made of glass. He clenched his jaw. That, more than the pain, made his chest tighten.
There was no joy in being bedridden. Those first two weeks he had spent confined to the sick tent were purgatory. Every day he woke to the sound of his people working, sweating, building their kingdom back, while he languished in bed like a spoiled prince. If Óin were not a force of nature in his own right, he would’ve damned his injuries and joined in the toiling.
He would build Azsâlul'abad back. Brick by brick if need be.
There were too many amends to make. It had been miserable to be incapacitated when there was so much work to be done.
Except.
Except. It was a dangerous word. It had been miserable except for when their burglar sat by his bedside, bringing a new book fished out from the mountain’s library each morning. The soft cadence of his voice guiding him in and out of consciousness, a sound that had weaved through his sleep and made waking feel like stepping into a new dream. Bilbo had seeped into the quiet corners of his mind, and he’d found himself waiting for him each day.
His lips twitched into a soft smile. Thorin leaned closer to the fire and allowed the warmth to roll through his body. When Bilbo closed the pages of his books, he had talked of the Shire. He had listened, captivated, and when he shut his eyes, he could picture that place so clearly he could touch it. The smell of bread baking and meat roasting, the hills bright and green in spring, dotted with farmland and small cluster of smials, the hobbits that spilled into the streets when there were music and feasting. It was a blessing to watch Bilbo’s eyes light up as he recalled his parents’ love story and then darken as he complained of his neighbours and the antics of stuck-up kin.
In those moments, close and warm, the memories of his dragon-sickness slunk back into the shadows. Guilt remained at the doorstep, it always did. It stung; there was work to be done. He would live a hundred lifetimes to make it right, damn Mahal and his halls.
Yet, seeing Bilbo, patient, steady and maddeningly witty, brought a softness that was almost unbearable. It stirred something new entirely; a quiet gratitude that he could not express, a longing that made his ribs ache with want.
He had held back. He had lingered on Bilbo’s delicate hovering and easy laugh, hesitant, afraid to overstep.
The memories were simple and tender. They were enough for now.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
A knock sounded at the door.
Thorin straightened instantly, spine snapping rigid as he planted his foot onto the carpet and pushed the stool away.
“Enter,” he called, voice even.
The cane remained where it was.
Bilbo stepped inside with the quiet care of someone entering a sick room, rather than the King’s chambers. Thorin huffed and refused to meet his eyes.
“You sent for me?” Bilbo asked. His voice was light enough, but Thorin caught his eyes surveying the room, the table, the armchair, the fallen stool. The cane.
“I did not,” Thorin said, composing himself, “but you are welcome. Would you like some tea, Master Burglar?”
He gestured to the armchair next to his own, and Bilbo smiled faintly as he shut the door behind him. He walked towards the hearth, stretched and sank into the fabric.
“Please,” a sigh escaped Bilbo’s parted lips, “It has been one of those days that only tea and good company can make tolerable.”
Thorin grunted in agreement. He reached towards the cabinet to his right and pulled out the travelling kettle and a pair of cups. He did not drink tea often. However, he knew of the hobbit’s penchant for it, and enjoyed offering some on the few occasions Bilbo entered these chambers. Usually, to discuss how he can be useful in the rebuilding effort, despite his smaller stature and less muscular frame.
Thorin knew that his presence was enough, but he would not admit it aloud. Instead, he had recommended Bilbo’s attention to the recovery of the library.
The hobbit had taken to the work as well as Thorin knew he would.
He gripped his armrest, rose, and set the filled kettle on the trivet in the hearth. After taking his seat back into the armchair, they fell into a comfortable silence. Firelight flickered across the copper rim, glinting softly. Thorin watched it longer than necessary, avoiding Bilbo’s gaze. He could feel his eyes boring a hole into his neck.
The kettle gave a sharp hiss. Thorin rose again, slower now, and poured the water with steady hands. Steam curled upwards, a faint floral scent spilling across the room. He passed a cup across the chairs without ceremony, and Bilbo accepted with both hands.
Their fingers touched. A light feeling that caught his breath in his chest.
