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Chapter Text

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.

This was not a wet and dirty hole filled with worms and ooze. No, this was a warm and cozy home filled with memories of a family once overflowing with life and love. That family was no longer together, for Death had come to lay claim to sweethearts tucked warm in their bed, leaving a young hobbit, while well into adulthood, alone in an otherwise vacant home to fend for himself.

But the cold ache of grief, while still present and familiar, had dulled in the hobbit’s heart years down the road, the original sting becoming more memory than pain. He still had his flourishing garden, flowers and herbs spilling over from careful tending, and a well loved kitchen that he spent regular hours in. He had neighbors and distant relatives that visited, and while some he wished would not, he rather enjoyed filling the quiet house with happy chatter.

Were there nights that found the hobbit sat melancholy and alone in the dark of his home, yearning for someone, perhaps his someone, perhaps the other half of his soul, to fill the vacant space that pervaded every corner of his room and heart, that followed him into his dreams, lonely and cold? Yes. But then morning would come and with it a comforting light that pushed such thoughts away, at least until dusk crept in again.

That is how days and weeks, months, then years were spent in Bag End. No excitement or stories of adventures to lighten up the smial, lest the neighbors start to whisper and think him strange or turning odd in his isolation. Such was his life, and he had become quite content with it.

That all held true, until a certain gray robed wizard came to visit one day.

—

The first dwarf that walked through his door was civil enough, but Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was left beyond confused by the sudden interruption to his dinner. The second knock rang out before he’d had time to process the presence of the first one, and the rapid disappearance of said dinner. By the time numbers three and four flounced in he was starting to get annoyed. The pile of dwarves that came next and nearly left him flattened next to his welcome mat was simply the last straw. Voices sang, food vanished, plates flew, and Bilbo found himself simply at wits end, any lingering idea of being a good host far gone from his mind. Gandalf was no help, the silly wizard simply watched the chaos unfold with mirth dancing in his wizened gray eyes.

Only when Bilbo believed his night simply could not get any worse did a final knock on his door ring out.

Gandalf stood to admit the new arrival as a startling silence spread over the lively dwarves. There were mutterings from many bearded mouths, but Bilbo hardly cared to listen. He was too engrossed in venting over his dirtied and torn doilies, but his ears perked up when he heard a voice mention something about a mark on his front door.

A mark?! Not a chance, he had just painted that door hardly a week ago! Bilbo stormed over to the entrance, near ready to threaten whichever neighbor, or ever more likely dwarf, who dared to mess up his lovely green paint, but all words were forgotten as his eyes met a pair colored the lightest and brightest blue he’d ever seen, like the endless sky on a summer day.

An imposingly tall and broad figure and a deep voice, low and velvet, accompanied those eyes. “So, this is the hobbit?”

In that moment, the course of Bilbo Baggins’ life forever changed.

—

Bilbo sat huddled as near to the fire as he dared, legs drawn up to his chest, eyes glaring into the lively flames. The sun had barely set, and yet the chill of night crept around him still, unyielding in the dark of twilight. It had only been a few days of this unexpected adventure, yet Bilbo already missed his reliable hearth and fireplace, the firm yet yielding cushions on his favorite armchair, the sweet comfort of his bed. The loud chatter of dwarves carried jauntily on the wind around him, but Bilbo had no patience to listen. He had spent many an hour listening to their jabs and songs, often finding himself the subject of their jokes.

He had not cared. This life of sore thighs from pony rides, meager meals, and hard rocks underneath his thin bed roll was not a life he was accustomed to and never wanted to be, unlike these dwarves who seemed completely unbothered by it all. They could think what they wished, say whatever they wanted about his soft and cushioned life, he didn’t care.

He really didn’t. Except for maybe one…

Bilbo found his eyes subconsciously flicking to the dwarven king. This had been happening alarming often since this trip began, Bilbo noted and then pointedly ignored. Without meaning to, his thoughts wandered back to the night of the dwarves’ arrival. After the feasting, after the rather casual talk of dragons and death…

The dwarven song for the lost mountain was beautiful in its verse, but the deep and somber voice that flowed through Bilbo’s house, it’s echo reverberating slowly through the halls and into his marrow, is what had left Bilbo feeling enraptured as he recovered silently on his armchair, relatively alone for the first time since the arrival of the company. Bilbo had found if he closed his eyes he could see it - the mountain, the singer’s hope and desire, painting a melancholy story in the sky like the lone light of a firefly.

The call to arms, the plea for home, the promise of adventure - it had stirred something that hadn’t existed before in Bilbo. Or maybe it had been there all along, slumbering, waiting, for the right words, the right moment, the right soul to walk through his doorway…

When Bilbo awoke the next morning it had been to an empty and silent home, similar to every morning that had come before, but this time with a palpable void, an eerie silence greater than he had ever felt before. For the first time since his parents left him, Bilbo found himself feeling utterly lonely.

Fate had heard the empty echo of his heartbeat and beckoned to him, softly, surely, from where she waited within a scroll, her promises of fire and gold contracted along swirling lines. Reason had begged him to stay put, but an invisible string had yanked him out the door, sending him running towards the terrifying beauty of the unknown. Towards a Fate that seemed eager to stand him, clever yet unqualified him, at the side of a king…

That mournful and impelling king, Thorin Oakenshield, now sat across the fire from Bilbo, back against stone with shoulders set just as stiff beneath the fur lining of his coat. His eyes were gazing into the flames, but as Bilbo watched he noticed those eyes often flitting over the dwarven crowd and the land beyond, unwaveringly attentive of the yawning company as they settled their bedrolls around the camp. It had been obvious to Bilbo from the start that the king cared deeply about his company, and very little for everyone else. He seldom spoke unless spoken to, especially to Bilbo, often directing his questions about the (supposed) burglar to Gandalf. Most hours he watched the horizon for unseen threats as they rode, sitting tall atop his pony, silent, assertive, back uncomfortably straight.

In the light of the campfire, Thorin was as striking as when Bilbo first met his eye. Even before Gandalf introduced the king, Bilbo had known the man to be the leader. There was something commanding about him, something that went beyond his stern, frowning gaze. His presence, emboldened by his wide shoulders and strong frame, had made Bilbo feel small within the rounded rooms of his hobbit hole. The dwarf had analyzed Bilbo as if he were nothing but a dull and bent piece of armor abandoned on the training grounds, thoroughly unimpressed despite Bilbo straightening his spine and bringing himself to his full height in a futile attempt to look bigger than he was. Thorin had merely scoffed and turned his back.

