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It is a musky kind of darkness that sits inside Beorn’s house. The fire is low, and while the dark wooden walls reflect little of the light what is given back seems to have an extra warmth, an extra layer of comfort. Like soft songs and old familiar blankets in the cold watches of the night, keeping memories of love close as a bulwark against the terrors of the darkness.
Bilbo, rough wool blanket kept around his shoulders, is glad for that bulwark. The terrors of the recent darkness are vicious and strong. His dwarves will need all the extra strength they can borrow to fight them off and recover.
His dwarves. Bilbo cannot quite recall when they became such.
Two, of course, have been his dwarves for quite some time.
Tugging his blanket more firmly around his frame, Bilbo pushes himself to his feet and crosses the hall. He shall not sleep tonight. May as well make use of the time.
Ah, there.
Curled around each other, limbs tangled and faces so close they must be sharing breath, his two little dwarves sleep the sleep of the exhausted. Bilbo tip-toes closer, keeping one ear open to the peculiarities of the wood beneath his feet so as not to make a noise. He skirts their legs and settles himself by their heads. A hand finds rest on one forehead, then another, as if he can tell the contents of their dreams and hearts from such a simple touch. No matter that he can’t; it gives him some comfort, at least.
He looks at raven hair to his left, then golden to his right. They’re safe. His boys, his nephews. Safe.
Not because of him. Fool.
“What about the lads? You’re not just going to leave them, are you?”
“They’re better off without me. Thorin’s right, I’m just...I’m just...”
“Just nothing. You’re one of us now, Bilbo –”
“One of us? Oh no, oh no no no, don’t you try – because everyone’s been so welcoming, so kind, hm? To a stupid little hobbit who can’t tell the difference between a sword and a pen knife.”
“Now hold on there –”
“You don’t know what it’s like, you have no idea, how it feels to be ostracised. To – to not belong!”
There is a sharp intake of breath, and a tense silence.
“I’m sorry Bofur, I didn’t mean – I’m sorry.”
“No, no, it’s alright. I understand, you know I do. If you think going’s for the best...”
“I think – yes. Will you...tell the lads that...oh bother.”
“It’s alright, I think they’ll know – hey, what’s that?”
“What’s what?”
There is a sudden blue light, a screeching of tortured metal and the roars of thirteen confused and furious dwarves, and then the floor gives way...
Bilbo will probably never tell anyone, but he is immensely glad for Goblin Town. It sounds horrible, even in his own head. They could have died. They could have...
Fíli had told him about the bone-breaker. The great machines the goblins had dragged up for the pleasure of their king. Now, sat safely with his boys firmly in his sights, Bilbo shudders.
Yet had there never been a Goblin Town, he might not be here. He might be back in Rivendell, heart torn in two and too full of self-loathing to do anything to fix it. He might not have learnt why thirteen dwarves are on a fool’s errand to take back a kingdom from a dragon. It’s their home. It doesn’t seem so foolish when he thinks of it like that.
He sighs again, pushing wayward strands of hair out of Kíli’s eyes. His boys’ home. He has to help take it back. If he can.
He spends a while just sitting, watching the shapes the low fire conjures with the interplay of shadow and light. The room is quiet. The dwarves have not always been gentle sleepers, but after a few months in the wild they have adapted; when he’s on watch Dwalin has made a point of giving a boot to anyone snoring too loudly, which may have helped. Good thing too. Bilbo often wondered, near the beginning, how they didn’t attract all the surrounding wildlife to their camp.
His mind is brought abruptly back to the present by a shuffling to his right, and his hand fists where it hovers above Kíli’s head. An indistinct shadow heaves itself up and moves toward him. It sits at his side, and resolves itself into Thorin. Battered, bruised Thorin. King Thorin.
His King?
Only a few days ago, Bilbo would have given an incredulous no. He’s not sure of his answer anymore.
Thorin moves a large hand to brush over Fíli’s locks, a mirror to Bilbo. There is but an inch between their shoulders, and it is as if lightning is jumping the gap and charging his heart to a frantic pace. His hairs are all on end, his hand still clenched. He wants desperately to run away.
Thorin, bother him, shows no sign of such discomfort.
There is silence for a while, and Bilbo runs through all the worst case scenarios in his head.
He wants me to leave.
He thinks I am not worthy as an uncle for them.
He wants me to leave.
He’s going to tell me the boys will never forgive me, and it will be true.
He wants me to leave.
He is going to take back his words on the Carrock, made in haste, because I’m just a foolish hobbit with no head for the trials of dwarvish life.