“Thank you,” Bilbo said, pulling a small wooden jar from his pocket and poured a little honey into his tea with one, practised motion. Thorin nodded as he was offered some and took in its sweetness with a deep breath.
“Óin thought it would be prudent to send me, just on the off chance you’re finally ready to listen to some common sense.”
“This tea you bought us, it is from the Shire, is it not?”
“If you think a change of subject will save you from this conversation, you are sorely mistaken.”
Thorin sighed and placed his cup on the table ahead. He lifted his eyes and met Bilbo’s steady gaze, remarking the resolve etched into his face. It was never going to be so easy to guide their discussion elsewhere, to less treacherous waters. Bilbo’s shoulders were squared, his fingers tapped a quiet rhythm against his cup, small and deliberate movements.
“Fine,” Thorin muttered, glancing back to the crackling fire. It would be best to begin, then end, this discussion as quickly as he could. After all, he did not have the heart to kick Bilbo out from his chambers, not when he looked so comfortable perched in his finery. Not when he was close enough to touch.
“What wise words do you have for me, Master Hobbit?”
Bilbo scoffed. He heard the clatter of a cup put down. “I think you know exactly what wise words I’ve got planned. For both our sakes, I’ll keep it brief: use the cane, Thorin. You obviously need it.”
“Obviously?!” Thorin felt his muscles stiffen and lips tighten. Heat flared across his spine, sharp and defensive. As if to prove a point, he planted his heel firmer into the carpet and paid for it a second later when it flared, a twisting fire in his foot that reached up to his thigh. He gritted his teeth and refused to let his expression shift.
“Yes, obviously. It hurts just looking at you!” Bilbo’s exasperation leaked into his voice and softened at the corner of his eyes. Thorin felt his face burn, and shame settle in the pit of his stomach. How many others had seen him hobbling throughout the halls? How many battle-hardened dwarves, many without limbs, watched as he was held back by a sore foot, of all things?
The limp king. What a pity it was, he could almost hear them say, to regain their kingdom but be weakened by every dragging step.
“You think you can tell me what my limits are?” Thorin snapped, pushing the armchair back as he stood up, back straight. The cane fell to the floor with a crack. “Know my pain better than myself?”
“Yes, actually.” Bilbo said, without hesitation. “Yes, I do.”
The silence that followed curdled. A sharp ache throbbed through his muscles as he glared, refusing to tear his gaze away from the hobbit. The concerned lines of Bilbo’s face deepened, and it made Thorin sick. His neck flushed.
What gave him the authority on his wounds? Bilbo had seen, perhaps, a handful of battles in his largely comfortable life? He knew nothing of broken bones, nothing of the weight of armour on a sleepless night. Nothing of the way pain became companionable over time, to be measured and ignored in equal parts. In his people’s long exile, rest was death. He would walk a thousand miles, drag himself over a hundred more mountains, if it meant he would rule as his forefathers had before him. Tall, proud and with nothing to lean on but the grit of their ancestral blood.
Thorin hated the way his heart throbbed as Bilbo stood and quelled the refuge of his anger. It left nothing but an ache incomprehensible compared to the foul punishment his foot served him.
Untouchable, irresponsible.
Worst of all, undeserved. He would not reach for it, not after the dragon sickness, and not he’d almost thrown him from those ramparts.
He would find no solace in this feeling.
“Look me in the eyes,” Bilbo stepped towards him and placed a gentle hand on his upper arm to guide him back into the chair. His thick lashes caught the firelight as his expression morphed, “and tell me that you didn’t nearly topple over as you stood up.”
Thorin scowled but followed the movement anyways. It was an immediate relief to be sitting again. The shame boiled thick in his gut.
Bilbo’s hand loosened but did not withdraw. The heat of Thorin’s anger flickered, a stubborn ember, but was drowned out.
He remained rigid in his chair, though the relief of sitting after unrestrained movement pulsed through him. It was a confession. His breath came out deeper than intended, and a groan escaped him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and forced his breathing to its usual pace. Slow. Calculated. Controlled. He wanted to keep his gaze fixed on the stone floor, the sturdy rock that grounded his kingdom, because looking anywhere else would be dangerous.