Bilbo had bristled at the act, unsure why this anger cut deeper than the impudence of the other dwarves’ actions had earlier in the night. ‘Quite the king he is,’ Bilbo had thought bitterly as he watched the king make himself comfortable in Bilbo’s home. ‘Rude, insolent dwarf, tactless and crass and…’

’And his eyes…’

The soft blue had been startling against the hard exterior. And yet so very mesmerizing. Bilbo had never met a dwarf before he’d been forced to meet a dozen in one night, yet never in his lifetime did he expect to have found one to be so beautiful-

The jarring thought broke Bilbo out of his reminiscence. Beautiful?! The dwarf king was perhaps a lot of things but not that. No chance that! Bilbo was simply tired from the hours of riding and the lack of nutrients and was becoming delirious. Yes, that must be it! A delirious hobbit!

Across the flickering flames, soft blue eyes met his and Bilbo realized he’d been staring. He averted his gaze, shifting to hug his arms tighter around his chest, conscious of his fidgeting but unable to help from reflexively rubbing at the chill that bit into his bones.

An inevitable pull, like cold hands to a fire, soon drew his eyes back to the king. Thorin was still watching him, but this time Bilbo stared back, a silent challenge pulling at his brow at the dwarf’s sudden intrigue with him. Bilbo found he actually felt rather excited by the dwarven king’s attention on him, though he could not fathom why, the chilling heat slowly crawling up the length of his spine only serving to feed his confusion. What Bilbo should be feeling was annoyance, really. He was here to help despite having every reason to turn around and go home, and yet hardly a flick of acknowledge had left the gruff dwarf.

Bilbo held the king’s gaze, defiantly staring into eyes painted more vivid than a morning sky set aflame by the dawning sun.

It could’ve been thirty seconds or thirty minutes, Bilbo wasn’t sure, but Thorin eventually looked away. A stone sank in Bilbo’s heart then, the contrast cold and heavy against the warmth that had been there moments before, but a loud barking order from Thorin’s mouth brought it racing back up again in shock. The king’s rowdy nephews had nearly knocked another dwarf into the fire pit, angry sparks rising up into the night in outrage.

Apologies and reprimands filled the night air as Bilbo settled down for the night. He nestled on his side, his back to the flames and a certain statuesque figure, and watched shadows cast across the gray rock and grayer night, eyelids growing heavy as they danced.

Despite the constant barrage of noise that came from the dwarven company even in sleep, Bilbo only stirred from his slumber when a soft fur brushed against his cheek, the thick weight of a coat falling across his dozing form. The extra overlay had the pleasantly toasty hobbit snoring again within minutes.

That night, he dreamed of frost covered cornflower petals warming in the morning sun.

Chapter Text

Who knew nearly being torn apart and eaten by trolls would leave a hobbit feeling so sore and irritated?

Bilbo did, rather unfortunately.

His joints ached from nearly being ripped out of place. His ribs throbbed, an echo of the squeezing pain he had briefly endured earlier. He felt beyond irritated with near pony-eating trolls, with dull-minded dwarves, with Gandalf’s insistence on being precisely on time to save the day though his definition of ‘on time’ could definitely be improved upon.

He also felt a bit irritated with himself.

Bilbo had thought he could do it. Despite finding himself forced into it, he had truly thought he could free the ponies with no aid from the others. And he almost had! He had succeeded in stalling the trolls at least (no thanks to the dwarves) until daylight. Until Gandalf appeared and cracked open stone as if it were a half baked biscuit. But his sabotage nearly hadn’t been enough. And it had been his capture that put the others at risk in the first place.

There were no trolls in the Shire. Maybe he shouldn’t have left it behind.

With a long sigh, Bilbo forced the thought from his mind. It would not do to dwell on such thoughts now. He’d heard enough of those comments from the dwarf king.

Oh, right. Bilbo was irritated with him too.

After that near disaster, once Bilbo had wiggled out of his ties and made certain the trolls were well and truly made of stone, he had turned his focus to helping the dwarves escape their burlap prisons, as the taller Gandalf made his way to those dangled over the trolls’ makeshift stove. Of course, with Bilbo’s luck, the first ties his hands found were the ones securing down their sullen leader.

No words were exchanged as he worked, but there had been a moment, now only a puzzling memory, that had Bilbo swearing something had changed between them. As soon as he was freed Thorin had reached for the hobbit, warm hands landing on Bilbo’s chin and shoulders, turning the hobbit this way and that, fingers almost caressing in the glowing light of a new dawn. Thorin’s eyes were wide and piercing as he searched for injuries, and when their eyes finally met, the king’s gaze did not hold the scrutiny or suspicion obvious in their prior conversations. Bilbo didn’t know what was being held within that gaze, but he had found himself seized by it anyway.

Perhaps Thorin was feeling gratitude towards Bilbo for freeing him? Thankful for the spared lives of he and his kin? Dare Bilbo hope, a spark of warmth for the cunning hobbit?

But then the heat of his hands had fallen away and Thorin glared at him, storms brewing in his eyes and harsh words spilling from his mouth, naming Bilbo foolish and rash for his actions.

And thus the aching hobbit’s mood was further soured.

—

Bilbo found Radagast to be an interesting enough fellow. Certainly fell into the same pocket of strangeness as Gandalf, if a bit more…covered in nature.

His bunnies were cute though.

The brown wizard had burst in through the thicket, seemingly oblivious to the multitude of weapons raised up around him by a dwarven company still recovering from their last mortal scare. He had beelined for Gandalf, babbling and obviously afraid, pieces of their heated discussion drifting through the leaves. Something about a … wait, what was that about a necromancer? A cold shudder ran down Bilbo’s spine.

He’d had enough heart-pounding scares for a day, Bilbo decided, so he tuned out the wizards and instead glanced over the weapon gifted to him by Gandalf, or rather by the smelly troll hoard. Bilbo twisted the blade so the filtered light from the trees reflected off the shining metal. A rather short sword to most, but perfect for a hobbit like him. Gandalf had found a nice addition to his own collection as well. As had Thorin...

The simple thought of his name sent Bilbo’s eyes seeking out the king’s. Thorin’s earlier lecture about safety in numbers and the danger of trolls had left Bilbo feeling rather cross with him. Though, despite his gruffness, Thorin had seemed genuinely concerned rather than angry. Bilbo felt a fleeting tinge of guilt run through his belly. No doubt the king felt some misplaced responsibility for the hobbit, but that’s not what Bilbo wanted. He wanted to prove he could be of use to Thorin, that he was meant to be here, on this quest, with him. The other dwarves had warmed up to him, which was well and all, but Bilbo was determined to win over Thorin too.