He wants me to lea–
“I can still leave, if you think it’s best,” he says, vicious thoughts circling in on themselves in his mind, bringing him down and down until he is biting his tongue against letting a scream into the quiet dark.
Thorin’s hand stops its slow movements. His head turns a minute amount towards Bilbo, his eyes holding a message Bilbo can’t decode.
Right, then. He shall have to – he shall have to plan a way back across the mountains. Except, well, he has no provisions. Perhaps he can get some of Beorn, but he has nothing to give in return –
“Burglar. Peace.”
Bilbo tries to hum an answer, but it comes out as more of a whine, and he can feel treacherous tears pushing at his eyes.
The inscrutable look leaves Thorin’s eyes, and instead he appears what Bilbo would have called alarmed, were it anyone else. The hand not resting on Fíli’s head grips Bilbo’s shaking arm, and when he speaks it is hurried. “Burglar, Bilbo, I do not wish you to leave.”
Bilbo chokes a little. “What?”
Thorin shakes him a little. “I do not wish to see you leave again. No-one does.”
“But the boys –”
“Would be most heartbroken.”
Bilbo wants to believe him, he does, but he’s made a right hash of everything and no consoling words can cover that up. He has no right to be here.
His breath shakes. His words tremble. “I almost left them, and you’re right, I am lost, I don’t belong here, I can’t –” A sob breaks his speech, and he pulls into himself. Away from the others, Thorin’s grip on his arm, his boys. Fingernails dig into soft skin, a useless effort to try and control himself, and he cannot see, blinded by his tears. He’s too loud. He’s going to wake everyone.
A thick arm swiftly wraps around him, and he is pulled until he is clasped, unyieldingly, to a firm dwarven frame. He turns into the embrace, and muffles his cries against Thorin’s side. The dwarf’s other hand brushes softly against Bilbo’s hair, his face, his neck, rhythmic and warm.
“Peace Bilbo, peace.”
It takes a long while for Bilbo to find peace. I am lost to peace, he thinks.
He loses count of the minutes he spends hidden in Thorin’s side. Eventually, his breath reaches a semblance of normal rhythm. His tears dry. He chances a look around the room.
No-one appears to have woken. Thank the stars.
“Bilbo.”
Oh bother.
“I’m alright,” he says, voice cracking as he tries to extract himself and finds his limbs have lost all strength.
“No, you are not. Tell me what so worries you.”
He whispers despondently into Thorin’s undershirt. “I’m not good enough.”
There is a pause. Bilbo is not sure what it means, and doesn’t really want to know. He stays huddled into Thorin’s side to avoid seeing his face.
“Because you tried to leave?”
Bilbo nods his head, then shakes it. “It – I was already not good enough. That just – made it all the more obvious. I should have stayed. I should have tried.”
Thorin makes to speak, then stops. When he does finally talk it is tentative and almost shamed. “I did not make it easy for you to try. None of us did.”
Bilbo huffs. “I’m a Baggins. Baggins don’t just leave because something’s difficult.”
“Yet anyone might leave if they are made to feel unwelcome. Worthless. Baggins or not.”
Is this a confession? Of what?
Suddenly Bilbo wants to see his face, so he untangles himself from Thorin’s grip and looks up to see a weary frown, and what might be shame.
“Are you – I don’t?” He doesn’t know what to say.
Thorin takes a deep breath. “What I said on the Carrock. All of it, it is the truth. I...misjudged you. You did not deserve the scorn I heaped upon you.”
“But I tried to leave.”
“And that should not be taken as a sign of your weakness, but as a sign of how far I was willing to push you to prove myself right.”
Bilbo nods a little, then thuds his head against Thorin’s shoulder. He has lost all energy. A hand makes its way up his spine, and then Thorin is speaking again.
“I shall make an effort not to do the same in future.”
“Pinky swear?” Bilbo asks, and regrets it immediately. What nonsense, to ask a King to pinky swear! He is immensely surprised when Thorin levels him off his shoulder and fixes him with a puzzled look, like Bilbo has just asked the most peculiar riddle.
“What is a pinky swear?”
Bilbo spends the next few minutes explaining it to him in hushed tones, and is pleasantly amused when Thorin declares that if such an oath is what is done in the Shire then is shall be what is done between them. Never mind Bilbo’s objections that it is a thing done only by children; Thorin is so caught up in questioning Bilbo about every idiosyncrasy of hobbit oaths and reparations that the absurdity of the idea never occurs to the dwarf.