Especially at Bilbo.
Dim, flickering light caught on the hobbit’s face as Bilbo pulled back and sat back in his chair, throwing shadows across the soft lines of his skin. His curls glowed at the edges, hands placed delicately on his thighs as he sat down, mouth set with a kindness and perseverance that made Thorin’s chest tighten. A way that had been unfamiliar until he had held him at The Carrock. No judgement, no triumph. Only concern, naked and honest.
Unbearable.
“I walk well enough on my own.” Thorin tried again, and he cursed the uncertainty that crept into his voice, “I don’t need that blasted thing.”
“And how long will that be? A year, two, ten?”
“Until Mahal puts me to rest in stone.”
Bilbo rolled his eyes, a short breath of laughter escaping him. There was no mirth, Thorin noted, only weary understanding. Somehow, that was worse. Anger, at least, he could meet head-on.
“Yavannah give me strength,” Bilbo muttered fondly, throwing his hands in the air, “as I contend with the pig-headedness of Dwarves.”
“I can still fight. Even like this.” Thorin gestured to his leg resting uselessly back on the carpet.
“I don't doubt it. I expect you’d be on the front lines, even if you’d lost both arms and legs, and there wouldn’t be a soul in the mountain who could stop you.”
“You need never worry for your own safety, I-”
“I’m not worried about that.” He cut him off with a tight-lipped smile, his deft hands retrieving his cup of tea. “And I can defend myself quite nicely, thank you, Sting and I have made ourselves a rather mighty team.”
That much was true. Sting, a fine piece of Elven weaponry as much as he loathed to admit it, sat well in Bilbo’s hands. In the months since they’d reclaimed the mountain, Dwalin had insisted on providing the hobbit with private training and boasted frequently over ale at the leaps and bounds his new student had taken since its commencement.
On a few occasions, when Thorin had found a few minutes to himself between his duties, he had stood in the shadows of the training room, tucked by the door, to oversee their lessons. He had told himself it was to monitor the least experienced member of his company’s progress. It became harder to believe that as his gaze had landed on the twisting fabric of Bilbo's tunic, lifting to reveal soft skin.
Thorin had been glad to see Bilbo gained back the weight was lost over their quest, but now, beneath the fat, was a new layer of muscle. He’d defend himself well, much better than the hobbit they had met in Bag-End could ever have done.
Bilbo and Sting had moved as one, the sword an extension of his arm. His style looked more akin to a dance, nimbler and more considered than that of which he himself, like his kin, had been trained to use.
Not yet had the hobbit disarmed Dwalin, but Thorin had witnessed him stumble and surprise his teacher first-hand, a feat that had usually took younger students at least a couple of years to achieve. A quiet chuckle had escaped him when Bilbo almost knocked him to his feet.
Dwalin had looked over Bilbo’s shoulder at Thorin and winked. His body had burned.
He did not return after that, and he did what he could to avoid his shield-brother in the halls that afternoon.
“There is much mighty about you. I would never again dare to question it.” Thorin’s voice came out softer than he would like to admit. He flushed as Bilbo ducked his head to avoid his gaze; tender lips pulled into a small smile.
That smile, fleeting and unassuming, shifted a weight in his chest. He wanted to scowl, regain his composure, but could not, and instead quietly studied the shadows that stroked Bilbo’s cheek, painfully aware of how effortlessly he had him undone.
“Good. Don’t you forget it.” The quiet that followed was relaxed. Bilbo passed Thorin the cup of tea he had left on the table, and he accepted gracefully. The warm, floral drink warmed his throat and soothed his stomach, and he leant back further against his chair.
“You’re leaving me with very few choices that don’t involve me smelting the cane to your hand.”
Thorin’s lips twitched despite himself, “you would not. You’d burn the forge to the ground before you ever got it near me.”
The humour faded as quickly as it came. The fire in the hearth spat sparks that hung, balanced, in the air. Thorin turned to look at the tapestry hung on the wall next to them, casting his eyes over the vast, woven scenes. The woollen Durin stared back at him, challenging, as he thrust his sword deep into an orc’s belly. “I am not something to be handled. I am not made of glass.”