Win his loyalty, that is. Nothing else, of course…

Thorin now stood at the center of the clearing, his newly acquired blade casting out silver streams of sunlight from where it rested in his hand. Despite the rather concerning topic of the undead, the dwarven leader appeared entirely unbothered by the conversation. In fact, to any mere mortal walking by, he would have appeared every bit the king he had promised over Bilbo’s dining table to be - honorable and courageous, inspiring in his calm strength.

To current day Bilbo, Thorin appeared merely troubled by his time being wasted, if the look on his face alone could speak.

That was, at least, until gravelly howls rang out clear and frighteningly close through the trees. Then they all became rather troubled indeed.

Could a poor hobbit catch a break?

—

Were there a place away from the Shire that could possibly tempt Bilbo away, it would be Rivendell.

Despite every effort of the dwarves to diminish the elven kingdom’s beauty, Bilbo found he could hardly tear his eyes away. Its white architecture shone golden in the light, flowing water cascading beautifully down the mountains edge, lively greenery and songs reminding him of his hills back home.

One particularly vibrant dusk found the company sprawled out on a terrace, feasting around a fire. Bilbo had made himself comfortable on a bench off to the side as the other dwarves ate and sang loudly in the otherwise quiet night. He longed to explore the vast halls of Rivendell, but the incessant chatter of the dwarves recalling the past days’ thrilling events kept him glued in place. Bilbo had no desire to relive those near death experiences, even in story form. He’d rather had enough of them recently. Exhausting days and nights spent out in the unrefined wilderness had left him with fitful sleep and plenty of nightmares dodging unknown enemies that followed him into his unconscious mind. But he found listening to the dwarves retell their versions of the stories to each other, laughing and reminiscing on every moment of strength and courage, actually helped him feel better. Maybe the reminder, he guessed, that he’d never truly been alone, despite what the fright of the moment tried to persuade him to believe. The warm fire and full belly, evident from the multiple plates stacked on the ground next to his bench, helped his mood considerably as well. Maybe he’d have sweeter dreams tonight.

Ori, the group’s youngest dwarf, was animatedly describing the warg chase through the plains that had eventually led them here. Bilbo subconsciously rubbed his wrist, the memory fresh on his mind, though with slightly less enthusiasm than the young dwarf.

Pony-less as they were, the company’s options of escape from the wargs had been nearly nonexistent. But thank the Valar for bunnies! With Radagast and his sled racing ahead and a howling pack nipping at his heels, the company had made a mad dash through the plains in search of safety.

Bilbo had thought himself a decent runner - in the Shire’s spring celebrations he had even won a foot race or two. But as he ran, his hips and knees protested every movement, body still aching from the abuse at the hands of the trolls. He found himself quickly being overtaken by the sprinting dwarves in their hurry to find shelter. He could hear the growls and yells of orc riders echoing around him, too scattered in the chaos and noise to know how close the danger truly was. Adrenaline alone was likely all that was keeping him alive -

Bilbo stumbled, the weight of his pack lurching him forward, proving too heavy to stop at full speed. Reflexively his arms flung out to brace against the ground, eyes clenching shut against thick clouds of dust kicked up by scampering feet.

It had not been the hard impact of the ground that he felt next, but rather a firm grip on his arm. A strong yank righted him, the sudden motion nearly causing him to stumble again. He had opened his eyes, jerking his head in thanks to his savior, but Thorin hadn’t even glanced his way, quickly letting the hobbit go to focus on his own strides.

Despite his best efforts, Bilbo had began to fall behind again. His chest had heaved with every slap of his feet to the dry earth, fear coursing through his veins along with his blood.

Perhaps in a different, less life threatening situation, Bilbo would have found himself stunned motionless as the king’s hand reached back to grasp his wrist. As it was, he allowed himself to be towed along with the company. This time Thorin had not let go.

— A loud crack from Bombur’s bench brought Bilbo out of his reverie. The group howled with laughter as the large dwarf’s bench gave up and he sank to the ground. A smile tugged on the corner of Bilbo’s mouth, the contagious glee of the dwarves proving too difficult for him to resist. ‘Always up to something, these ridiculous dwarves,’ he thought affectionately.

From a nearby corner of the open room, Bilbo picked up the faint sound of a deep, musical laugh blending in among the raucous laughter of the dwarves. He had thought all the elves had retired for the night, no doubt weary of the company’s antics. Confused, Bilbo sought out the voice, head swiveling near fully around in his search.

He was rendered speechless as his gaze eventually landed on the dwarven king, and for a moment Bilbo could do nothing but stare. Thorin was gazing at his company with a look of such open and tender affection. By the fire’s light Bilbo could make out the smile lines arching over Thorin’s dark beard, rounding his cheeks and reaching up to his eyes, casting a gentle look across his face that Bilbo felt had no place on the usually moody dwarf’s features.

Bilbo had some strong words for whichever Creator gave Thorin such a pretty laugh. And a pretty smile. Truly unwarranted, as if the dwarf wasn’t captivating enough. Especially with those eyes, still glacial blue in the fire’s red reflection. A mesmeric blue, like a roaring waterfall meeting a serene river, powerful and peaceful and so, so beautiful in its diversity.

There it was again, that word. Bilbo had used that word many times before, for the flowers in his garden, for the colors that appeared in the sky after it rained. But now he could think of nothing else, no other way to describe him. Like a snapdragon was beautiful, like the sound of a flute was beautiful, Thorin Oakenshield was…

Bilbo suddenly felt very lost. In a way he’d never known before, different from the cold ache he’d felt since he left Bag End. He felt lost in this stolen moment where all he could see was Thorin, his figure burning imposing and bright by the light of the fire. Lost in the warm depths of his eyes, unable to stay afloat in their unyielding current. Lost in the unexpected heat of his own thoughts, but in a way that left him yearning for more. He felt bewitched by this feeling coursing through his body, by the warmth swelling out from the crackling fire or maybe from Thorin’s smile, Bilbo wasn’t sure anymore. All Bilbo knew was he longed to never look away from the blue flames that lingered behind passionate eyes. He longed to hear that sonorous laugh just one more time. He longed for a strong hand to reach out again and for the unwavering attention of the king on him once more. Perhaps that would be enough, enough to fulfill him and then he wouldn’t be lost anymore.