The oath, once they have hashed out the details – and Bilbo has finally quietened his objections over the silliness of the entire thing – is given with incredible solemnity and remorse by Thorin, and Bilbo is caught between giggling and bursting into tears again. Goodness knows neither would be appropriate.
Thorin links his pinky finger with Bilbo’s, and dips his head forward until their foreheads are touching. “I, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain,” he intones, and something in Bilbo’s chest catches his breath and holds it fast, “do swear to you, Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Took, this oath. To value you, your judgement and your skills. To hold you in accord with all other members of this Company. To withhold myself from all false judgements of you and your people. To remember your fierce heart, your loyalty, your bravery. Thusly do I swear, and may the darkness beyond the world take me should I break this oath.”
There is a moment of silence before Bilbo pulls in a harsh breath, and he wants to weep at this – oh how he wants to weep – but if asked he couldn’t say why. There is a pressure in this moment, a heat and a mournful shadow that he cannot define. He wants to tell Thorin to take back his words, to undo the promise; for they are too different, made too far apart by race and demeanour for this to end in anything but tragedy.
Instead, he speaks. “I, Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Took, do accept and ratify this oath, given by you, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain. May Mahal cast you aside should you break it.”
He pulls away slowly, frowning and muttering. Blasted dwarves. It is entirely too serious an oath.
“It is not,” Thorin tells him. “At least not for dwarves.”
“Yes, well. I’m not a dwarf. I’m a hobbit. And you lot are a bit secretive, you know, so it’s difficult to understand things, sometimes.” A thought suddenly occurs to him, damning and terrible. “Did I do something else wrong?”
Thorin frowns at him, brows pulled together in the shadow of his hair like two great black beetles. “I have just said –”
“I mean with the boys. I don’t – well, I’m a hobbit. I don’t know how to be a dwarf uncle to them. I’ve made a right mess of it so far.”
“Burglar, you have not.”
“But I have –”
“Bilbo, enough.”
Bilbo’s teeth click together and he glares a little. Thorin shuffles, the only sign of repentance.
“I’m a hobbit,” Bilbo says again, “I like doilies and gardening and good food. I can’t...I can’t teach them about smithing or warfare or – or – I don’t even know what I can’t teach them! Do you see?”
Thorin looks at him with an expression Bilbo can’t read, and seems to seriously consider his question. “You can teach them of bravery,” he says finally, and Bilbo scoffs. “You have already taught them this, when you came to my aid against Azog. When you tried to rescue our ponies from three trolls.”
“I rather think that one was more foolishness,” Bilbo objects.
“When you defended them against me when you thought I would hurt them.”
“Now that hardly counts, it was all a misunderstanding.”
“It was still brave. It all was.” Thorin ignores his protests. “Bilbo, you saved my life. Took one, in my defence. Should they see nothing else that you have done, they will see that. It is a good lesson to give.”
Unwanted heat blooms on his face, and he looks at his hands to try and hide his embarrassment. Yet Thorin does not seem to be done.
“Kindness too, you can show them. Dwarves do not see that often from other races.”
“Oh, well.”
“Stubbornness. Definitely stubbornness.”
“I beg your pardon –”
Thorin chuckles. “And perhaps even some of your gardening.”
“You shouldn’t mock it,” Bilbo tells him, waggling a finger at him.
Thorin is giving him a grin that is softer than Bilbo is used to from him – not that he’s used to getting grins at all from the stoic dwarf. He nods once, as if confirming something to himself. “Love. You have always shown them love.”
Bilbo has opened his mouth in preparation for more repartee, but Thorin’s words rather bring him up short. It is...strange, to hear Thorin ratify his place as uncle like this. In such bold and certain terms. To have him as comforter rather than naysayer.
Bilbo clears his throat awkwardly. Perhaps he should wait till morning, and see if this attitude continues. Of course, with the oath...well. It does seem rather a given.
Still, sleep. He clears his throat again, and then yawns for good measure. “I should, well, head back to bed,” he says.
Thorin quirks an eyebrow at him, as if he knows exactly what he’s up to and is not going to put up with it. “Bring your bedding over here.”
“What?”
“You can sleep with us.”
“Oh no, I shouldn’t, I mean –”
“Burglar.”
Bilbo swallows the rest of his words.
Thorin speaks gruffly, but with a certain authority that Bilbo can’t gainsay. “You are family. Of course you should.”
Oh, right then.
When he wakes in the morning, it is to find his back pressed tight against Fíli’s, with an arm that must be Kíli’s fisted in his blanket, and his own hand gently tangled in the great mane of Thorin’s hair.
He giggles a bit. It is, all said, rather pleasant.
Rather full of love.