“No, you are not. You’re made of bone, muscle and pride, and it’s only the latter that’s giving you all this trouble.”
Pride. The word struck closer than Thorin liked.
“You’re speaking as though I am choosing this.” Thorin curled his lip, his gaze flickered, betraying, to his leg.
“The only thing I think you’re choosing is more pain.” Bilbo said gently, as he reached again for Thorin’s forearm. His fingers curled over the thin fabric of his tunic, “unnecessarily so.”
The contact was light, but he wanted to lean into it. His mind registered the warmth of Bilbo’s hand before his body could reject it. The touch was not restraining; it was just there. Sharing the weight.
“This is not as easy a choice as you seem to think it is.”
“I know. What can we-” Bilbo paused, considering his words carefully. He squeezed Thorin’s arm. “What can I do to make it easier?”
For a moment, he considered answering honestly. That his presence was enough, that if he stayed by his side than the broken tendons and muscles of his foot would fade into the background of his mind. That even if the whole world were on fire, if he could feel Bilbo’s hand within his own, then there would be no pain capable of holding him down.
“Give me more time to heal.” He said instead, “I have come back from wounds far worse than this.”
“Thorin-”
“It will heal.”
It must. No other outcome was acceptable.
“Then at least let me help.”
“I will not talk of it anymore. It is my say.” His offer was threatened too much. Thorin pulled away and rested his arms back into his own lap. He heard Bilbo sigh, exasperated when he shook his head.
Exhaustion weighed suddenly on his bones. Hours of standing and walking had left its toll, the ache in his foot radiated upwards. His back felt stiff from holding himself upward. He closed his eyes. Even his face felt heavy, and in the warmth, his mind drifted in foggy circles.
Thorin turned back towards Bilbo, who stared into the fire and fiddled with the hems of his sleeves. There were bags under the hobbit’s eyes that he had not noticed before, deep and purple.
It was time for Bilbo to sleep. It wasn’t fair that he burdened his mind any longer.
“You should get some rest, Master Burglar. Ori has planned a long day ahead for you both in the library tomorrow. It will do you good to sleep well tonight.”
“…Fine. But we will be picking up this conversation again soon, mark my words.” Bilbo frowned as he stood and straightened his tunic and pants. “At least consider what I’ve said?”
“I have.” Bilbo arched an eyebrow and hovered by the door. One hand waited patiently on the doorknob.
Thorin capitulated. He could do that much.
“…I will think on it more.”
Wordlessly, Bilbo nodded, opened the door and left his chambers. It shut firmly behind him, and he could hear large feet pacing down the hallway, growing quieter, until it disappeared altogether.
Thorin was left in a thick silence, save for the soft crackling of the hearth.
His fingers found the discarded cane and drew it closer to the light. Before now, he had refused to touch that damned thing. He had not considered, not allowed himself to consider, how beautiful the craftsmanship of it truly was.
The cane was heavy, but its weight placed with cunning precision, balanced from the tip up through the shaft. The silver handle glinted in the firelight; deep blue sapphires nestled in the inlays that ran from its top to bottom. Made to be used, and used comfortably at that.
Thorin lifted it and examined its edges more thoroughly. His breath caught.
Carved into the crook, worn smooth with age but unmistakable, was a familiar set of runes. Thorin traced them, feeling the smooth metal under his fingertips, following the grooves with an unconscious movement.
His grandfather’s mark. The realisation settled slowly.
There was no moment from his childhood he could remember the cane in any of his family’s hands. He could picture his grandfather clearly, straight-backed, sharp-eyed, with a roaring laugh that had echoed through these very chambers before the dragon-sickness claimed his mind. He had never limped, never leaned.
Never with this.
He sighed, and lowered the cane across the table, his fingers running again across his grandfather’s runes. Sweat built as the top of his forehead, and he ran a hand through his thick hair.
The cane was kept out of sight. Existed quietly, buried for years within the depths of the mountain.
Thorin straightened, jaw tight.
The cane remained where it was. He did not reach for it again.