It was dizzying, these thoughts, so sudden and strong and confusing Bilbo could hardly keep from pitching off the bench.

Fate couldn’t possibly be so cruel. Thorin Oakenshield? The displaced king of a mountain that lay desolate across forests and lakes, far far away from his cozy home in the Shire? No, it was inconceivable. Bilbo couldn’t possibly…

The object of his desire met his eyes, starlight reflecting deep in his eyes.

Oh… Oh no.

Chapter Text

“He should never have come. He has no place amongst us.”

Bilbo sat huddled against the cave wall, soaked to the bone with rain water. His wide eyes darted around in a vain attempt to adjust to the surrounding darkness as violent chills wracked through his body. He replayed Thorin’s recent words over and over in his mind, because he wasn’t miserable enough apparently. They stung every time.

It wasn’t the first time Thorin had made such a comment. Far from it, in truth. But this time it hurt worse. Because Bilbo felt… what he felt. He didn’t want to name it, this spark in his heart that crackled to life every time Thorin glanced his way.

Bilbo (rather mistakenly, he guessed) had felt as though their relationship had improved since the troll attack and the chase to Rivendell. Thorin had spoken more to him. He seemed to see the potential in what Bilbo brought to his journey, though admittedly it was still not much. And then he had saved Bilbo’s life as he dangled from the slippery edge of the mountain. There had been no good reason for Thorin to risk himself for Bilbo, yet he had done so without hesitation. That had to mean something, right? But then Thorin had said those words and left Bilbo feeling rather humiliated.

In spite of the shame, Bilbo felt indebted to him, which was truly an awful feeling. How do you repay someone who simply wants you gone?

Not for the first time, Bilbo began to believe he couldn’t do this. He didn’t belong with the company, maybe he’d even end up slowing them down. He couldn’t help Thorin, though his heart grieved at the thought. Gandalf wasn’t here to speak up for him. He was likely still in Rivendell, making merry with the elves.

Maybe Bilbo should go back. To Rivendell. Or maybe all the way back to the Shire. He didn’t think it mattered. He was cold and miserable and Thorin wanted nothing to do with him, which in all honesty was fine because why would he? Bilbo was just a simple hobbit from a quiet and dull life, but still the thought cut to the quick.

Bilbo glanced to his travel sack, which he’d left packed up just in case. He’d had his adventure. Now maybe it was time to go home.

—

“Why did you come back?”

The chill of terror tried to keep him frozen in place, but something else awoke deep inside Bilbo, his feet scrambling for purchase on the swaying branches. Fire crackled an ominous warning from where it surrounded his friends.

“Why did you come back?”

He threw himself at the large orc’s side, sending them both rolling on the hard packed dirt, away from where Thorin lay bleeding. His sword found the orc’s heart again and again and again and -

“Why did you come back?”

Bilbo brandished his glowing blade, arms trembling from the weight of metal and blood. His mind reeled in horror at what he’d done, yet his feet were quick to obey as he staggered to place himself between the unconscious king and the pale orc called Azog.

“Why did you come back?”

Bilbo had spoken the truth earlier that day, in the orange light of the forest clearing, the stench of goblins still clinging to their clothes. He did want to help the dwarves take back their homeland, but he had evaded saying any more. His eyes had darted between the faces around him, desperately hoping that none of the dwarves or Gandalf could read between the lines. See why he cared so much, why he no longer counted the days away from the Shire, why he was determined for it to be him and no one else that walked with the dwarves all the way to the Lonely Mountain.

Why he could feel brave despite the face of certain doom scowling mere yards away.

‘For you. It’s all been for you.’

—

The rocky Carrock the eagles left the company on was very high. Much too high. Bilbo wasn’t fond of heights. He greatly preferred the humble slopes and hills of his hobbit home.

In the moment, though, he found he didn’t quite mind as much as he should, as Thorin’s arms were keeping him rather steady.

They had landed gently atop the towering boulder and, after a quick head count proved them all safe and accounted for, the injured king had immediately singled out the hobbit.

Bilbo had stood as if stuck in place as Thorin gave voice to repetitive accusations, his bearing frightening despite being propped up on the heavy shoulders of his fellow dwarves. Though he’d never been great at reading the king’s expressions, Bilbo had furiously searched his face, looking for the doubt, the uncertainty, whatever it was that Thorin still kept barred between them. If Bilbo taunting certain death wasn’t enough to prove himself to Thorin, then what could be? In his distress Bilbo had nearly missed the moment of sincerity as Thorin admitted his mistake in distrusting the hobbit, thinking it a cruel trick of his mind.

And then Thorin had practically collapsed forward to embrace him, and Bilbo found he couldn’t think at all.

The shockwave of surprise from Thorin’s abrupt affection subsided slowly, a restless ripple of tension tugging at the flustered hobbit’s core in its place. Tentatively, Bilbo allowed himself to relax within the security of the embrace, considering through the frenzied fog in his mind that he fit rather well in the dwarf’s arms, hands tracing a path across his wide back, head tipping up against his shoulder, chin nuzzling comfortably into the space beneath his jaw. The solid weight of the dwarf leaned rather heavily into Bilbo in reciprocation, arms further tightening where they encompassed his back, securely anchoring the hobbit against him. The contact further strengthened the spark that had ignited within Bilbo’s body, its consuming heat enveloping him completely and burning through the clothes at his back, intense enough to compete with the fire that had given chase not yet an hour before.

Thorin was sturdy and soft around him, fierce and gentle at every point of contact. He smelled of blood and smoke and earth, the result of a journey Bilbo was ever grateful to have taken. The heat of him, his strength, his scent - all of it was overwhelming. Bilbo could have melted from how feverish he felt simply being held in Thorin’s arms. He wanted more, even if it burned him alive.

The moment was over hours too soon. Bilbo was sure the entire company could hear the blood pounding in his ears, the frantic beating of his heart as it urged him to not let the dwarf go. Thorin pulled back from the embrace much to the hobbit’s dismay, but he did not step away, a peculiar expression on his face as his eyes darted around Bilbo - his bruised cheek, his cut lip, the drying blood on his brow. Bilbo could feel a flush spread across his face under the intensity of the king’s gaze, their close proximity doing little to calm his racing pulse.

Amid the excitement and terror at war within him, Bilbo had the very startling thought that maybe he wouldn’t mind Thorin knowing. Knowing the secret of Bilbo’s dreams, the truth of his motives. Knowing the hobbit’s heart was his, should the king only deem it worthy enough.

Thorin shifted toward him, merely a minuscule distance, and Bilbo nearly shouted out his every thought and feeling then and there, consequences and current company long forgotten. Thorin’s name had scarcely passed the tip of Bilbo’s tongue when he noticed the king’s face turn rather pale, a painful grimace twisting his features. A second later and Thorin collapsed, knees buckling under his unsupported weight.

“Thor- wha-where’s Óin?!”

Chapter Text

“Can you tell me about it?”

The cabin and fields belonging to Beorn the skin changer were surprisingly comfortable. Sunlight beat warmly down on Bilbo as he lounged on a wooden bench in the fragrant gardens. His eyes were shut against the dazzling light, ears tuned in to the musical song of the bees as they flew and the feather light breathing of Thorin, seated beside him.

“About what?”

“The mountain. Erebor.”

“Ah. Why do you wish to hear about it?”

Bilbo huffed softly, poorly hiding his amusement. “Well, I suppose I am risking my life to recover it, after all. Could be nice to know if it’s truly worth it.”

“I see…” The dwarf did not speak for a minute. A gentle wind blew past, carrying scents of oak and honey.

Bilbo fidgeted slightly in the silence. “If you’d rather not-“

“Erebor, my home, it’s … it was beautiful.”

A shaky inhale accompanied another long pause. Bilbo squinted open his eyes, turning his face away from the sun to instead watch in open wonder at Thorin, his dark brows furrowed, chin tilted up towards thin and sluggish clouds, his face contemplative, lost in a reverie.

“Erebor was a mighty kingdom of great power and prosperity. Its splendor was obvious to everyone who looked upon it. Dwarves, men, even the elves would agree. The vast treasure held within was proof of the success of my lineage, the great legacy of all who came before me. Their gems and gold, passed down over centuries by my ancestors, my grandfather, my father…”

Dogs called out in the distance, howling along with the breeze as it shuffled through golden leaves. Nearby a herd of white horses nickered, lyrical in their response.

“You must understand. Erebor… it carries more than simply wealth. The mountain carries the memories of my childhood, bears my roots. I spent every stolen minute I could find exploring its infinite depths as a lad. I knew its halls better than any. Erebor is where I learned my craft, where my kin - my family, my loved ones - lived, where we belonged. It’s where I learned what it meant to be a king. I witnessed my grandfather lead our people, a people strong and loyal and unwavering there. A people who have had to learn how to survive without a home, far away from all they knew. That is why I must return. Why I must take it back. For my family. For all of them.”

A trio of bees nodded along with Bilbo, buzzing lazy laps around the bench. “You must miss it a great deal.”

“I do. More than you know.” Thorin’s voice was quieter than Bilbo had ever heard it, his brows relaxing, bringing an almost serene look to the dwarf’s face.

“Well, it sounds lovely. Maybe not quite as lovely as Bag End - before the natural disaster that was your dwarves, mind you!- but I still think I’d rather like to see it.”

“Only you, Master Baggins, would choose flowers and hills over gold and treasure.”

The charm of his smile, made sweeter by irises a more brilliant blue than the endless sky. The nervous yet flowing music of his laugh. Bilbo had to look away, finding the sun less blinding in its endless light.

“I’ll have you know my garden is deemed a treasure trove of its own in the Shire! You only saw it in the dimness of night so you wouldn’t understand.”

“I suppose you may be right.”

“Of course I am!”

A comfortable silence drifted between them, interrupted only by nature’s billowing breath. Bilbo couldn’t remember ever feeling so content, warm from the sun and the strong shoulder touching his, mind growing drowsy in his comfort.

“If… if you’d give me the honor, I’d like to show it to you. Erebor. It will take time to restore it to its former glory once we reclaim it, but you are welcome to stay.”

“Really?”

“Yes. My home will be yours.”

The way Thorin whispered those words left a pleasant, fluttering feeling to flirt within Bilbo, but Bilbo resisted its pull. The invitation had surely been extended as a show of good faith by the king. The hobbit didn’t dare let his mind wonder, lest he fool himself into believing Thorin could have intended something more.

This was Thorin, after all. King under the mountain. And Bilbo was just a hobbit.

Bilbo turned towards the king, mouth open to speak, but no words came out. Light blue eyes had turned to him, beautiful, bewitching, and focused only on Bilbo. A skip, then a stutter in his heart, tripping up his thoughts.

Thorin seemed to misunderstand his hesitation. “You are welcome to visit as long as you’d like. If you’d rather not stay I-“

“I’d like that.” Bilbo’s words nearly couldn’t come out fast enough.

Something like relief flickered across Thorin’s face. “Yes. Good.” A slow exhale puffed against Bilbo’s cheek.

Against his better judgment the hobbit’s foolish mind wondered, the seed of a future previously off limits sowing in his mind. “I am looking forward to it. T-to Erebor.”

“Yes, of course… And to the dragon too, I suppose?”

“Ah, right. The dragon. Thank you for that reminder, Thorin.”

That irresistible grin again. “You are most welcome, Master Baggins.”

Dragon be damned, Bilbo was going to follow this dwarf to the very end.

—

“Master Baggins, I could kiss you!”

Bilbo’s brain froze over, every thought halting in its place.

And then, simultaneously, they combusted.

What had he been doing? Where was he again?

There are keys in his hand… Right! He had just unlocked the jail cell. Thorin’s jail cell. In Mirkwood. The Woodland Realm! Yes, of course, that’s where he was.

And Thorin just said…

Actually, never mind that right now. Bilbo did not have the self-restraint to properly address that at the moment. There was work to be done. Important and sneaky work. He would keep those words secured in his mind for later, to ponder, and perhaps fantasize over, once they were safe.

Now, what again? Right, barrels! He needed to herd some dwarves into barrels.

The audacious king had the cheek to smile at Bilbo as he gathered and laid out his plan to the other dwarves. All pretty eyes and strong features and dark flowing hair that had no right tempting Bilbo’s fingers as they did to try running through the smooth tendrils in the middle of an elven cellar…

This dwarf was going to be the death of him.

—

The cold and dreary air that often settled over Laketown seemed insistent on invading what little warmth Bilbo had built up underneath his fur blanket. The feverish heat in his head was unwilling to help, only making the chill feel worse in comparison. Unrelenting drums pounded in his skull, the vibrations unable to escape through the stuffy barriers in his nose and ears. The sharp bite of a cough hacked through his body, discomfort persisting in his lungs even long after the fit resided.

His brilliant plan to ride barrels down the river had unfortunately left him drenched and vulnerable to a harsh sickness inhabiting the bleak realm of men. What had started as a sniffle and mild ache their first night on the lake had soon thoroughly invade his poor hobbit body, leaving Bilbo indisposed and rather grumpy in Bard the bowman’s spare bedroom.

Óin had just finished tending to the hobbit, mashing up herbs and scowling at the scant amount of water and food Bilbo could keep down, but the energy that had provided was short lived, quickly sapped away by his ailing body. The dwarf healer had been here only ten minutes ago… or maybe an hour? Hardly any light ever came in through the window, so Bilbo found it hard to keep track of how long he’d been rotting here. He could only be certain that any time had passed at all because he was beginning to feel feverish again. He would have liked to call out for Óin, but his voice was hoarse, throat too sore and dry to properly function, and his head spun wildly with even the most minor movements.

In spite of his aches, a fitful sleep eventually found him. He was uncertain how long he drifted off for, but when he next eased back to consciousness, he found his unvoiced plea answered. A damp cloth brushed against his perspiring forehead, soothing and cool against his skin. Óin was being surprisingly gentle this time. The older dwarf was usually rather stern, often pretending not to hear any complaints Bilbo managed to utter out about his rigorous approach to healing.

A mumble of gratitude attempted to leave Bilbo’s throat, but all that came out instead was a pained groan. A strong hand found its way beneath Bilbo’s neck, supporting his head as it encouraged him to sit up. His head spun only lightly, the steady pressure of the hand behind his ears keeping most of the vertigo at bay.

“Here. Drink.” The voice of his carer was as soothing as the cool cloth on his head, as refreshing as the water trickling down his throat. It also wasn’t Óin’s voice.

Bilbo must have drowned in the river. That was the only explanation for why, when the last dregs of sleep wore away and Bilbo finally cracked open his crusted eyes, he found a king tending to him, more diligent and careful than a servant.

Thorin sat upon the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed, somehow at ease in the too large world of men. He offered the hobbit another sip from a small water jug and Bilbo could only obey, trying not to drink too quickly despite the parched desert in his throat.

The relief it brought felt enough to attempt a conversation. “Where’s Óin?” It came out as more of a croak than a question, but thankfully Thorin didn’t seem bothered.

“Apologies if my care does not meet your lofty expectations, Master Burglar,” Thorin’s voice was subdued, but Bilbo could see a teasing glint in his eyes. “Óin went out to replenish his supplies. He asked me to check on you. You were groaning like a troll in your sleep, so I thought I’d try to ease some of your discomfort.”

“Oh… thank you,” Bilbo’s mind felt as stuffy as his nose, a good minute passing by before the rudeness of Thorin’s comment connected. “A troll!? Of any of the company to be compared to a troll I -“

“Peace, hobbit. I meant it only in jest.” Bilbo wanted to feel annoyed by the sly smirk that slid across Thorin’s face. Alluring as he was, Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to mind. He rather found Thorin’s proximity a welcome distraction from his affliction. Even in the dimmed light of the room, Bilbo could see every fleck of blue and gray in Thorin’s eyes.

“You don’t have to stay here.” Surely there were more important tasks to be done, with the Lonely Mountain now close enough to be easily glimpsed, when the lake’s fog allowed it. Yet the king seemed in no hurry to leave, or remove his hand from Bilbo’s neck. Bilbo could feel a thumb tracing a line down the bottom of his skull and back, leaving behind a light pulse that burrowed deep in his skin.

“You cared much longer for me when I was injured. I’d be a poor king to not repay your kindness.”

Bilbo’s muddled mind recalled flashes of memories back on the Carrock, after Thorin had collapsed and scared the hobbit near to death. In the days following, Óin, likely fed up with Bilbo’s hovering, had allowed him to help with Thorin’s care, and Bilbo had assisted the healer wherever he could, often with medicine or bandages, rarely away from the king’s side for long.

Bilbo was surprised Thorin remembered that, as fiercely injured as he had been, punctured by both weapons and warg teeth. His stubbornness had brought along a quick recovery, but the memory of Thorin hurt so severely was still sore in Bilbo heart.

“You’re a great king, Thorin.”

The dwarf may have responded, but any quiet murmurs were lost to the hobbit as a blanket of fatigue pulled heavily at his mind. Through his drowsiness, Bilbo felt his head gently lowered back to the pillow, the warm hand withdrawing from his neck. Bilbo’s hand scrambled to the spot where the warmth had withdrawn. A firm grip found his, the weight of it comforting as it held him against the softness of the blanket, small shapes tracing along the back of his hand.

“I know, because you’re good. Your heart is good.” Bilbo’s eyelids were impossibly heavy, the temptation of sleep mumbling his voice. “And you care. I’ve seen it. You care for your kin, for the other dwarves, for…” ‘me’ he almost slipped out. Even in sleep deprivation he didn’t dare presume too much. “And you are brave. And strong. And loyal. And handsome...”

What?

He didn’t mean to say that. Fatigue was making him careless, any restraint over his tongue slipping as his mind grew groggier. “Which is a good thing for any king to be, of course! And noble and fair and- and loyal, but I said that already, didn’t I?” The sick hobbit was hopeless to stop his tired prattling. “And… and… and stubborn. Very stubborn. And rude, at times. Cantankerous, even, some would say…” Bilbo hardly knew what words were coming out of his mouth anymore, exhaustion disconnecting his brain from the rest of him.

He hadn’t been sure if Thorin could hear the whispered, fever-born confessions, but a soft chuckle confirmed it. Bilbo felt his ears heat up, this time not from febrility.

The hand holding his squeezed softly. “Sleep now, Bilbo. You can continue your rambling in the morning. I will be here when you wake, I promise.”

Chapter Text

The dwarves had spoken true. Erebor truly was beautiful.

Bilbo hadn’t had the time to appreciate it as he was running from the red beast called Smaug. The hill of gold had merely been an obstacle to climb, to hide among, out of view from the dragon’s wrath.

With Smaug and his fire now gone, the halls seemed to shine brighter, a single light source unable to be tracked as gold shimmered dizzying along the walls of the vast rooms. Bilbo could hardly fathom all of what lay before him. He felt it would take a century to count the value of the jewels, weapons, and crafts that adorned the floor of the treasure room. The wealth was truly immeasurable.

Yet he’d trade it all, every last piece of gold, to bring back the light that had vanished from Thorin’s eyes.

Balin had warned Bilbo of the sickness. Dragon sickness, he had called it, lounging bloodthirsty and cruel amongst the aureate treasure. But Bilbo knew Thorin to be resilient, a force all of his own. ‘Stronger than mere gold’, he had wanted to scoff. Beyond that, Thorin knew the risk well enough. He had seen firsthand how his grandfather and his people had suffered for it. He wouldn’t fall, not after all he gave to get his kingdom back.

That is what Bilbo had hoped, at least. But then his hope had died alongside the dragon.

Standing in front of him now, Thorin’s eyes scanned over his reclaimed hoard with a darkness so severe it swallowed the blue. The warmth that once lulled Bilbo closer had been extinguished, and Bilbo had to consciously still his feet as their eyes met, the urge to flee a piercing scream in his mind.

Only a golden greed reflected in Thorin’s eyes now. Greed for a shining stone that weighed down Bilbo’s pocket, heavier on his mind than the fear of the dragon ever had been.

—

Bilbo stood with his back pressed against cold stone, neck straining up at the looming height of the dwarf king in front of him. Anticipation weighed heavily over the pair, tension bleeding potent from the shadowed corners of the dimly lit hall around them. Bilbo’s heart pounded in his chest, though this time not in terror or panic, for Thorin was looking at him with that peculiar expression again, one he hadn’t seen since the sickness took residence in the king’s mind. Not in greed, the way one looked at precious gems or gold, but at someone dear, someone cherished.

“I’m going to plant it in my garden. In- in Bag End…”

By torchlight, Bilbo watched a smile grow slowly along Thorin’s lips - a breathtaking smile, one that crinkled his eyes, softening the blue, impossibly blue again, into something tender, almost reverent. The depths of his own desire, his yearning, reflected back to him from within cornflower blue eyes.

Bilbo gripped the small acorn in his hand, heart clenching hard enough to shatter in his chest. Thorin must know. He must have realized by now he was the reason for it all. The reason Bilbo journeyed so far, why he fought against fire, why he dreamed of blue skies. The reason he turned his back to mountains of gold and searched only for a sign, for assurance that there was still a future for him here. If Thorin would only ask…

Thorin’s gaze never left his. ”A poor prize to take back to the Shire.”

With all that was in him Bilbo hoped, prayed, begged the sickness away. Never had he coveted power more than in this moment. There was nothing back home in the Shire, nothing in Erebor’s treasure vault, nothing within himself that he wouldn’t have surrendered for the power to stop the creeping hands of time and let the warmth of this moment eat away the sickness in Thorin’s mind completely. To see his king at peace, safe once again in his home.

The desperate thoughts occupying the hobbit’s mind nearly made him miss the whispered plea.

“Stay with me, Bilbo.”

—

There were hands around his neck and Bilbo couldn’t breathe.

Thorin was dragging him to the edge of the parapet. He was yelling, his face twisted, eyes dark. Angry. He was so angry.

Bilbo’s feet scrapped against the ground, unable to find purchase against the smooth stone. Sharp stone raked at his back. He heard Gandalf shouting but the wizard sounded miles away, too far away to help him. The other dwarves stood by silently. Stunned, or simply watching.

Panic seized at the hobbit, trapped within arms that had once provided security and warmth. What had he done? Thorin was still lost to him. Bilbo had failed. He had failed, he couldn’t breathe how could he have failed-

Air swept into his lungs but it wasn’t enough. It was far too late, the damage was done, irreparable. His lungs hurt. His heart hurt. His heart was glaring at him, furious with him, swearing to kill him should he ever return.

Bilbo could only turn his back, unable to face the look of betrayal any longer. His feet fled from the mountain, dragging his soul - gripping bloody to the stone and wailing in grief - away from the dwarves, away from an almost home, back to Gandalf, back to another world. One without warmth. Without Thorin.

How could he ever have believed he could fix this? That he could be enough? What was he to a dragon’s curse, a mountain of gold? To a king? He was nothing but a thief. A joke of a burglar. A simple hobbit that had wandered too far from home.

—
—
—

The frigid bite of the cold at his back did little to relieve the searing heat in Thorin’s chest. The ice stung, as merciless and unforgiving as the bloodied battlefield.

The pale orc was dead. Thorin had killed him. The battle was won, his kingdom safe. He had done it. As for the fate of him…

Thorin labored hard against the sharp pains striking out from his wounds. His chest… it hurt, was too… to breathe. There was blood, so much…

An ashen fog seeped deep into his mind, thoughts drifting muddled and damp through the mist. It beckoned to him, grim and gray…

“Thorin!”

A face materialized through the gloom, golden and haloed in white light, illuminating the space where the perverse darkness had threatened to fill. Curly hair disheveled, face cut and bloodied. But alive!

Bilbo was here. His Bilbo. His gem. His darling hobbit.

Fate’s power took pause at the presence of the hobbit, watching memories flood out of the dwarf’s mind, luminous in the darkness. Memories over a dinner table, then a fire; drenched in rain then blood; against trolls then spiders, elves then orcs. All of them Bilbo- scowling at dwarves, basking in sunlight, smiling at flowers, at jokes, at Thorin…

“Forgive me…”

Thorin loved that smile. He had found a light, sweet but fiery, in that smile. A light that brightened the somber dusk that had settled within his heart during decades spent adrift. Bilbo enlivened his days, revived his hope and longing, his desire for things once trivial, like companionship, desire, love... Thorin longed to see it now, that smile that shone like a gem, beautiful on a face too often twisted by worry and fear. Bilbo looked so sad now, face scrunched and tear streaked through the eclipsing veil. His Bilbo, his better half…

”I’m so sorry… that I led you into such peril”

He hadn’t wanted the hobbit to come along for fear he’d lose him to any one of the dangers sure to follow the king to the mountain. But Bilbo had proved him wrong, time and time again. He had saved Thorin’s life, nurtured his wounds. He had believed in him, held him accountable when his mind was drowning in gold.

Farewell my love… “Farewell, Master Burglar.”

Had fate been more kind, maybe he would have remained at Thorin’s side, until the end of days. So wonderful to think, a lifetime with his Bilbo, his jewel…

“Go back to your books… and your armchair. Plant your trees, watch them grow- ugh” The pain was fading but his consciousness with it. He fought Fate for more time, more time with Bilbo, more time to say goodbye. “If more people in this world… valued home above gold, this world would be a merrier place…”

‘My life was merrier, brighter, because of you. Let it not burden you, but I ask, beg… do not forget me.’ Thorin left much unspoken. There was no time, and no need to further grieve his hobbit. His Bilbo, his love… his…

“No, no-no-no-no Thorin! …”

His Bilbo was right there, cradling him in his arms, yet Thorin heard him speaking as if in a dream. He longed to caress Bilbo’s face, smooth the sadness away, but a cold numbness held down his arms, refusing him the gentle touch he yearned to give. Bilbo was far away now, too far away for Thorin to reach.

“Don’t you dare… Please… please Thorin… They still need you, I need you! I-I l…”

Maybe in another life Thorin could have done enough to deserve him. His darling, his courageous Bilbo…

“The eagles…”

Fate tucked Thorin into the coolness of twilight, and he knew nothing more.

Chapter Text

In a hole in the ground there once lived a hobbit. A respectable and sheltered hobbit, lonely, but safe within the walls of a solitary life.

Until, that is, one fateful morning found the hobbit running out the door, contract in hand and heart racing ahead, in pursuit of adventure.

And quite the adventure he had.

That hobbit now returned to his home. Older, wiser perhaps. With pockets full of trinkets, valuable in both gold and memories.

Yet still alone.

His home had been emptied by greedy hands, familial belongings that had once graced the wooden shelves marched swiftly out the door, leaving a hollow shell behind. The hobbit found that quite appropriate - he too felt rather empty. His garden had withered from neglect, brown sticks and leaves all that remained in remembrance of his careful tending.

The hobbit stood for a long time in his green doorway, taking in the muted stillness of the rooms, hesitant to shed the familiar weight of the travel pack on his shoulders and the priceless metal cold against his skin. Slowly, as if to not disturb the sleeping ghosts in the halls, he pulled out a small acorn from his pocket. With hushed reverence, the hobbit rolled it between his fingers, recalling stories bold and daring, companions irreplaceable, and memories to be forever treasured.

The hobbit would one day write a book about his adventures, sharing his stories to ears young and old, hobbit and elf, to any that would listen, so that no name would ever be forgotten.

And he wouldn’t forget. Any of it. The good, the bad, the affection that endured through it all.

To the acorn in his hand, the hobbit whispered words that he had left unspoken, for fear of rejection, dismissal, acceptance…

‘Rest now, dear King of the Mountain. Know in every lifetime, I would have follow you to the end. In every lifetime, I would have loved you…’

In a small hole in the ground, the hobbit planted his acorn. Buried within the dirt and the promise of a love so strong it endured dark forests and mountains, orcs and dragons, fire and devotion, that acorn began to grow.

Chapter Text

Bilbo’s mind jerked him violently from sleep, the abrupt fall from unconsciousness leaving him disoriented, confused to where he was. His head pounded terribly, his body stiff and resistant to his motions as he shifted on what felt like a fur blanket. He couldn’t recall the moments before sleep took him, fatigue and pain keeping any clear thoughts at bay. The last thing he remembered was ice, and cold… a cold fear… a cold body…

“You didn’t leave… what about your books?”

Bilbo’s head snapped up from where it had been resting on a cot. Thorin was here, he was alive! Lying pale and covered in blood-soaked bandages and yellowed bruises beneath the white sheets of the army’s medical tent, but alive!

His headache and throbbing back screamed at the mistreatment, but Bilbo didn’t care. He took in the beautiful sight before him, uncaring of the obvious affection he was surely displaying on his face. Thorin had been wounded so severely, Bilbo thought… thought he would lose him forever, his stubborn king, his Thorin, before he could ever truly call him his. “What, and leave you lying here alone as broken and bruised as you are? You’re stuck with me now, Thorin Oakenshield. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Is that a promise?” A weak smile, small but hopefully candid on Thorin’s face. Light blue eyes, bloodshot and strained from the hard fought battle, but gentle still. Always gentle, Bilbo realized, when they looked at him.

The hobbit’s breaths came shakily, hands trembling, in relief that Thorin was still here, in anticipation of what Thorin now asked of him. Affection threatened to flood his body and submerge his heart and soul in its whirlpool. With a slow inhale, Bilbo let go of the heavyweight reservations of whether he could belong in a place outside the Shire, or to a person as noble as the one laying next to him, and instead let himself drown in his devotion. “Yes. I promise.”

Thorin’s gaze turned impossibly softer underneath fluttering eyelids, resisting sleep as it lightly called out to him. Slowly Bilbo reached out his hand, air held tightly in his lungs as to not startle the king or himself, and ran his thumb gently down Thorin’s forehead and nose, a silent plea for the king to close his eyes and rest. They could talk later. Right now there was much healing to be done.

Instead of complying with the hobbit’s wish, Thorin tilted up his head to meet him - a gentle press, merely a whisper of dry lips to Bilbo’s shaky hand.

Now that simply wasn’t fair. Bilbo slid his hand down, cupping the king’s cheek as months of pining, of wanting, of tender looks and quiet admiration and burning hunger surged forward in Bilbo’s mind. He leaned forward to press his lips to Thorin’s, his touch tentative in contrast to his sudden, eager desire. A soft press of the king’s lips in return had the hobbit melting into him, desperate but gentle against the dwarf’s wounded body, unwilling to resist his pull any longer.

Bilbo had yearned for this moment, dreamed of it, of what he would say if his courage ever allowed him honesty with his feelings for the king. He realized now there was no need for words, the brush of Thorin’s sigh against him as they parted and the gentle touch of his forehead against Bilbo’s saying everything they needed to hear in the moment.

Bilbo let out a quiet breath as he rested his cheek against Thorin’s chest, careful to avoid his wounds. His hand inched across the blanket to entwine his fingers with Thorin’s, large and calloused and so warm. Bilbo listening to the rhythmic and slow beat of his heart, felt the strong pulse beneath his fingertip, as the king drifted off to sleep. Exhaustion tempted him to sleep as well but the hobbit resisted. He didn’t want to close his eyes to the picture of all he had ever longed for, at peace and safe beneath him. Not yet.

In a whispered voice, as to not disturb Thorin’s slumber, Bilbo began to tell a story. One about a once respectable hobbit, who ran as fast as he could from his empty home and its lonely corners to journey across dangerous lands, ride barrels over rivers, tell riddles to a dragon, and most foolish of all, fall in love with a dwarven king.

The hobbit would later tell that story countless times, though that dwarven king would always be his favorite audience. Thorin was ever attentive every time, despite the fact he would often interrupt Bilbo’s favorite parts with tender kisses to nose, cheek, lips. The hobbit eventually had to write their adventures down in a book to save himself from losing his place during the frequent, yet much wanted, distractions.

For now, finally at the end of their long journey to reclaim their stolen home, they slept.